Rain pressed against the office windows in a steady rhythm, soft but relentless. Most of the lights had dimmed, leaving only the glow from Anaya's desk and Kabir's cabin. The rest of the floor slept.
Anaya rubbed her temples, staring at the screen that refused to balance its numbers. Her laptop battery flashed red. She sighed, closed it, and began gathering her things.
Kabir noticed her reflection in the glass wall before he heard her voice."You're still here?" she asked.
He didn't look up. "Finishing the projections."
She hesitated. "You should go home. It's past ten."
"You too."
"I will," she said, forcing a small smile. "Once I find my umbrella."
Outside, thunder rumbled. The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked windows. She checked her bag again, then laughed under her breath. "Of course. I left it in the cab this morning."
Kabir finally turned. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes flicked to the downpour, then to her light sweater. Without a word, he reached into the cabinet behind him, pulled out his black coat, and held it out.
She blinked. "It's fine, I'll just run to the gate."
"You'll get soaked." His tone was the same calm monotone as always, but softer around the edges.
She hesitated, then took it. "Thanks."
He didn't reply. Just nodded once and returned to his screen.
When she left, the office felt too quiet. A few minutes later, he caught sight of her through the window — hurrying down the street under his coat, hair damp, shoulders small against the rain. He watched until she disappeared into a taxi's headlights.
Then, almost unconsciously, Kabir shut her laptop that she'd forgotten to plug in and connected it to the charger. Her coffee cup still sat half-empty beside it. He threw it out, wiped the desk clean, then paused — noticing the sticky note on her monitor: Don't forget to smile more.
For the first time in a long while, the corner of his mouth twitched — not a smile, just the ghost of one.
He switched off the lights and lingered by the window, watching the storm. The rain had a strange calm to it — steady, measured, like something he could almost understand.
No one would know he stayed until she reached home. No one would know he texted the driver's ID to her anonymously, "for safety."
Kabir didn't need credit. He just needed silence.
But in that silence, something unfamiliar stirred — small, dangerous, human.