Vansh was already in his workout clothes. He pulled on his shoes and made his way to the gym.

Forty minutes of lifting and her face as she fell apart wouldn’t leave his brain.

He jumped on the treadmill, raising the speed to the point where he was almost flying off the belt. It was the only way to outrun this feeling, and his embarrassment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ejaculated all over himself, inside his clothes, without anyone even touching his dick.

The idea of never seeing her again made Vansh raise the speed even higher. The idea of never having her fix him with that disapproving gaze while her incisive eyes saw all the way inside him—it was inconceivable. She held him to high standards. He liked that. She didn’t give him a free pass. He’d never thought about how badly he’d missed that.

What the hell, Vansh!

This was Naina Kohli.

That was the thing. This was Naina Kohli. Miles out of his league, miles out of everyone’s league. The most beautiful, the smartest, but also the most selfless and hardworking person he’d ever met. Also, the one person in the world who had no interest at all in a relationship. With anyone. Ever.

He knew this. He understood this.

Because he felt exactly the same way.

He always had.

Then why did he feel so fucked?

So. Fucked.

If he didn’t slow down and get off the treadmill, he might go into cardiac arrest, and he wasn’t ready to die. There were too many messes he’d made that he needed to fix. Step one: get Hari ready to meet Naina tomorrow. Walking into her office with Hari in tow might seem cowardly upon first consideration, but walking in there with Hari and a solution to their funding problem was the only answer to this mess. Vansh just had to make sure she listened before freezing him out.

He punched his finger into the controls and dropped the speed to a cool-down. By the time he hopped off the treadmill, every inch of his legs cramped. His shoulders and arms had been in agony before he’d even climbed on the treadmill because he’d lifted to the very limit of their capacity. He was drenched in sweat, hair plastered to his forehead and neck, shirt and shorts dripping. Usually he’d be buzzing with satisfaction and adrenaline, but his limbs dragged with an odd weight. Even the act of downing half a gallon of water felt like work.

A hot shower called to him like a foghorn, and he marched toward it like a man only an act of God could stop.

One step out of the gym and J-Auntie found him, stack of washed towels balanced in her arms, her black-shirt-on-black-trousers uniform crisp as ever. “Your friend’s here.”