Vikram waited five more minutes to be sure, then moved.
He crossed to the couch silently, bare feet making no sound. In sleep, she'd relaxed slightly, her body no longer wound tight. Her face had softened, the professional mask slipping away.
Silver tracks traced down her cheeks in the dim light, evidence of tears she'd kept silent, shed only when she thought he couldn't see.
His jaw tightened.
He slid one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her shoulders.
She stirred. Her eyes opened, unfocused and confused. "What..."
"You're not sleeping on the couch." His voice was quiet but firm.
"I'm fine here." She tried to push against his chest, but the movement was weak, still caught between sleep and waking.
"You're not fine." He straightened, lifting her easily despite her halfhearted resistance. "And you're not sleeping there."
"Put me down." The words lacked conviction. She was too exhausted to fight properly, her body already going pliant against his.
"No."
He carried her to the bed. She made one more small sound of protest, but her head had already settled against his shoulder, her body recognizing something her mind refused to accept.
The mattress dipped as he laid her down. She tried to sit up. "Boss…"
"Sleep." He pulled the covers over her. "We'll fight about it in the morning if you want."
She stared at him for a moment, something vulnerable flickering behind the exhaustion in her eyes. Then she turned onto her side, facing away from him, drawing into herself.
He slipped into bed behind her, careful to leave a quiet space between their bodies. Close enough to stay, far enough to respect the distance she seemed to need, while making it clear she wasn’t sleeping on the couch.
For several minutes, they lay like that. Separate. Silent.
Then, so quietly he almost missed it. "Why?"
"Because you belong here," he said simply.
She didn't respond. But her breathing gradually evened out, and this time, when sleep claimed her, it was real.
Vikram stayed awake longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the small space between them like a physical thing.
Tomorrow, he'd show her exactly what happened to people who hurt her.
Tonight, this was enough.
???
Early morning light filtered through the high windows of Vikram's gym.
His fist connected with the punching bag, a precise, controlled strike that carried more force than usual. Sweat darkened his t-shirt. Another punch. Another. Each impact echoed sharp and rhythmic.
He'd left Divya sleeping. She hadn't stirred when he slipped away at dawn, one hand stretched across the space he'd left as if searching for warmth even in sleep.
The punching bag swayed under another strike. Then another. His form remained perfect. Years of discipline maintained technique even as something darker fueled each blow. Not wild anger. Something colder. More focused.
His knuckles burned beneath the wraps. Physical pain anchored him, kept him from dwelling on the image of Divya standing frozen while Kashyap dismantled her dignity.
Right hook. Left cross. The combination snapped the bag on its chain.