“Operate it,” he clarifies. “Drive it. It’s yours.” My heart drops.
No.
I frown immediately. “No.”
He blinks. “No?” He sounds genuinely surprised.
“I don’t need it,” I say, folding my arms tightly across my chest as if I’m physically holding myself together. My chin lifts on its own, defensive muscle memory kicking in before I even process it. “I am perfectly fine with the mode of transportation I already use.”
He exhales slowly and pinches the bridge of his nose, like he expected resistance but maybe hoped for something softer. That tiny flicker of disappointment in his face almost makes me look away. Almost.
“Ishika,” he says quietly.
God.
He needs to stop saying my name like that. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just…steady. Like it belongs to him for that second. Like he’s trying to reach something underneath all this steel.
“I am not fine with your current mode of transportation,” he continues, his brows drawing together. “Especially after that day.” His voice lowers at the end. It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t loud. It’s careful.
And I know exactly which day he means. The bus. The man. The way my skin crawled when I realized I was being followed. The way I pretended I wasn’t afraid.
Heat rises in my chest, not embarrassment this time—anger. Sharp and defensive. Because I don’t want that day to become a reason for someone to rearrange my life.
“I am not the first woman to be in such a situation,” I say, my tone firm even though something inside me twists. “It’s actually very normal.”
I hate how flat that sounds.Normal. As if harassment is just another inconvenience like traffic or bad weather. As if we’re supposed to adapt around it.
He flinches slightly at the word. His jaw tightens. He hates that I called it normal.
But it is. That’s the point.
“You guys live behind this facade of ‘I am a man, a protector, a provider,’” my voice sharpening despite the slight tremor in my chest, “and pretend like this is rare. It’s not. It’s common. It’s everyday life for us.”
Everyday life. The way we calculate routes. The way we share live locations, not that I have anyone to do that with. The way we memorize number plates. The way we pretend not to notice hands brushing too close.
He doesn’t interrupt. He just watches me, and that somehow makes the words come faster.
I draw in a breath, steadying myself before I go on. “But that doesn’t mean I will change my routine,” I say, my voice steadier now, anchored in something stubborn and raw. “Why should I?”
The question hangs there, heavy.
“I was nowhere at fault,” I add, each word deliberate. “The problem was that man. Not me.”
Not my clothes. Not my hair. Not my timing. Not my existence. The problem was him.
And I refuse—absolutely refuse—to let his actions dictate how I move through the world. “And besides,” I add, gesturing toward the key without actually touching it, like it might burn me if I do, “you don’t go around offering cars to all your employees. I don’t need or want any special treatment.”
The words come out controlled, but my pulse is anything but. I hop onto the edge of my desk and begin pulling things out of my bag with unnecessary focus—my notebook, my pen case, the measuring tape, a file I don’t even need right now. Anything to avoid looking at him.
Because if I look at him, I’ll see it.
Concern.
And concern from him feels dangerous. It feels like the beginning of something I am not ready for.
My fingers move automatically, lining things up on the table as if the neatness will steady the chaos building inside my chest. I keep my eyes down, fixed on the familiar comfort of objects I can control.
I won’t change for men who can’t control themselves.
