Unscheduled Feelings

Chapter 8: Proximity Error

The smell of overcooked toast clung to the breakfast lawn like fog. Plastic chairs scraped against damp stone tiles, paper cups tipped over in the breeze, and someone’s laughter carried too loud, too early. A bird screamed overhead. Probably dying. Or imitating HR.

Rhea balanced her tea in one hand and swatted a bee with the other.

“Morning,” Karan grinned, hair a mess, t-shirt on inside out.

“I hope the mosquito that bit me last night bursts,” she replied.

Neha leaned over the table, fork in her mouth. “Did you hear? HR’s got another team-building activity lined up.”

“If it involves blindfolds again,” Rhea said, “I’m legally allowed to set Rahul on fire.”

But then he was already there, mic in hand, beaming. The way only someone truly immune to social cues could beam.

“Scavenger hunt time! Pairs. No phones. No clues unless you find the first clue. First team back gets a spa voucher!”

Around her, groans. Cheers. Resigned sighs. Chits were passed around in a chipped ceramic bowl.

Rhea reached in.
Unfolded paper. Black ink. Neatly printed.
Aarav.

She didn’t react. Not visibly. But Neha peered over her shoulder and whispered, “Well, may the Lord be with you.”

She didn’t go to him.
He didn’t come to her.
They met halfway by accident. The kind where neither of you meant to be early but both were.

She stood arms crossed. The sun picked up faint gold in her purple-black hair, loose today, tied low and messy. Her shirt was pale green linen, half tucked in, sleeves rolled.

He was in black. As always. Shirt collar buttoned, sleeves sharp, expression neutral. His eyes flicked toward her, unreadable.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said.

His lips barely moved. “Don’t slow me down.”

The first clue was carved into a wooden block beneath the bell outside the reception hut. Rhea found it, not because she was smarter, but because she crouched to retie her sneaker and spotted the shimmer of chisel marks.

“‘Return to what roots you,’” she read aloud. “Vague. HR-level vague.”

He took the clue from her hand, fingers brushing hers for a second.
Unintentional.
Uncomfortable.
Gone.

“There’s a treehouse on the far end. Bamboo grove behind the cafeteria,” he said, already turning.

She blinked. “Wait! How do you know that?”

“Map was in the welcome folder.”

“You memorized it?”

No answer. Just the sound of his steps ahead of her.

The trail wasn’t paved. It dipped, curved, narrowed. Bamboo leaves cracked underfoot. A butterfly darted past her face.

She muttered something under her breath about bugs inheriting the earth.

Aarav didn’t laugh. Obviously. He didn’t talk either.

She adjusted her pace. He didn’t.

The bamboo grove opened like a throat. Tall, whispering, sharp with shadows. The treehouse was above them, rope bridge swinging slightly in the wind. Sunlight filtered in strips.

She reached the first rung. He stepped back.

“No?”

“I’ll anchor. Go.”

Halfway up, the rope gave a jerk. Not much. Just enough for her hand to slip once.

She let out a short gasp. “Shit..!”

His hand was at her ankle before she fell. Firm. Fast. Gone in a second.
“You okay?”

She looked down. His face wasn’t tilted with concern. Just… expectation. Like failure wasn’t allowed.

“I’m fine,” she muttered.

She didn’t thank him. He didn’t ask for it.

Rhea steadied herself against the railing, knuckles pale for a second longer than necessary.

The treehouse creaked as she stepped inside. It was just a platform with some beanbags and a handwritten sign: Breathe freely. You’ve arrived.
Pinned beneath the sign, the second clue. It was laminated, of course. HR was nothing if not paranoid about paper cuts.

She snatched it down.

“‘Where the world stops, and the leaves begin.’” She read it under her breath. “They make everything sound like a YA novel.”

Below her, Aarav waited with one hand braced on the bamboo trunk, the other resting loosely on his hip. Still. Watching.

She climbed down fast. This time, no rope slip, no ankle grab.

He reached for the clue without asking. Their fingers met again. The contact didn’t linger. But it didn’t vanish fast enough either.

“There’s a path to a clearing near the east fence,” he said. “Benches under the banyan. That’s where it leads.”

She gave him a look. “You really memorized the whole map?”

“No,” he said. “Just the useful parts.”

She snorted, following him. “You’re a walking company manual.”

He didn’t turn. But his voice floated back.

“Better trees than the people in HR.”

That one got her.

A laugh. Short. Sharp. Real.

The walk to the banyan bench was longer. Quieter.

Every now and then, they heard a shout or a laugh in the distance. Another team yelling out a wrong guess. Someone shrieked about a frog. Someone else swore loudly, then apologized to the air.

The path narrowed between two mossy stone walls. The trees here stood taller, like they knew something. Old leaves stuck to her sneakers. A dragonfly landed on his sleeve and stayed there, briefly, as if considering conversion.

The banyan tree stood like a king in exile. Its branches long and tangled, roots spilling into the earth like secrets. On the bench beneath, the third clue flapped slightly in the breeze.

Rhea beat him to it this time.

“Find where water moves but never stays,” she read. Then looked up. “That’s poetic. And annoying.”

“Pool,” he said.

She squinted. “There’s a pool?”

His eyebrow lifted a millimeter. “The map.”

“Right. Of course. The map.”

She hated how smug he could look without moving his face.

The pool shimmered, unused and oddly quiet. No swimmers. Just a few plastic chairs, one floating towel, and a carved ceramic elephant beside a tiny garden pond nearby.

Aarav scanned the space like a scanner picking up weak signals.
“Nothing obvious,” he said.

“Very observant,” she muttered. “Should we try tipping the elephant?”

“You want to assault the décor?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

She crouched beside the ceramic elephant anyway, running her fingers under its belly, its feet, behind the pedestal. Nothing.

Aarav circled the pond’s edge. “Maybe it’s the garden?”

“No, the clue said ‘where water moves but never stays.’ Maybe it’s not the pool. Maybe it’s…” she turned, standing again, “…the bathroom taps?”

He blinked at her.

“What? It makes sense.”

“You want to run around this resort opening faucets?”

She frowned. “Well, I didn’t see you coming up with anything smarter.”

“I said the pool.”

“And we’re here. And it’s useless.”

He sighed, low and through his nose. “Fine. The clue might be symbolic. Water doesn’t stay… Rain?”

They both looked up.

Clear blue sky. Not a cloud.

She turned away to stifle a laugh. “Great symbolism.”

His jaw twitched.

“Look,” she said, pacing now, hands gesturing, “what if it’s not literal water? What if it’s… people? We move through spaces like water. Maybe it’s the reception area?”

“Because people don’t stay there?” he asked, dry.

“Exactly.”

“It’s ten minutes back.”

“Scared I’ll outrun you?”

He didn’t answer. He just started walking.

She rolled her eyes and jogged to catch up.

They reached the reception panting. She was slightly ahead, which she counted as a small, irrelevant victory.

But the lobby was empty.

No clues.

Just the same fake smile in the painting of a monk above the door.

Aarav ran a hand through his hair, rare. He looked… almost undone.
Not in a messy way, but in a way that made him look more like a person than a title.

That lone curl on his forehead dangling again. She shouldn’t have been noticing it. But she was.

“What now?” she asked, voice softer.

He scanned the space. “Maybe the clue doesn’t mean water at all.”

Her phone buzzed and out of instinct, she reached for it, then remembered: no phones allowed.

She sighed.

Then slipped. A clean, comedic slide on the wet tile by the reception desk. She would’ve hit the floor square if his arm hadn’t shot out. One arm around her waist, one hand grabbing her wrist – tight, instinctual, like a reflex. Cliché!

And yet her breath left her body with the jerk. Her palms landed against his chest. Solid, warm, unarmored by his usual formals. He wore a black Henley now, sleeves pushed up, collar slightly stretched.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she. Just breath. Heartbeats. Her body tucked into his, like it belonged there.

She pulled back first. “Well. That’s embarrassing.”

He didn’t blink. “You need better shoes.”

She straightened. “You need to… I don’t know. Smile or something.”

His lips twitched. Barely.

They stood there a beat longer.

Then she cleared her throat. “Okay. That was a disaster.”

He nodded. “Let’s go somewhere no floors exist.”

They wandered again. Past the mess hall, past the edge of the cabins, into the narrower trail leading toward the eastern woods.

It was quieter there. More shade. The kind of place where things felt older, like the earth had secrets, and the trees didn’t gossip about them.

She let her arms hang loose. Her fingers skimmed bark.

“I don’t get you,” she said, suddenly. “One moment you’re this cold, tight-laced spreadsheet of a man. Next second, you’re catching me midair.”

“You wanted me to let you fall?”

“I want you to be consistent.”

He stopped walking. Slowly turned to her.

“I am consistent,” he said, voice level. “You just don’t pay attention.”

“Really?” she raised her brow. “Because last week, you blamed me for the pitch delay. And that wasn’t even mine.”

His jaw clenched.

She stepped closer. “You don’t even look at the people you work with, Aarav. You look through them.”

He looked at her now.

Fully. Head tilted slightly. Eyes narrowed.

“I was told it was you.”

“You didn’t even ask.”

“Because asking wouldn’t have changed the outcome,” he said. “I still would’ve had to own the mess. I don’t have time for diplomacy.”

“That’s convenient,” she muttered.

“Rhea..”

“No,” she said, louder. “You get to walk around like you’re carved out of stone, and the rest of us are disposable. Do you even care about anyone in our team? Or do we just fill in slots on your task sheet.” Her words lingered in the air like a note someone forgot to stop humming.

He didn’t respond. Of course he didn’t. But he hadn’t walked away either.

They kept moving, shoes crunching old leaves, passing half-forgotten cabins swallowed by moss and distance. No one else was around now. The other teams must’ve circled back, solved the clue, or quit and found a hammock.

Rhea pulled the last clue out again.

“Find where water moves but never stays.” She read it slowly this time, words dragging.

“What if it’s the sky?” she murmured. “Clouds? Rain?” It didn’t make sense, but she thought the same thing again.

He didn’t laugh. Just said, “Too poetic.”

“Not everything has to be efficient, Aarav.”

He said nothing to that.

The air had shifted. A flicker in the wind, leaves stirring with urgency, birds going quieter in the trees. The light dulled slightly, like someone had turned the world down half a notch.

Then came the thunder.
Not loud. Just a distant low growl, like something ancient stretching its spine.

Rhea looked up. “Did you check the forecast?”

“I don’t check forecasts,” he said, glancing skyward. “I plan for the worst.”

Another rumble. Then a crack, louder, closer.

The sky split open like glass hit by a stone.

The first drop landed on her arm. Cold. Sharp. Followed by another. Then fifty.

“Shit.”

Aarav scanned the trees. “There’s a maintenance hut near the back fence. Old but covered.”

“You sure it’s not just in the map you invented?”

He didn’t answer. He was already moving. She ran after him.

By the time they reached the hut, they were drenched. Her shirt clinging, his sleeves soaked and rolled up now. Their breath came fast. The door creaked as they shoved it open.
It wasn’t much, just an old wooden box of a shelter with two chairs, a rusted table, and a coil of hose in the corner. Cobwebs in the ceiling. But it kept the rain out.

He stood by the window, watching the sky unload itself.

She wrung her hair out. Drops trailed down her neck. Her teeth chattered slightly, and she tried not to show it. Then she looked at him.

And his hands were clenched at his sides.
Tight. Controlled. Like something in him was fighting for breath.

He wasn’t watching the storm.
He was watching the dark.

She stepped a little closer. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” But his voice was lower. Brittle.

She paused. Studied his face. It wasn’t the rain. It was the thunder. As unbelievable as it was, but the grumpy Aarav Malhotra was probably scared of the thunder.

The next crack split the sky again. The hut vibrated slightly. And something in him flinched.
Not visibly.
But enough for her to see it.

She stepped closer.
“You don’t like storms,” she said.

Silence.

“I’m not afraid of them.”

“Didn’t say afraid. I said don’t like.”

More silence.

She leaned against the opposite wall, watching him like a riddle unraveling slowly. Not to be solved, just understood.

“You know,” she said gently, “I read something once… ‘Bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s refusing to surrender to it.’”

He didn’t speak.

She added, softer, “It’s okay to hate the thunder.”

His eyes met hers finally. For real.

Wet curls plastered to his forehead. His black shirt darker now, heavier with water, sleeves pushed above his elbows. He looked taller here, more solid in the shadows. But more human, too. Like the corporate layers had peeled back just enough to show something underneath.

He didn’t blink.

Another thunderclap.
And this time, he closed his eyes for a second. Like he was letting the sound pass through him, not around.

She didn’t touch him. But she stepped closer. Close enough that if he needed her to be a wall, she could.

Neither of them moved.

The storm danced outside like it didn’t care about their fragile silence.

Finally, he exhaled.

Slow. Controlled.

“I hate feeling out of control,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him. “So do I.”

And maybe that’s why, for one suspended breath, they just stood there.

Not talking.

Not fixing.

Just existing.

Together.