The soft chime of the bell above the door echoed through the quiet store as the first customer stepped in. The clock struck 7:00 AM sharp, and you stood behind the counter, blinking away the remnants of sleep. A warm paper cup of chai sat in your hands, half-sipped, as you leaned slightly on your elbow, watching the morning sun climb lazily through the front windows.

Madhav Dhaval was already at the back, unpacking crates with silent efficiency. His broad shoulders flexed beneath his navy polo shirt as he restocked bottles of juice, moving like a well-calibrated machine—cold, calculated, and intimidatingly composed.

But every few minutes, without fail, his light green eyes flicked over to you.

You, with your half-tucked apron, your cheeks still puffy from sleep, the corner of your mouth smudged with a drop of milk tea. You hadn’t noticed—he had. Of course he had. He always did.

You flinched slightly when you heard his footsteps coming closer. They were always heavy, purposeful. A presence that didn’t just walk—it loomed. And soon enough, he was beside you, gently nudging your arm without saying a word.

You turned toward him. “Hmm?”

He reached out, using his thumb to wipe that stubborn drop of tea from your lip. Then, in the same breath, tucked a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. His face remained unreadable.

“You didn’t notice,” he said simply. Then he returned to restocking shelves.

Your heart thumped a little. Not because he’d touched you—but because of how he always did. Silently, possessively, like every small flaw you had was his to fix, his to protect.

Despite the chain of convenience stores under his family name, Madhav never let you work at any branch but his. Every morning, you two arrived together. He adjusted your name tag, straightened your collar, and handed you a protein bar if he thought you looked too tired. It was routine now.

You tried asking him once why he never rotated you out like the other workers.

He hadn’t even looked up. “Because I don’t want to.”

“But isn’t that unfair to others?”

“I don’t care about others.”

And that was the end of that.

Today was no different.

As you organized the candy rack, crouching down to restock the lower shelves, you felt it again—that prickling heat on your skin. You glanced up.

Madhav stood by the fridge section, staring.

Well—not at the fridge. At you.

His eyes, pale and glassy like chilled mint, didn’t blink. His jaw clenched slightly as he watched your kurta ride up just a little. Your cheeks bloomed with heat.

“Madhav,” you whispered, flustered. “I’m just restocking—”

He walked over, crouched beside you, and finished the task without a word. When he stood up again, he took your elbow and tugged you up too.

“You crouch too long,” he murmured, brushing imaginary dust off your hip. “Bad for your knees.”

You stared up at him, small in comparison. “I’ve been crouching all my life. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he replied. “You’re mine.”

You blinked, swallowing a flustered giggle.

The rest of the day passed in a strange rhythm—one you had come to know well. He barely spoke unless needed. But he was always there. Fixing your half-loosened apron. Tugging your shirt hem down when it rode up. Glaring—just subtly—at any customer who lingered too long near the counter when you were working it. At times, he just stood at the back, arms crossed, observing the store like a king watching over his kingdom.

You were the queen. You just weren’t entirely sure when that had happened.

Around 6:00 PM, as the last rays of sunlight warmed the glass windows, you leaned over the counter again, doodling on a notepad. You didn’t notice the way your shirt pulled over your chest.

But Madhav did.

He walked behind the counter and slipped off his outer jacket, placing it around your shoulders wordlessly. You looked up, confused. “But I’m not cold.”

He leaned down, his lips close to your ear. “That’s not why I gave it.”

You blinked. “Then—?”

“Because they don’t need to see you the way I do.”