By ten o'clock in the morning, Khushi was already buried alive.

At least that's what it felt like. Files covered her desk. Sticky notes covered the files. And somewhere beneath all of it was the actual desk she'd been assigned.

Her new desk. The desk directly outside Arnav Raizada's office.

Khushi pushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead and glared at the mountain of paperwork.

"Day one," she muttered under her breath.

"And I'm already drowning."

Unfortunately, the mountain didn't care. Neither did Arnav. Especially Arnav.

With a resigned sigh, she stood and headed toward the office pantry. If she couldn't defeat the paperwork, she could at least caffeinate herself.

The coffee machine hissed softly. One cup. Then another.

Without thinking, Khushi reached for the cinnamon shaker. A small pinch. A familiar movement. Automatic. Unconscious. Years of habit.

She didn't even realize she'd done it.

A moment later, she balanced both cups in her hands and walked back toward the executive office.

The glass walls reflected her tired expression.

One coffee for her. One coffee for her boss.

Simple. Professional. Nothing more.

She stepped inside without knocking.

Arnav sat behind his desk reviewing documents.

Sharp suit. Cold expression. The usual.

Khushi placed the cup beside him.

"Your coffee, sir."

Her voice was flat. Professional. Careful. Exactly how she intended it. Then she turned to leave. And almost made it. Almost.

Something stopped her. A strange silence. Khushi glanced back.

Arnav wasn't looking at the documents anymore.

He was staring at the coffee. His hand hovered above the cup. Frozen. His eyes narrowed slightly. As if he'd noticed something.

Then— He picked it up.

Brought it closer. And inhaled. Everything changed. The room disappeared. The office disappeared. Because suddenly Arnav wasn't sitting behind a desk anymore.

He was standing in a tiny sunlit kitchen six years ago. Watching a younger Khushi sprinkle cinnamon into his coffee. Smiling as though she'd just invented magic.

"Secret ingredient."

She'd grinned proudly.

"Don't tell anyone."

Arnav had laughed.

"No one makes it like you."

Back then it had been a joke. A tiny ritual. A silly little habit between two people hopelessly in love. The memory vanished. And reality returned.

Arnav stared at the cup. Then slowly looked up. Toward Khushi. His expression had changed. Not much. But enough.

Enough for her to notice. Enough for her stomach to drop.

Why is he looking at it like that? Khushi frowned.

Then followed his gaze. The cup. The cinnamon. The realization hit her like a truck.

Oh no. No. No no no.

Her eyes widened. Because she suddenly understood exactly what she'd done.

She hadn't made Arnav's coffee. She'd made Arnav's coffee.

The way she'd always made it. The way only she made it. The way he loved it.

Her heart stopped. Without thinking, she hurried back toward the desk.

"Sir—"

Her hand shot toward the cup.

"Wrong cup. Let me change—"

Before she could reach it— Arnav's hand moved. Covering the cup. Blocking her.

Their hands nearly touched. The office fell silent.

Khushi froze. Arnav looked up. Their eyes met. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

The coffee sat forgotten between them. A ridiculous little cup carrying six years of history. Arnav's expression remained unreadable.

But his eyes weren't. Not completely. Because for the first time since she'd returned...she saw something besides anger.

Pain. Memory. Recognition. And somehow that scared her more.

"Leave it."

His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. Which made it worse.

Khushi's throat tightened.

Because she understood exactly what that meant. He remembered. He remembered everything.

The coffee. The cinnamon. The mornings. The life they almost had.

Slowly, she pulled her hand back.

"...okay."

Then added the word that now felt like a wall between them.

"Sir."

The title landed harder than either of them expected.

Khushi straightened. Forced her expression back under control. Then left the office.

The second the door shut behind her, she leaned against the glass wall.

Eyes closed. Breathing hard. The memory had ambushed her.

That tiny habit. That stupid pinch of cinnamon.

She'd forgotten anniversaries. Forgotten birthdays. Forgotten entire years of her life. Yet somehow...her hands still remembered how he liked his coffee.

A helpless laugh escaped her. Soft. Broken. A little sad.

"Five years," she whispered.

"Five years and I forgot everything."

Her eyes burned.

"Except that."

She quickly brushed away a tear. Pulled herself together. And returned to her desk.

Because there were files to finish. Schedules to organize. Meetings to arrange. Work. Work was safe. Work didn't hurt. Work couldn't break her heart.

Across the glass wall, Arnav sat alone in his office. The coffee cup still in his hand. Slowly, he took a sip.

His eyes closed. And for one brief second— the man he used to be came back.

The man who laughed. The man who loved her. The man who believed they would grow old together. Then reality returned.

Arnav opened his eyes. Cold again. Controlled again. But the damage was done. Because the coffee tasted exactly the same.

Six years. And it still tasted exactly the same.

Outside the office, Khushi buried herself in paperwork.

Inside the office, Arnav stared through the glass.

Watching her. And neither of them noticed the same terrible truth.

Some things can be forgotten. Some memories fade. Some promises die.

But love? Love hides in strange places. Sometimes in a song. Sometimes in a scent.

And sometimes...in a pinch of cinnamon floating on top of a cup of coffee.