It was close to midnight when the Code Blue rang through the halls of the pediatric ICU.
Inaaya was in the corridor, going over her case notes, when the words blared from the intercom.
"Code Blue. Room 402. Repeat — Room 402."
Her heart plummeted.
Ayaan.
She didn't think. She ran.
By the time she reached the room, a nurse was already inside, pressing down on the child's chest with desperate precision.
"Arythmia. Sudden drop in saturation," the charge nurse barked. "He went into cardiac arrest five minutes ago."
Inaaya barely registered the other people entering — not until a familiar voice cut through the chaos.
"Move."
Aaryan Rathore stepped in, jaw clenched, gloves already on. He didn't glance at her — not once — but Inaaya moved instinctively to his right, readying the defibrillator pads, heart in her throat.
"Epinephrine, stat," Aaryan ordered. "Clear the line."
A nurse handed him the syringe, and Inaaya pressed the pads to Ayaan's tiny chest.
"Charge to 10 joules," Aaryan said.
"Charged," she confirmed, hands steady.
"Clear."
The child's body jerked once, violently.
Still no rhythm.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. This couldn't be it. Not Ayaan.
"Charge to 15. Again."
They shocked him twice more.
Inaaya's hands were trembling now, sweat beading her spine. But Aaryan — he never wavered. He kept pressing, pushing, injecting. And then—
A beep. One soft, weak blip.
Then another.
A faint but present heartbeat returned.
A breath surged through the room as everyone paused.
Aaryan exhaled, his gloves stained with adrenaline. He nodded at the nurse.
"Stabilize and prep for surgical observation," he said. "He'll need an urgent review of the left atrial function."
The crisis was over.
For now.
But Inaaya couldn't move. She was still clutching the side of the bed, staring at Ayaan's unconscious form.
Aaryan glanced over — and for a moment, he just looked at her. Saw her.
"You did well," he said.
She blinked up at him. "I didn't— I just followed orders."
"You stayed. Others froze. You didn't."
There was something in his voice that felt different. Not cold. Not clinical.
Just... quiet acknowledgment.
"I can't lose him," she whispered.
"I know."
⸻
They didn't go home that night.
They stayed through the early hours in the surgical wing, watching over Ayaan. Aaryan never left the monitors. Inaaya didn't leave his side.
At one point, he sat beside her on the hallway bench, his scrub top stained and unbuttoned at the collar. She noticed a long scar at the base of his neck — pale against his skin.
"Do you ever get used to this?" she asked softly. "The fear?"
Aaryan didn't look at her. "No."
There was a pause.
Then he added, "But you learn to keep moving through it. You compartmentalize. That's the only way to survive this job."
"Does that mean you don't let yourself feel anything?"
His jaw tightened. "It means if you start crying in the OR, someone dies."
Inaaya stared down at her hands. "I think I'm too soft for this."
"No," he said quietly. "You're not. You're just... still real."
She looked at him.
Something in his voice made her wonder what he'd had to kill in himself to get here.
"I used to think I wanted to be like you," she admitted. "Cold. Focused. Untouchable."
"And now?"
"I think... I'd rather be human."
He let out a sound — almost a breath of a laugh.
"Stay that way, Inaaya."
⸻
By morning, Ayaan was stable. Weak but alive. His mother clutched Inaaya's hand when she came to check on him.
"You saved him."
Inaaya shook her head. "Dr. Rathore did."
But when she turned to find him — he was already gone.
⸻
That evening, back at the penthouse, a quiet settled between them that didn't feel uncomfortable.
He handed her a cup of tea without a word. She accepted it without hesitation.
Later, she found herself standing on the balcony, wrapped in a shawl, eyes fixed on the city skyline. The air smelled like rain.
"You stayed with him all night," she said when she sensed him behind her.
"So did you."
She glanced back. "You didn't have to. You're not his attending anymore."
"I was his surgeon once," he said. "That makes him mine — in a way."
She studied his profile, the cut of his jaw, the weight in his eyes. "You cared."
He didn't respond.
But he didn't deny it either.It was close to midnight when the Code Blue rang through the halls of the pediatric ICU.
Inaaya was in the corridor, going over her case notes, when the words blared from the intercom.
"Code Blue. Room 402. Repeat — Room 402."
Her heart plummeted.
Ayaan.
She didn't think. She ran.
By the time she reached the room, a nurse was already inside, pressing down on the child's chest with desperate precision.
"Arythmia. Sudden drop in saturation," the charge nurse barked. "He went into cardiac arrest five minutes ago."
Inaaya barely registered the other people entering — not until a familiar voice cut through the chaos.
"Move."
Aaryan Rathore stepped in, jaw clenched, gloves already on. He didn't glance at her — not once — but Inaaya moved instinctively to his right, readying the defibrillator pads, heart in her throat.
"Epinephrine, stat," Aaryan ordered. "Clear the line."
A nurse handed him the syringe, and Inaaya pressed the pads to Ayaan's tiny chest.
"Charge to 10 joules," Aaryan said.
"Charged," she confirmed, hands steady.
"Clear."
The child's body jerked once, violently.
Still no rhythm.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. This couldn't be it. Not Ayaan.
"Charge to 15. Again."
They shocked him twice more.
Inaaya's hands were trembling now, sweat beading her spine. But Aaryan — he never wavered. He kept pressing, pushing, injecting. And then—
A beep. One soft, weak blip.
Then another.
A faint but present heartbeat returned.
A breath surged through the room as everyone paused.
Aaryan exhaled, his gloves stained with adrenaline. He nodded at the nurse.
"Stabilize and prep for surgical observation," he said. "He'll need an urgent review of the left atrial function."
The crisis was over.
For now.
But Inaaya couldn't move. She was still clutching the side of the bed, staring at Ayaan's unconscious form.
Aaryan glanced over — and for a moment, he just looked at her. Saw her.
"You did well," he said.
She blinked up at him. "I didn't— I just followed orders."
"You stayed. Others froze. You didn't."
There was something in his voice that felt different. Not cold. Not clinical.
Just... quiet acknowledgment.
"I can't lose him," she whispered.
"I know."
⸻
They didn't go home that night.
They stayed through the early hours in the surgical wing, watching over Ayaan. Aaryan never left the monitors. Inaaya didn't leave his side.
At one point, he sat beside her on the hallway bench, his scrub top stained and unbuttoned at the collar. She noticed a long scar at the base of his neck — pale against his skin.
"Do you ever get used to this?" she asked softly. "The fear?"
Aaryan didn't look at her. "No."
There was a pause.
Then he added, "But you learn to keep moving through it. You compartmentalize. That's the only way to survive this job."
"Does that mean you don't let yourself feel anything?"
His jaw tightened. "It means if you start crying in the OR, someone dies."
Inaaya stared down at her hands. "I think I'm too soft for this."
"No," he said quietly. "You're not. You're just... still real."
She looked at him.
Something in his voice made her wonder what he'd had to kill in himself to get here.
"I used to think I wanted to be like you," she admitted. "Cold. Focused. Untouchable."
"And now?"
"I think... I'd rather be human."
He let out a sound — almost a breath of a laugh.
"Stay that way, Inaaya."
⸻
By morning, Ayaan was stable. Weak but alive. His mother clutched Inaaya's hand when she came to check on him.
"You saved him."
Inaaya shook her head. "Dr. Rathore did."
But when she turned to find him — he was already gone.
⸻
That evening, back at the penthouse, a quiet settled between them that didn't feel uncomfortable.
He handed her a cup of tea without a word. She accepted it without hesitation.
Later, she found herself standing on the balcony, wrapped in a shawl, eyes fixed on the city skyline. The air smelled like rain.
"You stayed with him all night," she said when she sensed him behind her.
"So did you."
She glanced back. "You didn't have to. You're not his attending anymore."
"I was his surgeon once," he said. "That makes him mine — in a way."
She studied his profile, the cut of his jaw, the weight in his eyes. "You cared."
He didn't respond.
But he didn't deny it either.