The Emergency room smelled like antiseptic and tired prayers.
Inaaya hadn't expected to be here again tonight. Not after the gala. Not after the weight of so many eyes on her, the manufactured smiles, the tight-laced kindnesses and bitter silences from people who once saw right through her. And yet, when her phone buzzed—an emergency call for assistance in the burns unit—her instincts answered before her exhaustion could catch up.
She wrapped the duppatta from her formal saree around her shoulders tighter, still in the same attire from the evening. Her heels echoed in the quiet corridors, harsh against the sterile silence of 2:47 AM. The rhythm matched the growing unease in her chest.
Inside the ER, the smell hit her first—smoke, burnt plastic, something sharper beneath. A young boy, no older than five or six, lay curled on a gurney, his body swathed in white gauze, pain darkening every inch of his tiny frame. His hair was singed, his cheeks streaked with soot and silent tears.
"House fire," the nurse murmured beside her, checking vitals. "He was pulled out by a neighbor. Parents... haven't been located."
Inaaya's heart twisted. She stepped forward, her tone gentle. "Hey, sweetheart... what's your name?"
The boy blinked up at her through pain-clouded eyes. His lips cracked as he whispered—
"Amma?"
Inaaya froze.
The word cut through her like glass.
A lifetime ago, Aleena had called her that as a joke when they played pretend in the backyard, back before their mother had become someone else's mother. Before her home had become four walls with locked emotions and an open wound in the shape of her father's absence.
This boy's broken voice shattered that version of her all over again.
"I'm here," she whispered, brushing his soot-dusted hair gently. "It's okay. You're safe now."
The nurse moved around them quietly, but Inaaya remained kneeling at his side, whispering reassurance as they administered pain medication and prepped him for surgery. Her presence stilled the tremors in his tiny hands. It was instinct. Or maybe need. Maybe something deeper she hadn't let herself name in years.
By the time the boy was wheeled into the OR, she realized her hands were trembling. She couldn't stay. Not in that room. Not in her own skin.
She walked blindly into the break room, her lungs aching for air. Her saree was creased and heavy with hospital grief. She slid down onto one of the benches, pressing her fists to her eyes. No tears came. Only a ringing, hollow ache that settled behind her ribs.
"Dr. Mirza."
She looked up sharply.
Aaryan stood at the doorway, his coat unbuttoned, his tie gone, sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was no gala in him now. Just the man beneath it all—tired, sharp-eyed, quiet.
He stepped in without another word and placed a cup of tea in front of her. Chamomile. Warm. Slightly sweet.
Inaaya blinked at it. "How did you—?"
"You like it mild," he said, simply.
She didn't remember telling him that. Or maybe she had once. In passing. Somewhere between long silences and brief nods in the kitchen.
The warmth of the cup bled into her palms. She hadn't realized how cold her hands were until now.
"He called me 'amma,'" she said finally, her voice rough. "I don't even know why that hit me so hard. I'm not his mother. I was just... there."
"You were there when he needed someone," Aaryan said. His voice was steady, not cold. "Sometimes that's enough to leave a mark."
Inaaya swallowed hard. "Why does it feel like it left a mark on me?"
There was a pause.
He sat across from her, not too close, not too far. The distance between them was shrinking, but she wasn't sure when it had begun.
"Because you feel too much," he said softly. "And that's your strength."
Her eyes lifted to his. The space between them felt suspended in air, fragile and heavy.
"No one's ever said that to me like it was... a good thing."
His gaze didn't waver. "It is."
They sat like that for a moment—him watching her, her unraveling quietly. The hum of machines and far-off footsteps filled the silence between them, but it wasn't hollow anymore.
Inaaya let the tea warm her slowly. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I used to think maybe I wasn't enough. For my family. For my mother. For anyone. That maybe being too soft meant I'd break easily."
Aaryan leaned back slightly. "You haven't broken. You're still here. Still doing what you do."
"But sometimes I wish someone would see me. Really see me. And not just the daughter of Dr. Saif Mirza."
"I do," he said.
Her heart skipped.
The words weren't loud. They weren't wrapped in flowers or metaphors. But they rooted themselves somewhere deep.
Aaryan's POV
Aaryan didn't say much as she blinked sleepily over the rim of the cup, her frame smaller than usual in the large armchair. Something in her posture softened now—like she was finally allowing herself to rest. The rawness had ebbed from her eyes, replaced by an exhaustion that went deeper than the body.
Without a word, he moved closer, gently taking the teacup from her loosening fingers.
"Come," he said quietly.
She followed, almost dreamlike, as he led her through the silent hallway. His hand hovered near her back but never quite touched—like he was afraid he might wake something too delicate. His office was dim and still. He walked her to the worn leather couch tucked by the window and, with careful fingers, lifted the coat from his arm and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric swallowed her, but she didn't shrug it off.
As she lay down, her eyes fluttered shut almost instantly.
He stood for a long moment, just watching her.
And then—something cracked.
There was a quiet ache in his chest. She looked so peaceful like this. Not the quietly burdened woman who moved around their shared apartment like a shadow. Not the intern everyone underestimated. But a woman who carried too much tenderness, too much sorrow, and still looked like she belonged to the kind of love no one had ever given her.
His wife.
His gaze lingered on the gentle curve of her lips, the slope of her cheek as loose strands of hair fluttered with her breath. She looked... beautiful. Not in the gala-glamour sort of way, but in the sort of way that made his heart knock against his ribs because it had taken him three months to look at her like this.
Three months wasted coming home late just to avoid the possibility of this—her, asleep like a secret meant only for him.
He dropped into his chair with a sigh, dragging her file toward him, trying to refocus.
But every two lines he read, his eyes flicked back to her.
She shifted once, curling slightly deeper into the coat.
His heart clenched.
Dammit.
Aaryan shoved the file aside. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head like it might rattle her out of his thoughts. But it didn't work. Her presence filled the room even in sleep—quiet, steady, warm.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
He stood abruptly, pacing once before muttering under his breath. Then, frustration tugging at every controlled edge, he grabbed his stethoscope and walked out, his steps brisk toward the ward.
Because that was the only thing that still made sense—medicine. Not the way his wife looked when she slept. Not the guilt of never looking sooner.
Not this stupid fluttering in his chest.