Inaaya stepped out of the bathroom with a sigh, steam curling from behind her like a fading veil. Her skin still tingled from the hot water, her damp hair clinging softly to her shoulders. Wrapped in a short white towel knotted just above her chest, she padded barefoot into the bedroom, humming under her breath, eyes half-lidded from the comfort of the shower.
She froze mid-step.
Aaryan was standing near the dresser, sleeves rolled up, watch clasped onto his wrist, flipping through files as if it were just any other morning. The overhead lights caught in the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint scruff along it, the structured calmness that somehow made him more infuriatingly composed.
Her hand flew to her chest, holding the towel tighter.
"I—I thought you'd already left!" she squeaked, backing a step toward the bathroom like a cartoon caught in the wrong episode.
He just stared at her , openly , mouth parting slightly as if first time seeing her out of scrubs and ponytail.
Not even showing a decency of looking away
He didn't even look flustered.
"Clearly," Aaryan said dryly after a pause, eyes flicking up just briefly—too briefly—to be considered rude. His heated gaze landed somewhere around her collarbone before returning to the document in his hand.
But she didn't miss the brief twitch at the corner of his lips. A smile? A smirk?
"By all means," he added, voice deceptively calm, "take your time. I'll just make breakfast , come downstairs in something more than a towel."
Inaaya's mouth dropped open in horror, the towel suddenly feeling much, much shorter.
"Aaryan!"
He didn't answer, just turned to leave the room, speaking over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall. "Five minutes. If you're late, you'll have to explain to Dr. Mehra why the chief surgeon's wife can't read a clock."
The bedroom door clicked shut behind him.
But she didn't miss the slight reddening of tip of his ears when he left.
Inaaya stood there, stunned, her heart thudding louder than her thoughts. And then—mortifyingly—she found herself smiling.
The worst part?
She wasn't sure if it was the towel or the way he gazed at her that made her blush harder.
Inaaya had barely slipped into her clothes—a soft blue scrubs —when the warmth of her face refused to dissipate. Every time she looked at herself in the mirror, she could see it: the ghost of that moment still dusting her cheeks.
She'd seen him a thousand times in this apartment, walked past him, spoken to him, eaten meals next to him in silence. But never like that. Not when her damp hair clung to her bare shoulders, not when his voice curved in that wickedly calm tone with an undertone of teasing.
"Ugh, pull yourself together," she muttered, tying her dupatta and scrunching her damp hair back with a clip.
But the second she stepped into the elevator with him—he was already waiting, a coffee mug in hand, dressed in dark navy crisp shirt with that infuriatingly unreadable expression—her blush reignited.
He didn't say anything at first. Just offered her the travel cup of tea he'd quietly brewed. "You'll forget to eat again."
She blinked up at him, surprised. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Dr. Mirza," he replied coolly. But then, just before the elevator doors closed, he added without looking at her, "Nice towel, by the way."
Inaaya almost dropped the tea.
At hospital
She was washing her hands in the interns' washroom later that morning, the mirror foggy from someone's recent shower. Her reflection stared back—still flushed from earlier, a little less awkward, but definitely not composed.
"You're blushing again," she muttered to herself.
The door creaked open and she startled. But it was just Reema, her co-intern.
"Everything okay?" She said looking at her red cheeks.
Inaaya nodded quickly. "Yes. Just... hot water. Makes my skin red."
Reema laughed. "Or maybe it's the chief looking like a walking drama novel in scrubs?"
Inaaya nearly dropped the soap.
"I'm joking," Reema winked. "Mostly."
⸻
She met Dr. Mehra during patient rounds that afternoon. He gave her a once-over, adjusted his glasses, and said, "Mirza, you're improving ."
Inaaya tilted her head, unsure.
"You're no longer walking around like a ghost afraid to touch the living," he added bluntly, but not unkindly. "That's progress."
She smiled, a soft, unexpected warmth blooming in her chest. "Thank you, sir."
She'd been sneaking into the Aaryan office lately when she couldn't fall asleep or when her shifts end early . Reading his files , the notes he had marked corresponding to each symptom and clinical findings with explanation and reasoning, with he neat and clean handwriting , it had helped her a lot during the rounds.
"Don't thank me yet. Wait till you mess up your first solo diagnosis."
"Comforting," she replied dryly.
He chuckled. "See? That's the spirit."
⸻
They left together again that evening, Aaryan walking a half-step behind her, silence more companionable now.
"You spoke with Mehra today?" he asked, tone unreadable.
"Yes," she replied. She didn't say anything further.
Aaryan gave a soft sound that might've been a hum or a laugh. "I told him to keep an eye on you."
Inaaya's heart tripped over itself.
"You did?"
"You're stubborn," he said, glancing sideways at her as the elevator doors closed. "But not stupid. I figured you'd either burn out or break through."
"And which one did I do?"
"You're still standing," he said. "Let's call it a work in progress."
She smiled, looking down at her shoes, cheeks warming again.
"Your blush," he murmured suddenly. "Is it... permanent?"
Inaaya gaped at him. "W-what?"
He didn't answer, just let the elevator open on the 45th floor.
⸻
Dinner was quiet. He cooked again—grilled vegetables and rice—and she washed dishes while he looked over something on his tablet.
Because she kind of sucked at cooking a decent meals , moreover he loves cooking its like his hobby , so she tries to be as useful as possible by helping him with supplies , washing dishes and cleaning while he cooked , they were comfortable in this routine.
At one point, their hands brushed as she handed him a spoon. They both paused. He didn't pull back. Neither did she.
"Inaaya," he said after a moment, voice lower, quieter, "do you want to talk about something?"
She shook her head, quickly.
He didn't press. Just nodded once, like he understood.
She wondered then—not for the first time—if the silence between them was something she feared or something she needed.
She thought about asking him about it but didn't.