The rooftop of Rathore Hospital was quiet—too quiet for a weekday afternoon. Inaaya had stumbled upon it a few weeks ago during a long shift when she needed air that didn't smell like antiseptic or coffee. Since then, it had become her tiny escape, especially on days when her chest felt too tight or her thoughts too loud.
Today was both.
She clutched her lunchbox tightly, its metal edges pressing into her palms as she carefully eased open the heavy rooftop door. The late afternoon sun bathed the space in gold, bouncing off the glass panels that ringed the safety rails. She made her way to her usual spot near the corner, under the shade of a tall potted palm someone from maintenance had left there.
A gentle breeze teased a few strands of her hair loose from her bun. She didn't mind. Here, she could breathe without feeling like she had to be someone. She could forget for a moment that she was Dr. Inaaya Mirza-Rathore, married to a man whose presence made her skin hum and her heart lurch in confusing directions.
She sat cross-legged, opening her lunchbox. Chana salad. Again. She poked at it half-heartedly, more preoccupied with the strange warmth that had crept into her mornings lately—the way Aaryan had asked her, without quite meeting her eyes, if she'd remembered to carry a granola bar for her long surgery day yesterday. Or how he had left a steaming cup of chai beside her laptop the evening before without saying a word.
It was unnerving, this careful care of his.
She didn't know what to make of it. It wasn't affection. Not exactly. But it wasn't indifference either. It was something in between. Something dangerous.
She had been trying to avoid him.
Not because she hated him. Not anymore. But because... because every time she caught him watching her—when he thought she wasn't looking—something inside her twisted. And she wasn't ready to name what that something was.
The rooftop door creaked.
She froze.
No.
No, no, no.
A pair of footsteps echoed lightly. Measured. Familiar. She didn't have to turn to know who it was.
"You have a habit of escaping during lunch hours," Aaryan's voice came, smooth and even, with that slightly gruff undertone that made it impossible to tell if he was annoyed or amused.
"I—I just like the air up here," she mumbled, suddenly flustered by the chana salad on her lap and the fact that she hadn't bothered to touch up her lip balm all day.
He walked to her side, but kept a polite distance. He held up a coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
"I brought lunch. Thought you might forget again."
She looked at the salad guiltily. "I remembered today."
"You call that lunch?" He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Looks like penance."
She laughed—a soft, surprised sound that escaped before she could stop it.
"You're not supposed to be funny," she said without thinking.
He blinked, then smirked. "I'm not. You just have a low humor threshold."
Inaaya rolled her eyes and shifted to make room. He took it as invitation and sat beside her, unwrapping what turned out to be a warm paneer sandwich from the paper bag.
For a while, they sat in companionable silence, eating. The city sprawled beneath them, glittering in the sun like a living thing. The wind tugged at his tie. He didn't bother fixing it.
Inaaya glanced sideways at him.
Aaryan looked... human like this. Still buttoned-up and precise, but softer. Like he had stepped down from whatever high pedestal he lived on.
"How was surgery this morning?" he asked.
"Good. Smooth. I managed to assist Dr. Mehra without trembling like a leaf this time."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You don't give yourself enough credit."
"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe I'm just realistic."
A beat of quiet passed. Then:
"Why are you always so hard on yourself?"
The question startled her. She looked up. His gaze was on the skyline, not her. But she could feel the intensity of it, even so.
"Because... I'm still trying to figure out if I belong here," she said softly. "In this hospital. In this marriage. In this life that feels like it was designed for someone else."
Aaryan didn't answer for a long time.
Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at her. "You do."
Two words.
Steady. Unshaken. Absolute.
Inaaya's chest felt tight again, but in a different way.
"I thought you didn't believe in giving reassurances," she murmured.
"I don't," he said. "Unless they're true."
Her heart stuttered. She looked away, fiddling with the fork in her salad.
"I... I think I'm scared of being seen," she admitted.
His voice was lower when he spoke again. "And I think that's the saddest thing I've heard all week."
They didn't speak after that. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because the silence between them had shifted—become fuller. Richer. Not awkward. Just real.
Eventually, Aaryan stood, brushing off his pants.
"I have a board meeting in five," he said. "But finish your 'penance.' And next time, accept the sandwich first."
"I'll consider it," she replied, eyes twinkling despite herself.
He took one last glance at her, then disappeared through the door, leaving the echo of his warmth behind.
Inaaya exhaled.
Maybe, just maybe, she was beginning to be seen.