The elevator doors dinged softly on the fifteenth floor, and Inaaya adjusted the sleeve of her white coat, clutching her patient folder a little tighter as she stepped out. The hospital buzzed around her—nurses moving quickly, doctors conferring in corners, the hum of life and urgency. But amid it all, she felt... oddly centered.
Not confident. But not lost either.
Maybe it was Dr. Mehra's subtle smile after her accurate diagnosis this morning. Or the way one of the interns had casually asked her, "Dr. Mirza, could you take a look?"—like she belonged here. Or maybe it was just the lingering memory of his towel on the bathroom hook.
Inaaya's ears heated at the thought. Her husband—correction, Aaryan Rathore—had the infuriating habit of turning the most mundane moments into unshakable memories. His casual sarcasm. The way he didn't flinch when she stood in that bathroom doorway in nothing but a towel. His maddening calmness, even while she had squeaked and fumbled her way back out.
"I need therapy," she muttered to herself.
"Don't we all?"
The voice startled her. She turned to find Aryav leaning against the corridor wall, holding two paper cups of coffee. He looked too good for someone who'd just finished three back-to-back surgeries. His hair was a little messy, his coat flung open over dark scrubs, and his smile—lopsided and mischievous—tugged at something unexpectedly warm in her chest.
He extended one of the cups toward her.
"This one has way too much sugar. Figured you'd like it."
Inaaya arched a brow. "Are you calling me sweet or just incapable of appreciating coffee?"
Aryav grinned. "Both."
She took the cup and sipped. It was, in fact, far too sweet. But it made her smile.
"Rough day?" she asked.
"Not really. Just... weird. Had a teenage patient call me 'Dr. McDreamy' and then pass out." He looked genuinely horrified. "I think I need to change my shampoo."
Inaaya laughed, and it surprised her how easily it slipped out.
They started walking down the hallway together, their pace slow. Familiar. The way friends or siblings might after a long day at school. She wasn't sure when that comfort had crept in—but it was there.
"You've been looking more sure of yourself lately," Aryav noted, his voice softer now. "Less like a deer in headlights."
She gave him a mock scowl. "Thanks. That's exactly what I strive for: Not being mistaken for terrified wildlife."
"I'm serious." He nudged her shoulder gently. "It suits you. Whatever you're doing—keep doing it."
Inaaya looked down at the floor. "I've been... going through Aaryan's old notes. His case files, post-op analyses. They're strangely helpful."
"Strangely?"
"He writes like he talks. Cold. Precise. But somehow, reading through them... it feels like I can hear what he would say to me, if he wasn't so busy pretending I don't exist."
Aryav was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled faintly. "That's his way of caring, you know. He's too emotionally constipated to say it, but he watches everything."
She snorted. "I'll pass that along to his next patient. 'Dr. Rathore may seem terrifying, but rest assured, he's just emotionally constipated.'"
"Exactly," Aryav said, raising his coffee in mock toast.
They walked a little further until she leaned against a pillar near the observation window. The city spread out below in blurred motion, lights blinking in and out of the grey sky. She glanced at Aryav, who was now balancing on the balls of his feet like a restless child.
"You ever think... this isn't what you signed up for?" she asked.
His posture stiffened slightly. But he shrugged. "Every day. Then I remember... sometimes the most meaningful things aren't what we choose, but what we survive."
There it was again—that subtle dip in his tone, the fleeting shadow in his eyes.
Inaaya watched him for a moment longer. She wanted to say something. Anything. But the words felt too careful, too weighted.
Instead, she said lightly, "Deep. Very Tumblr-2012 of you."
He let out a short laugh. "What can I say? I'm a man of layers."
"Like an onion?"
"Like lasagna," he replied, mock-offended.
She shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. It felt... good, being around him. Easy. And for a second, when he turned to look at her with that half-smile again, she felt a flicker of something she hadn't known she needed.
Not romantic. Not even close.
Just warmth. The kind that reminded her of who she used to be—before the politics, the marriage, the expectations.
"I'm glad we're friends, Aryav."
"Whoa, you said it out loud. Does this mean I get to sign your yearbook?"
She nudged him with her shoulder. "Shut up."
He grinned and bumped her back.
And for a moment, just a small one, Inaaya forgot about the secrets, the tension, and the complicated feelings that lived in the quiet corners of her heart. She just existed—in that hallway, with a boy who felt like the brother she never had, laughing over too-sweet coffee and bad metaphors.
The elevator doors dinged softly on the fifteenth floor, and Inaaya adjusted the sleeve of her white coat, clutching her patient folder a little tighter as she stepped out. The hospital buzzed around her—nurses moving quickly, doctors conferring in corners, the hum of life and urgency. But amid it all, she felt... oddly centered.
Not confident. But not lost either.
Maybe it was Dr. Mehra's subtle smile after her accurate diagnosis this morning. Or the way one of the interns had casually asked her, "Dr. Mirza, could you take a look?"—like she belonged here. Or maybe it was just the lingering memory of his towel on the bathroom hook.
Inaaya's ears heated at the thought. Her husband—correction, Aaryan Rathore—had the infuriating habit of turning the most mundane moments into unshakable memories. His casual sarcasm. The way he didn't flinch when she stood in that bathroom doorway in nothing but a towel. His maddening calmness, even while she had squeaked and fumbled her way back out.
"I need therapy," she muttered to herself.
"Don't we all?"
The voice startled her. She turned to find Aryav leaning against the corridor wall, holding two paper cups of coffee. He looked too good for someone who'd just finished three back-to-back surgeries. His hair was a little messy, his coat flung open over dark scrubs, and his smile—lopsided and mischievous—tugged at something unexpectedly warm in her chest.
He extended one of the cups toward her.
"This one has way too much sugar. Figured you'd like it."
Inaaya arched a brow. "Are you calling me sweet or just incapable of appreciating coffee?"
Aryav grinned. "Both."
She took the cup and sipped. It was, in fact, far too sweet. But it made her smile.
"Rough day?" she asked.
"Not really. Just... weird. Had a teenage patient call me 'Dr. McDreamy' and then pass out." He looked genuinely horrified. "I think I need to change my shampoo."
Inaaya laughed, and it surprised her how easily it slipped out.
They started walking down the hallway together, their pace slow. Familiar. The way friends or siblings might after a long day at school. She wasn't sure when that comfort had crept in—but it was there.
"You've been looking more sure of yourself lately," Aryav noted, his voice softer now. "Less like a deer in headlights."
She gave him a mock scowl. "Thanks. That's exactly what I strive for: Not being mistaken for terrified wildlife."
"I'm serious." He nudged her shoulder gently. "It suits you. Whatever you're doing—keep doing it."
Inaaya looked down at the floor. "I've been... going through Aaryan's old notes. His case files, post-op analyses. They're strangely helpful."
"Strangely?"
"He writes like he talks. Cold. Precise. But somehow, reading through them... it feels like I can hear what he would say to me, if he wasn't so busy pretending I don't exist."
Aryav was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled faintly. "That's his way of caring, you know. He's too emotionally constipated to say it, but he watches everything."
She snorted. "I'll pass that along to his next patient. 'Dr. Rathore may seem terrifying, but rest assured, he's just emotionally constipated.'"
"Exactly," Aryav said, raising his coffee in mock toast.
They walked a little further until she leaned against a pillar near the observation window. The city spread out below in blurred motion, lights blinking in and out of the grey sky. She glanced at Aryav, who was now balancing on the balls of his feet like a restless child.
"You ever think... this isn't what you signed up for?" she asked.
His posture stiffened slightly. But he shrugged. "Every day. Then I remember... sometimes the most meaningful things aren't what we choose, but what we survive."
There it was again—that subtle dip in his tone, the fleeting shadow in his eyes.
Inaaya watched him for a moment longer. She wanted to say something. Anything. But the words felt too careful, too weighted.
Instead, she said lightly, "Deep. Very Tumblr-2012 of you."
He let out a short laugh. "What can I say? I'm a man of layers."
"Like an onion?"
"Like lasagna," he replied, mock-offended.
She shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. It felt... good, being around him. Easy. And for a second, when he turned to look at her with that half-smile again, she felt a flicker of something she hadn't known she needed.
Not romantic. Not even close.
Just warmth. The kind that reminded her of who she used to be—before the politics, the marriage, the expectations.
"I'm glad we're friends, Aryav."
"Whoa, you said it out loud. Does this mean I get to sign your yearbook?"
She nudged him with her shoulder. "Shut up."
He grinned and bumped her back.
And for a moment, just a small one, Inaaya forgot about the secrets, the tension, and the complicated feelings that lived in the quiet corners of her heart. She just existed—in that hallway, with a boy who felt like the brother she never had, laughing over too-sweet coffee and bad metaphors.