The fluorescent lights flickered faintly above the ICU hallway, casting pale reflections onto the waxed floor. Inaaya adjusted her stethoscope as she flipped through the patient charts at the nurses' station. Her mind still buzzed with traces of her earlier encounter with Aleena, but she'd taught herself how to compartmentalize. Emotional distractions could be fatal here—especially in this ward.
The monitors beeped in rhythmic symphony behind glass doors. She paused outside Room 412—a post-operative cardiac patient who had stabilized overnight but still required close observation. She double-checked the file and entered.
The patient was an older man in his seventies, pallor fading slightly after surgery, breaths shallow but even. His wife sat quietly in the corner, hands clasped tightly over a worn prayer bead, eyes darting to the monitor with every blip.
"Good morning, Mrs. Mehta," Inaaya said softly.
"Doctor... is he going to be alright?"
"He's doing better," Inaaya reassured, managing a gentle smile. "Vitals are stabilizing, and the morning ECG looked promising."
As she turned to adjust the IV, the monitor gave a sharp, unfamiliar beep. Then another. And then—
Flatline.
Her heart lurched.
The wife screamed.
The next few seconds came in flashes—like muscle memory cracking through her bones.
"Code Blue! Room 412!" Inaaya's voice sliced through the ward as she slammed the emergency button.
Nurses scrambled in.
"Get the crash cart! Start compressions—now!"
She checked the airway—clear.
She tilted the patient's chin, started compressions herself when the nurse's hands fumbled. "Two, three, four..."
She didn't wait for a senior. There was no one nearby. No time.
"Charging paddles to 200!"
The nurse's hands shook. Inaaya took the defibrillator herself. Sweat formed under her gloves as she looked at the lifeless body, his wife sobbing uncontrollably in the corner.
"Clear!"
The body jolted. No rhythm.
"Again!"
"Clear!"
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
It returned—slow, weak, but present.
A collective breath exhaled through the room.
Inaaya staggered back, panting, trembling.
"He's... he's back," one of the nurses said breathlessly, almost in disbelief.
Inaaya's fingers were still curled around the paddles, her jaw tight, her heart pounding harder than any monitor.
Mrs. Mehta sobbed, her hands reaching for Inaaya. "You saved him..."
Inaaya blinked.
Had she?
Yes. She had.
For the first time since stepping into this hospital, she hadn't been a shadow trailing behind orders. She hadn't looked around for help. She had been the help.
And no one could take that from her.
⸻
Later that evening, she sat on the bench just outside the ICU. Her white coat was creased, a faint smear of adrenaline still on her collar. The sun outside was setting, melting into shades of soft amber and plum.
"Impressive," came a calm, familiar voice.
Aaryan.
She hadn't heard him approach.
He stood beside her, arms crossed over his chest, his usual crisp black shirt slightly rolled at the sleeves. His eyes—sharp, assessing—were fixed on her, but there was something... different.
Something softer.
"You heard?" she asked, trying to keep the nervous flutter in her voice at bay.
"I reviewed the case report. And the ECG. You made the right call."
Inaaya felt a blush creep up her neck. "I just... acted. There wasn't time to wait."
He nodded slowly. "Good. Waiting would've cost a life."
She tried to meet his gaze, but it lingered a moment too long and something in her stomach turned warm and strange. "I thought you'd have... notes. Suggestions."
He tilted his head, watching her closely. "I do. Don't forget to breathe next time."
That caught her off guard. A laugh slipped out, breathless and surprised.
Then his lips twitched. A rare thing.
"There it is," he said, quietly.
"What?"
"A real laugh. You don't do it much."
She ducked her head, smiling despite herself.
"I guess I was waiting for a reason."
His gaze stayed on her a moment longer than necessary. Then, as if snapping out of it, he reached into his coat pocket and handed her a folded printout.
"Your patient's next steps. Read it. Then rest."
She took it from him, fingertips brushing his briefly. "Thanks."
As he walked away, she watched the back of his figure—the steady, tall posture, the ever-composed gait.
He hadn't said much.
But he had acknowledged her. Genuinely. Without reserve or correction.
And that mattered.