The hospital cafeteria was quieter than usual. Most of the staff had retreated for the evening shift change, and only a few scattered tables remained occupied. Inaaya sat at one of them, nursing a warm cup of coffee that had long since cooled. Her ID badge dangled slightly crooked over her white coat, her fingers absently spinning the handle of the mug.
Aaryan stood across the room near the vending machine, flipping through his tablet. But he wasn't reading. Not really.
His gaze, sharp and unreadable, drifted across the space to where she sat, alone but not small—not anymore. Not the way she used to be.
She didn't know he had watched the footage.
Security had flagged it automatically—a Code Blue triggered without attending supervision. He had watched it in his office in silence, arms folded, eyes focused—not on the patient—but on her.
The way her hands moved, sure but trembling. How she didn't hesitate. How she led, even when she doubted herself.
There was something in the way she had stood over that patient, calling orders, sweat dotting her temples, voice loud, almost shaking—but she held it.
He hadn't seen anyone else do that on their first Code Blue.
Not even himself.
Now, as he leaned against the vending machine, pretending to scroll through clinical data, his mind played her voice on loop. "Charging paddles to 200! Clear!"
He wasn't someone easily impressed.
But this had impressed him.
He walked over, slowly, his steps silent on the tiles.
Inaaya looked up just as he neared, startled.
"Oh. I didn't hear you—" she started, but he interrupted gently.
"You shouldn't be here alone."
She smiled faintly. "I just needed a minute. After today..."
He pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat down, tapping the tablet against the table. "Adrenaline crash?"
"Something like that," she said softly, wrapping her fingers around the cup again.
Aaryan leaned back in his chair, observing her—not as a supervisor, not even as a husband—but something more difficult to define. Curiosity, perhaps. Admiration, carefully veiled.
"You did well," he said finally.
She looked up at him, wide-eyed.
"You already said that," she murmured.
"No," he corrected, tilting his head. "Earlier I meant clinically. This time... I mean it personally."
Inaaya blinked, lips parting slightly. The words landed somewhere deep, like a warmth she didn't know she'd been waiting for.
"You didn't freeze. You didn't hesitate. That takes instinct and training. You're... learning."
He paused there, as if catching himself before saying more.
She didn't know what to do with the praise. It wasn't just clinical approval. It was... respect. Earned, not inherited. She felt something stir inside her that had nothing to do with medicine.
"You think I'm learning?" she asked, unsure why she needed the confirmation so badly.
He didn't answer right away. He just watched her for a second. Then, with the faintest upturn of his lips, he replied:
"I think you always had it. You just didn't know."
Her chest tightened at that. She dropped her gaze.
From across the cafeteria, a few junior doctors walked past and nodded at her. One of them—Dr. Pallavi—smiled and offered a quiet, "Nice work today, Dr. Rathore."
Inaaya flushed, nodding with a quiet "Thanks."
The moment they left, she chuckled, cheeks still pink. "Do you think they respect me now because I revived someone... or because I'm your wife?"
Aaryan shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching with subtle amusement. "Respect is earned. Fear is inherited."
She tilted her head. "Are you saying they fear you?"
He arched a brow. "Do you?"
Her smile faltered—then grew. "No," she said truthfully. "Not anymore."
A moment passed between them.
Something warm. Something quiet.
And just before it could stretch into something unfamiliar, she stood up quickly, brushing imaginary lint off her coat. "Right. I should... finish rounds."
"Go," he said, watching her go.
But he didn't leave.
He stayed back in the cafeteria after she was gone, sitting at that same table, staring at the cup she had left behind.
A single lipstick stain on the rim.
The woman who had once looked lost in these hallways now walked with quiet certainty, head held a little higher.
He hadn't trained her. He hadn't mentored her.
But she had found her footing anyway.
And something about that unsettled him.
In a good way.