Aaryan's PoV
The soft squelching of crocs on freshly mopped floors reached him before her presence did. Aaryan didn't look up right away. He didn't need to — he knew that rhythm by heart. Inaaya's pace was precise, unhurried, and deliberate, like everything else about her.
When he finally lifted his gaze from the files on the nurse station counter, she was already there — dressed in the hospital's muted blue, her eyes briefly flicking toward him before settling on the iPad in her hands.
"Inaaya," he greeted softly.
She didn't flinch. She didn't freeze. But there was a pause — small, almost imperceptible — before she responded.
"Dr. Rathore," she said, polite. Measured. Controlled.
It was like being offered a glass of water when you were dying of thirst — necessary, but painfully insufficient.
He cleared his throat, struggling to settle the weight rising in his chest. "You're assigned to the Patel case?"
"Yes. Dr. Madhav wanted someone familiar with palliative oncology," she replied, still not meeting his eyes. "I got the file from Dr. Prisha this morning."
He nodded, though he already knew that. He had asked Prisha to make sure Inaaya was put on the case.
"That's good," he said. "It's... a delicate situation."
"Yes," she echoed. "They've been married fifty-eight years. He won't leave her bedside, even for scans."
Something shifted in her voice when she said it — a quiet reverence, a gentle sorrow. It reminded him of the way she used to speak to his mother in the evenings, over tea. He looked at her more directly then, but she only glanced up briefly and returned her focus to the tablet.
He took a slow breath. "Inaaya..."
She stilled. Just for a second.
He meant to ask if she was okay. He meant to say he missed her. He meant to say the penthouse felt colder than it ever had since she stopped coming home — that the empty half of the bed haunted him, that even the sea outside looked lonelier when she wasn't around. But the words stayed stuck behind the measured restraint of the man who had taught himself to never need.
Instead, he said, "Let me know if you need support with the patient's family. I'll be nearby."
Her lashes flickered. "Thank you."
She started to walk past him — and then paused. Just barely.
"I—" she began, but shook her head, pushing her hair behind her ear. "Never mind. Let's check on them."
It wasn't warmth. But it wasn't ice, either. It was the unfamiliar space in-between — where love grew roots but had not yet found its language.
They walked together down the corridor — not quite side by side. Not quite apart.
And behind them, the fluorescent lights buzzed, indifferent to the quiet ache in every step they took.