Dr. Kavya Malhotra, First‑Person POV
The ceasefire was supposed to be twelve hours of fragile peace. Instead, it became the day I discovered the distance between hope and heartbreak can be measured in heartbeats.
I arrived at the forward aid post just as dawn broke over the glacier ridges. The world was lavender and steel—a pale sky meeting white earth. I wore my civilian coat over my clinic gear, my boots crunching on the frost. Troops milled about, rifles slung low, eyes wary but grateful for the lull.
Shashwat stood apart, scanning the horizon. No uniform that morning—only a woolen sweater and that silver coin glinting at his throat. When he saw me, relief softened his storm‑gray gaze.
"Kavya," he breathed, exhaling into the cold. "You came."
"Of course." My scarf caught on a jagged ice crystal. I snapped it free. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."
He led me to a ridge cradling an abandoned observation post. Lanterns flickered at its entrance—reminders that war never fully sleeps. "This is as close as we get to normal," he said quietly.
I took his hand. His grip was warm, the only heat in the air. "Normal sounds good."
Inside the post, a small group of medics offered hot tea. I sipped mine, stirring in the warmth. Shashwat watched me, brows knit. "You look tired," he said.
I laughed. "No more tired than usual." But exhaustion had marked my cheekbones, and he noticed.
He reached across the table, brushing my hair back. "Stay with me today," he said, voice earnest.
I nodded. "Always."
By midday, the post had become a hive of activity: soldiers patched, drivers bandaged, civilians seeking help. I'd led breathing workshops under canvas, demonstrating how to steady panic with measured inhalations. Shashwat sat beside me, offering quiet encouragement, his presence as settling as the clinic's heater.
Then the sirens split the air—shrill, urgent. I froze mid‑sentence. Around us, chaos erupted: medics grabbed stretchers, soldiers snapped into formation. Shashwat stood, rifle in hand, the warrior re‑emerging from the man.
"We're under fire," he said, voice clipped. "Frontline breach. Take cover."
He grabbed my arm. "Come on!"
I dropped my clipboard and followed him out into sunlight shot through shrapnel. Bullets clipped stone at our feet; the wind carried the staccato of gunfire like a grim melody. I flinched as a spray of gravel kicked up around us.
Shashwat steered me behind a low wall of sandbags. He pressed me to the ground, arm wrapped around my waist. I gasped, heart pounding so fiercely I thought it would shatter my ribs.
"Stay low," he hissed. "Breathe."
I did, focusing on the feel of his chest rising beneath my face. His arm encircled me, his body shielding mine. I closed my eyes, tasting the cold metal scent of danger—and something else, something softer: his warmth, the beat of his heart against my own.
The firefight rattled on—a salvo of AK rounds tracing deadly arcs. I could hear him calling orders, his voice steady, commanding. Then a pause: a lull so sudden the silence felt like a wound.
Shashwat leaned in, whispering, "Are you all right?"
His breath was warm against my ear. I nodded, though fear still rippled through me.
He turned my face to his. "Look at me."
I lifted my eyes. He brushed a trembling lock of hair from my forehead. Then, with an ease that defied the carnage around us, he closed the gap—lips pressing against mine in a kiss that was both defiance and sanctuary.
My world erupted in color. The gunfire became background noise. His arms enfolded me, pressing me against his chest, and I melted into the moment, tasting smoke and medicine and longing. It was gentle at first—questioning, tender—but it deepened as I wrapped my arms around his neck. Each pulse of his mouth seemed to whisper, I'm here. I won't let go.
When our lips finally parted, the ceasefire breach roared back. A grenade exploded in the distance—its concussion sending a tremor through the earth. I broke from his embrace, fear washing back.
"We have to move," he said, voice urgent. He grabbed my hand, pulling me toward cover as medics called for volunteers.
We huddled behind the abandoned post, rifles clicking into safety, eyes scanning for threats. My heart raced—not just from fear, but from the memory of that kiss, fresh as fire.
He dropped to one knee beside me, eyes fierce. "Kavya—"
A blast of artillery shook the ground, and orders crackled over the radio: "Immediate deployment. Secure position."
He stood, rifle ready. "I have to go," he said, voice tight.
I reached for his hand. "Shash—"
He pressed a final kiss to my temple. "Stay safe. I'll come back."
The world tilted as he sprinted toward the breach, disappearing into dust and smoke. I sank to the ground, tears freezing on my lashes. The weight of the moment pressed on me: the first real kiss we'd stolen under gunfire, and the wrench of sudden separation.
I spent the next hours tending to the wounded—field dressings, triage, urgent reassurances. But my mind kept straying to that kiss, that promise. On my break, I found the silver coin in my coat pocket and rolled it between my fingers. It reminded me of him—steady, resolute.
When the shelling finally ceased, I made my way back to the abandoned post. Shashwat was there, rifle resting on the sandbag wall, surveying the valley. He turned, relief flooding his face when he saw me.
I rushed to him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He held me in a fierce embrace, lifting me off the ground. "You came," he whispered.
"Always," I answered, voice choking.
He set me down gently, eyes soft. Bullet scars glinted on his cheek. "Are you hurt?"
I shook my head. "Just... grateful."
He brushed a thumb across my cheek. "I meant what I said."
I traced the line of his jaw. "I know."
He took my hand, guiding me back toward the clinic. "Come on—there's work to be done."
I fell into step beside him, heart still pounding with adrenaline and something deeper—something that dared to hope.
That night, as I charted patient progress by lantern light, I thought back to our kiss—how it had felt like salvation in a world gone mad. I realized then that love, too, is a battlefield: fragile, dangerous, and worth every risk.
In the quiet moments between cases, I wrote a line in my journal:
Today, our lips found shelter in each other's arms when the world fell apart—a promise made in gunfire, and kept in every heartbeat since.
I folded the journal closed and pressed it to my chest, as though anchoring our truth against the storm. Outside, the wind howled—but inside, my heart held the warmth of his first kiss, a beacon in the dark.