Aarav
Blood was everywhere.
Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic, existential way. Just—everywhere.Arterial spray. Lacerations. The ragged, too-young body of a construction worker who fell three stories onto a steel railing and got impaled through the abdomen.
"BP dropping," barked Clara, my scrub nurse. Her hands moved fast—gloved, steady, stained.
"Clamp." I didn't raise my voice. Didn't have to. Everything in the room was timed to my tone, synced to the beat of my decisions.
Surgery demanded stillness inside chaos. And I was always still.
The moment we opened him up, I saw it—the tear in the inferior vena cava. Deep. Ugly. Bleeding like hell.
"Retract. Suction."
I moved in. The world fell away. My sister's voice. The board. Meera Shah's deliberate stare and clinical dismissal. All of it faded beneath the hum of the OR.
For ninety-six minutes, I did what I was built for.
I saved him.
By the time I walked out of Westbridge, it was nearing dusk. My scrubs were clean—fresh change—but I still smelled like antiseptic and fatigue. The rain had stopped, leaving behind that sharp, ozone air only New York could wear like perfume.
I crossed the street to a corner café—Etta's, a quiet place I'd been coming to for years. The light was soft, golden against warm wood interiors. No one here asked questions. No one here bled.
I was halfway to the counter when I saw her.
Meera Shah.
She was tucked into the corner by the window—laptop open, hair pinned loosely, a glass of something untouched beside her. She wasn't in her Wall Street armor today. No structured blazer. No killer heels. Just a soft cream turtleneck, wide-legged pants, and reading glasses she didn't wear when she tore into budgets.
For the first time, she didn't look like a threat.
She looked... human.
And so annoyingly beautiful it pissed me off.
I should've walked past. Should've respected boundaries. Should've grabbed my damn coffee and left. But I was exhausted and unfiltered. So I turned and walked right to her table.
She didn't look up until I was almost there. When she did, it was slow. Unhurried. Calculated.
"Dr. Malhotra," she said, not bothering to hide the smirk that curled at the edge of her mouth. "Did you come to invoice me for oxygen use on your floor?"
"Not today," I said, and pulled out the chair across from her without asking.
Her brows lifted. "You're sitting."
"I am."
"You're bleeding into my personal space."
"You're the one bleeding my trauma unit dry."
She leaned back, lips twitching. "Touché."
I took a moment to study her face in the low light. She had the kind of beauty that didn't try. Sharp eyes, full mouth. And beneath all that precision... softness. The kind she probably hated people noticing.
"What are you working on?" I asked, nodding toward her laptop.
"Departmental forecasts. Your OR has the second-highest deviation from projected costs."
"Because we save lives. Not paperclips."
"You also misreport pharmaceutical usage by 12%."
I smiled. "You looked into that."
She paused, then met my eyes. "Of course I did."
There it was—that shift. From banter to tension. A flicker of something neither of us named.
Meera closed her laptop, slowly. "Do you always flirt in scrubs, Dr. Malhotra?"
"I wasn't flirting."
She tilted her head. "Then you're wasting potential."
I let out a quiet laugh. It surprised both of us.
There was silence. But it wasn't awkward. It stretched between us like thread being pulled tight, waiting to snap or tie.
"You know," I said, more softly now, "you don't have to carry it all like armor."
Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"You sit like you're waiting for a hit. Speak like every word's a shield. You don't have to do that here."
She blinked—slow. Like she didn't expect that from me.
Then she stood, collecting her laptop and coat. Her voice was quieter when she said, "I carry it because I know the weight. And I don't expect anyone to lift it for me."
I rose too. Close now. Too close.
"I wouldn't try to lift it," I said. "But I see it. That's all."
She stared at me like she was trying to decide if I meant it.
I did.
Then she walked past me, her shoulder brushing mine—like that first day. Only this time... it lingered.
And I didn't move.