The hospital gossip mill was in overdrive.
Whispers. Side glances. Smirks.
Because Shabd Heer—the quiet, unshakeable neurosurgeon—had just done something loud.
He had asked Dr. Vashti Dhiman to scrub out of a surgery.
In front of everyone.
And she?
She threw her gloves at him.
"You're a coward," she spat in the hallway, fuming as residents scattered like terrified pigeons.
Shabd's jaw tensed. "You're distracted."
"Oh, now I'm distracted? Not last week when we were practically breathing each other in?"
"This isn't about us."
"No," she shot back, stepping closer. "This is about you being jealous of Armaan and punishing me for it."
He went still.
Gotcha.
Her voice dropped, dangerous now. "You think I don't see it? You hate the way he makes me laugh. The way he treats me like I'm more than just a girl you left behind."
"Vashti," he warned.
"No. You don't get to silence me. Not anymore."
The tension between them pulled taut—like a string seconds before snapping.
And then…
Armaan walked up.
"Everything okay here?"
Vashti didn't break eye contact with Shabd. "Perfect."
But Armaan wasn't stupid.
He looked between them. "You sure? Because from what I heard, you're not letting her into surgeries anymore. That seems a little personal for something that's 'not about you.'"
Shabd's fists clenched, but he said nothing.
Armaan turned to Vashti. "You're coming with me. We've got a consult on 7C."
She nodded once, brushing past Shabd.
But right before turning the corner, she looked back and said just loud enough for him to hear:
"You want to keep pushing me away, fine. But don't be surprised if someone else learns how to hold me better."
And then she was gone.
Leaving Shabd standing in the hall, heart pounding, hands shaking, and for the first time—
scared of losing her for good.
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