It wasn't a date.
Officially.
They were just two doctors walking to the café outside the hospital.
With no scrubs, no scalpels, no stethoscopes.
But Vashti Dhiman had done her eyeliner.
And Shabd Heer held the door open like a man raised by poetry, not pressure.
She hated how her heart fluttered.
They sat across from each other—her with cold coffee, him with his usual black.
"So," she said, tapping her straw against the table, "what are we?"
He blinked. "Hungry?"
"Shabd."
He looked up, serious. "We're… figuring it out."
"That's such a you answer."
"And yet you're still here," he said, sipping his coffee.
She narrowed her eyes. "I'm here because I like torturing myself."
"Or maybe," he said slowly, "you're finally starting to admit that you never stopped liking me."
Her pulse jumped.
She leaned forward, deadly calm. "Do you know how many times I tried to move on?"
"Tell me."
"Five," she said. "Five guys. None of them made me feel what I felt when you looked at me across the biology lab in tenth grade."
Shabd smiled, remembering. "You were wearing two ponytails and threatening to punch a guy for taking your marker."
"You were watching," she accused.
"You were loud," he smirked. "Hard to miss."
She looked down at her drink.
Then said, softer, "You make me soft, Shabd. And I hate it."
He reached across the table, fingers brushing hers. "You make me feel like home. And I've missed it."
A pause.
Then she whispered, "I'm scared."
"I know."
"What if you hurt me again?"
"I won't."
"You already did."
"I'll spend the rest of my life undoing it," he said, voice low, honest, wrecked.
And for once, Vashti believed him.
Not because he promised.
But because this time—he showed up.
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