Shivangi's POV

I was back at the clinic two weeks later, sitting on the same familiar white-sheeted examination table, the air still smelling faintly like jasmine and antiseptic. Somehow, that smell had stopped bothering me. Familiarity had a funny way of softening things that once felt stark.

But this time, something was different. Or maybe I was different.

I clutched my notebook in my lap—half-written thoughts, scribbles about my fantasy novel, and random words I'd jotted down during sleepless nights. 

Somehow, writing made things feel more real. It grounded me. But today, the pen marks weren't grounding me at all. In fact, my fingers trembled slightly on the pages.

Because I knew I'd see him again.

Dr. Samarth

The man with calm eyes and a voice like warm honey. The doctor who had seen me at my most anxious and never made me feel small for it.

Also, possibly the reason I'd changed outfits three times this morning. Not that I was trying to impress him or anything. Nope. Definitely not. This perfectly ironed kurta was for me. Obviously.

The door creaked open, and there he was.

In a light grey shirt today beneath his white coat, sleeves rolled just enough to expose strong forearms. The kind of forearms that could probably carry ten patients at once or cradle a baby goat. Not that I'd imagined either of those things.

He had a clipboard in one hand and that usual calm expression that instantly made the room feel less medical and more... warm.

"Shivangi," 

he greeted, and there it was—that soft smile. The one that made something flutter in my chest like a confused pigeon trapped indoors. 

"Glad to see you again. How are you feeling?"

"Better,"

 I said honestly. 

"Not perfect, but better. The medicine's helping."

He nodded, stepping in closer. 

"That's good to hear. Are you still experiencing the bloating and fatigue you mentioned last time?"

I shook my head. "Less now. The cramps, too. They're manageable."

"That's promising," he said, glancing at the chart. "And the dietary changes? Are you able to keep up with those?"

"Mostly," I said sheepishly. 

"Except when aloo paratha happens. Then everything goes out the window."

He chuckled, and I swore the room got five degrees warmer.

 "I won't fight with parathas. They win every time."

I laughed too quickly. A little too loud. Okay, chill, Shivangi. He's being nice. He's being doctor-nice.

He looked up from the chart, eyes soft. 

"We'll do a routine examination today—check your vitals, make sure your cycle is regulating as expected. Then we'll adjust the treatment plan if needed. Okay?"

I nodded, but my throat went dry.

Why was I nervous? He was my doctor. This was his job.

Still, when he asked me to lie back and gently pressed the cold stethoscope against my chest, I could barely breathe. His fingers brushed against my skin—briefly, professionally—but I felt each touch like a spark.

"Deep breath in," he said.

I obeyed. Or tried to. Pretty sure I inhaled my own dignity.

"Now out."

That was easier. Until he moved to the other side, leaned closer. 

I could smell a hint of coffee and something clean—like cedarwood. Who smelled good at work?

He checked my pulse next—his fingers warm and confident against the delicate skin of my wrist. They lingered for just a second longer than I expected, steady and calm, in contrast to the jittery thrum of my heartbeat.

"You're a bit tense," he noted, his voice light, almost teasing.

I let out a breathy laugh, more nervous than amused. 

"I guess I always get like this during exams. Especially the physical ones."

"Understandable," 

he said, glancing up with a tilt of his mouth that wasn't quite a smile, but close enough to make my pulse jump for an entirely different reason. 

"Most people aren't exactly thrilled about being examined before breakfast."

"Yeah, being told to relax while someone checks your organs is not my idea of a calm morning."

That earned a quiet chuckle from him. "Fair enough. Maybe I should start offering calming music or scented candles to set the mood."

I smiled, lips twitching. 

"Next, you'll be handing out spa menus and foot massages."

"Only if my patients stop pretending they're not googling their symptoms before walking in."

I laughed, genuinely this time. But even as the sound left my lips, my heart gave an uneven thud. Was this flirting? No. Probably not. Or maybe. God, I needed to get a grip.

"I'll be as quick and gentle as possible," he said, his tone softening. 

"Let me know if anything feels uncomfortable."

I nodded, eyes drifting to the ceiling tiles as he continued the exam. The room fell into a hush, broken only by the soft rustle of paper and the tap of his pen against the clipboard. And my heartbeat. Loud. Obvious. Embarrassing.

When he asked me to shift slightly so he could palpate my lower abdomen, I tensed without meaning to. Just the smallest movement, but he noticed.

"You okay?" he asked, voice quieter now. Gentler.

"Yeah," I replied quickly. "Just... cold. Or nerves. Maybe both."

"We'll go slowly," he said. "Tell me if anything pinches or feels wrong."

His touch was careful, clinical. And yet something about the moment made me want to curl into myself. Not from discomfort—no. From the ridiculous warmth blooming inside me, like I'd stepped into a scene from one of those slow-burn medical romances I pretended I didn't read.

Get a grip, Shivangi. You're imagining plotlines again.

When he finally stepped back, scribbling something down on the chart, I exhaled—quiet and shaky.

"Everything looks stable. You're responding well to treatment."

I sat up slowly, pulling my dupatta back around my shoulders. My heart was still racing. For all the wrong reasons.

Or maybe the right ones.

"You're doing great," 

he said gently, his voice a calming balm to the awkwardness I couldn't quite shake. 

"Don't be hard on yourself."

"Easier said than done," I muttered, then glanced up at him. 

"But... thanks. For making this less awkward than it could've been."

His smile was soft, but there was a flicker—something quieter, more thoughtful—in his eyes. 

"It's important that you feel safe. Always."

God. Why did that simple sentence make me feel like melting butter?

"And don't worry about the bloating or mood swings," 

he added, his tone shifting into something warmer, more careful. 

"You're not alone in this. Hormones are chaos."

A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. 

"That should be a T-shirt. Hormones are chaos. Motivational and mildly terrifying."

He grinned. "I'll consider printing some for the clinic. Might even frame one and hang it right next to the anatomy chart."

I chuckled, the tension easing from my shoulders without me realizing. I stood up and reached for my notebook as he handed me the prescription slip. Our fingers brushed—just for a second.

Barely a second.

But it felt... electric. A whisper of warmth that lingered far longer than it had any right to.

I tucked the paper into my notebook, pretending not to notice how my pulse was suddenly louder than it had been a moment ago. He stepped back, clearing his throat as if the air had changed between us, too.

"Follow the dosage instructions exactly," he said, all professional again. 

"And if anything feels off, don't hesitate to come back."

"I will," I replied, already halfway out the door but still thinking about that one brief touch.

And the way it somehow felt more intimate than the entire exam.

At home, I collapsed onto my bed and buried my face in a pillow. My heart hadn't stopped racing since I'd left the clinic.

I kept replaying every moment — his touch, his voice, the kindness in his eyes, the way he made me laugh even during a gynecological exam. How did someone manage that?

This was ridiculous. He was a doctor. My doctor. A professional.

But then why did my stomach flutter when he looked at me like I mattered? Why did my skin remember the warmth of his fingers? Why did I blush when I remembered how close he was when he adjusted the stethoscope?

Was I... crushing on him?

The realization made me sit up straight.

Me. Shivangi Rathore. Writer of strong heroines. Fiercely independent. Not someone who swooned like a high schooler over her gynecologist.

And yet, here I was—hugging my pillow, heart dancing, wondering what it would be like if he ever looked at me the way the heroes in my books looked at their heroines.

I groaned into the fabric.

This wasn't good.

But it was also kind of... lovely.

I opened my notebook and started scribbling. Not plot points. Not fantasy. Just words—rambling, emotional, raw:

He made me feel seen. He never rushed. Never judged. And when he looked at me, I didn't feel like a patient. I felt like a person.

Maybe that's what made it so easy to like him.

I paused, the pen trembling slightly between my fingers. My notebook lay open in front of me, the page still blank—like it was waiting for a truth I hadn't yet admitted to myself. What was this feeling? Infatuation? A fleeting, harmless crush?

Or... something more?

It was in the way he listened, really listened. The way he remembered the tiniest things—my love for filter coffee, how I got jittery before physical exams, the way my voice dipped when I was nervous. He didn't just treat my condition. He treated me. Like a person. Like I mattered beyond my symptoms or prescriptions.

Whatever it was, it made me smile without meaning to. Made my heart feel lighter—like I'd been carrying too much for too long and finally someone noticed. And in a life that often revolved around appointments, lab reports, hormonal spirals, and a constant undercurrent of anxiety, that feeling? It was rare. It was precious.

Even if it only existed inside me.

Even if he never looked at me that way.

Still, I hugged the feeling close. Like a secret I didn't want to name. Not yet.

Just for now.

And maybe... just maybe... this was the beginning of something I hadn't dared to write about before.

Not dragons. Not lost kingdoms. Not epic battles with swords and crowns.

But a softer kind of magic.

The kind that lives in quiet corners—waiting rooms, stethoscope clicks, and warm, steady voices that seem to know exactly when to speak and when to simply stay.

The kind that soothes the storm inside you without ever demanding to be noticed.

The kind that sneaks into your story when you're not looking.

And changes everything.

Even if it's only ever written in ink.