"She never asked for a savior,
But when the skies broke open,
So did she—
And love walked in without knocking."

The first cramp crept up on her like a thief in the night.

It wasn't sharp at first—just a dull ache in her lower abdomen, the kind that could easily be mistaken for exhaustion. Shivangi had convinced herself that was all it was. After all, she'd barely slept the night before. 

Her manuscript revisions had kept her hunched over the laptop, editing until her back ached and her eyes stung.

She had felt off all day: bloated, heavy, like her limbs were made of lead. But she'd ignored it.

She always ignored her body's subtle warnings.

By 7 PM, the pain had graduated from discomfort to all-out war. Her uterus felt like it was trying to escape her body, and every few minutes, a fresh wave of cramps left her breathless. 

Shivangi lay curled up on the couch in her dimly lit living room, wearing an old oversized sweatshirt and cotton pajamas. One hand gripped a cushion; the other cradled her stomach.

It had been five months since her last period.

She hadn't missed them because of pregnancy—she was on birth control for PCOS, and besides, there hadn't been anyone. No partners. No intimacy. Just long days, writing deadlines, doctor visits, and carefully swallowed grief.

Her body had gone quiet—until today.

She tried breathing through the pain, pressing her face into the sofa arm, silently begging her body to give her a break. But it didn't. She was hot and cold all at once, shivering under the light blanket she had pulled over herself. Her phone buzzed somewhere near her hip. She reached out, fingers trembling, and unlocked it.

She scrolled past her best friend Ira's name, she was in Dehradun . Past her editor. Past a bunch of WhatsApp work groups.

Her thumb hovered above the one name that wasn't saved but was always there.

Dr. Samarth.

It wasn't even his full contact. Just the number. But she knew it by heart.

She pressed the call button, praying he'd pick up.

It rang twice.

"Shivangi?" 

His voice was warm, smooth, laced with concern. He always answered like that—like he already knew something was wrong.

She exhaled shakily. "Doc..."

"What's wrong?"

"I... I got my period. It's... bad. Really bad."

There was a moment of silence. His voice, when it returned, was sharper. "How long ago did it start?"

"About an hour ago, I think? It started small, but now it's—" 

She broke off with a hiss, curling tighter as another wave of cramps hit her. 

"I can't stand up. I checked—no medical deliveries are running right now. It's storming outside."

"Where's your emergency dose? I gave you a prescription last month."

"I didn't buy it," 

she admitted, ashamed. 

"I thought I'd manage. It hadn't come in months and..."

A pause. Not judgment. Just quiet processing.

Then, his tone changed—calm but decisive. "Text me your flat number. I'm ten minutes away."

"What? No. Samarth, you don't have to—"

"I was meeting a friend near your sector. I'm closer than any help you'll get tonight. Don't argue. Text me the address."

She opened her mouth to protest, but her body doubled with pain before she could. Pride was no match for her agony.

She sent the text.

Twenty-five minutes later, Shivangi dragged herself to the door.

Her limbs felt heavy, like her body had decided to betray her all at once. Somehow, she'd managed to change into a clean hoodie and twist her hair into a messy bun, though a few stubborn strands clung to her damp forehead.

 Her skin was clammy, her lips dry and cracked. She leaned against the wall for balance before slowly unlocking the door.

And there he was.

Dr. Samarth Randhawa — tall, calm, infuriatingly composed. The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to be taken seriously. Dependable. Unsmiling in that reassuring, quietly capable way that said, I've got this.

His glasses were fogged slightly at the edges, rainwater glistening at the tips of his hair. He wore a black hoodie and jeans, and in one hand, he held a slightly soggy white pharmacy bag.

"You look like death warmed over," 

he said flatly.

"And you look like a judgmental owl," 

she muttered, clutching the door frame for support.

He raised one brow. 

"Good. You can still be sarcastic. Move."

He stepped in like he belonged there, like there was no question of whether he should or shouldn't be. He just was.

"You have a heating pad?" 

he asked, setting the bag on the coffee table.

She shook her head mutely.

He reached into the pharmacy bag and pulled one out. 

"Figures. You really need to stock up."

"I didn't think I'd be hosting a doctor in my stormy apartment," 

she mumbled, half-exasperated, half-relieved.

He didn't respond. Just handed her two pills with practiced ease.

 "Painkiller. You'll feel better in thirty minutes. And this one's anti-nausea."

Then, a bottle of electrolyte drink was placed into her hand. 

"You're dehydrated. Sip it slowly."

She obeyed him without argument. There was something about the calm in his voice, the deliberate efficiency of his movements, that made her feel safer than she'd felt all day.

He didn't hover. Didn't coo or fuss. Just moved around her like he had done this before, like her mess didn't scare him.

But when his eyes flicked back to her face, they lingered—for just a second.

And he noticed.

The tear sheen clinging to her lashes.

"I'm sorry," 

she whispered, cheeks flushing with embarrassment she didn't have the energy to hide.

His brows drew together, the lines around his mouth tightening.

 "Why are you apologizing?"

"For being... a mess. For calling you."

He knelt beside her, eye-level now. His voice softened without losing any of its firmness. 

"Don't ever apologize for asking for help. Especially not from me."

"But I—"

"Shh."

The sound was gentler than it should've been. Not a reprimand—more like a lullaby wrapped in reason.

With practiced care, he lifted her feet onto the sofa, then unfolded the heating pad and gently pressed it against her lower abdomen. She flinched, but he adjusted it wordlessly. Then came the blanket, drawn over her legs with a sort of tenderness she didn't expect.

His fingers brushed against her wrist—briefly, unintentionally.

But she felt it.

And despite the ache in her body and the fog in her brain, Shivangi closed her eyes. Not because she needed to sleep—but because for the first time that day, her body didn't feel like a battleground.

It felt like it could finally rest.

"I hate feeling weak," 

she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of the heating pad.

"You're not weak,"

 he said gently. 

"You're in pain. That's different."

She didn't respond right away. Her eyes stayed on the ceiling, as if searching for something she couldn't name. The silence settled between them—soft but lingering, like a question left unanswered.

Then, quietly,

 "Why are you always so calm?"

He gave a low chuckle, just enough to break the heaviness. 

"I'm not. I panic on the inside like everyone else. You just don't see it."

She turned her head slightly toward him. 

"You're calm now."

"That's because you need me to be," 

he said without hesitation.

Her heart stuttered at the simplicity of it—no grand gesture, no dramatic tone. Just quiet, steady truth. And yet, it unraveled something inside her.

"That's a dangerous thing to say," 

she murmured, barely managing to keep her voice from shaking.

He tilted his head, curious but unbothered. 

"Why?"

She hesitated. But the words slipped out anyway. 

"Because it makes it very easy for someone to fall for you."

The silence that followed was not like before. This one hummed. It held weight. Unspoken thoughts. Possibilities.

He didn't blink. Didn't look away. 

"Then I'll have to be careful, won't I?"

The words weren't flirtatious. They weren't even playful.

But they lingered—quiet and warm, like something precious being placed gently on a windowsill.

Shivangi swallowed hard, unsure whether her body was reacting to the pain or to him.

Probably both.

Outside, the rain tapped steadily against the windowpanes.

An hour passed. Shivangi had drifted into light sleep, curled up awkwardly on the sofa. Samarth sat on the adjacent chair, his phone untouched. His eyes lingered on the window where the rain slashed against the glass like it carried unresolved fury.

The city was half-submerged now—emergency alerts buzzed about flooding, power outages, and road closures. He should go.

But she stirred, blinking groggily. 

"You're still here?" her voice was soft, laced with both surprise and comfort.

He nodded. "Didn't feel right to leave."

She sat up slowly, wincing. "Want some coffee?" 

He raised an eyebrow. 

"You need to be resting." 

"I've rested. Besides, my cramps demand caffeine," she teased weakly.

 He sighed but stood up. "Fine. But I'm making it."

They moved to her kitchen, navigating the space like they'd done it a hundred times. No awkwardness, no hesitations. Like a quiet routine had already settled between them.

"You always do this?" she asked, leaning against the counter while he fumbled with the kettle.

 "Do what?" 

"Show up. No questions. No judgments." 

He glanced at her. "Only for people who matter."

She lowered her gaze to the counter, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. 

"Why me?" 

"Why not you?"

 "I'm messy. Moody. And a little broken."

 "I'm a doctor, Shivangi. Broken isn't scary. It's familiar."

She let that sit for a moment before speaking again. 

"You ever read stories about this? Two strangers who keep showing up in each other's storms?" 

He handed her a mug, their fingers brushing lightly. "No. But maybe I should."

 She smiled faintly. "Maybe I'll write it."

 "And maybe I'll be in it?"

 "Maybe you already are."

By the time the coffee cooled in their mugs, the thunder had grown louder—an angry growl rolling over the city like a warning. The lights flickered twice, returning dimly, casting soft shadows across the cramped single-room apartment.

"You should stay," she said quietly.

He looked up from his phone. "You sure?"

Shivangi nodded. "I don't have a guest room—just this space. No one visits me. But this is better than flooded roads." 

He smiled. "I'm not picky."

 "You can use the bed. I'll set a bedding on the floor."

He shook his head. "Not happening. We'll figure it out. Maybe we both just don't sleep much tonight." 

She rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."

 He grinned. "Only moderately."

As she pulled out an extra blanket and made some space on the couch, she paused.

 "Thank you for coming." 

His voice dropped low, serious. 

"You don't thank someone for caring."

And just like that, something unspoken settled in the room. Not quite love. Not yet. But something real. Something brave. Waiting—right there between the thunder and the tenderness.