Samarth's POV

The room was dim, lit only by the fickle glow of the inverter bulb. Outside, the storm had finally mellowed into a rhythmic drizzle—steady, like a lullaby the city had been aching for. The fan turned slowly above us, groaning every few seconds as though tired of the day.

We lay on opposite ends of her bed. The couch was too small and uncomfortable for any of us to sleep comfortably . Shivangi had offered this with an awkward shrug and a quiet,

 "It's big enough. Like a king-size. We'll survive."

I had laughed, then, maybe to ease her nerves. She had laughed too, curling to her side and pulling a thin blanket over herself. Now, a couple of hours later, I was floating somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, my back to her, when I heard the first sound.

A muffled whimper.

My eyes snapped open. I turned, slowly, quietly, and there she was—hunched slightly, fists clenching the blanket near her belly. Her face was contorted in pain, her eyes squeezed shut.

"Shivangi?" I whispered.

She nodded faintly, then almost immediately shook her head—a silent battle of confusion and discomfort.

A contradiction in movement. Confused pain. Her voice finally came, cracked and weak.

 "C-cramps," she whispered. "Again. It's worse this time. Like knives..."

Knives.

That single word was like a blow to my gut. My throat tightened. It wasn't just discomfort she was feeling—it was agony. Her voice carried it in every syllable.

I sat up completely now, rubbing my face to wake myself properly. My mind raced. I looked around the room. 

"Do you have any balm? Oils? Anything at all that helps?"

She shook her head weakly, then paused. 

"There's oil. In the wooden pot. Near the work desk. Ayurvedic. Helps... sometimes."

She spoke like it cost her something, like each word was carved from her breath.

I didn't wait another second.

I got off the bed quickly, walking barefoot across the cool floor. The chill seeped through my soles, grounding me as my eyes scanned the desk area, searching desperately until they landed on the small wooden pot she'd mentioned earlier. I reached for it, and as I opened the lid, a wave of strong, earthy aroma spilled out—camphor, eucalyptus, turmeric... and beneath it all, something soothingly floral and delicate. 

The scent alone seemed to promise some measure of relief, a tiny beacon in the storm of her pain.

Carrying the pot back to the bed, my pace was quick but careful. I didn't want to rush and risk breaking the fragile calm she'd found amid the cramps. She was curled tighter now, arms wrapped protectively around her stomach like a shield.

 Her face was damp with sweat, beads glistening on her temple and upper lip. Her breaths came in uneven waves, shallow and ragged, betraying the depth of her suffering.

"Shivangi..." 

I said gently, setting the oil down on the side table beside her. My voice was soft, almost afraid to disturb her fragile state.

 "I can... massage, if you want. It might help. I know it might feel awkward, but—only if you're okay with it."

Her lashes fluttered faintly, hesitation warring behind them. She didn't speak for a moment, the silence thick and heavy between us.

I waited.

Then, slowly, she opened her eyes just a little. So much pain swam in their depths. Pain, yes, but also something else—raw vulnerability, unguarded and tender. She met my gaze for a breath, then nodded, the faintest movement, fragile yet resolute.

"Look at me," 

I said, my voice dropping softer still.

 "Are you sure? I won't unless you're absolutely okay with it."

Another nod. Smaller this time, but firmer. And then, barely audible, a whisper broken by weakness: 

"Please. I... I can't bear it."

God. That word—please—shattered something inside me. It wasn't just a request. It was a surrender, an admission of how much she needed help, how much she trusted me.

I dipped my fingers into the oil, letting it warm for a moment in the cup of my palm. My hands trembled—not with fear, but with the sheer weight of the moment. This wasn't just touching someone. This was about helping someone. Someone who mattered. Someone I cared about.

I gently moved the blanket aside, exposing her pajama waistband. My heart hammered as I hesitated for a brief second, but she didn't pull away. Her eyes were shut again, her breath shallow and uneven.

"I'll be careful," I whispered.

She nodded faintly.

I placed my hand on her lower abdomen, just beneath her navel, and began to move in slow, gentle circles. The oil made her skin slick and warm beneath my fingers. I used just enough pressure to soothe the tension, careful not to cause more pain. Her body tensed instantly, flinching slightly, and I paused.

"You okay?" I asked softly.

A weak nod.

"Keep going..." she breathed.

So I did.

Each movement was deliberate—firm enough to ease the cramps, but gentle enough not to aggravate them. I adjusted my pressure every few seconds, reading the subtle signals her body gave me—a soft exhale, a slight relaxing of muscles, a small shift in her hips as she tried to make it easier for me to reach the aching spot.

Minutes stretched on—ten, maybe more. Time slipped away, irrelevant now. My focus was entirely on her: on her shallow breaths, her face flickering with expressions of pain and relief, the delicate way her fingers slowly loosened their iron grip on the blanket.

And through it all, a strange, unfamiliar emotion swelled in my chest. It was a mix of protectiveness, tenderness, something fierce and quiet that made my heart ache in a way I hadn't expected. 

This wasn't the Shivangi I knew—the strong, sharp-witted woman who wore sarcasm like armor and never showed weakness. This was her stripped bare, vulnerable and real.

I didn't want to look away.

Eventually, her face softened. The deep furrow between her brows eased, the tight lines of pain smoothing out. Her breathing evened, becoming steady and calm. Her body melted into the bed, the tension draining from her limbs like water slipping through fingers.

Then, so quietly I almost missed it, she whispered,

 "Thank you."

Her voice trembled with exhaustion and relief. I felt my throat tighten, overwhelmed by the trust she'd given me and the closeness of the moment.

Two words. But filled with more meaning than I could hold.

"Anytime,"

 I murmured, brushing a stray hair from her damp forehead. "I'm here."

Her lips curved into a faint, fragile smile.

 "I mean it," she said softly.

 "Thank you... for not leaving me alone with this."

I shook my head, unable to find words that felt big enough. Instead, I just stayed there, hand resting gently on her stomach, heart silently promising to be there whenever she needed—no matter what.

I wiped my hands on a nearby towel and lay back beside her, keeping a respectful distance. The room was quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet now. Not empty. Not strained.

Full. Alive.

We didn't speak for a while.

And we didn't need to.

Then her voice broke it. "Were you always this good at taking care of people?"

I chuckled. "Comes with the job, I guess. Or maybe... with the right people."

She turned to face me, and I turned too. We lay side by side now, barely two foot of space between us. Her hair was a little messy, her eyes still tired, but there was something more open in her expression now.

"I feel like a child on days like this," she whispered. "I hate it. I hate feeling helpless."

"You're not helpless. You're human."

"You're not supposed to say the right thing every time. It's annoying," she said with a weak smile.

"Then I'm failing as a comfort person," I teased. "But I won't stop."

She laughed softly. The sound was so real. I wanted to bottle it.

We talked then. Really talked.

About childhood memories—hers in Lucknow, mine in a quiet hill town where everyone knew everyone else's business. About how she once fell off a swing in sixth grade trying to impress a boy. About how I hated milk as a kid so much, my mom used to paint the glass with chocolate syrup to trick me.

She laughed again. She had the kind of laugh that started in her belly and escaped from her mouth like it didn't know how to stop.

"Tell me something no one knows about you," she said suddenly, looking at me with challenge in her eyes.

I blinked. "That's not fair."

"You asked to be in my story. Earn it."

I looked up at the ceiling. Thought for a long second.

"I almost didn't become a doctor," 

I said slowly.

 "I was... lost. After my father died, I spiraled. I wanted to be a musician. Guitarist, actually. Medicine felt like a prison. But then I treated a street dog once. He had a deep gash on his leg. I stitched him up. And that dog? He followed me for six years. Until he died."

She was quiet.

"That dog made me feel like I had purpose. I never told anyone that before."

Her hand brushed mine.

"I'm glad you became a doctor. And I'm glad you stayed tonight."

We were closer now. Inches apart. Breathing the same heavy air. The room had settled into that 3 AM stillness, where thoughts echo louder, and the world feels softer.

I looked at her face. Her lashes, long and fluttering. Her lips, parted slightly. Her eyes... watching me like I was something worth seeing.

A realization whispered through me then—not loud or dramatic. Just soft, certain, like a drop of rain on warm skin.

I like her.

Not in the abstract way I'd liked other people.

I liked her in the way that made me want to stay up with her through every storm. In the way that made her pain feel like mine. In the way that made her laugh feel like a home I didn't know I'd been searching for.

She yawned, eyes heavy now.

"You can sleep now," I whispered.

"You'll be here when I wake up?" she asked with drowsy eyes.

"Every time."

She reached out and touched my wrist lightly. "Don't go yet."

And I didn't. Not even when sleep came for me. Not even when the storm outside faded to silence.