"In the hush between heartbeats, something tender began to bloom."

Shivangi's POV

It was the scent that reached me first.

Something warm. Sweet. A trace of cinnamon? And something else... herbal, almost like the teas Ira always brewed for me during those brutal hostel days when cramps took over everything.

I stirred under the soft blanket, limbs heavy with sleep, and blinked into the golden slivers of morning light filtering through the window. My back ached faintly. My abdomen felt sore—but not in the sharp, tearing way it usually did. 

This was gentler, dull and oddly soothing. As if the storm had passed, not just outside but inside me too. And in its wake, it had swept away more than just the pain—it had carried off a loneliness I hadn't even realized had settled inside me like old dust.

The space beside me on the bed was empty.

Samarth.

His name bloomed in my mind before I could stop it, bringing with it a rush of memories from the night before. How he'd stayed. How he'd coaxed me through every wave of pain with a patience I hadn't expected. 

His hands had been warm and steady as he massaged my lower abdomen, not flinching when I winced, not hesitating when I cried. His voice had been low and comforting, repeating again and again, "Are you comfortable? Are you sure? Tell me if it's too much."

And I had been.

More comfortable than I had been in months. Maybe even years.

I sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off my shoulders, and that's when I saw it—the mug on the bedside table. A quiet curl of steam rose from it. Chamomile, I thought, and smiled before I could stop myself. Of course he'd made tea.

It was such a Samarth thing to do—quiet, thoughtful, never flashy. But the weight of that single gesture made my chest ache more than the cramps had. He hadn't just stayed the night. He'd stayed for me. Without complaint. Without judgment.

I reached for the mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms.

Somewhere in the silence of that early morning, surrounded by fading pain and the ghost of his presence, I realized something: this wasn't just comfort.

It was care.

I padded toward the kitchen, my steps slow, cautious. My apartment had never smelled so alive. Warm notes of cinnamon, the richness of butter, and a mouthwatering, salty-garlicky aroma danced through the air, curling into every corner like a secret waiting to be discovered.

And there he stood.

Samarth Randhawa.

His sleeves were rolled up, forearms dusted lightly with flour, his eyebrows drawn together in fierce concentration as he stared at his phone propped against a spice jar. A YouTube video was playing—"Easy Pancakes for Beginners."

He glanced at the screen, then at the pan, then back again, like it was a complex surgical procedure he absolutely could not mess up.

I couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped me, a small puff of amusement that broke the stillness.

He turned at the sound instantly, his expression shifting from focus to something warm, almost bashful. "You're up."

"You're cooking," I replied, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice but failing.

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth tugging into a sheepish smile. 

"Trying to. Don't judge. It's my first pancake."

I leaned against the wall, folding my arms as I watched him. There was something incredibly endearing about the way he poured the batter into the pan like it was liquid gold—measured, careful, completely invested.

His hands were steady. Confident.

And suddenly, I was seeing him differently.

Not just the man who'd stayed up all night easing my pain. Not just the quiet presence beside me when I needed it most. But the man who was here, right now, trying to make pancakes in my kitchen without having the faintest clue what he was doing.

There was something so deeply attractive about that—about a man who knew how to fix things. Whether it was a broken faucet, a strained silence, or the ache in my abdomen, Samarth handled everything with a kind of quiet, unfussy competence.

And yet, here he was, burning his first pancake just to make my morning a little softer.

I swallowed against the lump rising in my throat.

He didn't need grand gestures.

He just needed this: flour on his shirt, cinnamon in the air, and smile tucked quietly into a misshapen pancake.

He passed me the mug silently.

Our fingers brushed.

Just like last night.

But somehow, in the morning light, it felt different—sharper, clearer, like the warmth in that small touch carried something unspoken.

His eyes met mine and didn't look away. Not immediately. Not casually. His thumb, rough and warm, lingered just a second longer than it should have on mine.

And in that fleeting moment, something shifted.

It wasn't dramatic or loud. It didn't come with background music or a burst of clarity. It was subtle—like a thread being pulled tight between us.

My skin prickled, not from the morning chill, but from awareness. From realization.

This wasn't just kindness anymore.

It wasn't just him taking care of me when I was at my worst.

It was more.

It had a pulse. A gravity. A quiet urgency that made my breath catch for reasons I didn't yet want to name.

I curled my fingers around the mug, but part of me still felt the echo of his touch.

He turned back to the stove, but something had changed in the air between us—something delicate and real, humming just beneath the silence.

"You made this?"

 I asked, sipping the tea.

He nodded. 

"Watched three videos to get it right. It's got fennel and ginger and jaggery. They helps with cramps."

A lump formed in my throat. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

We stood in that charged silence. The tea warmed my palms. He turned back to the pan, flipped a pancake with a confidence that hadn't been there two minutes ago.

I busied myself setting plates, avoiding his gaze.

Because I felt it—the thing growing between us. A soft rumble beneath the floorboards of our friendship , our relation of Doctor and Patient . Like thunder in the distance.

"You're surprisingly domestic," I said lightly, trying to brush it away.

He grinned. "Don't let it fool you. I'm still a disaster at laundry."

I laughed, genuinely, and he looked at me like he'd just discovered how much he liked that sound.

We ate slowly, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the window, enjoying the weather as the breeze touched our faced lightly . Rainwater still clung to the edges of the glass. The pancakes were a little lopsided, but the tea was perfect.

"You're going to be late for the hospital," I murmured.

"I texted the staff. Said I'm stuck in floodwater. Not a total lie."

"You stayed. You made tea. Pancakes. Gave me a massage. Are you... okay?"

He chuckled. 

"I could ask you the same thing. You let someone touch you when you were in pain. That's not nothing."

I didn't reply.

Because he was right.

This wasn't nothing.

I rose to clear the plates and passed him in the kitchen space. My shoulder grazed his. He didn't move away.

In fact, he leaned in slightly.

And then, his hand reached up gently—almost unsure—and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered against my cheek for a second.

A second too long.

My breath hitched.

He stepped back. "Sorry—"

"Umm , it's okay," I whispered.

Another silence.

Another storm.

But this one was inside me.

"Thank you, Samarth," I said, voice softer than I intended.

"For what?"

"For... everything."

He looked at me like he wanted to say something, but didn't. Instead, he smiled faintly, and the air between us felt heavier than it had all night.

He picked up his bag. "I'll head out now. My shift starts in two hours."

I nodded, stepping aside to let him through. But as he reached the door, I heard him pause.

He turned slightly, his voice quiet. 

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will."

The door shut behind him.

And I stood there, heart beating louder than the thunder had.

Why did I miss him already?

Why did his absence feel like someone had pulled the sun away too soon?

I should've said something. Anything. Asked him to stay a little longer. Asked what that moment meant.

But I didn't.

Because I was scared.

Because it felt too real.

Because for the first time in a long time, I wanted something more than just safety.

I wanted him.

And I wasn't sure I was ready.