"Sometimes, it isn't distance that aches—it's the silence left behind."

Shivangi's POV

The flat felt different without Samarth. Too quiet. Too still. Too aware.

I sat by the window, laptop open, my fingers poised over the keys, pretending I was working on the manuscript for my upcoming novel. But the blinking cursor mocked me with every passing second.

The rain had stopped, but the scent of petrichor lingered in the air, mingling with something else—something warm, deep, and familiar.

Samarth.

It was ridiculous. He wasn't even here, yet I could swear I felt his presence like a shadow clinging to every surface. His charger still sat at the edge of my nightstand, his scent woven into the pillow. I hadn't even changed the sheets.

I closed the document I hadn't written a word in and dragged myself out of bed. I had to move. Think. Breathe. Not feel.

But that was easier said than done.

As I gathered a few papers from the bedside, my hand grazed the charger again. That stupid black charger with a tiny crack near the end. I picked it up, held it in my hand for a moment longer than necessary, and walked back to the kitchen.

My phone buzzed.

Samarth: "Did you eat? Took your meds?"

I stared at the message for a long minute. My heart did that weird flutter thing again—the one I tried to reason away as hormonal or unrelated.

I typed three different versions of my reply.

Me: _"Yes. You?"

Backspaced.

Me: _"You forgot your charger. Should I drop it off?"

Backspaced again.

Finally, I settled on:

Me: "Hey, you left your charger. Want me to keep it safe till you come next?"

He replied almost instantly.

Samarth: "Oh crap, I'll come pick it up after my shift ends. Also, answer me—ate anything yet?"

Me: _"Making something now. Don't worry."

Samarth: _"Worrying comes naturally with you."

I didn't reply.

Cooking used to be therapeutic. My body still ached a little, but the motion of chopping vegetables, stirring the saucepan, and balancing spices brought a sense of normalcy. 

For him, I made paneer butter masala and Jeera rice. For myself, a light sautéed vegetable stir with some brown rice and ajwain tea. The kitchen smelled comforting, the subtle spices filling the air like a warm hug.

Just as I was about to sit down, the doorbell rang, and my pulse jumped. I wiped my hands on a towel and opened the door.

Samarth stood there, looking tired but with a faint, genuine smile. His hospital scrubs were slightly rumpled, and his eyes, a little droopy from the long shift, met mine with quiet warmth.

"Hey,"

 he said softly. 

"Charger retrieval mission."

I smirked, stepping aside. "Mission granted."

He walked in as if he belonged here — and somehow, it didn't feel like an intrusion at all.

"Something smells amazing,"

 he said, sniffing the air.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. 

"Made dinner. Thought you'd be hungry."

He looked at me — really looked at me — and for a moment, I thought I saw something gentle flicker behind those tired eyes.

"You didn't have to,"

 he said quietly.

"I wanted to," 

I replied before I could second-guess myself.

He set his bag down by the door and followed me into the kitchen. I tried to shoo him off.

"You're tired. Go sit. I'll serve."

He shook his head, rolling up his sleeves with a soft grunt. 

"Not happening. You cooked, I help."

I watched as his sleeves folded neatly above his elbows, revealing strong forearms, faint lines of veins standing out. The way he tied his hair back into a loose bun was casual but somehow endearing.

And just like that, we slipped into an easy rhythm again.

He reached for plates while I stirred the ajwain tea, the steam curling between us. I caught him smiling once, like the simplicity of it all amused him.

"You always make this?" he asked, eyeing the stir-fried veggies.

"Whenever I want comfort food. What about you? Hospital food must get dull,"

 I teased.

He chuckled, the sound low and rough. "You have no idea."

I handed him a plate. "Well, consider this your upgrade."

He took it, his fingers brushing mine briefly. I didn't pull away.

We settled on the couch, plates balanced on our laps. Outside, the monsoon drizzle tapped against the windows, rhythmically gentle.

"You know,"

 I said, breaking the comfortable silence, 

"it's weird. I never thought I'd share food with anyone outside family."

His eyes met mine. "Neither did I."

He took a bite of the jeera rice, nodded approvingly, and said, 

"Okay, maybe you're onto something here."

I laughed, the sound light and easy.

"You cook again, I'll keep coming back," 

he said, voice softer now.

"Deal," I replied, feeling warmth spread beyond the food, deeper than hunger.

For a moment, it was just us—the rain, the food, and a quiet kind of belonging I hadn't expected.

And I realized maybe this—this unexpected company—was exactly what I needed.

"You're good at this," 

he said, watching me carefully arrange the food on the plates. His voice had that quiet admiration that made my chest warm in a way I hadn't expected.

I glanced up, smirking. "Surprised?"

"A little," 

he admitted with a teasing smile.

 "Thought writers survived on caffeine and emotional damage."

I burst out laughing, the sound light and genuine. 

"Well, the damage is definitely there. And caffeine, too." 

I picked up a spoon and stirred the ajwain tea. 

"But honestly? I love feeding people I care about. It's... comforting."

His eyes caught mine then, soft and searching, as if trying to read more than just the surface words.

"Do you care?" he asked quietly, almost a whisper.

I hesitated. The question wasn't new—my heart had asked it countless times before—but hearing it from him made it harder to answer. Instead, I reached out and handed him a cup of herbal tea. Our fingers brushed. That brief touch sent an unexpected charge between us, sudden and electric.

Neither of us pulled away.

His gaze flickered down to my lips and then back up to my eyes. There was something unspoken hanging in the air—something heavier than just gratitude or friendship.

"Thanks," he murmured, but the word felt loaded, as if it meant more than just polite appreciation.

We moved to the living room, settling on the couch with plates balanced on our laps. Outside, the monsoon rain drummed softly on the windows, a soothing rhythm against the quiet hum of the city.

We ate in comfortable silence, the only sound occasionally broken by bursts of laughter from the terrible TV show playing in the background. His laughter was low, warm, and infectious—it made me smile more than I realized.

After dinner, we stood side by side to clear the dishes. Reaching down at the same moment to pick up a plate, our heads bumped lightly.

"Ow!" I laughed, rubbing the spot on my forehead.

He reached out gently and rubbed the tender spot with his thumb, eyes locked on mine. 

"Maybe next time I should wear a helmet."

I smiled, feeling the simple intimacy of the gesture—the casual care in his touch.

And then... silence.

Our eyes met again, lingering longer than before.

I could still feel the warmth of his palm on my skin, even though he had pulled away. My breath hitched slightly, a flutter deep in my chest.

He broke the tension with a crooked grin. 

"Next time, let's coordinate our moves."

I laughed softly, the moment suddenly lighter yet charged with something unspoken.

"Deal," I whispered.

For the first time in a long time, the rain outside didn't feel cold. It felt like a gentle witness to something quietly blooming between us—something I was suddenly willing to believe in.

Later that night, I sat on my bed, the room softly lit by the glow of my bedside lamp. The faint scent of the meal lingered, mingling with the subtle trace of his cologne that clung to the air—and to my clothes. I closed my eyes and let myself feel everything I'd been holding back.

It wasn't just attraction anymore.

It was something deeper—longing.

Samarth made me feel seen, truly seen. Respected. Safe.

I remembered how, just before he left, he tucked that stray strand of hair behind my ear so gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world. No words were needed. That small, quiet gesture said everything.

I lay down, curling onto my side, hugging my pillow tight. My heart was both full and achy, a strange mix I hadn't expected but couldn't ignore.

For the first time, I admitted it aloud to the silence in the room, even if only to myself:

I was falling for Samarth.

Maybe... I already had.