"In silent rooms and glowing screens,
Your name hums softly in my mind's seams.
Not love, not yet, but something near—
A pull, a hush, a presence dear.
You linger not in grand design,
But in the spaces between each line."

Shivangi's POV

It had been hours since our phone call ended, but my mind hadn't found peace.

I sat curled on the couch with my laptop open, the blinking cursor on my new manuscript taunting me like a cruel joke. The words weren't flowing tonight—not because the scene was tough but because my head wasn't in it. No, my head was far away. With him.

Dr. Samarth Randhawa.

His voice echoed in my mind, soft and teasing. That low chuckle when I had accidentally called him "Dr. Daddu" during our call. The amused pause. 

The way he'd asked, "Did you eat, or are you surviving on stubbornness again?"

I smiled to myself, hugging a pillow tighter.

God, I was pathetic.

Switching tabs on the screen, I reread one of the dialogues I had written earlier for my protagonist.

"I never wanted a perfect love story. I just wanted someone who'd stay, even on the days I forget how to love myself."

I hovered over the message bar, fingers itching to type. Should I send it to him? Ask what he thought?

I typed it out:
"Does this line hit emotionally or feel melodramatic?"

Typed. Stared. Deleted.

Ugh. Why was this suddenly harder than writing a 90,000-word novel?

Instead, I settled for something safer.

Me: "Don't forget your charger next time."

Two seconds later, his reply popped up.

Dr. S. Randhawa: "Noted. But I might purposely forget something else next time if it gets me another home-cooked meal."

I stared at the screen and smiled like a complete idiot. Damn him.

Me: "Bold of you to assume I'll feed you again after your dramatic 'I don't eat karela' monologue."

Dr. S. Randhawa: "Hey, trauma has flavors too."

I laughed out loud.

Dr. S. Randhawa: "But you're seriously talented. I've been thinking about that line you said earlier."

My heart skipped. Did he see the unsent message?

Me: "Which line?"

Dr. S. Randhawa: "The one from your book about not wanting a perfect love story... it's raw. Honest. I'd say keep it."

I blinked. How did he—?
Oh.

I must've read it aloud without realizing it when we were talking earlier.

Me: "I wasn't sure. It felt a bit too... open."

Dr. S. Randhawa: "And that's exactly why it works. It makes the reader feel seen. Vulnerability is your strength."

I bit my lip. Compliments shouldn't matter this much. But they did. Especially from him.

Me: "Do you always psychoanalyze writers this way?"

Dr. S. Randhawa: "Only the ones who cook for me and call me Daddu by accident."

I buried my face in my pillow, groaning.

Me: "Never living that down, am I?"

Dr. S. Randhawa: "Never. '"

Maybe distractions like him weren't so bad after all.

The next evening, just as I was trying to convince myself that a bowl of quinoa was edible, the doorbell rang.

Groaning, I set aside the bowl—more punishment than dinner—and trudged to the door. When I opened it, there he was.

Not in scrubs this time, but in a black sweatshirt and jeans, hair tousled, dimples unapologetically out in the open.

"Delivery for a salad-hater," 

he announced, holding up a brown paper bag like it was some sacred offering.

I blinked. "What?"

"Chickpea-stuffed multigrain pita pockets," 

he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation

. "With mint yogurt dip. You mentioned a few days back how your PCOS-friendly diet has you mourning flavor. Thought I'd rescue your taste buds."

I stared, stunned. "You remembered that?"

He shrugged, placing the bag on the table.

 "I remember what matters. Like the trauma quinoa has inflicted on you."

I laughed, even as my stomach growled loudly. 

"Okay, that's embarrassing."

"Sounds like a yes to dinner."

I pulled out a chair and sat, curious. 

"Did you make this?"

"No, I'm a doctor, not a magician. But I told the café exactly what not to include—no sugar, low GI, dairy-light, still tasty."

"I almost forgot what tasty even feels like,"

 I admitted, unwrapping the warm pita pocket. 

"You said the other day that she's slowly forgetting how actual food used to taste."

He watched me take a bite, then grinned when my eyes lit up.

"Oh my God,"

 I said, mouth full.

 "This tastes illegal."

"High praise from the Queen of Quinoa," 

he teased.

I pointed a fork at him. 

"If you keep feeding me like this, I might start calling you Chef Randhawa."

He smirked.

 "I wouldn't mind. '"

We settled on the couch, him tossing the blanket over our laps because, of course, the weather had decided to be weirdly romantic with the monsoon drizzle tapping at the windows. I didn't complain when he adjusted the throw so both of us were covered. It felt... domestic. Familiar in a way I hadn't expected.

"You're watching Harry Potter?" 

he asked, tilting his head toward the paused screen.

I nodded, shifting to tuck my feet beneath me. 

"It's my comfort series. Don't tell me you're not a fan."

He gave me a mock-offended look. 

"Excuse me? I had a Gryffindor scarf and a wand growing up."

I smirked. 

"Gryffindor, huh? I pegged you for a Slytherin."

He gasped. 

"Slytherin? That's cold."

"Not cold. Calculated. Smart. Strategic. Definitely your vibe,"

 I teased, nudging him with my elbow.

He shook his head. 

"Nah, I'm definitely Gryffindor. Noble idiot with a hero complex."

I laughed. 

"Fair enough. Favorite movie?"

"Goblet of Fire,"

 he said without hesitation. 

"Probably because that's when things got darker. The stakes got real."

"Mine's Prisoner of Azkaban,"

 I replied. 

"I like the shift in tone. Plus, time turners and Sirius Black."

"Respect,"

 he nodded. 

"Remus Lupin was my childhood role model."

"You do have professor energy,"

 I said, tossing a cushion at him playfully.

We played the movie. The rain continued its gentle rhythm outside, and we didn't talk for a while. The silence wasn't awkward—it was peaceful. Our shoulders touched—barely at first. Then fully, when I tilted my head against his arm, lulled by the hum of the screen and the calm.

The warmth, the quiet—it was all too comforting.

Sleep tugged at my lashes until I couldn't resist anymore.

When I finally blinked awake, the movie credits were rolling, and the rain had mellowed into a faint drizzle. I stretched slightly, realizing I was still tucked into the same warm blanket—and his arm was still around me.

Samarth's POV

I didn't dare move. Her head rested on my shoulder, breath warm against my skin, her fingers occasionally brushing my sleeve as she shifted in sleep.

My heart? Loud.

Not in a panicked, racing way—but full, steady, impossible to ignore. Like it finally knew where it belonged.

The rain tapped gently at the windows. The movie had ended, but I didn't bother turning it off. I just sat there, holding still, memorizing the weight of her against me.

She stirred, blinking slowly as she woke. Her voice was groggy, her words slurred. 

"I drooled on you, didn't I?"

I chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. 

"Little bit. But I've survived worse."

Her cheeks flushed as she hid her face beneath the blanket with a muffled groan.

God, she was adorable.

And I was completely, helplessly gone.

We let the credits roll. Neither of us made a move to turn the TV off.

Then I turned to her.

 "Wanna play something stupid?"

She raised an eyebrow.

 "Like?"

"'Tell me one thing.' One question each. No explanations needed. Quick fire. You start."

She grinned, curling deeper into the blanket.

 "Alright. Tell me one thing you hate eating."

"Coriander. It tastes like soap."

She gasped. 

"That's blasphemy."

"My turn. One thing you've never told anyone?"

She paused, then bit her lip. 

"I hate birthday surprises. They stress me out."

"Noted," 

I smirked. 

"One dream destination?"

"Florence,"

 she said instantly. 

"Because it's art, poetry, and pasta."

"Solid answer. One irrational fear?"

"Elevators. I take the stairs if it's under the 10th floor."

"You?"

"Peacocks. Don't laugh."

She immediately laughed.

 "Oh my God. Why?"

"I said no explanations,"

 I reminded her with mock sternness.

She wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. 

"Fine. Your turn."

"One book that changed you?"

She smiled softly. 

"How I Taught My Grandmother to Read. I read it as a kid, understood it as an adult."

"Good one. One person you miss?"

She looked at me for a second, then away.

 "My mom's mom. My nani. She always smelled like cardamom."

I nodded, quieter now.

 "One thing you wish you were better at?"

"Letting people go," 

she said, voice lower.

 "You?"

"Forgiving myself," I said before I could stop myself.

She looked up at me then, eyes gentler than I deserved.

"One childhood dream?"

 she asked.

"To be a vet. Until I realized I couldn't deal with dogs dying."

"Same," 

she whispered.

 "Except I wanted to be a singer. Until I realized I'm only good in the shower."

I grinned. 

"That's where the acoustics are best."

She nudged me. 

"Okay, last question. One thing you wish I knew about you?"

I hesitated. The mood had shifted. Her head was still close to my shoulder, eyes watching mine like she was daring me to say something real.

I exhaled. 

"That even when I pretend I'm okay being around you like this... I'm not. It's messing with my head, in all the best ways."

She blinked. Her lips parted, but she didn't speak.

Then, softly, she asked,

 "Your turn."

I looked at her—eyes warm, fingers absently playing with the edge of the blanket, skin glowing from the TV light—and said,

 "One thing I wish you knew? I remember the exact sweater you were wearing the day we met. I also remember thinking... if I let you go, I'll regret it."

The silence that followed didn't feel heavy.

It felt like something beginning.

The night drifted on like that. Soft, laughing moments. Shared glances. And when we got up to clear the coffee mugs, our hands bumped again—twice. She brushed past me in the kitchen, shoulder grazing my chest, and I reached out instinctively, tucking that stray strand behind her ear.

She froze.

I froze.

She looked up, her eyes catching mine, the air heavy with something neither of us dared name. Yet.

Shivangi's POV

Later, after he left with a casual wave and a soft "See you soon," I lingered by the door for a moment longer than I should have. Then I walked back to my room, settled by the window, and shut my laptop. Words didn't come easily tonight—not because they weren't there, but because they were too real.

This feeling—I had written about it in a thousand ways. In fleeting glances, in stolen moments, in the brush of fingers that lingered just long enough to mean something. The anticipation, the slow warmth that bloomed in quiet spaces, the way everything else dulled in comparison.

But writing about it was safer. Living it? That was something else.

It was terrifying.

It meant vulnerability. It meant risking the comfort of solitude for the chaos of emotion. It meant letting someone in—into the mess, the silence, the fears I had boxed away.

And maybe... it was beautiful too.

Because for the first time in a long time, my heart wasn't writing someone else's story.

It was beginning to whisper mine.

And his name was in every line.