In the silence between stir and simmer,
I found my favorite sound —
your heartbeat matching mine
as spice met soul,
and a kitchen became our ground.

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Author's POV

The kitchen buzzed with quiet domestic chaos — the sizzle of sautéing spices, the soft clink of cutlery, and the mellow warmth of two people finally easing into the rhythm of “us.” It wasn’t perfect — nothing ever was — but in that moment, it didn’t need to be.

Shivangi stirred the curry absentmindedly, her mind not on the recipe but on the man beside her, who was rolling out dough with the focused intensity of a surgeon prepping for heart surgery. Samarth’s brows were furrowed in deep concentration, and flour dusted his scrubs like soft snowflakes after a sugar storm.

“You’re really putting the ‘mess’ in mess chef,”

she said, eyes twinkling.

He looked up, pretending to be wounded.

“Excuse you, madam. I’m trying to create edible art here.”

“Art?” she laughed, peeking at his mangled, uneven roti.

“This looks like the Indian map if it were crumpled and chewed by a goat.”

Samarth held it up proudly.

“It’s called abstract expressionism. You’re just not cultured enough to appreciate it.”

Shivangi flicked a speck of dough at him.

“Points for effort. Minus ten for technique.”

He retaliated by swiping a line of flour across her cheek.

“War is declared.”

“Not in my kitchen!”

she gasped.

“Correction. Our kitchen,”

he said, and the weight of that word — our — hung in the air like steam rising off a boiling pot. She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

By the time lunch was ready, the kitchen looked like it had survived a natural disaster. Flour coated the countertops, a spoon had mysteriously ended up behind the refrigerator, and the sink was overflowing with dishes. But the laughter? The laughter filled the walls, coated them in memories waiting to be made.

As they sat on the floor, plates in their laps, eating like students in a hostel rather than two accomplished professionals, Shivangi glanced sideways at him.

“This… feels like something I’ve always craved,” she said softly.

“Burnt roti and curry?” he quipped.

“No. This. You.”

He looked at her then, his eyes warmer than the curry they just ate.

“You feel like home, Shivangi. In the way no place or person ever has.”

A beat passed. Then she nudged him with her shoulder.

“Even when I insult your cooking?”

“Especially then.”

She laughed again — full and real — and in that small, messy, fragrant kitchen, something shifted. Not just between them, but within them.
Later, as they cleaned up together, shoulder to shoulder, she hummed under her breath. Samarth joined in, off-key and carefree.

And maybe that was the magic of it all — that in a world of chaos and expectations, they found a melody only the two of them understood.
Later, when the laughter had settled into silence and the kitchen wore the scent of spice and warmth, Samarth was wiping his hands with a dishtowel, sleeves rolled up and hair tousled, while Shivangi packed away the leftovers with practiced ease. The clatter of containers and the low hum of the refrigerator filled the quiet.

Then, without a word, she reached into the drawer near the stove and pulled out a small velvet box — navy blue with golden edges, worn slightly from being opened too many times in nervous anticipation.

“This is for you,”

she said, her voice softer than steam curling from a warm cup.
Samarth looked at her, then at the box. He opened it slowly.

Inside lay a sleek, handcrafted charm — a miniature silver stethoscope, delicate yet strong, its tubing coiled like a gentle promise.

Engraved on the stem, in tiny, neat letters, were her words: ‘You healed more than hearts.’

His fingers hovered over it, reverent. “Shivangi…”

He blinked rapidly, the emotion hitting harder than he expected.

“You’re ruining my emotional discipline,” he murmured, attempting a smirk.

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “You ruined mine first.”

And in that quiet moment, love spoke without saying a word.

——

That evening, a soft track from the playlist he’d once sent her wrapped around the living room like a slow breath. The lights were dim, casting golden shadows across the walls. Shivangi padded across the wooden floor in fuzzy socks, and Samarth followed suit barefoot, the room echoing with nothing but music and the sound of two hearts syncing to a rhythm they didn’t fully understand but didn’t want to stop dancing to.

It wasn’t a dance, not really. Just a slow, swaying collision of warmth, emotion, and comfort — her arms around his neck, his hands settling against her waist like they were always meant to be there.

“You still can’t dance,”

she whispered near his ear, teasing.

“But I can hold you,”

he murmured back, voice deep and low, almost reverent.

The air grew heavier, denser — charged. Her breath hitched when their foreheads touched, when their noses almost brushed. The space between them shrank until it was filled with everything unspoken.

Then Shivangi smirked and tilted her head back just enough to ruin it.

“That was Almost Kiss, Part 2.”

Samarth let out a frustrated groan, his forehead falling to her shoulder.

“You’re impossible.”

She grinned, dragging her fingers slowly through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“You still like me though.”

He lifted his gaze, eyes dark with something unfiltered.

“You feel like home.”

Something cracked wide open in her at that — a quiet ache, a need long ignored.

Before either of them could ruin the moment with another joke, Shivangi moved.

She slid her hands to his jaw, tilting his face toward hers, the confidence in her touch surprising even herself. There was no teasing in her eyes now — only want, and something dangerously close to devotion.

And then she kissed him.

Not sweet or soft. But slow and deep and certain — the kind of kiss that curled into your lungs and replaced air. Her lips moved over his with hungry grace, her body pressing into his as if memorizing every ridge, every breath. Samarth responded with a groan caught in his throat, his grip tightening around her waist as he pulled her impossibly closer, fingers slipping under the hem of her oversized tee, burning into her skin.

She gasped into his mouth when he backed her into the wall, her hands clutching his shirt, his scent, his everything. He kissed her like he needed to — like she was water and he was parched.

And in that moment, they weren’t doctor and writer, weren’t cautious or clever — they were just two people colliding in the middle of a long overdue storm.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, her fingers still tangled in his hair, he looked at her like she held the universe.

“I was planning to take things slow,”

he whispered, lips brushing her jaw.

Shivangi’s voice trembled but didn’t waver.

“Then catch up. I’ve waited long enough.”

And just like that, they fell again — not into chaos, but into something far scarier.

Something real.

——

Later, Shivangi sent him a voice note — soft, sleepy lines she’d scribbled in her journal, words that had lived in the corners of her heart and now dared to come alive. Her voice, a little hoarse, a little poetic, carried the emotion she hadn’t said aloud yet.

“You are the chapter I didn’t know I was writing. The line I was scared to cross. But tonight, I’m standing at the edge… waiting to see if you’ll meet me halfway.”

She hit send with a small smile tugging at her lips. She expected a reply. Not immediately — she knew his shifts could get hectic — but soon.

Hours passed.

Her message remained unread.

The smile faded but concern didn’t rise sharply. Not yet. She figured he’d fallen asleep or left his phone on silent. Still, a quiet nudge of unease tapped against her ribs.

Just to be sure, she dialed his number, curling into her blanket. It rang once. Then twice.

The line clicked.

“Hello? Samarth?” she said, voice low and hopeful.

No reply.

She didn’t hang up.

There was a faint rustle. Then voices. Distant, but unmistakable.

“Ananya, that’s too much—” Samarth’s voice. Tired. Hesitant.

A soft, female laugh followed. Teasing. Familiar.

“Come on, you don’t miss the hospital gossip? Or maybe you miss me?”

Shivangi’s hand gripped the phone tighter, knuckles paling. Her breath stilled, but she didn’t move.

A pause.

“You’re drunk,”

he muttered.

“Let’s not do this.”

The woman — Ananya — laughed again.

“You never used to mind before.”

Shivangi’s stomach clenched. It wasn’t betrayal. It wasn’t doubt. It was the ache of hearing someone else speak like they’d once been needed—in the way she needed him now.

Then — a shift. The rustle of movement. A sharper edge to his voice now.

“I said no. Please go home.”

Shivangi ended the call. Her fingers trembled. Her thoughts didn’t spiral, but they stumbled. She sat upright, staring at the wall, the silence deafening.

She wasn’t angry — not really. She trusted Samarth. But she was… shaken. Not by what he did. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But by what it revealed.

The shadow of a past he hadn’t shared. The ease in the woman’s voice. The boldness. The history implied.

She blinked back the sting in her eyes.

She waited.

An hour passed.

Then another.

No text. No call.

Maybe he was handling it. Maybe he didn’t even know she’d heard.
Then — her phone buzzed.

Samarth.

She picked up. Her voice was even, but her heart wasn’t.

“Hey,” he said, slightly out of breath.

“Sorry, I was caught up at the—”

“I called earlier.”

“I saw… just now.”

A pause.

“I didn’t hear it ring.”

She stayed quiet. The air between them shifted.

“I heard you,”

she said softly.

A beat of silence.

“How much?”

Her throat tightened.

“Enough to wonder if there’s something I don’t know.”

Her voice was soft, but it held a blade of fear. Not fear of him lying—but fear of not belonging in a chapter that had already been written.

Another pause. Longer this time.

He didn’t rush to defend himself. He didn’t dismiss it.

His voice was low when he finally spoke.

“Ananya and I... we were interns once. Long shifts, messy nights, grief and adrenaline blending everything. But it was never more than a confusing blur—and never physical, I swear. I promise, bache. That part of my life is done.”

Shivangi didn’t interrupt. She let the silence speak.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,”

he said gently.

“But I get it. I should’ve told you about her. I just didn’t think she’d resurface like this.”

Shivangi finally found her voice.

“It’s not that I think you did something wrong. But hearing someone talk like that, like they still had a place in your story…”

He exhaled.

“They don’t. I swear they don’t.”

Still, she hesitated. Her voice turned quiet.

“Do you trust me?” he asked again.

She didn’t answer.