Dhwani's pov

There was something sacred about mornings now.

The kind where sunlight kissed the curtains before the alarm buzzed. The kind where birdsong replaced the chaos in her chest. No footsteps echoing behind her. No shadows following her down sterile hospital halls. Just quiet. Clean, golden quiet.

Dhwani stretched under the soft cotton sheets of her childhood bed, the scent of jasmine and warm tea drifting in from the kitchen. Her mother's voice floated through the house - humming an old song, scolding the milk for boiling over again. She smiled.

Peace was no longer a myth.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Maya.

"Lunch break = gossip + momos. Don't ditch."

She grinned and typed back:

"Only if you're buying."

Downstairs, her father was sipping tea with a newspaper spread across his lap, pretending to read but clearly waiting for her.

"Late again, Doctor Sahiba?" he teased as she entered.

"Not late," she said, stealing a bite of his toast. "Just perfectly timed."

He ruffled her hair. "Some hospital's going to lose its best surgeon to your laziness someday."

"Not yet," she said, pouring her chai.

And she meant it.

Work had been... fulfilling. No unexpected boardroom ambushes. No cold, possessive eyes watching her every move. Just medicine. Just purpose.

She'd started journaling again - something she hadn't done since college. In the margins of her medical notes, she'd scribble poetry. Sunlight metaphors. Doodles of anatomy next to half-written thoughts like "healing begins in the silence."

She even wore her hair down more often now.

Maya had noticed.

"You're glowing," she'd said last week, squinting at her across the hospital cafeteria.

"Skincare," Dhwani replied smoothly.

But she knew it wasn't that.

It was the absence.

Darsh Malhotra had left for London a month ago. For business, supposedly. And with him went the weight that used to crush her lungs every time she stepped into a room. No texts. No unexplained visits. No games. Nothing.

It was... freedom.

And God, she had missed herself.

Sometimes, she'd catch her own reflection - laughing with a nurse, wiping ink off her hands after signing off a case - and she'd almost flinch. That girl looked happy. Light.

Not haunted.

Not hunted.

One evening, Diya called.

"He's in London," she said casually. "Miserable, I think. But you didn't hear it from me."

Dhwani hadn't asked.

She didn't need to.

She didn't want to know what he was doing.

She didn't want to feel anything anymore.

But sometimes, late at night, when the city was asleep and her chai had gone cold beside her, she'd find her fingers tracing her wrist. The same wrist he'd once gripped too tightly. The same skin he had branded with tension.

And she'd wonder - if healing meant forgetting, why do I still remember everything?

But the thought would pass. Like a shadow across water.

And she'd sleep.

Because this was her life now.

Quiet. Soft. Hers.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

She wasn't surviving.

She was living.

____

The morning air was crisp, almost flirtatious. Dhwani walked through the hospital doors with her white coat draped over her arm, a soft hum on her lips as she greeted the reception nurse.

"Good morning, Dr. Singhania," the junior nurse chirped.

"Morning, Riya. Tell ICU to prep Room 3 for rounds in twenty. I'll be in my cabin."

She was light today. No coffee needed. Just her playlist running in her head, the sunlight bouncing through the corridors, and the quiet thrill of a rare good night's sleep.

She pushed the cabin door open with a little skip in her step, balancing her files and tapping her ID against the biometric lock.

And then-

She froze.

He was sitting in her chair.

Leg crossed over knee. A coffee cup - her coffee cup - in his hand. That signature black suit. That infuriating calm. The room suddenly felt smaller.

Darsh Malhotra.

"Miss me?" he asked, voice slow, rich, laced with that dangerous smugness she hadn't missed for even a second.

Her hum died instantly.

Her spine straightened like steel.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she said, stepping inside and shutting the door a little too hard.

He took a lazy sip. "London got boring."

"Then go to Paris. Or therapy."

His lips twitched. "You look good, Doctor. Peace suits you."

"And you look like the flu. Persistent and unwelcome."

He chuckled low. "Still sharp, I see."

Dhwani marched around the desk and snatched her cup from his hand. "Get out of my chair."

He stood - but didn't move away. "I thought you'd be... colder."

"I thought you'd stay the hell away."

He stepped closer, and her body tensed instinctively.

"I tried," he said softly.

"Try harder."

Their eyes locked - silence stretching like a wire pulled too tight.

"You missed me," he said suddenly.

She laughed - short, sharp, bitter. "I forgot you."

He stepped even closer. "Liar."

Her jaw clenched. "Don't. Don't you dare ruin this peace I've built."

"I'm not here to ruin," he said, voice lower now. "I'm here to remind."

"Of what? That you're a control-obsessed egomaniac?"

"No," he murmured, now just a breath away. "That this-whatever this is between us-it didn't end. It just paused."

She swallowed, throat dry.

He leaned in - not touching, but close enough for her pulse to riot.

"I'm back, Dhwani."

Her breath hitched.

"And this time," he whispered, "I'm not leaving without you."

She stared at him - burning, trembling.

Then said, "You'll leave the same way you came."

And walked past him like he didn't matter.

Even though every nerve in her body screamed that he did.

---