The silence was so thick, even the hospital's usual buzz had softened into background hums. Past midnight, the corridors thinned out - interns collapsed into spare beds, stretchers lined the walls like ghosts of chaos, and the vending machines blinked in tired rhythm.

Dhwani's feet ached. Her shoulders were lead. Her entire being pulsed with exhaustion after two major surgeries that had pushed her beyond her limits.

She had skipped lunch. Skipped dinner. Even her chai breaks.

She just needed caffeine and ten minutes of stillness before she could drive home.

Her phone buzzed in her scrub pocket as she pushed open the cafeteria door. She didn't check the name - she knew that ringtone by heart.

"Ma," she murmured, tucking her phone between her cheek and shoulder as she headed to the farthest corner table, clutching her coffee like it held her together.

"I've been calling for hours," came her mother's soft, scolding voice.

"I was in the OR," she said, sinking into a seat. "Two back-to-back surgeries. ICU post-checks. No breath, no break, no food. Please don't be mad."

"I'm not mad, beta. Just worried. You sound exhausted."

"I am." She let her head fall back against the wall, eyes half-closed. "My spine doesn't exist anymore. I'm ninety percent caffeine and ten percent regret."

Her mother chuckled softly. "You'll still go in tomorrow morning?"

"I have to. No one's covering rounds."

"You're burning yourself out, Dhwani."

"I'm okay," she lied, because it was easier than the truth. "Just needed this coffee. Fifteen minutes of peace. Then I'll drive."

"Promise you'll eat when you get home?"

"I promise," she whispered, taking a sip.

There was a quiet pause. The kind mothers and daughters know how to sit in.

"Text me when you leave," her mom finally said. "And be careful."

"I will."

She ended the call and set the phone on the table beside her coffee. Her fingers trembled slightly. The cup was warm. The moment was still.

Finally.

Finally, just-quiet.

And then...

The chair across from her scraped.

She didn't even look up.

"Darsh," she said, voice flat, drained. "I'm not in the mood. Spare me tonight."

There was a pause - like even he hadn't expected her to sound so... done.

"I came for coffee," he said.

"Then take it to another table."

"You always were territorial."

She cracked an eye open and glared at him. "You always were invasive."

He smirked, sliding into the chair anyway. "I missed our midnight chats."

She let out a short, dry laugh. "I missed silence."

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. His shirt sleeves were rolled, veins visible along his forearms, his watch glinting beneath the fluorescent light. Calm. Composed. Dangerous, still.

"You look dead," he said casually.

"You look worse," she shot back. "So what? Came to haunt me again?"

"Actually," he said, sipping his coffee, "I was hoping we could just... talk."

She blinked. "Talk?"

"No games. No power. Just talk."

"I don't talk to people who use silence as a weapon."

He tilted his head. "Then talk to the version of me trying not to."

She stared at him. Long and quiet.

Something about the way he sat there - not leaning in like he owned her, not cornering her like before - felt... off. Different. But not safe.

She sipped her coffee again. "Say what you came to say, Malhotra. I'm giving you ten minutes. After that, I'm walking away. Again."

Darsh nodded.

"Why did you stop answering Diya?" he asked.

Dhwani blinked. "What?"

"She said you barely reply. You dodge her calls. Avoid her texts."

She set her cup down, harder than intended. "Because I didn't want you in my life, Darsh. And being around her meant being around you."

"She didn't deserve that."

"And I didn't deserve what you did to me."

That silenced him.

Her voice dropped, rough with the ache of unsaid things. "You think avoiding her was easy? You think I didn't miss her? But I had to put up boundaries. And when it comes to you, they can't be soft."

His gaze didn't flinch. "You think I haven't changed."

She met his eyes.

"I don't think you can change."

He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Why would I? What's the point?"

"Why now, then?" she challenged. "Why come back just when I start breathing properly again?"

He shrugged, calm but cold. "Maybe I just like watching you try to move on."

"Maybe you like breaking people," she said quietly.

He leaned forward, voice low. "People don't change, Dhwani. They just get better at hiding what they really are."

She swallowed hard. "I don't want the man you are."

He met her gaze, unflinching. "Good. Because that man isn't going anywhere."

"I don't care what kind of man you are now," she said softly, standing, tossing her now-empty cup in the bin.

She picked up her phone.

Paused.

Then, without looking at him: "You said you came to talk. You did. We're done."

He didn't stop her.

Didn't move.

Just watched her leave.

And this time, he didn't follow.

Not yet.

---