Dhwani stepped in, holding the file close like a shield. Dharsh stood near the large glass window, arms crossed, his silhouette outlined against the soft afternoon light. He didn't look at her right away.

She closed the door quietly behind her. The room was still-too still.

"You called for me?" she asked, keeping her voice even.

He turned then, gaze steady, unreadable.

"I did."

He moved to his desk, picking up a patient file and holding it out. "There's a medication conflict in this report. Is this your prescription?"

Dhwani stepped forward, brushing his hand lightly as she took it. She didn't flinch, but her breath caught for a moment.

She looked through the report. "No, this was handled during the night shift. I'll speak to Dr. Pooja. It'll be corrected."

"See that it is."

He didn't sit. Neither did she.

She placed the file back on the desk, careful, poised. "Anything else?"

He didn't answer right away. His gaze was too sharp now. Focused-on her, not the report.

"That night," he said finally, voice lower. "You cried."

Dhwani's spine stiffened.

"You cried in my arms," he added, his tone quieter this time. "And ever since, you've been pretending it didn't happen."

She looked away. "Because it shouldn't have."

"Why not?"

"It was weak."

"No," he said firmly. "It was real."

Her eyes flicked back to his, guarded but flickering.

"You let go, Dhwani. Just for a moment. That's not weakness."

She swallowed. "It felt like failure."

"It wasn't," he said. "It was human."

There was silence. Not cold-just... dense with the things unsaid between them.

"I didn't bring it up to embarrass you," he added, softer now. "I brought it up because I haven't been able to forget."

Her breath hitched, but she said nothing.

A knock on the door broke the weight of the moment.

"Sir," came a voice from outside, "Board meeting in ten."

Dharsh didn't look away from her. "We're done here," he told the assistant.

Dhwani nodded once and turned to leave.

But just before the door shut behind her, she paused.

She didn't turn around-but her voice floated back, low and unsure.

"Thank you. For that night."

And then she was gone.

Leaving Dharsh staring at the closed door, heart far too loud for the room he was standing in.

The door clicked shut, but her presence lingered like a slow-burning scent.

Dharsh stood still, unmoving, his eyes fixed on the door she'd just walked out of. He could still hear her voice-quiet, uncertain, but laced with something raw.

"Thank you. For that night."

He exhaled, finally.

It wasn't the words that shook him-it was the way she said them. As if she was peeling off armor she'd worn too long, only for a second. As if she was afraid that even a "thank you" would make her vulnerable again.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by how loud the silence had become after she left.

He hadn't meant to say it. That she cried.

But it had been living inside him for too long. That night, when she broke down in his arms like the weight of the entire world had finally cracked her spine-he had felt it. Every sob, every tremble. He hadn't known what to do at first, just held her tighter, whispered nothing, let her fall apart quietly.

And then she had just... gone. The next morning, without a word.

He hadn't slept that night. Not because she was there in his private room. But because he couldn't stop wondering what had pushed her that far.

She was always composed. Always quick with words, quicker with logic. But that night had stripped her of all that, and she had let him see it.

And now, every time he saw her walking through the hospital, a little more tired, a little more guarded-he hated how helpless it made him feel. Like she was burning out right in front of him, and he didn't know how to stop it without overstepping.

He sat down, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled under his chin.

He wasn't supposed to care this much. About anyone.

Caring came with consequences. With weakness. He had learned that early on-watching how emotions made people messy, reckless. He had vowed never to get too close. Never to feel too much.

And yet here he was.

Thinking about her.

Wondering if she ate today. If she'd smile again like she used to when Diya dragged her into ridiculous conversations. If she ever talked about that night to anyone-or if he was the only one who'd been allowed into that collapse.

He didn't want to be her weakness. But he also didn't want to be just her colleague anymore.

Not when he remembered exactly how she sounded when she whispered his name between sobs.

Not when he could still feel the way her fingers clutched his shirt like he was the only thing anchoring her.

He leaned back, eyes closed, heart pounding too hard for a man who'd mastered silence.

This was getting dangerous.

And he wasn't sure he wanted it to stop.

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