Meera
I knew the twitch was back before Yuri pointed it out.
It always came with overthinking. And lately, overthinking had a name, a sharp jawline, and a tendency to say things no one was supposed to notice—like the way I wore my confidence like armor. Because of course Aarav Malhotra would clock that in two glances.
But I wasn't going to give him space in my head.
No. Absolutely not.
So I did what any self-respecting, emotionally avoidant woman would do—I threw on a blazer that said "I own you and your bank account," and went to a rooftop cocktail party I had absolutely no interest in attending.
Aurum gleamed like money and excess. Glass walls, gold-toned lighting, lush greenery that looked effortless but probably required a monthly team of stylists. The whole place smelled like citrus, champagne, and Wall Street ambition.
I found Yuri at the bar, already a drink deep and glittering like someone who'd never lost a negotiation. Her gold hoops caught the light every time she tilted her head.
"You're ten minutes late and emotionally constipated," she said by way of greeting.
"You're annoyingly perceptive."
"It's in my skincare routine. Now talk."
I sighed, settling next to her with a soda water. "I saw him again."
Yuri raised an eyebrow. "The hot doctor?"
"At a coffee shop. He sat at my table."
"Did you tell him to get lost?"
"No."
She blinked. "You let someone invade your bubble? Who are you and what did you do with Meera Shah?"
I picked at a lime wedge on the rim of my glass. "He said something. About me wearing armor."
She was quiet for a moment. "And?"
"And it wasn't wrong."
"Ugh," she said, dragging out the syllable like a sigh. "Now you're spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling," I lied. "I'm analyzing."
"Same thing, only more expensive." She nudged my shoulder. "Look, I know the type. Broody, brilliant, smells like adrenaline and poor communication. But maybe he's not the worst person to loosen your grip."
I scowled. "I don't have a grip."
She laughed. "You have a chokehold, babe."
A little later, I made a lazy loop around the room. I gave polite nods, ignored the VP of Digital trying to talk fintech, and downed half a glass of pinot noir someone handed me.
That's when it happened.
The shift.
It started as a prickle on the back of my neck. Awareness. Then warmth, like someone had lit a match behind me.
I turned.
There, in the golden light of the rooftop's edge, stood Aarav Malhotra.
Not in scrubs. No gloves. No mask of clinical detachment. Just a dark navy shirt rolled to the elbows, open collar, and sleeves that hugged forearms like a damn romance novel cliché.
He looked clean, sure. But not soft.
And more terrifyingly—he belonged. Even here. In my world.
He scanned the room once, found me, and stilled. Like a decision had just clicked into place.
Then he walked toward me.
Not rushed. Not casual.
Deliberate.
Yuri whispered under her breath, "Oh, this is going to be fun," before melting away into the crowd like a traitor.
I stayed rooted, because moving felt like conceding something.
He stopped in front of me. Close. Not touching.
"Didn't expect to find you here," I said, keeping my voice even.
"My sister dragged me," he said. "Said I should 'socialize.' It was a threat."
I smirked despite myself. "So you're here under duress?"
"Not anymore."
The silence between us thickened—not awkward, just charged. Like we were both waiting for the other to break form.
"You clean up well," I said, because flirting had always been easier than feeling.
"You don't," he said. Then, softer: "You don't look cleaned up. You look like you."
I should've walked away.
Instead, I asked, "And what does that mean?"
He didn't blink. "Unapologetic. In control. Beautiful."
The word shouldn't have hit me. I'd been called beautiful before. By men with degrees and fortunes and curated intentions.
But from Aarav—it wasn't a compliment. It was a statement. Like he wasn't trying to flatter me. He was just noticing.
And noticing felt far more dangerous.
I lowered my gaze to my glass, pretending it needed attention. "Don't think I'm going to swoon just because you finally learned how to talk outside an operating room."
"I don't need you to swoon," he said, voice quieter now. "I just need you to stop pretending you don't feel it too."
I looked up.
His eyes didn't waver. Brown, steady, warm.
And for a moment, I didn't have words.
The city spun beneath us. Laughter floated from the bar. A breeze caught the edges of my hair.
But I stayed still.
Because he was right.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel the need to armor up.