Meera
The light crept in slow, golden fingers across the living room, brushing over everything it touched like a promise. I blinked awake, the scent of sandalwood lingering in the air, my cheek pressed lightly to something warm and solid.
Correction: someone.
Aarav.
His arm was still draped across my waist, heavy and possessive even in sleep. The steady rhythm of his breath was the only sound in the room, calm and utterly at ease.
I shifted slightly to see him more clearly.
His scrub shirt was gone, probably discarded sometime in the night when we got tangled beneath the blanket. What was left—bare, sculpted chest and a faint trail leading beneath the waistband of navy scrub pajama pants—was… distracting, to say the least.
God.
How did someone look like that after forty-two hours of trauma bay chaos?
His hair was tousled, lashes absurdly long for someone that masculine. There was a barely-there scar just below his collarbone, and another along his ribcage—old stories written in skin I suddenly wanted to memorize.
I stared longer than I should have.
Then—
"Like what you see?" he murmured, eyes still closed, lips curled into the ghost of a smirk.
I nearly jolted off the couch.
"You're awake?" I whispered.
"I am now," he said, voice deliciously rough. "Not a bad way to wake up."
I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
He chuckled, low and soft, before his hand brushed a strand of hair from my face. "You're blushing."
"No, I'm not," I muttered, already sitting up. "I'm just… warm."
"Uh-huh."
I stood and padded into the kitchen barefoot, heart still thudding. My apartment had never felt this small.
Or this alive.
I started on breakfast—sourdough toast, scrambled eggs, some leftover avocado. Something about cooking grounded me, reminded me of mornings back in Delhi with my grandmother humming in the background and political debates crackling on the radio.
Behind me, Aarav eventually sat at the counter, shirt back on but hair still wild.
"Coffee?" I asked.
"God, yes."
I poured us both mugs just as my phone buzzed—a reminder about the meeting with Aryka and the finance board at Westbridge Medical. Budget cuts were on the docket. Not exactly the sexiest way to start a morning, but my day jobs rarely were.
"I have to go soon," I said, sliding a plate toward him. "Meeting with Aryka."
He nodded, expression unreadable.
"Thanks for last night," I added quietly. "For coming to me."
His gaze met mine. "I didn't know where else I'd rather be."
Later, at Westbridge Medical
The boardroom smelled like coffee and tension. Aryka was already seated at the head of the table, cool and composed in a maroon pantsuit that screamed authority.
"Meera," she greeted with a nod. "Thanks for making time."
"Of course. Let's talk numbers."
We went through line items, resource allocations, trauma budget comparisons—until the discussion turned to staffing reductions. Aryka rubbed her temples.
"It's frustrating," she admitted. "The city keeps cutting corners. But trauma response isn't negotiable."
"I know," I said. "Which is why I'm working on a few lobbying strategies with some of our policy contacts."
She looked at me for a long moment, then smiled. "You care more than you let on."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You pretend to be steel. But you're more heart than armor, Meera. It shows."
The compliment hit harder than I expected.
Maybe because it was true.
Maybe because it came from someone who saw what I'd spent years hiding.