By the time they finished the rounds, her confidence had been chipped raw. Every case felt like a test she wasn't ready for. Every look from him — her husband, her attending — reminded her that she was failing on both fronts.
She escaped to the pediatric cardiac unit after rounds, desperate to breathe again.
The ward was quiet that morning. A faint lullaby played from a corner speaker, and the walls were painted with fading murals of cartoon characters, as if the paint itself was exhausted.
That's where she found Ayaan.
Room 402. Bed by the window.
He was seven, with a mess of black curls and a voice as soft as paper. He was waiting for a donor heart. His second in as many years.
"Dr. Inaaya," he whispered when he saw her. "You look sad today."
She blinked, surprised. "Do I?"
"You do that thing where your eyebrows talk. My mama says mine do that, too."
Inaaya smiled, but her eyes stung.
"Maybe I'm just tired," she said gently, pulling up a stool beside him.
"You weren't tired yesterday," he said. "You laughed at my joke."
She remembered. Something about a heart surgeon being heartless.
She hadn't laughed so much in weeks.
"Wanna hear another?" he asked.
"Yes, please."
"What do you call a nervous doctor?"
"What?"
"A nervous wreck-tor!"
She let out a choked giggle. "That's terrible."
"You laughed again."
"I think you're bribing me with humor."
He leaned closer. "Is it working?"
Something inside her loosened.
Ayaan's mother appeared at the doorway, eyes rimmed with fatigue and hope. "He hasn't eaten breakfast yet, doctor. Keeps waiting for you."
Inaaya looked back at the boy, who smiled shyly.
"I like it when you talk to me first," he said. "Not after Papa signs all the papers."
She swallowed. "You're not just a chart, Ayaan. I'll remember that."
She stayed longer than she was supposed to. Long enough to help him eat a few spoonfuls of rice. Long enough to hear him hum a tune under his breath that sounded heartbreakingly like a goodbye.
⸻
Later, when she stepped into the staff elevator, she was still thinking about him — about how someone so small could hold such space in her chest.
She didn't expect Aaryan to step in behind her.
He said nothing.
But he stood close. Too close.
The scent of his cologne — subtle, clean, sharp — invaded her senses. It made her remember how close they'd stood at the mandap. How cold his fingers had felt when he'd tied the mangalsutra.
"How's Ayaan?" he asked suddenly.
Inaaya blinked. "You know him?"
"I operated on him two years ago."
She hadn't known that.
"He's funny," she said softly. "Brilliant, really. Still believes he'll be home for his birthday."
"He won't," Aaryan said, voice even.
She turned to him, eyes flaring. "Then don't tell him that. Let him hope."
"Hope doesn't fix failing hearts, Inaaya. It never has."
The words hit harder than she expected. Not because he was wrong. But because she could hear the bitterness in his voice — the ache he didn't let show.
"Were you always this cynical," she asked, "or did something make you this way?"
He looked at her. Long and hard.
Then: "Maybe I stopped believing in saving people the day no one could save me."
The elevator dinged. He walked out first.
⸻
She didn't follow right away. She stood there for a moment, her fingers trembling as they hovered over her ID badge.
No one could save me.
Something about the way he said it clung to her all day.
⸻
That evening, back at the penthouse, she found herself in the kitchen, microwaving leftovers while his coat hung by the door, freshly used. Aaryan had come home late again. His shoes were at the edge of the mat, neatly aligned, almost militant.
She wasn't expecting conversation.
But when he walked in, quiet but present, and poured himself a glass of water, she turned to him.
"I visited Ayaan today. Twice."
He didn't respond immediately.
Then: "He smiles when he sees you."
Her heart startled.
"I don't think I make anyone smile here," she said quietly.
He looked at her.
And for the first time since their marriage, Aaryan Rathore didn't look like a doctor. Or a stranger. He looked like a man trying to say something but not knowing the language for it.
"You're not failing," he said.
She stared at him.
"You just haven't been given the space to grow."
It took her a second to breathe.
"Why are you saying this now?"
"Because... I watched you today. With that boy. And for a second—" He broke off, running a hand through his hair. "You looked like someone I used to believe in."
The silence between them wasn't sharp this time.
It was soft. Fragile.
And then, as if realizing the moment had stretched too far, he turned away.
"You should rest. Tomorrow will be worse."
"I'll be ready," she said.
"You don't have to prove anything to me."
She held his gaze. "I'm not doing it for you."