Meera
It had been twenty-eight days.
Twenty-eight days of morning cappuccinos showing up on my desk with no sender info, just a small scrawl on the cup lid: "Drink me. Sleep is a myth."Twenty-eight days of text threads that ran from surgical updates to old jazz playlists and a single voice memo that said, "Miss you. In ways I shouldn't admit over WiFi."
It had been a month of pretending that I didn't replay that night on the couch. That I didn't ache at the sight of his name lighting up my screen. That I wasn't counting days like a lovesick fool.
"You're practically levitating," Yuri teased, twirling a lollipop in her mouth as we strolled toward the hospital's courtyard. "If you float any higher, I'll have to weigh you down with spreadsheets."
"He gets back today," I said, failing to sound nonchalant.
"I know. You've been doing your little countdown thing. It's sweet. And vaguely concerning."
I shoved her gently. "It's not a countdown."
"It's absolutely a countdown."
Omar and Karan were parked on the stone bench outside the coffee bar, mid-laugh and mid-caffeine.
"I don't think Aarav's flying in until late tonight," Karan was saying. "We'll see him tomorrow in the OR, grumpier than ever."
"Unless he throws us all off by actually taking a night to rest," Omar added.
"Unlikely," Yuri said, throwing her arms around their shoulders. "He lives for chaos. We are having dinner though, right?"
"Mughal's Flame," Karan confirmed. "7:30. On me. Don't make me regret it."
Mughal's Flame
Warm lighting. Copper lanterns. The air spiced with cardamom, roasted saffron, and nostalgia.
We had just settled in, menus opened and mocktails arriving, when my phone buzzed.
Maa.
I excused myself with a tight smile and slipped out onto the restaurant's private balcony.
"Meera, the board called again," came my mother's clipped voice. "They're losing patience. You need to give an answer."
"I'm not coming back to Delhi right now."
"You've been away long enough. You've had your little American dream. But it's time to stop pretending this—this temporary independence—is a life."
My jaw clenched. "It's not temporary. And it is my life."
"You think running financials and playing consultant to strangers is legacy?" she said, voice rising. "You were raised to lead. Not to get swept up by distractions and—men who don't belong in our world."
That one stung.
"I have to go," I said, voice cracking.
"No, you don't. You have to choose—"
I ended the call.
The silence after it felt thick, pulsing with old wars I wasn't ready to refight.
I didn't even hear the footsteps.
Then—
"You always look this breathtaking when you argue with invisible forces?"
My head whipped around.
And there he was.
Aarav.
Not in scrubs, not even a blazer. Just black-on-black — fitted shirt rolled to his elbows, hair wind-mussed, a hint of travel fatigue in his eyes, and a smile that could undo a woman from fifty feet away.
"You—how—what are you—"
"Surprise," he said.
My heart stuttered.
"Yuri said your flight—"
"I took an earlier one. Couldn't wait."
And before I could stop myself, I closed the distance.
And kissed him.
God, it was instant. Heat and gravity. His hand slid up my back, his other cradling my jaw, holding me like I might vanish. The kiss wasn't sweet or tentative.
It was desperate.
Like the month had stretched us too far apart and now we were snapping back into place.
When we finally pulled apart, he whispered, "Hi."
"Hi," I breathed.
Back inside, our friends were raising their glasses, mid-toast, and did a collective double-take when Aarav walked in behind me.
"Holy—" Karan muttered.
Omar whooped. "He lives! And shows up sexy and early? That's new."
Aarav just smirked and pulled out a chair for me.
I couldn't stop smiling.
Even when I sat.
Even when my phone buzzed again from my mother.
Because I'd made a choice without realizing it.
And he was sitting right beside me.