There should be laws against Sundays starting before nine in the morning.

Especially Sundays that involve rock climbing, Meher's excessive enthusiasm, and Mishka Singh looking annoyingly competent while hanging off an artificial wall like she hadn't spent the last week living rent free in my head.

I wasn't supposed to be thinking that. About the climbing, sure.

About her? Absolutely not.

And yet, here I was—three hours later, back at my house, standing in my kitchen with a mug of black coffee growing cold in my hand while my brain decides to replay every irritating detail from the morning.

The chalk dust on her fingers.

The way she'd looked up at me from the halfway up the wall after I corrected her grip, eyes narrowed like she wanted to murder me and thank me at the same time.

The laugh she tried—and failed—to hide when I told her not to fall.

And that moment afterward, standing too close, saying too little.

It scared the shit out of me.

I took a sip of coffee and it tasted bitter.

Fitting. This is getting ridiculous.

I had paperwork to finish. Monday's surgeries to review. ACL reconstruction first thing in the morning and three post-ops consults after that. Instead, I was standing here remembering the exact look on Mishka's face when she realized I'd noticed she wasn't writing.

This is absurd, I told myself.

You spent one climbing session with her. Get over it.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Saahiba calling.

I stared at the screen with immediate distrust before answering.

"Should I be worried?" I asked.

Her and Meher think I don't see what they are trying to pull. I know very well and I'm not going to give into their games.

"Depends," Saahiba said brightly. "How attached are you to your Sunday?"

"Deeply."

I was not liking the direction this was conversation was going in.

"Great, I need a favour."

Of course she did. I leaned against the counter, "No."

"You don't know what it it."

"I know you and that is enough."

She huffed, "Mishka hurt her wrist while climbing."

I straightened instinctively,"how bad?"

"She said its nothing."

"Which usually means?"

"That she is lying through her teeth."

I closed my eyes briefly.

"Mishka is not not answering my calls now, and Meher says she went home saying she'll be fine."

"So let her be fine."

"Nikhil."

There it was.

That tone.

The one that meant she had already decided I was involved.

"Saahiba—"

"You're literally an orthopedic surgeon."

"I am aware of my degree"

"Then go use it."

I let out a slow breath. There was absolutely no reason for me to drive across town because a stubborn writer had probably strained her wrist.

No professional reason.

No sane personal reason either.

And yet ten minutes later, I was picking up my keys.

I would like the record to show that I deeply resent being manipulated this easily.

Mishka opened the door looking like she'd declared war on the concept of functioning. Oversized t-shirt. Pajama pants. Hair twisted into something that looked like it had collapsed halfway through.

She blinked at me. Then narrowed her eyes at me.

"Did Saahiba send you?"

I looked past her into the apartment. "Nice to see you too."

She groaned and stepped aside. "That woman is incapable of minding her own business."

"And you're incapable of taking care of an injury."

"I'm fine."

I glanced pointedly at the wrist tucked behind her back.

"Mishka."

She sighed. "You doctors are all dramatic."

"Says the woman who nearly missed a hold because she was trying to prove a point."

She looked offended. "That was strategy."

"That was gravity winning."

That almost made her smile.

Almost.

I walked in and immediately got hit by the very distinct realization that Mishka lived exactly the way she talked—like neatness had personally insulted her.

Books on the couch.

Open notebooks on the floor.

Three mugs on the center table.

Sticky notes on the fridge.

A candle labeled Literary Ambition sitting next to what looked like instant noodles.

I turned to look at her.

She pointed a warning finger. "Judge quietly."

"I didn't say anything."

"You had a face."

"Occupational hazard."

She snorted.

There it was again.

That ridiculous little snort she did when she laughed for real. I ignored the fact that I was beginning to recognize her different laughs.

"Sit," I said.

She sat on the dining chair with all the grace of someone being forced into government paperwork. I pulled the chair opposite her and held out my hand. "Wrist." She gave me a dramatic look before placing her hand in mine. And just like that, the room went strangely silent.

Her skin was cool from the AC. I focused on the swelling near the lateral side, gently rotating her wrist.

She winced.

"You call this nothing?"

"It's a minor inconvenience."

"It's a sprain."

"Tomato, tomahto."

I looked up.

She was watching me too closely.

I looked back down immediately and palpated along the joint.

"Any numbness?"

"No."

"Sharp pain when moving?"

"Only when my doctor is condescending."

"That's not a symptom."

"It should be."

Despite myself, I smiled.

I wrapped a cold pack around the joint and secured it with the crepe bandage I'd brought.

"You should've iced it the moment you got home."

"I was busy."

"Doing what?"

She glanced toward the dining table.

I followed her gaze.

Laptop open.

Scattered printed pages.

Crossed-out paragraphs.

A notebook with so much scratched ink it looked attacked.

Ah.

So that's what this was.

"Writing?" I asked.

She laughed once, short and dry. "Supposedly."

I leaned back in the chair.

For the first time since I'd walked in, she looked genuinely tired.

Not physically.

The kind of tired that sits behind the eyes.

"Arin still asking for the next manuscript?" I asked quietly.

She gave me a look. "Does everyone discuss my failures when I'm not around?"

"Deflection again."

She rolled her eyes but didn't deny it. For a moment, she just stared at those pages.

Then said, softer than usual—"Do you ever feel like maybe you're not as good at the one thing you thought made you... you?"

That landed heavier than she probably intended.

I opened my mouth, fully intending to say something dry and dismissive.

Nothing came out.

Which was unfortunate, because Mishka looked entirely too pleased with herself.

"That's what I thought," she said, folding her arms.

I narrowed my eyes. "You enjoy being insufferable, don't you?"

"It's one of my more charming traits."

"Debatable."

She smiled—small, but real this time.

And there it was again.

That dangerous ease.

The kind that sneaks in quietly and makes you forget you were trying to keep a safe distance.

I looked away first.

"Keep the wrist elevated," I said, reaching for professionalism because it was the only stable thing left in the room. "Ice every couple of hours. If the pain gets worse, call me."

The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

Because now she was looking at me like she'd caught something.

"Call you?" she repeated, one eyebrow arching.

I exhaled. "As a doctor."

"Mm."

"That sounded skeptical."

"It sounded very personal physician of you, Doctor Malhotra."

"You are injured."

"I am mildly inconvenienced."

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Then—very slowly—her lips twitched.

I shouldn't have smiled.

I did.

"This is why people don't help you," I muttered.

"This is exactly why people do."

I shook my head, but there was no bite left in it.

She walked me out into the hallway, leaning against the doorframe with her good shoulder while I stepped outside.

For a moment neither of us said anything.

The corridor was quiet, evening light spilling through the staircase window at the far end. Somewhere downstairs, a pressure cooker whistle went off from another apartment.

Normal sounds.

Ordinary.

And yet nothing about this moment felt ordinary.

Maybe it was because she wasn't performing now.
No jokes.
No exaggerated remarks.

Just Mishka, looking at me with that unreadable softness that made me distinctly uncomfortable.

Not because I disliked it.

Because I liked it more than I should.

"You know," she said after a pause, "for someone who acts emotionally unavailable, you do show up a lot."

I let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "You make me sound unemployed."

She grinned faintly. "Are you denying it?"

"Yes."

"Convincingly?"

"No."

That pulled a quiet laugh from her.

God.

I needed to leave.

Immediately.

Before this hallway became one of those memories my brain would insist on preserving in high definition.

I took a step backward.

"Goodnight, Mishka."

She tilted her head. "Goodnight, Doctor."

I turned and walked toward the elevator.

I could feel her gaze on my back for a full three seconds before the door clicked shut behind me.

And somehow, that tiny sound felt louder than it should have.

Inside the elevator, I looked down at my hands. At the faint chalk stains, still lingering near my wrist from this morning. I hadn't noticed it before. Or maybe I had and ignored it.

Either it was there.

A stupid insignificant trace of a day that should not have mattered this much.

I rubbed my thumb over it once and laughed under my breath.

This was bad.

Very bad.

Because somewhere between a climbing wall, an injured wrist, and a writer with far too many opinions—

Mishka Singh had started feeling less like an interruption...and more like a habit.

One I wasn't sure I knew how to break.

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