I don't know why I kept thinking about that drive home. Maybe it was because Mishka had a way of saying things that lingered. The kind of words that looped in your head when you were supposed to be thinking about your patient's X-ray, not about a writer who said "can't" like it was a confession.

It had been four days since that dinner, and I still remembered her perfume—vanilla with something spicy underneath. The kind of scent that sneaks up on you.

It was...irritating.

So, I did what I do best—drowned the irritation in coffee and went to the hospital two hours early.

"Someone's eager today," Ritu, one of the nurses, said when she saw me in the hallway. "Or heartbroken. Can't tell which." Ritu also happens to be one of my good friends at work which means she knows about Saahiba and what happened.

"I'm always early," I muttered, walking past her.

"You are never early," she called out. "You are always on time, Doctor Discipline."

I ignored that and went straight to my office, but she wasn't wrong. I'd been restless all morning, my head running reruns of the drive from last night.
The silence. Her perfume.
That damn word again. Can't.

I told myself it didn't mean anything. It wasn't like she'd confessed something deep or poetic. It was just one word.
But it had done something I didn't expect — it stuck.

By lunch, I was exhausted—not from patients, but from my own brain who was refusing to minding its business today. So I did what any self-prescribing doctor would: I prescribed myself some caffeine.

There's a new cafe which opened few months back near the the hospital I usually avoid—too many people with feelings, too many college kids. But today I didn't care. I just wanted a cup of black coffee and peace.

Of course, peace is never what I get.

Because sitting by the window, hair tied up in a loose bun, strands falling around her face, laptop open in front of her, half-drunk cup of chai beside it. She looked... different. Less like the girl who showed up at fancy dinners and more like someone in her element—comfortable chaos.

Mishka.

Her face was scrunched up in concentration, and the most unimpressed expression I have ever seen aimed at a laptop.

And somehow, that made her even harder to look away from.

She looked up right when I was about to walk past her table. Our eyes met. Her lips curved into something that was between a smirk and a question.

"Are you stalking me, Doctor?"

I stopped. "This cafe is right next to the hospital. You are the one invading my area."

"Ah, territorial behaviour. Typical man," she said, taking a sip of her tea.

I raised a brow. "Tea? That explains everything."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You look like someone who'd drink chamomile and talk about emotions."

"It's actually Assam," she said, taking a calm sip, "and I only talk about emotions when I'm paid to."

"Right. You're a writer. So... professional overthinker."

"And you're a doctor. Professional denier."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," she said, hiding a smirk behind her cup.

I smiled. "Work or writing?"

"Both," she said with a sigh. "I freelance for startups. Marketing copy, website blurbs, all that exciting stuff."

"Sounds thrilling."

"It's rent paying," she corrected. "The writing that's thrilling doesn't usually pay the bills."

That hit closer than she probably meant it to. I understood the frustration of doing what you have to, not always what you want to.

I sat down across from her before I could overthink it.
"You always this chatty when you're working?" I asked.

"You always this nosy when you're off-duty?"

I laughed quietly. "Fair enough."

For a moment, we both went silent—the hum of espresso machines and the clink of cups filling the gap. She kept typing, fingers flying across the keys, occasionally muttering words under her breath.

Then she said, without looking up, "You were quiet the other night."

"I'm not exactly the life of the party."

"No, you are. Just... selectively."

I raised an eyebrow. "You notice a lot, don't you?"

"It's an occupational hazard."

Her tone was light, but there was something behind it. Something she wasn't saying. I caught her looking out the window for a moment too long, as if she was somewhere else entirely.

"You okay?" I asked quietly.

She blinked, then smiled—the kind that didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah. Just deadlines."

I didn't but it, but I didn't push either. People talk when they want to be heard, not when you force them to.

When her phone buzzed, she checked it, then groaned softly.
"Client wants a last-minute revision. Apparently 'authentic synergy' doesn't sound inspiring enough."

"That's because it doesn't mean anything." I said, sipping my coffee.

She looked up at me then, really looked—and laughed. "Finally someone gets it."

I smiled back. For the first time in a long time, the air between me and someone didn't feel heavy with expectation or history. It just felt...easy.

"Next time," she said, packing her laptop, "chai's on you."

"Sure. As long as I get to approve your copy."

She titled her head, her eyes glinting. "Doctor, you barely approved my tea order."

"Maybe I'll try harder next time."

"It's a date then, Doctor."

She said it so casually, it took me a full two seconds to respond. Not that I managed anything coherent.

I just smiled — or something close to it — because my brain was still processing how easily those words rolled off her tongue.

Mishka didn't flirt. At least not the obvious kind.
She had that understated confidence — the kind that sneaks up on you, wrapped in humor and a spark you can't quite ignore.

By the time I found something clever to say back, she was already walking out, sunlight hitting her face just right, and I realized—maybe I already was trying.

And just like that, she left me sitting there—heart doing something it really shouldn't.

I looked down at my half-finished coffee and muttered, "it's not a date."
But it sounded unconvincing even to me.

Later that evening, I was still thinking about it.

It had been a long day—surgeries, consults and an intern who nearly fainted during a procedure. I was exhausted, but when I got home, I made coffee instead of opening my laptop or the podcast mic.

My phone buzzed—a message from Saahiba.

Saahiba: Heard you and Mishka met today 👀

Me: You really have spies everywhere, don't you?

Saahiba: Just one—Meher. She walked past the café and texted me immediately. You're welcome.

Me: It wasn't what you think.

Saahiba: Oh, of course not. Just chai and fate, right?

I stared at her text for a moment, a smile tugging on my lips. She'd been like this ever since her wedding, constantly meddling, matchmaking, as if the world needed her romantic wisdom.

Except, this time...I didn't really mind.

Two days later, I saw Mishka again.

It was completely unplanned—or maybe fate just had a dark twisted humor.

I was attending a medical seminar at a business event in Indiranagar—something about health-tech startups. Half the people there didn't know the difference between an MRI and a CT scan, but they knew how to pitch.

And there she was—standing near the refreshment table, chatting animatedly with a guy holding a brochure. Her hair was tied up again, this time in a messy braid, and she was wearing a white kurta with silver hoops that caught light every time she moved.

I don't know what it is about her, but she looks like someone you'd notice twice.

Before I could stop myself, I walked up to her. "Mishka?"

She turned, her face lighting up for a second before she hid it behind a polite smile. "Doctor Malhotra," she greeted. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I could say the same."

"I'm freelancing for one of the startups here." She explained, holding up her notepad. "They needed someone to make their medical jargon sound less terrifying."

I chuckled. "So, you are my translator now?"

"If the paycheck's good enough yes," she said.

Something about the way she said it—playful, unbothered, just living her life—made me realize she was nothing like anyone I have met before. And maybe that is what drew me in.

We ended up standing there for almost an hour, talking about everything but ourselves.

She asked why surgeons have God complexes.
I asked why writers love tragedy so much.

She said, "Because heartbreak sells."
I said, "So does healing."

When she smiled at that, I knew I'd won round one.

And as she walked away later, her voice floated back to me—"you need to stop meeting me like this, Doctor. Or else I might think you are in love with me or something."

She disappeared into the crowd before I could think of something clever to say.

I let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. She's impossible.

Still, I couldn't stop the stupid smile tugging at my lips as I turned to leave.
God, when was the last time someone had managed to get under my skin without even trying?

Maybe it was nothing.
Or maybe it was exactly what it felt like—
a spark I didn't see coming, and wasn't sure I wanted to put out.

───────•••───────

Another chapter. I'm going to do my best to give you guys updates as soon as I can.

Besides, the inspiration is really hitting me so I can't stop writing.

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