Chapter 7: Silent Protection, Private Moments

(Mixed POV: Kabir Rathod | Ishita Sharma)

The hospital was quieter than usual, but Ishita's day wasn't. Back-to-back surgeries, patient rounds, and consultations had drained her physically, yet her movements remained precise, professional. Every step, every gesture, carried the authority she had built over the years.

She didn't notice the subtle tension in the air until it reached her apartment later that night.

Kabir Rathod arrived quietly. Security cleared the building as always, but no one knew what truly awaited her no one. The team at the hospital didn't follow. She was utterly alone — just the way he wanted it.

"You're late," she said, her tone sharp but tired.

"I was busy," he replied evenly. His eyes scanned her carefully, noting the fatigue, the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the way she moved almost too stiffly from exhaustion.

They reached the apartment later than usual, the city already slowing down outside their windows. Ishita dropped her bag near the door and kicked off her shoes, exhaustion finally catching up with her.

"I didn't cook," she admitted softly. "Didn't even feel like eating."

Kabir watched her for a moment — the way her shoulders slumped, the way she leaned briefly against the wall as if the day had taken more from her than she was willing to say.

"Sit," he said, already loosening his watch.

She turned sharply. "Kabir, no. You're still injured. You're not recovered. I'll order something."

"I don't want outside food," he replied calmly, heading toward the kitchen. "And neither do you."

She followed him immediately. "You're being stubborn."

"And you're being dramatic," he countered, opening the fridge.

"I'm being a surgeon," she shot back. "And as your wife, I'm telling you—"

He paused, glanced at her over his shoulder. "Then help me."

That stopped her.

A few minutes later, they were both in the kitchen. Ishita handled the groceries — chopping vegetables, rinsing rice — while Kabir stayed near the stove, careful but determined. She kept stealing glances at his arm, ready to intervene at the smallest sign of strain.

"You're not lifting that," she warned.

"I wasn't planning to," he said dryly.

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe I missed annoying you."

She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself.

They argued lightly over spices — she accused him of adding too much garam masala; he accused her of playing it too safe. At one point, flour dusted her cheek, and when she noticed him staring—

"What?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just... you look home."

She flicked a bit of flour at him in response.

Dinner came together slowly — simple Indian food, warm and familiar. When they finally sat on the couch, plates balanced carefully, the TV playing some half-watched show neither of them was really following.

They ate in comfortable silence at first.

Then she leaned her head against his shoulder.

"You shouldn't have cooked," she murmured.

"I wanted to," he replied, shifting just enough to make her comfortable. "You had a long day."

She smiled faintly. "So did you."

He glanced down at her. "Still worth it."

They finished their food, the apartment filled with the quiet kind of peace that only comes when you don't have to pretend anymore. Eventually, the plates were forgotten, the TV still murmuring in the background, and Ishita curled closer, sleep pulling at her gently.

Kabir rested his cheek against her hair, one arm around her, protective and sure.

No words were needed.

They were already home.

Morning came silently. He left before she fully woke, as always, leaving only the faintest warmth behind. She stirred hours later, stretching slightly, noticing the plate he had left beside her bed with the last remnants of breakfast.

Her phone buzzed. A message from him:

"You slept well?"

She smiled despite herself, typing a quick reply:

"Yes. Thank you... for everything."

And for the first time in days, she allowed herself a small moment of peace.

No one knew. No one could ever know. And that was exactly how it should be.

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