Chapter 9 — Hours Stolen from the World

The morning did not announce itself.

It slipped in quietly, pale sunlight brushing the curtains, resting briefly on bare skin before retreating again. Time moved outside—cars, people, schedules—but inside the apartment, it stalled, as if even the hours knew better than to interrupt.

Kabir Rathod woke slowly.

Not because he was tired—he rarely allowed that—but because Ishita was still asleep against him. Her head rested on his shoulder, her arm draped across his chest with the unconscious certainty of someone who belonged there. Her breathing was steady, warm, grounding.

He didn't move.

Men like him were trained to wake sharp, alert, ready. But this—this was different. This was the one place where he allowed stillness to exist.

"You're awake," she murmured without opening her eyes.

Kabir's lips curved faintly. "You always know."

"You stop breathing properly," she said sleepily. "Like you're thinking too much."

He slid his hand up her arm, thumb brushing her skin. "Occupational hazard."

She shifted closer, face pressing lightly into his neck. "What time is it?"

He glanced at the clock. "Late."

She hummed. "Good."

There was no rush. No alarms blaring, no urgent knocks. They had both already made an unspoken decision—to steal these hours, no matter the cost.

⸻

They finally left the bed close to noon.

Ishita moved through the apartment barefoot, hair tied carelessly, wearing one of Kabir's shirts. He watched her from the doorway, jacket discarded, phone left untouched on the table for once.

"You're going to get late," she said, opening the fridge.

"So are you," he replied calmly.

She turned, eyebrow raised. "I'm a surgeon, Kabir. I don't get late."

"And I run Rathod Empire," he countered. "I'm already late."

She scoffed, but her lips curved despite herself. "Sit."

He obeyed.

She cooked without ceremony—simple, nourishing, efficient. The way she did everything. She placed a plate in front of him and watched until he took the first bite.

"You didn't finish your dinner last night," she said.

"You noticed."

"I always notice."

She ate standing across from him, leaning against the counter, occasionally stealing food from his plate. At one point, she held out a spoon deliberately.

"Eat properly."

He took the bite from her hand, eyes never leaving her face.

"For someone who terrifies half the country," she said lightly, "you're remarkably obedient."

"Only with you."

That made her pause.

She stepped closer, fingers adjusting his collar automatically, habit ingrained over years. Her hand lingered at his chest.

"How's the pain?" she asked softly.

"Avoidable."

"That's not an answer."

He sighed. "Manageable."

She nodded, accepting the half-truth for now. She always did—until she didn't.

They stood there, close, unhurried, sharing something fragile and rare: normalcy.

By the time Kabir finally checked his phone, it was already past one.

Missed calls from Rathod Empire. Messages from assistants managing damage control. Meetings rescheduled without complaint.

He slipped on his watch.

"I really should go now," he said.

Ishita nodded, though her hand briefly caught his sleeve. "Office?"

"Yes."

"Eat lunch."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Only if you promise the same."

She looked away. "I'll try."

He smiled—knowing what that meant.

⸻

Ishita was late to the hospital.

Not disastrously, but enough to earn glances. She changed quickly, tied her hair back, and slipped into surgeon mode as if the morning softness had never existed.

Rounds. Consults. A surgery added unexpectedly.

She performed flawlessly.

Still, something tugged at her attention—a faint sense of being observed. A question repeated once too often. A gaze lingering longer than comfort allowed.

Nothing obvious. Nothing actionable.

She dismissed it.

Across the city, Kabir Rathod sat at the head of a glass-walled conference room, listening while his mind ran parallel calculations.

A casual remark. An unnecessary inquiry. A name surfacing where it shouldn't.

Ishita Sharma.

His expression didn't change—but something sharpened.

He made a call. Quiet. Efficient.

"Check discreetly," he instructed. "No involvement beyond observation."

He trusted Ishita's strength.

He did not trust curiosity.

⸻

Night reunited them.

Ishita returned exhausted, shoes kicked aside, shoulders heavy with the weight of lives held and saved. Kabir arrived later, jacket loosened, eyes watchful.

"You're late," she said.

"So are you."

She studied him, instinct flaring. "Something's wrong."

He closed the door behind him. "Not yet."

She stepped closer anyway, hands already moving to check what he wouldn't mention. He let her. Always did.

"You skipped lunch," he said quietly.

She glanced away. "You skipped rest."

A familiar stalemate.

They sat together on the bed, tension easing as proximity did its work. She leaned into him, and he wrapped an arm around her, firm and grounding.

For a moment, the world stayed out.

But Kabir knew—it wouldn't for long.

Some lines, once noticed, were never unseen.

And anyone who crossed them would learn exactly who the Rathods were.