They Don't Know about Us

Chapter 41 - Between fury & desire

The residents' lounge was half-lit, washed in the dull hum of fluorescent lights that never quite shut off. A vending machine buzzed in the corner, empty coffee cups littered the table, and somewhere down the hall a monitor beeped in an uneven rhythm. Night duty always had a way of stretching time into something thick and irritable.

Riddhima sat slouched on the couch, legs pulled up beneath her, scrolling through vitals she already knew by heart. Her eyes burned, not just from exhaustion but from the quiet resentment simmering under her skin. She hadn't slept properly in days.

Every muscle in her body ached, her mind felt like it had been scraped raw.

Her pager vibrated against her thigh. She glanced down.

Dr. Malik — Rounds. Now.

Her jaw tightened instantly. She checked the time again. 2:07 a.m.

"You have got to be kidding me," she muttered under her breath, irritation flaring hot and fast. Patients were stable. The ward was quiet. Nurses were charting in low voices. This was unnecessary and he knew it.

She shoved herself upright, irritation buzzing through her veins. Why is he doing this? she thought bitterly. Is this his new hobby? Making my life miserable because he can't say anything else to me?

She grabbed her coat and stalked out of the lounge, annoyance sharpening with every step. The corridor was dim, night-shift quiet settling over the hospital like a held breath. Her footsteps echoed softly as she reached the ward.

Armaan was already there. Standing at the nurses' station, chart in hand, posture rigid, expression unreadable.

He didn't look tired. Or maybe he did — but the exhaustion sat differently on him now. Sharper. Colder.

"You paged me?" she asked, unable to keep the edge out of her voice.

He didn't look up immediately. "You're late."

Her breath hitched. "It's two in the morning."

"And?" He finally lifted his eyes to her, gaze cool, detached. "Patients don't stop existing at night." She clenched her jaw.

God, he's doing this on purpose.

"Which patient?" she asked, clipped.

"Bed twelve. Post-op. I want a full reassessment."

She stared at him. "I assessed him an hour ago. He was stable."

"Do it again."

Something in her snapped just a little.

"Armaan—"

"Dr. Malik," he corrected calmly, without heat, and somehow that hurt more than anger ever could.

She swallowed the retort burning her tongue and turned sharply toward the patient room, her irritation pulsing louder with every step.

She did the reassessment anyway — thorough, meticulous, professional — because that was who she was. Because no matter how much he pushed, she would never let a patient pay the price.

When she returned with the chart, she placed it down harder than necessary. "Vitals are unchanged. No new complaints. Pain controlled. The patient wasn't happy to be woken up again."

"Good," he said simply, already scanning the page. "Let's move."

Her eyes widened. "Move where?"

"Rounds," he replied, as if it were obvious.

"You're making me redo the entire ward?" she demanded quietly, frustration finally breaking through her restraint. "At two in the morning?"

He met her gaze then — really met it — and for a split second, something dark flickered there. Not satisfaction. Not cruelty. Something closer to control.