The Stranger I Like (2.5)

[Chapter 2] 

 Covalent 

 – A strong connection even the universe can't separate it.

 It was half past one, the world outside cloaked in silence, the frost deep enough to sting the air at just 5 degrees. The night felt still, yet thick with anticipation, as if the sky itself had lowered, burdened by the weight of winter. My man returned home from his long, draining night shift, the doorbell slicing through the quiet, a sound that broke my waiting.

I had been uneasy, watching the hands of the clock crawl, counting the moments until he’d be home. When I opened the door, there he stood—fatigue etched into every line of his face, his skin pale under the dim hallway light. His eyes, though half-lidded with sleep, held that familiar warmth, but tonight, even they seemed dulled, clouded by the weight of exhaustion.

"Did you have dinner?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, careful not to disturb the stillness he carried with him.

But my words slipped through the cracks, lost somewhere between his silence and exhaustion. He didn’t respond—just offered a faint nod and moved past me, his steps slow, dragging as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders tonight.

I watched as he moved inside, his figure melting into the shadows, and I felt a strange ache—just a longing to ease whatever burden he carried.

By the time I reached the bedroom, he was already there, sprawled across the bed, his arm draped over his face as though shielding himself from the very light of the moon that spilled in soft ribbons across the room. He looked—so fragile, in the way only exhaustion can make a person. Yet somehow, even in that moment, there was a beauty in him. The kind of beauty that lingers not in perfection but in the rawness of being completely, unapologetically human.

I switched off the lights, the room slipping into darkness, save for the soft, pale glow that filtered through the curtains.

It was then that he spoke, his voice low, thick with sleep.

"Yeah... I had dinner. Did you?"

I paused, not wanting to burden him further. "I didn’t cook. I was tired too."

His head lifted slightly from the pillow, brows furrowing as he blinked the haze of sleep away. "Are you hungry? You should’ve told me. I would’ve brought something —"

Before he could finish, I cut him off with a little smile. "I ordered pizza."

And just like that, the sleepiness cracked, giving way to the faintest spark of betrayal in his eyes.

"Without me? Seriously? That’s unfair."

I couldn’t help but laugh. his reaction so endearing, almost like a little kid disappointed at missing out on his favorite treat. I knew how much he loved pizza—it was his ultimate comfort food, his forever favorite.

But soon, the silence settled again, his body relaxing, the weight of the day reclaiming him. His breathing slowed, his face softening into sleep, and I found myself just... watching.

My man looked beautiful like this—unarmored, stripped of the strength he always wore for the world. The moonlight kissing his features, tracing the delicate curve of his lips, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the shadows under his eyes whispering of countless hours spent giving more than he took. Even in his weariness, there was something so peaceful about him.

"Are you going to keep staring at me like this... or sleep too?" he mumbled, lips barely parting, a sleepy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

My face instantly warmed, heat creeping up my skin like a blush that refused to be subtle. I turned my head, pretending to fuss with the blanket, but before I could pull away completely, his hand found mine—delicate yet possessive, lacing his fingers between mine as if to anchor me there.

Without a word, he cupped my hand above his head, resting it lightly against his hair, then shifted closer, his head settling into my lap.

His hair was velvety, strands curling messily from the long hours, yet I ran my fingers through it anyway, untangling the stress from his head as if my touch could smooth out the ache. He smelled faintly of antiseptic, that sharp, clean scent hospitals leave behind—a reminder of the lives he touched every day, the heroism he never spoke of.

I traced my fingers along the chiseled contour of his jaw, slow and soothing, until his breathing deepened again. His face, so close now, seemed younger in sleep—free from care, as if the weight of the world had finally let him go, even if just for a while.

Carefully, I shifted to lay him back against the pillow, thinking he was fully asleep. But as I moved, he stirred—eyes half-opening, just enough to meet mine. And without a word, he curled closer, his arm sliding around my curves, holding me there. 

His touch wasn’t assertive—just the kind of longing that made my heart ache in the most affectionate way.

He rested his head over me, right where he could hear the steady rhythm beneath my skin, his breathing syncing with mine as if the sound alone calmed him. His hand, warm and familiar, pressed gently against the curve of my side, his thumb brushing lazy circles like a silent reassurance.

"It’s cold..." he whispered against my skin, voice barely audible. "Come closer?"

I was already close—so close it felt as if we were sharing the same breath, yet I shifted anyway, pressing my lips delicately into the strands of his hair, letting the softness of the moment envelop us as I held him close.

He smelled like late hours and the sterile scent of his shift, yet none of it mattered when he was this close—when the world felt so small, shrinking to just the warmth between us.

"You’re talking too much, Aren’t you sleepy?" I whispered, my voice playful. 

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, as if summoning the last bit of his strength, he lifted his head just enough to meet my gaze, our foreheads touching, breath mingling in the hush of the room.

His nose nuzzled mine—a feather-light touch, but enough to make my heart stutter.

"You mean the world to me," he murmured, his voice so sincere, so achingly tender, that I felt it more than I heard it. "Thank you... for loving me like this. Always."

Tears stung the back of my eyes, but I swallowed them down. I got emotional by his voice.

I cupped his face gently, pressing my lips to the soft curve of his cheek, right where his dimple appeared when he smiled.

"I’m here. Always."

And as he finally surrendered to sleep, peaceful and safe in my arms, the Cinderella hanging on my wall watched it all unfold with the most judgmental side-eye possible—like, "Shadi ke sapne saja baithi ho, huh?"

And truth be told? I couldn’t bring myself to deny it.

His voice has settled so deeply in my mind, every word, every tone replaying in my head, that it feels like he's always here, even when we're apart. I’ve spent so much time listening to his voice notes that, even if we aren’t talking, I can practically hear him narrating my thoughts. And no, I don’t need a psychiatrist to “fix” me—unless they’ve started treating people for being too in love. In that case, sign me up for a lifetime membership because clearly, I’m the poster child.

I’ve given so much of myself to him that it feels like my emotions come with his name engraved on them. Loving him feels like handing the world my heart and saying, “Here, just take care of it for me.” It’s almost scary how loyalty doesn’t even feel like a choice anymore—it’s just who I am when it comes to him.

And yes, sometimes I do stare at my phone like the protagonist in a rom-com, wondering when his text will arrive. But then I remind myself—dating a medico isn’t about romantic getaways and serenades; it’s more about mastering the art of patience. If you want to be with a medico, you’d better get used to being patient. A lot of patience. Like, saint-level patience. It’s testing, but hey, I’m learning.

Okay, okay, I know we’re not dating yet, but who knows? Maybe someday we will. So, consider this my crash course in patience, because clearly, life thought it’d be hilarious to cast me as the punchline in its never-ending sitcom.

I know that someday, all these hopes will lead me to the moment I dream of—a day when “us” isn’t just a distant wish but my reality. I’ll tell him then about all these tales I wrote, all the times I went a little mad missing him. Would he blush? Or just smirk and call me “obsessed”? Knowing him, he’d probably say something sarcastic like, “Well, glad to know I’m living rent-free in your head!” while I sit there, debating whether to laugh or hit him with the nearest book instead.

I don’t crave grand gestures or fleeting promises—all I want is a covalent bond, a connection so unbreakable it feels elemental. When I look into his eyes, it’s as though I’ve wandered into a universe of endless possibilities, only to find that one elusive electron—the one that aligns perfectly with m e, completing the equation of my existence in a way nothing else ever could.