Code name: Ishq

The morning light filtered through the medical bay windows, casting long shadows across the sterile white walls. Dr. Yamini Singh sat propped against her pillows, her left arm secured in a sling, her fingers trembling slightly as she held the official letterhead for the third time in twenty minutes. The words hadn't changed, wouldn't change, no matter how many times she read them, but somehow her mind kept hoping they would rearrange themselves into something that made sense.

Transfer Order: Dr. Yamini Singh, Emergency Medicine Specialist, to be relocated to Base Hospital Delhi with immediate effect upon medical clearance. Reason: Administrative Restructuring. Authorized by: Major M. Kashyap, Acting Medical Liaison Officer.

The second letter lay beside her on the narrow hospital bed, equally pristine, equally devastating. This one detailed accommodations in Delhi – a fully furnished apartment near the hospital, transportation arrangements, even a recommendation letter to the cardiothoracic surgery department where she could pursue her subspecialty training. Everything had been thought through with military precision, every detail anticipated and arranged.

It was the kindness in the arrangements that cut deepest. Not the cold efficiency of a transfer order, but the careful consideration of someone who knew her well enough to anticipate her needs, her preferences, her dreams. Someone who cared enough to ensure her comfort while simultaneously removing her from his life.

Yamini's throat tightened as she folded the letters with deliberate care, her movements mechanical. Five days had passed since the landslide, five days since she'd been pulled from the rubble, five days since she'd seen storm-gray eyes looking down at her with an expression she couldn't quite name. Five days of visitors, of concerned friends, of gentle teasing and theatrical complaints about hospital food.

Five days of waiting for him to walk through that door.

The irony wasn't lost on her. She'd survived being buried under tons of concrete and steel, had emerged from that darkness with nothing more than a dislocated shoulder and a mild concussion. But these two pieces of paper in her hands felt like they might actually break her.

"You're reading those letters again," Dr. Neha Patel observed from the doorway, her voice carefully neutral. She carried a tray with steaming chai and what looked suspiciously like samosas from the village, clearly having conspired with the mess hall staff to smuggle in contraband food.

Yamini looked up, managing a weak smile. "I'm trying to make sense of them. Maybe I missed something the first dozen times."

Neha set the tray on the bedside table and settled into the chair she'd claimed as her own over the past few days. Her elegant features were carefully composed, but Yamini could see the tension in the tight line of her mouth, the way her fingers drummed against her knee.

"And what sense are you making?" Neha asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

Yamini picked up her chai, inhaling the familiar spices that reminded her of home, of her mother's kitchen, of everything she'd be returning to. "He's sending me back to Delhi. Clean break, fresh start, no messy complications." She took a sip, savoring the warmth. "It's actually quite thoughtful, when you think about it. He's arranged everything perfectly."

"Thoughtful," Neha repeated, the word carrying enough ice to freeze the mountain streams. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Before Yamini could respond, the door burst open with enough force to make both women jump. Dr. Aditya Kapoor strode in, his usually perfectly styled hair disheveled, his expression thunderous. Behind him came Dr. Rishi Malhotra and Dr. Priya Sharma, both looking equally grim.