The Doctor's Dilemma
"NHS surgeon Kiran has no time for romance until her arranged rishta turns out to be Zain—her irritating but gorgeous colleague who's been driving her crazy for months."
The Doctor's Dilemma
"Absolutely not."
Kiran Shah stared at her mother's WhatsApp message in horror. There, in the family group chat, was a photo of a man her mother described as "perfect rishta material—doctor from good Lahori family, working in same hospital as you!"
The man in the photo was Zain Ahmed.
Her colleague. Her rival for the cardiology fellowship. The most irritating, arrogant, infuriatingly attractive man she'd ever met.
"Ammi, you cannot be serious," she typed back.
The response was instant: "Biodata already exchanged. Meeting Sunday at our house. Wear the pink gharara."
"So." Zain fell into step beside her in the hospital corridor. "Our mothers have been talking."
"I'm aware." Kiran didn't slow down. "I'm also not interested."
"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his heart. "And here I thought our OR arguments were just foreplay."
She stopped walking. "Excuse me?"
His smile was devastating. "Come on, Kiran. We've been dancing around this for months. The late nights, the 'accidental' touches during surgery, the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching."
"I look at you with contempt."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He stepped closer. "Because I look at you with something very different."
"Zain—"
"Come to the rishta meeting," he said softly. "Give it a chance. Give us a chance."
"There is no us."
"There could be." His hand brushed hers. "If you'd stop being so stubborn."
Sunday came whether Kiran wanted it to or not.
She wore the pink gharara—because her mother would kill her otherwise—and watched Zain charm her entire family within twenty minutes of arriving. He complimented her grandmother's chai, discussed cricket with her father, and made her little cousins giggle.
He was, annoyingly, perfect.
"Let's take a walk," he suggested, nodding toward the garden. "Give the aunties something to gossip about."
Outside, away from prying eyes, the air between them shifted.
"Why are you doing this?" Kiran asked. "You could have any woman. Why the rishta route? Why me?"
Zain's expression softened. "Because I've been in love with you for six months, and every attempt at normal flirting has failed spectacularly. I thought maybe if our families were involved, you'd take me seriously."
"You—what?"
"I love you." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "Your brilliance in the OR. Your terrible coffee choices. The way you fight me on everything because you genuinely care about the patients. The way you look in scrubs at 3am, exhausted and still beautiful."
"That's not love, that's Stockholm syndrome."
He laughed. "Maybe. But I'd like the chance to prove it's more." He took her hands. "One date. Outside of work, outside of family pressure. Just us. If you feel nothing, I'll tell my mother we're not compatible and never bring it up again."
"And if I feel something?"
His eyes darkened. "Then I'll spend the rest of my life making you feel it again."
The date was supposed to be dinner at a nice restaurant.
They made it through starters before the sexual tension became unbearable.
"This is a terrible idea," Kiran said as Zain pulled her into the restaurant bathroom.
"The worst," he agreed, locking the door.
Then he kissed her, and she stopped thinking entirely.
His hands were surgeon-precise as they explored her body, knowing exactly where to touch to make her gasp. When he lifted her onto the counter, she wrapped her legs around him without hesitation.
"Bohot intezar kiya," he murmured against her neck. "I've waited so long for this."
"Stop waiting."
He pulled back to look at her. "You're sure? Here?"
"Zain, if you don't touch me properly in the next thirty seconds, I will end you."
He grinned. "As my future wife commands."
His hand slid under her dress, finding her wet and ready. Kiran bit her lip to keep from moaning as he stroked her, his mouth hot on her neck.
"So responsive," he breathed. "I'm going to spend hours learning exactly what you like."
"Later. Need you now."
He obliged, freeing himself and sliding inside her with a groan that vibrated through both of them. The rhythm was urgent, desperate—months of tension releasing in a cramped bathroom while diners obliviously ate naan twenty feet away.
"Meri jaan," Zain gasped, his forehead against hers. "Marry me."
"We're—we're in a bathroom."
"Perfect place for life-changing decisions." His thumb found her clit. "Marry me, Kiran. Let me do this every day. Minus the bathroom, unless you're into that."
She came with a choked cry, and through the aftershocks, managed to gasp: "Haan. Yes. Now finish what you started."
He did.
"So," her mother said when Kiran called her the next day. "How was the dinner?"
"We're getting married."
The shriek of joy could be heard three streets away.
The wedding happened four months later, coordinated around their surgery schedules. The hospital staff presented them with matching scrubs that said "Dr. Mrs. Ahmed" and "Dr. Mr. Shah."
They wore them proudly.
And they definitely made use of the on-call rooms.