You, me Forever

Aliza’s fingers flew across her laptop keyboard like a woman possessed. The glow of the screen illuminated her face, casting a pale light over her beige hijab as she frantically typed out the climax of her latest Inkitt web novel.

> *“He stepped closer, his dark eyes burning with a passion that could melt glaciers,”* she muttered aloud, testing the rhythm of the words. *“‘You think you can escape me?’ he whispered, his voice like velvet dipped in danger.”*

>

"Perfect," Aliza whispered to herself, slamming her hand down on the enter key to publish the update. She leaned back in her unstable plastic chair, letting out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since three in the morning. On Inkitt, her readers were rabid for her enemies-to-lovers romances. They loved the high stakes, the fiery banter, and the agonizingly slow burn.

Unfortunately, Aliza’s real life had exactly zero romance. It did, however, have plenty of agony.

A sharp, throbbing pain shot through her right wrist, making her wince and clutch her arm. It was the third time this week her hand had locked up. Weeks of non-stop typing, fueled by cold coffee and a looming deadline for a publishing contest, had finally taken their toll. Her wrist was swollen, tender, and screaming for mercy.

"Great. Just great," she muttered, pulling up her phone to look for a clinic. "If I get carpal tunnel before I finish this book, my readers will literally track me down."

An hour later, Aliza found herself sitting in the pristine, overly air-conditioned waiting room of City General Hospital. The stark white walls and the faint smell of antiseptic were a depressing contrast to the vibrant, chaotic world she had just been writing.

"Aliza Ahmed?" a nurse called out.

Aliza stood up, carefully cradling her right arm, and followed the nurse into an examination room. "The doctor will be with you in a moment," the nurse said with a polite smile before slipping out.

Aliza sighed, sitting on the edge of the examination table. She pulled out her phone with her left hand, scrolling through the instant comments flooding her Inkitt app. *'Oh my god, Aliza, this chapter was everything!' 'I hate him but I love him!' 'Please update soon!'* A small smile crept onto her face.

The door clicked open.

Aliza looked up, expecting an elderly, sympathetic family doctor. Instead, she was met with a towering wall of sheer arrogance wrapped in a crisp, white lab coat.

The man who walked in looked less like a doctor and more like a model who had wandered onto a medical drama set by mistake. He had sharp, chiseled features, impeccably styled dark hair, and eyes so intensely dark they looked almost black. His stethoscope hung carelessly around his neck, and his posture screamed utter confidence—bordering heavily on conceit.

He didn't look at her. Instead, his eyes were glued to a digital chart on his tablet.

"Aliza Ahmed?" he asked, his voice a deep, smooth baritone. It was infuriatingly attractive, which immediately annoyed her.

"Yes," she said defensively.

He finally looked up, his gaze sweeping over her casual oversized hoodie, her slight frame, and her hijab before settling on her face. There was no warmth in his expression. "I'm Dr. Shahroz. What seems to be the problem?"

"My wrist," Aliza said, holding it out. "It’s been throbbing for days, and today it completely locked up. I can barely move my fingers without a sharp pain shooting up my arm."

Dr. Shahroz stepped closer, his movements precise and clinical. He gently took her hand, his fingers surprisingly warm against her skin. He pressed a spot near her inner wrist, and Aliza gasped, instinctively flinching back.

"Does that hurt?" he asked, his tone completely neutral.

"Yes! That’s why I gasped!" she snapped, her patience wearing thin.

Dr. Shahroz let go of her hand and stepped back, crossing his arms. He looked down at her with a faintly amused, condescending glint in his eye. "Well, Miss Ahmed, it’s a classic case of severe repetitive strain injury. Possibly early-onset carpal tunnel. Let me guess—you spend twelve hours a day scrolling through social media or playing video games?"

Aliza bristled. "I do not play video games. I am a writer."

"A writer?" Shahroz raised an eyebrow, a skeptical smirk playing on his lips. "Journalism? Technical writing? A master’s thesis?"

"I write fiction. On Inkitt," she said proudly, squaring her shoulders.

Shahroz let out a short, scoffing laugh. It wasn’t a loud laugh, but it was dripping with derision. "Inkitt? So, you write internet melodramas for teenagers. You've managed to give yourself a debilitating physical injury over web-novel tropes."

Aliza’s jaw dropped. The sheer audacity of this man. "Excuse me? It is a highly competitive platform, and I have thousands of dedicated readers who depend on my updates! It’s art!"

"It's a recipe for permanent nerve damage," Shahroz countered coldly, tapping his tablet. "Whatever 'art' you’re producing, you're going to have to stop. I'm prescribing you a strict wrist brace, anti-inflammatory medication, and absolute rest. No typing, no scrolling, and no 'web-novels' for at least three weeks."

"Three weeks?!" Aliza practically shrieked. "I have a contest deadline in ten days! If I don't update, my ranking drops!"

"Then your ranking drops," Shahroz said flatly, looking at her as if she were a stubborn child. "Your health is my priority, even if it isn't yours. If you keep typing, you’re looking at a surgical table. Is your online melodrama worth a scalpel, Miss Ahmed?"

Aliza stared at him, her blood boiling. He was condescending, arrogant, and entirely devoid of empathy. He was the exact definition of a villain. In fact, he looked exactly like the type of cold, unfeeling antagonist she loved to ruin in her books.

"You are incredibly rude," she said, her voice shaking with anger.

"I am incredibly realistic," Shahroz corrected smoothly, handing her a printed prescription sheet. "Wear the brace. Take the pills. Put the laptop away. If I see you back here in two weeks and your inflammation hasn't gone down because you couldn't resist writing your next chapter, I will not be this polite."

"You call *this* polite?" Aliza fired back, snatching the paper from his hand.

"Have a nice day, Miss Ahmed," Shahroz said, a mocking, utterly confident smile touching the corners of his lips as he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Aliza glared at the closed door, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked down at the prescription, then at her swollen wrist.

"Dr. Shahroz," she muttered fiercely under her breath. "You just earned yourself a starring role as the most hated villain in my next book."

Two weeks later, Aliza’s wrist was feeling significantly better, thanks to her begrudgingly following the brace protocol—mostly because her sister, Sana, had literally locked her laptop in a safe.

To celebrate her recovery and get some fresh air, Sana had dragged Aliza to a beautiful, sun-drenched park on the edge of the city. The park was alive with the vibrant green of mid-summer trees, the grass dotted with small white daisies.

"Come on, Aliza! Look at the light! We need to take a picture for your author profile," Sana insisted, holding up her phone. "The readers are missing you. Let's give them a sign of life!"

Aliza laughed, stretching her arms out. She was wearing a flowing white dress and her favorite beige hijab, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. "Fine, fine. But make it look dramatic. Like I'm longing for my lost plotlines."

As Sana walked backward to frame the shot, Aliza leaned playfully against a tall, black lamp post in the middle of a grassy clearing. She wrapped her hand around the metal pole, looking back over her shoulder with a bright, radiant smile.

*Click.*

"Perfect!" Sana cheered. "The lighting is gorgeous."

"Let me see," Aliza said, stepping away from the pole. But as she moved forward, she didn't notice the stray root jutting out from the grass. Her foot caught on it, and her eyes widened in horror as she lost her balance, flying forward. "Whoa—!"

She closed her eyes, bracing for a painful impact with the dirt.

Instead, she slammed into something solid. Hard, muscular, and smelling faintly of expensive cologne and antiseptic.

Strong arms instantly wrapped around her waist, catching her mid-air and swinging her around to stabilize her. Aliza’s hands instinctively flew out, gripping the stranger's shoulders for dear life. Her heart was pounding a mile a minute as she opened her eyes.

She found herself staring directly into a pair of dark, intensely familiar eyes.

The world seemed to stop. The rustling leaves, the distant chatter of the park, Sana’s gasp—everything faded into white noise.

It was him.

Dr. Shahroz was standing there, dressed in a crisp white shirt and matching light trousers, looking effortlessly immaculate. His hands were firmly gripping her waist, and she was practically pressed against his chest. For a split second, a look of genuine surprise flickered across his normally unreadable face.

Then, just as quickly, his eyes narrowed, and that familiar, arrogant smirk returned.

"Well, well," Shahroz murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against her. "If it isn't the internet dramatist. Tell me, Miss Ahmed, is throwing yourself at your doctor part of your creative process, or are you just naturally this clumsy?"

Aliza’s face flushed a fiery crimson—half from embarrassment, and half from pure, unadulterated fury. She instantly pushed herself away from his chest, nearly tripping over her own feet again in her haste to get away from him.

"I did not throw myself at you! I tripped!" she yelled, adjusting her hijab with trembling, indignant hands.

"Right," Shahroz said, brushing imaginary dust off his white shirt with an amused air. He looked past her to the lamp post, then back to her. "And what exactly were you doing? Posing for your adoring fans?"

"That is none of your business!" Aliza snapped.

Sana slowly walked up, her jaw practically on the floor, looking between her sister and the breathtakingly handsome doctor. "Uh... Aliza? Who is this?"

"Nobody," Aliza said viciously.

"I'm her doctor," Shahroz corrected, turning a surprisingly charming smile toward Sana that made Aliza want to scream. "Dr. Shahroz. I’m the one trying to save your sister from destroying her own hands." He shifted his gaze back to Aliza, his eyes dropping to her bare wrist. "I see you're not wearing your brace today, Miss Ahmed. I suppose a photoshoot is more important than medical advice."

"My wrist feels completely fine, *Doctor*," she spat out the title like an insult. "And I don't need a lecture from you in the middle of a public park."

"Clearly, you need a babysitter, not a doctor," Shahroz retorted, stepping closer. The height difference was comical, but the tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. "But don't worry. I won't charge you for this consultation. Just try not to break any bones before your next official appointment. I have a very busy schedule."

With a final, infuriatingly smug tilt of his head, Shahroz turned and walked down the park path, his hands casually shoved into his pockets.

Aliza stared after him, her fists clenched at her sides. "I hate him," she whispered, her voice shaking with rage. "I absolutely, completely hate him."

Sana, however, was looking down at her phone with a look of absolute awe. "Aliza... look at this."

"What?" Aliza groaned, stomping over.

Sana held up the screen. She had kept her finger on the shutter button when Aliza tripped. The camera had captured the exact moment Shahroz caught her. The frame was perfectly split by the black lamp post in the center. On the left side, Shahroz was a blur of motion, reaching out to catch her, his expression a mix of intensity and surprise. On the right, Aliza was spinning toward him, her white dress billowing, her hand gripping the pole for leverage.

The composition was flawless. It looked like a professional movie poster for a high-stakes romance. Sana had already added a playful caption across the center of the image: *"you me, forever"* with a tiny heart emoji.

Aliza stared at the image, designated on Sana's phone storage as **1000041916.jpg**. She looked at the visual representation of herself and her worst enemy, frozen in a moment that looked deceptively romantic.

"Delete it," Aliza ordered, though her voice lacked conviction.

"Are you crazy? This is the perfect cover for your next book!" Sana gasped. "Look at the chemistry! It’s literal fire!"

Aliza looked away, her heart still doing weird, irregular flips in her chest. She told herself it was just adrenaline from almost falling. It had nothing to do with the way his hands had felt on her waist, or the intense look in his dark eyes.

"He's not a romantic hero, Sana," Aliza said firmly, looking back down the path where Shahroz had disappeared. "He's the villain. And I'm going to make sure he gets exactly what he deserves in Chapter Two."