The party was calling my name like a siren song-some rooftop thing in Bandra with thumping bass, free-flowing drinks, and zero retractors or stern "kid" lectures.

I'd finally escaped the hospital after a brutal twelve-hour shift, changed in the doctors' lounge bathroom into my civilian armor: slim black shirt unbuttoned just enough to look effortlessly cool, dark jeans that actually fit, and my favorite silver chain that caught the light when I moved.

Hair styled with that messy-but-intentional look, cologne sprayed twice (because hospital smell clung like guilt).

I was out. Free.

Ready to forget Dr. Kavita Sen's exhausting existence for one glorious night.

I stepped into the dimly lit hospital basement parking lot, keys jingling in my hand, when I heard it.

A small, sniffly voice echoing off the concrete pillars.

"Mama... where are you? Mama is a doctor... she fixes heads..."

I froze mid-step, one foot still in the elevator.

There, near the emergency stairwell door, was a tiny girl-four, maybe five years old-clutching a well-loved stuffed bunny by one floppy ear.

She wore a pink ballerina skirt that had seen better days (one tulle layer torn at the hem), sparkly silver shoes that were scuffed at the toes, and a little white top with a faint mango stain near the collar.

Her dark curls were messy, one pigtail half-undone, and fat tears rolled down her chubby cheeks, leaving shiny tracks.

She was turning in slow circles, bunny dangling, looking utterly lost in the vast, echoing space that smelled of diesel, old rubber, and faint antiseptic drifting down from the floors above.

Kids.

My personal nemesis.

Loud, sticky, unpredictable nuisances that ruined vibes faster than a code blue.

I hated how they cried at nothing and expected the world to stop. I started walking faster toward my car, pretending I hadn't seen her.

But she spotted me.

"Uncle!" Her voice wobbled but carried that bossy edge only small kids could pull off.

"Have you seen my mama? She's a doctor. She has magic hands for owies. She's tall... sort of... and her coat is white."

I sighed, shoulders slumping. Party plans evaporating like cheap vodka. "Kid, I don't know. Go find security or something. Hospitals have people for this."

She stomped one sparkly shoe, bunny swinging wildly. "I'm not a kid. I'm Eknoor. And I'm lost because Papa dropped me for playdate but mama was supposed to pick me up after her work. But she left already and her phone is off."

Fresh tears spilled. "I want my mama. She promised mango lassi this weekend but Papa said no again."

Eknoor. The name hit like a rogue retractor to the ribs.

Kavita's daughter.

The one she'd been begging for in that lounge.

Of course it was her. The universe clearly hated me this week.

I crouched down to her level-reluctantly-trying not to grimace at the way her runny nose glistened. "Look, Eknoor... your mom's probably already gone home. Her phone's off because doctors do that when they're tired. Let's find the security uncle and-"

"No!" She crossed her tiny arms, bunny tucked under one armpit like a hostage.

Despite the tears, her eyes-dark like her mother's, stubborn as hell-narrowed with pure badass defiance. "I'm not going with strangers. Papa says strangers are bad. You're a doctor too, right? You smell like hospital. Take me to mama's house. She lives in a penthouse with big windows and plants that don't die because she talks to them."

I blinked. This five-year-old was negotiating like a seasoned resident bargaining for OR time. "Penthouse? How do you even know that?"

"Because I'm smart. And I remember the big building with the red flowers outside." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a shiny streak on her sleeve, then thrust the bunny at me.

"Hold Mr. Flopsy. He's scared too."

I took the bunny gingerly-its fur was matted, one eye slightly loose, and it smelled faintly of baby powder and strawberry shampoo.

Gross. Kids were walking biohazards.

"Fine. But only because your mom would kill me if I left you here crying. And I'm not carrying you. Walk."

She grabbed my free hand with her sticky fingers anyway, the other clutching my jeans leg like a lifeline. Her palm was warm and damp.

I shuddered internally but didn't shake her off.

My sleek black SUV suddenly felt like a clown car when I buckled her into the back seat (thank God for the hospital's spare booster I'd seen in the lost-and-found earlier).

She insisted on sitting with Mr. Flopsy on her lap, legs swinging because her feet didn't reach the floor.

The ballerina skirt poofed up around her like a deflated cloud. As I started the engine, she began a nonstop monologue.

"Papa's house has no plants because he says they make mess. Mama's has lots. She lets me water them even if I spill. Do you fix heads like mama? Or hearts like papa? Papa's mean sometimes. He says mama is always busy saving strangers. But she saves me too-she kissed my knee when I fell last time."

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, weaving through evening Mumbai traffic-honking taxis, street vendors shouting vada pav orders, the distant dhol from some wedding. "Kid, I'm just learning. Your mom is... intense. She calls me 'kid' even though I'm twenty-five and taller than her."

Eknoor giggled through leftover sniffles, a surprisingly badass little laugh. "That's funny. She calls me monster when I'm naughty. Are you naughty? You look like you party a lot. Your hair is fancy."

I glanced in the rearview mirror. She was bouncing Mr. Flopsy on her knee, tears mostly dried, but her lower lip still trembled occasionally.

There was a scab on her left knee peeking from under the skirt, one silver shoe unlaced, a tiny mole on her cheek that matched the constellation I'd accidentally seen on her mother earlier.

The car smelled like her now-strawberry and hospital antiseptic mixed with my cologne.

Nightmare fuel.

"Party? Yeah, I was supposed to be at one right now," I muttered. "Instead I'm chauffeuring a tiny ballerina and her emotional support rabbit."

She kicked the back of my seat lightly. "Drive faster, uncle. Mama might be sad without me. She makes funny faces when she's tired-like this."

Eknoor pulled her cheeks down and stuck her tongue out, looking ridiculous and somehow exactly like Kavita in a bad mood.

I snorted despite myself. "Don't kick the seat. And I'm not uncle. Call me Shreyansh."

"Shrey-bhai," she declared bossily. "Like big brother. But you're not very big in the helpful department."

The drive to Kavita's penthouse took twenty agonizing minutes of her questions ("Do brains really look like jelly?" "Why do doctors smell funny?" "Can you make the car sing?") and my half-hearted answers while Google Maps argued with Mumbai traffic.

By the time we pulled up to the sleek high-rise with red bougainvillea spilling over the entrance, my party mood was dead, my shirt was rumpled from her grabbing it at red lights, and Mr. Flopsy had somehow ended up on the dashboard staring at me accusingly.

I parked, unbuckled her, and carried her toward the lobby because her legs were "too tired from crying."

She weighed nothing but felt like pure chaos in my arms-sticky hands around my neck, bunny ear poking my cheek, ballerina skirt tickling my wrist.

The security guard recognized her instantly. "Eknoor beta! Dr. Sen just arrived-said she was looking for you everywhere."

We took the elevator up. Eknoor hummed some cartoon song off-key the whole way, occasionally wiping her nose on my shoulder.

I was doomed.

When the penthouse door opened, Kavita stood there in faded home clothes-loose gray tee and shorts, hair down and messy, face pale with worry.

The moment she saw Eknoor, her entire expression cracked open with relief.

"Eknoor!"

"Mama!" The little girl launched herself into Kavita's arms, nearly taking me down with her.

Kavita hugged her tight, kissing the top of her curls, then looked up at me over her daughter's head.

Her eyes were red-rimmed again, but softer.

The white coat was gone; instead I saw the faint outline of those moles at the neckline of her tee before she adjusted Eknoor and they disappeared.

A single tear track on Kavita's cheek that she quickly wiped away.

"Shreyansh... how-?"

"Found her in the basement parking. Phone was off. She refused security, demanded I drive her here because apparently I 'smell like hospital' and you talk to plants." I shrugged, trying to sound casual even though my party clothes now smelled like strawberry tears and defeat.

"She's... something else. Bossy little badass."

Eknoor peeked over her mother's shoulder, grinning with snotty triumph. "Shrey-bhai drove fast but not too fast. He held Mr. Flopsy. He's not as mean as Papa says doctors are."

Kavita's gaze lingered on me a second longer-surprise, exhaustion, and that same unreadable flicker from the lounge. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"Really. I... I left early because Harsh canceled again and I was looking for her. Phone died in the car."

I nodded, suddenly awkward in my going-out clothes in her quiet, plant-filled penthouse.

The living room had big windows overlooking the city lights, a half-watered monstera in the corner, and a drawing of a stick-figure doctor with a big head on the coffee table.

"No problem, Doc. Just... hydrate next time so you don't wobble and create more lost kids." I turned to leave, but Eknoor called out.

"Shrey-bhai! Come back tomorrow? We can make mango lassi. Mama promised."

I paused at the door, glancing back at Kavita's tired but genuine half-smile and the tiny terror waving Mr. Flopsy like a flag.

"Yeah... maybe. If your mom doesn't call me kid the whole time."

As the elevator doors closed, I leaned against the wall, exhaling long and slow.

My party was long gone. My shirt was ruined. And I still didn't like kids.

But that little ballerina with her sparkly shoes and zero fear?

She might be the exception.

And her mother...

Well. That was a complication I definitely didn't need.

But the image of Kavita's relieved face stayed with me all the way down.

Damn it.