Dad rewrapped the finger in her now probably ruined apron and disappeared up the stairs. She pressed on the cut to stop the blood as she leaned against the fridge, feeling light-headed. Even after all these years, she couldn’t cope with the sight of her own blood.

She closed her eyes and heard her therapist’s voice in her ears. Breathe. The apron—maybe it could be saved? Count to ten. She had plenty of peroxide from a misguided attempt to go blond a few years back. Actually, this was a much better use for that peroxide. She opened her eyes and focused on a point on the wall. One, two…

Rohan stepped back into the kitchen.

“Don’t say it,” she warned.

“Don’t say what?”

“Any comment at all about my ineptitude in the kitchen.”

Shockingly, his smirk was nowhere to be found. He took her apron-wrapped finger in his hand and applied firm pressure as he looked into her eyes. “You’re shaking, Kam.”

Was she shaking? Three, four…“I don’t like blood.” She shivered, looking down. The room was spinning a bit. Not much, really. She was fine.

“Kamila, breathe deeply. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re doing for the rest of the day.”

Five, six…“I have a meeting with a prospective client, and then I’m taking Darcy to the dog park for a photo shoot.” Her voice was shaky.

“A client meeting in that dress?”

She tried to smile and even tease him back, but her voice was too brittle and her words weren’t working.

“Look at me, Kam.”

She did. His eyes were so familiar. Deep and dark. And here.

Seven, eight, nine…Whenever disaster struck—and she reluctantly agreed it struck this family often—Rohan was here.

Still holding her hand, Rohan spoke with a soothing voice. “Look at all this you’ve done here. It’s exquisite. You’ve even got the June Cleaver dress on. With matching shoes.”

Ten. She let out a breath, grounding herself in his face. Focusing on it. Studying it, mostly so she wouldn’t pass out. But also, she noticed something.

“That’s more than a day’s worth of stubble on your face,” she said weakly.

He chuckled, still holding her hand. “I’m considering growing a beard. What do you think?”

She narrowed her eyes. “It will suit you.”

This Rohan, the one in pajamas in her house every Saturday morning, wasn’t the Rohan the rest of the world saw. He was usually in suits and ties so high-end and perfectly tailored that any facial-hair situation would complement them, so long as it was neat and tidy. He’d probably look even more dignified with a beard. She nodded, letting a smile sneak onto her face.