In the first instant, Durkhanai was stunned: she never tripped.

Then, sharp pain cut into her hand. She let out a cry.

“Durkhanai!”

Asfandyar was by her side in a moment, skidding onto the floor beside her. Durkhanai had immediately cradled her hand to her heart, but Asfandyar reached for it to look.

“It’s fine.”

She had cut her hand on a farm tool. The wound was bleeding, and she knew he hated the sight of blood. Knew it made him recoil.

Warm blood spilled onto her chaadar, soaking lightly onto her chest.

“Durkhanai,” he said, voice woolen, and she looked up to see his face was pale.

But more than that, his countenance was covered in raw emotion and his eyes—they spilled all his secrets. The way he looked at her—it took her breath away.

She knew what it meant.

Asfandyar cleared his throat, focusing on her hand, which she refused to show him. Suddenly, she wanted to cry.

“You’re never clumsy,” Asfandyar said, confused. “You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, but her voice was thick, and tears spilled onto her cheeks. Her legs were tired from riding. Perhaps that was it.

“Durkhanai, you’re crying,” he asked, even more worried. “Does it hurt that badly?”

“No,” she said, wiping her cheek on her shoulder. “I’m not crying.”

It was just her emotions, dripping out. Perhaps sometimes the heart needed to be wrung dry to keep a person from drowning.

Durkhanai refused to meet his gaze, until he finally pulled her face close to his.

“Please, let me see,” he said, voice gentle.

She gave him her closed fist, and he carefully pried it open. The release of pressure caused a fresh flow of blood, and the open air made her gasp with sharp pain.

“Okay?” he asked, hesitant. She nodded, sniffling.

“I have such unbelievably low pain tolerance,” she informed him, trying to act blasé.

They both inspected her hand. There was a gash running from beneath her pinky finger, across her palm, and down to her wrist. She saw the open gash and felt nauseous. Blood stuck under her nails and dribbled down her wrist in rivulets.

She looked away.

“One second,” he said, getting up. “Keep your hand closed, like it was before.”

She did as she was told and watched as he grabbed a bowl and ran to the mouth of the farmhouse, holding it out to the open sky to fill it with water. He returned to her, his arm drenched.

“Give me your hand,” he said.

She obliged, and he cleaned it with water. Fresh blood spilled out as the old blood left.

“It’s not too deep,” Asfandyar said. “But we’ll want to cover it.”

He bit into the hem of his kameez and ripped a piece of the cloth off. She hadn’t even noticed he had discarded his embroidered sherwani and wore the simple shalwar kameez underneath.