Instead, they went back to his room and exchanged stories. She told him about the valley; he told her about the ocean. He was surprisingly just as soft and gentle as he was sharp and harsh. Just as she was.

Though duties of her role had made her sharper, just as his best friend’s death had made him darker.

Durkhanai mused over a long-forgotten dream of hers, where she returned to the valley and lived a simple life with the women who raised her. They would lie under a thousand and one stars, listening to the leaves rustling, and there would be nothing more than the beauty of a simple life.

Asfandyar mused about a similar long-forgotten dream of his, where he returned to the ocean and lived a simple life with his mother’s tribe. They would lie under a thousand and one stars, listening to waves rising and falling, and there would be nothing more than the beauty of a simple life.

The hours passed, and not once did Asfandyar ask her when she was leaving. He had gotten comfortable too, discarding his waistcoat and stiff day shalwar kameez for a plain black sleeping suit. The buttons at the top of the kurta remained undone, showing off the long column of his throat, the bend of his collarbone.

Durkhanai had no plans to leave, not even when sleep began weighing down her limbs.

“Rest,” he told her, seeing her yawn. He stood from his seat, and she reached for him. He bent over to pick her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he lifted her to bed. She settled in.

“Come, lie with me,” she responded, lying on her side. He had gone back to sit on the chair across from her, self-control filling the distance between them. But it was getting late; she could see he was tired, too.

“Alright,” he said, voice low. He came and laid down beside her. They lay facing each other. Candlelight filled his face with shadows; she wanted to reach out and touch the fan of his eyelashes. She touched his cheek. His skin was like velvet: she couldn't stop running her hands across his face, his arms, his neck.

“Tell me another story,” she said, half awake. She would never tire of his voice.

“Once, when I was six . . .” He began another story from his childhood, and Durkhanai let the solid sound of his deep voice carry her toward sleep.

“Durre?” his voice was soft sometime later, tentative. “Are you asleep?”

She shook her head lightly but didn’t open her eyes.

“I’ll blow out the candles,” he said. The bed shifted as his weight was lifted and the soft glow of the candlelight disappeared from the room.