Zain hadn't slept.
He was back in the underground safehouse—though 'safe' felt like an insult tonight. The wound on his forearm burned like acid every time he shifted, the bandage Bashir had wrapped around it now soaked a dull, sullen red. He hadn't bothered to change clothes. His black shirt clung to his shoulders, dust from the bazaar still settled in the seams.
He was sitting on the edge of his metal-framed bed, one booted foot planted on the ground, the other heel tapping restlessly. The entire place was quiet except for the low hum of Bashir's laptop from the corner.
"Main keh raha hoon, hospital chal. Infection fail jaayegi."
Zain didn't lift his gaze. He reached for the pack of ice melting into a wet cloth on the side table and pressed it over the cut—only for a moment, then set it aside with a dull thud.
"Main theek hoon." His voice was low, controlled, as if even breathing any harder might betray how much it hurt.
Bashir turned in his chair fully, his brows pulled into the familiar disbelieving frown. "Theek? Tere khoon se yeh farsh ganda ho raha hai. Bandook chalane se bhi darr nahi lagta aur injection se...?"
Zain's jaw flexed once. "Chup kar."
Silence.
Bashir closed the laptop lid with a final click, the sound echoing across the cement walls. He rested his elbows on his knees, studying Zain's stubborn profile.
"Zain... tu pagal ho gaya hai."
He didn't reply. The words sounded far away, blurred under the pressure building in his chest.
Bashir sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Ek baat bataun?"
"Nahi", he arrogantly said.
"Bata deta hoon." Bashir leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Woh ladki... Laiba Khan... uska poora profile aaj mila hai."
Zain's breath paused. He didn't move, but every muscle drew tighter.
"Hospital mein kaam karti hai. Nurse nahi—doctor hai asal mein. London se padh ke aayi hai. Bas temporary nursing kar rahi hai Pakistan mein. Uski aik patient hain, jo aged hone ki waja se travel nahi sakti thi, unka treatment karne aur apne cousin ki shadi attend karne aati hai". Bashir explained.
The words landed like a strike to his ribs. For a heartbeat, all he could hear was the roar of his pulse.
Doctor. London. Shaadi. Treatment.
He swallowed, the first flicker of something dangerously close to regret twisting in his gut. All this time, he'd thought of her as some sheltered, sweet girl. And she was—but she was more. More educated, more independent, more... everything.
Bashir kept watching him carefully. "Samajh raha hai tu? Jo bhi hai, woh intelligent ladki hai. Tere jaisa nahi hai jo khud se marne pe tula ho."
Zain's gaze lowered to the cloth around his arm, crusted dark in the center. Infection. He knew the signs well—heat, swelling, the dizzy throb already creeping into his head.
Still, he said nothing.
Bashir leaned back, exhaling. "Agar dard se nahi darrta... toh kam se kam uski izzat kar. Woh hospital mein duty pe hogi kal. Wahan jaa. Banda bacha le tu apna."
Zain didn't respond right away. For the first time in hours, he felt something shift under the numbness. An unwillingness to admit he needed help. Even more unwillingness to admit he wanted to see her again.
He stood slowly, the motion making the burn in his arm flare.
"Hospital ka naam?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
Bashir's mouth curved into a tired, knowing smirk. "City General."
Zain nodded once. That was all the thanks Bashir would get. He lay in bed again, this time, the pain had eased. He would go there tomorrow. Not only to get hi wound treated, but to see her.
The next morning came in a flick. Laiba had her breakfast, enjoying her talk with her family, before she prayed fro Zohr and left for work. Her uniform on, over top of her ready-made shirt. Her dark purple dupatta over her head, pinned in place.
Greeting her parents, she went out, Zeeshaan already waiting to drop her off.
Zain sat on his bike and left at around 2:45 pm. The ride was the longest of his life.
At nearly 3 pm, Lahore's roads were deserted, the yellow sodium lights casting long, skeletal shadows over the tarmac. His bike roared past the shuttered shops, the wind biting into his temples.
He didn't know why his chest felt tighter with every kilometer he crossed.
Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the thought that she would see him weak, hurt—no longer the man who had stood between her and a blade.
Or maybe it was the memory of her eyes, wide and clear, when she had looked up at him from behind the cart.
He didn't try to name it. He didn't have the right.
He parked in the back, near the staff entrance. And waited a few minutes.
He wore a black leather jacket, hair styled back. Left arm felt weark, but he felt even weaker as he saw Laiba arrive on the bike behind Zeeshaan.
One had was placed comfortably on his shoulder, the other hand holding her dupatta over head, making sure it doesn't slide off with the wind.
He watched as she got off the bike, Zeeshan's eyes stuck on her, twisting something inside him. Her lips moves slightly. She was probably thanking him, her expression neutral, she wasn't smiling, but her face was calm.
She walked inside the hospital, never glancing back to Zeeshan, and he left after 2 minutes.
His breath hitched, and he stepped towards the entrance. It was quiet inside—only the hushed voices of nurses moving from bed to bed, the rhythmic beep of monitors marking time he didn't feel connected to.
He passed one small station and paused, his eyes catching on the noticeboard. A printed roster, neat columns of names.
There.
Dr. Laiba Khan
His throat went dry.
He was about to turn away when the soft click of a door latch made him look up.
She stepped out, her white coat falling to her knees over a simple cotton shalwar suit, her dupatta draped carefully over her head this time. A clipboard hugged to her chest.
For a second—just one—she looked exactly as she had in the bazaar, her composure unshaken. Then her gaze lifted and met his across the hall.
She froze.
"Zain?" Her voice was a bare whisper, almost disbelieving.
He swallowed, the motion rough in his throat. "Mujhe... bandage karwani thi"
Her eyes dropped to the dark stain blooming under his sleeve. For an instant, her hand clenched around the clipboard.
"Ap thodi der wait kariye, mujhe thoda kaam hai, tab tak ap form fill kar dijiye" She gestured to the reception, towards the entrance.
He didn't argue. Walked over, and started filling the form.
A few minutes later, an unfamiliar nurse came to him. She said calmy "Apne bandage krwani hai na?", to which Zain nodded. "Andar chaliye, Dr Laiba apko treat karengi"
Inside, she guided him to the steel stool near the sink, her movements quiet, professional—but he saw how her fingers trembled as she reached for the tray of instruments.
He sat down where the nurse gestured her to. "Dr Laiba, pateint number 23, stage 2 wound-", the nurse started explaining, but Laiba stopped her politely.
"Main dekh lungi, ap please section 2, patient 37 ko bol do woh thoda rest kar len. Thank you", As she prepared the gauze and anticeptic for his wound. He watched her, not moving his gaze for even a second.
Before she could proceed, her doctor came forward. "Dr. Laiba, urgent case. If you aren't free then just provide me with the patient's details and SAGO chart, I'll take this one. You can continue".
"Yes sir, I have a stage 2 wound, have to treat it immediately. Patient number....31, you're referring to Saima Akhtar right?", She spoke, her English and accent sounded both professional and impressive.
"Yes. Saima Akhtar, age 45", the doctor responded. Laiba handed him the file of the patients details and he left.
"Sorry, thoda hectic hai abhi, kal shaam ke attack ke baad se thode patient's badh gaye hain", Laiba excused him, but his expression remained calm, as if his arm didn't feel like thousands of needles prickling it as he sat there with a tight, unhygienic cloth wrapped around it.
"Okay sabse pehle mujhe concent chahiye apki, apke wound ko treat kar sakti hoon main?", Laiba asked, her tone professional.
He didn't need to say anything, simply nodded, an uncertain desire in his eyes. Though he kept it respectful.
"Jacket utaro please", she said, his breath hitched. Slowly, he shrugged out of the leather jacket, wincing when the fabric caught the edge of the cut.
She inhaled sharply. The wound was worse than she'd expected—red, swollen, angry. She set her hand just under his elbow, steadying his arm on her knee as she bent closer.
"Kab se aisa hai?" She didn't look at his face.
"Kal raat."
She exhaled, clearly trying to control her frustration. "Kal raat se? Aur apne ye baandha hua hai ispe?", frustrated
"Woh... busy tha."
Her eyes lifted, dark lashes framing an expression he couldn't quite read. "Isse lagane se infection badd sakta hai", she informed him. He lowered his gaze.
She set down the tray and walked closer. The scent of antiseptic and rose-scented lotion drifted up between them.
He stared at the crown of her head, at the way her dupatta fell over her shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her palm even through his skin, radiating all the way into his chest.
"Wound kafi damaged hai, anticeptic lagane se jal sakta hai" she warned softly, her voice barely above the hum of the fluorescent light.
"Koi baat nahi", he simply replied, gaze lowered as she moved closer, offering respect and boundaries.
Her fingers were gentle but professional as she cleaned the wound. He had endured worse pain without a sound—but when her thumb brushed the sensitive skin near the gash, something electric shot through him. His breath caught, and for the first time, he looked away.
She felt his pain, even though he hadn't expressed it through words. Her hand paused, just for a heartbeat, before she continued working.
For the next few minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the quiet clink of metal and his unsteady breathing.
When she finally finished wrapping the fresh bandage, she rested her palm lightly over it—just a moment longer than necessary. Her touch felt like absolution, like a promise he knew he didn't deserve.
"Kahin aur toh nahi lagi" she asked, her voice low, careful. But she sounded concerned.
He forced himself to meet her eyes. They were calm again, that same unshaken faith he had seen when he first pulled her from danger.
"Nahi," he whispered. "Thank You."
She inclined her head, her lashes lowering. "2 din baad next bandage karwane ajana. Shayad main available na hoon, par koi aur kar dega", she informed him
"Tum...ap...kab available hain?", He asked, his voice slightly shaking. She met his eyes, a small smile on the corner of her lips. "Sunday, 1pm se lekar 6:30 tk", she replied, before placing her gloves in the bin.
He rose slowly, the ache in his arm almost secondary to the ache in his chest. He walked to the door and paused, looking back only once. An expression of gratitude...and something else. Something she couldn't quite figure out, and something he couldn't quite name. Yet.
Her hands were still folded over the clipboard against her chest, her head bowed. And in that moment, he understood exactly why she intimidated him so completely.
Not just because she was beautiful.
Not just because she was brave.But because she was good in a way he no longer knew how to be.
TO BE CONTINUED...