Sunday afternoon came heavy with heat and the muffled roar of Lahore's traffic. Inside City General Hospital, however, the corridors remained cool, hushed—like they were holding their breath.
Zain had arrived early.
1:05 p.m.
He stood in the same corner by the noticeboard, black jacket over his freshly pressed charcoal kurta, his eyes flicking to every movement near the reception. His bandage itched under the fabric, the dull ache a constant reminder of why he was here.
But it wasn't the wound that made his palms sweat.
It was the possibility she might not come.
He'd asked—like a fool—what time she'd be here, but even as he'd walked out that day, he'd wondered if she'd only been polite. If she'd told herself it was just a patient. If he'd imagined that tremor in her voice when she'd said his name.
For twenty minutes, he waited. Nurses passed by with polite nods. An orderly came and changed the trash bag near his feet. The clock over the reception desk ticked away the seconds, and every one of them settled heavier into his chest.
At 1:28, he finally approached the desk. The receptionist, a woman with tired eyes behind square glasses, looked up.
"Ji?"
"Dr. Laiba Khan... woh... aaj duty par hain?" His voice cracked slightly despite all his practiced arrogance.
The woman flipped through a register. "Aaj unki shift 12 baje se thi par kisi zaroori kaam ke liye gayi hain. Lekin—"
He didn't hear the rest. A pressure bloomed behind his ribs. She wasn't here.
He turned away, but before he could take another step, a younger nurse stepped forward, concern etched in her forehead.
"Sir, dressing toh karwani hai na? Kisi aur doctor se karwa dein?"
His jaw locked. "Nahi. Main intezaar kar lunga."
"Lekin—", she protested
"Maine bola, main wait karunga", his mafia personallity kicking in, expression had darkened, like he always used to be- until he met her.
He turned, walked away, and took the same metal-framed chair he'd used last time. He leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if the plaster could keep his thoughts from spiraling.
Another twenty minutes passed.
Then—
The outer doors slammed open, voices spilling in before the door swung shut again. Quick steps—heels on linoleum—and the sharp rustle of fabric.
Laiba.
Her dupatta fluttered behind her, pinned in a rush, a tiny diamond earring loose against her neck. She'd clearly dressed quickly—her teal coloured gharara, flowing as she approached the patient and nurses. Her attire was heavy, as if she had just come back from an event. She had a faint flush in her cheeks, and as she approached the reception, she was already apologizing.
"Sorry, traffic bohot tha—"
"He refused anyone else," the younger nurse said, lowering her voice but still audible. "Kehte hain sirf aap hi dressing karengi."
Laiba's eyes widened. For a second, her composure faltered. She turned and found him seated in that same chair, staring at her with an intensity that made her heartbeat stutter.
She took a slow breath, smoothing her dupatta over her shoulder before she walked over.
"Zain." Her voice was calm, but her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her clipboard. "Andar chalo", she said, without questioning why he created a scene. Or why he only wanted her to do his dressing.
His throat worked as he swallowed. He followed, aware of every brush of fabric, every inch of space that separated them. Inside, she closed the door softly, exhaling as though she'd been holding her breath since she saw him.
When he sat down inside her lab, she washed her hands, removed her earrings and wore her gloves. The gauze was already prepared for her.
Their gazes locked. For a moment, the sterile air between them felt charged, alive.
"Agar dressing hi karwani thi, toh kisi aur se-" she asked quietly, her gaze lowered. But she was cut off.
"Nahi...mujhe tumse karwani thi", he admitted, his gaze stuck on her. She looked breathtaking. The light, neutral makeup, the light coloured attire, and most importantly, that one darn strand of hair that always escaped the rest of her hair.
"Jacket utaro", she said, and he did. Laiba sat opposite, gloved hands gentle as she began to unroll the bandage. Her brow furrowed.
"Kuch behtar hai. Lekin redness abhi bhi hai."
He watched her face, how her lashes framed her eyes, how a tiny crease appeared between her brows when she was worried.
"Laiba—" he began.
She met his eyes, her breath hitched. An unknown feeling struck her. One that she shouldn't be feeling. She was engaged, her mangni was approved by everyone. She couldn't fall for someone now.
"Tum.....ap koi important kaam par thi", he asked her, glancing at her trembling hands as she treated his wound, then at her.
She didn't look at him, arranging the fresh gauze with careful precision. "Family ka ek walima attend karna tha."
The words sliced deeper than he'd expected. "Kuch patients zyada important hone chahiye", he mentioned. Her eyes met him. He was hurt, not because she had left him for an event, but because he knew he couldn't confess.
'Ya Allah, kuch bhi karke, isse mera bana de', he prayed, his eyes still stuck on her, hers lowered, focussing on the work infront of her.
The next few minutes went like that. Her working through his wound, and him, staring her down, with utmost admiration and respect.
She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze steady. "Kisi aur se dressing kyun nahi karwani thi?" He couldn't think of a reply. He didn't have the right to one.
His breath shivered out, as she gave his jacket to him, his movement slower this time, as though every motion felt more significant than it should.
Just then, the door clicked open.
Zeeshan stood there, his brow drawn tight, gaze flicking from Zain to Laiba. He carried a small paper bag and a bottle of juice.
"Laiba?" His voice was soft, questioning. "Sab theek hai?"
Laiba looked up, startled. "Zeeshan? Tum... yahaan?"
He stepped in, closing the door halfway. "Tum itni jaldi mein nikal gayi thi. Mama (Laiba's mother) ne kaha juice le jaun. Kuch nahi khaya tumne subha se."
Zain's hands curled into fists.
"Main theek hoon," Laiba said, voice careful. She nodded toward the stool. "Patient ki dressing karni thi. Bas do minute."
"Ghar se toh aise nikli jaise kuch bohut keemti cheez bhul rahi ho", he said, making her freeze in her position.
Zeeshan's eyes flicked to Zain again, studying the way he sat motionless, gaze locked on Laiba like he'd carve himself from stone before looking away.
"Main...baad main aata hoon", he stood up, his gaze had lowered. He knew they were engaged (mangni). He didn't have a chance.
Her hand paused briefly over Zain's arm, the touch feather-light. "Nahi, tum...dressing ke baad thodi der wait karna parta hai. Mujhe check karna hota hai ke patient ko koi side effect toh nahi ho raha".
"Baitho", she said once again, her hand touching his shoulder, signalling him to sit down, and the concern in her eyes destroyed him. He listened. No one. No one ever had made him do what they wanted. But she did.
The fresh antiseptic gauze was stinging. It cut through his chest like a blade, but it was nothing compared to the way Zeeshan was looking at her—concerned, protective.
Nothing compared to how she was letting him.
"Laiba," Zeeshan said, softer now. He stepped forward. Before either of them could react, he reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
The touch was innocent. Gentle. But Zain felt it like a gunshot.
His breath locked in his chest. Every muscle in his body went rigid, and something dark and primal reared up inside him, snapping its teeth.
Laiba stilled. Her cheeks colored faintly, her eyes flicking to Zain.
He didn't look away this time.
He held her gaze, letting her see every raw edge he usually buried. Jealousy. Possessiveness. The shame of wanting something he had no claim to. His hand curled up into a fist, a firm one at that.
Her hand trembled against his skin. For a heartbeat, the world shrank to the space between them, to the quiet fury in his eyes and the confusion in hers.
"Zeeshan," she said finally, her voice steady but soft. "Bahaar wait karo. Please"
Zeeshan's hand dropped. He lingered only a second, then nodded once, eyes wary. "Theek hai."
He stepped out, the door closing behind him with a muted click.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
Laiba didn't look up. Her hands moved carefully, winding the fresh gauze over the wound. But she was too aware of the heat of his stare, of how his breath came harder with every second she stayed so close.
When she finally tied off the last strip of bandage, her fingers lingered just above his wrist. Neither of them moved.
"Agli dafa kab aaon?", he asked. Her lashes lifted. For the first time, she looked straight at him without the armor of professionalism.
"Agle hafte...ab wound treat ho raha hai. Frequently nahi aana padega", she replied. Her hands had stiffened as she removed the gloves off them.
"Chalo...ab main chalti hoon", she informed him before leaving her cabin.
TO BE CONTINUED...