Lut Gaye || لٹ گۓ

FOUR | The Fall

"aankh uthi mohabbat ne angrai li"

---------------------------------------------

HIS curious gaze tailed her crimson silhouette wandering in the room; the movement of her hands hastily opening the cupboards and drawers and closing them with a resounding thud; the swirl of her dress when she turned around and the struggle to walk in that heavy garment.

Dark irises chased her ambling frame disappearing into the bathroom and emerging a few moments later with her left hand carrying a pair of white rags and a tissue paper roll; her right holding a glass of water.

"Here. Clean your wound with this." She carefully placed the items on the the bed. His eyes widened in astound at her benign heart and his lips amusingly curled upwards at her hasty retreat after settling them.

It was hard to believe that she was being so considerate towards the guy who had thrown himself into her life like a grenade―ready to blast her wedding night.

"Thank you, Iman." His voice was a soft murmur.

A small frown settled on Iman's face at the way he casually took her name.

Thrice now; as if he had known her since forever.

She kept her lips corked and took another step back as she watched him pick up the small white rag she had thankfully found in the bathroom.

Her eyes narrowed irritatingly at his dawdling attempt to sterilise the wound. He was doing nothing but bringing the cloth close to his wound, hissing and blowing on it, and then pulling back his hand without making any effort to clean it and stop the bleeding.

He couldn't stop stressing over treating it and now look at this man taking his time like he has gotten all night to bleed to death.

Iman clenched her jaw and she failed to understand why her chest constricted with a strange feeling while looking at him immersed in that hopeless struggle.

Should she... no! No. She would not go further and succour him. That would be foolish and ridiculous and―

She knew she couldn't just stand there and watch him. And this man clearly didn't care about the fact that anyone could show up here any minute.

Iman gulped and her feet started moving; chanting in her head that she was doing this for herself. Not him.

"Give it to me. I'll... do it." As her meek voice reached his ears, his head shot up and so did the pulse of her heart.

Zain looked at her reluctantly stretched hand, completely taken aback by her offer. "Huh... no, why would you?"

"Because you can't seem to do it," she stated, matter-of-factly.

Zain's lips opened and closed like a fish and a faint shade of red contoured his features. Way to go, Zain. She must be thinking you're a pathetic wuss.

He heaved a sigh and nodded his head, extending his arm to hand over the cloth to her, his eyes cruising over her outstretched hand. At that moment, an inexplicable desire to take her hand in his bloomed within him.

His fingers faintly trembled when she scrupulously plucked the cloth from his hand―her bangles chiming when she did―and he promptly rolled his fingers into a ball of restraint, withdrawing his hand and pinning it on his thigh. Rein it in, you idiot!

Iman's eyes lingered on the back of his hand for a moment, studying the ink marring his skin. It was a tattoo of a dove with its wings spread over; ready to soar.