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Sweat beads upon Zoya's brow, collects in the hollow of her collarbones. She leans against the outside of the building where Mos Pelgo's citizens store their weaponry and explosives, and wipes the back of her hand across her face. Din pauses beside her on his way back, watching her for a beat.
"What?" she says, breathing labored.
He shakes his head. "Nothing's changed, I see." She raises a curious brow, unsure of his meaning. "You still dislike any sort of physical labor."
Zoya snorts. "Yeah." She tries to push off the wall, but falls back rather ungracefully when her thigh gives a sharp pang. Trying to conceal the contortion of her features, she repeats, casual enough that she hopes he won't notice the strain in her voice, "Yeah. Still sucks."
Unluckily for Zoya, Din wouldn't be Din if he didn't pick up on the most microscopic of details. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying." Din advances a step, taking no pains to hide the scrutinizing stare he slides across her from head to toe, evidently clear in the dip of his helmet and the critical tone within his voice. "It's your leg, isn't it?" She opens her mouth, but he speaks again immediately, "Don't say it isn't. I've noticed it bothering you from the moment I saw you again."
Stubborn, Zoya refuses to admit it. "Everyone gets pains sometimes."
"Not like this."
"It's fine."
Though there's no way to see his expression either way, Zoya keeps her eyes determinedly fixed on the horizon, avoiding the visor of his helmet. The twin suns overhead shine iridescent as gemstones, washing warm light over her shoulders to spill across the deep-rooted ache within her thigh. Her fingers twitch, tempted to knead away the pain, but underneath Din's stare, she remains still.
"Zoya," he says, exasperated. "You don't have to pretend to be such a hardass all the time." She whips her head towards him at this, a riposte ready upon the edge of her tongue, sharpened steel. "I just . . . I worry about you." His voice softens, becomes nearly inaudible, and the retort dies against her lips.
"You don't have to do that," she says quietly.
"I know," Din replies.
Silence lingers between them for a few beats longer before Zoya releases a breath. "Fine," she mutters. "It does bother me. Sometimes."
"What did you do to bandage it," Din asks, "when it happened?"
Zoya shrugs. "Cara cauterized it after it was sterilized, and Greef used synthskin to help replace or regenerate as much of the muscle as possible. It took a long time to heal," she says, rather ruefully, "probably because being put on bed rest drove me crazy, and I kept ripping it open."
