“It was the duplex,” I said. “I wasn’t on shift. Just nearby, grabbing takeout. I heard the call come through. Knew the address. Got there before the engine. Smoke already pouring out. Kids trapped upstairs. No time to wait.”
Her fingers tightened around my arm.
“I went in. Pulled out the boys first. One in each arm. I should’ve stopped there… but I didn’t. I went back for her. And on the way down… the ceiling gave.”
Her breath caught.
“When I came to, I was on the lawn. Back of my neck burned. Couldn’t move my left arm for weeks. Doc said I was lucky to keep full function. But all I kept thinking was—if I’d died… what would that have done to you?”
I didn’t say the rest. I never did. Didn’t say that she didn’t make it out.
Didn’t say that sometimes, in the seconds before sleep, I still saw her hand slipping from my grip. Still heard the sound the house made when it decided who it was keeping. Still smelled that mix of melted wiring and smoke that never quite left my lungs.
There were nights I woke up convinced I’d left someone behind. Nights I couldn’t touch Sanaa because my hands remembered fire instead of her skin.
That woman didn’t just die in that house. Part of me stayed there with her.
And for a long time, every time Sanaa looked at me with love, all I could think was, I don’t get to keep people.
She blinked slowly, eyes shining. “It would’ve wrecked me.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t say goodbye, Tariq. You just… left me in the silence.”
“I thought I was protecting you. I thought if I stayed close, I’d pull you into the darkness too. So I tried to push you away before the nightmares did.”
“They did anyway,” she whispered. “They pulled us both.”
She sat up on her elbow, her fingers moving to the scar again. Then she leaned in and kissed it—soft and deliberate. Then higher. My jaw. My cheek. Her lips brushing over me like she was rewriting the story with each touch.
“I used to dream about this,” she said. “Coming back to you and kissing every place you tried to hide from me.”
Her body slid over mine, straddling me slowly like she had every right to. Like she remembered everything.
She guided me back inside her, slow and certain, and we both exhaled like we’d been holding our breath for six years.
Her pussy clamped and clenched around me, tight and trembling, as her lips returned to my shoulder—kissing the scar as she took me deeper. Her breath stuttered against my skin. Mine caught somewhere between the ache in my chest and the fire in my spine
I held her hips, let her move—deep, grounding rolls. Not fast. Not showy. Just need. Just closeness. Her breath hitched every time I hit that spot deep inside, and her pussy gripped me like it never forgot who it belonged to.
She leaned forward, forehead pressed to mine.
“I never stopped,” she said.
I didn’t ask what she meant. I didn’t need to. I kissed her instead.
We moved like we were making something sacred. Like we were undoing the damage with every moan, every kiss, every slow, hard thrust. My hands roamed her back, her ass, her thighs. I worshipped her the way I should have always done. She broke first, coming with a cry that cracked me wide open. I followed, groaning her name as I came deep inside her, body shaking, heart full.
Later, she curled into my side, her breath soft against my chest.
“You’re different,” she murmured.
“So are you, but I still love you.”
She didn’t say anything after that. Just reached for my hand and held it tight.
I didn’t know what morning would bring. But tonight, I had her in my arms again.
