.
9
Ihadn’t planned to stay with him all weekend. But Tariq hadn’t planned to let me go.
Friday night blurred into Saturday morning on the worn leather of his couch, tangled in that oversized fire department tee I refused to give back. He said it looked better on me than it ever did on him—so I wore it while we ordered food wenever finished and had conversations that turned into kisses that turned into us. Again and again.
By Sunday morning, I wanted my space. My robe. My candles. My sheets.
He offered to drive me. Instead, we took the long way back to mine. Stopped for coffee and held hands in his truck like time didn’t exist. When we got to my place—my high-rise on the edge of downtown, with its muted walls and floor-to-ceiling windows—I told him to take off his shoes. He kissed me in the foyer. Carried me to the bathroom like he owned the place.
And maybe, for the weekend, he did.
I ran the bath myself. Lit the sandalwood. Watched him sink into the water with me, his long body stretched opposite mine in my deep soaking tub. Steam clung to the glass walls. Suds curled against his skin. And when he reached for me—wide hands at my waist, mouth at my throat—I didn’t pretend to be shy. I climbed into his lap and let the water rock with us, splash over the marble lip as we moved. I screamed. He grunted. We kissed like it was a second language. He pressed my back to the tile and whispered things I should’ve stopped him from saying.
This morning, he left early. Kissed my cheek like we were something. Promised he’d call. Said,“Be good,”like he knew I wouldn’t.
I missed him already.
My phone lit up beside my tea. I reached for it, thinking it was him. Instead, it was Asha. One of my closest friends. A lifeline with good cheekbones.
I answered the video call with a lazy smirk. “You’re up early.”
Asha looked radiant as ever—bare skin, her straight hair pulled back away from her face, a hint of gloss on her lips. The kind of woman who made beauty look like routine.
“Truly. Especially since I’m in Chicago.”
Right. She and Ezra split time between Pittsburgh and the city where she was raised. Ezra—architect genius, all brooding brows and honey-warm voice. The man built rooms that knew how to breathe. He’d designed love into walls, emotion into blueprints.
She and I met at a gallery talk I almost skipped, back when I still had patience for the scene in L.A. Asha had been seated beside me—intense, beautiful, curious. We exchanged numbers and texted all night about the absurdity of the overpriced wine. Somehow, years later, here we still were. Friends. The real kind.
“You look flushed,” she said, squinting at the screen. “Like someone’s been ruining your back and your sleep schedule.”
I laughed. “He left an hour ago. I haven’t moved from this spot since.”
“Oh, so we’re in theI’m not claiming him, but he can rearrange furniture in my bodyphase.”
“Very much so.”
“Who is he, Sanaa?”
“Tariq. And before you start with your delicious questions about how we reconnected—I’ll give you answers when I know what’s happening is more than a weekend thing.”
Asha raised a skeptical brow. “You let him stay?”
She surprised me by not asking more, but that’s also what I loved about my friend. She respected my need for privacy. She called me mysterious, and to me, she was the pot calling the kettle.
“All weekend.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You don’t even letmestay all weekend.”
“That’s different,” I said, grinning. “You eat all my mangoes.”
She laughed and shook her head. “So how was it? Wait—don’t tell me. Just blink slowly if it was everything.”
I blinked. Slowly. Twice.
“You whore,” she whispered gleefully.
