It wasmockingme.
I twisted and reached, contorted and cursed under my breath, but the zipper refused to budge. I could practicallyfeel the clock glaring at me from the nightstand. Then, as if summoned by my frustration, there was a knock.
“Lillian,” Khalifa’s voice came through the door. “We’re going to be late.”
Of course we were.
I stared at my reflection, shoulders tense, pride and desperation warring inside me before I sighed, defeated. “I need help with the zipper on my dress,” I called out, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
For a second, I thought he’d walked away. Then, quietly: “Okay.”
My pulse stuttered. “Keep your eyes closed.”
“Okay.”
I cracked the door open just enough to check and froze. His eyes were, thankfully, closed. But everything else about him was a problem. The tux fit too well, the dark fabric sharpening his already unfairly defined body. His hair, slightly tousled, brushed his forehead in a way that felt...intentional. His face—God help me—was carved with a restraint that felt like temptation disguised as politeness.
He looked painfully good. Objectively.Inconveniently. I kept trying to claw my way back to the version of myself who hadn’t yet noticed how attractive he was, who could look at him without my body registering him faster than my pride could intervene. But it was too late. My brain continued to reach for him automatically, greedy and traitorous, cataloging, admiring—like he was mine to look at, like he hadn’t already burrowed into me, into my bones and my veins, into whatever fundamental material I was made of. The very thing that held him together had threaded itself through me, and no line I drew—regardless of how hard or necessary—could scrape him back out.
A groan caught in my throat. I swallowed hard, forcing composure, and opened the door wider. “Ready.”
I heard his footsteps before I felt his hand land at my waist. I tried not to squirm, but when his fingers brushed against my bare back, a shiver climbed my spine.
He hesitated immediately. “Sorry,” he murmured, the word grazing the air between us.
My heart was thudding now, a pound I couldn’t hide.
He found the zipper slowly, drawing it upward with gentle precision. The sound was almost too loud in the silence. When it reached the top, his hand stayed—not touching, not exactly, but near enough that his hot breath pulled goose bumps up the base of my neck.
“You’re good,” he whispered.
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me standing there, still, stunned, and completely undone. I was a panting mess of want and confusion, every nerve in my body alive from one second of himbarelytouching me. It was ridiculous, really—how one person could turn a brush of skin into something that felt like being rewired from the inside out.
I grabbed my clutch, took one last steadying breath, and stepped out. He looked up from his phone as I entered the living room, and for a beat, his expression faltered—eyes widening, lips parting slightly, that unreadable storm flickering behind his calm. It was gone almost instantly, replaced by his usual nonchalance, but I’dseenit. The look that said I wasn’t invisible. The look that said I affected him, too.
His stare swept down once, landing on my feet. “Flats?”
“They’re practical.”
He turned and disappeared down the hallway. When he came back, he was holding the heels I’d left on my bed—the ones I’d wanted to wear.
“Sit,” he said.
I obeyed, my chest tightening as he knelt in front of me. He skimmed my ankle to unbuckle a flat, and a wave of unexpected heat rippled through me.
It wasn’t the first time he’d taken my shoes off. Usually, it was after long hospital shifts when I came home half-asleep, too tired to notice. Back then, I was always wearing socks, barely conscious, the gesture more domestic than intimate. But now—barefoot and awake—it felt different. He lingered longer than was necessary, tracing warmth across skin that had never been noticed. Each stroke was intentional, as if he were savoring the moment, making me acutely aware of his proximity and the pressure of his hands.
He set the heels at my feet and guided them on, his fingers gliding over the arch of my foot, the sensitive tips of my toes. The sensation of his touch was intoxicating, a blend of tenderness and desire that left me yearning for more.
His gaze caught mine after he was done. “Don’t ever feel like you have to make yourself smaller for me,” he said. “Or for anyone. Your height isn’t an inconvenience, Lillian—it’s breathtaking.”
His words hung in the air, charged with an unspoken promise, encouraging me to see myself through his eyes. I’d hit six feet by the eighth grade and spent years collecting theohmygosh you’re so tallcommentary like parking tickets ever since. The boys turned it into a hobby with their mean jokes, demeaning nicknames, that pinched expression they got when they realized I could see the top of their heads. I wanted to hunch, to fold myself up, to pretend I didn’t notice the stares. I’d been hyperaware of my body since I was a kid, hyperaware that blending in was a club I was never getting invited to.
So instead, I adapted. Not by shrinking. By doing the opposite.
I learned the easiest way through was to act like I didn’t mind, to lean into the spectacle, to make my voice a few notches louder, my opinions a little less sugar-coated because if they were going to talk about me anyway, I might as well choose the story.
And now here he was, looking at me like the thing I’d spent years turning into armor was, somehow, beautiful.
