“Mhm.” The sound barely qualified as speech.
He trailed a hand down my arm, catching the hem of my tank top. “Well,” he said, tugging it up and over my head in one fluid motion, “I guess I’ll have to spend the rest of the day fixing that.”
I had some clever retort hovering on the tip of my tongue, but the words dissolved into nothingness as his kisses started to travel down south. His lips traced a path down my neck, my chest, my stomach, each touch more intentional than the last, igniting a fire that burned through every nerve ending.
Somewhere between breath and heartbeat, I forgot how to speak entirely.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“UGH, I DON’T WANT TOGO TO WORK.”
A pillow hit the side of my head.
“Get up, lazy. The babies are waiting,” Khalifa said, disgustingly chipper for someone who’d also been up half the night doing...very non-restful activities.
I groaned, burrowing deeper into the covers. “You’re so lucky the people you talk about are already dead. You cancel class, no one cares. You cancel class, girls post thirst traps with your name in the caption.”
“What’s a thirst trap?” he asked from somewhere near the dresser. “It sounds vaguely criminal.”
I peeked out from under the blanket. He was standing there shirtless, towel slung low around his hips, like he knew he was the human equivalent of temptation itself and found it funny.
“You’rethe definition of a thirst trap right now,” I muttered. “And yes—it is very much criminal.”
He smirked, walking toward me. “Come on. I made you breakfast.”
My head popped up. “You did?”
He slipped his hands beneath the sheets and tugged me upright. “Yes. It’s getting cold.”
“You know it’s not normal to make an elaborate breakfast every day, right?” I said, letting him haul me out of bed. “You’re setting impossible standards. The bar was literally on the floor, and you decided to open a Michelin-starred restaurant.”
“Are you complaining or complimenting?”
“Neither,” I mumbled into his chest. “Just trying to prepare myself for when you inevitably ruin eggs one morning and spiral into an existential crisis about it.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
“As if that’s comforting.”
He chuckled, carrying me—because apparently that was part of our morning routine too—to the kitchen. I didn’t even pretend to resist. My legs instinctively locked around his torso, and I peppered kisses into the crook of his neck, inhaling the delicious scent clinging to his skin.
One of the reasons I’d always wanted to marry someone much taller than me was the illusion it offered—that I could feel small in the best way, tucked safely beneath someone else’s shadow, protected by sheer height alone. Being six feet meant I was almost never the smallest anything. I was the tallest girl in every room, the one people lookedupto, literally and otherwise—the one asked to reach the shelf, hold the ladder, be the strong one. The one people leaned on, but never thought to give anything back.
But it turned out you didn’t need several inches for that. You just needed aman—capital M, capital Everything. And Khalifa was exactly that.
When he wrapped his arms around me, it wasn’t about size; it was how heheld. It was the intention threaded behind his touch. His warmth folded over mine, his muscular body became a shelter I instinctively leaned into, a place where I didn’t have to be tall or sturdy or anything at all. In his embrace, I felt cocooned in something steady and cherished and impossibly rare, and for the first time in forever, I knew that nothing in the world could hurt me there.
“For someone who claims to hate mornings,” I said, voice still half-asleep, “you’re suspiciously cheerful right now.”
“That’s because you’re grumpy enough for both of us,” he said, setting me down gently in a chair.
The table was already waiting with a full Lebanese spread laid out. Two mugs of coffee sat steaming beside a small pot of tea, plates crowded with warm mana’eesh and fluffy flatbread, bowls of labneh drizzled with olive oil, briny olives, sliced cucumbers and tomatoes glistening with salt, bright fruit arranged in neat rows. It wasn’t new, but every time, my heart still did that stupid, rebellious ache, like it couldn’t get used to being taken care of.
“If you keep doing this,” I said softly. “One day, I’m going to start expecting it.”
He smiled, sitting across from me. “Good. Then you’ll never leave.”
I rolled my eyes, picking up a cheese pie. “You know, for a man who prides himself on being mysterious and brooding, you’re dangerously close to adorable.”
