“That,” he murmured without moving, “sounds like a you problem. Not sure what I’m supposed to do about it.”
I rolled my eyes and stepped farther inside, disregarding the prickle of nerves at crossing some invisible boundary, then threw myself onto the mattress beside him, bouncing hard enough to jolt him upright.
He blinked at me, groggy but incredulous. “What are you doing?”
“Let’s have a sleepover,” I suggested cheerfully.
He groaned and flopped back onto his pillow, turning away from me with exaggerated disdain. “I don’t do sleepovers.”
“It’s not a learned skill,” I assured him, scooting closer. “Literally anyone can have one. Even you.”
I poked his side playfully, and he jerked out of reach, betraying himself.
My grin spread like wildfire. “Khalifa Nasser is ticklish. Incredible. I am absolutely weaponizing that information at a later date.”
“I’m not ticklish,” he grumbled. “Is there something wrong with your bed?”
“Yes,” I said too quickly. Then, softer, “Can I tell you the truth?”
“No. Youcanleave, though.”
I ignored him, tracing a pattern on the navy blue silk sheets. “I’m kind of regretting my paint choices. It feels like I’m sleeping in a vagina, and I see enough of them at work.”
For a second, silence. Then—laughter. Real laughter, sudden and startled, breaking open from him like something he hadn’t meant to let escape. It was warm and deep and so unfamiliar it shocked me more than the sound of my name on his lips ever had.
Against every better instinct I’d spent years cultivating, I felt a flicker of pride. I’d made Khalifa Nasser—stoic, impossible, allergic-to-emotionKhalifa—laugh. Out loud. Even if it was because I compared my bedroom to female anatomy, it still counted.
But then he coughed, covering it up, shoving it back inside.
“Wait, was that a laugh? Like a real, non-sarcastic, non-demeaninglaugh? I didn’t think your mouth was capable of producing such a sound.”
“It wasn’t a laugh,” he muttered.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“What would help me sleep at night is if you were in your own room.”
I burrowed more fully into his mattress with a sigh.
“Just paint over it, Lillian,” he said impatiently.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s what she wants.”
His head tipped slightly toward me, though his eyes stayed shut. “Who?”
“My mother.”
A beat, then a dry murmur, “Ah. I get it. Mommy issues. Didn’t see that on your list of fun facts.”
I scoffed. “I donothave mommy issues. If anyone here has issues, it’s you.Daddyissues.”
That made him turn, eyes flashing in the dim light. “I don’t have daddy issues.”
I waved him off, settling deeper against the pillow. “Please. You moved halfway across the world to escape a man’s expectations you’ll never reach.”
