The way he said my name—polite and unbothered—should’ve made it easier. But I could feel my mother’s disapproving stare boring into the side of my face, could almosthearthe lecture forming in her mind.
I hesitated, caught between two lives that didn’t quite fit, two expectations I could never fully meet, before standing. “No, it’s okay. I’ll help.” I headed to the kitchen and stood beside him, muttering, “A warning would’ve been nice.”
He didn’t look up from the cutting board. “They got here five seconds before you did.”
I let out a low groan and started opening random drawers, pretending to look busy. A spoon clattered across the counter, followed by the sound of me nearly knocking over the salt shaker.
“You’re making a mess.”
“She’s watching me,” I hissed, sneaking a peek toward the living room where my mother sat, perfectly composed, probably judging the way I breathed. “Give me something to do.”
He sighed, like this was all somehow my fault, and handed me a bowl filled with vegetables. “Wash these.”
“Fine.” I took it, but my trembling hands betrayed me. The bowl slipped through my fingers, hit the counter, then the floor. Tomatoes and cucumbers scattered everywhere, rolling beneath the cabinets.
For a moment, there was only the soft hum of the stove. Then I felt his eyes on me, slightly annoyed, maybe even surprised.
I bent to pick up the bowl, but before I could, he was there—close enough that the air seemed to thicken around us as his arm grazed my bare wrist. I could smell him—soap and something earthy, like rain and spice—and it made my thoughts tangle. My pulse stuttered, then sped up, the sound of it prickling my ears with static.
When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s just a dinner,” he murmured, his breath warm in my hair. “And then she’ll leave. And everything will be fine.”
It wasn’t fine. Not the way he said it, not with how close he was, or how every word vibrated through me. My breath hitched, and I nodded—too quickly, too desperate to prove I was composed—though the quiver in my body gave me away.
He kneeled, his shoulder brushing mine as he reached for the vegetables. The distance between us was electrically paper-thin. He turned the faucet on and, without a word, took my hands, guiding them beneath the stream. The contact sent a flicker of something through me that had no business being there. For a few seconds, I let him ground me, let myself imagine what it might feel like if we weren’t pretending.
The water was cold, but his skin was warm—so warm it made my chest tighten. The sound of running water filled the silence, too loud, too intimate. His breath was on my neck, in my ear, the faintest exhale when he leaned closer, his tone low enough to make my spine go rigid.
“Breathe,” he said.
But I forgot how, my heart hammering hard against my ribs, the periphery of the moment blurring until it was just his hand over mine, the soft drag of his thumb across my skin, and the terrifying thought that maybe I didn’t want to move.
Then, like a sudden recoil, reality slammed back. I jerked away, my hands slipping free from his. “I know how to wash vegetables,” I snapped.
He nodded curtly, turning away from the sink, eyes fixed on the cutting board.
And I stood there, the water still running, my hand squeezing the tomato so tight it burst, trying to convince myself that the heat in my face was just from the stove.
Chapter Twelve
THE TABLE WAS SET,the smell of kofta and batata harra clinging in the air, but my appetite had abandoned me somewhere between the sink and the dining room. Khalifa was beside me, his presence a steady anchor, but the tension between my mother’s judgment and the ghost of our kitchen moment pressed down like a weight I couldn’t shift.
My father broke the silence first. “How’s work, Baba?”
I opened my mouth, only to have my mother cut in. “How often do you cook, Lillian?”
I hesitated, words tangled and fragile, but Khalifa jumped in before I could respond. “Almost every night. She’s an excellent cook.”
My mother laughed, tilting her head back as she took a bite of food. “Lillian has never cooked a day in her life. Unless she somehow mastered culinary skills over the last three months, you’re lying.”
The heat rose in my cheeks. My fingers brushed the ridge of the table, searching for purchase in a sea of scrutiny. I reached for the potatoes, but her eyes followed, unrelenting, so I moved my hand and grabbed the fattoush instead.
Khalifa noticed. Without a word, he lifted the bowl of potatoes and scooped a generous portion onto my plate.
“She’s had enough, Khalifa,” my mother said, voice tinged with disapproval.
“She just got home from a long shift,” he replied calmly. “She can eat however much she wants.”
I glanced at him, the warmth in his tone cutting through the frosty appraisal around the table. I didn’t touch the potatoes, though, letting the gesture remain unspoken, and instead took a bite of salad, savoring the faint hint of olive oil, the coolness of cucumber.
