Kevin grinned. “Domestic yearning?”
“Shut up.” I pressed my palms to my eyes. “I can’t even look at him without feeling like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. And it’s ridiculous, because this isn’t supposed to mean anything, and now I’m the dummy who wants it to be something else.”
Kevin stood, dusting off his scrubs. “Maybe it already is.”
I groaned, dropping into my chair again. “Please don’t make this a metaphor, Kevin. I’m hanging by a thread.”
He shrugged, still smiling. “A love thread.”
“Get out,” I said, pointing at the door. “And don’t you dare whisper a word of this to anyone, or I’ll fire you.”
He laughed all the way out, leaving the sticky notes scattered across the floor—tiny, colorful reminders of everything I’d spent months trying not to feel.
BY THE TIME I PULLEDinto the driveway, I’d rehearsed at least three different versions of normal. A breezy “hey.” A casual “how was work?” Amaybe-we-didn’t-have-a-meltdown-in-your-officesmile.
But all the practiced ease evaporated the second I opened the door, and a suitcase sat by the entrance. Neat, zipped, and heavy-looking, like it had already decided where it was going.
My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might be sick.
For a moment, I just stood there, keys still in hand, my brain tripping over every thought at once. He was leaving. He was actuallyleaving. Because of me—because I’d yelled and accused and said all the wrong things. Because Malik was a fragile little weasel who probably snitched on him, and he got fired. Because I’d finally broken the unspoken rule of our fake marriage:don’t feel too much.
“Khalifa?”
He stepped out of his bedroom, rolling his sleeves up.
“You’re leaving?” I blurted, my heart thudding in my throat. “You said everything was fine—”
He shook his head, cutting me off gently. “I have to go to Lebanon. My mom...she’s going to pass soon. They don’t think she’ll make it to the end of the week.”
All the selfish panic drained out of me in an instant. “Oh,” I whispered. “Khalifa, I—I’m so sorry.”
He nodded once, avoiding my eyes. “I booked a flight for tomorrow morning.”
“I can come with you,” I said before I even thought it through, the words tumbling out. “I can—whatever you need. I can be there.”
“No,” he replied immediately. “It’s not safe for you to travel there right now.”
“But it’s safe foryou?” I asked, incredulous.
“I don’t have a choice.”
I wanted to say something, but words felt clumsy in the face of something so big. Grief wasn’t a language I knew how to speak.
“Okay.”
But I couldn’t sleep. Every sound—the hum of the fridge, the clock ticking on the wall, even my own breathing—was suddenly too loud. I paced my room for hours, torn between guilt and something that felt dangerously close to worry.
At midnight, I called Robert. “Hey, it’s Lilly.” My voice came out thin. “I, um...I have a bit of a family emergency. Would you be able to cover my patients for a few weeks?”
He hesitated, then sighed softly. “Yeah, of course. Don’t worry about it. Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you.”
I dragged out my suitcase, trying to ignore the part of me whispering that Khalifa would hate this. But I didn’t care. He could be angry, he could roll his eyes and shut me out. I wasn’t doing it for him—I was doing it because the idea of him being alone in that kind of loss wasn’t right, even if we were nothing more than...roommates? Acquaintances? Semi-friends?
By five a.m., the sky was a deep, sleepy gray, and I was sitting on the couch, dressed and ready, my carry-on at my feet.
When he walked out of his room, his hand froze mid-button. “What are you doing?”
