Along one entire wall were model ships. Dozens of them. Different kinds, different eras, different materials—wood, metal, canvas masts stretched tight—each one built with painstaking care and displayed like they belonged in a museum rather than a bedroom. They were lined in neat rows, their sails so precise they looked ready to catch wind at any second.
“Secret hobby,” I murmured, smirking.
Despite his obvious love for them, there wasn’t a single model ship in his loft back in Canada. Probably because he still didn’t consider it home. Before I could talk myself out of it, my hand had already claimed the tiniest one. I knew exactly what I was doing. That little beauty was coming with me, and yes, a few pairs of shoes were going to get sacrificed in the process, but it was worth it if it meant he could have something he enjoyed. I jammed it under my clothes, snapped the suitcase closed, and strutted back to snooping.
I wanted to take my time searching through his things, to uncover all his secrets piece by piece—the pages he’d dog-eared, the old ink stains on his desk, the half-finished notes tucked into drawers. I wanted to understand him not through what he refused to say, but through what he left behind. I wanted to know who grew up in this room—the baby Khalifa who reached for his mother’s hand, the child who asked too many questions, the teenager who probably learned too early how to hide his pain. I wanted to know which version of him still lingered here, trapped between the cracks of the floorboards, that remembered more than he’d ever tell me.
Being here—in Lebanon, in his home—made the contrast between us feel almost architectural, like our differences were carved into the blueprints before we were even born.
He was the one everyone turned to, the name that rose first on every tongue, the cemented presence people trusted to catch whatever they dropped, never once asking if his hands were already full.
And me? I was the one they forgot the moment I moved out. If I was honest, they barely remembered I existed even while I lived under the same roof, drifting through rooms like a light they kept meaning to switch off.
But maybe that was why we worked—strangely, inconveniently, against whatever logic governed the rest of my story. I was pretty sure I’d be satisfied with whatever part of himself he handed me, even the smallest sliver.
And Khalifa...he remembered me even when I wasn’t there. He found me everywhere he looked—in the grocery store, on his way home from work, in the mundane, throwaway moments that stitched together his day. Somehow, I’d become his background music, the soundtrack to his life, without either of us noticing when it started playing.
I turned, still grinning faintly, and froze.
Khalifa stood in the doorway, shirtless, water dripping from his hair, a towel slung around his neck. The air shifted, sharp and electric, my brain short-circuiting.
He jolted when he saw me. “Oh—sorry, Lillian, I didn’t realize—” His voice cracked awkwardly, and before I could find mine, he was crossing the room in a flurry of movement, tugging a shirt from his closet.
But it didn’t matter. The damage was already done. His bare chest, his shoulders, the faint glisten of water against his skin, the sculpted lines of muscle tapering down into low-rise, grey sweats that had absolutely no right to sit that low—it all branded itself into my memory so vividly I could feel the heat of him from across the room.
I turned away, face burning, pulse stuttering, trying to collect the remaining pieces of my composure.
A soft rustle of fabric, and then his voice again, deep and a little ragged. “You can...look now. I’m decent.”
No, you’re utterly indecent, I thought, my heart doing somersaults. But I looked anyway, keeping my gaze fixed anywhere but him.
“Right. Great. I’m—uh—going to shower,” I blurted, snatching my toiletries and pajamas from my bag.
He nodded, still standing there like he wasn’t entirely sure what just happened. “Yeah. Sure.”
Once I reached the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror—wide eyes, pink cheeks, damp palms—it hit me just how badly I was losing control of this wholezero feelingsthing. Because no amount of pretending could erase the visceral way my body had reacted to him just now.
And I hated him for it.
Chapter Twenty
I STAYED IN THE BATHROOMlonger than any human should. Brushing my teeth twice. Washing my face three times. Folding and refolding my clothes into smaller and smaller squares like that might somehow shrink the discomfort waiting for me outside the door.
By the time I finally worked up the nerve to go back into the room, I was praying he’d fallen asleep.
Hehadn’t.
He was lying on a makeshift bed on the floor, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was studying it. The lamp beside him was off, just a faint spill of moonlight filtering through the curtains. I slipped in wordlessly, turned off the last light, and crawled beneath the covers, every sound amplified—the creak of the mattress, the whisper of fabric, the drum of my heart that I swore he could hear.
It was quiet.Tooquiet. And it was drilling into my ears until I had to say something,anything.
“Khalifa?” I whispered. “Are you awake?”
Nothing.
Then, finally, “No.”
Against my better judgment, I chuckled. “Do you...want to have a sleepover?”
