“Yeah. They’re so shifty. And they have that look, like theyknowthings.”
He laughed again, louder this time. “Are you serious?”
“Totally serious. You’ve never been cornered by a pigeon before. You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re so weird.”
“And you’re finally smiling,” I said, feeling it more than seeing it. “So I’d say my work here is done.”
He let out a low, content hum that filled the room.
“Do you think I’m annoying?” I blurted, because my brain had never once encountered a vulnerable silence it didn’t feel compelled to ruin.
“Yes.”
The answer came so fast it nearly stole the air straight out of me. I turned to him, scandalized. But then his dimples popped, his teeth flashing in the dark as he nudged his knee against mine. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or if he’d meant it and, somehow, didn’t seem to mind at all.
It was embarrassing how easily Malik’s words had taken up residence in my head, looping there nonstop. It wasn’t like Ididn’t know he felt that way, thatmostpeople probably did. If I was being honest, I’d thought it about myself more than once.
But for some reason, the idea that Khalifa might’ve thought it too bothered me in a way the others never had, like his opinion carried a weight the rest of the world’s somehow didn’t. And I hated that I cared. Maybe even more than I hated the possibility that they all might’ve been right.
He was watching me a little too perceptively for comfort. “Who said that to you?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “No one.”
“Was it Malik?”
Heat rushed up my neck. “No.”
Another stretch of quiet settled around us, making every noise in the room louder—the drone of the heater, the faint ticking of the clock, the slow rhythm of his breathing beside me.
Finally, he said, very matter-of-factly, “He has the lowest ranking on Rate My Professors, so I wouldn’t take his opinion seriously.”
I snorted. “Of course he does. What’syourrating?”
His mouth twisted smugly. “One hundred percent.”
“Only because all your female students are obsessed with you,” I tossed back casually. “If I were a student in your class, you definitely would’ve gotten aonefrom me.”
His brows lifted, amused. “So you admit you would’ve taken my class?”
A loud laugh burst out of me before I could stop it—entirely too inappropriate for a house full of sleeping people. I clapped a hand over my mouth, eyes widening as the echo vibrated under the door and down the hallway.
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Careful. Wouldn’t want your one-star review to wake up my whole family.”
I chuckled faintly. After a while, I said, “One last question.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your favorite sound?”
He didn’t reply right away. Then, softly, “Waves.”
“Why waves?”
His liquid caramel orbs seemed to shine in the lack of light as they bore into mine. “Because they never sound the same twice,” he said. “They’re steady, but not predictable. Loud enough to drown things out, calm enough to let you breathe. It’s like...they crash, and they fall apart, and then somehow, they always come back. No matter how far they pull away, they find their way to shore again.”
A few weeks ago, I might’ve blinked at the eloquence of his answer, startled that someone who used words so sparingly could wield them like that. But after hearing him lecture—watching him unravel complicated ideas with this precise sincerity—it all made perfect sense. Of course the man who rarely spoke would be devastatingly good at it when he did.
