I wondered if he felt embarrassed sitting here, exposed like this. I hoped he didn’t. I hoped he knew that none of this was his fault. That the ugliness in the room belonged to everyone else, not him.
As much as I appreciated the way his family had made me feel welcome since the moment I arrived, I couldn’t help but resent them for never offering him the same. For chewing him up, savoring every good thing he had to give, and then spitting him back out when he finally ran out of sweetness they could take credit for.
His father’s voice honed again. “You’ve always been stubborn, just like your mother. She spoiled you.”
“Okay,enough.”
Every head turned toward me.
“Lillian—” Khalifa started, but I held up a hand.
“No.” I turned to his father again. “What is your problem? His mother just died. Shedied, and you think now—only a few days later—is the time to have this conversation?”
His father opened his mouth, but I barreled on.
“He doesn’t want to live here. He has alifein Canada, a career—an amazing one, by the way.” My words came out faster. “And with the amount of time you spend ridiculing it, you could actually learn what it is he does. He’s not just a professor. He’s shaping the minds of young adults, the future of society. I tried to go to one of his lectures once, and there wasn’t a single empty seat in the room. It was filled with hundreds of students who enrolled in the course just to hear him speak because he inspires them.” I exhaled, my pulse roaring in my ears. “And he is arealdoctor, whatever the hell that means. So just...stop. Stop talking down to him. Stop acting like his hard-earned success doesn’t sustain your lifestyle. Stop insinuating that he’s less of a man because he chose a path that has nothing to do with you. The way I see it, it actually makes himmoreof a man than anyone else here.”
For a long moment, no one said a word. Then, his father leaned back slowly, lips curling into a sneer.
“Not only can you not be the man of this family,” he said, his tone smooth but venom-laced, “you’re not even man enough to control your wife’s tongue.”
Khalifa’s head snapped up. “Don’t speak about her that way.”
He was on his feet before I could blink, his chair scraping harshly against the tile. His hand found mine, and he tugged me from the table. I barely had time to grab my phone before he pulled me down the hall, into his room, slamming the door shut behind us.
He started pacing, running a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath in Arabic.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I know you told me not to defend you, but I seriously couldnotsit there for another second and listen to him talk to you like that. The nerve of that guy—he’s more of an ass than my mother, which I didn’t even think was possible—”
The words barely left my mouth before he moved.
He crossed the room in a blur, and then his arms were wrapped around me—firm, certain, unyielding. The anger that had been burning through my veins evaporated at his touch, and a gasp left me in a rush as he pulled me in, the thud of his heartbeat slamming through my palms, trying to sync with mine. It startled me how familiar it felt, like a rhythm I’d been chasing without realizing it.
The world narrowed to the space between us. My pulse rioted against my ribs, heat flooding my skin as his scent—coffee, musk, and sleepless nights—filled my lungs until I wasn’t sure I was breathing at all. The warmth of him crept through every barrier I’d built until I could no longer tell where he ended and I began.
He held me like it wasn’t a choice. Like something in him had finally cracked open.
AndGod, I felt it. The peaceful collapse of every wall I’d constructed—carefully, methodically, brick by bitter brick—coming undone by his hands with terrifying ease. My body went taut, caught between resistance and surrender, and then, traitorously, it softened, melting into him as if gravity itself had chosen sides before my mind could protest. My hands found his back, sliding up instinctively, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer,closerstill.
Neither of us spoke. There was no need. Words would have ruined it. Everything that mattered lived in the silence, in the breath that left him, uneven, like he was trying not to feel too much and failing.
For the first time since we’d signed the marriage papers, I stopped pretending I didn’t want to be touched by him. And when he finally sighed into the crook of my neck, something in my chest loosened so completely it almost hurt.
Chapter Twenty-Two
WE HOPPED ON A PLANEthat same night.
Nothing had really changed since we’d been back. There were no grand gestures, no confessions, no declarations under starlight—yet things between us felt different, softer, threaded with something unspoken.
His grief lived with us now. It didn’t slam doors or make speeches; it just settled in like a giant third roommate who never paid rent and never left. Other than the thirty-minute hug we’d shared in his childhood bedroom (thirty whole minutes—still couldn’t believe he’d let me hold him that long), he’d packed the rest of his feelings neatly out of sight, boxed and labeled and stored somewhere I apparently did not have a key.
So I helped in ways that didn’t involve prying those boxes open. I picked up after myself (well—more than usual). I attempted to keep my spontaneous attitude flare-ups to a respectable minimum (emphasis onattempted). I even half-heartedly tried cooking dinner tonight, but he took one bite, chewed, then slowly went a little green. The fork clinked against the plate as he set it down.
“This is...terrible,” he said gently, like he was breaking bad news to a toddler. “Seriously, please don’t ever make food for anyone. I don’t want to have to bust you out of prison for involuntary manslaughter.”
My mouth fell open, ready to be offended on behalf of my culinary masterpiece, but he held up a hand and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
