He leaned against the wall, wearing that rare, crooked, almost-smile that made my pulse skip. “It’s too late for pancakes, but what about some ice cream? I’ll even eat some with you.”
“You? Eat ice cream?”
He shrugged. “Desperate times.”
“Yeah, sure. I have to quiz you anyway.”
“Quiz me? For what?”
“For Hurricane Sarah tomorrow.”
“Right,” he said dryly. “How could I forget? The friendship inquisition.”
“Exactly.” I headed for the freezer. “We’ll start with the basics—favorite color, favorite movie, number of times you’ve cried watchingMy Girl.”
“I don’t cry during movies.”
“Good,” I called over my shoulder. “That’s question one. You already failed.” I pulled out the tub of ice cream—well, some vegan thing disguised as ice cream that was actually better than regular ice cream, but I wasn’t about to tell him that—and grabbed two spoons. “Question two: how did we meet?”
Silence.
“Wrong,” I said, sampling a bite. “The answer isnot‘we were forced into an arranged marriage for my freedom, and you’re dying mother—may she rest in peace.’ It’s ‘opposites attract.’ Very romantic. Very convincing.”
When I came into the living room, he’d sprawled against the back of the couch, one arm slung lazily over his chest. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even.
I scoffed, ready to throw a spoon at him. “You have got to be kidding me.”
But the irritation didn’t last long, because as I looked at him—completely at ease, lashes brushing his cheeks, lips parted slightly—the flutter in my chest was back. For once, he wasn’t guarded. He wasn’t the man who measured every word before speaking or buried his feelings under dry wit and logic. He was just...Khalifa. Unarmored, uncensored, entirely and beautifully human.
I should’ve looked away, but it felt like catching a rare celestial event—something you knew wouldn’t last, so you let yourself stare long enough to make it weird. He was like a butterfly or a deer: impossibly pretty, but one wrong move and he’d startle, vanish, fold back into himself before I could blink. The thought made my ribs ache unexpectedly, this instinct tobreathe quieter, think fainter, just to keep him from slipping away.
“Fine,” I muttered, plopping down beside him. “Sleep through your exam,Professor. See if I care.”
I didn’t care, though, not really. It was hard to stay mad at someone who always listened to me harp on about anything and everything—my catastrophes, my tangents, my unnecessary medical metaphors—like each one was the most fascinating bedtime story.
I popped the lid and lifted my spoon, fully committed to my first bite when he suddenly tipped over, landing straight in my lap. I froze, every muscle locking as he snuggled against me, heat-laced and sculpted and very much real. My stomach flipped so hard it was practically acrobatic. I stared down at him, willing him to wake up and fix this, or at least acknowledge it.
My hand twitched before my brain caught up. I dropped it, shook my head, and told myself to get a grip. Then I did it again—hovered, faltered, retreated. Three botched attempts later, my fingertips finally grazed his cheek. His skin was warm. Smooth. Softer than I expected.
And then, as if he’d been waiting for my touch, he leaned into it. Only slightly. Enough to make my heart lurch.
I sucked in a breath and yanked my hand back like I’d been burned, pulse pounding, ice cream completely forgotten. This was insane,Iwas insane. He sighed in his sleep, low and vulnerable, and I melted faster than the half-eaten pint currently leaking into the cushion.
I reached for the throw blanket and draped it over his body, careful not to jostle him. His brow relaxed like my small act had tugged him closer to peace. I smiled and sat back, spoon in hand, watching him sleep like a fool while I ate straight from the tub. The questions I’d meant to ask him drifted somewhere between the flicker of the TV and the adorable sound of his snoring.
By the time I hit the bottom of the carton, I’d decided two things: one, he was objectively infuriating. And two, I was absolutely screwed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
AS SOON AS WE GOT TOthe hospital cafeteria, my nerves were fried. I’d performed emergency C-sections with less anxiety.
I sat at the table, picking apart a napkin, watching the entrance like a criminal waiting to be caught. Khalifa, of course, looked like he was waiting for a casual brunch—arms crossed, posture relaxed, not an ounce of dread in sight.
“Stop fidgeting,” he murmured, not looking up from his phone.
“I’m not fidgeting,” I said, fidgeting harder.
He glanced up, unimpressed. “You’ve been shredding that napkin to death for ten minutes.”
