He hesitated for the first time—not long, just enough for my stomach to twist—but then he said softly, “She says it’s pigeons, but I think it’s actually losing a patient.”
My breath caught.
Sarah blinked, her teasing smirk wavering for a second before she recovered. “Wow. Okay. That was...accurate.”
I stared down at my coffee, suddenly too aware of how close he was sitting beside me.
Sarah cleared her throat. “Final round. What’s her guilty pleasure?”
Khalifa made a show of pondering, but the hint of mischief tugging at his lips gave him away. “Standing by the nursery window and coming up with futures for the babies.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh my God, you know about that?”
“Sarah, don’t—”
But she was already grinning at him. “She’s been doing that since residency, and then I joined when I started working here. The baby in the yellow hat? Future marine biologist. The one with the tiny dimple? Definitely a heartbreaker-slash-concert pianist.”
He nodded. “She told me about the dimple one.”
“Youtoldhim?” Sarah huffed, clutching her chest. “That was our bit!”
Khalifa smirked. “He’s called Ethan now. He owns a bookstore by the coast.”
Sarah pointed at him, delighted. “Hedoesget you.”
I sighed theatrically. “Wonderful. My best friend and my husband are forming an alliance over imaginary infants.”
“Only the best kind of alliance.” Sarah leaned back in her chair, eyeing Khalifa. “Alright, last question. Possibly the most important one.”
I groaned. “Sarah, please—”
She held up a hand. “Do you,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect, “have any cute friends to set me up with?”
Khalifa arched a brow. Then—slowly, like he was deciding whether or not to play along—he said, “Define cute.”
Sarah gasped. “Hedeflects.”
“He does that a lot,” I muttered into my coffee.
“I mean,” Sarah continued, ignoring me completely, “someone tall, nice, emotionally stable but not boring, and preferably not allergic to commitment.”
Khalifa’s mouth curved. “So...fictional?”
Sarah laughed. “You’re funny. Why did you never tell me he was funny?”
“Because he’s not funny,” I said. “He’s—”
“What?” Khalifa cut in. “Short, rude, and emotionally unavailable?”
“Exactly.” My phone went off. “Oh, my patient is going into pre-term labour. Interrogation’s over.” I pushed back from the table, gathering my things. “Sorry to bail early,” I said, glancing at Sarah. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” Then I turned to Khalifa, who was also standing, already pulling his jacket on. “I’ll, um...” My voice faltered under her amused stare. “I’ll see you at home.”
Sarah’s gaze ping-ponged between us, her expression unreadable other than the faintest twitch of curiosity that spelledthis is not how married people say goodbye.
I shot Khalifa a warning look. He, in turn, gave me one of those small, diplomatic smiles and patted my shoulder like we were coworkers finishing a very productive meeting, which only made it worse.
So I did what any self-respecting woman trying to look convincingly in love would do—I leaned in for a hug.
Except he moved the same way at the same time, and we collided halfway there. Our foreheads bonked together with an embarrassingly solidthunk, my bag slipped off my shoulder, the button on his wrist caught my hijab, and somehow—God only knows how—I ended up brushing my lips against his cheek.
