“Let go of me,” I demanded.
“Or what?” he spat.
Before I could answer, there was motion, and suddenly the pressure on my arm was gone. Khalifa had Mr. Thompson pinned against the hood of the car, one forearm pressed across his chest. For an instant, everything went feral—metal clanging, his breath sizzling, my heart hammering drums in my throat. Khalifa's hand was a blur; the shove had become a clean, hard punch that landed against Mr. Thompson’s jaw with a sound like a book slammed shut.
“Don’tevertouch my wife again,” Khalifa hissed.
Another shock went through me at those words—my wife—hot and disorienting, like someone had poured adrenaline straight into my spine. My knees went watery, something traitorous fluttering low in my stomach, as if my body hadn’t gotten the memo that this was absolutely not the moment to react likethat.
“Stop.” My voice was quiet in the cavern of the garage, but it cut through whatever animal instinct had taken over him.
He froze mid-breath and looked at me—surprised, almost wounded by the reprimand. If the last several months of marriage had proven anything, it was that Khalifa contained multitudes. He wasn’t just one man; he was a whole constellation of them—stars and shadows and unexpected flares—each orbiting inside the same vessel, each stepping forward depending on who or what life threw at him.
There was the cold Khalifa, the one who appeared first, crisp and distant like the warning label on a medicine vial—handle with care.
There was the awkward Khalifa who was scared of airplanes, who turned the color of a cherry popsicle at the wordbutt, and who stiffened at the idea of dancing and tickles.
There was the sweet Khalifa, the one who did impossibly kind things without being asked, without expecting applause,the one who made tenderness feel like something I could actually reach out and touch.
There was the weird Khalifa—my personal favorite and the one who rarely escaped containment—who laughed so hard snot shot out of his nose and said wonderfully strange things that made me want to bottle the moment forever.
And then there wasthisversion—the tough, dominating Khalifa who saidmy wifelike a vow he wished he’d written himself, whose body heaved with something primal, whose anger wasn’t anger at all but fear wearing a louder coat, whose hands curled not out of cruelty but out of terror that someone might hurt me.
His chest rose and fell, and he had that expression men got when they were used to being the one to mete out the world’s answers, and someone else told them not to. I didn’t give him time to argue.
“He lost his wife. He lost his babies. He’s already in more pain than you can put him in.”
He didn’t like it. Disappointment flared in his jaw, the want to do more, to make it right in the only currency he trusted—force. But he stepped back, eyes blazing. “Leave,” he said. “Before I forget that you’re grieving.”
Mr. Thompson stumbled, rubbing the place where Khalifa’s fist had landed. I watched him go until his silhouette hit the shadowed stairwell and disappeared.
The second he was gone, I spun on Khalifa. “What the hell was that?”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, giving me a once-over. “Are you okay?”
“Iwasokay,” I shot back, throwing my hands up, “until you barged in here and stole my moment.Again.”
His brows pulled together. “Again?”
“Remember Malik? Do you know how long I’ve wanted to smack that plagiarizing lab partner with a God complex?”
Khalifa snorted despite himself. “You’ve had years to do that.”
“Revenge,” I said primly, “is best served after a very long time. They won’t see it coming. That’s the whole point.”
“Funny. I never pegged you as someone capable of holding herself back.”
“I’m serious,” I insisted, pointing at him like he was the unreasonable one. “Do not confuse my charm with helplessness. I grew up with four older brothers, I’m basically a human skyscraper, and, believe it or not, I’m pretty sure I could kick your ass if I wanted to, so save the macho heroics for the movies.”
He stared at me for a long, ridiculous second—part chastened, part amused—then a reluctant smile ghosted his mouth. “I know you can take care of yourself,” he said. “But...let me.”
Chapter Thirty
EVERYTHING WENT BACKto normal—or at least, the version of normal you settled for after your world had spun off its axis and landed slightly crooked.
I was seeing patients again, smiling at new mothers, listening to heartbeats that were too small to understand how fragile life could be. The guilt wasn’t gone; I didn’t think it ever would be. But I did what Khalifa told me to—I folded it into my work. I channeled it into the desperate need to help, to do better, to avoid letting it happen again.
And every morning, when I stood in front of the mirror and wrapped one of my thirty-seven beautiful hijabs around my head, I felt that familiar swell of triumphant pride, a blessing from God Himself. Because even though the universe would keep handing me people who had the audacity to feel threatened by a piece of fabric, it still wasn’t enough to make me take it off.
