Sofia smirked. “We don’t even know if we’ll ever get married.”
“Why?” Ilias asked, his hazel eyes locking onto hers.
“Is that something you want?” she countered, volleying the question right back.
“Is it somethingyouwant?” he asked again, narrowing his eyes at her playfully.
A smile curled at her lips. “I mean, why not? But not in a traditional way. Maybe a beach ceremony. Somewhere chill. Don’t really care where. I never envisioned myself in a white dress…” And her traitorous mind went to her father, to that last conversation before he died. As Ilias had been sensing it, he countered with a playful smile, “I vote for married on a surfboard, in the middle of the ocean.”
“That sounds complicated,” she chuckled, swatting away the cloud of grief.
“Just a suggestion.”
They smirked at each other. Having Ilias in her life—especially now—made everything feel softer. Stronger. Even when she was falling apart, he held the pieces. For that, she will be forever grateful.
After careful inspection, she chose the least-beaten-up longboard, and Ilias took one of the shortboards. Ghita joined them for a while, before spotting a group of friends and paddling off with them.
From the water, Imsouane was breathtaking.
The cliffs rose in warm hues of rust and sand, Imsouane overlooking the Atlantic from that privileged position. Bougainvillea spilled from balconies, and the call to prayer echoed gently over the hills. The ocean was a flat sheet of sapphire, interrupted only by the slow, rolling lines of incoming waves. It was peaceful. And yet—grief lingered. In the way the waves lapped at her board, in the way the breeze whisperedthrough her hair. Her father was everywhere. In the sea. In the light.
While she paddled, catching the next wave, her body focused entirely on balance, rhythm, speed. The wave wasn’t too aggressive, just the right mix of energy and softness. Perfect for her. She let it carry her, let it remind her of surfing in Conil with her father, or road trips to Portugal’s colder, sharper waters. So many memories were soaked into the salt and water, into those movements that had become second nature.
When she fell back on her board, paddling toward the lineup, Ilias was there, having just ridden his own wave. He caught up with her, and they waited in the not-too-crowded line-up, the quiet between waves stretching like a lullaby.
“Do you think Thomas suspects you’re helping the nerd trio?” Ilias asked, eyes scanning the horizon.
“I don’t think he’ll see it coming,” Sofia admitted. “He’s too arrogant. Paola says he thinks he can buy or bulldoze his way through anything. Even if he gets exposed, he’ll probably call Daddy for backup.”
“Do you think we’ll ever win?” His voice dipped low. “That Azul will actually become what Ghita dreams it could be and I’ll leave my father’s legacy in the past?”
“I think it will,” she said without hesitation. “I’m sure about it. Because if justice is right, Thomas will go to jail or he will be stopped.”
Ilias nodded. “I hope so.”
Sofia studied him, with the golden light bathing his features making his tawny skin glow even more. He smirked, pulling her board closer by the leash. “I love you so much, Sofia. I hope you never stop believing me when I say it.”
Her hand came up to caress his stubbled cheek, warm from the sun and salt. “How could I?” she whispered. “You’ve shown me what love means.”
58
ILIAS
Deira – Saint Levant, MC Abdul
Walkingaround Imsouane with Sofia’s hand in his felt like crawling back through memories he had tried hard to erase. The two years he had spent away from competition, drifting between Imsouane and Málaga, were a blur of confusion—trying to find balance in a life that constantly reminded him he was never enough for either place. His Arabic carried Spanish tones, and his Spanish held Arabic cadences. It was a duality he was still making peace with, and watching how Sofia had embraced her own complexity over the past months made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t before.
Somehow, no matter how much you grow up in both places, one steals a bigger part of your heart. It should’ve been Spain. That’s where he studied, where his closest friends lived. But Morocco… Morocco had taught him how to surf. How to love the ocean. How to recover from the greatest heartbreak and disappointment of his life. And while logic pointed to Spain—where his Moroccan mother had found peace—his heart knew the truth. Morocco had claimed it long ago, maybe even before he decided to represent it in the USL.
But now, as they strolled through the dusty narrow alleys painted in sun-washed blue and dusty red—the very streets of his summers—he knew exactly where his feet were taking him.
When they stopped in front of the restaurant where his father used to spend his days when Azul had no clients, Ilias took a deep breath.
“So,” he began, voice low, “The first stop of our trip to convince businesses not to sell to Thomas is…my step-mother’s restaurant.”
Sofia frowned and slid off her sunglasses, her deep brown eyes narrowing in concern.
He gestured to the restaurant in front of them. “The owner is Yasmine, and she’s the mother of my half-brother. He’s fifteen years old. We don’t have a great relationship, he moved to Casablanca to study because Imsouane doesn’t have the best resources…but yeah, I’m digressing.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “Yasmine’s age might surprise you, so I want to warn you that she’s just a couple years older than me.”
