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“Try it and see.”

I talk him through the mixing. The first knead. His hands dwarf mine, turning the dough with movements that are too stiff. Too controlled.

“You’re fighting it,” I say. “Let it move. Follow the rhythm.”

He tries. But within thirty seconds, the dough is changing. Rising too fast. The yeast activating like it’s on fast-forward.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” His hands are glowing faintly with heat. The dough is doubling. Tripling. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re too hot. Your temperature. It’s making everything accelerate.”

The dough spills over his hands. Starts oozing across the counter. He jerks back. “This is a bad idea.”

“No. Just a different idea.” I grab the mass before it hits the floor. “Try again. But gentler. You’re supposed to coax it, not force it.”

“I don’t do gentle.”

The words hang in the air. I look up at him. His expression is carefully blank.

“You did the other night.”

His hands go still on the counter. It’s the first time either of us has mentioned it directly. What happened in my bed. How careful he was. How every touch felt like he was afraid I’d shatter.

The silence stretches. Awkward. Heavy.

Then he reaches for the flour. Starts again. This time his movements are different. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’s remembering how to touch something fragile.

The dough cooperates. Rises at a normal pace. By the time we shape it into loaves and slide them into the oven, they look almost perfect.

When we pull them out an hour later, they’re golden. Beautiful. The crust crackles under my tap. But there’s something else. A faint shimmer. Like light is trapped inside the bread.

“That’s not normal,” Malak says.

“No. It’s not.”

We stare at the loaves. At what we made together. At proof that whatever we are, we can create something good.

Two nights later, neither of us can sleep.

I find him in the kitchen at midnight. He’s standing by the window, looking out at the street. The orange glow from the streetlamp turns his profile into sharp angles and shadows.

“You’re up late,” I say.

“So are you.”

I put the kettle on. Pull out two mugs. We don’t discuss it. Just wait for the water to boil and make tea we’ll probably barely drink.

We sit at the small table in the corner. The one I used to eat breakfast at alone. Now there are two chairs pulled up. Two mugs. Two people occupying the same space in the middle of the night.

“Tell me about him,” Malak says quietly.

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

I wrap my hands around my mug. The heat helps. “What do you want to know?”