Page 67

“Even better than that.”

I kiss him. Slow and gentle and tasting of tea and mud and the ozone-smell that clings to his skin. His arms tighten around me, careful of my stomach, of the baby between us.

When we finally break apart, the sun is fully up. Golden light streams through the kitchen windows, catching the flour dust that never quite settles, turning everything soft and warm.

“What happens now?” Malak asks.

It’s the question I’ve been avoiding. The practical reality of what we’ve built, what we’ve become, what comes next.

“Now,” I say slowly, thinking it through as I speak, “we figure out how to be a family. How to run a bakery with a baby who can manipulate shadows. How to live in a town that knows what we are and still chooses to keep us.” I pause. “How to be happy.”

“Happy.” He says the word like he’s testing it. Like he’s not sure it fits in his mouth. “I don’t know if I remember how to be happy.”

“Then we’ll learn together.” I take his hand, thread my fingers through his. “We’ll make mistakes. Probably a lot of them. The baby will do something terrifying with magic and we’ll panic. The bakery will have crises. The town will have emergencies. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

The baby kicks hard, like it’s agreeing with me.

Malak’s hand covers mine on my stomach, his palm warm and steady. “Together,” he repeats, and this time it sounds like a promise.

We stand there in the morning light, covered in mud, exhausted down to our bones, and for the first time since this all started, I can see the future stretching out ahead of us. Not perfect. Not easy. But ours.

“I need a shower,” I say finally.

“You need sleep.”

“I need both.” I start toward the stairs, then pause and look back. “Are you coming?”

He follows without hesitation, and we climb the stairs together. The apartment is quiet, untouched by the chaos outside. My bed looks impossibly inviting.

I shower first, washing away the mud and the fear and the adrenaline, letting the hot water turn my skin pink. When I emerge in clean pajamas, Malak is sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his muddy clothes, staring at nothing.

“Your turn,” I tell him.

He doesn’t move. “I keep thinking about Preston. About how close he came to destroying everything. About how he was right.”

“Right about what?”

“That the old ways are dying. That the world is changing. That things like me don’t belong anymore.” His voice is flat, empty. “Maybe he was right to want to tear it all down.”

I sit beside him on the bed, close enough that our shoulders touch. “He was wrong about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That progress means destroying the past. That moving forward means forgetting where you came from.” I take his hand again, holding tight. “This town exists because people found a way to honor both. The old magic and the new world. The supernatural and the human. They built something that could hold both truths at once.”

“And now we’re part of that.”

“Now we’re part of that.” I lean my head against his shoulder. “You’re not a relic, Malak. You’re not something that needs to be buried or forgotten. You’re a guardian. You’re necessary. And you’re loved.”

He turns his head and kisses my temple, the gesture so gentle it makes my chest ache. “Go to sleep. I’ll shower and join you.”

I want to argue, to make sure he’s really okay, but exhaustion is pulling at me like an undertow. I crawl under the covers and my body sinks into the mattress with a sigh of relief.

The last thing I hear before sleep takes me is the shower turning on, and the sound of Malak humming something low and tuneless, like he’s trying to remember a song from a thousand years ago.

When I wake, the sun has moved halfway across the sky and Malak is beside me, his arm around my waist, his hand resting on my stomach where the baby sleeps. He’s wearing clean clothes, his hair still damp, and his eyes are closed but I can tell he’s not really sleeping. Just resting. Just being still.

“Hey,” I whisper.