Chapter nine
Ibtisam
I'd never seen Saal's house in daylight before. Until now, it had only existed in soft corners of my imagination—blurred by moonlight, shadowed by uncertainty. But as I stepped out of the car and looked up at it properly, I realized something strange: this house didn't try to be impressive. It didn't scream prestige. It didn't echo with the kind of hollow grandness the senator's mansion wore like armor.
Instead, it breathed.
Grey stone. Large windows that invited in the world instead of shutting it out. The kind of house someone designed with intention, not legacy. The kind of home someone built for themselves, not for others to envy. Quiet. Unassuming. Honest.
Just like him.
The front door creaked open before I could even knock. Saal stood there, grinning like we hadn't both been in a hospital only days ago, like we weren't both carrying things heavier than we could admit. He was wearing a hoodie that still smelled faintly like hospital soap—clean, sterile, a bit too familiar.
"Movie night?" he offered, one eyebrow lifted in mock arrogance.
I shrugged, arms crossed to hide the way my chest was fluttering. "You bribed me with food. Don't flatter yourself. I'm not here for you."
"Good," he said with a smirk. "Because I already burned the popcorn."
He stepped aside. I walked in. And it hit me, all at once—the scent of clean linen and cinnamon, warm and oddly comforting. The lights inside were dim, golden. Not the sterile brightness of clinics. Not the stiff, over-lit perfection of the senator's halls. This place knew how to be gentle. It didn't demand anything from me.
He handed me something. Fluffy. Soft. Hideous.
"What is this?" I asked, squinting.
He facepalms and shoots me an irritated glance"Socks," he said, smug. "Trust me. They don't bite."
I unfolded them. Pink. With little cartoon hearts. "Absolutely not."
"They were my sister's. She left them here. I dare you."
I stared him down. Slid them on. Regretted it instantly. They were warm. Stupidly comfortable.
He laughed at my expression. Loud. Free.
"Don't look at me," I muttered, curling into the couch.
He handed me the remote like it was a ceremonial dagger. "Pick something. But no horror. I still flinch at jump scares."
"No romance," I countered, clutching a pillow.
"Compromise?"
"Dark comedy. Or a thriller. Something bloody but smart."
We landed on something that involved both—a psychological thriller with just enough gore to keep us awake. He sat beside me, not touching but close. Too close. My body wasn't used to stillness around people. Not like this. Not... unarmoured.
And halfway through the film, the cramps began.
A slow ache below my stomach, like something inside was tightening its grip. I shifted, trying to play it cool. Tried to breathe through it like pain was a test I didn't want to fail in front of him.
He noticed. Of course he did.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
"I'm still fine."
He didn't argue. Just stood and vanished into the kitchen without a word. I pretended to focus on the screen. When he came back, he was holding a mug.
"Ginger and honey," he said, like it was nothing. "My mom used to make it."
"I don't do mother stories," I muttered, but I took the mug anyway.
The warmth seeped into my palms, and then into my chest. He sat closer this time, still not touching, still respectful of my boundaries—but present.
I didn't say thank you. He didn't ask for it.
When the credits finally rolled, I didn't move. I couldn't. The ache had dulled to something quieter. Something bearable.
"Want to stay?" he asked, voice low.
"For what?"
"Comfort. Rest. Maybe peace."
I glanced at him sideways. "You think you're peace?"
"I think I'm trying to be."
I laughed, a short and surprised sound. "I'll stay," I said, "but only because the socks are growing on me."
He handed me a blanket—big, ugly, comfortable. I curled into the far corner of the couch. He turned off the TV, and the room fell into darkness.
For once, I didn't run.
---
Saal
She fell asleep before I did.
Curled up in a blanket too big for her and those ridiculous socks, looking nothing like the firestorm I'd met months ago. She looked... young. Soft. Fragile in a way she'd never allow herself to be if she were awake.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe too loud.
I just watched.
There was something reverent about the way she surrendered to sleep. Like her soul had taken a deep breath. Like her armor had been left at the door with her boots.
I reached behind her, adjusted the pillow gently. She stirred. Didn't wake.
Her phone buzzed once. A name I didn't know. I didn't check it. Just flipped it face-down.
She murmured something in her sleep—garbled, soft. I leaned in and whispered, "You're okay."
I hoped she heard me.
Eventually, I rose and made my way to the bathroom. The mirror greeted me with a reflection I barely recognized. My skin was paler. Cheeks a little sunken. I looked like someone slowly slipping through a crack in time.
I coughed into a paper towel.
Red. Just a little. Enough.
I flushed it. Rinsed my hands. Pressed my palms against the sink like they could steady me. I hadn't told her. I wouldn't. Not yet. She'd just started breathing again. I couldn't be the one to take the air away.
When I returned, she was still sleeping. I sat beside her, my arm brushing hers. My fingers found hers under the blanket. She didn't pull away.
For now, she was mine.
And I was hers.
And in this soft, fleeting hour, that was
enough.
Even if the clock was ticking.
Even if this peace was borrowed.
Even if love had arrived too late to be forever.