Chapter 4: The Pantry
Breakfast was a masterclass in torture.
Layla sat wedged between her sister and a cousin she'd never met, pushing scrambled eggs around her plate while fielding questions about her major, her future, whether she'd met any nice boys at university. Her answers came out smooth and practiced—finance, maybe consulting, not really looking—while her brain screamed in a continuous loop of Omar's mouth, Omar's hands, Omar's cock inside her.
He was across the table. Directly across.
She'd felt his foot brush hers under the tablecloth twice. Neither time had been accidental.
His mother kept piling food onto his plate, oblivious, chattering about the wedding and the drive home tomorrow and how nice it was to finally meet some of Maryam's friends. Omar nodded along, saying the right things at the right times, but his eyes kept drifting.
Every time they landed on Layla, she felt it like a hand around her throat.
"You're not eating," her sister observed.
"Not hungry."
"You're never not hungry."
"I'm hungover."
"You didn't drink."
"Doesn't matter."
Her sister squinted at her, then shrugged and stole a piece of toast off her plate. Layla checked the time on her phone. Nine forty-three.
Eleven minutes until she did something stupid.
She counted them down like a prisoner watching a clock.
Omar excused himself to help his father with something in the garage. Layla waited exactly thirty seconds, then pushed back from the table and muttered something about needing to charge her phone.
Her mother barely glanced up. Her sister was too busy fighting the cousin over the last piece of baklava.
The kitchen was empty when Layla walked through it. Empty except for the pantry door, slightly ajar, a sliver of dim light leaking through the gap.
She didn't know if Omar would be in there. She just knew she couldn't sit at that table another minute or she'd crawl out of her own skin.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
He was already there.
Standing between the shelves, arms crossed, leaning against the back wall like he'd been waiting for her. The pantry was impossibly small—narrow enough that he could touch both walls if he stretched—and the air was thick with the scent of cinnamon and dried fenugreek and something older, mustier, like the ghosts of a thousand meals.
"You followed me," he said.
"I didn't follow you."
"You absolutely followed me."
"I saw the door was open and I wanted a snack."
"At ten in the morning."
"I like snacks."
He smiled. That lazy, knowing smile that made her want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.
"Did you sleep at all?" he asked.
"A little."
"Me neither."
"Whose fault is that?"
"Yours." He pushed off the wall and stepped closer. "Entirely yours."
She should say something clever. Something cutting. Something that reminded him she was in control.
Instead, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him toward her.
"Layla—"
"Shut up."
She closed the distance between them, pulled the door shut behind her back, and listened to the muffled sounds of the house through the wood—the clink of dishes, the murmur of conversation, the distant laugh track of a sitcom from the living room.
Twenty feet away. Maybe less.
She didn't care.
Omar was wearing grey sweatpants again. The same grey sweatpants from yesterday, loose and soft and hanging low on his hips. He looked down at her with an expression she couldn't read—warning, maybe, or hunger, or both.
"Layla," he said again.
She answered by dropping to her knees.
The tile was cold and hard beneath her, and her knees immediately protested, but she ignored the pain. She reached for the waistband of his sweatpants and yanked them down to his ankles in one rough motion.
His boxers went with them.
"Layla—" His voice cracked. "My mother is right there. My aunt is in the living room. Anyone could—"
"Shut up."
"But—"
"I said shut up." She looked up at him, her eyes flat and certain. "And keep it quiet."
He stared at her. His cock was already hard, flushed and heavy, curving up toward his stomach. She hadn't touched him and he was already like this.
Pathetic. Perfect.
She wrapped her fingers around his base and took him into her mouth.
The taste of him hit her immediately—salt and soap and the faintest hint of something bitter. He hissed through his teeth, one hand slamming against the shelf above her head.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck, Layla."
She worked him slow at first, mapping the shape of him with her tongue. The ridge of the head. The vein that ran along the underside. The smooth, tight skin near his base. She slid her mouth down until he hit the back of her throat, then pulled off with a wet sound.
"Keep quiet," she reminded him.
He nodded, jaw tight, knuckles white where he gripped the shelf.
She went back down.
This time she hollowed her cheeks, creating suction that made his hips jerk forward involuntarily. He made a sound—a strangled, desperate sound—and clamped his fist over his own mouth.
She watched his face as she worked him. The way his eyes squeezed shut. The way his nostrils flared. The way his breathing came ragged through his fingers.
She pulled off with a pop and stroked him with her hand, wet and fast.
"Tell me how much you want it," she said.
"What?"
"You heard me."
He looked down at her, chest heaving. "You're evil."
"I'm waiting."
"I want it so fucking bad." His voice was barely a whisper. "I've been thinking about your mouth on me since yesterday. Since the bathroom. Since I woke up this morning with my hand around my—"
"Good."
She took him in her mouth again.
A jar rattled on the shelf above her. Cumin, from the smell of it. Omar froze, his entire body going rigid, eyes wide like a fox caught in a henhouse.
Layla didn't stop.
She pushed deeper, until she could feel him in her throat, until her eyes watered and her jaw ached. She swallowed around him and he bit down on his fist so hard she thought he might break the skin.
"Layla—" He choked out. "Layla, you have to—"
She pulled back just far enough to speak, lips wet and swollen.
"I want you to come in my mouth."
He nearly lost it right there. She felt his cock twitch against her lips, felt his whole body shudder, and she knew if she pushed him any further he'd finish before she was ready.
She took him in her hand and her mouth together, stroking fast and sloppy, tongue working the head, fist working the rest. He braced his other hand on the opposite shelf, trapping himself, and she could feel the effort it was taking him not to make noise.
"I'm—" He gasped. "I'm gonna—"
She kept going.
He came with a strangled sound, hips jerking forward, one hand flying down to fist in her hair. She felt him pulse against her tongue, hot and thick, and she swallowed every drop.
When she finally pulled off, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, he looked like he'd just run a marathon.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed.
She stood up, knees aching, and he dragged her into a kiss.
She could taste herself on his tongue. Could taste him, too, the bitter echo of his release. He kissed her like he was trying to devour her, one hand on her jaw, the other sliding under her shirt, and she melted into him before she remembered where they were.
"We don't have time," she said against his mouth.
"I don't care."
"Omar—"
He spun her around and bent her over a sack of rice.
The burlap was rough against her palms, the smell of cinnamon overwhelming. She felt him shove her shorts down and heard him groan when he found her soaked through.
"You're fucking drenched," he said.
"I know."
"You liked that."
"Shut up."
He didn't. He slid two fingers inside her, just for a second, just long enough to make her gasp, then she heard the sound of him spitting and felt the slick heat of his cock against her entrance.
"Ready?" he asked."Just do it."
He slammed into her in one rough stroke.
She clapped a hand over her own mouth to muffle the scream. He was still sensitive from everything she'd just done, she could feel it in the way he shuddered, but he didn't slow down. He fucked her fast and hard against the shelf, one hand gripping her hip, the other reaching around to cover her mouth.
"Quiet," he hissed in her ear. "You have to be quiet."
She bit down on his palm.
The shelf creaked. Something else rattled—a jar, a box, she didn't care—and somewhere in the house, his aunt laughed at something on TV.
Layla didn't care about any of it.
She cared about the way he felt inside her. The way his breath came hot and fast against her neck. The way his fingers dug into her hip hard enough to leave bruises.
She was close. So close. The pleasure built in her core, coiling tighter and tighter, and she pressed her ass back against him to take him deeper.
He got the message.
His hand left her mouth and found her clit, rubbing fast, ruining her. She came biting down on his other palm, body convulsing around his cock, and he followed seconds later—buried deep, spilling into her with a groan he couldn't quite swallow.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
They stood there panting, foreheads pressed against the shelves, the smell of rice and old spices and sex thick in the air. The sounds of the house filtered through the door—dishes clinking, voices murmuring, the low drone of the TV.
Layla finally turned her head.
"We're going to hell," she whispered.
Omar caught her chin and turned her face toward his, kissing her slow, savoring the taste of her mouth.
"Worth it," he said.
She pulled her shorts up, finger-combed her hair, and tried to remember how to breathe.
He tucked himself back into his sweatpants and adjusted the waistband, and when she looked at him she saw something in his expression she hadn't seen before. Not hunger. Not mischief.
Something quieter. Deeper.
"We should get back," she said.
"In a minute."
"We've been gone too long."
"Layla." He caught her hand before she could open the door. "Look at me."
She turned.
"I meant what I said last night," he told her. "All of it."
"I know."
"I'm not just—this isn't just—"
"I know."
He held her gaze for a long moment, searching for something she wasn't sure she was ready to show him.
Then he nodded, let go of her hand, and cracked the door open.
The kitchen was still empty. The house was still loud. Nobody had noticed.
Layla slipped out first, smoothing her hair, and made it to the hallway before her sister appeared in the doorway from the living room.
"Hey," she said. "Where'd you disappear to?"
"Bathroom."
"For twenty minutes?"
"Stomach stuff."
Her sister wrinkled
her nose like she'd smelled something rotten.
"You've been weird all weekend," she said, crossing her arms. "Ever since the wedding. Did something happen?"
Layla's heart stuttered. "Like what?"
"I don't know. You're all—" She gestured vaguely at Layla's entire body. "Glowy. And you keep disappearing."
"I have a nervous stomach."
"You've never had a nervous stomach in your life."
"People change."
Her sister squinted at her for a long moment, then shrugged and wandered back toward the living room. Layla stood in the hallway, counting her heartbeats, waiting for the floor to stop tilting.
Omar emerged from the kitchen thirty seconds later. He didn't look at her. Just walked past with his hands in his pockets, casual as anything, and disappeared into the living room where his aunt was still cackling at the television.
Layla went upstairs.
She needed to shower. She needed to wash the smell of him off her skin, the taste of him out of her mouth. She needed to lie down and stare at the ceiling and figure out what the hell she was doing.
Instead, she found herself standing outside his bedroom door again.
She didn't knock. Just pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room looked different in daylight. The posters on the walls—Paris, Istanbul, mountains she still couldn't name—seemed brighter, more vivid. The ceiling fan was off. The bed was made, sort of, the comforter pulled up crooked over the sheets.
She sat on the edge and pressed her palms against her thighs.
He'd said he meant what he said last night. That this wasn't just—that she wasn't just—
She didn't know what to do with that.
The door opened behind her.
"Layla."
She didn't turn around. "You followed me."
"I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm fine."
"You're sitting in my bedroom staring at the wall."
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
She finally looked at him. He was standing in the doorway, still in those grey sweatpants, still looking at her like she was something worth looking at.
"About what happens next," she said.
"What do you want to happen?"
"I don't know."
He crossed the room and sat beside her. Not touching. Close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his skin, but not touching.
"I'm not going to pretend this didn't happen," he said. "Any of it."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what are you asking?"
She stared at the wall. At a poster of a city she'd never seen. At the faded edges where the tape had yellowed with age.
"I'm asking if you're going to wake up tomorrow and decide this was a mistake."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"No," he said, finally. "I'm not."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've been waiting for you for weeks. Because I've been replaying every conversation we've ever had, trying to figure out what I did wrong. Because when I thought you regretted that night in my car, it felt like someone had reached into my chest and—"
He stopped. Swallowed.
"It felt like I'd lost something I never really had," he finished.
Layla's throat tightened.
"That's very romantic," she said, voice cracking.
"I'm not trying to be romantic."
"What are you trying to be?"
"Honest."
She turned to look at him. Really look at him. The way his jaw was set, the way his eyes held hers without flinching. The way his hands were clenched on his knees like he was holding himself back.
"I don't know how to do this," she admitted.
"Do what?"
"Be someone's—" She gestured vaguely. "Whatever. I've never been good at it."
"At what?"
"At letting people in."
He reached over and took her hand. His fingers were warm, calloused in places she hadn't noticed before, and he held her like she might break if he gripped too hard.
"You don't have to be good at it," he said. "You just have to try."
She laughed—a short, wet sound.
"That's the worst advice I've ever heard."
"Probably."
"You're supposed to say something reassuring."
"I don't know how to be reassuring. I just know I want you to stay."
She kissed him.
Not soft. Not gentle. She kissed him like she was trying to prove something, to him or herself or both, and he kissed her back like he was accepting whatever she had to give.
The door was still open. Neither of them cared.
She pushed him back on the bed and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, and he looked up at her with wide eyes and a mouth that curved into something like surprise.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"What does it look like?"
"Layla—"
"Shut up."
She pulled her shirt over her head and threw it somewhere behind her. His hands found her waist, her ribs, the undersides of her breasts, and she leaned down to kiss him again.
"We don't have time," he managed, between kisses.
"We have some."
"Someone could—"
"Let them."
He groaned. A low, frustrated sound that made her grin against his mouth.
"You're going to kill me," he said.
"Probably."
She pulled at his sweatpants, shoving them down past his hips. He kicked them off the rest of the way, and then she was straddling him skin to skin, her shorts the only barrier between them.
"Condom," she said.
"Nightstand."
She reached over. Found the familiar foil packet. Rolled it on with hands that barely trembled.
"You sure?" he asked.
"I'm sure."
She sank down on him.
The stretch made her gasp. She'd forgotten how thick he was, how full he made her feel. She braced her hands on his chest and started to move—slow at first, a rhythm that had him groaning and gripping her hips.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel—"
"I know."
She rode him harder, faster, chasing the friction that was building low in her belly. He thrust up to meet her, matching her rhythm, and the slap of their bodies filled the room.
"I'm close," she said.
"Me too."
"Don't stop."
"I won't."
She came first—head thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream. He followed seconds later, hips jerking, hands gripping her thighs hard enough to bruise.
She collapsed on top of him, chest heaving, sweat cooling on her skin.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then a voice from the doorway.
"What the actual fuck."
Layla froze.
She turned her head slowly, dread already pooling in her stomach, and saw her sister standing in the doorway with a look on her face that was part horror, part fury, part something else entirely.
And behind her, smirking like he'd just won the lottery, was her sister's boyfriend.
Layla's body went cold.
The sweat on her skin turned to ice. Her breath stopped somewhere between her lungs and her throat. Beneath her, still buried inside her, Omar had gone rigid as stone.
The room was silent except for the ceiling fan—still off, thank God, but the silence was somehow worse.
Maryam stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and her jaw set so tight it looked painful. She was wearing her pyjamas still, hair pulled back in a messy bun, and her eyes kept flicking between Layla's bare back and Omar's hands still gripping her thighs.
Beside her, Daniel leaned against the doorframe with that shit-eating grin he always wore. The one that said he knew something you didn't and couldn't wait to use it.
"So," Maryam said.
Layla scrambled off Omar so fast she nearly fell. She grabbed at the comforter, yanking it up to cover herself, but she could already feel the flush creeping up her neck.
"Maryam—"
"Don't." Her sister held up a hand. "Don't you dare Maryam me right now."
Omar sat up behind Layla, reaching for his sweatpants, pulling them on under the covers with a quiet urgency. His face was unreadable.
Daniel was still smiling.
"How long have you been standing there?" Layla asked.
"Long enough." Maryam's voice was flat. "Long enough to see you riding him like a goddamn rodeo."
"That's not—I wasn't—"
"You literally just came. I saw your face."
Layla wanted to die. She wanted to sink into the floor and never resurface. She wanted to crawl out the window and run into the desert and let the heat take her.
Daniel laughed. A low, appreciative sound that made Layla's skin crawl.
"This is amazing," he said. "This is the best weekend I've ever had."
"Shut up, Daniel," Maryam snapped.
"What? I'm just saying—"
"I said shut up."
He held up his hands in mock surrender and stepped back into the hallway. But he didn't leave. Just leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, listening.
Maryam stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
The click of the latch sounded like a gunshot.
"I want to know what the hell is going on," she said. "Right now. From the beginning."
Layla's throat was dry. She pulled the comforter tighter around herself and tried to find words. But it's not what it looks like felt too stupid to say out loud, and it's exactly what it looks like felt like signing her own death warrant.
Omar spoke first.
"I'd rather not have this conversation—"
"Did I ask you?" Maryam's head snapped toward him. "Did I say a single word to you?"
Omar went quiet.
"I didn't think so." Maryam turned back to Layla. "Now. Start talking."
Layla took a breath. It shuddered in her chest.
"It started at the wedding," she said.
"Which wedding?"
"The one three weeks ago. The one you dragged me to because you didn't want to go alone."
Maryam's eyes narrowed. "The one where I didn't see you for an hour."
"That's the one."
"You were with him."
"I was with him."
"Doing what?"
Layla's face burned. "Do you really need me to say it?"
"I need you to say everything."
"He drove me to the lookout point. We talked. And then we—" She gestured vaguely at the bed. "It happened."
"You fucked in his car."
"Yes."
"Three weeks ago."
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"I didn't tell anyone."
"Why?"
Because I was scared. Because I didn't understand what it meant. Because saying it out loud would have made it real.
"Because I didn't know how," Layla said.
Maryam stared at her for a long moment. Her expression was hard, but something flickered behind her eyes—hurt, maybe, or confusion.
"You didn't know how to tell your own sister that you lost your virginity?"
Layla flinched.
The word hung in the air like smoke.
"I knew you'd react like this," she said, quietly.
"Like what? Like I care about you? Like I'm worried about you?"
"Like this. Like I'm a child who needs to be supervised."
Maryam's jaw tightened. "You're eighteen."
"I'm an adult."
"You're barely an adult. You're a college student who still calls Mom when you can't figure out how to use the washing machine."
"That's not—"
"And you're in my boyfriend's cousin's childhood bedroom, having unprotected sex—"
"We used a condom."
"The first time? In the car?"
Layla didn't answer.
"That's what I thought." Maryam pressed her fingers to her temples. "Do you even know him? Do you know anything about him?"
"I've been talking to him for weeks."
"Texting isn't talking."
"It's more than you think."
"It's not."
"Okay, fine." Layla's voice rose. "You're right. I don't know everything about him. But I know enough. I know he's kind. I know he's patient. I know he makes me feel like I'm not completely insane for once in my life."
Maryam blinked.
That last part had slipped out without permission. Layla hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't meant to let Maryam see the soft parts, the vulnerable parts, the pieces she kept buried under sarcasm and smirk.
But it was out now. No taking it back.
"Layla." Maryam's voice softened. "Why didn't you just tell me?"
"Because I was embarrassed."
"Embarrassed?"
"I'm always the one who messes things up. The one who says the wrong thing, does the wrong thing, embarrasses the family." Layla's eyes stung. "I didn't want you to look at me like you're looking at me right now."
Maryam sat on the edge of the bed. Not close enough to touch, but close.
"I'm not embarrassed," she said. "I'm scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Scared that you're going to get hurt. Scared that he's going to break your heart and you're going to pretend like it's fine because that's what you do. Scared that you won't let me help you because you never let anyone help you."
Layla didn't have a response to that.
The silence stretched. Outside, in the hallway, Daniel coughed. It was clearly a fake cough, clearly an eavesdropping cough, and both sisters looked at the door.
"I'm going to kill him," Maryam muttered.
"Get in line."
Maryam almost smiled. Almost.
"Okay," she said, standing. "Okay. We're not done talking about this, but we're done talking about it now. Mom wants to leave by noon and you need to wash your face before she sees you looking like you just had sex."
"Gee, thanks."
"Don't mention it."
She walked to the door and paused with her hand on the knob.
"Hey," she said, without turning around.
"Yeah?"
"I'm not going to tell anyone."
Layla's chest loosened. "Thank you."
"But if you're serious about him—" Maryam did turn then, her eyes sharp and serious. "Really serious—then you're going to have to figure out what you actually want. Because this—" She gestured at the room, the bed, the whole situation. "This isn't a foundation. This is a fling."
She left.
The door clicked shut behind her, and Layla sat alone in the bed that smelled like Omar and sex and cinnamon from the pantry, and she felt the tears finally spill over.
She wiped them away before they could fall.
Omar came out of the bathroom fully dressed. He must have crept in there while the sisters were talking, must have given them privacy, and she loved him a little for that.
He sat on the edge of the bed, in the same spot Maryam had occupied, and looked at her with an expression she couldn't read.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"She's not wrong."
"I know."
"About the foundation. About what this is."
"I know."
He reached over and took her hand. His thumb traced circles on her knuckles, slow and deliberate.
"I'm not a fling," he said.
"I know."
"Then what are we?"
She looked at him. At his stupidly handsome face, at his stupidly kind eyes, at the stupid way he was holding her hand like she might vanish if he let go.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I want to find out."
It wasn't a promise. It wasn't a declaration. It was just the truth—messy and uncertain and exactly where they were.
He nodded. Then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers.
"Okay," he said. "We'll find out together."
She closed her eyes.
And somewhere downstairs, Maryam was yelling at Daniel for eavesdropping, and Omar's mother was calling for him to come help with the luggage, and the whole house was shifting and moving beneath them like a living thing.
But right here, right now, there was just breath and skin and the promise of something unspoken.
Layla pulled back first.
"I need to shower," she said. "And pack. And figure out how to look my mother in the eye without confessing every sin I've ever committed."
"Ambitious."
"I'm nothing if not ambitious."She stood. Grabbed her clothes off the floor. Made it to the door before she heard him say her name.
"Layla."
She turned.
"I meant what I said," he told her. "All of it."
She nodded. Swallowed the lump in her throat. Left.
The hallway was empty. The shower was hot. The tears she'd been holding back finally spilled when the water hit her face, and she stood there under the spray with her hands pressed to the cool tile, and let herself fall apart.
Fifteen minutes later she was dressed. Twenty minutes later she was packed.
Beyond that, she had no plan at all.
The drive home was quieter than the ride up.
Maryam sat in the front with their mother, fielding questions about the wedding and the family and the food. Layla slumped in the back, her forehead against the window, watching the desert blur past.
Her phone buzzed.
It was Omar.
Leaving already?
She typed back. Just pulling out.
A pause. Then:
Where do we go from here?
She stared at the screen. At the question she didn't have an answer to. At the boy who'd taken her virginity in the backseat of his car and then ruined her for anyone else in a pantry.
I don't know, she typed. But I'm not going anywhere.
A long moment. Then three dots. Then:
Good.
She smiled despite herself.
The desert rolled by. The highway hummed. And Layla pressed her head to the glass and let herself feel something that might have been hope.
It was terrifying. It was everything.
She didn't look away.