Chapter 7: The Bathtub, the Begging, the Ring
The fire escape was rusted iron and peeling paint, a narrow ledge that jutted out from the side of Zayn's building like an afterthought. Amira sat with her legs dangling through the railing, her back against the warm brick, a cigarette burning between her fingers.
She didn't smoke. Had never smoked. But Zayn had left the pack on the windowsill, and she'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, and something about the way the night air felt against her skin made her want to do something with her hands.
The cigarette tasted like ash and regret.
She took one drag, coughed, and stubbed it out against the rusted metal.
Behind her, the window slid open.
"You're going to freeze out here."
She turned. Zayn was standing in the frame, his shirt already off, his hair damp from the shower he'd taken before they'd left her parents' house. Steam curled around him, drifting out into the cool night air.
"I'm fine."
"You're shivering."
"I'm not."
He raised an eyebrow.
She was shivering. Had been for the last ten minutes, ever since she'd climbed through the window and settled herself on the fire escape. The night had turned colder than she'd expected. The city lights blurred in the distance, soft and orange, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.
"Come inside," he said.
"I'm not done thinking."
"Think inside."
She looked at him.
He looked back.
Then he reached through the window and caught her wrist. Gently. Firmly. The way he always did—like he knew exactly how much pressure she could take and never gave her more.
"Amira."
She let him pull her through.
The bathroom was small and cramped, the kind of bathroom that had been built in the 1940s and never updated. The tiles were cracked. The sink was porcelain, stained yellow at the drain. A candle flickered on the edge of the tub—his father's old cologne, half-burned, filling the air with something that smelled like lavender and woodsmoke and memory.
The tub was full.
Bubbles spilled over the rim, catching the candlelight like tiny iridescent planets.
"You drew me a bath," she said.
"I drew us a bath."
She looked at him.
He was already undoing the buttons of her shirt.
"Zayn—"
"Shut up."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were going to say something stupid. Like 'you don't have to do this' or 'I'm fine' or 'I can take care of myself.'" He slid the shirt off her shoulders. It pooled on the tile floor. "I know you can take care of yourself. That's not the point."
"What's the point?"
He kissed her shoulder.
"The point is I want to."
She let him undress her.
The bra came off. The jeans. The underwear. Each piece of clothing hit the floor with a soft whisper, and each inch of exposed skin met the cool air, and she felt herself shrinking, expanding, cracking open.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm allowed to stare." He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his own pants. "I'm your fiancé."
"That's not—"
"It's absolutely a legal right. I checked."
She laughed despite herself.
He kicked off his pants. Then his boxers. Then he stepped past her, into the tub, and sank down with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
The water sloshed. The bubbles rose. He held out his hand.
"Come here."
She took it.
The water was hot. Almost too hot. It stung her skin as she stepped in, and she gasped, and he pulled her down between his legs, her back against his chest, her head against his shoulder.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
His hands found her shoulders.
His thumbs pressed into the knots at the base of her neck—slow, deliberate, working out the tension that had been living there for weeks. Months. Years.
She closed her eyes.
"Your shoulders are fucked," he said.
"I know."
"Like, actually fucked. There's a knot here the size of a golf ball."
"I said I know."
He worked it anyway. Slow. Relentless. His fingers dug into the muscle, and she winced, and he didn't stop, and eventually something loosened, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let go."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
She laughed. It came out soft and broken.
He kissed the back of her neck.
"You were like this at the bonfire too," he said.
She stiffened.
"What?"
"Your shoulders. The way you held yourself. Like you were bracing for something." His thumbs kept moving. "I watched you all night. Five years since I'd seen you, and I couldn't stop watching you."
She didn't say anything.
"You were sitting on the other side of the fire. In that blue dress. Hair pulled back. Looking at your phone every two seconds." His voice dropped. "And all I could think about was dragging you behind the fig tree and fucking you against the trunk."
Her breath caught.
"Zayn—"
"I'm serious." His hands slid down her arms. "I sat there for three hours, hard as a rock, watching you bite your lip and pretend you weren't looking at me."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." He bit her earlobe. "You looked at me six times. I counted."
She turned her head.
"You counted?"
"I count everything when it comes to you." His lips brushed her jaw. "I've been jerking off to the memory of your mouth for five years. The way it curves when you smile. The way you bite your bottom lip when you're nervous. The way you looked at me that summer before you disappeared."
Her face burned.
"That's—you're disgusting."
"I know."
"That's really disgusting."
"I know." His hand slid under the water. Found her hip. "But you're engaged to me now, so you're stuck with it."
She laughed again.
He didn't.
His fingers traced the curve of her hip. Slow. Deliberate. She felt the ring on her finger—still cold, still new—and something in her chest tightened.
"You know what this does to me?" he said.
"What?"
"The ring." He tapped it. "Every time I see it, my dick aches. Because it means you're mine. Really mine. Not sneaking around behind your parents' backs. Not hiding in my car. Mine."
Her throat was dry.
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being honest." His hand slid lower. "I've spent five years wanting you. Five years of watching you from a distance, of wondering what you were doing, of jerking off to the memory of your laugh. And now you're here. In my tub. Wearing my ring."
She couldn't breathe.
"And I'm going to fuck you so hard tonight that you forget your own name."
She laughed. It came out shaky. "You're terrible."
"I'm the worst." His fingers found her cunt under the water. "The absolute worst."
She gasped.
He didn't move.
Just held his hand there—cupping her, warm and still—while his other arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her tighter against his chest.
"You're wet," he said.
"It's the bath."
"It's not the bath."
"It's definitely the bath."
"It's not." He slid one finger between her folds. Slow. Teasing. "You're wet because I've been talking about fucking you, and you like it."
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
He slid the finger inside her.
She arched against him. Her head fell back against his shoulder. Her mouth opened, and nothing came out.
"See?" he murmured. "So fucking wet for me."
"Zayn—"
"Shh." He added a second finger. "Just relax. Let me take care of you."
She didn't relax. She couldn't. Her entire body was a live wire, every nerve ending firing at once, and he was moving his fingers inside her—slow, curling, hitting something that made her vision white out at the edges.
"You know what I'm going to do after the wedding?" he said.
She shook her head.
"First, I'm going to fuck you in our bed. Properly. Missionary. So I can watch your face when you come." He pumped his fingers faster. "Then I'm going to flip you over and eat you out until you beg me to stop. Then I'm going to fuck you from behind while you're still shaking, and I'm not going to let you come until you say my name."
Her hips bucked.
"Then I'm going to come inside you." His thumb found her clit. "Deep. So deep you'll feel it for days."
"Zayn—"
"And then I'm going to do it again. And again. Until you're pregnant." He bit her shoulder. "That's the plan. That's always been the plan."
She was shaking.
Her hands gripped the edge of the tub. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. The water sloshed around them, bubbles dissolving into froth, and she was so close—so close—and then he stopped.
She whimpered.
"Not yet," he said.
"Please—"
"Not yet." He pulled his fingers out. Slowly. Deliberately. She felt every inch of the withdrawal like a loss. "I want to fuck you properly."
He stood up.
Water cascaded off him, hot and slick, and she barely had time to register what was happening before he was pulling her up too—her legs unsteady, her body trembling—and bending her over the edge of the tub.
Her hands found the tile. Cold. Hard. She braced herself against it, her ass in the air, water and bubbles sliding down her thighs.
"This is what I wanted to do at the bonfire," he said.
His hand was in her wet hair.
He pulled her head back.
"This exact position. You bent over the picnic table. Your hands tied behind your back."
She moaned.
"One hand in your hair. My cock in your cunt. The whole family twenty feet away, completely oblivious."
She couldn't speak.
She couldn't think.
He'd positioned his cock at her entrance—hot, hard, slick with bathwater—and she felt it there, waiting, and then he pushed inside her.
She cried out.
One hand fisted in her hair.
The other gripping her hip.
He went deeper than he'd ever been. Bottomed out. Held himself there, buried to the hilt, and she felt so full she couldn't breathe.
"You're the filthiest little wife I've ever met," he growled.
She laughed—a broken, desperate sound.
"You like this. You like being called that. You like being treated like a slut."
"I—"
"Admit it."
She couldn't.
He pulled out. Rammed back in. The impact sent sparks across her vision.
"Say you like it."
"I—"
He did it again.
"Say it."
"I like it." Her voice cracked. "I like it. I like being your slut."
"That's my girl."
He fucked her.
Hard. Fast. Relentless. Each thrust sent water splashing over the edge of the tub, puddling on the bathroom floor. The candle flickered. The mirror fogged. His hand stayed tangled in her hair, yanking her head back, and his other hand gripped her hips hard enough to bruise.
"You're never leaving me," he said.
"Yes."
"You're going to stay." Thrust. "In this apartment." Thrust. "In this bed." Thrust. "With my ring on your finger." Thrust. "And my come inside you."
"Yes—"
"You're going to bear my children. Not barefoot because you don't like barefoot. But screaming my name on the floor of our bedroom while I'm inside you. Screaming my name when you come. Loud. Over and over until you can't scream anymore."
She was going to come.
First time—just from the roughness of it.
The pull of his hands in her hair. The stretch of her cunt around his cock. The sheer, dizzying thrill of being handled like this. She came with a strangled cry, her legs buckling against the edge of the tub, her fingers scrabbling at the wet tile.
He didn't pause.
Didn't slow down.
Kept fucking her, right through it, while she shook and moaned and tried to remember how to breathe. The overstimulation was almost too much—almost. But he knew. He always knew just how far he could push her—and instead of lightning, the second one came slower and sweeter, rolling up from her toes while he whispered filth into her ear and told her she was his, she was his, she was his, and she came again with his name on her lips.
Then he finished.
Deep inside her, with a growl that made the candle shake, and his hand tightening in her hair, and his hips stuttering forward like he was trying to sink into her bones.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The water was cooling. The bubbles had all but dissolved. His hand loosened in her hair. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against him, and she slumped into his chest, boneless and trembling.
"That," he said, "was only the beginning."
She laughed. Her whole body was still shaking. The ring on her finger — warm, now, for the first time.
"I know you meant every word."
He didn't speak—just pressed his mouth to her shoulder, soft and lingering, like the kiss was the answer.
She turned around in his arms.
Faced him.
Kissed him.
Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that didn't need to prove anything.
Then she pulled back.
"Next month," she said.
He looked at her. His face was flushed, his hair a mess, his eyes half-lidded and dazed. He looked wrecked.
"Next month," he agreed.
"We're going to have a wedding."
"We are."
"With flower arrangements done by my great-aunt, who lost half her hearing last year."
"Wouldn't be a wedding without her."
"And my uncle Karim—" She stopped. Swallowed. "My cousin Karim. He'll be there."
Zayn watched her. Didn't flinch at the name. Didn't fill the space.
"I know," he said. "And I'll be right beside you."
Amira frowned. "I wasn't going to—"
"I know you weren't." He touched her wedding ring. "But I know what it costs you to say that name. I'm just letting you know I know."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist. Rough. Impatient.
God. She hated when she did that.
"The wedding's going to be a disaster."
"Yep."
"Your mother will cry the entire time."
"Probably."
"My mother will run out of tissues before the ceremony even starts. She inhales them."
"I already bought her a bulk pack."
She pulled back. Looked at him.
"You bought my mother tissues?"
"She's sensitive. It's sweet." He shrugged. "Also, I thought it might help."
Amira stared at him for a moment. Then she started laughing. Really laughing. Head thrown back, eyes bright, the kind of laugh that came from somewhere deep and real.
"Zayn," she said.
"Yeah?"
"You're the strangest man I've ever met."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I know."
She splashed him.
He splashed her back.
They stayed in the tub until the water went cold, until the candle burned down to nothing, until the night pressed dark and heavy against the window. And when they finally stumbled out—wet, exhausted, holding onto each other for balance—Zayn wrapped her in his robe, and pulled her toward the bedroom, and didn't let go until they were both asleep.
The alarm went off at six.
Amira woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee.
Zayn was already up. She could hear him in the kitchen—the clink of mugs, the hiss of the espresso machine, the low hum of music from his phone.
She lay there for a moment, watching the dust motes dance in the light, and touched her ring.
It was real.
All of it was real.
She got up.
Wrapped herself in his robe.
Found him in the kitchen.
He was standing at the counter, two mugs in front of him, his hair still wet from the shower. He'd put on fresh clothes—jeans and a gray t-shirt—and he looked up when she came in.
"Morning."
"Morning."
"Sleep okay?"
"Yeah." She took the mug he offered. "You?"
"I dreamed about you."
She laughed. "Of course you did."
"You were wearing a ridiculous hat."
"What kind of hat?"
"A fancy one." He grinned. "Like the kind the queen wears."
She sipped her coffee. "Is that your kink?"
"I don't know what my kink is yet. I'm still discovering it." He leaned against the counter. "Last night was pretty informative."
She choked.
He laughed.
They drank their coffee in comfortable silence for a while.
Then he set his mug down and looked at her.
"Your mother called."
Amira froze.
"When?"
"Twenty minutes ago."
"What did she say?"
"She wants to meet for lunch. Today. Both of us." He paused. "And she said she's bringing your aunt."
Amira closed her eyes.
"This is going to be a nightmare."
"Probably."
"She's going to interrogate you for three hours."
"I know."
"She's going to ask about your job. Your salary. Your plans for the future."
"I know."
"She's going to—"
"Amira." He reached across the counter. Took her hand. "I know."
She looked at him.
He looked back.
"I've spent five years wanting you," he said. "I can handle your aunt."
She laughed despite herself.
"You're insane."
"Maybe." He squeezed her fingers. "But I'm your insane."
She kissed him.
When she pulled back, he was smiling.
"Let's go see her," he said. "Let's answer every question. Let's drink her tea and eat her cookies and tell her exactly what our future looks like. Because this is real now. No more hiding."
"No more hiding," she repeated.
"Except from Karim."
She froze.
"Karim?"
"Your cousin." He watched her. "We should probably be careful. There's a whole side of the family you're not out to yet, and the funeral isn't the place to start."
The word landed heavy between them. Amira hadn't thought about the funeral. Hadn't let herself. Her grandmother — the one relative who'd never judged her, who'd held her hand through the worst of her childhood — had died in her sleep three days after Amira got back from the clinic. They'd only told her last week. She was still learning how to carry it.
"Yeah," she whispered. "We'll be careful."
He nodded.
He didn't push.
He never pushed.
He just stood there, holding her hand, and let her decide when to take the next step.
She took a breath.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go meet my aunt."
He smiled.
"You sure?"
"No." She grabbed her coat. "But I'm going anyway."
They left the coffee to cool on the counter.
They left the coffee to cool on the counter.
Three years collapsed into a single breath — the way time does when you're not looking. One day you're kneeling on a bathroom floor with a ring, the next you're standing in a limestone kitchen in the hills above Los Angeles, watching your husband slice mangoes while the Pacific haze bleeds gold through the window.
Amira pressed her palm flat against the counter. Cool stone. She needed something solid.
The test was still in her pocket. Two lines. She'd checked it four times. Then a fifth, because checking four times felt like a joke.
"Hey." Zayn glanced up from the cutting board. "You okay? You've been standing there for like ten minutes."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
She was. She'd been lying for six days—ever since the nausea started, ever since she'd done the math on the calendar and felt her stomach drop into a different kind of freefall. Six days of holding it in. Six days of sitting across from him at dinner and smiling and saying nothing.
He set the knife down.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing."
He didn't move. Didn't blink. He just watched her with that same quiet patience from the first night on the porch — the kind that didn't push, didn't beg, just waited until the truth got tired of hiding.
She broke first.
She always broke first.
"Cupboard. Behind the rice."
He opened it. Found the box. Turned it over in his hands. He stood there for a long moment without speaking, reading the label, and she watched his shoulders change — the way they rose, the way they held.
"Amira."
"I took it this morning."
He turned. His face was doing something complicated, something she couldn't name yet. She'd spent twenty years learning to read other people's faces, and she still couldn't read his when it mattered most.
"Don't you dare say something stupid," she said.
"I wasn't going to."
"You were. You were about to tell me it's okay, or that we'll figure it out." Her voice cracked. She hated that it cracked. "I finished the Robles Center last month."
"I know."
"I closed the Series B."
"I know."
"I have three projects breaking ground before December and I—" She stopped. Pressed her hand to her mouth. The nausea wasn't the reason. "I can't even say it out loud."
Zayn set the box on the counter.
He crossed the kitchen in four steps.
He took her face in both hands, and his thumbs caught the tears before they fell, and he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"I love you," he said.
"That's not—"
"I love you, and you don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to tell me." He kissed her forehead. "That's all. That's it."
She laughed. It came out wet.
"You're supposed to say something normal. Like 'oh no' or 'what are we going to do.'"
"Why would I say that."
"Because we're supposed to be—" She gestured around the kitchen, the house, the view, the whole stupid life they'd built. "Careful. Busy. My mother's already leaving voicemails about the Dubai tower. I have deadlines. You have the clinic opening in Pasadena."
"Mm." He slid his hands down her arms. "You know what I did three years ago on the fire escape?"
"Zayn—"
"I sat in a bathtub and told you exactly what I wanted." His mouth found her jaw. "I said I was going to fuck you until you were pregnant and keep you that way until we're both old. You called me disgusting."
"I meant it."
"You laughed."
She felt the corner of her mouth pull up. "I did laugh."
"Then don't stand in my kitchen and pretend this is a problem." His hands slid to her hips. "It was never a problem. It was the whole point."
She couldn't think of a single thing to say.
So she kissed him.
Not soft. Not cautious. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and pulled, and his hands tightened, and the mangoes stayed on the cutting board, forgotten.
"Say it," he said against her mouth.
"Say what."
"The thing you couldn't say." He gripped the small of her back. "Look at me and say it."
She pulled back an inch. Looked at him. The morning light cut across his jaw. He still looked like the boy on the porch, just with a few more lines around his eyes and a wedding band that matched hers.
"I'm pregnant," she said.
His whole face opened.
He didn't do anything dramatic. No shouting. No falling to his knees. He just smiled — slow and wide and stupid — and she felt something in her chest unlock that she'd been holding shut for six days.
"You're pregnant," he repeated.
"Yes."
"You're pregnant."
"You said that."
"I'm going to say it a hundred more times." He kissed her. Then her nose. Then her forehead. "You're pregnant."
She started laughing. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm a doctor. I'm literally diagnosing you right now."
"That's not how diagnoses work."
He lifted her onto the counter. Mango juice and limestone and the cool edge of the sink pressed into her back. He settled between her thighs, one palm flat on her stomach, and she felt him — all of him — through his jeans.
"Knowing you," he said, mouth on her neck, "you already have a spreadsheet."
"I have three spreadsheets."
"Of course you do."
"One for the timeline. One for finances. One for—" She stopped, because his hand had slid under her shirt. "Zayn."
"Yeah."
"I was still explaining."
"You can explain later."
"I'm serious—"
"I'm serious too." He pulled the shirt over her head. Tossed it somewhere behind him. "Your husband just found out his wife is carrying his child. This is a moment. I'm going to make it a moment."
She grabbed a fistful of his hair.
"Then stop talking and do it."
Something shifted in his face. That was the thing about Zayn — the softness could flip in a second, like a switch behind his eyes. One minute he was kissing her forehead. The next his mouth was on her collarbone, his teeth skimming skin, and his hands were dragging her shorts down her thighs.
She kicked them off.
He got rid of his shirt. Then his jeans. Then he was back — right there — and she felt his cock press hard against her through the last layer of fabric between them.
"Off," she said.
"You want me to beg?"
"I want you to stop being you for five seconds."
He laughed, low, and yanked her underwear down. Then his. Then there was nothing between them, just skin and heat and the smell of mangoes going soft on the counter beside them.
He slid two fingers into her.
She gasped and bowed into him.
"You're always ready," he said. "Three years and you're still always—"
"Shut up."
"Make me."
She pulled him in by the back of the neck and bit his lower lip. He groaned and pushed his fingers deeper, curling them, hitting the spot that made her whole body twitch.
"Fuck," she breathed.
"See, that's the problem." He worked her slow and steady. "When you came back from Barcelona last month. When you walked in the door at midnight with your hair down and that black dress and told me the pitch went well. I wanted to do this. Right then. On the floor."
"You did not."
"I jerked off in the guest bathroom while you were unpacking."
She laughed — a real laugh — and it broke into a moan halfway through, because he'd added a third finger and her hips had started moving on their own.
"You're gross."
"I'm devoted."
"You're—" She stopped. Couldn't finish. Her head fell back against the cabinet and her thighs tightened around his wrist.
He pulled his fingers out.
She made a sound that was not dignified.
"Not yet," he said.
"I hate you."
"I know." He lined himself up. "But here's the thing, Amira. Now that you're pregnant — and I mean actually pregnant, not just fucking — I'm not going to go easy on you."
"Who said anything about easy."
He pushed in.
Not slow. Not careful. One long stroke that filled her all the way and made her forget which room they were in, which city, which year.
She gripped the counter edge.
He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in.
"Fuck," she said again.
"Yeah." He set a rhythm — hard, deliberate, the kind of rhythm that wasn't looking for endurance. "You're going to keep working. You're going to keep flying to Dubai and Rio and wherever else they send you. You're going to keep being the smartest person in every room."
"Zayn—"
"But every time you come home, I'm going to do this." He drove in deeper. "Right up until the doctor says stop. And after."
She was going to come already. Three years and this man still had the exact map of her body memorized.
"You're going to be a father," she said. Half a moan. Half a dare.
"I'm going to be a father," he said, and something in his voice cracked the rhythm — just for a second — before he found it again. "With you. Our kid. Our house. Our life."
She came.
Hard and fast, with her back arched and both hands slammed into the countertop, and he didn't stop, didn't slow, didn't do anything except watch her face like he was memorizing it.
When she came down, he was still inside her.
"Hey," he said.
"What."
"I love you. More than anything. More than the clinic, more than the house, more than any of it." He pressed his forehead to hers. "But if you ever wait six days to tell me something like that again, I'm going to lose my mind."
Her eyes stung.
"I know."
"Do you actually know, or are you just saying that."
She pulled him in and kissed him — slower this time, softer, an apology and a promise at once.
"Both," she said.
He finished with a low growl and one hand tangled in her hair, and when it was over, he didn't pull away. He just held her there on the counter, both of them slick with sweat, mangoes going brown beside them, the Pacific haze dimming outside the window.
"I'm going to be a father," he whispered into her shoulder.
"Yeah," she said.
She never had gotten used to it — how something could be terrifying and enormous and impossibly good at the same time. Maybe that was the whole of it. Maybe that was the marriage.
She reached for her phone.
"Do you know what time my mother gets up?" she asked.
"Five. Six on Fridays."
"It's a Friday."
"It's a Friday."
Amira dialed.
Her mother picked up on the second ring.
Amira slid off the counter, turned toward the window, and wrapped one of Zayn's arm across her chest as he held her from behind — her cheek settling against the solid warmth of his shoulder. The mango on the lcutting board had gone brown at the edges. Neither of them had noticed.