Chapter 2: His Heartbeat, Her Smile
The silence stretched between them like a living thing. Amira lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her body still humming with the aftermath of what had just happened. The sheets were tangled around her legs, damp in places she didn't want to think about. Between her thighs, a dull ache pulsed with every heartbeat—a constant reminder of what she'd just endured.
Tariq's breathing had slowed beside her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the faint musk of his skin mixed with the jasmine that hung heavy in the air. He hadn't touched her since he'd rolled off. Hadn't spoken. Just lay there in the darkness, as still as a statue.
She wondered if he was disappointed.
The thought burrowed into her chest like a splinter. She'd done what was expected of her. She'd let him take what he needed. But she hadn't enjoyed it—hadn't even pretended to. What if that wasn't enough? What if he expected more?
What if he wanted a wife who actually wanted him?
The ceiling was elaborately painted, she noticed. Gold leaf and intricate geometric patterns that caught the faint moonlight filtering through the lattice windows. She traced the lines with her eyes, trying to distract herself from the anxiety coiling in her stomach.
Nothing happened.
They just lay there, two strangers sharing a bed, the weight of their new reality pressing down on both of them.
Amira's mother had told her this would be enough. That her body would learn to accept what her mind resisted. That the pain would fade and something else would take its place—something softer, warmer, something that made the act bearable.
But all she felt was empty.
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye before she could stop it. She turned her face away from Tariq, pressing her cheek into the pillow, hoping he wouldn't notice. She didn't want him to see her cry. Not now. Not after everything.
But the pillowcase was damp already—from her earlier screams, she realized with a flush of shame. The screams she'd tried so hard to swallow. The ones that had still escaped despite her best efforts.
She remembered the way he'd whispered to her. It's okay. You're okay. Just breathe.
His voice had been steady even then. Calm. Like he wasn't buried inside a woman who was crying beneath him, her body fighting his with every fiber of its being.
She'd never felt more exposed in her life than she had in that moment. Naked, vulnerable, split open in more ways than one. And yet he'd looked at her like she was something worth being gentle with. Like the sounds she made actually mattered to him.
That was strange, wasn't it? To care about a woman's pain when tradition said her comfort was irrelevant? When every older woman she'd ever spoken to had described the wedding night as something to survive rather than something to enjoy?
Amira had never questioned that narrative before. Had never had reason to. But lying here now, in the aftermath of blood and tears and awkward silences, she was starting to wonder if maybe there was another way.
Maybe.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to look at him.
He was staring at the ceiling too. His profile was sharp in the dim light—strong nose, defined jaw, lips pressed into a thin line. There was tension in his jaw. Tension in his shoulders. He looked like a man holding himself back from something.
From her, probably.
The realization hit her like a weight to the chest. He was waiting. Waiting for her to move first, to give some sign that she was okay, that she didn't hate him for what he'd just done. He was giving her space because he thought she needed it.
And maybe she did.
But maybe what she needed more than space was comfort.
The thought was terrifying. Intimate. The kind of thing a wife should want from her husband, but that Amira had never imagined wanting from anyone. She'd never been touched gently. Had never been held or soothed or told that her feelings mattered.
Her father was kind, in his own way, but distant. Her mother was practical, not affectionate. Siblings came and went without fanfare. Amira had grown up surrounded by people and yet somehow alone, learning early that her body was not her own—that it belonged to her family, then to her husband, then to whatever children she would one day bear.
No one had ever asked what she wanted.
No one except Tariq, when he'd asked if he could touch her.
She remembered that moment. Remembered the surprise that had rippled through her when he'd waited for permission. When he'd looked at her with those dark eyes and asked a question no one had ever thought to ask before.
Can I touch you?
Such a small thing. Such a big thing.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Amira moved.
She turned onto her side, facing him. The sheets rustled beneath her. The movement sent a jolt of pain through her lower body—sharper than she'd expected—and she winced, her breath catching in her throat.
Tariq's head snapped toward her immediately.
"Are you okay?" His voice was rough, worried. He was already propping himself up on one elbow, reaching toward her. "Did I hurt you? I'm sorry, I tried to—"
"Stop."
The word came out sharper than she meant it to. He froze, hand suspended in the air between them.
Amira swallowed hard. Her cheeks were burning again. Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it.
"I'm fine," she said. "It's just... sore."
He nodded slowly. His hand dropped back to the mattress. "That's normal. I think. That's what they say, anyway."
"They?"
"The married men I work with." A faint smile touched his lips. "They had a lot of advice. Most of it terrible."
She almost laughed. Almost. The sound caught in her throat and came out as something between a wheeze and a sob, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle it.
"Sorry," she mumbled. "I don't—this is—"
"Weird?"
"Yes."
He nodded again. "I know. I keep thinking I should have prepared better. Read something, maybe. Asked more questions. But everyone just says you'll figure it out, and then you don't, and then you're here, doing this, and it's..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the space between them.
"Awkward."
"Exactly." He looked at her then, really looked at her, and something in his expression softened. "I didn't hurt you too badly, did I?"
The question was honest. Vulnerable, even. She could see the worry in his eyes, the guilt he was trying to hide.
"It hurt," she admitted, because there was no point in lying. "But I think that's normal too."
"I hope so." He paused. "I tried to be careful."
"You were."
"I don't think I was. Not careful enough. You were crying."
The words hung between them like an accusation. Amira felt her throat tighten.
"I didn't mean to cry."
"I know." His voice was quiet. "I just... I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to stop. But I didn't want to keep going. And everything I read said the first time is like that, that it's just something you have to get through, but I kept thinking—"
He stopped. Pressed his lips together. Looked away.
"You kept thinking what?"
He was silent for a long moment. Then: "I kept thinking that there had to be a better way. And I didn't know what it was. And I still don't."
The confession hit her harder than she expected. Not because it was profound, but because it was honest. Because he was admitting—freely, without prompting—that he didn't know what he was doing either.
Somehow, that made her feel less alone.
She studied his face in the darkness. The sharp lines of his profile. The tension in his jaw. The way his hands lay still and open on the sheets, not reaching for her, not demanding anything.
She thought about her mother's words. Close your eyes. Endure. It will be over quickly.
But it hadn't been quick. And she hadn't been able to close her eyes. And the endurance had left her feeling hollowed out and strange, like a shell of herself, like something had been taken that she couldn't quite name.
But he was still here. Still asking. Still worried.
And maybe that meant something.
Before she could overthink it, Amira moved again.
She turned fully onto her side and scooted closer to him, closing the distance between them inch by inch. Her hip brushed his. Her arm pressed against his. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin sheet, the solid weight of his body beside hers.
Tariq went very still.
"What are you—"
"Shh."
She didn't know what she was doing. Only that she needed to be closer. That she couldn't stay on her side of the bed, alone with her thoughts and her pain and her confusion, for a single moment longer.
She laid her head on his chest.
His skin was warm and salty and alive beneath her cheek. She could hear his heartbeat—a steady, rhythmic thrum that pulsed against her ear like a second echo of her own pulse. His chest rose and fell with each breath, slow and even, though she could feel the tension in his muscles beneath the surface.
He didn't move.
For a terrible moment, she thought she'd made a mistake. That she'd misjudged him, misread the situation, crossed a line she wasn't supposed to cross. She started to pull away—
And then his arms came up around her.
Slowly. Carefully. Like she was something fragile, something that might break if he held too tight. His hand settled on her back, warm against the curve of her spine. His other arm curled around her shoulders, drawing her closer.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
She nodded against his chest.
His fingers traced small circles on her back. Gentle. Rhythmic. The motion was soothing in a way she couldn't explain.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I know."
"Are you cold?"
"No."
She wasn't cold. She was nervous. Terrified, actually. Of what this meant, of what he might think, of what might happen next. But beneath the fear, something else was stirring. Something warm and tentative and fragile.
It felt like hope.
She didn't know what she was hoping for, exactly. Maybe just that this—whatever this was—could be different from what she'd expected. That marriage didn't have to be just duty and endurance and closing her eyes until it was over. That maybe, somehow, there could be more.
"You were right," she said into his skin. "What you said earlier."
"Which part?"
"That we'll figure it out." She closed her eyes. "Together."
His hand stilled on her back. She felt him take a breath.
"You mean that?"
She thought about it. Really thought about it. She thought about everything she'd been taught about marriage, about the things her mother had told her, about the way the older women had whispered and laughed behind their hands. She thought about duty and obligation and the weight of expectation that had pressed down on her since the day she'd been born.
It all felt so heavy.
But Tariq's arms around her felt steady. His heartbeat against her ear felt real. And the way he'd asked—again and again and again—if she was okay, if this was okay, if she wanted to stop—none of that felt like duty. None of that felt like obligation. None of that felt like something she'd been taught to expect.
It just felt like him.
And maybe that was enough to start with.
"I mean it," she said.
He didn't respond right away. Just held her, his breath warm against her hair, his fingers tracing patterns on her back. And when he finally spoke, his voice was softer than she'd ever heard it.
"Okay," he said. "Together."
Amira felt something loosen in her chest—a knot she hadn't even realized she'd been carrying. It wasn't a solution. It wasn't a resolution. She was still sore, still confused, still uncertain about what the future held. But she was here. She was in his arms. And he was holding her like she mattered.
She smiled.
It was a small thing—just a slight curve of her lips against his skin. He wouldn't see it. She was hidden against his chest, her face pressed into the warmth of his body, and no one could see the tiny, tentative expression that had found its way onto her face.
But it was hers.
The first real smile she'd had all night.
Tariq's hand kept moving on her back, slow and steady. She felt his heartbeat beneath her ear, steady and strong. The jasmine scent had settled into something softer now, something almost comforting.
She didn't know what came next. Didn't know how to be a wife, didn't know how to navigate the tangled mess of expectations and desires and fears that lay ahead of her. Didn't know if she would ever learn to want what he needed from her.
But she was here.
And for the first time since the door had closed behind them, she wasn't afraid.
Outside the window, a car passed on the street below—headlights sweeping briefly across the ceiling before fading back into darkness. Amira counted the rhythm of his heartbeat and let her eyes drift closed.
She was exhausted. Every muscle in her body ached. The pain between her thighs had dulled to a persistent throb, bearable but present. Sleep was pulling at her, soft and heavy and irresistible.
But she didn't want to sleep. Not yet.
"You should rest," Tariq murmured. "You've had a long day."
"So have you."
"I'm fine."
"Liar."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Maybe."
She tilted her head up to look at him. His face was close—closer than she'd expected. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight stubble beginning to shadow his jaw.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted.
"Neither do I."
"That's not very reassuring."
He smiled. A real smile, this time, that softened the hard lines of his face. "I know."
She laid her head back down on his chest. His arms tightened around her, just a little, just enough to let her know he was still there.
"Stay," she whispered.
"I'm not going anywhere."
And he wasn't. She could feel it in the steady weight of his arms, the rhythm of his breathing, the way his body curved around hers like a shelter. Whatever came next—whatever trials and awkwardness and uncertainty awaited them—he would be here.
Maybe that was everything.
Maybe that was enough.
Amira closed her eyes and let herself drift, held safe in the arms of a man she barely knew, but who had already surprised her in ways she hadn't expected. The jasmine scent wrapped around her like a blanket. The moonlight painted silver stripes across the sheets.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice whispered that this—right here, right now—was the beginning of something. Something unexpected. Something she didn't have a name for yet.
Something like hope.
Something like hope.
She woke to warmth.
Not the oppressive heat of Damascus in late summer, but something softer. A body beside hers, radiating a steady, even heat that had seeped into the sheets overnight. An arm draped loosely over her waist. Breath stirring the hair at the nape of her neck.
For a disorienting moment, Amira didn't know where she was.
Then memory flooded back. The ceremony. The reception. The door clicking shut. The pain. The tears. The way he'd held her afterward, like she was something worth holding.
Her eyes opened.
Morning light filtered through the lattice windows, painting geometric patterns across the ceiling. Dust motes danced in the golden beams. Somewhere in the distance, a muezzin called the faithful to prayer—faint, melodic, familiar.
She should get up. Should pray. Should start the day like a proper wife, whatever that meant.
But Tariq's arm was heavy on her waist, and his breathing was slow and even, and she didn't want to move. Didn't want to break the strange, fragile peace that had settled over the room while they slept.
She turned her head, carefully, just enough to look at him.
He was still asleep.
His face was relaxed in a way she hadn't seen before—the tension gone from his jaw, the worry smoothed from his brow. His lips were slightly parted. His hair had fallen across his forehead in dark, tangled waves.
He looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the composed stranger she'd married and more like a boy who'd fallen asleep mid-thought.
The thought made something shift in her chest. Something warm. Something she didn't have a name for.
She studied him for a long moment. The curve of his cheekbone. The slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his lashes lay dark against his skin.
He wasn't what she'd expected.
She'd expected indifference. Had prepared herself for a husband who would take what he wanted and roll away without a word. Had steeled herself for coldness, for the kind of detached efficiency that her mother had described in hushed, practical tones.
Instead, he'd asked permission. He'd whispered reassurances. He'd held her when she cried.
And then, when she'd laid her head on his chest, he hadn't pushed for more. Hadn't tried to turn her comfort into something else. Had just... held her. Like that was enough.
Maybe it was.
She shifted slightly, testing the boundaries of his embrace. Her body protested—a dull ache between her thighs, a tenderness in muscles she hadn't known existed. The pain was different now. Less sharp. More like a bruise, deep and persistent.
But bearable.
Tariq stirred. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, and she felt his breath catch against her hair.
"You're awake," he mumbled. His voice was rough with sleep.
"So are you."
"Barely." He yawned, jaw cracking. "What time is it?"
She glanced toward the window. "Early. The sun's barely up."
He groaned and buried his face in her hair. "Five more minutes."
"You have prayers."
"I know."
"Then you should get up."
"I know."
He didn't move. Neither did she.
They lay there for a long moment, tangled together in the rumpled sheets, the morning light growing brighter by degrees. Amira could hear birds outside—sparrows, maybe, or some other small creature chirping in the courtyard below. The sounds of the city were waking up around them. Cars honking. Shopkeepers opening their doors. Life continuing as if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
"Amira."
"Hmm?"
"Are you okay?"
The question again. He'd asked it last night, too, in the darkness after everything was over. She'd said she didn't know then. Wasn't sure she knew now, either.
But she understood something she hadn't understood before. He wasn't asking to be polite. Wasn't asking because he thought he should. He was asking because he actually wanted to know.
"I'm sore," she admitted.
He winced. "That bad?"
"Not... terrible." She paused, considering. "Different."
"Different how?"
She thought about it. Tried to find words for the strange mix of sensations that had settled into her body overnight. The tenderness. The ache. The way certain muscles still felt stretched and strange.
"Sore," she said again. "But also... I don't know. Like my body is different now. Like it's not quite mine yet."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I think I understand."
"Do you?"
"Not exactly." He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at her. "But I think... I don't know. I feel different too. Like something changed last night, and I can't figure out what."
She met his eyes. Brown and warm and still a little sleepy. There was no expectation in them. No demand. Just a question, waiting.
"I need to shower," she said.
The words came out abruptly, breaking the spell of the moment. Tariq blinked.
"Okay."
"I mean—" She hesitated. Chewed on her lower lip. "I was going to shower. And I thought... maybe..."
She trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. What was she even suggesting? This wasn't something wives did. Wasn't something she'd ever heard of, outside of whispered jokes between women who'd been married for years.
"What?" Tariq prompted.
She took a breath.
"Do you want to join me?"
The question hung in the air between them. Tariq's eyebrows shot up.
"Join you?"
"In the shower." She could feel her cheeks burning. "I thought maybe... it might help."
"Help with what?"
She wanted to look away. Wanted to hide her face in the pillow and pretend she hadn't said anything. But she forced herself to hold his gaze.
"Help us be closer," she said. "Less shy. With each other."
He was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that she started to regret everything, started to formulate an apology, started to plan her escape from this conversation—
"Are you sure?"
The question caught her off guard. "What?"
"Are you sure that's what you want?" He was watching her carefully, his expression unreadable. "Because we don't have to. We don't have to do anything you're not ready for."
She thought about it. Really thought about it.
Before last night, the idea of being naked in front of anyone—even her husband—had filled her with dread. She'd been raised on modesty, on covering, on making herself small and invisible and proper. The idea of standing in a shower with a man, even her husband, felt like an act of rebellion.
But something had shifted. Lying here in his arms, the remnants of last night still clinging to her skin, she felt less like a stranger and more like a partner. Less like a piece of property being handed from one family to another, and more like a person choosing to build something new.
She didn't want to go back to being strangers.
"Yes," she said. "I'm sure."
He studied her for another moment. Then he nodded.
"Okay."
He sat up slowly—the sheet falling away from his torso—and she caught a glimpse of his back before glancing away. Broad shoulders. A faint line of muscle along his spine. The kind of body she wasn't supposed to look at but couldn't quite stop noticing.
"Okay," he said again. "Let's go."
The bathroom was as grand as the rest of the suite.
Cream-colored marble gleamed under soft golden light. A deep tub sat against one wall, big enough for two, with brass fixtures that winked like small suns. And then there was the shower—a separate enclosure, enclosed in glass, with water raining down from a wide, flat head set into the ceiling.
Amira had never seen anything like it.
"This is..."
"Extravagant?" Tariq offered. He stood beside her in the doorway, looking equally out of place in his own skin. "My mother hired a decorator. I didn't know they had stuff like this."
"I didn't either."
They stood there for a moment, both of them frozen at the threshold. The shower was running—she'd turned it on before they walked in—and steam was beginning to fog the glass. The air smelled of cedar and something citrusy, some scent she couldn't name.
"Well," Tariq said. "After you."
She turned to look at him. "Aren't you coming?"
"I—" He glanced at the shower, then back at her. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "I thought maybe you'd want privacy for the first part."
She shook her head. "No."
No. She didn't want privacy. She wanted this to be different. Wanted to practice being close to him, being bare and unashamed, without the weight of expectation pressing down on her.
"Okay," he said.
He reached for the hem of his shirt.
She watched.
She knew she shouldn't. Knew it wasn't proper. Knew her mother would be mortified if she could see her now, standing in a steam-filled bathroom, staring openly at her husband as he undressed. But she couldn't look away. Couldn't deny the curiosity that had taken root in her chest.
His shirt came off first.
Her breath caught.
He was built like a man who worked with his hands—not a gym rat, not a weightlifter, but something more natural than that. Lean muscle stretched across his shoulders and chest. The faint outline of ribs beneath warm brown skin. A narrow waist that made her think of the way he'd moved over her last night, careful and deliberate.
And his stomach. Flat and firm, the muscles there defined but not exaggerated. She'd felt them last night, pressed against her belly. Had noticed them, even in her pain and confusion and fear.
She just hadn't let herself think about them.
Her eyes traveled downward before she could stop them—and then she snapped her gaze back up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.
Tariq was watching her. His expression was somewhere between amused and mortified.
"Do you want to... know?" he asked, reaching for his waistband.
"No!"
The word shot out of her like a gunshot. He froze, hands hovering at his hips.
"I mean—" She was blushing so hard she could feel the heat radiating from her face. "Not yet. I'm not ready for... that."
He nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Okay."
"I'll just..." He gestured vaguely at the shower. Then at his pants. Then at the floor.
"I'll go first," she blurted. "You can turn around. Or—no, don't turn around. Just—"
She was making a mess of this. Everything was coming out wrong. She'd wanted to be closer to him, less shy, and here she was acting like a nervous girl at her first hammam.
"I'll turn around," he said gently. "Take your time."
And he did. He rotated away from her, facing the wall, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier at ease. The position made his shoulders shift, the muscles beneath his skin moving in ways that were distracting.
She forced herself to focus.
Her clothes came off piece by piece.
The thin chemise. The cotton shorts she'd worn to bed. Each garment felt heavier than it should, like armor she was reluctant to shed. But she did it. Because she was here, because she'd asked him to be here, because she wanted to stop feeling like a stranger in her own body.
By the time she was naked, the steam had grown thick around her. It clung to her skin like a second layer, veiling her in warmth. She stepped toward the shower, then paused.
"Tariq."
"Hmm?"
"The water's getting cold."
She heard him exhale, a quiet sound that might have been a laugh. "I noticed."
"You can turn around now."
He turned. Slowly. Like he was giving her time to change her mind, to cover herself, to run. But she didn't.
She just stood there.
His eyes met hers. Held. Dropped to her shoulder. To the curve of her collarbone. To the steam-kissed skin that was already slick with moisture. Then rose again.
"You're beautiful," he said.
She was about to shake her head. About to reject the compliment the way she always did, the way she'd been taught to—downplaying, denying, making herself small. But something stopped her.
"Thank you," she whispered.
She stepped into the shower.
The water hit her like a benediction. Hot, almost scalding, washing away the sweat and stiffness of the night. She tilted her head back and let it run over her face, through her hair, down the length of her spine. For a moment, she forgot Tariq was there.
Then the water shifted. The stream broke, split by a body stepping in behind her.
She turned.
He was standing at the edge of the shower, still wearing his pants. Water streamed down his chest, plastering his hair to his forehead, dripping from his jaw. He was keeping a careful distance—maybe three feet away—his eyes trained on her face and nowhere else.
"You didn't—" She gestured at his pants.
"I thought I'd leave them on." He gestured vaguely. "For now. Until you—I mean—"
She understood.
He was giving her space. Letting her set the pace. Even now, when they were both naked and wet and standing in a shower together, he was still asking.
Still waiting for her to choose.
Something bloomed in her chest. Warm and fierce and unexpected.
She took a step toward him.
"Let me see your abs," she said.
He blinked.
"My... abs?"
"Yes." She pointed at his waistband. "You still have your shirt on. Well, you don't. But I want—I want to see."
"You want to see my abs?"
"Yes."
Tariq stared at her for a beat. Then two. Then his face split into a grin that transformed him completely—made him look younger and lighter and almost giddy.
"My abs?" he repeated, laughing. "That's what you noticed? Yesterday, when we were—you know."
"Are you going to make me say it?"
"Say what?" He was still laughing, but there was something softer in his eyes now. Something warm.
"That yes, I noticed your abs." She reached out and poked his stomach, just above his waistband. "When you were on top of me. It was hard not to notice."
He caught her hand. Held it against his chest.
"You noticed my abs," he repeated, like he couldn't quite believe it.
"I also noticed your face." She was smiling now, too, the laughter bubbling up despite herself. "But the abs were memorable."
"Memorable."
"Stop repeating what I say."
He released her hand. Then—slowly, deliberately, still holding her gaze—he reached down and undid his pants. He stepped out of them carefully, kicking them aside, the water washing away the last barrier between them.
She looked.
She couldn't help it. Her eyes traveled down the length of him—past his chest, past his stomach, past the waistband that was no longer there. And then she looked away, her face flaming, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"I—" She swallowed. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"We can—" She gestured vaguely at the water. "We can shower now. Actually shower."
"Are you sure?"
"Tariq."
"Yes?"
She looked up at him. He was grinning again, that same boyish grin that made him look like someone she might actually want to know. Someone she might actually—
"Stop asking me that," she said.
"Stop asking you what?"
"If I'm sure." She reached for the soap, determinedly not looking at him. "I'll let you know if I'm not."
He laughed. A warm, genuine sound that echoed off the marble walls.
"Fair enough," he said.
And he reached for his own bottle of soap, and they stood there under the stream, two strangers sharing a shower, not quite touching, but close. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him through the steam. Close enough that when she glanced at him sideways, she caught him doing the same.
The tension was still there. The awkwardness. The uncertainty of two people who didn't know each other, who were learning each other, who were figuring out what it meant to be married.
But underneath all of that was something else.
Maybe it was the way he kept his distance, even when he didn't have to. Maybe it was the way he asked permission, again and again and again. Maybe it was the way he looked at her—not like a prize he'd won, but like someone he was trying to understand.
Maybe it was just the shower. The warmth. The steam. The fact that she hadn't slept more than a few hours and everything felt a little surreal.
Whatever it was, Amira felt something loosen in her chest.
She reached for his hand under the water—just her fingers brushing his, light and tentative. He went still. Looked down at their joined hands. Then up at her face.
She didn't say anything.
He didn't either.
They just stood there, hands touching, under the rain.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice whispered that this—right here, right now—was the beginning of something. Something unexpected. Something she didn't have a name for yet.
Something like hope.