Chapter 13: The Bathtub and the First Squirt
The bathroom door clicked shut behind them, and the sound was final in a way that made Layla's stomach flip.
Tarek didn't let go of her. He carried her the last two steps to the clawfoot tub, its porcelain rim cold against the backs of her thighs when he set her down. The nightlight glowed blue from the outlet, painting the cracked tiles in shades of deep water. Steam was already rising from the faucet he'd turned on before she knocked—he must have been drawing a bath when she came to him. The thought made her chest ache.
"What were you doing?" she asked.
"Thinking about you." He knelt in front of the tub, testing the water with his wrist. "Couldn't sleep. Thought a bath might help."
"Did it?"
"Not yet."
He stood and reached for the hem of her shirt. She lifted her arms without being asked, and he pulled it over her head, slow, careful. The air hit her skin and she shivered—not from cold. His eyes moved over her in the dim light, tracing the curve of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts above her bra. He unhooked it with one hand, and she let it fall.
His breath caught.
"You're bigger," he said.
"Pregnancy does that."
"I know, I just—" He touched her, just the tips of his fingers against the side of her breast. "You're so fucking beautiful."
The word hit her low. He didn't swear often. When he did, it was like a match striking.
He slid her pajama bottoms down her legs, then her underwear, and she stood there in front of him, naked and round and trembling. He was still dressed. She could see the outline of his cock pressing against his gray sweats, thick and obvious.
"Get in," he said.
She stepped into the tub. The water was warm, not hot, and it rose around her legs as she sank down. He followed, stepping in behind her, and his presence was enormous—his heat, his size, the weight of him settling against the back of the tub. He pulled her between his legs and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
His chest was bare. She could feel his heart against her spine, faster than it should have been.
"Lean back," he whispered.
She did.
His hands found her belly first. They slid across the curve, palms flat, fingers spread wide. He pressed gently, exploring the shape of her, and she felt the baby shift—a flutter, a little roll, as if she knew her father was there.
"Did you feel that?" Layla whispered.
"Yeah." His voice was thick. "She moved."
"She."
"Sami told me. He texted me a while back. Said he had a feeling."
Layla closed her eyes.
Tarek's hands moved lower. They slid through the water, over her hips, down to her thighs, and then—slowly, gently—between them. His fingers found her cunt under the water, and she gasped.
"Shh," he breathed against her ear. "I've got you."
He started slow. Two fingers, one on either side of her clit, pressing together, rolling it gently between them. It was a strange sensation, muted by the water, but somehow more—the warmth surrounding her, his body against hers, the way he held her like she was something precious.
"Does that feel good?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"Yes, Tarek. It feels good."
"Good." He kissed her shoulder. "Because I've been thinking about this for weeks. About touching you. About making you come."
She shivered.
"Every night," he continued, his voice low and rough. "Every night in that guest room, I'd lie there and think about you. About the sounds you make. About the way you taste."
His fingers moved faster. He shifted his hand, and now his thumb found her clit while his middle finger slid lower, circling her entrance.
"Can I?" he asked.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
She nodded.
He pushed inside.
The stretch made her gasp—she was tight, still, after four months of nothing. He felt huge, just his finger, impossibly deep. He curled it upward, finding that spot inside her that made her vision blur.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"That's my girl."
He added a second finger. The fullness was overwhelming. His thumb kept working her clit, slow circles, then faster, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside her. She felt herself climbing, felt the pressure building, felt everything narrowing to this—his hands on her, his breath in her ear, the water lapping against the sides of the tub.
"I'm close," she said.
"I know."
"Tarek—"
"Let go."
She tried. She really tried. But something was holding her back—some wall she'd built without realizing, some part of her that couldn't surrender to him yet. Her body clenched around his fingers, fighting it.
"Hey," he said. "Look at me."
She couldn't. She was staring at the wall, at the cracked tile, at the fogged mirror.
"Layla." He turned her face with his free hand. "It's me. It's just me. Let go."
And something in his voice—the raw honesty, the need—broke through.
She came.
It started deep, a shockwave rolling outward, and then—
Oh God.
Hot liquid gushed from her, sudden and violent, splashing against his hand, his wrist, the surface of the water. The sound was unmistakable. She felt it leave her body, felt the rush, felt the shock of it rippling through her whole body.
She clamped her thighs shut. Or tried to. His forearms pinned her knees open, wide, holding her there in the middle of it while she shook and gasped and tried to twist away.
"Don't," he said. "Don't you fucking hide from me."
"I—oh my God—Tarek—"
"Look at you." His voice was filthy with wonder. "Look at what you did. You're soaking my hand. You're soaking the water. You fucking squirted all over me."
"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I didn't know—I've never—"
"Sorry?" He laughed—low, dark. "Baby, I've been dreaming about this since our wedding night. You just gave me everything."
His fingers kept moving. Slower now, gentler, working her through the aftershocks. She shook against him, oversensitive, every touch too much and not enough.
"Tell me what you feel," he said.
"Everything. I feel everything."
"Good."
He withdrew his fingers. She heard the wet sound they made when they left the water—and then he brought them to her lips.
"Open."
She did.
He pushed them into her mouth. She tasted herself—salty, strange, intimate. The tang of her own cunt mixed with the faint flavor of soap. She sucked them clean, eyes closed, moaning around his knuckles.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed. "You're going to kill me."
He pulled his fingers free.
The water sloshed as he shifted behind her. She heard fabric rustling—him pushing his sweats down, kicking them off into some corner of the floor. Then his hands were on her hips, lifting.
"Turn around," he said. "Slow."
She turned. The water resisted, pulling at her, but she found her footing and pivoted to face him. His eyes were black in the dim light. His chest was broad, his shoulders massive, the dark line of hair below his belly leading down to—she looked.
His cock was thick and hard, rising from the water, the head dark and swollen. She remembered it from their wedding night, from those three months in Aleppo. She remembered the weight of it in her hand, in her mouth, inside her. She remembered how it felt to come with him buried so deep she couldn't tell where he ended and she began.
"Come here," he said.
She moved toward him. His hands caught her hips, guiding her forward, and he positioned himself at her entrance. Just the tip. He pressed, and she inhaled sharply.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Tell me if it's too much."
"I will."
He pushed up.
She sank down.
They met in the middle.
The stretch was intense—blinding, almost. She felt every inch of him as he entered her, the burn of muscles remembering, the shock of fullness. He didn't stop until he was buried all the way, his balls pressed against her ass, and they both groaned.
"Fuck," he said.
"I know."
"You feel—"
"I know."
He started to move.
Slow at first. Deep. He pulled out almost all the way, then pushed back in, and the drag of him made her eyes roll back. Water lapped against the sides of the tub, rhythmic, matching the pace of his thrusts.
She braced her hands on the edge of the tub behind her. Her breasts bounced with every stroke, nipples hard in the cool air. He leaned forward and caught one in his mouth, sucking hard.
"God," she gasped.
He bit down—not hard, just enough. She cried out, and he did it again on the other breast, leaving marks that would fade by morning.
"My turn now," he said against her skin.
"For what?"
"To watch you fall apart."
He fucked her harder.
The water was splashing now, cresting over the edges of the tub, pooling on the tile floor. She didn't care. She couldn't care. He was hitting something deep inside her, that spot only he had ever found, and she felt herself climbing again.
"Come on," he grunted. "Come on my cock. Show me."
"Tarek—"
"Do it."
His thumb found her clit, slick and swollen, and worked it in tight circles while he fucked her. The combination was too much—the fullness, the friction, the pressure on her clit. She felt her orgasm building like a wave, bigger than the first, bigger than anything she'd ever felt.
"I'm going to—"
"Me too."
"Inside—"
"I know. Come with me. Now."
He thrust up one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and she felt him pulse inside her—hot, thick, flooding her cunt with his come. The sensation tipped her over the edge, and she came with a cry that she muffled against his shoulder, her whole body clenching around him, milking him dry.
They stayed there, frozen, for a long moment.
The rain had stopped.
The only sound was their breathing, ragged and raw, and the soft dripping of water onto the floor.
Tarek's arms came around her. He held her, close, tight, his face pressed into her hair.
"I missed you," he whispered.
"I'm right here."
"I know." He kissed her forehead. "I know."
She felt tears on her cheeks—not sad ones. Not really. She didn't have a name for them.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he said.
He lifted her, carefully, and set her down on the bath mat. The water drained with a gurgle. He grabbed a towel and wrapped her in it, patting her dry, his movements gentle and unhurried.
When he was done, he wrapped one around his own waist and held out his hand.
"Come to bed," he said.
"Your bed or mine?"
"Ours."
She looked at him.
He looked back.
"Layla," he said, "I know I don't deserve it. I know I've got a long way to go. But I want—I want to try. I want to wake up next to you. I want to feel the baby kick. I want to be your husband. For real. Not just in name."
She took his hand.
He led her out of the bathroom. The hallway was dark. Her parents' room was silent. The house breathed around them, old and settled and full of ghosts.
He opened the door to her bedroom.
The bed was still unmade from the morning. The ultrasound photo sat on the dresser. The test was in the trash upstairs, but its ghost lingered.
She climbed into bed. He climbed in after her.
They faced each other in the dark.
"I'm still scared," she said.
"I know."
"I'm not sure I trust you yet."
"I know that too."
"But I want to."
He touched her face. Just his fingertips, light against her cheek.
"That's enough," he said. "For now."
She closed her eyes.
For the first time in months, she slept through the night.
For the first time in months, she slept through the night.
No dreams. No phantom crying. No waking at three a.m. to stare at the ceiling and count the ways her life had fractured. Just darkness, and then light—gray and thin, leaking through the blinds she'd forgotten to close.
Her head was on his chest.
She noticed it before she noticed anything else. The steady thump beneath her ear. The rise and fall of his breathing, slow and deep, like he was still asleep. The weight of his arm across her back, heavy and warm.
She didn't move.
For a while, she just listened. The house was quiet—no footsteps in the hallway, no clatter of pots from the kitchen. Her mother wasn't up yet. The baby pressed against her bladder, not kicking, just present. A small, insistent weight.
Tarek's hand moved.
His fingers traced her spine, absent and gentle, from the nape of her neck down to the small of her back. She felt him inhale, deeper than before. He was awake.
"You're staring at me," he said.
"I'm not."
"You are. I can feel it."
She lifted her head. His eyes were open, dark and soft, still puffy from sleep. His jaw was rough with stubble. He looked younger in the morning light—almost like the boy she'd first seen across her aunt's courtyard in Aleppo, before the wedding, before everything.
"What time is it?" she asked.
He reached for his phone on the nightstand. "Almost nine."
"Nine?"
"Your parents must have let us sleep."
Layla sat up. The sheet fell away from her chest, and she grabbed it, pulling it up. Tarek watched her, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Modest now?" he said. "After last night?"
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying. I've seen everything."
She threw a pillow at him. He caught it, laughing—a real laugh, low and rough, the kind she hadn't heard from him since Sami's suggestion. Since the test. Since everything fell apart.
It made her chest ache.
"I need to shower," she said.
"Go ahead."
She slid out of bed. Her legs were sore—that deep, pleasant ache that came from being fucked properly, from muscles stretched and used. She felt it with every step to the bathroom.
The water was hot. She stood under it for a long time, letting it run over her face, her shoulders, her belly. The night before replayed in fragments—his fingers inside her, the shock of release, the way he'd held her after. The things he'd said.
I want to try.
She didn't know if she believed him. But she wanted to.
When she came out, wrapped in a towel, Tarek was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his sweats. He looked up.
"Your turn," she said.
He stood. As he passed her in the doorway, he stopped. His hand found her waist, just for a moment.
"I meant what I said," he said.
"I know."
He nodded and closed the door.
Layla dressed slowly. She chose a loose sweater—one that hid the curve of her belly—and leggings that wouldn't dig in. She braided her hair with trembling fingers. Then she went downstairs.
Her mother was at the stove.
Mama turned when she heard the steps. Her eyes swept over Layla—her face, her hair, the way she held herself—and something flickered behind them. Something knowing.
"Good morning," Layla said.
"Morning." Mama stirred a pot of labneh. "You slept late."
"I was tired."
"I'm sure you were."
Layla froze. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing, habibti. Nothing at all."
The shower shut off upstairs. A door opened and closed. Footsteps crossed the hallway.
Mama glanced toward the ceiling. Then back at Layla. She smiled—a small, private smile that made Layla's stomach drop.
Baba came in through the back door, carrying an armload of firewood. He dripped snow onto the floor, tracking it across the kitchen. Mama clucked at him in Arabic, and he waved her off, dumping wood into the bin beside the stove.
"What smells good?" he asked.
"Breakfast," Mama said. "When our guest decides to join us."
Layla's face burned.
"He's not a guest," she muttered.
"He's certainly not a ghost."
Tarek appeared in the doorway.
He'd changed into a clean shirt—one he must have grabbed from the bag he'd left in the guest room. His hair was still damp, combed back from his forehead. He looked . different. Lighter. Like someone who'd slept for the first time in weeks.
"Good morning," he said.
"Ah, Tarek." Baba clapped him on the shoulder. "You slept well?"
"Very well, sir. Thank you."
Mama turned from the stove. Her eyes moved between them—Layla at the counter, Tarek in the doorway, the space between them charged and obvious.
"Interesting," she said.
"What's interesting?" Layla asked, too quickly.
"Nothing." Mama plated the labneh. "Only that it seems both of you showered this morning. Such a coincidence."
Layla wanted to die.
Tarek's ears turned red. He looked at the floor, then at the ceiling, then at Layla—who was staring at her hands like they held the secrets to the universe.
"Amma," Layla said, "it's not—we didn't—"
"I didn't say anything."
"You're implying."
"I'm observing." Mama set the plates on the table. "You came down first, freshly showered. Tarek came down second, freshly showered. You both slept past nine, which you never do. And you're wearing his sweater."
Layla looked down.
It was his sweater. She hadn't noticed. It was dark gray, too big for her, hanging past her hips. He must have left it in her room at some point—or maybe she'd grabbed it from his bag last night, without thinking.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
Baba laughed.
He laughed so hard he had to sit down, one hand pressed to his chest, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. "Yalla, ya bint," he said. "You think we were born yesterday?"
"Baba!"
"What? You're married. You're pregnant. Did you think we didn't know what married people do?"
"Mama!" Layla turned to her mother, desperate. "Tell him to stop."
Mama was smiling. "Your father is right, unfortunately."
"Unfortunately?"
"Unfortunately for you." Mama set a cup of tea in front of Layla. "You thought you could sneak around. In my house. With the creaky floorboards. At two in the morning."
Layla buried her face in her hands.
Tarek was still standing in the doorway. When she peeked through her fingers, she saw that he was smiling—not a smirk, not a laugh. Just a genuine, quiet smile. Like he was watching something precious.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For the noise."
"You should be," Baba said. "That tub has been in this house for thirty years. It's never made sounds like that."
Layla moaned.
"Baba!"
"I'm just saying. You're lucky your mother sleeps with the fan on."
Mama swatted his arm. "Enough. Sit. Eat."
Tarek sat. Layla sat. Baba sat at the head of the table, still grinning, and Mama served the labneh with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of za'atar.
For a moment, no one spoke. Just the clink of spoons. The warmth of bread. The faint drip of snow melting off Baba's boots by the door.
Then Mama said, "So."
Layla looked up.
"Are you staying?"
The question was for Tarek. He set down his spoon.
"I'd like to," he said. "If you'll have me."
"When?"
"Tonight."
Layla's heart stuttered.
Mama nodded slowly. She looked at Layla—really looked, the way she always did, like she could see through skin and bone to the truth underneath.
"And you?" she asked. "What do you want?"
Layla thought about the guest room. The closed door. The pills she'd stopped taking. The test in the trash that she still hadn't thrown away.
She thought about his hands on her belly. His breath in her ear. The way he'd said ours.
"I want him to stay," she said.
Mama's eyes softened.
"Then he stays."
Baba reached for another piece of bread. "Good. Now maybe I can sleep without your mother waking me up every hour to check if you're still breathing."
"I do not—"
"You do too. Last night you got up twice."
Layla looked at her mother.
Mama shrugged, unashamed. "You're my daughter. I worry."
"I'm eighteen."
"You're eighteen and pregnant and married to a man who lives in another state." Mama's voice was gentle. "I'm allowed to worry."
Tarek reached under the table. His hand found Layla's knee. Squeezed.
She didn't pull away.
"I'm going to find work here," he said. "Something local. It won't be as much as Arizona, but—"
"We'll manage," Layla said.
"We'll manage," he agreed.
Baba nodded. "You can use my truck until you get your own. The brakes are soft, so pump them before you stop."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet. The heater's broken."
Layla laughed. The sound surprised her—bright and real, cutting through the tension. Tarek's hand tightened on her knee.
"You laughed," he said.
"You made me."
"I'll do it again."
Mama watched them. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes were warm.
"Eat," she said. "Both of you. You need strength."
"For what?" Layla asked.
Mama smiled.
"For whatever comes next."