Chapter 4: The Morning After the Bench
The first thing Yara noticed was the light.
It came through the shutters in thin, golden blades, cutting across the bed in stripes that fell over Samir's sleeping face and made him look like something out of a painting. Something old and important. Something that belonged in a museum where people would whisper about it and take photographs.
The second thing she noticed was that her legs felt like they'd been replaced with someone else's legs. Someone who had spent the night running up and down a mountain. Or perhaps being trampled by a herd of very enthusiastic goats.
She shifted experimentally and immediately regretted it.
"Oh my God," she muttered.
Samir stirred beside her, his arm tightening around her waist. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused and heavy-lidded, and he looked at her like he was trying to remember where he was.
"Morning," he said, his voice rough with sleep.
"My thighs are broken."
He blinked. "What?"
"Broken. Both of them. I think they've actually fallen off and been replaced with these useless meat sacks that don't work anymore." She tried to move again and winced. "How do people do this? How do people do this more than once? This is absurd."
Samir's lips twitched. "You seemed to enjoy it well enough last night."
"That was before my legs stopped functioning." She flopped back against the pillow, her dark hair spreading around her like a halo of chaos. "Sex is ridiculous. It's an athletic event invented by people with too much energy and not enough sense. I feel like I've been wrestling a bear. A very attractive bear, but still a bear."
"You're complaining about my bear-like qualities?"
"I'm complaining about my own body's betrayal. I'm eighteen years old. I should be able to walk after—" She gestured vaguely at the rumpled sheets, the scattered clothes, the general evidence of their activities. "—that."
Samir laughed, the sound warm and sleepy. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, his expression somewhere between amusement and affection.
"You didn't seem to mind at the time," he said. "If I recall correctly, you were quite vocal about your appreciation."
Yara swatted his chest. "Shut up. That was different. That was in the moment. Now I'm in the aftermath, and the aftermath has opinions."
"What do the aftermath's opinions consist of?"
"That you should carry me everywhere from now on. To the bathroom. To breakfast. To the ends of the earth. I am a delicate flower who can no longer support her own weight."
"You broke a bench last night. I don't think delicate flowers typically do that."
She groaned and pulled the pillow over her face. "We're not talking about the bench. The bench is dead. Long live the bench."
Samir chuckled and leaned over, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. Then another to her neck. Then a third, slower, to the spot just below her ear that made her shiver despite herself.
"Stop," she mumbled through the pillow. "I'm mad at you."
"Are you?"
"Yes. You did this to me. You and your... your stamina. Your enthusiastic, unreasonable stamina."
"I don't recall you complaining about my stamina last night."
"That was last night. Last night, I was foolish. Last night, I was—" She emerged from the pillow, her face flushed. "Stop kissing my neck. You're going to leave marks."
"Too late."
She shoved him away and sat up, wincing at the ache in her legs and the very obvious purple bruise blooming on her collarbone. She looked down at herself, at the constellation of marks and evidence scattered across her skin, and felt her cheeks heat.
"I look like I've been attacked by an octopus," she said.
"A very handsome octopus."
"A very presumptuous octopus who doesn't understand the concept of subtlety." She turned to glare at him, but the glare faltered when she saw the way he was looking at her. Tender. Almost reverent. Like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, even with her rat's nest hair and her very apparent unhappiness about her legs. "Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm something precious. It's unnerving."
"You are something precious."
"I'm a disaster. I'm a walking, talking, bench-breaking disaster." She crossed her arms over her chest—a futile attempt at modesty—and tried to look dignified. "And I need coffee. I need coffee and breakfast and a long, hot bath where I can contemplate my life choices in private."
Samir sat up, the sheet slipping down to his waist. "I could draw you a bath."
"You could let me die of embarrassment in peace."
"I could also—" He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "—make you breakfast."
"You can't cook."
"I could try."
"That's a terrifying prospect." But she was smiling now, the corners of her mouth curling despite her best efforts. "Fine. But if you burn down the kitchen, I'm telling everyone it was your mother's fault."
"That's fair."
He kissed her, soft and slow, and despite her complaints and her aching legs and her general sense of dishevelment, Yara found herself melting into it. His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, and she felt the familiar warmth spreading through her chest.
Then his lips moved to her neck again, and she knew exactly what he was doing.
"Samir," she warned.
"Mm?"
"I told you to stop."
"I know."
"So why are you still doing it?"
"Because I'm stubborn."
She could feel him smiling against her skin, could feel his teeth grazing the sensitive spot below her jaw. Her breath caught, and her hands came up to his shoulders—to push him away, she told herself. Definitely to push him away.
Her fingers curled into his muscles instead.
"You're impossible," she breathed.
"So I've been told."
"And inappropriate."
"That too."
"And—" Her voice broke as his mouth found the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder, and he sucked softly, deliberately. "You're doing it on purpose."
"Doing what?"
"Leaving marks. You're leaving marks. You're marking me like I'm—like I'm—"
"Like you're mine?"
She pulled back, her face flushed, her heart pounding. "That's a very possessive thing to say."
"It's a very true thing to say." His eyes were dark, warm, full of something she couldn't quite name. "You are mine. You said so yourself. You stood in front of all those people and said you belonged to me."
"I said the required words. That's different."
"So take them back."
"I can't take them back. The wedding's already happened. The sheep is already sacrificed. Your mother is probably downstairs plotting my death as we speak." She paused. "Actually, she's probably plotting my death for a different reason. She was listening at the door last night, remember?"
Samir groaned and flopped back against the pillow. "Don't remind me."
"Your mother was listening at the door while we—" She gestured at the rumpled sheets. "—you know."
"I know."
"While your mother had her ear pressed to the wood, listening to us do... that."
"I know, Yara."
"And then she sent a servant to interrupt us, which, as we've established, is why we ended up on the balcony, which is why I broke my thighs, which is why—"
"I know!"
She was laughing now, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep. The tension from last night, the awkwardness of the interrupted consummation, the fear of what came next—it all seemed to dissipate in the golden morning light, replaced by something lighter and warmer.
"You've gone very red," she observed.
"I'm a modest man."
"You married me. Your modesty is a lost cause."
"Clearly." He turned his head to look at her, and his expression was somewhere between exasperation and adoration. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Keep up, presumably. I'm not going to slow down for you."
"No. I don't imagine you will."
He reached for her again, and this time, she didn't resist. The kiss was slower this time, deeper, more deliberate. The kind of kiss that wasn't about passion or urgency but about something else entirely. Something that made Yara's chest ache in ways she didn't want to examine too closely.
His hands slid down her back, tracing the curve of her spine, and she shivered. Her own fingers found the nape of his neck, playing with the hair there, tugging gently in a way that made him groan.
"You're going to be the death of me," he murmured against her lips.
"At least it'll be a memorable death."
"It'll be a death by exhaustion. The coroner will say, 'Here lies Samir, killed by his wife's ridiculous stamina.'"
"Good." She kissed him again, once, quick. "At least I'll be famous."
Their bodies shifted, tangled in the sheets. The morning light was brighter now, spilling across the bed in great golden waves, and Yara found herself hiding her face against Samir's shoulder as often as she leaned in for more. Shy one moment, bold the next—she couldn't quite find the balance.
"Yara."
"I'm here."
"I can't—" His voice was strained. "You keep hiding. I want to see you."
"I'm not hiding."
"You're literally hiding. Right now. In my shoulder."
"Your shoulder is a very good place to hide."
"I want to see your face." He cupped her chin gently, tilting her head up. "Please."
She looked at him. Really looked at him—his dark eyes, his strong jaw, the way he was watching her like she was the answer to a question he hadn't even known he was asking. The vulnerability in his expression mirrored her own, and she realized, with a start, that he was as nervous as she was. As unsure. As afraid of doing this wrong.
"You're scared," she said.
"I'm terrified."
"Of me?"
"Of you. Of this. Of what comes next." He traced her lower lip with his thumb. "I've known you for six months. I've known your laugh longer than I've known your voice. I've known your courage longer than I've known your name. And now you're... here. In my bed. I keep waiting for you to disappear."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"How do you know?"
She considered the question. It was a good question, a fair question, the kind of question she'd expect from a man who thought too much and said too little.
"Because you lent me your shirt," she said finally. "And I'm keeping it."
"It's not a very nice shirt."
"It's yours. And that's all that matters."
The kiss that followed was softer than the others. Fragile in a way that made her heart hurt. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close, and they moved together in a rhythm that was slower and sweeter than before. Less urgent. More careful.
It was different this time.
There was no performance, no audience, no fear of interruption. Just the two of them in the golden morning light, learning each other's bodies like they had all the time in the world. Yara's hands explored the planes of his back, the ridges of his shoulders, the strong column of his neck. Samir's fingers traced the curve of her hips, the softness of her stomach, the sensitive skin behind her ears.
She heard herself gasp when he found a particularly sensitive spot. Heard him groan when she did it back. The sounds were quiet, intimate, a secret language that only they understood.
When she finally came, her face pressed into the pillow to muffle the sound, she felt something break inside her. Something that had been holding her back, keeping her guarded, protecting her from the terrifying vulnerability of being truly seen.
Samir followed a moment later, his hands gripping her hips, her name on his lips.
They lay there afterward, tangled together, breathing hard. The sweat cooling on their skin. The morning light growing brighter. The city waking up beyond the window, oblivious to the small miracle that had just occurred.
"That," Yara said, "was better."
"They why did you keep hiding your face?"
"Shut up."
"I'm serious. You kept hiding."
"I said shut up."
"I want to know why."
"Because it's embarrassing, Samir." She lifted her head to glare at him. "It's embarrassing to be seen like that. It's embarrassing to lose control. It's embarrassing to feel things and not know what to do with them."
"Embarrassing for you. Or embarrassing for me?"
"Both." She laid her head back down on his chest. "This is all very new. You're going to have to be patient with me."
"I have been patient with you."
"Yes, but you're going to have to be more patient."
"I'll be whatever you need me to be." He kissed the top of her head. "Within reason."
"I'm going to hold you to that."
The door swung open.
There was no knock. No warning. Just a click and a rush of air and then her mother—her actual mother, not Samir's mother, which somehow made it worse—standing frozen on the threshold.
In her hands, a tray of breakfast pastries. On her face, an expression that was equal parts horror and fascination.
Yara yanked the sheet up to her chin.
Samir made a sound like he was being strangled.
The room seemed to contract around them, shrinking to the size of a tomb. The pastries—labneh, kebab, something that smelled like fresh bread—trembled in her mother's hands. Her mother's eyes moved from the rumpled sheets to the scattered clothes on the floor to the very obvious purple bruise blooming on her daughter's neck.
"Good morning, Mama," Yara said, her voice impossibly calm. "We were just discussing the furniture."
Her mother didn't blink. Didn't move. Didn't even breathe.
"It's very modern," Yara continued. "The furniture. Very... functional. I've been learning a lot about—"
"Yara."
"—furniture design. There's a bench in the bathroom that's surprisingly sturdy. Or it was. We're still—"
"Yara, stop talking."
She stopped.
Her mother took a deep breath. Then another. Then she set the tray down on the small table by the door with the careful precision of someone who was trying very hard not to throw it.
"Your father and I will be waiting downstairs," she said, her voice brittle. "When you are... dressed... we would like to speak with you."
"Both of us?" Samir asked, his voice a squeak.
"Both of you." Her mother looked at him—really looked at him, a look that could curdle milk and wither crops—and then looked away. "I will assume that you are both, at this moment, regretting the fact that you forgot to lock the door."
"Very much so," Yara said.
"I'm sure." Her mother smoothed down her dress, a nervous gesture that Yara had seen a thousand times and had never once been directed at her. "I would suggest a bath. Both of you. Separately. And then... clothes. And then come downstairs. Where we will talk about what happens next."
"What happens next?"
"I don't know, Yara. I'm finding that I don't know much of anything anymore." Her mother turned to leave, then paused at the door. "But I do know that I raised you better than to—" She gestured vaguely at the bed, the room, the whole situation. "—whatever this is."
"I love you too, Mama."
Her mother made a sound—a long-suffering sigh that contained multitudes—and closed the door behind her.
There was a moment of absolute silence.
Then Yara started laughing.
"Oh my God," she wheezed. "Oh my God. Her face. Did you see her face?"
"Your mother saw me naked," Samir said, his voice hollow. "Your mother saw me naked and now she's going to talk to me and I'm going to die."
"She didn't see you naked. She saw you under me. Which is different."
"It's not different."
"It's a little different."
"It's not—" He covered his face with his hands. "I can't believe this. I can't believe this happened. Your mother—your actual mother—walked in on us."
"And she brought pastries."
"She brought pastries. Which means she was expecting... which means she was fine with us... which means—" He groaned. "This is a nightmare."
"It's a comedy." Yara leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "A bedroom farce. And we're the stars."
"I don't want to be a star. I want to be a normal person who didn't just get caught by his mother-in-law."
"Welcome to my life." She sat up, wincing again at the ache in her legs. "Now get dressed. We have a meeting with my parents, and I need you to be slightly less... you. For their sake."
"I can't be less me. I don't know how."
"Then be you, but calmer. More like the man I married and less like the man who just got caught with his pants down."
"My pants were already down. That's the problem."
She laughed again, softer this time, and reached out to squeeze his hand. "It's going to be fine. We're going to go downstairs, we're going to have breakfast, we're going to have an extremely awkward conversation with my parents, and then we're going to figure out what comes next."
"What comes next?"
"I don't know." She smiled at him—her wild, mischievous, uncontrollable smile. "But whatever it is, we'll face it together. That's what we agreed, isn't it? That we don't have to be like them?"
He looked at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled back.
"Yeah," he said. "We don't have to be like them."
"Good." She released his hand and slid out of bed, reaching for his shirt from last night. "Now get dressed. And Samir?"
"Yes?"
"Don't look at my mother's face when she asks about the bench."
His laughter followed her into the bathroom.
The bathroom was all marble and steam before the water had even started running. Yara turned the taps and watched the tub fill, the water scalding enough to turn the surface white with heat. She caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink—hair a disaster, collarbone a constellation of purpling marks, eyes still heavy from broken sleep.
Her mother's face kept appearing every time she blinked.
That tray of pastries. The way her hands had trembled. The silence that had stretched for four full seconds before she'd spoken. Yara had spent eighteen years learning to read that silence, and she knew exactly what it meant.
Disappointment.
Not the screaming kind, not the kind that came with threats and ultimatums. The quiet kind. The kind that sat in your chest like a stone and made you wonder if you'd ever be enough.
She heard Samir's footsteps behind her, then his hands settling on her hips. His chest pressed against her back, warm and solid, and she leaned into him without thinking.
"You're tense," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
"I'm fine and I'm lying. Both things can be true." She turned off the taps and tested the water with her fingers. Too hot. Perfect. "Your mother is going to hear about this before we've even had breakfast."
"My mother already knows. She probably has spies."
"She definitely has spies." Yara turned in his arms, her back against the sink. "Your mother's spy network is more efficient than the government's."
"That's because she pays better."
She laughed despite herself, the sound short and sharp. Samir's hands were still on her hips, his thumbs tracing small circles against her skin through the thin fabric of his shirt—the same shirt she'd been wearing last night, the same shirt she'd claimed as hers.
"You're still wearing my shirt," he observed.
"I told you. I'm keeping it."
"I'm not complaining." He leaned in, his nose brushing against hers. "You look better in it than I do."
"I look better in everything than you do."
"True."
She kissed him. Quick, fierce, almost angry. He kissed her back with the same intensity, and she felt the tension in her chest loosen just slightly. When she pulled away, his eyes were dark and questioning.
"What was that for?"
"For being you. For not asking questions. For not making this harder than it already is." She pushed off the sink and started unbuttoning the shirt. "Now get in the tub. We have twenty minutes before my mother sends someone to drag us downstairs."
"Twenty minutes isn't very long."
"I'm aware of the time constraints."
She dropped the shirt to the floor and stepped into the water. The heat was almost too much, but it felt good—a deliberate scalding that burned away the remnants of the morning. She sank down until the water covered her shoulders and closed her eyes.
Samir joined her a moment later, his legs sliding alongside hers in the vast, marble-lined tub. The water rose dangerously close to the edge, but neither of them cared. He sat opposite her, his knees bracketing her hips, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern.
"Tell me what you're thinking," he said.
"I'm thinking about my mother's face. I'm thinking about the way she said my name. I'm thinking about what it means to be a daughter in this family, in this world, and whether I've just ruined any chance I had of being something other than a disappointment." She opened her eyes and met his gaze. "I'm thinking I don't know what comes next."
"That's a lot of thinking."
"I'm a very deep person."
"I know." He reached for her hand under the water, his fingers lacing through hers. "I think we should focus on what we can control. We can't control your mother's reaction. We can't control my mother's spies. We can't control what anyone else thinks or says or does."
"We can control what we do next."
"Exactly." He squeezed her hand. "So what do you want to do next?"
She considered the question. The water was warm around her, the steam filling her lungs, and Samir's hand was solid and sure in hers. The world outside this bathroom could wait. The mothers and spies and expectations could wait.
For now, there was only this.
"I want," she said slowly, "to not think for a while."
She moved before he could respond. Her body slid through the water, her hands finding his shoulders, her knees settling on either side of his hips. The tub was deep and wide enough to accommodate them both, and the water sloshed gently against the marble as she settled on top of him.
His eyes widened.
"Yara—"
"Don't talk. Just—" She reached between them, her fingers finding him under the water. "Let me."
The sensation of him in her hand, the way he hardened and swelled under her touch, the way his breath caught in his throat—all of it sent a rush of heat through her veins. She guided him to her entrance, pausing just long enough to watch his face.
He was looking at her like she was a miracle. Like she was something he couldn't quite believe existed. His hands came up to grip her hips, steadying her, but he didn't try to control the pace.
He let her lead.
She took him inside her slowly, inch by inch, watching his face the whole time. The way his jaw tightened. The way his eyes started to close and then snapped open again like he couldn't bear to look away. The way his fingers flexed against her skin.
When he was fully inside her, she paused. The water was still around them, calm now that the initial movement had settled. The only sounds were their breathing and the distant hum of the city beyond the shutters.
"Yara," he breathed.
"I know."
She started to move. Slowly at first, a gentle rocking that made the water ripple outward in small waves. Her hands braced against his chest, her nails leaving faint marks on his skin. His hands slid from her hips to her ass, gripping, spreading, pulling her closer.
The heat was building inside her, coiling tighter with every roll of her hips. She felt her ovulation—that raw, primal ache deep in her belly—making her ache with an intensity that bordered on overwhelming. Her body was alive in ways she hadn't known it could be.
She moved faster. The water slapped against the sides of the tub, spilling over the edge. She didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the friction, the rhythm, the way Samir was groaning beneath her.
He slapped her ass.
She gasped, the sound sharp and surprised. Her body clenched around him, and she heard him curse under his breath. The sting was bright and hot and sent a rush of pleasure straight to her core.
"That's it," she moaned. "Again."
He did it again. Harder this time. Her body jerked and she cried out, the sound echoing off the marble walls. She was moving in earnest now, riding him with abandon, her hands braced on his shoulders, her head thrown back.
The moans kept coming. Loud and unguarded and shameless. She didn't care who heard. She didn't care about her mother or his mother or the entire household listening at the door. All she cared about was the way he was spreading her open, the way he was slapping her ass, the way he was filling her so completely.
"Samir—" she gasped.
"I've got you." His voice was rough, strained. "I've got you."
She felt herself climbing higher, felt the pressure building at the base of her spine. His hands were relentless, his hips meeting hers thrust for thrust. The water was chaotic around them now, waves crashing against the marble, spilling onto the floor in great torrents.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Don't you dare stop."
"I'm not stopping."
The orgasm hit her like a physical blow. Her entire body seized, her back arching, her vision going white at the edges. She heard herself scream—actually scream—and she didn't care. She didn't care about anything except the waves of pleasure crashing through her, the way Samir was holding her, the way he was following her over the edge with a strangled groan.
She collapsed onto his chest, her entire body trembling. The water was still lapping at the edges, slowly settling. The steam was thick in the air, and she could hear the distant sounds of the city waking up beyond the window.
Her breathing slowed. Her heart stopped racing. Her mind, for the first time in hours, went quiet.
Then she heard the knocking.
"Yara? Samir?"
It was her father's voice. Deep and calm and terrifying in its neutrality.
"Your mother says you should come downstairs. Now."
Yara lifted her head from Samir's chest. His expression mirrored hers—a mixture of horror and resignation.
"He knows," Samir whispered.
"He definitely knows."
"Your father knows."
"He's known since the moment we walked in the door." She slid off him, the water cold now against her heated skin. "My father knows everything. That's his superpower."
"What do we do?"
She stood up, the water streaming down her body, and looked down at him. He was still in the tub, still flushed and disheveled and so beautiful it made her chest ache.
"We go downstairs," she said. "We face them together. And we don't apologize for anything."
"Nothing?"
"We can apologize for the bench."
"Fair point."
She tossed him a towel and wrapped one around herself. The knocking had stopped, but the presence of her father still lingered in the air—patient and inevitable.
Yara looked at her reflection one last time. The marks on her neck. The wildness in her eyes. The faint smile that kept trying to break through her attempts at composure.
She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly and unapologetically loved.
"Come on," she said, reaching for Samir's hand. "Let's go face the music."
The door was closed. The water was still draining from the tub. The steam was slowly clearing, leaving behind only the scent of jasmine and the faint, lingering evidence of everything that had happened here.
Samir took her hand. His grip was warm and sure.
"Yara?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever happens down there—" He paused, searching for words. "—I'm on your side. Always."
She squeezed his hand.
"I know," she said. "That's why I married you."