Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

16. Zinneerah

16

Zinneerah

I t’s seven in the evening.

Raees was supposed to be home by five.

I keep telling myself he’s probably caught up finishing some last-minute grading or polishing up a presentation so he can enjoy the concert tomorrow without any loose ends.

That makes sense, right? Logical, reasonable, believable. And yet, my mind isn’t staying logical or reasonable, let alone believable.

His ex-fiancée works with him, after all.

I hate how easily my thoughts get away from me. How quickly they spiral into the worst places. I mean, it’s not like they are working together on purpose—they’re just stuck in the same department.

Still, it’s hard to keep the what-ifs at bay. What if she stayed late too? What if they’re still there, alone?

I shake my head.

Stop.

This is ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. But I’ve been sitting here for two hours, staring at a dead TV screen, and my brain is having a field day.

I’ve imagined everything from him being buried in a mountain of paperwork to . . . well, things I don’t want to say even in the privacy of my own head.

I’ve opened his contact a dozen times, ready to text him. Just something simple : “Still at the office?” or “Everything okay?” But every time, I close it.

I don’t want to be that person. Clingy, or suspicious. And anyway, he’s probably just, what, in a meeting? Stuck in Toronto’s horrifying traffic? He could’ve bumped into a friend. There are a million reasons he might be late, none of which have anything to do with her.

I let out a breath, slump back into the couch, and hug a cushion tightly to my chest. My fingers twist absentmindedly in the fabric as his words make home in my head again: I’ve buried everything, Zinneerah. Everything that existed before you, it’s gone. There’s no one else in this world for me. Just you. You and my family.

He was so earnest when he said it. So sure. I believe him, I really do, with everything I have. My whole heart, my whole soul.

So, if he’s late tonight, that doesn’t mean anything, right? It doesn’t mean he’s . . . No . It just means he’s busy. Busy with—

The sound of the front door jolts me out of my thoughts.

I shoot up from the couch, my heart racing as I quickly walk toward the front alcove, smoothing my hair and trying to wipe the anxiety from my face.

Raees is bent over, slipping off his shoes. His hair is messy, his dress shirt wrinkled and untucked, the sweater he’d been wearing earlier now folded over his arm. His face isn’t the one I imagined seeing—there’s no reassuring smile, no lightness. Instead, there’s guilt. Exhaustion.

And just like that, my stomach twists.

When he turns to face me, his eyebrows lift, startled to see me standing there.

I take another look at him, my gaze tracing over his disheveled appearance. Someone definitely ran their fingers through his hair— or maybe it was him . He never comes home with his sweater off. But we just entered July; maybe he got too warm. Even his glasses are smudged, and he’s always cleaning them, fussing over the tiniest streak because he can’t stand blurry vision. Maybe he forgot this time?

His assurance bulldozes through my skull. I’ve buried everything, Zinneerah. I promise, everything that existed has long since extinguished. There is no one in this world for me anymore except for you and my family.

I raise my hand to sign something, anything, but my thoughts won’t connect. Everything inside me feels fractured, split into jagged pieces I can’t fit together.

“I apologize for being late,” he says quietly.

I take the safest path forward. Are you okay?

“No,” he answers, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Dread pools my heart. Why?

He clears his throat, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Today was one of those days that reminded me why being a professor isn’t exactly a walk in the park.” His hand rests on my shoulder. “How was your day?”

Relief floods me so fast I almost feel lightheaded. Work stress. Just work stress. Of course, that still matters, but at least it’s not infidelity.

Fine , I sign.

“That’s good.” The warmth of his hand vanishes as he walks toward the kitchen. “What should I make for dinner?”

His question pulls me out of my thoughts. I follow him into the kitchen, shaking my head. I cook.

“Why? I always cook.”

Tired , I insist. Shower. Sleep. I cook.

“Zinneerah—”

No.

He pauses, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and then smiles faintly. “Let me know if you need any help.”

I watch him as he disappears up the stairs. A moment later, I hear his door click shut.

My fingers grip the fabric of my shirt, twisting it tightly between my hands.

Why does my chest ache when I see him like this—his shoulders slumped, his face drawn with a sadness he’s trying so hard to hide?

What happened today? Was it something on campus? A student, maybe? Dua once told me that Raees has a reputation for being unshakable in his role. Even so, his students and colleagues all respect him deeply. They’d never cross him.

Unless it was her .

I can still remember the day he told me about her. The way his voice was balancing on a tightrope, like he was forcing himself to continue without crashing. His hands were so still, resting in his lap, but his eyes . . . there was fear . Fear that I’d leave just because of the weight her name carried in his past. It broke something in me to see him that way. He didn’t deserve it then, and he doesn’t deserve it now.

I wonder if he feels guilty about her. I wonder if she still has that kind of power over him. I hope not. I hope not.

If anyone should feel guilty, it’s me.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know about my past. He doesn’t know why I sometimes sit in silence, even when I want to speak. Why I can’t stand the brush of a stranger’s hand, why I tense up, why I pull away without meaning to. He doesn’t know why I think, deep down, that I’m not built for this—for marriage, for love, for the kind of life he deserves.

And yet, he chose me.

How is it fair? He doesn’t know the whole truth. He doesn’t know the parts of me I keep hidden away in the dark. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the strength to show them to him, and still, he accepted me. Somehow, he sees something in me I can’t see in myself.

And here I am, standing here, seeing him like this, with that look on his face . . . it’s unbearable. His sadness sometimes mirrors my own, and I hate it. I hate it because I’ve been there. I’ve lived in that space of guilt and shame and blame. I know how consuming it can be. And I don’t want that for him. Not ever.

I want to protect him from it. From her. From whatever or whoever is making him feel like this. He’s so much more than the things he’s endured, and it kills me to think of anyone treating him like he’s less than the man he is. He doesn’t deserve to feel this way because of someone who couldn’t love him the way he deserved to be loved.

There’s no one else in this world for me. Just you. You and my family.

“Me, too, Raees,” I mumble. “Me, too.”

Closer to nine, I make my way upstairs to call Raees for dinner.

His door is slightly ajar, spilling a sliver of golden light onto the hallway floorboards. I didn’t realize he liked sleeping with his door open. Then again, how would I? I’m always in bed long before him. How he manages to be both a night owl and an early bird is something I’ll never understand.

I knock softly, three times. Then wait.

No answer.

I knock again, a little louder this time. Still nothing.

I don’t push the door open, but I lean closer, trying to catch a glimpse through the narrow gap, wondering if he’s awake with his earphones in.

Instead, I see him slumped at his desk. Asleep.

His soft sandy skin glows under the lamplight, his ink-black hair messily falling into his face. One side of his head rests against his folded arms, and his white t-shirt stretched taut across his shoulders. That’s when I catch myself staring.

I step back, biting my lip, and almost close the door before pausing at the last second.

In my room, I grab the extra blanket I brought from home and return, hesitating just outside his door. Should I go inside or just let him be?

But the way he’s hunched over like that, out cold in some uncomfortable dream at his desk, makes me think of when I used to study for finals in high school. I always fell asleep the same way, head over my notes, body protesting against my late-night ambition. And more often than not, I’d wake up with a blanket draped over my shoulders, or Baba would carry me to bed.

I can’t carry Raees. But I can leave him the next best thing.

So, I step inside.

His room is minimalist, awash in soft shades of cream and green. A tall snake plant stands quietly in the corner, while a collection of succulents lines the windowsill where the blinds are gathered. On the left wall, a bookshelf stretches from one end to the other, crammed with textbooks and novels.

Beside his bed, there’s a table stacked with even more books, a framed photo of his mother and sister, and . . . a Switch?

I bite back a laugh. My husband’s a gamer. Good to know.

Blanket unfolded, I shake it out before gently draping it over his back. His shoulders shift slightly under the fabric, his skin prickling with goosebumps. He snores softly, his lips parted and his long lashes shadowing his cheeks.

Carefully, I organize the papers scattered on his desk and pick up his empty coffee mug. It’s such a small thing, but it feels oddly intimate—tidying his space while he sleeps, making sure he’s comfortable.

Once I’m satisfied, I turn to leave—

“Zinneerah.”

My heart leaps, and I stop mid-step. I glance over my shoulder, finding him stirring.

Raees stretches, groaning softly as his arms extend over his head before relaxing back into his chair. The blanket slips off him in the process, pooling around his waist.

I sigh quietly and walk back, pulling it back up to his shoulders.

This time, his eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep.

I take a step back, clutching the mug in my hands, unsure of what to do with the way his gaze softens when it lands on me.

My mouth opens to say something, anything, but instead I wave.

He blinks away the remnants of sleep, looking down at the blanket now tucked snugly around him. Slowly, he runs a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face. “I didn’t even realize I fell asleep.”

Dinner , I sign.

“Oh, right.” He rises to his very full height, and folds the blanket neatly over the back of his chair. It doesn’t escape me that it’s my blanket, but I decide not to point it out. I just let it stay there. “What are we eating?” He takes the mug from my hands, then opens the door for me.

I pull out my phone to type the answer: Chicken-cheese bread and curry rice. If you don’t like it, I can order

He places his hand on my screen before I can finish typing. “I’d be stupid not to like what you cook.”

And just like that, I’m blushing again. Every time. His words always get to me.

We head downstairs, and Raees pauses at the bottom step, taking a deep breath through his nose. He grins as if he’s caught a whiff of something lifechanging.

“I can taste the air,” he says, stepping into the kitchen with an awestruck expression. His eyes land on the chicken-cheese bread sitting on foil, golden and gooey, waiting. “Zinneerah, this looks absolutely incredible.” He moves toward the rice on the counter. Lifting the lid, he lets out a low whistle as the steam curls around his face. “I didn’t know you were secretly a chef, too?”

You are too kind.

“You deserve it.” He turns back to me with a lopsided grin. “You always do.”

Be still, organ inside my chest.

He grabs two plates, holding one out to me. I scoop a modest portion, careful not to let him see how flustered I am.

He piles his plate high and grabs me a spoon before settling across from me at the table. “Let’s see if it tastes just as good as it looks.”

The cheese stretches as he pulls a bite away, and I watch every micro-movement of his face like I’m trying to read his mind. Then, he takes a spoonful of the rice, chewing slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly.

I sigh. Bad .

He swallows and leans forward, looking me dead in the eyes. “The only bad thing—”

No.

“—is you doubting yourself.”

I look at him in surprise. Good?

“Zinneerah, it’s phenomenal .” He takes another bite of bread, letting the cheese pull between his fingers. “Seriously. This? Magical.”

My ego is well-fed. Cooking has never been my arena—that’s Shahzad’s territory. I’ve always been the baker, the one who knows her way around a sweet glaze or a savory pie crust.

This dinner is a memory. Baba used to make it on rushed evenings, and I was his little sous chef, perched at his side, stirring and taste-testing.

Raees sets his spoon down and leans back in his chair. “After dinner, would you please do me the honor of picking out what to wear for the concert tomorrow?”

I nod, signing a quick: Sure.

“Perfect.” He glances toward the patio doors. “Should we eat outside again?”

I glance toward the patio. I love this little tradition we’ve fallen into. Dinner in the summer breeze, the pool glittering in the twilight. Talking about everything and nothing.

It’s simple.

It’s ours.

And I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Once I’ve washed my face, brushed my teeth, and slipped into my nightgown, I grab my phone and wander into Raees’ room. His door is already wide open, and he catches sight of me before I even get the chance to ask if I can come in.

A small mountain of clothes is spread across his bed. He gestures toward them, a little sheepish. “Okay, so based on the pictures you showed me earlier, I think I’ve got something close to what you had in mind.”

I take one look. Not even close.

The “something” turns out to be a line-up of polos (three black, one white) and a pair of trousers that look more suited for a corporate boardroom than what we’re going for.

His shoulders sag. “I got it all wrong, didn’t I?”

I glance up at him with a small, helpless smile.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, placing his hands on his hips. “Good thing I have you here with me, then.” He steps aside, gesturing toward his walk-in closet. “Maybe you’ll spot something I missed?”

I hesitate, unsure if it’s okay to just dive in.

“Go on. It’s all yours. I’ll just . . .” He trails off, making his way to the edge of the bed where he plops down, sprawling comfortably. “I’ll sit here and watch you work your magic.”

I smile back, stepping into his closet, and I’m instantly surrounded by his signature woodsy scent of sandalwood. It’s so undeniably him.

It all makes sense now, seeing the neat row of colognes arranged like trophies on the shelf. Below that, a perfectly curated collection of watches. And beneath that, shoes, polished and gleaming, every pair unmistakably Italian leather.

The closet itself is a palette of neutrals and monochromes. Sweaters in cashmere, wool, and cotton hang in tidy rows. Stacks of folded trousers, and somewhere in those drawers, I’m guessing, are his boxers.

I glance back at Raees. He’s watching me with that lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

When our eyes meet, he drops his gaze to the floor, but the smile stays. Seeing him like this feels like a victory. Especially after the gloominess he walked into the house with earlier.

I sift through his dress shirts, searching for something casual, but they’re all far too formal. My fingers brush past starched collars and crisp fabrics until I find a plain white t-shirt tucked away—a gym shirt, of all things. It’ll do.

I pull it down along with a navy-blue sweater. Moving to the folded trousers, I skim over the fabrics until I feel the rough denim texture.

A pair of loose, dark-blue jeans.

Perfect.

Satisfied, I carry the clothes out to his bed and lay them neatly on the silk sheets. If I ever got the chance to sleep on these, I’d be out cold in minutes.

Raees gives a thoughtful hum, then picks up the clothes. “Let me try it on.” He vanishes into the closet, closing the door behind him.

While he’s changing, I start folding the mess he made of his perfectly arranged wardrobe. As I’m smoothing the last shirt into a neat square, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. My eyes flick to the screen.

A Messenger notification.

From Saira.

Saira.

His ex-fiancée.

Of course, it’s her. Because who else would have the audacity to pop up right now? What does she want, anyway? Closure? Redemption? A second chance? I scoff quietly to myself. Exes never know when to stay in the past where they belong.

The closet door opens, and I barely manage to school my expression before Raees sees me.

“What do we think?” His voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I quickly lick my lips, trying to act like I wasn’t just staring at his phone.

He’s standing there, spinning on one foot like some kind of runway model. The collar of his white tee peeks out from under his sweater, and the hem shows just a little, too. I don’t know why it’s hitting me this way, but something about seeing him in jeans makes my stomach flip.

I grip the sides of my gown tighter, and give a thumbs-up.

“Thank you.” He flashes that devastating smile of his, pushing up his sleeves. Oh, God, his forearms. Toned. Veiny. Dusted with hair. “Maybe you should just pick out all my clothes from now on.”

I nod. My nails are about to rip straight through this gown.

“Are you okay?” Raees asks, stepping closer, bending slightly to catch my eyes with his. He tilts his head. “Your face is all red—”

I shuffle to the side, wringing my hands like they’re trying to escape my body. He’s so handsome, I can’t even hold his gaze for longer than two seconds. And let’s not forget the truth: he’s my husband . If this isn’t peak absurdity, I don’t know what is.

“What are you wearing?” He adjusts the collar of the white tee underneath his sweater in front of his closet mirror.

Doesn’t matter.

He catches that slip through his reflection. “I want it to matter, Zinneerah.” Then he turns, and my brain short-circuits. I look away like the coward I am. “Besides, it’s only fair. Don’t you think?”

I want to answer. I really do. But my attention is fixed on his phone, sitting on the dresser. The notification’s still glowing faintly. What does his ex-fiancée need at eleven at night? If he’s blocked her number, she must be using an app to message him.

I should just ask.

“On second thought,” he says, yanking off his sweater in one swift motion. The hem of his t-shirt rides up with it, flashing me a view of his torso that looks like it was sculpted by a Renaissance artist having a particularly good day. But it’s the happy trail that sends me into vertigo. “Let’s keep it a surprise.”

My hand flies to my cheek, which is now hotter than the weather outside. Get a grip, Zinneerah. You’ve seen shirtless men before.

Yes, but this is different.

This is my husband’s body. And even if it was just the quickest glimpse, it might as well have been a perfectly aimed arrow straight to my chest. How am I supposed to act normal after that? Like I didn’t already know he was built like a Greek statue?

Apparently, knowing and seeing are two very different things.

“Zinneerah?”

I drag my thoughts out of the gutter, kicking and screaming, and force myself to meet his eyes. Ignore the biceps. Ignore the thick, perfect biceps. God, what is wrong with me? Are these hormones? Am I about to get my period? Probably. I’m already three days late, so that tracks.

Goodnight , I sign with all the grace of a drowning fish.

“Wait, hey—”

Nope. I’m out. Retreating away from his room, his smile, his scent that’s both earthy and masculine.

I speed-walk to my own room and fling myself onto the bed, face-first into my pillows like they might smother my shame.

Being attracted to my own husband has officially proven to be dangerous territory.

No, scratch that.

This is an active war zone.