Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

20. Raees

20

Raees

Me: Oh, and I was holding onto her waist the entire time. It was the best feeling in the world. I thought I might actually die of excitement.

Ramishah: Please make a friend and text them instead.

Me: One more thing. She looked so cute picking up the confetti. I swear, I wanted to take a thousand pictures of her. Just her jumping around, smiling like that. Holy shit. I love my wife.

Ramishah: I should hope so.

Me: I want to marry her a thousand times over.

Ramishah: Goodnight, Rumi.

I t’s embarrassing, really. All I can do is replay Zinneerah’s face in my head: her wide, giddy smile while she reached for the tiny scraps of colorful confetti.

The last time I saw her like that—so carefree, so utterly her—was the night she performed with her band. She’d jumped around the stage with her guitar slung over her shoulder, the crowd shouting every lyric back at her. She owned that moment, every second of it. And she hadn’t stopped smiling the entire time. That same perfect, pearly smile. God, I could live a hundred lifetimes and never get enough of it.

I shudder, suddenly overwhelmed.

It’s terrifying, isn’t it? Loving someone this much? It feels too big for one body to hold. Sometimes I scare myself, thinking about it—the lengths I’d go to keep her safe, to make her happy. She’s been the center of my world for six years now. Every waking thought revolves around her, and every goodnight dream ends with her. She makes me better, just by existing.

Loving her is . . . Loving her is self-care.

The dressing room door creaks open, and there she is. My Zinneerah. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but she’s wiped away most of the evidence. The eyeliner is gone, and her lipstick has faded into something softer. Even like this, she’s striking.

Those dark eyes meet mine, and for a second, I forget what I was doing. “Everything okay?”

Yes. You?

“Never been better.”

Her gaze drops, and she nods toward the room behind her. Meet A-L-E-X?

“I’d love to.”

She shifts to the side, giving me space to walk in. The dressing room smells faintly of hairspray and something candy-ish—probably Alex’s perfume.

Speaking of, she’s shorter than I expected, standing by the couch with arms crossed, her eyes fixed on me like I’m an uninvited guest. She doesn’t smile. Instead, she sticks out a hand, all business. “Professor Raees.”

“Raees works.” I take her hand, giving it a firm shake. “Congratulations on finishing your tour, Alex. Zinneerah and I had a wonderful time tonight. You’re a hell of a performer.”

Her lips curve into a smirk as she bends into a bow. “Thank you, thank you.” She plops down onto the couch. “Go on. Sit down.”

I pick a chair diagonal to her. Zinneerah sits next to me, close enough that our knees brush.

Alex doesn’t waste time. “So,” she says, leaning back her elbows. “When’s the second wedding? You know, the one where Ophelia and I are the only guests?”

I blink. “Ophelia?”

Zinneerah doesn’t hesitate, signing, Our other friend .

“Oh,” I say, nodding slowly. “Well, I don’t think another wedding is in the cards, but we’d love to have you both over for dinner sometime. You’re always welcome to stay over.”

Alex puts a hand to her chest, mock-affected. “That is, like, so sweet. I was planning on showing up either way. With or without your permission.”

I chuckle. “I’m glad you two have reconnected. Watching my wife jump around tonight was a sight for sore eyes.” Zinneerah immediately looks down, cheeks coloring as I aim a soft smile at her. “Maybe I should book Alex for a weekly residency if it means seeing that again.”

“For her? Dude, I’d do a whole world tour,” Alex quips, winking. “And you know what’s wild? Half the songs I performed tonight, Zinnie was there when I wrote them. She even helped me finish the last one.”

“Really?” I raise my brows, playing at surprise. The truth is, I’ve always suspected Zinneerah’s old university days involved more creativity than she lets on. Knowing her knack for words, and her tendency to downplay her own brilliance, I wouldn’t be shocked if she’s sitting on a vault of songs no one’s ever heard.

“She’s the best songwriter I know. Better than most pros, honestly,” Alex continues. “She’s got a special connection with words. The kind of lyrics that make you feel like you’re living in an old, blurry home video. Once, I cried in the middle of editing a song she helped me with. I’m talking fat, soul-crushing tears.”

Zinneerah shakes her head quickly, her face now fully flushed.

“Oh, it’s true.” Alex leans forward, locking eyes with her like she’s challenging her to deny it. “Now that you’re married, though, you’re out of excuses. You have to start writing love songs. Big, swoony ones. Give John Legend a run for his money.”

I can feel my own face warming at that, but Alex just smirks, clearly pleased with herself.

If Zinneerah wrote a song for me— about me—I’d listen to it on a loop until the end of time. I’d burn it onto a CD, get her to autograph it, and keep it in a fireproof safe. I’d brag to everyone, especially her perpetually grouchy brother, about how I’m her muse. My wife’s muse. A man whose last creative endeavor was playing a one-man game of tic-tac-toe in the margins of a tax form.

“So, Raees,” Alex says, popping a chip in her mouth from a nearby bowl. “How’d you convince Zinnie to marry you? I’m sure it wasn’t just, like, an impulsive brunch decision.”

“Oh.” I try to keep my focus on Alex instead of the breathtakingly shy woman I somehow managed to marry. “Well, we’d known each other for about a year before getting engaged. I don’t know exactly what convinced her to say yes, but for me . . .” I smile when Zinneerah’s gaze flickers up at me. “For me, it was instant. There wasn’t any convincing needed. I’d like to think she liked the sound of my endless rambling.”

“Ooh,” Alex coos. “Love a man who’s both charming and a podcast. You know, back in the day, Zinnie used to ramble, too. She once went to see three horror films in a row in the dingiest theater in the city because Ophelia and I chickened out. And when we finally met up, she spent hours explaining every single plot twist, and the IMDb trivia about which actors have kids and which don’t.”

You like scary movies , Zinneerah signs in my direction.

I despise horror movies, but for my wife—“Oh, absolutely,” I lie, with the confidence of a man stepping into quicksand. “I love horror movies. One of my all-time favorite genres.”

“Yeah?” Alex smiles, swinging one leg over the other. “What’s your favorite?”

I lick my lips, casting a glance at my wife, who’s watching me like I’ve just promised to recite War and Peace from memory. I fumble for a title—any title—and latch onto the last one Ramishah forced me to watch. “Uh, I love the one with the train. And the zombies. Korean zombies . . .”

Zinneerah claps her hands together, her face lighting up as she points at herself and nods. I love that movie. The ending was sad.

Sad? I barely remember it. I spent most of the runtime hiding behind my hands like a five-year-old in a haunted house. The ending was just blurry shapes and muffled sobs—mostly Ramishah’s. Which, by the way, was a brutal betrayal of my expectations. She was supposed to be the tough one. “Yes. It was quite gut-wrenching.”

“How sweet,” Alex says, propping her chin in her palms. She bats her lashes at both of us and tilts her head. “You two are just painfully adorable, you know that?” She narrows her eyes and tilts her head, studying me. “Now that I get a closer look at you, Raees, I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“Oh?” I say, feigning an air of polite curiosity. “Maybe. I was also a student when you two were. Close to graduating, actually—”

“Did you visit Studio 365 often?” Alex asks, cutting me off.

Panic prickles at the back of my neck. This isn’t a good sign. She’s sharp. “Hmm?” I laugh nervously and rub my palms together like I’m cold. “No, I—I don’t think so. What’s that?”

Alex looks all too pleased with herself. “It’s a coffee shop,” she says, her gray eyes breaking me down molecule by molecule. “Zinnie, Ophelia, and I used to perform there all the time. Open mic nights, acoustic sets, that kind of thing. I swear I’ve seen you sitting at one of the tables. How else would you feel so familiar?”

Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.

The realization drops into my stomach like a bowling ball. Of course, Alex would remember. I could’ve sworn I’d been subtle, sitting in the back with my notebook, pretending to work while Zinneerah’s voice turned my spine into melted wax.

Apparently not.

“Is that so?” I mutter, smiling just enough to appear unbothered, though my palms are clammy and I’m certain she’s enjoying this way too much. “Maybe I did. I don’t recall. Those years are a bit of a blur.”

“Are they?” she repeats, her grin resembling the Cheshire Cat. Then, sighing, she surrenders with a slap of her hands against her lap. “Oh, well. The past doesn’t really matter now that you’ve got a future to build together, huh?”

I exhale through my nose, trying to keep my relief subtle. Zinneerah is staring at Alex, puzzled, like she doesn’t understand what just passed between us.

Bless her soul.

“I’m glad you both found each other,” Alex says. Zinneerah and I both snap our heads up, startled. Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. “I’ve always wanted nothing but the best of the best for Zinnie. She deserves it. And even though it’s been, what, six minutes of us talking? I can already tell you’re the one for her.” She brushes a strand of her silver-dyed bangs out of her face with a flick of her fingers. “I’m not great with sentimental stuff—kind of allergic to it, actually—but just . . . don’t ever drop her hand, Raees. That’s all I’ll say.”

On cue, my left hand seeks out Zinneerah’s right one.

I thread my fingers through hers, offering a small squeeze. She startles at first, her movements going still, but then she lifts her gaze to meet mine. Her eyes, usually so dark they’re almost black, catch the light, revealing a soft cocoa-brown hue. I never quite know what she’s thinking behind them, and it drives me insane. A good insane. The kind where I’ll spend my whole life trying to figure her out and never once regret it.

I wink.

Zinneerah blinks at me, rapid and restless, like her body doesn’t know how to respond to the gesture.

And then, like a gong sounding at the worst possible moment, Alex springs to her feet. “Well, lovebirds. All this Love, Actually -ing has officially worked up my appetite. Let’s grab some food before I choke on this tension, ‘kay?”

Zinneerah vibrates with excitement the moment we step into One Stop Chicken Shop.

The place looks like it hasn’t seen a health inspection since the invention of electricity, but judging by my wife’s shining eyes, and the nostalgic grin on Alex’s face, we’ve just walked onto a sacred ground.

“We used to come here all the time,” Alex explains, catching my confusion as I take in the flickering fluorescent lights and sticky linoleum floor. “Fancy-schmancy meals weren’t exactly in the budget, so it was shawarma bowls, ramen, and greasy chicken. Ain’t that right?” She grabs Zinneerah’s shoulders from behind and gives her a shake.

My wife looks around like she’s just discovered a long-lost temple, her awe fixed on the half-faded menu above the register and the bushy-browed, middle-aged cashier texting on his phone. The chairs don’t match. The tables are scarred with initials and lopsided hearts. The whole place smells like deep fryer oil and regret.

It’s perfect.

Joints like these guarantee the food’s going to be good. Incredible, actually. With a side of heartburn or food poisoning, if you’re unlucky. But still, worth it.

Alex approaches the counter like she’s the owner, rattling off an order for herself and Zinneerah without consulting either of them. Then she turns to me, propping a hand on her hip. “And you, tall king? What’ll it be?”

Tall king?

I stall, glancing at Zinneerah, who’s still mesmerized by the ambiance like it’s Michelin-star dining. “I’ll have what she’s having.” If there’s food poisoning in my future, I’d rather it happens together. “But no tomatoes.”

The two women dive into a very serious debate about who’s going to pay. I stay quiet at first, watching my wife insist with big, round, pleading eyes while Alex raises a pierced eyebrow like she’s ready to throw down.

It’s adorable.

Zinneerah rarely gets feisty unless it’s about something like this, wordlessly stubborn in the way that makes me want to scoop her up and kiss her forehead.

But my so-called tall king status wins out, nudging both of them aside as I slide my card onto the machine before either can react.

“Hey, come on!” Alex groans, throwing her hands in the air. “I was going to treat you guys as a wedding present.”

Even Zinneerah pouts, crossing her arms and glancing up at me like she’s planning revenge. It’s the most heart-melting thing I’ve ever seen.

“Perhaps another time.” As I’m tucking my card back into my wallet, Alex snatches my wrist, her sharp eyes zeroing in on the photo inside.

She opens her mouth to say something, her grin already forming, but I silence her with a quick shake of my head. Don’t you dare.

“Why not?” she mouths, feigning innocence.

I shake my head again, more firmly this time, but she’s already poking at my ribs with a childish giggle. “That’s so old-timey of you, Professor.”

So, what if I keep a picture of my wife in my wallet? It’s from the solo photoshoot she did for our wedding. The files came bundled with the rest of the pictures, but this one—the one where she’s smiling for the first time that evening—this one begged to be printed. Passport-sized, tucked neatly into the little leather pocket of my wallet, it’s a talisman. I like to open it when I’m stressed or overwhelmed, or when everything feels too good to be real, and I need a tangible reminder that this isn’t some fever dream. That she’s actually mine.

When our food’s ready, I grab the tray and set it down at one of the mismatched tables, brushing crumbs away with my hand. The women follow, their energy elevated as if this greasy little joint has unlocked something primal in them.

As soon as they take their first bites, the table transforms into a scene straight out of a food documentary. Alex moans dramatically, throwing kisses toward the chef behind the counter, who looks singularly unimpressed but probably gets this reaction a lot. “Still got the best fried chicken in the city, Mohammed!” Alex declares, waving a drumstick like it’s the Olympic torch. “Never change! You’re an icon!”

Zinneerah, meanwhile, takes a more civilized approach. She bites into her burger, closes her eyes, and shakes her head like she can’t believe what she’s tasting—

BANG!

Her fist hits the table, a loud, decisive thump that sends Alex into peals of laughter, and takes me by surprise.

The burger’s solid. Not as life-changing as it seems to be for Zinneerah, but I respect the craftsmanship. I angle my phone just so to capture the perfect shot of the slightly charred bun and the melted cheese oozing over the edges. Then I open my messaging app and send it to Ramishah, who’s fast asleep halfway across the world.

Zinneerah catches my eye just as I slip my phone into my pocket. Her face is blank, her lips pressed into a tight line. My heart skips. Is she okay? Is she about to experience the first stage of food poisoning?

Everything okay? I sign.

She blinks, then shifts her gaze to Alex, who’s currently mid-monologue about a musical.

Okay, that was weird. Usually, if Zinneerah spaces out, and she does space out often, she snaps back the moment I wave a hand in front of her. Nine out of ten—no, ten out of ten times, she acknowledges it with that soft, apologetic grin of hers.

Alex, on the other hand, is having no trouble finding her joy. She pats her stomach with both hands after wiping her mouth, reclining in her chair. “Oh, man. I’m slipping into a food coma.” She rests her head on Zinneerah’s shoulder, closing her eyes. “This is how I go. Wake me up in five days.”

“Would you like us to drive you home?” I offer. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind wrapping the night early, pouring my wife a cup of tea, and asking her what’s going on in that quiet, beautiful mind of hers.

“Home?” Alex jerks upright, looking genuinely offended. “Buddy, the night is still young for Alex Watanabe. The girls are meeting me at a club in an hour to celebrate the last leg of the tour. You can just drop me off there.” She slides her gaze between Zinneerah and I. “Unless, you two wanna join?”

I desperately want to say no. Desperately . Clubs are not my thing. The pounding bass, the overwhelming crowds, the spilled drinks—it’s the complete opposite of how I’d like to spend my time. But Zinneerah’s opinion matters more. Alex is her best friend, and I don’t want to speak for her. Knowing Zinneerah, she’ll probably decline, too.

Why not? Zinneerah signs, tilting her head ever so slightly.

I blink. You want to go?

Am I not allowed to?

Her tone, if it could be called that through her hands, lands somewhere between annoyance and exasperation. My heart sinks a little. Of course she’s allowed to go. Of course she’s allowed to want things, to make decisions without checking my every preference first. I know that.

Did I do something wrong? Did I say too much? My brain churns through possibilities, searching for the misstep. But I already know what to do next. I’ve known since I was a kid. You don’t argue. You don’t prod. You don’t hold your ground and risk the consequences. You smile. You say: Okay. You survive.

“Okay,” I say now, forcing the word out with a smile so thin it could snap in half. My pulse ticks in my neck. Compliant. It’s second nature. I don’t even have to think about it.

“Perfect!” Alex squeals, leaping out of her chair with the unshakable energy only she can summon after midnight. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom and freshen up.” She winks and spins off toward the bathroom, leaving us alone at the table.

It’s not that I don’t want Zinneerah to go. It’s not that I think she shouldn’t have a good time with Alex. It’s that clubs are . . . well, clubs. Something could go wrong. It always can.

Zinneerah hates all of that. She hates crowds, and people stumbling into her personal space. At least, that’s what I’ve concluded. But maybe Alex is breathing back her previous life into her. The woman I fell in love with. This is who she used to be before me—a woman who liked noise, liked recklessness, liked a little wildness. Maybe she’s been to a hundred clubs, knows the scene, and can handle herself.

The sound of fingers tapping on the table draws me out of my thoughts.

I blink and glance up to see Zinneerah watching me. When I meet her gaze, she smiles. I was joking , she signs.

I blink, caught completely off guard. About what?

I hate the club.

I stare at her, confused. You said you wanted to go.

When I am in a better mental space. No risk right now.

Relief crashes over me like a tidal wave, though I don’t let it show on my face. She was joking. Of course she was joking. My mind runs too far ahead sometimes, spiraling before I can stop it.

I’m sorry. You should celebrate with her.

Zinneerah glances at the crumpled wrappers and empty trays between us, then gestures toward them like they’re the answer to everything. We did. Time to go home. She will understand.

“You can invite her tomorrow,” I suggest.

I will see her on campus. Agreed to help with the festival. She pauses, looking thoughtful, then signs, Is it okay to see O-P-H-E-L-I-A after?

I nod immediately. “Make sure you text me beforehand.”

Zinneerah’s hands shift, her fingers preparing to say something else, but then she stops. Lowers them to her lap.

What is it? I sign, leaning forward.

She shrugs, avoiding my eyes. Nothing . Thank you for the food. Then, after a pause, she adds, Alex likes you a lot.

I lick the smug grin off my lips. “What isn’t there to like?”

Her foot nudges mine under the table, and she rolls her eyes, but not before giving me a smile. It’s the smallest things with her that always undo me—the twitch of her lips, the way her shoulders relax when she feels safe. Even now, in a fluorescent-lit chicken shop, she glows.

Alex arrives, sweeping back into the scene with her hair gelled into sleek perfection and eyeliner sharp enough to cut metal in half. She takes one look at Zinneerah’s helpless smile and groans. “Let me guess. You’re not coming?”

“She said she’ll see you on campus tomorrow,” I answer on my wife’s behalf. “You two can practice for the summer festival then. And, after that, you’re supposed to go see Ophelia.”

Alex smacks her lips in mock exasperation and plops down onto the chair beside Zinneerah, swinging an arm around her shoulders. “Works for me. We’ll celebrate with just you, me, and Fifi when she’s back. Girls’ night, no boys allowed. Plus, you’ll get to meet Juliette! Speaking of, we should buy her a present . . .”

Her words trail off as the conversation veers into a territory I don’t entirely follow, but I don’t mind.

I lean back, resting my arms on the table, and let myself do what I love most: watching my wife.