Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

24. Raees

24

Raees

“ W hat are some examples of political underpinnings in digital communication?”

Ninety-seven students sit before me, but you’d think I was addressing a collection of particularly unresponsive houseplants.

I lean back against my desk, arms crossed, letting the silence marinate. Most stare back at me with eyes dulled by exhaustion or disinterest. A couple of students are still typing furiously, even though I’ve made it abundantly clear this is a discussion, not a transcription. Maybe they’re chronicling my lecture for posterity. Or maybe they’re emailing their mothers to ask if the laundry money came through yet. I certainly did that when I was in their shoes.

Dua, meanwhile, is in a near-horizontal slouch, eyes half-closed. She’s usually one of the sharper ones, but I can guess what’s got her in a coma—still no word on that prized internship she’s been obsessing over. A shame, really, because she’s one of the few who can actually keep up when she’s awake.

Time to prod them a little. “Final exams are in two weeks,” I remind them. “And I don’t mean to sound harsh, but if this is the energy you’re planning to bring into the exam, then I’d start preparing for a long conversation with the registrar about retakes.”

A few of them shift uncomfortably in their seats. One or two exchange glances. Good. I don’t need a standing ovation, just signs of life.

Savannah raises her hand, one of the rare sparks of hope in this sea of apathy. Memorizing their names is my way of showing I care, even if RateMyProfessor says otherwise.

“Yes, Savannah,” I say, gripping the edge of the desk as I lean forward slightly.

“Well, uh . . .” She hesitates, twirling her pen between her fingers. “Banksy?”

I lift a brow. Predictable. Banksy is the poster child for this discussion—a go-to answer I’ve heard far too many times. Still, friendly professor mode engaged. “That’s a great example, Savannah. Banksy is definitely a pivotal figure when it comes to using creativity to highlight political and social issues. Now, what else?”

Savannah looks quietly pleased with herself, sitting up a little straighter. Small wins.

Jeremiah raises his hand. “I mean, there’s a lot of musicians,” he says. “Like, Pink Floyd, for example. Their song “Another Brick in the Wall” was basically a big ‘fuck you’ to the education system. Shit was so hard it had the Royal Family’s knickers in a twist.”

Laughter ripples across the room, and I can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. At least they’re awake now.

“Another great example,” I reply, raising a finger to temper the mood. “For the record, I won’t be accepting any expletives or the word ‘knickers’ on the exam.”

Jeremiah leans back, grinning. “What about ‘underwear?’”

“‘Panties?’” someone chimes in.

“‘Undergarments?’” Jeremiah counters.

“‘Boxers?’” another voice adds.

“‘Bush and tush protector?’”

The room erupts. Even I sink my head and laugh under my breath. Jeremiah grins like a man who’s just won the lottery.

“You know what?” I say, gesturing vaguely at him. “I’ll allow one synonym on the exam. One. Choose wisely.”

“Let’s go!” Jeremiah exclaims, slapping hands with Marcus. “Bonus points for making you laugh?”

“Now that’s crossing the line. Who else wants to take a stab at this?”

Erica hesitates before lifting her hand. I can’t recall hearing her voice all semester. “If we’re discussing bands that made a political stance,” she starts, her words coming out like she’s testing the water, “I can name one. “Bonzo Goes to Bitburg” by the Ramones. The band wrote it when Ronald Reagan visited a German war cemetery. The ‘Bonzo’ in the title refers to a movie Reagan starred in during his acting days— Bedtime for Bonzo .” She shrugs. “I only know this because my dad’s a huge Ramones fan.”

I give her a small smile. “That’s a very insightful example, Erica.”

Before the gears of conversation have a chance to grind to a halt again, Michael shoots his hand up. “Queen?”

There’s a ripple of murmurs across the room—Queen, now that gets their attention. But then, predictably, Michael falters.

“Elaborate,” I encourage, weaving my marker between my fingers.

He lowers his hand slowly, squirming from his own lack of follow-through. “Well, I don’t really know. Weren’t they, like, super woke back in the day?”

“Eh!” Dua’s buzzer sound cuts through the awkwardness like a referee on a bad call. “Actually, Freddie Mercury didn’t want to involve himself in political songwriting. He just wanted to write songs without causing debates. Of course, some songs can be interpreted politically—like “I Want to Break Free” or “Bohemian Rhapsody,” especially the singles that came out during his battle with AIDS—but that’s the beauty of music. The meaning is up to the listener.”

Michael scowls. “What the suck-up said.”

Dua holds up her middle-finger.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the urge to sigh audibly. “Michael, since you clearly brought Queen into this with absolutely no ammunition, I’m going to suggest you stick to bands you actually know something about next time.” I pause, glancing at Dua. “And Dua, please limit your rebuttals to actual words. Gestures are for traffic arguments, not the classroom.” And I’ll definitely be informing Zinneerah about this.

“You know, Professor Shaan,” Dua drawls, “my older sister loves Queen.” She grins sinisterly, her eyes daring me. “Do you have a favorite Queen song?”

I stare at her with a warning smile.

But it wears off when I recall the night in the coffee shop where Saira and I had a conversation about her infidelity. The only thing that kept me from breaking the glass on our table was Zinneerah’s singing. “I’m a little sentimental, so I’ll have to go with “Who Wants to Live Forever.””

Dua quirks up a shoulder, clearly satisfied with whatever subtle test she’d been putting me through.

““Bohemian Rhapsody” is the shit,” Jeremiah pipes up. He’s leaned back in his seat, legs stretched out like he’s in his living room. “Did you see the movie, Professor?”

“Yes.” I don’t elaborate, though the truth is I saw it the night it came out. I’d hoped—foolishly, I admit—that I might run into Zinneerah at the theater, but no such luck. So, I watched it again. And again. The first time out of curiosity, the next three because, well, it’s Queen.

Before Jeremiah can drag us further down the cinematic rabbit hole, I steer the conversation back on course. “What other mediums can we think of that have served as platforms for political or cultural commentary?”

Several arms shoot up, and the spark of engagement I’ve been chasing all morning flickers to life.

I take a deep breath, letting myself enjoy the moment. Friendly professor’s actually working. And also, because I made pancakes with my wife this morning.

“All right.” I straighten up from my desk. “Let’s start with Andrea.”

During group discussions, I leave my desk and take a slow walk up the aisles. It’s not something I usually do, but today feels different. The students are deep in conversation, tossing ideas back and forth with an energy I haven’t seen in a while.

I pause by one group, leaning slightly to catch what they’re saying. They’re arguing over the role of corporate sponsorship in modern protest movements, voices overlapping as they counter each other’s points. I nod, impressed— not bad.

The next group is quieter but focused. They’re mapping out the evolution of grassroots journalism, linking it to the rise of digital platforms. Someone mentions Substack newsletters, another adds something about online influencers, and before I know it, they’re debating the ethics of monetizing advocacy.

It’s strange, really. My approach to teaching wasn’t always this reflective. Early in my career, I’d walk into a room full of first-years like a drill sergeant, expecting sharp answers and polished essays from a crowd that had barely figured out how to format a Word document. I was impatient back then, relentless.

First-years and second-years are different. They’re still figuring out how the world works, what they want, who they are. They stumble over their words, make half-formed arguments, and forget deadlines because they overslept or got distracted by the university partying lifestyle.

I used to find that infuriating. Now, I find it oddly endearing. They’re not just future journalists—they’re kids with messy lives, learning how to walk the tightrope of responsibility for the first time.

I’ve been there. I don’t know how I survived my twenties without completely combusting. If someone had held me to the same standard I held these students to, I probably would’ve dropped out, run off to some forgotten corner of the world.

But Zinneerah . . . she’s softened those edges. She’s shown me that patience isn’t complacency, it’s care. Towards her, towards myself, and, if I stretch that definition far enough, towards my students.

With her, I can’t charge ahead with the same reckless efficiency I used to.

Love, real love, isn’t about checking off milestones or earning gold stars. It’s about waiting for the other person to catch up, about learning how to be still when the moment calls for it. I can’t expect my students to be perfect overnight. I can’t expect my wife to meet me halfway when she’s still working through her own emotions. And that’s fine. Because we’ll get there together.

I hold back a smile, but the vision unfolds anyway. Children with her eyes, her smile, pieces of her woven into the fabric of our lives. A bigger house, or wherever she feels most at home. A backyard with an orchid tree stretching toward the sky. A garden I’d plant just for her, surrounded with the colors and scents she loves. Maybe a cat, maybe a dog, something small to make the house feel fuller.

Happiness suits me.

Zinneerah suits me.

I wait outside the music department, phone in hand, firing off a barrage of texts to Ramishah. Mostly nonsense—how I made chocolate chip pancakes this morning, and how Zinneerah insisted on her strawberries being sliced, not served whole.

My sister finally reads them.

Ram: IF I HEAR ONE MORE DING FROM MY PHONE, I’M TURNING YOU INTO A PANCAKE. LEAVE ME ALONE SO I CAN FINISH WORKING ON A SERUM FOR THESE 11-YEAR-OLD SEPHORA GIRLS TO SPEND THEIR PARENTS’ MONEY ON. :((((

I frown, thumbs hesitating over the screen.

Me: Sorry. I don’t know who else to talk to.

The typing bubbles appear. Then vanish. Then come back. She’s probably feeling guilty for snapping at me. And fair enough, I deserve it. But the truth is, I really don’t have anyone else to text. Ammi-ji would pick up, sure, but she prefers calls over messages. And unlike Ramishah, she’d be patient about it, softly chiding me to stop narrating every grin Zinneerah blesses me with.

Ramishah leaves me on read.

I sigh, tucking my phone into my coat pocket. I’m mid-brood when someone tugs the back of my jacket, startling me.

I turn, and there she is.

My lovely wife.

She clutches the straps of her guitar bag, her dark, smoky eyes framed by her open hair. Today, she’s dressed in a frilly green blouse and black skirt, unlike her usual black-on-black style. She’s so achingly beautiful, like a melody you’ll never hear the same way twice.

“Professor!” Alex bounces down the building’s steps, her energy levels always high as she loops her arm through Zinneerah’s. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” I say. “Yourself?”

“Fantastic!”

Another woman steps up beside Zinneerah—short blonde curls, tan skin dusted with freckles. She pulls her round sunglasses up to her forehead and gives me a once-over. “Hmm.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“This is Ophelia,” Alex says, gesturing.

I offer my hand. “Raees. Zinneerah’s husband.”

Ophelia shakes it briefly, her grip firm. “Huh. Wouldn’t have predicted this at all.” She pushes her shades back down. “Zinnie usually goes for the edgier types.” She tilts her head, still inspecting me like I’m an artifact under glass. “You look like you wandered out of Dead Poets Society .”

Zinneerah elbows her sharply. Alex snickers.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I reply, smirking.

“It is,” Ophelia says, deadpan. “Just making sure—you’re taking good care of Zinnie, right?”

I glance at Zinneerah, cocking an eyebrow. “Think I’ll let Zinnie answer that one.”

Her cheeks flush, lips twitching with a shy smile. She nods five times in succession.

Alex drapes her arm across Zinneerah’s shoulder with a grin. “So, Professor—”

“Raees.”

“Right. Know any hot poets on campus?”

“Can’t say that I do,” I reply, veering the conversation elsewhere. “How was practice?”

“Productive,” Ophelia answers, stuffing her hands into her jean pockets. “It’s been a while since the three of us were in that room together, but it felt like no time had passed.”

Zinneerah squints into the sunlight, smiling, her bronze skin illuminated. My heart thrums in my ears, and I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter.

“You should come by sometime,” Alex suggests. “Do you play an instrument?”

My fingers dance across invisible piano keys. “But not very good.”

Zinneerah blinks, her lips parting slightly. Really?

“I took lessons in high school . . .” My words falter, nearly revealing more than I want to. I clear my throat and try again. “It was just a hobby—something to keep me busy. I haven’t played in years. I’m probably rusty.”

Ophelia’s eyebrows lift. “Well, if Alex ever takes a sick day, you’re welcome to join us.”

“Not gonna happen,” Alex says, crossing her arms. “But, yes, you’re always welcome.”

I chuckle. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather listen to your magic than risk ruining it.” My gaze lands on Zinneerah. “Speaking of which, I’ve yet to hear you play.”

Her eyes drop immediately to the ground.

Alex steps in, and grabs Zinneerah’s face, squishing her cheeks together and puppeteering her mouth. “‘Oh, yes, my sweet husband.’” She pitches her voice higher in a theatrical mockery of Zinneerah’s voice. “‘I’d love nothing more than to serenade you with my musical genius!’”

“Stop,” Zinneerah mouths, brushing Alex’s hands off her face.

I press a fist to my lips, stifling my laughter. “It’s good to know my wife keeps such a lively company. If you two are free, you’re welcome to come over for dinner sometime. As long as Alex brings her jokes to the table.”

Alex clutches her shirt and widens her eyes. “Professor,” she says in a whisper, “I’d be honored to clown in your humble abode.”

Zinneerah chuckles softly, looking up at me for a split second before averting her eyes again.

“Zinnie mentioned you two were hosting some dinner party next week,” Ophelia says. “We’ll drop by. Cool if I bring my daughter?”

“Of course,” I reply. “Our family’s overrun with kids—she’ll fit right in.” Ammi-ji’s relatives are the ones who always come to these gatherings, ever since most of Abbu’s side stopped reaching out years ago. I’d never cared much for them anyway. “Just let Zinneerah know if there are any dietary restrictions. I’ll make sure we’ve got something for everyone.”

Alex’s jaw drops. “He cooks?” She spins to Zinneerah, her hands out like she’s just been hit with divine revelation.

“He does,” I say before Zinneerah can respond.

“Well-deserved, Zinnie.” Ophelia sighs. “You’re living a life of pure luxury. A husband who cooks and plays the piano? Next thing you’ll tell me is he writes poetry, too.” She pats Zinneerah’s back lightly before checking her phone. “Anyway, we better get moving. I’ve got to pick up Juliette from school.”

“It was nice meeting you,” I say, offering a polite nod.

Ophelia gives a two-finger salute. “Likewise. Take care.”

She grabs Alex’s arm and drags her off like a mother tugging their impatient child.

Alex twists her body back to face us, waving frantically. “Bye, Professor! Bye, Zinnie! Don’t forget about me!” She blows a kiss in Zinneerah’s direction, and my wife captures it, pressing it to her heart.

“I’m jealous,” I say, earning her attention. Her head tilts toward me instantly, concern flickering in her eyes. “I mean, I’m jealous that I don’t have friends like Alex or Ophelia.” I laugh a little, rubbing the back of my neck. “My sister’s already torn me apart over it, but watching how you all are together, made me realize I need to try harder. Be a better friend, let alone have friends.”

Zinneerah steps in front of me, close enough that her presence is all I can focus on. I’m your friend.

Oh, no.

My heart’s gone rogue again. She’s my wife, for God’s sake, and yet here I am, falling apart because she called herself my friend.

I’m my wife’s friend.

I should say something. Anything. “You’re my friend, too,” I somehow manage to say. “You’ve always been my friend.” Too much. That’s too much. Backpedal. Fast. “I mean—since we’ve known each other. For a year. Right? That’s how long we’ve been friends.” My voice cracks slightly, and I want to kick myself. What am I even saying? Never mind that it’s been six and a half years of me quietly losing my mind over her. But, yes. A year. Let’s go with that. “So, I assume we’ve been friends since then. Right?”

Her eyes soften. You have been my friend since you told me about the pirate ship ride.

I told her that embarrassing story in the third week of our weekly Friday engagement meetings. “You still . . . remember that?”

Of course , she signs so matter-of-fact about it, like she can’t believe I’d even ask. I remember every story. It was the best I could do for you.

“Oh.”

My chest physically hurts. I need to sit down. I need to think. I need to sift through my brain for more childhood stories, more memories, more anything I can offer her. Anything to make up for the fact that all I’ve done is talk about myself.

“I’m sorry. All I did was go on and on without even thinking you might’ve wanted to share something, too.”

She shakes her head. Don’t worry. I didn’t , she signs. Then her fingers hang suspended in the air, as if she’s considering whether to go on. Her gaze drifts to the side for a moment before settling back on me. I like your voice.

It feels like my heart’s about to give out on the spot. Right here. Right on campus. They’re going to find me collapsed in the middle of this conversation, because how the hell am I supposed to survive hearing that from her? Never in my life have I been so profoundly grateful to have been born, to have grown up, to have somehow stumbled my way through all the twists and turns that led me to this moment—to her. My wife. My friend. And she likes listening to me.

I’m useless. My voice? Gone. My thoughts? Evacuating. Somehow, I pull myself together just enough to sign, Thank you.

I want to tell her that I love her voice, too, but she doesn’t know that I used to sit in the back of the café during open mic nights, trying to be inconspicuous while she serenaded everyone.

Her voice used to make my heart stop. Now, it’s the way she looks at me.

And if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve fallen in love with her silence just as much.

She tilts her head, one brow arching teasingly. Where’s my compliment?

I stammer, my brain scrambling to keep up. I didn’t expect her to ask that. Why didn’t I expect her to ask that? God, I’m an idiot. Of course, I should’ve been ready with something clever or sweet or, hell, at least coherent. That’s what normal people do. That’s what husbands do. But no, here I am, blinking like a deer in headlights

Zinneerah dips her head, breathy laughter spilling out behind the curve of her palm. My brain stops functioning again. She glances up at me, her eyes crinkling, and I know she sees exactly how frazzled I am.

Kidding , she signs. I was the funny one in the trio. A-L-E-X is waking up the clown inside again. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.

“No!” I blurt out loud. She blinks at me, and I try to recover. “I mean—yes! Yes, that’s great. The, uh . . . the being funny part. I’m glad. Really glad.” I know I’m making this worse, but I can’t stop. “I was just—uh—processing your compliment. That’s all. Thinking about how I, too, like your voice. Your words. Especially the ones that poke fun at me.”

Kill me. Just end it now.

She blinks at me again, and then—God, help me—she licks her bottom lip, holding back another laugh, before her gaze flicks down to the pavement.

I’m hopeless. “Uh, so.” I gesture toward the parking lot like an awkward tour guide. “Shall we?”

She steps in beside me without a word, her pace matching mine, and I can feel her warmth brush against my arm. And that smile of hers? It doesn’t fade. Not even for a second.

I glance down at her out of the corner of my eye, and it hits me, like it always does, like it always will, I’m the reason for that smile. Me . I’m the one who put it there.

And I’ll spend the rest of my life to keep it there.