Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

37. Zinneerah

37

Zinneerah

R aees’ bedroom door is locked.

Knocking twice, I say, “It’s me, Zin—” My throat tightens mid-sentence, and I cough, the tears I’ve been holding back scratching at my voice.

I haven’t been publicly humiliated since my last relationship. It all came crashing down so fast, but Raees had a quicker reaction time.

“Raees,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool wood of the door. “Please. Open. Let me in.”

Nothing.

Seconds pass; conversations become farewells. A minute; front door opens and closes. Five minutes; children are asking, “Is Uncle Raees okay?” Ten minutes; everyone and their judgment, their little looks and quiet criticisms, are out the door.

Twenty minutes, and I still stand here. Still hoping.

I can’t bring myself to leave. Not until I know he’s okay. Not until he knows I’m okay.

Soft footsteps behind me interrupt the silence. I glance over my shoulder to see Zoha creeping up the stairs, her small hands curled around Rosy Aunty’s fingers. Of course, they sent a child knowing I’d send the rest of them away.

“Is he okay?” Zoha asks.

“I don’t know,” I whisper honestly.

“Give him some time,” Rosy Aunty says.

“I don’t want him to deal with this on his own.” My chin trembles. Hot tears spill down my cheeks before I can stop them, and I swipe at them hurriedly with the underside of my palms.

“Oh, Zinneerah.” Rosy Aunty reaches for me and pulls me into a warm hug, wrapping me in the kind of softness only someone like her can offer. “It’s okay, jaan. Everything’s okay. You’re safe with us.”

And suddenly I’m crying harder. I don’t feel okay. Everyone downstairs stripped away me and my brother’s dignity piece by piece while Tariq cackled through it all. And now Raees is upstairs, hiding, thinking he’s the villain of this story.

She rubs circles onto my back, shushing me gently. “You know,” she says, “Raees has loved you for many years from the sidelines.”

I freeze, jerking back to stare at her through blurry, tear-streaked eyes. “What?”

She smiles knowingly, her hands bracketing my face with that motherly tenderness I’ve never quite gotten used to. “It’s about time he tells you. I can’t keep the secret any longer.”

As if on cue: click .

Rosy Aunty steps back. “Let’s go,” she whispers, herding my niece back toward the stairs.

“Good luck,” Zoha chirps over her shoulder, flashing me an encouraging smile before they disappear.

I wipe at my face again, quickly, and take a shaky step back as the door opens just a crack. It’s dark inside. I can barely make out the shape of him in the shadows.

“Can I . . . come in?” I ask.

The door opens a little more in response.

I step inside his room and am greeted by pitch blackness, save for the streaks of gold from the sunset slicing through his sheer curtains, billowing from the fresh breeze.

Raees doesn’t say anything. He just walks to the bed, and I follow, watching his figure slump down.

The room is dead quiet, except for the whistle of the wind and my own awkward breathing. I want to say something, but I don’t even know where to start.

And then, finally, “I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m so sorry.”

I remain quiet.

“I promise you, I don’t lose my temper like that. I don’t.” His words spill out like he’s been rehearsing them for twenty minutes and still can’t get it right. “But what Tariq said about you wasn’t something I could just ignore. I couldn’t control it.” His hands drag down his face, and he looks up briefly, only to drop his gaze again like the floor is more worthy of his attention. “I take full accountability. Completely. And I promise you this: no more outsiders in our home for the next year. Hell, maybe the next decade. I’ll handle it. All of it. You don’t have to see people like that again.”

I stand, not saying a word, and pull him into a hug. Just like that.

His head falls against my chest, and I bury my nose in his hair. Mint and citrus, faintly damp from sweat. I hold him tighter.

I wasn’t always like this. For years, it’s been the opposite. After I was found by my siblings like a lifeless corpse with broken blood vessels in my eyes and one and a half lungs keeping me alive from the car crash, my brain just rewired itself into thinking touch was dangerous. Even hugs from people I loved felt like too much. It wasn’t their fault; my body just didn’t know the difference between affection and suffocation anymore.

But with Raees? It’s different. It always has been.

“Can I hug you, too?” Raees whispers, cracks between his permission.

“Always.”

Swiftly, he cocoons his arms around my waist and gently, like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind any second now.

I nearly bawled from Tariq’s disgusting remarks, from my brother’s persistence, from Mama trying to save face instead of showing a bit of empathy toward me and Raees.

Raees, who didn’t hesitate. Raees, who saw someone disrespecting me and took charge. Not in a sadistic, self-pleasuring sense, but rather self-defence. He protected not only Shahzad, and his mother, but me, too. I’m not scared of him. Not even a little.

I draw circles on my husband’s back.

Baba used to try and calm me down like this. After an off-key note ruined my riff during a rock solo. After my voice cracked during my first talent show, right in the middle of my so-called “big moment.” After every stupid little thing that wasn’t worth crying over. After his aneurysm.

I tilt Raees’ chin up, and the moment I see his face, I almost forget how to breathe. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy. His lips are swollen, his cheeks streaked with tears and sweat, his whole face like some tragic painting that makes your heart ache just to look at.

“Are you feeling better?” I ask.

He sniffles. “I think so.”

“Okay.” I nod, then tilt my head. “Do you want another hug?”

A placid chuckle. “Fair warning, Zinneerah. I’ll grow addicted to them.”

“Fine by me.”

It’s the truth. I feel so close to him right now. So safe and comfortable.

“Darling,” I murmur. “Call me that again.”

Wonderment brightens his face. His dark brows mellow out, that lopsided grin curls at his mouth, and his lovely, large hands seek mine. “Okay, darling. Does that work for you? Zinneerah darling? Zinnie darling? Light of my life?”

Something in my chest tightens. Not because it’s too much, but because he’s sitting here trying to make me feel better. Sitting with this guilt for twenty minutes, spiraling, tearing himself apart over what everyone thinks of him.

What did I ever do to deserve him? To deserve this man who defends me without hesitation and still finds the strength to pick me up when he’s the one who’s breaking?

I sit down beside him, curling myself around his arm, and placing my chin on his shoulder to admire him. “You give the sun a run for its money.”

His tired, half-closed eyes crinkle as he smiles. “You give the moon a run for its money.”

“You love the moon.” I’ve lost count of how many pictures he’s sent me of the moon—crescent, full, half, or just a blurry white smudge too close to the horizon.

“I do,” he says, his voice raspy. “I love her.”

“Me, too,” I whisper, my heart pounding in my chest. “I love the sun so much.” My hand moves on its own, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead, tucking it neatly back where it belongs. “I am completely in love with you, Raees.”

His throat bobs, and I hear the audible gulp before he croaks, “You do?”

“I do,” I say the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’re sure?” His voice wavers, and his gaze locks onto mine like he’s scared I might be joking.

I lean in, pressing my lips to the curve of his shoulder, never breaking eye contact. “I’m sure.”

Raees swallows harder.

“And . . .” I trail off, kissing his shoulder again, softer this time, “I want to take you out. On a date. This Friday. Dinner at home. You cook, I bake. After that, we can go swimming.”

His breathing grows erratic. “I think I’m having a heart-attack.”

“Why?” I laugh, lacing my fingers with his. “Because you’ve loved me for a while?”

His head snaps back. “How did you—”

“Years? Months? Weeks?” I tease, raising my eyebrows.

Raees shifts, reaching toward the bedside table and flicking on the lamp. The sudden light makes me squint, but I finally catch the way he’s staring so longingly at me. “I wanted to tell you.”

Tell me , I sign, and I’ll tell you everything. Last night we cry sad tears.

He nods, sniffling hard, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Okay. I’d like that.” He pauses, then adds, with a shy smile, “How about we order sushi?”

I perk up like a starving meerkat. You hate sushi.

He shrugs, that crooked grin creeping onto his face again. “I’ll eat vicariously through you.”

Ice cream for you.

Raees laughs quietly, pressing his still-wavering hands to his chest. Then he lets out a long, theatrical sigh, one hand reaching up to cradle my cheek. “My wife, indeed.”

After washing up and throwing on comfortable clothes—me in an oversized cardigan and skirt, Raees in a hoodie that makes him look more like a grad student than a professor—we head downstairs.

The living room is alive with our circle of friends in cleanup mode.

Alina, Alex, and Dua are locked in some kind of trash-dunking competition, tossing red cups into garbage bags while Azeer “coaches” them. Zoha and Juliette are tag-teaming the dining table, obsessively scrubbing at what I’m pretty sure is a design in the table rather than a stain. Shahzad and Ophelia are dusting the floorboards, and Ramishah and Rosy Aunty have claimed the kitchen sink, chatting as they tackle the mountain of dishes.

Raees clears his throat next to me.

Everyone stops in their tracks.

I glance up at him, noticing the slight adjustment of his glasses. He’s about to switch into his “professor mode.” Sure enough, his posture straightens as he takes my hand in his.

“Thank you all,” he begins, like he’s delivering a lecture, “for helping us tonight. I’m sorry you had to witness . . . all of that. The harassment from my relatives was unacceptable, and I can assure you they won’t be invited to our home again.” He pauses, glancing at me briefly before adding, “In fact, we won’t be hosting any more dinner parties. As of tonight.”

I nod firmly to punctuate his statement.

Our friends exchange glances.

“Are you both going somewhere?” Alina asks, her eyebrows raised as she gestures to our clothes.

“We’re picking up sushi and ice cream,” Raees replies. I notice he’s avoiding eye contact with the guys in the room, choosing instead to focus on a landscape painting that’s hanging above Dua’s head.

“Oh!” Zoha bounces on her toes. “Can we come, too, Uncle Raees? Pleeeease ?”

Before he can give in, Azeer scoops her up, pinching her chin. “Not tonight, baby. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to get ice cream, okay?”

“That’s too bad,” Alex mutters, half-heartedly tossing another red cup into the trash.

“Damn it,” Alina grumbles, shoving her trash in the bag with unnecessary aggression.

Raees, ever polite, turns his attention to Shahzad, who’s still sweeping the corner of the room. “Is it okay if we step out for a couple of hours?”

Shahzad doesn’t even look up. His attitude is pissing me off given Raees’ bravery an hour ago. God, does my husband actually have to cure cancer to win his grouchy-ass over?

“It’s fine, Raees Bhai!” Dua grins as she smacks Shahzad on the back with a little too much enthusiasm. He stumbles forward and shoots her a glare, rubbing his shoulder. “You two go have fun. Eat enough sushi to bankrupt them. Go wild with the ice cream. We’ll be out of here before you’re back.”

Raees nods, looking slightly relieved. “I’ll leave a spare key under the mat.” He looks down at me with those honey-brown eyes. “Shall we?”

I smile up at him, letting my fingers do the talking. Take my hand.

His brows lift, a smile gracing his lips as he laces his fingers through mine. Then he squeezes—once, twice, three times. The signal we’ve used a hundred times before. “Don’t let go,” he whispers.

I move my hand across and downward. Never.

True to their word, once we’re home with a platter of California rolls and two tubs of ice cream—strawberry cheesecake and birthday cake, the essentials—the house is so quiet it’s almost eerie.

Everything is spotless. Mopped. Vacuumed. Dusted.

Raees washes his hands at the sink while I scoop the ice cream into one comically oversized bowl. “I don’t know why I even bothered making friends outside our amazing circle,” he says. “Still, I should probably try again. The couples at Amina’s birthday party seemed nice.”

“Fun day,” I reply, tearing into a soy sauce packet with my teeth like a barbarian. “But don’t start conforming yourself to other people’s standards.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, coming up behind me. “Especially since I won’t be interacting with these ‘others’ for a long, long while.”

His hand presses against my back as he picks up a sushi roll. He sniffs it, doing his best to hide the disgust crawling across his face. “Mmm, delicious.”

I scowl playfully. “Liar.”

“Here, let me help.” He takes the ice cream bowl and sushi platter out of my hands. “Dining table or couch?”

I point at the couch because obviously.

“Good call. I don’t think I’ll survive sitting at the table for a while.” He sets everything down on the coffee table and sits on the floor, patting the space beside him. He even grabs a cushion and props it behind my back because he’s just that kind of man. I want to marry him again on the spot.

We crack our chopsticks and start eating like two very hungry, very stressed-out people who are convinced—correction: who know —food can solve all problems.

Raees abandons his tempura halfway through to attack the ice cream, then circles back to some plain rice, then back to the ice cream. It’s weird, but it’s also Raees, so it tracks.

“Try some.” I plant a sushi roll on his bento box. “And don’t sniff it. Just eat it. Be brave.”

He picks it up like it’s a live grenade. “Are you sure this won’t kill me?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Deep breath in, he carefully places the roll into his mouth, chews once, and immediately regrets every choice that led him to this moment. His face turns squeamish like he’s just swallowed poison, and he starts shaking his hand wildly, flailing his hands at me for a napkin.

I tut three times, handing him a tissue paper to spit it out on. “You owe me one roll.”

Raees grabs the ice cream bowl like it’s a life raft, and takes a giant bite. “I love you, Zinneerah, and I love your favorite foods. But I do not, and will never, love sushi. I’m sorry. I’m weak.”

I pop a roll, scrunching up my shoulders and exaggerating a moan. “Mmm! Delicious. A little piece of heaven.”

“Whatever rows your boat, darling.”

I stare at him, the wasabi burning my sinuses because I ate too much in my desperate attempt to stop my face from glowing red.

Then, out of the blue, “When’s the last time you went to Studio 365?”

“Uh . . .” I blink. “A few days ago. It was empty. Martin retired, and now his son’s running it. Or was. He’s selling it. Not enough money coming in.” I pause, the thought leaving a weird ache in my chest. “I always wanted to work there. You know, as a baker.”

“Part-time baker, full-time performer?” he asks, knuckles resting against his temple as he watches me.

My smile grows. “You watched me perform there?”

“Zinneerah, I have been in love with you for six years,” he says. “So yes, I’ve watched you perform countlessly.”

Did I just hear what I think I heard?

Raees Shaan. My husband. Six years? Six entire years ?

What. The. Hell.

Is my face still functioning? Can I form words?

“Six . . . years?”

He leans back, grabbing a napkin to dab at the corner of his mouth as if this is a totally normal dinner conversation and he hasn’t just upended my entire understanding of our relationship. “I should probably start from the beginning.”

I’m frozen, chopsticks forgotten in my hand.

“You were in your second year of university,” he says, “and I was in the middle of my PhD.” Okay, accurate so far. I’d started performing that winter semester. Nerves in my throat, sweaty palms gripping my guitar. But how did he know that? He notices my look, like he’s reading my thoughts, and holds up a hand. “Saira and I had met up to discuss her infidelity at Studio 365. She’d been rambling—excuses, apologies, you name it—but I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t. I was so overstimulated by the lights, by the noises. I was spiraling. It was like all the progress I’d made in therapy just evaporated. I thought maybe I’d had too much coffee, but no, it was more than that.”

I press my lips together, knees pulled up to my chest now, watching him intently.

“I needed something—anything—to pull me out of it,” he continues. “A plate, a mug, the clock on the wall. You.”

I inhale sharply. “Okay . . .”

“You were sitting on a stool, adjusting your guitar, the one with that little sparrow decal on it. You were smiling at the audience, but I could tell you were nervous. Your hands were shaking. And then you introduced yourself, and I caught myself memorizing your words like I’d need to recite them back later.”

I stare at him, my heart thudding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.

“Then you started singing ‘Somebody to Love.’” He exhales, head shaking in disbelief. “And I knew, right there and then, I was gone. Completely and utterly gone.”

My hands fly over my mouth. That was my very first performance at the café. My voice cracking on the high note, my hands shaking so hard I nearly played the wrong chords. Two days later, I met Alex and Ophelia. But apparently, I’d also indirectly met my future husband.

That’s bone-chilling.

“I left as soon as you finished performing,” Raees says. “And then I sat in my car listening to the song on repeat. I played it in my old apartment, in the shower, in bed—basically anywhere I could sit and wallow. I was still trying to process the fact I’d been cheated on after putting myself out there, but I couldn’t get your voice out of my head.”

He reaches over and rests his hand on my knee, his thumb brushing back and forth. My brain is already going haywire, and now I have to deal with his touch?

How am I still breathing?

“I went to every coffee night after that,” he continues. “I figured out you performed on the weekends. By then, Alex and Ophelia had joined you, and the three of you were doing covers. You always took lead vocals. Sometimes, you’d get a solo, and it was always a Queen song. Always. And I’d sit in the back, making playlists of every song you covered. I thought maybe, one day, I’d have the guts to start a conversation with you.”

I stare at him, my thoughts spinning like a hamster in a wheel.

Everything . . . would’ve been so different if he’d just walked up to me. Or if I’d noticed him. I mean, I wasn’t shy back then. Far from it. My confidence came alive on stage. I could’ve easily walked over, given him a flirty little smile, maybe even asked him out. But no. I was too caught up chasing my dumb fantasy of dating an underground punk-rock guitarist.

A fantasy that turned toxic fast.

A fantasy that stole my voice.

“I wasn’t stable back then,” Raees mutters, pulling me back to the present. “The first time I saw you, it felt like lightning. You were all I could see; all I could think about. I forgot I was even in a relationship. I forgot that I’d just been cheated on. I forgot that I was barely holding myself together.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t capable of another relationship, Zinneerah. Even if— if —I had a chance with you, which seemed impossible because you’re you and I’m me, I couldn’t have dragged you into my mess. I wanted to be better for you. I needed to be emotionally available before I even thought about taking that leap.” Suddenly, sadness creeps into his voice. “But by the time I thought I was ready—after two years of watching you from the sidelines—you disappeared.”

I suck in a sharp breath. Two years? He waited two years and still cared about me after I imprisoned myself into a relationship that drained every ounce of joy out of my life? “You . . . waited? For me?”

“Every day,” he whispers. “Every weekend, I’d come back to Studio 365, hoping I’d catch sight of you. Alex and Ophelia were still there for a while, so I asked Alex once if she knew where you’d gone. And you know what she told me?”

“Uh-oh. What?”

“‘She’s taken. Try your luck elsewhere, buddy.’”

I huff a dry chuckle. “That’s Alex for you.”

“It crushed me,” he says, though there’s a smirk on his lips now. “But that’s when I realized, if I was going to find you again, I’d have to figure it out myself.” He leans forward, his head tilting slightly. “And as luck would have it, Dua ended up in my class.”

This handsome, geeky sneak. “You asked her about me?”

“Not directly,” he explains. “Her last name caught my attention. I’d seen her at some of your performances. I wasn’t about to interrogate her and look like an idiot, so I bided my time.” He shrugs, all nonchalant. “Turns out, I’m a bit of a mastermind when it comes to you.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s one way to put it. Stalker might be another.”

“Dedicated admirer, darling,” he counters smoothly.

Oh, man. I’m gone. Absolutely, hopelessly gone for this man.

And he’s still got more to explain. “A few months before we met, I went to the campus gym where I knew the volleyball team practiced. It was an excuse to talk to Dua about her academics or whatever—”

I hold up a hand to stop him. “You’re so proud of yourself right now, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” he laughs, grinning like a kid who just found out it’s pizza day at school.

I laugh, too, because I can’t help it. “Go on.”

“Anyway,” he continues, “I pretended I was having the worst day of my life while I was talking to her. Just sulking, looking all moody. You know, the classic ‘tragic professor’ act.”

“Very convincing, I’m sure,” I say dryly.

“And Dua, being Dua, asks, ‘Are you feeling okay, Professor Shaan?’” He pauses for dramatic effect, and I hold my breath. “And me, being me, said, ‘Oh, my mother’s forcing me to get married.’”

My mouth falls open. “You did not .”

“Oh, I absolutely did!”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Same with my sister!’”

I snort. “Dua doesn’t sound like that.”

“She does.”

“She doesn’t.”

“She does,” he insists.

I concede. “So that was it? That simple?”

“I’m not even at the best part,” he says, and now he’s grinning like a golden retriever that just found a room full of tennis balls. “After she said that, I knew. I was mentally, emotionally, and financially ready to marry you. She showed me a picture of you, and without hesitation, no shame whatsoever, I tell her, ‘I’m bringing my mother over tomorrow.’”

I blink at him. “You— literally the next day?”

“Next day,” Raees repeats, completely unbothered by how insane that sounds. “And, well, you know the rest.” He takes my left hand and kisses my knuckles. “Took you long enough to finally be mine, Zinneerah Shaan.”

I feel my grin stretch so wide it might actually break my face. How do you not smile when someone confesses something like that? I’m holding it together until his pining, relentless love, patience, the fact that he waited six fucking years hits me like a freight train.

My face crumples, and before I know it, I’m shaking with sobs.

“Wait, what—? Why are you crying?” Raees panics.

“I’m sorry,” I manage, burying my face in my hands. I can’t stop now. “I’m so sorry, Raees.”

“For what?” He leans in, brushing his hand over the top of my head, down to the nape of my neck. “How many times have I told you? Never apologize to me.”

“Still . . .”

“Oh, darling.” He pulls me close, holding me against his chest, his fingers combing gently through my hair. “Where did you go, Zinneerah?”

I clutch the back of his sweater, holding onto him like my life depends on it. Six years . He waited six years for me. Six goddamn years of believing I was worth it, that I’d come around, that I’d say yes. I wish we’d met sooner. I wish we’d had those years back.

Maybe in some other universe we did. Maybe we met in a world where our hearts and bodies weren’t broken yet. Maybe we fought dragons together or piloted spaceships or stole robotic empires. Maybe I was a ghost, and he was the only one who could see me. Maybe we were superheroes. Or villains. Or anything else. But wherever we were, whatever we were, whoever we were, we were together.

I take a deep breath of his scent, of home, of the oasis I landed in after a hellish journey through the desert.

I pull a folded note out of my cardigan pocket.

For my friends, and for Professor Daniels, I’d written about my “disappearance,” on my Notes app.

But for Raees . . . for him, I hand wrote it, re-wrote it, sitting on my closet floor in the middle of the night, surrounded by crumpled sheets of unfinished songs.

I sign, Can we lay down?

Raees nods and grabs a few cushions from the couch, tossing them on the floor. When he stretches out, I curl up next to him, resting my head on his arm. His other hand brushes over my shoulder, pulling me closer. I drape an arm across his chest, holding him tightly.

He glances at the two folded pages in his hand, then at me.

I nod, closing my eyes as he starts.

For once, I don’t feel scared about what he’s going to find there.

I just feel him.

Here.

Now.

Us.