9. Raees
9
Raees
A fter dinner, Zinneerah volunteers to wash the dishes.
I pick up a towel and stand beside her to dry, happy for any excuse to steal a few extra minutes with my wife.
Her blouse sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, exposing smooth, caramel-brown skin that catch the light as she moves. Her slender fingers methodically glide over plates and pans, orchestrating the utensils like instruments. A few stray wisps of hair have escaped her braid, clinging to her flushed cheeks and the damp curve of her neck. She’s really working up a sweat over these dishes.
It’s kind of adorable.
I feel a swell of happiness, thinking about the diary. After my meeting with Professor Daniels, I’d stopped by a bookstore and picked it up, imagining two possible futures—either it would be something for us to share, or it would be hers alone. I never expected her to want to share it.
I damn near cried when she wrote our names inside the front cover of the diary.
Zinneerah and Raees.
Us.
We.
A light poke on my arm brings me back.
Zinneerah is watching me with those wide, dark eyes of hers, holding out two plates fresh from the sink, waiting for me to dry them.
“I apologize.” I quickly take the plates, my mind still looping around, caught up in everything that reminds me of her.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
For dessert, I indulge in two brownies and a strong coffee, while she nibbles on oatmeal cookies, sipping her chamomile tea.
My eyes glance at my bag, where the flier Professor Daniels gave me lies folded. I’d been waiting until after dinner to bring it up. She devoured her plate of aloo and curry rice in minutes, even going back for seconds. Knowing she enjoys my cooking has made my entire week.
I reach into my bag, pull out the flier, and smooth the creases before setting it on the table. She watches me in silence. “The music department was handing these out today,” I say.
Zinneerah’s gaze drops to the paper. The only sign of movement is the quick flick of her tongue as she wipes a crumb from the corner of her downturned lips.
“I had the pleasure of meeting Professor Daniels today.”
The moment I say it, I see her shift, her eyes lifting to mine with that startled look that always makes me question who put it there. She tries to hide it, but I know her too well—I can practically feel her heartbeat quicken.
“He spoke of you,” I continue. “He said you were one of his most exceptional students. That he’d love it if you visited him sometime soon.” The CD’s still safe in my backpack. But after her visit to her father’s grave today, the last thing I want is to reopen wounds that are barely beginning to scab over.
Instead, I hold out the flier he asked me to give her.
Zinneerah doesn’t take it. Her gaze drops, lashes lowering, and she curls her hands around her mug, knuckles pale against the ceramic. She closes her eyes, and something in me pricks to see her this way, her spirit folding in on itself.
She thinks she’s let him down, somehow. That she’s let them all down. And for what? Because she’s no longer the girl who once stood on stage like she belonged there, drinking in applause with that bold smile that made me fall in love with her a little more each time?
Going back to the music department now, I know what it would mean for her. All those memories she left behind, all those dreams—she’d have to look them in the eye, and I think she’s terrified of what she’d feel. And maybe, deep down, she’s scared of what she wouldn’t feel.
But how long will she let this fear have power over her? How long will she let it keep her from fighting for herself?
If she agrees to volunteer for the summer concert, she can just play the guitar. She doesn’t need her voice to do that, and I know she’d be brilliant. I’ve seen her pluck the strings so many times, fingers moving like they were born for it. God, she’s a force. She may not believe it, but I’ve witnessed it, and nothing could ever change that.
One day, maybe, I’ll find the courage to tell her just how much her music has meant to me. How, six years ago, her playing was the only thing that kept me going.
I wasn’t a stalker, for God’s sake—I didn’t even approach her. I just . . . couldn’t stay away. I went to her café nights, sat in the back, drunk on every note. Maybe I checked her Facebook once or twice. She was in a relationship then, so I kept my distance, just watching her from across a crowded room.
I doubt she remembers the one time we actually spoke. If she did, she would’ve recognized me when I showed up at her door, ring in hand.
But that doesn’t matter now. She’s my wife, my entire world. And someday, I’ll tell her the whole story. I’ll tell our children, too, how I fell hopelessly in love with their mother long before she ever knew my name.
Whoever says love at first sight doesn’t exist has clearly never met her.
It’s real.
It’s terrifyingly, undeniably real.
And she’s right here, sitting across from me, staring at that flier like it’s a divine prophecy.
I clear my throat, lifting my coffee to my lips. “Take your time to decide,” I say. The coffee is toasty and smooth, just the way she makes it. Somehow, she gets the balance perfect—just enough cream to minus the bitterness, with loads of sweetness. I don’t know how she does it, but I’d drink a thousand cups if it meant sitting here with her a little longer.
She folds the flier, sets it aside, and reaches for the last biscuit. Then she stands up and signs, Goodnight.
Wait. What? No. She’s leaving? Now? I glance at my watch. Eleven . She’s usually in bed by now. I’m so used to sitting here with her, watching her eyes flicker with thoughts she rarely says out loud, that I lost track of time completely.
I nod, swallowing my disappointment. “Goodnight, Zinneerah.”
She gives me this tiny, almost guilty smile, then turns and heads upstairs, her tea in hand. I watch her until she’s out of sight, until the sound of her footsteps fade, and I’m left staring at the oatmeal cookie crumbs on the table.
Suddenly, I’m right back to that first conversation we had six years ago.
“Marty! Are you serious? Out of oatmeal cookies again?” An irritated voice cuts through the noise. “You swore you’d have them ready this time, you dick!”
I nearly spit out my coffee as Zinneerah Arain sidles up right next to me at the bar, close enough that I catch a faint trace of her perfume—something sweet, with a hint of spice. The place is packed, mostly because of her. She’s the reason we’re all here.
“Calm down, superstar!” Martin yells back from the kitchen window, grinning like he’s heard this a million times. “Delivery got held up. They’ll be here tomorrow, I promise. Next batch is on the house!”
She rolls her eyes, then turns them on me with a look that’s half dramatic sigh, half mischievous smile. “Can you believe this guy?”
I just manage to nod, barely holding it together, because she’s talking to me. I open my mouth to say something, but she’s already spun back to Martin.
“Fine! Then at least make me a chocolate shake, extra whipped cream. And I’m timing you!”
Martin laughs, throwing her a mock salute. “Coming right up, your highness!”
Zinneerah leans over the counter, drumming her fingers, her gaze sliding around the room, catching the glow of fairy lights, the laughter from nearby tables, the easy confidence of her friends who seem to belong here as naturally as breathing. She’s incandescent, and I can’t take my eyes off her—like she’s drawing every bit of light in the room to her—“You got a staring problem, buddy?”
I freeze, caught like a deer in headlights.
Dammit.
I’ve always tried to blend into the background—hard to do at my height, especially here where everyone else is a student, and at least a head shorter. But somehow, she’s got me rooted in place, completely at her mercy.
She raises an eyebrow, her fingers snapping in front of my face. “Hello? Earth to tall, dark, and awkward. You alive in there?”
I clear my throat, flustered, and take a scalding gulp of coffee to cover up my embarrassment. “I, uh . . . I apologize. I didn’t mean to stare at you.”
She gives a little shrug, then grins, this effortless, devastating grin that seems to crack the whole world open. “Nah, you’re good. I’m used to it.” She bats her eyelashes at me in exaggerated flirtation, clearly teasing. “Hard to be this charming, you know?”
Zinneerah breaks into laughter, loud and shameless, and it hits me like a shockwave. Man, I feel ridiculous, sitting here like some tongue-tied kid while she’s having the time of her life. She notices my expression and gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth.
Her grin widens as she watches me squirm. “Oh, my god,” she says, dark eyes dancing with delight. “You’re actually blushing.”
“I’m not blushing.”
“Oh, you totally are. Look at you.” And then, before I can react, she reaches over and pinches my cheek, pulling at it like she’s a Desi Aunty who’s known me forever. “Cute and in denial. Dangerous combo.”
I’m so caught off guard I don’t even move. Is she drunk? High? Or just like this? I’ve heard she’s outgoing, always the center of every room she walks into, but this is something else.
She lets go, but her touch leaves a tingle. “So, are you a student or what?” she asks.
I clear my throat, struggling to pull myself together. “Y-Yes, I—I mean, no, actually. I was a student last year, but—but I’m a professor now. Started a few months ago.”
“Why are you stuttering?”
“I’m not—I’m not stuttering,” I say, stumbling over the words. “I just—”
“Am I making you nervous or something?”
Yes. God, yes. But I just stand there, because admitting that would be too much, and lying feels impossible.
“Hmm.” Zinneerah bites her bottom lip, and I catch her giving me this lazy, shameless once-over, head to toe, like she’s deciding what to do with me. “Aren’t you a little too young to be a professor?” Is she flirting with me? Because I think she’s flirting with me. “Not that I mind, though.” She reaches up and ruffles the hair at the back of my head. “In fact, you’re really working the whole ‘hot young professor’ thing. Totally checking off a box on my fantasy list right now.”
I swear my brain short-circuits. I can’t remember the last time I felt this off-balance. Disarmed. My throat is dry, and any attempt at a clever response is lost to the sheer force of her presence. I’m just staring at her, probably looking like an idiot, but I can’t help it.
She chuckles, low and throaty, and leans in even closer, her lips brushing my ear. “What’s the matter, Professor? Got a little thing for your students?” Her voice is a wicked rasp, daring me to react. “Don’t worry, it can be our little secret.”
My heart is hammering in my throat. She’s so close, too close, and the way she bites her bottom lip sends heat flooding through me. Those dark, siren eyes hold mine, and I swear she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Zinneerah pulls back just a little, enough to look me in the eye, and traces a finger down my chest. “You know, I’m just messing with you, right?” And then, as if to make things even worse—better—she reaches up and brushes her thumb across my bottom lip, just for a second. “Unless you’re into it.”
God help me, I am. I really fucking am.
“Little tip, Professor.” Her hand finds my back, rubbing up and down in a way that should make me flinch, or pull away. But instead, it only draws me in deeper, steadying me and undoing me all at once. “Next time, maybe don’t give a girl those fuck-me eyes if you’re not planning to do anything about it.”
I can feel my face turning redder than ever. I try to come up with something to say, something that won’t make me sound like a nervous wreck, but all I manage is a quiet, “I didn’t mean to.”
“Yeah?” Her fingers drift up, brushing along my jawline. I’m about to melt right there on the spot. “You look like you’d pass out if I kissed you right now.”
I’m scrambling for anything to say, something clever that might keep her here, but my mind is blank. Before I can get a single word out, the barista sets her drink down in front of her.
“See you around, Professor.” She winks, lifting her glass in a mock toast, then disappears into the crowd, leaving me sitting there, still trying to catch my breath.
The lecture hall is silent, save for the occasional rustle as my students work through their quizzes.
Moderators stroll up and down the aisles, ready to answer any questions, while I lean against my desk, arms crossed, scanning the room for any suspicious behavior.
A few students glance up and upon meeting my gaze, quickly look away, nervously chewing on the ends of their pens.
Do I really make them that anxious?
I wet my lower lip and continue my sweep, locking eyes with a young man near the back. I give him a small smile. His eyes widen as though I’ve caught him cheating—though he definitely wasn’t—and he visibly shrinks in his seat.
What on earth?
I frown and turn back to my desk. “Fifteen minutes left, everyone.”
The shuffling grows louder as students finish up, filing down the aisle to drop their quizzes on my desk. They mumble goodbyes without meeting my eyes.
Enough is enough.
I pull out my phone and open RateMyProfessor, a habit I’ve developed ever since Dua casually mentioned it a week before my engagement to Zinneerah.
Now, I check it obsessively—not just my own ratings, but everyone else’s in our department, too. Holmes has a strong 4.7, praised for engaging lectures, professional warmth, and fair grading.
Me, on the other hand? I’m sitting at a 3.2.
My “friendliness” score is a brutal 1.2, and my “difficulty” is maxed out at 5.0. Quality? Also, a 5.0, which, I suppose, means I’m good at teaching but terrible at everything else.
A student tosses her quiz onto the stack with a frustrated sigh. I arch an eyebrow. “Everything all right, Sarah?”
“Well, considering half my grade depends on a missing comma, I’d say just peachy, Professor.” She hitches her backpack up and storms out without waiting for a response.
Next in line is Dua, the only one who’s smiled at me all day. She leans in and whispers, “You’re doing great, you know.”
Relief settles over me. Somewhat. “Thanks, Dua. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, Professor.” She gives a casual two-finger salute before heading out, trailing behind a pair of glowering classmates.
When the last students have filtered out and the moderators finish their final sweep, I sink back at my desk, scrolling through the stack of reviews waiting for me.
RAEES SHAAN
3.2/5 (Overall Quality Based on 800 ratings)
MM01:
QUALITY: 5.0 / DIFFICULTY 5.0
He’s super clear about the syllabus and actually explains assignments in a way that makes sense. His slides are solid, too. But JFC, his grading is brutal. Like, have a heart, Professor.
MM01:
QUALITY: 5.0 / DIFFICULTY 5.0
I’m usually fine with blunt feedback, but Shaan takes it up to a whole new level. The man shoves an entire f*cking bottle of bitter pills down your throat. I legit cried for hours after seeing my midterm grade. If he wasn’t actually a good teacher, I’d have noped out of his class so fast.
MM01:
QUALITY: 1.0 / DIFFICULTY 5.0
Yeah, he sucks lol.
(hot as hell tho)
MM01:
QUALITY: 5.0 / DIFFICULTY 3.0
Yes, he’s a hard-ass, but that’s actually a good thing. Shaan is preparing us for those moments when we’re not sitting in a meeting room, panicking while some editor tears our work apart. We’re adults now, and he’s not going to coddle us just to have the industry crush us later. Thanks to him, I’m now a successful journalist at Elle. P.S. Check his top drawer—he keeps sugar cookies in there.
I tug at my top drawer, and instead of sugar cookies, it’s Zinneerah’s baked cinnamon and molasses cookies.
“You look like you just got assigned extra office hours.”
I jump, not expecting to see Professor Holmes leaning in the doorway of my lecture hall. “Oh. It’s nothing, I’m just . . . yeah.”
“Just ‘yeah’?” She raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Why haven’t you responded to Professor Wei’s retirement party group chat?” She strolls over. “Trouble at home? Marriage on the rocks?”
“God, no.” I laugh, but it quickly fades as last night’s events rush back, followed by that RateMyProfessor nonsense. I hesitate, then ask, “Do you . . . think I’m a bad professor?”
Professor Holmes tilts her head, studying me. “Do you think you’re a bad professor?”
“That’s why I’m asking you.”
She chuckles softly, picking up a stack of quiz papers from my desk and straightening them. “Why does my opinion matter so much?”
I sigh and flip my phone around, showing her the screen. “It’s this.”
Professor Holmes lowers her reading glasses, squinting at the screen as she scrolls through my mountain of reviews. She snorts, reading one out loud. “‘He’s got a sweater for every occasion.’”
I sigh, stretching out my legs and fiddling with my wedding ring. “Well, that’s one of the three nice ones out of, like, a thousand.” I shake my head. “Makes me wonder if my ‘realistic’ teaching style is doing more harm than good to their—”
“Egos?”
“—mental health.”
Professor Holmes snorts again and flips my phone face-down on the table. “Honey, if you’re worried about their mental health, wait until they graduate and get tossed out of this hellhole into an even bigger, smarter, and more ruthless one that profits off mental health struggles.”
She’s right.
Because she’s Professor Nicola Holmes, and I’m . . . well, I’m the guy who has a sweater for every occasion.
“I made a student cry last week over her midterm grade,” I mutter, my nails digging into the armrests. “I just wish they understood my job isn’t to spoon feed them. The industry will shred them alive. There’s no future for them if they keep churning out these half-baked, copy-pasted articles.”
“Oh, I feel ya’, kiddo,” Holmes says, nodding sagely and gazing into the middle distance. “Reminds me of this student I had once—Pete. Kid had dreams of being a big-shot freelance photographer. He joined up with the sleaziest little rag in the city just to get his foot in the door. His aunt was severely sick around the time he graduated, so he did what any enterprising young photographer would do.”
I squint at her, sensing there’s a punchline coming. “And that was?”
She grins, eyes glinting. “Cooked up a whole story about being the city’s hero. He sold his boss these grainy photos of a masked vigilante in a discount Halloween costume. You should’ve seen it—those pictures were plastered across every front page. Or, well, you would’ve seen it, but this all went down before you were even born.”
My mouth falls open a little. Why does this all sound weirdly familiar? I don’t even watch movies. Only documentaries on aquatic mammals, and the occasional TLC show, thanks to my sister’s lifelong obsession with Say Yes To The Dress.
Holme’s grin just stretches. “Anyway, Pete’s boss absolutely hated this so-called hero running around the city. But, hey, those photos got Pete the recognition he needed. I was hard on that kid, sure, but his editor? Toughest son of a gun in the business. Still, I remember Pete telling me later how grateful he was for all those life lessons I drilled into him.” She leans back, looking pleased with herself. “I told him you don’t have to write an article to tell a story. Photography’s a medium of storytelling, too.”
Yeah, I’m ninety-nine percent sure she just told me the origin story of Spiderman.
Nevertheless, I let her spin her yarn anyway. “That’s incredible, Professor. You’ve completely convinced me that teachers are the real superheroes.”
She beams, flicking a finger dramatically through the air. “Exactly! They might see you as the enemy now, but just wait. One day, you’ll be the hero they never knew they needed.” Then, Holmes rolls her eyes and swipes my phone out of my hand. “And stop reading this trash if you care about your mental health. Honestly, Professor Shaan, you’re too smart for that. Half these reviews don’t even have proper punctuation. Or basic grammar.” She clicks her tongue in disgust. “Future journalists, my ass.”
I sigh. “Thank you, Professor.”
She responds with an exaggerated bow. “You’re very welcome, Professor.” She turns to leave, tossing over her shoulder, “And reply to the group chat, please. I refuse to be the sole architect of these decorations.”
With a resigned sigh, I check my phone and pull up Messenger, scrolling through the chat.
My thumb stops.
Eric Carson added Saira Nadeem to the group.