Chapter 11
Eleven
OLIVER
I stared at the king-sized monstrosity dominating the center of the honeymoon suite, the scattered rose petals a mocking splash of red against the pristine white sheets.
The contract folder sat useless on the dresser. There were no clauses, no contractual loopholes that could make this acceptable.
One bed. With Zahra.
My watch read 10:32 PM, the day’s chaos—family, the kiss, Parisa’s upgrade, and now this—pressed down on my chest like atmospheric compression.
Orbital decay . The slow, inevitable lowering of an object's path until it crashes into the body it had been circling.
I kept my tone neutral, a scientist addressing a variable. “We’ll call the front desk. Get another room.”
Zahra winced, twisting the keycard between her fingers. “The hotel is booked solid for the wedding. I’m guessing Parisa swapped us with her friend who was supposed to stay in this room.” Then, almost apologetically, she added, “Plus, it’ll look weird to our family if we do that.”
My pulse ticked, irritation mixing with something sharper.
Right . Our story was only as strong as our actions made it.
"I could sleep on the couch," I suggested, though we both knew it was too small even for Zahra, barely qualifying as a loveseat.
"Don't be ridiculous." Zahra sighed, pushing her hair behind her ear. "The bed is huge. We can share it."
Like it was that simple.
Her practicality did nothing to ease the tightness winding through my chest, the feeling that I'd just stepped into zero gravity with no anchor.
Sharing a bed with Zahra had not been part of our agreement. It hadn't been factored into my calculations. It certainly hadn't been war-gamed in my mental preparations for this trip.
"Well," I shrugged, mechanically unpacking my suitcase to give my hands something to do. “There’s always the floor.”
The truth was, I'd slept in worse conditions than on a lush carpet. But Zahra was having none of it.
“Absolutely not.” She crossed her arms, acting offended on my behalf.
I hesitated—just a fraction of a second, a hairline fracture in my carefully structured logic. My pulse ticked, a warning signal. I ignored it.
“We could always construct a pillow wall,” I said, half joking, but the second the words left my mouth, I realized it wasn’t a bad idea.
“Oliver, that’s brilliant.” Zahra was already gathering extra pillows from the closet before I could form a plan. Of course, she was on board . "A pillow wall down the middle of the bed. You stay on your side; I stay on mine."
The solution was so childishly simple I almost smiled. Almost.
Bed pillows. Throw pillows. Blankets. Sofa cushions. As if cotton and down were a sufficient barrier that could keep me on my side, keep me from acknowledging the fact that she was right there.
I started stacking them, each one lined up with precision, while Zahra worked beside me—a little too fast, a little too eager, like momentum was the only thing keeping her from thinking too hard about what we were doing.
When the first layer was built, she sat back on her heels, studying the structure with a tilted head and a tiny crease in her brow.
"This’ll work," I said, adding another throw pillow to our fortress of fluff.
Zahra nodded, but her fingers curled into the edge of a duvet like she wasn’t quite convinced anymore.
“You’re overthinking it.”
“And you’re pretending this is normal,” she shot back.
My hands stilled on a pillow. A second too long. A fraction too obvious.
"It is normal," I lied smoothly, adjusting one of the pillows with unnecessary focus. "Pillow barriers are a time-honored tradition in platonic bed-sharing situations."
Zahra let out a huff of laughter, but she still wasn’t looking at me. Her gaze flicked to the pillows again, lingering.
“Maybe…” she started, her eyes flicking around the room, slightly desperate. After a few seconds, she let out a resigned sigh.
“This is a solid plan,” I said again.
“Mmm,” Zahra hummed, eyeing the tower with thinning enthusiasm.
"It’s like we’re at a middle school sleepover."
Zahra laughed, a soft, unguarded sound that hit too deep, too familiar, like an echo from a life I’d buried. The tension broke for a moment, her smile a fleeting reprieve, but it only sharpened my awareness of her scent, her presence. I turned away.
"Have you actually ever been to a sleepover?" Zahra asked, engineering another pillow into the wall.
"I'll have you know I attended exactly one sleepover. Xander Peterson's eleventh birthday party." I straightened her addition, not meeting her eyes. "I spent most of it explaining why his space-themed bedsheets were astronomically inaccurate."
Her laughter deepened, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that had always made my stomach flip. "Of course you did."
I cleared my throat, climbing off the bed to examine our handiwork.
“This should hold up for the night.”
Zahra nodded, then reached out, adjusting a pillow by half an inch, like that would make a difference.
Then another.
She stared at it, her hands hovering over the structure, like she was waiting for it to collapse under the weight of reality.
It didn’t. Not yet.
“It’s perfect,” she said finally, but her fingers lingered on the top pillow, pressing down lightly, like she was testing its integrity. Like she didn’t believe in it anymore. “I have a couple of loose ends to tie before the mixer tomorrow. You wanna head to the shower first?”
“Sure.” I grabbed some spare clothes and walked into the luxurious bathroom that was bigger than my whole damn apartment.
It was a shrine of romantic excess. Marble countertops, a rainfall shower with multiple jets, and the centerpiece—a jacuzzi tub built for two. Champagne holders. Dimmer switches. Every detail perfectly calibrated for a honeymoon, for soft touches, for slow, indulgent nights.
My fingers curled into fists.
I stared at my reflection in the oversized mirror, noting the tension in my jaw, the slight tightness around my eyes.
This wasn't part of the plan. None of it was.
The kiss at the airport, the honeymoon suite, the way Zahra's laugh still affected me after all these years.
These variables were unpredictable and uncontrollable.
Unacceptable.
I turned the shower to its coldest setting, methodically arranging my toiletries on the counter.
Structure. Order. Control .
These were the principles that had gotten me through the last decade. I wasn't about to abandon them now, not when I was so close to my goal. Not even for the woman just beyond that door, whose mere presence threatened to unravel years of careful compartmentalization.
By the time I’d walked out to the room, my defenses were reinstated and fortified. My priorities were reestablished, and I knew what I had to do.
Until bedtime.
Every detail of our nighttime routine felt too personal. The glimpses of Zahra in her silky pajama set. The way she pulled her hair up into a messy bun, exposing the nape of her neck, and the casual intimacy of listening to her brush her teeth.
And the suite didn't help. Soft lighting. Plush robes hanging on the bathroom door. A bathtub specifically designed for shared indulgence. My pulse ticked higher at the thought, at how easy it would be to cross that line. It was composed mostly of pillows, after all.
No.
This arrangement made sense. It made sense . We were adults. Professionals. This was a job. A job that was holding on by a feather.
I slipped under the covers, lying flat on my back, forcing my body into rigid stillness.
I listened to the slow, steady sound of Zahra's breathing as she seemed to drift off.
The bed was massive, but somehow, she still felt too close.
Or maybe it was me, too aware of her warmth, just inches away, of the soft jasmine scent of her shampoo invading my half of the bed, of the fact that if I turned my head, she'd be right there.
Schrodinger's wave function collapse. The moment of observation that transforms possibility into reality.
If I turned toward her, everything would change.
So, I stared at the ceiling instead, reciting the Schwarzschild radius equation in my head as if it could somehow shield me from the woman lying beside me.
Then—her voice in the dark. "Oliver?"
My throat tightened. "Hmm?"
"Thank you. For earlier. With my family."
I stared harder at the ceiling, remembering how natural it had felt to hold her close. How I hadn’t wanted to let go.
"Just doing my job," I said finally.
The lie settled on my chest, a slow, suffocating weight.
The truth was that something had shifted at the airport. When she'd kissed me, when I'd kissed her back—it had felt like coming home. And that was dangerous.
The silence stretched, charged with conflicting thoughts.
I forced myself to remember why I was here. I was in Norman for one reason—to free myself and Emmet from the chains our parents had burdened us with. That mission demanded focus, precision, ruthless detachment.
Not Zahra. Not the sound of her laugh. Not the phantom press of her lips. Not the way she slept just inches away, close enough to reach for.
Right now, she was proving a liability to my goal. And liabilities needed to be handled.
I shut my eyes, jaw locked, willing myself to ignore the way her presence frayed at the edges of my control. But control was a fragile thing. And tonight, in a too-soft bed that smelled too much like her, I wasn't sure how long I could keep it intact.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 1:47 AM when I finally accepted that sleep wasn't coming. I'd been lying in the same position for over two hours, too aware of Zahra's proximity to relax.
I needed air. Space. Distance.
Careful to avoid disturbing her, I slipped out of bed and padded to the window.
Norman's skyline spread below, modest compared to Seattle but familiar in a way that ached.
Somewhere out there was my grandparents' house, the one my parents had stolen.
Tomorrow, I'd begin the process of getting it back.
"Can't sleep?" Zahra's voice startled me.
I turned to find her propped up on one elbow, messy bun half-undone, eyes heavy with interrupted slumber. The sight sent a jolt of something dangerous through me.
"Just thinking," I said, keeping my voice low.
"About?"
"Work." The lie came easily.
She studied me for a moment, then pushed aside the covers to join me at the window. She was close enough that I felt the warmth radiating from her through the thin silk of her pajamas.
"It feels smaller than I remember," she said, looking out at Norman. "Less...significant."
"The city or the memories?"
"Both, maybe." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I built it up so much in my head. Made it into this monumental place. But it's just...Norman."
"Places change," I said. "Or maybe it’s the people that change."
Her eyes found mine in the darkness. "You've changed."
It wasn't a question, but I felt compelled to answer anyway. "We both have."
"Have we, though?" There was something searching in her gaze. "Or are we just better at pretending?"
The question hit too close to home, threatening to unravel the careful distance I'd maintained. Because the truth was being near her still affected me the same way it had when we were teenagers. There was a cosmic connection I couldn't explain or resist.
"We should get some sleep," I said instead of answering. "Big day tomorrow."
She nodded, disappointment flashing briefly across her features before she turned back toward the bed. I remained at the window, needing a moment to compose myself.
When I finally returned to bed, the fortress we’d built—our last defense, our childish illusion of distance—was in ruins.
A few pillows had slid down, some scattered, some tangled in Zahra’s side of the blankets. The once-perfect boundary was now a mess of fabric and failed intentions.
I stared at it for a moment too long, fingers curling at my sides, tempted to just leave it.
But I didn’t.
I rebuilt it, methodically, piece by piece, avoiding the part of my brain that whispered it was pointless. Ignoring the way my fingers brushed against the blanket where her warmth lingered.
Tomorrow , I reminded myself. Tomorrow I would begin the real work, the reason I'd agreed to this charade in the first place.
Norman was where it had all begun.
And Norman is where I would end it.