Chapter 20
The softest part of the afternoon filtered in through Tariq’s windows.
Light gold, nearly still, like the day didn’t know how to move forward just yet.
I understood that feeling. My body rested against the curve of his couch, wrapped in the faint scent of his cologne—and something else that hadn’t quite left me yet.
Hospital air. That sterile, too-clean scent that clings no matter how long you’ve been discharged.
A small plastic bag sat on the table beside me. Discharge papers. An inhaler they said I’d “probably never need.” A bottle of pills I hadn’t opened. The adhesive mark from the IV was still faintly visible inside my wrist, tender when I brushed it.
Observation, they called it.
Hours of oxygen. Machines beeping softly. A nurse checking my lungs again and again while I tried to convince everyone—including myself—that I was fine.
Tariq never left the room.
Now he was across the apartment, leaning over a case file, pen tapping the margin in that restless rhythm I knew too well. Working. Pretending to work. Watching me when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
I caught his eyes again. This time he didn’t pretend to look away.
“Pain level?” he asked.
“Manageable,” I said.
A lie.
Not pain exactly. More like a tightness when I breathed too deeply. A reminder. Smoke had been inside me. Heat had followed me out.
His jaw tightened like he wanted to press, but he nodded once and went back to the file.
I knew what he was doing. Reconstructing. Analyzing. Trying to solve something that had already almost taken me away from him.
Trying to carry it alone.
I shifted slightly, testing my lungs the way the doctor had shown me. Slow inhale. Hold. Release.
My phone buzzed in my lap.
It was Asha. I didn’t want to move. Between the calls to my parents and Jada, I was more than exhausted. I was winded. But I moved anyway. Swiping to answer as Tariq looked up again.
“Hey…” My voice was a whisper.
Asha’s face filled the screen—bright and warm, even through a digital haze. “You look like hell, and still manage to glow. How?”
I tried to smile. “Getting good rest.”
Tariq made a low sound, something like a scoff, and shook his head before returning to his files.
Asha’s eyes shifted, catching the motion. “Is that him?”
I nodded. “He hasn’t left my side.”
She gave a slow, knowing grin. “I only wanted to set my eyes on you. Make sure you are doing okay. But it looks like you’re doing more than okay.” She gave me an exaggerated wink.
“Too soon,” I croaked, and she laughed softly.
“Mmmhmmn,” she said. “As long as you look this good, I can sleep at night.”
“I’m not dead yet.”
Asha sobered. “Don’t joke like that.”
I swallowed hard. “Sorry.”
Her voice softened. “You scared me, Sanaa. If Tariq hadn’t—”
“He did,” I whispered. “He was there.”
“I can see that. And... I can see something else.”
I stayed quiet.
She let the silence settle for a beat before smiling. “My girl is so loved…this makes me very happy.”
I managed a smile and hazarded a look in his direction. He was pretending to still be immersed in his files. But I knew better.
“I am.”
“I’ll be in touch soon.”
The screen went black.
The couch dipped beside my legs when Tariq sat down. He didn’t touch me right away. Just leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, hands clasped like he was steadying something inside himself.
For once, the silence between us wasn’t uncertain. It was full.
“You scared me,” he said.
I turned toward him. “I know.”
His jaw flexed. “I’ve walked into a lot of fires. Seen what they do. What they take.” He exhaled slowly, like he was forcing air back into his lungs. “And all I could think about was getting to you. Nothing else mattered. Not the job. Not the rules.”
“I came because that’s where I belong,” he continued. His eyes finally met mine. “With you. That’s not changing again. I’m not letting it.”
My throat tightened. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere either.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, gone almost as soon as it appeared. He reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he’d been doing it for years. Like he always would.
“I lost time once,” he said quietly. “Pushed you away because I didn’t know how to carry what I was dealing with. I won’t do that again. I don’t want distance. I want a life with you. All of the parts of it.”
The words didn’t rush. He placed them carefully, deliberately.
“And yeah,” he added, voice roughening, “I mean that the way it sounds. I want you as my wife. Not someday in theory. In the real world. With mornings and arguments and you stealing the blankets.”
Emotion rose fast and bright, but it didn’t feel fragile. It felt divine.
“You already have me,” I said.
His hand came up to my face then, warm and sure, his thumb brushing along my cheek like he was memorizing the shape of it. “I know. But I want to say it out loud. I choose you. Every version of this. Every day we get.”
I leaned into him, letting my forehead rest against his. “Then stop talking and show me.”
He carried me down the hall like he was already certain I belonged in his bed every night for the rest of our lives. Each step measured, protective, the solid rhythm of a man who’d made up his mind.
By the time we reached his room, my pulse drummed everywhere—heart, throat, the slick heat pulsing between my thighs.
He set me on his bed, then stretched out beside me, foreheads pressed together so our breaths mingled.
“Tell me if anything in your chest hurts,” he said, voice husky but careful. “Your lungs are still healing.”
“They’re fine,” I promised, sliding my palm up his chest to feel the thud of his heart. “They can handle this. I want this— I want you.”
A soft exhale left him, half-relief, half-hunger. “Good. I’m not stopping until you know you’re mine.”
He undressed me with unhurried reverence, peeling away every layer like a gift he’d earned.
First baring the curve of my shoulders, his mouth followed, hot and possessive, kissing a trail down to the stiff peaks of my nipples.
He sucked them slow—just enough sting, just enough soothe—while his palms mapped my hips, my thighs, memorizing all the places he planned to worship again and again.
His hand slid between my legs, fingers parting my folds, testing how drenched I already was. He groaned against my throat. “Wet for me, pretty girl?”
“Always,” I panted, rocking into his touch. My manicured fingers wrapped around his length—the hot, heavy promise of him—and he swore softly, his head falling to my shoulder as I stroked him from base to tip.
“Easy,” he warned, voice breaking. “You’ll end this before it starts.”
“Then make it start,” I challenged.
He knelt between my spread thighs, watching his fingers disappear into my slick heat as he opened me wider. When his thumb circled my clit— unrelenting—my back arched off the mattress. The first orgasm rolled through me fast and sharp, ripping a cry from my throat.
He leaned forward, tongue sweeping away my tremor-soft moans, kissing me deep enough to steal what breath I had left. “That’s one,” he murmured. “I want more.”
He guided himself inside of me— just an inch to coat himself in my release, then paused, “I’m going to marry you, Sanaa. When I’m inside you, I need you to know that.”
“I know,” I whispered. “Now claim what’s yours.”
His hips drove forward, filling me in one slow, jaw-clenching push. My body stretched to take him—full, perfect—as his name tumbled from my lips, he stayed buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to mine, letting the moment brand us both.
Then he moved.
Long, deliberate strokes that dragged along every swollen nerve. Each withdrawal made me plead; each thrust answered with deeper possession. Our sweat slicked the slide of his abs against my stomach. His hand splayed over my ribs, feeling every breath, making sure I could keep taking him.
“Mine,” he growled, biting gently at my lower lip.
“Yours,” I gasped, nails raking his back for leverage as pleasure built again—hotter, thicker.
He shifted, tilting my hips, driving in at an angle that lit stars behind my eyes. The second orgasm hit like fire catching dry timber—fast and unstoppable. My walls fluttered around him, milking his dick; he cursed, hips stuttering as he fought for control.
“Let go,” I pleaded, cupping his face so he had to watch me shatter. “Fill me, husband.”
The word ripped a groan from his chest. He thrust once, twice, then spilled his cum deep, his body locking over mine while his orgasm pulsed hot inside me. I held him through every shudder, every soft vow he whispered against my mouth.
When the aftershocks eased, he rolled, keeping me draped over his torso so our heartbeats aligned. His palm rubbed slow circles at the base of my spine.
“You okay?” he asked, still listening for strain in my breaths.
“Better than okay,” I answered, kissing the hollow of his throat. “Ready to plan a wedding.”
A low laugh rumbled beneath my cheek. “Tomorrow. Tonight, I’m keeping you right here. I’m too undone to care when.”
“Tonight,” I agreed, settling into the safest place I knew—his arms.