Chapter Thirty-Seven
“UGH, I DON’T WANT TO GO TO WORK.”
A pillow hit the side of my head.
“Get up, lazy. The babies are waiting,” Khalifa said, disgustingly chipper for someone who’d also been up half the night doing...very non-restful activities.
I groaned, burrowing deeper into the covers. “You’re so lucky the people you talk about are already dead. You cancel class, no one cares. You cancel class, girls post thirst traps with your name in the caption.”
“What’s a thirst trap?” he asked from somewhere near the dresser. “It sounds vaguely criminal.”
I peeked out from under the blanket. He was standing there shirtless, towel slung low around his hips, like he knew he was the human equivalent of temptation itself and found it funny.
“You’re the definition of a thirst trap right now,” I muttered. “And yes—it is very much criminal.”
He smirked, walking toward me. “Come on. I made you breakfast.”
My head popped up. “You did?”
He slipped his hands beneath the sheets and tugged me upright. “Yes. It’s getting cold.”
“You know it’s not normal to make an elaborate breakfast every day, right?” I said, letting him haul me out of bed. “You’re setting impossible standards. The bar was literally on the floor, and you decided to open a Michelin-starred restaurant.”
“Are you complaining or complimenting?”
“Neither,” I mumbled into his chest. “Just trying to prepare myself for when you inevitably ruin eggs one morning and spiral into an existential crisis about it.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
“As if that’s comforting.”
He chuckled, carrying me—because apparently that was part of our morning routine too—to the kitchen. I didn’t even pretend to resist. My legs instinctively locked around his torso, and I peppered kisses into the crook of his neck, inhaling the delicious scent clinging to his skin.
One of the reasons I’d always wanted to marry someone much taller than me was the illusion it offered—that I could feel small in the best way, tucked safely beneath someone else’s shadow, protected by sheer height alone.
Being six feet meant I was almost never the smallest anything.
I was the tallest girl in every room, the one people looked up to, literally and otherwise—the one asked to reach the shelf, hold the ladder, be the strong one.
The one people leaned on, but never thought to give anything back.
But it turned out you didn’t need several inches for that. You just needed a man—capital M, capital Everything. And Khalifa was exactly that.
When he wrapped his arms around me, it wasn’t about size; it was how he held.
It was the intention threaded behind his touch.
His warmth folded over mine, his muscular body became a shelter I instinctively leaned into, a place where I didn’t have to be tall or sturdy or anything at all.
In his embrace, I felt cocooned in something steady and cherished and impossibly rare, and for the first time in forever, I knew that nothing in the world could hurt me there.
“For someone who claims to hate mornings,” I said, voice still half-asleep, “you’re suspiciously cheerful right now.”
“That’s because you’re grumpy enough for both of us,” he said, setting me down gently in a chair.
The table was already waiting with a full Lebanese spread laid out.
Two mugs of coffee sat steaming beside a small pot of tea, plates crowded with warm mana’eesh and fluffy flatbread, bowls of labneh drizzled with olive oil, briny olives, sliced cucumbers and tomatoes glistening with salt, bright fruit arranged in neat rows.
It wasn’t new, but every time, my heart still did that stupid, rebellious ache, like it couldn’t get used to being taken care of.
“If you keep doing this,” I said softly. “One day, I’m going to start expecting it.”
He smiled, sitting across from me. “Good. Then you’ll never leave.”
I rolled my eyes, picking up a cheese pie. “You know, for a man who prides himself on being mysterious and brooding, you’re dangerously close to adorable.”
“Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
We ate in easy silence. His foot brushed mine under the table every so often, a casual, unthinking touch that continued to send jolts through me.
He was still only wearing a towel—like modesty was an optional accessory—and every time he leaned forward to grab the coffee, I had to remind myself that staring was rude, even if technically, as his wife, I had some claim to it.
He stood after he finished, stretching, the towel shifting recklessly low, and I lost my train of thought for an embarrassing half second. He noticed—of course he did—and that smug little grin curved his mouth.
“I have to get ready,” he said, leaning down to brush a kiss to my temple, my cheek, the tip of my nose.
As he turned to leave, I called out, “You forgot one.”
He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Did I?”
I puckered my lips, pretending to be casual about the way my pulse was racing.
He laughed and came back, pressing his mouth to mine—warm, teasing, just enough tongue to leave me smiling like a starry-eyed idiot when he pulled away.
“Better?” he murmured.
“Mhm.”
He gave me one more peck and disappeared into the bedroom to change. I shook my head, trying to focus on scraping the last of the fruit off my plate instead of the sound of him moving around, barely dressed, just a room away, when there was a knock on the door.
I frowned and tugged his sweatshirt on over my pyjamas, pulled the hood up to hide my hair, and went to open the door. A woman stood there, composed and elegant.
“Hi,” she said. “Does Khalifa Nasser live here?”
“Yeah...” I started. “Why?”
And then it clicked. Her face. I’d seen it before, at the funeral, watching me from a corner like she belonged there but didn’t.
“Wait—you were at his mom’s funeral, right? Who are you?”
“I’m the other woman Khalifa’s married to.” She let her gaze fall to the hoodie I was wearing—his hoodie—and then back up to my face. Her lips twisted, not kindly. “And you,” she said, “must be my sister wife.”