Chapter Forty-Five
AFTER CHECKING HIS scans about a million times—because my anxious little brain insisted that was the amount required to prove he wasn’t secretly dying—I finally let them discharge him into my very eager care.
On the way back, I glanced over from the driver’s seat. “Where were you staying? We can swing by and grab your stuff.”
He scratched his jaw, suddenly fascinated by the dashboard. “It’s not far from the loft. Let’s just...go home.”
I narrowed my eyes but let it slide—mostly because he still looked pale and the thought of arguing with a recovering car accident patient felt morally questionable.
When we reached our building and stepped into the elevator, I tried again. “So, how close are we talking? I’ll just go get it for you.”
He mumbled, “Pretty close. Walking distance. No need to drive.”
I frowned, trying to piece that together as we started into the hallway. “Walking distance? Where—?”
But then he slowed in front of a door—the door directly across from ours—and pulled a set of keys from his pocket.
I blinked, confused, half convinced the concussion had scrambled his sense of direction. “Um...that’s not our—”
He slid the key into the lock, and it clicked open.
My brain took a second to catch up. My mouth, however, did not. “You’re kidding.” I stared as he pushed the door open like this was perfectly normal human behavior. “You stayed here? As in...directly across the hall? As in stalker-adjacent proximity?”
He peered over his shoulder, all calm and unbothered. “This hardly counts as stalking.”
“Wow,” I said, shaking my head. “And you called me creepy for using binoculars.”
He chuckled. “Binoculars are still creepier.”
“Debatable,” I muttered.
The apartment was sparse—barely lived in, like he’d been squatting rather than renting. A single coffee mug, a few books, a makeshift bed on the floor made of a single sheet. I looked around, trying to process the absurdity.
“You signed a whole other lease,” I said, grabbing his duffel bag. “Are you sure you didn’t have a brain injury when you decided that?”
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I...needed to be close to you. Just in case.”
My heart did an inconvenient somersault. I tried to smother it with sarcasm. “Still. That’s commitment. How long are you stuck paying for it?”
He shot me a dry look. “Why do you care? You’re not paying.”
“Well,” I said, feigning nonchalance, “your money is my money, so—”
Before I could finish, his mouth was on mine, like he’d decided that was the most efficient way to shut me up.
Heat fired through me so fast my brain short-circuited mid-sarcastic comment, somewhere between your money is my money, and I win every argument.
He drew back just long enough to peel off his wonky glasses and immediately swooped back in.
I barely managed a breath against his lips. “That’s one way to win an argument.”
His smug smile brushed my cheek. “Only way you’ll ever let me.”
The months apart hit me all at once—the distance, the missing, the longing.
My pregnancy hormones took over, and I dropped his duffel, fisting the front of his shirt and pulling him closer until there wasn’t an inch of air left between us.
His hands slid to my waist, my back, my arms, everywhere at once.
My pulse thudded in my ears. “You’re supposed to be recovering.”
He chuckled into my mouth. “I am. Very hands-on treatment plan, Doctor.”
“Hands-on, huh?” I said, but the words came out breathless.
“Best kind of medicine.”
I rolled my eyes, but it didn’t matter—he was already kissing me again while simultaneously removing my layers.
The world around us blurred; the soft hum of the fridge, the faint creak of the floorboards as he pushed me toward the couch, all fading until it was just him and me and the burning desire between.
His thumb stroked my jaw, and I felt my chest loosen into a peace I hadn’t felt since the last time I saw him.
“Welcome home,” I whispered.
“This apartment isn’t my home, Lillian,” he said. “You are.”
THE CLOCK READ THREE a.m.
Khalifa had been quiet for a while, his body curled around me. One of his arms was draped over my waist, his leg tangled with mine like he was afraid I might disappear in my sleep.
I stared at the ceiling, tracing faint lines across his shoulder blades.
I remembered how he used to strictly sleep on the left side of the bed, leaving the right side of the mattress perfectly smooth and untouched.
But now, no matter how far apart we started, he always found his way back—inch by inch, shift by shift—until his body was pressed against mine like a magnet drawn home.
“Khalifa?”
For a second, I thought he’d fallen asleep. Then, muffled from somewhere under the pillow, came his voice, low and drowsy. “We’re already having a sleepover, Lillian.”
I smiled. “Don’t pretend you didn’t look forward to all my sleepover requests.”
He cracked an eye open. “I did. But I prefer these sleepovers—where you’re not talking nonsense or wearing any clothes.”
“You yap about dead people for a living, but I’m the one who talks nonsense?”
“Yes,” he said simply, a grin curling through the dark. “But I love your nonsense.”
I rolled my eyes and reached over, rifling through my bag. “Good. Because your nonsense just earned you a neuro exam. I have to check your pupils.”
He groaned. “It’s three in the morning.”
“Concussions don’t keep business hours,” I said primly, clicking on my penlight. “Now, follow my finger.”
I leaned in, close enough to see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes, and he caught my hips with both hands and pulled me into a kiss so sudden and passionate it knocked every coherent thought clean out of me.
I gasped against his mouth, trying to hold on to some shred of professionalism. “This—” he kissed me again, harder this time, “—this is not appropriate patient behavior.”
He didn’t let go. “My doctor is irresistible,” he murmured. “What did you expect me to do?”
“Not that,” I said, though my voice wasn’t exactly the picture of authority.
His fingers skated lower, setting off sparks. “I’m very compliant in your care. Just...easily distracted.”
I shoved his shoulder weakly. “I’m serious. I don’t want to find you tomorrow with cerebrospinal fluid doing a dramatic exit out of your ears.”
“Fine. Examine me,” he said, stretching back against the pillows with shameless confidence, arms behind his head, muscles flexing. “Thoroughly. I’ll sit still...for now.”
“Follow my finger,” I managed.
He obeyed, though his gaze kept dipping to my mouth with that hungry, provocative patience. His pupils reacted normally; mine reacted like someone had lit a match behind my ribs.
“Any nausea? Dizziness? Sensitivity to light?”
“Only sensitivity to you,” he said, eyes dragging over me slowly, a touch without hands. “Especially when you look at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“Liar. Your pulse is giving you away.”
“My pulse is fine,” I snapped, even though we both knew it was not.
“Want to check mine?” He grabbed my wrist and placed my fingers against the strong, thudding beat beneath his skin. “What does it mean when it spikes every time you’re near me?”
“Tachycardia,” I whispered. “Possibly a heart attack.”
“Are you sure? That pounding isn’t an arrhythmia, Lillian. It’s my heart, panicking beautifully whenever you come into view.”
“Maybe you do have brain damage,” I muttered, trying—and failing—to sound unaffected.
“Maybe” he agreed. “But my brain only malfunctions when I’m away from you, so I’m okay with that.”
I forgot to breathe for a second. “Cognitive test,” I blurted. “What’s your name?”
“The man who drives you insane.”
“Orientation intact. Unfortunately.” I cleared my throat. “What day is it?”
He didn’t even pretend to think. “Whatever day means I get to kiss you again.”
“Wrong,” I said, cheeks warm. “It’s Saturday.”
“That is my answer,” he said, yanking me back down. “Every day is a kiss-you-again day.”
I stifled a laugh and clicked off the light. “I guess it’s right what they say—doctors make the worst patients.”
He grinned lazily. “Admit it, you love diagnosing me.”
I flicked his forehead. “You’re still annoying, so everything must be fine. Honestly, your head’s so thick a car couldn’t even bonk that trait out of you.”
He chuckled. “Good to know my skull has protective qualities.”
“Mostly for your ego.”
His arm tightened around me. “You really care about me, don’t you, Dr. Tariq?”
I shot him my best unimpressed stare, though my heart did that traitorous flutter thing. “I care about preventing catastrophic head trauma. Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.” His eyes found mine in the dim light, sleep-heavy but searching, like he could sense the thought I hadn’t said aloud. His brow creased, concern dancing through the haze. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I just...we never really talked about her.”
“Who?”
“Dalal.”
The playfulness evaporated instantly. “Please don’t say that name to me,” he muttered, dragging the blanket over his head like a child avoiding bad dreams.
I rolled my eyes and slipped under the covers with him, the sheets cocooning us in our own little bubble. Our faces were milometers apart, his lashes brushing the fabric, his mouth stubbornly set.
“Did you love her?” I asked.
“No.” The word came out too quick to be rehearsed.
“I know you don’t love her now,” I said. “But you were married. You really felt nothing for her?”