Chapter 6
Six
ZAHRA
Oliver hadn’t approved the photos capturing our fluttering eyelids and bated breath, our lips inches apart. Elena had sent them to me separately, and I’d been plagued by what-ifs for days.
I checked my watch, tapping a finger against the ceramic mug of now-lukewarm coffee. Oliver was late.
In the month we'd been working together, he had never been late. Not once. Five minutes early was “on time” in Oliver’s world. Our scheduled coffee dates were planned with military precision.
By 7:15, with no text or call, the unease in my stomach hardened into something sharper. This wasn’t Oliver being awkward after the photoshoot. This was something else.
I fired off a message:
Where are you? We’re supposed to meet at 7.
No response. I sent another.
Everything okay?
The read sign never showed; three dots never appeared.
I called. It rang unanswered until I was sent to voicemail.
I swallowed. He never ignored me. Not even when he was irritated—not even when he was trying to pretend I didn’t matter.
The café’s warm hum faded into static as I stared at my screen. Oliver’s world ran on structure—it was his lifeline. He didn’t deviate from plans. Ever.
I tried to think rationally. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe he forgot his phone on silent. Maybe I was overreacting. But Oliver didn’t forget things. Oliver didn’t forget me .
The thought landed in my chest like a stone.
My pulse kicked up as I pulled our contract up on my phone, scrolling straight to the emergency contact information. The black-and-white text blurred slightly as I stared at it, a silent battle waging in my head.
But I was already moving. Already sliding into my car with his address memorized.
This was not what professionals did. Professionals waited. Professionals assumed the best. Professionals didn’t drive across the city for a man who was just a contract. A job. A precise, controlled agreement.
I tightened the grip on my phone. This wasn’t control. This was a deviation.
Oliver would hate this.
My finger hovered over the navigation icon.
Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe I was turning this into something bigger than it was.
Maybe I should wait another fifteen minutes.
But my gut was screaming. This wasn’t just a missed text or a belated arrival. This was Oliver—the most predictably structured man on the planet—breaking his own unspoken law of punctuality.
I swallowed hard. He wouldn't just not show up. Not unless he physically couldn’t.
I buckled in and started the engine.
I shouldn’t do this . Shouldn't drive to his apartment. Shouldn't cross this line.
But not knowing was worse.
I exhaled, pressing the call button and gripping the steering wheel tighter when it rang through to voicemail again. I threw the car into drive and peeled away from the curb, a whisper of guilt snaking up my spine.
Within twenty minutes, I was parked outside a modest brick building in Capitol Hill, still trying to convince myself I wasn’t crossing a line.
The faded green door was chipped at the frame, and I exhaled sharply before buzzing Oliver’s apartment number. No answer. I tried again, my worry spiking into urgency, then pressed all his neighbors’ buttons until someone buzzed me in.
I climbed the stairs to his third-floor unit, my heels clicking against the worn linoleum until I was standing outside his apartment door.
Suddenly, the whole ordeal felt foolish. What if he was fine? What if he simply didn't want to see me, and I was about to come across as completely unhinged?
I knocked lightly. Then harder. Was he ignoring me? That’s when I heard a deep, wracking cough from inside the apartment.
Shit . It was loud and violent, and I lost all sense of boundaries.
“Oliver?” I called, pushing the door open before I could second-guess myself. Unlocked. Not like him.
The scent of stale coffee lingered in the small but meticulous apartment. I studied it as I inched toward an unaware Oliver, sitting on the couch with his laptop on his knees.
Each object was placed with a kind of deliberate precision that screamed Oliver . No clutter, no excess, just function and familiarity.
His bookshelves were packed tight with what an outsider might call obsession, but I knew was pure passion— Astrophysics for People in a Hurry , Quantum Mechanics Demystified , and a dog-eared copy of Pale Blue Dot sat stacked on the coffee table.
A framed black-and-white sketch of the Milky Way hung above his desk, not a print, but his own work.
Of course . Oliver didn’t just admire the universe—he lived and breathed it. The cosmos poured out of him in a way the rest of us couldn’t comprehend. It was breathtaking and heartbreaking. It was Oliver .
Then, I noticed an old tin box on top of the bookshelf.
It was slightly rusted, the brand image long faded, and I immediately recognized it.
Oliver had kept it throughout his childhood, filling it with meteorite fragments, ticket stubs, small things that mattered.
I used to tease him about it, calling it his personal black hole.
He still had it.
It should have been comforting. This was Oliver’s space, where everything had a place, where chaos didn’t exist.
Except chaos did exist, greeting me as I rounded the couch.
A crumpled blanket lay at Oliver’s feet, a half-filled cup of cold coffee next to a toppled over-the-counter cold medicine.
A stack of grading rubrics, each with his clipped, efficient handwriting in the margins, and next to them were shiny star stickers, the kind professors left on standout papers.
And there, at the center of it all, was Oliver, slumped on the couch, flushed and sweating, a laptop open on his knees.
His glasses sat low on his nose, his fingers sluggishly pressing his keyboard as if sheer willpower could keep him upright.
His entire body looked too heavy, too slow, too fragile.
“Jesus, Oliver.”
His head lifted slightly, eyes glassy. “Zahra?” His voice was hoarse, weak. “You— cough —can’t be here. Contract violation of — cough —section three. Unapproved visits.”
Even dying, he was quoting the damn contract.
I crossed the room in three strides, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead. He was scorching, fever radiating through his skin, and I ignored his weak protest as I grabbed the thermometer lying haphazardly on the couch next to him.
“Hold still.”
“There’s a clause about appropriate touch zones,” he mumbled, attempting his usual cold calculation, but his voice cracked, and I internally rolled my eyes. Even delirious, he clung to his rules.
“Shut up, Oliver,” I said, pointing the thermometer at his mouth.
He eyed the device warily, then turned his gaze to me. “You really— cough, cough — shouldn’t be here, Zahra.”
"Oliver Beck, if you don’t open your mouth in the next three seconds, I will find a less pleasant place to put this, but one way or another I am taking your damn temperature."
His lips twitched in what might have been amusement. And then he opened his mouth, letting me place the thermometer under his tongue. It beeped at 102.3, confirming my fears.
“You should be resting, not working.”
“I need to finish grading these papers. I have a deadline.”
I closed his laptop with a decisive click. "Bed. Now."
"Your bedside manner needs work," he mumbled, and made no move to get up.
With a sigh, I hooked my arm through his, ignoring his groans of protest. "Where's the bedroom?"
He froze, staring at me with an unreadable expression. Then, "Nope."
Before I could argue, the sound of a key in the lock caught both our attention. The door swung open, and a young man rushed in, concern etched on their features.
"Ollie?" The newcomer stopped short when he saw me.
"Quark!" Oliver tried to stand again like some fever-ridden idiot trying to shield this kid from an intruder. His body had other plans, though. He barely made it an inch before another aggressive coughing fit sent him crashing back onto the couch.
"Lie down, you idiot," the newcomer and I snapped at the same time.
We looked at each other, and, just like that, I realized why he looked so familiar.
Laura . No—Emmet .
Of course. Shorter hair, different clothes, and a sharper presence that I’d never seen in Oliver’s quiet little sister, but the eyes were the same. It all made sense now.
Emmet turned to Oliver, voice softer. "You okay, Ollie?"
Oliver groaned. "Fine."
"Yeah, you look it," he muttered, pulling Oliver off the couch. “Come on, time to rest.” Then he turned to me. "There's acetaminophen in the bathroom cabinet. Could you please grab it and a glass of water?"
"Of course.”.
By the time I returned with the medicine, Oliver was already in bed, half-delirious, with Emmet tucking the blanket around him.
"You didn't tell me she was coming over," Emmet said, watching his brother carefully.
"Didn't know," Oliver mumbled. "Supposed to meet...at café..."
"I was worried when he didn’t show up," I explained, feeling like an intruder in their intimate sibling moment—Emmet handing Oliver two pills, raising an annoyed eyebrow when Oliver groaned in protest, then placed the glass of water to his lips.
I averted my gaze, glancing around the room until I saw the stain on the ceiling. I stopped on it, examined it, wondered how many nights Oliver had spent staring at that red blotch, musing about whichever stellar entity it resembled.
Oliver sank back onto his pillow. He looked dreadful, pale and weak. Yet still stubborn as hell, still trying to control everything and everyone, still a fortress of solitude and secrets.
I sighed, deflated, and tired of explaining myself and my actions, but still compelled to fill the silence with excuses. "He’s never late, and he wouldn’t answer his phone."
Emmet nodded, eyes flicking between me and Oliver. "He's stubborn when he's sick. Won't ask for help even when he's barely conscious."
"I can hear you," Oliver muttered.
"Good. Maybe it'll sink in this time," Emmet deadpanned, then turned to me. "Coffee?"
I nodded, following Emmet out of the room, glancing over my shoulder to see Oliver sinking into a restless sleep.
We sat in the kitchen, coffee cups warming our hands, the thick silence was interrupted by Oliver's occasional coughs from the bedroom.
I thought back to Laura, Oliver’s sweet and shy little sister. The pieces were falling into place. The mysterious "Emmet" Alyssa had mentioned yesterday, Oliver’s sacrifices, and the way he’d immediately tried to shield his brother from me despite his illness.
"I used to worship you," Emmet said suddenly. "You were the cool girl who was always nice to my nerdy big brother." He added a spoon of sugar to his coffee. "Until you weren’t."
The words hit like a slap. "Emmet?—"
"Oliver gave up a PhD scholarship to stay with me in Seattle.” He stirred slowly, methodically.
“He’s working two jobs to cover my transition costs and college tuition.
I tried to convince him we could postpone the latter, but you know Ollie.
.." There was a long pause. His eyes met mine. Steady. Unforgiving. "He says it’s fine, but I know it’s not. And now you're back."
"It’s not what you think," I said, but the words came out weak. More excuses, more justifications. How long was I going to pay for my teenage cowardliness?
Emmet didn’t blink. "I know about Foxy. I know about your arrangement."
The silence was overbearing at this point, too much unspoken history hanging heavy in the air between us.
"He’s not as strong as he pretends to be," Emmet said quietly, the clank of his spoon on the saucer underlining the severity of his next soft-spoken words. "Not when it comes to you."
I didn’t know what to say. I hated how much that hurt.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Quark. What's that about?"
A flicker of a smile. "A hypothetical star. High core pressure, nuclear particles forming quark matter. Dense. Powerful. Impossible to crush." He sipped on his coffee, eyes meeting mine. "Ollie loves his astronomy nicknames. What was it he used to call you?"
The way he was looking at me… He remembered, but he was going to force me to say it out loud.
I hesitated.
The word clung to the back of my throat, but I forced it out.
"Lumina."
"Right." He took another slow sip from his mug. "The source of all light." Then he leaned back, studying me. “That’s the name of your company, no?”
My fingers picked at the simple white tablecloth. I’d done nothing wrong, yet the question sounded laden with blame.
“It’s just a business arrangement,” I whispered. “That’s all.”
"Of course." Emmet's skeptical tone made it clear he didn't believe that any more than I did. "I need to head out to my shift soon. Could you stay and keep an eye on Mister I’m Fine for me? At least until his fever breaks."
“Sure.” It was a bad idea, but I was already full swing with those tonight, so what the hell.
“Call me if he gets worse,” Emmet said, scribbling his number on a sticky note.
“I promise.”
He nodded before heading out, and I busied myself with washing our mugs, delaying the inevitable until I was out of excuses.
I checked on Oliver. He was dampened with sweat, his fever had broken slightly, but his skin was still too warm.
He stirred as I placed a compress on his forehead, catching my wrist with a weak grip.
"You smell nice," he murmured, tittering on the brink of consciousness.
"Like that day in the park." His eyes were barely open, glazed over, unfocused.
“Can’t stop thinking about kissing you," he whispered.
"Shouldn't have touched you... Not professional.
Not safe." A pause. His fingers flexed weakly.
"Can't let myself..." His grip on my wrist tightened, just slightly. "Not with you, Lumina. Not with you."
I blinked hard, tears stinging, vision blurring. Oliver had drifted off again, his grip slackening, but I couldn’t move.
Not when his words still pressed against my skin like a brand.
Not with you, Lumina. Not with you .
A quiet, fevered confession that would never survive the light of day.
He’d buried that nickname along with our friendship, and yet somewhere, deep in the tangled mess of his feverish mind, I still existed. The girl he had loved. The girl he had lost.
I exhaled, slow and shaky, fingers trembling as I freed my wrist. My skin burned where he’d touched me, where he’d held on like he didn’t want to let go.
This was dangerous.
Oliver Beck didn’t slip. He didn’t accidentally say things. Even when he was burning up, even when his mind was unraveling, his walls held.
And yet, for just a few seconds, they hadn’t.
I stepped back slowly, forcing down the irrational ache in my throat. My feet carried me out of the room, my breathing too shallow, my hands curling into fists as if that could somehow contain the flood inside me.
He’d spent weeks pretending we were nothing. But now I knew the truth.
And that was going to make pretending so much harder.