Aditya

A few days ago

I watch Inaya through a haze of smoke curling from my lips. The cigarette glows like a tiny ember, pulsing with each breath I take. My nerves hum beneath my skin, aching, desperate, as if the sight of the angel before me is tearing me apart from the inside.

The rain has slowed to a drizzle, tapping softly against the glass window of my room. It's past three in the morning, and sleep won't come. My mind keeps circling back to the incident from today.

The last thing I expected while driving late at night was to find her stranded at a bus stop. Stranded alone, abandoned by her friends, left with no way home, knowing she couldn't possibly find anyone else to pick her up.

Since when did she become so careless?

Every nerve in my body screamed at me to stay away, but my heartstrings only dragged me closer to her, against all reason. Against the fear that she'd brush it off as a mistake. Against the knowledge that she might pull away from me once more, retreat into distance, erase me from her life.

Inaya stirs beneath the sheet I'd gently draped over her, and I stub out the cigarette in the ashtray.

She's always hated it, me smoking.

I tiptoe closer, barely making a sound, eyes locked on her sleeping form. I trace the curve of her silhouette with my gaze, the same delicate curves I'd touched so softly tonight, afraid I'd break her apart if I held her too tightly.

She exhales quietly, and her eyes flutter open, as if bracing herself before facing what's coming. Before facing me.

"Inaya?" Her name slips from my lips, weighted with a heaviness I can't control, one that carries fear, uncertainty, and something far deeper.

She turns toward me, the sheets gathered around her as she shifts. Her hair tumbles softly across her shoulders, some strands veiling part of her face, hiding the faint blush that spreads across her cheeks.

I stand frozen, waiting for her to respond, to say something, anything, to break the silence. But she lingers too long in stillness, and my heart thrashes in my chest, terrified she'll slip away without a word, vanish from my life before I've even had the chance to hold her properly, before I've spoken the words I've clung to for so long. Before I've felt her against me again, held her close for more than a fleeting moment.

And then, before the fear devours me, she smiles.

Her lips curve upward, the corners lifting into one of the most breathtaking smiles I've ever seen. She smiles like the sun breaking over the horizon, warm, radiant, full of quiet joy. She smiles like the pages of her fate have turned, unfolding into something she's been waiting for in silence. Her smile brightens the air around me, fabricating daylight in the pitch-black night, filling the space with a soft, glowing warmth that feels almost unreal.

Her smile melts away the fear that's been clinging to my heart, washing it clean with a quiet happiness and a sense of surrender.

"Good morning," she whispers, her voice barely audible, as if she's afraid even sound might shatter the fragile calm between us.

I hesitate, my foot hovering over the floor, afraid that one wrong move might break that smile and bring with it a harsh dawn of reality. But her expression doesn't falter as I inch closer. One step, then another. She simply watches me, eyes wide with wonder, as I finally settle at the edge of the bed.

Her gaze shines with a light I haven't seen in years, something that had been buried, hidden from me ever since we parted ways.

"Hey..." I begin, my mind racing to find the right words. "Um... do you need some water?" The question falls flat, and I bite my tongue, annoyed at myself for how awkward it sounds.

She shakes her head softly, and after a pause, barely louder than a breath, she whispers, "I'm... okay."

Her words are fragile, like they might dissolve if spoken too loudly, but they're enough to steady me, to remind me that this moment, this quiet closeness, is real.

We fall into silence, but it's unlike any silence I've ever known with her. Back when we were together, there wasn't a single quiet moment between us, not because we always needed to talk, but because even in our silences, there was always something simmering beneath the surface. Even when we weren't speaking, there was heat, tension, frustration, words unsaid but pulsing between us like a current that never let us rest.

And after we broke apart, even then, it was the same. Every encounter was edged with anger, hurt, defensiveness, like our silence was something we couldn't afford to let settle, something that would swallow us whole if we didn't fill it with sharp words or sharper emotions. There was never peace. Never a chance to simply... be.

But now, this stillness between us feels strange. It's not awkward exactly, and it's not tense. It's something else entirely. It's like we're both holding our breath, waiting for the other to say something, anything, just to shatter the quiet. We ought to say something; it feels like silence shouldn't be allowed to stretch this long between us. Yet neither of us moves. Neither of us reaches out. It's like the silence has its own weight, its own gravity, pulling us into it, daring us to break it, daring us to stay.

I sit here, watching her, feeling the quiet grow thicker, not uncomfortable, but unfamiliar. It's as if the world outside has paused, the rain softened, the night drawn in closer, waiting with us. I've never known this with her before. Never had the chance to simply sit beside her and let everything fall away. And now, in this silence, it feels like everything we've held back, every word, every touch, every fight, every longing, is suspended, hovering just out of reach, waiting for the right moment to surface.

It's... odd. But it's beautiful. And terrifying. Because in this stillness, I feel closer to her than I ever have, and at the same time, more afraid than ever of what it could mean.

The silence lingers between us, thick but strangely gentle, as if it's daring us to stay wrapped in it a little longer. My eyes are fixed on her, but I can feel the uncertainty rippling beneath her calm exterior. Her fingers nervously trace the edge of the sheet, her lips part slightly, but no words come at first.

Then, almost as if she's surprised by the sound of her own voice, she whispers, hesitant and unsure, "I should go home... or maybe to Kaynaaz's place."

Her words are soft, as though she's testing the air, afraid it might shatter if she speaks too loudly. She doesn't look at me as she says it, instead staring somewhere beyond me, eyes clouded with thought, fear, and something I can't quite name. The way she says it, it's not a decision, it's a question, a plea for guidance, or perhaps an attempt to distance herself from this closeness without hurting what lingers between us.

For a brief moment, the stillness threatens to return, but now it's different. Her words hang between us, fragile, unfinished.

I sit still, my eyes tracing her every movement without meaning to. The soft rise and fall of her shoulders, the way the sheet slips against her skin, the quiet tension in the curve of her neck, all of it feels impossibly delicate, like something that could break if I breathed too hard. She looks almost unreal here, bathed in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, her features softened by the pale light while the rest of the room remains stark, bare, cold.

The walls around us are sharp, angular, indifferent, grey and silent like the life I've built in solitude. But she's softness itself. Her skin seems to glow against the shadows, her hair spilling like dark silk across the pillow, some strands framing her face, some hiding it entirely, like she's shying away from being seen. Even the way she hesitates before speaking makes her look vulnerable, exposed, so unlike the strong, stubborn girl I remember. And yet, this fragility pulls at me more than anything else ever could.

I want to say something, to reach out, to beg her to stay, to tell her that she doesn't have to decide, that she can leave later, but the words knot in my throat. How do I bridge this space without breaking what's left of this quiet moment? My eyes remain locked on her face, admiring the curve of her lips, the faint blush on her cheeks, the shimmer of uncertainty in her eyes. Every detail feels like a secret I want to memorise, hold onto before the distance creeps back in.

For a second, I forget what I was going to say. All I want is to sit here, wrapped in this silence, admiring her softness against the starkness of the world around us, wondering if she'll let me stay a little longer.

"You don't have to," I whisper, the words barely louder than breath, but the plea hangs heavy between us. A plea to ask her to stay, just enough for us to name this silence, to give it a word, to give it meaning.

"Stay," I say, voice trembling with finality. "Don't leave again, Inaya. Stay. Don't run away from me... at least stay until the world lets us hide beneath this sheet of darkness."

The desperation in my voice makes me want to laugh at myself. How pathetic could I get? How weak can a man sound when all he wants is to hold on?

But it didn't matter. None of it did. Because tonight, in this quiet, one thing had become clearer than ever. One truth I couldn't ignore anymore. I still love her. I still crave her, the way I always did. I still need her. Need to touch her, to feel her warmth, to see her every day, just to keep from unravelling completely.

I can't keep pretending I don't want this, she'd whispered once before I lost myself in her during those early hours of the night. And now those words haunt me. They echo in the corners of my mind, repeating over and over again, wrapping around every thought, every breath.

She looks at me with eyes full of longing, but also fear, as if every instinct is pulling her in two directions at once. Her lips part, then close again, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether to stay. Her hands clutch the edge of the sheet, twisting it softly between her fingers, the way someone holds onto something fragile when they're afraid it might slip away. Her eyes search mine, pleading silently, but also apologising as if she knows she can't give me what I want, even though her heart aches to.

"I don't think that would be right," she whispers, eyes cast downward, her voice soft with uncertainty.

I let out a short, disbelieving laugh, as if I've heard the most absurd thing in the world. My eyes lock onto hers, sharp with disbelief.

"Wouldn't be right?" I echo, repeating her words like they don't make sense. "It was right when you were moaning my name just a few hours ago, Inaya. So tell me... why wouldn't it be right when I ask you to stay... just a little longer?"

Her eyes widen, cheeks flushing deep crimson. She presses her lips together, trying to contain the blush that threatens to spill across her face. The boldness of my words leaves her flustered, caught between embarrassment and the undeniable truth they expose.

For a brief moment, she doesn't speak. Her fingers tighten around the sheet, knuckles pale against the fabric. I watch her, heart racing, unsure whether to reach out or hold back.

Finally, she lifts her eyes to meet mine. Her lips tremble, as if she wants to say yes, but something deeper holds her back. The fear of what staying might mean, the weight of consequences neither of us dares name, hangs between us like a quiet threat.

"I..." she starts, then falters, her breath catching in her throat. "I just... I don't know."

"I'm not asking for forever," I murmur, softer now, as if afraid the boldness of earlier words might shatter what's left. "Just... stay tonight. Let me hold onto you. Let us forget the world for a little while."

She looks at me again, her eyes glisten, but she doesn't answer.

She hesitates, then finally whispers, almost as if afraid of hearing the answer aloud.

"What... what are we?" Her eyes search mine, full of uncertainty, longing, and fear. It's not just a question, it's a plea for clarity, for something to hold onto in a world that feels as fragile as the space between us.

Her words hang in the air, heavier than any confession could be.

For a moment, I stare at her, lost. My mind scrambles for an answer that feels both true and kind. What are we? Lovers? Strangers bound by a past neither of us knows how to bury? Two hearts that ache for each other but can't say the words aloud? Or something in between, something unnamed, waiting to be born?

I search her face as if the answer might be written there, but it isn't. I let the silence stretch, feeling the weight of the question settle deep into my chest. The truth is... I don't know.

The words rise to my lips before I can stop them.

"I... I don't know," I confess, my voice low, stripped of bravado. "I really don't."

I swallow hard, trying to mask the ache behind the honesty. Then, in a softer tone, almost as if asking permission, I add, "What am I to you, Inaya?"

The question lingers, not as an accusation or demand, but as an invitation, a way of giving her the space to decide what this fragile bond between us means, without forcing it into words before it's ready. Her eyes meet mine, wide and shimmering, and for a second, it feels like everything, fear, love, pain, and longing, is suspended between us, waiting for an answer neither of us is sure we're ready to give.

She bites her lip, her eyes filling with uncertainty. Her fingers grip the sheet tighter, knuckles pale.

"I... I don't know," she breathes, her voice barely steady. "I need time... to think. I just... I don't know what this is. I don't know what I want."

Her confession is painfully honest. There's no pretence in it, only the raw ache of someone torn between heart and fear.

I nod slowly, forcing calm into my expression. "Okay," I whisper. "Take all the time you need. I'll wait."

But even as I say it, something inside me twists. I know how long this waiting game can stretch. I know how easily uncertainty can turn into distance. I've lived in that back-and-forth for too long, pulled toward her by every small touch, every whispered word, only to be pushed away by fear, restraint, silence.

I let out a breath, my eyes locking with hers one last time. My voice is softer now, but edged with exhaustion.

"But... I need an answer," I say quietly, the words catching in my throat. "I can't keep living between yes and no, between closeness and distance. I'm tired, Inaya. Tired of this push and pull... this heat and cold that's tearing me apart."

For a moment, she looks like she wants to speak, but no words come. Her eyes glisten, her lips tremble, but the silence stretches between us once again.

I close my eyes briefly, letting the ache settle deep inside. Then I open them, steadying myself.

"I'll give you time," I say, forcing a sad smile, "but I want a final answer... when you're ready."

And with that, I fall silent.

Inside, my heart still thrashes, still aches, but the words are out, the plea made. I've laid it bare. Now all I can do is wait... and hope that she finds the courage to meet it.

I sit beside her in silence, watching the soft curve of her shoulder, feeling the space between us filled with everything I want to say but won't. Tonight, I'll say nothing more.

Inaya

Present

It's been a few days since that night. I still don't know how to make sense of it. My room feels smaller somehow, like the walls have crept in closer, listening to every thought I try to push away.

I tell myself I need time. I need space to think clearly, to figure out what I feel and what I want. But the truth is, I already know how I feel. Every time I close my eyes, I see him, his eyes searching mine, that exhausted plea in his voice, the way his hands trembled when he reached out but stopped himself. I hear the way he whispered my name, as if it was the only thing keeping him together.

And I want to stay. I want to let him hold me, to forget the rules, to give in to the quiet pull between us. I want to feel his warmth against me, to let the fear dissolve in the safety of his arms.

But then fear creeps back. The fear of what it means if I let myself want him like that. The fear of losing control, of giving myself over to something I can't name, can't explain. I wonder, what if it's only desire? What if it's a mistake? What if I'm fooling myself into thinking it's love when it's nothing more than a moment's weakness?

I press my hand against my heart and feel it racing, thudding like it wants to break free. I close my eyes, and his face swims before me again. I try to push it away, but the harder I fight, the stronger it pulls.

I don't know what I am to him. I barely know what I am to myself anymore. All I know is that when I remember his touch, my skin tingles. When I remember his voice, my breath catches. When I imagine him waiting, his eyes pleading for an answer, I feel like I'm being torn apart.

Maybe that's love. Maybe it's madness. Maybe it's both.

And then there's him. My father. The thought of him finding out is like a cold weight pressing down on my chest, tightening with every breath. It's not just about what he'll say or how angry he'll be; it's the way he looks at me when he's disappointed, the way his silence feels heavier than any punishment. It's the fear that he'll never forgive me, that everything I've ever tried to protect, my safety, my peace, even my name, will crumble in an instant.

Worse is what that would mean for Adi. If my father finds out about him... I don't even want to imagine it. The way my father's anger can turn sharp, cruel terrifies me. I see it in my mind: him being dragged into my world of secrets, being hurt, being blamed for things he never meant to be a part of. The thought makes my stomach knot, like I'm already carrying the weight of the punishment myself.

I tell myself that I should stay away, that I should keep my distance, for both our sakes. But then I wonder... how long can I keep fighting this fear? How long can I keep locking away what I feel, pretending I'm strong enough to walk away from it? Every day I tell myself I'll be careful, that I'll stay quiet, that I'll keep him safe by keeping him out of my life. But that's a lie I repeat to myself like a prayer, as if saying it enough will make it true.

Part of me wants to fight this fear. To scream at it, tear it apart, run toward what feels right and refuse to let anyone, including my father, control it. I want to be brave, to stand up to the world and say that I'm allowed to want, to feel, to love without being punished for it.

Sometimes I hate that fear. Sometimes I hate how tightly it holds onto me, how it squeezes every time I imagine what could happen if the truth slipped out.

And yet... even as I hate it, I can't let go. Not yet. Not until I'm sure I'm ready.

I try to focus on something else, anything else, but my thoughts betray me. They always do. They drift back to him, back to the feel of his skin against mine, warm and familiar after so long, after all the distance and the waiting. The memory hits me like a quiet ache, soft yet insistent. The way his fingers traced the line of my jaw, the way his hands held me so carefully, as if afraid I'd vanish if he gripped too tightly. The scent of him still lingers in my mind, the faint trace of smoke and something else, something that was only his.

I close my eyes and press my palms to my face, trying to stop the rush of memory, but it's impossible. Every inch of me remembers him, longs for him, aches for him in a way that logic can't contain. I can feel the tension coiled in my chest, the heat of what we shared lingering on my skin, refusing to leave.

A soft creak breaks my reverie. My eyes snap open.

A knock.

At my window.

My heart skips. My mind races. It's late, too late for visitors, too late for anything but shadows. My pulse quickens as I move toward it cautiously, breath catching. I press a hand against the glass, staring out into the night, and a flicker of recognition makes my chest tighten.

I stare at him through the glass, my breath fogging the pane as my hands press lightly against it. The night air chills my fingers, but it doesn't compare to the warmth spreading through me at the sight of him. His eyes meet mine, dark and intent, a quiet intensity that makes my chest tighten.

Without a word, he leans closer to the window, and I can see the faint curl of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. My heart races, a mix of longing and fear, and I instinctively take a step back, but it's only half a step. My body refuses to obey fully.

Then, almost impossibly, he's inside, as if the darkness itself has bent to let him in. He drops lightly onto the floor, careful not to make a sound, and I'm suddenly acutely aware of the space between us, the faint scent of him, the soft shadow of his presence. I want to reach for him, to close the distance, but my body freezes, caught between desire and caution.

"Hey," he whispers, voice low and rough, but soft enough to make my knees go weak. His eyes are fixed on me, waiting, searching, asking without words.

I take a hesitant step forward, my fingers trembling slightly as they brush the edge of the sheet around me. "What... what are you doing here?" I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper, though my heart knows the answer before my lips even form the words.

He doesn't answer immediately. He just takes a step closer, the heat of his body brushing mine even through the air, and I shiver at the nearness. Every memory of him, every touch, every soft moan we'd shared, the intimacy of that night, comes rushing back, and I feel it in my bones, in the tremor that runs through my chest.

Finally, he murmurs, "I couldn't stay away."

The words are simple, quiet, but they carry everything: the longing, the ache, the desperation that mirrors my own. I swallow hard, trying to steady myself, but my heart is a runaway, pounding against my ribs, begging me to forget caution, to let go, even if just for a little while.

I take another small step toward him, and he doesn't move away. Instead, he closes the gap, carefully, deliberately, until we're just a breath apart. My hands hover at my sides, unsure whether to reach, unsure whether to retreat. The room feels impossibly small now, filled only with the two of us, with the memory of what we've shared, and the quiet pull of everything we're still holding back.

He takes a slow breath, as if gathering every ounce of courage he's been holding back. His voice is low, rough around the edges, but steady.

"I've missed you," he says, and the words hit me like they were meant to tear down every wall I've built. "Every day, every hour... I've missed you. I couldn't stop thinking about you, about this, about us."

His eyes search mine, intense and unflinching. "I know I shouldn't be here. I know it's reckless. But I can't stay away. Not from you. Not after everything we've been through. I've tried, Inaya. I've tried to give you space, to respect your fear, your life. But it's impossible. Because I still feel everything. Still want everything with you."

He takes a small step closer, and I feel the warmth of him pressing through the air between us. "I don't know what this is supposed to mean. I don't know what we're allowed to be. But I do know that I can't pretend I don't want you. I can't pretend I don't need you. Not anymore."

He pauses, voice softening, vulnerability threading through every word. "I don't want to hide anymore. Not from you, not from anyone. I just want to be with you. Even if it's wrong, even if it's impossible, even if it's terrifying, I want you. I need you."

The raw honesty in his voice, the weight of his confession, makes my chest tighten, and for a moment, I forget everything else, the fear, the rules, the consequences. All I can feel is him, here, speaking the truth I've been afraid to admit even to myself.

He steps just a little closer, the heat of him brushing against me through the air, and his voice drops lower, thick with emotion.

"I can't stop thinking about you, Inaya. About us. About what it feels like to be near you, to touch you, to hold you... I've been holding it all inside for so long, trying to be patient, trying to give you space. But I can't. I don't want to anymore. Every day without you is... unbearable. I don't care about consequences, or fear, or rules anymore. I just want you. I want you here, with me. I want everything with you, Inaya. And I... I can't pretend otherwise."

My chest tightens at his words, the rawness of it making me tremble. But the fear I've been carrying, of my father, of safety, of getting hurt again, refuses to let go. My voice is barely a whisper, trembling with all the hesitation I feel.

"How am I supposed to know, Adi?" I murmur, stepping back slightly, though not far enough to put distance between us. "How am I supposed to let go of this fear... that this isn't just another one of our games?"

A sharp pang of hurt passes through him, quick and piercing, and I watch as his mouth opens to reply, as if words could undo the ache. But then, instead of speaking, he reaches out gently. His hand captures mine, warm and steady, and presses it over the centre of his chest.

I feel it immediately, his heart thrashing furiously beneath my palm, every beat shouting the truth his lips haven't managed to say. It's frantic and desperate, but undeniably real.

It's pounding so fast it makes my fingers tremble, and I can feel the tension, the life, the raw need coursing through him. Every beat reverberates through me, like I'm holding the very thing that keeps him alive, and somehow, in this moment, the thought is both terrifying and breathtaking.

He leans in slowly, his gaze never leaving mine, and I can feel the tension between us tightening, the air charged with something we can no longer deny. His lips brush mine softly at first, tentative, asking for permission in the gentlest way. And when I don't pull away, when I don't resist, he deepens the kiss just enough to send a shiver through me, grounding us in the moment we've both been waiting for, aching for... longing for.

I can feel him shivering slightly against me, his hands grazing mine as if anchoring himself to the reality of my presence. His lips are warm and demanding, but the heartbeat under my palm is what makes me shiver from the inside out. It's frantic, untamed, impossible to ignore, and it tells me more than his words ever could: that he's mine in ways he hasn't allowed himself to say, that he's been carrying me in him every second we were apart.

I almost want to cry, not from sadness but from the intensity of it, how alive he is, how open, how desperate and true. And still, as our lips move together, I can't stop thinking that if I pull away, even for a second, I'd be losing a part of him I've only just been allowed to hold.

I pull back slightly, enough to catch my breath, but not enough to break the tether between us. My chest heaves, and tears blur my vision. I can't stop them now; they spill freely, tracing hot lines down my cheeks.

A sob escapes me before I can stop it, breaking through the restraint I've tried to hold onto for days, for months. "I... I'm so sorry, Adi," I whisper, my voice trembling, barely audible at first. "I'm sorry for everything... for not telling you, for keeping you at a distance, for letting my fear... my stupid, stupid fear... pull me away from you."

My hands move on their own, first clutching the fabric of his shirt, feeling him beneath my fingers, then moving up to cradle his face, soft and desperate. "I should have trusted you. I should have let you in... even when I was scared. But I didn't. And I... I feel like I've thrown away everything we promised each other, everything we ever felt... because I let my fear win over what my heart wanted."

The sobs come harder now, shaking my body as I speak the words I've held inside for far too long. "I was scared of my father... scared of what could happen, scared of everything outside these walls. But I... I never should have let that fear push you away. I never should have made you feel like I didn't need you. Because I do... I always have. And I-"

I choke on my own breath, my tears soaking his shirt as I press closer, unable to stop myself. "I want you, Adi. I want you, even if it's wrong, even if it's impossible. I want... I want us, I want... you. I'm so sorry... I'm so, so sorry for not telling you sooner."

My hands grip him tighter, holding his face, his hand, his very presence, as if by doing so I can make up for every moment I've been absent, every wall I've built. My body trembles against his, and the weight of everything, the fear, the longing, the love, the regret, presses me into him, desperate for some kind of forgiveness, some kind of relief.

I can feel him shivering too, and when I finally glance up, I see the tears in his eyes, mirroring my own. His lips part, and I hear the catch in his voice as he pulls me impossibly closer, his hands coming around me, holding me like he's never letting go.

I cling to him, burying my face against his chest, letting him feel the full measure of my confession. My arms wrap around him, my legs pressing against his, and I tremble against him, letting the sobs wrack my body. I don't care about the world outside, the rules, the fear. Right now, there's only this, him, me, and the undeniable pull of everything we've denied for far too long.

And as I hold him, I feel him trembling too, quiet sobs breaking through his own restraint, his heartbeat thrashing under my palm as he finally lets himself feel it all, every ounce of longing, every pang of love, every silent, desperate moment we've survived apart.

We cling to each other, bodies and hearts pressed together, letting the tears, the confessions, the fear, and the love mix into something that feels unbearably, achingly real. And in that moment, I know that nothing else exists except the two of us, holding on, finally unafraid to feel.

He cups my face gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears streaking down my cheeks. I can feel the heat of his hands, the strength behind them, the quiet insistence that I look at him.

"Inaya," he whispers, voice low, ragged, trembling just enough to make my chest tighten. He leans closer, letting his forehead brush mine, and his eyes, dark, intense, and glistening with tears, lock onto mine. "Look at me. See me. Right here, right now, I am yours. Every inch of me, every heartbeat, every thought belongs to you. Only you. And I'll make sure the world forgets we exist, if only for this moment, if only for us."

His words hit me like fire and ice all at once. The raw desire in his voice, the vulnerability in his gaze, the promise in the way he says it leaves me breathless. I can barely move, barely speak, barely think, caught entirely in the pull of him.

Then, as if sensing my hesitation, he pulls me impossibly closer, wrapping me against him. His arms are all I can feel, warm, strong, unwavering, shielding me from everything else. The room disappears, the world outside disappears, and all that exists is him, me, and the soft rhythm of our hearts beating in tandem.

He buries his face in my hair, holding me like he's keeping me safe from every danger, every fear, every shadow that has ever loomed over us.

I pull back just slightly, my forehead still resting against his chest, my fingers clutching his shirt. My voice is barely above a whisper, trembling with fear and longing.

"What will we do about Dad?"

He lifts his head just enough to look at me, his eyes dark, burning with emotion, tears still glistening like tiny stars. His hands cradle my face, thumb brushing along my cheek, and his voice drops, low and feral, yet tender, every word charged with unshakable determination.

"I'll do everything it takes, Inaya," he says, and I hear the steel beneath the softness. "Every ounce of blood, every drop of sweat, every tear... if it means keeping you with me, I will give it. I'll fight for you, for us, for every second that I can have you near me. I swear, I'll defy the world, defy every rule, every limit, even if it means defying eternity itself. I'll make sure we're together."

His gaze pierces me, unwavering, filled with a fire that leaves no room for doubt. And in that moment, the fear, the danger, the impossible stakes, none of it seems real, not compared to the raw, unyielding certainty in his words, in his heart.

I cling to him tighter, feeling the strength of his promise, the weight of his devotion, and something deep inside me relaxes, just enough to finally let myself believe, to finally let myself hope.

I rest my forehead against his chest again, feeling the steady, fierce beat of his heart beneath my palm. The warmth, the closeness, the way he holds me... It's all I've ever wanted, all I've ever needed.

"I love you," I whisper, my voice trembling, the words fragile yet certain.

He closes his eyes, letting my confession wash over him, and when he opens them, they shine with a quiet, unwavering light. His voice is low, deliberate, and every word drips with poetry, with the weight of a thousand unspoken promises:

"I love you... as the stars love the night, as the ocean loves the shore, as every lost moment has ever yearned for a home. I love you with the ache of the sunrise that never forgets the dark, with the patience of time itself bending just to hold us... I love you, Inaya, endlessly, irrevocably, eternally."

I tremble against him, tears spilling once more, but this time they are tears of surrender, of relief, of joy. His hands tighten around me, his lips brushing the top of my head, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the world is quiet, and we are enough.

"I love you," I whisper again, just to feel it between us, to seal it in the heartbeat that matches his.

"I love you," he murmurs back, and somehow, somehow, it feels like more than words. It feels like forever.

I cling to him, letting myself finally surrender, letting him hide me from everything, letting him be my anchor, my refuge, my home.