Zaid could freeze for all Talia cared, which wasn't very much.
Curbing volatile emotions while breathing through the confines of three layers of blankets wasn't the recipe for a restful sleep—or sleep at all. Every hour, on the dot, her eyes would snap open and adjust to the fuzzy black abyss before her. Even a floor up, she could always sense movement or hear a few heavy breaths being expelled into the air, informing her that Zaid was awake. Once or twice, she'd flirted with the temptation to return downstairs, before her ice-cold ego held her back.
The next time she awoke, a light blinded her. She rubbed the corners of her sleep-crusted eyes and then blinked, wondering how the sun could shine so brightly this early in the morning. A simple reorientation of her body made her realize this light was no sunshine, because the sun hadn't even risen yet.
This was electricity.
She never imagined she could be so grateful for two dimply lit bulbs in her bedroom ceiling until this very moment, as they signaled to her that at least some sense of normalcy had returned. Springing to her feet, she dashed downstairs to inform Zaid, before she remembered she was still mad at him.
Standing in the doorway, she watched him lying on the couch across the room, passed out on his stomach. He'd taken one of the many blankets from the floor, but it seemed far too thin for winter and most certainly not for the frigid inside of this house. Pushing last night's thoughts aside, she grabbed the heaviest blanket from the wrinkly mess below her and pattered across the hardwood, heart drumming a little faster with every step. She could think of multiple reasons why she didn't want him to wake up—mostly glaringly that if he stayed asleep, she couldn't argue with him again.
And if she couldn't argue with him, she couldn't say something she'd regret. Because so far, she regretted nothing.
She draped the thick blanket loosely over his back, letting the ends fall onto the empty sides of the couch. As she retracted her hand, it brushed against his resting on the cushion. The touch lasted no more than three seconds, but she could feel how cold he was down to the bone, and her heart sank.
Wait, never mind, I'm still mad.
It was just nearing seven by the time she'd showered and wrapped up her morning routine, and she crept back down the stairs, unsure if Zaid had yet awoken. Sure enough, he was still deeply asleep, now curled up on his side.
Settling herself in the kitchen, she opened her nearly dead phone and winced as Logan's story popped before her eyes. It took a moment for her vision to adjust to the typical grainy quality of Snapchat photos, but the girl under his arm was impossible to miss. With soft curly hair, striking hazel eyes, and two dimples, she was the girl of books, alluring from a mile away. He paled in comparison next to her, and perhaps he recognized that, as his smile was dull and tight-lipped.
No geo-filter dotted a corner of the photo, making her wonder if he was back home, but a click to the next story confirmed that he was, a quick video of his dining room table. She held her breath as she watched the video again, swearing Brandon had a grabby hand on his younger brother's girlfriend in the corner.
Or maybe she was reading too much into what was a glimpse of Logan's actual life. She could have very well slapped an old photo of her and her maternal grandmother on Instagram with a sonnet of a caption about her dedication to kindness and equality. Social media was deceptive, sometimes dangerously so, so with one click out of the app, she put all of her thoughts about Logan behind her.
Because another man stood before her.
Zaid looked, for lack of better words she simply did not know, like hell. With deep bags under his bloodshot eyes and hair sticking up in three different directions, he was the poster child for shitty sleep, a job she freely took on during midterms and finals. He guzzled half of a water bottle in front of her, eyes flickering around the strangely lit-up kitchen, while hers settled on his right hand. There was a sizable bandage crookedly stuck to the base of his thumb that definitely hadn't been there earlier last night. He put down the bottle and rested his hand on the counter behind him when her caught me looking, and she quirked a brow.
"Did something happen to your hand?"
He shrugged and glanced down at it. "It's just a small burn. Not a big deal."
She didn't want to keep willingly engaging in conversation with him, but she felt partly responsible, as she hadn't offered to watch the fire at all last night. Sighing, she walked around the table and stood just a foot away from his chest.
"Did you at least put something on it?"
He shook his head. "I couldn't really see anything last night. Plus, my left hand is a bit useless for these things, I have to admit."
"Sit down." When he didn't budge, she narrowed her eyes and added, "I didn't deal with all those straightener burns in high school for nothing."
He smiled softly and lowered himself to the barstool under the kitchen island while she went to wash her hands and grab a couple supplies. When she returned with a box of assorted bandages and a tube of antibiotic ointment, she noticed his eyes were downcast, almost as if he couldn't look at her.
Grabbing his hand, she gently pulled away the brown bandage and accidentally snagged several hairs in the process. His fingers curled inwards and dug into the skin of her wrist. She ignored the pain, realizing the burn was even larger than she thought, about an inch-and-a-half wide, exhibiting an ugly reddish-purple color.
Gently, she applied a solid amount of the ointment onto the burn and surrounding area, being careful not to push too hard on the sensitive skin. She hated how she was secretly admiring his hands in the process, never having realized they were such an attractive feature of his—perfectly tan and veiny with a couple ring-adorned fingers.
Lord, get a grip, Talia.
Zaid's eyes were no longer making out with the floor, finding the top of her head rather fascinating. She stuck a butterfly-shaped bandage onto his skin and then paused.
She could hear him take in a breath. "Talia, I want to—"
"Shut up."
He blinked when she looked up. "Alright, then."
Dragging a hand through her curly hair, she looked away and collected herself for a moment. She turned around and plastered a more neutral look on my face. "Okay, that was a little harsh. But if you're going to mention anything from last night's conversation—don't. I'm not in the mood of talking about it."
He pursed his lips and nodded, rising from the stool. "I'll respect that. Could we talk about something else then?"
"What?"
"I've never seen your hair like that."
She froze, running her hand over the mop of post-shower curls, and asked on instinct, "Is it ugly?"
"Not at all," he breathed, shaking his head. "You just finally make sense."
And we never will, she thought, tucking an unruly strand behind her ear and wishing he'd done it for her instead.
***
After another steaming hot shower and a two-hour nap, Talia passed the time between catching up with Neela and her suitemates from college, hunting for the cheapest versions of her textbooks, and binging a crappy Netflix foreign drama.
Three episodes in, she grew exceedingly annoyed by the uncanny resemblance between the male lead and Zaid and slammed her laptop shut. There were hundreds of other titles she could have checked out, but none of them called her name, because deep down, she hated this.
She absolutely fucking hated being without him.
"Talia?" A call of her name preceded a couple taps on her door. "Can I come in?"
She froze underneath her wrinkled white bedsheets, realizing the answer to her problem had really come knocking. When she didn't say anything for a few moments, Zaid knocked again, forcing her to the door.
Warily, she pulled it open and found him loitering in the dark hallway, about a foot away from her actual door. He dug his hands into the pockets of his navy sweatpants, shifting nervously.
"So, is that a yes?"
"Just come in."
Without another word, she stalked back to her bed and let him bathe in awkwardness in her doorway. A couple seconds later, he appeared by her small vanity on the other side of her bedroom. He looked around at the walls, as if it was the first time he'd stepped foot into this space, while she stared him down through two narrowed eyes, knowing he was stalling.
"I'm sorry," he blurted, straightening up. "Genuinely. I spoke way too harshly to you last night, and you now have every right to think I'm a brash and condescending asshole."
"And who says I didn't think that before?"
His lips parted slightly, and he stiffened. "Okay, then you have every right to think I'm still a brash and condescending asshole. Whatever makes you accept my apology, Talia."
They engaged in a disjointed staring contest for the next few moments, meeting each other's eyes for a fraction of a second before one of them turned away. At last, she sighed and gave him the answer he'd been waiting for.
"Fine, I accept your apology. But I'm only doing so because I worry too much humility may be bad for your health, and my grandmother will have my head if something bad happens to you on my account."
"Well, that would imply you still somewhat care about me, right?"
She so badly wanted to deny his claim, but she did care about him. Dare she say, she really liked Zaid, even if he fired up every one of her nerves when he drew close, each time for a different reason.
He appeared by the edge of her bed, and she sat up straighter. "Look, Talia. I realized, after you went to sleep, that we're not really that different at heart. I, before anyone else, should know what it's like to hate a place because of the people. Hell, I'd be back home right now if every little thing didn't remind of my dad. Or why I'm not more like my brother after he died." He surprised her when he pulled her hand into his, holding it like a delicate flower. "Maybe it's hard to meet your own mirror image."
A rush of warmth attacked her body, one that would have buckled her knees if she wasn't already sitting down. She straightened up and fought a smile, adopting some of his own cocky persona in her next few words, "She's kind of pretty, though, isn't she?"
"Who?" he asked, sweeping his thumb over the back of her hand through a smirk. "I'm sorry; I don't think I follow."
"Are you really going to make me clarify, Zaid?" she asked, uncharacteristically bold.
"No, I won't," he breathed, leaning in until his mouth hovered over hers, "because she's not pretty. She's the prettiest."
She didn't think as she let him into her bed and angled herself under his large and stronger body, letting him into the space between her legs. He cupped her cheek and tilted her head up, sliding his tongue into her mouth and muffling her soft moan. The veins in his forearm danced out of his skin as he kept his other hand from meeting the curve of her waist, peeking out from underneath her short top.
Stilling, he pulled away from her lips and rested his forehead on her own. "We shouldn't get carried away. I told your grandfather..."
Trust me, he'd already be disappointed, she didn't say, her fingers tracing mindless circles onto the back of his T-shirt.
"I guess we shouldn't..." That didn't stop him from pressing a small kiss to her neck, lips closing over her fluttering pulse. "You should... Yeah, you should go."
Somehow, he listened to her breathy command, but he wasn't gone for long, returning with a book in one hand.
Well, that was one way to change the mood.
"Contrary to the way I came off last night, I actually don't think you need to know Arabic to enjoy some of the great writings of our people." He handed a small yellow book to her, and she sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
She wasn't familiar with the title The Prophet, but Khalil Gibran was definitely a name she'd heard before, having appeared briefly in one of her high school English classes. If she had known one of his books was this small, she'd have devoured it years ago.
"Is the English actually palatable? I'm terrible with confusing writing, Zaid."
"Trust me, if you wanted to see art on paper, it's this," he said, pushing the worn book back into her hands. "My father owned just about every work he ever wrote for a reason."
She froze, now understanding the wear and tear on the edges. "Was this...his copy?"
He nodded.
Her hands almost shook as she opened it, wondering how he could give her something so valuable—not in price but sentiment. He didn't seem to have time to mull over it, back in her doorway with a gentle twinkle in his eyes.
"Tisbahi ala khair, Talia."
A simple good night may have shattered all her unseemly hopes, but Talia still beamed, finally having Googled the proper reply to that parting phrase.
"Wa inta min ahli-lkhair."
His smile was impossible to miss as she walked away.