“What exactly is love?” I had once asked my father, back when I was still too young to understand why people whispered the word like a prayer—or a curse.

He smiled, pausing as if measuring the weight of his answer.

“A combination of passion and weapon,” he said.

I blinked, thinking I had misheard. “Passion and… weapon?”

“Indeed. Love and fear.” His smile never wavered.

We sat together in the garden my mother tended with careful hands, the scent of earth and jasmine ...