Amira's POV

I wake up gasping, like someone surfaced me from underwater, really fast, and breathless, with my pulse sprinting beneath my skin.

The morning light spills through the curtains in gentle streaks, but it feels too bright for the darkness I just crawled out of.

The sheet beneath me is still warm where my body twisted through the night.

The air is cool, but my skin feels fever-warm, alive in a way the morning shouldn’t allow.

Somewhere a bird calls outside. Cheerful and unaware.

My chest rises like it expects him to be there, like the room should smell like his cologne, not morning dust and cotton.

My fingers clutch the sheets like I’m still inside the dream, like his mouth is still on my skin, like my breath is still tangled with his name.

My thighs tighten instinctively, heat crawling through me in waves I try so hard to swallow back down.

It’s always him.

Zayn.

I hate that dream.

I love that dream.

I hate that I love it.

And today it follows me harder, deeper, because he is right next door.

That thin wall between us feels like paper now, like I could breathe too loudly and he would hear it... or worse, respond.

My chest rises, falls, and rises too quickly again.

I close my eyes... and of course, the dream comes back.

I try to breathe him out of my pulse, to slow the shaking, but memory doesn’t ask permission; it floods.

The dream pulls me back like a hand around my wrist.

His hands, working slowly and surely, traveling over me with the kind of intention that steals your will to speak.

His breath at my neck, soft enough to bruise my resolve.

His lips trailing heat down my skin like he knows every place I try to hide from him, warm, eager, and lingering where I’m weakest.

I felt his tongue on my body like prayer.

Like hunger.

Like he knew exactly how to unmake me.

His mouth didn’t rush. God, no, he was patient, deliberate.

Like he wanted to learn my body one breath at a time.

Each kiss lower wasn’t just touch; it was permission slipping.

sanity loosening thread by thread,

My pulse was climbing like stairs I didn’t remember choosing to climb.

I felt drenched in wanting, trembling around his name, one heartbeat away from breaking.

The way my body arched into his like it already belonged to him, like there was history in our breaths and future in the way he whispered my name against my throat.

His lips trailing lower, heat blooming beneath my skin like a wildfire that spreads too fast to stop.

And when he moved lower, when pleasure curled like liquid heat beneath my ribs, I almost came apart in the dream. I felt myself climbing, trembling, holding onto him like gravity didn’t matter, like he was the only gravity.

My fingers in his hair, his breath against my stomach, my thighs shaking as pleasure built heavier than it ever had before. I could almost taste the second climax breaking through...

And that’s exactly when I woke up.

Not like before.

Not early.

Not before it began.

But right when I wanted him most.

Meaning I wanted him longer.

God! What is happening to me?

My cheeks burn with memory.

"Fuck."

I whisper a curse into my pillow, then shove myself upright, needing air, cold water, anything.

My heart hasn’t calmed when memory drags me back to yesterday.

To Grandma’s verdict.

A final decision. No appeal. No mercy.

She sat with her quiet authority, prayer bead in hand, voice gentle but immovable, like a soft hammer.

"You two will stay here with me for one month."

We both stared at her in silence, like two students caught cheating on an exam we swore we never wrote.

Zayn’s jaw tightened. Mine mirrored it.

Danger.

That was the word in both our eyes.

"I need to get to work..." He tried to escape first.

"You’ll leave from here," she replied, not even looking up. "Unless there’s a reason you shouldn’t."

His silence was the answer she expected.

"I need to prepare for school..." I tried next.

My excuse was pathetic even to my own ears.

She raised one brow.

"For a school that opens in three months?"

Her smile was sweet. The threat beneath it was not.

We both went quiet, defeated by one old woman with more tactical force than a military general.

Later that night, I begged to sleep in her room instead of mine.

She looked at me like I was five again.

"Your room is your room. Now go."

But sleep didn’t come easy.

And so I lay awake, listening like my body was tuned to him. The memory of our old familiarity pressed against the shared bathroom door between us, mocking, taunting.

When footsteps paused outside my room, just one breath away. I held my own.

A pause. No knock. Just presence. Heavy enough to feel through wood.

He walked away, but something in me stayed, rooted to that door with him.

I finally drifted asleep, knowing nothing about us would ever return to normal.

Now it’s morning. Real sunlight. Real world. Real risk.

I slip out of bed, legs trembling like the dream is still stitched into my muscles.

My skin still hums like heat beneath cold air, like phantom hands still glide over it. I head for the shower because I need water, cleansing, and an escape.

My head is still soft from the dream, my body too aware, and my mind occupied. I’m thinking of his hands again.

Still dizzy.

My mind is still half inside the dream.

Which is why I don’t see him until I walk straight into something warm, solid, and unyielding.

But it's not a wall.

Strong arms catch me before I fall, his hands firm at my waist, holding me steady, pulling me against...

Bare skin!

And open chest!!!

His breath brushes my forehead.

Our bodies aligning like memory.

His skin is warm, yet burning.

Damp with fresh soap and heat and male essence.

My palms land on his chest, and I feel the slow rise of his breath, the steady thump beneath my fingertips...

not mine.

His.

My breath snags in my throat as I look up.

Zayn stands there in nothing but a towel, water still tracing his collarbone, his hair damp and unruly like he just stepped out of the shower.

A single white strip of fabric that's low on his hips.

Too low.

Zayn’s eyes, deep brown and flecked with gold, lock onto mine.

They used to feel familiar.

But right now, they feel dangerous.

His eyes widen slightly as he looks down at me, not just at my face, but all of me. His grip tightens as if he felt the shock travel through both of us.

We both freeze.

The world narrowing to breath and skin and memory.

I see my dream reflected in his eyes, the same hunger, the same question neither of us should dare ask.

Something in my stomach flips.

My gaze drops stupidly and involuntarily to the towel around his hips. Too low. Too familiar in all the wrong ways.

His eyes follow mine downward, then back up, darker now.

I see the moment of recognition, and something much darker flickers across his face.

The world holds its breath.

So do we.

My pulse stutters.

My knees go weak.

My resolve nearly folds.

But then I pull away, fast and clumsy, regretting it the second my skin isn’t touching his anymore.

I feel cold and abandoned by warmth I shouldn’t crave.

Wanting him is the very thing I promised myself I wouldn't do anymore.

Yet one touch and the promise feels paper-thin.

I rush into my room and close the door before breath returns to my lungs as I fling myself on the bed.

The tears come without my permission, quiet, confusing, and hot.

I don’t know if I’m crying because I want him... or because I’m terrified I can’t stop.

Maybe because I shouldn’t.

Maybe because I don’t know which feels worse.

I press my palms over my eyes.

This month will break us.

Maybe break me first.

I can already feel it happening.

I bury my face in my pillow, trying to smother the memory of his chest against mine.

Then, soft, barely there footsteps echo outside my door.

Not passing but stopping right there.

I hold still, my breath caught like a secret between my ribs.

If he knocks, I’m undone.

If he doesn’t, I’ll ache all day.

Either way, I lose.

Another step closer tells me he’s close.

Too close.

But he’s still only in that towel.

And I don’t know if I want him to knock...

or if I’m praying he won’t.

The footsteps shift again, toward my door.

My breath catches.

My whole system is going on temporary vacation because I don't know what would happen if he opens that door.

If he opens the door, we won't recover from it.