Zayn’s POV

Two weeks later

Grandma’s house sits quietly at the end of the lane, sunlight spilling over its towering walls, solid and unyielding like a prison.

It’s the last Saturday of the month, our family day, the one gathering nobody ever escapes, and trust me, I tried. I honestly did.

I even told Mom I had work at the hospital, but she only adjusted her scarf as she got up, looked me dead in the eye, and said.

"Zayn, if your grandmother summons, you go."

So here I am.

We’re the first to arrive, like always. Mom says it’s respect, but I think it’s punishment.

The driveway is already alive with the faint scent of roasting meat and simmering spices.

The front door swings open, and the living room greets us with its familiar warmth. Sunlight cuts through lace curtains, dust motes dancing lazily.

The room is lived-in, layered with decades of memory.

High ceilings, heavy armchairs worn soft by time, and maroon rugs underfoot. Shelves lined with brass bowls and black-and-white portraits of people who lived before love became complicated.

The air conditioner hums, fighting Katsina heat like it knows it’s losing.

Mom slips off her shoes. I walk in behind her, doing the same, while rehearsing small talk because the last thing I need is Grandma reading my heart like she always does.

She’s sitting on her favorite chair, spine straight, eyes sharp like a queen surveying her kingdom.

Silver hair wrapped neatly in her scarf, and her prayer beads slowly rolling through her fingers.

But when she sees us, her matriarch mask softens into something warm.

"Zayn, my boy!" Grandma Mariam rises from the armchair at the center, eyes twinkling beneath the fine network of wrinkles.

Her voice carries authority and affection in equal measure.

"Come, come! Don’t just stand there. How is my golden grandson?"

I step forward, masking the tension curling through my chest.

"I’m good, Grandma. How are you?"

She clucks her tongue and reaches out, enveloping me in her frail, strong arms.

"You look tired, but you’re always welcome here. Always."

Grandma loves us fiercely; you feel it like heat on skin, but she notices everything. Every shift of breath. Every unspoken twitch.

My mother follows with her usual gentle smile. "We thought we’d arrive early to help set things up."

Grandma waves a hand, dismissing all pretense.

"Bah, setting things up is part of life, dear. Now sit and talk to me. Tell me about your work, your patients…"

I smile politely, trying to keep my mind off the gnawing worry in my chest. I know they’ll be here soon—Amira and her family—and I’m not sure I’m ready.

The last time I saw her was at her birthday dinner; after I ruined everything with one reckless moment we both weren’t ready for.

Yet, I keep glancing toward the door like a fool.

Every set of footsteps makes my pulse tighten; each voice drifting in from the entrance sounds almost like hers.

It’s ridiculous, the way one person can turn your entire nervous system into a tripwire.

The clock ticks.

And still, I wait, or rather, I try not to.

The door opens again.

And there she is.

Amira stepped in with her mother and brother, with their father following behind.

The moment freezes, like a tremor under still water.

She looks… radiant.

The light catches her veil just so, the faint curve of her smile softening her face.

And yet, when our eyes meet, she looks away, hesitant, the air thick with what we both remember but neither will speak.

"Halim, how are you, dear?" Grandma asks as she answers his greeting, pulling him into a hug as well.

"And you, the stay-in queen, I thought I'd had to go looking for you," she scolds lightly as she pulls Amira into her embrace too.

After all the pleasantries are exchanged, the family chatter flows, as if nothing has shifted.

Even with all the laughter and small talk, I feel the air stretch thin between us, like a thread pulled too tight.

Grandma claps her hands once in a while, drawing everyone into the small orbit of the living room.

Each cousin and aunt offers a few words, laughter punctuating the gentle conversation.

Grandma talks about council meetings, Mom about the hospital, Aunt Fatima about the latest neighborhood gossip, and Uncle Bashir about politics no one asked about.

Even Halim speaks once, which is a miracle, though only to correct some date detail. Everyone fits like puzzle pieces.

Except us.

I can’t stop watching her, even as she pretends not to watch me back.

Amira sits across from me, quiet with a polite smile and her hands folded, but her gaze keeps brushing mine like we’re magnetic north and south.

It feels like only yesterday her breath was warm on my neck, her fingers trembling against my jaw, her innocence pressed against my mistake.

Lunch is called, cutting us off from our frenzy.

We move to the dining table, a long, polished mahogany.

The seating falls naturally, like destiny playing games. Grandma at the head. Mom to her right. Amira’s parents are opposite. And then somehow.

Amira beside me.

Halim beside her.

His presence is a warning label no one needs to read.

Nothing passes him, not the accidental brush of our arms, not the stolen glance, not the faint tension that drifts like mist between us.

The food is steaming and delicious, but the real heat sits between.

As we keep enjoying the very refreshing traditional meal that only Grandma seems to know how to make, her perfume reaches me before her words do. Soft. Familiar. Unfair.

She keeps her face angled toward her plate, but the way she holds her spoon too carefully tells its own story.

She’s pretending to be composed; I’m pretending not to notice.

Our elbows brush again.

Once.

Twice.

A third time, this one neither of us corrects.

Every time her arm grazes mine, something wakes under my skin, hot, guilty, and alive.

"Zayn, my boy, you are nearly thirty. When will you settle down?" Grandma teases between spoonfuls of curry.

My mother interjects, smooth as silk, a teasing smile on her lips.

"I actually have someone in mind. Perfect for you, Zayn."

A pause stretches across the table.

Amira looks up.

I pretend not to be waiting for her reaction, but I fail miserably.

My heart tightens as our eyes meet briefly; the memory of that day, or rather, what came after that day, still presses like a weight on my chest.

"She’s from a good family," my mother continues. "Halimah… she’s a nurse in my hospital."

I glance at Amira once again.

Her jaw tightens imperceptibly.

Grandma chuckles, tossing words with practiced ease.

"Hmph, and here I was thinking you’d marry Amira, boy!"

My fork pauses mid-air.

Next to me, Amira’s lashes lift, just barely, but it’s enough.

Her throat moves like she swallowed something sharp.

We don’t say a word, but everything is said.

A flurry of thoughts drowns me, unspoken and impossible.

She’s a cousin, my sister in the eyes of family, and yet… our shared history hangs between us, raw and unresolved.

"Mama, please," my mother says lightly, teasingly, as if reading my thoughts.

"Amira is technically his sister, you know."

Our eyes meet again, and this time there’s an acknowledgment of the distance already crossed, the boundaries ignored, and the private understanding that no one else here can perceive.

Amira suddenly rises to clear the table as the plates have all been cleared of their aromatic contents.

"I’ll help."

I follow quickly, insisting to help, but it’s as much an escape from the storm of questions at the table as it is an offer of assistance.

I rush behind her as I can feel the heat of their eyes behind me. I've never offered to help with the kitchen chores before.

The kitchen is small, with the scent of dishes and detergent thick, hitting my nose as I walk in.

She is busy washing the dishes rather quickly with expert precision, but her shoulders look tense.

I lean near the counter, searching for words that once came easy.

She leans into the sink, still tense, her body aware of my presence even if she didn't turn.

I try to find words, any words, but the conversation feels alien now.

So I bring up the lunch topic, something safe, something stupid, because real words suddenly feel too dangerous.

"Do you… do you think I’d look good with someone named Halimah?"

She freezes for a few moments and slowly turns.

Her eyes flick up at me, sharp, something between hurt and disbelief.

"Zayn, that’s… that’s what you found to ask?"

She moves to leave, but I step into her path.

Our bodies collide, barely, but enough.

Chest to shoulder.

Warmth to warmth.

No space. No escape.

Her breath stutters, and so does mine.

The silent fire still smoldering between us.

Something flares, low, dangerous, yet remembered.

I feel her wanting to move.

I feel her wanting to stay.

And oh gosh! Do I want to do the same as well?

We shouldn’t be this close.

Not here.

Not ever.

Just when I tilt forward, ready to say something reckless, Halim walks in.

We spring apart like fire caught with petrol, our faces flushing.

He looks between us in a slow, silent, knowing-too-much-without-saying-anything glare.

After a long moment

"They’re outside. In the garden." He finally decides to speak.

The rest of the family have already moved to the garden, leaving us behind in tense, unspoken acknowledgment.

Whatever broke between us still breathes, quiet but not dead.