to her hips as he hovered behind her. It was automatic, now—he touched her before even thinking about it, maybe because he spent every night holding her. And yet, despite how natural it felt, a thrill still shot through him at the contact every time. A pulsing awareness that seemed at odds with the sweet, warm comfort she brought him.
He ignored it, of course. He ignored it completely, with great, great effort.
“Don’t think I’m not happy about it,” he said, “but why are you making this?”
She relaxed into his touch, leaning slightly against him. He knew her back hurt, and probably her feet. He wished, sometimes, that she would lean on him completely—but she wouldn’t.
Or rather, she hadn’t yet. He held out hope that she might, eventually.
They were so close in height that when she turned to look at him, there was barely a breath between them. And yet, she spoke as if they weren’t inches away from a kiss. As if the air hadn’t grown thick and heavy and ripe around them in an instant.
This was how they were now. It was safe, and it was good. It was what she wanted.
“I made it for you,” she said.
Which made sense. It was the obvious conclusion to draw. Laura Albright was making a Moroccan soup, one that she’d first come across in his house, years ago, and one that happened to be his favourite. Obviously, she’d made it for him.
And yet, the very idea was so brilliant—brighter than the sun, too difficult to look at head-on. Samir cleared his throat to rid it of all the pesky adoration that threatened to spill out. He couldn’t get on his knees and pledge eternal devotion because she’d made his favourite fucking soup.
Of course, if he did pledge eternal devotion it would be because she was Laura, so different and yet the same, so fragile but steel-hard and ice cold, so lonely and so determinedly alone.
But she wouldn’t know that. She’d think it was the soup.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said. “I’ve been… a bit much, the past few days. I know that.”
He stiffened. “No, you haven’t.”
“Well—”
“What does that even mean? A bit much? You’re already everything.”
She turned then, facing him properly with a little frown. She looked confused, perplexed. “Everything?”
He hadn’t really meant to say that, but he wasn’t about to take it back. “Laura, you don’t—please don’t thank me. Don’t thank me for the last few days, don’t thank me for anything between us. Not ever. When I say it’s my pleasure—you don’t even understand how much I mean that.”
She pressed her lips together. “I was going to tell you… I mean, I was thinking we should talk.”
“About?”
She looked away. “I don’t know. This. Us.”
He was torn between elation at the word us and devastation at the way she’d said it. The emotions flew off in different directions, threatening to rip him in two, until all at once, Samir decided. All the mixed-up thoughts and feelings and deep, insistent needs she’d dragged from him over the last few months finally came together. The truth sank into his thick skull as if some magician somewhere had snapped his fingers and let the fog clear.
Samir knew, without a shadow of a doubt, exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it.
His hands rose to cradle her cheeks, always so sweet and soft and ready to smile, even when her eyes seemed heavy with despair. They weren’t heavy right now. They were wide and confused, almost silvery. His thumbs swept over her skin, memorising its texture.
“Listen,” he began. His voice was so low it almost disappeared beneath the echo of rain against the roof. “I don’t know what you think we need to talk about, but there’s something I want to say first.”
“Samir,” she whispered. “You’re going to complicate things.”
“Good. I want to complicate things with you. I want us tied together in a knot so indecipherable, people look at us and can’t imagine how we’d ever come apart.”
She bit her lip. “You don’t—there are a lot of things I haven’t told you.”
“So tell me. Tell me everything. I’ll still be yours.”
“Oh, God, don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
She seemed to be searching frantically for a response, her mouth working. “I—I’m pregnant!”
He laughed. “You’re adorable.”
“This isn’t funny!”
“Sorry, sorry.” He schooled his expression into something approaching gravity. “Okay, so. You’re pregnant. Does that bother you?”
She flushed. “Does it bother me?”
“Do you want to be single right now?”
“I…” She hesitated. He’d kind of sprung this on her,