Chapter 34-we always make it work

Chapter 34: We Always Make It Work

His lips were a breath away from mine when my knee jerked up on pure instinct.

The choked sound he made—some unholy mix of a gasp and a whimper—would've been funny if I wasn't so furious. Zain crumpled to the floor like a deflated balloon, his face turning that awful shade of purple I'd only seen on eggplants.

"You—" He wheezed, hands cupped protectively between his legs. "What the hell, Qadira?"

I backed toward the door, my pulse hammering. "The last time you touched me, you almost ruined my life. Don't you dare try that scripted romance crap on me."

For a glorious moment, watching him writhe on my bedroom floor, I felt victorious. Let his precious Layla comfort him.

Thirty Minutes Later

The kitchen faucet dripped like a metronome counting down his arrival. When Zain finally shuffled in, he looked like he'd lost a fight with a lawnmower—hair sticking up in odd places, sweat beading at his temples.

Wordlessly, he rummaged through the lower drawer where Mom kept the emergency meds. The penicillin bottle clattered against the counter as he dry-swallowed a pill, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully.

"You," he rasped, "are an evil woman."

I slid a glass of water toward him, unable to suppress my grin. "Or am I?"

"Your acting needs work." He gulped the water like a dying man. "You almost had me fooled with the whole 'tempted' act."

I snatched my unread novel from the table. "Just because girls swoon over your pretty face doesn't mean I will."

He appeared in the living room doorway, still slightly hunched but regaining his usual swagger. "I've known you since you ate glue in kindergarten. You're the last person I'd practice on."

"Good to know." I flipped a page pointedly.

"You still don't get it, do you?" His voice cracked in a way I'd never heard before.

"Get what?"

"Nothing." The front door slammed hard enough to rattle Mom's framed photos.

The Next Morning

The bakery's bell jingled mournfully as I stared at the empty display case.

"Sorry, dear," the old lady tutted. "Last cinnamon bun sold ten minutes ago."

My throat tightened. Of course today of all days—the anniversary—they'd be out. Dad used to bring me one every Friday, the sugar crystals glittering like tiny stars. Now the memory was all I had left.

The walk to school felt heavier than usual.

I made my way to the rooftop that evening.

Our apartment buzzed with murmured condolences and casserole dishes, but up here, the world was quiet. Zain stood at the railing in his too-tight suit, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The fading light caught the new sharpness in his jawline—when had he stopped looking like a boy?

I approached silently, holding out the single white rose. Our annual tradition felt fragile this year, like the petals might crumble if I breathed wrong.

He took it without turning, his fingers brushing mine. "Thought you might not come."

The cigarette tip glowed as he inhaled. I watched the smoke curl toward the sky where the first stars were waking up.

"Got you something." He nodded to the chair where a bakery box sat.

Inside, the last cinnamon bun in Joburg waited, still warm.

I broke it in half with trembling hands—just like Dad used to do—and suddenly I was eight years old again, sticky-fingered and safe between the two people who loved me most.

Zain's arm came around my shoulders, his suit jacket smelling faintly of nicotine and the cedar cologne his father had worn. When the first tear fell, he didn't mention it. Just pressed his cheek to my hair and muttered, "You kicked me in the balls yesterday."

I snorted, swiping at my face. "You deserved it."

"Yeah." His smile was the softest I'd ever seen. "I really did."

For the first time in years, I didn't count the city lights below. Just traced the constellations above us—the same ones our fathers had taught us to name—and let the cinnamon sugar melt on my tongue.