Wrapped in Him

Her damp hair clung to her shoulders, the water tracing down her spine, but her skin still felt hot—and not from the shower.

No. It was him.

The way he stood there after six damn years. Muscles like carved temptation, jaw tight, that stupid low voice telling her to leave.

Leave, like she was something he had to protect from himself.

Zina scoffed quietly.

"Try to control me again and I'll knee you in the soft spot," she muttered to herself.

She needed clothes. Comfortable ones. Warm ones.

And definitely not from Hana.

No offense to the girl, but her style leaned a little too much into pink chaos and lacey trauma. Zina wasn't in the mood to dress like a cupcake today.

What were a few shirts to a man with assassin paychecks?

She cracked the door open quietly, peeking left and right before slipping into the hallway like a barefoot ninja. Her steps were featherlight, even though her heart was doing flips.

"Okay... twenty billion doors. Great," she mumbled, squinting at the identical silver panels. "Couldn't have labeled things like 'Main Brooding Bastard Room' or something."

She checked the first room.

Nope—too clean. If this was Malik's, he'd been replaced with a robot.

Second room?

Still no. Weights and gear, maybe his gym setup. But not him. Not his scent.

Third—

She paused. Wait. There had to be a better way than this glorified hide-and-seek.

She glanced up. "Uh… hi? AI? Weird invisible assistant thingy?"

A smooth voice responded instantly, startling her.

"Hello, Zina. You may call me Neve. Do you require assistance?"

She hesitated. "...I mean. No. But also yes. But pretend you didn't hear this. Where's Malik's room?"

"Turn left. Second door on the right."

"Oh my God, thank you. Lark, you're my favorite and I would totally marry you if you had a body."

"I will make a note of that."

Zina tiptoed down the hallway, heart hammering like she was stealing from royalty. Technically, she was.

The door to his room opened with a soft hiss, and she peeked in cautiously.

She expected… I don't know. Something out of a Pinterest board titled "Deadly Assassin Aesthetic." Black walls, a lonely mattress, maybe a punching bag and a sword stabbed into the floor.

But this?

This was soft.

Brown and white tones. A cozy, almost hotel-like bed with a thick comforter and a pillow that literally said No Bad Days. Shelves with books—some cracked open with bookmarks sticking out—and scattered trinkets that looked hand-carved. There was a little wooden bird on the dresser. A turtle with a wonky leg. A tiny house with lopsided windows.

Zina blinked, her chest tightening.

It smelled like him.

Cedarwood soap. Faint spice. Something warm and heartbreakingly familiar.

She tiptoed toward the wardrobe and cracked it open. Still simple. Black shirts. Tactical pants. A few cozy-looking sweaters. And there it was: the soft black turtleneck one that fit her vibes.....

She grinned to herself. "Still the same taste, huh, Malik?"

She reached for it and put it on.

The turtleneck swallowed her frame, just the way she liked

Soft. Warm. Smelled like him.

Ugh. Why did everything he owned smell good? Like spice and quiet danger. Like the guy who broke your heart but still made you soup when you were sick.

She tugged it down her hips, relishing the stretch. It hung just halfway past her thighs, almost like a minidress.

"Alright, Malik," she muttered, heading back to the wardrobe. "Let's see if you have any pants that won't make me look like I'm drowning in regret."

She pulled out the first pair of shorts. Black cargo. Big enough to double as a tent for two.

She held them up against her waist.

"…Nope."

Second pair. Tactical grey, plenty of pockets, and apparently designed for the Incredible Hulk.

Slid them on.

They dropped immediately.

She caught them by the waistband mid-fall with a sharp gasp. "WHAT IN THE CIRCUS CLOWN—"

Okay. That was not gonna work.

She tried rolling them at the waist. Still looked like she was smuggling snacks for a family of five.

Why was he so… big?

"Damn thighs," she grumbled, tossing the shorts aside.

She tried another pair.

Same betrayal.

At this point, it wasn't even about fashion—it was about pride. She was not about to walk out there looking like a child playing dress-up in her assassin ex's closet.

Eventually, she gave up, sighing dramatically as she plopped onto the edge of his bed, legs bare, swallowed in his sweater.

"Whatever. I'm long enough to pass it off as a vibe."

The fabric brushed the tops of her thighs like a whisper, and something about wearing his clothes, alone, in his room made her chest feel tight again. A shiver passed her feet, she needed socks. And she got a pair from his drawer.

Mine now," she whispered, sliding them on with glee. They swallowed her feet whole, but she didn't care.

She turned to leave, mission accomplished glancing around around when the table caught her eye.

The photos. The clutter of memories. A corner shrine of everything they used to be.There they were, laughing by the swings. Her in pigtails, missing a tooth. Him in a hoodie, grinning like a fool. She touched one carefully, heart tightening.

There were scribbled notes next to each photo, like memories frozen in time.

"She dared me to eat five hot peppers that day. I only survived because she kissed me after."

"Zina, age 12, declaring war on ants. She almost burned the garden."

She smiled, heart squeezing. And then she saw it—a small leather-bound book nestled beside the frames. It peeked out like it was waiting for her.

Calling her.

"Just one peek…" she whispered, fingers hovering over the cover.

Just one peek.

She reached for it slowly, fingers trembling as she opened to the first page.

Day 1 without her.

It feels like breathing through crushed lungs. But I'll get through it.

She would've told me I'm being dramatic.

Day 17.

I saw a pink flower today. It reminded me of her hair. I miss her laugh. I wish I'd told her everything before I left.

Day 82.

We trained in a blizzard. My knuckles bled. I kept hearing her voice in my head telling me to stop being stupid and wear gloves.

Day 366.

A full year. I still talk to this book like it's her

Each page was like a love letter—raw, unfiltered, written like he thought he'd never get to say the words aloud. He wrote like the book was her. Like it had been his only link to sanity. Every little daily note. Every quote. Every sketch of her face he tried and failed to draw. Even his frustration at missing her.

Tears blurred her vision as she pressed the book to her chest. "You idiot…" she whispered. "You never stopped…"

She couldn't stay angry.

Not after this.

And that little leather notebook…

She sighed deeply.

"Neve?" she asked into the quiet.

"Yes, Zina?"

"Where's Malik right now?"

"He is currently located in the crafting room on sublevel two. Shall I show you the way?"

She nodded, heart thumping. "Yeah. Please do."

This time, her steps were soft… but her heart was loud.

And she was finally ready to listen to it.