Music Box

Zina followed the AI's calm voice as it directed her down a dim hallway—metal and glass corridors reflecting her swaying shadow like a silent escort. Her feet padded softly against the polished floor, sock-clad and cold, but warmed strangely by the scent still clinging to the oversized turtleneck swallowing her frame.

"Door on your left, Miss Zina," the AI chimed politely. "He's in the fabrication chamber. Working. Alone."

"Perfect," she muttered to herself, biting back a nervous smile. Alone. That meant she could just slip in, say what she needed to say, and leave before she embarrassed herself.

The door hissed open.

She stepped in—and immediately froze.

The air smelled like soldered metal, pine wood, and him. And the room—God, the room looked like the inside of his soul.

Malik sat at a heavy wooden desk, bathed in the soft golden glow of old-style lamps and the occasional electric blue spark from whatever he was welding. The walls were lined with handbuilt weapons, mechanical limbs, metal creatures frozen mid-motion, and glass cabinets full of mysterious devices. It was the kind of room that whispered: genius, pain, secrets.

But the way he sat—shoulders hunched, lips pressed tight in concentration, muscles taut under his fitted black shirt—it made her stomach flutter and her thighs instinctively clench around nothing.

She almost backed out of the room. Almost.

But he sensed her before she could.

He didn't even turn—just paused mid-solder, then slowly looked over his shoulder.

Golden eyes met hers.

And oh… those eyes.

The heat that rushed to her face could've powered the whole underwater facility for a week.

"Hey," she said softly, trying to pretend she wasn't wearing nothing but his turtleneck and socks like the setup to a forbidden Wattpad scene.

Malik turned fully in his chair, eyes dragging over her bare thighs like a slow caress. His face didn't change, but his throat bobbed visibly as he swallowed hard.

"I—uh…" she stammered. "I didn't pack much. Thought I did. But turns out my whole bag got soaked. Shampoo exploded. My panties are currently dying in the bathroom sink, and I didn't wanna wear Hana's crop tops because… I'm not in the mood to be a K-pop backup dancer."

He blinked once. Twice. Then his lips twitched. "Fair enough."

She tucked a pink curl behind her ear nervously. "So I… borrowed this. Hope you don't mind."

His gaze darkened. "I don't."

Something in the way he said it made her thighs squeeze together again, and she instantly hated her body for betraying her this hard. Goddamn turtleneck-fetish energy, she cursed herself.

Zina tried to recover. "So… what're you working on?"

Malik blinked, as if only now remembering the device in his hands. "A music box," he muttered. "Combining old gear mechanics with modern chip embedding. I'm trying to get it to play custom messages. Songs, recordings, memories. For someone."

Her heart skipped.

She walked over slowly. She slid into his lap effortlessly, straddling him with her small weight pressing into his thighs. The heat of his body seared her through the thin fabric of his turtleneck, and her breath hitched at the sudden proximity.

She leaned forward, her hair cascading like a curtain, hiding them both from the world as she focused on the music box in her hands. Her fingers brushed over the cool metal, tracing each intricate gear. She didn't notice how the slight shift of her hips made her body glide against his, her warmth seeping into him, slowly, surely.

Malik inhaled sharply, eyes squeezing shut as his groin tightened. When her hips shifted again—just slightly—he let out a low groan, the sound barely audible over the soft clicking of the machine.

His large hands shot to her waist, fingers gripping desperately as though trying to hold himself together. The heat of her body pressed too close, too tempting.

He stiffened like she'd set him on fire. "Zina—"

"I just wanna see," she said quickly, not meeting his gaze. "The box. Not… whatever else you think is happening."

He huffed out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a strangled moan when she adjusted her position, accidentally grinding against him.

Silence fell.

He didn't move.

Neither did she.

She blinked down at the music box, realizing it had a tiny metal engraving on its base.

Her name.

Her full name.

Her breath hitched. "You were… making this for me?"

Malik didn't answer right away. Then finally, he rasped, "I've been making one every year. They never worked. I tried to build something that could… hold the sound of your laugh. Pathetic, I know."

Her heart dropped to her knees.

She turned to face him slowly.

His expression was unreadable—except for the emotion swirling in those golden eyes. The longing. The ache. The desperation of a man who never stopped waiting.

Zina, oblivious to the storm she'd ignited in him, was lost in the delicate mechanics of the music box. She smiled brightly, about to comment on the craftsmanship, but when she turned back to him, she saw it—the flush in his face, the strained expression, the way his breathing hitched.

Her brows furrowed in confusion. "What's wrong?"

He swallowed thickly, his golden eyes dark with something she couldn't quite place, hands flexing as he tried to control the flood of emotions threatening to overtake him. "Nothing," he said hoarsely, voice ragged.

She blinked, realization dawning slowly. Her cheeks flamed bright red, and she shifted uncomfortably on his lap, but she brushed it off quickly. Clearing her throat, she forced a casual tone. "Um… anyway, I'm sorry for how I acted earlier. I know you're just trying to protect me… it's just… everything is hard right now."

His hand moved instinctively, sliding up her side and caressing her curves with an almost reverent touch. He nodded, his gaze softening. "I know. I shouldn't have said things like that either… I'm sorry."

Zina could feel his thumb brushing slow, gentle circles on her hipbone, and her pulse skipped with every touch. It was like she was being tethered to him by invisible strings, pulling her closer.

She shifted slightly, feeling the unmistakable hardness beneath her. Her breath caught, but she tried to ignore the way her body reacted, feeling her own warmth flush through her.

"Am I… heavy?" she whispered, glancing down at him. Her fingers trembled as she toyed with the drawstring of his grey sweatpants. "I can get down…"

The words barely left her lips when his grip on her waist tightened, and he spread his legs wider, forcing her closer, locking her into place. He growled softly, low and possessive. "No."

Her heart raced at the way his voice dropped. It was a sound of finality. Of ownership. And her chest felt tight with it, the emotions swirling into something bigger, more powerful than any apology or words could bridge.

She swallowed thickly, trying to steady herself as she gazed down at him, unsure of what to say. She'd never been this close to him, not like this. She'd never felt the weight of his silence before, or the palpable tension that lay between them.

"How… how was your life all these years?" Her voice was barely a whisper, soft and fragile as it escaped her lips.

Malik sighed deeply, leaning back slightly, his eyes staring at the ceiling as if trying to find something to hold onto. "They took me in… trained me. Violence, death, blood… that's all I grew to know. That's what I am now. A weapon."

Her chest ached as she looked at him, seeing the toll it had taken on him. He wasn't just this man she had once known, but something else entirely. He was broken, and she wanted to fix him. But she didn't know how.

"Did you… did you find someone along the way?" she asked, her voice trembling just slightly as she looked away, the words catching in her throat.

His brows furrowed instantly, golden eyes snapping to hers. "What are you talking about?"

Zina bit her lip, feeling the weight of the question now. "I mean… a girl… or… a boy… I don't know… anyone?"

His frown deepened, and he shook his head slowly, a sharp breath escaping his lips. "Even if I did, which I didn't… I couldn't bring them into my world. So… I stayed alone. There was never anyone else."

Zina's heart squeezed painfully at his words. Alone. She wondered if he'd meant it. He'd been through hell, and yet, he still carried the weight of her memory on his shoulders. She couldn't quite fathom the depth of his isolation.

Her throat closed, and she leaned in, cupping his face gently in her hands, her thumbs brushing over the roughness of his jaw. She whispered, barely audible, "You don't have to be alone anymore."

The words lingered between them, a confession hanging in the air, one that neither of them was quite ready to say aloud. She cleared her throat.

"I read your journal," she whispered, voice trembling. "The little black one. The one where you wrote to me like I was still there…"

He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. "I told myself it helped. Talking to you like that. I knew you'd never read it. I just…"

"I loved it," she cut in. "Every word. You didn't forget me."

He looked at her like she'd just saved his soul.

"Zina…" he whispered. "I never could. Not in a thousand lifetimes. Never...."