Scones

The next morning...

Zina woke up with a warmth pressed tightly against her back and a weight draped over her waist. It took her a moment to remember where she was—whose bed this was.

Then she felt it: Malik's breath on the nape of her neck, slow and steady. His arm was snug around her middle, pulling her close like a precious thing he couldn't risk letting go. His legs tangled with hers, his hand resting just above the hem of her borrowed shorts.

Her breath caught.

She turned her head slightly, and there he was—peaceful. Asleep. The ever-furrowed brows now relaxed. She noticed, with an almost fond little laugh, that his brows were also faintly blonde. Did he bleach them too? On purpose? For the aesthetic? Of course he did. Men.

But gods, he was beautiful.

And hers. Finally. Officially.

Being his girlfriend had always felt like a distant fantasy. Something safely tucked away in her heart where it couldn't hurt her. Something she whispered to herself when she felt pathetic for still holding onto hope.

But now… now it was real. Tangible. His heartbeat against her back, his lips inches from her neck. The way he clung to her like he'd waited just as long.

She smiled to herself, chest full, heart aching in the best way.

Zina tried to move, gently sliding out from his grip—but Malik groaned and tugged her closer, burying his face in her shoulder. "Mmmn't go…" he mumbled, voice husky and broken with sleep.

"I'll be right back," she whispered, brushing a soft kiss to his jaw.

Still asleep, he sighed and loosened his hold.

She slipped out slowly, carefully petting his hair until he fully relaxed. He let out one more soft breath, lips barely parting, and rolled into the warm space she left behind.

She tiptoed out and shut the door behind her with a soft click.

Only to turn around and nearly scream.

Hana. Standing right there. Hair in a bun. Mismatched socks. Cup of yogurt in one hand. Eyes wide like she'd seen a ghost.

"OH. MY. GOD. You guys fucked?!"

Zina jumped. "Jesus Christ, Hana—"

"Wait." Hana leaned in dramatically. "That's bad. I imagined you two being the loud banging types. Like shake-the-walls energy. I didn't hear anything last night. Not a squeak. Not even a soft moan. My disappointment is biblical."

Zina rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "Because we didn't do anything. He… doesn't want to remember."

Hana gave her the most knowing side-eye. "Mmhm. Men can change their minds, baby girl. You sure y'all didn't smash?"

"We didn't," Zina hissed through her teeth. "And can you please quiet down? I don't want to wake him up."

Hana smirked. "Girl, tell me what you did do then."

As they walked toward the kitchen, Hana bouncing behind her like a gossip gremlin on espresso, Zina sighed. "We just… slept together. Nothing else."

Hana froze like she'd been slapped with a wet sock. "Slept together? Like… just plain sleeping? No spice? No intervals? Not even one slutty breath?"

Zina reached into the fridge. "Yes, Hana. We slept. Like humans. Like adults with trauma and self-control."

Hana stared. "Y'all are lame."

Zina snorted. "Thank you."

But Hana narrowed her eyes, sniffing the air like a drama-hungry wolf. "I sense a 'but' coming…"

Zina grabbed a juice bottle, not looking at her. "Yes, but…"

Hana slammed the counter dramatically. "AHA!"

Zina turned, blushing. "He… asked me to be his girlfriend."

Silence.

Then Hana dropped her spoon, hands flying to her mouth. "He WHAT?! Wait—wait, you mean like—Malik Malik? As in, Mr. Broody 'I only smile during thunder' Malik? Asked you to be his girlfriend?!"

Zina nodded, fighting a shy smile. "He actually said—'I've been dying to ask you this since forever'—"

"SHUT. YOUR. WHORE MOUTH." Hana grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her lightly. "I KNEW IT! I manifested this. I prayed for this. I fasted for this union!"

Zina laughed, swatting her off. "Oh my god you're insane—"

"INSANELY ACCURATE," Hana howled. "Girl, the universe owes me. I'm expecting twins. From both of you."

Zina groaned. "Stop talking before I shove this orange juice down your throat."

Hana wagged a finger. "You threaten me, but you know I'm the reason you're smiling this morning. Admit it."

Zina rolled her eyes fondly. "Shut up, Hana."

"You shut up, Mrs. Malik."

And Zina, blushing into her juice, didn't correct her.

"You're blushing again," Hana sing-songed as she leaned on the counter, arms folded, eyes twinkling like a gremlin fresh off drama fuel.

"I'm not," Zina muttered, turning away too fast.

Hana gasped, pointing. "Oh my god—you are! You're literally tomato red. All because I called you Mrs. Malik? Babygirl, you're gone. You're whipped. You're whipped like egg whites."

Zina grabbed the flour with dramatic calmness. "Do you wanna help make breakfast or not?"

"Oh yes, chef. What's on the menu, madam 'I-cuddle-hitmen'?" Hana teased, hopping up to sit on the counter.

Zina measured the flour, but her voice got quiet. "...I was thinking… maybe we make scones."

Hana blinked. "Like British scones?"

Zina nodded, then quickly added, "He likes them. Said his mom used to bake 'em Sunday mornings."

Hana's mouth opened slowly. "Oh… my… God."

Zina looked up, wary. "What."

"You're trying to make him a perfect scone???"

Zina flushed. "So?"

"Oh girl, you're GONE gone. You're making this man his mother's scone recipe?? That's... that's wifey behavior. That's 'tie-my-hair-in-a-bandana-while-kneading-dough' behavior."

Zina groaned, covering her face. "Shut up, Hana."

"I will not! I'm emotionally invested! I want him to take one bite and fall to his knees like a Victorian nobleman. I want crumbs of destiny."

Zina burst out laughing, tossing a wooden spoon at her. "Crumbs of destiny?!"

Hana caught it mid-air. "That's the name of my memoir."

They got to work—flour dusted across the counter like snow, butter clinking in the bowl, the faint hum of water pressure vibrating through the Haven base. The kitchen lights were a warm amber glow. A moment that felt oddly normal for two girls hiding in an underwater metal fortress from literal armed killers.

Zina was brushing egg wash on the tray when Hana leaned in, voice quieter now.

"So…" she said. "What are we doing, Z?"

Zina blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, like…" Hana glanced toward the hallway where Malik's room was. "We've been under for what...three days but I'm starting to feel like a fugitive mermaid. Malik was right, wasn't he? We can't stay here forever."

Zina didn't answer immediately. She stared at the oven light as the scones rose.

"I know," she finally said. "I feel it too. It's… safe here. But it's not home. We're pretending. Playing house."

Hana nodded solemnly. "And eventually, someone's gonna find the address to this Barbie dream bunker."

Zina chewed her lip. "Maybe if we can like go into a deeper outpost or something . Somewhere deeper. More isolated."

Hana scrunched her nose. "More isolated than this? What are we moving into—Poseidon's armpit?"

Zina chuckled, but it faded quickly. "We either run. Or we fight."

"And if we fight?"

Zina's gaze sharpened. "Then we make them bleed."

The timer dinged.

The oven puffed a small cloud of buttery heat into the room. Zina pulled out the scones, golden and steaming, her face softening again as she stared at them like she was baking a spell.

Hana tilted her head. "They smell amazing."

Zina smiled. "I hope he thinks so."