Morning light slanted through the half-drawn blinds, striping the rumpled sheets in gold and shadow. The city hummed faintly beyond the window, but in here, nothing moved except Armish's finger — tracing the curve of his jaw, following the line down his throat, stopping at the hollow where his pulse beat slow and steady.
Musab's eyes were half-closed, that lazy half-smile playing on his lips. His hand rested on her hip, thumb drawing absent circles on her skin. The sheets had twisted around them sometime in the night, and her ponytail had come loose, dark hair spilling across the pillow.
"You're staring," he murmured, not opening his eyes.
"I'm admiring." Her voice was rough with sleep. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Admiring doesn't make you self-conscious. Staring does." She leaned closer, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth. "Are you self-conscious?"
His eyes opened then — those blue eyes that caught the morning light and held it. "With you? Never."
Her finger traced back up, over his cheekbone, threading into his hair. Last night was still there, in the ache between her thighs, in the tenderness of his hands on her waist, in the words neither of them had said again but both remembered. I love you. She'd said it. He'd said it back. It hung between them now, fragile and warm.
Then the knock came.
Three sharp raps against the apartment door.
Armish's hand stilled on his face. Her breath caught, her body going rigid against his side.
"Musab?" Arsala's voice drifted through the door — bright, familiar, carrying that teasing edge she always had in the mornings. "You up? Brought you coffee. Figured you'd need it after the game yesterday."
Silence.
Armish didn't move. Her eyes locked with his, dark and wide, searching.
She didn't pull away. She didn't scramble for the sheets or press a finger to her lips. She waited, watching his face for the answer he hadn't given yet.
The knock came again, softer this time. "Musab?"
His jaw tightened under her palm. For a long moment, he didn't look toward the door. He looked at her.
Armish's heart hammered against her ribs, but her voice came out steady. "Well?"
He didn't answer. His hand found hers, where it rested against his cheek, and held it.
The coffee cups rattled on the other side of the door. Arsala sighed. "Fine. Leaving it outside. You better drink it before it gets cold, asshole."
Footsteps retreated. A door clicked shut somewhere down the hall.
The apartment went quiet again.
Armish's hand slid from his face to his chest, palm flat over his heart. It was beating fast now — she could feel it, thudding against her fingers as steady as her own.
She exhaled slowly. "That was close."
"Yeah." His voice was low, rough.
"She would've seen me." A statement, not a question.
He was quiet. His hand came up to cover hers on his chest. "Yeah."
She looked at him. The morning light caught the line of his jaw, the sharp blue of his eyes, the slight tension in his mouth. She knew that tension. She'd seen it on the field before a penalty kick, in the hallway when a teacher called his name, in the locker room when Arsala was waiting.
"Would you have opened the door?"
The question hung between them, thin as glass.
He turned his head to meet her gaze. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, slow, deliberate. "I don't know."
She should have pulled away. Should have gotten up, found her clothes, slipped out before this got complicated. But she didn't. She stayed, her palm pressed to his heartbeat, her body warm against his.
"I should go," she said.
"You should."
Neither of them moved.
His hand slid up her arm, over her shoulder, into her hair. He tugged her closer, and she let him, her forehead coming to rest against his. Their breath mingled in the narrow space between them.
"What are we doing, Musab?"
His lips found hers, soft and unhurried. A kiss that tasted like morning and sleep and the ghost of last night. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper against her mouth.
"I don't know. But I want to find out."
She kissed him back, deeper this time, and for a long moment there was nothing else — no coffee outside the door, no best friend who didn't know, no arrangement waiting to shatter. Just his mouth on hers and the weight of his hand in her hair.
When they broke apart, the sun had shifted. The golden stripes on the sheets had moved. The coffee was probably cold.
Armish sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. Her hair hung in tangles. Her skin still held the flush of sleep — or something else. She looked at him, looked at the door, looked back at him.
"Tonight," she said. Not a question.
He nodded slowly. "Tonight."
She slipped out of bed, gathering her clothes from where they'd fallen — her shirt over the chair, her shorts near the door, her underwear tangled in the sheets. She dressed without hurry, without shame, letting him watch.
At the door, she paused. Her hand rested on the handle. She didn't turn around.
"I meant it," she said quietly. "What I said last night."
She opened the door and stepped out, bending to grab the tray of coffee cups from the hallway floor. Two cups. Cream and sugar. Arsala had remembered how he took it.
Armish set one cup on the table just inside, still warm, and closed the door behind her.