The nurse stepped through the ICU door just as the fluorescent lights flickered—a blink, a shudder, then steady again. She was middle-aged, with tired eyes and a clipboard pressed to her chest like a shield.
"He's awake," she said. Her voice was flat, professional, but something softened in it. "You can see him now. Five minutes. Don't exhaust him."
Arsala was already moving. Her chair scraped the linoleum, a sharp sound that broke the corridor's hush. Fizbah followed a half-second behind, her sandals slapping the floor, both of them disappearing through the door before the nurse could finish her sentence.
Armish didn't move.
She stood where she'd been standing for four hours, her back against the wall, her arms crossed so tight her knuckles had gone white. The handprint on the glass had dried to a faint smear—her own palm, pressed there hours ago, waiting for news that never came.
He asked for me twice.
The words were a stone in her chest. She'd carried them for four hours, turning them over, feeling their weight. He'd been going under the knife, and he'd said her name. Not Arsala's. Not Fizbah's. Hers.
And she'd left him at the stadium. Walked out before his hat-trick, before the crash, before any of it. She'd left him, and he'd driven into a tree.
"Miss?" The nurse's voice was gentler now. "He asked for you. Specifically. You should go in."
Armish's legs unlocked. One step. Then another. The door was heavy, and the air beyond it was cool and sharp with antiseptic. She pushed through, and the world narrowed to a single room.
He was on the bed.
Musab Umer—captain of the soccer team, the boy who'd kissed her in the rain, who'd said I love you in the dark of his penthouse, who'd crashed his car into a tree at seventy miles an hour—was propped against white pillows, his face pale, a bandage wrapped around his ribs beneath the hospital gown. His black hair was matted, his blue eyes heavy-lidded, but they were open. He was looking at Arsala, who had one hand pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"You absolute fucking idiot," Arsala whispered. Her voice cracked. She was crying and laughing at the same time, her shoulders shaking. She leaned down and pressed her forehead to his, her short black hair falling across his face. "Don't you ever—don't you ever —"
"I know." His voice was rough, scraped raw. "I know."
Fizbah stood at the foot of the bed, her long brown hair tangled from the rain, her white busty body trembling. She wasn't crying yet, but her jaw was tight, her hands clenched at her sides. "You scared us," she said. The words were small. "You scared us so bad."
Musab reached out his hand—the one without the IV—and Fizbah took it. She squeezed so hard her knuckles went white.
Then his eyes shifted.
Armish stood in the doorway. She hadn't moved past the threshold. Her sleek black ponytail was still perfect, even after four hours, but her face was a wreck—red eyes, tear tracks, a tremor in her lower lip she couldn't stop.
His eyes filled with tears.
"So you came." His voice broke on the last word.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. She crossed the room in four strides, and the nurse behind her said "Miss, please, the patient needs—" but Armish was already there, already bending, already wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder, feeling the bandages rough against her cheek, his heartbeat steady under her ear.
"You can't do that to the patient," the nurse said, flustered. "Please maintain decorum, the stitches—"
Armish pulled back. Her hands were on his face, cupping his jaw, her thumbs tracing the dark circles under his eyes. Tears fell onto his chest, dark spots on the hospital gown.
"You stupid," she said, her voice shaking. "You stupid, stupid—you tried to kill yourself."
"I didn't—"
"Don't." She pressed her forehead to his. "Don't lie to me. Not now."
Fizbah's voice came from somewhere behind her: "Yeah. Because of you."
Musab's eyes moved past Armish's shoulder, and he caught sight of something. His brow furrowed. There, on Armish's cheek, was a faint red mark—a shadow of fingers, already fading but still visible. He looked at Fizbah, then back at the mark.
"Funny," he said. His voice was hoarse, but something like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "What's with you slapping everyone?"
Fizbah's face went red. "I could slap you right now for doing this."
The tension cracked. Arsala let out a sound—half sob, half laugh—and Fizbah's lips twitched, and then all three of them were laughing, tears still wet on their faces, the absurdity of it breaking the dam.
Musab's hand found Armish's, his fingers threading through hers. "I'm sorry."
She looked at him. Her dark eyes were still wet. "It's in the past." She swallowed. "I'm also sorry."
The air between them was heavy, but it was a different weight now—cleaner, like the first rain after a long dry spell. Armish pulled back, wiping her face with the back of her hand, and Fizbah moved toward the door.
"Wait."
Fizbah stopped. Armish caught her wrist—not hard, just firm enough to hold her there. Fizbah turned, surprise in her brown eyes.
"Thank you." Armish's voice was raw. "If it weren't for you, he would have died a long time ago."
Fizbah's face softened. For a moment, she looked like she might cry again. Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Armish—a real hug, tight and warm and full of everything they hadn't said to each other.
"You're lucky he loves you," Fizbah whispered into Armish's hair.
Armish pulled back. She looked at Fizbah, then at Arsala, who was watching with wet eyes and a small smile. "Not me," Armish said. "Us."
Fizbah blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed.
Armish's voice steadied. "Yes. We three. We're going to have him."
From the bed, a rough laugh. Musab was grinning—actually grinning, despite the bandages and the IV and the four-hour surgery. "I had to think about all three," he said. "You think I'd pick just one after all that?"
The laugh caught them all. Fizbah shook her head, a smile breaking through. Arsala rolled her eyes, but she was still crying, and the tears didn't stop when she leaned down and pressed her mouth to his ear.
"You should get better soon." Her voice dipped, low and dark, a thread of heat winding through the hospital air. "My mouth has missed you. A lot."
Musab's hand tightened on hers. His blue eyes darkened. "I'll hold you to that."
Arsala pulled back, her smirk in place, and the three of them stood around his bed—his girls, bruises and tears and all. The nurse cleared her throat from the doorway, and Armish squeezed his hand one last time.
"We'll be outside," she said. "Get some rest."
They walked out together, three sets of footsteps on the linoleum, the door swinging shut behind them. The clock on the wall ticked. The fluorescent lights hummed. But the corridor felt different now—less hollow, less endless. Like something had been mended in the waiting.
---
A day passed. Then another.
Musab was discharged on a Wednesday, the late afternoon sun slanting through the hospital windows as Arsal signed the discharge papers. His ribs were bandaged, a thin layer of gauze and medical tape beneath his t-shirt. His face was still pale, but his eyes were clear, and when the automatic doors slid open and the warm air hit his skin, he took a breath so deep it hurt—and he didn't care.
Fizbah drove. Her little white car smelled of vanilla air freshener and her shampoo, and Musab sat in the passenger seat with Arsala and Armish in the back, their hands on his shoulders, their fingers in his hair. The ride to his penthouse was short, but when they pulled into the underground parking and took the elevator up, he felt the knot in his chest loosen.
Home.
The door swung open, and he stopped.
The apartment—his penthouse, which had been dark and cold and empty after the crash—was alive. Fairy lights strung across the ceiling, warm yellow glow pooling on the furniture. Balloons in the corner, a banner that read WELCOME HOME in crooked gold letters. The coffee table was covered in food—platters of fruit, boxes of pizza, a cake with blue icing. The city glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the sound of music played softly from somewhere, a low beat that vibrated through the floor.
"You did this," he said. It wasn't a question.
Arsala slipped past him, her short black hair bouncing. "Took us all day."
"Armish did the banner," Fizbah added, dropping her keys into a bowl by the door. "I did the cake."
"I did the lights," Armish said. She was already inside, her ponytail swinging as she turned. "And the pizza."
Musab stood in the doorway. His chest ached—not from the bandages, from something else. Something that made his throat tight and his eyes sting.
"What?" Arsala was watching him, a grin spreading across her face. "You're not gonna cry, are you?"
"Shut up."
She laughed, and then she was in his arms, and Fizbah was there too, and Armish, and they stood tangled together in the warm yellow light, the fairy lights blinking above them, the city spread out like a promise below. He didn't cry. But it was close.
The night was loud and bright. They ate pizza straight from the box, their fingers greasy, their voices overlapping. Fizbah told a story about almost burning the cake, and Arsala demonstrated the exact look on Armish's face when she'd fallen off the ladder hanging lights, and Armish threw a pillow at her, and Musab laughed until his ribs screamed.
And then the pizza was gone, and the cake was half-eaten, and the music shifted to something slower, and Arsala's hand found his thigh under the table.
Her dark eyes met his. There was no flirtation in them—not anymore. Just hunger, three weeks' worth, banked and waiting.
"You said you'd hold me to it," she said. "I'm holding you."
The air changed. Fizbah's laugh faded. Armish set down her glass, her dark eyes fixed on them both.
Musab's throat was dry. "Are we doing this?"
"You're asking?" Arsala's hand slid higher. "After the last three weeks?"
Armish stood. She crossed to the couch where Musab sat, and lowered herself onto his lap—her long legs straddling him, her curvy hips settling against his. Her hands cupped his face, tilting it up.
"We missed you," she said. "All of us."
Fizbah rose too, moving to stand beside them. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulders, and there was a flush on her pale cheeks—not from embarrassment, from want. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, lifted it gently over the bandages.
"Careful," she murmured. "Don't hurt him."
"He can take it," Arsala said. She was behind him now, her lips brushing his ear. "He's taken worse."
The penthouse dissolved into the night, into the warm yellow glow of fairy lights and the distant glitter of the city, into the sound of their breathing and the rustle of fabric. Musab's hands found Armish's hips, Fizbah's knee, Arsala's wrist—anchoring himself to each of them, to the reality that he was alive, that they were here, that this was real.
Fizbah's fingers unbuttoned his jeans, slow and deliberate. Her mouth found his, soft at first, then hungry. She tasted of cake and something darker. His hands slid up her thighs, under her skirt, feeling the heat of her skin.
"You've been waiting," he said against her mouth.
She nodded. "Three weeks."
"Felt longer," Armish murmured from his lap. Her hips rolled against him, a slow grind that made his breath catch. Her hands were in his hair, her mouth on his neck. "Three weeks of watching you recover. Three weeks of not knowing if you'd—"
"I'm here." His voice was rough. "I'm not going anywhere."
Arsala's hand slid into his boxers, her fingers wrapping around his length, already half-hard. "Show us."
Fizbah pulled her skirt up, straddled his other thigh. She was bare beneath, her cunt slick against his skin. "Please," she whispered.
He kissed her. Deep. His hand found the curve of her ass, pulled her closer.
Armish shifted, lifting her hips, guiding him to her entrance. The heat of her was electric.
"Slow," he said. Or tried to. His voice was barely a sound.
"We know." Arsala's hand stroked him, slow and steady. "We've got you."
Armish lowered herself onto him, inch by inch. The stretch was sharp and sweet, and she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck—"
"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah."
Fizbah's mouth found his again, and this time it wasn't gentle. It was teeth and tongue and three weeks of waiting, her hand wrapped around his, guiding his fingers inside her. "Don't stop," she whispered. "Please."
The fairy lights blurred above them. The city hummed below. And Musab moved between them—into Armish, his fingers inside Fizbah, Arsala's mouth on his ear whispering dirty things—each sensation sharper than the last, each moan a thread pulling him back from the edge of what he'd almost done.
"I love you," Armish gasped. She was close, her hips bucking, her voice breaking. "I love you, I love you—"
"I love you too." He groaned, buried deep inside her. "All of you."
Fizbah came first, her thighs clenching around his hand, her mouth pressed to his shoulder to muffle the cry. Arsala followed, her fingers digging into his arm, a low moan that vibrated against his ear. And Armish—Armish shattered with his name on her lips, her cunt clenching around him, pulling him with her until he was lost, spilling deep inside her, the world going white.
They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and the smell of sex. The fairy lights blinked. The city glittered. And for a long moment, no one spoke.
---
Later—much later—the penthouse was quiet again. Fizbah had fallen asleep on the couch, her long brown hair spread across the pillow, one hand dangling off the edge. Arsala had curled into the armchair, her short black hair sticking up at odd angles, a blanket kicked halfway off.
Musab sat up slowly, his ribs aching, his body sore in ways that felt good. Armish was still beside him, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing slow circles on his stomach. She hadn't dressed. Neither had he.
"They're asleep," she whispered.
"Yeah."
She lifted her head, looked at him. Her dark eyes were soft, still heavy with the aftershocks of what they'd done. "Come with me."
She stood, took his hand, led him down the hall to the bedroom. The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence was different—private, intimate, theirs.
He guided her to the bed—hospital bed that the penthouse had been set up with after the accident—was gone, replaced by his own. The sheets were clean, and cool. The city light filtered through the curtains.
Armish lay back, pulling him with her. Her legs parted, and he settled between them, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress.
"This time," she said, her voice low, "it's just us."
He kissed her. Slow. Deep. His hand found hers on the pillow, fingers lacing. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and then he was inside her—not the desperate, hungry fucking of before, but something else. Something slow. Something that made her eyes flutter shut and her breath catch in her throat.
"I missed you," she breathed.
"I'm here." He moved inside her, a rhythm that was almost lazy, almost tender. "I'm not going anywhere."
She arched into him, her hands sliding up his back, careful of the bandages. "I thought you were dead." The words came out broken. "When they told me. I thought—"
"I know." His forehead rested against hers. "I'm sorry."
"Don't do it again."
"I won't."
She kissed him, and the kiss said what words couldn't. He moved deeper, slower, and she let herself feel every inch, every heartbeat, every moment of his warmth inside her. The city hum. The sheets beneath them. The sound of his breathing against her neck.
She came apart slowly, a wave that built and crested and didn't break until he followed her, his body tensing, his mouth pressed to her shoulder. They lay tangled, slick with sweat, too spent to move.
After a long silence, she stirred.
"I got you something."
He lifted his head. "What?"
She slid off the bed, naked, her body still flushed from the sex, and crossed to the dresser. There was a small gift box there, wrapped in dark blue paper. She picked it up, hesitated, then brought it back to the bed.
"You didn't open it," she said. "I put it here a while ago. Before everything."
Musab sat up, the bandages pulling at his ribs. He looked at the box, then at her. "I know."
"Open it now."
He tore the paper. Inside was a black velvet box, and inside that—an armband. Leather, dark and soft, with silver lettering embossed on the inside. He turned it over, read the words.
till the end we are together
He stared at it for a long moment. The words blurred.
"Armish—"
"Put it on." Her voice was barely a whisper.
He slid it over his bicep. It fit perfectly, snug against his skin, the silver catching the dim light from the window. He looked at it, then at her—at the way she sat on the bed, naked, unashamed, her dark eyes wet with tears she didn't let fall.
"I love you," he said. "I love you so much."
She crawled into his arms. Her face pressed into his neck, and he felt the hot spill of her tears on his skin.
"I love you too," she whispered.
He held her. The city hummed beyond the glass. The armband was warm against his skin, a promise worn close to the heart. They stayed like that, tangled together in the quiet dark, till the end—or close enough.