Amira wasn't sure when morning became afternoon. The hours melted into each other, the golden light shifting slowly across the walls of the penthouse. She stood in front of the mirror in Idris's bathroom, wearing one of his oversized shirts that hung just past her thighs. Her fingers toyed with the hem as she stared at her reflection. There was something new in her eyes—softness where there had once been guardedness. And maybe, just maybe, a glint of hope.
She padded out into the hallway, the floor cool beneath her feet. Idris was seated at the long dining table, his laptop open, glasses perched low on his nose. It was the first time she'd seen him like this—unshaven, relaxed, but still exuding that untouchable air. And yet, after everything they'd shared, he didn't feel so unreachable anymore.
He looked up as she entered, eyes warming as they landed on her. "You're up."
"I've been up," she said, her voice light. "Just hiding."
His mouth curved. "You don't need to hide. Not from me."
She walked over and slid into the chair across from him, resting her chin on her hand. "So, is this what Sundays look like for Idris Ahmed—the cold-hearted CEO turned warm-blooded cook?"
A low chuckle escaped him. "I'll have you know I'm a very committed chef—on Sundays only."
"I'm honored."
He closed his laptop gently and leaned forward. "I meant what I said last night. I don't want to run anymore."
She met his gaze, steady this time. "Neither do I."
For a moment, the quiet settled between them like a soft blanket. No need to fill it with empty words. Just breathing, being. But the longer it stretched, the more Amira's heart started to race. She couldn't shake the feeling that something still lingered beneath the surface—something neither of them had dared to name.
"I need to ask you something," she said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
His brows lifted slightly. "Go on."
"This thing between us… what does it mean for everything else? For the marriage, the contract, your company?"
Idris exhaled slowly, as if he'd expected the question but dreaded it all the same. "I've been thinking about that too. About what happens next."
"And?"
He pushed his chair back and stood, pacing to the window. The skyline stretched before him, vast and glittering, but he wasn't looking at the city. "I built walls, Amira. Not just around my heart but around my life. This company… my reputation… it was the only thing I could control."
"You don't have to justify anything," she said gently, standing too. "I get it. You were protecting yourself."
He turned to face her, jaw tight. "But it's not just about me anymore. You're in this now. And I hate the idea that I brought you into my chaos just to lose you when things get complicated."
"Idris," she said, stepping closer, "I knew what I was walking into. I agreed to the contract. But what I didn't expect was… this. You. Us."
He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers slowly, deliberately. "Do you regret it?"
"No." She didn't hesitate. "Do you?"
"Not for a second."
Her breath trembled with relief. They were still on the edge of something uncertain, but they weren't standing there alone anymore.
Later that day, they ventured outside again, this time not hiding from the world or themselves. Idris drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the console between them. The silence wasn't heavy. It was filled with everything that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
He took her to a quiet gallery tucked away in an arts district she hadn't known existed. The walls were lined with paintings that felt like stories trapped in color. She wandered slowly, her eyes drawn to a canvas of a woman with her back turned, standing at the edge of a cliff, arms wide as if inviting the wind.
"Do you like it?" he asked, coming to stand beside her.
She nodded. "She's not afraid."
"No. She's trusting the fall."
Their eyes met, and a shiver ran through her. How could he always say exactly what she was feeling without her having to voice it?
On the way back, rain began to fall in lazy drops, blurring the windshield. Idris didn't turn on the radio. He seemed content in the quiet, but Amira could feel the shift in his mood. Something sat heavy on his shoulders.
"You're thinking about the company," she said, not accusing, just observing.
He gave a small nod. "There's a board meeting tomorrow. The partners want to discuss our marriage—what it means for the brand."
She felt her chest tighten. "And what do you plan to tell them?"
"I'll tell them the truth," he said. "That this isn't a publicity stunt. That I didn't marry you for image."
She looked at him, hesitant. "But we did start this with a contract."
"Yes," he admitted. "But that's not where we are now."
Amira didn't press further. She knew navigating the corporate world meant more than honesty. It meant perception, politics, power. Still, she was proud of him for wanting to stand in his truth, even if it was going to cost him something.
When they got home, the rain hadn't let up. Thunder rolled in the distance as they stepped inside, damp and breathless. Idris reached for a towel and gently began drying her hair, his touch careful, reverent. She closed her eyes, leaning into him.
"You treat me like I'm made of glass," she murmured.
"No," he said, brushing a strand of wet hair behind her ear. "Like you're something I don't want to break."
He kissed her again—this time slower, deeper. Like he was memorizing the feel of her. When they finally pulled apart, he whispered, "Stay tonight."
"I wasn't planning to leave," she replied softly.
In the quiet that followed, he walked her to the bedroom, not like someone taking possession, but like someone inviting a piece of himself to stay.
They lay in bed, the storm echoing outside, his arms wrapped tightly around her as if the world might try to steal her away if he didn't hold on hard enough. Amira rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. She didn't know what tomorrow would bring, or how their story would be judged by others. But in that moment, beneath the echo of thunder and the safety of his touch, she allowed herself to believe in the possibility of them.
Because sometimes, the scariest part wasn't falling.
It was realizing you no longer wanted to fly alone.