Amira sat still in the passenger seat as Idris drove in silence. The car was quiet, too quiet, yet thick with unspoken tension. Her fingers curled into her lap while her eyes stayed fixed on the windshield. He had defended her—again. And not just with words, but with presence, power, and something else she couldn't name yet. Something that felt dangerously close to devotion.
But then, why did he look like he was at war with himself?
"I'm sorry you had to see that," Idris said suddenly, his voice low, almost hesitant.
She turned slightly to look at him. "You don't have to apologize for defending me."
He gripped the steering wheel tighter, jaw clenched. "I'm not apologizing for that. I'd do it again. But you shouldn't have been dragged into my mess."
Amira's heart tightened. "Your family isn't a mess, Idris. They're just… complicated. Like everyone else's."
He gave a humorless chuckle. "That's generous. But you don't know half of it."
"I want to," she said softly.
He didn't respond immediately, just kept driving, the city blurring past in streaks of gold and gray. Finally, he pulled into the underground garage of his penthouse building and turned off the engine. They sat in silence, the only sound the ticking of the cooling engine.
"When I was ten," he began, his voice distant, "I watched my father walk out on my mother. No explanations. No goodbyes. Just… gone."
Amira's breath caught, but she stayed quiet.
"My mother was devastated. She held everything together with string and hope. For years, she waited for him to come back. I stopped waiting the day I found out he had another family. A son. A wife. A life he chose over us."
Amira reached out, placing her hand gently on his. His fingers twitched but didn't pull away.
"I swore I'd never become him," he continued, eyes focused on nothing. "So I built walls. I made sure no one could hurt me like he hurt her. Business became my safe zone—clean, calculated, controlled. Love? That was chaos. That was danger."
"And yet," she whispered, "you let me in."
He turned to her finally, his eyes raw. "You slipped through every defense I had."
Her chest ached at the confession. She squeezed his hand. "Maybe love isn't meant to be safe, Idris. Maybe it's meant to break us open and rebuild us softer."
He stared at her like she'd said something impossible. Then, without a word, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. It wasn't urgent or passionate. It was reverent, like she was something sacred.
They rode the elevator in silence, but the atmosphere had shifted. There was vulnerability now, fragile but real. When they entered the penthouse, Amira immediately went to the kitchen, pulling off her coat.
"Hungry?" she asked over her shoulder, trying to lighten the mood.
"Always," he said, voice quieter than usual.
She began rummaging through the cabinets, finding pasta, sauce, and a small bottle of wine she remembered seeing during her last visit. Idris leaned against the counter, watching her with an unreadable expression.
"You're not going to ask why I have wine but no glasses?" he asked dryly.
"I've learned not to question the habits of a mysterious billionaire," she said, flashing him a smile.
"Dangerous," he murmured. "You're getting too comfortable."
She raised a brow. "Isn't that the point?"
He didn't reply. Instead, he moved beside her, helping chop vegetables without being asked. They worked in comfortable silence, their movements syncing naturally. It felt easy. It felt… normal.
As the sauce simmered and pasta boiled, Amira leaned back against the counter. "Do you miss him? Your father, I mean."
Idris's knife paused mid-slice. "I used to. Then I hated him. Now? I don't know. Maybe I just pity him. He gave up everything real for a lie."
She nodded slowly. "Do you think you've forgiven him?"
He looked at her, then down at the cutting board. "I think… I'm trying."
Dinner was simple but comforting—penne pasta with garlic bread and two mismatched mugs of wine. They ate at the breakfast bar, laughter slipping into their conversation more easily now. It felt like a moment stolen from a life neither of them thought they deserved.
Afterward, Amira walked onto the balcony, cradling her mug of wine, the city twinkling beneath her. Idris joined her a few moments later, his jacket draped over her shoulders without a word.
"I keep thinking this will disappear," she murmured. "That I'll wake up and it'll be gone."
He leaned beside her, hands in his pockets. "Why?"
"Because it's good. And good things don't usually last in my life."
He turned toward her. "Then maybe it's time they started."
She looked at him, her heart stumbling. "What are we doing, Idris?"
His gaze didn't waver. "We're trying. We're stumbling through something neither of us understand, but we're doing it together. Unless you want out."
Her answer was immediate. "No. I want this. I want you."
He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Then we keep going. No matter how messy it gets."
She nodded, heart thudding. "Even when we argue?"
"Especially then."
"Even when your mother hates me?"
"She doesn't hate you," he said with a smirk. "She just hasn't figured out how much she likes you yet."
Amira laughed softly. "You're dangerously charming, Idris Leventis."
"And you're dangerously brave, Amira Sade."
They stood there in silence, city lights wrapping around them like a promise. Eventually, he led her back inside, and she didn't stop him when he took her hand and guided her to the bedroom.
This time, there was no hesitance.
There was only the slow unraveling of clothes, the quiet gasp of breath against skin, the reverent way he held her like she was something precious. It wasn't about lust. It was about trust. About surrendering fear and choosing intimacy. With each touch, each kiss, each whispered word, they built something that hadn't existed before.
When it was over, they lay tangled in the sheets, limbs entwined, breaths slow and even.
"I'm not used to this," Amira admitted into the silence.
"Neither am I," Idris said. "But I don't want it to stop."
She closed her eyes, resting her head on his chest. "Then don't stop."
He tightened his arms around her. "I won't."
And she believed him.
For the first time in years, she allowed herself to believe that someone could see all of her—the hurt, the mess, the beauty—and stay anyway.
She didn't know what tomorrow held. Maybe more silence, maybe more storms. But in this moment, in this bed, wrapped in the arms of a man she once thought incapable of love, Amira chose to hope.
Hope that this—whatever it was—could become everything.