He Is Home


    The drive back home is quiet.


    I feel the lump in my throat, my mouth dry. It makes my tongue stick to the top of my mouth and I don''t even know how to start this conversation.


    Zaid has one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, and I can see the way his fingers flex every so often. I want to reach for his hand, ce it on myp and caress his


    skin.


    But I don''t know what he needs from me right now. His jaw is tight. He hasn''t said a word since we left Elena''s. The soft hum of the engine fills the silence between us. Music no longer ys from the speakers, and my thoughts are anything but quiet.


    My stomach twists, each turn of the road feeling like it coils the nerves in my gut tighter and tighter. I can''t stop thinking about Elena''s offer and what that means for me and


    Zaid.


    A full year in Florence, of painting, of freedom, of finally stepping into something that feels like it was made just for me. It feels like a godsend.


    I nce at Zaid. The tension in his shoulders, the way he''s chewing on the inside


    of his cheek. Leaving him now, after everything, feels like the cruelest thing I could ever do.


    "Zaid," I whisper as we turn into the house.


    He doesn''t look at me. He pulls into the garage and parks. For a moment, he just sits there. Then finally, he says quietly, "It''s okay. You don''t have to make your decision based


    on me."


    Before I can argue, he''s out of the car.


    I follow him into the hous my chest tight, my hands useless at my sides. He walks straight to the kitchen, standing at the ind with his hands shoved into his pockets, staring down like the marble surface holds the answer to all of this.


    I walk around the ind, pushing myself between him and the counter until his body has


    no choice but to make space for mine. I reach up and cup his face, forcing him to look at


    1. me.


    He Is Home


    "Zaid," I say softly. "You must not understand what I feel for you. Everything I do, I take you into ount. Every choice, every thought, you''re in there. In my head, in my heart.


    Always."


    His eyes close and he leans forward, his forehead pressing gently against mine. He breathes me in, and I watch as goosebumps cover his skin. His hands finally move, wrapping around my waist, dragging me close until there''s nothing left between us.


    My chest is against his, my legs pressed with his, our hips touching. I hum, satisfied by the feeling of his body pressed to mine. We''re two puzzle pieces that have finally found


    each other.


    "I''m going to miss you," he whispers.


    My brows pinch. "I haven''t even decided yet."


    He pulls back just enough to look at me, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. His


    umb lingers against my cheek.


    "Of course you''re going," he says, so gently it almost breaks me. "You can''t not go, Alina. It''s an amazing opportunity. You have to go. You''ll regret it if you don''t."


    My throat thickens. "I don''t know if I can go a year without you."


    He smiles, soft and sad all at once. "Maybe that''s exactly why you should go."


    We stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other. I don''t want to be separated from him for so long. It''s unfathomable.


    He pulls back with a spark in his eye, like we weren''t just on the verge of crying. "Come on. I have a surprise for you."


    I blink. "What?"


    He takes my hand and starts walking us toward the stairs. "Your birthday present.


    It just took me longer to put it together."


    "Zaid, what? You''re lying." I try tough it off, but I want to disappear into the ground because no part of me feels like I deserve something else from him right


    now.


    He doesn''t answer. Just keeps walking me up to the second floor, toward the room he''s


    He Is Home


    always joked about turning into a game room. I frown.


    "I don''t y video games," I remind him, a teasing smile on my face.


    He chuckles, his fingers squeezing mine. "Yeah. Good thing this isn''t a game room."


    When he opens the door, my breath leaves me.


    I step inside slowly, heart pounding, eyes darting from corner to corner. There''s an easel set up in the center of the room, a wooden stool in front of it. Brand new brushes sit in ss jars, sorted by size. Tubes of paint are stacked neatly on the side table, and next to them, a few of the paintings my father did. Hung on the walls under soft spotlights.


    There''s arge window that leads to the porch, and I can already imagine the way light will pour in here in the mornings.


    New nk canvases lean against the wall, waiting for me.


    My body goes numb. The world muffles around me like I''m underwater. I turn to him with tears in my eyes.


    He smiles, gently and yet a little nervous. "Now you won''t have to hunch over your desk anymore-"


    But he doesn''t get to finish the sentence.


    I cross the room in three quick steps and kiss him. My arms wrap around his neck, bringing him in closer to me.


    He catches me instantly, hands on my waist, lips moving with mine. There''s no awkwardness or hesitation in our movements. It''s the most natural thing to be with


    him.


    When we finally pull apart, I''m breathless. And more certain than ever that no matter


    where I go, this is home.


    He is home.