The Smallest Details
What makes Nabil a truly "sweet" partner isn't just the big rescues; it's the archival knowledge he keeps of her soul.
As she finished the soup, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled paper bag. Inside was a single, sugar-dusted lemon drop from a specific bakery three miles away from his office.
"I remembered you said these are the only things that take the bitter taste out of your mouth after a migraine," he said.
Habiba felt a lump in her throat that had nothing to do with her illness. "You went all the way to the old town for a candy?"
"I'd go to the moon for a candy if it made you smile for five minutes," he replied with a playful wink.
The night ended not with a grand party, but with them sitting on the balcony, watching the city lights flicker. Nabil wrapped a pashmina around Habiba's shoulders, tucking the edges in so the draft wouldn't catch her.
They talked about nothing and everything—their dreams for a house with a garden, the funny way their neighbor's cat stared at them, and how lucky they were to have found a "home" in each other.
In the quiet of the night, Habiba realized that love isn't a loud explosion. It's Nabil's quiet footsteps. It's the way he remembers her favorite candy. It's the way he looks at her not as a "patient" or a "responsibility," but as the most precious part of his day, even when she's at her weakest.
"The beauty of their bond wasn't that Nabil took care of Habiba; it was that he did it in a way that made her feel empowered, even in her vulnerability."
Nabil kissed her forehead and whispered, "Let's go to bed, Biba. Tomorrow is a new day, and I'll make you that lamb for breakfast if you want."
Habiba laughed, her heart full. "Maybe let's stick to toast for breakfast, Nabil."
"As you wish," he smiled, leading her back inside, his hand never leaving hers.