Mohamad's eyes snap open. Sunlight washes the bedroom in muted gold. Evening already. He turns automatically toward the other side of the bed. Ace sleeps on her side, naked, leaning toward him. Good.
His gaze drops, as it always does. Her abdomen. The faded scars.
His jaw tightens. A mistake. A failure. The image from the dream returns—sharp, intrusive. The little girl. Dark hair. Small hand reaching for him. His body stills. Cold fear slices through him. Immediate. Instinctive. He recognizes that part. But something else follows. A warmth spreads slowly through his chest. Quiet. Unfamiliar. It doesn't belong.
His brows draw together. His breathing slows, controlled. He studies the sensation like an anomaly. Loss. The word forms before he can stop it. His eyes narrow. No. That's not right. He touches his cheek. Wet. His fingers pause. Tears. Mohamad frowns. He doesn't remember them falling. Doesn't understand why they did.
The child's laughter echoes faintly in his mind again. The reaching hand. The certainty that she was—his.
His chest tightens. Grief. Sudden. Deep. Unfounded.
He turns his gaze sharply to Ace. Her again. Always her. She disturbs equilibrium. Introduces variables. Creates reactions without cause. Impulsive. Illogical. Dangerous.
He inhales slowly, deliberately, forcing control back into place. The warmth fades. The grief retreats. The tears dry.But the echo remains. And he doesn't know why.
"What's wrong, my love?"
Her hand cups his face. Warm. Familiar. Grounding. It always works. His breathing steadies. He searches her face. Worries shadows her eyes. She senses something. She always does.
"Do you…" He stops. No. Don't ask. Never ask that.
She tilts her head slightly. He watches the small movement. He likes it. Too much.
"Do I what, my love?" She smiles.
The tension in his chest loosens. His hands move automatically, pulling her closer. Then closer still, until her breath mixes with his. He lingers on her lips, reclaiming something steady. Something normal. "Do you ever want to have children?" he asks quietly. The moment the words leave him, he regrets them.
She inhales sharply. Hesitates. Bites her lower lip.
"No. I mean…" A pause. Then certainty. "No."
His body stills. That should be relief. It isn't. Something tightens in his chest instead. Slow. Heavy. Unwelcome.
His jaw hardens. "Why not?"
She shifts closer, pressing against him. She feels it. The rising tension. The anger he hasn't yet acknowledged.
"Well… there's eight billion people and—"
He doesn't hear the rest. The pressure in his chest builds. Irrational. Sharp.
"I don't want to be a mother." The finality lands harder than it should.
His fingers curl into the sheets. "And—" No. He refuses the next question. Won't let it form. Won't let himself define what this is.
He moves abruptly, pushing himself out of bed. She tries to hold him. He slips free. Distance. He needs distance. The reaction makes no sense. Illogical. Disproportionate.
Damned her. Always her. She follows him into the closet. "My love, why are you angry?"
The question hits harder than her answer. Why. Shouldn't she know? Isn't it obvious?
He doesn't even know what it is. His jaw tightens. Silence stretches. The anger simmers without direction, without cause, without logic — only the lingering echo of a small voice in his mind calling him—
Daddy.
He shuts his eyes briefly. Control.
"Do you want—"
No. He moves before she can finish. His hand reaches her first, pulling her in. His lips cut off the question. He doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't want the answer. Doesn't want whatever will follow.
Her body softens immediately against his. Damned it. She always responds like this. The anger doesn't fade. It stays — sharp, unresolved — but something stronger pushes through it. Familiar. Inevitable. Desire. It overrides everything. It always does.
He exhales slowly, eyes closing as he walks her backward toward the bed. His hands settle on her waist, guiding, controlling, grounding himself through contact. Her breath quickens. Her fingers tighten on his shoulders.
He doesn't understand it. The transition. One moment fury. The next — this. But he lets it take over. He always does. His hand slides lower, parting her thighs. He knows before he touches her. Warm. Ready. Waiting. Always.
His jaw tightens again. Damned her.
This infuriating woman.
###
I slide the tips of my fingers down his long ones. He lifts his hand lazily into the air, letting me play and tease. I nuzzle into the crook of his neck, my legs possessively clamping around one of his. My other hand massages his head.
He sits propped against the headboard, eyes closed, completely relaxed. I sheepishly admire his handsome face, my gaze tracing lines from the bridge of his nose down to his defined jaw.
I'm certain of it now. No matter what whirlwind emotions he has, sex calms him.
But that isn't enough for me. I prop myself up and start kissing his face—sloppy, scattered kisses, one spot then the next, randomly wherever I land. He opens his eyes lazily. He looks dazed.
I let out a giggle before showering him with more kisses. "My love… I don't want kids, but…"
The dazedness instantly vanishes, replaced by alertness. The piercing analytic intelligence in those dark brown eyes I love so much dissects me again.
"I think if we ever had a child… a daughter, she'd be unstoppable. Especially with your beautiful face." I trace the line of his jaw. "I think you'd be the most amazing father to a daughter."
He searches my eyes with that analytical mind again. "Why daughter?" he asks.
"Because… we'd name her Eve. And your face would be a waste not to pass down."
"And a son?"
"Well… I don't want our son to have your face. He'd most likely be a womanizer, and we can't have that." I declare confidently before cracking up at my own joke.
He gives a half smile.
"Just because I don't want kids, you should definitely—"
There it is again. He kisses me to stop me from finishing. I can't tell if it's his way of saying stop talking or—
His hand roams possessively over my body.