Page 84 of A Simple Reminder
She shifts in my lap, a soft murmur leaving her lips as she curls in closer to me. Her hair spills across my lap, and I find myself matching the quiet rise and fall of her breathing. The wordbeautifulfeels too weak, too inadequate to describe her. There isn’t a single word that could measure up. She’s pure sunshine, casting warmth and life into everything she touches, illuminating even the darkest corners of me. Actually, there might be one—an Arabic word that might be able to describe what she’s been to me since the first time we met.Rouhi—my soul. We have to be connected in some way. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have met ten years ago, only to lose each other. Then cross paths again when my brother married her best friend, and again here in New York. We’re meant to be; our souls are intertwined. Destiny wants it—Nasib,once again.
The movie ends, and I can’t shake the thought of how, in their story, they meet again in another life. But we… We’re getting our second chance here, now, in this lifetime.
“Time to get you to bed,” I whisper, gently sliding my arms beneath her and lifting her, savoring the feeling of her body against mine. She doesn’t stir, just nestles closer, her head resting against my chest, her soft breaths tickling my skin. I lay her down carefully on my bed, pulling the covers up to her shoulders, taking a moment to tuck her in.
“Sleep tight, Sunshine,” I murmur, brushing a kiss to her forehead, my lips lingering just a beat longer than necessary, savoring this quiet, stolen moment.
Grabbing a pillow, I move to the sofa. I could lie beside her—we’resleeping together,after all—but I don’t want her waking up confused, or feeling the need to talk through anything connected to us not being able to be together. Sleeping beside her like that, wrapped up in each other, feels…almost more intimate than everything that has come before. It’s something we haven’t shared since that first night. And I won’t subject myself to the feeling of truly having her when I don’t.
So, I settle onto the sofa and close my eyes, slowly drifting off to the faint scent of her lingering in the air.
“Liam?”Sophie’s soft voice pulls me from the haze of sleep, and I blink, peering over the back of the sofa. She’s standing a few meters into the living room, her hair tousled, her eyes still heavy with sleep. There’s something so disarmingly tender about the way she looks right now—adorably rumpled as she scans the room, searching forme.
“I’m here,” I murmur, glancing at my watch. It’s two a.m. Why is she up?
Her gaze settles on me, and a small frown tugs at her lips. “Why are you sleeping out here?”
“I wanted to give you space,” I reply, my voice steady, though my chest tightens as the words leave me.
She steps closer, her bare feet padding softly against the floor, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want space.”
The admission knocks the air out of me. I just watch her, my breath catching as her eyes meet mine, soft and vulnerable. I wait for something more to leave those luscious lips of hers.
“Please,” she murmurs, her voice trembling slightly. “Can you sleep next to me?”
For a moment, all I can do is stare. I don’t know what this is, what it means, but something about it feels monumental. Like she’s handing me back a piece of herself she’s never shown anyone.
I nod, standing slowly, feeling the gravity of the moment. She turns, leading me to the bedroom, each step drawing us closer in ways neither of us has dared to acknowledge.
When we reach the bed, I lay down beside her, careful not to touch. Every muscle in my body is tense, and I am hyper-aware of her just inches away.
Why is this ten times harder than grabbing her in the office and pinning her against my desk?Probably because that was raw, impulsive, physical.This is something else entirely. It’s another level. It’s vulnerable. It’s real. And that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.
She shifts, scooting closer, her movements hesitant. I understand exactly what she wants, what she needs, and my chest tightens with the weight of it. I slide my arm around her waist, pulling her back against me. The moment her body melts into mine, something inside me unravels.
Her back presses against my chest, warm and solid, her heartbeat a quiet rhythm that syncs with mine. I rest my hand on her stomach, hesitant at first, but when she doesn’t pull away, I let my thumb trace slow, absentminded circles against her skin—soothing, grounding, impossible to stop.
Her breathing slows, her sigh so small yet so full of trust. It’s not just relief; it’s a surrender, an unspoken invitation to be her anchor.
“I don’t want you to go anywhere,” she whispers.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her head.
Tomorrow, we’re talking. No more avoiding it, no more brushing things under the rug. No more “just physical”. She’s not leaving this penthouse until we’ve laid everything out—all the past, every card on the table.
But for now, I just breathe her in, letting the steady rise and fall of her against me pull me under. And once again, I drift away, feeling a little more like myself.
I wake slowly,feeling more rested than I have in months. My muscles, usually tight, are relaxed. I stretch, reaching out instinctively, ready to pull the person who’s the reason for this quiet peace closer. But my hands find nothing. Only empty sheets.
My eyes snap open. She’s not there. The mattress is still warm where she lay, and for a heartbeat, my thoughts spiral. Not again. She can’t have left meagain.My pulse quickens, panic building, and I bolt out of bed, half-expecting to see her jacket and shoes gone by the door.
But then, I hear her voice, soft and amused. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
I turn, following the sound, and there she is—an angel in my own kitchen. Sophie stands by the counter, her hair piled up in a messy bun with a few loose strands framing her face, looking entirely at ease, like she’s been there a thousand times. She’s smiling at me, completely at home in my kitchen, and something in me clicks. She belongs here.
Mine.
“Good morning,” I murmur, walking toward her, still processing that she’s here.
