Page 61 of If I Loved You Less
Why such a potential-ripe opportunity must be wasted on Fawad is beyond me. Though even I must admit, I feel a little breathless.
But I am sure it is due to the intense emotions of the last few minutes rather than this alarmingly handsome off-duty look with ruffled hair and sleepy eyes behind his glasses. He’s wearing a black hoodie and black sweatpants. Damn my weakness for a good black-on-black combo.
“Well, sorry to have wasted your time, but I am perfectly fine,” I say.
“Yes, you had the situation well under control,” Fawad agrees. “You provided a very compelling argument as to why I should not attempt to rob or harm you.”
His eyes are amused. I scowl, but the anger is gone in a flash, and I pout.
“Don’t make fun,” I say, voice small. “I was actually scared.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice softening. He comes closer, face tender. “I should have called out. I just didn’t know if you were asleep or not.” He pauses, staring intently at my face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my tone petulant, but I am tired.
“What made you so spooked?” he asks, heading towards the kitchen to pour a glass of water. I follow him. He hands the water to me, and I drink it, releasing a long breath.
“Shanzay was upset, so I watched some horror movies with her,” I explain.
“You hate horror movies,” he states, then hesitates before asking: “Why was she upset?”
“Emad.”
“Ah.”
“I had to tell her what happened, of course.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Please don’t be insufferable.”
I give him a pleading look, and he holds his hands up. There is not a trace of wretchedness on his face as he leans against the countertop.
“I am sorry she was hurt,” is all he says.
“Me too,” I reply miserably. It hurts twice-fold because I do hate to be wrong.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures me, “she’ll recover, and no one will think any less of you.”
I nod, his words placating me. Now all that is left is exhaustion.
I should apologize to him, seeing as he might have been sleeping, and he came all the way over just to check on me after I became frightened by something so silly, but it’s just Fawad. I don’t mind being an inconvenience to him.
“You can go now,” I finally say. “Seeing as I am perfectly fine.”
“No, I’d rather stay,” he replies, heading towards the family room. “You know, in case a real robber comes.”
I follow behind him and watch as he settles onto the sofa. A small smile plays on my lips.
“Will you protect me, then?” I tease.
“Always,” he says, but there is no mirth in his voice. His eyes burn into mine, steady and sure. My breath catches, and I look away.
“Stay if you’d like,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m off to bed.”
“Sleep tight.”
But as I retreat upstairs, I do feel rather bad about leaving him. After fixing my scarf, I return back downstairs with two books in my hands. I go to the family room, where he’s sitting on the couch.
Fawad’s eyes are closed. I observe him unabashedly for a moment. The fan of his dark eyelashes, the cut of his cheekbones, his rather full, cushiony lips. The column of his throat.
Then further down, his wide chest, tapering to his thin waist, his hands folded in his lap, the silver signet ring, the long, slender fingers. To be touched by those hands…
