Page 11 of If I Loved You Less
“I’m still cooking.”
“Mm, what did you make?”
Without waiting for a reply, he walks into the kitchen, stealing a cucumber sandwich as he surveys the getup. I grab my piping bag and hold it up threateningly at him, but he’s unfazed.
“You didn’t make those little chicken patties?” he asks, disappointed. I give him a look.
Fawad is often frequenting our house for food. There is usually always home-cooked food at my house (either from Zahra or from me), or at the very least some sweets (I bake whenever I’m feeling Things, which is very often), and he lives alone.
He lives down the street from us, an infuriatingly walkable distance. His parents are retired and have shifted to Islamabad, where the weather is more favorable, but they do come back for a few months in the year.
Surprisingly, Fawad is always in a surly mood during those months – well, more so than usual. I think he prefers being alone.
I’ve actually known him my entire life, but I’d never really noticed him until Naadia and Asif started talking.
How I miss that ignorance, I think to myself, as Fawad steals a cream puff and devours it in one bite.
“You pig!” I say, swatting him with a towel. “You can't eat it in one bite. You’re supposed to savor it.”
“Trust me, there wasn't much to be savored.”
My eyebrows furrow together in a look that Papa says makes me look like an angry kitten, and I am sure Fawad thinks the same because this only furthers his amusement.
Despite the fact that Asif is twenty-six and younger than Fawad, he is much more reasonable than his older brother. While Fawad is always irritating me, Asif is only ever nice to me. Even when he teases, he has this little smile on his face, so you know to never take him seriously.
But Fawad is –ugh!
“Do not insult my baking,” I say, trying and failing to keep my tone level. “Everyone loves it. Bashira Aunty asked me to start a catering business the other day!”
“Yes, I know.” He laughs, giving me a confused look. “I was just teasing, Humaira.”
I release a short breath and resolve to ignore him, instead working on filling my cream puffs with the delicious vanilla custard I have made. I sense Fawad’s gaze on me, assessing, analyzing.
“Just because your brother is married to my sister doesn’t mean you can waltz over here and eat our food whenever you please,” I say, not looking up at him. I don’t know why I say it; I don’t really mind him coming over.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I should be in a better mood due to all the baking I’ve done and the fact that Shanzay is coming over. And even if I am in a Mood, I can usually mask it well.
But not in front of Fawad, for some reason.
“You’re actually annoyed,” he states, regarding me closely. He comes to stand beside me, and I risk a glance over at him. The amusement on his face has been replaced with something resembling concern, his brows furrowed. His lips are parted as if to say something. I bristle.
“I’m fine,” I say brightly, but he doesn’t believe me. His dark eyes are shockingly perceptive.
“Why are you in such a grumpy mood?” he asks, stepping closer. I feel the heat of his body beside mine. His voice is soft, like a breeze, or a caress. “You don’t usually mind when I come over.”
The gentle tone unnerves me. I don’t look at him, but in a quick moment, I feel placated, like a candle blown out.
To my horror, my eyes grow misty.
“The house is just so empty.” I whisper so that he won’t hear, but he does anyway.
“But you are not,” he replies, voice sure and clear. I startle, suddenly seen. I stop filling in the cream puffs to look up at him. I meet his warm eyes.
He’s looking at me, just looking. The breath lodges in my throat. Something sharp stirs in my stomach.
I look away, pressing my fingers against the pulse in my throat to calm myself.
He steps back and clears his throat.
