Well, part of it. Probably a tiny part, considering how smart she was. Once, a few months back, she’d come into Echo looking kind of annoyed, and when he’d asked her what was up, she’d launched into a speech about thesis statements, specificity, and cissexist understandings of gender and family in an essay about something called Creolization. He was awed, not because he didn’t understand most of the words—although, no, he didn’t—but because he understood just enough to realize how quickly she was jumping from point to point. How many logical steps she didn’t even feel the need to say out loud because, apparently, they were obvious to her. Kind of like how, if he were going to do a spin pass, he wouldn’t consciously think about his sight or his hands or his wrists, because he wouldn’t have to. He’d just know how to do it, and that would make him faster and sharper than someone who didn’t.

Danika Brown was faster and sharper than a whole lot of people. And by the time he’d read all of her haphazard, sticky, pink thoughts, Zaf was grinning.

“Good Lord. I’ve never seen you so cheerful.” Dani’s voice came from the doorway she’d disappeared through. He looked up and found her standing there, transformed in a way he could only call impressive. The pajamas had been replaced by painted-on black jeans and some kind of tight, sleeveless top that did gravity-defying things to her chest—which he really could’ve done without. Especially since she was still wearing her usual black leather necklaces, and they disappeared between her epic cleavage like arrows to paradise. Her makeup was the glossy, shiny, heavy kind that made a woman’s entire bone structure look different, the kind his niece had attempted last Eid before Kiran had seen her, frowned, and said, “Really, Fatima? Go upstairs and wash your face.”

Dani was much better at it than Fluff.

“Wow,” he said. “You look . . .”

“Aggressively sexy and mildly terrifying?”

He paused. “Yeah, actually.”

“Thank you.” Her smile was privately pleased. Apparently, that was exactly what she’d been going for. He didn’t know why, since they were going to be on the radio, but—

The click of her high heels cut through his thoughts as she stepped closer. “You like my Wall of Doom?”

“Your . . . ? Oh, the sticky notes?” He turned back to the sea of pink and felt another smile tug at his lips. He had no idea why the sight of her chaotic, almost-impossible-to-read handwriting and her brilliant, almost-impossible-to-follow thought processes fizzed through his mind like sherbet on his tongue, but they did. “Yeah, I like it. What’s with the doom?”

“This is my preparation for the Daughters of Decadence symposium in a few weeks. I agreed to sit on a panel discussion about intersectionality in feminist literature, and, since my lifelong idol will be there, too, it’s possible I’m overpreparing.” Her shoes kept clicking, and Zaf looked down to study them. Silver high heels covered in little diamonds, her black-painted toes peeking out, tiny skulls lining the ankle straps. His smile widened.

Then her words sank past the adoring fog blanketing his brain. “A few weeks?”

“Mm-hmm. Eighteen days, to be precise.” Dani was standing beside him now, tall enough to kiss, thanks to the heels. He would take advantage, only kissing was a slippery slope that might lead to his dick inside her when they should both be inside a taxi, and also—

“You never mentioned a . . . a symposium. Or the fact that you’ve been doing all this work to get ready.”

“Of course I didn’t. I bore you with my work often enough by accident. I certainly won’t subject you to a mind-numbing speech about my quest to cover every topic that might come up on a panel you don’t care about.”

He stared. “Dani . . . you don’t bore me when you talk about work.”

She gave him a look that reminded him of a GIF his niece liked to use. The one that dripped pure skepticism, with the caption Sure, Jan.

“You don’t,” he insisted. “I mean, I wouldn’t read the books you read, and I don’t always understand the words you use, but I like your voice, and it’s cool when you get excited about nerd stuff.”

She blinked a few times, as if she’d just walked into a cloud of dust, then looked away. “Oh. Uh. Hmm. I . . . see. Right. Hmm.”

If Zaf didn’t know any better, he might think she was blushing. But Dani should already know how adorable she was. She should’ve been told a thousand times by a thousand different people, and the suspicion that she hadn’t been was making Zaf feel personally offended.

“Anyway,” he went on, brushing that spark of annoyance away. “If I’d known you were this busy”—he nodded at the chaos of the wall—“I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me tonight.” Because he knew her well enough to realize she’d rather be holed up in here like Gollum, stroking books and murmuring, “My precious.”

But she looked at him as if he’d said something ridiculous and replied, “You didn’t ask. I insisted, because you’re my friend. You do know that, don’t you, Zaf? That we’re friends?”

Well—when she put it like that, yeah, he supposed he did. He’d always known. But lately he was starting to realize what friendship with Dani really meant, just how strong and deep and powerful it ran, how much she’d do to support the people around her. And he couldn’t help but wonder how a woman who was so secretly, subtly lovely had gotten to a point where discussing romantic relationships put shadows in her eyes.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“I’ve told you about thanking me,” she grumbled, but now he saw the discomfort and the sarcasm for what they really were. She was the sweetest person on earth, only she wasn’t used to getting any of that sweetness back.

Which was a fucking crime.

“Are you nervous?” he asked. “About the panel, I mean?”

Her smile was more like a wince. “I’m never nervous.”

“Sure. Who’s your lifelong idol?”

Dani shifted on her heels like a little kid, her lashes fluttering as she looked down, her mouth curving into a just-can’t-stop-it grin. “Inez Holly. She’s one of fewer than thirty black woman professors in the UK, and her essay on the politics of desire changed my life, so I sort of need to impress her or I might die.”

Something blossomed in Zaf’s chest, as fresh and delicate as a flower, and it smelled like honey and candlewax. It smelled like Danika. “That is the cutest thing you’ve ever said.”

When Dani was surprised, she looked especially catlike. She gave him that look now, lips pursed and brows arched, as if she was annoyed by her own astonishment. “Oh, piss off,” she muttered, but he could tell she was blushing again. Precious, she was so fucking precious. The look in her eyes, a tentative, self-conscious pleasure, made him want to grab her and kiss her and never let go.

But if he tried it, they’d be late, so Zaf satisfied himself with sliding an arm around her shoulders and squeezing. “Is this panel thing open to the public?”

“Yes, indeed,” she murmured.

“Want me to come?”

“No,” she said instantly. But then, just as quickly, she looked up at him and blurted, “Would you? Why would you? You wouldn’t. Would you?”

Well. That was interesting. “It’s like cheering someone on at a match, right? I’ve got to come.”

“Because I’m your fake girlfriend.”

“Because you’re my real friend,” Zaf said, and meant it.

She flashed a bemused smile, as if she didn’t understand him but wasn’t willing to argue. “It’ll be terribly boring.”

“If you’re talking,” he said, way too honestly, “I won’t be bored at all.”

Her smile widened, so bright and beautiful, he felt like he was stepping into sunlight after months in the dark. And Zaf could say that with certainty, because he knew exactly what it felt like. Something deep inside him shifted and thunked and . . .

And if he didn’t change the subject soon, he might do something foolish. He scrubbed a hand over his beard and checked his watch. “Oh. Crap.”

She caught his wrist and angled her head to read the time. “We’re going to be late.”

“Not if we get a taxi.”

“Genius, darling.”

Even though he wasn’t either of those things, the words curled around him like affectionate cats. They kept him warm as he and Dani ordered a cab and ran downstairs, as they drove through the city to the building Radio Trent shared. It was only when Zaf stood in front of the place, the evening breeze nipping at his skin and the light from the building spilling through its glass doors, that his warmth disappeared like smoke and memories bombarded him.

Shouted questions as he left practice, strangers stabbing at an open wound. Headlines, the smooth voices of sympathetic commentators, sober newsreaders mentioning his family’s devastation in calm, measured tones during the sports update. Pictures of him and Dad and Zain, grinning side by side, posted in “tribute” by people who didn’t even fucking know them, who couldn’t feel it, who’d never feel it, but who wanted, for some twisted, suffocating reason, to be involved. And now here he was, voluntarily walking into a place full of people just like that, with nothing but a fake girlfriend and a polite request “not to discuss certain topics” as his shield. The fact that nothing about this situation was safe or easily controlled slammed into him like a big, panic-stricken fist. He felt his chest tighten, felt the tide trying to pull him away, and why the fuck was this happening when it had been so long and he’d been doing so well and—

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It’s okay. Zaf caught his self-recriminations by the throat, threw them aside, and focused on making himself feel better, not worse. He knew what to do. He’d done it countless times before. So he thought, as clearly as he could, Zaf. You’re having a panic attack. But that’s okay.

Then he sank down onto the ground and breathed.

CHAPTER TEN