Sleeping. Jamal and Kiran had been sleeping, and judging by the acidic bite beneath his happiness, Zaf envied them. He tried to imagine ever falling asleep beside Danika and drew a big fucking blank. His steps echoed down the empty street, his shadow stretching ahead, dark and alone.

But then he remembered the feel of her fingertips brushing his cheek, that moment of perfection, trapped in amber, when it almost seemed as if she cared for him. Not the way she had a month ago, or even a week ago, with that sweet but strictly friendly concern. He’d seen something different in her eyes . . . And she’d almost let him stay. He could swear she’d almost let him stay.

“Zafir? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he murmured. Or falling apart. One of those.

“You’re quiet,” Kiran said.

“Thinking. But I really am fine. Better than fine. I’m glad.” Because Kiran had been through the absolute worst—the fucking worst. But here she was, trying again. It reminded Zaf why he loved this romantic shit so much: because it was all about hope, about finding sparks of light in a world that could be so fucking dark. And there’d been a time in his life when the promise of hope and light were the only things keeping him anchored.

“Kiran,” he said, “are you in love?”

He could practically hear her blushing. “Well—I—”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered.

“Were you scared?”

There was a pause before she answered, her voice soft. “Of course I was, Zaf. I’m still scared now. A little bit of me is always scared. But I was also terrified that this might never happen. That I’d never . . . move past the loss. The thing is,” she told him, “feeling is always worth it.”

Feeling is always worth it. The words were too true to ignore. After Dad and Zain had died, the family had spent so long numb with grief. Now the idea of stifling his emotions on purpose felt like a sin. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t want to. And maybe that was okay, because things couldn’t grow without water or light, and there was no way in hell Dani would ever water him. So he’d keep his desperate, aching feelings to himself, and then three weeks would pass, and their deal would end, and Zaf would get over all this.

He didn’t have to kill the scarlet poppy in his chest: it would die naturally. Because pining after someone who only wanted him for sex had to be the definition of an unhospitable environment.

There was no need to overthink, or panic, or fix things: he was just going to let shit happen. Go with the flow. No more uptight Zafir. His old therapist would be shitting herself with pride. He was making a good decision, here. He definitely was.

“You know what, K?” he murmured. “Thanks.”

He could hear his sister’s bemusement through the phone. “For what?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dani had a problem, and it had started last night.

She’d known exactly what she and Zaf were doing—right up until the moment he’d called her perfect. It shouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t matter. She was willing to bet that a large percentage of the nation would call her perfect when she was in the middle of providing them with an excellent orgasm, and really, who would blame them?

The trouble was that, for a moment—high on sex chemicals and dopamine and whatnot—she’d believed Zaf. And she’d liked it.

After coming to her senses and throwing him out, she’d lit a candle for Oshun and spent a short while meditating. Dani had meant to focus on setting positive intentions—you know, as in: I intend to enjoy my new friend with benefits until his tongue falls off. But Zaf’s voice kept sneaking its way into her head, shattering her concentration with sweet, nonsensical rubbish.

There’s nothing immoral about the way I want you.

Why do I want to kiss you so badly right now?

She went to bed in a foul mood.

By lunchtime the next day, her temper had fermented into violent urges. When they met for their usual fake lunch date, and Zaf greeted her with a smile that turned her muscles to jelly, Dani fantasized briefly but passionately about throwing a chair at him. When he bought her a Coke and made her laugh, she seriously considered pushing him into a fast-moving river. The knowledge that these feelings were unreasonable did little to make them stop.

“Fluff says our hashtag engagement is declining steadily,” Zaf whispered between mouthfuls of his baked potato. The food court was quiet today, so they were risking strategic updates.

Dani looked up sharply, jolted from a daydream about biting his arse. “Really? Declining?”

“Steadily,” he repeated. “But I think that’s normal, after a week.” Then he frowned. “Actually, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, so I could be wrong. Do you think it’s normal?”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. Social media moved quickly, that was just the way of things. So why did she feel a flare of panic, a sudden determination to stretch this “viral moment” out a little longer?

Probably because they’d agreed to stop having sex when they ended their fake relationship—so if they ended things early, Dani would be unfairly deprived of dick. Yes, that must be it. Zaf was so good in bed, she’d feel cheated if she missed out on her allotted three weeks.

But he clearly didn’t feel the same, because lunch was almost over, and he had yet to suggest a repeat of last night. Usually, Dani would bring it up herself—she had needs, after all, which was the whole point of this bloody arrangement. But various sex chemicals had made her slow to boot him out yesterday, and he’d latched on to that fact with disturbing enthusiasm. If she came on too strong now, he might get the wrong idea again, and then she’d have to horribly disappoint him.

“We’re still benefiting from the popularity,” he was saying, oblivious to her inner (sexual, purely sexual) turmoil. “Donations are increasing daily.”

“That’s great,” Dani murmured, and meant it. She smiled when he told her about the connections he was making with local schools. She nodded when he described the funding budgets he’d applied for from bigger trusts. She absolutely did not fantasize about shoving their food off the table, climbing across it, and kissing him senseless, because that would be ridiculous. Public kisses could not lead to orgasms, and she was in this thing for the orgasms.

Unfortunately, lunch ended without Zaf offering another one.

By the time Dani returned home on Wednesday evening, she’d decided Zaf’s lack of interest in sexual shenanigans was actually a good thing. Her schedule was far too busy to accommodate daily boinking, anyway. The symposium was less than three weeks away. She had seventeen days left to prepare for a panel discussion with the one and only Inez Holly, so a calm, quiet, Zaf-less night sounded absolutely ideal. Definitely conducive to research.

Unfortunately, for some reason, Dani found she couldn’t get much done.

While she sat at her desk and stared blankly at the Wall of Doom, the sunlight through her window grew richer and sank lower, throwing long shadows across the room. At some point, she got up, rummaged through the freezer, and threw some vegetarian nuggets in the oven. Ate them. Sat down again and continued to be useless. Briefly considered dunking herself in a saltwater bath to exorcise whatever demon of mediocrity had occupied her body.

And then, just as the sun’s last rays died, Zaf called.

“Hey.” His voice was low and rich and comforting, whiskey and maple syrup.

“Hi,” she said, pushing her necklaces aside and rubbing her chest. There was an odd sensation beneath her breastbone that might be heartburn. “Is everything all right?” He didn’t usually call her. She called him, during her five-minute rest breaks, because he knew better than to possibly interrupt her work.

“Yeah,” he said. “Everything’s fine. Except for the fact that you were kind of weird today.”

Dani swallowed and twitched one of the pencils on her desk. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. Is it because you had a great time last night and you want to lock me up in a sex dungeon forever, but you’re scared I might get the wrong idea?”

She stared at the phone for a second before putting it back to her ear. “Did you . . . did you just read my mind?”

When Zaf spoke, she heard the hint of surprise he was trying to hide, knew her response had been unexpected. “Nah. That’s just the reaction I’m used to after sex.”

She snorted. “Sure. And when was the last time you had sex, Mr. Happily Ever After?”

“Last night,” he said.

“Smooth.”

“Shut up. Danika . . .” His words became slower, more serious. “Just so you know, I’ve been thinking that maybe—maybe I should let you take the lead, when it comes to our friends-with-benefits situation. You know,” he added, “since you’re the one with the rules. And since you’re already doing a lot for me, with the fake dating, and everything. Seemed like I shouldn’t ask for too much. So. That’s why I didn’t mention it today.”

Yet again, it was as if he’d read her mind. Actually, it was as if he’d kicked down her mental front door and riffled through her metaphorical knicker drawer, which was, among other things, extremely rude and profoundly uncomfortable.