Reap

Zaal regarded me strangely, as if he had no idea why another person would ever regard someone as handsome. I sat with that thought for a second, and realized, he probably didn’t.

Getting to my feet, I walked toward him. Zaal sat up looking at me. His sitting down was almost the same height as me standing.

Reaching up to my hair, I pulled on the band keeping it in a ponytail. My long hair fell down over my shoulders and I held it in my hand.

Zaal frowned. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Can I do something?” I asked. Zaal regarded me warily. I leaned down and ran the back of my hand across his face. “I love your long hair, Zaal, but I want to see your face.”

The frown never moved, but when I raked my hands through his hair, his hands laid on my thighs, his eyes closed, and a low hum sounded in his chest.

I smiled at him and gathered his hair to a knot at the top of his skull. Finished, and wanting to survey my work, I stepped back, and all the air escaped my lungs.

Zaal was looking up at me, and I felt like I was seeing him for the first time. With his long black hair brushed off his face, his regally beautiful face—high cheekbones, dark eyebrows, full lips—staring up at me like I was the most beautiful girl in the world, a stark reality hit home.

I’d more than fallen for Zaal. He now completely owned me. In every possible way. He was in my every cell, my every breath, my every heartbeat.

Zaal rose to his feet, and with his newly visible face, I stared up at him, struck mute and lost for words.

Zaal leaned down, and giving me exactly what I needed, met my lips with his. It was soft, gentle, and more meaningful than any rushed, passionate embrace could be; it told me everything I needed to know. I owned him, too.

Zaal pulled back, and sliding my hand down to his, I asked, “Would you dance with me?”

Zaal stilled. His perfectly framed eyebrows pulled down. “There is no music,” he rasped out.

Moving to the sofa, without breaking his hold, I pressed play on my phone, the device connecting to the house’s speakers.

In seconds the crackling sounds from the 1940s old recording drifted through the speakers. Zaal sucked in a quick gulp of breath, his eyes fluttering closed. I laid my hands on his broad chest, the beat of his heart hammering underneath. At my touch, Zaal opened his eyes, his gaze glossy.

Dinah Shore began to sing about her love, who was at war, and her promise that she would wait for him, that she would never love anyone else, never give up her heart. As those words filled up the room, Zaal reached for my hands, laying one on his shoulder, and clasped the other one on my hand.

Zaal began to lead, his feet moving slowly and unsurely at first, but as the song played on, he became more steady and self-assured.

Zaal’s eyes never left mine, something indescribable passing through them as he moved me around the room.

I lay my cheek to his chest, lost in this moment of simplicity and joy, a rare occurrence in our complicated life.

“I remember this,” he said quietly, and my eyes drifted to a close. “I remember being good at this,” he continued, and huffed a single laugh. “And I remember Anri was not. He would always step on Grandmama’s toes.”

I listened to every word he spoke, relishing the happiness in his voice in this moment of pain-free joy. Zaal’s arm around my waist squeezed me tighter and I could hear his heart hammering.

Zaal’s breathing increased, and his stilled feet brought us to a stop. Opening my eyes, the final notes of the song coming to an end, I lifted my eyes. Zaal was staring down at me, and the look on his face made my stomach flip.

I watched him silently as he brought my hand to his chest. His long lashes blinked. Then blinked again. And with the slight parting of his lips, he said, “My heart, it is full, Talia. It is full, for you.” My throat closed as those heavenly words slipped from his soul. “It used to be empty and weak, now, now it beats strong again.”

Zaal leaned down. With the gentlest, most feather-light of touches, his soft lips brushed against mine. And I savored his taste. I savored his hands on my back. I savored it all. I wanted time to stop. I wanted time to freeze, to hold us captive in this moment, in this very moment.

I never wanted it to end.

The ambient sound of the speaker hissed in the background. Drawing back from Zaal, I pressed my hand to his cheek, and said, “I want to make love to you.”

Zaal’s forehead creased with confusion, but standing on my toes, I kissed those creases away, and whispered, “Come with me.”

Linking his hand in mine, I led him out of the living room and up the stairs. No words were exchanged as we approached my bedroom. Not one sentence uttered as we entered the door. I locked us inside.