**Winner 2024 Amby Awards**
Fiza has everything planned-medical school, a respectable future, and an engagement she never wanted. Determined to escape a loveless match, she creates a checklist to find the perfect husband her father will approve of.
...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
She walked into my room, and I handed her a clean shirt.
"I should probably leave some of my clothes here," she joked. "And a toothbrush."
My heart did this stupid, swelling thing in my chest, so full of love for her it was almost painful. I could picture it instantly, vividly: a drawer of her things next to mine. Her toothbrush in the holder. The right to walk over and kiss her whenever I wanted. Waking up to her face on the pillow next to mine every single morning. The certainty that she was mine.
"You do have a toothbrush here," I teased back, wanting to make her smile, to keep this easy peace between us. "The one you used last time." Now that she knew how desperately I wanted her, I was terrified of scaring her off. I just wanted her to feel safe.
I watched her through the open bathroom door as she took off her makeup. Even like this, scrubbing her face clean, she was the most captivating thing I'd ever seen. I wanted to cross the room, to step into that small space with her, push her against the sink, and just kiss her until neither of us could think straight.
"Can I use the tub?" she asked unexpectedly, pulling me from the fantasy.
"Sure," I responded, a laugh bubbling up. Of all the things I thought she might say or do, that wasn't one of them.
"Great!" she called out, her voice suddenly bright and excited from inside the bathroom. "It's been a while since I've had a clean bathroom. The ones at the hostel are like a horror story."
I chuckled, relieved to see her acting like herself again—silly, particular, adorable.
"Thanks, da," she said, her voice softer now.
Thirty minutes had slipped by, and the bathroom was still silent. A thread of worry began to weave through me. Had she fallen asleep? Was she okay? I knocked softly on the door. "Fiza?"
"Come in."
The invitation was so casual, that I pushed the door open without thinking. And then I stopped dead. She was submerged in the tub, hidden under a mountain of fluffy white foam, looking like an absolute vision. She was grinning, her face lit up with a pure, childlike joy, as if she'd just discovered the magic of bubbles for the very first time.
"I didn't realize you were still in the bath," I stammered, my voice suddenly thick. The sight of her—her damp hair clinging to her neck, her smooth shoulders rising from the sea of suds—sent a jolt of pure, undiluted desire straight through me. My blood rushed south, and I knew she could see the obvious, straining evidence of it against my boxers. Her eyes dropped, and I saw her breath catch.
I took an automatic step back but she called out, stopping me. "It's okay, come in."
I moved as if in a trance, sitting gingerly on the cold porcelain edge of the tub. My mind was screaming, acutely, painfully aware that beneath those innocent, shifting bubbles, she was completely naked. Every shift of the water, every peek of her skin—a knee, a shoulder—was pure torture. My eyes roamed over her, drinking in the details: the damp tendrils of hair at her temples, the sleek curve of her shoulder, the delicate cap of a knee peeking through the foam.
