Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

recently your life has been steady, full of the quiet and peace that you longed for.

at delray beach, you live in a good apartment. the last renovation was in the late 80s, a little over ten years ago, but you are satisfied. the windows face east, so you get good sunlight in the mornings. 

you work, have your daily coffee or tea, go to your college lectures, then come home to unwind with a book or a television show that matches your mood in that time. it’s peaceful, this rhythm you’ve carved out. you have no drama, nobody causing you pain, it is just a soft kind of contentment that feels like enough. 

a few months ago, though, that peace in your life got a little exciting when you met ahmed.

it happened on a random tuesday, an early-summer one. on that day you were struggling up the apartment stairs with a heavy package. it was a piece of furniture that finally arrived from back home. 

you did not want to bother any of your friends at school with helping you carry it, so you struggled to push the package through each step. stubborn with your rolled up sleeves, tired eyes, and clammy hands, you were determined to get the coffee table to your third flood apartment. 

as you reached the second floor, finally, a voice called out behind you on the steps. 

“hi, do need help with that?” 

you turned to see ahmed, a new face in the building, his eyes bright and hazel, and his straight face was gentle. he was carrying a small bag of groceries, his accent soft but clear, hinting that he was not from here. 

you hesitated, not wanting to bother someone, but he insisted. 

ahmed hefted the box with ease, following you up the next flight of stairs and then to your door.

that was it.

the start of something. 

a quick thank you from yourself turned into a conversation with him, then coffee the next week later, then a kiss a month into knowing him. it was unusual for ahmed, and he wanted to take things slow at first which you agreed on. 

now, a few months into dating, your relationship with ahmed has blossomed into something you did not see something. he’s gentle, always checking if you’re okay before pulling you close on the couch. he cooks you saudi dishes like kabsa or fattoush, teaching you how to layer spices just right in his second flood kitchen.

“try this,” he’ll say, guiding your hand as you chop, his voice has the perfect pitch in your ear. he was a musician, he told you. ahmed hums songs to you, which made you more fond of him. 

on tougher days, you trace circles on his back, since you learned that ahmed feels loved with physical touch. he loves you with your own language. 

every single thing you’ve kept private. it is not out of shame… never that. 

it’s just so new, and you’re the type to hold things close until they feel solid. besides, it does not help that old insecurities make you feel like things are “ruined” once everyone finds out about it and puts their two-cents in. 

at work, you dodge questions about your love life. there is no gushing to friends whenever they talk about their own crushes, boyfriends, or fiance’s. 

you like the quiet bubble you’ve built with ahmed, especially since he’s from a different part of the world. 

you worry about moving too fast, since ahmed mentioned things about going ‘with the flow’. 

so you stay secretive, savoring the intimacy of just you two.

little id you know though… 

ahmed is the opposite. 

whenever you are not around he’s bursting with pride, telling anyone who’ll listen about you, especially his circle of friends… other arabs he knew from back home. he talks about your laugh, your kindness, your own singing voice (if you have one), how you tried to make shawarma and burned it but made him laugh so hard he forgot the taste. 

“she’s amazing,” he’ll say in arabic, grinning wide. 

ahmed’s friends tease him, call him soft. honestly, his best friend saeed straight up bullies him, pretending that its not playful jealousy. all of his peers are happy for him, and word spreads through his community of people in town. 

you’re ahmed’s girl, a fixture in their stories, even if you don’t know it yet.

one saturday, you head to the halal shop a few blocks away, a place you’ve started visiting more since ahmed’s been teaching you his recipes. 

it’s a lively spot in a plaza by the beach’s boardwalk. there are shelves packed with dates, olives, and spices that make your nose tingle. 

you’re scanning for sumac, half-remembering ahmed’s cooking tips that he wrote down for you in one of your notebook diarys. 

you’ve walked into the store full of arabic talk, but it was at a distance. now, when a burst of arabic chatter fills the air closer to you, you see two older men and a couple of younger guys are talking at the counter. 

you don’t think much of it since your arabic is limited to the phrases ahmed’s taught you.

that is until one of the shopkeepers switches to english, his voice loud and warm. 

“you! you over there!”

you look over at the guy, dressed in a blue sweater and wearing glasses, nervous if you’ve done something wrong. 

“me?” 

you ask, eyes wide. 

“yes you! al-nami’s girl! come, come!”

you freeze, basket dangling in your hand, heart doing a little flip. 

what?

ahmed’s girl? 

they know what you look like?

little did you know, ahmed showed off his polaroid pictures that he took of you down in south miami over a month ago. you were beautiful, the sun hitting your squinting eyes as you stood at a distance from the camera, the sand and atlantic ocean in the background.

the shopkeeper’s waving you over, his beard framing a grin. 

the younger guys… probably ahmed’s friends, judging by their smirks… nod at you. 

“hi! you guys know ahmed?” you smile, nervous while clenching onto the shopping bin with your hands.

“yes, we know ahmed!” the shopkeeper says, “he talks about you always. ‘my y/n, she loves cooking, she tries my recipes.’ ha! you need lamb? best cuts today, special for ahmed’s girl!” he slaps a slab of meat on the scale, still beaming.

you look over at one of the younger guys, who smirks at you, “how much did he pay you?” he laughs. 

“excuse me?” you ask, surprised. 

“you turned my best friend from a quiet gentle soul into a lovesick maniac. what is wrong with you?” the guy laughs. 

“you’re saeed?” you say, questioning. you heard ahmed talk about saeed before. he lives with ahmed, in fact, but you have never seen saeed before since he was a partygoer unlike his friend.

“its me!” he laughs while waving his hand.

surprise hits you like a wave but you’re not upset, not at all… just stunned. you thought ahmed might be keeping things low-key, maybe mirroring your caution with cultural differences, new relationship nerves… you figured he’d be private, too. 

ahmed’s friends, this shopkeeper, maybe his whole community… they all know about you. 

he’s been singing your praises, loud and proud. your cheeks burn as you laugh, stepping to the counter. 

“so… he... told you about me?” you ask, voice shy.

“of course!” the shopkeeper says, tossing in extra mint in your bag for free. 

“ahmed is proud. says you make him happy. we tell him, ‘lucky man!’ here, take this, tell him ziad says hi.” the younger guys chuckle with ziad, one muttering something in arabic that sparks laughter. 

you pay, which was cheaper than expected, and leave with a heavy bag and a racing mind.

back at your apartment, you’re still processing. 

ahmed’s there, sprawled on your couch, reading, looking effortlessly handsome in a simple black shirt and black adidas tracksuit pants. your man glances up, sensing your mood. 

“habibti? you okay?” his voice is soft, but there’s that edge of worry since you seem shaken.

you sit beside him, groceries forgotten on the counter. 

“i went to the halal shop today…” you smile. this causes ahmed’s eyes to widen, “please don't tell me that they–” you cut him off, “they called me ‘ahmed’s girl… they said you talk about me all the time.” 

ahmed blinks, then laughs, rubbing his neck, a faint blush creeping up. 

“oh... yeah. i do. is that okay?”

you smile, leaning into his arm on the couch. 

“it’s more than okay. i was just surprised. i’ve been so quiet about us, you know? thought maybe you’d want that too.” your fingers find his, squeezing gently, “but you’re out there telling everyone. it’s sweet and it makes me happy.”

ahmed’s face softens, relief washing over him as his hazel eyes close in that calmness. he pulls you close, lips brushing your forehead. 

“i’m proud of you, and of us. my friends, they ask about my life here, and you’re the best part,. even though saeed says that you cannot be when he is there.. but whatever ignore him. i want my friends to know… maybe my family back home if we plan to marry in the future..” he hesitates, voice quieter. “but if you want it secret right now, i can—”

“no,” you cut in, grinning, “keep doing you. just... maybe give me a heads-up so i don’t choke in the spice aisle?” 

you both laugh, the moment light and warm. 

right there on your couch he kisses you, soft and lingering, and the world feels kind.

Chapter Text

you've just settled into delray beach nicely after packing up your life from states away. 

the move was quick, and very impulsive. you have a new apartment, new routines, and honestly  a new everything since you needed change. 

a new job, this cafe job, fell into your lap almost by accident. it is a place in a small plaza tucked between palm trees and sunny streets, with the ocean breeze sneaking in through the open doors. 

it's nothing fancy, just a place where locals grab their morning fixes or afternoon pick-me-ups. you like the rhythm of it since you can tune out the hiss of the espresso machine, and the chatter of customers by now. the vitamin D in your body helps with the way the sun filters through the windows in golden patches. 

your shifts are mostly mornings and afternoons, giving you evenings to explore the beach and explore your new life.

in your first week, you notice the regulars start to trickle in. 

they’re mostly arabic guys, from what you can tell by their accents and conversations. they come in groups or alone, ordering lattes, black coffees, sometimes pastries. you don't pry, but you remember faces easily… it's part of the job. 

the first one you really get to know is ziad. 

he's tall, with a pretty smile that crinkles his eyes. he always orders a flat white with an extra shot. ziad is a few years older than you, maybe mid-twenties, and he chats while you steam the milk.

"how's the day treating you?" he'd ask, his english smooth despite the slight accent that rolls off his tongue like a melody from somewhere far away. he was kind, always looking for conversation with people.

you'd shrug while smiling back, "not bad. i think i am just getting used to the humidity here."

he laughs softly, "yeah, florida's got a mind of its own. i just got here too since i am in flight school nearby…it beats dealing with traffic."

you nod while handing over his sixteen ounce cup, "that sounds exciting. the skies are safer up there than the roads, i bet."

over the weeks, ziad becomes apart of your work routine since he always stops by. he tells you bits and pieces… about how he's from lebanon but mainly lives in hamburg, he is in flight school since dentistry did not work out, and how the florida sun reminds him of home but with more rain. 

he's easy to talk to, very relaxed, like an older brother you never had. 

you look forward to his visits since they break up the monotony of wiping counters and restocking sugar packets.

later on, you meet mohammed. 

he starts showing up with ziad. at first, it was once a week, now it is every morning. he's different than ziad since he is quieter, more guarded. mohammed orders an americano, no extra sugar or anything.

for the first few weeks, he doesn't even give you his name. 

on the cup you just scribble "the guy with ziad" on the cup since your coworkers on espresso bar knew who ziad was. ziad always laughs it off, introducing him to you casually.

however mohammed just nods, eyes flicking away. he's intense, with nonchalant features and a posture that says he's always on alert. 

you wonder if he's shy or just not a talker.

one busy afternoon, you do something stupid. 

you're rushing orders, the cafe packed with tourists escaping a sudden rain shower. mohammed's americano is steaming hot when you hand it over. in your haste, the lid isn't on tight. 

as he grabs it, the cup tilts, and a splash of hot coffee hits his hand. 

mohammed winces, pulling back. you freeze, heart dropping.

"oh goodness, i'm so sorry!" you blurt, grabbing a cloth and some burn cream from the first-aid kit behind the counter. your hands shake a little as you dab at his skin, applying the cream gently, "that was my fault. are you okay?"

mohammed doesn't yell, and he doesn't even raise his voice. 

he just stands there, quiet, his dark eyes meeting yours for a moment. all you got was a nod, that's all… and a silent thank you. ziad only chuckled nearby, saying something in arabic that made mohammed shoot him a look, but there's no anger. 

you breathe easier, apologizing again before they leave.

the next day, you're still replaying it in your head, worried he might not come back. 

however, he comes back with ziad, ordering the same thing. this time, when you hand it over… with the lid secure… and he gives a faint nod, almost a smile. 

it's tiny, but it's there. 

over time, that faint smile grows a bit, especially when you remember his order without asking and call out from what you heard from ziad. mohammed started lingering a second longer at the counter, murmuring a quiet "thanks" in that deep voice of his.

this is around the time when saeed and ahmed (alnami) show up. 

it's a slow morning, the cafe smelling of fresh croissants. they walk in together, both around your age, maybe early twenties. the guys are quiet types, but not standoffish. 

saeed has a natural curious twinkle in his eyes, scanning the menu like he's deciding on a strategy. ahmed hangs back, hands in his pant pockets, observing.

you take their orders… cappuccino for saeed, iced latte for ahmed. 

as you ring them up, saeed squints at your name tag. 

"y/n, right? wait– you were the one who, um… spilled the hot coffee on mohammed yesterday?"

your cheeks heat up. 

"oh… um… yeah, that was me?! it was a total accident, is he okay?"

saeed chuckles, waving it off with his struggling english, "he's fine. he is tough… he gets mad easily at us but never usually at women. ziad told us about it last night, actually…. he said its funny how you were quick with the burn cream."

relief washes over you. 

so they're a group? 

friends, maybe roommates? 

ahmed doesn't say much during this, he just watches you with a neutral expression. as saeed steps away to grab napkins, ahmed leans in a bit.

what shocks you is when ahmed blurts out, "you're pretty."

ahmed immediately looks like he regrets it, mumbling, "i mean– sorry i was practicing my english." his accent is thicker, words careful.

you smile, heart fluttering unexpectedly. 

"thank you. you're handsome too." you keep your voice low, glancing at your coworkers… who are busy with the broken blender. 

alhamdulillah no teasing later, you hope.

ahmed's tan cheeks tint red as he nods, grabbing his drink quickly. 

from then on, he comes back more often, sometimes with saeed, sometimes alone. 

the musician’s english improves in snippets by him asking about your day, commenting on the weather. 

you find yourself looking forward to him most, his wisdom and gentle nature drawing you in. 

a crush, you admit to yourself one night while walking home from a shift. 

it's harmless, right? it is just a cafe regular after all.

the group expands gradually as the months of the year pass. it is the summer when you meet hamza and marwan one weekend, two larger guys with booming laughs that fill the cafe. 

they're funnier, cracking jokes in a mix of english and arabic, ordering extra pastries and teasing each other. hamza's the louder one, always with a story about something ridiculous that happened at work or whatever they're up to. 

marwan balances him, with a quieter sense that makes you snort while pouring drinks.

"you make the best lattes here," marwan says one day, fully honest, "we all agree but don't tell the others."

you laugh, "secret's safe with me."

when you meet the ‘other ahmed’ (al-haznawi) you call him, he notice his neat mustache. he only tags along with saeed and alnami, never coming in alone. he's younger than you, maybe only nineteen or twenty, yet he is steady and polite. 

he is the only one in the group who orders tea, and keeps to himself while the others chat with you.

you like them all, for the most part. 

they're polite, tip well, and bring a bit of excitement to your shifts. the cafe feels less like work and more like a routine you enjoy. you start memorizing preferences with all of the guys too.

ziad loves his extra shot of espresso, mohammed never wants sugar, saeed loves foam art (he likes when you draw a leaf), al-nami's drink is always iced no matter the weather, hamza and marwan always switch it up add something sweet, while al-haznawi sticks to herbal tea.

overtime, you get to learn more about them. around august, one year after you met ziad, you start to consider most of them your friend.

ziad shares flight school stories, how he's acing simulations, he atlks about his girlfriend back in germany and how you remind him alot of her. mohammed never opened up to you, but he did start leaving twenty dollar bills in an envelope with your name on it, so you didn't have to split it up with your other coworkers in a tip jar. 

saeed teases ahmed (al-nami) nonstop whenever you are around. ahmed shoots him glares while saeed talks about how cute the both of you would be together. 

you and al-nami share longer glances, and quiet conversations about nothing just so you could hear eachother’s voice. 

hamza and marwan make you laugh on slow days, telling exaggerated tales. once, you noticed a large bag from the sex shop in the same plaza. you did not say anything, but that notice made you laugh once they left. 

on september sixth, months after you met the group of men, all of them show up at once. you smile, since usually all of them come in separate pairs or trios. it’s a rare day when they’re all here together, their voices blending into a familiar blend of english but mostly arabic. 

you don’t think much of it, since it was just another busy morning seeing them, but it’s the last time you’ll see them all like this, a routine you didn’t know that was fragile.

when they all leave, ahmed stays for a moment longer. he is quieter than usual, his fingers tapping on the hand-off counter as you wipe down your bar area. 

“good day?” he asks, voice soft. 

you nod, smiling, “yeah so far… don’t tell the others but it is always better when you guys show up.” 

ahmed smiles, but there’s something in his eyes… something dark and intense which was unusual for his brighter eye color. 

you brush it off, blaming the late summer heat. 

ahmed leaves, and you wave goodbye before wiping down the counters again, unaware that that is the last time the men will fill the cafe together. for them, this was the last day they’d ever see you again.

september seventh dawns quieter, with the cafe half-empty. 

you’re restocking sugar packets when ahmed walks in alone. there is no other man with him. you opened the store, and the sun was still coming up whenever he trailed inside with his usual plaid shirt and jeans.

ahmed did not order anything. he stand by the counter, waiting for you while fidgety, his eyes darting around like he was patient to speak to you. 

“y/n, can you take a break? i need to talk,” he says, voice urgent but quiet thanks to the morning environment. 

your chest rises, since you’re curious. no customers were in the cafe so you nodded, telling your coworker you’ll be back in ten minutes. 

outside, the sun is still coming up with the palm trees swaying lazily. it is fifteen until seven. 

ahmed stands close to you outside on the plaza sidewalk. the man’s light brown eyes, almost hazel, catch the light which makes you look at him longer. 

“thank you,” he starts, “for being so kind since i got here… see– um– i came from saudi and it’s been hard the last few months since the us. feels so different, so western… however you… you made me feel happy, like i belong again.”

you smile, heart warming but confused. 

“why’re you telling me this?” you ask. you are not mean or snappy, just gentle with curiosity as you ask. 

ahmed sighs as he steps closer to you. before you can react, he takes your hands. you freeze, pulse racing, his touch soft but heavy as he holds your hands so intimately. 

“i’m going to the airport,” he says. your mind saddens since in your mind, you assume that he is going home… back to saudi. 

“will you stop by again?” you ask, voice small. 

ahmed’s eyes drop, sad and distant. 

“i don’t know,” he admits. unfortunately, your heart cracks with a quiet heartbreak for this guy you’ve liked for three months. 

for a few minutes… silence comes between the both of you.

at least until he speaks again. 

“can i hug you?” 

you nod, and his arms quickly wrap around you, warm and tight, his heartbeat against yours as you lay your head on his shoulder/chest. 

the both of you stay like that, a minute stretching long. that is until you pull away, forcing a chuckle so you did not cry for this guy you have not known for long. 

“don’t miss your flight,” you say, hiding the ache.

“yeah... again, i’m sorry,” he murmurs.

however, the apology this time feels deeper, like he’s sorry for something bigger, something you can’t grasp yet. ahmed’s eyes linger on you, the same darkness from yesterday. 

“i hope to see you again,” you say softly, meaning it. 

al-nami looks back as he steps away, voice barely above a whisper. 

“maybe in jannah…. y/n.” 

ahmed doesn't try and give you false hope, since he will be dead in four days.

the guy’s words hit you strangely, but you don’t dwell. 

ahmed walks backward, keeping you in sight until he turns the corner to his car. 

you stand there, outside while alone with the warmth of his hug fading.

that was the last memory you’ll have of the ahmed you knew, and not the monster you’ll see him portrayed as in the future.

Chapter Text

• neighbor!ahmed who stays in your apartment most evenings and nights, even though his apartment is across the hall. 

• neighbor!ahmed who convinces you to adopt a fluffy tabby cat, who he mainly spends hours coaxing her out from under the couch with treats and soft pets. 

• neighbor!ahmed who leaves little gifts on your coffee table.

• he will leave you a book he thinks you’ll love, a small plant, or your favorite takeout meal if you went all day without eating. 

• neighbor!ahmed who curls up close to you on the couch.

• ahmed loves having his arm draped over your shoulders.

• however, keeps his affection private away from prying eyes. 

• neighbor!ahmed who gently shares stories about his faith, inviting you to understand islam through late-night talks, never pushing but always hopeful you’ll find meaning in it. 

• neighbor!ahmed who insists on paying for every date, whether it’s coffee at the local cafe or a nice dinner in the city.

• neighbor!ahmed who surprises you with handwritten notes tucked into your bag, some in arabic for you to translate or some in messy english that you love. 

• neighbor!ahmed who spends more time in your apartment than his own.

• neighbor!ahmed who teaches you how to make his favorite spiced tea.

• he laughs when you accidentally add too much sugar, but he will drink it anyway because you made it. 

• neighbor!ahmed who loves singing to you.

• neighbor!ahmed who gets excited about weekend plans.

• neighbor!ahmed who loved introducing you to his friends saeed and ziad.

• neighbor!ahmed who hums softly while doing mundane chores with you, like folding laundry or washing dishes.

• neighbor!ahmed who looks at you with such gentle adoration when you’re just being yourself.

Chapter Text

the three-bedroom apartment had a cramped living room, usually for the midcentury southern florida apartment buildings. you move through the cramped living room, with the faint hum of the air conditioning blending with the low chatter of the tv. 

it’s a small place, placed in a quiet corner of sarasota, where rent is kinder than the brutal prices of your old city. its cheaper than orlando, where you originally wanted to live. however, sarasota seemed more relaxed. 

still, between school, your car payments, and the endless stream of textbooks and takeout, splitting the rent with roommates was the only way to make living in peace work without parents. 

you found ahmed and saeed through some ad on a posterboard near your college campus.their ad was pretty straightforward and nothing that creeped you out. 

two guys, clean, looking for a third to split costs. 

still, you hesitated at first, wondering if living with two guys would be awkward. however, the price on the board was perfect for your situation, and you needed a place fast.

the apartment when you moved in was modest but functional. your bedroom is clean, a medium sized space with a full-sized bed pushed against the wall, a desk cluttered with notebooks, and a tiny en-suite bathroom that smells faintly of your vanilla body wash. 

ahmed and saeed share the other bathroom inside of the apartment, a compromise they insisted on to give you space as the only woman. 

they’re both middle eastern, their accents warm to you, though saeed’s is sharper, more clipped, while ahmed’s voice carries a softer, almost melodic lilt. 

you don’t know much about their backgrounds, and they don’t pry into yours, which suits you fine. 

the arrangement works… mostly.

you’re rarely home since between classes, your part-time job, and the occasional study group, you’re out the door by morning and back late. 

when you are home, it’s usually to crash or catch up on your shows. 

every night at 9 p.m., like clockwork, you’re always laid up on the couch, claiming the living room tv. it’s a ritual which makes saeed annoyed, since ‘apparently’ he has shows on around the same time. 

“you and your shows,” he mutters one evening, tossing the remote onto the coffee table, “can’t you watch that at your friends?”

“her television screen’s too small,” you reply, not looking up from the glow of the tv, “besides, you’re always here too.”

ahmed, lounging in the armchair, chuckles softly. however, he does not speak or say anything. 

saeed rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. it’s true… one of them is usually camped out in the living room anyway, so your tv monopoly isn’t the crime they make it out to be. 

still, they weren’t thrilled about a female roommate at first. you caught the wary glances when you moved in, the way they’d pause mid-conversation when you entered the room. 

however, you keep to yourself. over time, they relaxed. 

mostly.

ahmed, though, has been acting strange lately. 

you notice it in the way he lingers in the kitchen when you’re making coffee, his eyes darting to you before he busies himself with dishes that don’t need washing since you’ve already washed them the evening before. 

he’s quieter than usual, his usual quiet now replaced by stilted small talk. 

“you, uh, want some tea?” he asked one morning, holding up a box of chamomile like it was a peace offering.

“i’m good, thanks,” you said, stirring sugar into your mug. the guy’s shoulders slumped slightly, and you wondered if you’d said something wrong.

saeed, on the other hand, hasn’t changed. 

he’s teasing, his grin flashing whenever he catches ahmed staring at you a little too long. 

“what’s with you?” saeed says one night to him in arabic. they talk in arabic whenever they do not want you eavesdropping on their conversations. 

the younger guy tossed a bottle cap at ahmed, “stop making that damn face. you’re acting like a lost puppy.”

“shut up,” ahmed mutters, his face darkening. 

he flicks the cap back. saeed just laughs, loud and unrestrained.

you don’t catch the subtext at first, of course you could not, you do not speak arabic. 

you’re too busy, and too tired, to even try and translate their conversations or notice the way ahmed’s eyes soften when you laugh.

he’s handsome, you’ve always thought so… tall, with dark fluffy hair. whenever he smiles, rare but it happens, you always find yourself feeling so warm. 

however, you’ve never thought of him as anything more than a roommate. 

he’s just ahmed, the guy who always leaves his gym bag by the door and makes great hummus.

ahmed, though, is drowning in his own head. he’s liked you for months, the realization creeping up on him out of nowhere. it started with small things like your rare laugh, the way you hum off-key while cooking, the way you leave sticky notes on the fridge with reminders like “buy milk” or “saeed, your dishes are gross.” 

he knows he’s in deep, but he’s terrified. 

sometimes, he will pray it away. however, it does not work. 

what if you don’t feel the same? 

what if you think it’s weird, living with a guy who’s into you? 

what if you pack up and move out, leaving him to explain to saeed why their perfectly good roommate bailed?

he can’t talk to saeed about it, not seriously. 

saeed’s already caught on, and his teasing is brutal since it should not be happening. 

“you’re gonna propose to her next, huh?” saeed says one afternoon, leaning against the counter while ahmed chops onions, “make it happen at 9 p.m. during her tv time.”

“you’re not funny,” ahmed says, but his ears are turning red. this makes saeed’s grin widen.

he cannot go to people like ziad or hamza, since those other friends would make it worse. 

they’d turn it into a spectacle, clapping him on the back and offering bad advice over shawarma. so ahmed keeps it to himself, watching you from the corner of his eye, his chest tight with something he doesn’t dare name.

then saeed, the bastard, decides to meddle. 

it starts with a throwaway comment one night while you’re out. 

“saw y/n at that new café downtown while i was with moh,” saeed says casually, looking down at his pager at something, “looked like she was with some guy.”

ahmed freezes, his fork halfway to his mouth, “what guy?”

saeed shrugs, not looking up, “dunno. tall, maybe. didn’t get a good look.”

it’s a lie, and saeed knows it. 

you weren’t on a date since you were at the library, buried in notes. however, saeed’s been watching ahmed pine for weeks, and he’s tired of it. 

a little jealousy, knowing ahmed’s bipolar personality, might just kick his friend into gear.

dont worry, it does work. 

ahmed spends the next few days in a quiet panic, his mind spinning with images of you laughing with some faceless guy. he’s not possessive, not really, but the thought of you with someone else makes his stomach ache. 

he starts noticing things like your shoes by the door, as if you’ve been out more than usual. he notices how your wall phone rings and how you laugh with people he doesn’t dare ask about. 

it’s all in his head, but he doesn’t know that.

finally, on your day off, he can’t take it anymore. 

you’re home for once and saeed’s out, probably at the gym with ziad, and the apartment is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner. 

ahmed emerges from his room, hands shoved in his pockets, his heart hammering.

“hey,” he says, “you got a minute?”

you glance up, turning off the tv. 

“yeah, what’s up?”

he shifts, suddenly unsure, “i was thinking… maybe we could grab dinner tonight? like, us.”

you smile, assuming it’s a friendly gesture. 

“sure, sounds good. pizza or something?”

“no, i mean…” he rubs the back of his neck, his accent thicker with nerves, “like a… like a um… date.”

you blink, the word catching you off guard. 

“oh.” it’s not rejection in your voice, just surprise, and ahmed’s stomach drops. at that moment, you tilt your head while studying him. you’ve always thought he was attractive, with his quiet charm and the way he’s considerate without making a show of it. 

you’ve never let yourself think too hard about it. now that he’s standing there, looking like he might bolt out of the door, you realize you’re not opposed to the idea. 

not at all.

“okay,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips, “a date sounds nice.”

ahmed’s eyes widen, like he didn’t expect you to agree, “really?”

“yeah, really.” you sit up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“where were you thinking?”

Chapter Text

it is evening time and you finally get home and through the door into your new apartment. not being used to the humid florida air yet, you ache to take a shower since light sweat clings to your skin.
your metal keys jangle as you toss them onto the counter, it creates a loud noise but you didn’t mind it as your purse slumps to the floor with a soft thud.

it was another long day at work, another evening alone in an unfamiliar state.

you’re far from family, in this strange new place where the palm trees sway and the sun never seems to quit. the world feels both vast, and suffocatingly small since you have been in the same repetitive routine.

you expect the usual.

a quick shower, whatever movie’s flickering on MTV, and then sleep.
it is the kind of sleep that creeps in heavy and dreamless. sometimes, you’d sleep on the couch and wake up in the middle of the night feeling clueless. you had no friends here, so it is not like you can use your home phone to call up anybody to hangout.

in the shower the hot water washes away the days heat. steam curls around, and luckily you did not have any complications. you step out, wrapping a towel around yourself, your wet hair dripping onto the tile.

the apartment is quiet, and you admire the peace as you slip into your favorite plaid pajama set, the soft burgundy fabric a small comfort against your loneliness. you’re about to flop onto the couch when a knock at the door jolts you upright.

at first, you ignore it. the walls are not the thickest in the building and one of your neighbors could have had guests. however, you hear the knocks again and see your door slightly vibrating with it.
the knock is for you.

your heart skips since nobody knows you here. you had nobody so nobody visits. your mind spirals wondering if could it be trouble? maybe someone with bad intentions? you’re alone, miles from anyone who’d notice if something happened.

stop being dramatic, you scold yourself while shaking off the thought.

you cross the room, arms instinctively wrapping around your waist as you open the door.

at first, you cracked the door until you saw two guys your age standing there, both in their early twenties. the one closest to you is skinny, with bright, eager eyes that seem to take in everything at once.

the guy’s friend, to his right, catches your attention more.

he’s got this intense gaze, brown eyes locked on you like he’s reading something you didn’t know was written. the guy looks you up and down slightly, and your own eyes widen as you notice his brown and tan plaid shirt hanging loosely on his frame.

he’s cute.

really cute.

your body warms, and you hate how shy you feel under his stare.

“hi?” you say, unsure of what’s happening.

“we… um, we are your neighbors,” the wide-eyed boy says, his words clipped with an accent you place somewhere from the middle east. maybe yemen, or saudi? you nod, but your eyes flicker back to the other guy, the one in plaid.

he’s still looking at you so you shift your weight, suddenly hyper-aware of your damp hair and bare feet.

“we dropped something in your backyard,” the wide-eyed boy continues, “and we want to get it back.”

“oh, okay,” you say, “i can go grab it if-”

“can we?” the cute boy cuts in, his voice low and accented too. your stomach flips at the sound, and you fight the urge to smile like a fucking idiot.

“um… sure?” you step aside, opening the door wider.

the wide-eyed boy gives his friend a quick glance, something strange or intentional passing between them, before ‘wide eyes’ strides through your living room toward the back patio door.
the cute boy lingers, leaning casually against your kitchen island.

you feel his presence intensely, almost hyperfixated on it.

“do you want a water?” you ask, grasping for any way to fill the silence. you stood in your own apartment awkwardly, wondering why he needed to be here if his friend needed to get in your backyard.

“i am okay, thank you,” he says as his eyes soften slightly. if you werent so nervous, you’d notice the faintest curve of a smile on this guy’s face.

“i’m y/n,” you blurt, immediately cringing at how awkward it sounds.

what if that was too forward?

what if he thinks you’re weird?

“ahmed,” he says simply, then gestures toward his friend, who’s now stepping back inside with a soccer ball tucked under his arm, “my friend is saeed.”

saeed puts on an awkward smile, brushing past you toward the front door.

you nod, trying to seem friendly but relaxed. however, though, your eyes keep drifting to ahmed. there’s something about him like he’s holding back more than he’s saying. you want to keep talking, but both guys go to your front door to leave you be.

“i’ll see you both around?” you say, your tone is light but your eyes cannot help but linger on ahmed.

“oh, you’ll see him. for sure!,” saeed says with a laugh, earning a quick smack on the head from ahmed.

the gesture is playful, almost brotherly, and you can’t help but smile as they step outside.

the door clicks shut behind them, and you lean against it.

what the hell?

odd, you think, but not in a bad way.

you wander back to the couch, the tv still flickering with a movie, but you want to see the cute boy next door again.

.

Chapter Text

when the wall phone in your kitchen rings, you expect it to be a coworker begging you to cover their late night shift.

at first you roll your eyes, knowing that her squeaky voice will come through with a lie about being sick (your coworker loves clubbing). so, you stomp over to your phone. 

before you pick up the receiver, you sigh expecting yourself to be right. 

“hello?” you say, surprised her voice did not cut you off.

however, you did not hear your coworker’s highly feminine voice. no. instead you hear ahmed’s voice, your boyfriend, dripping with theatrical despair. 

“y/n. i’m dying,” he croaks, sounding like he’s buried under a mountain of tissue, “i need you since saeed kicked me out. he says he doesn’t want to catch the plague.”

you chuckle up a laugh, relieved that the voice belongs to your boyfriend and not a lying coworker.

“the plague?” you laugh, leaning against the counter. you can already picture ahmed wrapped in a blanket, looking like a melodramatic burrito. 

“ahmed, you’ve got a cold. you’re not starring in a greek tragedy.”

“it’s not just a cold,” the pretty boy insists, his voice thick with congestion and drama, “my head’s pounding, my throat’s burning, and i’m pretty sure my soul’s trying to leave my body. saeed’s so heartless…. h-he said, ‘get your germs outta here before i bleach the whole place with clorox.’ so i’m homeless now. homeless and dying.”

you roll your eyes, twirling the phone cord around your finger. 

“fine, drama king. come over. i’ll make you soup or something but if you get me sick, i’m sending you the doctor appointment bill.”

an hour later, ahmed shuffles into your apartment, looking like he’s auditioned for a zombie apocalypse movie and nailed the lead part. 

the man’s fluffy dark hair is a mess, his nose is dark red, and he’s bundled in a hoodie two sizes too big that might’ve been stolen from mohammed. ahmed drags a duffel bag on the ground which might be stuffed with what looks like half his closet. 

“thank you, habibti,” he wheezes, dropping the bag by the door, “you might be my angel. my last hope in this cruel, germ-filled world.”

“sit down before you collapse, shakespeare,” you say, pointing to the couch. 

you hand him a box of tissues and a glass of water. 

“you’re not dying. you’re congested. there’s a difference.”

ahmed flops onto the couch with a groan loud enough to wake the neighbors on the other side of the wall behind the couch. 

“you don’t get it since this is the end. i never.. never ever… get sick! my lungs are giving up. write my will please. tell the world i was a hero even if saeed says i was a fraud.”

you snort, heading to the kitchen to rummage through your cabinets. 

“whatever, drama king. just stay put since i’m making you tea.”

over the next few hours, you turn your apartment into a makeshift infirmary for your overly dramatic boyfriend. you brew him chamomile tea, which he sips like it’s a miracle cure and you heat up a can of chicken noodle soup.

when you bring it to him, he clutches the bowl like it’s his lifeline. 

“you’re too good to me,” he says, his voice muffled by a spoonful of soup. 

“when i’m gone, make sure saeed feels guilty for abandoning me.”

“saeed’s not wrong for dodging your germs,” you point out, tossing a blanket over him, “you’re acting like you’ve got the black death. it’s a cold, ahmed. people survive colds.”

“not this one,” he says, pulling the blanket up to his chin, “this is the cold to end all colds. i’m patient zero. they’ll name it after me. the al-nami flu.”

you shake your head, trying not to laugh and roll your eyes. he cannot be serious. 

you grab a thermometer from your bathroom and shove it under his tongue before he can protest. when it beeps, you check the reading.

100.2F

“mild fever,” you say while raising an eyebrow, “it is not exactly ‘call the hospital’ territory.”

“mild?” ahmed scoffs, yanking the thermometer to inspect it himself. 

“this thing of yours is broken. i’m burning up. i’m basically a human furnace. see!? feel my forehead.”

you humor him, pressing your hand to his forehead. it’s warm, sure, but nothing dire. 

“you’re fine,” you say, “you just need rest, fluids, and maybe a little less oscar-worthy acting.”

“you’re heartless like saeed,” he mumbles, but his eyes are already drooping. the soup and tea are working their magic, and you can tell he’s fighting to stay awake just to keep up his theatrics.

you perch on the armrest of the couch, watching him sink deeper into the cushions. 

“want me to put on a movie or something? take your mind off your ‘impending doom’?”

“something cheerful,” he says and sniffles, “no sad stuff or anything western and patriotic. my heart can’t take it in my fragile state.”

you dig through your stack of vhs tapes and pick a goofy comedy you know he likes. as the tape whirs to life in the vcr, you grab a damp washcloth and drape it over his forehead. 

your man sighs dramatically, like you’ve just saved his life. 

“you’re gonna miss me when i’m gone,” he murmurs.

“i’ll miss your whining, that’s for sure,” you tease as you squeeze his hand once before letting go, “now shush and watch the movie.”

halfway through, ahmed’s head starts lolling to the side while laying down. the man’s breathing evens out. you think he’s finally fallen asleep, but then he mumbles, “if i die, don’t let saeed have my record or music instruments. he doesn’t deserve it.”

“deal,” you whisper, stifling a laugh. 

you adjust the blanket over him and dim the lights, letting the movie hum softly in the background.

by the next morning, ahmed is still alive… much to his apparent shock. 

he wakes up coughing but looking slightly less like a zombie. you’re already in the kitchen, blending a smoothie packed with fruits and ginger, something your mom used to swear by for colds. 

when you hand it to him, he stares at it like it’s a science experiment. 

“what’s this? poison to finish me off?”

“it’s a smoothie, you big baby,” you say, “vitamin c, ginger, and a little honey. it’ll help.”

ahmed takes a cautious sip, then nods after the aftertaste is in his mouth, “not bad. you’re hired as my personal nurse.”

as the day goes on, you catch him scribbling a note, probably to guilt-trip saeed later. 

“what’re you writing?” you ask, leaning over and resting your head on his shoulder.

“just writing to ziad that i’m suffering and saeed’s a terrible friend,” ahmed says, grinning despite his red nose, “i’ll mail it to saeed instead just to make him feel bad.”

you laugh while shaking your head, “you two deserve each other.”

by the third day, ahmed is almost back to normal, though he milks the attention for all it’s worth. 

he’ll call out from the couch, “my angel, can you grab me some water?” or “i think i’m relapsing, better check my temperature again.” 

you play along with ahmed of course, mostly because you secretly love how clingy he gets when he’s sick. 

it’s a side of ahmed you don’t see often… vulnerable, a little needy, and completely ridiculous.

as you tuck him in for his last night at your place, he grabs your hand, his voice soft for once. 

“thanks for taking care of me. i know i’m a lot.”

you squeeze his hand, smiling. 

“you’re not a lot. well, maybe a little…. but i’d rather deal with your drama than anyone else’s.”

ahmed laughs, then coughs, then laughs again, “you’re stuck with me now. sick or not.”