“I remember.”
“You barely slept.”
“I have coffee.”
“That is not medical treatment.”
“Depends on who you ask.”
His stare hardens.
Mine does too.
“The kids are expecting me.”
“Someone else can cover.”
“I do not want someone else to cover.”
“Kaia.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lift slightly.
Interesting.
I lean forward. “Those children do not stop needing their class because my house burned. I am going.”
“You need rest.”
“I need normal.”
That stops him.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
Then his jaw tightens.
“Eat the rest of your breakfast.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is that a yes?”
“I’m driving you.”
A smile breaks across my face before I can stop it.
He points at me. “Do not look that pleased.”
“Impossible.”
Half an hour later, I am dressed in the yellow top and jeans he bought me, carrying my sketchbook in the paper bag because I still do not own a purse anymore.
Zain drives.
When the community center comes into view, something inside me settles. The low brick building is still there, the wide windows are still catching the morning light, and children are already playing on the patch of grass outside.
This place is still here.
