Movie nights became standard practice. Three nights a week, sometimes more, Zaiman and Alex would meet on the balcony before walking down to the media room together, arm in arm. He was comfortable with her in a way that he had never been comfortable with a woman; even Amia’s mother had been more fire than blanket in terms of warmth, and had things gone differently, he may have found himself burned by her.

He had no such reservations about Alex. She exuded a maternal sort of comfort which soothed everyone in her sphere. She had even befriended the cranky Dabir, and had been granted free access to the kitchen, of which she made spectacular use.

One afternoon, when Zaiman was returning from a frustrating lunch meeting with his elder brother, he opened the door to hear singing from the direction of the kitchen. Hoping to lighten his dark mood, he followed the sound and perched in the doorway.

“This is the way we roll the dough, roll the dough, roll the dough, this is the way we roll the dough, to make our crispy pies!” Alex and Amia were singing together, each covered in flour up to their elbows as they flattened dough across the stone countertop.

“Oh! You have something on your face, just…there,” Alex teased, dotting Amia’s cheek with flour.

“You dare flour me?! You will rue the day!” Amia, naturally dramatic and bolstered by an expansive catalog of adventure movies, wielded a wooden spoon like a sword.

“En guarde!” Alex replied, blocking the spoon with a whisk.

Amia squealed, lunging at Alex with her make-believe sword. Watching them battle around the kitchen warmed Zaiman’s heart and loosened the tight bands of stress which had crossed his shoulders only moments before.

“What’s cooking?” he asked as two of his favorite people collapsed in giggles against the counter.

“Papa!” Amia shrieked, running around the island to throw herself into his arms, flour and all.

“Papa? You should never cook Papa,” he teased.

She giggled and swiped flour down his nose. “We’re making crispy pies! But it’s a surprise for dinner, so pretend you don’t know.”

“I know nothing,” he swore, raising a hand in solemn oath. “Except that I am in desperate need of a long soak. You two have fun.”

He grinned over Amia’s head at Alex, who beamed back at him.

He was getting too comfortable too quickly, and he knew it. She hadn’t even been there a month yet, and he was already beginning to feel as if she were family.

Still, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

* * *

Two weeks into Alex’s employment, Zaiman’s reservation was losing the battle to his emotions. One afternoon, during Amia’s lessons, he was once again strolling with her through the gardens, only this time she’d brought a medium-sized portfolio with her. She carried it casually, as if she had simply picked it up by mistake as she’d left the house, and didn’t reference it at all during the first hour of their walk. Finally, Zaiman’s curiosity got the better of him.

“What’s that?” he asked.

She smiled a bit secretively, then gestured to a bench beneath a couple of low, shady trees.

“You remember I told you that I have a degree in art therapy?” she asked as she sat.

“I do,” he told her warmly. “I admit, I was curious about that particular skill set.”

“Well,” she continued hesitantly as she played with the fastener of the portfolio. “I actually started my college career determined to turn art into my life’s work. I got distracted—it happens to me a lot, to be honest—because I fell absolutely in love with those twins who I was babysitting on the side.”

Zaiman grinned. “You have a lot of love to give,” he observed. “I can’t imagine that you would have been happy for long in a career which did not allow you to express that fully.”

“You’re right,” she admitted almost ruefully. “There’s a certain amount of…self-centeredness which is essential for sculpting a paycheck out of fine art, and I discovered that I couldn’t quite manage it. I never quit creating, though. I don’t know if I could, even if I wanted to. Pictures…they sort of flow through me, settling in my fingers, making them itch until I give them life on paper.”

“Are those your sketches?” Zaiman asked, gesturing to the portfolio.

“They are,” she said, gripping the leather case tight. “These are my favorites, the ones born of sudden passion or long, grueling hours. These are the ones which I feel closest to, if that makes any sense.”

“It makes all the sense in the world,” he told her. “May I?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, but did not release her hold. “I mean, that’s why I brought them, to show you. Just, um…be gentle? My technical skill isn’t the best or anything—I didn’t make it that far in this direction at school—and um…they’re not masterpieces, is what I’m saying.”

“I’m no critic,” he told her gently. “Merely an appreciative eye.”

She beamed at him and finally loosened her grip on the case, opening it and sliding it into his lap. The first image was a watercolor of a crane standing at the bank of a lazy river, triumphantly holding a fish aloft. There were no hard lines or brush strokes, only color delicately splattered across the page, bringing an image to life with no hint of how it came to be.

“This is breathtaking,” he told her earnestly, and turned to the next.

A dancer, all colors and swirls, more feeling than form. He could almost hear the music she moved to, and his fingers itched to trace her contours. Picture after picture, each powerful in its own way, each an expression of pure, unfettered emotion.

By the time he had reached the end, he felt pleasantly spent, as if he had just ridden a rollercoaster which dipped through utter heartbreak and soared through the clouds of the highest joy.

“These are incredible,” he said, his voice ringing with sincerity. “You have an impressive talent.”

“You think so?” she asked eagerly, her eyes shining. “I once…well, I suppose I still do. I had a dream of opening up a gallery once, and displaying my work, and the work of people like me, who maybe don’t have all the training but they know how to feel it. The paint, the graphite…it’s all just compressed feelings, just dying to be expressed and shared and—I’m rambling.”

She blushed furiously, a contrast which made her eyes blaze like emerald coals.

“I like to listen to you ramble,” he told her. “I enjoy seeing the world through your eyes.”

Her blush deepened, and she fastened the portfolio. “Amia’s so lucky to have you for a father,” Alex told him quietly. “And I’m sure…” She trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

“You’re sure of what?” he prompted.

“I was just…well, I don’t know the story about Amia’s mother, but if she had your love, she was a very fortunate woman.”

Zaiman’s throat closed of its own accord, and he offered her an uncomfortably tight smile. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly time for Amia’s lesson to end.

“We should head back,” he told her. “Amia will want to swim.”

Alex opened her mouth, then closed it again. Though he was relieved that she hadn’t pressed the issue, anxiety curdled his core. If she stayed for as long as he wanted her to, she would eventually learn the truth. He only hoped he could delay that inevitability for as long as possible; he couldn’t bear to imagine how she would look at him after she knew.