Page 66 of No Strings Attached
Then, so quietly I almost miss it, he says, “I think I love you, Mira.”
I lift my head and search his eyes, half-expecting to find hesitation there, but I don’t.
The words slip from my lips before I can stop them. “I think I love you too, Hen.”
The next morning,I wake tangled in sheets and warmth, limbs sore in the best kind of way, Henson’s arm wrapped around me like he’s never letting go.
I just lie there, watching the sun dance across the ceiling, listening to his breathing.
“Are you awake,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, “or just pretending, so you don’t have to get up?”
I smile. “The second one.”
He presses a kiss to the back of my shoulder, then rests his chin there. “Smart. I vote we never get up.”
I turn to face him. “Tempting, but I’m pretty sure your mom will hunt us down if we don’t show up for brunch.”
“Then I’ll say I kidnapped you.” His eyes are barely open, lips twitching. “New family tradition.”
I chuckle, resting my hand on his chest, feeling the slow thud of his heartbeat under my palm. “That might raise a few questions.”
“You think I care? Now that I’ve got you, I never want to let you go.”
I hold his gaze. “What happens when we get back to Seattle?”
“We keep going,” he says simply. “We figure it out. Together.”
I nod, something tender blooming behind my ribs.
“You still think you love me?” I tease.
He shifts, rolling on top of me, bracing himself with a hand beside my head. “No.”
My heart sinks.
“IknowI love you.”
I let out a relieved breath and Henson kisses me, slow and unhurried, as if we’ve got all the time in the world.
We don’t talk about the what-ifs. We just hold on to what’s real.
And for once, that’s more than enough.
EPILOGUE
HENSON
A YEAR LATER
Where’s the kibbeh bil sanieh? I said no one touches it until I take a picture!”
The shout echoes from the kitchen, followed by a chorus of overlapping voices—some in English, most in rapid-fire Arabic. Pots clatter. Someone says “yalla!”and another person answers back with what I’m pretty sure is a curse, based on the tone. Someone else is yelling “ta‘al hon!”, which I’ve learned means “come here.”
I laugh to myself as I sit on the couch, nursing a sweating glass of water and trying to look ready to help.
This is Amira’s world. Beautiful, bright, and chaotic in a way that feels completely normal. It reminds me of home.
I’ve never heard this many people talk at once, let alone in a language I don’t understand, but somehow, I don’t feel out of place.
