(Personal)

There's a subtle vulgarity in the open spread of his legs; the way he rocks back and forth, swings left and right, and how, when he slid down the chair, his thobe rode up and gave away the faint trail of hair around his ankles—oh!

His face hides beneath the red of his shemagh, and although he'd been talking to my father the whole time, he kept stealing glances my way, and I'm not sure if it was just the excitement of it all but it almost gave me butterflies.

"You don't want to be here, do you?" he asks, the moment my father leaves the room. There's more vulnerability in his voice than I would've otherwise expected.
 
I smile. "I do."

He smiles back; his gaze wanders between my eyes, slowly down my face, and finally settles on my lips. I catch my breath.

My father loudly fiddles with the doorknob as he makes his way back into the room. He quickly looks away, clears his throat, and goes on to ask about my university studies.

Be still, my fucking heart. This is not what you want.