Talia finally understood why three a.m. had been dubbed the devil's hour.

The walls creaked with every intermittent gust of wind, as if the Big Bad Wolf was outside her window and this house was mere straw, leaving her to wonder if her favorite childhood fable was just a fictional tale. Even if she closed her eyes, she still perceived the spooky shadows of wiry trees on her blinds, projected by the faint rays of moonlight peeking through the clouds.

By hour three of trying to sleep through this meteorological nightmare, Talia was all but convinced a specter was lurking in the corner of her room. Once the storm had picked up, the power had gone out in mere minutes, plunging them into a bitter darkness. Armed only with her phone flash light, she had no way to flip on a light switch and prove her childish theories wrong.

So much like a small child would, she sought out human comfort.

Folding her arms over her chunky pullover, she slipped out of her room and paused in the middle of the hallway. Zaid's door was ajar, defeating the entire purpose they'd stayed upstairs instead of downstairs.

But perhaps, deep down, he didn't mind letting some warmth out, if she could bring some in...

"Zaid?" Her voice barely fell above a whisper, laced with a hint of disquietude. He'd spread himself across the bed on his stomach, covers pulled up past his shoulders. Knowing he was asleep, she uttered his name again with a little more assertiveness, knuckles brushing his doorframe.

He sprung forward and kicked off his sheets, jolted out of his sleep. "What's up, Talia? Is something wrong?" When he noticed her standing idly in his doorway, he breathed out a sigh of relief and gripped his heart. "God, next time don't wake me up like that. You scared me."

She stopped on the last word. She...had scared him? Well, maybe his sleep had been deeper than she'd thought it was, as his mother tongue had rolled off his lips before English had. Guilt replaced any hope that he could keep her company in her bout of insomnia, forcing her to turn around.

"No, wait," he called out, clicking on a small flashlight. He shined the light just under her face, and she shyly looked away. "There has to be a reason you're here."

"It wasn't deep enough to wake you up," she mumbled, fidgeting in her spot. "I just couldn't sleep. And, well..."

"And what?" he asked, tone softening.

"I-I got scared." Noticing the faint smile on his lips, she tightened her arms over her chest in embarrassment. "Oh, come on, it's not that funny."

"I'm not laughing," he said. She whirled around when a treacherous snort left his lips, but this time his words were much more inviting. "Come closer, Talia."

Without thinking, she strode across the room, lured by the undertones of his demand. She stood just a foot away from his queen-size bed, arms still locked over her chest, even though a strange heat replaced the chill she'd felt all night.

He leaned over the edge of the bed, face obscured in the dark. "A little closer." She acquiesced, almost sitting on the edge of his mattress. "Now answer me. Do you want to talk...or sleep?"

Talia opened her mouth, but only air came out. She didn't know what she wanted with him in front of her, a bed in between them, and the night sky above them—just that it probably wasn't holy.

"Because if it's the latter," Zaid continued, voice low and tantalizing, "this bed has room for two."

"I-I..." She struggled to find the words, fiery body thinking for her clouded mind. "We shouldn't do this, right? You promised my grandfather to stay away from me."

"I don't think keeping you safe and warm breaks any moral codes," he said, shrugging. "But if it conflicts with your own, I'll just go back to sleep now." With a goodbye, he turned to his right side and threw his head down onto a pile of pillows, releasing an exaggerated sigh.

You little—

No more than ten seconds later, the mattress dipped, and Talia settled into the empty half of his bed. He rolled onto his back and looked her stiff body up and down. Feeling even more bashful, she pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them, refusing to crawl under his sheets.

"I'm only here because I legitimately believe my room is being haunted," she said, looking away, "or else I would've left."

"Oh, for sure," he taunted, resting one arm on the pillow space above his head. "Because of your strong ethics, that is, right?"

She grabbed a stray pillow from the end of his bed and whacked his arm. "Ikhras," she hissed. "You're pushing it now."

"Was that the first time you willingly spoke Arabic with me?" His voice rose with merriment, and she rolled her eyes. "I mean, I'd have appreciated a more tasteful phrase than 'shut up,' but I suppose I can make do."

"Maybe I would speak more if I knew you wouldn't make fun of my 'cute little American accent.'"

"I wouldn't make fun of you," he said. "I mean, I might laugh, but it would all be in jest, of course."

"Of course." She mimicked him in a deep baritone and hit him with the pillow again. He grabbed it from her hand mid-air and threw it to the ground on the other side of the bed, making her jaw fall slack. "Okay, rude. That pillow was keeping me warm, Zaid."

"You look like an icicle, Talia. At least cover yourself with the blanket." Watching as she sat frozen, he sighed and added, "For yourself, not me."

She nodded, knowing her fleece pullover was no longer cutting it at this point. She gripped the edge of the comforter and tucked herself underneath, now feeling the warmth of his body emanating under the bedsheets. Almost two feet still separated them, the two feet that encompassed the last of her wavering moral code.

She hugged the pillow under her head and eyed him in the dark. "Can I ask you a question, Zaid?"

"What?"

"Do you want to sleep...or talk?" She could make out his white-toothed smile in the dark, already knowing his answer.

"We can talk now," he said, adjusting his position on the mattress.

"Okay." She tried to make out every one of his beautiful features in the dark, but it simply wasn't possible. "Why are you really here?"

"Here where?" he asked.

"In this country," she said. "Why didn't you get your dream?"

"Because it was beyond me," he sighed, looking away. He paused for a few moments, losing himself in his thoughts. "I mean, it once wasn't. I once had every detail of my stupid, cookie-cutter life planned. The hard classes, the hours of SAT practice, sucking up to college counselors from abroad, all while practicing for hours every after school to have a chance at a spot on an Ivy League soccer team. Everything I ever did revolved around this mythical college experience in the U.S.—one that probably existed more in my head than anything."

Her hand fell to the mattress. "Does it feel pointless now?"

He nodded and looked over her head, into another oblivion. "It felt pointless the moment I realized I only had seventeen years with my father, and I spent half of them dreaming about a piece of paper. After watching him die before my eyes... I don't know how I passed eleventh grade, let alone gave a shit about the future." A shuddering breath racked his chest, lodging itself somewhere in his throat and enveloping his voice in bitterness. "But hey, life still goes on, right? Even when you have no clue how to catch up anymore."

"What do you regret the most?" she whispered.

"Hope," he said, voice thick from unshed tears. He dragged a hand over his forehead, edges of his fingertips just seeming to sweep his undereyes. "I regret being so hopeful. I spent every waking minute I could with my father; because some naïve part of my brain thought that maybe he wouldn't pass away. That at least if I put my life on hold, maybe I'd have him for the future. But now..." He swallowed a gulp and stared at the fuzzy ceiling. "Now I don't have a dad, and I didn't get my stupid dream. So what was the point? Maybe my brother Saif did it the right way. He accepted our father was going to die, so he started planning, for working at the firm, managing our assets, filling in at family gatherings. All while he got his life together, mine fucking fell apart, because I was stuck in my baseless fantasies."

"But it's because you feel, Zaid," she whispered, connecting their hands. "You might put on this pompous front, but you have such a good heart for people, the same one I'm sure you had for your father."

The silence continued. Maybe she had overstepped her boundaries asking him those questions. She had no right to know so much about his life—if this even was so much.

Maybe it was just enough.

"No one has ever told me that before."

Then I'm so glad to be the first.