"Eggs?" I questioned Bashir.

He held the small bowl of eggs, grinning cheekily at me. "Check."

"Butter?"

"Check."

"Sugar?"

"Check."

"Cookie dough?"

"Hell yeah!" he exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes at his enthusiasm. "Thomas is really rubbing off on you," I noted as I turned back to my list of ingredients.

"Thomas is great," he chuckled.

"I heard my name," said the rascal, himself, as he casually strolled into our kitchen. "What's cooking, bud?" he asked Bashir, ruffling his hair.

I already had my hijab on because Bashir was in the room. Thank goodness, I thought. Thomas and Ibrahim had been in his office all day, discussing a new business deal together. Bashir and I had not seen them since we woke up, so naturally we decided to do something fun. I did owe Bashir some homemade cookies.

Bashir slapped Thomas' hand away. "For the love of Allah, why does everyone touch my hair?" he scowled.

"You're the kid we like to take our stress out on," shrugged Thomas.

"You're a terrible person, you know that?"

"Yet, I'm still adored and loved by many," retorted Thomas.

I shook my head, amused at their antics, and then turned back to my list of ingredients. I did a mental check on everything we had, wondering if I missed anything. I could still hear bits and pieces of the boys' argument. I didn't even bother asking where Ibrahim was. He was busy, and I didn't want to distract him from his job.

"I think we have everything on the recipe," I mumbled to myself.

Bashir hopped on top of the counter. "Can we finally bake now?" he whined.

"Bashir," I smiled, "we have to set everything up before we start. I don't want to mess these cookies up."

"Mistakes in cooking are good."

"Why?" I asked, unsure of where he was going with that statement.

He smirked, "It means more extra food for me."

"But they would taste bad," I argued.

"Food is food just like how people are people. There are the good ones that we enjoy and the bad ones that we tolerate."

I was at lost for words.

Thomas whistled, "Damn, kid. You're a real philosopher."

"Philosophy is theory, I'm using common sense," stated Bashir.

"Is there even a difference?" waved off Thomas as he leaned against the counter across from Bashir.

Bashir scoffed, "Of course there is!"

Cracking the eggs, I placed the liquid inside the bowl. I allowed myself to tune out from the boys' conversation, completely at lost from their debate about philosophy and common sense. Their bickering didn't even cease. I hummed quietly to myself, focusing on the task at hand instead of worrying about Ibrahim.

I sighed, he hadn't eaten all day. I put down my mixing spoon, turning my head to the set of stairs that led to Ibrahim's office, he must have still been busy. I tried to force the disappointment down.

He runs a company, Tasneem. He can't be like those men from those hopeless romance novels.

Perhaps, I had too many high expectations. I inwardly laughed at my foolishness. I was a grown woman, I knew real romance was nothing like the plastered billboards and magazines.

True love was different in real life. It wasn't about the amount of stolen kisses and rule breaking, it was worth more. People who loved each other stood by each other even when the world was against them. They were together mentally, emotionally, and physically. They completed each other.

Ibrahim completed my deen (religion) and I completed his.

"Tasneem!" a voice shouted, interrupting my thoughts.

"Yes, Bashir?"

"Who do you think is right?" he asked.

I turned my back to him. "I refuse to take part in this," I said.

"See, she takes my side. I clearly have the better argument," taunted Thomas.

"Look, I know you think you're great, but you're literally arguing with a twelve year old and losing."

Thomas huffed, "You're just mad because the pretty bride took my side."

A voice cleared behind us, and instantly all our heads turned to the man who demanded our attention with just his mere presence. Ibrahim stood before us, a frown painted across his lips, his harsh gaze seemed to command a quiet. He looked powerful. He wore his typical dress shirt and black trousers, the top buttons of his shirt were opened, revealing the small hairs beneath.

He looked ruggedly handsome with his tousled black hair and his disheveled appearance, the stubble under his chin was much more prominent than before. The short black hairs caressed his jaw line. I was reminded of our heated kisses, his touches, his compliments, and I found myself missing Ibrahim even more. His dark brown eyes met mine, lingering as my cheeks reddened.

"I hope you're not flirting with my bride, Thomas," he said, lowly.

Thomas grinned, walking over to Ibrahim and placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not that big of an idiot, my friend," he chuckled.

"I see," Ibrahim commented, breaking eye contact with me. "We have a business meeting to close up in Japan. Hurry up."

"Yes, sir," grumbled Thomas. "Here I thought being your secretary would be fun, not a bunch of boring meetings."

"Your humor isn't very entertaining," remarked Ibrahim, dryly.

Thomas rolled his eyes. "You could loosen up a bit. You're going to kill yourself with all this stress."

Ibrahim said nothing, choosing his famous silence. Instead, Ibrahim began to walk away, not even one look in my direction. The room was silent, Ibrahim's heavy footsteps patted against the carpeted floors. He reached the doorway to the hall, when he stopped and turned around. His tortuously beautiful face was blank, completely void of any emotions, leaving me in the darkness of his mind.

"Stress?" he questioned, his brown eyes glinting with a feral command. "This isn't stress, Thomas. This is life. Now, let's go."

He was gone.

* * * *

I pulled out the mittens I used to handle hot metals, opening the oven. I pulled the tray of cookies we made and gently placed it on the table to cool. Bashir was behind me. He was trying his best to hide his excitement, which he was miserably failing at. I saw Bashir's hand move to pick a cookie.

"Bashir!" I hissed.

He winced at my tone, looking up at me with his innocent brown eyes. "What?" he asked.

"It's hot. You're going to burn yourself."

"It smells too good to not touch it," he said as his eyes hungrily stared at the batch.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't you have homework to be doing, young man?"

"Maybe," he shrugged.

"So do it."

He pondered the thought, tapping at his chin. "Well, that requires work and I'm really lazy so..." he trailed off.

"Do your homework."

"It's too painful to touch," he pouted.

I gave him a blank stare while I took off the mittens. "It's literally a piece of paper and a pencil," I slowly stated, trying to figure out how those two things were painful.

"Paper cuts hurt."

Bubbly laughter erupted from deep in my chest. A small smile replaced his pout, and soon he joined in my laughter. Bashir's body shook as he covered his mouth to muffle his chuckles.

"It's funny because it's so true," I grinned. "When I was a kid, whenever I used hand-sanitizer I'd find like twenty paper cuts on my hands."

"It stings so bad!"

"Oh the good old days," I sighed. "The days where the worst weapon in school was paper."

"Stop," Bashir laughed.

"The days where my pencil contributed to my injuries because my hand would cramp up from the dreadful notes," I continued, my voice louder.

Bashir shook his head, his laughter had not ceased. "Stop, I can't- oh Lord. T-This is too much," he wheezed out.

"The days where Bashir refused to do his homework."

Instantly, he stopped laughing, giving me a blank stare.

I shrugged, innocently. "Don't look at me. I'm just stating the facts," I smiled.

"Rude," muttered Bashir.

"Did I hurt your feelings?" I teased.

"Absolutely. I think I need another batch of cookies just to feel better again," he said as he looked up at me with a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

Instead of responding to his request, I turned to the dishwasher, pulling out a clean plate. Opening the fridge, I pulled out the huge milk carton. Bashir's light brown eyes didn't stray from the cookies. His gaze would only move to stare at the clock. I never had a sibling before, but Bashir felt more like a son to me.

I was much more protective over him in the span of weeks that I'd been here. He was a little boy with a past that he barely remembered, while his older counterpart was haunted by it. A feeling of despair came upon me as I tried to imagine the horrors the boys had witnessed. If there was anything that I wished, it was to ease Ibrahim's pain.

Suddenly, a loud crash was heard from upstairs, making Bashir and I jump in surprise. The crash was followed by loud yelling and groans. Bashir and I exchanged glances with each other. Uh oh, I thought. I could hear the arguing escalate even more, Ibrahim's voice sounded strained.

"We better go see what happened," advised Bashir.

Nodding, we both ran up the stairs, our cookies were forgotten. The shouting did not cease by the time we made it in front of Ibrahim's office door. I placed my hand on the knob, but the door swung open, revealing an extremely pissed off Thomas. His jaw clenched, his blue eyes were as cold as ice.

"Fucking chill, man. There's more to life than a fucking deal, it means nothing to me," he hissed at Ibrahim.

Ibrahim growled, "You have no clue how important this was, do you? Thomas, you can't keep treating these deals like they're jokes."

Thomas' eyes flared in disbelief. "You dick, you really think I don't take my job seriously?" he questioned. "I take this job more seriously than I take my life. You want to know why? Because my fucking best friend has dreams and I wanted to help him achieve them!"

"You did a great job of that, didn't you? You need to learn how to keep your mouth shut in front of investors with a terrible personal record!"

"Ibrahim, he's literally a fucking douchebag, why the hell would you even engage in a business with him? He's a horrible person, I have no regrets for what I said," he argued, crossing his arms over his chest.

The vein on Ibrahim's neck pulsed as he clenched his fits, gritting his teeth. He was fuming with rage. "Get out," he seethed.

"Ibrahim-"

"Get the fuck out!" he yelled.

I felt Bashir flinch behind me, his hands gripping the material of my pajama bottoms. I looked down, his face had gone pale. His lower lips trembled as his eyes stared at his brother, fear consuming them.

"Ibrahim," he whimpered.

Ibrahim and Thomas snapped their attention to the little boy, who was shaking at my side. Ibrahim's dark eyes had softened, and he averted his gaze away from the scene, guilt was etched across his features. Thomas, realizing that Ibrahim needed some time alone, began to walk out the door, holding his hand out to Bashir.

"Let's try some cookies before I leave," he offered a tight smile to Bashir.

Bashir looked back to his older brother, his light brown eyes lingering. Ibrahim stayed silent. I could sense the conflict in Bashir's mind. He wanted to stay with Ibrahim, but he knew that Ibrahim wanted be left alone. Bashir turned his gaze to me, looking for some answer. I encouragingly nodded, urging him to spend time with Thomas.

"I'll take care of him," I whispered into his ear.

That seemed to be enough to convince Bashir. Thomas looked back at Ibrahim once, before he slammed the door shut, leaving Ibrahim and I alone. We had been alone like this many times before, but this time felt different. It felt like a weight was added onto our shoulders, and I knew that whatever came next would be something I would never forget.

Ibrahim leaned against the shelf, sliding down until he was sitting. He looked up at the ceiling, his dark eyes were hollow of any emotion, his face was contorted in pain. I slowly walked to his side, his eyes drifted to me for a moment, examining my every step until I was in front of him.

I took a seat beside him, leaving a good distance between us. I still felt nervous in his presence, I could hear my heart drumming against my chest. I inwardly panicked, knowing this conversation could go two ways. Either he'd burst out in anger or he wouldn't say a word, wallowing in his own self-pity. I wanted to reach out to him, but something stopped me.

Maybe it was the helpless look in his eyes. Maybe it was the the slight tremble of his own lips. Maybe it was the way he had his arms wrapped around himself like he was protecting his body from the world. Maybe it was the way he said my name in a silent plea, but one thing was for sure, I was never leaving his side.

His breathing was heavy as he placed his head into the palm of his hands. "I'm horrible," he whispered, "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you," I reassured.

He bitterly laughed, lifting his head up. "That's a lie. I'm a damaged soul, Tasneem," he spat out.

I shook my head, "I will never believe that."

"Why?" he slowly questioned. "Why do you trust me so much when all I have done is wrong you?"

"You didn't, Ibrahim. You're perfect the way you are, flaws and all."

"My flaws cause people to leave," he muttered.

"I didn't leave," I whispered.

Surprised by my answer, he blinked once, twice. Ibrahim reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. He took out a picture and handed it to me.

The picture was a small family. A man, who looked like an older Ibrahim, held a woman in his arms. She wore her white hijab as she held a baby to her chest, her light brown eyes shining with elation. A young boy stood in front of the man, curiously gazing at the baby in his mother's arms.

The boy had hair as black as night, his eyes were the darkest brown I'd ever seen. I knew that it was Ibrahim. His wide eyes stared down at baby Bashir. The Muslim couple, their parents, smiled down at their children. The family looked so perfect, and I wondered what happened to them.

"My parents," Ibrahim started, "they used to tell me that one day Allah would save someone special for me. My father would hold me close and tell me to treat that girl like I'd treat something precious. He told me to stay true to her."

I stayed silent, watching his fingers thread into his silky black hair. A longing look entered his eyes, and I wanted to reach out and comfort him, but I knew he had to get this confession out of his chest.

"My parents, they had a love that was so strong that people would tell me no two souls were as perfect for each other as my parents were. They weren't wrong. They were the most loving people on this planet. My mother loved me more than life itself. She-" he swallowed the knot in his throat. "She was there when no one else batted an eye at me."

"Ibrahim, you don't have to finish the story," I said softly.

"My father was brave. He was a soldier in Turkey and he'd save people every day. He aspired to protect the innocents. My father was a fighter for justice. His lips would constantly speak Allah's word as he would preach in the streets, helping people fix their lives," he continued, tears began to form in his eyes.

"They sound amazing."

He sadly smiled, "They were."

"Does Bashir remember them?" I asked, placing the picture on my lap.

He shook his head. "He was too young," he whispered, his eyes staring at the empty space in front of him.

I felt the weight in the air; it was suffocating as I let his word sink in. Bashir never knew his parents the way Ibrahim did. Ibrahim's body shook, his muscles tensing as I heard his sharp intake of breath. My heart immediately felt for him, for his pain.

"It's all my fucking fault."

I scooted closer, wrapping my arms around his huddled figure, my fingers finding their way into his mass of black hair. I stroked the fine hairs as I felt his body lean on mine, his breathing wavered.

"Shh, it's all going to be okay, Ibrahim," I soothed.

"I took away our parents, it's all my fault," he continued, his voice was in a trance, lost in his memories.

I held him closer to me. "Stop this," I murmured. "Stop blaming yourself."

He stayed silent. Only his soft intakes of breath were heard, I could see the lone tear escape the corner of his eyes as he gazed up at me. I had never seen Ibrahim look so vulnerable, so confused. His eyes were begging for reassurance, so I did the only thing I knew how.

I held him close, refusing to let him go because after so many years of guilt and pain, Ibrahim deserved to have someone that stayed.