I cut the onions and tomatoes, each a perfect slice. Placing them gently in the boiling brew, I turned to the list of ingredients on the counter. There was a lot of cooking that needed to be done before Ibrahim came home. I made Bashir do his homework near me, no matter how distracting his irrelevant questions were, I forced him to focus.

"I don't like school," he groaned. "Who gives students more work at home than at school?"

I shrugged. "It's practice."

"But I already know it," he stated, flatly.

"So keep knowing it."

Bashir narrowed his light brown eyes at me, leaning his cheek on the palm of his hand. "You know, you're a terrible motivator."

"I try," I winked before turning back to the soup I was making.

"What are you making anyway?" he asked. He stretched his body to look over my shoulder, lightly sniffing the air around. "It smells good."

"A tomato soup to go with the garlic bread I made," I responded, distracted from looking at all the spices. "Why do you guys have so many expensive spices?"

"Ibrahim owns a business, why wouldn't we, should be the bigger question here," he said, amused.

"Shut up," I mumbled.

"You're not really used to luxury, are you?"

"Obviously," I replied, dryly.

He chuckled. "It's kind of annoying sometimes."

"Having luxury or me not being used to it?" I asked, confused.

"Having luxury," he sighed, staring out at the window behind me. "I sometimes wonder what my parents were like."

The mood instantly shifted. I shifted my gaze towards him, momentarily forgetting about the boiling brew. My heart lurched as Bashir's face twisted into a shadow of his perky self.

I felt the aura of distress coming from Bashir, his eyes darkened, his lips pursued. I scrutinized his facial expressions, wondering if I heard him correctly. His black hair covered his eyes, hiding them from me like he was trying to conceal his emotions. The thought squeezed my chest in a painful manner.

I felt for Bashir. He was so young when his parents died, brought to another country, and raised in the absence of his parents, the ones who were supposed to be there for him. It must have hurt him deeply, watching other kids enjoy their parents' company while he couldn't even remember his.

I turned the stove to 'low,' turning to sit across from Bashir. "Want to talk about it?" I asked him, gently. I knew it was a sensitive topic.

"I wish I remembered them," he whispered.

"I know, but they're with Allah now."

He exhaled a deep breath. "I know that all too well, Tasneem. Ibrahim reassured me multiple times that my parents were safe with Allah, but that doesn't stop me from wishing I knew them."

"Bashir-"

"Every other kid has a father to play sports with. Every other kid has a mother to cook for him or her. Every other kid has a complete family. They have the memories of their parents, good or bad. Meanwhile, I'm... left with nothing," he sighed, defeated, running his fingers through his thick black hair. It was an action that was similar to his older brother.

"Hey," I started, softly, "you're so blessed in this world, Bashir. Look around, you grew up in a loving family. Your grandparents tried their best to keep you content with life. Your brother's main priority was being there for you whenever you needed him the most. It didn't matter if he was having a bad day or if he was feeling down, your smile kept him going everyday. Do you know why?"

He shook his head.

"He did that all because he loves you, Bashir. We all do."

"Even you?" he questioned in a meek voice that made him seem scared.

I smiled. "Even me."

At that moment, Bashir had the reassurance that he needed, validity that he longed to hear. I realized that both Ibrahim and Bashir were lonely in their own way, feeling like outcasts in a society that praised those who belonged.

They were different in personalities, but similar through their internal conflicts. Bashir wished for his parents, just a mere memory of remembrance while Ibrahim wanted to forget the horrors he faced the night they died, terrors that I had no knowledge about.

The creaking of a door and heavy footsteps broke me away from my thoughts, and I immediately looked down the hallway, wondering if it was Ibrahim. Bashir focused his attention back to his homework, pretending as though the moment before never occurred. I decided not to bring it up. He probably didn't want Ibrahim to know what he was feeling, and I had to respect that.

"Assalamualaikum," greeted Ibrahim as he loosened his tie.

"Waalaikumussalam," Bashir and I responded, simultaneously.

Ibrahim hovered over Bashir's shoulder, his eyes scanning the laudable sheet of scribbled equations. "I'm impressed," he commented.

"Really?" questioned Bashir with a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

Ibrahim ruffled his hair. "Yeah, kiddo."

"How many times do I have to say to not touch the hair?" he grumbled, rushing to the bathroom to fix his now messy hair.

Ibrahim chuckled deeply, walking over to my side. He leaned against the counter, silently watching as I stirred the soup. I felt nervous by his presence and his punctilious gaze, dark brown eyes that seemed to stare deep into my soul. I stood up straighter and almost yelped when I felt his hand caress the fabric of my waist.

"You seem tense," he mused.

"I'm not," I squeaked before mentally slapping myself. Great, I've already made a fool of myself. How freaking fantabulous.

He stood up, bringing me closer to the hard planes of his chest, his lips close to my hijab. "You don't have to be nervous around me, wife," he whispered in that tantalizing voice of his. "There is no awrah (coverings out of dignity or modesty) between man and wife, remember?"

"I know," I breathed.

He brought his finger up to brush my hijab ever so slightly, exposing a bare part of my shoulder to his ministrations. His hot lips gently brushed against the exposed skin, making my insides burn with an intense flame.

"Am I making you nervous?" he murmured, his voice deep and silky.

"Maybe," I whispered, letting myself to surrender to his lips.

A loud frustrated yell was heard behind us, making Ibrahim pull away to glare at the intruder. "Everytime," groaned Bashir. "Why can't you two be gross away from my food? Some of us would like to eat in peace."

Ibrahim and I exchanged amused glances at each other before erupting into laughter.

"I was being serious!" he yelled.

"We know," I grinned.

"We just don't care," continued Ibrahim with a small smirk playing at the corner or his lips.

Bashir seemed aghast at Ibrahim's playfulness. "Did you have a good day at work today? You're awfully nice and I'm scared," he said.

Ibrahim huffed. "What? I'm not allowed to be nice to people now?"

"Nevermind. He's back ladies and gentlemen. The cruel CEO of Tarkan Industries makes his grand appearance again," announced Bashir is a fake deep voice.

Ibrahim rolled his eyes. "I am not cruel."

Ignoring the boys, I turned back to the task at hand. My mind came up with a million other vegetables and spices I could add. This soup is going to take a while, I thought.

* * * *

"Ibrahim?"

He hummed in response, turning his body to face me. "What is it?" he yawned.

It was late, and Ibrahim had an important meeting in the morning that I didn't want to disturb, but Bashir's earlier words were nagging my thoughts, pushing against my mental walls. Whenever I closed my eyes, all I saw were his hurt eyes, glazing with tears. All I saw was the scared little boy I saw the day Ibrahim snapped at Thomas, his body shivering in fear.

"What happened to your parents?"

This seemed to wake Ibrahim up. "Excuse me?"

"I asked about your parents. How did they die?" I repeated.

"It doesn't matter," he stated in his cold tone. "They're in their graves now. It doesn't matter how. It never will matter, so just drop it."

"It does matter," I whispered.

He narrowed his dark eyes at me. Even in the darkness, I could see the hidden fear that lurked behind his eyes; it was that wild horror that haunted Ibrahim in his sleep. The room seemed to get colder, and I pulled the sheets closer to me.

"How?" he asked, suspiciously. "Why do you even care?"

His words burned me. How could he think that I didn't care after all the reassurance I gave him?

"Does being your wife mean nothing to you?" I asked him, sitting upright on the bed. "After everything that we've been through, you still don't trust me."

He sat up. "I didn't mean-"

"Who hurt you?"

"No one."

"Don't lie to me!" I yelled. "Someone gave you those scars and I want to know who."

He turned his cheek away from me, closing his eyes as if he were in pain. Ibrahim wrapped his arms around himself like a scared child trying to shield himself from the world. Feeling ashamed of my outburst, I reached out to him, my hand on his shoulder.

"Who was so cruel that they tortured you?" I gently repeated, my voice a mere whisper in the stagnant room.

"Tasneem, please."

Tears welled into my eyes, knowing that he wouldn't tell me. Taking a deep breath, I shifted my body closer to his, leaning against his sturdy form. "You know how hard it is to hear you scream in your sleep? Do you know how heartbreaking it is to see tears staining your cheeks? Do you know how painful it is to hear you beg for your parents when you're unconscious?" I whispered, brokenly. "You wake up from nightmares all the time with shallow eyes like you've just lived through an eternity of pain. It hurts me, Ibrahim."

His breathing had gotten heavier.

"You don't deserve that pain, Ibrahim."

Silence stretched between us. Darkness engulfed the room, matching our moods and twisting into shadows that hovered over our bodies. Clouds covered the moonlight and the glimmering stars that had once dotted the inky sky. A breeze whistled past our window, tree branches scraping against the glass. My fingers rose to stroke small circles on his back, rubbing the hard muscles beneath.

"I'm sorry that you have to deal with a coward of a husband," he said, quietly.

"You're not a coward."

"I know I don't deserve you, Tasneem. I've known it since the day I met you. You're perfect," he confessed, turning to face me. He cupped my cheeks in his calloused hands, running his thumb over the skin. "I'm no big league guy. I see myself as pretty low. You're the dream girl that every guy wishes they could have and I don't even treat you right."

I placed my hand on top of his. "Yes, you do. I don't want anyone else, but you. I only want to be by your side."

He smiled, "I know."

"We'll get through this together, Ibrahim. I can't help you if I don't know what or who's been hurting you all this time."

Immediately he dropped his hand, clutching onto the fabric of his sweatpants. His eyes darkened, a distressed look entering them. "These scars," he started, his voice lost in a trance, "they hold a dark story behind them, a story that has the effects of an eternity."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, knowing the portentous nature that Ibrahim was hinting at. "W-What happened?" I cautiously asked, afraid of his answer.

He lifted his eyes, staring deep into mine. "My parents were murdered and their killer gave me my scars."