He said he would just be moral support. That was the exact phrase he’d used before you walked into his office, red-eyed and trembling, your thesis folder clutched in one hand like a final shred of pride. “I’ll just listen,” he’d promised, tone steady, pragmatic as ever.

So tell me why he’s holding you the way he is now.

Your lipstick stains the front of his pale shirt — the same one he wore this morning, immaculate until you’d crumpled into him. Your tears have soaked through the fabric, warm against his skin, each one a wordless plea he can’t ignore.

At first, he’d only reached for you when your voice cracked mid-sentence. His hand brushed your wrist, just enough to ground you — and then, when you didn’t pull away, he drew you in until your forehead rested against his chest. No words. Just the steady, quiet rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

You told yourself you’d stop crying in a minute, that you’d compose yourself like an adult should. But then another wave hit — all those sleepless nights, those months of rewriting and revising, the long hours he’d silently sat nearby while you worked, pretending to read just so you wouldn’t feel alone.

And now? All that effort felt like nothing. All that hope had cracked under the weight of disappointment.

When your knees buckled, Alhaitham didn’t even hesitate. His arms came around you instantly, lifting you without a word. He sat down on the couch with you in his lap, your weight pressed against him as though the world might fall apart if he let go.

Your tears dampened the skin of his neck; your breath hitched against his shoulder. Still, he said nothing — didn’t hush you, didn’t offer platitudes or tell you it would be fine. That wasn’t his way. He simply held you tighter, one hand stroking absent circles against your back, the other cupping the back of your head as if shielding you from everything beyond that moment.

He wasn’t supposed to care this much. He wasn’t supposed to feel something twist in his chest every time your sobs broke the quiet. But he did.

Minutes passed. The rain outside softened against the windows. You were still trembling when he finally spoke — low, quiet, so calm it almost didn’t sound like comfort at first.

“You’ve done more than enough. One setback won’t undo that.”

You didn’t answer, too drained to speak, and he didn’t ask you to. He just adjusted his hold, keeping you pressed close, your hands fisted in his shirt, his thumb brushing the damp edge of your jaw.

He had said he’d be moral support. But somehow, you were still in his lap, his shirt soaked with your tears, your lipstick marking his collar like proof that sometimes, even the most rational man can’t help but hold you a little closer than he intended.