Dating Alhaitham wasn’t a rollercoaster.

There were no fireworks or dramatic highs—just soft, serene evenings where the biggest thrill was deciding what book to read next or what fruit to slice with tea. And honestly? You liked it that way. A peaceful life, beside a man who didn't demand anything from you except to simply be.

You weren’t much of a reader. Not the way he was, anyway. You tried—really, you did. Mostly by invading his personal space, flopping next to him on the couch or slipping under his arm until you were practically laying on him. It was the only position that allowed you to peek at whatever dense, complicated book he had in his hands.

“What's that word mean?” you’d ask every few seconds, pointing lazily.

And Alhaitham… the man had patience. A quiet sigh here, a sideways glance there, but he never snapped. He’d calmly explain, go back to reading, then pause again when your voice popped up with yet another question.

It was routine at this point. So was what came next.

Half an hour in—maybe an hour if you were lucky—you’d start to nod off. His calm voice, the rustle of pages, the warmth of his body… it was too cozy. You’d melt into him, your head tucked into the crook of his shoulder or chest. He’d adjust naturally, never once complaining—just shifting slightly so your weight rested more comfortably against him.

Sometimes he held your waist. Other times, the back of his hand gently cradled your head while he continued reading with the other.

He didn’t mind.

You were quiet, and warm, and his. In your sleep, you gave him the one thing he treasured most: peace.

And for Alhaitham, that was more than enough.