“I don’t do empty promises,” he had said before leaving for the desert.

And you believed him—because if there was one thing Alhaitham never did, it was lie.

Still, days turned into weeks. His words echoed louder the longer the silence grew. "It won’t be too long." Maybe you both had different definitions of that. Because it felt like forever.

And then—he returned.

He stood in the doorway, frame blocking the light behind him. He was dirtied, dust clinging to his skin, cloak torn at the edges, and his usual composed air cracked just slightly. Bruised, tired—but unmistakably him.

You didn’t move at first. You couldn’t. Was it truly him? Was this not just a dream, a mirage formed by how badly you’d wanted him back?

And then he stepped in.

That’s when your tears slipped.

He noticed before you did. His gaze softened with something unspoken—regret, maybe. Guilt. Because you had waited, worried all this time. And though he kept his word, he hated how much it had cost you emotionally.

For the first time ever, he was the one to cross the space between you.

Not in some grand display—no, that wasn’t him. But in the way he allowed you to wrap your arms around him, bury your face in his chest despite the dust and sweat clinging to him. The way he let his hand rest on the back of your head, anchoring you there, drawing small circles with his thumb.

His personal space, usually guarded like a fortress, was yours now.

Because in this quiet, desperate embrace—that was his apology. That was his affection. That was his promise, kept.

And it meant everything.