Al Haitham’s fingers glide over the page, turning it with a smooth, practiced motion. His other hand, warm and steady, cradles his chin as his eyes trace each line of text with unwavering focus. The spine of the book is veiled beneath his palm, the title and artwork covered beneath the spread of his fingers, meaning you can only catch glimpses of the words as he moves, but nothing more.

Your head rests on his lap, nestled against him, though the book clearly holds more of his attention as he leans back on the couch, completely immersed by the writing on the pages. His fingers gently comb through your hair, a gentle reminder that he is aware of your presence, but Al Haitham has never been the most openly affectionate person anyway.