It happens in public—but no one notices.

That’s the point.

You’re standing beside him, mid-conversation, when he steps closer. Not abruptly. Just enough that his shoulder blocks the view, his height casting a shadow that swallows you whole. To anyone else, it looks like he’s leaning in to say something low and dry near your ear.

And he does speak—quietly.

“Don’t look at them,” he murmurs, tone even. Calm. Almost bored.

His hand comes to your wrist, fingers firm but unhurried, turning you just enough that your back brushes the shelf behind you. His body shields you completely now. From the side, it’s nothing more than proximity. From the front, he’s all anyone can see.

Then his head dips.

Not far. Not obvious.

His forehead brushes yours first—an almost-accident. His breath is warm against your cheek as if he’s considering a thought.

And then—just for a second—his lips press to yours.

Brief. Controlled. Certain.

It’s the kind of kiss that could be mistaken for a whisper. For a breath shared too closely. For nothing at all.

When he pulls back, there’s no change in his expression. No fluster. No pause. He straightens, releases your wrist, and resumes his stance like nothing happened.

To the world, Alhaitham never kissed you.

To you, it was unmistakable.

A quiet claim. A correction. A reminder delivered with precision.

And when you glance up at him, searching his face, he only raises a brow slightly and says,

“Focus.”

As if he wasn’t the one who just ruined your concentration entirely.