“You ready to come in yet? It’s getting late and dinner's nearly ready.”
She turns to you and swipes back damp curls from her forehead. Your face must register because her frown splits into the sort of grin that makes you ache and then she nods. “I’ll only be a moment.”
You leave her out there and disappear back into the cool depths of the house. Layla looks so at peace in the garden of her childhood home, her hands dark with mineral-rich earth, her freckles multiplying with each glimpse of sunlight. Layla had brought you here after Cairo, after Marc, Khonshu and Harrow. It's a place for you both to rest, at least until she can bear to face the world again. She still carries the golden scarab at her breast and despite her promise that, She’s not like Khonshu and I’m not like Marc, this avatar gig is temporary, Layla still disappears some nights and comes back to you smelling of iron and desert sand. You wouldn’t dream of asking her to stop and part of you knows that she would not even if you did. Her stubbornness and thirst for justice is why you fell in love with her after all.
The molokhia bubbles away at the stove as you pour out two glasses of red wine from one of the bottles she had unearthed from the basement on your first night here. She holds the wine for a long time after finding it, her dark eyes tinted red with tears. He made this, she says. You do not have to ask who. Instead, you whisper that the two of you can save the bottle, leave it in the kitchen but not drink it and without another word the cork pops, Layla's jaw set firm. Everything in this place reminds her of him, of Abdullah, and you know it hurts her to know that you will never be able to meet him, but Layla grieved her father a long time ago. All that is left in this house is ghosts.
Arms wrap around your middle and a sweaty nose wriggles its way into the crook of your neck. Layla. You try your best not to shriek but do jump away from her, brandishing the bottle in a manner that you hope is threatening. “No. Absolutely not. Wash your hands and don’t even think of touching me before you do,” Layla gapes at you and opens her mouth to protest but you stay firm and shake the bottle. “Go, or you’ll contaminate my food!”
She grumbles all the way to the sink but takes special care to scrub under her nails with the brush and even holds them cheekily in front of your face when she is finished. “Are these up to standard, Mushir?”
You take her fingers between yours and kiss each tip then gaze up at her through your lashes and delight in the way her eyes grow dark and wet. “Perfect, ya amar.”
Layla flushes and ducks down to kiss you. Each time feels just as wonderful as the first, all tingling lips and gentle sighs. “Ya habibti.”
Dinner is, as everything always is with Layla, lovely. You talk about your days, she gives you updates on how the garden is coming along and you complain about your latest dig. She offers to come along and you try not to scream at how exciting the prospect is. Your Layla, at your dig site, doing what she does best. “I would love for you to come, please. As long as Taweret can spare you.”
Layla smiles and reaches for your hand across the table. Her rings are cool, her skin fire-hot. “I believe that she can. Just for a little while and especially for you.”
Later, you’ll blame it on the wine, but you launch yourself at her and kiss her deeply, slipping your tongue through her lips to taste her. Layla hums happily and grabs at your face, tugging at you until you straddle both her and the chair so she can tilt her head up to kiss you properly. She fucks you right there on the table and when you’ve finished coming, your fingers tangled in her curls, her face and hands covered in your slick, she drags you into the bedroom to do it all over again.
You doubt she’ll be here when you wake up. She normally isn’t; Taweret pulls her away at all times of the night and day but even without the Goddess nattering away in her ear, Layla still dreams about those nights in Cairo. About the sand, the blood, the Moon God and his furious voice. Of her father, of an embroidered scarf and the look on Marc's face when he told her I was there. From what little she has told you about her time there with Marc Spector, you don’t believe that she will ever stop. That’s alright, though. You’re here and you don’t plan on leaving any time soon. You and her have the rest of your lives to wake up next to one another, and a lifetime after that. One lost morning in the face of eternity.
"What are you thinking about?" She asks, her voice slurred with sleep. It is dark now and the moon lights her freckles and the apples of her cheeks and her hair shines like it was forged by the Gods themselves.
She's more beautiful now than she ever has been.
You brush a curl away with a gentle finger and smile. "You, my love. Just you."