Chapter 8 A Night Painted in Candles

Jamal guided the sedan beyond the barracks gates toward the sleepy outskirts of the city, where streetlamps dwindled into wide stretches of moonlit lane. Alia nestled into the soft leather seat, her hand still woven with his, pulse humming in her ears. She tried to memorize everything: the faint cedar scent of his cologne, the low jazz sax riff playing on the radio, the rhythmic whoosh of tires over asphalt.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Somewhere the sky meets the water," he replied cryptically. "And somewhere private enough that you can hear your own heartbeat."

Twenty minutes later, they turned off the highway onto a narrow gravel road lined with whispering palm fronds. At the end of the lane, lanterns glowed like distant fireflies, illuminating a hidden lakeside deck. A single pavilion rose over the water-white wood draped in sheer fabric that fluttered in the breeze. Fairy lights mapped constellations above a small bistro table set for two.

Alia gasped softly. "Jamal... this is-"

"Only the prologue," he said, parking and stepping out. He opened her door, offered his hand, and guided her toward the deck. The boards underfoot creaked in gentle welcome as ripples lapped below. Crickets sang in far‑off reeds; the night smelled of jasmine and cool water.

Inside the pavilion, a violinist stood waiting. With a nod to Jamal, he began a soft melody-slow, tender, the sound weaving through lantern glow. Jamal pulled out Alia's chair, then took his own. A waiter emerged from behind a gauzy curtain, setting down chilled hibiscus mocktails in crystal glasses, followed by small plates of shrimp bruschetta and roasted plantain doused in honey.

Alia ran a finger along the rim of her glass, marveling at the setting. "How did you find this place?"

"On a maneuver," Jamal confessed. "We camped near the lake during a navigation drill. I thought: one day, I'll bring her here."

Her heart fluttered. She took a sip of the tangy drink, the cool rush soothing her nerves. "It's perfect."

They talked, laughter echoing across water, sharing stories they hadn't yet told: Alia's childhood dream of owning a tiny apothecary that offered free consultations, Jamal's first day at the academy when he secretly wrote his mother's name inside his cap for courage.

Dinner arrived-a duet of dishes chosen carefully for her health and his appetite: grilled salmon glazed in citrus, wild‑rice pilaf garnished with fresh herbs, and sautéed vegetables tossed with turmeric. Alia tasted each bite, amazed at the flavors. "All my favorites," she murmured.

"I paid attention," he said, eyes soft.

After plates were cleared, the violinist slipped into a slow, lilting waltz. Jamal rose, extending his hand. "Dance with me?"

Alia hesitated, glancing down at her low heels. "I'm not exactly light‑on‑my‑feet these days."

He shook his head, smile gentle. "Let me lead."

She placed her hand in his; he guided her to the center of the pavilion. One hand settled at her waist, the other lifted her fingertips to his shoulder. They swayed in time to the melody, the lanterns spinning halos of gold around them. The world melted away until there was only the cadence of her breath and the steady thump of his heart beneath her palm.

Every turn tightened the weave of something unspoken: trust. Desire. A promise that went deeper than words.

Halfway through the song, Jamal whispered in her ear, "Feel that breeze?"

She nodded.

"That's how gently I'll hold you through every storm."

Tears pricked her eyes. She leaned closer, resting her cheek against his chest. The violinist drew out the final note; the night settled into hush.

Jamal tipped her chin, searching her gaze. "Habibti, you take my breath away."

Before she could reply, his lips claimed hers-slow, reverent, yet thrilling. The kiss deepened, tasting of honeyed plantain and moonlit water. She felt his hand at the small of her back, steady but eager, as though anchoring this moment to memory.

When they parted, her mind swam. "I never thought I could have this," she whispered.

He brushed a curl from her temple. "You deserve everything soft and bright."

The violinist quietly retreated, leaving only the lap of waves below. Jamal guided her to a loveseat draped in cozy blankets at the deck's edge. They sat close, shoulders touching, watching the moon rise like a silver coin over the lake.

For a while, silence spoke louder than conversation. Alia rested her head on his shoulder; he laced their fingers together, thumb tracing the sapphire ring. Each gentle stroke sent ripples of warmth through her.

After a long stretch, Jamal murmured, "Tell me something no one else knows."

She exhaled. "When pain wakes me at night, I pretend I'm lying under a galaxy. I picture each red blood cell turning into a star, and I imagine they're lighting a path through my veins. It helps me hold on."

He pressed a kiss to her hair. "You create galaxies to survive. How could I not be in awe of you?"

Her throat tightened with emotion. She turned, meeting his gaze under the lantern glow. "Your turn."

He swallowed, eyes darkening. "I'm terrified of losing you. More than I've ever feared the battlefield." He paused, voice husky. "But I also know I'll spend my life making sure you never fight alone again."

She squeezed his hand. "We'll be unbroken," she whispered, echoing the vow of their growing story.

For hours they sat wrapped in each other and in blankets, sharing dreams and gentle kisses until the night's chill deepened. Jamal retrieved a thermos of spiced cocoa from a cooler, pouring two cups. They sipped, the warm sweetness mingling with laughter when cocoa foam painted her upper lip and he tenderly wiped it away.

At midnight, fireflies drifted across the water, sparks of emerald floating among shadows. Jamal stood, offering his hand again. "Ready to head home?"

"Home," she echoed, realizing his presence felt exactly like that.

---

The Drive Back

Wind ruffled her curls through the cracked window as Jamal navigated moonlit roads. One hand rested on the wheel, the other cradling Alia's intertwined fingers on the center console. Occasionally he lifted her hand to press soft kisses to her knuckles, as though punctuation marks between unspoken sentences.

Outside her house, he parked beneath the neem tree, engine idling. He rounded to open her door, but she stepped out, looping her arms around his neck before he could speak. He instinctively drew her close, lips finding hers in a kiss deeper than the first-fueled by hours of quiet intimacy.

She pulled away slightly, fingers brushing his cheek. "Thank you for tonight."

"Every night," he promised.

"Tomorrow?" she teased.

"And the next." He kissed her forehead. "Get some sleep, minha rainha. I'll dream of this."

She backed toward the porch, sapphire ring catching porch‑light halos. Once inside, she leaned against the door, breathing in the lingering scent of cedar and cocoa. Her pulse still danced to the rhythm of slow violin and gentle waves.

If storms waited on the horizon, they would have to contend with the memory of this night-painted in lantern light and sealed with promises by the water's edge.