Secrets of Us A Forbidden Love Romance (Alina) novel Chapter 231

I crinkly my nose at the dried paint under my fingernails, then scratch the skin of my palm where I have a streak of blue paint. I swipe at my face and sigh when I realize I just

dirtied my cheek.

The air in my room smells faintly of paint and canvas. The tip of my brush moves slowly, carefully, as I blend the shades of shadow around my grandfather’s eyes.

Elena gave me enough pictures of him and my grandmother that I’ve finally convinced myself to attempt to paint them. At this point, I’ve memorized the slope of his cheekbone

like it’s my own.

She actually gave me a stack of old family photographs and some of my dad’s paintings earlier this week. I cried the first night I looked through them.

Now I paint them the photographs. It feels like a small way to keep them here when I know they’ve all left this life.

My therapist says painting is a healthy outlet. That it’s good for me to have something to do with my hands, something that helps me process the sadness and the heat that still lingers under my skin from time to time.

The ache of a breakup, the frustration of a body that still wants instead of processing.

So I paint. And I forget, for a little while, that the world is bigger than this canvas. It feels good to create, to have something that’s just mine.

A soft knock breaks the silence, and I smile.

“Come in,” I say, turning from the canvas.

The door creaks open and Zaid leans against the frame, arms crossed, head tilted slightly

as he watches me.

“You’ve got paint, everywhere,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement.

“Occupational hazard,” I tease, smiling.

1/4

A Year

He steps into the room and closes the door behind him, his footsteps soft as he

approaches me. His fingers reach out, gently, as he brushes the pad of his thumb across

my cheek.

My stomach twists, and I lean into his touch. It ignites me, calms me, and sets me on fire

all at the same time.

“You have no idea what time it is, do you?”

I straighten in my seat and blink at him.

He smiles softly, his eyes shining as he traces the curves of my eyes. He cups my face,

fingers curling lightly around my jaw, his touch so familiar now it feels like the only thing keeping me here.

My breath turns heavy, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “What time is it?”

“Six,” he says.

I blink again, startled. “Shit.”

I leap to my feet, nearly knocking over my water jar in the process. “We have to leave. I

need to shower, I need to, ugh, my hair.”

Zaid laughs, warm and completely unbothered. He doesn’t rush me, just watches as I start peeling off my paint splattered shirt and hopping out of the room, already halfway to the

bathroom.

“You’re welcome for the reminder,” he calls after me.

I glance back just once, catching him leaning in my doorway. He’s still smiling, and the look on his face makes my chest do something light and unfamiliar. Like he could stay like that forever, watching me run around like a maniac, and be perfectly happy.

It’s forty–five minutes before we’re in his car, music playing low as we drive through the evening light. I keep sneaking glances at him, and he keeps pretending not to notice.

Elena’s house smells like rosemary and something buttery when we walk in. Dinner’s already set. She waves us in, kissing both our cheeks before settling into her chair.

We eat slow. Zaid and I leaning into each other as we tell Elena about our week. The

3:25 pm L