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After moving to Pakistan with his family, months of waiting for him, and nearing grief with his absence, Naima found herself frozen at the visage in her front door. Torn, dirty, and probably rank clothes were draped over her husband's torso, and his pants, nice no longer, had dust and tears littered over the beige slacks. Dried blood dotted his face–some in his light shirt as well. But, despite the tattered, beaten form he had returned to her with, he carried in his left hand a pop of color: a bouquet. And they were her favorite. Naima could only gape.
“Hello, my love,” Ali's voice whispered in longing. Those words rang out in her ears far longer than they had been spoken. After the moment of shock and relishing in that voice flooding her veins, she was finally uprooted from her spot.
She hit him hard, crushing the sweet smelling flowers between them as her arms were flung around Ali's neck. His right arm instantly caught her ‘round the waist and pulled her into him. He buried his nose deeply into her shoulder, breathing her in after so long being separated. Fingers grasped at the side of his wife’s dress, holding her even tighter, taking in their closeness.
“Ali,” she muttered desperately into his ear. Her arms held him just as tightly, hands clasping in his thick, curly hair.
“Naima,” Ali said. His voice was just as pleading. “My love, my love.” He scrunched his eyes shut as burning tears slipped down his cheeks and soaked into Naima's nightclothes.
Ali and Naima stayed this way for quite a while, holding each other tightly with no concern for the passing of time. At some point, Ali had managed the door shut behind them. Naima rocked the both of them. Her fingers combed through his hair and massaged his scalp as his tears fell silently. Naima did not let go until Ali reluctantly pulled away.
Naima's husband looked into her eyes, her face, as if he was drinking her in for the first time all over again. His fingers rose to gently guide her chin; he leaned forward to plant his lips on her forehead and the tops of her cheeks. Cool fingers grazed his face. Naima placed her palms on Ali's cheeks, and both of their eyes shut as she pulled his forehead to hers.
An overwhelming sense of calm flooded Ali. He had not realized just how tense he was until he had Naima in his grasp. That was her strong suit.
“Where?... Don't you ever, ever, leave me again,” Naima said harshly. Ali reached around her back again and tugged her close; the flowers were discarded on the floor this time.
“Never, ever, again.” Ali pulled away to lock with her gaze. “I swear to you, my Naima.”
A nod–soft at first, then more swift–and Naima's arms latched around his neck once more. She held only a short time before moving back and sliding a hand down to Ali's. He squeezed softly as he examined her round face. No more worry existed in Ali's world, no fear, not when he was looking at her.
Naima pulled him into a door on the left wall. Their bed awaited them, but Ali first stopped beside it, at his son's. He gazed down into the basket that cradled his only child. Eagerness told him to raise the baby to his chest and pepper kisses all over his face and hands and feet, but instinct told him that Naima would not be very happy with that. He would wait. Ali only brushed a finger over his baby boy's cheek, then followed his wife to the bathroom she had been leading him to.
Using a washcloth, Naima wiped down Ali's filth and exchanged his clothes for new, nicer smelling ones. Burning the smelly cloth appeared in conversation and Ali laughed at his wife's disgust.
After caring for her love, Naima tugged him to bed with her. Surely he needed it. Naima lay down first and Ali joined her swiftly, scooping her into his arms and burying his nose into her hair this time. She pushed next to him, relishing in the fingertips caressing her arm and Ali's head so close to hers. Her arm came to rest on his side. He smiled gently, keeping her close. Neither of them truly believed they would sleep tonight, but that was alright as long as they were each other's company.