Page 7 of My Only (My First, My Last)

H assani

“Hassani, would you get up?”

Ayla’s voice was soft, but I could hear the smile behind it.

I glanced up from my sketchbook, watching her at the kitchen counter, reaching for ingredients, and got distracted.

By her.

By the way those soft, round hips moved as she stretched just a little too far.

“Got me over here doing all the work.”

“Lies,” I teased, my attention split between her and the lines I was drafting on the page.

It was our first night in the house I had designed… and I was still sketching.

We were supposed to move in right after I proposed years ago. That had been the plan—get engaged, set a date, and start our life here.

But my business had taken off faster than expected.

One project had turned into three.

Deadlines had dictated our lives, and the house we had dreamed of living in had sat empty.

Until now.

Our first night under its roof, and I already knew… we belonged here

I skimmed my pencil lightly along the page, leaving behind the faintest ghost of a line. A guideline, just enough to map out the structure before I added detail.

I was sketching a built-in spice rack next to the stove.

Watching Ayla set up to cook, straining just a little to reach the high shelves, had given me the idea.

It would be a useful addition.

Plus, any excuse to draw, I was taking it.

The world always went silent when I sat with my sketchbook.

There was something grounding about putting pencil to paper, shaping the world exactly how I envisioned it.

Ayla peeked over her shoulder and giggled.

“What are you drawing anyway?”

“A built-in spice rack,” I told her. “It would look good by the stove.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Baby, you already designed the house.” She moved toward the fridge, her slippers sweeping across the stone floors. “Are we adding to it already? This is literally our first night. We just got here.”

I grinned, my pencil gliding effortlessly along the page. “A masterpiece is never truly finished, A. Boogie.”

She rolled her eyes playfully before making her way back to the counter.

Boxes were everywhere, evidence of a life half-unpacked, a home just beginning to be lived in.

I had some time off between projects at my firm, so I had agreed to spend the next two days helping Ayla unpack. Starting tonight, after dinner.

“Can you get me the dried basil from this shelf up here?”

I glanced up.

“I put it up there earlier and didn’t realize the recipe called for it.”

I smirked, pointing my pencil at her. “See? That’s why we need a built-in spice rack…” I arched a brow. “And a step stool, shorty.”

She turned, her smirk matching mine. “No, we don’t.” She tapped the counter next. “Because I got a tall husband for that.”

I snorted a laugh.

“Plus, I don’t need a step stool.” She gestured at one of the kitchen chairs. “I could just use that… like I did earlier. Like I always did when I lived alone.”

My smile vanished. “Hell nah.” I stood from my seat, rounding the island to get to her. “If I had seen you standing on that chair, I would’ve stopped you. I’m not having my woman climbing on furniture to reach shelves.”

Ayla watched me approach, her lips twitching like she wanted to argue, but didn’t.

I stopped in front of her, reaching up easily and grabbing the dried basil off the shelf.

I handed it to her.

“Baby, I swear,” I warned, “I better not see you standing on things to reach for stuff.”

“Or what?” She grinned. “What are you going to do?”

“What am I—” I closed the space between us, backing her up against the counter. “You wanna fuck around and find out?”

She dropped her head back laughing while playfully pushing me back.

I joined her at the counter a moment later, chopping vegetables while she stirred the sweet Thai chili sauce.

Together, we moved in rhythm, a quiet dance in our brand-new kitchen.

“Can you pass the peas?” Ayla asked, standing over the stove.

I grinned. “Like we used to do?”

She turned, instantly bursting into laughter.

Her laugh was infectious, and I couldn’t help joining in.

I handed her the peas, and we kept working in easy silence—until she started humming.

I knew the tune right away.

It was the song from that Thanksgiving episode on Martin —the same one I’d just brought up. A play on that J.B.’s joint, “Pass the Peas.”

Her humming turned into singing, and before I knew it, we were both singing out loud, voices bouncing off the bare walls.

We were loud, off-key, and laughing so hard we could barely breathe.

We probably sounded ridiculous to the neighbors.

But I didn’t care.

Because this? This was home.

And I was there in that moment, but also somewhere else.

Watching Ayla, my wife, in the home that had once been nothing more than a sketch.

A dream from architecture camp decades ago.

Back then, my instructor had asked us to design houses for the future.

And on a whim, I had said, “I want to design a house for my future wife.”

It had been just an idea.

A fantasy.

Some rough blueprints in an old sketchbook.

Nothing more.

I never actually thought it would become something real.

But now, here we were.

Standing inside a place that had only ever existed in my head, now brought to life in stone, wood, and glass.

Our home.

Overhead, in the kitchen—just like in the other rooms of the house—was a skylight, this one wider than the others.

A view of the night sky stretched above us.

The stars Ayla always wanted to see were hidden tonight, but even still, the sky was a sight to behold.

She shot a glance over her shoulder as she moved toward the fridge.

Ayla smiled then winked. And just like that, my heart stuttered.

A wave of completion washed over me.

Like everything in my life had finally clicked into place.

Like nothing else mattered.

And I wondered… Did Ayla feel it too?

This weightless, perfect moment?

Because the shit felt too good to be mine alone.

After filling our bellies, we sprawled out in the living room, talking about everything. From furniture shopping to where we would take our first vacation as husband and wife.

Then, we decided to spend just an hour unpacking a couple of boxes.

We figured we could spread it out over the week to keep it from feeling overwhelming.

Ayla cupped her phone, scrolling through a playlist she’d put together.

“Make sure it’s loud,” I told her. “‘Cause how else do you listen to ‘90s R&B?”

“See? That’s why you’re my hubby-lover-friend.” She giggled. “Because that’s the only way to listen to it.”

Soon, the melody of a familiar hit filled our sound space.

“Yo, A,” I said, lifting my head. “You know you got the most stuff here, right?”

She kissed her teeth and waved me off.

“You do,” I insisted, standing to my feet. “I’m on the third box, and most of it is your stuff.”

“ Mm-hmm …”

“Three full boxes of books,” I said, crouching down to keep unpacking. “I’m swimming in memoirs, romance novels, biographies, and self-help books over here.”

“Hassani, I know you are not talking.”

I looked up just as Ayla held up a pair of my Jordans.

“These are the fifteenth Jordan sneakers I’ve pulled from a box. Fif teenth .”

I did a double take when I realized she was holding up my Concord 11s.

“Aye, aye.” I jumped to my feet. “Don’t hold them like that. Got the soles too close to the white upper, baby.”

She pursed her lips, eyes amused.

I gently took them from her. “These are considered the most beautiful Jordans ever made.” I marveled at them, taking in the sleek black patent leather, the crisp white upper. “You gotta hold them with respect, you know? Talk nice to ‘em.”

Ayla snorted a laugh as I set them down beside her. “Well, then, talk nice to my books because the same love you got for your sneakers is the same love I have for my books. But double. Got it?”

I grinned, hands raised in surrender. “Aight. I got it.”

Just then, the playlist restarted.

A new song.

A familiar song.

The opening melody hit the air, and we froze.

Case’s “Happily Ever After.”

Our song.

The song we had danced to during our first dance as husband and wife.

The one our steel drum band had played flawlessly at our wedding.

Slowly, we turned to each other.

The melody moved toward the first verse.

Neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to.

I just held out my hand and she took it without hesitation.

I pulled her into me, her body molding perfectly against mine as I slid an arm around her waist.

She melted into me, the way she always did, as we swayed to the song.

We danced in the middle of our oversized living room, surrounded by unopened boxes.

None of it mattered.

Not with the woman of my dreams pressed against me.

Not with our hearts beating in sync.

If perfection were a moment, it would be this.

Because in that wordless time, I heard everything. And I felt even more.

Our laughter faded into something deeper.

Something so damn beautiful.

A reminder that Ayla wasn’t just my best friend anymore. She was my partner for life.

I lowered my head, pressing a kiss to her curls, inhaling her scent.

I told her, “I wanna build you something as beautiful as this house one day.”

She smiled, her arms tightening around my neck. “That’s nice, but baby, I’m not trying to be married to a workaholic. How long would something as beautiful as this take to build?”

“Doesn’t matter how long.”

I ran a hand through her coils and curls, my touch lingering.

“It can take however long. I’ll always have time for you—and if I ever run out, I’ll make more.”

So many nights I had prayed for this moment.

Prayed for another chance with her.

For a way to make up for the years we lost after we stopped speaking post-college graduation.

Once I had moved to Washington, D.C., I had thought that was it. That we were done. But we weren’t. And I was so grateful for how things had turned out.

Ayla pulled back, lifting her head as the song came to an end.

Our eyes met, and I kissed her.

Deeply.

She sighed softly against my lips, her body pressing closer.

Her soft moans did it for me.

The way they always did.

Evident by the firming happening in my jeans.

Ayla giggled against my lips as the song faded into another R&B classic. “You are so damn easy.”

I tipped my head back in a laugh, making her laugh too. Before she could say anything else, I scooped her up into my arms.

She squealed in response. “Hassani!”

“It’s time for bed.”

She pointed around us. “Aren’t we unpacking?”

“Nah, we’re done,” I replied with a smirk. “As I’m sure you felt.”

Her eyes darkened for a second before she licked her lips and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go to bed.”

We stripped down and got ready for bed, me in just boxers, Ayla in a cami and panties.

Standing at our his-and-her sinks, we brushed our teeth, sneaking quick glances at each other in the mirror.

Every time our eyes met, we smiled around our toothbrushes.

When I wasn’t focusing on her, my gaze moved around the master bathroom. Everything—the shower stall, the freestanding tub, the matching sinks—had been designed with intention.

I had wanted us to have our own space but still be together, like we were now.

I looked at Ayla again, and she looked back at me.

I started brushing faster.

She squinted her eyes, instantly catching on, and picked up speed.

“Oh, you’re accepting the challenge?” I mumbled.

“Accepting?” she teased. “Baby, I’m already winning.”

At that point, we were flying through our routine, both of us laughing—until she had to hunch over the sink to spit out her toothpaste before she swallowed it by accident.

“I won,” she declared, spitting once more.

“No, you didn’t.” I laughed. “The only reason you spit was because you were about to choke.”

She grabbed one of the towels folded on the vanity, giggling. “A win is a win.”

Minutes later, we settled into bed.

Ayla adjusted herself under the covers, reclining against her pillow, and I just watched her.

Studied her.

For so many nights, I had wanted to be in her bed full-time.

From the time we started dating to when I proposed, we had maintained separate apartments.

I had moved from D.C. and gotten my own place in Manhattan, always holding onto the dream of us being here, in this house, in this bed, together.

Now, it was real.

Her hair was wrapped in a silk floral headscarf, her beautiful legs tucked under the covers, her breathing steady as she settled in.

She looked comfortable. At peace. At home.

Something about that warmed me in a way nothing else could.

I was living my dream.

For so long, I had imagined what life with her would have been like if she had said yes when I asked her to give us a chance on our college graduation day.

Now, here we were.

This was it.

I hadn’t just imagined it anymore.

I was in my dream.

Ayla turned her head and smiled at me. “What?”

I almost brushed it off but decided not to.

“I dreamed this,” I said, a slow smile pulling at my lips.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she turned more toward me. “Dreamed what?”

“You, here. In this bed beside me, under the skylight above us.” I glanced up, then back at her. “I dreamed this.”

Ayla’s hand moved to my chest, her fingertips brushing over my skin. “And what exactly did we do in this dream?”

I grinned, sliding my arm around her waist. My palm smoothed over her round ass, my grip tightening as I pulled her closer.

“I pulled you close, just like this.”

She giggled, lifting her leg to drape over my hip. “ Mm-hmm …?”

I ran my fingers along the smooth brown curve of her calf.

“Then I kissed you…” I leaned in, brushing my lips against hers. “Like this.”

Ayla moaned against me, the sound shooting straight through me, making my dick twitch in response.

She parted her lips, her breath mingling with mine. “What else?”

I groaned, rolling her beneath me, her thighs parting instantly to make room for me.

Our lips stayed locked as our tongues tangled.

I reached between us, pulling my erection through the slit in my boxers, then moved the seat of her panties aside.

“Then I slid in slow,” I sighed as I sank into her warmth, feeling her walls mold around me. “ Just like this.”

She gasped, her fingers flying to the back of my head as she rolled her hips, meeting my first thrust at just the right moment.

“I love your dream, baby,” she sighed, arching under me.

“I love you.”

I sank deeper, losing myself in her heat, in her softness, in the way her body responded to mine.

Losing myself in the certainty that this—us—would always be enough.

That this moment was forever. But forever has a way of slipping through your fingers when you least expect it.