Enemies in Embrace: Episode 4 - Love in the Line of Fire

 

 “We made love on the rug beside the balcony door, with the wind sneaking in through the cracks and the candles flickering like witnesses. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t romantic. It was desperate.”

By Julia M Cross

 

The first time I saw Yousef come home covered in blood, I dropped the dish I was drying. It shattered like glass was supposed to—as if to mimic what had just happened to my heartbeat.

“It’s not mine,” he said quickly, wiping his hands on a towel he grabbed from the kitchen chair.

But the red had already seeped through his white coat and onto his neck. The copper scent clung to him like a curse. I wanted to believe him, but the truth was, in this place, blood belonged to everyone.

He leaned over the sink and scrubbed. I didn’t ask. Not yet. I needed him to find his breath first. There was a time, weeks ago, when our biggest worry was if the shower water would turn hot before we ran out of electricity. Now, the air was thick with gunpowder, and even our silence had started to carry shrapnel.

After a minute, he looked at me—tired, angry, heartbroken.

“A boy,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Twelve. Rubber bullet to the head. They said he was throwing stones. He died on the operating table. His father screamed my name like I had killed him myself.”

I walked to him slowly and placed my hand over his. “You tried.”

He nodded. “But trying doesn’t bring anyone back.”

That night, we didn’t eat. The lentils sat on the stove untouched. He showered for almost an hour, and when he crawled into bed, he didn’t reach for me. I curled around him anyway, as if my body could protect him from dreams.

But the dreams came anyway.

In them, he called out names I didn’t recognize—Rami, Jamal, Layth—ghosts of lives interrupted. I whispered Hebrew psalms into the dark. Not because I thought they’d save him, but because they were all I had left of home.

The next morning, he left before dawn. I stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks that looked like rivers separating two continents. We were floating between them—tethered by love, but drifting apart.

I went downstairs to check the mailbox and found a note pinned to our door. It was written in English, scribbled in a rough hand:

“Traitor.”

No name. No signature. Just one word. Heavy as a tombstone.

I stared at it for a full minute before pulling it down. I didn’t show it to Yousef. I didn’t need to. I already knew what he’d say.

“This is our life now.”

I wasn’t ready for that answer. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be.

Later that week, I received a message through an old email I hadn’t checked since Miami. It was from my father. Three words.

“Are you alive?”

No greeting. No warmth. Just that question—cold, surgical. Like he had already made peace with the idea that I might not be.

I didn’t answer. What could I say?

Yes, I’m alive. But I’m no longer your daughter. I am someone else’s wife. Someone else’s war.

It rained that night. The streets filled with muddy water, and the power cut out for five hours. I lit every candle in the apartment and waited for Yousef. He came home soaked, his eyes bloodshot. He had lost another patient. A girl this time. Nine years old.

He didn’t speak. Just pulled me into him and buried his face in my neck.

We made love on the rug beside the balcony door, with the wind sneaking in through the cracks and the candles flickering like witnesses. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t romantic. It was desperate. Like we were trying to outrun death with every kiss.

Afterward, we lay on the floor, tangled in each other’s limbs.

“She had green barrettes in her hair,” he said suddenly. “I remember because they matched the blood on the gauze.”

I closed my eyes. “Yousef…”

“I can’t save them,” he whispered. “No matter how fast I move. No matter how hard I try.”

“You save me,” I said.

He didn’t respond.

The next day, I went to the market alone. It was a risk—we both knew it—but I needed to feel like I existed outside this apartment, outside the role of hiding wife. I wore a long dress and a hijab, though my hair still peeked out at the forehead. I tried to walk like I belonged.

The butcher called me “sister.” The fruit vendor didn’t smile.

I bought tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and flatbread. On the way home, a boy no older than fifteen shouted something at me in Arabic I couldn’t understand. A group of men laughed. One spat in the dirt near my feet. My hands tightened around the plastic bags, and I walked faster.

When I reached the apartment, my fingers trembled too much to unlock the door. I had to wait for my breathing to return before I could push it open.

That night, I didn’t tell Yousef what happened. He had enough sorrow without adding mine.

But something inside me hardened.

I started studying Arabic again. Not just phrases—but the rhythm, the grammar, the idioms. I wanted to understand not just what people said, but how they thought.

I also called my mother.

It rang once. Twice.

Then her voice: “Leah?”

I didn’t speak. My mouth was open, but nothing came.

“Is it really you?”

“I’m safe,” I finally said. “Don’t try to find me.”

“Where are you?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Are you with him?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

The silence on her end was louder than anything I’d ever heard.

“You’ve broken your father,” she said.

“He broke me first.”

“You’re destroying your life.”

“I’m saving it.”

“Do you think love survives in war?”

I didn’t answer.

“Eliav still cries when your name is mentioned.”

“Tell him I’m sorry.”

“I won’t.”

Then the line went dead.

I placed the phone on the table and stared at it like it had grown fangs. I hated how much her voice still pierced me. Like she owned part of my guilt.

The next day, Yousef brought me an envelope.

“What’s this?” I asked.

He sat down, lips pressed tight. “It’s from a journalist I met in the ER. He wants to interview us. A story about love across enemy lines.”

I blinked. “Is that safe?”

“Nothing is safe anymore.”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know.”

I opened the envelope. Inside was a letter written in Hebrew and Arabic. It wasn’t sensational. Just curious. Respectful. The kind of thing that made you want to believe there were still people who told stories not to provoke, but to understand.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

That night, we went to bed early. It wasn’t about passion. It was about finding each other again—under the noise, the grief, the fatigue.

He kissed me slowly, like he was remembering me. I touched his chest and felt the heartbeat that had become my favorite sound.

“I don’t know how long we can do this,” I whispered.

“I don’t either.”

“But I still want to try.”

“So do I.”

We made love quietly, as the rain returned, tapping against the windows like soft fingers. It wasn’t about desire. It was about survival. Like two people holding onto a raft in a storm.

When we finished, I whispered the only phrase I knew in his language.

Ana bhibak.

His eyes glistened.

“I know,” he said.

Outside, another checkpoint burned in the distance. Helicopters roared over Nablus like angry gods. Somewhere across the city, someone was grieving. Someone else was screaming.

But inside our tiny apartment, with cracked tiles and a broken door lock, we had a moment of peace.

And in this place, peace was worth everything.

 

 

From the romance series by Julia M Cross. Next episode releases Saturday at 8 PM.