Enemies in Embrace: Episode 5 – Love Across Checkpoints

By Julia M Cross

“We walked out hand in hand, legally married under Palestinian law, though my own country would never recognize it. Still, I felt it—something shifting in the air, like the ground had acknowledged us, like history blinked.”

 

The morning wind carried the smell of cumin and diesel through the cracked window. I was sitting on the floor, knees hugged to my chest, listening to the water drip from the broken faucet in the kitchen. Each drop was a ticking clock. We had two days before we vanished from this life.

Yousef wasn’t back yet.

He’d left early, before the call to prayer, saying only that he needed to see someone—an old friend of his father’s who could arrange a safe passage to Bethlehem. It was the only place left where we could blend in, at least for a while. But in my chest, fear settled like fog. What if they caught him? What if they tortured him for answers I couldn’t give? What if they found out about me—about us?

I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. I tried to drink tea, but it tasted like rust and regret.

The children from the building next door were playing soccer in the alley. One of them—maybe eight or nine—saw me through the broken blinds and paused. His ball rolled into the corner, but he didn’t move to fetch it. He just stared, curious. Or suspicious.

I closed the blinds.

Then I heard the keys.

I rushed to the door, flung it open, and threw my arms around him before he could even step inside.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He kissed my hair. “Yes. I’m okay.”

His coat smelled of old paper and cloves. He dropped a folder on the floor—thin, brown, tied with a red string.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Our new lives,” he said. “Temporary names. Contacts. A house near Manger Square. No neighbors. No questions.”

“Is it safe?”

He shrugged. “Safe doesn’t exist anymore. But it’s quiet. And that’s something.”

We sat on the floor, back against the wall, fingers laced like puzzle pieces. For a long time, we didn’t speak.

Then he said, “I want to marry you before we leave.”

My heart stopped.

“What?”

He turned, eyes serious. “Tonight. I don’t want to keep calling you my partner, my girlfriend, my ‘sister’ in public. I want to call you what you are.”

My throat closed.

“But we have nothing,” I whispered.

He touched my cheek. “I don’t need anything but you.”

It was the most unromantic setting imaginable—chipped tiles, flickering lights, a kettle that squealed without boiling—but in his eyes, I saw something holy. He didn’t need gold or candles. He needed truth. And I was ready to give it.

We found an old imam in the outskirts of Balata refugee camp. He didn’t ask many questions, though his eyes lingered on my face longer than I liked.

“She’s Israeli,” Yousef said simply.

The imam nodded, as if he’d seen worse.

He scribbled our names in a thin black register and mumbled a prayer. He tied a piece of green thread around my wrist. It was tradition, he said. For protection. I didn’t argue.

There were no witnesses except two boys playing marbles outside the door and the man who brought us sweet mint tea in chipped glasses.

But when Yousef said, “I do,” my knees nearly gave out.

And when I said, “I do,” his eyes glistened.

We walked out hand in hand, legally married under Palestinian law, though my own country would never recognize it.

Still, I felt it—something shifting in the air, like the ground had acknowledged us. Like history blinked.

We made love that night as husband and wife in the most sacred silence. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, aching, reverent. His hands memorized me again. My body answered him without shame or doubt.

After, I lay in his arms, listening to the city breathe below us.

“I’m scared,” I whispered.

“So am I,” he said.

“What if they find us?”

“Then we run again.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then we make them regret it.”

His words weren’t angry. They were calm. Cold. Like steel left in the sun.

“You’re changing,” I said.

He turned to me. “So are you.”

It was true. I no longer jumped at every knock. I no longer cried over my parents’ silence. I no longer dreamed of piano recitals or cherry blossoms in Tel Aviv.

I dreamed of survival. Of keeping Yousef alive. Of our future children growing up with two names and one truth: that love had carved them out of war.

The next morning, we packed everything we could into two small backpacks. I wrapped the thread the imam had tied around my wrist and pressed it between two pages of the Quran he’d given us. A holy relic. A secret talisman.

We left the apartment at dawn.

No goodbyes.

No glances back.

Just the long walk to the taxi stand on Al-Quds Street.

The driver didn’t speak. He barely looked at us. Yousef handed him the money and a slip of paper. The man nodded and pulled away from the curb.

I watched the city melt into hills. Olive trees gave way to checkpoints. Graffiti gave way to silence. The sky turned silver.

Then the car slowed.

Ahead, a roadblock. Israeli soldiers.

Yousef gripped my hand.

“Stay calm,” he whispered.

The soldier knocked on the window. The driver rolled it down.

“Papers.”

Yousef handed them over.

The soldier flipped through them, then looked at me.

“Name?”

I froze. “Leila,” I said. My voice was too high. My accent too clean.

“Where are you going?”

“Bethlehem.”

“Why?”

“Honeymoon,” Yousef answered. “We just married.”

The soldier stared at us. His eyes fell to the thin gold band on my finger. Then to the Quran sticking slightly from my bag.

He handed the papers back.

“Go.”

The car lurched forward.

We didn’t speak until we were ten kilometers away.

Then I turned to Yousef. “I thought we were going to die.”

“We still might,” he said, trying to smile. “But not today.”

Bethlehem welcomed us with dusty arms.

The safe house was a crumbling villa near the edge of town. Pink bougainvillea spilled over the broken walls. The gate creaked like an old man sighing.

Inside, it smelled of cumin and old fabric. The floors were cool. The windows were barred.

But we were together. And that made it home.

That first night, we lit candles and played Arabic music on an old radio. We danced barefoot, slowly, clinging to each other like life rafts.

Outside, the city prepared for Christmas. Lights shimmered over Manger Square. Tourists took photos. Priests chanted in Latin.

But in our house, it was only us—Leila and Noor.

Darkness and light.

We made love on the cold floor, wrapped in a blanket that smelled of cloves. His breath warmed my neck. My hands gripped his back. I whispered my fears into his shoulder.

“I don’t care about war,” I said. “I care about us.”

He kissed me, slow and deep. “That’s why I married you.”

Later, as we lay under the thin curtain of sleep, I asked, “Do you think they’ll ever accept us?”

He stared at the ceiling. “Maybe not. But our children will.”

The next morning, the first crack appeared.

Yousef’s phone buzzed.

A message from a friend.

“Eliav is looking for you,” he read aloud. “He’s in Bethlehem.”

My heart stopped. My breath caught like glass in my throat.

“Here?” I whispered.

Yousef nodded.

“What does he want?”

He turned to me, eyes dark. “He wants to take back what he lost.”

We stared at each other.

The honeymoon was over.

And the real war had just begun.

 

 

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

 

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.

 

 

Enemies in Embrace: Episode 3 – The Line We Crossed

“He held my hand during the turbulence, his fingers gentle but firm, like they understood this flight wasn’t just a journey—it was a line crossed. When we landed in Istanbul, the airport buzzed with languages I didn’t recognize, and for the first time in my life, I felt invisible.”

By Julia M Cross

 

I never knew silence could feel so loud until I boarded that plane with Yousef. It was a Turkish Airways flight with a layover in Istanbul, and then a red-eye into Amman. We didn’t speak for most of the journey. Not because there was nothing to say—but because every word felt like it might shatter the delicate spell holding us together.

I watched the ocean disappear beneath the wing of the plane and knew my life as I had known it—my family, my country, my future—was dissolving below the clouds. I wasn’t just running from Eliav or from my parents. I was running from the person they wanted me to be. The girl who played piano at her cousin’s bat mitzvah. The girl who ironed her white dress for Yom Ha’atzmaut. The girl who never questioned which side of the wall she was born on.

Now, I was someone else.

A woman.

A rebel.

A fugitive of the heart.

Yousef held my hand during the turbulence, his fingers gentle but firm, like they understood this flight wasn’t just a journey—it was a line crossed. When we landed in Istanbul, the airport buzzed with languages I didn’t recognize, and for the first time in my life, I felt invisible. Nobody cared who I was. Not Leah Ben-Ami. Not daughter of David and Ruth. Not fiancée of a future colonel in the IDF. Just another woman walking beside a man.

At the hotel, we made love in silence, bodies tangled on crisp white sheets that smelled of bleach and rose soap. I traced the line of his spine with my fingers and wondered if I would ever be able to go home. If I even had one anymore.

“Are you scared?” he asked, brushing my hair off my face as I lay with my head on his chest.

“Terrified,” I said honestly. “But I think I’d be more scared if I let you go.”

He kissed my forehead. “Then don’t.”

The next morning, we wandered through the Grand Bazaar, pretending we were tourists. He bought me a scarf the color of crushed pomegranate and wrapped it around my neck, the way he said his mother used to wear hers when she was young. We ate grilled fish by the Bosphorus and sat on stone steps watching a calligrapher turn names into art. Istanbul smelled of history and cardamom. We held hands in public and smiled at each other like the world was ours, even though we knew it wasn’t.

We crossed the Allenby Bridge two days later.

I knew the moment the Israeli officers scanned my passport that something in me changed. Not in my records. In my eyes. I saw suspicion flicker in their glance—not because I was doing something illegal, but because they could sense that I wasn’t the same girl who had left Ben-Gurion two weeks earlier. My voice was steady. My gaze didn’t lower. I was no longer a girl on vacation. I was something they didn’t have a word for.

They waved me through. The uniformed men nodded at Yousef without a smile. He didn’t speak a word until we were past them and into the Palestinian Authority-controlled zone.

“That was easy,” I said, trying to sound light.

“It only looks easy,” he replied. “You haven’t lived it yet.”

He wasn’t being cruel. He was preparing me.

Ramallah was nothing like I expected.

I had seen it only in news footage—burning tires, black smoke, teenagers with slingshots, walls coated in graffiti. But the Ramallah Yousef showed me was different. It smelled like za’atar and cinnamon. It echoed with music—ouds and dabke drums and the soft buzz of Arabic on every corner. There were women in jeans and hijabs. Men smoking argileh under blue tarps. Children kicking plastic balls between potholes. It felt like chaos held together by rhythm.

He took me to a small apartment on the edge of the city, near the old olive groves. It had one bedroom, a narrow kitchen, and a balcony that overlooked the hills of Al-Bireh. We could see the settlements in the distance—white boxes on stolen hills—but we didn’t talk about them. Not yet. We weren’t ready.

“This will be our home,” he said, turning the key in the rusted lock.

I stepped inside, dropped my bag on the floor, and looked around.

There was no television. No Wi-Fi. No hot water unless you boiled it. The faucet leaked, the floor tiles were chipped, and the only piece of art was a faded poster of Umm Kulthum.

But the light fell through the windows like honey. The floor was clean. The bed was made.

It was enough.

That night, he made me lentil soup with lemon and toasted bread. We sat on the floor, bowls in our laps, laughing about the first time we met by the Fontainebleau pool.

“I thought you were married,” I told him.

He looked up. “Why?”

“Because you had that serious face. Like someone who’d already suffered.”

He didn’t laugh. “I guess I have.”

I reached out and touched his hand. “Tell me.”

He didn’t pull away. “My cousin was killed last year. He was sixteen. He threw a rock at a jeep and they shot him. Two bullets. Chest.”

I stared at him. “I’m so sorry.”

He nodded. “His mother still sets a place for him at dinner.”

I wanted to say something—anything—that could fill the emptiness between us. But grief is a wall you can’t climb for someone. You have to wait at the base, quietly.

That night, I held him as he trembled in his sleep. His dreams were full of whispers. In Arabic, in English. Sometimes in tears.

For the first week, we didn’t leave the apartment except for groceries. We had to be careful. The neighbors were curious. A few gave us looks I didn’t like. One old woman spat on the ground when I passed her on the stairwell. I understood her. To her, I was the enemy. To some of them, I wasn’t a lover. I was a symbol of betrayal.

We hung new curtains. We bought rugs from the market. We danced barefoot on the tiles when the electricity came back on after a storm. I played Hebrew lullabies on my phone, low enough not to be heard through the walls. Sometimes I caught Yousef humming along without realizing it.

And then the letters started arriving.

Not from my parents—they still didn’t know where I was. Not from Eliav—he had gone quiet.

These letters came from Yousef’s mother.

Folded neatly. Written in careful Arabic script that looked like it was trying to be polite and threatening at the same time.

He never let me read them, but I saw his face after opening each one. Pale. Hardened. Jaw clenched.

“She wants to meet you,” he finally said one afternoon.

I was peeling cucumbers on the balcony.

“Are you serious?”

“She said she’s willing to come to Nablus. To our home.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know.”

I noticed he didn’t smile for the rest of that day.

The meeting happened three days later.

She came with two other women—his aunt and older sister. They wore black. All three. Not for mourning, but for judgment. They smelled of rose water and disapproval. Their shoes clicked against the tile like accusations.

When I opened the door, she didn’t smile. She didn’t offer a greeting.

She just looked me up and down like she was measuring me for a funeral.

“I’m Leah,” I said in Arabic, the only phrase I had mastered besides ana bhibak.

She said nothing.

The aunt sniffed. The sister stared at my bare arms. I suddenly felt naked, exposed—not just in body, but in spirit. I folded my arms instinctively, as if I could cover my history.

Yousef appeared behind me, placed his hand on the small of my back.

“In our home,” he said. “You will respect her.”

His mother’s jaw tightened. “She is not your wife. She is your war.”

We sat in silence for ten minutes. Tea untouched. Cookies going stale. I could hear the clock ticking on the kitchen wall, each tick another reason why this would never be simple.

Finally, she spoke again. “You could have had any woman. Any Palestinian woman. And you chose this?”

Yousef didn’t flinch. “I chose her.”

“She’s a settler’s daughter.”

“She’s my wife.”

We weren’t married. Not yet. But I understood why he said it. To make it real. To claim something no one could take. In that moment, his words felt like a vow.

His mother stood abruptly. “Don’t bring her to my house. And don’t bring shame to our name.”

And then they were gone.

That night, he didn’t speak much. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling. The thunder rolled in from the distance like an omen.

“Do you regret it?” I asked.

He turned. “Do you?”

“No.”

He came over, pulled me into his lap. “Then let the world burn.”

We made love slowly. Like people who knew the fire was coming. Like two stars caught in each other’s orbit, doomed to collide.

Outside, a storm hit the hills. Lightning cracked over the refugee camps. The wind howled against the windows like a warning.

But inside, we were safe.

For now.

 

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

 

 

Enemies in Embrace: Episode 2 - I Left as a Daughter, I Returned as His

 

“He whispered my name like it was a secret he was discovering for the first time, and I kissed him like I was starving. That night, love didn’t feel holy—it felt dangerous, forbidden, and worth every sin.”

By Julia M Cross

 

I didn’t cry when I left him that morning. I didn’t beg for one more hour or even steal one last kiss. I just dressed in silence, folded my towel, slipped my sandals on, and walked out of the little inn without turning back. But as soon as the car rolled out of the gravel driveway and I caught my reflection in the passenger mirror, I saw it—my eyes. They looked different. Not just tired or swollen. They looked like they had just told a lie too big to fit in a suitcase.

By the time I returned to Fontainebleau, the lobby was buzzing with tourists and music. My parents were in the pool, laughing with a Jewish couple from Tel Aviv they’d met the day before. My mother raised her arms and waved, her bracelets clinking like tiny bells. I waved back and forced a smile so wide it hurt.

“How was your morning, motek?” she asked when I got to the poolside.

“I just walked around the shops. Bought a beach scarf.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

She looked at me carefully, as only mothers can. “Your cheeks are red.”

“Too much sun,” I said.

She nodded, but something in her eyes flickered. She didn’t press. She never did. She believed I was still her obedient daughter, the one who wore modest one-pieces and cried when Eliav went to military camp for three months. She didn’t know that her daughter had given herself to a man she wasn’t supposed to love. A man whose name she would spit out like sand if she ever heard it.

Yousef didn’t message me that day. I didn’t message him either. I told myself it was safer that way. That a little space would clear the fire in my head. But as I lay in bed that night, every muscle in my body remembered him. The weight of him. The way he whispered Leah in the dark, like he was discovering a secret each time.

The next morning, I went to the café near the beach alone. I brought a book, something thick and meaningless, but I didn’t open it. I kept glancing at the people walking by—tourists with cameras, boys selling sunglasses, old men dragging umbrellas through the sand. I watched each one, hoping he would appear.

And then he did.

He wore a white linen shirt, half-unbuttoned, and khaki pants. His sandals were dusty. His eyes looked like he hadn’t slept.

He didn’t sit down.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

I stood. “Then why didn’t you call?”

“Because I didn’t know if I should.”

I stared at him for a moment, then took his hand and pulled him into the alley behind the café. It smelled of garlic and seawater and rotting fruit. But I didn’t care.

I kissed him like I was starving.

When we pulled away, breathless, I pressed my forehead against his chest. “This is going to destroy everything.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want to stop.”

He kissed my hair. “Neither do I.”

That evening, we met again by the poolside bar. The place was dark and half-empty. We sat in a corner, drinking iced tea like strangers. When the bartender looked away, Yousef slid his hand onto my thigh under the table. I closed my eyes.

“We could run away,” I said, half-joking.

“To where?”

“New York. Paris. Somewhere nobody cares who we are.”

He looked at me. “You’re serious?”

I shrugged. “What if I am?”

“You’d leave everything?”

I looked into my glass. “I already have.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say I was crazy. He just nodded like he understood.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

I dropped my glass. It hit the table and rolled, spilling over my lap. But I didn’t care.

“Say it again,” I whispered.

“I love you, Leah.”

I had never heard those words sound like a rebellion before. I had never wanted to cry and scream and kiss someone at the same time. But I did all three that night, on the sand behind the resort, as waves crashed and the stars watched like voyeurs.

He took me back to the inn. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I undressed in front of him slowly, like a confession. He ran his hands over my skin, whispering Arabic words I didn’t understand but felt deep in my bones. We made love again—harder, needier, like two people trying to memorize each other in case they never got the chance again.

Afterward, I lay curled against him. He held me tightly, one hand on my hip, the other tracing circles on my shoulder.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“Something dangerous.”

“Are we insane?”

“Completely.”

I looked at the ceiling fan spinning above us. “I can’t go back to Eliav. I won’t.”

“Then come with me.”

I turned to face him. “To where?”

“My home. Ramallah.”

I sat up. “Are you serious?”

“My family owns a house there. My father is old-school, but he’s not cruel. My mother… she’s complicated. But we’ll find a way.”

I stared at him. “Yousef… I’m Israeli. I’m Jewish. You know what that means there.”

“I also know what it means to live without you.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to say yes and never look back. But I was scared.

Not of the bombs or the soldiers or the walls.

I was scared of what I would become in his world. A stranger. A ghost. A target.

But when he looked at me like that, none of it mattered.

“I’ll go,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“No. But I’m sure about you.”

He kissed me again. This time, it was slow and full of sorrow. Like he knew what was coming. Like he knew that love like ours was never built to last.

But we were ready to fight anyway.

The next morning, I told my parents I was flying back early. That I needed to prepare for university.

My mother fussed over my suitcase. My father handed me cash.

“Tell Eliav we said hi,” he smiled.

I nodded and kissed his cheek.

Then I disappeared.

 

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

 

Enemies in Embrace: Episode 1 - When an Israeli Loved a Palestinian

 

They say the sea remembers everything, but I think it only remembers what the world wants to forget—the moment a forbidden touch, a whispered name, and a reckless kiss rewrote two centuries of hate into four days of love.

By Julia M Cross

 

They say the sea remembers everything. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m sure it remembers the moment I saw him—Yousef Darwish—standing barefoot on the edge of the Fontainebleau pool deck, the Atlantic glinting behind him like a secret. He looked like he didn’t belong there. Not in that resort. Not among those sunburned tourists sipping daiquiris with umbrellas. He wasn’t trying to be seen. That’s what made him impossible to ignore.

I was lying on my stomach, the straps of my bikini tucked under to avoid tan lines, flipping through a Hebrew edition of Cosmopolitan I had no real interest in. The only reason I had agreed to this family vacation was because my parents insisted. My mother said it would “clean my mind before marriage.” As if the sea could wash away the doubts I carried about Captain Eliav Cohen. As if the smell of coconut lotion and American luxury could erase the weight of expectation pressing down on my chest.

I noticed him from the corner of my eye at first. Noticed, then stared. He wore no shirt, just navy swim trunks. His chest was lean, a constellation of tiny scars stretched across his left shoulder, and his dark curls fell loosely across his forehead. He looked up suddenly, as if sensing my gaze, and our eyes met.

I should have looked away. But I didn’t. I held his gaze longer than I should have, like a match held too close to paper.

He smiled.

It wasn’t the smile of a boy looking to flirt. It was the smile of a man who knew he shouldn’t be smiling at me but didn’t care.

That night, I dreamed of drowning in slow, warm waves. Of lips that weren’t Eliav’s. Of a voice I hadn’t yet heard calling my name like it had always belonged to him.

The next morning, I saw him again at the breakfast buffet. My parents had just gone off to the spa—some expensive Israeli couple’s massage thing—and I lingered behind with a grapefruit wedge and a stale croissant. He approached slowly, like someone sneaking up on a memory.

“Do you always stare at strangers by the pool?” he asked, his accent polished and deep, like Arabic softened by years of English movies and medical lectures.

I pretended to be unfazed. “Do you always confront women who are just minding their own breakfast?”

He grinned. “Only when they do it for ten minutes straight.”

I gave him a look. “Maybe I was just trying to figure out if you were famous. You looked like one of those actors in those Turkish dramas my mother watches.”

He tilted his head. “Do you like Turkish dramas?”

“No,” I said too quickly. “They’re full of fake passion and pointless conflict.”

“Unlike real life?”

I didn’t answer. He held out his hand. “Yousef.”

I hesitated. “Leah.”

“Leah,” he repeated slowly, like the name tasted different in his mouth. “That’s a beautiful name. Israeli?”

I nodded. “And you?”

“Palestinian.”

The word hung in the air between us like the scent of something burning. People around us kept eating waffles and sipping orange juice, oblivious. But for me, time stopped.

I should have stood up and walked away. I should have remembered what my father always said: The only good Arab is the one who doesn’t talk politics. But in that moment, I forgot my father. I forgot Eliav. I forgot the checkpoints and the rockets and the memories carved into concrete walls.

Instead, I reached out and shook his hand.

His palm was warm. His fingers lingered a little longer than they needed to.

“Do you want to take a walk on the beach?” he asked, like it was the most ordinary question in the world.

I hesitated.

And then I said yes.

We walked barefoot along the wet edge of the ocean, where the tide erased every step. He told me he was studying medicine in Boston, but he’d come here on a break, a rare chance to breathe outside Ramallah’s fences. I told him I was starting my first year at Hebrew University that fall, even though part of me wanted to run away to Paris and study art. He laughed. He said, “Why not run?”

And I didn’t have an answer.

We sat on the sand for hours. He didn’t try to touch me. He didn’t even ask if I had a boyfriend. We talked about the stupidest things—how American pizza tastes weird, how Hebrew sounds like someone arguing with their tongue, how he once got chased by a goose during a protest march. I laughed so hard I forgot to be suspicious.

When I stood to leave, he looked at me the way boys used to look at girls in black-and-white films.

“Can I see you again?”

I heard my mother’s voice in my head—Leah, you are not allowed to walk alone with strangers. Especially not with someone like him. But her voice sounded far away, like radio static on a broken station.

“Yes,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

That night, I looked at Eliav’s last message on my phone. Hope you’re having fun with your parents. We’ll talk soon. Love you. I stared at the word “love” for a long time, wondering how it could feel so heavy and so hollow at the same time.

By the third day, I was lying to my parents. Telling them I needed extra sleep. Sneaking away early. Leaving notes like a teenager, when I was supposed to be preparing for marriage. But each morning I woke with more hunger than guilt.

We spent our days walking the edge of the beach, and then, on the fourth day, he kissed me.

We were sitting under a lifeguard tower, watching the waves roll in like old men with slow stories. He turned to me, his hand brushing mine.

“Can I?”

I didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was urgent. Wild. Like he’d been holding his breath since birth and I was air. I kissed him back with everything I had been taught to repress. My fingers tangled in his hair, and he groaned softly against my mouth.

We pulled apart breathless.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“This is wrong.”

“I know.”

I kissed him again.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling fan in our hotel room and imagined what would happen if anyone found out. My father would disown me. My mother would sob and blame the Americans. Eliav would curse the day I was born. But beneath all the fear, a voice whispered: This is the most alive you’ve ever felt.

The next morning, I packed a small bag and left a note for my parents.

It read: I’m safe. I’ll be back tomorrow.

I met Yousef at sunrise by the back gate of the resort. He had borrowed a car from a friend in town. We drove for two hours north, to a quiet coastal inn near Palm Beach. No one would recognize us there.

The room was small. A single queen bed. A window with a view of palm trees.

He shut the door behind us.

We stood there for a moment, not speaking. Not touching.

Then I walked over to him and put my hands on his chest. He pulled me close, and we kissed like we had been waiting for years.

Our clothes came off slowly, deliberately, like pages turning in a book neither of us wanted to finish. I lay beneath him, breathless, terrified, and so full of want I thought I’d burn. He kissed my shoulder, my throat, my belly, whispering my name between each touch. I wrapped my legs around him and cried out as he entered me, gently, like a question he already knew the answer to.

We moved together like dancers who had never met but somehow knew the same rhythm.

Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, my head on his chest, his hand tracing lazy circles on my spine.

“I’ve never done anything like this,” I whispered.

“I have,” he said. “But not like this. Never like this.”

I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him.

Outside, the sun was already high. Our time was running out. But I didn’t care.

“I don’t want to go back,” I said.

“Then don’t.”

“But I have to.”

He didn’t argue. He just held me tighter.

I knew then that we were already past the point of no return.

Tomorrow, we’d both be different. Tomorrow, the world would start closing in.

But today, we were free. Today, the sea remembered us.

 

 

 

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

 

Latoya: Episode XLIV – The Final Episode

 

 

When I arrived in Baltimore, the city felt alive in the most intoxicating way—the kind of buzz that makes you feel like anything is possible. My first stop was the florist. I handpicked the freshest bouquet of roses, their petals soft and red as a lover’s whispered promise. For Tosha, nothing but the best. But I didn’t stop there. Next, I walked into the jeweler’s shop, the kind where the lighting makes gold glow like a dream you’re finally awake to. I chose a stunning gold necklace and had her name engraved on it, just the way she’d love. Every detail was perfect. The cost? I put it all on the expense account Mr. Sessoms had given me—a perk I wasn’t going to feel guilty about using this time.

But guilt…oh, guilt still found me. As I left the jeweler, a pang of regret hit me square in the chest. How could I not feel bad? I hadn’t called Tosha in weeks. Weeks! My obsession with cracking the LaToya case had consumed me, blinding me to everything else. I’d neglected the one person who believed in me without question, the one woman who could have made the perfect wife. How had I let that happen?

Determined to make things right, I decided to surprise her. No calls, no warnings—just me, showing up at her door, roses in one hand, her name glinting on the necklace in the other. I could already see her radiant smile as she opened the door.

But when I knocked, the door didn’t open to Tosha. Instead, a man—a white man—stood there. My heart slammed into my ribs. For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Neither of us spoke. We just stared at each other, two strangers trying to make sense of an unexpected meeting.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said finally, forcing a smile. “I think I have the wrong apartment.”

I turned to leave, my legs heavy, my mind racing. But then I heard a voice behind me, a voice that shattered my last shred of hope.

“No, you didn’t, Emeka,” Tosha said. Her voice was calm, almost too calm. “You’re at the right apartment. I’d like you to meet Alexander, my boyfriend.” She turned to the man in the doorway. “Honey, this is Emeka. I told you about him.”

Alexander’s face lit up with a practiced ease that made my stomach churn. He extended a hand. “Yes, you did, hon. Nice to meet you at last.”

I reached out and shook his hand, my grip firm but my soul crumbling. “Ditto,” I replied, my voice a stranger to me.

What could I say? What could I do? The shock, the betrayal—it all hit me at once, leaving me numb. But deep down, I knew this wasn’t Tosha’s fault. No, it was mine. I had left her to wait, to wonder, while I chased shadows and solved mysteries that couldn’t hold her hand or whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

I left her apartment that night feeling like the loneliest man on Earth. The roses felt heavier than before, their fragrance now cloying, the necklace’s shimmer a cruel reminder of what could have been. But even as despair threatened to swallow me whole, I clung to one small truth: I wasn’t a bad person. I had solved a cold case, bringing justice for a murdered girl who had once been nothing more than a forgotten name in a file. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

Later that week, life threw me a curveball. Mr. Sessoms called me into his office at the Baltimore Star, a broad smile on his face. “Emeka,” he said, “you’re no longer an intern. Congratulations, you’re officially an employee.” Before I could fully process his words, he added, “Oh, and one more thing. We’re applying for an expedited green card for you. You’ll have it in two months, tops.”

Two months. The words felt surreal, almost too good to be true. As I left his office, a strange sense of pride washed over me. Whatever heartbreak I’d endured, at least my green card would come through on merit. I didn’t need to compromise my values or manipulate someone to get ahead. No, I earned this—every single bit of it.

And as much as it hurt to lose Tosha, I knew one thing for sure: life had a funny way of balancing the scales. Today, I might be licking my wounds, but tomorrow? Tomorrow was a blank page waiting to be written. And trust me, I’d be holding the pen.

 

                                             THE END

 

LaToya: Episode XLIII – Deadly Room Duel

 

 

Time stood still as we locked eyes. I could see the glint in her eyes, the way her lips twitched, and I knew what was coming. My instincts kicked in. I grabbed the cushion and hurled it at her, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. In the same breath, I rolled off the settee, scrambling frantically to get behind it.

The cushion flew through the air just as she fired, her movements slick, dodging my makeshift shield. The vicious crack of the .22 echoed in the room, and I saw the big glass ashtray on the occasional table shatter into a thousand splinters. I barely made it behind the settee.

Another shot. I heard the slug rip through the fabric, missing me by mere inches. This couldn't go on. I knew the next bullet had my name on it. Sweat poured off my face, my pulse racing out of control. I watched her shadow, thin and predatory, creeping across the carpet towards me. Desperation clawed at me. I got a grip on the side of the settee and held my breath.

She couldn't see me, but she knew I was there. She closed in, just six feet away. With every ounce of strength, I heaved the settee towards her. She leapt clear, the settee crashing down with a deafening thud, barely missing her.

My only cover was gone. Now, it was just her and me. She smiled, her eyes dancing with wicked glee. She had me cornered—ten feet from the light switch and fifteen feet from Hwang Yun's gun by the window. I could feel death looming, ready to pounce, when suddenly a voice shattered the tension.

"Drop that gun!"

Mrs. Graves' eyes widened in shock. Her gaze flicked to the window, her gun instinctively swinging around. A thunderous roar split the air—the deep, powerful crack of a .45, drowning out the pop of her .22. I saw her gun flash, but the .45 slug hit her hard, throwing her back like a rag doll. The .22 slipped from her grip as she slammed against the bar, her body lifeless before it even touched the lush carpet.

"Don't move!" Sergeant Montgomery's voice rang out from the window. He swung one thick leg over the sill, his smoking .45 locked on me. He slid into the room, keeping me in his sights. His face twisted into a mocking smile, the kind that said he knew he had me where he wanted.

"Well, well, Emeka, the peeper," he sneered. "Seems like you've been having a real party."

I couldn’t say anything. My tongue was as dry as scorched leather, my knees barely holding me up. I watched as he walked over to Mrs. Graves, nudging her limp body with his boot before giving a quick glance down at her.

"Guess she won't be cashing any checks where she's going," he said, his voice thick with dark humor. He finally holstered his .45, much to my relief. "Take a drink, Emeka. You look like you need one."

My legs barely worked as I staggered over to the bar. I poured myself three fingers of Scotch, and downed it in one gulp. The burn in my throat was a welcome reminder that I was still alive.

"You're one lucky guy, Emeka," Montgomery said, pouring himself a hefty drink too. "If I hadn't shown up when I did, you'd be strumming a harp with your ancestors by now."

"That's a fact. Thanks, Sergeant," I managed, wiping my face with a handkerchief. I refused to look at Mrs. Graves' body. "How did you happen to look in, anyway?"

He grinned at me, showing off his big, white teeth.

"I was keeping tabs on you, like she asked," he said, his tone casual. "Figured you were shacked up at Godson Arora's place. It made sense—you'd been talking to Captain Wilkens, and Wilkens and Godson Arora were tight. Arora had a hideout, so that's where you'd be."

"Pretty sharp," I admitted. "Then why didn't you nab me at Arora's place if you knew I was there?"

"And ruin all the fun?" He chuckled. "I never thought you killed Mr. Powell, you know. It looked bad, sure, but you had no reason to do it. I figured if I stuck close, you'd crack the case for me. She was in too deep with Commissioner Lawson for any Alexandra cop to handle her."

"Well, it's over now," I said, trying to steady my voice. "You won’t let Mr. Bolton slip away, will you?"

"He won’t get far," he promised. He reached for the phone, his hand massive over the receiver. "Get me Alexandra Police headquarters," he said into the line. While he waited, he poured himself another drink. "This is Sergeant Montgomery. I want Saul Bolton picked up, and fast. I’ll be down there to charge him myself. Just get him."

He hung up, drained his glass, and then pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering me one.

"You weren't bluffing when you told her you could prove she did it, right?" he asked as we lit up.

"Not at all," I replied, the cigarette shaking slightly in my hand. "The case is locked. Captain Donald is handling the witnesses."

"Captain Donald, huh? Covering all the bases—smart," Montgomery grinned. "And you're going to run the story in your paper?"

"That's the plan," I said, exhaling smoke.

"Goodbye, Commissioner Lawson," he laughed. "I've been waiting for that sleazebag to run into something he couldn't wriggle out of, and this is it. You know how the game goes? Lawson's taking the fall. Captain Fitzgerald will move up, Lieutenant Brandon will take his spot, and me? I'll be Lieutenant Montgomery before long. In six months, Fitzgerald will be out, and guess who’ll be sitting in the big chair?"

He winked at me, and I knew this wasn't just about justice. This was about power, ambition, and a game far bigger than I'd imagined. The room seemed to tilt for a second, as I realized I was caught in something much larger, something that wouldn't end with tonight.

I couldn’t help but wonder—who would be next in this game of power? One thing was for sure, Montgomery wasn't just stopping here. And as much as I wanted to walk away from it all, a part of me knew I was already in too deep to turn back. The story was only beginning, and it was my job to tell it—no matter where it led.

“You’ve forgotten Lieutenant Brandon,” I said, my voice sharp with tension.

“No, I haven’t,” Sergeant Montgomery replied, flashing a wolfish grin that showed his teeth. He looked like he was about to devour something—or someone. “I’ll take care of him. He’s not gonna be a problem for me.” He reached out, his hand heavy and solid as a hunk of concrete, and patted my shoulder like he was patting down the earth on a grave. “Now, go on and write your story,” he continued, his tone dismissive. “Make it good. And don’t forget to tell ‘em how I saved your sorry life.” He turned his eyes toward Mrs. Graves—toward her lifeless body sprawled out—and sneered, “Baby, if you only knew the chaos you’re about to cause. If you only knew.”

“Then you don’t want me for Mr. Powell’s killing?” I asked, a shred of hope stirring in my chest.

Montgomery’s face twisted in mockery. “Don’t be a dope,” he said. “You’re as free as air.” He grabbed the front of my coat, his enormous hand crumpling the fabric like it was paper. “I’ve been eyeing that magazine of yours, pally. It’s got a nice layout. How ‘bout you put a picture of me on the cover when you break the story, huh?”

I looked up at his face—that ugly mug, a face that looked like it had been molded out of leftover clay, a face only a mother could love, and maybe not even then. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” I asked, suppressing a grin. “We don’t wanna get sued for scaring the kiddies, do we?”

His piggish eyes narrowed, his expression darkening as he gave me a bone-rattling shake that made my spine protest. “What’s that again?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“I said it’s a great idea,” I hurriedly corrected. “Would you mind letting go of my suit?”

He shoved me back, almost sending me sprawling. “Fine,” he said, his tone dismissive. “But don’t forget—I’ve pulled you out of a real mess. I expect something in return, got it?”

“Oh, you’ll get it,” I said, smiling. “You’ll get exactly what you deserve, Sergeant.”

He grunted, clearly unimpressed. “Sit down and stay outta my way,” he ordered, reaching for the telephone. “I gotta get the Captain down here.”

While he made the call, I dropped into a chair and poured myself another drink. The whiskey burned my throat, but it felt good—like fire and ice all at once. I hadn’t forgotten the way he’d booted me the first time we’d met, that vicious kick to my ribs. The memory still stung, as raw as if it had happened an hour ago. And now, well, maybe it was time for some payback. All I needed to do was drop a little whisper in Captain Fitzgerald’s ear—a suggestion about Sergeant Montgomery’s oh-so-generous bank account. I’d bet my last dime that Mrs. Graves had been paying him off, and I wouldn’t put it past him to have killed her just to keep her from talking. He knew she’d sing like a canary if she got to trial. He saw an easy way out and grabbed it. And nobody—nobody—kicks a Nigerian man like me in the pants without paying for it. I’m an African man—a true son of Nigeria. And I don’t forget.

Montgomery hung up the phone and headed over to where Mr. Hightower’s body was hidden. He bent down and started pulling up the floorboards, grunting with the effort. “I’ll take the credit for finding Hightower’s body, pally,” he said, barely sparing me a glance. “Your job is to back me up. I tell the story, you keep your mouth shut, and you say amen when I tell you to. Got it?”

“Sure,” I said, my voice dripping with false cheer. “Anything you say, Sergeant.”

His cold, piggy eyes scanned me from head to toe, like he was weighing me. “And don’t try anything funny,” he warned. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”

“That’s fine by me, Sergeant,” I said, lighting a cigarette. I took a deep drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs, calming my nerves. Yeah, I’d drop that hint to Fitzgerald—but I’d wait until I was safely back in Baltimore. No sense risking it while Montgomery was breathing down my neck. I’d be smart about this.

While I waited for Captain Fitzgerald to arrive, I started to put together the bones of the story in my head, thinking about how I’d dictate it to Medgar. The more I thought about it, the more I realized—if anyone was gonna have their face on the cover of Baltimore Star, why shouldn’t it be me? Why let this brute steal my thunder? But I knew I was kidding myself. Mr. Sessoms, my editor, hated giving publicity to his writers. He’d rather chew glass than let one of us bask in the spotlight. He didn’t think we deserved it—and maybe we didn’t. But damn if I wasn’t gonna try.

I glanced back at Montgomery, who was sweating over the floorboards, his face twisted in effort. Yeah, I’d give him what he deserved—all right. And when it was all over, I’d be the one standing tall, not this thug. One way or another, I’d make sure of it.

 

 END OF EPISODE 43

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 44, which  will be published here next Sunday.