A Week Later - Beginning of Issue 3

You wake slowly, the warmth of the Zahiri sun bleeding through the canvas of your tent like an old friend checking in.

You sit up, shirtless, sore, but somehow whole. The air is cool this early near the oasis—a rare thing. Sacred to the villagers, usually off-limits to anyone, but then again… you’re not just anyone anymore.

You’re the man who took Kharbat al-Nour. The man who bled in its streets. The man with the most guns in a village that now raises his flag above the mosque.

So, if you wanted your tent here—you got it.

You stretch, your muscles protesting. Bandages still tight around your ribs. The pain is dull now. Manageable. You step outside, barefoot and body, the sand already warming beneath your feet.

Water.

Shifting. Splitting softly under movement.

You turn your head toward the oasis where you see your mother.

Her back is to you, waist-deep in the shimmering water, arms raised, sluicing water over her shoulders. The sun paints golden streaks across her skin, and her dark braid clings to her spine like a black ribbon.

For a moment, you simply watch with reverence. Seeing something holy.

She senses you before she sees you, turning her head slightly, her eyes catching yours from over her shoulder. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t cover herself.

She just smirks. “Don’t stare, Habibi,” she says softly. “You’ll burn up before the sun does it.”

You chuckle under your breath. You step closer to the edge of the oasis, still a good few meters away, the scent of water and morning dust mingling in the air.

She turns to face you now, just enough to show a sliver of curve beneath the surface. Her expression is calm. “Well?” she says, cocking an eyebrow.

You pull your shirt over your head and step into the oasis—cool water biting into your legs, then your waist, until you’re submerged beside her.

She reaches for your arm, brushes away dried blood gently, then dips her hand beneath the surface, pouring water over your shoulder.

“You need to take care of yourself,” she murmurs.

You nod.

The water slips across your skin in slow, deliberate waves. You stand in the oasis, still, breathing in the rare calm, while your mom’s hands move over your body with practiced care.

She isn’t hurried. She isn’t ashamed. Her fingers run over your chest, your arms, your shoulders—rinsing away sweat, dust, and blood.

"You’ve been quiet," she says, running her fingers beneath the edge of a healing bandage. "That's not like you."

"Just thinking," you murmur, watching the water slide off her collarbone. "It’s been a week. Feels like a month."

She scoops water in her hands and pours it down your back.

"Because we’re not used to standing still," she says.

You nod. She’s right.

The rubble’s still there—some wounds can’t be rebuilt in seven days—but people are moving differently now. With purpose. With less fear. Kids are laughing again. The mosque’s bell was replaced yesterday. Bread’s baking again. It smells like home, even if it still looks like war.

"Some of the villagers want to stay on as Lions," you say, eyes on the sun breaking over the water. “New blood.”

"Untrained," she replies. Not a dismissal—just a fact.

"I know. No time for drills. They’ve been lifting bricks instead of rifles."

"And they’ll bleed the moment the Russians come back."

You turn to her slightly. "They’re coming at the end of the week, aren’t they?"

She nods once, fingers trailing down your spine. “At least two trucks. Maybe three. I intercepted a radio signal yesterday thanks to our friend General."

You let that sit in your gut. You’re used to bad news. This just confirms the clock is ticking.

"At least Norah is gone," she says, voice cool but tinged with something sharp. "Took a motorcycle and left two days ago. She won't have to see us fight more Russians."

"She left us something, at least," you offer, trying to pivot.

You reach for your discarded gear by the edge of the oasis and hold up the phone Norah left you—sleek, black, fingerprint-slick. A symbol of the outside world slotted into the center of a war-torn island.

"International data," you say, half-grinning. “Unlimited. I’ve already watched half a documentary on concrete.”

Your mother snorts. "That thing's a leash. A gift wrapped in spyware."

You smirk. "Maybe. But it gets signal.”

She rolls her eyes and splashes water at you—just enough to make you blink.

"Don’t get too excited about your tech toy," she says. "It won't stop the Russians either."

You lean in, close enough to see the flecks of green in her eyes.

"No," you say. "But you will."

She holds your gaze, her fingers brushing your jaw now instead of your shoulders.

You stand close. The space between you thick with something unspoken. Her breath is warm. Her skin is still slick from the water, glistening where the sun slips through the leaves.

She doesn’t look away.

Neither do you.

And you lean in.

Your lips meet in a kiss that isn’t rushed or rough. It’s slow.

Her hand curls behind your neck, pulling you a fraction closer. Yours rests at her hip beneath the waterline, thumb brushing the soft rise of her waist.

The oasis around you vanishes.

There’s just her mouth against yours, the taste of early morning, the trace of heat beneath her skin.

When the kiss breaks, it’s with a whisper of breath, not hesitation.

She presses her forehead to yours.

“We should get moving,” she says, voice barely above the sound of the water lapping around your chests.

You nod, but don’t step away yet.

You take one more second. One more heartbeat, before splitting apart.