Chapter Ten: The Tie That Binds
Lamija's POV
Chaos was the natural state of the Begović household in the morning.
By the time Lamija walked into the kitchen, the smell of fried eggs and simmering coffee was already competing with voices. Loud ones. Accusing ones.
"I'm not asking for your permission," Amina snapped, arms crossed, eyebrows arched. She stood on one side of the kitchen island like it was a war table.
Adem, equally unbothered and infuriating, leaned against the fridge with all the smugness of a man who believed he was right by birthright. "That's not how this works, seko. You don't just announce an overnight trip with a bunch of strangers and expect no one to care."
"They're not strangers. It's my class. You're just pissed you can't go."
"I have a game. National tournament qualifiers. You think I'd skip that for campfire singalongs?"
"Exactly. So now I have to stay because you can't go? What century are we in?"
"The one where brothers still keep their sisters from doing stupid things," Adem shot back. "Besides, you're going with me. You always go to my games."
Lamija bit into her toast and watched the exchange with an amused smile. Eighteen and still at it like toddlers in matching onesies.
They were in their first year of college—Amina studying English literature, Adem pre-law with a sports scholarship that had every cousin suddenly pretending they'd always known he was gifted. But in this house, college degrees didn't mean a thing when an argument broke out over breakfast.
"You sound like Baba," Amina growled.
"That's because I'm right," Adem said, pulling out a chair and flopping into it like he'd just won a debate competition.
Zehira didn't flinch. She stirred the eggs with practiced calm, her back to the storm.
Lamija moved toward the coffee pot and poured herself a mug before reaching for the sugar.
This was normal. This was home.
As she reached for a spoon, a warm presence stepped into the room behind her.
Imran.
In his dress shirt and slacks, his tie neatly knotted despite the early hour, and every hair in place—except for the slight tension in his jaw and the careful way he moved. One hand braced his side, and his steps were measured, deliberate, like every shift in balance cost him a wince he refused to show.
Zehira turned and gasped.
"Imran! What in the world happened?"
"Still alive," he grunted.
"That's not what I asked." She rushed over, hands fluttering, poking at his ribs, inspecting his face like he might've left body parts in the driveway.
Lamija leaned back against the counter, hiding a grin. "Looks like Caesar won that round."
Imran gave her a look. "You're enjoying this."
"Just a little."
Zehira pulled out a chair. "Sit. You're not going anywhere until I check if you cracked a rib."
"I'm fine."
"You're limping."
"Men limp."
Zehira turned to Lamija. "This is your fault."
"He climbed on him," Lamija protested.
"You let him!"
Imran sank into the chair, wincing. "No one lets me do anything. I'm an adult."
"An adult who got launched like a catapult."
Adem snorted. Amina laughed outright. Zehira looked like she might throw the spatula at someone.
Lamija sipped her coffee and studied her brother. "That tie's awful, by the way."
He blinked. "What?"
"You look like a washed-up wedding guest. Try the sage one. Closet, second row."
"You remember where I keep my ties?"
Lamija shrugged. "Hard not to. You've got enough to clothe a corporate army and yet you still pick the most tragic ones."
Imran opened his mouth—then paused.
"Adem," he said, smirking, "Fetch the sage tie."
Adem gave a sarcastic salute and jogged out.
Amina immediately took the opportunity to pounce.
"Imran," she said, sugar in her voice, "tell him I should be allowed to go on the overnight trip. You're always fair."
Imran lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, no. You don't get to weaponize me against each other. I'm neutral."
Amina pouted. "You were neutral when she wanted to go to that science retreat in high school."
"She had backup," Imran said, nodding at Lamija. "Mama and Babo signed off."
Amina rolled her eyes. "Because you told them to."
Imran's eyes flicked to Lamija then—just for a second.
And something passed between them.
A glance. A shared memory. A flicker of the past in the present.
Of arguments just like this one. Of his voice layered over hers, pulling rank, holding her back. Of her yelling at him, slamming doors, calling him overbearing and impossible.
Of how much she'd resented that once.
And how much she'd grown to need it.
"You know," he said softly, still looking at her, "there was a time you said I was worse than Babo."
Lamija smiled. "You were."
"But I was right."
She didn't answer that.
Adem returned a moment later, holding the tie like a trophy. "The sage one, as requested."
Imran took it with mock reverence. "You have done well."
Adem raised his hands. "Now please tell her she's not going."
"I'm not your foot soldier."
"You kind of are," Amina muttered.
Zehira slid a plate in front of Imran with an exasperated clatter. "Eat. You need fuel for all this nonsense."
He grinned. "Thanks, Mama."
He began working on his eggs while simultaneously switching out his tie, mumbling about Caesar under his breath.
Just as he was finishing, the unmistakable sound of their father's steps echoed from the hallway.
Husein entered the kitchen like a man walking into his favorite painting. Crisp shirt, sleeves rolled, beard trimmed sharp, smile warm and proud.
He paused at the threshold, taking them all in.
Adem arguing with Amina, Imran attempting breakfast with one hand while adjusting his tie with the other, Lamija sipping her coffee like she was above it all.
He smiled.
Like he wouldn't trade the noise and madness for all the peace in the world.
"SubhanAllah," he said, stepping in. "You'd think this family had never heard of silence."
"We've met," Lamija said. "Didn't like it."
He leaned down to kiss Zehira's cheek, then clapped Imran on the back.
"Look at you. Didn't expect to see you at the breakfast table."
"I live here," Imran grumbled.
"Could've fooled me."
Zehira crossed her arms. "He got thrown by that cursed animal."
Husein laughed. "Good. Maybe next time he'll think before he mounts a beast bred to destroy men."
"I thought we were bonding," Imran said.
Lamija nearly choked on her coffee.
"I told you," she managed, "he doesn't like politicians."
"I'm not a politician."
"You wear suits and lie for a living."
Adem gave her a high-five.
While the others laughed, Lamija moved toward the coffee machine again. She refilled her father's mug just as he reached for it.
He accepted it with a quiet thank you, then looked at her thoughtfully.
"How's Ayub?"
The question was soft. Casual. But it pierced like a well-aimed arrow.
She kept her face perfectly serene.
"Still breathing," she said lightly.
"You two surviving each other?"
"For now."
Zehira turned her head. Amina stopped mid-chew. Imran didn't even pretend not to listen.
Lamija handed her father the sugar. "Is this an interrogation or just morning gossip?"
"Just checking," he said, eyes still on her. "I like him. He's a good man."
"He is."
"But?"
She smiled. "No but. Just coffee."
Imran's phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen and stood with a wince.
"Brother-in-law's calling for reinforcements," he said, already grabbing his blazer.
He turned to Lamija and winked.
"Try not to torment each other while I'm gone."
He kissed his mother's cheek, ruffled Amina's hair, exchanged a fist bump with Adem, and made it to the door in record time—limp and all.
As the door shut behind him, the house exhaled.
And Lamija let herself smile.
The tie really did look better.