"Yeah, no fever. No runny nose. Just quiet."
Selma pinched the bridge of her nose as she leaned against the edge of her desk, phone tucked between her shoulder and cheek. Her eyes flicked to the half-empty mug of coffee she'd reheated twice and still hadn't touched.
"He cried when I dropped him off," she added. "Didn't throw a fit. Didn't beg me to stay. Just stood there… like he was bracing for something. I know it sounds like I'm being dramatic. He's fine. He's safe. I just… I don't know."
The woman on the other end of the daycare line gave a practiced, professional hum. "We'll keep an extra eye on him today. If anything seems off, I'll call you right away."
"Thank you," Selma whispered. "Really."
She ended the call and stared down at her phone, thumb hovering.
This morning had been harder than usual. There was nothing she could point to—no symptoms, no excuse to take the day off. Just a feeling. A mother's instinct that something wasn't right with her son.
And when she mentioned it to Lamija over coffee in her office earlier, the woman had reacted exactly the way Lamija always did.
"Then let's fix it," she'd said, straightening in her chair. "On-site daycare. That way you're close. You can pop in, eat lunch with him, leave the door open for peace of mind."
Selma had blinked at her, stunned. "You're serious?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" Lamija shrugged. "It makes sense. We've got unused space on the first floor. HR has the budget. If the board asks, we pitch it as a wellness incentive. Retention, productivity, whatever language gets them to sign off."
Selma hadn't known what to say. She should have been used to it by now.
The Begovićs were nothing if not generous.
They threw money around like it belonged to all of them.
And maybe it did. Not just currency—but power. Protection. Imran, Lamija, and their older brother Muhamed shared more than DNA. They shared a code.
And she—Selma, the girl who'd married too young, who had a son at nineteen, who'd come to Lamija shaking and swollen-eyed after her husband's latest outburst—had somehow been folded into it.
She'd never forget the day she told them the truth.
She had whispered, "He said he'd kill me if I left."
Lamija had gone deathly still. Imran, who was standing in the doorway, had asked for the man's name.
Two days later, her ex-husband was in the hospital, unconscious. Internal bleeding. Broken ribs. Multiple fractures.
He never approached her again.
She didn't know what happened. She never asked.
But she was sure of one thing—it was expensive, and it wasn't legal.
And the Begović siblings never mentioned it. Never so much as nodded toward the storm they'd unleashed on her behalf.
They just made sure she got home safe. That Sanel was protected. That she never felt alone again.
The thought broke her a little.
Which is why when Imran snapped at her that morning, it hit harder than it should have.
He hadn't been himself. That much was obvious. Something had happened before she and Lamija stepped into his office.
Still, she'd shrunk back. Tucked her tail and ran.
Lamija hadn't flinched.
She'd stared her brother down like he was a toddler who threw juice across the table.
Selam wished she could be that brave. That grounded. That unbothered.
Instead, she'd slipped out of the office and told herself not to take it personally.
But it was hard.
Because she knew Imran was into her.
He'd said it often enough. Flirted openly. Asked her to dinner. Dropped compliments laced with charm.
She just didn't know if she could believe it.
This was Imran Begović—heir to an empire, Sarajevos' most eligible bachelor, the man who ran investor meetings under his father's hawk-eyed gaze while she was sneaking out of her parents' house to marry the first man who told her she was beautiful.
At seventeen.
Imran was power and polish. She was cracked glass held together with motherhood and morning coffee.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Lamija:
Skipping lunch. Conference call with Emir and Ayub. Coffee at your place after work?
Selma smiled and started typing a reply when the door to her office creaked open.
She looked up.
Imran.
Her heart did something stupid.
"Lamija's in the conference room with Emir and Ayub," she said quickly, expecting he was looking for his sister.
"As much as I'd love to watch that circus show," Imran said with a lazy smile, "I actually came to see you."
Her breath hitched. She hated how easily he could do that.
"Tell me about this idea."
"It's Lamija's," she said automatically.
"I want to hear it from you."
He sat across from her, lounging in the chair like he had nowhere to be and nothing else on his mind.
Selma swallowed. Her hands fumbled with a pen she didn't need.
He was still in a suit. Black, perfectly fitted. His white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled once at the wrist. He looked unfairly good for a man who'd allegedly been trampled by a horse the night before.
She forced herself to speak. "Um, Sanel. My son. He's fine, really. But this morning he just… seemed off. It's selfish, I guess. I just thought it would be nice to have him close. So I could check in. Be there if something went wrong. Now that I think about it, it's probably not what your company wants. Forget it. I didn't think—"
"I think it's a great idea."
The softness in his voice cut her rambling short.
"Don't do this for me," she muttered. "You've done enough."
Imran frowned. "Selma. You're important to Lamija. You're important to me. That doesn't mean we back your ideas out of pity. I like this. It's practical. We've got dozens of mothers on staff. Probably a few nervous fathers too. You're just the first person brave enough to say it out loud."
Selma stared at him, throat tight. The thought of seeing Sanel's smile at lunchtime—of having him nearby—overwhelmed her.
"I also owe you an apology," Imran added, his face scrunching. "Lamija said I acted like an ass. She wasn't wrong."
"You don't have to—"
"I do. I snapped at you. That's not how we operate."
They were quiet for a beat. Not tense. Just still.
Then the printer outside her office clicked to life.
Footsteps.
Ayub passed the doorway, grabbing papers with a frown. His sleeves were rolled. His hair was slightly mussed. He looked two decisions away from walking out the door and never coming back.
"Rough day?" Imran called.
Ayub raised a brow, flipped him off halfheartedly, and walked back into the conference room.
Selma blinked. "I can't tell if he wants to strangle your sister or kiss her."
Imran burst out laughing. "Knowing my sister, it's somewhere in between."
Selma laughed with him.
And for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel complicated.
It just felt easy.
Later at Selma's home Sanel was bouncing down the hallway wearing a red towel safety-pinned to his shoulders and brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword.
"I am Captain Sanel!" he shouted, whipping into the living room at full speed.
Selma watched from the kitchen doorway, coffee cup in hand, as he launched onto the couch, cape billowing behind him. Lamija, already sitting there cross-legged with a steaming mug of Bosnian coffee and a pillow in her lap, caught him like it was routine.
"Oof," she grunted, steadying him. "You've grown since last week. You're not supposed to be the villain and the landing gear, kiddo."
"I'm not a kid," Sanel corrected, pulling back to puff out his chest. "I'm a hero."
Lamija poked his nose. "Then you better protect this city, Captain Sanel. Because your mom and I are off-duty."
He grinned and zipped toward the play mat near the TV, where an army of mismatched action figures waited for their fate. Selma crossed the room and handed Lamija a plate of lemon shortbread.
"Don't say I never feed you," she said, plopping down beside her.
Lamija took one and made a show of inspecting it. "Looks a little too symmetrical. Did you buy this?"
"Made it. Judge it and I'll never bake again."
"You know that's a lie. Baking is how you process stress."
Selma leaned back with a sigh. "Not the only way."
They were quiet for a moment, both sipping coffee, Sanel muttering from the floor in his own world. Then Selma smirked.
"So," she began, voice light and teasing, "your department had an exciting lunch."
Lamija raised a brow. "Oh?"
"I watched from my desk. Not the whole thing, just enough to be thoroughly entertained."
Lamija groaned. "Don't tell me you saw—"
"Ayub? Emir? You? Yeah, I saw. That poor man looked like a child whose parents were arguing in the middle of a grocery store."
Lamija barked a laugh, nearly spilling her coffee. "Emir looked like he wanted to melt into the carpet."
"Ayub," Selma added, "looked like he was one snarky comment away from walking out. And also maybe throwing you over the table."
Lamija tilted her head. "Excuse me?"
"Don't act innocent. The man looked wrecked by the end of that meeting. Angry. Flustered. And thoroughly into it."
"You're insane."
Selma grinned. "I'm observant."
Lamija tossed a pillow at her.
Selma caught it easily. "You don't deny it."
With a sigh, Lamija tucked her legs beneath her. "I don't know what to tell you. I like working with him. More than I thought I would."
Selma arched a brow. "Well, well."
"He's smart," Lamija said, shrugging. "Really smart. And he challenges me. Doesn't coddle. Doesn't defer. We butt heads, sure. But it's never personal."
"You enjoy the chaos."
"Maybe I enjoy him in the chaos."
Selma's eyes sparkled. "That's worse."
Lamija smirked and reached for another cookie. "You know what's worse?" she said. "That you still pretend you're not into my brother."
Selma immediately sobered.
Lamija's tone softened. "I saw the way you looked at him. And the way you ran when he snapped."
Selma didn't answer right away. Sanel was now humming on the floor, dragging his cape behind him and feeding a plastic dinosaur something invisible.
"He's too good," Selma said quietly. "Too… everything."
Lamija didn't speak.
Selma looked down into her mug. "He deserves someone who didn't implode her life at seventeen."
"You didn't implode. You survived."
"I chose him, Lamija. My ex. I chose him. I married him in secret, knowing my parents hated him. Knowing what he was capable of. I lied to everyone. I convinced myself I could fix it."
"You were a teenager. In love. Manipulated."
"No," Selma said, sharper now. "I was stupid. And stubborn. And I dragged my son through it."
Sanel was now putting band-aids on a stuffed dog. Selma's voice dropped.
"I didn't leave when he hit me. Not the first time. Not the second. Not even the fifth."
Lamija reached for her hand. Selma let her take it.
"I left," Selma whispered, "when he hit Sanel."
Lamija's grip tightened.
"I knew then," Selma continued, "that I would die before I let that man touch him again. That I'd burn the whole city down if I had to. And thanks to you and Imran… I didn't have to."
She looked over at Lamija, eyes glassy. "You never told me what you did."
"We didn't need to."
"Did he ever recover?"
Lamija shrugged. "Not my concern."
Selma let out a slow, shaky breath.
"I finally have peace," she said. "For the first time in years. I'm not terrified all the time. I have routines. I laugh. I bake."
"You breathe."
Selma nodded.
"I can't risk it again, Lamija. My judgment? It's trash. I have never picked anything right. Not friends. Not schools. Definitely not men."
Lamija gave her a look. "You picked me."
Selma smiled, teary. "Okay. One win."
They sat in silence a moment. The TV was playing softly in the background now. A cartoon jingle filtered in, bright and cheerful, stark against the heaviness in the room.
Then Lamija said, "He's safe, you know."
"Who?"
"My brother."
Selma didn't answer.
"He's safe for you, Selma. And for Sanel."
"I'm not ready."
"You don't have to be."
"I don't know if I ever will be."
Lamija squeezed her hand again.
"Then just let him be near. Let him show up. You don't have to run anymore."
Selma didn't answer right away.
She watched her son crawl into her lap, his energy finally waning. He nestled against her, tiny hand clutching her sleeve. The cape trailed over her knee, red and wrinkled.
"Mommy," he whispered sleepily, "I like Auntie Lamija."
Lamija grinned. "That's because I'm cooler than your mom."
Selma pressed a kiss to her son's curls. "You're alright."
"Rude."
Sanel yawned.
Lamija leaned her head against Selma's shoulder. The weight of it was grounding. Familiar. Forgiving.
"I don't need you to fall in love with him tomorrow," she said. "But I do think you should let him try."
Selma didn't respond.
She just held her son tighter.
And let herself hope—just a little. Just enough to imagine what peace might look like with one more person folded into it.