Sannine Peak Promise | وعد قمة صنين
"She leads mountain treks to Sannine's peak. He's the corporate lawyer attempting his midlife crisis climb. At summit heights, they find what they'd stopped looking for. 'Inti aala min hal jabal' (أنتِ أعلى من هالجبل)."
Sannine Peak Promise
وعد قمة صنين
Sannine doesn't care about your resume.
The mountain strips everything—titles, wealth, pretense. I've guided people to its peak for fifteen years.
Some arrive broken. Most leave different.
I'm Imane.
Forty-eight, built for mountains, thick with the strength that climbing requires. I don't do gentle terrain.
Elie Baz does mergers and acquisitions.
"This isn't a boardroom."
"I'm aware."
"Then why are you checking your phone?"
"Habit." He puts it away. "Bad habit."
"Leave it at base camp. The mountain doesn't do reception."
He's fifty-two.
Partner at a big firm, heart attack last year, wife left, kids distant. Now he's climbing to prove something to someone—probably himself.
"Why Sannine?"
"My father brought me here when I was ten."
"And since then?"
"I forgot."
He's out of shape.
Soft where climbing demands hard. But he doesn't quit—not at the first rest, not at the second.
"You're struggling."
"I'm always struggling. I just usually hide it better."
"Can't hide from mountains."
Night camp halfway up.
Stars brutal in their clarity. He sits silent, staring at a Beirut he can't see.
"What did you want to be?"
"Shu?"
"Before law. When you were ten and climbing with your father."
"I don't remember."
"That's why you're here."
Summit day breaks clear.
We climb in silence, breath and effort. He struggles but doesn't stop. I slow to match him.
"You don't have to wait—"
"This isn't a race. Never was."
We summit together.
Lebanon spreads below—coast, mountain, valley. He weeps, unashamed.
"Imane—"
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"Because everyone cries up here. It's why I do this."
The kiss happens at peak.
Highest point in his life, in every sense. His cold lips on mine, altitude thin between us.
"This is—"
"Appropriate?" I half-smile. "Nothing about summits is appropriate. Everything is real."
We make love in the summit shelter.
Where climbers have warmed each other for generations. He undresses me with shaking hands.
"Mashallah." His voice breaks. "Inti aala min hal jabal."
"Higher than this mountain?"
"Than anything I've reached."
He worships me with summit urgency.
Every touch precious. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Elie—"
"I've wasted so much time. Let me not waste this."
His tongue between my thighs.
At two thousand meters, pleasure comes faster. I grip his shoulders, cry out at the sky.
"Ya Allah—"
"Stay with me. At this altitude."
When he enters me, I feel peak.
We move together—breathless, urgent, alive. His body and mine, finally climbing together.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is summit flag.
We cry out together—victory over everything we'd settled for. Then collapse, hearts pounding from more than altitude.
One year later
Elie quits law.
Joins me as guide, still soft but getting harder. We summit Sannine every season.
"Worth the climb?" I ask.
"I found what I was looking for at ten." He takes my hand. "Just took forty years to get here."
Alhamdulillah.
For mountains that strip pretense.
For lawyers who remember.
For guides who wait at the summit.
The End.