The Arak Distillery
"When Nadia inherits her grandfather's arak distillery in Beit Jala, she clashes with master distiller Jibril—until their rivalry ferments into something stronger."
The Arak Distillery
The distillery smelled of anise and history—copper stills gleaming in dim light, barrels stacked to the ceiling, her grandfather's presence lingering like vapor. Nadia ran her hand along the oldest still, fighting tears.
"Don't touch that."
She spun to find a man in the doorway, dark and glowering, arms crossed over a chest that strained his work shirt.
"Excuse me?"
"That still is a hundred years old. Your grandfather didn't let anyone touch it. Not even me."
"And you are?"
"Jibril. Master distiller." His eyes assessed her coldly. "You must be the granddaughter. The one who never visited."
"I was in London—"
"I know where you were. Your grandfather talked about you constantly. Wondered why you never came." He pushed off the doorframe. "Now you're here to sell, I suppose."
"I'm here to learn. To decide."
"Learn?" His laugh was bitter. "Arak isn't learned in a summer. It takes years. Generations. You think because your blood owns these walls, you understand what lives inside them?"
Nadia's temper flared. "I think you should remember who signs your paycheck."
"Your grandfather signed my paycheck. You're just the inconvenience left behind."
They circled each other for weeks—Nadia asking questions, Jibril answering with barely concealed contempt. She learned despite him: the triple distillation, the importance of the aniseed variety, the way water transformed clear spirit to milky clouds.
"Why do you hate me?" she demanded one evening, finding him alone in the aging room.
"I don't hate you." He didn't look up from the barrel he was inspecting. "I hate what you represent. Another generation that leaves, that forgets, that comes back only when there's money to claim."
"I'm not here for money."
"Then what?"
"I don't know!" The confession burst out. "I thought coming here would help me understand. My grandfather, my roots, why I've always felt incomplete. Instead, I found you glaring at me like I'm the enemy."
Jibril finally looked at her. In the dim light, his features softened slightly.
"You want to understand arak? Really understand?" He stood, reaching for two glasses. "Then drink with me."
The arak was smooth, anise blooming on her tongue. They sat among the barrels, passing the bottle, trading stories. Jibril told her about learning from her grandfather, about the occupation, about nights when soldiers came and they hid the stills.
"He loved you," Jibril said quietly. "Your grandfather. He kept every letter you sent. Read them to me sometimes. He was proud, even if he was sad."
"I should have come."
"Yes. But you're here now." He poured more arak. "The question is whether you'll stay."
"Is that what you want? For me to stay?"
His eyes met hers—dark, conflicted. "I want the distillery to survive. I want your grandfather's legacy to continue. If that means working with you..." He swallowed hard. "Then yes. I want you to stay."
"Even though I'm an inconvenience?"
"I was angry. You're..." He stopped, jaw tight. "You're nothing like I expected."
The arak blurred the edges of everything—including the tension that had been building for weeks. Nadia didn't know who moved first, only that suddenly Jibril's mouth was on hers, tasting of anise and anger and something rawer.
"This is a mistake," he growled against her lips.
"Probably." She pulled at his shirt. "Do you care?"
"No."
They came together desperately, years of loneliness and frustration pouring out. Jibril pressed her against the ancient barrels, his hands rough and sure on her body.
"Been astasnaki," he confessed between kisses. I've been obsessed with you. "Been ahlamek." Dreaming of you.
"Show me."
He did. Right there among her grandfather's legacy, Jibril worshipped her with hands that knew how to coax perfection from base ingredients. When he finally filled her, Nadia cried out at the intensity—the slow burn building, building, until she ignited.
"Aktar," she begged. "Please—Jibril—"
He gave her everything, his own control shattering as she came apart around him. They collapsed among the barrels, breathing hard, the scent of anise mingling with sweat.
"I'm staying," Nadia announced afterward, her head on his chest. "Don't argue."
"I wasn't going to."
"And I want to learn. Really learn. Every part of the process."
"It takes years."
"I have years." She propped herself up to look at him. "Unless you're planning to get rid of me."
Jibril's hand cupped her face—calloused, gentle. "I was planning to ask you to marry me. Eventually. When you stopped hating me."
"I never hated you."
"You hid it well."
"So did you." She kissed him softly. "Ask me now."
"Inti majnouna." You're crazy.
"Ask me."
He took a breath—the same breath he took before opening a new barrel, testing whether time had worked its magic.
"Biddik titjawazini?" Will you marry me?
The arak hummed approval in its ancient barrels. Her grandfather's spirit seemed to settle over them like a blessing.
"Na'am," Nadia whispered. "El arak shahid." The arak is witness.
Jibril laughed, pulling her down for another kiss. Outside, Beit Jala slept. Inside, something new was fermenting—a partnership, a love, a legacy continued.
Some things, like arak, only improved with time.