The Baklava Kiss
"At a sweets shop in East Jerusalem, assistant Sami catches the owner's daughter Hana stealing baklava—and offers to keep her secret for a price sweeter than honey."
The Baklava Kiss
The baklava tray sat in the display case, golden layers glistening with honey. Hana knew every piece was counted—her father ran the shop with military precision. But she was starving, and one piece wouldn't be missed.
"I saw that."
She froze, hand still on the case. The new assistant—Sami—watched from the doorway, more amused than accusatory.
"Saw what?"
"The phantom baklava thief strikes again." He moved closer. "Your father mentioned inventory issues. I didn't realize it was an inside job."
"Are you going to tell him?"
"That depends." His smile was troublesome. "What's my silence worth?"
The price was conversation. Every shift, while her father was occupied, Sami found excuses to talk—about music, about dreams, about the frustration of being young in a city that felt ancient.
"Why do you work here?" Hana asked one evening. "You're overqualified."
"University's expensive. This pays." He shaped a piece of maamoul with practiced hands. "Besides, I like the work. There's satisfaction in making something sweet."
"And the owner's daughter? Is she a perk?"
"The owner's daughter steals baklava and asks too many questions." His eyes sparkled. "But yes. She's a perk."
The attraction built like honey caramelizing—slow, then suddenly golden.
"We can't," Hana whispered one night, pressed together in the storeroom. "My father would kill us both."
"I know."
"And you're going to kiss me anyway?"
"Are you going to stop me?"
She answered by pulling him close, tasting sugar on his lips.
They stole moments like she stole baklava—quickly, guiltily, always watching for discovery. In the storeroom between rushes. On the rooftop during breaks. Every touch electric with forbidden sweetness.
"We should stop," Hana said one night, even as she pulled Sami's shirt over his head.
"We should." He kissed her neck. "But I don't want to."
"Neither do I."
They made love among sacks of sugar and pistachios, the scent of rose water surrounding them. Sami worshipped her body with the same attention he gave his pastries—layer by layer, touch by touch, building her to sweetness unbearable.
"Ahh—Sami—"
"Shh." He covered her mouth with his hand, grinning. "Your father's downstairs."
The danger made it sweeter. They muffled cries in kisses, release coming in waves that threatened to undo them both.
"I'm asking your father," Sami announced afterward, still breathless.
"What?"
"For permission. To court you properly." His eyes were serious. "I'm tired of sneaking. I want to walk through that door as your boyfriend, not your thief."
"He'll say no. I'm supposed to marry someone successful. A doctor or—"
"I'm going to be a doctor. Eventually." He kissed her forehead. "But even if I weren't—I'd still ask. You're worth the risk."
"He'll fire you."
"Maybe. But I can't keep stealing moments when I want a lifetime."
Hana looked at this impossible man—who'd caught her taking baklava and taken her heart instead.
"Na'am," she said. "Ask him. But I'm standing next to you when you do."
"Why?"
"Because I want him to see. That this is real."
Sami's smile was sweeter than any pastry, and in the shop below, her father counted inventory—unaware that his assistant had just made off with something far more valuable than baklava.