Rayyan Winter Snippet: "An Invitation"

28th December

The house smells like caramelized onions, garlic sizzling in oil, the deep, earthy scent of meat simmering in spices—it’s warm, savory, and comforting: the kind of smell that promises you’ll be eating well and probably too much. You take a deep, appreciative inhale the moment you step inside.

Rayyan’s mother answers the door the second you knock, as though she’s been hovering behind it all afternoon. She’s petite and soft around the edges, with the same piercing hazel-green eyes that Rayyan so clearly inherited. 

“Preferred name, habibi, welcome!” she beams at you, already ushering you inside. Her eyes crinkle at the edges with a warm humor that you’re so used to seeing on Rayyan’s face only in rare, hard-earned moments. 

You barely have time to say hello before your coat is taken, your shoes are lined neatly with a dozen others on the rack by the door. “Call me Amina, yalla, come in, come in, it’s so cold out!” She shuts the door and though she doesn’t hug you, she immediately starts chattering away at you as though you’re an old friend of Rayyan’s whom she’s known for years. She asks how your journey was, whether you’d eaten on the plane, introducing you to the neighborhood and the family, as well as the dinner she’s planning to make (mahshi and molokhia), each topic tumbling into the next like dominoes. Her hands flutter in front of her in time with her words. 

She’s so openly delighted to meet you, that you almost forget to be nervous. Heck, she radiates so much goodwill that you’d certainly never have been able to guess she was Rayyan’s mom. She’s interrupted by a series of thundering footsteps down the stairs. A small body slams into your legs at full speed, followed by Rayyan, breathless and apologetic.

The child grins at you, missing two teeth. “Excuse me!”

Rayyan laughs, shaking their head wryly at you. “Sorry. This is Yusuf, my second-youngest brother. Yusuf, this is <preferred name>.” 

Yusuf nods solemnly. “The one you like very much!”  

Rayyan goes still and flushes—muttering something in Arabic that makes their brother laugh. But notably, they do not contradict him. Instead, they straighten and smile at you. 

It’s only been two weeks since finals, but it feels longer. Now that you’re standing face-to-face, your chest tightens. Their gaze flicks over you, lingering in a way that makes your pulse jump. 

“Hello,” Rayyan says, voice slightly hoarse as they pull you into a hug, cheek pressed against yours. It’s instinctive, the way the two of you melt into each other—hands finding familiar places. You breathe Rayyan in. Laundry detergent and winter air and something unmistakably Rayyan. You stretch the moment as long as you dare before it risks becoming questionable in front of Rayyan’s mother and brother.

Rayyan’s mother flashes you an indulgent smile as though to say, ‘I’ve seen it all,’ when you step back. She waves a hand at the living room. “Go, go, say hello to the three old ones in the living room. I still need to finish the batata before your father complains we aren’t eating enough vegetables.” 

Rayyan leads you into the living room to introduce you to their grandparents and their father. They’re all sitting on small woven seats that creak when they shift their weight, sipping tea from small glass cups, steam curling lazily upward. 

Rayyan’s father stands to shake your hand. He’s tall, and his expression is severe—thick eyebrows set in a straight line across his dark eyes. He’s dressed in a crisp white thobe, and wears his nearly jet-black hair combed neatly to the side. You certainly see where Rayyan gets their intimidating presence and fastidiousness about dressing from. 

“Ziad. Hello,” he says, with a thick Arabic accent, punctuating each syllable as though they’re each individual round hard stones. His handshake and gaze are firm, assessing. You’re immediately glad that you’d worn something presentable, and you try your best to project respectability and competence. 

“You are here for four days?” he asks. His expression is still so stern that you can’t tell if he’s pleased at all about the fact that you’re staying at their place over New Year’s, but you nod. 

When Rayyan had first floated the idea of you visiting over New Year’s, you’d been hesitant. 

...

<A month ago> 

It’s Final’s week, which means that in less than seven days, you’ll part ways, and won’t see each other again until Spring semester starts in mid-January. The two of you are taking a break from studying with a short evening stroll. 

“My parents said yes,” Rayyan says, over the crunch of gravel underfoot. “They’re fine with you staying a couple of days over New Year’s, if you’d still like that.” 

You don’t answer right away. On the one hand, you’d love to see Rayyan, see the home where they grew up in and meet their family. On the other hand, you’re not so sure what their parents would think of the two of you—from what Rayyan had said, they seemed like a conservative Arabic family with traditional values and high standards. 

Rayyan seems to sense your doubt. “They know. About… me,” they say quietly, as you round the corner around the half-frozen campus lake. “Told them back in high school, when I had a girlfriend/boyfriend. For a hot sec.” 

You bite your lip. “How did your parents react?” 

“It… took them a while to get used to the idea,” Rayyan says, jaw tightening slightly. “But my mother’s practical—she got over it as soon as I told her queer people could still adopt. My grandparents are fine, they’re not really the type to comment much. As far as they’re concerned, America’s a new land, with new rules.” Rayyan shrugs, but you still see some of the lingering tension in their shoulders. “My dad’s not pleased, but he doesn’t bring it up.”

You hum. The wind picks up, sharp and bracing. Eventually, the desire to see Rayyan again before the term starts in mid-Jan tips the scales. “Alright, fine,” you say, beginning to smile. “Hopefully they don’t end up hating me.” 

Rayyan takes your hand. “They won’t,” they say, projecting the same confidence they often do on court, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “But even if you don’t, it doesn’t matter to me.” 

You nod, giving Rayyan a sidelong glance. It’s not the only time that you’ve appreciated Rayyan’s blunt, one-track-mind; their ability to go for what they want, unabashedly, regardless of what the world thinks. 

...

Back to present

Rayyan’s father seems to have completed his assessment of you, though he does not share his conclusions. “You play tawla?” he asks, breaking the brief silence that had elapsed.

You shake your head, puzzled. Rayyan shoots you a crooked grin. “Baba gets bored playing with just us, so he’s always looking out for new opponents to crush.” 

Rayyan’s father nods, not exactly smiling, but eyes turning slightly gentler—you suspect this might be as close as he’ll get to a smile. “My family doesn’t put up much of a… how do you say it?” He clicks his tongue, looking at Rayyan.

Rayyan rolls their eyes, shaking their head. “A fight? That’s because you never let us stop playing if you lose.” 

“Both of them are the same,”  Rayyan’s grandfather pipes in, shaking his head before introducing himself to you. Rayyan’s grandma doesn’t get out of her reclining arm-chair, but she does reach out to pat your hand genially. 

You stay in the living room to chat, accepting the small cup of sweet mint tea that’s poured out for you. Rayyan sits down next to you, occasionally helping to translate. Rayyan’s grandfather’s English is probably the best of the three—even though his accent is thick, his vocabulary is reminiscent of Victorian English literature. Upon scanning the shelves in front of you, you’re willing to wager that the tattered paperback books are his. 

You don’t see the other siblings, but you hear them—running feet overhead, overlapping voices, a TV blaring Spongebob somewhere upstairs. At some point in the conversation, a black sleek shape slips into the room like a passing shadow. The cat pauses in the doorway, tail flicking once, yellow eyes sharp and vaguely judgmental. 

Rayyan lights up immediately. They immediately cross their legs. The cat leaps cleanly onto Rayyan’s lap, then curls into a tight, satisfied loaf. Rayyan’s fingers are gentle and reverent as they scratch behind the cat’s ears. “This,” Rayyan says, voice suddenly absurdly tender, “is Salem.”

Salem cracks one eye open, stares at you with deep suspicion, then shoves his head into Rayyan's palm, purring with imperious satisfaction. 

You stare. "Wow. I don't think you smiled at me like that when I walked in."

Rayyan doesn't look up, but their lips curl. "Jealous?"

Salem's tail flicks directly into your face. You're pretty sure he's smirking.

You laugh, knowing you’re beat.

Rayyan's grandmother chuckles, shaking her head. "El otta da," she says in Arabic, "thinks he owns the house."

“He does,” Rayyan replies without hesitation.

You reach out slowly, offering a cautious finger. Salem sniffs it, unimpressed—then, without warning, headbutts your hand and rubs his cheek along your knuckles. A beat. Then he stretches, leaps, landing straight into your lap, circling twice before arching his back to you, presenting his head for more rubs. 

Rayyan looks up at you, wide-eyed. "Wow."

You grin. "Who's jealous now?"

"He has never done that." Rayyan sounds genuinely betrayed.

You shrug. "What can I say? I'm irresistible to you Afiqs."

Rayyan huffs, but there's no heat in it. They lean over to scratch Salem's chin anyway, careful not to disturb him. Their shoulder presses lightly against yours, warm and solid.

For a moment, Rayyan forgets to be guarded. They're just... soft. Anchored. Home.

...

Later, Rayyan takes you around the house on your way up to their childhood bedroom on the second floor. 

The walls of the house are crowded with photos: graduations, weddings, school portraits, a very young Rayyan—probably no more than eight or nine—scowls at the camera with a tennis racket that looks definitely too large for them. 

Rayyan mutters, "The one-handed backhand."

You laugh. "Guess you were never going to be the next Federer, huh?"

Rayyan grins. “That pasty Swiss dude? No thank you.” 

You reach the last door in the hallway. Rayyan hesitates, looking uncharacteristically self-conscious. "You're not gonna give me shit, are you?"

You bite back a smile. "Depends. Is there anything to give you shit about?"

Rayyan shakes their head. "I should've never invited you."

You laugh and follow them inside.

The room is small, tidy in the way of someone who learned early to make limited space feel controlled. The bed—a double, thank god—is neatly made with a faded blue quilt. A desk sits under the window. The walls are plastered with old posters of tennis legends (Nadal, Serena, Djokovic), and the shelves are crammed with trophies and dog-eared sci-fi paperbacks—Dune, Ender's Game, The Left Hand of Darkness.

"Whoa,” you say, eyeing the shelf. "You really did win every junior tennis trophy in existence."

“I wish,” Rayyan says, rolling their eyes. Then, they pull one of the trophies out of the box. You recognize the year instantly, and judging by the smirk on their face, Rayyan knows you know it too. “The year I beat you.” 

You elbow them. “Screw you, Afiq, the day I beat you, I’m going to have a picture taken and kept in a locket I wear over my heart.” 

Rayyan laughs, eyes twinkling. “That… actually sounds pretty romantic.” 

After dropping your bags and changing into something more comfortable, you head down to help with dinner.

...

The kitchen is warm, fragrant, and bustling. Amina's three-quarters done with prep. Rayyan’s grandmother has wandered in from the living room to help, though she mostly is just standing by the kitchen counter island, smiling gummily at the proceedings and chatting in rapid-fire Arabic with Rayyan’s mother. 

Amina’s hands a blur as she shapes grape leaves around rice and ground beef for mahshi. A pot of molokhia—dark green, glossy with garlic and coriander—simmers on the stove. Amina soon has you peeling garlic and onions while Rayyan chops vegetables for mahshi. Their grandmother supervises cheerfully, chatting nonstop in Arabic and a small smattering of English. 

Dinner is loud, crowded, and chaotic in the best way.

The table barely fits everyone. Dishes are passed hand-to-hand: mahshi stuffed with spiced rice, molokhia served over rice with a squeeze of lemon, roasted chicken with batata, warm baladi bread torn and shared. Rayyan's youngest sibling—maybe three years old—falls asleep halfway through, face planted near their plate, and is carried off without ceremony.

Rayyan's father asks you about tennis. He's surprisingly invested, nodding gravely as Rayyan translates your answers into digestible summaries. He remembers nearly every tournament Rayyan's played, recounts pivotal moments in matches you didn't even know they'd told him about. There's pride there, buried under the sternness, and you catch Rayyan glancing at him once or twice, something unreadable in their expression. You’d been a little worried there wouldn’t be any common ground between you, but you needn’t have worried. It seems the two of you could talk tennis for days on end if left on a desert island alone.  

The kids pepper you with questions—about school, about your family, about whether you've seen the latest My Little Pony movie. Rayyan tries to rein them in, but you're an only child, and you can't help but soak it in: the noise, the warmth, the sheer aliveness of it all.

At different points, Rayyan keeps glancing at you—something soft flickering in their eyes. After a particularly long conversation with one of the kids about Pinkie Pie's party-planning skills, they murmur, "You good?"

You smile. "More than good.” 

Dessert is basbousa—golden semolina cake soaked in syrup, topped with almonds—and even though you're stuffed, it's so good you go back for seconds. You grin, and use one of the phrases that Rayyan had taught you on the way here. “Lazeez!” you enthuse. It’s delicious! 

This earns you a round of laughter, and Rayyan’s grandmother pats you on the back. "Momtaz!" she crows, smiling gummily.

After everyone has polished off all the food, Rayyan’s siblings help to clear the table and wash the dishes. You try to help, but are gently shooed away by the serious-looking fourteen-year-old twins. 

...

After you finally trudge up the stairs to bed after washing up, Rayyan sinks down in the sheets beside you, exhausted.

When you finally collapse into bed, Rayyan sinks into the sheets beside you, exhaling long and slow.

The house quiets in layers. The TV clicks off. Voices fade. Doors close softly, one by one. Pipes hum. The house settles around itself, heavy with sleep.

Rayyan's arm drapes over you, pulling you close. "I think my family likes you."

"Good," you murmur. "I was hoping for at least neutral tolerance."

Rayyan smiles. "You definitely overshot."

You pull the duvet over the both of you and snuggle deeper into Rayyan’s arms, enjoying the feel of cool sheets against your skin. The sheets are cool, Rayyan’s body is warm even through their shirt, and you let out a small, contented sigh.

"Thanks for inviting me," you say quietly. Even after just one evening, you feel like you've unlocked new facets of Rayyan—the version of them that exists only here, shaped by this house, this family, this history.

Rayyan hooks a leg over your hip, presses a kiss to your forehead, then lower—just shy of your temple. "I'm glad they like you," they say. "Because I want to bring you home for Eid someday."

Your chest tightens. "Guess I'd better learn more than lazeez."

"I'll teach you," Rayyan murmurs, smiling and shifting closer. The bed creaks faintly. They pause—then relax again, smiling that crooked, private smile that always feels like an invitation meant only for you. Their arm tightens around your waist. The closeness makes you acutely aware of everything—the small murmur of conversation downstairs, the fact that the walls of this childhood bedroom have held every version of Rayyan before this one.

Rayyan tilts their head, forehead resting against yours. “I’ve… been waiting to get you alone all evening,” they murmur. 

Heat flickers through you, sharp and pleasant. Rayyan's thumb traces slow circles against your side, exploratory, unhurried. Then, Rayyan leans in to kiss you. Their hand slides higher, palm warm against your back. 

You feel the hitch in their breath when you kiss them harder, your fingers curling into their shirt. The bed creaks again when you shift to straddle them—louder this time—and Rayyan pulls back just enough to laugh softly, pressing their forehead to yours.

"Careful," they murmur. "My entire family has superhuman hearing."

You grin, breathless. "Worth it."

"Bold words." Rayyan's eyes gleam in the low light. You've missed this.

Rayyan's lips brush your temple, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—then lower. The bed creaks again, but this time, both of you are too far gone to care. 

...

The next morning

Over breakfast, Rayyan’s sixteen-year-old sister, Salma, the oldest apart from Rayyan, smirks at the two of you. “So…” she says innocently. “How was sharing a room?”

Rayyan nearly chokes on their tea. There’s a small yelp. Salma gives a loud squawk of protests. “Mom! Rayyan kicked me!” But Rayyan’s mother just rolls her eyes, grinning, and Rayyan’s father merely continues flipping his newspaper—either willfully or unintentionally missing this entire exchange. 

Amina says something in rapid Arabic, and Rayyan turns a bright beet-red, and some of their siblings plus their grandparents give a little chortle. You nudge Rayyan with a toe under the table, but they shake their head, refusing to translate. 

Rayyan’s grandfather, seated to your left, leans in conspiratorially, “She said, ‘if only that’d give me grandchildren.’”  

You freeze, then bark out a laugh—equal parts mortified and delighted.

Rayyan puts their hands over their face and groans. 

Another round of laughter ripples through the room. Around you, the house hums—warm, crowded, alive.

While Rayyan’s at the sink helping to wash dishes, their grandfather beckons you closer and presses a thin, dog-eared book into your hands: The Ring of the Dove by Ibn Hazm. You turn it over in your hands. The pages are soft with age, margins crowded with notes in looping Arabic script that you can’t read. 

“A book about love,” Rayyan’s grandfather says, eyes twinkling. Then, he flips it open and reads aloud, translating line by line:

“So there he is, deluded fool; stepping benignly in the pool.
He slips and ere he can look round
He’s swept along the flood, and drowned.” 

You laugh. Rayyan—who clearly overheard—walks over. "Yeah, yeah. I'm the deluded fool alright," they say drily, smiling at you.

Their grandfather chuckles, and pats Rayyan’s arm, then yours. 

Rayyan lingers beside you after, close enough that your shoulders brush. The dining room still smells faintly of breakfast—ful medames, olive oil, fresh bread. At the table, their mother, father, and grandmother sit together, sipping coffee in companionable silence while the kids run circles in the living room.

As you follow Rayyan back to return the book to its rightful place on the shelf, it occurs to you that all of that might just be an invitation—Rayyan’s grandfather, mother, sister—all quietly making space for you in the family in each of the ways they know how.