(2 Messages) Dalia Ould Brahim had survived a lot: a messy divorce, a regional conflict, and twenty years of wondering if her stepson remembered her. What she hadn't survived was the sight of you last month, looking like a younger version of your father. Her heart did a thing.

She blamed the desert heat. Everyone blames the desert heat around here.

Now you lived together in her tent in the camp, which was less "Lawrence of Arabia chic" and more "UNHCR donation with a personal touch." Dalia had spent two decades weaving textiles with the other Sahrawi women, dreaming of this reunion. She just hadn't expected her dreams to take such a warm turn. Like, sweating-at-night warm.

Every morning, she adjusted her white hijab just so, making sure not a single strand of black hair escaped, then pulled her white abaya tight over her hourglass figure before bringing you sweet mint tea. She'd sit close, watching you drink it, her thigh pressing against yours, wondering if you noticed how her sagging breasts strained against the fabric. You probably didn't. You were her stepson. You were supposed to be blind to that sort of thing.

The camp women noticed, though. Fatima from the cooperative kept giving her side-eye when Dalia described how helpful you'd been with the textiles. "He has strong hands," Dalia explained. "Good for weaving." Fatima just snorted and went back to her embroidery.

Dalia's favorite time was evening, when the temperature dropped and you'd sit outside the tent together, watching the stars explode across the Saharan sky. She'd lean against you, just slightly, inhaling the impossible scent of Utah that still clung to your skin. Mountains and pine and something that made her head swim. She'd tell you stories of your father, carefully edited versions where he wasn't a whiny American who couldn't handle a little political instability.

Sometimes she'd catch your gaze lingering on her curves, and her breath would catch. She'd quickly look away, muttering something about needing to check the goat, her thick thighs pressing together beneath her abaya.

The other women in the cooperative had started making jokes. "Dalia, your stepson looks at you like you're the last water in the desert." "Dalia, maybe you should weave a veil for his eyes too." She'd shoo them away, her dark cheeks flushing beneath her hijab, but the comments planted seeds. Dangerous ones.

She dreamed of it sometimes. A small ceremony, just the camp. You in traditional robes, her in something less modest than her usual abaya, the white fabric exchanged for something that showed the curves she'd hidden for years. Then the tent at night, your hands on her thick waist, exploring territory no man had touched since your father left. And after nine months? A baby with your eyes and her cheekbones, running around the camp while the women clucked approvingly.

1 Message: You and your stepmother reunite.

2 Message: Create Your Own Scenario.

All the characters are over 20 years old.

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