First night at his house

The small house was quiet. After everyone had left, Asma finally felt the weight of solitude settle on her shoulders. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the faint orange glow of Maghrib lingered through the curtains. She folded her hands and prayed her Maghrib prayer, her voice trembling slightly in the unfamiliar quiet.

By the time she finished Isha, the house was silent. Akram wasn’t home yet. She sighed softly, rubbing her arms. The long day, the travel, the anxiety of everything—it had drained her. Slowly, she changed into something more comfortable, something simple. Her stomach growled faintly. She hadn’t eaten in hours.

For a moment, she just wandered around the small room, unsure where to start. Her eyes scanned the tiny room. She didn’t know what to eat, or even how to cook anything. She hesitated, then decided there was no choice but to leave the room and search for something.

She reached for the door. The handle rattled in her hand… and then the door swung open.

Akram was standing there.

For a brief second, Asma froze. He looked… different. Handsome. Calm. Commanding, yet gentle. His sharp jawline caught the faint light, his eyes steady. He looked like someone out of the glossy pages of a magazine—someone she had only ever seen in pictures or daydreams. She blinked, speechless.

He looked at her, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink around them.

Akram’s POV

Her eyes met his.

She was… beautiful. Not just the ordinary beauty one could notice casually. There was something striking about her calmness, her stillness. Her innocence was clear in the way her puffy eyes widened slightly at him, the delicate curve of her full lips, the gentle slope of her pointed nose.

He had only ever seen her veiled, hidden behind the nikab and hijab. Now, seeing her face for the first time… he felt a strange pull in his chest. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, soft and shiny, framing her face in a way that made her look ethereal, almost fragile.

For a long moment, he simply looked at her, drinking in every detail, careful not to break the quiet. Her expression was shy, nervous, hesitant.

He noticed the subtle blush creeping onto her cheeks as her gaze flickered downward. She shifted slightly, as if the sudden exposure of her own beauty embarrassed her.

Back to Asma

Feeling her heartbeat accelerate, Asma stepped back instinctively. Her eyes lowered, avoiding his gaze. The sudden closeness made her chest flutter in a way she hadn’t expected. Her fingers fumbled as she grabbed her hijab, quickly wrapping it around her head, restoring the shield that made her feel safer.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she adjusted it, pretending nothing had happened, though her mind was racing, thoughts tumbling over themselves.

Akram’s eyes lingered for a moment longer before he gave a soft, almost imperceptible nod. Respectful, patient… waiting.

Asma finally swallowed, her hands still trembling slightly, and moved past him into the hallway, her mind a whirl of curiosity, nervousness, and wonder.

Asma felt her chest tighten and her thoughts scramble. She hadn’t expected to see him like this, so calm, so handsome, standing there quietly as if nothing had happened. Her instinct was to retreat. She changed her mind and rushed back into the small bedroom,  and sank onto the bed, clutching the edge as if it could anchor her.

Her mind raced. What am I supposed to do now? She stared at her hands, fingers nervously fidgeting with her nails, trying to calm herself.

Akram, meanwhile, lingered for a moment in the doorway, his eyes tracing her carefully, observing her nervous movements with something that felt like quiet amusement and curiosity. There was a patience in him, a calm that seemed effortless.

Finally, he stepped inside, closing the door fully behind him with a small nod.

The movement made Asma tense even more. Her body stiffened, her fingers curling tightly around her nails.

“Let’s pray and thank God,” he said softly, his voice calm and steady.

Asma lifted her head, hesitating. “I… I already performed ablution for Isha prayer,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded respectfully, acknowledging her words without pressing further. “Very well,” he said. Then, he walked toward the small bathroom, leaving her to her thoughts.

A short while later, he returned. Water droplets clung to the edges of his hairline, rolled down his temples, and caught the light in the room. His face glistened faintly, giving him a look that was… unexpectedly striking.

When his eyes met hers again, Asma felt a sudden jolt in her chest. The calm, steady gaze of his dark eyes made her flush. There was something magnetic about the way he stood there—grounded, confident, yet quietly attentive. Even the droplets of water seemed to accentuate his features, giving him a slightly rugged, yet composed appearance.

Asma quickly looked away, her heart racing, cheeks warming. She tugged her fingers at her nails, trying to ground herself, trying to remind herself that she needed to focus.

Akram, noticing her nervousness, gave a small, almost imperceptible smile—gentle, patient. There was no rush, no pressure. Just the quiet understanding of a man observing someone unfamiliar with their new surroundings, someone nervous, someone cautious.

For a few long moments, they simply shared the silence, broken only by the distant hum of the evening outside.

After they prayed.

Asma got up and sat on the bed, fidgeting with the folds of her clothing. Her stomach growled faintly, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since the morning. She glanced around the small room, eyes scanning for anything she could turn into a meal, but the cupboards were neat and empty, save for a few basics she didn’t recognize.

How am I supposed to eat? she thought, panic fluttering in her chest. She had never cooked here before, didn’t know the kitchen, and now she was alone.

Akram noticed immediately. He had moved silently to the corner of the room, leaning against the doorframe, watching her with a quiet attentiveness. He didn’t rush her, didn’t comment yet, but his eyes followed every movement—the way she bit her lip, the way she glanced nervously at the cupboards.

“You… look hungry,” he said finally, his voice calm, almost teasing, but gentle enough not to startle her.

Asma’s eyes widened. “I… I don’t know what to eat,” she admitted, her voice small. “I don’t know where anything is… or how to make anything…”

Akram straightened, walking a few steps toward her. “Let me help,” he offered softly. “There’s some food in the fridge and a few things in the kitchen. You don’t have to do it alone.”

She shook her head quickly, nervous. “No, I… I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble,” he said, giving her a small, reassuring smile. “It’s nothing difficult. Come with me. I’ll show you.”

Hesitant, Asma got up from the bed, her steps cautious. Her fingers fiddled with her hijab, twisting it nervously as she followed him to the small kitchen.

Akram moved with ease around the counter, opening the fridge and pulling out some vegetables, eggs, and bread. “We can make something simple,” he said, his tone light. “Even if it’s basic, it will fill your stomach.”

Asma watched him, amazed at how calm he was. She felt a strange comfort in the way he spoke and moved—patient, respectful, and kind. She could feel her tension easing slightly.

“I… I don’t really cook at home mom and Ayesha did,” she confessed quietly, almost embarrassed.

“You don’t have to,” he said, giving her a warm look. “I’ll guide you. You’ll see—it’s easier than it seems. And I promise, I won’t let anything burn.”

For the first time that evening, Asma laughed softly, the sound shaky but genuine. Her fingers loosened their grip on her scarf, and she took a tentative step closer to the counter.

Together, they started preparing a simple meal. Akram showed her how to break the eggs without spilling, how to chop vegetables carefully, and even how to toast bread. His voice was calm, steady, patient—never condescending.

“You’re doing well,” he said after a while, glancing at her. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

Asma felt her cheeks heat, not from embarrassment this time, but from the comfort of his encouragement. She nodded silently, a small smile tugging at her lips.

By the time they finished, she had a simple plate of food ready. She sat at the small table, still nervous, but the panic that had gripped her earlier had softened. Akram set his own plate beside hers and gestured toward the meal.

“Eat,” he said softly. “You need your strength.”

She looked at him, then at the food, and finally nodded. Her fingers wrapped around the fork, and she began to eat slowly, carefully, feeling a strange warmth spread through her chest—not from the food, but from the quiet kindness and attention he had shown her.

Akram watched her eat, a faint smile on his lips, his eyes calm and patient. In the soft glow of the kitchen light, the tension between them eased, replaced by a subtle comfort—a start of a trust neither of them had expected that evening.