I slowly opened my eyes, and the first sight that greeted me made my heart smile.
He was lying beside me—fast asleep. His face looked calm, almost boyish in sleep, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest matched the peaceful silence of the early morning.

I turned to face him fully, unable to resist the smile tugging at my lips. Memories of last night stirred within me, warm and tender, painting my cheeks with a soft blush.

He shifted slightly, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. I glanced toward the window—the sky was still wrapped in darkness. The clock read 5:45 AM. Time for Fajr.

Quietly, I tied my hair into a loose bun and stepped out of bed. After performing wudhu, I offered my prayer. As I finished my dua and turned back, my eyes rested on him—still sound asleep.

“Shams,” I called softly.

No response.

“Shams,” I repeated, nudging his shoulder gently.

He stirred a little but didn’t open his eyes.

“It’s Fajr time.” My voice was firmer this time.

He finally stretched, letting out a sleepy yawn, eyes half-closed. I couldn’t help but smile at how adorably reluctant he was to leave sleep behind. He tossed the blanket aside and slowly walked toward the bathroom while I returned to bed, still whispering quiet supplications.

A little later, after offering his prayer, he sat beside me, rubbing his eyes.

“Can I get something to eat?” he asked, voice hoarse from sleep.

“Sure,” I replied with a smile and got up.

As I walked toward the kitchen, the moments from last night replayed in my mind—our quiet laughter, the way he had helped me cook, how effortlessly we had fallen into a rhythm.

I opened the fridge and took out the bowl of kheer I had prepared the night before. Scooping a small portion into a dish, I placed the rest back and returned to him.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.” He took the bowl and began eating, eyes still a bit drowsy.

I climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

“When did you make this kheer?” he asked after a few bites.

“Last night, with dinner.”

“But we didn’t eat it… why?” he asked with a knowing smile.

My cheeks flushed. “Last night, we…” I trailed off, flustered.

He raised a brow, clearly enjoying my embarrassment. “Last night…?” he echoed, smirking.

I quickly turned my face and hid under the blanket.

He gently lifted the edge of the blanket from my face.

“Last night—the sorry moments,” he whispered. My heart skipped.

“Mrs. Shams,” he said again, even softer, his voice full of affection.

I turned to him, smiling through the tears that welled up for no reason at all. That one phrase—Mrs. Shams—made something settle deep in my heart. Like I finally belonged somewhere.

“So, Mrs. Shams… do you remember we have a dinner to attend tonight?” he asked with a teasing grin.

“Of course, Mr. Shams, I remember.” I played along, and he chuckled.

We lay there, facing each other, our gazes locked in a quiet spell—until the soft rumble of thunder echoed in the distance.

“It’s going to rain,” he murmured.

I nodded and got up to close the windows as the wind rushed in. The sky was heavy with clouds, and the chill touched my skin. Once done, I returned to bed.

“I’m going to sleep for a while,” he mumbled.

I just nodded and closed my eyes too.

---

Later that morning

“Wafa,” he called again—his third call—and I quickly turned off the stove and rushed to the room.

As I entered, I froze.

He stood shirtless in the middle of the room, holding his shirt in one hand.

“Can you please iron this for me?” he asked casually.

I nodded, my words caught somewhere between my lips and my racing heartbeat. Taking the shirt, I turned toward the ironing board, but I couldn’t concentrate. The image of him—shirtless—was burned into my mind. It was the first time I had seen him like that.

As I turned around, I accidentally bumped into him—he was standing too close.

“Your... your shirt,” I stammered, keeping my eyes lowered.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it—but he didn’t step back.

His nearness, the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of his cologne—it all overwhelmed me. My heart felt like it would burst.

And then, softly, his lips touched my cheek.

Warm. Gentle. Meaningful.

“Wafa,” he whispered close to my ear, “you’re becoming my addiction.”

He stepped back, smiling, leaving me stunned. I placed a trembling hand over my heart.

What was happening to me? Why did his touch feel like magic?

I touched the spot on my cheek where he had kissed me—and smiled.

“Wafa,” he called again—this time fully dressed. “Breakfast?”

I nodded, still lost in the moment.

---

A/N: Assalam-o-Alaikum dear readers!
How are you all?

How did you find today’s update?
I truly hope you enjoyed the tender, quiet moments between Shams and Wafa. This chapter is very close to my heart—it shows how love blossoms not just in grand gestures, but in morning prayers, shared meals, and quiet confessions.

Please do share your thoughts—your feedback means everything to me.
And yes, don’t forget to vote and comment!

Till next time—Allah Hafiz!
Keep reading…
Keep smiling…