Asad

I sprayed one last spiff of my perfume, the strong  but familiar scent of oud filling the air. With a quick motion, I closed the middle compartment of the car and took a steadying breath. Today was the day.

It had taken more out of me than I cared to admit to plan this, far more. I wasn't the type to overthink things like this, but Layla... Layla made me want to. I hadn't forgotten the last time we were supposed to meet. I had let her down, and though she'd been kind enough not to say much about it, I wanted to make up for it. I owed her more.

It came naturally to me for the most, the sense of responsibility. It always did, whether with my family or at work. But this? This was different. It wasn't just about showing up or following through. It was more than that, it was about doing it right, about showing her that I cared enough to try, I had learned now.

With Nahla's relentless encouragement and my assistant's logistical expertise, they had managed to put together something I hoped Layla would appreciate. Still, as much as I tried to reassure myself, a small part of me, the part that usually kept my emotions tightly under wraps, felt nervous.

When I picked her up, she was as composed as yesterday, even more so than usual. She greeted me with the same polite smile she'd been wearing ever since, courtesy, not warmth. Her lips curved slightly, but her eyes remained guarded.

Gathering the hem of her flowy winter-burnt yellow dress with subtle embroidery along the edges that shimmered faintly under the evening light, she slid into the car with a practiced grace. She smoothed the soft fabric that was substantial enough to ward off the chill of the breeze over her knees as I closed the door with a soft click.

I remembered how Nahla and I had gone back and forth over the design, her insisting it struck the perfect balance between warmth and grace for a beach setting. She'd been right.

I could only guess at what was going through her mind, but if her demeanor was anything to go by, she seemed... detached. Maybe even nervous, though she hid it well. Her fingers trembled slightly as she folded them in her lap, and I wondered if it was nerves or just the evening chill.

Sliding into the driver's seat, I glanced her way. "Shall we?" I asked, keeping my tone gentle, even though my own nerves threatened to slip through.

"Yes." She replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

She pressed her lips together, glancing away, and I caught the faintest flicker of something in her expression, hesitation, maybe. She licked her lips nervously, her gaze fixed firmly on her hands. I surprisingly wanted to ask her what was on her mind, but the moment passed, and the quiet settled over us like a familiar presence.

The hum of the car filled the space as I started the engine, and the melodic recitation of the Qur'an played softly through the speakers.

When the car slowed and I turned into the entrance, her attention finally shifted. Her gaze moved to the gates in front of us, tall, intricately carved from polished mahogany. The name of the private beach was etched above, bold and understated at the same time.

Her lips parted slightly, her surprise evident.

I maneuvered the car through the gates, parking with practiced ease. As I stepped out and moved to her side, I noticed the way she looked around, taking in the scene. The salty breeze ruffled her wrapped veil, and the golden hues of the setting sun painted her features in a soft glow.

When I opened her door, she stepped out slowly, her eyes drawn to the shoreline. Her gaze followed mine, landing on the setup I had prepared, a cozy arrangement near the water's edge, framed by the sun meeting the horizon.

Her surprise gave way to a smile, soft but genuine, and for the first time that evening, I felt my shoulders relax.

She nodded, her fingers brushing against her dress as the breeze played with its fabric. "It is beautiful." She replied her voice steadier now but still carrying a formal edge.

"You look beautiful," I said before I could second-guess myself. My voice sounded steady, calm, even, but I slid my hand into my pocket to keep from fidgeting. What are you doing, Asad?

She let out a small, disbelieving chuckle and glanced at me briefly, her cheeks visibly warming under the golden light. "Thank you?" She said, almost questioning like she wasn't sure what to do with the compliment.

I didn't press further, just gestured toward the setup ahead, letting the moment pass. The waves whispered against the shore, their soft rhythm filling the silence between us.

The arrangement looked simple but elegant, at least, I hoped it did. A woven blanket was spread over the sand, with plush cushions scattered across it in ivory and pale blue. A low table sat at the center, adorned with glowing lanterns, jars of wildflowers, and an assortment of small treats, strawberries, truffles, and cheeses, all set against the flickering light of fairy lights strung above.

She took it all in, her lips slightly parted as she absorbed the scene. Her eyes were wide, almost childlike, but there was still that distance, something I couldn't quite place, even as she stood so close.

"Soo..." I began, my tone casual, trying to gauge her mood as I set down a glass of sparkling water. "How have you been?"

She adjusted her veil slightly, her gaze shifting from the horizon back to me. "I'm... okay." She said, shrugging lightly. Her voice was even, polite, but not warm.

"Hmm." I tilted my head, studying her. "If you put it like that, it doesn't sound like you are."

Her lips twitched into a faint smile as she rolled her eyes lightly. "I'm really, really, really good." She replied, layering on exaggerated enthusiasm.

I couldn't help but laugh slightly at that, the corners of my mouth lifting despite myself. "Then I'm okay too," I said, pouring water into her glass before taking my own.

She hesitated for a moment, then looked at me more intently, her fingers playing with the edge of her glass. "Then..." She started, her tone quiet but probing, "... you're not okay either."

I blinked, caught off guard.

She added, almost too casually, "I mean, if you're copying me, and I wasn't actually okay, then you're... not either?"

Her words clicked into place in my mind, the logic unraveling itself. She wasn't okay. And by admitting I'd mirrored her, she was gently pointing that out.

The thought hit me, sharp and certain. She was sad. She'd been trying to keep composed, formal, even guarded, but underneath it, there was something heavier. And I'd caught it.

For once, I felt a quiet sense of pride at putting the pieces together, but it quickly melted into something else... concern.

I watched her as she stared out at the water, her profile bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Her features were so delicate, her large eyes holding a quiet, unspoken depth. There was something effortless about her beauty, something that drew me in every time. It struck me again, that pull she had over me, how she captivated me without even realizing it.

The silence hung between us, heavy and fragile. My chest tightened, the weight of unspoken words pressing down. Before I could stop myself, they spilled out.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice breaking the stillness.

She turned her head, her gaze curious but cautious, as though bracing herself for what I might say next. "Sorry?" She echoed, setting her glass down, her fingers lingering on its rim.

I nodded, shifting slightly to face her fully. "I'm sorry about how everything happened," I began, keeping my tone soft. "I know it wasn't what you wanted.. or expected." My throat tightened, but I pushed on. "I just... I need you to know that I wouldn't change it. Not for anything."

Her gaze dropped to her lap, her fingers brushing over the delicate embroidery of her dress, tracing the patterns as though they held answers. She was listening, her face calm and unreadable.

The quiet stretched on, the sound of the waves filling the space between us. I leaned forward slightly, willing her to look at me, to give me some sign of what she was feeling.

"I told you once," I said, my voice firmer now, "that I wouldn't give you a reason to regret this. And I meant it. I promise I'll prove it to you."

Her fingers stilled on the fabric, and for the briefest moment, her gaze flickered up to meet mine. Her lips parted as though she wanted to say something, but no sound came. She swallowed, her hands clutching her dress as though it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"Promise?" She whispered, her voice barely audible, but I caught it. Every syllable carried an aching vulnerability, a softness that cut through the protective layer she wore.

"Promise." I said firmly, meeting her eyes with as much honesty as I could muster. I needed her to feel the weight of that word, to understand that I meant it with everything in me.

But then, her lips curved into the faintest of smiles, small, unsure, and tinged with something bittersweet. "It's not that simple but sure, I guess." She said quietly, finally meeting my gaze, though the flicker of doubt in her eyes was unmistakable.

Her words hit me harder than I expected, but I didn't let it show. Instead, I leaned in slightly, my voice gentler now. "You don't have to believe me right now," I said, my tone steady. "You don't even have to trust me completely. Just... give me time. Let me show you."

Her gaze softened, though the tension in her shoulders didn't entirely leave. "We'll see." She murmured, the hesitation in her voice clear.

"I don't intend to just keep you as a wife, Layla," I said, my voice softening but remaining steady, each word chosen with care. "I want to be a husband to you. A good one."

Her fingers released the fabric of her dress, and she reached for the glass of water, taking a slow, measured sip. Her gaze drifted to the waves, blinking endlessly as though they could hide the faint blush rising to her cheeks.

"I'll hold you to that promise, then." She said finally, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper, something I couldn't quite place. Her eyes lifted to meet mine, and for once, she didn't look away.

"You should," I replied, allowing a hint of amusement to soften my words. Leaning back slightly, I tried to appear more relaxed, though every part of me was attuned to her. "I don't make promises I can't keep."

The corners of her lips twitched, just barely, and I felt a flicker of relief, a tiny crack in the walls she kept so firmly in place.

But then she straightened, slipping back into her composed demeanor like a second skin. "You talk like you're negotiating a deal, Mr. Muhammad." She said lightly, her words laced with a playful professionalism. "Are you sure you don't want to add a contract clause to this promise?"

I chuckled softly, unable to help myself. There it was, that cleverness, that wit that always caught me off guard. "No contracts," I said, meeting her teasing tone with sincerity. "Just my word."

Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile, though it didn't fully reach her eyes. "Well, your word is noted, Mr. Nyako." She replied, her voice even, professional, as though this were a meeting and not the most vulnerable conversation we'd ever had. "We'll see if your delivery matches the pitch."

Despite the playful veneer, her words left me feeling strangely exposed, like she was testing the strength of the ground beneath us before taking another step.

I paused, my eyes holding hers, searching for a crack in that polished exterior. She seemed so calm, so controlled, but I wasn't naïve. I'd practiced saying this, three times, in fact, just to get it right. But no amount of preparation could've matched how this moment felt.

I wanted her to know that this wasn't just an empty sentiment, wasn't something I was saying for the sake of appearances. It was the truth, foreign and unexpected, but real. And as strange as it was, I'd never been more certain of myself.

"I mean it," I said, my tone quiet but firm. "Every word. This isn't a pitch. It's not a negotiation. It's my truth, Layla."

Her brows lifted ever so slightly, a flicker of surprise flashing in her eyes. She didn't reply immediately, her gaze dropping to the water as though searching for something in its endless expanse.

And then, her voice broke through the stillness. "I guess... I'll just have to wait and see."

Her words were measured, and careful, but they carried a weight that made my chest tighten. I nodded, swallowing the urge to push further, to plead my case like I was in some courtroom. She wasn't ready to fully trust me, not yet.

But the faint flicker of hope in her eyes, very visible to my eyes somehow, told me I hadn't failed completely. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Enough to keep going.

The dining setup was perfect, at least, I hoped it was.

I'd chosen black and pink flowers to decorate the space, colors I'd seen Layla wear the most. The table was small and round, draped in a soft black cloth with pink floral accents. Two chairs sat facing each other, their frames elegant but simple, and a string of delicate fairy lights hung overhead, glowing warmly in the soft dusk.

Candles in glass holders were scattered around, their flames flickering gently in the breeze.

Once seated, the catering staff began to appear, carrying trays of food. I gestured for one of them to bring us the menu, clearing my throat as they handed it to her. "I wasn't sure what you'd prefer," I said, my voice tinged with nervousness, "so I asked them to make everything."

Her lips twitched into a small smile, one that she quickly stifled. "Thank you," she said softly, her tone polite but with a trace of shyness. "That's very considerate of you."

Dinner was pleasant, she seemed to enjoy the food, though our conversation remained light. After we finished, I leaned forward slightly, meeting her gaze. "Would you like to get closer to the water?"

"Yes, sure!" She said, her words precise.

I couldn't help but chuckle at her tone. Grabbing a blanket, I followed behind her as we walked toward the shore.

We stopped at a quiet spot, just far enough for the waves to lap at the edge of the blanket. Layla lowered herself gracefully, her posture poised even here. For a moment, we just sat in silence, the ocean stretching endlessly before us.

"What's your favorite thing in the world?" She asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Cars," I said, without hesitation.

She hummed softly, a thoughtful sound that made me curious. "Do you like cars?" I asked, leaning slightly toward her.

She tilted her head, considering. "Well, my brother likes them." She replied, a small smile playing on her lips.

"What about you, though? Do you?"

"I don't hate them." She admitted, her tone light. "I get to use my brother's a lot, so I can't complain."

I chuckled, the image of her driving Malik's cars amusing. "Which one's your favorite?"

She pretended to think, her brows knitting together as though the decision was monumental. Seconds stretched on, and then she finally said, "I can't choose. It's making my head ache."

Her expression was so earnest, so serious, that it took me a moment to realize she wasn't entirely joking.

"You okay?" I asked softly, my voice steady but concerned.

She was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "The next couple of days are probably going to be packed with headaches. I've been getting these bad headaches again," She admitted finally.

And then I remembered, she'd told me about a headache before.

"Do you get them often?"

"They started after an accident... with my dad."

I didn't interrupt, sensing she was going to talk.

"I was a kid." She continued, her voice distant. "I don't remember all the details, but it was bad. I used to take weeks off every term in school because of the pain. And then, for years, they were gone. I thought they were gone for good." Her voice softened, almost as though she were speaking to herself. "But they're back now."

Quietly, I began to pray for her, the words slipping from my tongue without thought.

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As I drove back from the beach, the soft hum of the engine and the rhythmic bump of the tires on the road were the only sounds filling the car. Layla sat in the passenger seat, her head leaning against the window, her lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks as her eyes fluttered closed.

She'd seemingly fallen asleep, her features softened and peaceful in a way that tugged at something deep inside me. Watching her like this, unguarded, so vulnerable, it struck me how much I wanted to be the man who deserved moments like this. To protect them, to earn them. I feel like a completely different man.

I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, my thoughts running wild. I'd spent so much of my life maintaining my own walls, my own distance from people. It was easier that way, less complicated, less messy. Except now, I was realizing that staying in my shell wasn't enough anymore. Not with her. I needed to do more, to meet her halfway.

But how? I wasn't used to this, opening up, being vulnerable. Outside my family, Usman was the only person I ever let see the real me, even just a fraction of it. He got it, understood the complexities and the silences without me having to explain too much.

The idea clicked in my mind as I glanced at Layla again, still fast asleep. I didn't have to figure this out on my own.

Reaching for my phone at the next red light, I quickly typed out a message to Usman.

Do you have 8 minutes?

It was our code, a simple phrase we'd come up with years ago in college when one of us needed the other's attention but didn't want to elaborate over text. Eight minutes because it wasn't long enough to feel intrusive but was just enough time to hash out something important. There was an unspoken psychology to it: eight minutes felt manageable, even if you were busy.

I hit send and put the phone back down, exhaling slowly. Seeing Layla tonight, spending time like this with her, made me realize I couldn't keep waiting for her to lower her walls first. If I wanted her to trust me, to see me, then I had to show her who I was. That meant coming out of my own shell, raw and real, even if it terrified me.

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