AMINAH'S POV:
I dropped my bag on the bed and sank into it, letting out a long, tired sigh. The evening had been overwhelming—too many people, too many eyes watching, and one person in particular who wouldn't leave my mind. Malik.
His voice, his presence—it lingered like a melody I couldn't shake. I didn't like how he occupied my thoughts so easily. It's totally inappropriate for a muslim lady to be thinking about a man who's not her husband so much. I wanted to chalk it up to nothing, a fleeting moment at a party.
I stood up to get perform ablution so I can perform the last prayer of the day.
I was about to change into something more comfortable when my phone buzzed. My heart jumped. Could it be him? I checked my phone.
It was Maryam. "Malik . Is. Foineeeee"
I was relieved—and disappointed. I guess it wasn't my number Maryam was sharing to him the other time. She can have him, i don't care.
I can't believe I just had that train of thought. Something is really wrong with me. My phone buzzed again.
"So, are you going to admit he's cute now, or do you want me to spell it out for you?"
I frowned. Why would she want me to think admit he's cute when she gave him her number? My phone buzzed. "Amina Bankole, are you ignoring me??"
"Mama go and sleep, enough talk about boys," I replied.
Not wanting to entertain her any longer, I dropped my phone on the vanity table. Don't get me wrong, I really love Maryam. She has been having my back right from secondary school, when other children our age bullied me for being so quiet. But then, she can be too much sometimes. Plus she's now involved with you-know-who.
Changing into my nightgown, I crawled into bed, recited my night prayers and closed my eyes to sleep. Maybe by tomorrow I would have forgotten about all these. Then my phone started ringing. I groaned.Maryam wahala—problem—can be too much. I contemplated ignoring it but knowing Maryam, I'll never hear the end of it. So, I sat up to take my phone and picked the call, not bothering to look at my screen.
"What is it?" I snapped.
"Assalamu alaykum, Amina."
That voice. Deep, smooth, and unmistakably familiar. My grip on the phone tightened. 'How did he get my number?' Did Maryam actually....
"Are you there?"
I steadied my breath. "Wa alaikum salam. Who's this?" I asked, though I already knew.
He chuckled lightly. "I was hoping you'd recognize me, but I guess I left less of an impression than I thought."
I closed my eyes, taking another steadying breath. "Malik."
"So, you do remember me," he said, sounding amused.
"What do you want?" My tone was sharper than I intended, but my nerves were betraying me.
"To make sure you got home safely," he replied, his voice laced with calm confidence.
"How did you even get my number?" I asked, knowing fully well it was Maryam.
There was a pause, and I thought for a moment that he wouldn't answer. But then he said, "Your friend, Maryam."
I should have known. But I was strangely relieved it wasn't her number she gave out.
"She had no right to give you my number without my consent." i said, feigning anger. Shouldn't I be angry?
"She thought she was doing you a favor," Malik said smoothly, his tone infuriatingly calm. "She thinks you're too guarded."
I closed my eyes, trying to steady myself. "She doesn't know what she's talking about. Well now that you know I got home fine, you can delete this number," I said, trying to regain control of the conversation.
"Not so fast," he replied, his voice dropping slightly. "I'm not a fan of one-sided conversations. I'd like to get to know you better, Amina."
The way he said my name sent a jolt through me, but I quickly shook it off. "I'm not interested."
"Are you sure?" he asked, a playful edge in his tone.
"Yes, I'm sure," I shot back, though my heart was racing.
"Alright," he said, his tone still light. "I will leave you to sleep. Goodnight". The line went dead.
Then a text came in from Maryam. "Babess, I just need to get this out as soon as possible so you'll not be too shocked. I gave Malik your number. Please don't kill mee:( I'm sorryyyy I didn't ask you, but I just had to. I hope you understand baby:)"
"Too late, he already called." I replied. "Please let's talk tomorrow, I'm tired," I quickly added. Knowing Maryam, she'll want to call me to apologize and drill me for details.
I tossed the phone onto the table, groaning in frustration. I won't allow this nonsense to go on—racing heart or not, I'll not get involved with a man who's not my husband. And if I want to get married —which I don't think I'm ready for, I'll let my father know who will arrange a good muslim husband for me.
With that thought, I picked up my phone and blocked his number. Good riddance.
What a play.
MALIK'S POV
The sunlight filtered through the curtains as I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt. It was another busy morning—business meeting with a calligraphy artist. I wasn't thrilled, honestly. I've never really been the type to get excited about meetings, but today was different.
She has blocked my number. I couldn't believe it at first but when the call kept bouncing, I understood. But she's still in my mind.
My mind kept drifting back to last night. To her. Amina. I couldn't help but think about the way she'd looked when I caught her eye at the wedding. She wasn't like the others—so poised, so reserved. Something about her pulled me in, in a way that felt... new. Different. I could usually keep my focus, but for some reason, she kept occupying my thoughts.
I rubbed my hand over my face, trying to shake it off.
Get a grip, Malik. She already blocked you.
I had a meeting to attend, and it was with an artist, someone I couldn't afford to lose focus over. I have been noticing the artist's design for quite sometime now. The way his design is intricate and unique—a blend of modern and traditional flair. Perfect for me.
I grabbed my keys and headed out of the apartment. The restaurant wasn't far, just a few blocks away. It had this understated charm—wooden furniture, soft lighting, and an ambiance that was always just right for meetings. It wasn't the kind of place where people were trying too hard to impress. It had an easy elegance to it, much like the people who came here.
When I walked in, I scanned the room, but I didn't see her right away. I was early, which gave me a moment to settle in and adjust to the atmosphere. I ordered a coffee and checked my watch. It wasn't long before a woman walked in, her head covered with a scarf, the fabric elegantly falling around her shoulders. Her long, flowing abaya matched the scarf.
Amina?
I froze, the realization hitting me in waves. At first, I thought I was imagining it. There was no way she could be here, not after blocking me so decisively. But as she looked around, her gaze landed on me—and for the briefest moment, I saw the same shock mirrored in her eyes.
I stood instinctively, my heart pounding. My thoughts raced. It's her. But why is she here?
"Malik Haroon?" she asked, stopping a few feet from the table. Her voice shocked. Her voice was heaven
"Yes…" I replied cautiously, still reeling from the coincidence.
"What are you doing here?" She asked, visibly uncomfortable.
I smiled, in an effort to put her at ease. "I'm here for a meeting. And you?"
"I'm supposed to meet an architect for a meeting...," she replied, not holding my gaze. It made me want to tilt up her face and look into her eyes.
Then her word registered.
She's here to see an architect? That's...me. Wow. I chuckled. "You're here to see me?".
She looked confused for some seconds and then finally she realized. Her face is so expressive.
"I didn't expect this," she was shocked. "Neither did i. Please have a seat," I said, gesturing to the chair across from me.
As she sat down, I couldn't help but take her in again. Up close, she was even more striking. Her beauty wasn't loud or showy—it was understated, effortless. I couldn't help but notice her full pink lips. I had an overwhelming urge to bend my head and kiss her. Knowing her, she'll cut off my head if I so much as hold her hand. I chuckled at the thought.
I'm not a perfect muslim. I've had my fair share of sex with women and I know how to pleasure a woman. And God help me, I have an overwhelming need to pleasure this particular woman till she begs me to stop.
She cleared her throat, pulling me out of my thoughts. "So, I believe we're here to talk about my art?"
"Right," I said, pulling myself together. But as we began discussing the project, listening to her passionate voice and brilliant suggestions about the project. I couldn't help but wonder: Have I fallen in love?