"Amira," groaned Damon as he mixed cookie dough. "How could you allow your friend to abuse my hard-working personality like this?"

Ibrahim scoffed. "You've been whining like a dog. Shut up."

"That's just rude."

"Good. Maybe it will make you work faster."

Turning to his wife with an incredulous look, Damon scowled at Amira for not standing up for his honor. "I can't believe you two let him talk to me like this."

We had finally managed to get Damon and Amira to help us bake while Kanza and Tanwir, who was Amira's older brother, went around town advertising the bake sale. Bashir continued to be helpful, listening to my every word and carefully crafting his precious cupcakes since he believed Ibrahim and I would find a way to ruin another delicacy.

With a mind trained to optimize the best result for anything, Ibrahim had used his business strategies in order to get more people to come to our bake sale. He called Kanza and Tanwir in, tactical in where he placed them like they were pieces on a chess board, the prize being a better home for orphans. The two separated into a maze of the city, following businessmen and women in attempts to make our fundraiser the best it could ever be.

The ever-so-hilarious Thomas was stuck at the office, sorting through whiny phone calls, threatening letters, and suffocating paparazzi, who believed Ibrahim was still at work today. Even though the scandal trembled beneath our every step, I was more disgusted by the entire ordeal than offended.

Gazing at Ibrahim's frown as he and Damon continued to tease each other, I lost myself in the brown orbs that gleamed every time he met my gaze, the lips that caressed mine with his own, the hands that held me with all its strength and protection. I was reminded of his everlasting love, one that no amount of lies could tarnish, and no amount of stolen moments could extinguish.

As if noticing my gaze, he turned his chin towards me, lips slowly curling into a small smile.

It was as if everything around us disappeared, leaving Ibrahim and I in a field of our own ardor and fervent passion against all odds and all objections. There seemed to be a blinding radiance illuminating from the rare smile he showed, the small happiness he exposed to others.

I returned the smile.

"So," drawled Damon, giving us a knowing glance, "Tasneem, would you like to tell the rest of us what's next on the list?"

"Oh... um... sure," I stumbled as I ran through my mental thoughts to organize myself. "We need to make doughnuts, hopefully rainbow colored ones."

Damon's face was one that would have brought joyous tears to many eyes. "How the fuc-"

Amira cleared her throat, giving him a pointed glare.

Her husband swallowed his previous words. "I mean how the hell would we be able to make rainbow doughnuts?" he amended.

"And here I thought you'd grown from your foul mouth days," mumbled Ibrahim, amused.

"What was that?" questioned Damon.

"Oh, nothing."

"Anyway," I emphasized, holding up my favorite recipe book, "it's a really easy process. All we need is icing and glazed doughnuts."

Immediately Bashir's hand went up in the air like he was a student in the classroom. "I volunteer to get the glazed doughnuts!" he exclaimed.

"I also volunteer to be the driver to get the doughnuts!" yelled Damon, raising his hand as well.

Amira sighed, leaning against the marble counter and smiling at her husband's childish behavior. The look in her gentle, brown eyes was enough to light the fire between the two of them, their sizzling chemistry surpassing every difference they shared. Although Damon and Amira came from drastically different backgrounds and even religious beliefs in the beginning, they were tied to each other by Allah's grace and mercy.

"Well, you both volunteered for nothing," I said, "we're going to make homemade doughnuts."

"Oh Allah, save me from this labor," prayed Damon in a joking manner.

"I need a week of cookies as payment for this," muttered Bashir under his breath.

I glanced nervously at Ibrahim. They weren't wrong. I had made my friends work so hard on their last day of fasting.

Slowly, the guilt came trickling down my spine, reminding me of my failure to pay attention to their needs as well. After a long and brutal month of fasting for Allah, the last day shouldn't be so difficult for my friends and family, especially since I was forcing them around food the entire day.

It must have been absolute torture.

Ibrahim caught the dip in my posture and the anxious biting of my bottom lip. Straightening himself, he grabbed the icing spatula from a bowl of butter cream frosting, coating it in frothy layers of white as if they were weightless clouds of pure, sugary delights.

"You guys need to complain less," he began as he lifted the frosting-covered spatula, "and smile more."

Ibrahim flung the icing at Damon, hitting the small beard on his chin, and slipping into the small follicles of brown. In shock, Damon's jaw dropped, staring at Ibrahim in disbelief and uncertainty in the situation. The room was silent as Ibrahim continued mixing the icing, whistling to himself as if nothing happened.

His movements were slow and fluid, moving in a gentle caress through a chilling room. No one moved from sheer shock. Ibrahim seemed completely oblivious to everyone's reaction to his sudden lapse of immaturity just to lighten the mood.

"Did you just throw icing at me?" asked Damon, fingers touching the creamy, white layer on his beard hairs. He blinked a couple times, trying to wrap his head around the situation. "Am I in the Tarkans' house or am I just dreaming?"

Ibrahim deeply chuckled.

"Did he hit his head?" asked Bashir. He turned to me. "What have you done to the cold-hearted iceberg of Tarkan Industries?"

I stayed silent, watching Ibrahim carefully with a raised brow in question. When our eyes met, he smiled, thus stalling his stirring. With every hurdle that has been thrown towards him, Ibrahim was the last one we all expected to become so carefree in the split of a moment. He began speaking without tearing his dark eyes from mine.

"I'm not crazy," he started, "but I know what Ramadan is supposed to feel like. I know this is tiring for all of us especially during long hours of fast. I know how much time and money is being spent on this fundraiser. Trust me, I know all of that, but we can't forget who we're doing this for."

"The orphans?" asked Bashir with a tilt of his head.

Ibrahim shook his head, walking over and grasping my hand in his, the warmth seeping through my body. "Not exactly, little bro. We're doing this for the sake of Allah. We're struggling to keep our fast through temptation to prove our devotion to Allah. We're helping these orphans because Allah told us to never turn our backs on the needy and less fortunate."

The softness in his usually thundering voice of authority awakened a new fondness in me, not only for Ibrahim, but for my Islam as well. From the contemplating looks around the room, it seemed like everyone else thought the same.

Sometimes under the blanket of stress and deadlines, Muslims tend to forget their Lord and the obligations they have as Muslims. Although we continued our duties as practicing Muslims, we did them carelessly without the remembrance of Allah. We did them without our hearts.

Even when we did generous acts to the community.

"You're right," I whispered as I gripped his hand tighter. "This is for Allah. We shouldn't forget that."

Damon clamped a hand on Ibrahim's shoulder. "Thanks, man."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "For?"

"For reminding us about Allah. Now, let's get started on these doughnuts before iftar (breaking of fast)."

Damon, Amira, and Bashir carried on with their tasks, breaking into a small conversation filled with joy and laughter, and easing the lingering annoyance from the air. Ibrahim's words erased the force of inhibition from their hearts and instead reminded them of a joyous Ramadan,where our acts of worship became our priority.

Pulling Ibrahim closer to me, I leaned up to press my lips to his cheek in a gentle kiss. I felt his skin warm up from my touch and smiled inwardly at my effect. When I pulled away, he stared at me confused, ebony strands of hair brushing against his forehead as a pale pink coated his cheeks in a blushing ember. His jaw fell slightly ajar, gaze smoldering in its intensity and awe.

"You always know the right thing to say," I grinned.

"You really think that?"

I nodded. "If your parents were still alive, they'd be so proud of you because even in the face of pain, you're still so firm in your remembrance and belief in Allah."

"Well," he said, averting his gaze to the floor under me, "He blessed me with a wife to always remind me of His love and mercy."

On the last day of Ramadan, all of us were reminded of our Lord. A refreshing splash of spirituality fell upon Ibrahim and I, knowing that our love wasn't a coincidence. It was destined and written for our lives, carefully placed because Allah knew we needed each other through these dark days.

Broken and abused from a scandal and past, Ibrahim needed me. Hurt and scared from insults on the street and criticizing employers, I needed him. Society labeled us, Jared defamed us, and Allah had protected us through it all, shielding us from their tarnishing insults and focusing our attention to orphans who were desperate for our care.

It was a Ramadan lesson that would stay with me forever.