The Malik Family was busy, just like every other day. Routinely, Nadeem Malik, the man of the house, was sipping his bittersweet coffee; Mariam Malik, the wife was watching a dramatic serial on TV; Zoya was attempting to bake another cake, hopefully with some success. Bilal, the firstborn child of the Malik family, was on another mission of his video game.

Zoya's grin was contagiously wide as she studied the tasty-looking chocolate cake. Bilal rolled his eyes at his younger sister's vivid emotions. "Hah, don't be so glad. Remember the cake you baked earlier? It looked delicious, but it was stuck to the cake pan."

Zoya's grin flattened as she recalled those horrendous trials. "It'll be good this time. In Sha Allah, I know it," Zoya muttered, her cerulean eyes gleaming with excitement.

Although Zoya was able to cook the most luscious of cuisines, she was defeated when it came to baking. However much she tried, she just couldn't bake. Zoya was jittery as she uplifted the cake from the pan. Her gasp echoed through the thin, freshly beige-painted walls of the kitchen as she observed the cake's bottom. Black crusty cake-bits fell from the edges.

The cake was overcooked.

Again.

Zoya's groan reverberated in the haze of the night. As soon as the groan was audible to Bilal, he laughed knowingly since it wasn't the first cake destroyed nor was it Zoya's first complained groan echoing. Zoya sighed heavily as she stalked towards a very hysteric Bilal.

"You're so mean," she mumbled, despite the rising temper. Because she knew her baking skills needed extra measures.

"Mama, he's laughing at me!" Zoya cried. Bilal's laughs were more high pitched than their neighbour's rooster.

"Ma!" Zoya whined.

"Shh, I need silence," her mother grumbled, staring at the television screen lovingly at the married couple.

Zoya stomped off to her bedroom like a nine-year-old with temper issues. She grabbed a novel from her shelf that her mother made her tidy up yesterday, sprawling on her bed.

Reading was Zoya's way out of reality. She loved jumping into a world completely different from her's. Romance intrigued her the most. She was told by her mother that Allah made good men for good women. The concept of falling in love was thrilling to her. Giving someone pieces of yourself wasn't easy, Zoya knew that, but she had full faith in Allah and his doings.

In all honesty, she couldn't wait to live through the experience of that one man swooping her off her feet like a knight in shining armour.

--|--|--|--|--

Hillton was soaked with continuous rain. The clouds, black and heavy, still appeared ready to burst above Zoya, but she hoped she got to the supermarket before the rain mobbed her. Zoya didn't hate rain, in fact, she loved dancing underneath it; it was her favourite weather. But if her clothes grew wet, they would stick to her body, and she didn't want any of herself revealed; the mere thought made her shudder.

Ironically, her pastel blue scooter was the slowest of vehicles. She kept on reminding Bilal to check and fix the problem, but his lethargic habits never seemed to change.

When Zoya finally passed her street, she took a sharp turn to the right, unfamiliar about the person walking from there. Finally catching some speed, the excitement overtook, and she increased her speed. Her scooter collided against his knees, and he and his umbrella went flying on to the ground.

Zoya gasped, seeing the man lay in front of her with his back to her. She shivered, her lip quivering as fear overtook her brain. Was he dead? Did she just kill someone! Zoya's face paled with horror as she lunged out of her scooter.

"Allah! What have I done?" She was suffering from a panic attack. Her heart thundered against her chest and her eyes watered.

While she stayed frozen, standing a foot away from the man, rain began pouring down from the sky. She shivered as the frigid wind blustered across her face and body. Her hijab wasn't affected by the wilderness but everything that she feared to go wrong did go wrong. She was now in the middle of an empty street fretting over a random injured man with her clothes sticking to her frame.

The sobs were ready to hit her throat any minute when suddenly she heard him utter, "I'm fine." Zoya cried in relief as she watched the man move his muscles to sit up.

"Alhamdulillah, you are alive. I am so sorry." Zoya was going to ramble, but she quickly shut herself up. She immediately swayed her gaze to the ground, feeling insecure about her outfit. The rain had completely drenched her.

"It's okay."

"Can you stand?"

Zoya didn't want an interaction with a non-mahram in such an awkward situation but this couldn't be helped. She wasn't just going to almost murder a man, then abandon him and escape to never be found. She needed to know if he was alright.

"Yes, Alhamdulillah."

The rain mercilessly kept pouring on the two of them. Zoya again noticed the damp, maroon dress she was wearing, clinging to her body inappropriately. Cautiously, she cradled her arms around herself, regret searing through her reeling head. She was also going to have to visit the supermarket in this horrific manner.

Zoya, with her eyes on the ground, strode towards her scooter and climbed on. The man was already on his feet with his head down.

"Please take this." The man reproached her. Zoya looked at him uncertainly, his tousled brown hair coming into view, meaning he wasn't looking her way. Thank god.

She noticed him offering his leather jacket. Zoya wanted to hesitate, she did, but she knew she would hate herself for it afterwards. The agonizing looks of men undressing her with their eyes made her stomach churn.

The gesture was sweet and made Zoya. From the other end of the jacket, she grasped it within her palms and took it from him. But before Zoya could thank the gentleman, he was already walking off into the mist of the day. Zoya pulled the large jacket on, and it ran down her waist, covering her completely.

Zoya tried to avoid the alluring scent of the jacket.

However much she tried, his thick NYC accent and gorgeously green eyes weren't easy to forget.

:

If Allah wills it

:

All praise belongs to Allah

:

Two opposite genders who are capable of marrying one another but aren't married.