. . .

. . .

~

A man asked Imam Hassan Al-Basri: "To whom should I marry my daughter?"

Hassan al-Basri said, "To one who fears Allah for if he comes to love her, he will honor her. And if he dislikes her, he will not oppress her."

~

As Zoya steps out of her room fully glammed up after having prayed fajr, she glances swiftly at Haroun's.

He's not there.

With furrowed brows, she makes her way downstairs into the dining hall. He's not there, either. She hears the clink of cutlery from the kitchen and makes her way towards the sound.

Haroun stands by the stove dressed in a black tracksuit and a green cap, flipping pancakes. At the sound of Zoya's bangles, he turns and offers her a small smile.

She returns it, walking towards him. "You can make pancakes?"

"Good morning to you, too," he mumbles quietly, and Zoya thinks she may have offended him until he throws her a cocky grin.

It doesn't, however, reach his eyes.

"Sorry. Good morning."

"I love pancakes." He sets them out on two plates, then proceeds to sprinkle strawberry slices and blueberries on them, topped with whipped cream and maple syrup. He slides a plate across the table towards Zoya, then hands her a fork. After which he pours out hot milk for the both of them.

"Thank you." She's breathless, stunned by the comfy, homie sight of him. He settles across from her and digs in. "How did you find the materials you needed?"

"Mumtaz bibi told me where to look."

She is startled by his use of bibi for Mumtaz. "Why didn't you just ask her to make them?"

He swirls his strawberry around in maple syrup before popping it into his mouth. "Why would I do that when I can make them myself?" A tentative smile plays on his lips, and Zoya's answering one is as bright as the sun.

"You don't seem like a pancakes-for-breakfast kind of guy to me," Zoya remarks.

His response is a surprised laugh. "Really? What kind of guy do I seem like, then?"

She knows he is asking in regards to breakfast, but looking at him in all his beautiful glory, she thinks, The kind who makes my throat clog and my heart want to keep beating. "The kind of guy who eats a sophisticated breakfast like omelettes and sliced avocados with toast. Brown bread toast, not white bread."

He chuckles. "I do like omelettes, yeah. But I prefer white bread."

They lapse into silence, with Zoya occasionally stealing glances at him as he eats. She cannot get over her surprise at seeing him in this way — dressed in comfortable clothes, eating normal food, and talking to her as if the events of the past few weeks are all a bad memory. Somehow, it makes him more human than ever.

But she also notices the wariness in his eyes, the way his smiles seem a little too forced, the tension in his every movement. As if he's bracing himself for something bad to happen. As if it's taking all of his willpower to appear normal.

Haroun picks up his glass of milk and is about to spoon the froth out from the top when Zoya says, "You don't like that part?" He shakes his head and Zoya smiles. "Can I have it?"

"Go for it." He nudges his glass towards her as she swipes her finger in one clean motion over the top, licking the froth off. She smiles, and his eyes hold hers for a beat.

To distract herself from the rapid beating of her heart, Zoya gestures to his cap. "Going somewhere?"

"I used to take walks in the mornings and evenings." He gives her a swift, seemingly nonchalant glance when he says the word evenings. "Just trying to pick the habit up again."

"Mm," Zoya manages to say, unable to word what she really wants.

But he words it for her. In a tentative manner. "Do you — would you want to come with me?"

Trying not to seem overly excited by the prospect, she nods indifferently. "Yeah, sure."

When they clear up breakfast, Zoya — wanting to impress him — pushes back her sleeves and begins washing the dishes. Mumtaz enters the kitchen a few minutes later, widening her eyes when she sees Zoya. "Bibi, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Mumtaz?" Zoya replies. Haroun grimaces at her tone.

"I know — I just — I haven't seen you doing this for a long time, so I was shocked. Forgive me — " Mumbling to herself, the maid walks away.

Zoya is too embarrassed by her failed attempt at impressing Haroun to look him in the face.

When the two step outside the manor gates, the birds are chirping and the sun is just rising, soft hues playing over their faces. For a moment, they glance at one another as the light sparkles in their eyes before Haroun breaks the stare and turns away.

Zoya tries not to look too disappointed.

They walk in silence for the first couple of minutes, silence that becomes deafening and unbearable for Zoya. Even these damn birds are chirping and talking, she thinks, scornful. Why not us?

She wonders what Haroun is thinking as he walks with his head bent, staring intently at the sidewalk. She is about to ask him when a soft sound emerges from behind the trimmed bushes. Haroun darts his head towards the source of the sound.

The leaves ruffle and out steps a small white kitten, big brown eyes gazing intently at the two of them. Haroun lets out an adoring gasp and bends down, reaching forward slowly so as not to scare it.

But Zoya, remembering that kitten all too well, backs away. "Haroun," she hisses. "Stay away from that demon."

He turns around and gives her a look of surprise. The sunlight reflects on his skin, giving him an ethereal glow. "What?"

"That cute and fluffy and seemingly harmless thing is a monster," she argues, remembering the last time she met it. "I was going to pet it, but it scratched me instead, the little devil!" Zoya points to a mark near her hairline. "See?"

Haroun's gaze travels to her forehead, then back to her eyes. He gives her an amused look. "Really?"

"What, you don't believe me?" Zoya folds her arms. The kitten darts her wide eyes between the two of them.

Haroun seems to be trying to hold back a smile. And this time, it's a real one. "I don't know, I mean . . . she seems okay?"

"Outwardly, everyone does." Her voice is a little too sharp.

There is a knowing look in his eyes before he turns back to the kitten. "This little baby seems pretty harmless."

Hearing the coo in his voice, Zoya grows soft. Haroun reaches out slowly to pet the kitten, and Zoya releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding when the animal leans into his touch.

Before Zoya stomps her foot and folds her arms, causing the kitten to flinch under Haroun's hand. "That's not fair! The little devil is trying to win you over."

"Doesn't seem to be the only one trying to win me over right now." His voice is a low thrum as he throws her a playful smile, but it still manages to bring color to Zoya's cheeks. He fixes his attention back on the cat, running his fingers through her fur as her eyelids lazily droop. She burrows herself deeper into his touch. Haroun pauses for a moment before reaching down to lift the kitten, who thrashes for a moment before relaxing in his grasp.

"That's pure evil," Zoya whispers, but her voice seems to get lost in her throat when she sees Haroun smile and soothingly stroke the kitten, rocking her against his chest. He whispers soft words of adoration to her as she snuggles deeper into his chest, and a strange feeling settles on Zoya.

"You'd be a great dad," she blurts out, then pauses as she realizes the words that have come out of her mouth.

I want to bang my head against a wall.

But if Haroun notices her embarrassment, he pays it no heed. "You'd be a great mom, too."

Zoya snorts. "What, by becoming jealous that my child is more attached to his father? There is nothing maternal about me."

He gives her a surprised look. "Why would you say that?"

"Because it's true."

"Debatable."

"Really? Tell me one thing about me that would make me a good mom."

Haroun shifts the kitten's weight into his other arm. She purrs in contentment. "You are fierce and determined to protect those you love at all costs. If that doesn't make a great mom, I don't know what does."

Zoya is stunned into silence by these words. She falters suddenly, unsure. How does he always do this to her? Like cutting the strings of a kite so that it roams aimlessly, uncertain of its destination.

As always, he doesn't seem to notice how he unbalances her. Or maybe he is just really good at pretending.

The kitten's eyes open at the sudden silence, and Haroun cocks his head to the side and looks at Zoya. "You okay there?"

"Yeah." She tries not to sound breathless. Slowly, she steps forward and lifts her hand to pet the animal, who shrinks back into Haroun's chest warily. Its eyes remain guarded, staring Zoya down.

Zoya lets out a sound of frustration and spins around, about to stomp away when she feels a hand clasp her wrist. She turns back to see the plea in Haroun's eyes, and her eyes automatically travel to the hand wrapped around her. He lets go hastily, a fervent apology in his eyes.

"Don't give up so easily," he murmurs. "Give chances." He steps forward and strokes the kitten so as to calm it as Zoya reaches up once more to pet it. She does not know how to be soft, does not know how to touch the tiny animal without making harsh strokes with her hands. She has never had to be gentle, so trying it now feels like attempting to fit herself into a new skin. A skin that isn't hers.

And oddly, it doesn't feel wrong.

The two of them simply stand there, stroking the small kitten together as she purrs beneath their touches and eventually succumbs to Zoya's attempt at gentleness as well.

And when Zoya looks up to offer Haroun a small, scared smile, his responding smile is soft and real.

. . .

Nearing 'Isha time, after Zoya has made several calls to journalists, received some from very few concerned employees (Bill, Sameer, Ibitoye), and Haroun has returned from work, he approaches her. He's dressed athletically again, this time switching his green cap for a blue one. He looks ethereal. Every day that Zoya looks at him, she feels as if she is seeing him for the first time.

"You ready?" he asks her, adjusting his watch.

"For what?"

He points outside as if it's obvious. "A walk?"

"Oh," Zoya realizes far too late what he means. She aims for a nonchalant tone. "Oh, no that's okay. I was thinking I'd skip nighttime walks."

His eyebrows rise. Even he knows by now — although he may not directly address it — that Zoya would jump at any opportunity to spend time with him. "Scared, Zoya Zameer?" His tone is playful, but his eyes are serious.

Hearing her full name from his mouth awakens that desire within her again — the desire to answer to a challenge. She cocks her head to the side, staring him down brazenly. "Not in a million years."

"Come on, then."

Zoya rushes upstairs to change quickly before returning and standing in front of him, a challenging smile on her face.

Together they walk out, and the first few minutes are spent in that same uncomfortable silence that Zoya is becoming all too used to. Because there is something between them — an unspoken tension since the day of their marriage. Since the day Zoya barreled down all her steel walls and begged Haroun to marry her. Since the day her vulnerabilities were laid out in the open and Haroun felt helpless to accept her begging.

"Why are you afraid of the dark?"

The question is sudden, seemingly casual. And Haroun has always been a very straightforward person, so Zoya doesn't understand why she is surprised.

She giggles, hoping he doesn't hear the anxiety in it. She wants desperately to change the topic, but doesn't have words to say. Instead, Zoya lifts a finger to wrap it around a curl, moving extra swiftly so the clink of her bangles is loud and distracting. She lifts her head, twirls her curl, and turns to Haroun with a very Zoya Zameer smile on her face.

His eyes are on the road.

She pouts, fluffing her hair dramatically until he turns to look at her. His gaze roves over her face and her movements before he gives her a confused look. "Something in your hair?"

Damn it, Haroun Suleiman.

"No. I mean, yes, I think." She continues to run her fingers through her locks, agitated that he doesn't seem the least bit distracted.

"Need some help?" he asks, seemingly clueless.

"What?" A nervous laugh bubbles out of her. "No, I'm okay. Thanks."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Why are you afraid of the dark?"

You won't let this go, will you? Zoya sighs. "I'm — it's not something big. It's just a common fear in children, you know? And mine passed on into adulthood." She shrugs, indifferent.

"Hm." His tone is disbelieving.

"What?"

"Nothing, just . . . I'm thinking of why you wouldn't want to tell me."

Zoya intakes a sharp breath. He's not going to believe anything but the truth. "It's nothing, okay?"

"Zoya." His voice is soft, and immediately her skin tingles. "Open up to the people who are close to you."

The fact that he indirectly attests to being someone close to her brings a smile to her face, which quickly vanishes as the memories his question bring resurface in her mind's eye.

"My ex-husband . . ." she begins, stepping slightly closer to Haroun. If he notices, he doesn't acknowledge it. "He . . . when he would . . ." She stops, squeezes her eyes shut. Upon reopening them, she is startled to see that Haroun is staring directly at her. His eyes are intense, serious. All hints of playfulness gone. "He hurt me mostly during . . . during nighttime. When it was dark and I" — her hand comes up to rub the length of her face — "when I felt most helpless. Most suffocated. When he knew no one would hear me."

There is silence, then, "thank you for telling me." Pause. "Did your servants and guards know what he was doing?" There is barely any pity in his voice, nothing that would make Zoya wary and distant again. She has a feeling he is trying very hard to control his emotions, and she cannot help but appreciate the effort.

Zoya shrugs. "I'm not sure. If they did, they never acknowledged it. But it would have been impossible not to hear . . ." She gulps, shakes her head. "He was a powerful, wealthy investment banker. He probably silenced them somehow. When we got a divorce, I dismissed all of his guards and servants except for one — "

"Mumtaz bibi," Haroun says suddenly. "Right?"

She nods.

"That's why she cares so much about you." His voice is awed.

Zoya gives him a surprised look. "What?"

"She's always asking about you, always worried about you. Wondering if you've taken your medicine and how you're feeling."

Zoya ponders over this for a moment. She never gives Mumtaz much attention except to give her an order, but she wonders if Haroun is right. Mumtaz is certainly always by Zoya at home, even if the constant pestering annoys Zoya. "I guess you're right."

"So . . . what about his family members? Or yours? Did you tell anyone about what happened?"

Zoya scoffs. "First of all, nobody believed me when I said he was . . . harming me. And I never would have told them had they not demanded to know why I wanted a divorce. They asked me for proof." She laughs scornfully, absentmindedly tugging her sleeves over her arms riddled with scars. "In their eyes, everything I went through was telling the story that I had been a disobedient wife and I had paid the price for it. Naturally, when I got a divorce, so many people came to tell me my decision was wrong. And when I needed my father's support the most, he vanished.

"My ex-husband's sister approached me — literally with printouts of rulings and regulations — and shoved them under my nose. Telling me I had been disobedient, that in Islam my husband had every right to . . . bed me."

Haroun lets out a frustrated sound, reaching up to rub his temples. "Oh, God, give me patience," he murmurs. "You know what one of the most dangerous things in this world is, Zoya? Telling only half the story." He shakes his head in disgust. "Like your ex, his sister completely ignored the fact that it was his duty to provide for you and take care of you in a loving manner. She disregarded his lack of respect for you and his inhuman treatment of you."

"Nobody remembers the other side of the story, the flip side of the coin," Zoya laughs bitterly. "Then what did anyone expect of me if not to despise religion?"

She startles suddenly, realizing that may be the first time she's ever said that out loud.

"I think alongside teaching people Islam, it's equally important to be showing it to them." An indent forms between Haroun's brows. "This is just my opinion, but I think people focus so much on preaching rules and having battles of sects and things like that and forget the essence and beauty of being Muslim. The compassion, the strength, the community spirit, the sunnah of the prophet Muhammad. We don't always have to shove rules and regulations under people's noses — I think sometimes it's just as powerful to hold the flag of Islam through our actions. Our demeanor."

Zoya listens to him quietly, surprised to find herself nodding in agreement. The two of them turn the corner of the sidewalk, taking another round about the neighborhood. "Sometimes . . . people pick and choose parts of the religion to use for their own benefit. It's like . . ." She struggles to speak, afraid of voicing something that has been brewing in her mind for a long time since she became acquainted with Haroun."It's like reading a single chapter in a book without context. My ex would quote ayahs at me frequently as justification for his actions. And then I would come back from it all hating him and hating the ayahs he quoted, thus hating Islam. And I hated it because he made me hate it." Zoya turns to Haroun, begging him to look into her eyes. He does.

"And then I met you, and you confused me. Because everything you said and did was gentle and . . . compassionate. And yet you are just as devoted to religion as he was." She furrows her brows. "You just have . . . a very different approach." She reaches up, wanting to touch his cheek. Instead, her trembling hand falls back limply at her side.