The bass throbbed like a heartbeat, heavy and relentless, rattling through the crowded club. Lights strobed across the dance floor, slicing the darkness into neon fragments. Layla Hassan moved with the music, her body swaying in rhythm, her sequined red dress catching every burst of light like fire. Her long dark hair clung to her shoulders, damp with sweat, and her painted lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The men surrounding her whistled, some reaching out to brush against her arm or waist as she twirled past. She laughed, pretending it was fun, pretending the attention meant something. Inside, though, a familiar emptiness yawned. She had drowned it with three shots of vodka already, but it still lingered.

“Another round, Layla?” one of her friends shouted over the music, shoving a drink into her hand.

Layla took it without hesitation, tossing it back in one gulp. The liquid burned her throat, but she welcomed the fire. “Of course! Tonight we live!” she shouted back, her voice slurred with giddy energy.

Her friends cheered, but in the corner of her mind, Layla wondered if this was living—or if it was just another night of dying slowly, piece by piece.

The hours blurred. The laughter grew louder, faker. By the time she stumbled toward the exit, the cold night air slapped her in the face, cutting through the haze of alcohol. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, her high heels clacking unsteadily against the pavement.

“Taxi!” she called, raising her arm. A car sped past without stopping. Her vision doubled, and the street tilted dangerously. She grabbed onto a lamppost, giggling at her own clumsiness.

That’s when she heard it.

“Miss, are you alright?”

The voice was deep, steady, carrying a weight of concern that startled her. She turned her head and squinted.

A man stood a few feet away, illuminated by the yellow glow of the streetlight. He wasn’t dressed like the men she knew—no flashy clothes, no cologne that could choke a room. Just dark jeans, a simple shirt, and a grocery bag in his hand. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his posture was upright, cautious. His eyes flickered toward her only briefly before lowering to the ground, as though he was deliberately avoiding staring at her.

Layla burst into laughter. “Do I look alright to you?”

The man hesitated. He should have walked away. Everything about him screamed that this situation was trouble. But something—conscience, faith, maybe both—kept him rooted.

“You don’t seem in a condition to be alone,” he said slowly. “Do you have someone I can call?”

She snorted. “What are you, my babysitter? Don’t worry, I can handle myself.” She tried to push away from the lamppost, but her heel caught on the edge of the pavement. She stumbled forward, and before she could hit the ground, his hand shot out.

Warm fingers wrapped around her wrist, steady and firm.

Layla blinked up at him. She had been touched by plenty of men before—grabbing, pulling, claiming—but never like this. His grip wasn’t greedy. It was careful, respectful, as if his only intention was to keep her from falling.

“Careful,” he murmured. His brows furrowed in quiet concern. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Something about his tone pierced through the alcohol fog. She let out a shaky laugh. “Wow… you didn’t even try to—” she waved her free hand vaguely “—take advantage? What’s wrong with you?”

The corner of his lips tugged into the faintest smile. “Nothing’s wrong. That’s what’s supposed to be right.”

Layla tilted her head, studying him. His words didn’t make sense. No man she knew ever turned down an opportunity like this.

He adjusted his hold, releasing her wrist as soon as she steadied. “Listen,” he said, his voice softer now. “My apartment is nearby. You can rest there until you’re sober. I won’t… do anything. Just water and a safe place. That’s all.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why should I trust you?”

“You don’t have to.” His gaze stayed fixed on the ground. “But I can’t walk away knowing you might fall into worse hands tonight.”

For the first time, Layla didn’t know how to respond. His sincerity felt strange. Almost unsettling.

“You’re… weird,” she muttered, but her legs wobbled again, and she instinctively reached for his arm.

He stiffened at the contact, then carefully offered his elbow for support. “This way,” he said quietly.

They walked through the quiet streets, their footsteps echoing. Layla leaned on him when her balance failed, half-annoyed at her weakness, half-confused at his patience. She noticed how he kept a careful distance, guiding her without holding her too close. Most men would have used this moment to wrap their arms around her waist. He didn’t.

When they reached his apartment, he unlocked the door and stepped aside, letting her enter first. The place was modest, almost bare. Clean white walls, a small couch, a simple dining table. The only decoration was a framed Arabic calligraphy on the wall: “Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem”.

The air smelled faintly of soap and something warm, like cardamom. Layla blinked, suddenly aware of how different this place was from the smoky chaos she had just left.

He guided her to the couch and placed a glass of water on the table. Then, he stepped back, putting deliberate space between them. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “So… you’re really not gonna try anything? Not even a kiss?”

His head snapped up, eyes wide, then he quickly looked away. “Astaghfirullah,” he muttered under his breath. “No. That’s not who I am.”

Her lips parted. No one had ever said that to her before.

“What’s your name?” she asked softly.

“Omar,” he replied, still avoiding her gaze. “And you?”

She smirked lazily. “Layla. Like the night.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Meaning? But he only nodded. “Rest, Layla. You’re safe here. The guest room is down the hall if you’d rather not sleep on the couch.”

She tilted her head. “You’re too polite. It’s almost creepy.”

He gave a short, almost amused exhale. “Good night.” With that, he retreated to his room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Layla sat in silence, the glass of water trembling in her hand. The silence pressed against her ears, unfamiliar and heavy. No music. No laughter. No men’s hands pulling at her. Just quiet.

And strangely… it was the most unsettling night of her life.

The first thing Layla noticed when she woke was the silence.

No pounding bass.

No shrill laughter.

No clinking of glasses.

Just silence, soft and clean, interrupted only by the faint chirping of birds outside the window.

Her lashes fluttered open, and for a moment, panic surged. The ceiling above her was plain white, unfamiliar. She bolted upright, clutching the blanket against her chest, heart hammering. Where was she?

Then fragments of last night trickled back—flashing lights, too many shots, her stumbling into the street… and then him. The man. The one with the calm voice, the strange restraint.

Layla exhaled slowly, taking in the small living room around her. A modest couch, a neat rug, a wooden table with a glass of water still half full. On the wall, her eyes landed on that framed Arabic calligraphy again, black ink flowing across parchment:

“Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem.”

She didn’t know the meaning, but something about its curves felt… serene.

A rustle came from the kitchen. Layla’s head whipped around. There he was—Omar—standing at the stove. His back was straight, movements precise, as he stirred something in a pan. Morning light streamed through the small window, illuminating the edges of his figure. He wore a plain white t-shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned forearms.

Layla blinked. She wasn’t used to this kind of scene. Normally, she woke up with a hangover in some man’s messy apartment, her clothes half scattered, her dignity gone. But here… nothing had happened. She was still dressed, blanket tucked around her, untouched.

It unsettled her more than if he had tried something.

“Morning,” she croaked, her voice dry.

Omar turned slightly, his expression composed but cautious. His gaze flickered briefly in her direction, then immediately dropped. “You’re awake. There’s water on the table. Drink it. You’ll need it.”

Layla narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t…?”

“No,” he said firmly, without waiting for her to finish.

She tilted her head, trying to read him. Most men would have been defensive, offended even. He just… stated it, like it was obvious.

She grabbed the glass, gulping the water. The coolness slid down her throat, soothing the dryness. She sighed, leaning back. “So what, you’re some kind of saint?”

His brows furrowed, but he didn’t look at her. “No. I’m just a Muslim.”

There it was again. That word. Muslim. He said it like it was an explanation, as if she was supposed to understand.

Layla smirked weakly. “And being a Muslim means… what? Saving drunk girls from the street?”

Omar finally turned off the stove, placing the pan aside. He walked over, careful to keep a respectful distance, and set a plate on the table in front of her. Scrambled eggs, a couple slices of bread, a small bowl of fruit. Simple, but neat.

“It means I answer to Allah,” he said quietly. “And I can’t use someone’s weakness for my own desire.”

Layla’s smirk faltered. For a second, she didn’t know what to say. No one had ever spoken to her like that—not with arrogance, not with judgment, just calm certainty.

She picked up a piece of bread, tearing it slowly. “You really are weird.”

Omar gave the faintest shrug. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

They fell into silence. Layla nibbled, her eyes occasionally drifting toward him. He sat across the room, not directly in front of her, and his gaze stayed on the floor or the kitchen counter. He didn’t stare, didn’t make her feel like prey. It was disarming.

“So…” she finally said, licking crumbs from her fingers. “Do you live alone?”

“Yes.”

“No wife? No girlfriend?”

“No.”

Layla smirked. “Why not? You’re not… bad-looking. And clearly, you cook.”

For the first time, Omar’s lips twitched into something almost like amusement. “That’s not how I measure worth.”

“Oh really?” She leaned forward, eyes glittering with mischief. “Then how do you measure it?”

He hesitated, then replied, “By character. By faith. By taqwa—God-consciousness.”

Layla frowned. The words were foreign, but the way he said them carried weight. She leaned back, folding her arms. “Sounds… boring.”

“Maybe,” Omar said simply. “But it gives me peace.”

Peace. The word landed in her chest, heavier than she expected. She thought about the club, the men, the drinks, the endless laughter that always felt hollow. Peace was the one thing she had never found.

“Peace, huh,” she muttered, looking away.

The rest of breakfast passed in quiet. Omar cleared the dishes without fuss, as though hosting strangers was nothing unusual. Layla watched him, her brows knitted.

Finally, she asked, “Why did you help me last night? You could’ve just walked away.”

Omar paused, his hands stilling on the plate he was rinsing. He thought for a moment, then said, “Because I wouldn’t want my sister to be left alone if she was in your place. Because I’d hope someone would help her, not harm her.”

Something stung in Layla’s chest. Sister. Family. Concepts that felt foreign to her. She looked down at her lap, fiddling with her bracelet.

“You’re strange, Omar,” she whispered.

He dried his hands and finally looked at her—not directly into her eyes, but enough that she felt the weight of his sincerity. “Maybe. But sometimes, strange is better than cruel.”

Her throat tightened, though she didn’t know why. She scoffed, pushing to her feet. “Well, thanks for the water and eggs, Saint Omar. But I should go.”

He nodded. “I’ll walk you to the street.”

She rolled her eyes. “Afraid I’ll collapse again?”

“Afraid someone else won’t help you if you do.”

They left together, the morning sun bright against the city streets. Layla adjusted her dress self-consciously, aware of how much skin it showed in the daylight. For some reason, under Omar’s calm presence, she felt exposed—not because of his gaze, but because he wasn’t looking at her.

At the corner, she hailed a cab. Omar stood a respectful distance away, hands in his pockets.

As she opened the door, she glanced back at him. “You really are weird, you know that?”

He gave a small nod. “Alhamdulillah.”

She tilted her head. “What’s that mean?”

“Praise be to God.”

The cab driver honked impatiently. Layla slid into the seat, her mind buzzing. As the car pulled away, she looked back once more. Omar was still standing there, calm, grounded, like he belonged to a different world entirely.

For the first time in a long time, Layla wondered if her world was the wrong one.

The city was loud again.

Music spilled from car windows, people bustled through sidewalks, and Layla—wrapped in a short leather jacket over a glittering crop top—walked with the kind of confidence that masked her hangover from the night before. Her friends had already disappeared into the crowd, each chasing their own midnight high.

But as she crossed the street toward the coffee shop, her thoughts betrayed her.

That morning. The eggs. The Qur’an on the table. And him.

Omar.

She tried to brush it off, reminding herself she didn’t do polite men. She didn’t do breakfast that didn’t end with regret. She didn’t do conversations about God or whatever that word was he had said—taqwa.

And yet, she couldn’t shake it.

Layla pushed the door open to the café, shaking her hair loose from the wind. The scent of roasted beans hit her instantly, grounding her. She ordered her usual—iced latte, extra sweet—and slid into a corner booth, fishing her phone from her bag.

The café was crowded, a mess of students, office workers, and couples whispering too close. She scrolled absently, not really seeing the screen.

And then her gaze snagged.

Across the café, by the window, sat him.

Her pulse tripped. Omar was there, a book open in his hands, a cup of tea untouched beside him. He looked entirely out of place in the trendy chaos of the café, yet somehow—belonged more than anyone else. His posture was straight, his focus deep, his lips moving slightly as if murmuring to himself while he read.

Layla froze.

Of all the places—

Before she could second-guess herself, her legs were already moving.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him without asking.

Omar’s eyes flicked up briefly, then back to the page. “Peace be upon you.”

Layla tilted her head, smirking. “That’s not exactly hi, how are you?”

“It’s better,” he replied calmly. “It’s a du’a. A prayer.”

“Right,” she drawled, stirring her straw lazily in her drink. “Because everything with you has to come back to God, huh?”

This time, Omar closed his book, marking the page with a thin ribbon. He looked at her—not directly into her eyes, but steady enough that she felt the weight of his attention. “Everything comes back to God, whether we notice or not.”

Layla scoffed, though something about his tone tugged at her chest. “You’re serious all the time, aren’t you?”

“I try to be sincere.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “So… let me guess. You don’t drink. You don’t party. You don’t even… date?”

“No.”

The bluntness startled her. “No? Just like that?”

“Yes,” Omar said simply. “Because I don’t need to.”

Layla blinked. Her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “You don’t need to? You’re telling me if some gorgeous girl threw herself at you, you’d just—what? Say no?”

“I’d lower my gaze,” he answered without hesitation.

She laughed, loud enough to draw a glance from the next table. “Oh my God, you really are one of a kind.”

“Not one of a kind,” Omar corrected softly. “Just a Muslim.”

There it was again. That word, like it explained everything. Like it was his shield, his anchor, his world.

Layla took a long sip of her iced latte, eyes flicking over him. The more she teased, the less rattled he seemed. It annoyed her—and intrigued her. Most men would’ve leaned closer by now, tried to impress her, flirted back. Omar… didn’t move an inch.

“Okay, Saint Omar,” she said, tapping her straw against her cup. “Tell me something. Don’t you ever get bored? Don’t you ever just want to let loose?”

“Peace isn’t boring,” he replied. “And letting loose without limits is just another chain.”

The words hit harder than she expected. A chain. She thought of the endless nights, the laughter that turned to emptiness by dawn, the cycle that never filled the hole inside her.

She masked the sting with another smirk. “You really should write a book. How to Kill the Vibe in Ten Seconds.”

Omar almost smiled, but it faded quickly. “I’m not trying to kill anything. Just to live with purpose.”

Layla fell silent, her fingers tracing condensation on her cup. The café noise buzzed around them, but between the two of them, it was as if the air had stilled.

Finally, she said, softer, “You didn’t have to help me that night.”

“I know.”

“But you did.”

“Yes.”

She searched his face, looking for cracks, for arrogance, for hidden intentions. But all she saw was calm. It unnerved her more than anything.

“Why me?” she whispered.

Omar’s gaze softened. “Because you were in need. That’s enough.”

Something lodged in her throat. She hated how vulnerable she suddenly felt, so she hid it the only way she knew—behind a grin. “Careful, Omar. Keep this up, and I might actually start thinking you’re a good guy.”

“Be careful yourself,” he said quietly. “Sometimes people don’t realize when God is giving them a chance.”

The words lingered between them, heavy, unshakable.

Layla looked away, heart thudding. She had come here for coffee, for distraction, for noise. Instead, she was leaving with something else entirely—something she wasn’t ready to name.