Episode 2 – Morning in a Stranger’s Home

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.

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