Episode 3 – The Polite Stranger

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.

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