Olive suit. No tie. Open collar. Black belt with gold buckle. And the shoes I got him last Eid.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡERBGUngKzY
I sent the message right as I walked out of the stables and into my father’s house, where I had exactly thirty-eight minutes to scrub Caesar from my hands and turn into the version of myself that made people sign contracts.
I had already told him.
But a reminder never hurt.
He walked into the restaurant like a line I’d drawn—sharp, clean, pulled from memory with unnerving precision.
The olive suit sat warm against the soft cream of my gown. The brushed gold of his belt echoed the embroidery at my wrists. The whole thing—subtle, unspoken—looked planned. Coordinated.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3xHhreytlQ
Like we belonged on the same page.
Like we were already on the same side.
His collar was open just enough to throw me off. The shoes—my shoes—landed without sound, but they might as well have rung out like a warning bell.
He looked good.
Too good.
I held my expression steady. Crossed one leg over the other. Smiled like it didn’t cost me anything.
And prayed he didn’t notice the pause it took to find my voice again.
He stopped beside me just as I was telling Imran to leave me alone.
“No, he’s here now,” I said, eyes on Ayub, tone clipped. “You can hang up.”
Imran was still talking when I ended the call and slipped my phone into my clutch, pretending my pulse wasn’t in my throat.
“Selaam, Lamija,” Ayub said, voice low but warm.
I looked up—too quickly. Too obviously.
“Selaam,” I returned, smoother than I felt.
And then—God help me—I reached up and fixed his collar. Just a small adjustment, something sharp near the seam. My fingers brushed his neck. I shouldn't have. I knew better.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
I realized what I was doing half a second too late and dropped my hand, taking a small step back.
“Sorry,” I said, clearing my throat. “It was... crooked.”
“It’s not anymore,” he said simply. His voice was low. Closer than I expected.
I didn’t step back again.
Before I could respond, the hostess appeared, tablet in hand, smile bright and practiced. Then she saw Ayub—and it shifted. Just slightly.
Her eyes lingered a beat too long. Not rude. But noticeable.
I clocked it.
“This way, please,” she said, still smiling as she turned.
Ayub gave a slight nod, letting me go first.
I stepped ahead.
He fell into step just behind—close, but not touching.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2UqHweMJ1B
Still, I felt him. The quiet weight of him at my back. Steady. Certain.
Every step across the restaurant felt too aware.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡykwmfFqsK5
Like the space between us wasn’t space at all.
The clients were already seated—an older couple, elegant in the way that only time and deep affection can carve. Her hand rested lightly on his, his thumb tracing over her knuckles like it was habit. Like it had always been.
They looked up when we approached, both smiling.
Mr. Salihović rose, his expression as firm as his reputation—sharp eyes, tailored suit, the kind of man who didn’t waste time or tolerate nonsense.
The kind of man who would’ve bulldozed Emir.
And the kind who’d respect the hell out of Ayub.
He didn’t offer his hand. Just placed it over his chest with a respectful nod. “Ms. Begović. On time, as always.”
“Mr. Salihović,” I returned, shaking his wife’s hand with a warm, practiced smile. “Mrs. Salihović, it’s lovely to see you again.”
Then Ayub stepped forward.
He greeted them with ease—head slightly bowed, hand extended. Confident but respectful.
“This is Ayub,” I said, eyes on Mr. Salihović. “He’ll be managing your account moving forward.”
That earned me a sharp look from Ayub.
I didn’t return it.
But Mr. Salihović’s eyes lingered a moment longer on him. Then he nodded once, slow and approving.
Ayub took the seat beside me without hesitation. He didn’t talk over anyone. Didn’t fumble. He just… settled.
Solid. Present. Exactly where he needed to be.
I opened the conversation—rapport, rapport, soft power. Assurances about timelines, shared frustrations over government red tape, construction slowdowns, tariff delays.
Then the questions shifted.
Supply chain strategy. Contingency routes. Risk mitigation.
I let him speak.
And he did.
Quiet. Precise. Lethal.
He broke down the Niš reroute with calm authority. Walked them through the revised logistics map like he’d built it blindfolded. Spoke about the system he’d written in forty-eight hours—forty-eight—that saved us from losing one of our biggest Q1 accounts.
Not once did he hedge. Not once did he overplay.
I watched their faces change as he spoke.
Respect moved fast.
Mr. Salihović leaned in, nodding slowly, his earlier caution gone.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIRYQ58S0BB
Mrs. Salihović asked a sharp follow-up about customs clearance across northern Serbia.
Ayub answered before I could. Flawlessly.
Dinner arrived before anyone had a chance to pivot. When the shrimp hit my plate, I made a mental note to ignore them.
But Ayub reached over, and without asking, moved them to his own.
“You don’t like shrimp,” he said.
My brow rose. “You just made that decision for me?”
He didn’t look up. Just cut into his steak like we’d been married ten years. “You always regret seafood. You order it because you think it’s the smarter choice, then spend the meal staring at someone else’s plate.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” he said, placing two perfect strips of steak on the edge of my plate. “Fair trade.”
I stared at them for a beat. Then at him.
He didn’t flinch. Just gave me that easy, unreadable smile that always looked a little smug and a little soft.
I picked up my fork and took a bite.
The steak was—of course—better than the shrimp.
Across the table, Mrs. Salihović smiled like she’d just watched a private conversation unfold in a language she understood fluently.
She laughed gently. “You two work well together.”
Ayub didn’t miss a beat. He gave her a small smile and said, “She threatens me twice a day. Keeps the workflow clean.”
That earned him a soft laugh from Mrs. Salihović—one of those delighted, that’s adorable kinds of laughs only older women can pull off.
I didn’t say anything.
Because I’d just realized how close we were sitting.
Too close.
I shifted slightly, and my arm brushed his.
He didn’t move.
Neither did I.
It was… easy.
Too easy.
Mr. Salihović dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then set it aside. “I’m glad to hear Ayub will be leading the project,” he said, turning toward him. “You have a sharp head. I have high hopes.”
Ayub gave a quiet nod. “Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint.”
Salihović glanced at me, something knowing behind his gaze. “I much prefer him to Emir.”
I smiled politely. “I figured you might.”
We stood as the server brought the check, which Mr. Salihović waved off and paid himself. We all walked toward the front of the restaurant, the soft murmur of the dining room falling behind us.
At the doors, we exchanged our selams. The couple departed first, their shadows stretching ahead of them down the sidewalk—his hand already reaching for hers like he didn’t have to think about it.
Ayub turned slightly toward the lot. “Selaam, Lamija.”
I could’ve let him go.
But I didn’t.
“Wait,” I said, more abruptly than I meant to. “Do you… want to get ice cream? Walk by the river for a bit?”
He blinked. Just once. Then smiled softly. “Sure.”
We crossed the street to a small stand still open on the corner. I ordered pistachio. He got chocolate hazelnut.
I reached for my wallet. He was faster.
I narrowed my eyes. “I’m paying.”
He handed me my cone, calm as ever. “Too late.”
We walked the river path slowly, cones in hand. The air was cool, but the city was still buzzing—families strolling, little kids racing scooters in crooked lines, couples laughing softly beneath streetlamps. An old man rested on a bench, his wife adjusting his scarf with quiet care.
Ayub kept his pace even with mine.
After a while, he spoke.
“I haven’t led a client account before.”
I glanced over, surprised he’d said it out loud.
“You will do great,” I said, like it wasn’t up for discussion. “You already are.”
His shoulders dropped slightly. Not slouched—just unburdened. “I think you’re overestimating me.”
I snorted, licking a streak of pistachio off my cone. “If anything, you’re underestimating yourself, Ayub.”
He looked at me.
“Mr. Salihović is brutal,” I said, tilting my head. “He had one meeting with Emir last week and sent me a strongly worded email asking me to make sure he never touches the account again.”
Ayub raised a brow.
“He likes you.”
He just smiled—low and easy—and took another slow lick of his ice cream.
We passed a family with a toddler chasing pigeons and an old man arguing softly with his wife over which bench had the better view.
Ayub broke the silence first.
“What are we doing, Lamija?”
I glanced at him.
He didn’t look back. Just kept walking, ice cream in hand, voice calm.
“You were supposed to be going easy on me,” he said. “Instead, you're dressing me, coordinating my outfits with yours, and asking me to get ice cream by the river.”
I didn’t answer at first.
Not because I didn’t know what to say.
But because I wanted to say it right.
“I don’t know,” I said finally, the words soft but steady. “I just know I like it. Having you close. Around me.”
Every day. Every meeting. Every room.
I kept that to myself.
He slowed.
I did too.
“And if it’s okay with you,” I added, turning toward him slightly, “I’d like to see what that actually means.”
He didn’t answer right away.
Just looked at me. Really looked.
Then he nodded once, slow and certain.
“That’s okay with me.”
A pause.
“But I’ll warn you now,” he said, gaze steady. “If we start figuring out what this means… I’m not going to want it halfway.”
He meant it.
Ayub was the kind of man who prayed quietly, kept his promises, and didn’t enter doors Allah hadn’t opened.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
This chapter is for every girl who swears she’s in control until the man she trained starts looking too damn good in the outfit she picked. Lamija really thought she could manage Ayub like a strategy deck—clean, efficient, effective. And then he walked in, matched her gold embroidery, and reminded her he’s been paying attention all along.
There’s something deeply personal about restraint—that tension between what you want and what you’re allowed to reach for. Especially when faith lives in the space between fingers brushing fabric and the choice to let silence speak louder than touch.
If it felt like a shift, that’s because it is.
They’re not on the same page anymore.
They’re writing one.
-Ash&Olive
6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnYldMqe5rS
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