He didn't reach for her hand. He didn't lean in. He simply fell into step beside her as the first snow of December began to fall, two parallel lines learning, slowly and with immense care, how to become a single path.

And under the grey winter sky, wrapped in wool and faith and the terrifying, exhilarating promise of a future neither of them had planned, Layla learns that love—the kind that asks permission, honours boundaries, and sees a hijab not as a wall but as a window—might just be the most sacred pattern of all.

Layla felt a flutter in her chest. Don't, she told herself. You know the rules. He is kind, but he is not of your world.