Mafia and Muslimah: A journey to iman

part:25

After 3 months:

The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue through the curtains, its warm light dancing across the room where Hayat sat, lost in her thoughts.

She absently twirled a strand of her hair around her finger, her mind wandering far away until the creak of the door brought her back to reality.

Ali walked in, his presence filling the room with an energy that Hayat had grown to both love and fear.

In his hands was a basket of apples, gleaming red and fresh. He placed it in front of her with a grin, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Look what I brought for you," Ali said, his voice low and teasing.

Hayat’s brows furrowed as she stared at the basket. "Where did you get these from?" she asked, a hint of suspicion lacing her words.

Ali leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "Our neighbor Amna gave them to me. She thought you’d like them."

Hayat’s expression darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Amna gave them to you?" she repeated, her voice colder now.

Ali nodded, clearly oblivious to the storm brewing in her eyes. "Yeah, she just stopped by and—"

"Why is she always stopping by?" Hayat interrupted, her tone sharp.

"Always finding excuses to come over and hand things to you, to talk to you. Does she think I don’t see what she’s doing?"

Ali blinked, his playful smile fading as he realized the seriousness of her words. He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer to her. "Hayat, are you…jealous?"

Hayat’s lips trembled as she tried to keep her composure, but she couldn’t stop the truth from spilling out.

"Yes, Ali. I am. Because she’s always hovering around you, always looking for a way to get your attention, and I can’t stand it."

Ali’s eyes softened, a mixture of amusement and affection playing on his face. He knelt beside her, taking her hands in his.

"Listen to me," he began, his voice gentle but firm. "I don’t care about Amna. She means nothing to me. You’re the only one who has my heart, Hayat."

Hayat pulled her hands away, her frustration bubbling over. "Then why does she keep trying? Why does she act like she’s got some claim over you? I hate it, Ali. I hate how she looks at you like—"

Ali cut her off with a deep, rumbling laugh that filled the room. "Hayat," he said, still chuckling, "if it bothers you so much, I’ll stop talking to her. From now on, I’ll call her ‘Amna Baaji’ and keep my distance."

Hayat couldn’t help but laugh at that, her anger dissipating as she imagined Ali calling Amna ‘elder sister.’ "But she’s younger than you," Hayat pointed out, her smile returning.

"Exactly," Ali replied, his grin widening. "That’s why it’ll work. I’ve heard that when men address women like that, they tend to back off."

Hayat laughed again, the sound light and free. Ali watched her, his heart swelling with love as he saw her smile.

But as the laughter faded, Hayat’s expression turned serious once more. She looked into Ali’s eyes, her voice trembling with vulnerability.