That was September.

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.

Layla went still. "You can't," she whispered, pulling the edge of her scarf to tuck the strand away herself. "It's not... we don't touch. Before marriage. Not like that."

Their conversations were a gentle dance. He spoke of supernovas and the cosmic microwave background—the echo of the universe's birth. She spoke of Islamic geometric patterns and how the artists saw their craft as a form of dhikr , a remembrance of God.

"Faith is poetry," she replied. "The Quran is not prose. It's ayat —signs, verses. A rhythmic truth."

She expected awkwardness. Dismissal. Instead, Adam nodded slowly, withdrew his hand, and placed it flat on the table. "Thank you for telling me," he said. "I should have asked. The boundaries are yours to set, Layla. Not mine."

A bustling university library in a diverse, modern city. The scent of old paper and coffee hangs in the air.

Adam took a slow breath. "I'm an astrophysicist," he said. "I study things that take billions of years to reveal themselves. I can wait. I can learn."

She places her hand in his, gloved for the cold, but the warmth passes through.

Later, walking Layla to her car, Adam finally, after a year of waiting, offers her his hand—palm up, an invitation, not a demand.

He stopped under a lamppost. "Layla, I need to be honest with you."

"I'm not asking you to change," he said. "I'm not asking you to take off your hijab or stop praying or eat pork. I see you. And I see that the way you love God is the most beautiful thing about you. I just want to be near it. Near you."

Layla's mother, wearing a hijab patterned with roses, hides a smile behind her hand.