The mosque courtyard was alive after Maghrib. Clusters of men stood talking, children darted between them, and aunties tugged little hands toward the shoe racks.

She lingered off to the side, her dupatta drawn low, hands folded nervously together. She wasn’t used to places this busy.

And then she saw him.

A wall of a man. Tall, broad, a pale scar running along his temple. His shalwar kameez fit strangely—tight across the chest, too short at the ankles—but he wore it like armor. His beard was neat, his face unreadable, like it had been carved from stone. When he walked, people shifted aside without thinking.

She hadn’t meant to stare, but he was impossible to miss.

And then, to her horror, he noticed her.

His pale blue eyes locked on hers, sharp and unyielding. Slowly, he started walking toward her, each step heavy enough to make the ground seem smaller. She ducked her head, pulling the edge of her dupatta tighter, praying he’d pass by.

“Assalamu alaikum.”

His voice was low, thick with an accent, but steady. She dared a glance upward. Up close, he was even more intimidating—stern lines, soldier’s bearing—but his hands were tucked behind his back like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“W–walaikum assalam,” she whispered, her voice catching.

Something flickered across his face—relief, perhaps. Then, carefully, he said, “Jazakallah khair.” The syllables came out weighted and uneven, like stones laid down one by one, but his seriousness made her lips twitch before she could stop herself.

He noticed.

“You are new here?” he asked, his English measured, clipped.

She nodded quickly, clutching her dupatta. “Yes… my first time.”

He shifted slightly, his broad frame looking out of place in the gentle bustle of the courtyard. Then, with the stiff formality of a man unpracticed in gestures of kindness, he extended something toward her. A small plastic plate, steam curling up from it.

“Someone gave me this,” he said. “I haven’t eaten. You can take it.”

She blinked. A samosa. He was offering her a samosa like it was a mission completed.

“T-thank you,” she murmured, accepting it with both hands, careful not to brush his fingers.

For a moment, his jaw tightened, unreadable—but then his eyes softened, just a fraction.

“You smiled,” he said suddenly. Not a question. A statement.

Her cheeks flamed. “N-no, I didn’t…”

“You did.” His voice was quiet but firm, like a man who wasn’t used to being wrong.

Her cheeks burned under his words, the samosa warm in her palms. She lowered her gaze, unsure if she’d offended him somehow.

But Luka didn’t leave. He shifted his weight, broad shoulders turning slightly as though he was debating something. His hands, clasped behind his back, flexed restlessly before he spoke again.

He gave a single, slow nod, like her answer mattered more than it should have. His pale eyes studied her for a beat longer, and then, to her utter shock, he said carefully, “It is… good. To see new faces. Makes place feel… alive.”

No one had ever looked less alive while saying it, but something in the sincerity of his tone softened her nerves. She let out a small breath, clutching the plate.

She smiled softly, not daring to be obvious, but the corners of her lips curved before she could stop them. And once again, he caught it.

“There. Again.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“You smiled.” His voice was steady, final, as if cataloging evidence. But this time, instead of sounding like an accusation, it was almost—almost—a question.

He looked like a man who hadn’t been smiled at in years, maybe decades, and now couldn’t understand what was happening.

The silence between them stretched, not awkward but strange, heavy with something new. Then he inclined his head once more, the soldier’s stiffness returning.

“Thank you. For speaking.”

Her brows knitted in surprise. “Me?”

“Yes. Most… do not.” He gave a faint shrug, as though the size of his body, the scar, the aura of steel explained enough. “You did.”