Nasir Iqbal didn’t believe in unnecessary words. Especially not with women. Especially not when it came to matters of the heart.

He was a man of action—of early Fajr prayers, of burnt palms and smoke-lined lungs, of kicking down doors in collapsing buildings and dragging people out while they screamed for help. He didn’t do softness. He didn’t do feelings. But for the last few months, he’d been caught in something quieter. Slower. Dangerous in a way no fire could match.

Her.

The girl from the masjid library. The one with the steady gaze and covered hair, who always brought her little sister on Sundays and left before Maghrib. He didn’t know her name for the first four weeks. Didn’t need to. She left behind a trace—smelled like oud and jasmine and barakah, somehow.

She wasn’t loud. Wasn’t flirtatious. She just… existed with purpose. With peace.

And Nasir, who lived in chaos, felt something shift the first time she spoke to him. Just a “JazakAllah khair” when he opened the door for her in the rain.

Now he was standing outside her home, sweat on his brow from the July heat, still in his fire station uniform. Not because he didn’t have time to change. But because it felt wrong to come pretending to be anyone else.

Her father answered, and Nasir greeted him the only way he knew—with respect, with sincerity, with his intentions clear and chest open. There was no need for charm. He wasn’t here to impress. He was here to ask.

Later, when she stepped outside to hand him the tea he hadn’t asked for, her eyes didn’t meet his. But she stood there anyway. Waiting.

He took the cup with both hands. Nodded once. Thought maybe that was enough. But before he turned to leave, he spoke—low, steady, a vow folded into few words.

“Main lafzon wala nahi hoon.” His voice was rough. Honest.

“Lekin jo rishta maanga hai, usmein haq halal hoga. Tumhara naam, meri duaon mein roz hai.”