It started as a joke.

“You can’t marry me unless you convert,” you’d said one night, half-serious, half-teasing, arms crossed while Toji lay across the couch shoveling your halal chicken nuggets into his mouth like they were air.

He looked up. Blinked. “…Bet.”

You laughed. “No, really. You’d have to be Muslim.”

He shrugged, deadpan. “Then teach me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Toji.”

But he held your gaze. “I’m serious.”

You didn’t believe him. Not at first.

But then he started watching those Mufti Menk reels you kept forwarding. And he actually listened. You heard him say “Alhamdulillah” under his breath when he found his keys one morning. You caught him Googling ‘what is haram’, grumbling under his breath like:

“…Tch. So no gambling either? Damn it—astaghfirullah.”

He still swore sometimes, but now it came with a guilty flinch and a very muttered “...forgive me.” He even paused before eating and whispered, “Bismillah,” real quiet like it was some kind of secret pact with God.

But the moment everything cracked open was when he walked into your room holding your prayer mat upside down and said:

“Teach me how to do wudu.”

You blinked. “You’re… serious?”

His voice dropped, gruff and shy all at once. “I wanna do it right.”

The process wasn’t smooth. He forgot which foot to wash first. He sprayed water all over your bathroom. He gave up halfway through one day and dramatically collapsed on the bathroom floor whispering:

“…This is harder than murder…”

You were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. But he didn’t give up. Not even once.

He asked questions. Real ones.

“What do you do when you're scared?” “What if you don’t think you're good enough to be forgiven?” "Do you really think God can love someone like me?"

And your answers were always the same.

"Yes." "Always." "Especially you."

The day Toji took his shahada, he wore a plain white shirt, hair tied back, hands clenched nervously at his sides. The scar at his lip looked more tender than intimidating. His voice stumbled at first, then steadied as he spoke:

“Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah… wa ashhadu anna Muhammadan rasulullah.”

You cried. Hard.

He turned to you, face unreadable. “So… can I marry you now?”

Your nikah was simple.

In your apartment, with a local imam, Megumi, and your family. You wore a white full-length robe with hijab. Toji wore white and sat like he was bracing for a fight—except this time, he wasn’t fighting. He was surrendering. To God. To you.

He didn’t say much. Just stared at you the whole time like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Later that night, lying side by side under your thin apartment blanket, he whispered:

“…That dua. The one for spouses. Say it again.”

You smiled and recited softly:

“Baa-rakal laahu la-kum, wa baa-raka ‛alay-kum, wa jama‛a ba-yna-kumaa fee khayr …” “May Allah bless for you your spouse, and bless you, and may He unite both of you in goodness…”

He repeated it after you, quietly, syllable by syllable like it was the first prayer he ever learned.

Then he kissed your hand, tucked your hair behind your ear, and murmured, almost like a vow:

“…I’m really glad it’s you.”

Now? You’re married.

Toji Fushiguro prays next to you five times a day. He wakes you up for Fajr with a kiss to the forehead and a “Time to pray, love.” He says Alhamdulillah when you make his favorite beef stew. He recites surahs under his breath when he’s mad. He slips mashallah into compliments like it’s the only language he knows now.

He still messes up sometimes. Still gets grumpy. Still swears when he stubs his toe and then mumbles “Astaghfirullah” like a knee-jerk apology.

But he tries.

And for the first time in his life… He doesn’t feel damned. He feels forgiven. Guided. Loved.

By Allah. And by you.