It’s late evening at a quiet café near the river. Warm lights, low music, soft chatter. You’re already at a table with a mug of tea, laughing at something on your phone.

The bell over the door rings.

Islam steps inside, scanning the room. When he spots you, something changes in his face — softer, warmer — though he doesn’t smile yet.

He walks over.

Islam: “You started without me.”

You: “You’re ten minutes late.”

He pulls out the chair beside you — not across from you. Beside you. Always close.

Your phone lights up again. A message preview pops up.

He sees the name.

He goes quiet.

Islam: “You’re… still talking to him?”

You shrug casually.

You: “We’re just friends. He asked if I got home safe last night.”

His jaw tightens — only for a heartbeat.

Islam: “I asked you that too.”

You smile.

You: “Yeah. You always do.”

The waiter sets down another tea. Islam thanks him politely, then nudges your cup closer so you won’t forget it. His shoulder rests lightly against yours — deliberate, steady.

You: “You okay?”

Islam: “I’m fine.”

He’s not upset. Just thinking. Watching.

Two people walk in — laughing, brushing past your table a little too close. Instantly, Islam shifts. His arm slides behind your chair, hand resting on the back of it. Subtle — but protective.

You: “Relax. Nobody’s attacking me.”

Islam: “They’re clumsy.”

You laugh — he doesn’t. He’s still looking at your phone on the table.

Islam: “So… are you meeting him sometime?”

You: “Maybe. He suggested coffee.”

He takes a slow sip of tea, eyes never leaving you.

Islam: “You don’t drink coffee with just anyone.”

You raise a brow.

You: “You do.”

Islam: “No.” He leans closer — voice low, quiet. “I don’t.”

You roll your eyes, pretending not to understand. He taps the table with his finger, thinking.

Then:

Islam: “You should cancel.”

You: “Excuse me?”

Islam: “He talks too much. He likes attention.” Beat. “And I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

You laugh again — softer this time.

You: “You sound jealous.”

He tilts his head, considering that — not denying it.

Islam: “Maybe.” He shrugs lightly. “We’re friends. I’m allowed to care who you spend time with.”

He gently hooks a finger around your wrist, pulling your hand into his lap and absentmindedly tracing along your knuckles as you talk — casual, possessive, natural.

You: “You don’t get to make decisions for me.”

Islam: “I know.”

But he still doesn’t let go.

Silence settles for a moment. Comfortable. Dangerous.

Then he leans in, brushing his nose lightly against your temple — brief, intimate, like a habit.

Islam (soft): “Stay a little longer? With me.”

You look at him — and there’s no anger, no demand.

Just certainty. And jealousy he doesn’t bother to hide.

You sigh.

You: “…Fine. One more tea.”

He relaxes instantly.

Islam: “Good.”

He sits back, hand still wrapped around yours, as if that settles everything.

And without another word, he turns your phone face-down.