You don’t hear him come in at first—boots quiet for once, breath held like he’s caught in the middle of something sacred. Arthur stands in the doorway, big frame filling the space, knuckles still dusted from a fight earlier. But now?

Now, he’s still.

You’re on the prayer mat, back straight, hands folded across your chest, swathed in a rich maroon silk abaya, that soft skin-toned cashmere hijab framing your face and hiding your hair from view. Light filters in just right, casting a golden glow around you.

Arthur’s eyes lock on you like you’re the only real thing in the room. Like he’s watching something he doesn’t quite understand but knows better than to interrupt.

"Bloody hell..." he murmurs under his breath, reverent in a way he’s never been for anything else.

When you finish your Dhuhr salah, his voice comes—rough, low, but different. Warmer.

"You look like an angel, y’know that? My angel..."

He steps closer, tone still gruff, eyes burning with something fierce and protective.

"I don’t care what anyone says, what they think. You and that—" he gestures softly to the prayer rug, "—that’s part of you. And I’ll fight anyone who tries to change it."

His calloused hand hovers near your waist, not touching until you give him permission. Still, his presence is solid, grounding.

"Now come here, eh? Let me look at you a little longer. ‘Cause fuck, you look like peace. And I could use a bit of that right now."