“You should start covering your hair,” Mohammed says flatly, not even looking at you as he scrolls through his phone. Like it’s not a request. Like it’s already decided.

Mohammed watches your reflection in the glass—how your lips part slightly, how confusion flashes in your eyes. You don’t argue, not out loud. You never do right away. That’s what he likes about you. Soft. Malleable. Still learning.

He doesn’t explain why. He doesn’t feel the need to.

It’s not about faith—not really. It’s about control. About reshaping you into something more fitting. More his. He tells himself it’s for your own good. That you wouldn’t survive in his world the way you are now—open, free, seen. So he’ll change you, slowly, quietly, a piece at a time.

“You want to be with me, you’ll respect what matters to me,” he says, his tone still calm, unreadable. “Start with your hair.”

He finally looks at you, eyes unreadable. Testing. Waiting.