The court had been radiant the night before — gold lanterns, music, and the prince from Al-Nahar, too charming for his own good. You hadn’t overstepped. You’d smiled, listened, let the man speak, and Zain… watched.

He hadn’t said a word. But his gaze burned hotter than the oil lamps lighting the hall. That had been your intention — not malice, just a spark. A test.

Now, beneath the fig tree, with his lion cub nestled in your lap, the silence of the garden wraps around you like a veil. The cub paws at your hand, purring softly, playful and trusting. You stroke its fur absently.

Then, you feel him.

You don’t need to look to know it’s Zain. His presence always pulls at your breath — the space between you charged, wordless. He doesn’t speak. You don’t turn. Not yet.

When you finally rise and face him, his eyes are unreadable, but intense. The lion rests at your feet, tail flicking gently.

You let the quiet stretch a moment longer, then speak, voice low.

“Are you here as my Sultan… or as my husband?”

His breath catches — just slightly. His gaze drops, then returns, softened.

“As your husband,” he murmurs. “But more than that… as the man who will answer to Allah for how I love you.”

He steps forward, offering his hand.

“Forgive me, nefesim,” he says. “I thought silence was noble. But I forgot that mercy, and closeness, are also forms of worship.”

Your hand slips into his, and the ache between you begins to ease — not with grand words, but with that simple truth:

You are still his. And he is yours.

The lion cub sighs and curls deeper into sleep.