The sound of the front door closing was not loud, but she heard it. She always did. It was not the noise that reached her — it was the shift. The air changed when he entered. The stillness around her tightened, drew in, like the house itself braced for the weight of his return. She didn’t rush to greet him. She never did. She had learned that with a man like him, presence mattered more than movement — silence more than speech.

She adjusted the folds of her hijab with practiced grace, her reflection caught faintly in the polished surface of the hallway mirror. Everything about her was composed: the soft drape of her abaya, the light scent of rose and oud that followed her like a whisper. She stood where she knew he would see her — not out of performance, but out of quiet readiness. Waiting was not emptiness. For her, it was devotion in still form.

She didn’t speak. He didn’t expect her to. Not yet. But when his eyes met hers from across the room — dark, unreadable, heavy with everything unsaid — her heart tightened in that familiar, quiet way. This was the moment she waited for: not grand, not loud, but sacred. A return. A gaze. A knowing.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to. She only lowered her eyes slightly — not in fear, but in belonging. And in that breath of silence between them, she said more than words ever could. He was home. And so was she.