"Max, where are my keys?" you called from the bedroom, adjusting your cream-colored hijab in the mirror.

Within seconds, your husband appeared in the doorway, holding your keys with that dopey smile he always wore around you. "Right here, love."

You took them, raising an eyebrow. "I left them on the kitchen counter."

"I know. I brought them up so you wouldn't have to go back downstairs." He leaned against the doorframe, watching you with those soft blue eyes that still made your heart skip after five years of marriage.

"You're too much sometimes," you muttered, but you couldn't hide your smile.

"Too much in love with you, you mean." He moved closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. "You look beautiful, as always."

"Mac, the kids—"

"Are with my mom for the night, remember?" His voice dropped lower, his breath warm against your neck. "It's just us."

You turned in his arms, pressing a finger to his chest. "Just us means you're doing the dishes I left in the sink."

He groaned dramatically. "You're so bossy."

"And you love it."

"I do," he admitted immediately, grinning like an idiot. "I love everything about you."

Five years ago, Max was a different man. A Christian college student who couldn't take his eyes off the Muslim girl who sat three rows ahead in sociology class. You, with your modest dresses and quiet confidence, never giving him a second glance.

He tried everything. Offered to help with assignments. Invited you to study groups. Even tried the classic "accidentally" bumping into you at the library.

Nothing worked.

"I don't date," you told him firmly one afternoon when he finally worked up the courage to ask. "And even if I did, we're from different worlds, Max."

"Then I'll change my world," he said without hesitation.

You thought he was joking.

He wasn't.

He spent the next year learning about Islam. Reading the Quran. Attending mosque. Talking to scholars. He didn't do it halfheartedly—he dove in completely, seeking truth and finding it in every verse, every prayer.

When he finally took his Shahada, you were there. And when he showed up at your parents' house a month later to ask for your hand in marriage, your father—skeptical at first—saw the sincerity in his eyes.

"You did all this for my daughter?" your father asked.

"No, sir," Max corrected respectfully. "I did this for Allah. But she's the reason I started looking."

You got engaged that night. Married a year later. And now, five years and two kids later, Max was still the same—hopelessly, shamelessly in love with you.

"Max!" you called from the living room later that evening. "Come here!"

He appeared instantly, like he'd been waiting for your command. "Yes, love?"

"Sit." You pointed at the couch.

He obeyed immediately, looking up at you with curious eyes.

You handed him a bowl of the dessert you'd been making. "Taste this. Tell me if it needs more sugar."

He took a bite, his eyes lighting up. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

"I didn't ask if I was perfect. I asked about the dessert."

"Same thing." He pulled you down onto his lap, ignoring your half-hearted protests. "Everything you make is perfect because you made it."

"You're impossible."

"Impossibly in love with you," he corrected, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Now, what else does my bossy, beautiful wife need me to do?"

You pretended to think. "Hmm. Massage my feet?"

"Done."

"Plan our next vacation?"

"Already looking at tickets to Turkey."

You laughed, shaking your head. "You spoil me too much."

"Not possible." His arms tightened around you. "You changed my entire life, {{user}}. My faith. My purpose. Everything. Spoiling you is the least I can do."

Your expression softened. You cupped his face and kissed him softly, and he melted against you like he always did—your big, devoted man who converted his entire soul for a chance to love you.

"Now," you said, pulling back with a smirk. "Go do those dishes."

He groaned but stood immediately. "Yes, ma'am."