It was Thursday morning, and Amina arrived earlier than usual. The city still yawned in darkness as she entered the lobby of Kareem & Associates, her breath fogging in the cold air-conditioned silence.
There was comfort in this part of the morning—the stillness, the quiet before the high heels clicked in the corridors, before the lawyers filled the rooms with their voices and demands. For now, the firm belonged to her, if only for a moment.
She began with the atrium, her hands moving rhythmically, efficiently. Cleaning gave her focus. It kept her mind from drifting to the things she couldn't control: the unpaid electric bill, her brother's cough that wouldn't go away, and the uneasy look her mother wore lately, like something inside her was breaking but she wouldn't say what.
She reached the elevator lobby, bucket in hand, when the doors slid open.
She wasn't ready.
Idris Kareem stepped out alone, dressed immaculately, even at this hour. No assistant. No phone in hand.
Amina looked down instinctively.
But he paused.
"You're early," he said.
She nodded. "Yes, sir."
He didn't move. "What's your full name?"
She looked up slowly, startled. "Amina Mohamed."
He said nothing for a moment. Just studied her. Not unkindly—more like someone trying to figure out a puzzle.
"You're… not from here?" he asked, as if he already knew the answer.
She shook her head. "No. My family moved here from Garissa when I was thirteen."
He gave a short nod. "You speak well."
"Thank you." She didn't know what else to say. She didn't understand why he was speaking to her at all.
He looked as though he might say more, but then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, the moment vanishing from his face as quickly as it had come.
"Excuse me," he said, stepping past her.
She released a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
Later that morning, Idris sat at the long conference table, half-listening to his junior associates argue over a contract clause. His mind kept wandering.
He shouldn't have spoken to her.
He didn't know why he did.
But there was something grounding in the way she looked at him—calm, like she saw straight through the image he'd spent years perfecting. The cold professionalism. The control.
Maybe that's what unsettled him. She saw him, and she didn't look impressed—or intimidated.
He didn't like the way that made him feel.
And yet, a part of him did.
After work, Amina took the long way home, walking past bookshops with closed shutters and café windows glowing warmly. She stopped at one, pressing her fingers to the glass, watching people laugh over coffee and croissants.
She wondered what it must be like—to live without worry. To walk into a place like this and sit down without calculating what it would cost in rice or bus fare.
Back home, Bilal was waiting on the balcony, swinging his legs and holding a book she'd brought him the week before.
"Did you see the boss again today?" he asked with a grin.
Amina raised an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"
"You're quiet. When you're quiet like that, I know you're thinking about something."
She chuckled. "I think about many things."
He leaned back against the railing. "Is he handsome?"
Amina laughed, throwing her scarf at him playfully. "Go do your homework."
But as she walked into their tiny living room, she paused.
Was he?
Handsome?
Yes.
But more than that—he was distant, unreadable… and somehow, she felt the strange pull of something beginning.
And it terrified her.