chapter 20
The sea stretched endlessly before them, its rhythm whispering peace over the white sands of Bali. For the first time in weeks, Alya breathed without fear.
She stood barefoot on the edge of the shore, toes brushing the frothy tide, her cotton hijab dancing with the warm breeze. The soft hues of twilight kissed her skin in shades of gold and rose.
Behind her, Reyhan watched in silence—hands in his pockets, sleeves rolled up, his eyes reflecting both guilt and wonder. The salt air smelled like beginnings. And healing.
"You look like a painting," he murmured finally.
She turned, lips gently parted, surprise flashing in her eyes.
"A masterpiece of resilience," he added, stepping closer. "And I... I'm just the man who almost let it be torn apart."
She looked down, then slowly reached into her pocket. Her journal.
She scribbled carefully.
> "You're also the one who gathered the broken pieces and held them with trembling hands."
His breath caught. "Alya…"
She took his hand—deliberately, without hesitation—and placed it over her heart. He felt it: steady, slow, alive.
"I don't deserve you," he whispered, voice breaking.
She nodded. Perhaps. But you earned the right to try.
They walked along the shore in silence, the waves brushing their feet, each step washing old wounds away. Seagulls called above, and the sky blushed deeper into dusk.
Later, in a secluded bamboo villa nestled in the cliffs, the scent of sandalwood filled the air. Reyhan had prepared a candlelit dinner on the terrace—steamed jasmine rice, grilled fish, and mint tea. Alya sat across from him, cheeks flushed in the amber glow, her silence filled with questions and gentle acceptance.
He reached across the table, fingers brushing hers. "You don't have to heal quickly. Just… let me be here while you do."
She didn't write this time. She simply looked at him, then nodded.
That night, she curled beside him under the stars—not in fear, but in fragile trust.
Victor, miles away, watched the grainy footage through a spy's camera lens. His smile was cold.
"Let them believe in peace," he muttered. "Let them soften… Before I strike."
But for now, Alya dreamed not of shadows, but of sea salt and warmth. The healing had begun.
--- The morning sun bathed the villa in liquid gold. Birds called from the treetops. Alya stood at the balcony, brushing her fingers across a string of wild jasmine tied to the railing.
Reyhan emerged from behind, his shirt soft, his eyes softer. "I woke up and panicked. You weren't in bed."
She tilted her head, a half-smile ghosting her lips.
He stepped closer, careful not to startle her. "I had a dream," he murmured. "That you finally smiled... and it was for me."
She turned fully, her gaze locking onto his. Her journal lay forgotten on the table behind her. Her heart beat faster. So did his.
"I don't want to be a storm in your life anymore," he said. "I want to be the shelter."
Alya looked at him for a long moment. Then—slowly, deliberately—she lifted her hand and touched her lips.
Then his.
His breath stilled.
"Are you sure?" he asked, voice barely audible.
Her hand dropped to his chest, where his heart pounded beneath his shirt. She nodded once.
"Then…" he whispered, voice shaking with reverence, "Bismillah."
And gently—so gently that it felt like dawn touching the ocean—he kissed her.
It wasn't fire. It was warmth. A prayer. A promise wrapped in tenderness. Her first kiss. A halal kiss of consent.
The wind caught her hijab and swirled it around them like silk wings. The kiss deepened, but never rushed. She let herself feel the safety in it, the mercy, the sacredness of being wanted without being owned.
Victor's spy drone hovered silently above, recording the moment with soulless lenses.
He would use this.
But down below, Reyhan pulled back, resting his forehead against Alya's. "Your silence… it speaks louder than anything I've ever heard."
She smiled then—a full, real smile. The one from his dream.
That evening, she wrote in her journal:
> "Today, I gave away a piece of myself—not because I had to, but because I wanted to. In his eyes, I saw not pity, but honour. In his kiss, I found prayer."
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