Saturday came with golden light stretching over the city's skyline. Amina arrived before anyone else, the echo of her footsteps down the hall both familiar and unnerving. She had barely slept. All night, her thoughts circled back to that brief exchange with Idris Kareem.
She didn't know what to expect. Was this truly about filing, or had she done something wrong—something she hadn't realized?
The twelfth floor was silent. Too silent.
She entered the records room.
It was worse than she imagined.
Files in disarray, labels half-peeled, towers of documents leaning like ancient ruins. This wasn't chaos—it was war.
Amina pulled her sleeves up and got to work.
By 10:30, she had sorted two cabinets and reorganized the litigation archive by date. Her hands were dusty, her scarf loose from bending and reaching. She didn't hear him arrive until he was already inside.
"I was expecting a dent. You've done a whole wall."
She straightened quickly. "Good morning, sir."
He gave a slight smile—not warm, but impressed. "You don't waste time."
"I don't like mess," she said. "It makes my head loud."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's a strange way to put it."
She returned to labeling folders. "It's how I think."
Idris stepped closer. "May I?"
She hesitated, then handed him a marker. He crouched beside her, helping—without gloves, without giving orders. For a moment, he wasn't Idris Kareem, managing partner of a top law firm. He was just a man sitting beside her, close enough for her to feel the quiet strength in his presence.
They worked in near silence.
Occasionally, their hands brushed. Once, he passed her a binder, and their eyes met. Something flickered there—quick, dangerous.
"You're very methodical," he said finally.
"I used to organize the clinic files in our neighborhood," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Volunteering, before they shut it down. The nurse there said I should become a records clerk."
"Why didn't you?"
She paused. "Didn't finish school. Family came first."
A beat of silence. He nodded, not as a man who pitied her, but one who understood duty.
"That's respectable," he said. "Most people chase titles before meaning."
She gave him a look. "You seem to have both."
He looked at her, then—really looked. "Meaning isn't guaranteed. Even at the top."
Amina didn't know how to respond to that. So she didn't. Instead, she continued sorting.
He stayed longer than necessary.
Not directing. Just… there.
The air between them changed.
It wasn't flirtation. Not exactly.
But it was the kind of closeness born not from words, but from silence shared without discomfort.
That evening, Amina walked home slowly, the city's orange dusk casting long shadows. She felt something under her skin—an ache she couldn't explain. Not pain. Not joy. Something in between.
At home, Bilal asked about her day. Her mother noticed the lingering calm in her face.
"You look… far away," she said gently.
Amina smiled. "Maybe I'm just tired."
But it wasn't exhaustion that filled her. It was something dangerous.
Hope.
Idris stood in his office as the sun set, hands in his pockets, watching the skyline fade.
He had met thousands of people in his life. Spoken to presidents, negotiated with CEOs, dined with women who wore gold like perfume.
But none of them had made him feel… grounded.
Not like her
It was absurd.
It was impossible.
And it was already beginning.