Abha Altitude
"Reem runs a mountain retreat in Abha. When stressed CEO Ibrahim arrives seeking peace, he finds more than meditation in the clouds. 'Inti arja' min al jabal' (أنتِ أرجع من الجبل) - You're more restoring than the mountain."
The clouds parted as Ibrahim's convoy climbed toward Abha. After eighteen-hour days and a near-heart attack at forty-five, his doctor had issued an ultimatum: rest or resign.
"Marhaba," greeted the woman at the retreat entrance. "Ana Reem."
He forgot how to breathe.
She was everything he usually ignored—soft where he valued sharp, calm where he demanded urgency. Her curves filled a traditional Asiri dress in ways that made his stressed heart race for entirely different reasons.
"Your room is prepared," she continued. "Tabi shi qabla?" Need anything first?
You, he almost said. "La, shukran."
The retreat specialized in traditional healing—mountain herbs, meditation, digital detox. Ibrahim surrendered his phone with physical pain.
"You'll survive," Reem assured him. "Al jabal yishfi." The mountain heals.
"I doubt it."
"Give it a week." Her smile was serene. "Thumma ihtakim." Then judge.
Days passed in unfamiliar silence. Ibrahim hiked, breathed, ate meals he could actually taste. And always, Reem was there—guiding meditations, adjusting his posture, bringing herbal teas that actually seemed to help.
"You're improving," she observed on day five.
"My doctor will be shocked."
"Jismik yabi yirtah." Your body wants rest. "You just never listened."
"I'm listening now." His eyes held hers. "Ilthi aktar?"
She blushed—actually blushed—and Ibrahim felt more accomplished than closing any deal.
"Eih lazim tisma'?" What do you need to hear?
"Tell me about you. Not the retreat. You."
Reem was forty-three, divorced when her husband demanded she abandon her mountain home. She'd chosen the clouds over convention.
"Majnoona," he said. Crazy.
"Mumkin." Maybe. "But I'm happy."
He couldn't remember the last time he'd said that word genuinely.
"Teach me," he asked that evening.
"Teach you what?"
"How to be happy."
Her laugh echoed across the mountains. "Mish mumkin." Not possible. "But I can show you where to look."
She led him to a hidden hot spring, steam rising into cold mountain air. "Hina," she said. Here.
"Inti taji?"
"Laazim." She began unpinning her dress. "Someone must make sure you don't drown."
The water was perfect—hot and mineral-rich, clouds floating at eye level. But Ibrahim only saw her.
"Ya Allah," he breathed as she descended into the spring. "Inti..."
"Old? Fat? I've heard it all."
"Perfect." He reached for her. "Inti kamla. Inti jameel bi kul ma'ana al kalima." You're complete. Beautiful in every sense.
Their first kiss tasted of mountain air and possibility. Ibrahim pulled her close, her soft body heaven against his.
"Inti arja' min al jabal," he confessed. You're more restoring than the mountain.
"Wa inta," she replied, "muhtaj aktar min istiraha." And you need more than rest.
They made love in the hot spring, steam swirling around them like privacy curtains. Ibrahim worshipped every curve, every fold, every soft inch of her.
"Mashallah," he groaned. "Mashallah, mashallah, mashallah."
"Aktar," she demanded, wrapping thick thighs around him.
He obliged with deep strokes that sent water rippling to the edges. Reem clung to him, nails raking his shoulders, cries echoing across empty peaks.
"Ana qareeb," he warned.
"Ma'aya." With me.
They crested together beneath mountain clouds, pleasure crashing through them like altitude sickness—dizzying and transcendent. Ibrahim held her through the aftershocks, heart pounding against hers.
"Stay," she whispered.
"My company—"
"Will survive without you." She met his eyes. "Inta mish ha tinji." You won't.
He thought of skyscrapers and stress, quarterly reports and cardiac risks. Then he looked at the woman in his arms, clouds wreathing her hair like a crown.
"Aiwa," he decided. "Abqa."
Her smile outshone the sun breaking through.
Three years later, Ibrahim's former colleagues would visit the mountain retreat, seeking the peace he'd found.
"How did you do it?" they'd ask. "Walk away from everything?"
"I didn't walk away." He'd gesture at Reem, at the mountains, at the life they'd built. "Mashait nahwa shi." I walked toward something.
"Nahwa miin?"
He'd smile. "Nahwa kul shi yistahil." Toward everything worthwhile.
The altitude, it turned out, wasn't just geographical.