The Halal Hookup
"Mariam downloads a Muslim dating app as a joke, but when she matches with the handsome imam's son Hamza, their virtual flirtation turns into something dangerously real—and decidedly not halal."
The Halal Hookup
"I can't believe you made me do this."
Mariam glared at her best friend Nadia as she swiped through profiles on Muzz—the Muslim dating app that promised halal connections and had delivered, thus far, nothing but disappointment.
"You need to get out there!" Nadia grabbed her phone. "Your iddah period ended six months ago. It's time to—oh. Oh."
"What?"
Nadia turned the phone around, grinning wickedly. "Look who's on here."
Mariam's chai nearly came out her nose. "Is that Hamza Ibrahim? The imam's son?"
"The very one." Nadia's eyes sparkled. "Swipe right."
"I can't—he's—his father leads Jummah at my masjid!"
"Even more reason." Nadia swiped before Mariam could stop her. "Oops."
"NADIA!"
The notification popped up immediately.
It's a match!
Hamza: Assalamu alaikum, Mariam. I have to admit, I never expected to see you here.
Mariam: Wa alaikum assalam. I could say the same about you. Isn't this a bit... unconventional for an imam's son?
Hamza: My father's the imam, not me. And I'm a 32-year-old unmarried man. Unconventional is relative.
Mariam: Fair point. So what brings you to the halal hookup app?
Hamza: Halal hookup. I like that. 😄 Honestly? I'm tired of my mother's rishta aunty connections. At least here I can choose for myself.
Mariam: Same. Though my mother has informed me that as a divorcee, I should "lower my standards."
Hamza: Your standards seem perfectly reasonable from where I'm standing. Or sitting. I'm actually at the mosque right now.
Mariam: Flirting with women from the masjid? Your father would be scandalized.
Hamza: He's the one who told me to try the app. Even imams want grandchildren, apparently.
The messages continued for weeks. Then phone calls. Then...
"I want to see you," Hamza said one night, his voice husky through the phone. "Properly. Not through a screen."
Mariam's heart raced. "That's a bit beghairat, isn't it? Meeting alone?"
"We could bring a chaperone."
"Hamza."
"I'm joking." His laugh was warm. "There's a new restaurant in Rusholme. Public place. Very halal. Let me take you to dinner."
She should say no. She knew she should say no.
"Okay."
Dinner was... charged.
Hamza looked even better in person—tall, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and a close-trimmed beard that made her fingers itch to touch it. He was funny and smart and looked at her like she was the only woman in the room.
"I should confess something," he said over their biryani.
"You're already married with four wives?"
He laughed. "No. I've had a crush on you for years. Since before your first marriage."
Mariam nearly choked. "What?"
"You used to sit in the women's section right where I could see you from the doorway." His ears turned red. "I'd find excuses to walk past. My father called me 'the restless one' during khutbahs."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"You were married. And even before that, you were... you. So far out of my league."
"Hamza." She reached across the table, touching his hand. "I'm a divorced mother of two. I'm not out of anyone's league."
His fingers intertwined with hers. "You're out of everyone's league. And I'm very lucky you swiped right."
"Nadia swiped right."
"Then I owe her my shukriya." His thumb traced circles on her palm. "Mariam... I know this is fast. But I'm not interested in playing games. I want to get to know you. Properly. With intention."
"What kind of intention?"
His eyes held hers. "The kind that ends at a nikah. If you'll have me."
They tried to keep it halal. They really did.
But three months of proper courtship, family meetings, and chaperoned dates had built a tension that was becoming unbearable. When Hamza dropped her home one night and she invited him in for chai—"The kids are at their father's, it's fine"—they both knew what would happen.
"We shouldn't," Hamza said, even as he backed her against her kitchen counter.
"Probably not." Mariam pulled his face down to hers.
The kiss was explosive. Years of wanting, months of restraint—all of it poured out as his hands gripped her hips and hers tangled in his hair.
"Ya Allah," he groaned against her neck. "I've wanted this. Wanted you. So much."
"Then take me." She pulled back to look at him. "I know it's not halal. I know we should wait. But I need you, Hamza. Tonight."
His resolve shattered.
He lifted her onto the counter, her legs wrapping around him. Clothes disappeared between kisses, and when he finally laid her on her bed, Mariam thought she might die from anticipation.
"You're sure?" he asked, poised above her.
"Bilkul." Absolutely.
He slid inside her, and they both moaned at the sensation. Hamza moved with a devotion that bordered on worship, murmuring prayers and endearments in a mix of Arabic and Urdu.
"Meri mohabbat," he breathed. "Meri duniya."
Mariam came apart beneath him, crying his name, and felt him follow with a shudder.
"We're doing this backwards," Hamza said afterward, still catching his breath. "This should have come after the nikah."
"So let's fix that." Mariam propped herself up. "Marry me. This week. We can do the rukhsati later, but I want the nikah now."
His smile was blinding. "That's my line, jaan."
"Consider it stolen."
He kissed her deeply. "Friday. After Jummah. I'll talk to my father tomorrow."
"He's going to know why we're rushing."
"He's an imam, not an idiot. And he'll be too happy to care." Hamza pulled her close. "Besides, I plan to spend every night like this for the rest of our lives. Might as well make it official."
The nikah happened exactly as planned—immediately after Friday prayers, with Hamza's father officiating and Nadia crying happy tears in the women's section.
When asked about their love story, Hamza always smiled and said they met "through mutual friends."
He wasn't technically lying. Muzz had introduced them. And algorithms were definitely a type of friend.