Jubail Junction
"Engineer Mariam supervises the industrial complex in Jubail. When safety inspector Walid arrives for audit, their professional clash ignites personal fire. 'Al kimya mish bas fil masani' (الكيمياء مش بس في المصانع) - Chemistry isn't just in factories."
"Your pressure readings are inconsistent."
Mariam didn't look up from her clipboard. "My pressure readings are perfect. Check your equipment."
Walid Al-Mutairi's jaw tightened. Fifteen years as a safety inspector, and this woman was the first to question his competence.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he said stiffly. "With calibrated equipment."
"Inshallah," she replied sweetly.
He returned daily for two weeks, finding increasingly minor violations. Mariam countered every citation with documentation proving compliance.
"You're the most difficult supervisor I've encountered," he admitted.
"And you're the most stubborn inspector." She finally looked at him properly—tall, graying at temples, handsome in a severe way. "Laish inta hina actually?"
"My job—"
"La. Your real reason."
His composure cracked slightly. "Inti famous fil sina'a." You're famous in the industry. "Al mar'a illi ma tithnni." The woman who doesn't bend.
"Is that a problem?"
"It's intriguing." He stepped closer. "Ana 'umri ma qabalt ahad zayik."
"Someone like what?"
"Qawiyya. Dhakiyya. Jameel." Strong. Smart. Beautiful.
"I could have you removed from this facility," she warned.
"Mumkin." His eyes held challenge. "Lakin mish ha ta'ammili."
"Why not?"
"Li'annik titla'i fiyya nafs al tala' illi atla' feeki." Because you look at me the same way I look at you.
The explosion wasn't his fault—faulty valve in sector seven, evacuated before anyone got hurt. But Mariam found him afterward, shaking in the control room.
"Zain?" Okay?
"Twenty years." His voice was hoarse. "Awwal marra ashuf shi qarib min hatha." First time I've seen something close to this.
She sat beside him. "Al kul salim." Everyone's safe.
"Bi sababik." Because of you.
"Al kimya mish bas fil masani," she said quietly. Chemistry isn't just in factories.
His head lifted. "Eih?"
"Ana kamaan ashuf feek." I also see you. "Mish bass al mufatish. Al rajul."
The first kiss happened surrounded by emergency lights and adrenaline. Walid groaned against her mouth, pulling her close.
"This is inappropriate," he gasped.
"Completely." She kissed him harder.
They barely made it to her office before clothes started falling. Walid pressed her against blueprints pinned to the wall.
"Mashallah," he breathed, hands spanning her curves. "Inti ashya' ktheera simultaneously." You're many things at once.
"Complicated?"
"Kamla." Complete.
He worshipped her against engineering drawings—mouth tracing paths like pipeline routes, hands mapping her body like facility grids.
"Aktar," she demanded. "Walid, aktar!"
"Sabr," he commanded. "Al safety first." He smiled against her skin. "Dayman."
She came twice before he lifted her onto the desk, scattering safety reports.
"Abghaki," he groaned. "Daheena."
"Tafaddal," she breathed. "Auditor."
His laugh was breathless. "You'll never let me forget that."
"Never."
He filled her with a groan that echoed off industrial plans. They moved together like synchronized machinery—efficient and powerful and perfectly calibrated.
"Inti harra," he gasped. "Zay al masna' illi brra."
"Romantic."
"Ana engineer kamaan." He thrust deeper. "Metaphors are limited."
"Ana qareeba," she warned.
"Sawa." He reached between them. "Taali ma'aya."
They crested together, her cry muffled in his shoulder, his groan lost in her hair. The emergency lights cast red shadows across their tangled bodies.
"So," he managed eventually. "Pass or fail?"
"Exceeds expectations."
The inspection concluded with full certification. Their relationship continued with less official documentation.
"People will talk," Mariam warned.
"Khalleehum." Let them. "Ana fahoor feeki." I'm proud of you.
"Proud enough to marry me?"
His smile answered before words could.
Two years later, Jubail's industrial complex had two senior engineers—both named Al-Mutairi.
"Conflict of interest," colleagues whispered.
"Complementary expertise," they corrected.
The chemistry between them, after all, had always been perfectly balanced.