The Architect's Blueprint

"This proposal is completely unfeasible."

Ayesha stared at the planning officer across the desk, rage simmering. She'd spent two years on this project—a community center for Small Heath, with prayer spaces, youth facilities, and a women's education wing. Her grandmother had dreamed of this before she died.

And this bureaucrat—Rashid Hussain, according to his nameplate—was destroying it.

"It's not unfeasible," she said through gritted teeth. "The structural plans are sound. The environmental impact is minimal. You're rejecting it because—"

"Because the foundation calculations are off by three degrees." He slid a paper across. "Section 4.2. You'll need to recalculate."

She snatched the document. He was right.

Damn.

The revisions took six weeks.

Ayesha returned to Rashid's office with updated plans, bracing for another fight. Instead, he studied them carefully, made notes, and finally looked up.

"This is good work."

"Was that a compliment?"

"An observation." His almost-smile was infuriating. "I don't reject projects for fun, Ms. Malik. I reject them so they don't collapse and kill people."

"And now?"

"Now you've addressed my concerns. I'll recommend approval at the next committee meeting." He stood, extending his hand. "It's an important project. Your grandmother would be proud."

She blinked. "You know about my grandmother?"

"I do my research." His handshake was warm, lingering. "And I grew up in Small Heath. Aunty Fatima gave me biryani every Eid. She was a remarkable woman."

Their relationship shifted after that.

Professional meetings became coffee discussions. Coffee became dinner. Dinner became Rashid at her flat, looking at blueprints while she tried to ignore how good he looked in her kitchen.

"You're brilliant," he said one night, tracing her latest design. "The way you see spaces—it's like poetry."

"Architecture is structured poetry."

"That's pretentious."

"You loved it."

"I love—" He stopped. "I should go."

"Rashid." She caught his hand. "What were you going to say?"

His eyes searched hers. "That I love watching you work. That I love our conversations. That I've been trying to maintain professional distance and failing spectacularly."

"Then stop trying."

She kissed him.

They made it to her bedroom, blueprints forgotten.

Rashid was methodical even in passion—mapping her body like a project, noting responses, adjusting approach. It was infuriating and intoxicating.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured.

"You. Being less controlled."

His restraint snapped.

He pinned her to the bed, mouth claiming hers with an intensity that made her gasp. When he finally entered her, Ayesha cried out at the sensation.

"Meri jaan," he groaned, moving within her. "You've ruined me. Every meeting, every coffee—I've wanted this."

"Same." She arched into him. "Less talking."

"I like talking." He thrust deeper. "I like telling you how perfect you are. How every calculation was worth it for this moment."

She shattered around him, and he followed with her name on his lips.

"The committee will ask questions," Ayesha said afterward. "About us. About whether the approval was biased."

"The approval was based on sound engineering. Our relationship started after." He kissed her forehead. "I kept records. Dates, decisions, everything."

"You documented us?"

"I documented the project. The relationship..." He smiled. "I'm documenting that differently."

"How?"

"By remembering every moment. Every laugh, every argument, every time you challenged me to be better." He turned her face to his. "Let me keep documenting, Ayesha. Formally. Officially."

"Are you asking—"

"I'm asking for forever. When you're ready."

The community center opened eighteen months later, dedicated to Aunty Fatima's memory. Rashid gave the approval speech; Ayesha cut the ribbon.

They were married in the prayer space that summer.

Best foundation she ever laid.