The Landlord's Daughter

I've lived in the Hassan family's bedsit for five years.

Ground floor, side entrance, my own bathroom. Perfect for a single Somali man who works long hours and doesn't want to explain himself to anyone.

The only complication is Muna.

When I moved in, she was eighteen.

Daughter of my landlord, always around, always watching me with curious eyes. Her father made the rules clear: "She's off-limits. You're not even to speak to her alone."

I followed the rules. Mostly.

But she'd find reasons to be near me—taking out rubbish when I was leaving for work, checking the post when I came home. Small moments. Innocent, technically.

Then she turned twenty-three, and the moments stopped being innocent.

The first time happens on a Tuesday.

Her parents are at a wedding in Birmingham. The house is empty except for us. I'm in my bedsit, working late, when I hear a knock.

She's standing in my doorway.

"Muna. Your father—"

"Isn't here." She walks past me, sits on my bed. "He won't be back until tomorrow."

"You shouldn't be in here."

"Why not?" She looks around. "Five years you've lived here. I've never seen your room."

"There are reasons for that."

"Because my father's scared you'll corrupt me?" She laughs. "I'm twenty-three. I have a degree. I'm not a child."

"You're my landlord's daughter."

"And you're the man I've been thinking about since I was eighteen." She stands. Walks toward me. "Tell me you haven't noticed me looking."

I have noticed.

I've noticed everything—the way she's grown into her body, the way she carries herself now, the way she looks at me when her father's back is turned.

"Muna—"

"Five years, Omar." She stops in front of me. "Five years of wanting. How much longer do we have to wait?"

I should send her away.

Should think about rent payments and family honor and all the reasons this is wrong. But she's standing there, grown and gorgeous, and she's been waiting just as long as I have.

"Your father will kill me."

"Not if he doesn't know." She reaches for my shirt. "One night. That's all I'm asking. One night to see if this is real."

"And if it is?"

"Then we figure out the rest together." Her hands find my chest. "But I need to know, Omar. I've been dreaming about you for five years. I need to know if the reality is worth it."

I kiss her.

She's everything I shouldn't want.

Young. Sheltered. The protected daughter of a man who trusted me with space in his home. But she's also fierce and determined and kissing me back with five years of pent-up desire.

"Omar—"

"We should stop—"

"Don't you dare." She pulls me toward the bed. "I've waited too long."

We fall onto my mattress. The same mattress I've slept on for five years, thinking about her, hating myself for thinking about her.

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure."

I undress her slowly.

Every layer a revelation. Under the modest clothes her father insists on, she's all curves and heat, her body straining toward mine.

"You're beautiful—"

"You've never looked at me like you thought so."

"I looked." I kiss her shoulder. "I just didn't let myself see."

"See me now."

I do.

All of her. Every inch I've been denying myself. My mouth traces paths down her body while she gasps and grabs my sheets.

"Omar—please—"

"Patience." I spread her thighs. "I've been patient for five years. Let me take my time."

She tastes like everything forbidden.

I lick her slowly, thoroughly, learning the sounds she makes, the way her hips move, the moment when patience becomes impossible.

"Yes—there—oh God—"

She comes on my tongue. First time, I can tell—the way she seems surprised by her own body, the way she looks at me afterward like I've given her something precious.

"That was—"

"The beginning." I climb up her body. "Ready for more?"

"I've been ready for five years."

I push inside her slowly.

She's tight—so tight—and I have to force myself to be gentle, to let her adjust, to remember that this is new for her.

"Omar—"

"I've got you."

I start to move.

She moves with me, finding a rhythm that surprises us both. Natural. Like we've been doing this for years instead of minutes.

"More—please—"

I give her more.

Speed up while she cries out, while my bed creaks in ways it never has before, while both of us forget about landlords and rules and everything except this.

"I'm going to—"

"With me—" I reach between us. "Come with me, Muna—"

She shatters.

Pulls me over the edge with her, both of us falling into five years of waiting finally released.

After, reality creeps in.

"They'll be back tomorrow," she says.

"I know."

"We can't let them know."

"Not yet."

"But eventually—" She rolls to face me. "Eventually, I'm going to tell them."

"Muna—"

"I'm not ashamed." Her eyes are fierce. "I waited five years for you. I'm not going to pretend that doesn't matter."

"Your father—"

"Loves me. And I'll make him understand." She takes my hand. "But not tonight. Tonight, we just have this."

We have this.

All night. Until dawn.

Then she slips back to her part of the house, and I pretend to be just the tenant when her parents return.

We keep the secret for three months.

Three months of stolen nights when her parents are away. Three months of pretending I don't know the taste of her, the sound of her, the way she fits against me.

Then her father catches us.

Not in bed—we're too careful for that. Just holding hands in the kitchen, late at night, when he was supposed to be asleep.

"Omar." His voice is ice. "My daughter."

"Aabo—" Muna starts.

"Five years I trusted you." He's looking at me, not her. "Five years in my home."

"I love her." The words come out before I can stop them. "I've loved her for years. I tried not to. I followed your rules. But she's not a child anymore, and neither am I."

"You think that makes it right?"

"I think love doesn't wait for permission." I hold his gaze. "I want to marry her. Properly. With your blessing if you'll give it."

The silence stretches.

Muna grips my hand. Her mother appears in the doorway, watching.

Then her father sighs.

"You want my blessing?"

"More than anything."

"Then earn it." He turns to leave. "You can start by moving out. If you're going to court my daughter, you're not going to do it under my roof."

"Aabo!" Muna protests.

"Those are my terms." He looks back. "Move out. Court her properly. Prove you're worthy." A pause. "Then we'll talk about marriage."

He leaves.

Muna looks at me, eyes wide.

"You heard him," I say. "I need to find a new flat."

"You're not upset?"

"He didn't kill me." I pull her close. "I consider that a win."

I move out the next week.

Find a place in Catford—close enough to court her, far enough to satisfy her father. We do it properly: chaperoned visits, family dinners, the slow earning of trust.

A year later, he gives us his blessing.

"You're a patient man," he tells me at the engagement party.

"I waited five years before. What's one more?"

He laughs. Actually laughs.

"She chose well." He claps my shoulder. "Welcome to the family."

We marry in the house where we met.

The same ground floor where I lived for five years. The same room where we first gave in.

"Happy?" I ask her during the reception.

"Five years of waiting." She kisses me. "Worth every minute."

It was.

It still is.