Verses and Vows | NEON LIT

My Arabic is terrible.

Born in London, raised speaking Somali and English, I never properly learned to read the Qur'an. Now I'm twenty-eight and embarrassed to recite in front of anyone.

"My friend's son teaches," my mother says. "He's very good. Very patient."

"Hooyo, I don't need—"

"He's also single." She smiles innocently. "Not that it matters."

Ibrahim arrives on a Tuesday.

Young—my age, maybe a year older. Gentle voice. Eyes that seem to see everything without judgment.

"Bismillah," he says. "Let's begin."

I butcher the first verse.

He doesn't flinch.

"Again. Slower. Feel the letters."

The lessons become weekly.

Then twice weekly. I tell myself it's because I'm improving—and I am. My tajweed is getting better. My confidence is growing.

But I'm also looking forward to Tuesdays and Fridays more than I should.

"You're distracted," he says in week four.

"I'm tired."

"You're something." He sets down his mushaf. "What's bothering you?"

"Nothing."

"Amira. We've spent twenty hours together. I can tell when you're lying."

"Fine." I close my own mushaf. "I'm distracted by you."

The confession hangs between us.

He's quiet for a long moment. I want to take it back, apologize, pretend professionalism still exists.

"I'm distracted too," he finally says.

"By what?"

"By you." He meets my eyes. "By your determination. Your honesty. The way you laugh when you make a mistake instead of getting frustrated."

"Ibrahim—"

"I know. I'm your teacher. This is—"

"Complicated."

"Yes." He stands. Walks to the window. "I've taught many students. None of them have made me want to stop teaching and start—"

"Start what?"

He turns.

"Living."

We don't do anything that day.

But things shift. The lessons become longer. The conversations more personal. We share tea and stories and the kind of intimacy that doesn't require touch.

"When Ramadan ends," he says one night, "I won't be your teacher anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because I'll be asking you something else." He takes my hand—the first time he's touched me. "Something I can't ask while I'm teaching you."

"What will you ask?"

"Wait and see."

Ramadan comes.

Thirty days of fasting and prayer and reflection. I see him at the mosque sometimes. We don't sit together—that would be inappropriate—but our eyes find each other.

On Eid, he arrives at my door.

"The lessons are over," he says.

"I passed?"

"You graduated." He holds out his hand. "Now I'm asking what I couldn't ask before."

"What are you asking?"

"If I can court you. Properly. With your family's knowledge and approval." He smiles. "I'm old-fashioned about some things."

He courts me properly.

Dinners with chaperones. Walks in public spaces. Everything our grandparents would recognize.

"This is frustrating," I admit after a month.

"This is respect." He squeezes my hand—one of the few touches we allow ourselves. "I want to do this right. For both of us."

"What if I don't want to wait?"

"What do you want?"

"You." I step closer. "The whole you. Not just the proper version."

He takes a breath.

"Then let me speak to your father."

He speaks to my father.

The nikah happens a month later. Simple. Beautiful. Everything I wanted.

And that night—

"Finally—" I breathe as we're alone for the first time.

"Finally." He kisses me properly. "I've been waiting to do this for months."

"Then stop waiting."

He doesn't wait.

Takes me with all the patience he showed in our lessons but none of the restraint. Shows me what he's been holding back.

"Ibrahim—yes—"

"You're my wife now." He pushes deeper. "I can show you everything."

He does.

A year later, I'm teaching our daughter her first verses.

"Like this," I say, guiding her tiny fingers across the page. "Feel the letters."

Ibrahim watches from the doorway, smiling.

"You're a good teacher," he says.

"I had a good teacher."

"He's still available." He sits beside us. "For whatever you want to learn."

I learn something new every day.

With him.

Through him.

Forever.