The Tutor Session
"Noor hires a tutor to help her pass her accountancy exams. She doesn't expect Bilal—young, brilliant, and entirely too distracting—to teach her lessons that have nothing to do with numbers."
The Tutor Session
"So you're telling me debits and credits just... balance?"
Noor stared at her worksheet in despair. At thirty-five, going back to school for her accounting qualifications was supposed to be empowering. Instead, it was humiliating.
"They don't 'just' balance." Her tutor, Bilal, leaned over her shoulder—close enough that she could smell his cologne. "There's logic to it. Here, let me show you."
The problem was Bilal himself.
At twenty-eight, he was technically her peer. But with his Cambridge degree and effortless brilliance, he made her feel like a confused aunty. The fact that he looked like a Bollywood hero didn't help.
"You're tensing up," he observed. "Relax. It's just numbers."
"Easy for you to say. You were probably doing calculus in diapers."
His laugh was warm. "I failed my GCSEs the first time, actually. Had to retake everything."
"Kya? You?"
"Me." He sat beside her instead of hovering. "Numbers didn't make sense until someone taught me the right way. That's what I'm trying to do for you."
Something shifted in Noor's chest. "Okay. Show me."
The sessions continued weekly. Then bi-weekly. Then Bilal suggested daily revision as her exam approached.
"I can't afford that," Noor admitted.
"Then don't pay me." At her look, he held up his hands. "I want you to pass. Consider it... investment in a future colleague."
"That's not—we're not—"
"I know." His eyes held hers. "But I enjoy our sessions. You make me laugh. You ask questions my other students are too embarrassed to ask. And you actually try."
"I'm too old for compliments to work on me."
"You're not old. You're experienced." His smile was soft. "There's a difference."
The tension broke the night before her exam.
They were at her flat—her sons at their father's—going over last-minute practice problems. Noor was nearly in tears.
"I'm going to fail. I should never have—"
"Bas." Bilal took her hands. "Stop. Look at me."
She looked.
"You're going to pass," he said firmly. "You've worked harder than anyone I've taught. The knowledge is in there. You just need to trust yourself."
"Why do you believe in me so much?"
"Because I see you." His thumb brushed her knuckles. "I see how hard you fight. For your kids, for your career, for this. You're extraordinary, Noor."
"Bilal..."
"I know I shouldn't. I know there's a—a professional line." He laughed shakily. "But I've been wanting to say this for weeks. You matter to me. Not as a student. As—"
She kissed him.
It was desperate and relieved and terrifying. Bilal responded immediately, pulling her onto his lap on the sofa.
"We shouldn't," she whispered.
"I know." He kissed her again. "Do you want to stop?"
"No."
"Alhamdulillah."
He undressed her slowly, reverently—like she was precious, not old.
"Jannat," he breathed, looking at her. "You're paradise."
"I'm a thirty-five-year-old mother of two."
"You're perfect." His mouth traced her curves. "Every stretch mark, every line—it's all beautiful. Tum beautiful ho."
Tears pricked her eyes as he worshipped her body with his hands and mouth. When he finally slid inside her, she gasped at the fullness.
"Okay?" he checked.
"Bohot. Don't stop."
He made love to her like she deserved to be loved—attentive, thorough, focused entirely on her pleasure. When she came, he watched with wonder, and when he followed, her name was a prayer.
"This is complicated," Noor said afterward. "The age gap. I have children. Your parents will never—"
"My parents will love you. And your children will love me—I'm excellent at cricket and video games." He grinned. "Stop looking for problems."
"That's literally what accountants do."
"You haven't passed yet." He kissed her nose. "Pass your exam first. Then we'll figure out the rest."
"And if I fail?"
"Then I'll tutor you again." His eyes sparkled. "I find I quite enjoy our sessions."
Noor passed with distinction—the highest score in her testing center. Bilal's gift was a framed certificate and a whispered promise of "more sessions" that had nothing to do with accounting.
They married two years later. Her sons walked her down the aisle.
And Bilal's parents? They adored her. The mother-in-law had always wanted a daughter who understood spreadsheets.