In Your Arms, I Found My Home

In Your Arms, I Found My Home

The rain tapped gently on the windowpane. Outside, the world was asleep under a velvet sky, but inside Room 208 of a quiet resort nestled in the hills, the world was very much alive — for them.

Aarib and Haya — husband and wife, partners for life — sat wrapped in a thick cream-colored blanket. A small fireplace crackled nearby, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, blending perfectly with the aroma of her jasmine hair.

It wasn’t their honeymoon. They had been married for three years. But tonight, it felt like they had just met again — in a deeper way, in a softer season of their love.

Haya leaned her head against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat like her favorite song. Aarib kissed the top of her head, his hand slowly running through her hair.

"Remember the first time we traveled together?" she whispered, smiling.

"You mean when you packed 4 suitcases for a 2-day trip?" he chuckled.

"And you forgot your own toothbrush," she teased back.

They both laughed, the sound echoing in their hearts more than in the room.

But it wasn't just the jokes or shared memories that made this night special — it was the silence between the words, the way their eyes spoke, the warmth of their touch, the gentleness in their fingers when they held each other.

Arabi tilted her chin up to look into her eyes — those same eyes he fell in love with under the winter sun at their Nikkah. “Do you know something?” he said.

“What?”

“You look more beautiful now than you did on our wedding day.”

She blushed, lowering her eyes like a bride again. “Liar.”

“I swear by this heartbeat,” he said, placing her hand on his chest. “You’re my peace, Haya. My home.”

Her heart melted. In a world full of noise and chaos, she had found someone who looked at her like she was poetry.

They kissed — not with urgency, but with the softness of years, of knowing, of trusting. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t just touch the lips, but the soul. He traced the line of her cheek with his thumb, memorizing her face once again.

Time paused.

The wind outside whispered their names.

Wrapped in each other, they lay back on the bed, still covered by the blanket of love. Haya's fingers played with the buttons on his shirt.

“You’re always tired,” she said.

“Not tonight,” he replied, “Tonight I want to feel every second with you.”

She laughed softly, then placed her hand on his heart. “You know, no matter how many places we go, how big the house is, or how rich we become — I only feel safe here…”

“Where?” he asked, brushing a loose strand of hair from her eyes.

She looked at him, deeply, and whispered, “In your arms.”

He held her tighter.

There was no music playing in the background, but their souls danced.

There were no flowers in the room, yet it bloomed with affection.

There was no candlelight, but their eyes sparkled brighter than flames.

Their romance wasn’t loud. It was the kind that whispered through touches and lived in the pauses between conversations.

As sleep slowly came for her, she tucked herself into him like a prayer finding its place on holy lips.

And before her eyes closed, she said, “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” he replied.

“No matter how ordinary the day is… love me like this at night.”

He kissed her forehead, the most sacred place on her, and said: “Always.”