[Lordsnow]

Two days after returning from the long night, Fatima could not settle.

The flat felt smaller than before. Every time she moved she felt the lingering soreness, the slight openness that still remained, and with it a restlessness that refused to quiet. Amina’s unexpected visit still sat in the back of her mind like an unfinished argument. She needed distance — from the house, from the possibility of another knock on the door, from the version of herself that still flinched at being discovered.

That evening she told Sameer she wanted to leave the city for a few days. Somewhere with other people, but where no one knew their names. A proper resort, not a sealed private villa. He agreed without argument.

They booked a mid-range resort an hour and a half outside the city — the kind that had a large shared pool, a restaurant terrace, and enough guests that a person could disappear into the crowd if they wanted. Fatima packed carefully. Two abayas. The black kameez. The short red one with side slits. Lace sets. She left the veil until last, folding it slowly.

They arrived in the late afternoon.

The lobby was busy with other couples and small families checking in. Fatima kept her abaya on and the veil loosely pinned while they collected the key. Only once they were inside their second-floor room, with the balcony overlooking the main pool, did she remove both. She stood at the glass doors for a moment, watching the water and the people scattered around it on sun-loungers, then changed into the black kameez that ended mid-thigh and left her arms bare. Nothing underneath.

Sameer watched her from the bed but said nothing.

They went down to the pool area as the heat of the day began to soften. Fatima chose a lounger near the deeper end, slightly apart from the larger groups. She sat, stretched her legs out, and let the late sun touch her skin. For the first time in days the tight feeling in her chest loosened a little.

She did not notice the woman immediately.

A few loungers away, close enough to see clearly but not so close that it looked deliberate, a woman in a sleeveless dark top and soft shorts had been watching her since she sat down. The woman was not staring openly in a way that would draw attention from others, but her attention was steady, unhurried, and focused. When Fatima finally turned her head, their eyes met.

The woman did not look away.

She held the contact for several long seconds, her expression calm and openly interested, then allowed the smallest smile — not friendly in the usual sense, more like recognition. As if she had already decided something.

Fatima’s pulse shifted. She was used to men looking. This was different. Quieter. More precise. She held the gaze a moment longer than politeness required before turning back toward the water, heat moving up the back of her neck.

She could still feel the weight of those eyes.

The woman remained where she was for another minute, then stood, gathered her things, and walked toward the low building that housed the changing rooms, disappearing from view without once looking back.

Fatima stayed on the lounger, the black kameez soft against her bare skin, the memory of that deliberate, assessing look already settling under her thoughts. She did not know the woman’s name. She did not yet know anything about her.

She only knew that someone had looked at her — really looked — in a place full of other people, and had not looked away.

Evening settled slowly over the resort.

Fatima had gone back to the room after the pool and stood for a long time in front of the open cupboard. The black kameez she had worn earlier still lay on the bed. For a moment she considered putting it back on. Then she reached past it and took out the darker, longer abaya she had packed — the one that covered her from shoulder to ankle, with sleeves that reached her wrists. She pinned the veil carefully, adjusting it until only her face showed. The familiar weight of the cloth settled over her like a return to something safer.

Sameer watched her from the chair near the window but said nothing. He had learned when to stay quiet.

They went down to the open terrace restaurant for dinner. Most tables were occupied by other couples and a few small groups. Soft lights hung from the wooden beams. The air carried the smell of grilled food and the faint chlorine from the pool nearby. Fatima kept her gaze lowered as they walked to their table, the abaya moving around her legs with every step. She sat with her back straight, hands resting in her lap the way she had been taught years ago.

She told herself she would not look for the woman.

She looked anyway.

The woman was already there, seated alone three tables to the left, closer to the low railing that overlooked the darkened garden. She wore a simple sleeveless top and a long skirt, nothing provocative, yet something in the way she sat — relaxed, shoulders open, one arm resting along the back of her chair — made her stand out. When Fatima’s eyes reached her, the woman was already watching.

Their gazes met across the space.

This time the woman did not smile. She simply held the contact, calm and unhurried, as if she had been waiting for Fatima to notice her again. Fatima felt heat rise under the veil and along her throat. She looked down at once, fingers tightening around the edge of the menu. Her pulse had become noticeable in her ears.

Sameer ordered for both of them. Fatima answered his questions in short sentences, keeping her voice soft. She tried to focus on the plate when the food arrived, but her attention kept drifting. Every few minutes she would glance sideways without turning her head fully. Each time, the woman was either looking directly at her or had just looked away, as though she knew exactly when Fatima would check.

The meal felt longer than it was.

When they stood to leave, Fatima kept close to Sameer’s side, the abaya brushing against him. She did not look toward the other table again, yet she felt the weight of that steady gaze follow her across the terrace and all the way to the stairs.

In the room she removed the veil first, then the abaya, folding both with unusual care. Underneath she wore a full-sleeve undershirt and loose pantaloons — the kind of clothing she used to wear at home before everything changed. She sat on the edge of the bed, hands pressed together between her knees.

Sameer sat beside her.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

Fatima stared at the floor.

“There is a woman. She keeps looking at me.”

“I noticed.”

She shook her head slightly, still not raising her eyes. “It is different from the way men look. I don’t know what she wants. It makes me feel… exposed. Even with the abaya.”

Sameer rested his hand lightly on her back. He did not push further.

Fatima lay down that night still wearing the undershirt and pantaloons. Sleep came slowly. Behind her closed eyes she kept seeing the woman’s calm face and the way she had held the gaze without shame or hurry. Something about it unsettled her more than the open hunger of the men who had used her. This felt quieter, more deliberate, and somehow harder to name.

Fatima woke early. She performed a short prayer in the corner of the room, movements precise and familiar, then dressed fully again — abaya, veil, the same modest layers underneath. Sameer was still half-asleep when she told him she wanted to sit by the pool for a while before breakfast.

The pool area was almost empty at that hour. A few staff members moved in the distance. Fatima chose a lounger in the shade and sat with her back straight, hands folded, the abaya covering everything. She had brought nothing to read. She simply sat, trying to let the quiet settle her.

She had been there only a few minutes when she felt it again.

The woman walked along the opposite side of the pool, barefoot, wearing a long, loose black dress that still managed to show the shape of her body when the breeze moved it. She did not come directly toward Fatima. Instead she stopped at a lounger two places away, spread a towel, and sat down with the same unhurried ease as the night before.

Fatima kept her eyes on the water.

Minutes passed.

Then the woman spoke, her voice low and clear enough to carry without being loud.

“You prefer the early quiet as well.”

Fatima’s shoulders stiffened. She turned her head only slightly, just enough to acknowledge the words without fully facing her.

“It is peaceful,” she answered, voice soft, almost formal.

The woman rested back on her hands, studying Fatima openly now that the first words had been spoken.

“I saw you yesterday when you first came down. You looked like you were trying to disappear into that black cloth. And then later you changed. Now you’re covered again.” A small pause. “Which one feels more like you?”

Fatima felt the question land under her ribs. She looked down at her own hands, covered by the long sleeves.

“I am a married woman,” she said carefully. “This is how I dress.”

“I know.” The woman’s tone stayed mild, almost conversational. “That isn’t what I asked.”

Silence stretched between them. A gardener’s rake sounded somewhere beyond the hedge. Fatima’s pulse had become loud again. She knew she should stand up, make an excuse, return to the room and to Sameer. Instead she remained seated, the abaya heavy around her, the other woman’s attention pressing against her like a physical thing.

The woman did not push further. She simply stayed there, two loungers away, watching Fatima with that same calm, patient interest, as if she had all the time in the world and already knew how this would end.

Fatima stared at the surface of the pool and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

She was still covered.
She was still shy.
And she already understood that the woman sitting nearby had no intention of looking away.