Precision & Heat (Lamija's POV)

He showed up.

I was already at my desk when I heard the firm click of his shoes in the hallway.

7:58 AM. Two minutes early.

Of course he was.

Ayub Selimović was too stubborn to back down and too proud to arrive late.

After the way I pushed him yesterday—in front of Emir, in front of the whole team—I expected frost.

Maybe clipped words.

Maybe a little fire.

But when he stepped through the door, all I got was calm.Polished.Composed.Too composed.Like a man who'd spent the morning rebuilding the walls I cracked yesterday—only thicker.

He closed the door behind him with one clean motion.

The air in my office was always still—deliberately so.No clutter. No noise. No framed degrees or trophies on the walls, just a single photograph near the bookshelf: my grandfather standing outside the original Begović textile mill, sleeves rolled, arms folded. The reminder wasn't for visitors. It was for me.

The desk was matte walnut—clean lines, no shine. A single glass of water sat to the left of my laptop, untouched. I never kept coffee cups on my desk. Never left files out overnight. No one should be able to read me by the mess I left behind.

The windows were tall but tinted, facing the east side of the city. Morning light filtered through soft linen blinds, enough to see each other clearly—but never enough to feel fully lit. The walls were a deep slate gray, interrupted only by a quiet black-and-gold clock and a row of clean shelving behind me. Everything had a place. Everything stayed where I put it.

Except him.

Ayub stepped inside like he belonged in the space. Like he'd already mapped the geometry of it—how far he could lean back without touching the wall, how much silence he could stretch before I'd speak first.

I hated how well he fit into the quiet.And maybe, just a little, I liked it too.

I didn't look up right away.

Let the moment breathe.

Let him wait.

Let him wonder if I was doing it on purpose.

Because I was.

When I finally lifted my gaze, he was already watching me.

Not like a subordinate.Not even like a man who'd been humiliated the day before.He was studying me.Like he was trying to solve a problem he was getting too close to enjoying.

"Asalaam Aleykum," he said, voice even.

"Aleykum Selaam."

Just that.

No smile.

But something in the air shifted.

I gestured toward the chair across from me.

"Sit. Let's get started."

No small talk. No apologies. No mention of yesterday.

Let it hang.

He sat, tugging his sleeve just enough to reveal the edge of his watch.

His suit was charcoal—slim fit, sharp lapels, clean lines. The shirt was crisp white, top button open, no tie. Everything about him looked intentional. Efficient. Like he dressed the way he moved: precise, focused, with just enough edge to keep you guessing.

He dressed well. Better than most.

But not well enough for me.

The cut was clean, but off by a breath—jacket half an inch too long, sleeves not quite breaking where they should. His shoes were solid. Safe. The watch was understated, but didn't match the belt buckle. Little things. Easily fixed.

It wasn't wrong. It just wasn't perfect.

Still, there was something about the way he wore it all—like he didn't care how he looked, but knew he had to carry it right. And he did.

That, I respected.

The man had presence. Stillness. Heat he didn't waste.He didn't fidget. Didn't posture. Just took up space like it was owed to him.

And—God help me—he was beautiful.

Rough around the edges, quiet in all the right ways.The kind of man you could dress in anything and make look dangerous.

If he were mine, I'd start with the tailoring.Nothing drastic—just sharp enough to cut.

He wouldn't fight me on it.I could see it. A cleaner cut, sharper detail. A tie in slate or navy. Not for him—he didn't need it. But because I wouldn't be able to help myself.

He was always the picture of quiet discipline.

Even when I tore him open in front of his peers, he didn't crumble.

He cracked, maybe. But he didn't fall.

And now he was here.

Two hours before the client briefing that could make or break this quarter's regional numbers. And he was here—because I told him to be.

I slid the printed deck toward him.

"Your pacing is off by five minutes. You're overloaded in the second section, and the numbers on slide eleven contradict the Q2 client brief. Fix them. We'll run through it twice before 8:45."

He didn't reach for the deck right away.

Instead, he looked at me.

Not just eye contact—held it.

Steady. Sharp. Like he was reading the spaces between my words.

"You think I can't handle it."He paused. "Insha'Allah, I can."

I tilted my head. Didn't blink.

"I think you haven't had to handle this before."

"That's not an answer."

I smiled. Slow. Deliberate.Not flirtatious. But not harmless, either.I wanted him to feel it. Just a little.

"It wasn't meant to be."

That earned me something.A flicker behind his eyes—not quite irritation, not quite challenge.Something hotter.And just like that, I wasn't sure who was holding the line anymore.

He covered it well, but it was there.

And it made my spine straighten. My pulse tick upward.

"Slide eleven," I said again, quieter now.

"You always talk softer when you're about to rip something apart."

He took the deck.

I let that sit between us. Let him have it.Didn't flinch. Didn't smile.But I didn't correct him either.

There was a rhythm to the way he moved.

Precise. Economical. Like a man who knew Allah was watching, even when no one else was.

No wasted energy. No distraction.

Except maybe me.

I watched the furrow form between his brows as he scanned the numbers.

"The Q2 brief used forecasted figures," he said, voice low. Thoughtful.

"And your slide uses reported. Pick one. Don't confuse the client. They hate feeling stupid."

He nodded once.

Didn't write anything down.

Because he already remembered it.

And for a reason I didn't care to name, I liked that more than I should have.

I watched his hands.Broad palms. Calloused fingers.The kind of hands that didn't belong in boardrooms—but somehow fit the suit anyway.Hands that could hold you in place without ever raising their voice.

It always struck me how much of Ayub didn't match the rest.

The roughness under the polish.

The fight under the control.

I liked watching him recalibrate.

Liked that he never pushed back out of ego—only when it made sense.

Liked that he listened. Really listened.

"Your tone's a mess," I added, leaning back slightly.

"You sound like a man reporting findings, not leading a client team. If you don't believe what you're saying, why should they?"

He looked up.

Met my gaze head-on.

No flinching. No ego.Just that same stillness that reminded me he prayed Fajr before most of this city even opened its eyes.

"Maybe because I earned the data."

"Earning it isn't enough," I said.

"You have to sell it."

His jaw tensed.

"So I should be more like you."

I let my lips curve.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

He didn't smile.

But he didn't look away, either.

That was the thing about Ayub.

He never blinked first.

"Again," I said, lifting my hand toward the screen.

"Start from the top. Don't read the script. Speak."

He exhaled through his nose. Sat up straighter.

And then he did.

I listened—not just to his words, but the way he formed them.

He still stumbled on the third section. Still rushed the close.

But something had shifted.

Less distance.

More presence.

Like he'd stopped trying to impress me and started trying to lead.

"Again," I said when he finished.

He blinked.

"Already?"

"You think the client only listens once?"

He didn't argue.

He just went again.

I watched the line of tension in his shoulders stretch thinner with each round.

Watched his jaw tighten. Watched him fight the part of himself that didn't like being molded.

Good.

He shouldn't like it.

Growth never came easy.

Not for men like him.

And I didn't want him easy.

I leaned forward. Cut him off mid-sentence.

"What does that figure mean?"

He barely paused.

"It reflects—"

"No. Not what it reflects."

I tilted my head.

"What does it mean?"

His brow twitched.

"To them," I clarified.

"The clients. The men in suits. The ones who measure success in margin and control. Why should they care?"

The silence stretched.

I didn't fill it.

Finally, he said,

"Because if they don't, they'll cut the next quarter's budget."

"Better."

I sat back. Let it land.

"Now say it like you mean it."

He did.

This time, he meant it.

You could hear it.

I caught myself nodding.

"How much sleep did you get?" I asked, voice lighter now.

"Enough."

"Uh-huh. Qiyam or anxiety?"

He smirked. Just barely. But it was there. "Bit of both."

The tension wasn't gone.

Just... changed.

Warmer.

Thicker.

Like we'd stopped circling and started facing each other.

I let my tone soften.

"Wallahi, you're sharper than most of them already. You just don't see it yet."

He looked up—genuinely surprised.

Not by the words.

But that I meant them.

"Could've fooled me yesterday."

"Yesterday," I said, steady, "was necessary."

"For who?"

"Both of us."

That stopped him.

I saw it in the way his hands stilled on the deck.

The way his eyes narrowed—not in anger, but thought.

Like something had just clicked into place.

"I need you sharp," I continued.

"If I push you hard, it's because I know you can take it. Rise above it. That's more than I can say for most of the men around here."

His lips parted.

The first real crack in his armor.

"I'm not here to break you," I said.

"I'm here to build you. If you can survive me, you can survive anyone."

His gaze dropped to the deck for a beat.

Then returned to me.

Not gratitude.Not quite admiration.Something quieter—respect, maybe. Or the start of it.

"You're dangerous," he said quietly.

"Alhamdulillah," I said. "You're finally catching on."

His mouth twitched.

He didn't smile.

But he wanted to.

Good.

Let him.

The clock on the wall ticked over to 8:42.

I stood. Walked around the desk. Took the deck from his hand without asking.

"You're ready," I said.

He blinked.

"You sure?"

"No," I replied, handing it back.

"But you're as close as you're going to get. Go get a coffee. Come back at 9 sharp. And drink water before you speak."

He stood slowly. Rolled his shoulders once—casual, but I could see the tension still living in the line of his back.

He looked like he wanted to say something else.

But he didn't.

He just nodded.

And walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And the second it did,

I let myself smile.

May Allah protect him, I thought.I wasn't sure from what. Me, maybe.