Lamija glared at her salad like it had betrayed her on a molecular level. Wilted greens, limp cucumbers, and some tragic crouton situation that crumbled if you so much as looked at it wrong.
This was penance. She knew it.
Because she had spent the morning doing exactly what she promised Imran she wouldn't.
Teasing Ayub.
She hadn't meant to. Not seriously. But when she walked into the room and saw him all braced and uncomfortable, something in her… tilted. She winked. Just to see what it would do.
It did a lot.
She twirled her pen between her fingers, the memory replaying in crisp, inconvenient detail—the wink, the reassignment, the way he hesitated just a second too long when she spoke to him.
She shouldn't have done it.
She had promised Imran she would be nice. Professional. Not cruel.
And winking at her brother's best friend just to watch him squirm? That wasn't nice.
That was sport.
She pushed the salad away and leaned back in her chair, eyes flicking toward the window. Sarajevo sprawled in gold and glass and shadow below her—elegant, complicated, like every version of herself she didn't have time to unpack.
She didn't play with men. Especially not ones who looked at her like she might detonate if they said the wrong thing.
Ayub had been impressive. Quietly brilliant. He'd corrected timelines and rerouted orders like it was nothing. And still… she'd given the client comms to Emir.
Not because Ayub wasn't capable. But because he flinched.
If he was going to stand beside her, he needed to act like he deserved the spot. She wasn't going to hold his hand through it.
Imran had kept him close for years, and not because they were friends. Imran didn't do sentimental in business. Talha was proof of that—still working the docks because, despite his loyalty and brute brilliance, Talha had all the diplomatic grace of a brick through glass.
Ayub, though… Ayub was precision.
And the fact that he flinched under her gaze just made her want to press harder.
Lamija sighed and pushed the salad away.
The door opened.
And in came salvation.
Selma, radiant in oversized sunglasses and the scent of soy sauce and mischief, strutted in carrying two paper bags from Kibo Kitchen.
"Tell me you didn't order rabbit food again," Selma said, already setting the bags down near the small table by the window.
"I thought I'd try being a responsible adult," Lamija replied.
"Gross," Selma said, unpacking boxes like a woman with a mission. "Eat carbs. Rule empires."
They settled in quickly—chopsticks, dumplings, tempura—and let the view of Sarajevo unfold behind them. The late afternoon sun turned the city into a painting. Old mosques, winding streets, minarets and glass towers all stitched together.
"So?" she asked.
Lamija raised a brow. "So what?"
"Don't play dumb. You've been staring out that window like a widow with regrets. Something happened."
Lamija poked at her noodles. "Imran reassigned Ayub to my team."
Selma blinked. "Wait—Ayub as in your Ayub?"
"He's not my Ayub."
Selma grinned. "Tell that to your voice. You went all quiet and tragic like a woman in a Turkish drama who just found out her beloved has a terminal illness and a secret wife."
Lamija sighed. "I put him under Jasmina."
"You demoted him?"
"I redirected him."
Selma tilted her head. "Because…?"
"He froze. Looked like he wanted to bolt. I don't have time to coax a man into confidence."
"You also don't usually rearrange staffing assignments based on who's avoiding eye contact."
Lamija didn't answer. She picked up her chopsticks and stabbed a dumpling like it owed her money.
Selma leaned forward. "You like him."
"I like watching him try not to like me."
"That's so much worse."
Lamija smirked. "It's a victimless crime."
"Except he's the victim."
"Then he should stop making it so entertaining."
Selma exhaled and reached for the tempura. "Poor guy. He's got half the girls here drooling over him and the one women he actually wants keeps throwing him off cliffs."
"I'm not throwing him anywhere. I'm just… nudging him out of the nest."
"With fire."
"He'll survive."
"You want him to survive?"
"I want him to stop looking at him like I'm a final exam."
Selam leaned in. "Have you ever really looked at him?"
"I've seen him."
"He's got quiet shoulders. You know what I mean. The kind that look like they could carry emotional damage and furniture."
Lamija laughed despite herself. "You're ridiculous."
"Tell me I'm wrong."
She didn't.
Selma smirked. "You know he's brilliant, right? Like, terrifyingly competent. Calm. Focused. And hot. You could build a dynasty off that man."
Lamija shook her head, trying not to smile. "You have actual issues."
"You have denial. I'm just balancing the equation."
Lamija went quiet. Then: "He is scared of me. Or what I'll do to him.."
"Maybe because you keep swiping his legs out every time he gets close."
"I'm not here to build up broken men."
"He's not broken," Selma said softly. "Just bruised. There's a difference."
Lamija looked away.
Selma let the silence stretch.
Then, with a smile that was all teeth: "And those arms? I saw him carry a pallet jack once like it was nothing. I nearly proposed."
Lamija laughed. "Maybe you should marry him."
"No thanks. I'm not built for that much emotional honesty. But you—you'd destroy him. In a good way. And your children? Adorable. Sharp-jawed, emotionally stable little CEOs."
Lamija choked on her dumpling.
Selma grinned. "Lots and lots of children. Strong gene pool. Your mother would faint from joy."
"You need help."
"And you need to admit that you're having fun watching him sweat."
Lamija looked away, toward the window. Her reflection in the glass looked calm. Controlled.
But inside?
Inside, she wasn't entirely sure what she was doing.
She turned the conversation. "Imran's back, by the way. Mom's still trying to get him married. He needs someone terrifyingly competent. You're halfway there."
"I'm not terrifying. I'm chaotic. He'd have an ulcer in a week."
"She says he needs a partner who can lead beside him."
Selma rolled her eyes. "You mean someone who eats spreadsheets for breakfast and doesn't panic during board meetings."
Lamija grinned. "So… not you."
"Not unless you want HR violations and love letters in glitter ink."
They were still laughing when the door opened again.
And in walked Imran—with Ayub right behind him.
Lamija's smile froze for half a second. But she recovered quickly, resting an elbow on the back of her chair like she'd been expecting them.
Ayub was in a dark fitted shirt, sleeves rolled just past the elbows—the kind of clean, efficient look that made her forget every argument she'd ever made about him not being her type. His beard was trimmed, his jaw tense, his gaze scanning the room briefly before settling on her.
Selma didn't say a word, but she made a face across the table that said: Greek statue. Strong gene pool. Told you.
"Interrupting?" Imran asked.
"Obviously," Lamija replied, recovering fast. "What do you want?"
Imran grinned and dropped a file on her desk. "I need Ayub for the site inspection. Marindvor. The one with the overly dramatic landlord."
Lamija turned slowly to Ayub, letting the corners of her mouth curl up – measured, amused, just shy of daring..
"Already jumping ship?" she asked. "You were mine for a whole day, Ayub. I'm hurt."
Ayub didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
His posture was relaxed, but his eyes– those steady, heat– coiled eyes– met hers without apology. And for the first time all day, he didnt look away.
He stepped forward– not close, but just enough for the moment to feel deliberate.
"If you want me to stay, Lamija…" he said, voice low, smooth like polished steel. "Just say so."
Silence cracked inside her like ice in warm water.
Her throat tightened– just a fraction– but her expression didnt move. Not a blink. Not a breath. But her pulse tapped hard against her wrist, just beneath the skin.
Selma made an involuntary noise, like someone witnessing a power outage in real time.
Imran did worse.
"Ew." He stepped between them like a man trying to physically plug a leak in a dam. "Can you both not? I'm begging. For the sake of my blood pressure and the HR department."
Lamija leaned back in her chair, composure restored by inches. "You're just jealous no one wants you."
Selma snorted into her drink.
Iman ignored them both. "Ayub, let's go before I'm forced to officiate something."
Ayub gave Lamija one last glance– brief, unreadable, but no longer hesitant.
Then he turned and followed Imran out.
The door clicked shut.
Selma looked at her, stunned. "He spoke. With chest."
Lamija didnt respond. Her lips twitched like she might say something clever.
But instead, she just looked at the door and picked up her chopsticks again, a little slower this time.
And stabbed her dumpling with the calm of a women not sure if she;d just won a game–
–or if she was finally playing one she could lose.