These violent delights have violent ends.

— William Shakespeare

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What does grief smells like? Feels like? To him, it's like flesh burning and roasted coal. It burns his soul and he sees dying embers of his contentment as it ashen against what fate has bestowed upon him. Of the worst feelings in life, one is desperation-- how helplessly one has to surrender to circumstances sometimes.

The rain is pouring like flood from the sky and it reflects his mood-- disheveled and disheartened, overtaken by his sorrow. He opens his umbrella as he steps out of the hospital building, making his way towards the parking lot to his car. The wind feels like dragging the umbrella from his hands; he resists the strong tug of it.

On the opposite side of the road, he spots Banafsha with her phone pressed to her ear and using her purse as a shelter against the rain. From her drenched coat and damp hair sticking to her face, her annoyed expression is justified. She removes the phone from her ear, her lips moving in a seemingly act of talking to herself in frustration as she looks around, probably searching for a taxi. Mikael rushes towards her.

"Doctor?" he calls her across the road and honking cars. She looks at him. He covers the distance between them hurriedly, quickly bringing her under the shade of his umbrella.

"Mikael?" She lowers her purse from her head and inches closer to him, seeking shelter from the rain with him. "What are you doing here?"

"I had an appointment with Zimal's doctor. Are you leaving for home?"

"My shift just ended. I'm unable to find a taxi."

"Come on, I'll give you a ride," he offers.

This time thankfully, she doesn't refuse him given the situation and follows him to his car. He opens the passenger seat door for her and she gets inside. He closes the door before walking around to the driver's side and getting in too, putting the umbrella on the back seat and turning on the heater. Banafsha quickly brings her hands in front of it and he notices her fingers shaking.

"You're cold," he comments and looks at her, a few damp strands still sticking to her face. He resists the urge to brush them back. "How long have you been out standing in the rain?"

"I don't know, but I seriously think I need to get my own car now." She rubs her hands together. "Excuse me if I don't act civil. I think the cold has frozen my brain."

He chuckles lightly at that and increases the heat. "I don't mind you, just so you know."

"Thank you for offering me the ride though. You couldn't have come at a better time." She brushes away the stray strands from her face and looks at him.

"I thought you'd deny me, like the first time," he jests and she grins with mirth in her orbs.

"Oh no, I couldn't. I was desperate this time. And you've proven to be an angel for me, like your name." She laughs softly at her own joke and he cannot help grinning either, the merriment in her eyes captivating him, replacing totally her previous annoyance and his sour mood.

"Mikael," she says and he tilts his head in query. "Like the angel of mercy," she clarifies. "Angel Mikael."

He just smiles at her and she smiles back, wrapping her arms around herself, trembling from the cold. Mindful of her soaked coat, he quickly takes off his own coat to offer her.

"You're shivering, doctor. Take off your coat and wear this."

She's swift to refuse, shaking her head. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

"You'll get sick. Take it."

"Mikael--"

"Please, I insist."

Her shoulders drop at his persistence and she gingerly slips out of her coat, taking his and slipping it on instead.

"Thank you."

Like always, he responds simply with a smile. Starting the ignition, he gets his car out of the parking lot and on the road.

"So," Mikael glances at her, "What does your name mean, doctor?"

"Banafsha is our local name for violet plant," she tells him.

"Ah, gul-e-banafsha, I remember now. Look at my memory of my hometown rusting." He clicks his tongue. "But it's been long."

"I suppose we belong to the same hometown then?"

"Well, yeah, since you're Zoraiz's sister and he has shared with me a lot about himself."

A flicker of a worry paints her features before she masks it away. "How long have you been here?"

"Seven years. I moved here after the death of my wife."

"Zoraiz told me about what happened with her. I'm sorry about the tragedy."

Something in his heart glitches. "If you were curious, you could've just asked me instead of talking about her with your brother, doctor."

"It just came up." She pushes her hair over her shoulder nervously. "I'm sorry if you've minded it."

He brushes it off with a mischievous grin as he glances at her. "Does it mean you were discussing me with Zoraiz, miss?"

"My brother is pretty fond of you," she dodges his question cleverly.

"And you? Do find me interesting enough to ask him about me?"

"You wish I would fancy you so much."

"Don't you?"

He stops at a red light and turns to her. She looks at him, eyes darting in nimble movements into his own, playing with his pupils as they dilate. The intensity in those orbs anchors his soul. She doesn't respond, but the way she gazes at him is all the answer he needs.

"My brother has changed," she finally speaks in a low voice. "If I blame it on you, would I be wrong?"

"What makes you think it's me?"

"Intuition. Because I find you different, and that's what interests me."

He smiles a pleased smile, not bothering denying her, and accelerates the car again as the traffic light changes color.

"There's a cafe down the next turn," he says. "Would you mind joining me for a drink?"

"Now when I know you're single, don't you think I should be wary of your advances?" she jokes playfully and he laughs, entertaining the idea.

"My bad, are you rejecting me already?"

"Need I remind you that I've a husband?"

"The one you were going to dump?" he recalls flatly, pushing any aching feelings over the bay.

"Doesn't change the fact that I'm still married." She grips his coat tighter to herself, no more shivering now. "And I'd rather divorce my husband than be a cheating wife to him. No one deserves such punishment, no matter how bad."

His chest warms with her words and respects flows in his every vein for her. Banafsha can be savage, but not ill-repute, and that alone is enough for him to honor her and hold her dear to his heart.

"I thought you're not a romantic, doctor," he comments lightheartedly. "That's one beautiful perspective you have."

"I might not be a romantic, but I still regard the holiness of a marriage. I just never thought I was fit for one."

"Why though?"

She shrugs nonchalantly. "I didn't have good examples in my life to look up to and develop my faith in it."

He feels sad for her and at the same time relates to her. But where he risked his heart and took a chance, Banafsha seems reluctant to do so. Maybe a little, but he finds himself understanding her.

"I'm not calling it a date," he suggests. "Just hoping for a good company."

"Flatterer." She shakes her head at him and chuckles.

He drives them towards a cafe and takes his umbrella, getting out of his car before helping her out too, keeping them both under the shade. Once inside the cafe, they walk up to the counter to place their order.

"You want treats?" Mikael asks her.

She peers down through the glass of the counter to different confectionaries. "Lemon cupcake?"

He nods and gestures to towards the tables. "Grab a seat for us. I'll bring us our food."

She walks down towards an empty table by the window and sits there, waving at him to indicate her position. He bites back a smile and waves back.

"Here's your chilled latte, sir," a woman in her late forties says, placing his order on the counter. "And here's your missus's coffee, and your cupcakes."

He thanks her and pays for the food, removing his hand from the counter almost involuntarily to hide the wedding band on his ring finger with Shirin's name on it, which probably gave the lady the impression of him and Banafsha being a couple.

He slips opposite to Banafsha at the table and places her order in front of here.

"Strawberry cupcake for you?" she grins at him teasingly.

"Hey, don't judge me."

She lets out a small laugh, giving him an incomprehensible look before picking up her coffee cup. They eat silently for a while before she speaks up.

"So, where do I attend your classes?"

His eyebrows shoot up in uncertainty as he fails to hide his shock. "You wanna learn poetry?"

"History."

He places a forearm on the table, bending forward. "And I gather that's because of Zoraiz?"

She traces the rim of her cup with her finger absent-mindedly, looking at him. "You know, Mikael, he used to be a very reckless guy, always oblivious to the consequences of his actions or the feelings of the others. Him and I never got along, never missing a chance of snapping at each other like cat and dog, partly because I always tried to live by my own standards and partly because he was the kind of guy I didn't fancy. He was okay with our family's way of life-- he was one of us, which now he's not." Her gaze shifts to outside of the window, fixing on the rain hitting the pavement. "I remember one time when he came home from Dublin, he brought with himself his own stack of alcohol, saying he didn't like the quality they sold back home." She smiles sardonically, as if the memory pained her. "Many nights he would spend out of the home, God knows doing what, and drinking during the day, no one ever asking him to correct his ways, because his ways were like the rest of everyone." She looks back up at Mikael. "You said that my brother shared with you a lot, so I assume this was included in that."

He doesn't answer, but his silence is enough agreement for her as she continues.

"He doesn't drink anymore now, having given up on his addiction," Banafsha says, staring directly into his eyes. "He objects against our family's ways, haven't spend a single night out since I've come here, and when he speaks to me, I hear care in his words. He has become kinder, and he makes me feel loved. But..."

Mikael leans towards her subconsciously. "But?"

"He scares me." She exhales a shuddering breath. "He gives voice to my fears and it disturbs me. He brings to my face what I'm trying to run away from."

They stare at each other quietly, each appearing unsure of what to say next. Then she clears her throat.

"I was hoping I could find answers to my questions too like Zoraiz has, and he said you helped him. I don't know how history can do that, but I want to see for myself. Do you have your phone?"

"I left it in the car."

"Mine has its battery dead." She takes out a pencil from her purse with a smilie face on it, scribbling something on the tissue before sliding it towards him. "Here, send me details of your classes on my number. I'll try to make it to the next one."

He takes the tissue from her, feeling lost and hesitant.

"What kind of history do you teach, by the way?" she inquiries.

He purses his lips, knowing well that his speciality might be of least interest to her, debating in his head what to do. Then deciding to tell her the truth, he lets it out.

"Islamic history." His eyes fixate on her face to study her reaction. "I teach religion, actually."

She appears at loss of words, blinking, letting seconds tick by before clearing her throat and composing herself. "So, you're a preacher?"

"Sort of, yes."

"Ah."

For a few tense minutes, none of them proceed the conversation. He takes a sip of his latte; she drinks her coffee. Then as the air starts buzzing with tension, she eventually asks,

"How did you end up in the field though?"

"Because of my wife," he answers briefly and truthfully.

"Oh," she utters, sounding surprised. "And here in Dublin?"

"My mother was Irish."

"Really?"

"Uh huh. My father met her here, in Dublin, married her, started a family with her-- had me and my sister. But sadly they didn't work out and split."

"Because she was not a Muslim?"

He hides his disappointment at her assumption as he looks at her. "What is a Muslim, doctor?"

She appears confused at his question, taking a moment before answering him-- the answer that sounds like a robotic response than something understood. "Well, someone who believes in the oneness of God and finality of prophet Muhammad."

"That's all?" he challenges, lips crooked to one side at the expected response. "By definition, a Muslim is someone who submits their will to God. Then by definition, I think my mother was more Muslim than my father, either born as one or not."

He forks his cupcake and takes a bite as Banafsha eyes him with what looks to him astonishment. She slowly places her fork down on the plate. He shifts his gaze to her and she smiles self-consciously.

"Then, can I come to your classes?"

Her question both amazes him and calms his nerves. Those brown irises appear genuine and he's drawn by them. Smiling softly, Mikael nods at her.

"I'll send you the details, doctor."

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So, I know politics and religion are sensitive subjects to discuss with much criticism upon them, including here on wattpad. And by now you know no one in this story is perfect (because after all, Muslims are humans too, so less judgements there please). Mind you, many of you might not agree with what I present in this book, but it's only my personal perspective of everything. You're free to share with me your opinions. But before I see any hate in the form of 'anti' or 'phobic' comments (not just Islamophobic or anti-Muslim but any religion or whatsoever), read or reread my author's note in the beginning of the book if you must. Because unfortunately, I do check every comment and it might create trouble if I find something nasty (:

Lastly, this isn't your cliché Muslim story of oh-so-pious hijabi and bad-boy-turned-good, as you must've gathered already, no offense there. Let me point out here that it's Islam we call perfect, not Muslims (note the difference). So please be clear in what you assume from what you read or see.

PS: Thank you to all of you who have been with me so far supporting me. Sending you all love.

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