The Friday of Devotion
A week had passed, and Friday arrived—the day Abdullah had reserved for his "Bronze Beloved." Rowan awoke with the sun, her spirit ablaze with energy. She scrubbed, polished, and tidied every corner of the house; even the ceilings did not escape her relentless pursuit of perfection. Her mother, watching this sudden whirlwind of labor, asked with a smile: "What is the secret behind all this precision, my daughter?"
Rowan replied, radiant with joy: "The 'White One' is coming after the prayer, Mother. Everything must shine!"
The mother's heart swelled. Her youngest was finally a bride-to-be, and this was the glow of a woman in love. Rowan moved from cleaning to the kitchen, pouring all her culinary expertise into the afternoon feast. She tasted every morsel, forbidding even her mother from assisting. She wanted every flavor to be a reflection of her devotion, a testament to her desire to please him.
The Prince's Welcome
As she reached the final stages of her cooking, the doorbell chimed. Her heart leaped. He was here! She begged her mother to greet him while she dashed upstairs to shed the scent of spices and don her finest attire. She emerged scented with perfume, looking like a dream, and knocked softly on the door of the guest room.
Abdullah greeted her with a smile that spanned the heavens. He was a lover who had hungered for this moment—to see her face and hear the gentle voice he adored. He took her hand and kissed it, but the joy in her heart was too vast for formalities; she embraced him and pressed a kiss to his cheek before whispering: "I will be gone for only a few seconds to finish the meal so we can eat together. Just seconds!"
The Banquet of Spoiling
Rowan decorated the table with an eye for the finest details. She led him to the dining hall, pulling out his chair as a handmaiden might for her prince. She showered him with attention, filling his plate with every delicacy.
She watched him eat with the same fascination a mother watches her infant's first bites, mesmerized by the simple rhythm of his chewing. But watching was not enough. She began to feed him with her own hands, purposefully heaping the spoon too full so that a stray grain of rice or a drop of sauce might escape his lips. This gave her the "excuse" she craved: to reach out and touch his face, to feel the warmth of his skin as she wiped away the mess.
She was a "mischievous" lover, skillfully claiming every intimacy allowed to her by law, yet framing it as accidental. Whenever he protested, "I can wipe it myself, my Smarah," she would reply with playful insistence: "Heaven forbid, my 'Baidah'! You are the prince, and I am here to serve you."
The Sweet Surrender
"Eat more, my love," she would urge. When he claimed he was full, she would pout with such feminine grace—"Does my cooking not please you?"—that he found himself compelled to eat more, just to prove that her food was as exquisite as she was.
He ate until she finally granted him mercy. Then, with the expectant smile of a child waiting for a holiday gift, she asked: "Tell me, 'Baidah'... did you enjoy the meal?"
His answer was a kiss on her right cheek. "May your hands be blessed, my Smarah."
In that moment, Rowan felt as if she were flying. All the fatigue of the day evaporated. She cleared the table and washed the dishes with renewed vigor, returning to sit by his side. And as is the fate of all lovers: the entire Friday passed as if it were but ten fleeting minutes.