"Damon, put the cupcake down," I said slowly.

The red velvet with extra whipped frosting hovered over his mouth, tongue reaching towards the elegant layers of white cream, frothed to perfection with meticulous care when I made the lace white chocolate accessories. Those cupcakes took hours to perfect with a new recipe.

"Damon," his wife frowned, a hand on her hip and a stern gaze in her dark eyes. She was staring him down. "Now."

"No one is going to miss one cupcake," he retorted before turning to his wife with puppy eyes. "Please. I worked hard for these."

Amira and I exchanged glances, both releasing a long sigh at his sophomoric behavior.

Luckily for us, Ibrahim and Thomas had strided through the orphanage doors, carrying a long table to place in the center. Behind them was Tanwir, who carried foldable chairs in both arms, carefully setting them against the wall. Most of the orphans decided to help decorate the room, tying blue and white ribbons to the windows and walls, blowing balloons, and adjusting road signs as Bashir and Kanza supervised and vlogged the entire event for her Youtube channel.

The bake sale was a group effort.

Every single person stepped in, offering all that they could, all the time they had, and all the energy they were willing to sacrifice. Even the orphans, who had nothing to begin with, decided to help us set up. We had less than two hours and everyone hustled through their jobs.

Ibrahim jogged to my side, placing a quick kiss on my cheek. "What's the trouble here?" he asked.

"Damon is slobbering over cupcakes," I replied dryly.

He tilted his head at the boys, an inky strand escaping from his slicked back hair. "It seems like Thomas joined in."

My eyes widened. "Boys!" I yelled, running over to my boxes of red velvet cupcakes. "No touching the products!"

"But Tanseem," whined Thomas. "They're so seductively delicious looking. I need them."

"See? I'm not the only one in love with cupcakes."

Amira muttered under her breath, disappointment lacing the toasty brown of her eyes. "Really, Thomas?" she asked, crossing her arms. "You called cupcakes seductive."

Damon snickered, putting the creamy dessert back down as he turned to his partner-in-crime with a grin. "She has a point there, man," he said. "That wasn't the best choice of adjectives."

"I never claimed to be literate," shrugged Thomas.

"You hear that, Ibrahim? Your secretary isn't literate," joked Damon.

Kanza strolled into the room with her march of kids. "Did someone order a couple of helping hands?" she smiled until she caught sight of Damon and Thomas. "I see Damon still continues to torment us all with his remarks."

Amira and I burst into a fit of giggles.

"Hey!" exclaimed Damon, huffing and puffing like a child.

Thomas chuckled, wrapping a strong arm around Damon's shoulders, pulling his best buddy into a side hug. "Man, you girls are rude. This is my brother from another mother," he boasted proudly. "Damon's my man."

"Thank you! Someone on this planet actually appreciates me," Damon beamed with delight glowing upon his face.

Ibrahim's visage remained emotionless and impassive throughout the hysterics, a cool exterior to a chaotic storm inside. I knew his mind was elsewhere and on his scandal, yet his friends refused to let him dwell on the media during Eid. They were determined to make today a time of success and pure joy.

There was beauty in all our friendships, one that we forgot on most days. Ibrahim's friends had his back, supported him through every trial, through every difficulty, and through every lonely day. Although his teenage years had been spent in the prison of loneliness, the warmth of love had cradled its way into his broken heart, repairing the empty cavities of a darkened soul.

In the midst of a political scandal, our bandit of misfits and goofballs had corralled their hopes together, forcing a scared wolf like Ibrahim out of his hiding den. He was free. His friends had freed his damaged state.

They didn't look at Ibrahim with disgust or fear. They welcomed him with open arms, smiled through bleeding wounds, and laughed through their own tears. They had been there when we sought their comfort the most.

"Pay attention, everyone!" yelled Ibrahim through all the raucous.

We gathered around him, eyes wide with curiosity and hidden smiles glimsping past our lips like a ghostly breeze. Even the orphans had joined our large circle.

"Tell us the game plan, boss," grinned Thomas as he exchanged a glance with an overly joyful Damon.

He knew how much my husband hated it when they called him 'boss.'

Ibrahim rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore his secretary. "We split into groups of two and then take a table. We need to divide the sweets evenly for each group. It makes everything more organized if all of us split up the work, not to mention the fact that the lines would be more efficient."

Damon raised a hand as if he were a student, causing a small laugh to bubble through Bashir.

My beloved husband merely sighed. "Yes, Damon?" he asked with a bored tone.

"We don't have enough tables for all of us to group up."

The observation struck Ibrahim, his thick brows furrowing in confusion. I watched as a calculative gleam entered his smoldering eyes, meticulous gaze sweeping over the room as his memory imprinted the strategy to ensure a promising bake sale. Allah had given Ibrahim the innate gift of knowledge for business. It came naturally to him no matter what day or activity it was.

"Is he right?" asked Amira.

Ibrahim nodded, fingers under his chin, stroking the soft bristles that brushed against his jaw. "It seems like we ran into a slight predicament," he muttered under his breath before clearing his throats, back straightening till he looked as regal as he spoke. "Okay, only the adults break into groups. The children will take care of the guests for our Eid party and help us out."

Gazing around the room, our group of friends eagerly nodded, meticulously listening to every word, every syllable, every sentence that spilled from his lips, following his exact orders as if Ibrahim was the general of an army. A faint glimpse of the past managed to sink its claws into my skull.

Was Ibrahim's father like this? Did his men show false affection just to betray him?

I shook my head. Focus, Tasneem. Now is not the time to dwell on the past.

"Does everyone understand their roles?" questioned Ibrahim.

"We're not idiots," chuckled Thomas before turning to the rest of the group. "I claim Damon as my partner."

"No fair!" scowled Amira, crossing her arms. "He's my husband. I think we should be partnered together."

"Oh, cry me a river," mocked Thomas, a rakish glint in his bright blue eyes. He ran his fingers through his blonde locks, flashing a signature smile towards Amira. "He's my friend; therefore I claim all rights to Damon."

Her scowl only deepened.

Damon sighed loudly. "Please, continue talking about me as if I cease to exist," he mumbled sarcastically. "By all means, I love the attention."

"Ibrahim," whined Kanza. "Make them stop."

"Please, do," mumbled Tanwir, wincing slightly from Thomas's remarks. "They're making my ears bleed."

I stifled my laughter under my hand, earning me the affectionate gaze of my husband. As if the world had stopped spinning and the galaxy had showered sparkling dusts of starlight upon us, his glowing coal-like eyes shimmered, casting a wistful glance towards my direction. My laughter stilled.

Perhaps it was the longing in his eyes, the pure look of awe, of admiration, of everlasting love, but with his gaze on me it felt as though we were indestructible. Ibrahim and I stood in front of Allah, bare with only our intentions to help even though the world around us had began to shatter like broken glass, yet that look in his eyes made my stomach flip and churn in a familiar wave of helpless love.

He stared at me like I was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

Ibrahim didn't break our gaze, choosing to live in the moment rather than in the past like he was used to. The others probably found us idiosyncratic for our abnormal moment of reassurance and ease, but I didn't care. It was only between Ibrahim and I, a bubble of protection that wrapped around us as we lost ourselves in the presence of our spouse, drowning in an ocean of raw emotion.

Love was a funny concept. It chose its victims carelessly without a second thought and allowed history to take its course, rewriting a romance that belittled those told in storybooks. Knowing that I had a husband, a man of remarkable courage and a heart that weighed heavier than gold, allowed the fruit of grace to grow inside me. Allah knew all along. Allah knew the type of man I needed and He led me right to him.

Slipping my hand into his, I gripped onto it firmly, breaking him out of his trance.

"Uh..." he trailed off, at loss for words. Our friends had resumed their group-scouting conversation instead of barging into the private doors of our minds. Ibrahim's cheeks flared with a rosy blush, a pale pink touching the snowy, white skin above. He cleared his throat. "We should... probably sort them out," he said at last.

"Yeah."

Dipping his head, Ibrahim's soft lips brushed against my own burning cheek, the touch as delicate as a rose petal. When he was about to pull away, he paused, lips inching closer to my own. Our noses brushed against each other, and his minty breath hovered over me, intoxicating my mind from thinking coherently.

Kiss.

The words chanted over my mind like a wild decree that had yet to be tamed, the silent demand lingering in a heated atmosphere like arrays of sunny tendrils, curling around us. My eyes trailed over his features, lingering on his lips as a-

"Yo, love birds," hollered Thomas, breaking the two of us apart. "Come over and supervise. You still didn't give Bashir a role."

"Sorry, sweetheart," he whispered so only I could hear, "but duty calls at inconvenient times."

I nodded, not trusting my breathless voice. An unsettling ballast weighed heavily down my stomach, a tense ball of frustration that could not come undone. Releasing a deep breath, I offered a small smile towards my husband.

Ibrahim gave me one last longing look before tearing his eyes away from me, lips set in a thin line as he stared at Thomas's wide grin. "Bashir supervises the children," he stated firmly.

"But he's a kid too."

"He's an older kid," stressed Ibrahim. "Okay, team. Do we understand our game plan?"

With a nod, we all split up. Kanza and I took one table, Amira and Tanwir took another since they were siblings, and Damon had Thomas at his table. Ibrahim and Bashir supervised the two groups and kept everything organized due to Ibrahim's obsessive nature over schedules and organization.

The orphan Ibrahim tugged at my husband's trousers.

His brows furrowed, gazing down at the little boy. "Yes?" he asked.

"Thank you," whispered the sweet child, voice as innocent as the critters of a spring day.

Ibrahim stood stunned, shock rippling through his features until the guise of a businessman finally disappeared, leaving his soul stripped of its coldness. The little boy had opened his heart with two simple words. Thank you.

He knelt down until he was eye to eye with younger Ibrahim. "Go make us proud, kiddo," he smiled, ruffling his hair. "The guests aren't going to entertain themselves, now are they?"

With a giggle, he scurried away, following his group of friends in cheers and chants. As I saw their smiling lips and bright eyes, I wondered how Allah had given me the power to grant them that happiness, how I was able to change the fate of so many, how kindness had bestowed blessings on such small children.

From Ibrahim's unwavering gaze on them, I knew he had felt the same.

* * * *

A couple hours had passed, the dirtied room filled with incalculable amounts of people. Different groups and ethnicities staggered their way through the crowd, laughter filling the once ruptured orphanage with a swarm of giddy love. Young adults cradled some of the children in their arms, playing outside or indoor games. One group even played an intense game of Monopoly with an eager audience, curious eyes swifting from person to person in astonishment.

At times, I would be dragged along to play a short game of catch or pretend to be the lady-in-waiting of a make-believe princess. Imagination was limitless, but the children's dreams and aspirations flew farther than most, goals that seemed to touch the impossible horizon of a beautiful sunset.

The children were the sunset after a long day. They were what kept me from giving up on their homes. They were the hope that I needed to know that life would always get better as long as one kept a bright smile and held their head high.

SubhanAllah (God is perfect), I thought, Allah had been guiding me all along. He led me to this orphanage to teach me something about hope. He led me here because He knew there would be a time where I had to be reminded of perseverance.

Keeping that in mind, I began to sketch out the designs and repairments at the first chance I got. While the guests played and the orphans entertained with dazzling smiles and confusing jokes, my fingers moved on their own accord, line after line, smudge after smudge, shading after shading. I scribbled repair suggestions on the side, using equipment terms and paint companies, a part of me that resembled my father.

When I was younger, I'd help my father fix our house whenever something broke. He led me through every process, teaching me basic lessons of construction and repairment. A faint smile brushed against my lips, and I lifted my head to see my parents kneeling on the floor with a circle of kids around them, the Monopoly game even more intense than the last time I checked.

They were the reason I had survived in life. My parents were my anchors, my rocks, my beloved guardians that Allah had sent to protect and cherish a growing baby girl. Although there had been many times where I had disobeyed or angered them, they still stood by me.

My gaze trailed to Ibrahim's grandparents, who sat on the opposite side of the board. Their wrinkled skin around their eyes stretched as light laughter erupted through them in tantalizing waves of solace, a melody to the orchestra of the orphanage.

They had taken care of Ibrahim, trying to shield him from the horrors he faced. Even on our wedding day, his grandmother had protected her grandson from heartbreak, confronting me about the type of man he really was if I gave him a chance. Sure, he had given them attitude in his teenage years, but they had never stopped loving Ibrahim, they had never stopped caring no matter how many times he messed up or how many times he took them for granted, they had always been there.

Parenting was no piece of cake.

It was enervating and sanguine all at once. It was much like hope, a feeling to continue even when acute obstacles threatened our path, searing a line of distinct pain and suffering. However, like everything in this dunya (world), it was only temporary. Hope thrived on the darkest days. I just had to remember it.

A soft voice broke me away from my thoughts as a feminine shadow hovered over me. "Excuse me, but are you Tasneem Uddin?" asked a affable, kind-hearted woman.

I lifted my eyes, unconsciously covering my sketchbook. "Y-Yes."

The woman was a lady in her late forties, lips stained with a peachy tint that complimented her pale skin. A beige dress fell down to her knees, loose fitted and perfectly accentuating her feminine charm. Her brown curls bounced over her shoulder as she flashed a pearly white smile. With eyes as stormy as the seven seas and coiled irises of an evergreen, her gentle gaze lured me away from my self-conscious nature. There was an aura of acceptance surrounding her.

"Did you organize this?"

I nodded.

Her eyes brightened if that was even possible. "I must say, your efforts are incredible. I have never met a woman of such grace and dignity who put others above her own needs. You are unpaid, correct?"

Once again, I nodded, feeling shy at the unnecessary amount of praise that she gave me. My cheeks heated.

Who is this woman?

As if sensing my confusion, she lightly laughed. "Oh, pardon me for my rudeness," she apologized, offering her hand to me. "I was just too excited. My name is Candice Dietrich, a manager at Hilton U Collections, an exterior design company based in Baltimore."

For a moment, I truly believed that my jaw had become unhinged.

Pulling myself together, I grasped her hands, shaking it firmly. "Wow," I breathed, letting go. "That's a pretty good design company here."

"Yes," she laughed before her eyes landed on my sketchbook. "I've heard about your plans to design this place and restore some glory to it. I came by to support your cause and maybe even to help you out with ideas."

"Really?" I asked, aghast beyond belief.

Sitting down beside me, she smiled. "May I take a look?" she asked, motioning towards the hidden book.

I reluctantly passed my work to her, allowing her scrutinizing gaze to drink in every idea, every thought, every suggestion that I had. Relax, Tasneem, I reminded myself, wiping my sweating palms on my leg. She seems nice. Don't freak out.

I was freaking out. Internally.

Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours. Candice's eyes trailed across every page, glancing at the side notes with awe and admiration. Her slender fingers traced over the photo I attached to the corner of the page, pity lacing the corner of her eyes.

"You really are remarkable for doing this," she commented.

"Thank you."

"I cannot even fathom the idea of living in such a broken home. These poor children," whispered Candice, lips trembling. She wiped at her eyes. "Could I... could I show these to my boss?"

"Uh..."

"If I could convince her to hire you, we could pay you for your efforts, help you get professional builders and engineers to assist you. Please, allow me to help," she practically begged.

"O-Of course," I stuttered, fidgeting in my seat, "but do you think your boss will like them?"

"Without a doubt."

Maybe life did slice up cake every now and then.