Aisha stepped into her room first, the familiar scent of jasmine from her diffuser lingering in the air, the golden-hour sun casting warm hues through the sheer curtains. Omar followed quietly, his gaze fixed on her like a thirsty traveller watching an oasis. She walked towards the wardrobe and pointed to the door on the right.

“That’s the washroom,” she said without turning back, her voice calm, guarded, almost. But before she could take another step away, she felt his fingers wrap gently but firmly around her wrist.