I showed up.
I told myself I was only going because the library needed to be finished. I told myself I was going because the workers needed direction. But as I pushed open the heavy oak doors at exactly 8:05 AM, the hollow thud of my heart told a different story.
The library was bathed in the soft, dusty light of a Karachi morning. It was quiet—unnervingly so. No Zara, no Rayan, no hum of a generator.
Zayn was there.
He was standing by the central spiral staircase, staring up at the skylight. He didn't have a laptop. He didn't have a blueprint. He was just... waiting. When he heard my footsteps, he didn't turn around immediately. He took a breath, his shoulders dropping an inch, as if he'd been holding his breath since sunrise.
"You came," he said, turning to face me.
"I have work to do, Zayn," I said, my voice clipping the ends of my words. I walked past him toward my supply table, my eyes fixed on anything but him.
"If you're the boy I used to know... then prove it," I said, my voice shaking.
The air in the library felt like it was vibrating. Zayn was looking at me, his hand halfway extended, his eyes dark with a mix of desperation and something that looked like old, familiar grief. For a second, the "CEO" was gone, and the silence was so loud I could hear his heartbeat—or maybe it was mine.
Then, the heavy oak doors didn't just open; they banged against the wall.
"Alayna! Zayn! You guys have to see this!"
Salar came skidding across the polished floor, his sneakers squeaking loudly. He was out of breath, his hair a mess, and he was waving a tablet in the air.
Zayn flinched, pulling his hand back and instantly masking his face. The shutter went down so fast it made my head spin. He stepped back, putting three feet of professional distance between us before Salar could even reach the table.
"Salar, what is it?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, though my lungs felt like they were still catching up.
"The shipment! The vintage lamps for the study wing," Salar panted, shoving the tablet between us. "They arrived at the warehouse, but there's a problem. Look at the brass—it's the wrong finish. It's too shiny. It looks like... like something out of a cheap mall, not a heritage library."
I looked at the screen, then at Zayn. The moment we were having—the heavy, life-altering moment—was stepped on by the reality of a bad brass finish.
Zayn took the tablet, his fingers brushing Salar's as he scrolled through the photos. He didn't look at me. He was back to "Problem-Solver" mode.
"It's high-polished instead of brushed," Zayn noted, his voice flat. "We can't use these. It'll catch the glare from the skylight and ruin the reading nook."
"Exactly!" Salar said, looking at Zayn like he was a hero. "But the contractor says they won't take them back because the order was 'finalized.' Alayna, you have to talk to them. Or Zayn, you can scare them with your 'boss' voice."
I looked at Salar, then at Zayn's profile. He was focused on the screen, but I saw the way his jaw was still tight. He was using the lamps as a shield to hide the fact that he'd almost broken down a minute ago.
"I'll handle the contractor," Zayn said, handing the tablet back to Salar. He finally glanced at me, just for a second. "Alayna is right. We have a lot of work to do. Salar, go get the truck ready. We're going to the warehouse ourselves."
"Really? Both of you?" Salar's eyes widened. "Like a field trip?"
"Like a mission," Zayn said.
Salar cheered and ran back out, his energy leaving a vacuum in the room. I stood there, clutching my charcoal stick. The "prove it" was still hanging in the air, but the world was forcing us to move.
"You heard the kid," Zayn said, not looking at me as he reached for his keys. "The boy you knew wouldn't let a bad brass finish ruin your masterpiece. Are you coming?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He walked toward the door, leaving me to follow. He was using the work to avoid the talk, but for the first time, I didn't mind. I needed the distraction as much as he did.