The next morning when we arrived at the warehouse,the warehouse was a cavernous, corrugated metal beast that swallowed the morning light. The smell of sawdust, oxidized metal, and cheap industrial grease hit us the moment we stepped through the heavy sliding doors.
Rayan and Zara were already twenty paces ahead, their voices echoing off the high rafters as they looked for the manager. I walked a few steps behind Alayna. She hadn't put her "artist" mask back on. She just looked exhausted, her shoulders tense under her damp-dry clothes.
"The lighting is in the back left quadrant," I said, my voice sounding too loud in the empty space.
She didn't turn around. "I know where it is, Zayn. I saw the floor plan."
We reached the crates. The manager, a man who looked like he hadn't slept since the previous decade, pried open the first box with a crowbar. The screech of metal on wood was like nails on a chalkboard.
He pulled out one of the lamps. It was bright. Blindingly, offensively gold.
"See?" Rayan said, whistling through his teeth. "It looks like it belongs in a casino, not a library. This will kill the vibe of the reading nooks."
Alayna stepped forward, her hand reaching out to touch the polished brass. She didn't flinch, but her jaw tightened. "It's wrong. It's all wrong."
"I told you," the manager grunted, wiping his hands on a rag. "The order said 'Gold Finish.' This is gold. You want the matte, you should have specified 'Antique.' My guys already loaded the rest. You take 'em or you lose the deposit."
I saw Alayna's hand drop. She looked defeated—not just by the lamps, but by the sheer accumulation of everything going wrong.
"We're not taking them," I said. My voice was quiet, but it had that edge that usually made people in boardrooms sit up straighter.
The manager laughed. "Then you're out sixty thousand and you've got no lights for your grand opening on Eid. Your call, boss."
I didn't look at the manager. I looked at Alayna. She was staring at the floor, the fluorescent lights overhead making her look even paler.
"Alayna," I said.
She finally looked at me. There was no "prove it" in her eyes right now—just a tired frustration.
"Is there a way to fix the finish?" I asked. "Without sending them back?"
She blinked, surprised by the question. "I... I mean, we could hand-sand them and apply a chemical patina. It would take days. And we'd need a specific acid wash."
"Do we have days?" I asked.
"We have exactly four until the opening," she whispered.
"Then we stay," I said, turning to the manager. "We're keeping the crates. But we're using your workbench. And you're going to find me a sander and the strongest degreaser you've got."
Rayan looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "Zayn, you're going to sand brass? In that shirt?"
I didn't answer him. I just started unbuttoning my cuffs, rolling them up past my elbows for the second time in twenty-four hours. I looked at Alayna.
"Tell me what to do," I said. "No contracts. No 'optimization.' Just tell me how to make it right."
She stared at me for a long beat. For the first time since I came back, the wall in her eyes didn't just crack—it trembled.
"You'll ruin your hands," she said softly.
"They'll heal," I replied. "The library won't."
I didn't wait for her to agree. I didn't even look at her as I stripped off my suit jacket and tossed it onto a dusty crate of packing peanuts.
The manager was still smirking, leaning against the doorframe like he'd already won the day. I ignored him, my focus narrowing down to the rows of offensive, shiny brass. I started unbuttoning my cuffs, folding the crisp white sleeves back with a jagged, impatient energy.
"Where's the sandpaper?" I asked, my voice low and rough.
Alayna was still standing by the open crate, her hand hovering near the metal. "Zayn, you don't even know the grit sequence. You'll scratch the base metal and then they're truly ruined."
"Then show me," I said, finally meeting her eyes. I wasn't making a grand gesture. I was just tired of being the person who sat behind a desk while everyone else did the living. "We have four days. I'm not losing the opening because of a bad paint job. Just... tell me where to start."
She looked at my hands, then back at my face, searching for the "CEO" who would usually be calling a lawyer or a different supplier. When she didn't find him, she let out a long, shaky breath and reached into her bag for a pair of work gloves.
"Fine," she said, tossing a pack of heavy-duty masks onto the workbench. "But if you lose a fingernail, don't put it in the project report."
"Deal."
The next three hours were a blur of abrasive noise and fine metallic dust.
There was no music, no "getaway" vibe—just the rhythmic shh-shh-shh of sanding blocks and the sharp, acidic tang of the degreaser. Rayan and Zara had been sent on a run for supplies and actual food, leaving the two of us in a corner of the warehouse that felt like a furnace.
I was working on the third lamp base, my forearms burning, when I realized Alayna had stopped. She was watching me from across the bench, her own face streaked with a smudge of gray dust.
"You're pressing too hard," she said. She walked over, not hesitant this time, and reached out to adjust my grip on the sanding block. Her fingers were cool against the heat of my hand. "Long, even strokes. If you dig in, the patina won't take."
I froze. It was the closest she'd been to me without a layer of visible anger between us. I could see the stray hairs escaping her braid and the way her pulse was jumping at the base of her throat.
"Like this?" I asked, my voice dropping.
"Better," she whispered, but she didn't move her hand away immediately.
For a second, the warehouse disappeared. The deadline, the grandfathers, the mess of the last few years—it all went quiet. It was just the weight of her hand on mine and the realization that for the first time, we weren't fighting about the past. We were just trying to build something for the future.
Then, the heavy warehouse door screeched open.
"We got biryani and five gallons of distilled water!" Rayan's voice boomed, shattering the silence.
Alayna pulled her hand back instantly, reaching for a fresh cloth. I turned back to the brass, the metal feeling colder than it had a moment ago.
"About time," I called back, my voice gravelly. "We're only on lamp three."