Layla's pov
I sat in the corner booth of the café, heart pounding harder than it should’ve. The place was tucked between a bookstore and a tailor’s shop, far from the sleek chaos of downtown. Its windows were foggy from steam, the scent of roasted beans thick in the air, wrapping around me like a blanket I didn’t deserve.
A young barista called out orders softly over the gentle hiss of the espresso machine. The quiet hum of conversations mixed with the clinking of mugs and teaspoons. The world outside this moment didn’t exist—just the hollow thump of my pulse and the sharp weight of what was about to happen.
I checked my watch again. Five minutes past.
My hands trembled slightly as I raised the mug to my lips. The coffee had gone lukewarm. Bitter and stale. Like everything I’d tried to
