Leila's POV
I always believed that sunday evenings in the city had a particular rhythm. The streets felt different, humming with tired bodies rushing home, neon signs flickering to life, laughter spilling out of restaurants. For me, the rhythm was simple: scoop Zara up after her shift, survive the traffic, and head home to collapse in sweatpants.
But tonight, as Zara and I pushed through the doors of the diner where she worked, I knew the rhythm was about to be disrupted. She walked out balancing her tote bag, hair pulled into a messy bun, smelling faintly of fried onions and vanilla lotion. She sighed with the exhaustion of someone who had smiled at far too many rude customers.
"Never again," she groaned, rolling her shoulders. "If one more man calls me 'sweetheart' and asks if I'm on
