Zayn’s POV
“So what do you think?” Reynold asks as he sweeps his arm out, showing me his new pub.
My eyes wander slowly across the room—the brick walls, the rustic stools, the faint smell of varnish still lingering in the air. It looks like a typical pub, but a good one. Cozy. Lively. Something that could grow.
“You aren’t saying anything. Is it bad?” he asks again, worry threading through his voice.
“That’s not it,” I say, letting a smile tug at my lips. “I think it’s great.”
His shoulders drop with relief, and his face brightens instantly.
“It’s something I’ve always wanted,” he says, pride softening his features. “My mom would’ve freaked out if she was still alive. She’d call it ‘not God-like’ or something.” He chuckles under his breath, then exhales, eyes drifting around the room
