I picked out a simple long skirt and a tucked-in shirt, layering it with a long coat for warmth. A soft scarf wrapped around my neck, shielding me from the crisp evening air.

The clock read 5:45 PM—fifteen minutes before the so-called appointment. I scrunched my nose at my own punctuality. Why was I even ready early? Ugh.

With a sigh, I let my hair fall loose, grabbing my bag and purse before heading for the door.

God knows where he's taking me. And it's definitely not a date. Astaghfirullah.

I scoffed under my breath. I'm too halal for that.

Just as I stepped out of the hostel gate, a sleek black car rolled up to the curb. The tinted window slid down, revealing Zavian in the driver's seat, one arm lazily resting on the wheel. His eyes raked over me before a slow smirk curved his lips.

"Early? Didn't take you for the eager type, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

I rolled my eyes, pulling my coat tighter around me. No way was I giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

"You're two minutes late," I said flatly, crossing my arms.

His chuckle was low, amused. "And yet, you're still here."

I huffed, glancing at the car door, then back at him. "Where are we going?"

Zavian tilted his head, feigning thought. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

I narrowed my eyes. "I actually would like to know."

He simply reached over and popped the passenger door open. "Then get in."

I hesitated for half a second before exhaling sharply and sliding inside. Whatever this was, I'd find out soon enough.

The door shut with a soft click, sealing me inside his world—one that smelled of expensive cologne and something distinctly him. The leather seats were warm, the soft hum of the engine filling the space as he shifted the gear.

"No seatbelt?" he asked, arching a brow.

I scowled, reaching for it. "I was getting to it."

Zavian hummed as if he didn't believe me, his fingers drumming lazily against the wheel before he pulled onto the road. The city lights blurred past us, the quiet of the ride unnerving.

I glanced at him. "You still haven't told me where we're going."

Zavian's lips twitched. "You'll see."

I folded my arms. "That's suspicious."

He shot me a sideways look, his amusement clear. "So is getting in a car with a guy you barely know."

I scoffed. "Barely know? You're my father's best friend's son. If you were a murderer, my dad would've noticed."

Zavian let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "Mashal-e-Mehtaab, you have too much faith in your father's judgment."

I frowned. "And too little in yours."

His smirk widened, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he slowed the car as we pulled into a quiet street. It wasn't until I noticed the dimly lit café tucked between two modern buildings that my brows lifted.

"A café?" I said, surprised. "I thought you were kidnapping me."

Zavian killed the engine and turned to me, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Sweetheart, if I was kidnapping you, I wouldn't have let you pack your purse."

I blinked. "That's... oddly specific."

He chuckled, stepping out. "Come on."

I hesitated before sighing and following him out, the crisp night air biting at my cheeks. The café was small, cozy, with warm lighting and a soft buzz of music. The scent of coffee and something sweet filled the air.

I eyed him skeptically as we stepped inside. "So? What's the reason behind this generous invitation?"

Zavian leaned down slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send an annoying shiver down my spine.

"Maybe I just wanted to see you."

"Ha, ha," I deadpanned, sliding into a corner booth. "Hilarious."

Zavian chuckled, low and under his breath, as he took the seat across from me. "You've got a smart mouth, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

I leaned back, arching a brow. "And you have a habit of talking in riddles. Are we pointing out each other's flaws now? Because I have a list."

His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Go ahead. I'd love to hear it."

I scoffed. "Nice try."

The waiter arrived before he could respond, and Zavian casually ordered for both of us—without even asking. My eyes narrowed.

"You just assume I'll like whatever you picked?"

Zavian handed the menus back, completely unbothered. "I don't assume. I know."

I folded my arms. "Oh, do you?"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You like your coffee mild, a little sweet, and nothing too bitter. You'll try new things but only if someone else suggests it first, and you pretend to hate surprises even though you secretly like them."

My lips parted slightly. I had no idea what was more annoying—the fact that he was right or the fact that he'd been paying attention. But when? How?

I cleared my throat, sitting up straighter, masking my unease with curiosity. "How?" My voice was quieter than I intended. "How did you know?"

Zavian leaned back, his smirk lazy but his eyes sharp. "I pay attention, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

I scoffed. "That's not an answer."

His gaze flickered to my fingers drumming against the table, to the way I subtly shifted in my seat. "You hesitate before trying anything new but always end up liking it. You scrunch your nose when something's too bitter. And you've ordered the same coffee three times since you got here."

I blinked. That was... unsettlingly observant.

I looked away, grabbing my glass of water just to have something to do. "You sound like a stalker."

Zavian laughed, low and rich. "Sweetheart, if I were stalking you, you wouldn't even know."

I nearly choked on my water. "Excuse me?"

He grinned, amused. "Relax, it's just basic observation. You're easy to read."

I narrowed my eyes. "I am not easy to read."

His smirk deepened. "No?" He propped his chin on his hand. "Then tell me... why are you nervous right now?"

I opened my mouth—then closed it. Because I wasn't nervous. Was I?

I swallowed, glaring at him. "I don't like you."

His expression didn't waver. "I never said you did."

The waiter arrived just in time, placing our drinks on the table. I grabbed mine immediately, taking a sip to cool my irritation.

Zavian, of course, was watching. Smug. As if he had already won something.

I lifted my chin. "Just so you know, I hate being predictable."

He chuckled. "Then surprise me, Iman."

The way he said my name—casual, smooth, like he'd been saying it for years—sent something sharp and unfamiliar through my chest.

I hated that, too.

I stared at him, still caught off guard by how effortlessly he had read me. How he had noticed things I hadn't even realized about myself.

Zavian tilted his head, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. "You look surprised."

"No—" I started, then exhaled sharply. "Okay, maybe a little."

He chuckled, leaning back against the booth, arms stretched over the seat like he had all the time in the world. "You should get used to it."

I frowned. "Used to what?"

"Me knowing things about you before you realize them yourself."

I narrowed my eyes. "That's a bold claim."

He lifted a brow, as if amused by my attempt to challenge him. "Is it?" His voice was maddeningly calm. "I'd bet you're the type who overthinks simple decisions but never hesitates when it comes to helping someone else. You pretend you don't care, but you care too much. And right now..." His gaze dropped to my hand, fingers clenched around my cup. "You're debating whether you should be intrigued or annoyed by me."

I felt my breath catch.

Because he was right. Again.

I clenched my jaw, forcing a casual shrug. "Or, maybe I'm just debating whether to throw this coffee at you."

Zavian's grin deepened, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Now that would be surprising."

I scoffed, bringing the cup to my lips, mostly to hide the warmth creeping up my neck. Astagfirullah, why was he like this?

"What do you even want from me?" I asked, placing my drink down and meeting his gaze head-on. "Why am I here?"

For the first time, his smirk faded just a little. He studied me for a moment before responding.

"Because," he said smoothly, "I like keeping you on your toes."

I let out a humorless laugh. "So this is entertainment for you?"

"No," he said, voice quieter this time. "But watching you get all flustered is a bonus."

I opened my mouth to fire back, but the waiter returned with our food, interrupting the moment.

Probably for the best.

Because if I spent another minute under Zavian's knowing gaze, I wasn't sure if I'd win this game—or lose entirely.

"Why did you bring me here, exactly?" I asked, tilting my glass slightly as I met his gaze. "What am I supposed to call this?"

Zavian leaned back, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. "Call it whatever you want, Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he said, voice smooth, lazy. "A peace offering. A truce. A welcome dinner. Or—" he paused, eyes glinting with amusement, "—a date, if that thought keeps you up at night."

I scoffed, setting my glass down with an unimpressed clink. "Astagfirullah," I muttered under my breath.

His chuckle was low, teasing. "Truly."

I narrowed my eyes, ignoring the way my cheeks warmed. "So, are you always this insufferable, or is this a special service?"

Zavian hummed, tapping his fingers against the table. "Only for you."

I was just about to shoot back a sharp retort when a sickly sweet voice interrupted, dripping with familiarity.

"Zavy?"

My eyes flickered up just in time to catch the briefest flash of irritation on Zavian's face before I turned to the source of the voice.

She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that turned heads effortlessly—long, silky hair cascading down her back, a designer dress hugging her figure, showing far more than it covered. Confidence oozed from every step she took, her lips curved into a knowing smirk as if she already owned the room.

I blinked.

Zavy?

Zavian exhaled slowly, his jaw ticking as he leaned back against the seat, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. He didn't look pleased.

The girl—whoever she was—sauntered closer, her manicured fingers brushing against his shoulder like it was second nature. "Didn't think I'd see you here," she mused, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Small world, huh?"

I didn't say anything. I just picked up my drink and took a slow, deliberate sip, watching them over the rim of my glass like a silent spectator in their little reunion.

Her gaze flickered to me then, sizing me up in one sweep. There was no missing the way her lips curled slightly, amusement dancing in her eyes. "And who's this?" she asked, tilting her head, like I was some unexpected puzzle piece in a picture she already thought she had figured out.

Zavian didn't answer right away. His fingers stilled against the table as he gave her a look—one that spoke volumes, though I wasn't sure what it was saying.

Still, I wasn't exactly interested in their history. Whoever she was, she clearly knew him well enough to call him Zavy. But I didn't.

And I wasn't about to ask.

The silence stretched a beat too long. I raised a brow, fingers tapping idly against my glass as I waited for someone—anyone—to break it.

Zavian finally sighed, his head tilting slightly as he regarded her with thinly veiled disinterest. "Siera," he said, his voice flat. "What do you want?"

Siera. So that was her name. I filed it away, taking another slow sip of my drink, pretending I wasn't mildly entertained by whatever this was.

She pouted—actually pouted—her manicured nails tapping lightly against his shoulder before she withdrew her hand. "That's a cold greeting," she mused, tilting her head. "Especially after the last time we saw each other."

I caught the way his jaw clenched at that, irritation flickering in his eyes. Interesting.

"Not interested in reminiscing," Zavian said coolly, finally picking up his glass. "Get to the point."

Siera clicked her tongue, giving him a long, assessing look before her gaze flickered to me. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips.

"And you still haven't introduced me to your... friend?" she mused, voice dripping with amusement.

Before Zavian could respond, she tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "If I'm not mistaken," she continued smoothly, "is this the same girl from that day? The one you were messaging with that rare smile of yours?"

I stilled, fingers tightening slightly around my glass.

Zavian's expression remained impassive, but the air between us felt heavier. Colder.

Siera's smirk widened, and she leaned in closer, her manicured fingers skimming along the side of his neck—too close, too familiar.

"What was the name again... or was it a nickname?" she murmured, pretending to think. Then, in a whisper just loud enough to reach me, she said, "Mashal-e-Mehtaab... yes, I think that was it."

My stomach flipped at the sound of it from her lips, the way she toyed with it like it was some inside joke.

Zavian didn't move. Didn't react. He only stared at me, eyes locked onto mine like he was waiting.

I met his gaze, unreadable, unwavering.

But deep inside?

I wasn't sure if it was heat or ice curling at the base of my spine.

Siera let out a soft hum, tracing the collar of Zavian's jacket with a perfectly manicured nail. Her gaze flickered between Zavian and me before finally settling on me, something unreadable glinting in her eyes.

"You're quiet," she observed, tilting her head. "Not what I expected."

I merely blinked, unsure what she had expected.

Her lips curled. "You see, most girls who catch his attention get a little... dizzy from it. It's amusing, really. They think they're special." She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "But you're different, aren't you? All wide eyes and silence."

I resisted the urge to shift in my seat. "I don't see why that's any of your concern." My voice was even, though I wasn't sure if I had managed to keep the uncertainty out of it.

Siera's smirk only grew. "Oh, darling," she said, tone dripping with something between amusement and pity. "I'm just looking out for you."

A pause. Then she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice, but not enough that Zavian wouldn't hear. "He—" she jerked her chin toward him, her nails tapping against the table, "*—is not a man you should get comfortable around."

I swallowed, fingers curling under the table. "I'm not."

"Good," she said smoothly, but there was something mocking about it. Like she didn't believe me. Like she had seen it all before.

She exhaled a dramatic sigh, twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers. "But even if you try, it won't matter. He doesn't let go of things easily," she murmured, her eyes flickering toward Zavian. "Isn't that right, Zavy?"

Zavian's jaw ticked. His fingers, which had been idly drumming against the table, stilled.

"Didn't know you started offering unsolicited advice, Siera," he said, voice low, unimpressed.

She shrugged, unbothered. "It's not advice. Just facts." Her gaze slid back to me, eyes glinting with something sharp. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

I didn't reply. What was there to say? My throat felt tight, my mind whirling.

Siera, apparently satisfied, walked away.

Zavian, on the other hand, hadn't taken his eyes off me.

And for some reason, that unsettled me more than Siera's words.

I cleared my throat, "So... your possessive girlfriend or something?"

Zavian's lips twitched, but there was no humor in his expression. He leaned back against the booth, arms stretched out along the seat, exuding a calm that I didn't trust.

"If she was, do you think I'd be sitting here with you?" His voice was smooth, but there was something edged beneath it.

I frowned. "That's not an answer."

He let out a slow exhale, tilting his head. "Siera and I go way back. She likes to think that gives her certain... privileges."

I raised a brow. "Like the privilege to warn me about you?"

That got a reaction. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his forearm tensing slightly.

"She likes to talk," he said simply.

I studied him, fingers tracing the rim of my glass as I debated whether to push further. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, but before I could place it, he straightened, fixing me with a look.

"Did she scare you off?"

I let out a dry chuckle. "Why? Worried I'll run away?"

His lips quirked. "I'd rather you didn't."

I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"

Zavian's gaze didn't waver. "Because, Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he murmured, his voice quiet but firm, "I don't like unfinished things."

Something in his tone sent a shiver down my spine.

I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean?"

Zavian tilted his head, watching me like he was debating how much to say. Or how little. The corner of his mouth lifted, but it wasn't quite a smile. More like the ghost of one.

"You ask a lot of questions," he murmured, tapping his fingers against the table.

I folded my arms. "And you give a lot of vague answers."

He chuckled, low and amused, before leaning forward, closing the space between us just enough to make my breath hitch. "You're curious about me, aren't you?"

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

His voice dropped, just slightly. "You could've ignored Siera's little speech. You could've rolled your eyes, made some sarcastic comment, and moved on. But you didn't." He paused, studying my reaction. "You want to know if there's truth to what she said."

I swallowed, suddenly regretting ever questioning him in the first place. Because he wasn't wrong.

Zavian must've caught the flicker of hesitation in my expression because his smirk deepened. "You're not running, though," he said, almost thoughtfully. "That's interesting."

I scoffed, sitting back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

His eyes glimmered with something unreadable. "It means," he said slowly, "you're either very brave..." He let the words hang, his gaze lingering on mine before he leaned back again, stretching lazily. "Or very foolish."

Something about the way he said it made my pulse pick up.

And I wasn't sure which one I was.