The street was quieter than it should've been for a Friday night.
Zayn's eyes stayed locked on the figure across the road — tall, broad-shouldered, walking slowly, like he had all the time in the world.
Ayra didn't know if it was fear or curiosity keeping her rooted.
She felt Zayn's hand close around her wrist.
"Ayra. Go inside."
She shook her head. "Who is that?"
"Someone I thought I'd never see again."
His jaw was tight enough to break glass. "Go."
Her stomach twisted. But before she could ask again, the man stopped, smiled — not kindly — and turned into another street. Zayn didn't relax.
He pulled her a little closer, his voice low.
"Next time, don't stand out here in the dark."
And then, softer, almost to himself:
"Not when he's around."
The next morning, sunlight spilled over her curtains.
Ayra woke up thinking maybe the night before had been a dream — just shadows playing tricks on her mind.
She walked to the balcony with a mug of tea. That's when she saw Cairo, leaning against his sleek black car two houses down. He was dressed too well for a casual Saturday — white shirt rolled at the sleeves, sunglasses in hand.
When he noticed her, he smiled, but it wasn't the lazy smile she was used to.
It was knowing. Sharp.
He crossed the street slowly.
"Morning, princess," he said, stopping just under her balcony. "You looked… distracted last night."
Her heartbeat jumped. "You saw me?"
"Oh, I see everything."
He glanced down the street, towards Zayn's house. "I also saw who was out there with you. The man in the black jacket?"
Her grip on the mug tightened.
Cairo's voice lowered, almost like a warning.
"Be careful, Ayra. Not every ghost stays buried."
She was about to ask him what he meant, but he was already turning away, slipping into his car. He didn't drive off immediately — just sat there for a moment, watching Zayn's house through his rearview mirror