Eve’s POV
The restaurant hummed with its usual evening rhythm , warm lights, clattering plates, conversations weaving like threads, Camila’s voice floating from the kitchen, and the familiar scent of garlic and seared beef drifting through the air. It was comforting. Healing. A world Eve had lived in, breathed in, survived in, and rebuilt herself in.
Their last night in Westwood felt almost bittersweet.
Ryan and Eve sat across from each other at a small corner table , the same table where she and Camila once used to take late dinner breaks after long shifts. Ryan looked strangely peaceful, almost boyish in the dim lighting. He had been helping in the kitchen earlier, sleeves rolled up, hair untamed, laughing more than Eve had ever seen him laugh in three years of marriage. The Rodrigo
