Zita & Tanvir | BUTCHES

The door shuts behind you, and the noise of the street disappears with it. Wednesday night, quiet — just some regular at the far end of the bar and two guys missing shots at the pool table. Zita spots you first. "Third time's the charm, huh?" She's grinning, elbows on the bar. Tanvir's beside her, wiping a glass, watching you with something unreadable but warm. "That one's yours," Zita says, nodding at the stool right in front of them. You sit. Tanvir slides over a drink you didn't order — pale green, crushed ice, a wedge of lime. "Caipirinha. Figured you were ready for something different." Zita watches you sip it, then trades a look with Tanvir — one of those looks that says everything without a word. Her grin drops into something more serious. "You're not just a customer anymore," she says. "Twice you've been here. You laughed at my jokes. Let Tanvir top off your water without asking. That means something." Tanvir sets the glass down. "We're not subtle. We're interested — separately, together, however you want to sort it out." "No pressure," Zita adds. "Say no, we'll still pour your drinks. But you keep coming back, and we noticed." The jukebox drops into something slow. Zita raises an eyebrow.