I'm still frozen.
He's sitting there, calm as ever, like he didn't just say something that rewired the way I breathe. His words keep replaying in my head — She taught me to be loyal to the woman who stands beside me, not the ones who stood before her.
It's too much. Too real. Too him.
He's still watching me, eyes locked, waiting. I hate that about him — that stillness. That quiet, heavy kind of control that makes me feel like I'm the one under a spotlight.
I clear my throat, break eye contact, and somehow find my voice again. "Still," I say, trying to sound normal, "every boy picks their mom first. Always. It's like—default programming. They always say "Wife's replaceable. Mom's not."
He doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. Just leans back slowly, jaw tightening for a second, before his eyes lift to mine again.
"That's boys, Arshila," he says quietly.
It's not defensive. It's not angry. It's just there — calm, flat, and heavy enough to make my chest clench.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me like he's dissecting the thought before he destroys it. "If they pick their mom over their wife, then it's their mom's fault."
I frown, caught off guard. "What?"
He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, voice low — that steady, unhurried tone that always feels like a slow blade.
"Yeah. It's her fault. Because she didn't teach him to protect what's his. Didn't teach him that when you build your life with someone, she becomes yours. You don't choose between them. You honor one by choosing the other."
My throat goes dry.
He keeps going, unbothered, unreadable. "If she raised him right, she'd know her place isn't beside him anymore — it's behind him, watching him take care of what he built. That's how a mother knows she did her job."
Something in me shifts — not anger, not softness, just… weight.
I scoff, trying to play it off. "Still, your mom raised you. You owe her for that."
His lips twitch — not a smile. Just that almost-smirk that means he's about to twist the ground under my feet.
"Isn't that her job?" he asks, voice smooth but sharp enough to cut through my defense.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
He doesn't stop. "To raise me. Feed me. Teach me. That's her job, isn't it? That's what being a mother means." He sits back again, eyes not leaving mine. "She doesn't get to brag about doing her responsibility."
That hits different. Not because it's cruel, but because it's too damn logical.
"She brought me into this world," he continues, tone steady. "And once she did, she made sure I knew how to walk in it without needing her to hold my hand. That's what good mothers do. They make themselves replaceable — not because they don't matter, but because they taught you enough to survive without them."
I stare at him. "That's… cold."
He shrugs, unbothered. "It's real."
His gaze drags over my face for a second too long before he adds, softer this time, "My mom doesn't need to be chosen. She already won. She raised me to know how to choose right."
That line does something to me.
It's not even what he says — it's how he says it. That quiet conviction, that low, grounded tone that sounds like he's not trying to convince me. He's reminding himself.
I cross my arms, trying to keep my voice steady. "You talk like she's some kind of philosopher."
He chuckles, low, deep, dark. "She is. Just not the kind that writes books. The kind that writes people."
That one pulls a breath out of me I didn't mean to take.
He notices. Of course he fucking does.
Then he leans forward again, elbows on his knees, his voice dropping low — that dangerous, velvety kind of quiet that makes everything inside me go still. "She used to tell me, 'The day you find a woman who makes you forget to breathe for a second, don't let her wonder if she matters. Show her she does.'"
My pulse stumbles.
His eyes are locked on mine now. No smile. No tease. Just that dark, steady stare that makes it impossible to look away.
"So no," he says, voice rougher now, "I won't be one of those boys who hide behind their mothers because they're too afraid to stand on their own. My mom didn't raise me to be a boy. She raised me to be a man who doesn't need to choose between love and loyalty."
I don't say anything. I can't.
Because the way he says it — calm, unapologetic, absolute — it doesn't sound like some line meant to impress. It sounds like a rule carved straight into his bones.
The kind you don't argue with.
He looks at me one more time, eyes darker now, voice barely above a whisper.
"She didn't raise me to be hers forever, Arshila. She raised me so I could be someone else's without shame."
The silence after that feels like static.
Every breath feels too loud.
And I'm sitting there, frozen, wondering if I'll ever stop underestimating just how dangerous honesty can sound when it comes out of his mouth.
I sigh, push myself up from the couch. My head feels full, heavy, like his words are still crawling around in there looking for a way out. I cross the room and stop by the glass wall. Afternoon light spills through, hot and soft, painting the floor gold.
He hasn't moved. Just sits there like he's built into the furniture, eyes on me, unreadable.
I stare outside for a second, try to sound casual. "So," I start, voice quieter than I meant, "did you find that person?"
His brow arches slightly. "who?"
I look at his reflection on the glass. "The woman who makes you forget to breathe for a second." I force a small smirk, pretending it doesn't matter. "She must be your girlfriend then."
There's a pause.
The kind that stretches until it starts to burn.
Then he stands. Slowly. Deliberately.
The sound of his chair scraping back feels too loud. I feel it in my chest. My pulse spikes even though he hasn't said a word.
He starts walking toward me.
Not fast. Not slow. Just that steady kind of pace that feels like he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
And maybe he does.
I can't fucking move. My back's almost touching the glass when he stops in front of me. Too close. Close enough that I can feel the air off him, clean and warm, like something expensive and dangerous.
He looks down at me. Not with arrogance—just intensity. Quiet, focused, like he's reading every thought I'm trying to hide.
I lift my chin a little, force myself to hold his stare even though my heartbeat's going wild.
He says it then.
Low. Calm. Unshakable.
"I don't have a girlfriend, Arshila."
My breath stalls. "What?" It barely makes it out, just a whisper that sounds more like disbelief than curiosity.
He doesn't blink. Doesn't back up. Just takes half a step closer, enough that I can see the faint shadow of his lashes, the tension in his jaw.
"I don't have a damn girlfriend," he repeats, slower this time.
My throat goes dry. The words don't even register properly. "You don't—?"
I don't," he cuts in, eyes locked on mine. "And I've never had one."
My mind's scrambling, trying to piece it together. "But… you said before that you love someone."
He goes silent for a second. That silence again—the kind that says more than his mouth ever does. His gaze flicks over my face like he's deciding whether to tell me or not.
Then he exhales, quiet but sharp, like it costs him something. "Yeah," he says finally. "I do."
My heart stutters. He holds my gaze.
"But that doesn't mean I have a girlfriend."
The words hang there between us. They sound simple, but they hit like a goddamn storm.
I can't look away. I don't even blink.
He studies me for a second longer, then says it, voice lower this time, the edge stripped away. "You're the first woman in my life, Arshila. So don't overthink that damn girlfriend thing."
Something in my stomach drops. I don't even know what to do with that. My hands feel heavy. My throat's tight.
He steps back then, like he's giving me space to breathe—or maybe he needs it himself.
His eyes stay on me for another heartbeat before he turns toward the door. His steps are slow, steady, the kind that sound like control being rebuilt after almost losing it.
He stops at the doorway, hand on the handle. Looks back once.
I'm still standing there, frozen, trying to understand what the hell just happened.
Then he opens the door, steps out, and closes it behind him.
The sound of the latch clicks, quiet but final.
And I'm left staring at my own reflection in the glass wall, wondering when the fuck my world started tilting this hard.
_____________
ZAYAN'S POV
I walk down the hall, slow, steady, but my brain's a goddamn mess. Every step feels like static, replaying that moment—her eyes wide, lips parting like she forgot how to breathe. Yeah. That look. Burned in.
I said it.
Finally fucking said it.
"I don't have a girlfriend."
Didn't even plan to.
Didn't need to.
It just came out because she's been running her mouth about that since day one, throwing that word like it's a knife. Girlfriend this, girlfriend that. And I've been swallowing it, letting her assume, letting her think she's got it figured out.
But no. Not anymore.
Now she knows.
Now it's out there, clean, raw, real.
No pretending. No maybe. Just mine.
She doesn't even know it yet, but she's been mine since the fucking beginning.
I hit the top of the stairs and run a hand through my hair, try to slow down the stupid grin threatening to crawl up. My jaw's tight, but it's there—the smirk I can't kill.
Because the way she froze? The way her eyes snapped up at me when I said she's the first woman in my life? Fucking priceless. She didn't even breathe. Just stood there, looking at me like I'd just set her world on fire and told her to thank me for the smoke.
And she will. One day.
I start down the stairs. The house hums, voices echoing from the living room. The idiots are still there—Razmir with his fake chill, Eshan pretending he's not half-dead from caffeine, Rafaen too busy staring at his phone like he's waiting for a reason to blow something up.
I walk in.
No one looks up at first. They're deep in whatever chaos they're plotting next. I drop down on the couch beside Razmir, stretch my legs, lean back like I give a fuck.
But my mind's not here. It's upstairs. With her.
The way her throat moved when I said it.
The way her hand almost twitched like she didn't know what to do.
That small, quiet moment right before I walked out—the one where she didn't say a word but everything in her face screamed what the fuck just happened?
Yeah. That's the one. That's the moment I'll replay tonight when it's too quiet.
"Yo," Eshan says, flicking a pen at me. "You listening or zoning out again, Tavarian?"
I blink back to now, force the grin off my face. Neutral. Blank. Just another day in the empire. "Listening," I say, voice flat.
Razmir snorts. "You sure? You've got that creepy-ass satisfied look again."
I glance at him. "You talk too much."
He raises a brow. "And you're dodging."
I ignore him.
Lean forward, elbows on knees. Classic move. Keeps them thinking I'm focused. Meanwhile, I'm miles away, back in that room, watching her eyes when she realized I meant every damn word.
My fingers tap against my knee, restless. I try not to smile, but it's useless. There's this quiet fucking satisfaction in my chest—like I finally tore down a wall that's been pissing me off for years.
She knows now.
She fucking knows.
No girlfriend. No one before her.
Just her. Always her.
And yeah, she'll hate it. She'll fight it. She'll throw every sarcastic jab she's got, but I don't care. She's already tangled in it.
Eshan says something about a deal next week, and I nod like I heard it. My head's somewhere else entirely. The sound of her voice still echoing—small, shocked. That whisper of what? that slipped out before she could stop it.
I swear, I can still hear it.
Feel it.
I rub my thumb against the chain around my neck, the metal warm against my skin. Habit. It's like a grounding wire for when my thoughts start spinning too fast.
"She must be your girlfriend then," she said.
Yeah, right.
Now she knows she's the fucking reason I never had one.
I catch myself almost smiling again and stop, mask sliding back on before any of them notice. Can't give these bastards ammo. They'd never let me live it down.
Razmir's still talking, something about a property merge. Rafaen mutters something dry. Eshan laughs. The room keeps moving, but I'm half-ghosted in it.
All I can think is—
She looked at me different.
Not angry. Not playful. Not defensive.
Just lost.
Like for a second she couldn't decide if she wanted to hit me or fall apart right there.
And that—
that's the part that's got me fucked up.
Because I know that look.
That's the look right before someone stops pretending they don't feel it too.
I lean back again, eyes flicking to the ceiling for half a breath before I catch myself. Hands clasped. Blank face. Back in control.
But inside?
I'm still standing in front of that glass wall, watching her forget how to breathe.
And yeah—
I'm fucking proud of it.