Ayra hated this feeling.
The cramping was unbearable, twisting in her stomach like a quiet storm that refused to end. She'd run out of her pain relief powder, and the only pharmacy still open at night was ten shops down her street.
Normally, she wouldn't dare step out after dark.
She didn't like the quiet at night — too much room to think, too much cold in the air. But tonight, she had no choice.
She threw on her cloak, pressed a hand to her aching stomach, and stepped outside.
The wind slapped her face.
The world was quiet, save for a few flickering street lamps and the soft hum of a passing cart. Her legs already felt shaky. But she kept walking.
One step.
Then another.
One more
From the second-floor balcony of the sixth house, he saw her.
He wasn't looking for her. He was just… there. Leaning, thinking. Arms crossed. The night was too quiet to distract him.
But then he saw her walk past, and he paused.
Her steps were slow.
Not just tired — pained.
He narrowed his eyes. Watched her for a moment longer.
His chest tightened.
She was pressing her hand into her abdomen. Walking like her legs could give at any second.
But she didn't turn back.
He looked down the road.
And saw them.
Three boys, already walking her way — laughing, careless, a little too loud for this part of town. They looked like trouble.
He didn't even think.
He was already heading down the stairs
Ayra didn't hear them until they were close.
One stepped in front of her. "Hey, pretty. What's a fine girl doing out here alone?"
She barely looked up. "Move," she muttered.
The second boy laughed. "Don't be rude. We're just saying hi."
Her body was screaming now. Heat and pain twisted beneath her skin, and the street spun a little. She tried to walk past them, but the third one blocked her path.
The first boy reached out — "Let me just help y—"
A fist hit him square in the jaw.
He dropped like stone.
Ayra froze.
So did the other two.
The boy from the sixth house stood there.
No words.
No warning.
Just eyes that burned quiet and cold.
When the second guy lunged, it took less than three seconds for him to fall too — groaning on the pavement, clutching his stomach.
The third ran before he could meet the same fate.
Ayra was still standing there.
Breath shaky. Eyes wide.
She was about to say something when her knees buckled.
But he caught her.
His arms around her felt firm, steady — like nothing could shake him.
She gasped softly, clutching his shirt.
"Cramps?" he asked, voice low, steady.
She nodded.
"Can't walk," she whispered.
He didn't hesitate.
He adjusted his hold — one arm under her knees, one behind her back — and carried her like it was nothing.
She didn't speak the entire walk back.
Neither did he.
The night wrapped around them.
And for the first time in a long while, Ayra felt small,breakable
But not alone.
He carried her up the stairs of her apartment gently, like he knew the exact kind of pain she was in. When they reached her door, he paused.
"You'll be okay now," he said quietly.
She looked up at him — at his jawline in the moonlight, his eyes half-lowered, like he hated being looked at for too long.
"Thank you," she said, barely audible.
He gave a single nod and turned to leave.
But before he stepped away, she asked, "What's your name?"
He stopped.
Didn't face her.
But he replied — soft and low.
"Zayn."
Then he walked off, disappearing into the night
Ayra stood in her doorway, heart still unsteady, cramps still burning beneath her skin.
But now… there was something else.
Not safety.
Not relief.
Something slower.
Deeper.
A name.
Zayn.