Ayra didn't sleep that night.
She tried.
Tossed.
Turned.
Wrote.
Deleted.
Her blanket still smelled faintly like him — leather, dust, and something she couldn't name. Every time she closed her eyes, all she saw was his face.
Zayn.
The way he looked down at her when she could barely stand.
The way he didn't ask — just did.
Carried her.
Held her.
Protected her.
And left.
No questions.
No judgment.
Just… Zayn.
Now it was morning. Bright. Too bright.
And Ayra was regretting every second she spent outside last night.
Because now she had to face him.
She stood by her window, peeking through the curtains like a guilty thief. Her eyes scanned the sixth house down the street.
His house.
His balcony.
He wasn't there.
Good.
Or… not good?
She didn't know.
All she knew was her stomach still hurt — not from cramps anymore, but from thinking too much.
What if he thought she was weak?
What if he regretted helping?
What if she thanked him wrong?
And why did she even care what he thought?
She groaned, slapping a pillow over her face
Later that afternoon, Ayra left the house.
Just a short walk.
Air. She needed air. Not him.
She wore her hoodie, head down, pretending to scroll on her phone like her entire body wasn't screaming DON'T RUN INTO HIM.
But of course.
Fate is cruel.
She turned the corner of her street and—there he was.
Zayn.
Leaning against the wall of the fruit shop.
Simple shirt. Hood over his head. Same emotionless face.
Holding a bag of apples.
Because apparently, mysterious saviors also buy fruit.
Ayra froze.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat too long.
And then she did the most logical thing ever:
She turned around and started walking back the way she came. Fast
"Ayra."
His voice stopped her cold.
She closed her eyes.
Did he just—?
She turned around slowly.
He was closer now.
Still holding the apples.
Still unreadable.
"You okay?" he asked.
Her brain fizzed.
Words? No. She didn't have those right now.
So she just nodded, biting her lip like it would stop the red from rising in her cheeks.
"You ran."
"I didn't."
"You did."
"…I didn't want to disturb your apples."
He blinked.
And then — for the first time — she saw it.
A smirk.
Barely there. Gone in a second.
But it happened.
Ayra stared at him, heat rising to her ears.
"I just wanted to say thanks," she said quickly. "For last night. That was… I mean. You didn't have to…"
"I know."
"And also, sorry you had to… uhm. Carry me. That was…"
He raised a brow. "Heavy?"
"No! I mean yes—wait, no! I'm not heavy! I'm just—cramp-heavy. I'm—"
"You're fine," he said, calm as ever. "I don't mind."
Her heart did a backflip.
He handed her an apple without warning.
"Eat something. You looked pale yesterday."
She took it, stunned.
"Thanks."
He nodded once, started to walk past her—
But then he paused beside her and leaned in just a little.
Softly. Quietly.
"I'm usually on the balcony."
And just like that, he was gone
Ayra stood there, staring at the apple in her hand.
Cheeks hot.
Heart a mess.
And for the first time in a long time…
She smiled.