That night, Ayra didn't wait by her window.
She walked.
Past her gate.
Down the street.
Up to the sixth house.
Zayn's house.
Her cramps were gone. But something else inside her ached now — the kind of ache no pharmacy could fix.
She saw his silhouette through the curtain. He was there. Alone. Still up. She knocked.
Once.
Twice.
The door opened.
Zayn stood shirtless in sweatpants, the bruising on his lip deeper under the porchlight. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her — like he hadn't expected her to come.
She didn't wait for an invitation. She walked in.
"Why did you come back today?" she asked, voice low but steady.
Zayn shut the door slowly. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
He sighed, leaning against the wall. "Because I didn't like hearing him say those things to you."
"You don't like it?" she asked, stepping forward. "But you left. You've been leaving."
He looked at her now. Really looked. "You were slipping away. And it scared me."
"Then why didn't you stop me?"
Silence.
Ayra's voice cracked softly. "Why punch him but not fight for me?"
Zayn's jaw clenched. His eyes burned — not with anger, but something deeper.
"I'm not good for you, Ayra."
"But you never even gave me the choice."
She was inches from him now, chest rising fast. "So say it. Say what you feel. With your chest. For once.
Zayn reached for her face, gently, like he was still asking permission.
"I feel like… I'm not okay when you look at someone else."
Ayra's breath hitched.
"I feel like I've never wanted anything more… and I'm scared because wanting you feels like drowning."
She stared at him, wide-eyed.
And then—
He kissed her.
Not rushed.
Not violent.
Just a quiet confession dressed in lips and heartbreak