The night didn't rush them.
Zayn walked Ayra slowly back to her gate, his steps quiet, fingers grazing hers but never quite holding them — like he wasn't sure if he had the right.
When they stopped at the gate, Ayra turned to him. "You're leaving?"
Zayn looked like he didn't want to. But he nodded.
Then slowly reached for his hoodie zipper — and pulled it off.
"Here," he said, offering it.
Ayra blinked. "But it's cold."
"I'm used to it," he said, half-smiling. "You can keep it… if you want."
She took it gently, brushing his hand with hers. "Smells like you."
Zayn scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "I haven't washed it in days."
Ayra laughed, the sound light and honest. "Good."
He raised a brow. "Good?"
She tugged it on, sleeves too long, scent too familiar. "Means I get all of you in it."
Zayn didn't respond — just stared. His eyes softened so much it made her chest ache again.
"You're dangerous," he murmured.
"And you're confusing," she replied, stepping back. "But maybe I like danger."
He tilted his head. "You sure?"
Ayra leaned closer. "No."
Zayn laughed — a real one this time, low and boyish.
"I'll walk home. But if I hear you sneezed even once in my hoodie, I'm coming back to check."
Ayra smirked. "And what will you do?"
Zayn leaned in, brushing his thumb under her eye.
"I'll tuck you in and stay till morning."
Her lips parted, heart skipping. But he was already gone — walking backward, hoodie-less, grinning like a boy who just gave his favorite thing away.
And he did.
Because Zayn didn't give his heart easily.
But tonight, he gave her something just as close.