The hoodie was warm.
Too warm.
Ayra couldn't sleep.
She curled into it tighter, tugging it over her lips, inhaling what was left of Zayn's scent — something between cologne and comfort. But there was something else tangled in her chest, something stubborn.
That night, she dreamt of someone crying…
Not her.
Zayn.
Morning.
She wasn't sure what pushed her, but she walked over to his house after noon — hoodie still on, barefoot in slippers.
His brother opened the door and gave her a teasing smirk.
"He's in his room," he said, without needing to ask anything else.
Ayra climbed the stairs slowly, her heart heavy. She knocked lightly.
No answer.
She pushed the door open.
Zayn sat on the edge of his bed, earbuds in, knees apart, phone in hand — but not scrolling, just staring. He didn't look up until she whispered:
"Tell me what you're not saying."
His eyes widened a bit. Then he dropped his gaze.
"You came," he murmured.
Ayra stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "You looked sad last night."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Silence stretched.
He finally said, "There's nothing to tell."
"You're lying."
He looked at her — this time, really looked — and it wasn't the soft Zayn she was used to. It was the guarded one. The one with buried bruises.
"You wouldn't like it," he said.
"Try me."
"You want to know the truth, Ayra?" His voice was low. "The reason Cairo keeps warning you about me… isn't because I'm dangerous. It's because he knows what I did to someone I loved before."
The words knocked the breath out of her.
She stepped closer. "What… did you do?"
Zayn hesitated.
But before he could answer —
his phone buzzed.
He checked it. And his face changed.
"Ayra…" he stood up, his body tense. "You need to go home. Now."
"Why?"
He looked out the window — eyes narrowing. "Because someone from my past just came back… and they're not here to talk."