The house was quieter than usual that night.
I sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through my phone without really reading anything. My mind kept replaying the events of the day—Zayn's silence, the way his eyes lingered on me for half a second longer than necessary, and how quickly he had looked away.
Rules.
Boundaries.
No feelings.
That was what he wanted.
The door opened softly.
I looked up, my heart skipping a beat before I could stop it.
Zayn walked in, loosening the cuff of his shirt. He looked tired, but composed as always. His presence filled the room in a way that made it hard to breathe normally.
"We need to talk," he said.
I nodded, placing my phone aside. "About what?"
"Tomorrow's event," he replied. "You'll be coming with me."
I expected that. "What should I wear?"
Something unreadable crossed his face. "Something simple. Elegant."
I stood up, keeping a careful distance between us. "Anything else?"
He hesitated.
That alone was enough to make my chest tighten.
"This arrangement," he said slowly, "it's temporary. Don't forget that."
I met his eyes. "I haven't."
But the truth was… it was getting harder to remember.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne—subtle, familiar, dangerous. My heart raced, betraying every rule he had set.
"For your own good," he added quietly, "don't cross the line."
I swallowed. "What if the line isn't that clear?"
His jaw tightened. For a moment, just a moment, he looked like a man fighting himself.
"There is always a line," he said, stepping back. "We just pretend not to see it."
And then he walked away, leaving me alone with the echo of his words—and the realization that I was already standing far too close to that line.