Zayn’s POV

I wake to the sound of my own name.

Not spoken, but moaned.

"Zayn..."

Soft, breathy, drawn out like a ribbon of heat.

For a second, I don’t even know where I am.

My eyes snap open, my hand flying to the side table because my heart is pounding like someone yanked me out of sleep and into fire.

"Zaaayn..."

That’s when I realize the sound came from her room, Amira’s room.

And it isn’t her usual voice. It’s softer, lower... like a thread of heat slipping under the door.

It’s low, breathy, and stretched, like a moan caught between sleep and dream.

My chest tightens, my pulse spiking before I can even make sense of it.

I sit up slowly, dragging my palm over my face.

"No. Nope. No way," I mutter under my breath, but my body is already moving differently, already remembering something I’ve tried so damn hard to bury.

Was she... calling my name like that?

The memory of her eighteenth birthday flashes through my head.

How she had pressed against me that day, consenting, trusting, letting me touch, explore, and remember.

My hands had memorized her warmth, the curve of her body, and the softness of her skin. The memory floods in me, in a sharp and electric way, pulling a heat straight to my core.

I shake my head sharply, but the memory refuses to fade.

It comes back with a vicious clarity.

The way she looked at me that day, wide-eyed and undone, as if I had reached somewhere no one ever had.

I can still feel the tremble in her thighs when I lifted her, the way she pressed closer instead of pulling away.

I hate that I remember.

I hate that I want it.

And I hate that I can’t stop.

God, I shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

Last night, I had lingered outside her door.

I just stood there like an idiot, my hand hovering inches from the wood, thinking maybe we could talk. Just to stand on the same side of a conversation for the first time in weeks.

Just to hear her laugh. But I didn’t.

I walked away, crushed under the weight of my own shame, knowing that what had happened on her birthday could never, ever repeat itself again.

One mistake was enough to mark me; one mistake, and I’d never forgive myself if I crossed that line again.

So I stepped back and walked away.

I pretended I didn’t feel like something inside me cracked.

And now?

Now she’s moaning my name at dawn like a punch straight to my instincts.

"Cold shower," I mutter. "Before I do something stupid."

I swing my legs off the bed and sit there for a long, choking breath, letting the guilt burn its familiar path through my chest.

I shove my feet into my slippers and stomp toward the bathroom.

Cold water. That’s the only thing that could recalibrate me and shake my body out of this spiraling desire.

The shower hits, icy and sharp, streaming down my back, sliding over the tense muscles. I shiver and flinch, clutching the wall.

The shock hits instantly, like needles drilling into my skin, but the image of her flushed face from that day... it clings to me stubbornly.

But even as my skin numbs, her voice lingers, her breathy tone curling around my mind, impossible to scrub away.

She’s too close even when she’s just in the room next door, too present even in my memory.

Then I recall Grandma’s verdict.

A month in her house. One month.

Day one, and I’m already unraveling.

Every escape route I consider is blocked—going out, running errands, and a friend’s place are all filtered through her rules.

There is nowhere I can hide.

By the time I step out, towel slung low around my hips, I’m no calmer.

Water slides down my chest in cold trails, dripping from my hair and down my towel, wrapping it tight around my waist, and my muscles are pulled tight with frustration.

And then...

I open the door and collide straight into her.

She lets out a tiny gasp and slips, and before I even think, my hands fly out, catching her waist, pulling her toward me.

Her palms land flat on my chest. But momentum betrays me, and she lands against my chest.

She feels so warm and alive.

Too close.

I freeze.

For a split second, everything inside me shuts down.

Her face is right there, inches from mine.

Her breath fans against my chest.

Her eyes, God! Wide, hazy, and brown with that thin gold ring I should never have memorized. They glow, embarrassed… or something hotter she’s trying to swallow back.

They’re the kind of eyes people write poems about.

The kind you fall into without wanting to.

Her eyes snap to mine, wide and glimmering with something I can’t name—fear, surprise, maybe remnants of pleasure.

Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted, and hair slightly disheveled.

Like she just woke up from something heated.

Like the sound I heard wasn’t a dream.

My thoughts dip somewhere dangerous...

Was she dreaming of me?

Why did she sound like that?

What was she thinking about?

What was she feeling?

My brain freezes, and my body short-circuits.

Every rational thought crashes into desire and guilt, and I have to swallow hard to keep from leaning into her, keeping from crushing us both under the weight of what I want.

My throat goes dry, and my grip tightens for a moment before I force myself to ease it.

I cannot think like that.

Not again. Not ever again.

She jerks back suddenly as if she touched fire, fleeing.

And just like that, the spell is broken.

She disappears into her room, slamming the door softly behind her.

I stand there, frozen, heart hammering in my throat, and barely breathing.

Then I hear it—her crying.

The sound is small and muffled but sharp enough to pierce straight through my chest, sharper than any longing, heavier than any desire.

Without thinking, I reach for her door, hand hovering over the knob.

Part of me wants to enter, to hold her, to tell her it’s okay.

But I stop. If I touch her again, if I cross that line a second time, I will never forgive myself.

This isn’t consent.

This is me breaking her trust. Again.

I’m not the person who should go in there.

I’m the reason she’s crying.

If I go in now...

If I hold her...

If I try to comfort her...

I won’t survive it. And I won’t forgive myself if I make anything worse.

The birthday incident was a mistake of heat, timing, and weakness.

But what if it happens again?

That won’t be a mistake. That would be a choice.

And choices carry consequences.

My chest tightens painfully, and I step back from the door as if it’s burning my skin.

I force myself to turn away and walk into my room and slip on my clothes.

I grab my running shoes and head out of the house. I have to tire myself out, make the panic recede, and force my mind to think about something else.

If I stayed in that house another minute, I was going to break again.

I jog through the quiet streets near the house, lungs burning, sweat dripping, heartbeat echoing in my ears.

I am just jogging with no destination, just running like maybe I can outrun the tension clawing through me.

But she’s still there.

In my ears.

In my memory.

In the way my body reacts without permission.

Every step is a strategy.

How can I survive this day?

How can I escape her eyes, her presence, her effect on me?

The hospital seems the only refuge, the only place I can exist without being tempted, without breaking every promise I’ve made to myself.

But I am off duty today.

I return home, thinking I’ll slip into a shower and disappear.

Relief, maybe, or distance.

By the time I circle back home, I’ve convinced myself of one thing:

I need to escape.

Today. Now.

The hospital is my only excuse; if Grandma asks, I’ll say I got called in. She won’t check. She trusts me too much.

I wipe sweat from my forehead as I reach the door.

I push it open and stop dead in my tracks.

The living room is quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels arranged.

Amira is curled on Grandma’s lap, shaking and clinging, her face buried like she’s hiding from something.

From someone.

Grandma strokes her back with a slow, deliberate hand.

"Shh... you’re safe with me," she murmurs, and her eyes lift toward me with a weight that hits like a verdict.

My chest stops, and my stomach flips.

My throat closes.

Did she tell her?

Did she confess everything that happened on her birthday?

Amira looks up. Her eyes are wide, glimmering with unshed tears.

Her cheeks flushed.

Hair falling into her face in soft disarray.

And the vulnerability there, it almost crushes me.

And the moment our eyes meet...

She flinches.

Something cold slides down my spine.

I can’t move.

Can’t even breathe.

Every step I wanted to take toward her feels like it will shatter her more, and every second I hesitate, the secret feels dangerously close to exposure.

I’m frozen at the threshold. Trapped between my desire to comfort her and the fear of destroying everything.

And the truth hits me hard.

This is only day one.

A month of this proximity.

A month of her being so close, so raw, so trembling.

And whatever happens next... I’m not sure either of us will survive it.

I stand frozen at the doorway, unsure whether Amira’s tears mean she’s told Grandma or if she’s just scared.

My heart stalls.

My lungs forget how to work.

What...

What did she tell her?