Page 32

I’m in sweatpants. Hair up, no bra, nearly horizontal. One AirPod in. Spotify’s humming something acoustic about personal growth. Basically: I’m defenseless.

I shuffle to the door, expecting a neighbor, a fire drill, maybe someone trying to sell me essential oils and eternal salvation. I open it without looking. Big mistake.

Adrian Zayn is standing there. Dressed in black. Easy posture. Smirk locked and loaded.

He’s holding a small brown paper bag like he’s brought either enlightenment or blackmail.

“Evening,” he says.

I stare.

What the hell.

“That’s one way to say hi.”

I tighten my grip on the door. “Why are you here?”

He lifts the bag. “I’ve got you something.”

“Oh my God, is that more merch?” I step back. “If it says ‘Hold Frame,’ I’m calling the cops.”

He steps just far enough inside to hand me the bag. “It’s tea.”

I blink. “Tea?”

“Rare blend,” he says smoothly. “No caffeine. Thought it’s appropriate for the night time. ”

“I was literally asleep.”

“Exactly.”

I look down at the bag. Then back at him.

“You’re acting weird,” I say.

He smiles. “I’ve been told.”

I shut the door slowly, still staring at him like he might disappear if I blink too hard.

He doesn’t.

He wanders into my kitchen like this is a casual visit and not an ambush on my sanity.

“You want to explain what’s actually going on?” I ask, arms crossed over my very unstrategic tank top.

“I just thought I’d stop by,” he says. “See how you were doing. Share a cup of something warm.”

“Tea?”

He turns toward me, still smiling. “Cambodian blue lotus. Subtle. Smooth. Lucid dreaming effect.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are you so invested in my sleep?”

He tilts his head. “Call it professional curiosity.”

I laugh once, sharp. “You are not my therapist.”

He takes a single step closer. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that I feel it in my knees.

“I didn’t say I was,” he murmurs. “But you’ve had very... interesting dreams lately.”

My spine locks.

He’s still watching me. Not scanning—just knowing. Like he can sense the blood rushing to my throat without needing to look.

I keep my voice steady. Almost.

“Have I? ”

He nods. “Go ahead. Tell me how this one ends.”

Then—very gently—he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek. Just a touch, barely there.

But I feel it everywhere.

The silence after that is louder than it has any right to be.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

My feet forget how to work.

His eyes stay on mine. Cool. Certain.

I should say something.

Anything.

A joke. A deflection. A verbal grenade.

Instead, I stand there like someone’s unplugged my entire personality. Like a woman who’s just been invited into her own fantasy.

His hand is already gone, but my skin still buzzes where he touched me. My breath feels shallow.

His eyes are still on me—steady, unreadable, but heavy with something I can’t name without blushing.

He doesn’t move.

Not forward. Not back.

He doesn’t have to.

I’m already unraveling.

"Say it," he says softly.

The words hit like an echo from a dream I haven’t admitted to yet.

"Say what?"

He tilts his head. “Whatever it is you’re not saying.”

I swallow. Hard.

What I’m not saying is :

I dreamed of your mouth.

I dreamed of giving in.

I dreamed of losing it, and liking it.

Instead, I step forward.

Barely.

A shift of weight.

A surrender you could miss if you weren’t looking.

But he sees it.

He doesn’t pounce. That’s not his style.

He waits. Lets me walk the last few inches on my own—like he’s giving me all the control while knowing I have none left.

When I reach him, my hand lifts before I can stop it.

I touch his jaw—just lightly, like I need to make sure he’s real.

He’s warm. Solid. Here.

And when I don’t pull back, he moves. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hand finds my waist—light pressure, just enough to let me feel the outline of choice.

He leans in like he’s asking a question with his mouth, not his words.

And I—

I tilt up.

Answering.

I feel the moment our lips touch like an electric shock beneath my skin. His mouth is warm, confident, unhurried. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world. Like he knows he’s been kissing me in dreams for weeks and wants to make sure I notice the difference.

I do .

I notice everything.

The way he doesn’t grab. The way he holds. The restraint in his fingertips. The tension wound so tightly in his body it makes me ache.

When he pulls back, just enough to breathe, I don’t move.

I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll ask him to ruin me.

“Is this the part where you stop me?” he murmurs.

And this time, I do say something.

“Don’t stop.”

That’s it.

That’s the thread pulled.

He kisses me again, harder. His hand slides under my tank top, his palm hot against my bare skin. I arch toward him like I’m being pulled, like there’s nothing else—no commentary, no control, no public opposition—just this.

Just him.

Just now.

He walks me backward, slow and sure, until my thighs hit the edge of the bed I haven’t bothered making.

When he pulls off his hoodie, I forget how breathing works.

When he touches me again, I stop trying to remember.

I reach for him without thinking. He catches me like he knew I would.

More than anything, I’m afraid to wake up.

I don’t.