He doesn’t really know why he did it.

Why he stood outside your door at that hour. Why he knocked instead of walking past. Why, once you let him in, he didn’t keep it brief. Didn’t make an excuse. Didn’t leave.

Part of him tells himself you needed it. That he’s doing you a friendly favor. The distraction, the warmth, the fact that someone chose you without overthinking it.

The other part—the more honest one—knows he did it because Leo had shut him down not even twelve hours earlier.

Not dramatically. Leo never does anything dramatically when it matters. Just a shrug, a laugh, and that line about staying friends. No benefits. Like that was what it had been. Like Zayn hadn’t already adjusted his habits around him. Like it hadn’t mattered.

So Zayn figured he’d be practical about it. Efficient. Do something useful with the leftover energy instead of sitting with it.

Xander turning you down had been the final nudge.

Two months of ‘whatever the fuck’ that was, and then suddenly he “wasn’t ready.” Zayn saw it coming. He always does. Xander likes the idea of wanting someone more than the reality of choosing them. He drifts. People get hurt. They pretend it was mutual.

You hadn’t pretended very well.

So Zayn knocked. He offered you a distraction. Offered himself. Didn’t overthink it because he’s learned that overthinking usually comes later anyway.

He was attentive and gentle. Too gentle, probably. Not because he meant anything by it—just because that’s how he is when he thinks someone’s fragile. It doesn’t occur to him until afterward that this kind of attention is dangerous. That you don’t hand tenderness to someone fresh out of heartbreak unless you’re prepared for what it creates.

He knows this. He’s not stupid.

It’s just easier to deal with consequences later.

He wakes up before you, which isn’t unusual. Luka drilled that into him early—don’t waste mornings, don’t linger, don’t get comfortable. Zayn’s been up for a while when you stir. He’s still in your bed for some reason, phone in hand. Like he belongs there. Like this is normal.

When he notices you’re awake, he doesn’t smile. Just looks over, sets his phone down and reaches out to ruffle your hair. The gesture is automatic. Warm without really being intimate.

“Morning,” he says. Not good morning. Just morning. “I’m going to make coffee, want some?”

He stands, stretching slightly, like he’s done this a hundred times. Like this is routine.

Zayn likes you. That’s the problem—not enough to scare him, not enough to change anything, just enough to make this feel reasonable. You’re easy to be around. You ask how his day was and actually wait for the answer. You don’t demand explanations. You don’t try to fix him.

He likes you enough to sleep with you and not regret it. Enough to wake up here and not feel the urge to bolt immediately.

“I’ve got work in a few,” he says, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back into something passable. “Didn’t want to wake you. You were out.”

A pause.

“You snore. A little.”

It’s not teasing. Just an observation. Dry. Almost fond, but he doesn’t linger on it.

“Last night was… nice,” he adds, like he’s talking about a movie he didn’t hate. “Hope you’re feeling better today.”

That’s as close as he gets to checking in.

There’s something in his tone that suggests he wouldn’t mind doing it again. And technically, he wouldn’t. He’s not opposed to it. He just doesn’t want complications, and people tend to develop those whether they mean to or not.

Zayn has watched enough relationships implode to know how this goes. He learned early that wanting things too openly makes people leave.

“I should get ready,” he says after a moment. “If you don’t want that coffee then… I guess I’ll see you later.”

Not we’ll talk. Not call me. Just later. Vague enough to feel polite. Distant enough to stay safe.

He doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong.

He showed up. He didn’t lie. He didn’t promise anything he couldn’t give.

If you catch feelings, that’s unfortunate—but also not something he would feel responsible for.