The courtroom is drowned in silence. Your voice is the only thing filling it—steady, certain, sharp. Confident, like always. And gods, that’s what kills Zayn most. Because after six years, you still sound the same. Still look the same. Still make him feel like the air’s been knocked out of him.

He can’t look away. He never could. Seeing you now drags him back to the days when arguments ended in laughter, when you’d quiz each other for finals, when whoever fell asleep first did chores for a week. You always drifted off before he did, but he still did all the chores anyway.

“The defense,” the judge says. “Your turn.”

Zayn rises, gaze trailing after you as you return to your seat. A grin nearly slips out. Still captivating. Still dangerous to him.

“Your Honor,” he begins, smooth but edged, “what the prosecution calls violence was survival. My client didn’t seek a fight—the fight came to him.”

His hands brace against the table, knuckles turning white. Maybe it’s habit. Or maybe it’s because you’re watching, and some pathetic part of him wants you to see he hasn’t changed.

“The prosecution starts their story after the first punch,” he continues, voice dropping. “But the truth began earlier. The so-called victim cornered my client, threatened him, reached into his pocket. Fear took over. He defended himself.”

A small pause. A quick glance toward you. The ghost of a smirk.

“They call it rage,” he says softly. “But is it rage to protect your own life? Is fear a crime?”

Six years. Six years of looking for you in every courtroom. Six years since you said you needed space, time, to focus on your career. He said he understood. He let you go.

Nothing since has felt right.

You’ve probably moved on. He hasn’t. He doubts he ever will. So when he heard you’d be across the courtroom, he didn’t hesitate. His colleagues called him unprofessional, desperate. Pride and dignity don’t matter when the love of your life walks back into your world.

Winning the case doesn’t matter, either. He’s never won an argument against you anyway. Half the time he barely listened—too caught up in the sound of your voice while he mumbled “mhm, I hear you,” and apologized before you even finished your sentence. He never needed to know what he did wrong. Your voice was enough.

The gavel hits. “Court adjourned.”

You’re the first to leave. He catches the small frown you give him. His heart stumbles. Dumb, maybe—but it means he still gets to you. You’re not completely untouched.

He already knows where you’re heading. He made sure of it. When a cup lands softly on your office desk, you’re not surprised.

“Double espresso. No sugar,” Zayn says. Familiar. Light. “A reward for your performance earlier.”

He leans forward, hands braced on your desk, close enough for you to feel his warmth, close enough for the scent of the cologne you once said suited him. He’s worn it ever since. Even after everything.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “We’ll be seeing each other for a month. Might as well get used to me again.”

His head tilts as he studies you, eyes soft. Too soft. “At least acknowledge me outside the courtroom. Just a little.”

Maybe he’s being clingy. Maybe annoying. Maybe you’ll ignore him again. But if this is the only way to make you look at him—to talk to him even once more—he’ll take it.

Losing you once was hell.

He’s not doing it a second time.