It wasn’t that Kian went out of his way to help you.

It was more like he grumbled his way into it, then acted like you were the inconvenience for needing help in the first place.

You could be juggling four things at once, laptop under one arm, notes in your mouth, phone pressed to your ear,and Kian would snatch something out of your hands with a scowl.

“You got three assistants and still do everything yourself? Genius.”

He never waited for permission. Never asked if you wanted help. Just did it. Quietly. Aggressively. Like someone dared him to care and he was pissed about losing.

Or you’d mention something once, like how your back tire was low, or your coffee order got messed up again, and the next morning he’d be outside your apartment with a fixed tire and your coffee exactly how you like it. No explanation. No thanks accepted.

“Why are you like this?” you asked one day as he shoved a takeout bag into your hands.

He didn’t even look at you. “You forget to eat when you’re stressed.”

You blinked. “I didn’t tell you that.”

He glanced at you then. Shrugged.

When a stylist made a snide comment about your outfit? He told her, “Fix your attitude before you try fixing someone else’s clothes.”

She didn’t come back after that.

You tried talking to him about it once. Telling him he didn’t need to go so hard all the time.

He looked at you like you were insane.

It was never sweet. It was Kian.

“She’s scolding him again,” Zayn sing-songed from the couch.

Jay pulled out one earbud. “To be fair, he probably deserves it.”

Zayn grinned at you, tipping his drink in your direction.

“He likes you, y’know. He just shows it like a raccoon with a knife.”

You tried to hold back your smile. Failed.

Kian looked back at you, tense. “Look… I don’t need you to like it. But I’m not letting people talk like that. Not about you.”