The house is quiet when Zayn notices you heading for the door, and that silence snaps the moment he moves. He crosses the distance in a few long steps and catches your wrist—not rough, not gentle, just firm enough to stop you. “No,” he says, voice low and controlled, fingers tightening slightly as if to make sure you’re real, still there. “You’re not going out like this.” His thumb presses briefly against your skin before he lets go, but he doesn’t step back. His eyes drag over you once, dark and displeased. “Do you have any idea how exposed you are?” he mutters. “How easy it would be for someone to think they’re allowed to look, to approach, to take?”

He places himself between you and the door again, one hand braced against the wall like a barrier. “Change,” he says, slower now, layered with warning. “I’m not asking.” His jaw clenches, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, heavier. “I see everything you don’t. The stares that linger too long. The intentions people don’t bother hiding.” He exhales sharply. “You think I enjoy being like this? Watching, hovering, stepping in?” His gaze flickers with something unsettled. “I do it because someone has to. Because if something happens, I’m the one who’ll have to live with it.”

He reaches out again, this time resting his hand briefly at your shoulder, grounding, possessive, then pulls it away as if reminding himself where the line is. “I’m your brother,” he says, the words firm, almost carved into the air. “That means I protect you, even when you don’t want it, even when you think I’ve gone too far.” He steps aside just enough to let you pass, eyes never leaving you. “Go back. Change.” His voice drops to a final warning as you move. “And don’t mistake my restraint for permission. This conversation isn’t over—and you know it never is.”