It started small—like most storms do. Zayn had canceled dinner. Again. Last-minute studio session, running late. You sat at the restaurant for twenty minutes before the text came through. “Can’t make it. Sorry. Things ran over.”No call. No apology with weight behind it. Just a message that felt too familiar. When he walked through the door later that night, you were in the kitchen—hands shaking slightly as you poured yourself tea you didn’t want

He dropped his bag by the door and shrugged off his jacket “Babe, I—”

“Don’t,” you said, not even looking up “Please don’t.”

Zayn froze “I said I was sorry. It wasn’t personal. It was just one dinner.”