They were sitting in his car, parked under a flickering streetlight that had probably been threatening to die since 2009.
She was quiet.
Not her usual quiet where she scrolled on her phone and hummed under her breath. This was the bad kind. The kind where her shoulders were stiff and she kept pressing her lips together like she was holding something back. Her tote bag sat on her lap, overstuffed, receipts peeking out like evidence at a crime scene.
Zayan noticed immediately. He always did. He just didn’t always comment.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked eventually, eyes still on the road, voice careful.
She shook her head too fast. “No. It’s not you.”
Classic. The universal warning sign.
He glanced at her this time. Her eyes were shiny. Not fully crying, but dangerously close. The kind of tears that show up uninvited and then refuse to leave.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Then what happened.”
She inhaled, exhaled, then blurted it out like ripping off a bandage. “I spent too much money.”
He frowned. That was it?
“…on what?”
“On myself.”
That made him frown harder.
She looked down at her bag, fingers twisting the strap. “Like. A lot. I wasn’t planning to. It just happened. Clothes, skincare, shoes, that stupid candle that smells like almonds and lies. Six hundred dollars, Zayan.”
Her voice cracked on the number. Betrayed her completely.
His brain stalled.
Six hundred dollars. On herself. And she looked like someone had just told her she’d committed a felony.
“You’re… upset because you shopped?” he said carefully, like the words might explode.
She laughed once, sharp and miserable. “When you say it like that it sounds stupid.”
“I’m not saying it’s stupid,” he said immediately, then paused. “…I’m saying I don’t understand.”
Her eyes finally spilled over. Just one tear, then another, like her face had given up arguing.
“I should’ve been more responsible,” she said, wiping at her cheek angrily. “I keep telling myself I’ll save, and then I don’t. I saw my bank app and I just— I felt sick. I don’t know why I’m like this.”
Zayan pulled the car fully into park without thinking. The engine ticked softly as it cooled.
He turned toward her now, confusion melting into something quieter. Something concerned.
“Hey,” he said, reaching out, hesitating for half a second before gently brushing his thumb under her eye. “Don’t cry.”
That was a mistake. She sniffed harder.
“I hate that I’m crying over money,” she muttered. “This is embarrassing.”
He shook his head. “It’s not.”
She looked at him then, eyes red, lashes clumped, mouth trembling. Vulnerable in a way that made his chest tighten unexpectedly.
“How much do you need?” he asked.
She blinked. “What?”
“I’ll send it to you,” he said, already reaching for his phone. “All of it. Or whatever part is stressing you out.”
Her eyes widened instantly. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Why not.”
“Because it’s my mess.”
“So?”
“So I don’t want you to fix it,” she said, voice small but stubborn. “I just needed to say it out loud.”
Zayan studied her for a long moment. Then he sighed, put his phone down, and leaned closer.
“Okay,” he said. “Then I’m not fixing it.”
He lifted her chin gently so she had no choice but to look at him.
“But listen to me.”
She nodded, barely.
“You didn’t waste money,” he said. “You spent it. On yourself. That’s not a crime.”
“I should’ve saved it.”
“You also should eat vegetables,” he replied. “But you had fries yesterday and the world didn’t end.”
Despite herself, a weak smile tugged at her mouth.
He wiped another tear away, slower this time, thumb warm against her skin. “You work hard. You’re careful most of the time. You’re allowed to enjoy your money sometimes.”
She swallowed. “Six hundred dollars is not ‘sometimes.’”
“It is if it doesn’t put you in danger,” he said calmly. “Are you unable to pay rent. Eat. Exist.”
“No.”
“Then you’re fine.”
She exhaled shakily, leaning back against the seat. “I just feel guilty.”
“I know,” he said softly. “Desi upbringing. Money guilt comes free with the trauma bundle.”