Azhar doesn’t understand why he doesn’t hate you.

He’s always been brash, impatient, and prone to irritation, yet somehow, with you, it’s different. You’re quiet, reserved, a little too kind for someone navigating this world. It should bother him. It doesn’t.

“It’s cold,” he mutters, shrugging off his dark shawl-lined coat and draping it over your shoulders. His expression is as stoic as ever, but there’s something softer in his tone, a gentleness he doesn’t let anyone else hear.

“You’ll catch a cold if you keep standing like this.”

The gathering is loud, the distant chatter and laughter of mutual friends blending into the crisp night air. You’re on the sidelines, as always, avoiding the chaos. He doesn’t belong here either, not really, but he came—because he knew you’d be here.

Azhar tugs the edges of the coat, ensuring it sits snugly around you before stepping back. His gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should. He’d never admit you’re his soft spot. Not to you. Not to himself. Never.