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Zayn was staying at Rhys’s apartment again.

It wasn’t the first time. It probably wouldn’t be the last either.

He sat sprawled across Rhys’s bed, a half-eaten tub of ice cream abandoned on the nightstand, eyes blank as Rhys paced the room, frustration etched into every movement.

“Zayn, this can’t keep going on,” Rhys said, for maybe the hundredth time.

Zayn lazily blinked. “You're really on repeat tonight.”

“I’m serious!” Rhys snapped, stopping in front of him. “How long are you going to keep living like this? Empty hookups. Breaking people. Acting like you don’t feel anything. You’re pushing everyone away.”

Zayn didn’t answer. His lips curled into that familiar half-smile the one that meant nothing and everything.

Rhys lowered his voice. “Please… for me. Stop it.”

There was silence. Then Zayn finally looked up.

“You know, Rhys…” he said quietly, “In this entire world, you’re the only person I’ve truly loved.”

“Not my so-called parents.Not my brother.Not anyone else. Only you.” Zayn let out a bitter chuckle. “In fact, I hate them. They made me like this.”

His voice broke for a second before he masked it with a smirk again.

“You’re my everything. And you know what?”

He looked directly at Rhys.

“If you were an alpha… I swear I would've married you. No hesitation.”

Rhys tried to smile, but his heart ached. “Then what? You’d break up with me after one night like the others?”

Zayn laughed. A soft, tired sound. “Probably.”

Rhys shook his head, but there was no anger in his eyes just sadness.

Zayn stretched and yawned, voice slurring with exhaustion. “I’m sleepy.”

Without needing to be told, Rhys sat down beside him. Zayn shifted and gently laid his head on Rhys’s lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rhys looked down at him, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead.

“I just keep praying,” he thought, “that someone finds you. Someone who loves you so much, you finally start to love yourself. Someone who makes you believe you’re worth more than this chaos.”

His fingers moved softly through Zayn’s hair.

“I know you’re not like this, Zayn… you were made this way.”

Zayn was already dozing off, breathing steady and light. And in that moment, in the soft lamplight, he looked… different.

Innocent.

Like a five-year-old curled in his blanket after a long day of play.

Rhys stared at him quietly, and memories came flooding back.

.

.

.

.

.

.

He was eleven, and Zayn had just turned ten. They’d met at the park, a summer afternoon full of dust and laughter.

Some older boys had been pushing Rhys around, mocking him for being an omega.

Zayn had stepped in like a storm. “Touch him again and I’ll break your nose.”

He had no backup. No fear. Just pure fire in his eyes.

Rhys had never forgotten that.

That was the day everything changed.

And now, all these years later, Zayn was still protecting everyone else from seeing who he truly was  even if it meant destroying himself in the process.

Rhys looked down at the sleeping boy in his lap.

“I hope someone comes, Zayn. I really do. Because if they don’t…”

He swallowed hard.

“You’ll burn everything, including yourself.”

---

Zayn’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, its vibration cutting through the silence of the dim room.

Rhys glanced at the sleeping boy beside him, sighed, and reached over to answer the call without waking him.

“Hello?” he said softly.

“Rhys?” came a warm, surprised voice on the other end. “Oh, it’s you, son. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Aunty,” Rhys replied politely.

“Is Zayn with you? He hasn’t come home,” she asked.

Rhys glanced at the bed again. Zayn was curled up under the blanket, breathing softly, his hair a mess, face still peaceful in sleep.

“Yes, Aunty. He’s here. He’s sleeping.”

But before his aunt could say anything else, a sharp voice came from the background Zayn’s father.

“I hope that dirty boy never sets foot in my house again.”

Rhys’s jaw clenched.

Then came more. “Seriously, Rhys, how can you even be friends with him? You know what kind of boy he is…”

Rhys didn’t let him finish.

“Yes, Uncle,” Rhys said firmly, voice calm but steady. “I know exactly what kind of boy he is. And that’s why I’m still with him.”

And without waiting for a reply, he ended the call.

The phone screen dimmed.

Rhys placed it back quietly on the table, then turned to look at the boy sleeping beside him.

Zayn shifted slightly in his sleep, unaware of anything.

Rhys stared at him for a moment at the boy who laughed too loudly, hurt people before they could hurt him, and acted like nothing could touch him.

And yet... here he was.

So fragile in his sleep. So small, like he was still the ten-year-old boy who had stood up to bullies and made Rhys feel safe for the first time in his life.

Rhys walked over to the other side of the bed and climbed in silently, careful not to wake him.

He lay down beside him, facing the ceiling, his hand brushing close to Zayn’s under the blanket.

“They don’t know you,” he thought. “But I do. I’ve seen every part of you, even the ones you try to hide under all that arrogance.”

The room was quiet again.

Rhys turned slightly toward him and whispered softly into the silence,

“I’m not leaving, Zayn. Not now. Not ever.”

And with that, he closed his eyes, finally allowing sleep to take him too.

The friendship...

One bond that the world would never understand.

---

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