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1 months later.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft yellow glow of the lamp on Rhys’s bedside table. Outside, the city murmured faintly through the open window distant honks, footsteps, life moving on. But inside, time had slowed.

Zayn sat at the edge of the bed, his knees drawn up slightly, one hand resting under his chin. His usual cocky smile, the ever-present sarcasm, the defiant glint in his eyes gone.

Rhys sat beside him, legs crossed, watching him quietly.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Zayn didn’t answer at first. He kept staring at the floor, chewing the inside of his cheek. Then, finally, he sighed and leaned back, letting himself fall against the wall behind the bed.

“I don’t know, Rhys,” he said, voice low. “I’m not sure what the hell is going on with me.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Something happen?”

Zayn hesitated.

Then he glanced sideways at his best friend and mumbled, “…It’s Elior.”

Rhys blinked. “Elior?”

Zayn nodded. “He… he’s different. I don’t know. I mean, I’ve been with guys before, Rhys. You know that. I’ve had hundreds of flings names I barely remember, faces that blur together. I don’t date. I don’t do feelings. I don’t care.”

“I know,” Rhys said quietly.

Zayn let out a hollow laugh. “But this… this one’s weird. He sends me flowers. Every day. Bouquets with handwritten notes like we’re in some damn romance novel. He texts me good morning. He leaves chocolates on my desk during class. He remembers my coffee order.”

“That… sounds cute, actually,” Rhys muttered with a tiny smile.

“Cute?” Zayn scoffed. “It’s disturbing.”

Rhys gave him a playful shove. “It’s not disturbing, Zayn. It’s just new. You’re not used to someone doing all that and meaning it.”

Zayn crossed his arms, still looking unconvinced. “Or maybe he’s playing a really long, really convincing game.”

Rhys tilted his head. “Do you really believe that?”

Zayn paused. The room fell quiet again.

He sighed.

“…No. I mean, I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

Rhys’s voice softened. “So… you’re scared.”

Zayn stiffened. “I’m not scared.”

Rhys gave him a look.

“Okay, maybe a little,” Zayn admitted. “But only because I’ve never felt this… off. I keep thinking about him, and wondering what he’s going to do next. Sometimes I find myself actually smiling when I read his texts and that that freaks me out.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t do this, Rhys,” Zayn said, waving a hand around in frustration. “I don’t feel. I don’t sit around blushing over stupid messages or staring at flowers like a lovesick teenager.”

“But you did,” Rhys said, calm and steady.

Zayn fell silent.

“…Yeah,” he whispered after a moment. “I did.”

There was a long pause.

Rhys leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, Zayn. I know you don’t believe in love. I know you’ve been through a lot more than anyone sees. You act like you don’t give a damn about anything, but I’ve seen you. I’ve seen the way your hands shake when someone gets too close. I’ve seen you cry when you thought I was asleep. I know what you're hiding behind that attitude.”

Zayn swallowed hard, blinking fast.

Rhys continued, voice gentle but firm, “I think you should give yourself a chance. Just once. Maybe… maybe this time it’ll be different.”

Zayn looked away. “But what if it’s not?”

Rhys didn’t hesitate. “Then you’ll get back up. Like you always do. But at least you’ll know you tried. At least you won’t have to keep wondering what if.”

Zayn bit his lip. His voice was small now.

“But what if he hurts me, Rhys?”

Rhys reached out and placed a hand on Zayn’s shoulder. “Then I’ll be here. Like I’ve always been.”

Zayn’s throat tightened.

He hated how much this meant to him. How badly he needed to hear those words. How much it scared him to imagine something real, something that wasn't just a night of passion and forgettable names.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to know,” Rhys replied. “Just… don’t run. Not this time.”

Zayn nodded slowly. He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing again.

“I’ll… think about it.”

Rhys smiled softly. “That’s all I’m asking.”

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, the hum of the city seeping through the window.

“Hey, Rhys?” Zayn said suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think people like me can actually… be loved?”

Rhys turned fully to face him, eyes fierce.

“I know they can. Because I already love you.”

Zayn smile.

Not romantically not in the way lovers do. But in the way that someone who’s always been there, through the worst nights and the deepest wounds, truly, unconditionally loves someone.

Zayn blinked fast and tried to smile.

“…You’re too good for me, Rhys.”

“No,” Rhys said. “You’re just too used to being treated like shit.”

Zayn laughed. A real, small, breathy laugh.

“Maybe you’re right.”

Rhys leaned back and rested his head against the wall. “I’m always right.”

Zayn rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now. Genuinely.

For once, he wasn’t hiding behind sarcasm or smirks or eye rolls.

For once, he let the silence settle without pushing it away.

And somewhere in the quiet of that room… something began to shift inside him.

---

"I’m going home," Zayn muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Rhys looked at him from the couch but didn’t say anything. He just nodded quietly, sensing that Zayn needed space. Real space. Not words. Not company.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, and the world outside was cold again.

As Zayn walked the familiar street toward the Alaric estate a massive modern mansion tucked between tall hedges and guarded by heavy metal gates his steps grew slower, heavier.

His fingers clenched around the strap of his bag as the looming building came into view. The sight of it didn’t feel like coming home.

It felt like walking into a cage.

The moment the front door opened, a voice echoed through the pristine marble hallway:

“Look who decided to remember he has a house.”

Zayn didn’t stop walking. He didn’t even glance in the direction of the voice.

His father’s voice.

“Not now, Dad,” Zayn muttered under his breath, stepping toward the staircase.

But his father wasn’t finished.

“Why? Did someone f*ck you too good that you can’t even talk properly?”

Zayn froze on the stairs. His foot stopped mid-step. His fingers curled into a tight fist around the railing.

“Honey!” came Amelia’s voice from deeper in the living room. “What are you saying?!”

Zayn turned slowly.

There he was Leonard Alaric, seated on the cream leather couch like a king on a throne, whiskey in one hand, smugness dripping off his smirk. Dressed in tailored clothes, with silver-streaked hair combed back and cold eyes full of disdain, he looked right at Zayn.

Zayn’s jaw tightened.

He wanted to say nothing. Wanted to just walk away But the years of silence boiled over like acid.

So he smirked His voice came out sharp and venom-laced.

“Oh, yeah. You’re right, Dad. Someone f*cked me so good I forgot how to walk straight. Happy now?”

Silence.

Then, crack.

The sound of the slap echoed like thunder in the hollow mansion.

Zayn’s face whipped to the side, his lip stinging instantly. A metallic taste filled his mouth.

“You slut.” Leonard snarled. “You’re not even ashamed, are you? Walking around like a whore under my roof.”

“Honey, stop it!” Amelia rushed in, heels clacking against the marble, her face pale.

Zayn slowly turned his face back toward his father. His cheek was red, burning. His lip had split open. But his eyes were colder than ice.

“I’m fine,” he said flatly.

“Zayn, go to your room, please,” Amelia whispered, reaching out.

He didn’t say another word He turned and walked up the stairs Behind him, he could still hear his father shouting.

“You can’t talk to me like that in my house!”

And then Amelia’s voice again:

“You can’t talk to him like that either!”

Zayn didn’t stop.

He reached his room, slammed the door shut, and locked it.

Then he stood still.

The silence in his room was thick. Suffocating.

He walked to the mirror above his desk.

Looked at his reflection.

A red cheek. A bleeding lip. Eyes that shimmered with unshed tears he refused to let fall.

He touched the corner of his lip, staring at the blood on his fingertip. His hands trembled. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

Then the voices downstairs reached his ears again still arguing.

“You know what he is, Amelia! He’s always been this way. Spoiled. Shameless. I wish he’d never gotten that money. It went to his head!”

“Don’t blame the money! He was just a child! You never even tried to understand him!”

“And look at his brother! Responsible. Normal. That’s what a real Alaric should be.”

Zayn’s grip on the desk tightened until his knuckles turned white.

He turned back to the mirror, slowly dragging his gaze up to meet his own reflection.

He looked tired.

Not physically.Emotionally. Spiritually. Broken in a way that no amount of sleep could ever fix.

He lifted his shirt and looked at the bruise forming.

Another scar, he thought bitterly.

But the real ones weren’t on his skin.

They were buried deeper.

He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers tugging at his hair in frustration.

For everyone else, Zayn Alaric was the untouchable bad boy. The omega who didn’t care. The playboy with a sharp tongue and an unapologetic attitude.

But behind closed doors, in the house that was never a home… he was just a boy who had never been loved the way he needed to be.

A boy who was always compared.

A boy who learned that it was safer to be wanted for a night than to be abandoned forever.

That pretending he didn’t care was easier than getting hurt again.

That using people was better than being used.

His breath hitched as a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

He wiped it away before it could roll down his cheek.

“I don’t cry,” he muttered to himself.

But his voice was shaking.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the side table.

A message.

Elior: “Are you home safe?”

Zayn stared at the screen.

He didn’t respond.

Not yet.

Instead, he placed the phone face down and leaned back onto the bed, covering his eyes with his arm.

His father’s voice still echoed in his head.

“You slut.”

He remembered Elior’s voice too.

“You’re more than a friend.”

He didn’t know what scared him more the hatred in his father’s words or the kindness in Elior’s.

Because at least hatred was familiar.

Love? Love was dangerous. Love asked you to believe. To open up. To hope.

And Zayn Alaric had stopped hoping a long time ago.

But now… now there was a strange storm growing in his chest.

Because for the first time, someone wasn’t just using him.

Someone was showing up. Fighting for him. Caring.

And maybe… maybe that terrified him more than anything else.

---

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