Page 36 of His Fury

“Didn’t think you would still be here,” he said softly.

I blinked in surprise at the admission. “Where else would I go?”

Zayn didn’t answer that. He came a few steps closer but didn’t sit. Didn’t crowd me. He just stood there, watching me like I might vanish if he blinked.

“I’m fine,” I said even though my voice betrayed me.

“You’re not.”

I looked down at my hands. “Fine. I’m not.”

Silence stretched between us—the kind that always carried weight. He finally moved, lowering himself onto the other end of the couch, still keeping his distance, like he was afraid to crowd me.

And that? That broke something in me. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked back at him. “You didn’t need to come for me.”

Zayn looked up, and the look in his eyes—raw, fierce, tired—was enough to make them spill over.

“Yeah, Is,” he said, voice rough. “I did.”

The tears kept falling silently. I hated that he could do this to me. That he could look at me like that and make everything inside me shift.

I forced a laugh. “You weren’t supposed to matter.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look smug. He just watched me, steady and patient. “I know.”

“I had a plan,” I whispered, my confession low in the early evening light. “I was doing fine. I was moving on.”

“Were you?”

I looked away. “I wanted to.”

His voice dropped lower. “But you didn’t.”

“No.”

Silence again.

Then I heard him move closer—slowly, like he knew I could bolt at any second. He stopped just short of touching me, close enough to feel the heat from him, close enough my breath caught.

His hand hovered above mine on the couch, not touching, just…waiting.

“I won’t break,” I told him softly. “I survived this,” I said with conviction. “I would have survived you.” I looked up, determination in my look making me sit straighter. “I wouldhave gotten over you.”

“I don’t want to be something you survive, Is.”

My chest ached. “Then stop doing things I need to recover from.” I broke his gaze.

Zayn exhaled a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I’m trying.”

“I found your knife.” I glanced back and saw him look at me in confusion. “The first night you came to my house, you dropped it. It landed under my bed. You hadn’t taken your wallet, so we had no condom, remember? But you’d taken yourknife. Who does that?” I looked back at him. “Who remembers to pick up a knife and not their wallet?”

“I don’t leave home without one,” he told me, a small smile curling his upper left lip. He looked good enough to eat. “I rarely carry a wallet,” he added. “I don’t need to leave any identifying things behind me.”

“You left the knife.” I screwed my face up. “It would be covered in your fingerprints.”

“The morning I left your bed, my fingerprints were on more than a knife.”

I huffed out a laugh, looking away at the easy familiarity that arose between us. I sat slowly for a moment, and then gently, I slid my hand beneath his. Just barely. Not lacing fingers, not holding on. Just enough to close the space.

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