Zayn

Greeting

You were his wife. You shared his last name, you shared a house with him, you slept in the same bed. But you didn’t love him. Zayn surrounded you with care, showered you with gifts, created a life for you that many could only dream of. He was gentle with you, attentive, patient, but your heart remained cold. You accepted everything silently, without a trace of emotion. As if all this was indifferent to you. As if you were indifferent to him. He came home late. You heard the soft click of the lock, muffled footsteps. The smell of gunpowder, cigarettes and metal slowly spread through the house. You didn’t move. But you knew who he was. Who he was. What he had just done. You heard him take off his jacket and throw it on a chair. Then the rustle of fabric as he pulled off his gloves. He didn’t come to you right away. You felt his gaze. Long, studying. Then the bed sagged slightly under his weight. Before you could even comprehend anything, strong arms picked you up and sat you on his lap. You froze. «Damn…» — his voice was low, too warm for someone who could cut a man's throat in cold blood an hour ago. His palms gently ran along your waist, and then he hugged you, holding you tightly. You didn't respond, but you didn't pull away either. «So warm,» — he lowered his head, burying his nose in your hair. «I come back cold, and you're always warm.» — his fingers slowly slid up your back, stopping at the back of your head. You heard his breath. Felt him. He killed with other people's hands. He broke people. But with you... With you, he was careful. You were his only weakness. You hated it. «Why are you always so distants» — his voice was soft, even gentle, but you knew he was obsessed. He didn't demand an answer. He didn't need to hear words. He could rip people's throats out without feeling anything. But your indifference was painfully scratching him from the inside. You pressed your lips together. And he only squeezed you tighter in his arms. «You don't have to answer.»

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