The car ride home was silent.
City lights blurred past the window, but my thoughts refused to move. Zayn sat beside me, his jaw tight, fingers resting on his knee like he was holding himself back from saying something.
I broke the silence.
"Who was she?"
His eyes flicked to me for a second before returning to the road. "Someone from the past."
"That's not an answer."
He sighed, a slow, controlled breath. "She doesn't matter."
I laughed softly, without humor. "She mattered enough for you to claim me in front of her."
The car stopped at a red light. He finally turned toward me.
"I claimed you because it was necessary."
"For the image?" I asked.
"For protection."
My chest tightened. "Mine… or yours?"
The light turned green, but he didn't move.
"Both," he admitted.
When we reached the house, he stepped out first. I followed, my heels echoing in the empty hallway. Inside, the silence felt heavier than before.
"Zayn," I said, stopping him near the stairs. "This contract—"
He turned sharply. "Don't."
"Why not?" I challenged. "Because you're afraid of what happens if we stop pretending?"
His eyes darkened. "Pretending is the only thing keeping this under control."
"Control over what?" I asked. "Your image? Your emotions?"
He stepped closer, too close. I could feel his warmth, his tension.
"This was never meant to become personal," he said quietly.
"And yet it is," I whispered.
For a moment, I thought he would touch me. His hand lifted, hovering near my cheek, then froze.
He dropped it.
"This line," he said, stepping back, "we don't cross it."
I swallowed hard. "And if we already have?"
His gaze met mine—raw, conflicted.
"Then," he said, voice low, "we pretend we haven't."
He walked away, leaving me alone in the hallway.
But the truth stayed with me.
Some lines don't disappear just because we refuse to look at them.