Chapter Ten #2
I climb into the Jeep with Zayn, feeling his gaze linger on me, playful and protective all at once. The city falls away behind us, New York shrinking in the rearview. Whatever happens next, I won’t be running alone.
As we drive away, I take a moment to really look at Zayn—really see him for the first time, and immediately there’s a war inside me.
He’s easily the tallest of all three, broad-shouldered and lean, with striking blue eyes and messy blond hair that falls just right.
There’s a single tattoo peeking out from the collar of his shirt, and a snake coiled around his neck, the ink trailing down beneath his collar and disappearing into his shirt.
I can’t help but wonder where it goes, but I force myself to look away, refusing to let myself get pulled under by the easy charm and the dangerous smile.
No, Ayla. Stop acting like a whore. I clench my hands in my lap, fighting the growing ache of attraction with a stubborn, bitter resistance.
The silver lip ring on the left side of his mouth glints in the sunlight, and when he cocks a lopsided smile, my heart flutters—annoyingly, embarrassingly.
I remind myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want him, not after everything, but my body betrays me anyway.
God, what is wrong with me? He’s undeniably sexy, but I grit my teeth and try not to show him how easily he could unravel me if I let him.
Zayn glances over, a sly grin curving on his lips.
“You know, I see what Alex is talking about.” He lets the words hang just long enough to make my pulse jump.
I follow his gaze to the road ahead, where Dean and Alex ride, all black leather and brooding energy on their bikes.
“What about me?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, trying to play it cool.
Zayn cuts his eyes back to me, the sunlight catching on his lip ring. “You’re interesting,” he says, voice low and playful. “Like, I actually want to know everything about you. But I’ve gotta ask—how does a girl like you end up tangled in a mess like Derek?”
I hesitate, not sure I want to spill everything to Zayn, but something about his open, curious gaze makes me want to trust him—though I keep a layer of myself tucked tightly away, afraid of how much I might give if I let him in.
“It started at the club. Derek came in acting all smooth, charming in that way that feels dangerous when you’re desperate for an escape.
We hit it off, and honestly, he was perfect in the beginning—funny, attentive, made me feel seen for the first time in forever.
He’d bring me flowers, all different kinds, sometimes for no reason at all.
He’d take me out, do little things—open doors, pull out my chair, treat me like I was the only girl in the world.
He made me feel like a princess, and after years of being someone’s afterthought, I just… I wanted to believe it was real.”
My chest tightens, the ache of memory sharp.
“I’d all but given up on Alex by then,” I admit, voice trembling.
“I thought he’d ghosted me, that I was just another girl he forgot.
Derek seemed safe—like a way out, a chance at something gentle.
When he proposed, it was like a dream come true.
I thought, for once, I could have something good.
But that dream… it didn’t take long before...
” My words barely make it out, trailing off, thick with regret and grief.
I look away, ashamed at how much I still wish things could have been easy, or at least kind.
“Before he turned into an asshole,” Zayn finishes for me, his voice surprisingly gentle.
“You know you didn’t deserve any of that, right?
” The question hangs between us, vulnerable and real.
I can’t meet his eyes—I drop my gaze to my lap, swallowing hard against the knot of shame twisting in my chest. It’s easier to blame myself, to believe I should’ve known better or seen the red flags sooner.
But Zayn’s presence—steady, soft, and unexpectedly kind—makes it a little harder to hide from the truth: I never really had a chance.
Zayn
Ayla and I banter back and forth about everything—her favorite color (teal), her go-to comfort food (spaghetti), and the fact that she’s firmly a cat person.
We talk about our childhoods, but it’s mostly me doing the sharing.
I tell her about my memories with my parents when I was young.
Playing catch with my dad, and going to the movies with my mom.
How when I was young we would go to the lake every summer.
I vaguely mention how I ended up on Alex’s doorstep—how he’s more brother than friend to me.
Whenever the conversation drifts toward her own childhood, though, I can sense she draws a line; her answers become vague, her eyes shuttered.
There’s a flash of something lonely and scared, and then she covers it with a joke, a flicker of a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
It’s like there’s a locked door she can’t—or won’t—open, and I don’t push, even though it aches to see her hide herself.
I talk about things that make her light up, but I can see the exhaustion on her face.
Before we reach the next stop, she twists in her seat, yanks a baseball cap from her bag, and jams it over her head, tucking every strand of hair up underneath in a messy knot.
I watch as she pulls her hoodie up and keeps her head down, shrinking in on herself.
The tension in her is palpable—every movement sharp, wary, as if she’s waiting for someone to call her name, for the world to catch up to us.