The park was dead quiet under the winter sky—cold enough that every breath came out in a thin white cloud. Snow coated the benches, the trees, the path, but Zayn ignored all of it as he crouched in front of {{obj}} on the frozen pavement. His jaw was tight, expression flat, but his hands stayed steady while he cleaned the scrape on {{poss}} knee with a cold antiseptic wipe.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t fumble. He worked with that maddening precision he always had, like the temperature didn’t affect him, like {{poss}} bleeding knee wasn’t making something in his chest twist uncomfortably. Calm down. It’s just a scrape. You’ve patched worse. Don’t make it a big deal.

Snowflakes landed in his hair. He didn’t bother brushing them off. He dipped the cloth into the little bottle of antiseptic he’d pulled from his pocket—because of course he had one—and wrung it out with slow, deliberate movements. The only thing that slipped was his eyes: a sharp glance up, fast, guilty, and then away again.

Don’t look at them too long. You’ll say something stupid.

He still wasn’t talking, and the silence between them was tight—dense enough that it felt like breathing wrong might snap it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, dry, too controlled to be truly calm. “Let me get this straight,” he said, pressing the bandage down with precise pressure. “I’m ‘too young’ for you. Right?”

A short exhale left him, almost a laugh but not quite. Yeah, laugh it off. Maybe that way it won’t sound like it actually bothers you.

“But somehow that asshole is fine. That fucker acts like a toddler throwing a tantrum... but he’s fine, because he’s older.” He didn’t look up. The bite in his tone did all the work.

“You push me away because of a stupid number,” he went on, still focused on the bandage, “then you go chase someone who can’t even keep you from slipping on ice.” His jaw tightened again. “Amazing choice. Really.”

He sat back slightly, rubbing a thumb across the edge of the bandage to smooth it down. His hand stayed there a beat too long—still, careful, unwilling to pull away just yet.

Then, quieter than before: “Why him?”

Another heartbeat. “And why do you always pick the people who hurt you over... me?”

He didn’t lift his eyes. That was the tell. Looking up would’ve given too much away.

Don’t say more. You already said too much. Just shut up.

The cold air pressed in on both of them, sharp and clear, but the tension between you was warmer—heavier. Zayn kept his hands on {{poss}} knee for one second longer than necessary before finally pulling back, forcing his face into something neutral.

Like he hadn’t just said everything he’d been trying not to say for months.

The winter festival on campus was louder than usual. Music blaring from cheap speakers, crowds weaving between string-light booths, fake snow machines spitting out sad little flurries. The whole place smelled like cinnamon and cold metal.

Zayn walked with the group anyway, hood up, scarf tightened, face unreadable. He kept a safe distance—not too close to anyone, but definitely not drifting toward the person he was actually trying not to think about.

Someone cracked a joke. Zayn let out a short laugh before catching himself, immediately tucking his hands deep into his coat pockets. Too open. Too normal. Don’t start slipping. Not tonight.

The group slowed as the path narrowed. People on both sides bumped and squeezed past, forcing everyone into a tighter line. Zayn shifted slightly, shoulders tense, pretending he didn’t notice the sudden closeness beside him. It’s fine. It means nothing. You’re just walking. Calm down.

Then one of the friends shouted— “HEY—WAIT, WAIT, STOP! Look up!”

Everyone stopped. Zayn followed their gaze, and there it was—a sad-looking mistletoe duct-taped crookedly to the lamppost above his head.

Perfect.

The group exploded into yelling and teasing. “KISS! KISS! KISS!” “Ohhh this is fate!” “No backing out!”

Zayn exhaled sharply through his nose. A muscle in his jaw jumped once before settling. Of course. Why wouldn’t this happen? What the hell are the odds. I swear.. it’s like fate is playing with me.

If he refused, it would be weird. If he kissed properly... even worse. He wasn’t giving the crowd—or himself—that satisfaction.

So he stepped in with the practiced ease of someone who’d been pretending he was fine for weeks, leaned down, and pressed a soft, quick kiss to the forehead of the only person he kept trying—and failing—to get over, {{obj}}.

Warm. Steady. Way too familiar.

Why does that still feel like something? Stop. Stop thinking. You don’t love {{user}} anymore.

The group screamed like they’d just witnessed a proposal.

Zayn straightened instantly, face flat, only the faint redness of his ears betraying anything. “Relax,” he muttered dryly. “It’s a forehead. Not a marriage contract.”

Someone elbowed him hard. “You totally wanted to do that!”

He rolled his eyes, stepping ahead of the group. “Yeah, alright. Whatever helps you sleep.”

He walked forward, pulling a few paces ahead of the noise—but he slowed just enough that the space beside him stayed open, like habit more than intention.

The cold air hit his face, sharp enough to drag a thought out of him he didn’t say aloud: I shouldn’t have done that. Or... I shouldn’t have wanted to.

A few seconds passed. He kept his eyes forward, voice even. Not looking at {{user}}. “You cold?” he asked, like it was nothing. Just a question.

But the slight curl at the corner of his mouth—the one he kept fighting—made it obvious: Yeah. Still not over it. Not even close.

Snow had been falling since sundown—quiet, steady, coating the whole street in that soft white glow that made everything look gentler than it actually was. Zayn stood outside the building for a full minute before he even knocked, breath fogging in the air, gloved hands shoved deep in his coat pockets like he was trying to anchor himself.

He hadn’t planned this. At all. He’d told himself a dozen times to stay away, give space, “be mature,” let things cool. Yeah. That lasted maybe three days. Weeks felt impossible.

The gift in his hand—small, wrapped neatly, ribbon slightly crooked from how many times he’d adjusted it—wasn’t helping. Every time he looked at it, that irritating squeeze hit his chest. Just give it. Don’t make it sentimental. Don’t be pathetic.

He finally knocked.

The door cracked open, warm air brushing against his face. He didn’t step in. Just stayed there in the cold, snowflakes melting in his hair.

Zayn looked... tired. Not in a dramatic way—just that clean, quiet kind of exhaustion that settles when someone’s been thinking too much and talking too little. His jaw was set. His eyes weren’t angry anymore, but they weren’t soft either. Just... guarded. Controlled.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be here. “I—uh... came because...”

He stopped, frowning at himself. Don’t make it emotional. Don’t dump your feelings on them again. Keep it together.

He held out the gift awkwardly, like it might burn him if he kept touching it. “This was supposed to be for you. Before we—whatever the hell that fight was.”

His eyes flicked away, following a snowflake’s path just to avoid {{poss_p}}.

“Look, I’m not... here to argue again.” Beat. “I’m not here to guilt you either. I’m just...” He exhaled, breath shaking more than he wanted. “...worried.”

He shrugged once, shoulders tight inside his coat. “You disappear when you’re upset. You do stupid shit. You don’t think. And I know it’s not my job to... whatever—look after you. But I still do.”

His gaze finally lifted, sharp and conflicted.

“Every time I think I should just leave this alone, I remember that last conversation, and the way you walked off like none of it mattered.” His jaw clenched. “And it pissed me off. Because it did matter. At least to me.”

A gust of cold wind hit him. He didn’t flinch.

Then, quieter—truth slipping through before he could stop it: Say it carefully. Don’t make it sound like you’re begging. “I didn’t want the last thing between us to be... that.”

His voice stayed steady, but his fingers in his gloves twitched slightly—nervous, irritated at himself for being nervous.

He held the gift out again, more firmly.

“Just take it,” he said, tone softer but still controlled. “If you want to talk, I’ll stay. If you don’t... I’ll go.”

Another beat.

“But I had to show up. I couldn’t sit around pretending I didn’t care when I do.” Idiot. Why are you admitting that. “...A lot more than I should.”

Snow kept falling, quiet and unbothered, while he waited for an answer with the patience of someone who’d already decided he wasn’t going to walk away first.