Every surface feels too close. The counter. The kettle. The row of mugs you've had for years. None of them offer comfort.

You hear the creak of the floorboard near the kitchen archway. The one that always gives him away. He's stopped there. Waiting. Always waiting.

You reach for the sink. Turn the tap. Let the water run cold into your palm. You don't drink it. You just watch it slip through your fingers.

Behind you, he shifts. The floor protests under his weight. Closer now. Not crowding. Just present. The way he always is when he doesn't know what else to do.

The tap squeaks as you turn it off. The silence rushes back in like it never left. Through the window, the streetlight casts a pale orange rectangle across the linoleum.

Zayn's reflection ghosts in the glass. He's standing with his arms loose at his sides. No crossed arms. No defensiveness. Just bare hands. Open. Waiting.