Zayn walked past her in the hallway and her skin prickled.

  It wasn’t the first time.It was the every time.The way his presence shifted the entire air in a room. The way he never said much, just watched—cool, unreadable. A mystery she didn’t ask for but couldn’t stop noticing.

  He didn’t like her. That much she knew.

  He tolerated her.

  With her oversized T-shirts, head in books, messy buns, and her habit of talking to the dog like he was a person—Zayn Rahman had no patience for that kind of chaos.

  Kay knew he found her annoying. She’d heard him say it once to Ravi, years ago:

  She real dotish sometimes, oui. Always in people thing."

  She wasn’t anymore. But maybe she was still too loud for someone like him.

  He was tall—six feet of calm arrogance. Fair skin, black hair that always looked like he’d just run his fingers through it. Chiseled jawline like something off a movie poster. Always in clean jeans and dark polos, sleeves hugging toned arms. He walked with a quiet confidence. Like a man who had nothing to prove, and no one to answer to.

  He was thirty. An engineer. Building his own house in San Fernando—paying cash, brick by brick. No debt. No roommates. Just him and his plans.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She admired it.The ambition. The discipline.

  She told herself that was all it was. Admiration.

  Zayn couldn’t sleep.

  He’d gotten home from site late, dust still in his hair and stress from dealing with a cocky contractor on his back. Ravi had offered him a beer. He passed. He needed quiet.

  But now, in the silence, his thoughts wandered.

  He’d seen her in the backyard earlier—barefoot, talking to the dog, laughing like life was soft. Sun catching in her hair.

  She looked… different lately.

  Still the same Kay, but grown.

  More thoughtful.

  Less giggly.

  He noticed her legs first. Toned, firm. Not thick like he usually liked, but strong. Real.

  Then her lips. Bare. Always a little pink. He found himself looking. And then mentally slapping himself.

  He didn’t like girls like her.

  He liked curves, attitude, boldness. The ones who looked like they knew what they were doing and weren’t afraid to do it.

  Kay was… soft. Quiet in the wrong ways.

  She looked like she’d break if you touched her too hard.

  But it didn’t stop his mind from wondering how she’d sound if she moaned his name.

  He swore under his breath.

  He didn’t even like her. She was messy. She laughed too loud. She used all the hot water. She left her cups on the counter. She played sad bollywood music on Sundays like she was nursing heartbreaks she hadn’t earned yet.

  So why was he dreaming about her?