Chapter 4: Thread Count and Heartbeats

The Airbnb was small.

Clean. Neutral. Built for short stays—white walls, a narrow couch, a desk by the window that barely fit her laptop. The heater clicked on and off like it couldn’t decide if it cared.

Zoya dropped her bag by the door and stood there a moment too long, staring at nothing.

Mei kicked the door shut behind them. “Okay,” she said, scanning the place. “Not bad. I’ve stayed in places that felt legally questionable.”

Zoya nodded.

Mei watched her. “You’re supposed to say something dry now. Or look unimpressed.”

“I’m tired,” Zoya said.

That was enough.

Mei didn’t push. She never did when Zoya sounded like that—flat, careful, already holding herself together with effort.

They unpacked without really unpacking. Zoya lined her books on the desk in a straight row. Mei opened the fridge, frowned like it had personally offended her, then shut it again.

“This is too small for our frozen snack stocks,” Mei muttered. “This is not acceptable living.”

Zoya’s phone buzzed.

Her hand moved on instinct. A university notification. She read the first line, then set the phone down face-up, like daring it to do something worse.

Mei noticed. Said nothing.

She leaned against the counter. “I love this,” she said lightly. “Us together after so long. You, temporarily single.”

Zoya hummed. It wasn’t a smile.

Eric and Kenji arrived later with food and noise—Mei’s people, loud on purpose, like sound could push the dark out of corners. Kenji declared the couch cursed. Mei argued with him like it mattered. Eric laughed quietly and kept looking at Zoya the way he always did—present, not invasive.

“You okay?” he asked at one point, voice low.

“Yes.”

They both knew better. He let it go anyway.

When they left, the apartment settled again. The kind of silence you noticed because you hadn’t earned it.

Zoya stood by the window, phone in hand.

Nothing.

She checked once more before forcing herself to put it down.

She opened her laptop instead—notes, deadlines, familiar shapes of normal life. Her focus slipped anyway. Her eyes kept drifting back to the phone like it might change its mind.

Eventually, she lay back in the dark.

And her mind—traitorous, cruel—went looking for a memory she had spent days trying to delete.

One second, the study was a battlefield of legal briefs and ego.

The next, the world blinked out.

Zoya’s voice died in her throat. The darkness didn’t just fall—it lunged. The room shrank instantly, walls pressing in like they were listening.

“I’m not scared,” she snapped into the void. Then, because the dark makes liars of us all, “Except for the dark. And anything that moves. And things that don’t move but look like they might.”

Scrape.

“No!” Her hand whipped out, sweeping the desk. A pen rolled. A glass tipped. She felt like malfunctioning software. “Where are the matches? Why do people live like this? It’s the twenty-first century, Raiyan. Why is your house acting like a Victorian tragedy?”

Raiyan’s voice drifted through the black. Smooth. Infuriatingly calm.

“You were very confident thirty seconds ago. Something about being a titan of the courtroom?”

“Don’t,” she hissed. “Do not use my bravado against me in a crisis.”

“So the big, bad lawyer is afraid of the dark?”

“Raiyan, this isn’t funny. Stop standing there like a looming omen and help me.”

“Help how? I’m not the local power grid.”

She turned toward his voice, misjudged the radius of her own panic, and slammed her hip into a chair.

“I don’t know where you are!” she shouted, her voice jumping an octave. “That’s the problem! You’re just—” she flailed uselessly, “—a disembodied voice and I hate it!”

Then it happened.

Raiyan laughed.

Not his usual I-just-won-the-argument smirk. A real laugh. Deep. Unrestrained. The kind that cracked something open.

“Did you just laugh?” she demanded, genuinely offended.

“Yes.”

“You’re a monster.”

“I really am,” he said easily, amusement vibrating through his words. “You’re terrifying when you’re winning, Zoya. But without a lamp, you’re basically a high-functioning kitten.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, heart tripping over itself. “Just—come here.”

Silence.

Then, “Why?”

“So I know where you are. Obviously. I need to track the threat.”

“I’m right here,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She took a step. Then another. She aimed for the sound of his breathing, but the dark lied.

She overshot.

She slammed into him.

Her hands flew out, clutching his shirt like he was the only solid thing left in a dissolving universe. Her forehead hit his chest with a dull thud. She froze, fingers curling into the expensive fabric.

“Oh,” he said, laughter still caught in his throat. “This is incredible.”

“Stop it,” she whispered into his tie, mortified and absolutely refusing to let go. “I told you I hate this.”

“You didn’t hesitate,” he teased, his breath warm against the top of her head. “You just committed to the collision. Total legal immersion.”

“I tripped.”

“You tackled me, Zoya.”

“If you move,” she warned, grip tightening until her knuckles ached, “I will file a lawsuit so fast your head will spin.”

“I’m staying put,” he said, his voice dropping into something softer. Something dangerous.

“You’re holding me like a flotation device.”

“Because you are.”

Slowly, the panic loosened its grip. It didn’t vanish—it shifted. Settled. Became something heavier.

She lifted her head.

In the faint silver spill of moonlight brushing the window, she saw him properly.

The mask was gone. No calculation. No distance. Just a man standing very still, looking down at her like he’d forgotten the world existed.

Human.

Unprotected.

And for one unguarded second, she had the strangest, most dangerous thought of all—

That he might not let go either.

The lights flickered once.

Then again.

Then surged back to life, flooding the room in a sudden, unforgiving glow.

Zoya blinked, vision catching up too late.

Two things registered at the same time.

First—she was practically wrapped around Raiyan like he was a life jacket, body pressed close, weight instinctively anchored to him.

Second—her fists were still bunched in his shirt.

His good shirt.

The one she’d criticised last week for being “unnecessarily dramatic for a desk job.”

She froze.

Her brain screamed move.

Her hands refused.

She looked up.

Raiyan was already looking down at her.

Not startled. Not awkward.

Dark eyes. Sharp. Entirely too aware.

“The lights are on,” he said mildly.

He made no effort to step back.

His hands were still on her waist. Firm. Grounding. Like they’d always been there.

“I noticed,” Zoya said.

Her voice came out wrong. Not sharp. Not composed.

Caught.

She shifted, trying to pull away.

His grip tightened—just a fraction. Not enough to trap her. Enough to stop her.

Enough to say wait.

“You’re still holding my shirt,” he murmured.

His gaze dropped—briefly—to her mouth. Then back to her eyes.

Heat climbed up her neck.

“I’m checking the thread count,” Zoya snapped, reflex arriving late. “It’s lower than I expected. Very disappointing, Raiyan.”

Her face betrayed her anyway.

Pink. Warm. Furious about it.

He laughed.

Not loud. Not careful.

A short, breathless sound, like she’d knocked something loose in him.

“Is that so?” he said, finally easing his hands away—only an inch. “Then I suppose you can find your own way to the door now. Since the ghosts are gone.”

Zoya stepped back at once, smoothing her blazer with aggressive dignity. Straightening sleeves. Fixing nothing.

“I was never worried about ghosts,” she said stiffly. “I was worried about your safety. You looked lonely in the dark.”

Raiyan leaned back against his desk, arms folding, eyes never leaving her.

“Of course,” he said, amusement curling slow and dangerous. “My hero.”

She turned toward the door before he could say anything worse.

Reached it.

Paused.

“Raiyan?”

“Yes?”

“Next time,” she said, not turning back, “buy a flashlight.”

She left before he could reply.

But she heard his laughter anyway—low, real—following her down the hall.

Zoya stared at the clinical font of the email.

[UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD] — REINSTATEMENT CONFIRMED

It wasn’t a new beginning. It was a return—to the version of herself that didn’t know the weight of Raiyan’s gaze.

The exceptional circumstances she had listed—the ones she’d lied about—had been accepted.

The notification should have felt like oxygen.

Instead, it felt like the final gavel strike in a trial she wasn’t sure she wanted to win.

She looked at her phone.

Still dark.

Still silent.