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I let him in.
“Hey.”
He gives me a hard look, and without a word, walks over to the drawer I had my hands on, and he pulls it open. When he sees the gun, he raises his head to stare at me. “What the fuck is this?”
I find myself scrambling because my aversion to guns and violence isn’t a secret.
“Just, uh, just precautions, you know. I work really late so it just made sense to—”
He takes out the gun and checks the chamber. “You work late, so you got a gun? That’s the most bullshit excuse I’ve ever heard. And this is new; where did you get it?”
He is examining the gun, and I purse my lips. “I bought it.”
Zayn pins me to the spot with his icy blue glare. “Do you even know how to use this?”
I shrug. “The store owner showed me. Aim and shoot, right?”
Zayn doesn’t look impressed. “I swung by because Ian mentioned that your office was starting to look like a self-defense class.”
I grit my teeth at Ian’s name. “How did you know I’d be here?”
He puts the gun back in the drawer and picks up the baseball bat. “I took a well-educated guess.”
“Shouldn’t you be at the club, overseeing renovations?”
“Shouldn’t you be at home, in bed?” he counters.
“I had to get this done.” I gesture at the mountain of paperwork.
Zayn doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes an experimental swing of the bat, saying nonchalantly, “I wonder if Ian would land in the hospital if I hit him with this.”
I still. “What?”
He gives me a pleasant smile that doesn’t suit his nature at all. “Just wondering. After all, he did break your heart.”
My throat tightens. “What are you talking about?”
Zayn puts down the bat, carefully, and then leans his hip against my desk, gripping the edges of the desk. “Fergus told me a very interesting story about you and Ian.”
It feels like a hand is gripping my heart and squeezing it. “He did?”
Zayn just watches me. “Do you want a hug?”
My lips part as I struggle to hold in the tears; when I see the understanding on his face, and when he opens his arms, I rush into them, sobbing.
He lets me cry on him, holding me close. My sobs are silent, my heart shattering all over again. He doesn’t let go, letting me hold on to him for as long as I need.
When I finally pull away, he winces. “I swear, if you wiped your nose on my coat again—”
My sniffles dissolve into reluctant laughter. “That was one time.”
His scowl fades, and he asks me simply, “How are you holding up?”
I grab a tissue from beside him. “I’ll be okay. He came in here.” When Zayn’s face darkens, I hastily add, “He wanted to tell me that he has feelings for me too.”
“Did you tell them to shove them up his—”
“Yes, I did,” I nod, and this time the laughter is easier.
