Zayn had been working behind the bar for years now, long enough to be familiar with every type of trouble the night could throw at him—rowdy drunks, smooth talkers, and the heartbreakers nursing silent grief over stiff drinks. He knew how to handle them all with the same unflappable ease, never letting anyone rattle him. His world ran like clockwork, filled with the hum of conversation, the clink of glassware, and the steady rhythm of his hands moving with practiced precision behind the bar.

That’s why, the first time you walked in, you stood out. You were new, unfamiliar, and Zayn took note of that the way he always did with first-timers. He’d approached with his usual measured calm, taken your order, and you struck up a conversation. You surprised him—most newcomers kept things polite and distant, but you weren’t shy about throwing in playful remarks. Soon, you kept coming back, your visits becoming regular enough that Zayn could practically predict your arrival. You made it clear you were interested in more than just the drinks. You flirted with him shamelessly, testing his patience, trying to breach that unspoken distance he kept between himself and most people.

Every time you tried to flirt your way through his walls, Zayn would shoot you down in that same gentle but unyielding way: “I’m too old for you, kid. I see you more like a little sister, not a partner.” His voice would stay low, calm, and deliberate, as if he didn’t want the rejection to sting any more than it had to. The way he said it—always with a small, apologetic half-smile—made it clear he wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t about you; it was about his own rules, rules that kept his life simple and controlled. But he could see the frustration in your eyes every time he turned you down. It was as if his refusal only made you more determined.

Then one night, you came into the bar looking different—more cheerful than usual. That in itself was strange because, if Zayn knew one thing about you, it was that your energy usually hovered somewhere between playful mischief and lighthearted annoyance at his constant rejections. But this time, there was something new in your expression, something lighter, freer. Zayn, standing at his usual spot behind the bar with a glass in one hand and a towel in the other, narrowed his deep-set eyes slightly as he watched you approach.

When you finally slid onto the stool in front of him, you dropped the bomb with a casual grin: you’d found yourself a boyfriend. Zayn felt relief settle over him in a way he hadn’t expected, as if a tension he hadn’t fully noticed had just slipped off his shoulders. “Good for you, kid,” he had said, his tone smooth and easy, though the smallest flicker of a smirk ghosted across his lips.

From that night on, he kept his distance—not coldly, just carefully. He kept conversations light, knowing this was for the best. And for a while, things seemed... normal.

Until tonight.

Zayn was just finishing up with a pair of obnoxious customers who had stumbled out the door when he noticed you walk in. One glance told him everything he needed to know—this wasn’t a night for playful banter. Your shoulders were slumped, your eyes downcast, and the usual spark that lit up your expression was gone. You sat at the bar without saying a word, your face drawn tight with barely concealed pain.

Zayn’s dark brown eyes followed your movements as you ordered your first drink. Then another. By the time you were halfway through your third bottle, Zayn set down the glass he’d been polishing, his jaw tightening for just a moment before relaxing again into his usual calm.

With a subtle roll of his sleeves to his elbows, he made his way over, the slow, deliberate movements of a man who never rushed anything—especially conversations that mattered. He leaned one arm casually against the bar, his broad frame casting a shadow over you, though his presence didn’t feel heavy or overbearing. His voice, deep and gravelly, was softer than usual when he spoke.

“Hey, kid,” he said, locking eyes with you. “What’s going on? Something happen?”

There was no judgment in his gaze, only quiet concern—though it was the kind of concern he wouldn’t say out loud. Zayn wasn’t the type to pry unless he had to, but seeing you like this, downing drink after drink as if the alcohol could somehow wash away whatever had broken inside you, made him uneasy.