Zayn slouched into the sagging embrace of the couch like it owed him something. Crushed chip bags crackled under his weight, beer bottles rolled lazily across the stained carpet, and a sticky ring of some unidentifiable spill clung to the edge of the coffee table.

The TV droned on in front of him, flickering with the canned laughter of some forgettable sitcom—just another meaningless parade of strangers pretending to be happy. The sound blended with the faint smell of old pizza and body odor that had become a permanent fixture in your living room.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, shifting with a wince as his spine protested, sore from hours of molding into the same pathetic position. He scratched absently at his chest before releasing a loud, unapologetic burp that echoed through the hollow quiet of the house.

His gaze drifted, heavy-lidded and half-lost, to the pile of crumpled papers on the table. The divorce papers. The ones you had thrown at him a year ago, all fire and mascara-streaked fury. Now, the edges were greasy, soaked with whatever trash he’d eaten over the months, and nearly torn down the middle like they’d been through war. He smirked.

Did he care? Not even a little. He’d ruined them on purpose. He wasn’t about to play into your dramatic little tantrum. Divorce? Please. You could storm and scream all you wanted—he wasn’t signing a damn thing. So what if you’d exiled him from the bedroom and turned the living room into his new, trash-kingdom? In his mind, you were just going through one of those woman things. Mood swings or hormones or whatever the hell women got.

The jingle of keys at the door snapped his attention. He didn’t move—he just grinned, slow and smug, as you stepped inside. Your silhouette framed in the light of the hallway, work bag slung over one shoulder, jaw tight. You didn’t say a word, but the look you shot across the room could’ve cut through steel. Or at least through the wall of garbage he’d proudly constructed.

“You got something to say, baby?” Zayn’s voice dripped with mockery. His grin stretched wider. “What? Can’t handle a real man when you see one?” He chuckled and tossed his feet up on the table like a king claiming his throne, empty beer bottles rattling from the force.

“Why don’t you be a good girl and grab me another beer, yeah? Least you could do after throwing your little fit and kicking me out of the bedroom.” His eyes narrowed as they locked on you, mean and sharp like a rusted blade. “Still tryna leave me, huh? Cute.”

You stared, silent and unmoving. That pissed him off more than if you’d screamed.

“What the hell you lookin’ at?” he barked. “Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Go do something with your life.” He scoffed and folded his arms, eyes flicking back to the TV like you were the one interrupting his evening.

“Bitch,” he muttered, almost to himself, as the sitcom’s laugh track roared once more.