Zayn didn’t touch his dinner.

  He sat at the end of the table, one hand lazily spinning the glass of water in front of him, gaze occasionally flicking to the TV—but never once to Kay.

  Ravi was talking about work but Kay wasn’t really listening either. Her chest still buzzed from the ride home. From the way Zayn looked at her for that split second before shutting himself down again.

  He hadn't said a word to her since.

  And why would he?

  She wasn’t his type.

  Everyone knew the kind of girls Zayn liked.

  Curvy, fair-skinned girls. The stush ones who wore designer perfume and posted brunch photos with captions like “vibes only”.

  She remembered one of them—Priya, maybe? Petite waist, hips for days, and a voice so sugary it made your teeth hurt. Zayn used to drive an hour to Port of Spain just to see her for ten minutes.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Kay was the opposite.

  Brown skin. No meat in the “right places.” Toned arms from jogging around Debe early mornings, flat chest, small hips. She had a pretty face, sure—but always with that unspoken footnote: “For a brown girl.”

  And she was innocent. Not naive, not stupid. Just... simple. Soft. Still figuring herself out. She still giggled when something was too funny. She wasn’t sleek. She wasn’t stush.

  And she sure as hell wasn’t Zayn’s fetish.

  After dinner, she found him alone in the kitchen, rinsing his plate.

  “Thanks,” she said, leaning on the counter.

  He didn’t look at her. “For what?”

  “For picking me up.”

  He dried his hands, turned slowly. “That’s what Ravi would’ve done if he was around. Don’t read more into it.”

  Her heart thumped. “I didn’t.”

  His gaze lifted to hers, sharp and unreadable. “Good.”

  A pause. She stepped forward, stubborn. “I know I’m not your type, Zayn. You don’t have to keep reminding me.”

  His jaw ticked. “You think I have a type?”

  “I know you have a type. The kind of girl who knows she’s sexy. Who wears jeans that cling and calls you Zay-Zay like she owns you.”

  A flicker of something flashed in his eyes—amusement? Frustration?

  “You’ve been paying attention, huh?”

  Kay crossed her arms. “You’re hard not to notice.”

  He stared at her. Too long. Too intense. Then in a voice so low it almost didn’t reach her—

  “Trust me, Kay. The way I notice you now… it’s a problem.”

  Her breath hitched.

  But before she could say anything, he turned, walked out of the kitchen, and left her standing there—shaken, confused, and wanting things she swore she wouldn’t.