Spaces Between Us [ZARRY]

Chapter 4: Harry

Zayn was staring again.

Not the way he used to back when we were young. Not with that lazy, cocky tilt of the head and a cigarette perched between two fingers. Not like the boy who once looked at people just long enough to convince them they mattered, right before walking away.

No, this was different. This was quiet. Concentrated.

His gaze lingered, tracing Ezra like he was trying to identify a painting he vaguely remembered seeing once, something just on the edge of recognition. A shadow of something familiar.

Ezra didn't notice. Or, more likely, he did and chose not to care. He was far too invested in organizing the cutlery on the table he'd claimed—front-facing, natural light, centered but elevated. Like he'd conducted a full spatial analysis before sitting down.

Zayn didn't speak.

He just kept watching.

I didn't like that.

Not because it threatened anything. But because I knew that look. I'd seen it before. In business meetings. At investment pitches. From auditors right before they asked the real questions.

I cleared my throat, loud enough to cut through the noise of the café.

"Why are you staring at my son, Zayn?" I asked, voice low but firm. "It's impolite."

His gaze snapped to mine like he'd forgotten I was there. His mouth opened, words fumbling to catch up. "I—is he really yours?"

I didn't flinch.

"He looks not like—"

"Like what?" My tone didn't shift. "Yes. He's mine. He looks like his other parent. But he's mine."

There was a beat of silence where he seemed to recalibrate. "His face...I don't know. It's familiar."

Of course it is.

I didn't bother responding. Let the words hang there.

Because I knew where this was going. And he didn't get to go there. 

Before he could dig the hole deeper, the barista called out my name.

I turned, stepped toward the counter, and lifted the tray. Hot chocolate with steamed milk, almond galette, my second espresso. Clean, organized, expected. Unlike this entire morning.

Zayn stayed rooted in place behind me, eyes still fixed on Ezra like proximity might offer him answers.

I returned to the space beside him and paused, not because I needed to, but because I wanted him to feel the pause.

"You're still staring," I said flatly. "And you haven't even ordered yet."

His mouth opened, but I didn't give him space to deflect.

"I assume that's why you came here. Not to loiter."

He blinked, like I'd slapped him across the cheek with a satin glove.

"Right," he muttered. "Yeah. Sorry. You're right."

I watched him shuffle awkwardly toward the counter, glance at the display, then speak to the barista like someone who'd just been accused of a crime he wasn't sure he'd committed. He ordered something black, naturally. Predictable.

And then, once again, he turned toward us. Still looking. Still not subtle.

I balanced the tray in one hand and sighed. "Why, Zayn?"

He stopped mid-step.

"Do you want to sit with us?" I asked, voice just loud enough to reach him. "You keep staring like this is a performance you paid for."