If there is one thing more exhausting than fasting in the Karachi heat, it's being dragged to Tariq Road by four women who think "minimalist" is a dirty word.
"Alayna, look at this turquoise!" Auntie Warda—Zayn's mother—held up a heavy bolt of silk that was bright enough to be seen from space. "It would look stunning on you for the Eid lunch. Don't you think, Sara?"
My mother, Sara, leaned in, squinting at the fabric. "It's lovely, Warda, but Alayna prefers those... muted colors. She says they're 'artistic.'" She said the word like it was a medical diagnosis.
I stayed silent, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Beside me, Zayn's sisters, Iqra and Nawal, were busy digging through a pile of lace.
"Ignore them," Nawal whispered, leaning into my ear. "They've already decided the color theme for the next three family events. You're just here for the fitting."
"I noticed," I muttered, offering her a small, tired smile.
"So," Iqra said, dropping a heavy dupatta onto the counter and looking at me with those sharp Malik eyes—the ones she shared with her brother. "How is the library project going? Zayn hasn't said a word about it, which usually means he's either obsessed or annoyed."
My heart did a familiar, annoying twitch. "It's fine. We're being... professional."
"Professional?" Nawal snorted, loud enough for a nearby shopkeeper to look up. "Alayna, the man has been home for three days and he looks like he's preparing for a hostile takeover of the dining table. He's so stiff I'm surprised he hasn't cracked."
"He was always like that," I said, trying to sound indifferent. I picked up a roll of simple ivory cotton, tracing the edge with my thumb. "Islamabad just finished the job."
Iqra stepped closer, her expression losing its playful edge. She leaned in, keeping her voice low while the mothers were distracted by a display of heavy bridal silks.
"He's forgotten how to be home, Alayna," Iqra said, her tone clinical and blunt. "He's spent so much time being 'Zayn Malik, CEO' that he doesn't remember how to just be Zayn. He's buried the version of himself that actually knew how to talk to people. He needs a reminder—and honestly? You're the only one who can still get under his skin enough to trigger it."
I froze. "I don't think he wants a reminder, Iqra. He made it very clear that he's here for work."
"He says a lot of things when he's terrified of failing," Iqra replied, her eyes narrowing. "He's a Malik. We hide behind walls until someone is brave enough to knock them down. You used to be that person, Alayna. Don't let the suit fool you—he's still the same boy, just trapped under a lot of expensive fabric."
I didn't have an answer for that. I didn't want to be "brave." I wanted to be left alone with my paints and my quiet life.