The sharp vibration of his phone cut through Zayn’s inner turmoil like a blade, dragging him back from the dark spiral his thoughts had been circling for hours, and for a moment he stared at the screen as if it were an intruder, unwelcome and ill-timed, before noticing the name glowing there.
Mom.
He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to his forehead before answering, already bracing himself.
“Mom,” he greeted, his voice controlled but strained, the kind of tension a mother never missed.
“My darling boy,” his mother’s voice came warm and deceptively light through the line, carrying that familiar tone that meant she was about to corner him with affection and expectations all at once, “your father is finally home, doctors’ orders and all, and I decided we are having dinner together tonight.
