Page 70 of Falling Off Script

I shuffle to the door, expecting a neighbor, a fire drill, maybe someone trying to sell me essential oils and eternal salvation. I open it without looking. Big mistake.

Adrian Zayn is standing there. Dressed in black. Easy posture. Smirk locked and loaded.

He’s holding a small brown paper bag like he’s brought either enlightenment or blackmail.

“Evening,” he says.

I stare.

What the hell.

“That’s one way to say hi.”

I tighten my grip on the door. “Why are you here?”

He lifts the bag. “I’ve got you something.”

“Oh my God, is that more merch?” I step back. “If it says ‘Hold Frame,’ I’m calling the cops.”

He steps just far enough inside to hand me the bag. “It’s tea.”

I blink. “Tea?”

“Rare blend,” he says smoothly. “No caffeine. Thought it’s appropriate for the night time.”

“I was literally asleep.”

“Exactly.”

I look down at the bag. Then back at him.

“You’re acting weird,” I say.

He smiles. “I’ve been told.”

I shut the door slowly, still staring at him like he might disappear if I blink too hard.

He doesn’t.

He wanders into my kitchen like this is a casual visit and not an ambush on my sanity.

“You want to explain what’s actually going on?” I ask, arms crossed over my very unstrategic tank top.

“I just thought I’d stop by,” he says. “See how you were doing. Share a cup of something warm.”

“Tea?”

He turns toward me, still smiling. “Cambodian blue lotus. Subtle. Smooth. Lucid dreaming effect.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are you so invested in my sleep?”

He tilts his head. “Call it professional curiosity.”

I laugh once, sharp. “You are not my therapist.”

He takes a single step closer. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that I feel it in my knees.

“I didn’t say I was,” he murmurs. “But you’ve had very... interesting dreams lately.”

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