Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m not being funny,” Louis says, holding up a tangled mass of cables like it’s a dead rat, “but this is a hate crime. What even is this? A phone charger from 2007?”

Zayn shrugs from where he’s sat cross-legged on the floor, folding clothes into a box. “Could be. Might be for my old electric toothbrush.”

Harry snatches it from Louis, inspects the end, and casually pockets it. “Charger now. Snake whip later.”

“Excellent,” Niall says, kicking open a mostly-empty suitcase. “He’s armed.”

Zayn sighs and flicks a pair of socks into the suitcase. The bedroom looks like a bomb’s gone off, boxes half-packed and wardrobe gaping open like it’s judging him.

Jenna’s boyfriend is moving in by the end of the week, which means Zayn’s out. Not maliciously. Jenna gave him notice, apologised for the rush, even offered to help him find a new place. But still. It’s a bit of a shit time to be broke, job-juggling, and trying to chase an arts career in a city where “affordable” means you maybe don’t share a bathroom with five rats.

“Why do you own six pairs of the exact same black jeans?” Niall asks, squinting into the wardrobe.

“They’re not the same,” Zayn says.

“They’re identical. You are a cartoon character.”

Zayn shrugs. “They fit. They’re safe.”

Louis throws a pair at his head. “You’re emotionally stunted.”

“Thank you for your help.”

Harry opens a drawer and pulls out a tiny sketchbook. “Oh, what’s this then? Sexy secrets?”

“Put that down.”

“I knew it,” Louis says, grinning. “Wank art.”

“It’s not—Jesus. You’re all demons.”

The sketchbook is snatched, flipped through, admired, and then handed back like a religious artefact. Zayn tucks it into his backpack before they can start assigning page ratings.

They keep packing—badly—but the rhythm is familiar. Easy. Every so often someone holds up something weird (a plastic frog, a velvet blazer, a mug shaped like a cat’s arse), and the rest mock Zayn’s lifestyle choices.

Eventually, Louis flops onto the bed and groans. “So how many psychopaths have you interviewed with so far for flatmate positions?”

Zayn makes a face. “You don’t want to know.”

“No, we do,” Niall says, mouth full of crisps he did not bring but somehow found. “Give us the highlights.”

Zayn ticks them off on his fingers. “One bloke who kept referring to the living room as his ‘meditation womb.’ A girl who asked if I’d be okay with her three ferrets ‘roaming free.’ A couple who asked if I was comfortable with ritual nudity. And a guy who said he plays the bagpipes, but only after midnight.”

Louis wheezes. “How are you still alive?”

“And then the woman—fully serious—who said she doesn’t believe in curtains.”

Harry, from the windowsill, tilts his head. “I mean… I kind of get that.”

Three heads swivel.

“No you don’t,” Zayn says immediately.

Harry shrugs, curls loose around his face. “Curtains are just another way we block out the natural flow of the universe. Maybe she’s just open. Emotionally. Spiritually. Architecturally.”

“You’re not serious,” Louis says.

Niall squints. “Didn’t you spend two hours last week trying to re-hang your blackout blinds?”

“That was different. I was overstimulated.”

“You’re always overstimulated,” Zayn mutters.

Harry smiles serenely and takes another sip of Diet Coke. “Exactly.”

Niall leans back against the wall, grinning. “Any actual leads, though?”

Zayn nods, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Viewing tomorrow. This guy Liam posted a listing. Room in a two-bed, decent area, decent rent. Doesn’t seem like a serial killer.”

“What’s the catch?” Harry asks.

“No pets, no parties, no smoking inside.”

Louis snorts. “You break all those rules daily.”

“I don’t—okay, first of all, I smoke near the window. Second, I don’t throw parties.”

“You invite us over. Same thing.”

“And your plants count as pets,” Harry adds. “You talk to them.”

Zayn shrugs. “They thrive on attention. Anyway—he seems normal. Polite. Capital letters in his messages. Didn’t ask anything creepy.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Sounds fake.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Too normal. You’ll show up and he’ll be wearing a full suit or something.”

“Or be secretly in a cult,” Niall offers.

“Or,” Zayn says slowly, “he’s just a decent guy renting a room. And I can move in, not get murdered, and maybe start drawing again without living out of boxes.”

A beat.

Then:

“Boring,” Louis declares.

“Coward,” Harry mutters.

“We’ll see,” Niall says, nodding sagely. “Liam might still be weird.”

Zayn snorts and slumps onto the floor, surrounded by chaos, friends, and folded jeans that all look the same.

He really hopes Liam’s not weird.

That night Zayn crashes on Niall’s sofa.

He shifts for the third time in twenty minutes, trying to find a position that doesn’t make his spine feel like it’s folding in on itself.

The cushions are deceptively soft, and the blanket Niall gave him smells like curry and Febreeze. The pillow’s got some kind of mysterious crumb situation going on, but Zayn’s too tired to investigate.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable creak of the floorboard that always gives Niall’s flatmate away.

Zayn freezes.

And then: “’Night, Zayn.”

That voice. Way too breathy for someone just walking past.

Zayn grits his teeth. “’Night, Caspian.”

He waits until the door clicks shut again, then flops back down and mutters, “He’s going to skin me and wear me like a poncho.”

Niall, brushing his teeth in the hallway, calls back, “He’s just socially unwell.”

“He watched me eat toast with unbroken eye contact.”

“Maybe he’d never seen someone butter all corners so dramatically.”

Zayn groans and pulls the blanket over his face. “I should’ve moved in with Louis. Or Harry. Or under a bridge.”

Niall appears in the doorway, toothbrush still in his mouth. “You said and I quote: ‘Living with Louis would make me feral,’ and ‘Harry’s flat smells like sandalwood and commitment issues.’”

Zayn lifts the blanket just enough to glare at him.

Niall grins, foamy toothpaste and all. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Remind me in the morning.”

There’s a beat. Niall disappears and comes back with a cup of tea and a pack of biscuits, setting them quietly on the coffee table.

“Viewing’s tomorrow, yeah?” he says, tone dipping just a little more serious. “This Liam guy.”

Zayn nods. “Tomorrow morning. Said I can pop by for a cup of tea, have a look round.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “Cup of tea? That’s dangerously normal.”

“I know. Polite texts, punctuation, said he'd hoover and air out before I come over.”

Niall gasps. “A hoover? What’s next, a working boiler?”

“If it turns out he owns coasters, I’m proposing on sight.”

Niall laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Go to sleep, drama queen.”

Zayn mumbles something rude as Niall leaves, but he’s smiling. Just a little.

He lies back, staring at the ceiling, arms folded over his chest.

Please be normal, he thinks. Please don’t be another Caspian.

Then: “Goodnight again, Zayn,” floats out from behind the flatmate’s door.

Zayn closes his eyes.

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

* * *

The hallway smells like fresh laundry and someone’s overpriced diffuser. Zayn checks the flat number again, presses the buzzer, and immediately regrets his outfit. The weather app had said mild, but mild is apparently code for sweaty with a chance of regret.

The door opens faster than expected.

And there he is.

Liam.

Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing joggers and a faded Reading Festival T-shirt that fits a little too well. Clean-shaven, with tea already in hand like a walking estate agent ad—minus the smugness.

“Zayn?” he asks, friendly smile already in place.

Zayn nods, hoisting his tote bag higher. “Hey. Yeah. Sorry if I’m a bit early.”

“You’re right on time.” Liam steps aside, ushering him in. “I’m Liam, by the way. Come on through.”

The flat is… nice. Suspiciously nice. Wooden floors, big windows, a sofa that doesn’t look like it came from the side of the road. There’s a bookshelf that’s not just for decoration and a big leafy plant that’s thriving.

Zayn resists the urge to check for traps.

Liam gestures toward the kitchen. “Cup of tea still on offer, if you want it.”

“God, yes.”

He follows Liam in, perching awkwardly on a stool at the breakfast bar while Liam moves around the kitchen like someone who’s comfortable. Zayn can’t relate.

“You work at an art supply store, right?” Liam asks, not looking up as he pours the tea.

Zayn blinks. “Yeah—how did you—?”

“You said it in your email. I remembered.”

Zayn blinks again. Dangerous. Too normal.

Liam hands him a mug. “Hope oat milk’s alright. My mate’s vegan, so it’s all I’ve got in.”

Zayn takes the mug. “Oat milk’s basically my blood type at this point.”

Liam smiles and leans back against the counter. “Alright, so—layout. You’d have the room at the end of the hall. Big windows, decent storage. We share the main bathroom, kitchen, living space. No smoking inside, but I’m not weird about it. Just don’t set anything on fire.”

Zayn nods slowly, sipping his tea. “And you don’t have, like… a meditation womb? Or a rule about ritual nudity?”

Liam blinks. “A what?”

Zayn snorts. “Sorry. Flat-hunting trauma. You’d be surprised.”

Liam chuckles. “I think I’m normal? I mean, I do have a spreadsheet for bills and I alphabetise my spices, but I haven’t sacrificed anything under a full moon.”

Zayn narrows his eyes. “Spice alphabetising is borderline.”

“Spoken like someone with rogue paprika energy.”

They grin at each other for a moment too long.

Zayn clears his throat. “Can I see the room?”

“Yeah, of course. This way.”

It’s not massive, but it’s bright, with tall windows and a desk under the sill. The walls are bare. Clean. There’s a small bookshelf, a mirror, a double bed that doesn’t creak when he tests the edge.

It’s the first place that hasn’t made him want to flee on instinct.

Liam leans in the doorway. “You don’t have to decide now. I’ve got one other viewing tomorrow, but if you’re keen—”

“I’m keen,” Zayn says, quicker than he means to. “I mean—I’ll think about it. But yeah. It’s nice.”

Liam just nods, calm and easy. “Alright. Let me know.”

Zayn lingers for a second too long in the doorway.

He’s not sure what he was expecting. Some awkward small talk, maybe. A weird vibe. Definitely not this. Not someone polite and soft-spoken with forearms like that and a bookshelf organised by theme.

“Thanks for the tea,” Zayn says, heading back toward the front door.

“Any time.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, Zayn pulls out his phone and fires off a group text:

Z🚬: hes nice

Z🚬: and he has oat milk

Z🚬: im moving in

Three dots appear immediately.

Lou🧨: dead in a week

Nialler☘️: famous last words

Harold✌️: whats his star sign

Zayn huffs a quiet laugh, pockets his phone, and starts walking.

He’d texted his manager the day before to say he’d be in a bit later, and it’s nearly eleven by the time he pushes through the door of the shop. It smells like paper and dust and vaguely floral from the scented hand soap in the staff bathroom.

He clocks in, shrugs off his coat, and slips behind the counter just as the late morning lull settles in.

He's halfway through restocking ink pens when he realises he’s been smiling at a display of brush markers like they just flirted with him. He blinks, shakes it off, tries to focus on the rhythm—sort, price, straighten, label—but his head is full of:

Decent-sized room. Natural light. Affordable rent. Seemingly normal flatmate.

“You good?”

Leanne’s voice cuts through from behind the till. She’s tapping a roll of masking tape against her palm, eyebrow raised.

Zayn startles. “What?”

“You’ve been making heart eyes at the Copic rack for five minutes.”

He clears his throat. “I wasn’t.”

“You were. I thought you were about to propose to the Pigma Microns.”

Zayn snorts. “I’m just tired.”

She eyes him. “Tired with a glow? Suspicious. Spill.”

Zayn waves her off, grabbing a stack of sketchbooks. “Not a big deal. Just… found a flat. Proper one. Not weird, not culty. Just normal.”

Leanne gasps. “A normal London flat? That exists?”

“Apparently.” He smiles to himself as he arranges the display. “Clean, good light, quiet street. Flatmate’s not a murderer.”

“Oh my god.” She leans across dramatically. “Are they cute?”

Zayn hesitates. Then: “...Yes. But that’s not relevant.”

She cackles. “It’s always relevant.”

He rolls his eyes but his phone’s already in his hand, thumb hovering over the email app. Screw it.

He types:

Hey Liam,

Thanks again for the viewing earlier. Really liked the space (and the tea).

If the room’s still available, I’d love to move in if you’ll have me.

Best,

Zayn

He hits send before he can overthink it and slides the phone into his apron pocket. Tries not to check it every five seconds. Fails.

He’s restocking watercolour pans and humming under his breath a few hours later when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out quickly.

[email protected]:

Hey Zayn,

Brilliant. Would love to have you.

When do you want to move in?

Zayn grins.

He replies instantly:

Yesterday.

The reply comes back three minutes later:

Lol. How about tomorrow then?

Zayn thumbs out one word:

Yes.

That’s it. No exclamation marks. No emojis. Just yes.

He pockets the phone and turns back to the counter just as someone asks where the fine liners are. He slides into it like muscle memory—aisle two, polite tone ready.

But a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Just the smallest thing.

Leanne clocking it from the till and grinning way too wide doesn’t help.

Zayn shrugs. “What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

He just shrugs and moves back to the pans.

* * *

Zayn doesn’t own much. Three duffel bags. One box of books. A milk crate of art supplies and questionable cables. A few plants. And a battered guitar case he hasn’t touched in six months.

He told the lads he didn’t need help.

They came anyway.

Because he does need Louis’ car. And unfortunately, that means Louis has to drive it.

“Why is this shaking,” Zayn asks, clutching the door like it’s a life raft.

“She’s got character,” Louis says, weaving round a corner without indicating.

“She’s got a death wish,” Harry mutters from the back seat, pressed between a coat stand and a rolled-up rug. “If I die in a Ford Fiesta full of acrylic paint and your underwear, Zayn, I’m haunting you.”

Niall, wedged behind the driver’s seat with a potted plant on his lap, just grins. “This is the best day I’ve had all week.”

Somehow—by miracle or sheer dumb luck—they make it to Liam’s without dying. Louis parallel parks like it’s a competitive sport. Zayn climbs out and stretches like he’s just survived a hostage situation.

Liam had emailed that morning with a simple:

Just come by whenever. Key’s under the mat. Hope the move goes smoothly :)

Normal. Calm. Thoughtful.

Zayn has never been more suspicious of anything in his life.

They grab the bags and head up. The key is exactly where Liam said it would be. Zayn unlocks the door and pushes it open to—

Silence.

Soft, clean-scented silence. Like someone actually mops here.

The lads immediately fan out like they’re on a recon mission.

Harry gasps. “Is this a Dyson?”

Niall opens the fridge. “There’s oat milk and almond. What does it mean?”

Louis spins in a slow circle, then announces, “I trust this man with my life.”

Zayn drops his bags by the hallway and sighs. “Please don’t touch things.”

They migrate toward Zayn’s room, which is just as he remembered: big windows, soft light, neutral walls. There’s already a duvet folded neatly at the end of the bed, a towel on the door, a tiny potted cactus on the windowsill like Liam had prepped for a guest.

Louis throws himself on the bed. “Alright. I’ll allow it.”

Harry’s already unpacking a box, placing Zayn’s sketchbooks neatly on the shelf.

Niall opens the wardrobe. “Ooh, rail space. Fancy.”

They help (badly), putting things away in mostly the right places—except Louis, who just piles socks in the desk drawer and calls it “chaotic neutral storage.”

Eventually, they’re done.

And that’s when Louis, standing by the hallway, spots Liam’s door. It’s slightly ajar.

He raises an eyebrow. “Shall we?”

Zayn frowns. “No. That’s weird.”

Louis gives him a look. “It’s a little open.”

“It’s his bedroom.”

“I just want a peek!”

“No, mate. That’s a violation.”

But Louis is already halfway there.

And then they’re all there. Four grown men standing just outside someone’s room like nosy neighbours in a soap opera.

Zayn sighs but looks anyway.

Liam’s room is… nice. Predictably.

Clean and tidy. Warm-toned lighting. A neatly made double bed with dark grey sheets and two pillows that don’t look flat or sad. A bookshelf by the wall, stacked with paperbacks and a few thick nonfiction titles—one of them spine-out reading The Body Keeps the Score, which seems aggressive. There’s a couple of dumbbells tucked under the bed, a laundry basket in the corner, a hoodie slung over the back of a chair. On the dresser sit a handful of framed photos, casual but carefully placed.

One shows Liam with an older couple and two girls—his parents, maybe, and sisters? They’re smiling on a sunny day, arms around each other. Liam looks younger, hair shorter, face slightly rounder. Happy.

Another is clearly from holiday—Liam shirtless in swimming trunks and a bucket hat, grinning at the camera with sunglasses pushed down his nose, sun-kissed and surrounded by a group of lads, all mid-laugh. There’s sand on his knees and a drink in his hand.

Zayn stares a second too long at that one.

The last is a graduation photo—Liam in a cap and gown, beaming, holding his diploma. 

His room is nice. No weird energy. Just… lived in.

“Of course his bed’s made,” Niall murmurs.

Harry nods. “I bet he tucks in his fitted sheet with hospital corners.”

Louis whispers, “Imagine how that man folds his towels.”

Zayn’s about to hiss at them to get out of the doorway when—

Click. Rattle.

They freeze.

“Shit—” Zayn hisses, shoving Louis.

Harry’s already dragging the door shut.

Niall spins and grabs the nearest mug like he’s been there the whole time.

Louis throws himself dramatically across the sofa like he lives there now.

Zayn stands frozen in the hallway, trying to look like someone who definitely hasn’t just been inspecting a stranger’s framed family memories.

The front door swings open.

Footsteps. Keys jangling. And then—Liam appears in the hallway, a little out of breath, cheeks flushed, T-shirt clinging to his chest in damp patches. He’s wearing gym shorts that really shouldn’t be legal, riding high on thick, muscular thighs.

He clocks them all immediately—four strangers spread throughout the flat like a poorly organised intervention—and raises an eyebrow, breath still catching a little.

“Wow,” he says, grinning. “Either this is a robbery or Zayn travels with an entourage.”

The lads laugh, too loudly.

Zayn clears his throat. “Hey—hi. Uh. Liam—guys, this is Liam. My new flatmate.”

Liam gives a small, polite wave, smile still easy, warm. “Nice to meet you all. Proper full house in here.”

Louis, perched on the sofa like it’s a throne, grins wide. “We’re here to inspect for safety. And vibes.”

“I’m Louis,” he adds. “Zayn’s lawyer. He’s being sued for having too many black jeans.”

“I’m Harry,” says Harry, already sipping Liam’s almond milk like it’s vintage wine. “Love what you’ve done with the feng shui.”

“Niall,” says Niall, still holding the mug he picked up in panic. “Flat’s great. Fridge’s even better.”

Zayn hides behind a nervous half-smile. “They, uh… they came to help. Kind of. Mostly they just judged my belongings.”

Liam chuckles and toes off his trainers by the door, then drops his gym bag in a soft thud. “I’d shake your hands, but I’m a bit disgusting right now from the gym.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, damp and messy. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his neck.

Zayn watches it. Horrified at himself.

Harry catches Zayn looking and mouths, oh no, behind his mug.

Zayn immediately looks away and says, to no one in particular, “So. Yeah. Good timing.”

Liam shrugs, still smiling. “Didn’t expect a welcoming committee, but I’m not complaining.”

He disappears into the kitchen, the back of his shirt clinging slightly between his shoulder blades. His thighs flex with each step.

Louis leans in and whispers, “You’re doomed.”

Zayn swats his arm.

Harry mouths, oh my god, wide-eyed, barely containing a grin.

Niall waggles his eyebrows like a cartoon villain.

Zayn gestures wildly for them to stop.

Louis smirks, clearly about to say something devastating, when Liam calls back, “You lot want a drink or anything?”

Zayn leaps in. “Oh no, they’ve got to head out, right lads? That thing you’ve got planned?”

Harry blinks. “What thing?”

“The—thing!” Zayn insists. “That plan you had. Ages ago.”

Niall, completely ignoring him, says cheerfully, “I could definitely go for a drink, actually.”

Zayn stares at him. He doesn’t trust them around his new flatmate.

Liam pokes his head around the corner, towel in hand. “No stress. I’ve got beers in the fridge. Juice too, if that’s more your vibe.”

“Sweet,” Louis says, already halfway to the kitchen. “I love it here.”

Zayn’s soul leaves his body.

The next ten minutes are pure chaos. The lads drape themselves around Liam’s pristine flat like they own it, sipping drinks and chatting like this is their housewarming.

Liam, somehow not overwhelmed, settles on the arm of the sofa, towel still slung around his neck, relaxed and amused.

“So what do you do?” Harry asks, his tone softer now.

Liam replies, “I’m a physiotherapist.”

“Oh, cool,” Louis says, nodding. “Whereabouts?”

“St. Mary’s,” Liam says. “Inpatient rehab mostly, but I rotate through orthopaedics too.”

Niall perks up. “Is that like… people recovering from surgery and stuff?”

“Yeah. Surgery, injuries, stroke recovery, neuro stuff sometimes. We get a mix.”

Harry leans forward slightly. “That must be intense.”

“It can be,” Liam says, smile a little more subdued now, but still warm. “It’s rewarding, though. You work with people over weeks, sometimes months. You see real change.”

Zayn watches his mates—all unusually quiet now—nodding, taking it in. No jokes. No eyebrow waggling. Just real interest.

“That’s mad,” Niall says. “I’d just cry all the time.”

Liam laughs. “Sometimes I do. Patients, too. But we’ve got a good team. You learn how to hold space for it.”

Harry hums. “Bet you’re good at it.”

Liam shrugs like he doesn’t know what to do with that. “I try.”

Zayn clears his throat and looks away. He doesn’t know what it is exactly—Liam sitting there all flushed from the gym, talking about holding space for people—but it’s doing something treacherous to him.

Louis says, “That’s class, man. Genuinely.”

Liam nods, grateful. “Cheers.”

Harry sips his drink and nudges Liam lightly with his elbow. “What else are you into, then? Hobbies? Interests? Secrets?”

Liam smiles, a little sheepish. “Well, I’m pretty into the gym.”

“Shocker,” Louis says dryly, glancing at Liam’s arms. “Never would’ve guessed.”

Liam laughs. “Yeah, I know. Bit basic. But I like it. Keeps me balanced. I’m big on self-discipline and all that.”

Harry leans back, intrigued. “Zen gym lad. Noted.”

“I read a lot too,” Liam adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mostly work stuff—physio journals, sports rehab, pain science. I’d love to get more specialised one day. Maybe palliative care physiotherapy.”

“Damn,” Niall says. “Ambitious.”

Liam shrugs. “I just like learning. Always feels like there’s more I could be doing for people.”

Zayn doesn’t mean to be staring, but he is.

Liam goes on, a little more relaxed now. “And I love a pint with my mates,” He says, smiling. “Just chilling. Walks in the park when it’s not miserable out. Travelling when I can—food, culture, different ways people live. Feels good to get out of your own bubble, you know?”

There’s a quiet pause. The lads nod, genuinely charmed.

Then Liam seems to catch himself, suddenly bashful. “God, I’m prattling on. Sorry. What about you lot? What do you do?”

Louis points at himself first. “Lawyer. Solicitor, technically. Property and commercial. But I make it fun.”

“You absolutely do not,” Zayn mutters.

“I wear patterned socks and argue with landlords for a living,” Louis counters. “That’s art.”

Liam grins. “Fair enough.”

“I’m a music teacher,” Niall says. “Private lessons and some school gigs. Kids mostly. I teach ukulele to a class of seven-year-olds on Thursdays. It’s chaos. I love it.”

Liam lights up. “That’s amazing.”

Harry gestures lazily. “Writer-slash-editor. Mostly freelance. Bit of everything—copy, fiction, ghostwriting. Manifestos, if the mood strikes. Also working on a novel I’ll never finish about a man who becomes so emotionally repressed he starts haunting his own flat.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Niall mutters, “Is that the one where the fridge talks to him?”

Harry nods solemnly. “She’s his only friend.”

Louis blinks. “What genre is that again?”

Harry shrugs. “Rom-com.”

Liam blinks once. “Right.”

Zayn presses a hand to his face.

But Liam just laughs, warm and delighted. “Honestly. I’d read that.”

Harry raises his glass. “I’ll send you the draft. You can write the physio character.”

Liam grins. “Only if I get to heal someone physically and emotionally.”

Harry says, deadly serious, “That’s the dream, babe.”

And then, out of nowhere, Niall pipes up. “And Zaynie here's an artist.”

Zayn snorts. “Okay, let’s not.”

“No, seriously,” Niall insists. “He’s really good.”

“He’s being modest,” Louis says, lifting his beer. “He did this massive piece for my sister’s wedding—custom portrait, whole floral background, loads of tiny details. Took him, like, two weeks. Made everyone cry. Even me. And I’ve got no soul.”

Harry adds, “He also designed the tattoo on my ribs.”

Liam turns to Zayn, brows lifted. “Wait—really?”

Zayn shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “It’s not that deep. I do bits of work for people sometimes—commissions, wedding stuff, logos, cover art. Whatever comes in.”

Liam leans forward slightly. “Still. That’s really cool.”

Zayn shrugs again. “I’m not, like, an artist-artist. I sell paintbrushes for a living and have an unrealistic dream of living off of my art one day. Rent still exists, y'know.”

He tries to laugh it off, but it comes out a little tight.

Liam doesn’t push, just smiles, soft and open. “I’d love to see your work one day.”

Zayn blinks, caught off guard by how easily he says it. No pity, no pressure, just genuine interest.

He fidgets with the label on his beer bottle. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The lads don’t say anything—just exchange quiet looks that Zayn absolutely does not want to talk about.

Harry nudges him gently with a toe under the coffee table.

Zayn kicks him back.

The conversation winds down naturally, beers nearly empty, jackets being shrugged back on. Zayn thinks they might actually leave without causing further chaos.

He's wrong.

By the time they’re at the door, Louis somehow has a full physio routine from Liam for the shoulder he “definitely pulled doing something completely normal, don’t ask.” He’s talking about rotator cuffs like he’s done research.

Harry, on the other hand, is gazing at Liam with full-on starry eyes, dreamy and dazed like he’s just witnessed a miracle. 

Then there’s Niall, who doesn’t even say goodbye so much as pulls Liam into a hearty hug, arms tight around his shoulders like they’re lifelong mates. Liam doesn’t hesitate—wraps him up just as warmly, even gives him a pat on the back.

Zayn watches it all unfold with growing dismay.

Harry gives Liam a lingering smile on the way out. “You’ve got a good energy. Kind of a blue aura.”

Liam blinks. “Blue?”

“It’s a compliment,” Harry calls back, already halfway out the door.

Louis waves his phone at Liam on the way out. “I’ll text you for shoulder updates, yeah?”

Liam nods. “Any time.”

And then the door clicks shut behind them.

Just like that, the flat is quiet again.

Zayn stands in the centre of the room, surrounded by empty bottles and warmth still lingering in the cushions.

Liam exhales slowly, hands on his hips. “Your friends are great.”

Zayn stares at him. “You say that like you weren’t just mobbed.”

Liam chuckles. “It was nice. Haven’t had a proper sit-down like that in a while.”

Zayn crosses his arms, trying to ignore the fact that Liam still smells faintly of gym sweat and fabric softener. “Careful, or they’ll actually adopt you.”

Liam raises an eyebrow, teasing. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Zayn opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then looks at the floor.

The silence stretches between them.

Two flatmates. New start. Clean slate.

Liam stretches, arms high over his head, and Zayn quickly looks away. Not because of the waistband of his Hugo Boss boxers peeking out. Or the strip of tan skin just above it. Just… out of politeness.

“I’m gonna grab a shower,” Liam says, already heading for the hallway. “Feel like I’m still sweating.”

“Yeah—sure, go for it,” Zayn says quickly, voice high.

Liam offers an easy smile and disappears down the hall.

The second the bathroom door clicks shut, Zayn exhales. A long, slow breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

The flat is quiet now. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the muffled sound of water turning on.

He flops back onto the sofa, arms flung out, eyes to the ceiling.

This will be fine.

Totally fine.

Liam is a nice roommate.

Very nice.

Very normal.

Very—

Fit. So Fit.

But that’s entirely beside the point.

Zayn sits up, frowning at nothing in particular.

Don’t be weird about it, he tells himself. He sits on his hands like that will physically stop him from thinking too much.

He’s still there—posed awkwardly like someone waiting for a dentist—when Liam comes back from the shower. His hair’s damp, pushed back off his forehead. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt that clings just slightly to his chest, and grey joggers that hang low on his hips.

Zayn sits up straighter, hands now awkwardly folded in his lap, trying very hard not to look directly at Liam.

Liam gives Zayn a small smile, drying his hands on the hem of his shirt. “You don’t have to sit like you’re at a job interview, y'know.”

Zayn blinks. “I—what?”

“Make yourself at home,” Liam says, stepping into the living room. “It’s your flat too now, remember?”

Zayn shrugs, a bit helpless. “Yeah. No, I know. I just—was… sitting.”

Liam chuckles and leans against the doorway. “Seriously. Put your stuff out. Hang a poster. Scatter your mysterious black jeans wherever. Light a weird candle. Make it feel like yours.”

Zayn nods, a little embarrassed by how touched he is. He tucks one leg under himself and lets his posture relax, just a bit.

Then Liam says, “Only one rule.”

Zayn lifts his head. “What?”

Liam points toward the kitchen, eyes mock-serious. “Don’t mess with my spice rack.”

Zayn blinks. And then Liam grins, wide and warm and just a little cheeky.

Zayn lets out a laugh, a little awkward but real. “Alright. Sacred territory. Got it.”

Liam pushes off the doorway and pads barefoot toward his room. “I’m trusting you.”

Zayn watches him go, jaw tight with the effort of staying cool.

Chapter Text

Zayn’s been living with Liam for just under a week, and already, it’s starting to feel weirdly easy. Comfortable, even. Tonight, he’s just finished a shift that dragged longer than it should’ve—restocking, prepping materials for tomorrow's art class, chasing down a missing delivery. By the time he heads home, the sky’s already dark, his back aches, and all he can think about is getting warm.

He’d sent Liam a quick text around six to say he’d be home late, and Liam had replied almost instantly:

No worries. I’ll make us dinner :)

He fumbles with the keys, breath fogging in the cold, and pushes the door open.

Warm light spills from the living room. Somewhere inside, music is playing—low, easy, something jazzy with a lazy beat. And the smell—rich, garlicky, mouth-watering—hits him like a wave.

“You’re home,” Liam calls out from the kitchen, voice cheerful over the sound of clinking pans.

Zayn steps inside slowly, shutting the door behind him. He drops his keys into the bowl by the door, then toes off his boots, blinking at the soft glow filling the space.

Home.

Zayn’s still getting used to calling it that.

It’s a weird thought, one that catches him off guard. Not a sublet or a shoebox studio with mould in the corners. Not a place he dreads returning to. Just a quiet flat on a quiet street with creaky floors and soft lighting and a flatmate who sounds genuinely glad to see him.

He shrugs out of his jacket, fingertips still tingling from the cold, and heads towards the kitchen.

There he finds Liam barefoot, stirring something on the hob. He’s wearing loose joggers and a soft-looking long sleeve shirt. He looks domestic. Comfortable.

“You cooked?” Zayn says, trying not to sound like he’s accusing him of a crime.

Liam glances over his shoulder with a grin. “Told you I would.”

“I thought you meant like, pasta. Maybe toast.”

Liam gestures with his spoon to the bubbling pot. “Technically it is pasta. Just… slow-cooked, sauce-from-scratch, parmesan-in-the-rind kind of pasta.”

Zayn blinks. “Jesus.” He leans in the doorway, arms crossed. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Zayn swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat and gives Liam a small smile. He's found that it’s easy, being around Liam. Even like this—tired and sore and still dusty from work.

“Go sit,” Liam says. “Food’s nearly done.”

Zayn drags himself to the table, where Liam’s already set out plates and a small dish of olives and another one with buttered bread.

Liam pours him a glass of white wine without asking—chilled, crisp, not too sweet. Zayn mutters a quiet thanks and cradles it between his palms, watching as Liam moves easily through the kitchen.

He whistles softly to the music as he stirs, one hand braced against the counter. He seasons the sauce with a twist of pepper, gives it another stir, then taste-tests with the kind of focus that makes Zayn want to smile.

It’s… nice. Calming. Liam looks so at ease, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly mussed, eyes squinting thoughtfully at the pot like it’s a puzzle he’s determined to solve.

“You cook a lot?” Zayn asks, voice quiet.

Liam glances over his shoulder. “I try to. I enjoy it.” He grins. “Did a few cooking classes last year, actually. One of them was pasta from scratch. Another one was Thai street food. I’m still shit at chopping onions, though.”

Zayn laughs. “You seem like you know what you’re doing.”

Liam shrugs, turning back to the pot. “I just like feeding people, I think. Makes the place feel more like home.”

Zayn hums, taking a sip of his wine.

“You cook?” Liam asks, glancing over again.

“Not really,” Zayn admits. Then he adds, with a small smile, “But I do make a killer curry. Grew up watching my mum cook a lot of South Asian stuff. Always smelled like ginger and garlic and turmeric in the house. Kind of soaked into everything.”

Liam perks up. “I love curry, but I’m so shit at making it. I feel like it’s… like an art, you know? One I definitely haven’t mastered. You’ll have to teach me sometime.”

Zayn huffs a quiet laugh. “It really is an art. Spices, layering, timing—you’ve gotta feel it more than follow a recipe.” He pauses, then says, “I’ll teach you how to make a good chicken karahi one day.”

Liam grins, genuinely pleased. “Deal.”

Zayn takes a sip of his wine. “But other than that, I’m useless. Mostly noodles. The occasional takeaway if I’m feeling fancy.”

Liam snorts. “Flatmate before me not a kitchen person either?”

“She was alright,” Zayn says. “Nice. But we weren’t, like, mates. Just shared a space. Did our own thing.”

Liam nods, giving the sauce one last stir before lowering the heat. “That sounds a bit lonely.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just tips his wineglass slightly in agreement.

“Well,” Liam says, reaching for the plates, “I hope we can be a bit more than that. Mates, I mean. Makes the whole flatshare thing better.”

Zayn’s lips twitch. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Liam beams at him—soft, genuine—and begins dishing up the pasta.

As he does, he adds, “The bloke who lived here before you? Absolute nightmare. Left raw chicken in the sink once while I was out of town visiting my family. For three days.”

Zayn makes a face. “That’s vile.”

“I thought someone had died,” Liam says earnestly. “I opened the cupboard under the sink and nearly passed out. He also used to borrow my underwear. Underwear, Zayn.”

Zayn chokes on his wine. “Please tell me he washed it after.”

Liam pauses. “I really don’t want to lie to you this early in our friendship.”

They both laugh—loud and startled and full—and when Liam sets the plate in front of him, Zayn’s still grinning.

They dig in, and Zayn lets out a quiet, involuntary sound at the first bite.

“Wow,” he says, around a mouthful. “This is so good.”

Liam laughs, pleased. “Thanks. It’s one of my specialties.”

Zayn hums his appreciation and takes another bite, twirling the pasta around his fork with more enthusiasm now. It’s rich and warm, full of depth. The kind of food that tastes like someone gave a damn.

“So what kept you late today?” Liam asks, lifting his glass.

Zayn swallows and shrugs. “Just restocking mostly. And helping set up for the workshop tomorrow.”

Liam tilts his head. “You ever teach any of them?”

Zayn snorts. “Me? God, no.”

“Why not?”

Zayn pokes at his pasta. “The people who teach are really good. Like, actual artists. And good with people. I’m… not that.”

“You say that like it’s fact,” Liam says lightly. “But you’ve never even tried?”

Zayn lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve never even seen any of my work. And I could be a horrible teacher for all you know.”

“True,” Liam says, grinning. “But I can just tell you’d be good at it. You’ve got this calm energy. Patient. I dunno—seems like you’d be good at explaining things. Not everyone has that.”

Zayn shifts in his seat, unsure what to do with the compliment.

“And anyway,” Liam continues, twirling a bit of pasta on his fork, “your mates were on about your work the other day, weren’t they? Harry said you designed his tattoo. That’s not nothing.”

Zayn huffs a laugh, ducking his head. “They’re just hyping me up. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is, though,” Liam says, still looking at him. “That’s your work. On someone’s skin. For life. That’s pretty incredible.”

Zayn glances up, meets Liam’s eyes for a second too long. Then looks down again, smiling faintly.

His ears are warm.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “That’s… nice of you to say.”

Liam shrugs, still watching him. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Zayn clears his throat, nudging a piece of bread across his plate. “What about you?” he asks, voice a little rough. “How long’ve you been doing the physio thing?”

Liam leans back slightly, thinking. “About five years now. Qualified a little over six ago, then did a bit of work shadowing, part-time placements. It’s been a ride.”

Zayn nods. “Why physiotherapy?”

There’s a beat where Liam seems to weigh how much to share. Then he shrugs, a little self-conscious.

“I guess… I like helping people. Seeing them go from barely moving to walking out feeling stronger. Not just the physical stuff—though that’s part of it—but like, seeing them believe they’ll get better. I don’t know. I just like being someone who can help make that happen.”

Zayn watches him, quiet.

Liam picks at a crumb on the table. “Also… I had surgery when I was a kid. Nothing huge, but I needed some rehab after. I remember this one physio—older guy, bit gruff, but he was so patient with me. Didn’t rush anything, didn’t make me feel stupid for struggling. He just… helped. I always remembered that.”

He looks down at his plate. “I think I wanted to be that person for someone else, you know? Someone people can trust. Someone who listens.”

Zayn’s throat tightens at the vulnerability in Liam's voice, but he doesn’t look away.

“I bet you are,” he says softly.

Liam looks up at that, caught slightly off guard. He smiles, a little shyly. “Thanks.”

They sit in it for a second—that warm, suspended quiet—the kind that doesn’t need filling.

And Zayn thinks, maybe this isn’t just a good flat. Maybe he really did luck out.

Liam clears his throat, then lifts his glass. “Well,” he says, tone lighter now, “cheers to new flatmates.”

Zayn clinks his glass against Liam’s with a quiet smile.

After a pause, Liam adds, softer, “And hopefully just… mates as well.”

Zayn looks at him for a beat—the kind of look that holds more than it says—then nods.

“Cheers to that,” he murmurs.

They drink, and the clink of glass feels like the start of something. Not big. Not dramatic. Just something.

They linger over the meal, picking at the olives even after their plates are cleared. Conversation turns easy—the kind that slips from topic to topic like it’s been happening for years.

Zayn learns that Liam’s a morning person. That he drinks two cups of coffee a day, no more, no less. That he once tried rock climbing and got stuck halfway up the wall and had to be talked down by a teenage instructor named Chloe. That his mum texts him motivational quotes every Monday without fail.

In return, Zayn admits he’s a night owl. That he can’t fall asleep without background noise, that he always draws in silence but cleans to music. That his sisters are loud and loving and ruthless, and that his middle name is technically spelled wrong on his birth certificate, but no one’s ever bothered to fix it.

Liam laughs so hard at that last bit he nearly chokes on a piece of bread.

By the time they’ve finished eating, the warmth in the room has less to do with the lighting and more to do with the way their shoulders keep brushing as they clear the table. The domestic rhythm of two people who already seem to move around each other like it’s second nature.

“Music?” Liam asks, nodding toward the speaker on the counter as he dries a plate.

Zayn hesitates, then shrugs. “Sure.”

He scrolls for a second, then taps on Sweep Me Off My Feet by Pond—something a bit warped and chaotic, swaggering guitars layered under smooth vocals. It spills into the kitchen like colour through water.

Liam perks up almost immediately. “This is nice,” he says, tilting his head. “Who is it?”

“Pond,” Zayn says, leaning a hip against the counter. “Aussie band. Kind of weird, kind of great. They’ve got a few songs that feel like they’re melting your brain in a good way.”

Liam hums, nodding along—then starts to move, slow and easy, just a little groove of the hips and shoulders. He sways with the music like he’s done it a hundred times before, casual and unbothered, bare feet sliding a little on the tile.

Zayn laughs under his breath. “You’re such a dad.”

But Liam’s not a bad dancer. If anything, he’s too smooth—comfortable in his own skin, loose-limbed and relaxed. Confident, like someone with nothing to hide. The way the music settles into him makes him look… good.

Too good.

Zayn tears his eyes away, and grabs the cloth from the sink like he’s got a reason. Starts wiping down the counter again, even though it’s already clean.

Liam nudges him lightly with his hip as he shimmies past with the dish towel. “You not big on dancing, then?”

Zayn snorts. “Hate it.”

“Tragic,” Liam says, mock-offended, spinning on the spot before catching himself on the counter. “It’s the best bit of music.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “Bit dramatic.”

“I stand by it.”

The song switches—Holding Out for You now drifting in, slinkier, more sensual, all dreamy synths and soft vocals. Liam keeps dancing anyway, unfazed by the shift in mood. If anything, he leans into it—rolling his shoulders, turning fluid and unbothered, head tilting as he moves.

“You really love this, don’t you?” Zayn says, watching from the sink.

“Always have,” Liam grins. “Took some classes, actually.”

Zayn blinks. “What kind of classes?”

Liam shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Bit of everything. Contemporary. Salsa. Even tried swing once.”

Zayn chuckles, tossing the cloth back onto the sink. “Is there any class you haven’t taken?”

Liam glances over, eyes glinting. “Art. But I’d consider it,” he says, lips quirking into a smile, “if you were teaching it.”

Zayn scoffs—but it’s breathless, involuntary. His pulse does something stupid in his throat.

He looks away, busying himself with rinsing the already clean mug in the sink. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters.

Liam laughs softly behind him, still moving to the music.

And Zayn just keeps rinsing the mug. Pretending he doesn’t feel the heat creeping up his neck.

* * *

Harry’s flat smells like sandalwood and sourdough. Morning light filters through gauzy curtains. There’s a record player humming in the background, and an unnecessary number of houseplants watching judgmentally from every surface.

Zayn perches on one of the floor cushions around Harry’s low dining table. Niall’s making coffee with terrifying confidence. Louis is elbow-deep in a bowl of fruit salad he did not help prepare. Harry sits cross-legged on the floor, sipping from a mug that says BREATHE IN. BREATHE OUT. BREATHE THROUGH THE SPIRITUAL CRISIS.

“—I’m telling you, it’s real,” Harry is saying. “The cat only shows up when I’m in emotional distress.”

“You mean your neighbour’s cat,” Niall says, deadpan.

Harry shakes his head solemnly. “No. My conscience. Manifested in feline form.”

Louis snorts. “Your conscience peed in my herb garden.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “You sure this isn’t just a regular cat who hates you?”

“It only comes at night,” Harry insists. “Always sits on the same bin. Same stare. Like it knows things.”

“Maybe it does,” Niall says. “Maybe it’s trying to tell you to finally text Joel back.”

Harry shudders. “It blinks in Morse code.”

Zayn hides a laugh behind his mug.

“Anyway,” Niall says, shifting topics like a pro, “how’s the new flat, Z? Living with Mr Perfect still going alright?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “He’s not—okay. It’s good. Honestly.”

They all turn to look at him.

“He’s a good flatmate,” Zayn says, sipping his coffee. “Clean, doesn’t steal my food. Nice. We get along well.”

Louis squints. “Define nice.”

Harry props his chin on his hand. “And define get along.”

Zayn scowls. “Jesus Christ. He’s polite. Considerate. Easy to talk to. The kind of person who remembers how you take your tea.”

Louis clutches his chest dramatically. “Ugh, tea memory? That’s too sweet.”

Zayn rolls his eyes.

Harry nods solemnly. “Classic Liam.”

Niall nods sagely. “He held the door open for me and said ‘after you, mate’ like we were in a BBC period drama.”

Harry sighs. “It’s just nice to have a reason to believe in good men again.”

“I’m serious,” Niall says. “He’s got that calm, stable vibe. Like if your car broke down, he’d just… fix it. Without making it a whole thing.”

“Or he’d know a guy,” Louis adds. “Liam’s definitely got a guy.”

Zayn groans into his coffee. “You’ve met him twice.”

“That’s all it takes,” Harry says serenely.

“Fit though,” Louis adds cheerfully, biting into a croissant. “Like, stupidly fit.”

Harry nods solemnly. “Disgustingly fit.”

“Unfairly fit,” Niall adds. “Like he was generated in a lab by someone who’s into arms and humility.”

Zayn groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we not objectify my flatmate over breakfast?”

Harry raises both hands. “Fine, fine. But if you don’t want him—can I have him?”

“You—” Zayn sputters. “I don’t—he’s not mine to give away like some… cardigan you borrowed once and never returned!”

Niall snorts. “Also, he’s not your type anyway, Harry. Way too emotionally stable.”

Harry nods, unfazed. “Fair point.”

There’s a pause.

Then Louis says, “Besides, he’s not Zayn’s type either.”

Zayn narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Same as with Harry,” Louis says breezily. “Way too emotionally stable.”

“Hey,” Zayn protests. “I can do emotionally stable!”

Harry snorts into his mug. “Please. Your last relationship—sorry, situationship—was with that gaslighting bartender who said monogamy was a colonial construct.”

“Oh, come on,” Zayn groans.

Niall adds helpfully, “Didn’t that bloke also tell you ‘labels are limiting’ right after introducing you to his other boyfriend?”

“You forgot the one who moved to Berlin mid-argument,” Louis says.

Zayn groans. “Oh my god. Martin.”

Harry frowns. “Wait—what?”

Niall leans in, already grinning. “Don’t you remember? Literal flight booked while they were still fighting. Didn’t even finish the row.”

Harry snaps his fingers. “Ohh, yeah! The guy who just said, ‘I travel light. Emotionally and otherwise,’ and then disappeared by morning?”

“Left a note on the fridge,” Zayn mutters. “Signed it with a shell emoji.”

Louis claps his hands. “That one was art, to be fair.”

Zayn stares into the middle distance. “He took my kettle.”

Niall winces sympathetically. “That’s brutal, mate. Man leaves mid-fight and takes your small appliances? Cold.”

Zayn throws a grape at him. “Fine, fine. I get it. I’ve got a tragic dating history.”

“You’ve got a poem of red flags behind you,” Louis says. “It reads like a Buzzfeed listicle titled ‘Top Ten Ways to Emotionally Torture Yourself.’ ”

Zayn sighs. “Okay. But it’s not like I want Liam anyway.” He slumps back against the wall. “Yeah, okay, he’s fit,” he mutters, dragging his toast through a smear of butter. “But he’s my bloody flatmate. And I’ve only known the bloke for two bloody weeks.”

Louis grins. “Best two weeks of my life.”

Niall lifts his mug. “I sleep better knowing he’s in your flat.”

Zayn stares at them. “You lot need actual help.”

That sets them off—Harry cackling into his mug, Niall nearly choking on a bit of croissant, Louis actually rolling onto his side like he’s been felled by the truth.

Zayn just shakes his head, biting back a smile he refuses to let show.

As the laughter dies down, Niall leans forward, eyes lighting up. “Right—wait—have I told you the story about the time I accidentally joined that underground poker game in Dalston?”

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean accidentally?”

But Niall’s already off, hands gesturing wildly, Louis chiming in every few seconds with “You did what?” while Harry supplies unnecessary sound effects.

Zayn’s phone buzzes on the table. He picks it up absently, thumb swiping across the screen.

Liam: Got those spicy nuts you like from Morrisons, they were on sale so I bulk bought. Hope that’s ok x

Zayn blinks.

Stares at the message for a second too long.

The lads are still talking—something about sunglasses, poker chips, and an ill-advised rooftop escape—but their voices fade slightly at the edges.

Zayn types back before he can think too hard about it.

you legend. tell me you cleared a shelf like a proper gremlin

Liam replies almost immediately:

Maybe two shelves lol

Zayn snorts quietly to himself, tucking his phone away.

* * *

It’s a slow afternoon at the shop.

The front window’s fogged faintly from the rain outside, the sky a dull stretch of grey, and Zayn’s been sitting behind the till for what feels like an eternity. No customers. No deliveries. Just the soft hum of lo-fi from the Bluetooth speaker behind the counter and the occasional groan of the front door when the wind presses against it.

He leans forward on his elbows, sketchbook open in front of him, pencil tapping idly against the page. A blank-eyed doodle stares back at him—half-formed, kind of haunting, kind of funny-looking—and he sticks his tongue out at it before shading in the corner of its eye.

His phone buzzes.

Nialler☘️: how bad is it to microwave fish at work

Z🚬: are you actively trying to be hated

Harold✌️: i swear to god ni

Lou🧨: dont make me report you to HR

Nialler☘️: i dont even have HR

Lou🧨: you do now

Lou🧨: its me

Lou🧨: youre fired

Zayn snorts quietly, hunching over the counter like he’s doing something illegal. His pencil moves without thought now, looping a curl of hair onto the figure he’s been half-heartedly shading in. Messy fringe, familiar jawline. He pauses.

It’s… starting to look like someone.

He stares at it for a second.

It could be anyone, he tells himself, quickly flicking to a new page. Total coincidence. He’s just been drawing a lot of the same kinds of faces lately. Angular ones. With strong brows. And, apparently, sleepy eyes and a mouth he’s definitely not thinking too hard about.

The bell above the door stays stubbornly silent.

He exhales, flopping back in his chair, pencil twirling in his fingers as he scrolls through his phone. The chat has devolved into chaos—Harry’s panicking over liking someone’s thirst trap from March, Niall’s suggesting witness protection, and Louis is halfway through designing his new identity.

Zayn grins. Lets it sit warm in his chest for a second.

“You always zone out like that when you draw?”

He startles so hard his pencil skitters off the counter. Looks up to find May—his manager—leaning against the side of the till with a paper cup in hand and one perfectly arched brow raised.

“Jesus,” he mutters, picking up the pencil. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

She takes a sip of her tea. “You were miles away. What were you drawing?”

He hesitates, then flips back a few pages and holds it up for half a second. Not the suspicious one—the abstract one from earlier.

May hums. “Nice. That from reference or your head?”

“My head.”

“You’ve got a good eye. Real clean lines.”

Zayn shrugs. “Just messing around.”

“You should do something with it,” she says casually, like she’s not about to upend his sense of identity. “Like, properly. A course maybe. You ever think about studying?”

Zayn blinks. “At uni?”

She nods. “Sure. Or even part-time. You’ve got something.”

He snorts, cheeks warm. “Not really the uni type.”

May doesn’t press, just sips her tea again. “Neither was I. Still ended up doing two years at St. Martin’s.”

Zayn blinks. “Wait—what?”

“Textile design,” she says, nodding toward the display of hand-bound sketchbooks by the window. “Made those in my second year. That’s why I took the job here. Couldn’t make the rent off art alone. But it doesn’t mean you can’t try.”

Zayn looks down at his sketchbook.

There’s something strange about being seen. Like properly seen. Not just for being good at making things pretty, but for… maybe being more than just messing around. Maybe being someone with potential.

He clears his throat. “You really think it’s that good?”

May shrugs. “I think it’s worth seeing how far it could go.”

Then she pushes off the counter and heads for the back room, tea in hand, calling over her shoulder, “And don’t forget to restock the watercolours before you leave.”

Zayn stares after her.

Then down at his sketchbook.

Then back at his phone—where Louis’ now polling the group chat on whether you can own more than three tote bags without being considered pretentious.

The rest of the afternoon drags, a slow drip of clock ticks and customers who mostly just browse. Zayn restocks some watercolour pads, wipes down the display shelves, changes the radio station twice. By the time closing rolls around, he feels like his bones are made of dust.

He shrugs on his jacket and locks up, tugging his beanie down over his ears as he steps out into the cold. The sky’s already gone that soft, steel-grey of early evening. Damp air, pavement slick with mist. He digs into his pocket for a cigarette and lights up, exhaling smoke into the chill. His boots echo faintly as he starts down the road, shoulders hunched against the wind.

His phone buzzes just as he passes the corner shop.

Ammi❤️

He softens immediately, answering with a quiet, “Hey.”

“Beta,” she says warmly. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

He snorts. “Nah, just finished work. Walking home.”

“Hmm. You sound tired.”

He smiles despite himself. “Long day.”

She hums sympathetically. “Have you been eating properly?”

“Yes, Ammi.”

“And sleeping?”

“Trying to.”

“You’re not just surviving on those cup noodles again?”

Zayn laughs. “No. Flatmate’s a good cook, apparently.”

“Oh? This is the new one, the physiotherapist?”

“Yeah. Liam.”

“Is he nice?”

Zayn hesitates, gaze flicking to the ground. “He’s… yeah. He’s kind. Chill. Doesn’t leave beard trimmings in the sink or steal food, so that’s a win.”

She snorts. “High standards.”

“Hard-earned.”

There’s a beat of rustling on the other end—the clink of pots, maybe, or the shuffle of slippers on tile.

“You sound... okay,” she says eventually. “I worry, you know.”

“I know.”

“I just want you to be happy. And safe. And not cold. Is it cold? You remembered your scarf?”

“Yes, Ammi.”

They fall into a comfortable rhythm then—she tells him about his cousin's engagement drama, about the cat who’s decided her garden is his new kingdom, about what she cooked that day (“I didn’t even need to use a recipe, it just came to me!”). Zayn hums along, asks follow-up questions, lets the warmth of her voice fill the space between streetlamp pools.

He doesn’t mention the quiet ache he’s been carrying lately. Or the way his chest does something ridiculous when Liam smiles at him across the breakfast table. Or how he’s starting to feel something like hope when he thinks about his sketchbook again.

Instead, he says, “Miss your daal.”

“You always say that when it’s cold.”

“Still true.”

“I’ll freeze some next time you visit.”

He nods even though she can’t see it. “Deal.”

By the time they hang up, he’s nearly home. The cigarette’s long gone, fingers gone numb despite his gloves.

But he feels a little warmer anyway.

By the time he pushes the door open, the flat is quiet, warm. Light spills from the living room—soft and flickering. Zayn toes off his boots and shrugs out of his jacket, still carrying the faint smell of cold air and smoke.

He heads toward the living room and finds Liam curled up on the sofa, one arm tucked behind his head, the other cradling a mug. There’s a blanket bunched around his legs, the telly casting a glow across his face.

Zayn steps in, eyes adjusting. “Hey.”

Liam looks over, blinking like he’s just surfaced from underwater. “Hey.”

Zayn frowns slightly. “You alright?”

Liam huffs a little laugh and swipes under one eye. “Yeah. Yeah—The Elephant Man is on.”

“Ah,” Zayn says softly. “Brutal.”

“Every single time,” Liam mutters, dragging the blanket higher. “I know what’s coming and it still gets me.”

“You need tissues or...?”

“I’m fine,” Liam says, waving him off with mock dignity. “Let me suffer in peace.”

Zayn watches the screen for a few seconds, then lets his gaze drift to Liam again—the faint flush around his eyes, the curve of his mouth that hasn’t quite settled. He looks soft like this. 

Zayn shifts, resting his cheek on his fist, voice quiet. “You want me to leave you to it?”

Liam looks at him. “Nah. You can stay. If you’re not too emotionally fragile.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything. He just sinks down onto the other end of the sofa, curling his legs up beneath him and pulling at the throw blanket until it covers them both.

They sit in silence for the rest of the film. It’s nearing the end—the music swells soft and mournful as Merrick lays his head back for the last time. The camera lingers. Everything slows.

By the time the scene cuts to commercials, both of them are quiet. Sniffling.

Zayn wipes discreetly under one eye. “Fuck.”

Liam lets out a soft, choked laugh. “Right?”

A long pause stretches between them.

Then Liam nudges Zayn’s leg with his foot beneath the blanket. “Didn’t peg you as a crier.”

Zayn snorts, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Says the bloke who looked like he was mourning the end of humanity.”

“I was mourning the end of humanity.” Liam says, mock-defensive.

Zayn lets out a quiet laugh, eyes still glassy. “That last scene, though.”

“Mate.” Liam exhales hard. “The way he just lies down at the end, like he knows? Finished me. I was gone. Gets me every time.”

Zayn presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, chuckling. “Why would you even put that on?”

“I don’t know,” Liam groans. “Thought it was a good idea. It was on and I hadn’t seen it in years.”

Zayn wipes under his eyes again with the cuff of his sleeve and chuckles quietly. “S'nice to get a good cry in sometimes, though.”

Liam shifts beside him, sniffling once more. “I genuinely think we don’t cry enough as a society.”

Zayn snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

Liam glances over at him, curious. “Yeah?”

Zayn just nods, still looking at the telly, which is now playing some ridiculous advert involving singing cartoon vegetables. He hesitates, then says, “I get moved easily. Always have. Films, music… books. Art in general.”

There’s a beat. He can feel Liam watching him.

Then Liam says, voice quiet and soft, “That’s a good trait to have.”

Zayn doesn’t look at him, but his throat tightens a little. He just nods again, eyes fixed on the glowing screen. He wants to say something, but the words stick—too tender, somehow.

Instead, he just sinks a little deeper into the sofa. The sound of the telly carries on, bright and absurd, but the silence between them doesn’t feel awkward.

Chapter Text

The weeks pass in a kind of rhythm Zayn hadn’t expected.

It’s not that anything dramatic happens—no revelations, no huge events. But there’s something quietly transformative about the pace of it. He goes to work, sketches when he can. Some days at the shop are slow, and he’ll spend hours behind the till scribbling out thumbnail drafts or adding detail to an old design. Other days are busy, but in the good way—organised chaos that ends with sore feet and that odd sense of satisfaction that comes from being genuinely tired. 

He feels more inspired lately. He doesn’t really know why.

Then there’s Liam. He’s easy to live with. That’s the first thing. He’s clean, considerate, never makes things a big deal. Somehow, Zayn’s toothpaste never runs out, and there’s always a new box of the cereal he likes in the cupboard—even though he never remembers to write it on the shopping list. At some point, Liam starts tossing Zayn’s socks in with his own laundry without saying anything, and Zayn starts washing Liam’s too, and that’s just how it is now. Seamless.

They eat together more often than not. Some nights it’s quick—takeaway from the shop down the road, eaten straight from the cartons in front of the telly, legs half-draped over each other on the sofa. Other nights it’s slower, proper, with one of them cooking and the other hovering nearby offering useless commentary and stealing bites from the pan. Sometimes they talk for hours, and sometimes they don’t talk much at all. Zayn will sketch while Liam scrolls his phone or reads a book, both of them wrapped in that easy kind of silence that doesn’t need filling.

The flat changes, too. Slowly. The living room shelf fills with Zayn’s art books and random knick-knacks. Liam adds a second mug rack to the kitchen wall. There’s a bowl of keys that somehow always has the right set on top. A throw blanket that Zayn’s mum had knitted for Christmas appears on the back of the sofa. It quickly becomes Liam’s favourite.

Zayn starts leaving his sketchbook on the coffee table.

Liam never moves it.

They figure out they like the same films. End up watching an entire trilogy one weekend, back-to-back, groaning at plot holes and quoting lines in bad accents. They discover they have the same stupid sense of humour—dry, a little chaotic. They start sending each other memes at work. Zayn still pretends not to laugh out loud at his phone, but Liam always knows.

They don’t like the same music. That’s the one thing. Zayn’s into weird indie stuff, slightly off-kilter and full of distortion. Liam likes clean melodies, crisp vocals, stuff that makes sense to your body even if it doesn’t say much. They fight over the Bluetooth speaker constantly. Zayn always loses. Then puts his playlist on shuffle the second Liam leaves the room.

They’ve started finishing each other’s cups of tea. Not on purpose—it just happens. Zayn will forget his on the windowsill, and Liam will wander past and sip it like it’s normal. Liam will set his down to take a call, and Zayn will absent-mindedly pick it up without thinking. Neither of them mention it. It just becomes part of the rhythm.

Zayn catches himself sketching in the kitchen more often than not now. At the table, elbow-deep in charcoal or ink, sleeves pushed up, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth. Liam always takes a peek. Offers soft compliments in passing. That’s really good, mate. Is that for the commission you mentioned? Looks sick.

Zayn plays it cool, mumbles something in reply. But he flushes every single time.

The flat starts to feel like… home.

Not just a place he sleeps. Not a temporary stopover or some dusty shoebox rental with a door that never shuts properly. But an actual home. With warm lighting and proper mugs and someone to share the silence with.

It’s good. Better than he thought possible.

Almost perfect, really. Except for one thing.

Well. Not a thing, exactly. 

More of a person.

Or rather: a person’s body.

Liam, specifically. Liam’s body. Which, it turns out, is a problem.

Zayn doesn’t know what he was expecting when they first moved in together. Liam’s fit, sure. That much was obvious from day one. But there’s something about living with it—the daily, domestic proximity to all that muscle and warmth and carelessly worn clothing—that’s slowly eating away at his will to live.

First of all, Liam goes to the gym. A lot.

He doesn’t talk about it much, doesn’t do gym selfies or meal preps or anything obnoxious. He just… goes. Early most mornings. Slips out in a hoodie and joggers, and comes back an hour later looking like he’s just stepped off the set of a sportswear advert.

Hair damp. Skin flushed. T-shirt clinging in places Zayn has no business looking. Sweat still clinging to the edge of his neck, his collarbone, his jaw. That glistening post-workout glow that shouldn't be allowed around civilians.

The first time it happens, Zayn’s in the kitchen making toast when the door opens behind him. Cold air wafts in—and then Liam walks in behind it, towel slung over one shoulder, shaking his damp hair out like some casually hot Greek tragedy.

Zayn turns and nearly drops the butter knife.

Liam’s cheeks are pink from the cold, hoodie unzipped, T-shirt clinging in a way that should probably come with a warning. It’s one of those thin, soft cotton ones that’s clearly been through years of washes—worn enough that it moulds just slightly at the chest and arms, darkened with sweat down the spine.

“Morning,” Liam says cheerfully, like he hasn’t just introduced a crisis of conscience into their kitchen. “Gym was brutal today.”

Zayn manages a sound that might be a greeting. Or a dying animal.

Liam breezes past him to the cupboard, stretching up to grab a mug. His shirt rides up, exposing a flash of skin that Zayn definitely isn't going to think about later. He looks away so fast he gives himself whiplash.

“You want a coffee?” Liam asks, already reaching for the kettle.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, mostly so he doesn’t have to speak a full sentence.

Liam glances back at him as the kettle boils, brows quirking faintly. “You want me to shower first? Didn’t think I smelled that bad, but you’re pulling a face.”

Zayn almost chokes. “What? No—no. You’re—fine. Totally fine.”

Liam raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. Just shrugs and turns back to his mug.

Zayn breathes deeply and counts to ten slowly in his head. It works.

Almost.

This becomes a thing.

Every morning, like clockwork, Liam comes back from the gym in various states of sweat and disarray. Sometimes he stretches in the doorway while chatting about his workout, muscles rolling under his skin like he has no idea what it’s doing to Zayn’s blood pressure.

He’ll tug his hoodie off one-handed, revealing that damp clingy T-shirt underneath. He’ll lean against the counter, glug water straight from a bottle, neck tilted back. He’ll say things like “Might’ve overdone it on push day” while rubbing at his own pecs like it’s nothing. Like it’s not the most indecent thing Zayn’s ever witnessed over breakfast.

It’s obscene. And yet apparently invisible to Liam.

Then there’s the dancing. Which is apparently a thing Liam does. Loud music from the kitchen, pan on the hob, some upbeat track on the speaker, and Liam in shorts, barefoot, swaying like he doesn’t know anyone’s watching.

He dances like someone who grew up doing it. Not performative—just fluid. Comfortable. Entirely unaware of how dangerous it is to be that loose-limbed and grinning in front of someone who is very much not thinking about his flatmate that way, thanks.

Zayn walks in one evening and finds him dancing to some retro soul track while flipping a pancake, tank top riding up slightly as he turns, exposing the dip of his waist and a very illegal flash of hipbone. Zayn nearly drops the pint of milk he’s holding.

Liam doesn’t even notice.

“Hey!” he says brightly, flipping the pancake onto a plate with casual grace. “You want one?”

Zayn nods mutely. Sits down and tries to remember how forks work.

The worst, though—the absolute worst—is the grunting.

It starts small. Harmless, even. A faint thump from Liam’s room, a soft breathy exhale.

Zayn ignores it at first. Figures he’s moving furniture or something.

But no. Turns out Liam sometimes does push-ups in the evenings. Sit-ups too, maybe. Burpees. Whatever the hell else makes a man grunt like he’s narrating a very different kind of film.

It’s not loud. Not technically inappropriate. Just… a low, rhythmic sound coming from across the hall, steady and unbothered and absolutely ruining Zayn’s concentration.

He’s sketching one evening—well, trying to sketch—when it starts up again. He freezes mid-line, pencil hovering above the page as another faint noise drifts through the thin walls.

“Mmgh—come on.”

Zayn throws his pencil down like it personally betrayed him.

And then there’s the work uniform. Which really shouldn’t be a thing. It’s just… clothes. Standard-issue. Completely unremarkable.

Except it’s not.

Every afternoon, Monday to Friday, Liam comes home from the hospital still in his physiotherapist kit: a crisp white polo with Physiotherapist embroidered neatly over the left side of the chest, tucked into slim navy trousers that really have no business fitting like that. His hair’s always slightly mussed by the end of the work day, forearms dusted with faint chalk or lotion marks, clipboard or water bottle still in hand like he’s just wrapped up filming an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.

Zayn swears he can even hear the opening chords of the theme song in his head some days when Liam walks through the door—which is unfair, because he hasn’t watched that show in years and he’s pretty sure it was never this hot.

Liam breezes in every time with the same casual smile—“Hey, mate. You good?”—like he hasn’t just derailed Zayn’s brain on sight.

And every time, Zayn forces himself to keep his eyes on Liam’s face. Only the face. Trains himself not to read the lettering on his chest, not to notice how the polo pulls at the shoulders, how the trousers crease at his hips. Not to imagine anything worse, because that way lies madness.

Zayn copes—tactically.

With the gym mornings, the Grey’s Anatomy cosplay, the dancing, the indecent noises coming from Liam’s room—all of it.

He stares at the kettle. Or the telly. Or the fridge. Or the wall. Anywhere except Liam’s broad shoulders, his hands, the scruff on his jaw, or the way his trousers pull in ways Zayn is frankly not equipped to process.

If Liam’s grunting through a home workout in his bedroom? Zayn closes his door. He uses headphones liberally. Scrolls with purpose. Turns on music. Sketches with focused, almost monastic intensity.

It’s not avoidance. It’s management.

And Liam, for his part, is utterly oblivious. Blissfully unaware that his presence is a low-grade assault on Zayn’s concentration. He just smiles and talks and stretches and exists in that maddeningly casual way, like he has no idea what he’s doing.

Zayn’s doing fine.

Really.

It’s working. Sort of.

Until, of course, the back thing happens.

But that’s another disaster entirely.

It’s late. One of those quiet evenings where they put on a film just to have something in the background. They’re sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa, lights low, the credits rolling quietly in the background. Zayn shifts again, trying—and failing—to find a position that doesn’t make him wince.

Liam glances over from where he’s lounging with a bowl of popcorn in his lap.

“You alright?” he asks, quiet.

Zayn waves him off. “Yeah. Just—sore.”

Liam watches him for a second longer. “You keep shifting like you’re sitting on a pile of knives.”

Zayn sighs. “I went to that bloody spin class with Harry this morning. Thought I was dying by minute fifteen. Think I did something to my back.”

Liam sets the bowl aside and turns toward him, expression immediately all concern and gentle seriousness.

“You really gotta watch it with your lower back, especially with spin,” Liam says. “All that forward flexion with no core engagement—recipe for strain.”

Zayn blinks at him. “Cool. Thanks. I’ll, uh, take that under advisement.”

Liam raises an eyebrow. “Want me to take a look?”

Zayn’s eyes widen slightly. “What—now?”

“I mean, unless you want to hobble around for the next few days.”

Zayn eyes him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re sitting like someone’s granddad.”

“Thanks.”

Liam turns to face him more fully. “Let me help, mate. It’s what I do for a living.”

Zayn hesitates, but Liam’s already standing, already moving to clear space on the floor.

Zayn opens his mouth, shuts it. There’s no graceful exit. “Okay. Fine. If you insist.”

Liam grabs a soft throw and folds it on the floor like a mat. “Lie down. On your stomach.”

Zayn mutters, “This is very undignified,” but does as he’s told.

“You’re being dramatic,” Liam says. “Where exactly is it?”

“Lower back. Right side. Just above the hip.”

Liam settles next to him, knees on the mat, warm hands pushing Zayn’s hoodie up. “I’ll just need to feel around a bit, yeah?”

Zayn grunts his consent, resting his cheek on his folded arms.

The first touch is light—just Liam’s fingertips mapping over his spine through his T-shirt, pressing here and there, testing. Then firmer. His thumbs find the tight spot easily, digging in slow and steady.

“There,” Zayn says, voice muffled.

“Got it,” Liam murmurs. “Breathe in for me… and out.”

Zayn does. Tells himself not to notice how warm Liam’s hands are. How steady. Not to think about how close he feels now that Liam’s leaning over him.

“This bit’s your QL—quadratus lumborum,” Liam says, conversational and soft. “It stabilises your pelvis and spine. Lot of strain when it’s tight. Especially when you’re doing cardio with poor alignment.”

Zayn doesn’t care what it’s called. He just tries not to hum into the pillow.

His thumbs press down along Zayn’s spine, finding the tight muscles and coaxing them into release. It hurts—but in the way that makes Zayn’s eyelids flutter. He can feel the heat of Liam’s thighs near his own, can feel the tug of his shirt inching higher with every movement. The moment Liam’s fingers skim bare skin, Zayn’s breath hitches.

“Sorry,” Liam murmurs. “Need to get to the lats here.”

“It’s fine,” Zayn mutters, voice uneven.

The massage is good. Too good. Liam’s hands are strong and sure, his thumbs working slow, circular pressure just above Zayn’s waistband. Every now and then, his breath ghosts across the back of Zayn’s neck.

Zayn digs his fingers into the duvet.

“You’ve got some knots here,” Liam says, pressing lower, slower. “Just try to let that go. Breathe in… and out.” He murmurs, voice low and soothing. “Nice and slow. That’s it.”

Zayn bites his lip. It’s too much. Not the pain—the feeling. The warmth. The pressure. The care. The voice.

Then Liam shifts again, fingers dipping even lower. His thumbs dig into a point just above the tailbone, pressing down with just enough force to pin Zayn’s hips to the floor.

Zayn tenses, eyes flying open.

Then he lets out a noise he’s pretty sure could get him banned from polite society. A helpless, strangled noise, half-breath, half-moan.

Oh god. That was out loud.

He freezes, hoping Liam didn’t notice. Hoping the floor will open up and swallow him whole.

Liam freezes for half a second. “Right there?”

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Right there.”

Liam hums, satisfied. “Alright. Let’s really work on that, then.”

Zayn makes a quiet sound of protest—barely audible, more like a whimper—but it gets lost under the firm press of Liam’s hands.

Liam shifts closer behind him, straddling Zayn’s thighs to get better leverage. He leans in, fingers pressing deep into the muscles at the base of Zayn’s spine—so low it’s barely his back anymore. Right at the border of something else entirely. His thumbs drag in slow, methodical circles, finding tension and kneading into it.

Zayn exhales shakily, every nerve ending burning. The pressure is so good, it’s almost unbearable. Liam’s hands are warm and steady, skin to skin now—Zayn’s t-shirt bunched halfway up his back, completely forgotten. Liam’s palms glide over his bare skin like he owns it, dipping lower each time, just above the waistband of Zayn’s joggers.

“You’re really tight,” Liam notes, fingers pressing in.

Zayn swallows hard, his brain immediately offering up a very unhelpful reply that he has to bite down against.

He digs his fingers into the mat, jaw clenched, and just lets out a non-committal hum instead.

Liam shifts his thumbs slightly, pressing deeper. “Some people like it harder, but I can ease off if you’re not into that.”

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut, breath catching. “Yeah—no. Hard’s—” his voice cracks slightly. He clears his throat. “Hard’s fine.”

Liam hums, apparently satisfied, and keeps going.

"You’re holding a lot of tension down here," Liam says thoughtfully, working the knot. “Been carrying that for a while, haven’t you, mate?”

If only you knew, mate.

Zayn just nods, face flushed, forehead pressed to his arm. Liam shifts his weight subtly, and it brings his chest even closer—Zayn can feel the soft rhythm of Liam’s breath against his skin now. The heat of his thighs pressing on either side. His hands move in a slow drag over Zayn’s lower back, thumbs dipping low again—too low—and Zayn lets out another helpless noise, half-breath, half-moan.

“You alright?” Liam asks, concerned but calm.

Zayn can’t lift his head. “Uh-huh.”

Then Liam’s voice drops lower, calm and professional. “Good. You’re doing great. I’m almost done. Just want to work you a bit deeper here.”

Zayn bites his lip and prays for death to come.

Right here, on the floor, at the hands of a man who has no idea what he’s doing to him.

Liam keeps going, thorough and quiet, using his thumbs to knead deep along the iliac crest—an area Zayn didn’t know could be both a source of pain relief and sheer erotic destruction.

“You’ve loosened up a lot,” Liam says eventually, pulling back slightly. “That should help. Still sore?”

Zayn lifts his face from the mat just enough to speak. His voice is wrecked. “I’ll live.”

Liam chuckles. “You’re a terrible patient, you know that?”

Zayn lets his face drop again. “Yeah.”

Liam climbs off, standing and stretching. “Gonna shower,” he says cheerfully. 

Zayn doesn’t move. Just lets his cheek stay squished against his arms, eyes closed in absolute defeat.

“Yeah. Cool,” he croaks. “I’m just gonna… lay here for a bit.”

Liam chuckles, soft and unsuspecting. “Don’t fall asleep on the floor.”

“Mmhmm,” Zayn hums. He hears the bathroom door click shut, the water turn on a moment later.

He exhales through gritted teeth.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He can’t move. Physically, emotionally, anatomically—he cannot move. Not for at least five minutes. Maybe ten. He needs to wait out the mortifying betrayal of his own body. Because right now?

There’s absolutely no way he’s standing up without making it very clear that Liam’s massage did more than fix his back.

He groans quietly and buries his face in his arms.

Stupid back. Stupid spinning class. Stupid Liam.

This is fine. He’ll just lay here forever. Live on the floor. Start a new life horizontal.

No thoughts, only hardwood and humiliation.

This will blow over.

It has to.

Zayn’s halfway through his first coffee the morning after when Liam shuffles into the kitchen.

He looks exactly how Zayn shouldn’t have to see him: rumpled pyjama bottoms hanging low on his hips, plain white T-shirt slightly twisted, hair a complete disaster. He yawns as he pads across the floor barefoot, blinking blearily at the kettle like he’s forgotten how it works.

Zayn stares into his mug and tries not to remember what Liam’s hands felt like on his lower back. Or his thighs. Tries not to imagine how his hands would feel like on his—

“Morning,” Liam mumbles, pouring himself a cup. He flashes Zayn a lazy, lopsided smile. “Still sore?”

Zayn chokes a little on his sip. The memory hits like a punch to the sternum—thumbs pressing deep into muscle, the soft rumble of Liam’s voice, the weight of his body behind each movement.

He coughs, clears his throat. “Uh. No. Not sore.”

He gives a little laugh that sounds all wrong in his own ears. Too high, too fast. Liam doesn’t seem to notice.

“Good,” Liam says, nodding. “Probably just a bit of QL inflammation. You had some compression around the iliac crest, but it’s definitely manageable with regular mobility work and some passive pressure.”

Zayn hums, mostly to cover the way his brain short-circuits every time Liam says iliac crest out loud.

“Right,” he mutters. “Love a bit of passive pressure.”

Liam doesn’t catch the irony—just grins and sips his coffee like he hasn’t completely ruined Zayn’s capacity for normal human thought.

Zayn stares into his mug again. No, he’s not sore.

Not in his back, anyway.

His self-respect and dignity, on the other hand, might never recover.

* * *

The shop is quiet. One of those long, slow afternoons where the clock barely moves and Zayn’s already reorganised the display pens twice.

He’s perched behind the till with his sketchbook open, head bowed, pencil in hand. His elbow rests on the counter, hoodie sleeve pushed up to his forearm. The radio hums low in the background, the heater clicks faintly, and outside the front window it’s starting to drizzle.

It should be peaceful.

It isn’t.

He’s on his third sketch of the hour, and it’s going exactly like the first two: completely off the rails. What was meant to be a general study of form has somehow—again—ended up looking suspiciously like Liam.

Not exactly. Just… the shape of the shoulders. The curve of the back. The hand resting against a surface in a way that feels maddeningly familiar.

Zayn stares at the page, then lets out a groan and tears it out.

He sets it down beside him, face down. Adds it to the small, growing pile of rejects in the corner of the till counter.

He starts again. Something abstract this time, maybe. A rough sketch of a still life. A bowl. A mug. A bloody lamp.

Except somehow the shading starts to resemble cheekbones.

“Jesus,” he mutters, tearing that one out too and slapping it on the pile. This time he doesn’t even bother flipping it over.

Eventually, after too many false starts and one deeply unintentional jawline, he gives up and draws a kettle.

A proper, boring, round-bottomed kettle.

He’s halfway through shading it when a voice says, “Your mystery muse again?”

Zayn startles violently, letting out a soft curse under his breath. He looks up to find May standing beside the till with one eyebrow raised and her hands tucked into the pockets of her linen trousers.

“Jesus, May,” he says. “You’re like a ghost.”

She chuckles. “Sorry. You were in the zone.”

“Was I?” he mutters. “Felt more like a breakdown.”

She glances down at the pile of discarded sketches. The top one is half a torso. The one beneath it is unmistakably a jawline. She hums. “Art’s messy,” she says. “But these are good. Even the weird kettle one.”

Zayn exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. Just… got a lot on my mind lately.”

It’s true.

He doesn’t elaborate. I’ve realised I fancy my absurdly fit, straight flatmate doesn’t feel like appropriate workplace small talk.

May doesn’t press. Just leans her hip against the counter and pulls a folded flyer from her pocket. “Listen, Briar Lane’s looking for new cover artists. It’s for one of their upcoming releases—YA fantasy, I think. Big magic vibes. Thought of you.”

Zayn blinks. “You… thought of me for a fantasy novel?”

She shrugs. “You do good movement and composition. They want something character-led. Stylised, but not too graphic.”

He frowns at the flyer. “I couldn’t.”

“You could.”

“I mean, it’s Briar Lane.”

“And you’re Zayn Malik,” she replies dryly. “Which, last I checked, was not a disqualifier.”

He scoffs, looking back at the kettle. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do,” she says, already turning to go. “Deadline’s the 10th of next month. No pressure.”

Zayn watches her retreat toward the back office. Then he looks back at his sketch—the plain, lumpy kettle sitting smugly in the centre of the page.

He sighs.

Mystery muse, indeed.

Zayn gets home first. He drops his bag by the door, toes off his shoes, and lets out a sigh that’s more dramatic than it needs to be. The flat is quiet, warm, lived-in. He heads straight for the kitchen, tosses the folded flyer May gave him onto the table—face down, unread—and walks away without giving it a second thought.

An hour later, the front door clicks open.

Zayn’s stretched out on the sofa by then, one socked foot dangling off the armrest, a blanket half over his legs. The telly’s on, playing something he’s not really watching—just soft background noise for the internal spiral he’s been politely ignoring since the sketchbook incident.

Liam comes in with his usual end-of-day energy: a bit tired, a bit flushed, but still somehow glowing with that post-work satisfaction. His cheeks are pink from the chill outside, hair mussed, coat sliding off as he dumps his keys in the bowl by the door.

He catches Zayn’s eye and smiles.

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

Zayn hums in response, not really moving.

A few minutes later, Liam reappears with two mugs in hand—and something else in the other.

“This,” he says, holding up the flyer, “was on the table.”

Zayn groans and drops his head back against the cushion. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Liam says, setting the mugs down and flipping the flyer over to read. “Briar Lane. That’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

Zayn shrugs.

Liam sits beside him, tucking one leg under himself. “Are you submitting for it?”

“No.”

Liam gives him a look. The kind that’s half incredulous, half disapproving. “Why not?”

Zayn doesn’t answer.

“Zayn.”

He sighs. “Fine. I just… don’t think it’s for me.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because it’s huge.”

Liam blinks. “Yeah. So?”

Zayn shrugs again, smaller this time. “I won’t get it.”

Liam lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Unbelievable.”

Zayn scowls, half-hearted. “Thanks.”

“No, seriously,” Liam says. “You haven’t even tried and you’ve already decided you’re not good enough?”

Zayn doesn’t respond, which is response enough.

Liam shakes his head. “You’re mental. You’re brilliant. You know that, right?”

Zayn shifts under the blanket, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment. “You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” Liam says. “But I’m also not wrong.”

Zayn goes quiet again, picking at a loose thread in the blanket.

“Just—think about it, yeah?” Liam says, standing. He walks over to the fridge, grabs one of the silly tourist magnets from Louis’ last holiday, and pins the flyer in place.

Zayn watches him do it, face unreadable.

“You didn’t even read it,” Liam adds, giving him a look over his shoulder.

“Didn’t need to.”

“Well, now you will,” Liam says lightly, and heads back into the kitchen to sort the dishes.

Zayn doesn’t move. Just lies there under his blanket, heart beating a little harder than it was before, eyes fixed on the bright corner of the flyer now peeking out from under a magnet that says I ❤️ Mallorca.

Chapter Text

The kitchen is full—of noise, half-drunk coffees, mismatched mugs, and Harry’s bare feet on the table, which Zayn swats at uselessly.

“I’m telling you,” Louis says through a mouthful of toast, “the landlord tried to claim emotional distress over a broken garden fence.”

“Was it your emotional distress or his?” Niall asks, grinning.

“Mine,” Louis deadpans. “Over the stupidity.”

“Sounds like a standard Tuesday,” Harry mutters, stirring sugar into his tea with one of Zayn’s paintbrushes.

Zayn reaches over and snatches it back. “Are you mental?”

Harry shrugs. “Creative reuse.”

They’ve somehow all ended up at Zayn’s for breakfast. No one planned it—it just happened. Louis turned up first, then Niall with croissants, then Harry with almond milk and unsolicited gossip. The flat smells like toast and coffee and something vaguely citrusy from Liam’s ridiculous cleaning spray.

“Alright,” Niall says, clapping his hands. “Rapid fire check-in time. Who’s miserable and who’s thriving?”

“Work’s good,” Louis says. “I’ve got a boring contract case next week, which is exactly my speed. My client’s an arse but I kind of respect it.”

“Still seeing that bloke?” Harry asks, sipping his tea.

Louis shrugs. “He ghosted me for a month and then texted me last night to say his phone was stolen. So, no.”

“Fair,” Niall nods. “I’m drowning in lesson plans. Got a new private student who only wants to learn Taylor Swift on the trumpet.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Zayn mutters.

“I’ll record you a cover,” Niall grins. “How about you, Haz?”

Harry sighs dramatically. “Broke it off with Joel. Again.”

A collective groan echoes around the table.

“Wasn’t he the one who brought his mum on your third date?” Louis asks.

“Second,” Harry corrects. “She was nice though.”

“And the book?” Niall prompts, nudging his shoulder.

Harry brightens. “Getting there. I think I’ve traumatised my writing group, though. One of them said it made her cry uncontrollably, but she didn’t say if that was good or bad.”

Louis sips his tea. “Sounds like a rave review, that. Stick it on the back cover.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, smiling into his mug.

They all turn to Zayn.

“What about you, Picasso?” Niall asks. “Still filling your sketchbook with soft porn?”

Zayn flips him off. “Actually… I’m thinking about submitting something.”

Louis leans in. “Ooh. Do tell.”

“It’s for Briar Lane,” Zayn says, casual but too-casual. “Cover art commission. May gave me a flyer.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “That’s huge.”

Zayn shrugs, fiddling with a stray crumb on the table. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Don’t be a coward,” Louis says. “You’re brilliant.”

“He’s right,” Niall agrees. “You’ve got the goods, mate.”

Zayn flushes a little. “Thanks. I’m considering it.”

Before anyone can grill him further, the front door clicks open.

Liam’s footsteps thud across the floor—rhythmic, familiar. A gust of cold air follows him in.

“Morning.” he calls brightly, appearing in the doorway, red-cheeked and glistening.

Zayn’s brain immediately crashes.

His hoodie is unzipped, hair damp from his run, a thin, dark grey shirt clinging to his chest like it’s got a personal vendetta against Zayn’s sanity. He’s flushed and glowing, panting lightly as he reaches for the cupboard.

“Hey, mate,” Niall says around a mouthful of toast.

Harry lifts his mug in greeting. 

Louis cackles. “Oi, towel off, Casanova, you’re fogging up Zayn’s glasses.”

“I’m not even wearing—” Zayn starts, then cuts himself off, blinking at his empty hands.

Liam flashes him a confused little smile as he grabs a glass of water like he hasn’t just walked into the flat and set it on fire.

“Didn’t realise we had a full house.” Liam says, nodding at the group. 

“Breakfast briefing,” Louis says smoothly. “We were just discussing how Harry made a girl cry and Zayn’s maybe going to become famous.”

Liam perks up, slinging the damp towel around his neck. “Famous?”

Zayn looks up—big mistake. Liam’s standing right next to him now, chest rising and falling steadily, breath still coming quick. So close. So sweaty.

Zayn swallows. “It’s nothing. Just a maybe.”

“It’s not nothing,” Niall pipes up. “It’s Briar Lane.”

Zayn shrugs. Tries not to pass out.

Liam—still glistening like some kind of hydration ad—grins wide as he leans against the counter, sipping his water. “I told him he’d be mad not to do it.”

Zayn shoots him a look. “You pinned it to the fridge like a passive-aggressive mum.”

“Must’ve worked.” Liam grins, unfazed. “Here we all are, talking about it.”

He pushes off the counter and heads toward the shower, entirely too pleased with himself.

The second the bathroom door shuts, Louis leans in with wide eyes.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “How are you surviving this?”

“He obviously isn’t. Look at him, for Pete’s sake!” Niall says, nodding at Zayn.

Zayn scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “What are you on about?”

Louis raises both eyebrows. “Mate, you just stopped breathing for a full five seconds when he walked in.”

“I was mid-chew,” Zayn says flatly.

Harry hums. “Sure. And I suppose the flushed cheeks are just a side effect of your Weetabix?”

Zayn scoffs, defensive. “It’s from the sun, actually.”

Louis squints toward the window. “Yeah, mate. It’s winter.”

“You can still get sunburn in the winter,” Zayn mutters into his mug.

Louis lights up, smug as anything. “Right. Pay up, Niall.”

Niall groans. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Zayn blinks. “Wait—what?”

Harry hides a smirk behind his tea. Niall reaches for his wallet with the exaggerated despair of a man wronged.

“We placed a bet,” Louis says breezily. “Few days after you moved in.”

Zayn stares. “A bet?”

Niall hands over a crumpled fiver with a scowl. “On how long it’d take you to realise you wanted to shag Liam.”

Zayn gapes. “Are you—what the hell, guys?!”

Harry shrugs, all faux innocence. “To be fair, you’ve been emotionally spiralling in slow motion since week two.”

Louis adds helpfully, “I said under eight weeks. Niall said ten. You really delivered, mate.”

Zayn glares at all of them. “You lot are insane.”

Harry shrugs, entirely unfazed. “Are we wrong, though?”

He opens his mouth to argue. To deny it. But nothing comes out. Because—

Well.

He does want to shag Liam.

Desperately.

Every sweaty run, every towel-slung shoulder, every absent-minded grin from across the sofa has been chipping away at his defences like water on stone—and at this point, he’s practically eroded.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sips his tea in mutinous silence while Louis grins like he’s won a game show.

Harry pats him on the back. “Well, at least now you’re self-aware. Sort of.”

Zayn flips them all off without looking up. “Get out of my flat.”

Niall grins. “Never. Not till you admit it out loud.”

This is hell. His flat is hell. His life is hell.

And Liam—Liam is the beautiful, oblivious devil at the centre of it.

Zayn groans again, long and theatrical, dragging both hands down his face. “Fine,” he mutters, through gritted teeth. “I want to shag Liam.”

It comes out of him like a confession at gunpoint.

The room goes quiet for a beat. Then—

“Sorry, what was that?” Louis asks, hand cupped to his ear, smug as anything.

Zayn glares at him. “I want to shag Liam,” He whisper-shouts like it's a state secret. “Happy now?”

Harry’s already giggling. Niall just whistles low.

Zayn isn’t done. He sits forward, gesturing wildly now. “And it’s not my fault, alright? He’s the one walking around all damp and glowy like a Calvin Klein ad, all ‘oh, I just got back from a run’ while dripping onto the kitchen floor like some kind of sexy golden retriever. And don’t even get me started on the grunting! Who grunts that much just doing sit-ups?! It’s a war crime!”

Harry’s wheezing.

“And then he goes and massages me like it’s no big deal, all ‘you’re so tight’ and ‘some people like it hard’ with his stupid gentle hands and his physio voice and—he  straddled my thighs, okay? What the hell was I supposed to do, just lie there and think about tax returns?!”

Niall looks physically pained from holding in laughter. Louis has collapsed against the back of the chair, absolutely beaming.

Zayn throws his arms up. “So yeah. I want to shag Liam. Congratu—fucking—lations. You were all right. Are you not entertained?!”

There’s a pause. Then Louis gleefully says “Best Sunday I’ve had in weeks.”

Zayn scowls at all of them, still flushed. “It’s fine. Honestly. It’s not that serious. It’s a proximity thing. Everyone wants to shag their flatmate at some point, right?”

Three sets of eyebrows lift in unison. The looks they give him are nearly identical: dubious, knowing, and extremely not me.

Zayn groans. “Oh, come on.”

Niall raises a hand, all fake innocence. “I, for one, have never once fantasised about mine doing push-ups shirtless across the hall.”

Louis snorts. “Or massaging me into a religious experience.”

Harry just laughs—loud and delighted, like Zayn’s the best telly he’s seen all week.

The sound of the bathroom door opening silences them all instantly.

Liam strolls back into the kitchen, fresh from the shower, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, a soft navy hoodie thrown over joggers that cling in all the worst—or best—ways. He’s whistling something cheerful under his breath as he pads in barefoot, completely oblivious to the collective tension thick in the air.

Zayn schools his face into something neutral. Glares pointedly at the others, eyes sharp and warning.

They’re all smiling. Innocent, devilish, impossible grins.

Liam doesn't notice. He wanders up to the table and leans casually over Zayn’s shoulder to reach the pastry plate, one hand bracing lightly on Zayn’s arm for balance. His fingers are warm through the fabric.

“Sorry, mate—just stealing one of these,” he says, grabbing a croissant.

Zayn forgets how to breathe. He stays perfectly still. Doesn’t look up. The scent of Liam’s shampoo is inescapable—something citrusy and sharp and devastating.

The others look like they’re about to combust. Harry’s biting his lip to stop from laughing. Louis has ducked his head. Niall is shaking silently.

Liam takes a bite, hums contentedly. “You lot good?”

Everyone nods too quickly.

“Cool,” Liam says, already heading for the hallway again. “See you later.”

They all mumble vague affirmatives. The second his bedroom door shuts, the room explodes.

Harry falls forward onto the table with a wheeze. Niall nearly chokes on his tea. Louis points a triumphant finger at Zayn. “That right there. That was sexual warfare.”

“Wow,” Harry says between cackles. “The hand on the shoulder. The whistling. Are you alive?”

Zayn shoves his chair back, flushed and scowling. “You’re all the worst people I know.”

Louis just snorts. “You’re welcome, babe.”

* * *

Zayn didn't think it could get worse. But somehow it does.

Not better. Not clearer. Just worse.

Because now that Zayn’s said it out loud—even just to the lads—it’s like he’s activated something. Like his brain has been dunked in cold water and every neuron is suddenly screaming you want him. Constantly. Loudly. Without reprieve.

Before, he could pretend. He’d built entire mental filing systems around plausible deniability. Oh, it’s just a crush. It’s just proximity. It’s just admiration, attraction, appreciation of the male form, whatever. He had narratives.

But now?

Now Liam just exists and Zayn’s entire body goes yes please.

It’s a nightmare.

Liam walks around in joggers and Zayn short-circuits. Liam stretches and Zayn has to physically leave the room. Liam hums along to some stupid song while making toast and Zayn stares at the kettle like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earthly realm.

It’s the worst kind of awareness: the kind that won’t let him breathe properly in his own flat. He catches himself watching Liam’s hands, his mouth, the way he tips his head back when he laughs—and then immediately spirals about it in the loo like a Victorian widow with a nervous condition.

And it’s not just the obvious stuff either. It’s everything.

The way Liam leans on counters. The way he chews on pen lids when he’s filling out forms for work. The little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. The fact that he knows how to fold fitted sheets properly. It’s just all so hot.

Zayn finds himself zoning out while sketching, then realising he’s drawn Liam’s forearms again. He thinks about binning his entire portfolio. He thinks about therapy.

Liam, of course, remains  blissfully unaware. Keeps doing these small, ruinous things like yawning in soft t-shirts or saying “good morning” in that low, sleep-rough voice, completely oblivious to the emotional war crimes he’s committing.

One night, he even does the laugh—the real one, the one where he throws his head back, all crinkled eyes and dimples, and Zayn has to pretend to choke on his tea just to flee the room with dignity.

And now that it’s real—now that he’s acknowledged it—everything Liam does feels impossible to ignore.

Zayn wants him. In every way.

Wants to kiss him. Wants to push his fingers into that thick hair. Wants to see if Liam’s voice goes even lower when he murmurs his name.

It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic.

He used to be fine.

Now he’s a man reduced to ash by the sight of his flatmate licking marmite off his thumb.

It’s going to kill him. He’s going to die. He’s going to die and it’ll be Liam’s fault, and the cause of death will be something truly embarrassing, like “smiled at him while holding a dishtowel.”

Zayn lays awake at night and stares at the ceiling, dramatically.

He tells himself it’ll pass.

It does not pass.

One day Zayn comes home to find Liam sitting at the kitchen table in joggers and a loose t-shirt, thumbing through a book. There’s a half-drunk cup of tea beside him, one socked foot tapping idly against the leg of the chair. His hair is still a little damp from a shower.

He drops his bag by the door and toes off his shoes. “Hey.”

Liam glances up with a soft smile. “Alright? How was work?”

Zayn shrugs, pouring himself a glass of water. “Fine. Slow. May caught me drawing on a shipping box again, but otherwise uneventful. You?”

Liam leans back and stretches, a yawn catching at the edge of his words. “Long day. I’m knackered, actually.”

Zayn watches him roll one shoulder—then the other—before his hand drifts to the side of his neck. He kneads it absentmindedly, fingers pressing into the base like it aches. It probably does.

“You okay?” Zayn asks, nodding toward the motion.

Liam drops his hand, smiling wryly. “Yeah. Just pulled something, I think. I’ve been covering a few shifts for Becky—she’s got a lot going on at home.”

Zayn frowns. Of course he is. “You’re too nice.”

Liam shrugs. “She needed the help.”

“Still. Don’t overdo it.”

“I won’t,” Liam says, and then with a grin, “Mum.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and swats him lightly on the arm as he passes, earning a quiet laugh. He leans back against the counter, sipping his water. Watches as Liam subtly stretches his neck again, wincing just slightly.

“You sure you’re alright?” Zayn asks.

Liam nods. “Yeah. Bit of a strain in the levator scapulae—nothing serious. Just tight from poor posture at the desk, probably. I’ve been alternating heat and light mobility drills.”

Zayn blinks. “...Right.”

There’s a pause. And then—god help him—the words tumble out.

“Want me to try working on it?”

Liam looks up, surprised. “Really?”

Zayn freezes. “I mean. If you want. I can give it a go.”

He regrets it instantly. What is wrong with him?

It’s okay. No big deal. Totally fine. Just helping a mate. Liam had massaged him a few days ago, hadn’t he? And it had helped. Helped a lot. Maybe too much. Okay, definitely too much.

Zayn swallows. Nope. Not thinking about that. 

He’s just returning the favour. Without, you know… the full-body meltdown and highly inappropriate noises.

Liam lights up. “Yeah—actually. That’d be brilliant.”

“Cool,” Zayn says, casually, like he isn’t screaming inside. “Sure.”

Liam shifts in the chair. “Just here,” he says, gesturing. “Down the left side. Bit radiating into the trap.”

Zayn moves behind him and places both hands lightly on his shoulders.

He can do this. It’s just Liam. Just his mate. Just…warm, broad shoulders under thin cotton. Shoulders that slope perfectly into his neck, already tense beneath Zayn’s palms.

He presses his thumbs in gently. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Liam murmurs, eyes fluttering shut. “Perfect.”

Zayn exhales slowly through his nose and begins to work.

He starts light—pressing into the curve between neck and shoulder, drawing circles with his thumbs until the muscle begins to give. Liam lets out a breathy hum, his head tilting forward.

Zayn bites down on the inside of his cheek.

He shifts his grip, kneading up along Liam’s neck, finding the tight line of the muscle and stroking along it with careful pressure. Liam’s shirt stretches under his fingers, the heat of his body rising through the fabric.

“You’re really tight here,” Zayn murmurs, voice hoarse.

Liam groans—actually groans—and Zayn nearly combusts.

“Yeah,” Liam mumbles. “That’s the spot.”

Zayn swears under his breath and keeps going, trying not to think about the way Liam’s head keeps lolling forward, how his mouth keeps falling open just slightly with every pass of Zayn’s hands.

His thumbs press into the base of Liam’s skull, and Liam lets out a soft, breathy sound, one that shoots straight through Zayn’s chest and into places he does not want to examine right now.

Jesus.

Focus.

He works lower again, massaging along the upper trap, the curve of Liam’s shoulder. Liam sighs, low and grateful, his whole body loose now under Zayn’s touch.

“Mate,” Liam mumbles, voice gone heavy. “You’re magic.”

Zayn’s entire brain short-circuits.

He pulls his hands away like he’s been burned. “All done,” he says, brisk, stepping back.

Liam blinks his eyes open slowly. “Seriously. That helped so much.”

Zayn shrugs, turning toward the sink to hide his face. “No worries.”

His hands are still tingling.

And now he knows exactly what Liam sounds like when he’s melting under someone’s touch.

* * *

Zayn’s behind the till, fiddling with the edges of a sticker sheet, when May appears beside him with a clipboard tucked under her arm and her ever-present mug of tea in the other.

He clears his throat. “That Briar Lane thing you mentioned… do you still have the mood board?”

May doesn’t react right away—just raises an eyebrow, sips her tea.

“I’m not saying I’m doing it,” Zayn adds quickly, because he feels the need to clarify. “Just curious. Thought I’d have a look.”

Her lips twitch. “Of course. Purely creative interest.”

“Exactly.”

She disappears into the back and returns a minute later with a slim manila folder. Inside: printouts, swatches, character notes, a rough synopsis of the novel. The visual references are vivid—dreamlike images of shadows twisting into shape, glowing sigils, dramatic backlit silhouettes. One sketch features a boy with a crown made of glass, hands on fire.

Zayn flips through slowly. There’s something about it. He doesn’t know what—but it pulls at him. He traces a thumbnail over the edge of one page, the corner slightly curled.

“They’re after something expressive,” May says. “Emotion over realism. Mood over detail. You’d be good for it.”

“I’m not committing,” Zayn repeats, because he needs to say it out loud.

May shrugs. “I didn’t say you were.”

But she leaves the folder beside him anyway, and doesn’t mention it again.

He doesn’t go straight home after work.

Instead, he finds himself at a café three streets over—a quiet place with mismatched chairs and scratched wooden tables and indie folk playing faintly through a tinny speaker in the corner. It smells like espresso and cinnamon.

He claims a small table near the window. Orders a flat white. Sets the folder down beside him and doesn’t open it straight away.

For a while, he just sips his coffee and people-watches. Lets the city move around him. Outside, it’s just past sunset, everything dipped in that brief golden haze before the cold kicks in. The light makes shadows stretch long across the pavement.

Eventually, he opens the folder again.

And that’s when it starts.

He flips through the pages, again and again, eyes catching on specific images. The crown. The fire. The suggestion of something half-seen in the fog. He doesn’t even notice when he reaches for his sketchbook. Doesn’t realise how fast his pencil is moving until his coffee’s gone cold and there’s smudged graphite on the side of his hand.

He’s sketching like something’s caught fire in him. Sharp strokes, fast outlines, instinct more than planning. He sketches one figure, then another. Blocks in light with dense hatching. Tries something stylised with the eyes—then scratches it out and tries again. He doesn’t stop to think. He just draws.

It’s hours later when he finally sits back, cracking his neck. He blinks down at the page. The character stares back at him: flame cupped in one hand, cloak sweeping back, mouth set in a line that’s neither smile nor snarl.

It’s good.

Maybe even better than good.

Zayn stares at it for a long time.

Then his phone buzzes.

Liam: Hey, hope your day wasn’t too mental

Liam: Mind if I have the flat from around 8?

Liam: Got a date lol x

Zayn blinks at the screen.

Oh.

He stares at the message for a solid fifteen seconds before typing a reply that he immediately deletes. He retypes. Deletes again. Finally settles on:

yeah ofc :)) have fun

He presses send, then locks his phone and stares at the table.

The weird part—the part he’s trying very hard to ignore—is that he suddenly, acutely, does not want to go home.

Which is ridiculous. Obviously. Liam’s allowed to date. Zayn has no claim, no right, no reason to care. They’re mates. Flatmates. This is a normal thing that normal people do.

Still.

He pulls his phone out again and fires a message into the group chat.

Z🚬: anyone around tonight?

Z🚬: ive been exiled from the flat

Nialler☘️: oof. whatd you do?

Z🚬: nothing. liams got a date

Lou🧨: ouch

Nialler☘️: massive ouch

Harold✌️: RIP

Nialler☘️: come to mine

Nialler☘️: caspians making soup and threatening to recite poetry again

Lou🧨: 🫠

Z🚬: omw

Niall’s flat is a cluttered top-floor walk-up with slanted ceilings and about four too many plants. Caspian is exactly how Zayn remembers him: oversized cardigan, bare feet, inexplicably holding a lemon.

“Zayn,” he says, appearing in the kitchen doorway like he’s been summoned. “You’ve returned to us in your hour of need.”

Zayn blinks. “Hi?”

“I dreamt of you,” Caspian continues solemnly. “You were in a field. Or possibly a cave. You were painting with crushed berries and singing something by Taylor Swift. The moon wept.”

“Right,” Zayn says.

Niall appears behind him. “Caspian, stop haunting my friends.”

“Can’t help it,” Caspian shrugs. “He has the aura of a fallen prince.”

Zayn groans and drops onto the sagging sofa.

Louis and Harry arrive not long after. They bring wine, crisps, and unnecessary chaos. There’s music, too loud chatter, Caspian performing dramatic readings from a notebook that may or may not be cursed.

He finishes with a flourish, snaps his notebook closed, and rises from the sofa like he’s floating.

He turns to the room. “I must return to the void,” he says, bowing low. “May your night be filled with mild inconveniences and obscure revelations.”

Then he sweeps out dramatically, cardigan billowing, and disappears into his bedroom with a definitive click of the door.

There’s a beat of silence.

“...Is it just me,” Harry says, “or does it feel like he’s going to astral project into someone’s dream tonight?”

Louis nods. “He’s definitely cursed at least one of us.”

Eventually, the conversation turns, as it always does, to the source of Zayn’s slow unravelling.

“So,” Louis says, stretching out with a smug look. “What’s Loverboy doing tonight?”

Zayn doesn’t look up from his glass. “Don’t call him that.”

Harry grins. “Come on. You know you’re thinking about it.”

Zayn glares at him. “I’m not jealous.”

“Sure you’re not,” Louis says, biting into a crisp. “Not even picturing him sitting at the kitchen table right now, lighting candles or whatever?”

“Liam doesn’t light candles.”

“Maybe he does for dates.”

Zayn scowls.

“Not even picturing him laughing charmingly across the table?” Harry adds.

“Nope.”

“Touching thighs?” Niall supplies, too helpfully.

“Still nope.”

“A cheeky kiss at the end of the night?” Louis grins.

Zayn groans. “Oh my god, stop.”

“Tongue?” Harry says, way too gleeful.

Zayn throws a cushion at him.

They all laugh, ridiculous and loud, and Zayn lets himself laugh too—even if it’s half through gritted teeth. Even if part of him still aches a little, deep down, like something’s been bruised.

Zayn returns home a few hours later, warmth in his limbs and a slight sway to his step. Niall’s place had been loud and ridiculous and exactly what he’d needed—except it hadn’t really helped. Not when his thoughts had remained stubbornly fixed on Liam and whoever he was charming over their shared sofa.

He hesitates just outside the door, half-hoping the flat will be quiet and dark.

It isn’t.

Soft music filters in from the living room. The overhead light is off, replaced by the low flicker of candlelight. There’s a bottle of wine on the coffee table—half full—and two glasses, one of them smudged faintly with lipstick. The air smells like Liam’s cologne, warm and sharp with some note Zayn could never name but would recognise in a blackout.

He swallows and toes off his shoes.

Liam appears in the kitchen archway a moment later, button-up unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of chest hair, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair is styled, and the candlelight glints off the curve of his jaw.

“Oh—hey,” he says with an easy smile. “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” Zayn mutters, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for the heads up.”

Liam nods. “Didn’t want to make you wait around.”

Zayn gestures vaguely toward the living room. “All done, then?”

Liam shrugs. “Yeah. Wasn’t really my thing.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“No,” Liam says. “She was lovely. Just… not my type, I guess.”

Zayn tries not to smile. Fails. “Right. Shame.”

Liam chuckles lightly and crosses to the sink, rinsing out one of the glasses. Zayn leans against the doorway, still slightly fuzzy, still watching him like he’s trying not to.

He shouldn’t say anything. He really shouldn’t. But the wine is a low hum in his chest and the room smells like Liam and looks like Liam and is full of Liam in a way that makes Zayn’s restraint slip sideways.

“You look good,” he says, like it’s nothing.

Liam glances over his shoulder, amused. “What?”

Zayn waves a hand. “Just sayin’. All dressed up, all that. Smell good, too. Like—fancy aftershave or whatever. Makes sense. For a date.”

Liam laughs, a soft huff of air. “Thanks, I guess.”

Zayn nods, like he hasn’t just internally screamed at himself. “S’nothing. Just observant.”

“Right.” Liam smirks faintly, returning to drying the wine glass. “Well, let me know if you ever need date feedback. Clearly you’re paying close attention.”

Zayn makes a sound in the back of his throat that might be a laugh or a groan, and pushes off the doorframe.

“Think I’m gonna go lie down before I accidentally say anything else,” he mumbles, already heading for his room.

Liam calls after him, amused. “Night, mate.”

Zayn doesn’t turn around. Just lifts a hand in farewell and mutters, “Night.”

Then he shuts his door softly, leans against it, and exhales into the dark.

Fucking hell.

He collapses face-first into his bed, barely bothering to strip off his jeans. The pillow smells like his shampoo, like fabric softener, like home—but it doesn’t help. Not when the rest of the flat still smells like Liam’s aftershave and wine and something soft and citrusy that reminds him of something he’s not meant to want.

He groans into the duvet. His cheeks are warm from the alcohol, but the burn in his chest is something else entirely.

He hadn’t meant to say anything. Not really. But Liam had been standing there in that half-undone shirt, all soft lines and easy smiles, looking like the kind of thing you write songs about, and Zayn’s tongue had gone rogue.

You look good. You smell good.

Christ.

He flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling, every muscle buzzing.

It wasn’t even the compliment that undid him. It’s everything around it. The candlelight. The wine glasses. The lipstick smudge.

He closes his eyes and sees it too easily: Liam sitting on the sofa, smiling at someone who isn’t him. Leaning in. Laughing. Maybe touching her hand. Maybe kissing her. Maybe undoing the top buttons of her dress with those same fingers he used to work the knots out of Zayn’s back.

Zayn grits his teeth. Turns over. Buries his face again.

It shouldn’t bother him. It shouldn’t. They’re flatmates. Friends. Liam can date whoever he likes.

But it feels like every cell in his body wants to crawl out of his skin at the thought of Liam smiling that soft, shy smile at someone else. Of Liam touching someone else the way Zayn wants to be touched. Of someone else getting all the quiet, golden bits of Liam that Zayn sees every day and pretends not to hoard like treasure.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part?

He has no right.

He’s just the flatmate. The mate-mate. The one who walks in and says dumb things and blushes too easily and jerks off in the shower trying not to think about hands on his hips and lips on his neck.

He groans again, this time into the crook of his elbow.

What the hell is he doing?

He’s in too deep, that’s what. The lines are already a blur and getting blurrier, and it’s his own stupid fault. He let it get this far.

He pulls the blanket up over his head, willing himself to sleep, to forget, to stop feeling so much all the time.

Eventually, he dozes off with Liam’s laugh echoing in his ears and the imagined ghost of someone else’s lipstick on his mouth.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the days start passing faster.

Zayn finishes the Briar Lane submission with a strange combination of grim determination and possessed focus. He spends a full weekend hunched over his desk with smudged fingers, only surfacing for tea and toast. What starts as a vague interpretation of the brief turns into something sharper, darker, and more personal. The final piece has a surreal quality—shadowy figures tangled in thorny vines, warm gold ink slashing across the canvas like a lifeline. It’s messy. A little jagged. But it feels honest.

He doesn’t tell anyone when he sends it off. Doesn’t want to make a thing out of it. He attaches the file to the email, reads it over once, twice, three times, then hits send and immediately shuts the laptop with a full-body shudder. Done.

No expectations. No fanfare. Just out of his hands now.

He sits there for a moment longer, staring at the dark screen, and lets himself imagine—just for a second—what it might feel like if they actually chose him. The thought makes his stomach swoop and his cheeks heat. Then he shakes it off, muttering under his breath, but he doesn’t stop the little smile tugging at his lips.

A week later, his mum comes to stay for the weekend. She’s in town for a cousin’s wedding and insists on seeing him even though her schedule is packed. Zayn tidies the flat the night before, scrubbing the bathroom twice and setting out fresh towels like he’s hosting a guest at a boutique hotel. He even buys the specific chai blend she likes, the one that smells like cloves and memories.

When she arrives, the hug is long and crushing and familiar. She pulls back to scold him—already halfway through a tirade about how thin he’s probably gotten—only to stop short. She squints at him. Tilts her head.

“You look healthy,” she says, suspiciously.

Zayn shrugs. “I eat.”

Her eyes narrow. “Proper food?”

“Ask my flatmate,” he says, smiling despite himself. “He’s basically a one-man catering service.”

She does meet Liam later that evening, when he gets home from work still in his uniform. Zayn watches from the kitchen doorway as Liam shakes her hand politely and offers her a cup of tea like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She warms to him immediately, of course. Praises his manners. Laughs too loudly at his jokes. When she compliments his smile, Liam flushes slightly and thanks her. Zayn dies a little inside.

That night, he catches her and Liam sitting at the kitchen table long after dinner, talking softly about the best way to cook rice, and stories about Liam's sisters, and the price of onions these days. Something twists in his chest—strange and sharp and stupidly tender.

The weekend is full of long dinners, slow breakfasts, and soft, golden mornings. Liam joins them when he can—patiently listening to her stories, washing up, even offering to drive her to the train station when it’s time for her to leave.

Zayn hugs her goodbye at the platform, longer than usual. He pretends it’s just the chilly air making his eyes sting, but Liam sees straight through him. When they get home, Liam doesn’t say anything. Just steps into his space and wraps him in a warm, solid hug that Zayn sinks into without thinking.

He clings for a moment too long. But Liam doesn’t pull away.

Later that week, Zayn finally follows through on his promise and teaches Liam how to make chicken karahi. It’s messy and chaotic and full of laughter—Liam chopping too fast, Zayn shouting not like that!, Liam accidentally rubbing his eye after handling chillies and having to stand over the sink while Zayn half-laughs, half-scolds him for being such a drama queen. The flat smells like cumin and garlic and comfort. 

Liam’s face when he tries the finished dish is almost comical—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, a little bead of sweat on his temple. “That’s… unreal,” he says hoarsely, reaching for another piece of bread.

Zayn just grins into his plate, quietly glowing.

They eat cross-legged on the sofa, shoulders brushing, plates balanced on their laps.

Liam licks sauce off his thumb without thinking, and Zayn very nearly blacks out.

Later, when they’re doing the washing up, Liam starts humming something tuneless under his breath, and Zayn joins in without thinking. It’s stupid, and off-key, and very comforting.

Somehow, things keep shifting. Liam becomes more embedded in the friend group, slotting into place like he’s always been there. He and Harry bond over awful reality TV. He helps Niall move a sofa into storage without complaint. He and Louis argue over what makes a good film soundtrack like it’s a matter of national policy.

At one point, Louis slings an arm around Liam’s shoulders and declares, “You’re officially one of us now.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and calls him dramatic, but he can’t stop the way his chest goes warm and tight when Liam just grins and lets himself be pulled into their chaos.

Zayn watches all of it with a dizzy mix of pride and panic. It’s brilliant. It’s a disaster. Liam fits so well—too well. He laughs easily, shows up when he says he will, listens without judgment. He belongs.

So of course this leads him to his current nightmare: Zayn, cornered into a night out he can barely focus on, sharing a bathroom mirror with Liam, pretending his heart isn’t trying to claw its way out of his ribs.

The bathroom is much too small for two people, especially when one of them is shirtless and the other is trying very hard not to die about it.

Zayn stands at the sink, toothbrush abandoned in favour of his hair wax, fingers working through his hair with precise, practiced rhythm. The mirror fogs slightly from the warmth of the flat, and somewhere behind him, Liam hums tunelessly. It’s the kind of soft, content sound that doesn’t mean anything—and yet, somehow, means everything.

Liam’s shaving. Shirtless. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the edges, and he’s standing at the side mirror, razor in hand, concentrating on his jawline like he’s sculpting something. He’s got a towel slung low around his hips, swapped for joggers halfway through. Zayn hasn’t looked. Not really. He’s been too busy pretending to be intensely focused on his hair, like it’s a matter of life and death.

It might be.

He clears his throat, casually reaching for his rings. “You using my moisturiser again?” he mutters.

“Maybe,” Liam says, completely unbothered. “It smells better than mine.”

Zayn makes a noise of protest, mostly to cover the way Liam’s bare arm brushes against his stomach when he leans over to rinse his razor. The contact is brief. Casual. Utterly world-ending.

“I’ll invoice you for it,” Zayn says faux-casually, flicking his fringe into place.

Liam chuckles. “Put it on my tab.”

When Zayn finally escapes the bathroom, it’s with an iron-clad grip on his self-control. He dresses like he’s armouring up for battle: dark, slim-fit jeans with a clean hem, a soft black button-down with the top buttons undone just enough, silver rings, Doc Martens, and that old brown leather jacket that makes him feel like he’s cooler than he is.

He fusses with the collar in the mirror, running his fingers through his hair one last time. He doesn’t hear Liam come out of the bathroom—but he feels him. A shift in the air, a weight behind him.

He turns, and finds him standing in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a navy button-down rolled up at the sleeves. His hair’s styled, still slightly damp at the edges. He looks casual, relaxed—and stupidly good.

Liam doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at him.

Zayn swallows. His heart does something unhelpful in his chest.

“What?” he asks, shifting on his feet.

Liam’s expression doesn’t change. Just softens. “You look good.”

It’s simple. Just three words. But they land in Zayn’s chest like a dropped anchor.

He laughs awkwardly, eyes darting away. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

Liam huffs a small laugh, then grabs his keys from the bowl by the door. “Ready?”

Zayn nods, trying to ignore the warmth blooming under his skin. “Let’s go before you change your mind.”

They head out into the night, walking shoulder to shoulder beneath the glow of streetlamps. The city’s got that Friday buzz—busy, a bit wild, alive. They meet the lads outside a low-lit shopfront on a quiet side street, where a chalkboard sign in loopy handwriting proclaims: “NATURAL WINES + VIBES”.

Harry is already there waiting, resplendent in some kind of silky emerald shirt open halfway down his chest, clutching a wine glass and waving them over dramatically. Louis trails behind him looking unimpressed, and Niall’s leaning against the wall nursing a beer from the corner shop.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Louis grumbles as they approach.

“It’s culture,” Harry corrects smoothly, taking a sip of something deep red. “Expand your palate.”

Inside, the place is all wood paneling and soft jazz, string lights strung haphazardly between bottles stacked along the walls. There’s no bar—just long communal tables dotted with people swirling glasses and pretending to know what tannins are.

“This is dodgy,” Niall mutters as they step in, nodding toward a man in a cardigan earnestly sniffing his glass like it holds the meaning of life.

“It’s artisanal,” Harry says, sweeping his hand like he owns the place.

Zayn smirks despite himself, following them to one of the tables where a cheerful woman in an apron is already setting out tasting glasses. Liam leans in, warm breath brushing Zayn’s ear.

“This feels like the kind of place where someone’s about to charge us twenty quid to drink vinegar,” he murmurs.

They claim their spot near the back as a man with a ponytail rings a little bell to begin. He clears his throat and raises his hands, the room quieting down.

“Right,” he says, in a voice pitched halfway between a yoga teacher and a cult leader. “Thanks for coming, everyone. Tonight we’ll be tasting a selection of natural wines. Now, for anyone new: when we say natural, we mean minimal intervention—grapes grown organically or biodynamically, no additives, no filtering, no unnecessary sulphites. Wine as it was meant to be. Alive. Untamed. A little unpredictable. Like people.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow at that, catching Liam’s expression out of the corner of his eye—half bemused, half trying not to laugh.

The man beams serenely and adds, “You might notice some cloudiness. Some sediment. Don’t be alarmed. That’s just the wine telling you it hasn’t been stripped of its soul.”

With that, he gestures to the staff, and the first glass—a cloudy white with a faint smell of apples—is set in front of each of them.

Louis squints into his own cloudy pour and murmurs, “Looks like pond water.”

Harry glares at him, offended on behalf of the entire concept. “Don’t embarrass me.”

They all sip. Zayn winces at the faint fizz and bite of acidity. Liam blinks once, then swirls his glass delicately, holding it up to the light.

“Lads,” he whispers, leaning toward Zayn, “My sediment’s… moving.”

Zayn snorts into his sleeve, laughing so hard he has to hide his face in his elbow.

The next pour is sharper—Niall grimaces but swallows, muttering something about “eating chalk dust.” The third tastes faintly herbal and strange; Harry closes his eyes, trying to describe it, while Louis mutters that he’d rather drink squash.

By the time they’re halfway through, they’re giggly and warm, shoulders bumping as they lean over the table to dare each other to guess tasting notes. Someone at the other end of the room murmurs something about “forest floor” and “wet stone,” and Liam nearly chokes laughing when Zayn whispers, “Yeah, I’m getting hints of subtle overpricing.”

Later, a basket of sourdough arrives to cleanse the palate, and Niall starts stuffing chunks into his mouth between glasses while claiming he’s “soaking up the terroir.” Harry shoots him a look like he’s committed a crime.

When the next wine—a deep, almost purple red—is poured, Zayn’s pressed against Liam’s side on the bench, their thighs touching. It’s casual. Probably. Definitely. Zayn tries not to focus on it.

They all taste, swirling and sipping.

Harry raises his glass, sniffing. “It’s cherries and smoke. It’s broody. Complex.”

“Broody and complex,” Liam repeats in a low, slurred voice, glancing sideways at Zayn with a crooked little smirk that makes Zayn nearly choke on his sip.

The wines keep coming. Glass after glass, little pours that don’t look like much but add up fast when you’re not paying attention.

By the time they get to the sixth bottle, Zayn’s head feels warm and floaty, his tongue a little loose. 

Louis has grown suspiciously attentive to each pour, nodding gravely at the ponytail man’s increasingly poetic descriptions and murmuring “hmm, interesting” as though he’s discovering something profound with every sip. 

Across from him, Niall keeps leaning slightly into Harry’s space whenever the next glass arrives—just enough to make Harry’s jaw tighten and his elbow flick out in silent warning—though there’s the faintest upward curl to his mouth all the same.

Harry, of course, is still trying to preserve some kind of dignity. He sits up straighter, swirling his glass properly, and watches them with faint disapproval.

“You’re not even meant to swallow it, you heathens,” Harry hisses when Liam knocks back his whole tasting pour in one go. “It’s called tasting. You’re meant to spit it out!”

Nill just grins crookedly. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Yeah,” Zayn adds, feeling braver than he should, “we’re just embracing the… full experience.”

Louis cheers at that. Harry rolls his eyes like they’ve all personally offended him and mutters something about barbarians.

The ponytail man moves on to the final bottle—something amber and cloudy, flecked faintly with sediment. He’s saying something about wild yeast and skin contact, but Zayn’s only half-listening now, distracted by the warmth in his cheeks and the buzz in the room.

When the pour lands in front of him, Zayn swirls it out of habit and takes a tentative sip. His nose wrinkles as he tilts his head. “Mm. Dunno about this one.”

He’s about to set the glass down when Liam’s hand lands lightly on his forearm.

Just that—warm and steady where it rests on the table, fingers curling over his sleeve. It’s casual, probably. Just to get his attention over the music, hum of voices and clinking glasses.

Liam leans in, close enough for Zayn to catch the faint scent of aftershave and wine on his breath. His voice is low, pitched to carry only to Zayn’s ear.

Then Liam dips his head, his mouth brushing close to Zayn’s ear as he murmurs, his breath hot enough to raise goosebumps down Zayn’s neck.

“Nah. Try it again,” he says, low, his voice barely carrying over the din. “It’s good… if you pay attention. Kind of… sharp at first,” he says, his thumb giving a faint, absent press before retreating. “then soft. Like it’s showing off.”

Zayn’s breath hitches.

Liam pulls back just a fraction, just enough for Zayn to see the faint smirk on his face—like he doesn’t even realise what he’s just done.

But Zayn can barely hear over the roar of his own pulse, can barely move, pinned in place by the weight of Liam’s hand and the faint, dizzying scent of his cologne.

His glass wobbles slightly as he lifts it again. He takes another sip—and whether it’s the wine or Liam’s voice still in his ear, it really is better this time.

Sharp at first. Then soft.

Like it’s showing off.

He swallows, clears his throat when it catches awkwardly.

“Yeah,” he says, voice cracking slightly. He clears it again, trying for casual. “Yeah, it’s… good. Nice.”

Liam just grins at him—slow and easy—his eyes half-lidded, glinting in the low light. He doesn’t move his hand straight away, and the corner of his mouth quirks like he’s thoroughly pleased with himself.

It makes Zayn’s ears burn. His cheeks flush hot, and he ducks his head, pretending to study the glass like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

Liam finally lets go, already turning back to the table like nothing happened.

The night spills out into the street with a quiet kind of chaos, the lads loud and loose-limbed under the glow of the streetlamps. Louis is still holding his last tasting glass, empty, as though someone might fill it again if he looks pitiful enough. Niall keeps bumping into Harry on purpose, grinning, and Harry swats him half-heartedly without actually stepping away. Their laughter drifts up into the chill air, along with the clatter of uneven steps and messy goodbyes.

There are hugs, slaps on backs, Louis loudly announcing he’s “a cabernet man now, no turning back.” Someone tells someone else to text when they’re home. And then it’s just Zayn and Liam left on the curb, waving the others off as the night grows quiet around them.

A taxi pulls up and they pile in, Liam sliding across the back seat until their thighs brush. The heater’s on too high and Zayn’s head is still pleasantly fuzzy, and somehow they end up sitting closer than they need to. Liam’s cologne clings to the space between them, warm and sharp.

“Didn’t know you were a wine connoisseur,” Zayn mutters as they pull away from the curb.

Liam huffs a laugh. “I’m not,” he says. “But you’ve got to commit to the bit, don’t you?”

They start laughing again—quietly now, just between them—taking turns cracking half-hearted jokes. It’s easy, natural, the kind of drunken warmth that makes the whole world feel like it’s only the two of them.

“You’re so warm,” Liam says, leaning into Zayn’s side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You smell like, I dunno… cinnamon.”

“You smell like cheap hair gel,” Zayn replies, slurring a little. He’s trying to play it cool, but Liam’s weight against him is undoing all his internal scaffolding.

Liam nudges his ribs. “You love it.”

“Shut up.”

“Didn’t think you’d last through all that pretentious shit.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “It was fine.”

Liam smirks. “Yeah. You were quietly judging everyone, admit it.”

Zayn turns his head, prepared to make some snarky comeback—but Liam’s looking at him, close. The kind of close where his breath hits Zayn’s cheek and their thighs are pressed together and there’s nowhere else to look but at Liam’s mouth.

Zayn laughs nervously, a little too loud. “You’re in my space.”

“You love it,” Liam says again, softer this time.

And he does. Loves the buzzing warmth and limbs touching and the nothing between them but the hum of the engine and the faint smell of wine and aftershave.

The taxi jolts as it hits a pothole, and Zayn’s hand lands on Liam’s thigh to steady himself. He doesn’t move it. Liam doesn’t ask him to.

They’re still laughing as they stumble out of the taxi, arms bumping, voices too loud for the hour. The stairs loom ahead like Everest, but they take them anyway—clumsy and breathless and hanging off each other for balance.

“Left, left—no, your other left,” Liam huffs, one hand braced on the wall, the other digging through his coat pocket. He pulls out a crumpled set of keys and holds them up triumphantly. “Got it.”

Zayn leans over his shoulder, squinting. “That’s your locker key, you muppet.”

“No it’s not—wait. Shit.” Liam fumbles again, keys jangling uselessly. “Okay, okay. This one. The blue one.”

Zayn makes a grab for them. “Just give it here.”

“I’ve got it.”

“You don’t got it.”

“I do!”

“You don’t! You’re holding them upside down!”

Liam snorts so hard he nearly drops the whole ring. Zayn takes over, finally shoving the correct key into the lock and swinging the door open like it’s a personal victory. They tumble inside in a chorus of shushed laughter, trying to toe off their shoes and nearly falling over each other in the narrow hallway.

“Mate,” Liam gasps between wheezes. “That… that bloke with the ponytail—”

Zayn immediately starts laughing again, already shrugging out of his jacket and letting it fall by the door. “He said one of the wines tasted like autumn rain on cobblestones. Autumn rain! On cobblestones! How does he know what that tastes like?”

“I thought Harry was gonna propose to him.”

“Harry practically moaned when he said ‘wild yeast,’” Zayn snorts.

They’re barely upright as they make it to the sofa, tripping over a discarded hoodie and each other’s feet, and collapse into it in one tangled heap. Zayn’s ribs hurt from laughing. Liam’s head lolls back against the cushion, still chuckling, cheeks pink with wine and the cold.

Their knees knock together. They don’t move apart.

And the flat is quiet around them—just the distant ticking of the wall clock and the sound of their laughter tapering into breathless little exhales.

Zayn’s still laughing when he turns his head—something about Niall swiping Harry’s glass when he wasn’t looking—but it dies in his throat when he sees Liam already looking at him.

Not just looking. Watching.

Zayn’s breath hitches.

“What?” he says, voice low and unsure, suddenly very aware of how close they’re sitting, how his thigh is pressed against Liam’s, how warm everything feels. He pushes gently at Liam’s chest, like he needs to break the spell. “You’re staring. Have I got something on my face?”

Liam just shakes his head slowly, still watching him.

Zayn doesn’t move his hand. Doesn’t want to, he realises.

Liam is warm beneath his palm. Steady. His shirt is soft and thin, and Zayn can feel the shape of his chest beneath it—the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the quiet thud of his heart. He swears he can feel it pick up speed.

Neither of them laughs now. They’re not smiling. Just watching each other, quiet and still.

The room seems to shrink around them.

Zayn’s hand slides, just slightly, fingertips brushing against the fabric as his thumb grazes over the dip beneath Liam’s collarbone. Liam doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just sits there, open and waiting.

Zayn leans in—just a little. Barely enough to notice.

But Liam notices. His eyes flick down to Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn feels it like a touch.

His throat works around a swallow. “We’re really drunk,” he says, but it comes out like an apology, not a protest.

Liam nods once, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Yeah.”

But he still doesn’t move.

And neither does Zayn.

So it happens slowly. So slowly Zayn could back out at any moment, could laugh and call it a joke, could get up and run and pretend it never almost happened.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans forward, his palm still splayed over Liam’s chest, and presses their mouths together—tentative, soft, the kind of kiss that tastes like laughter and wine and every unsaid thing.

Liam kisses him back without hesitation.

It’s slow, and warm, and terrifying.

Zayn’s eyes flutter shut. His fingers tighten slightly on Liam’s shirt. Liam’s hand finds his waist, firm and grounding, and they kiss like they’ve forgotten what else they were doing.

Then Liam exhales softly and pulls him closer.

Zayn shifts instinctively, one knee sliding over Liam’s thigh, his body angling into Liam’s without thought. Their lips part and press again, deeper now, hungrier. His hand slips into Liam’s hair, tugging at the soft strands, and Liam groans into his mouth—low and rough and devastating.

Liam’s lips are hot and sure, and when his tongue sweeps against Zayn’s, Zayn makes a sound he doesn’t recognise—something between a gasp and a moan, swallowed into the kiss.

A hand slides to the small of his back, thumb dragging over the waistband of his jeans, slow and deliberate. The smallest touch—but it makes Zayn shiver, hips canting forward on instinct.

He pulls back just enough to catch his breath, dazed, staring down at Liam’s flushed mouth, at the dark, blown pupils staring back at him. His heart hammers like it’s trying to escape his chest.

“You’re—” Zayn breathes, but the words die on his tongue when Liam’s hand slides lower to his hip, gripping hard, and every thought in his head goes white.

He kisses him again, desperate now—off-centre, messy, his thigh pushing between Liam’s legs. Liam’s back hits the sofa cushions and Zayn follows, straddling him without a second thought.

The sound Liam makes then—deep and wrecked—shoots straight through him.

Their teeth knock. Fingers fumble. Zayn’s ring catches on Liam’s collar. It’s hot and clumsy and real.

Liam’s lips drag along his jaw, open and hungry, tongue flicking behind his ear in a way that makes Zayn’s whole body spark, knees tightening around Liam’s hips. His hands clutch at Liam’s shoulders like lifelines, like he might float away otherwise.

Then Liam’s hand slips under his T-shirt, fingertips grazing up his stomach in a slow, maddening path until his thumb brushes over Zayn’s nipple.

Zayn gasps—sharp and unguarded—and Liam groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

The kiss turns hungrier, Zayn grinding down on him without thinking, chasing the friction. Liam swears into his mouth, one hand anchoring at the small of his back, the other sliding lower—under his shirt, down the small of his back, slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Then lower still.

His palm cups Zayn’s arse, rough and hot through the thin fabric of his underwear. He squeezes, fingers digging in hard enough to make Zayn gasp again, his whole body jerking forward into Liam’s.

Liam pulls—guiding him down, grinding them together in a rhythm that makes Zayn see stars.

Zayn drops his forehead to Liam’s, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “Fuck—Liam—”

But Liam doesn’t answer—just kisses him deeper, wetter, hungrier. Like he’s starving for it.

Zayn’s hands find his hair again, tugging hard this time, and Liam groans, hips snapping up. The kiss breaks just long enough for Zayn to see Liam’s lips—red and slick and parted—before he crashes back down, messy and uncoordinated, all want.

His T-shirt rides up where Liam’s hand is still exploring, dragging hot patterns over his chest, up his sides, down again. Every touch is deliberate, claiming.

Zayn ruts against him helplessly, swallowing every sound Liam makes, every shaky breath, until Liam’s hand slides up—strong and sure—cupping his jaw, thumb brushing the hinge, then curling firmly around the back of his neck.

It’s possessive. Grounding. Hot in a way that makes Zayn’s knees go weak even straddling him.

He shudders, mouth falling open against Liam’s. Liam takes the opportunity—kissing him deeper, tongue sliding against his, greedy and sure, while his other hand squeezes his arse again and drags him down hard enough to make them both groan.

The friction is blinding now, Zayn grinding against him, feeling the heat through layers that suddenly feel unbearable. His hands find Liam’s buckle, clumsy and impatient, desperate to feel more.

Liam’s hips stutter as Zayn works his zipper down and slips his hand beneath the fabric. Zayn palms him through his briefs, just pressure and heat and nothing polite.

Liam’s answering moan is wrecked—guttural and desperate—and Zayn drinks it down, fingers tightening in Liam’s hair, grinding against him like he can’t stop.

Liam’s grip tightens at the back of his neck, thumb brushing up behind his ear, holding him in place as their mouths keep moving—tongues sliding together, each kiss more desperate than the last.

Liam’s other hand is already at Zayn’s jeans, popping the button and tugging the zipper down in one rough, impatient motion, knuckles brushing hot against his stomach.

And then— 

Knock, knock.

They freeze.

Another knock. Louder. Sloppier.

“I know you’re home, Zaynieee.”

Louis.

They jolt apart like they’ve been electrocuted. Zayn scrambles backward, falling half off the sofa, dragging a cushion with him.

Liam’s still panting, lips kiss-swollen, his jeans unzipped and half open. His eyes are blown wide, stunned and glassy.

Zayn feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

Everything is spinning and still, all at once.

He tries to speak but it comes out gravelly, throat raw. “Y—yeah. Coming.”

He winces at his own voice, too rough. He clears his throat uselessly and rakes a hand through his hair.

Liam doesn’t say anything. Just looks at him. He looks shell-shocked.

Zayn swallows hard. “I’ll, uh—I’ll get it.”

He stumbles up and away, every nerve screaming. He feels ten drinks more sober.

The knocking comes again—louder this time.

“Hellooo?” Louis sing-songs through the door. “Zaynie, I can hear you breathing, don’t ghost me.”

Zayn stumbles with a curse, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuckin’ hell, gimme a sec,” he mutters, voice hoarse as he fumbles to fix himself—raking his fingers through his hair, yanking his zipper back up and fumbling the button closed, trying to wipe the kiss off his face, off his skin.

He throws the door open with a scowl.

Louis is standing there, leaning heavily against the frame, red-faced and grinning. “Alright, grump,” he says cheerfully. “Don’t bite my head off. I just came for—oh, right.” He pats his pockets. “Left the keys to mine in your jacket, I think? When I borrowed it earlier to go smoke. Remember?”

Zayn stares at him. “Right. Yeah.”

He glances down, spots his jacket still crumpled where he left it on the floor. Bending quickly, he snatches it up, rummages through the pocket, and pulls out the keys. He all but throws them into Louis’ waiting hand.

“There. Go. Goodnight.”

Louis squints at him, lips twitching. “Everything alright, mate?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says too quickly. “Fine. Brilliant. Goodnight, Lou.”

He starts to shut the door, but Louis wedges his foot in the gap. “You sure?”

Zayn exhales sharply through his nose and presses his forehead to the doorframe for a split second before glaring at him. “Goodnight, Louis.”

He shuts the door, more gently than he wants to and sighs. He drags a hand through his hair, chest heaving, blood still fizzing hot just under the skin. When he returns to the living room Liam’s not there.

The sofa is empty.

Then he hears the soft hiss of the shower turning on.

Zayn’s stomach drops.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Chapter Text

Zayn wakes to his phone ringing, buzzing insistently on the nightstand like it’s trying to burrow through to his brainstem.

He groans, blindly groping for it without opening his eyes. His voice is a gravelly croak when he finally answers, “What?”

“We’re five minutes away,” Niall chirps, far too chipper for the hour. “Get your arse up.”

Zayn frowns at the ceiling. “…Away from where?”

“Your flat, genius. Breakfast. You promised.”

Zayn scrubs at his eyes. “Pretty sure I didn’t.”

In the background, he hears Harry mutter, “Told you he was too drunk last night to consent to having us over for breakfast.”

Louis chimes in cheerfully, “That was the entire point.”

Zayn exhales sharply through his nose, already resigning himself. “Fine,” he mumbles, and hangs up before they can say anything else.

The phone clatters back onto the nightstand.

For a moment, he just lies there. Staring at the ceiling.

The memories crash back like a wave, dragging him under before he can even try to stop them. The wine tasting—how they’d all drunk more than they probably should have, leaning into the warmth and the laughter, Liam and him pressed shoulder to shoulder as if the whole table didn’t exist. The ride home, sitting too close in the back of the taxi, their thighs pressed together, Liam’s cologne clinging in the thick air between them. And then—back here. The flat. The kiss.

God, the kiss.

He can still feel the way Liam had been watching him, gaze dark and steady, like he couldn’t look anywhere else. And then Liam’s mouth on his. It comes back to him now like it’s both a dream and a nightmare—blurred at the edges, but vivid where it counts. The heat of it, the way Liam’s hands had gripped him like he didn’t want to let go, the way he’d kissed Zayn back like he wanted it just as badly.

And Zayn had wanted it. God, he’d wanted it. Not just because of the wine or the soft, drunken haze that made him brave. He’d wanted to kiss Liam for months—long before last night. Wanted to do a lot more than kiss, if he was honest with himself.

What he hadn’t known, what he still can’t quite believe, is that Liam had wanted him too. The way Liam’s mouth had opened under his, the way his hands had roamed over Zayn’s body like he couldn’t help himself—that memory makes Zayn shudder even now.

It had been… more than good. So much better than good. Like every stupid, filthy daydream he’d ever had about Liam, all of it real at once.

And then Louis.

Zayn groans into his hands at the memory. Louis, knocking and calling through the door, breaking the spell so thoroughly it was like reality had come back swinging. And maybe… maybe that was for the best.

Because what had he even been thinking? He and Liam—doing all that. Kissing like they couldn’t get enough, touching like nothing else mattered. He’d wanted to go all the way, of course he had. God, he still does when he lets himself think about it. He’d wanted Liam so badly it was embarrassing.

But it had been a bad idea. A horrible idea. He’s always known that, deep down. Even just kissing him, groping each other on the sofa like they were never going to stop—it was stupid from the start.

Because they’re flatmates. Mates, even. And now all of it—all of this comfort they’ve built, the easy rhythm of their lives here—is probably hanging by a thread because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. Because of some silly, reckless horniness that he let get the better of him.

He lets his hands fall from his face, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It doesn’t even matter that it had felt amazing. That’s the worst part. It had been doomed the moment it started.

And then Liam was gone when Zayn had come back.

Zayn had sat on the sofa, trying to convince himself to stay put. To wait. To talk to Liam when he came back out. To… say something. Do something. The adult thing. The non-horny, emotionally responsible thing.

He’d waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

And then he’d taken the hint.

Now he has no idea where they stand.

Liam hadn’t said anything. He’d just… disappeared. Which, Zayn supposes, says it all. Liam had clearly sobered up. Regretted it. Realised what a mistake it all was.

Zayn drags both hands down his face and groans again, heat crawling up his neck. He feels embarrassed, humiliated, like he’d misread everything. Of course Liam hadn’t meant it. He’d just been drunk, overcome by the moment.

Getting out of bed feels like wading through wet concrete. His limbs ache with exhaustion and his brain feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry.

A sudden, sharp knock rattles the doorframe, followed by Louis’ muffled voice calling, “Zaynieee! Open up, you miserable sod!”

Zayn shoves the memories down like a spring-loaded drawer and yanks open the front door.

The lads are standing on the other side, bleary-eyed and loud, all holding some kind of takeaway bag or drink tray. Louis has a sack of pastries. Niall is carrying orange juice and a suspicious bottle of what looks like mimosa mix. Harry has a reusable tote that says Plants Are Just Gay Furniture and is probably full of weird fruit.

They look mildly hungover, slightly smug, and—for better or worse—very pleased to see him.

“Morning, sunshine,” Louis says brightly, pushing past him into the flat. “God, you look like you’ve been dragged through three different emotional crises.”

“Probably has,” Harry murmurs as he follows.

Zayn steps aside wordlessly, rubbing his face with both hands. “You lot are the worst.”

“We brought food,” Niall says, already heading for the kitchen. “That makes us the best.”

And honestly? They kind of are. Zayn hadn’t realised how much he didn’t want to be alone. The thought of sitting with his thoughts—or worse, sitting in a flat where Liam might reappear at any moment—is unbearable.

Physical and emotional avoidance feels like an excellent coping strategy right now.

So he follows them into the kitchen and lets himself be swept up in the chaos.

Louis is already rooting through the cupboards like he lives there, and Niall’s pulling mismatched mugs from the shelf.

“Is Liam in?” Harry asks, popping the lid off the orange juice bottle with an unnecessary flourish.

Zayn jolts. Actually jolts. His body remembers before his brain catches up.

He schools his face quickly, hoping no one noticed. “Uh. Don’t know. Might be. Might be out.”

Louis peers down the hallway dramatically. “You didn’t check?”

“I was half-asleep and being bullied into hosting brunch,” Zayn mutters, opening the fridge just to give his hands something to do.

“You should text him,” Niall says, tossing a napkin at Zayn’s head. “Let him know we brought food.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, not looking up. “Will do.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he starts plating the pastries. Someone finds butter. Someone else digs out jam. There’s suddenly coffee brewing, and the kettle’s on for tea. Louis starts heating something suspiciously eggy in a frying pan.

The flat fills up with sound—clinking mugs, overlapping chatter, laughter like it’s bubbling over.

And it’s… nice. Warm. Familiar. They fall back into the rhythm they always find with each other—half-bickering, half-caring, all a little too loud for Zayn’s small living room. Harry launches into a story about the guy he caught staring at him all through the tube ride home last night, convinced it was a meet-cute until the guy turned out to be an undercover ticket inspector. Zayn lets himself laugh. Lets the noise wash over him like a tide.

They tease each other, take bites off each other’s plates, argue passionately about the best pastry-to-filling ratio. Harry accidentally spills juice on the table and tries to blame it on “spiritual interference.” Niall throws a tea towel at him. 

It’s chaotic. Comforting.

But Zayn still feels… off.

Like he’s slightly out of sync. Like he’s watching himself laugh from a few feet away. His head keeps ticking sideways—toward the hallway, Liam's bedroom door, the thought of footsteps that haven’t come.

He tries not to let it show.

But Louis eyes him over the rim of his mug, and Niall frowns faintly between bites. Harry doesn’t say anything, just reaches out and tucks one of Zayn’s hair strands behind his ear, gentle and absent-minded like he’s smoothing out a crease in fabric.

Zayn catches it all. Doesn’t react.

“You okay?” Louis asks eventually, too casual.

Zayn shrugs. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He doesn’t meet their eyes.

They let it go. Mostly.

Louis bumps his shoulder. “You’re just sulking because I drank you under the table last night.”

Zayn shoots him a look. “You ended the night hugging the coat rack and calling it your soulmate.”

Louis shrugs, unbothered. “Still counts.”

Harry freezes mid-bite, lowering his pastry as though the words physically pained him. “That is not the point of a wine tasting, you absolute peasants.”

Louis grins. “Was for me.”

Zayn laughs—properly this time—and the sound of it seems to satisfy them, at least for now.

They settle into the easy sprawl of friends full of food and caffeine, legs tucked under chairs, elbows on the table. Someone’s queueing up a stupid video on their phone when Niall, between sips of tea, says, “Oh, and how sweet was Liam last night, though? You remember when he helped that girl find her mates? The one in the red boots? She was absolutely off her face, kept calling him ‘Daniel Radcliffe,’ and he still made sure she got to her friends. And then when they—”

“Alright,” Zayn says, voice clipped, “can we stop talking about last night?”

The silence hangs, awkward and immediate. Even Louis, halfway through buttering another croissant, pauses mid-swipe.

Harry’s head tilts slightly. “Z, everything alright?”

Zayn keeps his gaze fixed on the table. “Yeah. Just tired. Don’t need a full play-by-play of the entire night.”

Another beat passes.

Niall frowns. “Mate, we were just—”

“Yeah, and I got it,” Zayn snaps, then winces. “Sorry. I just… I’ve got a headache. Let’s talk about something else.”

There’s a pause.

Then Louis leans back in his chair with exaggerated calm. “Alright. No more last night. Anyone want to hear about the man who tried to fight me over a jukebox in Soho last weekend?”

Niall exhales slowly. “Was this the one with the hat?”

“Obviously.”

The conversation picks up again—slightly stilted, but moving—but Zayn just pokes at his food, heart pounding harder than it should.

There’s a jangle of keys at the front door, then the low scrape of it opening, followed by the soft thump of trainers being kicked off and the steady tread of footsteps down the hall.

Zayn goes still.

The lads are now mid-argument about whether Louis actually paid for the pastries or just flirted with the woman at the counter again when Liam appears in the doorway.

He’s flushed from a run, hoodie unzipped, a sheen of sweat on his neck and forehead. There’s a slight pink to his cheeks from the cold. His eyes flick briefly across the room, landing—just for a second—on Zayn.

Zayn doesn’t meet them. Just grips his mug a little tighter.

“Morning,” Liam says, voice casual and friendly.

“Liam, mate!” Niall calls, lifting a danish like it’s a toast. “Come have a pastry. Louis bought half the bloody bakery.”

“Good haul this morning,” Louis adds. “We’ve got chocolate, custard, almond—you name it.”

But Liam doesn’t move further into the room. “Nah, I’m good. Just back for a quick shower.”

“Oh come on,” Niall calls. “We’ve got enough to feed an army.”

Liam offers a faint smile, already backing toward the hall. “Rain check. Enjoy.”

Then he’s gone, the bathroom door clicking shut a moment later. A beat passes. The water starts running.

Zayn stares into his mug, jaw tight.

He’s honestly surprised there’s any hot water left after last night. Liam had stayed in there so long Zayn half thought he might’ve climbed out the bloody window.

Harry frowns. “Was it just me, or was that… odd?”

“Very odd,” Louis agrees. “He didn’t even glance at the pastries.”

“Yeah,” Niall says, turning to Zayn. “He seemed a bit off. Don’t you think?”

Zayn doesn’t look up. “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “On second thought—you seem a bit off as well.”

Zayn’s reply is too fast, too sharp. “Yeah, well, I already told you lot a million times I’m hungover and I’ve got a headache.”

Harry lifts his hands, placating. “Okay, okay. Sorry, mate. Just felt a weird vibe there, is all.”

“Must’ve just been the sheer horror of watching a grown man refuse a pastry.” Zayn says.

That gets a chuckle from Louis and Harry, but Niall just squints at him.

“Something going on?” he asks. “You barely even looked at him.”

Zayn scoffs. “No. Swear.”

He says it with a little laugh, trying for casual—but it doesn’t land. His voice is too tight. His shoulders too tense. He’s a shit liar and they all know it.

Three sets of eyes lock on him, curious and quiet.

Zayn grabs his mug and downs the last of the lukewarm tea like it might save him.

Harry leans in slightly. “Seriously, mate… something’s off. The energy in here’s all tangled. I can feel it.”

“Yeah,” Niall nods. “And Harry’s never wrong about energies.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You lot are being ridiculous.”

“Spill,” Louis says, drumming his fingers on the table.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Zayn mutters.

“I dunno, mate,” Niall says, squinting at him. “How about the truth?”

“The truth will set you free,” Harry adds, entirely unhelpful.

Silence.

The three of them just look at him, steadily. Not accusing—just waiting.

Zayn exhales heavily, rubs both hands over his face, and drops his head into his palms.

“We kissed,” he mutters, muffled and barely intelligible.

“What?” Louis says, leaning closer.

Zayn lifts his head just enough to repeat, still quiet: “We kissed, alright?”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then—

“You what?!” Louis nearly yells.

Zayn groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. “You heard me.”

“No, no,” Niall says, leaning in like he’s watching a documentary unfold. “Say it again. Properly. With context.”

Harry clasps his hands dramatically. “We need a play-by-play.”

Zayn glares at them all, then drops his head back against the sofa cushion like he’s praying to be taken by the ceiling. “Why do I even tell you lot anything.”

“Because you crave pain and we’re your emotional support goblins,” Louis says brightly. “Now come on. Start from the beginning.”

Zayn groans again. “Fine. We got back home from the wine tasting last night. Drunk. We were laughing. I unlocked the door, and then…” He waves a vague hand.

“And then?” Harry prompts, wide-eyed.

“And then we kissed,” Zayn mutters. “On the sofa.”

“Oh my God,” Niall breathes.

Louis clutches his chest. “Shut up.”

Zayn sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t just a peck. It was… a lot.”

“How much is a lot?” Harry asks, eyes wide with delight. “Like, hands involved? Tongue?”

Zayn shoots him a look but doesn’t answer.

Louis’ jaw drops. “There was tongue.”

“Okay, yes! There was tongue,” Zayn snaps, ears pink. “A lot of it. There was everything. We were—” He makes another vague gesture, helpless. “All over each other. He had his hands under my shirt, I was on his lap, my hand was in his pants, it got—” He breaks off, groaning. “Jesus Christ.”

The lads erupt.

“Your hand was in his pants?!” Niall cackles.

Harry fans himself with a napkin. “I need a minute.”

Louis just laughs and points. “No wonder you’ve been weird. You had a religious experience.”

Zayn drops his face into his hands. “I hate all of you.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Niall leans forward, eyes wide. “Wait. Wait—so then what happened? Did you shag?”

Zayn lifts his head just far enough to glare at him. “No. Obviously not.”

Niall looks genuinely baffled. “Why the hell not?”

Zayn just stares at him, then points silently in Louis’ direction.

Louis blinks. “Me?”

Zayn nods grimly. “You.”

Louis recoils like he’s been accused of arson. “What the fuck did I do?”

Harry’s already squinting at Louis. “Hang on…”

Niall joins in, frowning. “What did you do?”

Zayn sighs like it pains him physically to relive it. “You showed up. Drunk. At the door. For your keys.”

Louis’ jaw drops. “Oh my God. That was last night?”

“Mmhm,” Zayn mutters bitterly. “Right in the middle of things. Mid—everything.”

Harry’s mouth drops open. “You cockblocker!”

Niall chokes on a laugh. “Did you just say mid everything? Oh my God.”

“I didn't know you were—” Louis clutches his chest in mock offence. “How was I supposed to know you were halfway to riding him into next week?!”

Zayn groans and drops back into his hands.

Harry’s wheezing now. “This is the best plot twist I’ve ever heard.”

Niall glares at Louis. “You absolute criminal.”

Louis throws his arms up. “I just wanted my bloody keys!”

Harry leans back. “Zayn, mate, that’s tragic. I’m actually emotional.”

“Don’t be,” Zayn mutters. “It was a mistake anyway. We were drunk.”

Louis side-eyes him. “Didn’t sound like a mistake when you were talking about his tongue in your mouth.”

Zayn throws a cushion at him.

Louis dodges it, then leans forward, grinning. “So what happened then? You didn’t just go back to whatever you were doing? Kissing… groping… riding—?”

“No,” he snaps. “I opened the door, gave you your bloody keys, and when I turned back around Liam had vanished.”

“Vanished?” Harry echoes, wide-eyed.

“Gone to shower,” Zayn clarifies, slumping back against the sofa. “I waited. Figured we’d… I don’t know. Talk about it. But he just stayed in there for ages. Water running forever. So I took the hint.”

“You just went to bed?” Niall says, incredulous.

“Yup,” Zayn mutters. “Didn’t see him again until just now.”

There’s a heavy pause.

Harry points toward the hallway. “That explains the weird energy.”

“Thanks for the insight, genius,” Zayn deadpans.

Louis whistles low. “So you haven’t even talked about it?”

“Nope.”

Niall makes a face. “Not even, like, a ‘so that happened’?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Not a word.”

Harry clutches his mug like it’s giving him life. “Oh, babe. This is a nightmare.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Zayn says, exasperated. “He kissed me back. Properly. Hands-everywhere kissed me. Then he vanished into the steam like a bloody ghost.”

Louis leans his chin on his hand, very unhelpfully entertained. “A sexy, emotionally repressed ghost.”

Zayn scrubs both hands down his face. “I am not talking about this anymore.”

“Alright, alright,” Harry says, holding up both hands in surrender. “No more interrogation.”

“Fine,” Niall echoes, though he’s still eyeing Zayn with barely concealed curiosity. “We’ll let it go. For now.”

The conversation stumbles awkwardly at first, but eventually lurches back into safer territory—someone brings up one of the horrible wines from last night, Louis launches into a story about his neighbour’s emotional support ferret, and Harry tries to rank everyone’s worst fashion moments from uni. Zayn mostly listens. Grateful, quietly, for the noise.

When the lads finally gather their things to leave, there’s a chorus of goodbyes at the door—hugs, coat-shuffling, a few leftover pastries stuffed into pockets.

“Be brave,” Harry mutters into Zayn’s ear as he pulls him into a quick hug.

“I hate you,” Zayn mumbles back.

Niall just grins. “We expect live updates.”

“I’m not—”

“Live,” Louis repeats firmly. “Nothing less.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and shuts the door behind them. He leans against it for a second, exhaling hard, head thunking gently back. The silence that follows is immediate, almost oppressive.

For a moment, it feels like relief.

No questions. No knowing glances.

Just peace.

Except, of course, that’s a lie.

Because he’s not alone. Not really.

Liam had disappeared into the shower the second he got back from his run and never came back out—not to the kitchen, not to say a word. Just quietly retreated to his room. And he’s still in there now, probably reading or cleaning or folding his colour-coded underwear, or whatever emotionally constipated penance he’s decided on.

Zayn goes to his own room. Tries to sketch. Tries not to think. It’s hopeless.

The memory of last night plays on loop, burned behind his eyelids like an afterimage. 

Time sludges forward, the light shifting lazily across the floor. Zayn stays put, even though his stomach growls and his bladder protests. Every time he thinks about getting up, the thought of running into Liam stops him cold. So he stays. 

Eventually, hunger claws its way to the front of his brain. He rummages around for a snack, finds nothing but stale gum and a few forgotten paper clips in the drawer by his desk. Curses himself for that stupid late-night snacking ban he swore by three weeks ago.

It takes a full ten minutes of internal negotiation, but finally he cracks his door open and creeps into the hallway like a man trying not to wake a sleeping bear.

The kitchen light is on.

He freezes.

And there, standing by the open fridge, is Liam.

Zayn curses silently and contemplates backing away before he’s seen, but it’s too late—Liam turns, startled.

“Oh—hey,” he says, voice a little too bright, too casual. “Didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah. Just… hungry,” Zayn mumbles, hovering in the doorway like it might swallow him whole.

Liam shifts to the side, gesturing with a half-hearted smile. “You go ahead, mate.”

Zayn steps forward. “No, no, you—sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No interruption,” Liam says quickly. “I was just grabbing—uh. Water.”

“Cool. Yeah. Good call.”

They both move at the same time, heading for the same cupboard, then jerk back with matching nervous chuckles.

“Sorry, mate—”

“Didn’t mean to—”

They both stop. Stand. The awkward hum between them louder than the fridge’s compressor.

Zayn looks anywhere but at Liam. The countertop. The floor. The stupid tea towel with cartoon avocados on it.

Liam clears his throat. “So. How was the rest of your day?”

“Fine,” Zayn lies. “Yours?”

Liam nods. “Yeah. Just—quiet.”

Zayn hums. Opens a cupboard. Grabs a nearly-empty bag of crisps and clutches it like a lifeline. 

They both stay silent.

“Alright,” Liam says finally, breaking the tension with a thin, polite smile. “I’ll, uh—leave you to it.”

Zayn nods. “Yeah. Cheers, mate.”

Liam shifts the glass in his hand like he’s trying to look busy, then turns slightly toward the door.

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut for a second, every muscle in his body tensing like a trap about to spring. Then, quietly:

“Liam.”

Liam pauses in the doorway. “Yeah? What, mate?”

Zayn exhales. Opens his eyes. Looks at the floor instead of him. “We should probably talk about it.”

A beat.

“About what?”

Zayn lifts his eyes, meets Liam’s for a second, then drops them again. “About last night.”

Liam doesn’t speak right away. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, eyes flicking toward the floor, then back to Zayn. He lets out a nervous little laugh that doesn’t sound particularly amused.

“Oh. Right. Sure. Yeah—um. We can… talk.”

The silence that follows is dense.

Neither of them moves.

Zayn’s heart is thudding like a drumbeat under his ribs. He doesn't know what he’s hoping Liam will say. He just knows he can’t pretend it didn’t happen.

They both open their mouths at the same time.

“I think—”

“So I was gonna say—”

They both stop.

Zayn gestures. “You go ahead.”

Liam nods “Right. Well.” He rubs the back of his neck. “We were drunk.”

A silence falls between them—dense and awkward.

Zayn shifts his weight. “Yeah… we were.”

“Right.” Liam gives a tight nod, eyes not quite meeting his. “So I mean—drunk people do stupid shit all the time, right?”

Zayn forces a laugh. It's thin and humourless. “Yeah. Stupid.”

Liam echoes it, just as flat. “Drunk.”

“Silly.”

“Silly mistake,” Liam says, quick and light.

Zayn nods too fast. “Yeah. Totally.”

Another silence. This one feels worse.

Zayn shoves his hands in his pockets. “Anyway. S’alright. Let’s just forget it happened, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, eyes flicking toward the kitchen doorway. “Back to normal.”

“Normal,” Zayn repeats, and it tastes like ash.

Liam gives him a quick, strained smile. “Alright. G’night, mate.”

Zayn doesn’t answer, just watches him walk away.

The second he’s alone again, he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours. Every part of him feels too full and too hollow at the same time.

He stands there for a moment after Liam disappears, still half-leaning against the kitchen counter.

His whole body feels wound tight, like he’s waiting for some other shoe to drop—but nothing comes. No second thoughts. No half-joking comment. Just Liam’s bedroom door closing with a quiet, definitive click.

Zayn exhales slowly, lets his shoulders sag.

Well. That went better than it could have.

At least Liam didn’t freak out. Didn’t ask him to leave. Didn’t treat him like some perv who crossed a line. The flat’s still his. The rent’s still split. Everything’s fine.

He should feel relieved. And he does, sort of. It's just… tangled up in something else.

He pushes off the counter and opens the fridge, squinting inside. There’s leftover daal, a half-eaten bag of grapes, a Tupperware container of something Liam made earlier in the week. His stomach growls quietly, but he ignores it.

His hand hovers over the daal before he shuts the door again.

He’s not really hungry, anyway.

He should be grateful, he tells himself. That it didn’t get messy. That Liam had the decency to laugh it off, to make it easy. That they could slap the "drunk mistake" label on it and move on. It’s what he wanted, right?

He didn’t want a scene. Didn’t want a confrontation.

He heads back down the hall, rubbing the back of his neck. His fingers still feel warm somehow—like they remember too much. Like they’re still cataloguing the curve of Liam’s ribs, the soft drag of skin and fabric and heat.

Zayn shakes his head sharply. Don’t be weird. It’s done. It’s fine.

He slips into his room, shuts the door gently behind him, and sits on the edge of his bed. For a second, he just sits there, staring down at his hands.

Then he shrugs off his hoodie, flops back against the pillows, and throws an arm over his eyes.

It was nothing.

A silly, drunk mistake.

He tells himself that over and over, until the words stop sounding like anything at all.

* * *

The break room smells faintly of turpentine and someone’s microwaved curry. Zayn’s hunched at the little round table in the corner, half a sandwich in hand, thumb idly scrolling his phone with the other.

It’s been a busy morning—back-to-back customers, a stock delivery that showed up an hour early, and a kid who spilled glitter across the till like he was blessing the place. Zayn hasn’t had a second to think, which is honestly ideal.

Now that he has a second, though, he’s regretting it.

He takes a bite of his sandwich—too much mustard, again—and swipes to his messages.

The group chat is lighting up.

Harold✌️: update???

Nialler☘️: we gave you a full 24 hours of grace

Nialler☘️: very generous of us

Lou🧨: which was clearly a mistake

Lou🧨: spill or suffer xx

Zayn rolls his eyes.

Z🚬: theres nothing to spill

Harold✌️: have you talked to him yet?🫶

Z🚬: yea

Harold✌️: and?

Nialler☘️: 👀

Z🚬: and nothing

Lou🧨: no such thing as nothing

Harold✌️: especially not with that face you made yesterday

Nialler☘️: looked like someone cancelled batman

Zayn huffs a laugh before he can stop it.

Z🚬: he said it was just a drunk mistake

Harold✌️: 🥺

Nialler☘️: mate

Lou🧨: i will kill him

Harold✌️: ok no violence lets breathe

Nialler☘️: i might allow light slapping

Zayn sinks further down in his seat, sandwich untouched. His phone buzzes again.

Harold✌️: how are you tho

Lou🧨: yeah

Nialler☘️: we make fun bc we love x

Z🚬: m fine

Z🚬: seriously

Harold✌️: convincing

Z🚬: back to work lads

Z🚬: got paint to alphabetise

Zayn’s about to tuck his phone away when another message pops up:

Harold✌️: come to mine after work. ill bake a cake 🧁✨

Harold✌️: no hash this time i swear

Lou🧨: lies

Nialler☘️: 100% laced

Harold✌️: ITS JUST A LEMON DRIZZLE

Zayn leans back in his chair and lets himself smile properly.

Harry’s flat smells like vanilla and burnt sugar when Zayn arrives, which is honestly not the worst welcome he’s ever had. The door swings open before he can knock, and Harry beams at him, curls wild and apron dusted with flour.

“You came,” Harry says, dramatically throwing an arm around his shoulder. “The broken-hearted always do.”

“I’m not—” Zayn starts, but gets dragged inside before he can finish.

Louis and Niall are already flopped on the sofa, surrounded by mismatched cushions and a coffee table covered in empty mugs, spoons, and what looks like a bottle of cheap Prosecco.

“You’re late,” Louis says, lifting a spoonful of icing to his mouth.

“You’re welcome,” Zayn mutters.

Harry bustles past them all and lifts a cake from the counter with a proud little flourish. It’s lopsided and aggressively iced in pink, with chunky white letters scrawled across the top:

SRY UR FLATMATE HAS NO TASTE XX

Zayn lets out a strangled noise.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, covering his face.

“Louis decorated it,” Harry says proudly.

“I thought it would be healing,” Louis shrugs.

“…It’s definitely something,” Zayn mumbles, but he can’t stop the laugh that escapes.

They cut into it—too much sponge, not enough frosting—and Zayn lets himself be passed a plate. It’s good. Dense and sugary and vaguely comforting, like being patted on the head by a well-meaning aunt.

“So,” Louis says, licking icing off his thumb. “Tell us everything.”

Zayn exhales. “I already told you everything.”

“Tell us again,” Niall says around a mouthful. “We’re emotionally invested.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “We talked. It was awkward. He said it was a drunk mistake. We agreed it was silly.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “You agreed?”

Zayn hesitates, just for a second. “Yeah. Course. Wasn’t like—wasn’t anything. Doesn’t have to be a thing.”

Harry, gently: “But you want it to be?”

Zayn picks at a crumb on his plate. “It was just a kiss. It was stupid.”

They all go quiet. Niall tops up his Prosecco. Harry sighs.

“Well,” Louis says eventually, tone a bit too bright, “there’s only one thing for it.”

Zayn looks up warily. “Please don’t say orgy.”

“I was gonna say rebound,” Louis grins. “But now that you mention it—”

Zayn groans.

Harry nudges his knee. “Come on. Little night out. Bit of dancing. Little flirt. Maybe a snog in an alley.”

“Just to remind yourself you’ve still got it,” Niall adds.

Zayn gives them all a flat look. “I never had it to begin with.”

“You had enough of it to get Liam all hot and heavy on the sofa,” Louis says.

Niall points with his fork. “And we have the trauma report to prove it.”

Zayn flips them off without heat. “I’m not going out.”

“You’re gonna have to get over him sometime,” Harry says, not unkindly.

Zayn’s head snaps up, frowning. “I don’t need to get over him. There’s nothing to get over. Was never even on him to begin with.”

Louis perks up instantly. “Well… physically, you absolutely were.”

Zayn groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You know what I mean.”

Niall just grins. “You just need to get laid, mate. Get him out of your system.”

“Exactly,” Louis nods sagely. “You’re obviously… what’s the clinical term?”

“Sexually repressed,” Niall supplies.

“Pent up,” Harry agrees.

Zayn scowls faintly. “I’m not—”

“When’s the last time you got laid?” Niall interrupts, all faux-innocence.

Zayn opens his mouth. Closes it. “…None of your business.”

Louis gasps theatrically. “Oh my God. He can’t remember.”

Harry just sighs. “You’re proving our point for us, babe.”

Zayn mutters something rude into his cake, but his ears are pink, and none of them miss it.

Niall squints at him, head tilted. “Wait—have you even been with anyone since…”

Zayn’s jaw tightens. “Don’t, alright? Not… not talking about that.”

The silence that follows is brief but noticeable.

Harry, sitting across from him, just looks at him quietly. Not teasing this time—just a soft, knowing look that Zayn pointedly ignores as he stabs at his cake.

Louis clears his throat, pushing past it with a breezy grin. “Right. You need a Tinder,” he announces, as if nothing at all just happened.

Zayn freezes, fork mid-air. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t get a say,” Louis replies, already pulling out his phone. “You’ve been demoted from decision-maker to sexy meat puppet.”

“I hate everything you are.”

“Noted,” Louis says, typing anyway.

Niall grabs Zayn’s phone from Louis and starts rifling through his gallery. “We need a good pic. Shirtless, obviously.”

“No,” Zayn says flatly, lunging for the phone. “Give it—”

Harry swoops in and plucks it neatly out of reach. “You’re outnumbered, babe. Accept your fate.”

Louis is already muttering to himself. “Name: Zayn. Age: mysterious but legal. Occupation: tragically unemployed artist. Hobbies: brooding near windows.”

“I’m gonna set your flat on fire,” Zayn mutters.

Harry scrolls gleefully. “Ooh, this one’s good,” he says, holding up a photo of Zayn from last summer—sunglasses, rolled sleeves, laughing at something off camera. “You look sexy and emotionally complex.”

Niall cackles. “We need a bio. Something charming. Something slutty.”

Louis reads aloud as he types: “Emotionally unavailable. Owns too many rings. Will cry if you make me breakfast.”

Zayn groans. “I’m actually going to die.”

Harry squints at the screen. “Add something about his star sign.”

“No.”

“Yes,” they all say at once.

Niall pipes up, grinning, “Capricorn. Will plan your wedding, your divorce, and your funeral before the second date.”

Zayn grabs a cushion and screams into it.

“Oh! Add that he draws,” Harry says. “Everyone loves a tortured artist. Maybe throw in ‘good with his hands.’”

Louis nods sagely. “And emotionally unavailable.”

“You already said that.”

“Then it’s thematic.”

Zayn peeks out from the pillow. “Can you at least not make me sound like a walking red flag?”

Louis gently pats his hair. “Babe. You are a walking red flag. We’re just marketing it.”

Niall grins. “This is going to be so good.”

“I’m deleting it the second I get home.”

“You won’t,” Harry says. “Because you’ll get a match and panic and then fall in love.”

Zayn throws the pillow at him. “You’re all demons.”

They ignore him completely, huddled around the screen, typing and giggling like schoolchildren.

Zayn slouches lower in his seat, face hot, heart weirdly lighter.

It’s stupid. It’s embarrassing. It’s maybe a bit painful.

But it’s also nice—being surrounded. Teased. Loved.

Even if they are trying to ruin his life one pastel-iced cake and dating app at a time.

Chapter Text

Things between Zayn and Liam do not go back to normal.

Not even close.

It’s not outright coldness—no slammed doors or glares across the kitchen. No silent treatments or passive-aggressive words. But something fundamental has shifted. Tilted.

Now, there’s just… space. Weird, hollow space, like someone’s rearranged the furniture of their dynamic and forgotten to put it back.

They’re polite. Stiff. Careful.

Zayn hates it.

He hates the way Liam barely looks at him in the mornings, eyes fixed on the kettle like it might explode. He hates how every conversation sounds like a performance, all neutral tones and safe topics. He hates how they navigate the flat like magnets turned the wrong way—repelling in little stutters and dodges and clipped, polite chuckles that don’t reach the eyes.

And most of all, he hates how much he still wants him.

It’s pathetic. Embarrassing. Like a car crash he can’t look away from. Every time Liam pads through the living room in his joggers, towel slung over one shoulder, hair wet from the shower—Zayn’s brain short-circuits.

He tries not to let it show. Tries to be normal. But everything Liam does is worse now. Louder.

The way he hums under his breath when he’s washing up.

The way he bites his lip when he’s focused on something.

The way he always—always—sits just close enough on the sofa that Zayn can feel the heat of him, can smell his shampoo, but never touches.

It’s maddening.

Zayn holes up in his room more than usual. Pretends to be busy. Sketches aimlessly for hours, most of it shit. He avoids the kitchen if he hears Liam in there. Times his showers so they never cross over. It’s childish and petty and completely ineffective.

Because even when he’s not around, Liam is everywhere.

He’s in the half-empty milk carton in the fridge. In the toothbrush on the sink. In the hoodie Zayn accidentally wore to sleep one night and hasn’t returned.

Zayn doesn’t know what he wants more—to take it all back or to do it all over again, slower this time. More deliberate. With the lights on.

But Liam had called it a mistake.

And Zayn had agreed.

So now they live in this new, sterile version of flat-sharing. Punctuated by brief eye contact and awkward silences and the constant, gnawing sense that something important is broken.

And Zayn? He’s restless.

Restless in his own skin, in his own flat, in his own head.

Restless every time Liam’s around, every time he’s not.

He tells himself it’s fine. That it’s better this way.

He tells himself so often it almost sounds true.

It’s past midnight one night and Zayn’s in bed, the flat quiet around him. His phone glows against the dark, thumb scrolling aimlessly through the group chat that’s gone silent for the night.

He should sleep. He’s tired. But his brain’s running loops—again—replaying snippets of almost-conversations and stolen glances across the living room. He scrolls a little more, then flicks to his home screen.

The Tinder app is still there.

He stares at it for a second.

He’d meant to delete it.

He really had. The lads had set it up mostly as a joke, all giddy and chaotic matchmaking energy. Zayn had figured they’d forget about it in a few days and he'd delete the app. But the icon’s still there. Like it’s taunting him.

He should delete it. He really should. He’s shit at this kind of thing anyway. Always ends the same—him left feeling like a fucking idiot. Always ends up getting hurt.

He exhales and taps it open anyway.

The red and white screen loads, and there it is: his own face. His profile. Curated by committee.

Zayn cringes at the sight of his own face first—the picture Harry chose where Zayn’s shirtless, mid-laugh. Then one of him painting, which is actually decent, and a third where he’s pulling a face behind a pint glass. The bio the lads had settled on makes him groan out loud:

Capricorn. Emotionally complex. Own too many rings. Painter of feelings. Dog person. Once cried at a yoghurt ad. Ask me about my tragic celebrity crushes (spoiler: they’re all animated.)

“Dickheads,” he mutters fondly, but keeps scrolling.

They’d swiped right on a few guys and the matches are… a mixed bag.

One guy’s profile pic is just his abs in a mirror. Another has already sent a message:

Philip, 29:

u look like u give good head x

Another is fit, honestly, in a “would probably ghost me after two dates” sort of way. There’s a cute librarian type, one guy with a pet snake, someone who’s spelled “definitely” three different ways in their bio.

One message catches his eye.

Alex, 28

His first picture is him in soft lighting, sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket, a dog curled against his side. He’s laughing, head tipped back, eyes closed. Second pic is him in scrubs, third is him in front of a shelf full of graphic novels. The last one’s a selfie at the gym, hair sweat-damp and cheeks flushed.

His hair’s light brown, slightly tousled. Bit longer on top. Warm eyes. Soft jaw. Friendly face.

Zayn reads the bio: 

Radiologist by day, comic nerd by night. Probably overthinking this app. Bring me coffee and your weirdest playlists.

There’s a little flutter in Zayn’s chest he tries very hard to ignore.

Then the message:

So, be honest. Which yoghurt ad was it? Mine was that one with the grandma and the dancing cow. No shame.

Zayn stares at the screen for a beat too long. His cheeks warm.

He should definitely delete the app and go to bed.

Instead, he clicks on the message and types:

you're taking the piss, but it was the one where the girl leaves her spoon behind and the old man finds it on the bench.

He hits send. And then stares at it.

And then throws the phone face-down onto the duvet and groans.

Fuck’s sake.

* * *

The kitchen is quiet except for the soft clink of spoon against bowl and the faint hum of the fridge. Zayn sits at the table, one leg tucked under him, slowly eating cereal that’s long gone soggy. Liam’s across from him, hair still damp from the shower, sipping a protein shake and eating greek yogurt like it's penance. They're both scrolling their phones, eyes glazed with morning stupor.

The awkwardness has settled. Not disappeared, exactly, just… evolved. It’s not sharp anymore. Not buzzing and unbearable. It’s quieter now, a weird and careful sort of peace. They don’t brush shoulders in the kitchen or sit too close on the sofa anymore. They laugh, sometimes, but never lean in. Never touch.

Zayn misses it, if he’s honest. He misses the ease. The comfort. But this—this is manageable. He still has a place to live. Still eats breakfast across from Liam most mornings. Could’ve been worse.

His phone buzzes.

Alex: Yoghurts are a gateway drug to crying at dog commercials, you realise that right?

Alex: Follow-up q: what’s your cereal of choice and what does it say about your emotional state?

Zayn snorts unexpectedly.

Across the table, Liam glances up.

“Sorry.” Zayn says quickly, trying to rein in the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Liam gives a small shrug. “You’re good.”

Zayn looks back down at his phone, thumbs flying.

Zayn: frosties

Zayn: interpret that how you will

Liam lifts his eyes again, curious. “One of the lads text something funny?”

“Yeah.” Zayn waves a hand vaguely, thumb still tapping. “Well, not one of the lads.”

Liam raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Just someone,” Zayn says, shrugging like it’s nothing. He doesn’t look up.

Liam nods, slow. “One of your coworkers?”

“Nah.” Zayn spoons the last bit of cereal from his bowl and makes a noncommittal noise. “Just someone.”

He finally looks up.

Liam’s watching him with a look Zayn can’t quite read—somewhere between polite interest and something else. Not quite blank, not quite anything.

Then Liam blinks, looks away. Takes another sip of his shake.

“Cool,” he says simply.

Zayn goes back to his phone.

He rises from the table, gathering their bowls. The clatter of ceramic in the sink fills the quiet stretch of space between them. He turns the tap on, the water running warm as he starts rinsing out the spoons, half-focused.

Behind him, Liam shifts in his chair. “So I was thinking…” he starts, tone casual. “I could cook tonight. That chicken alfredo you like?”

Zayn pauses, just briefly, before replying. “Oh. Thanks, mate, but… I’ve got plans.”

A small silence opens.

Liam hums. “Right. No worries. You going out with the lads?”

Zayn scrubs a bowl a little too firmly. “Nah.”

Another beat. The quiet presses in.

“What kind of plans, then?”

Zayn’s grip tightens around the sponge. “Just going out.”

“Just out?” Liam asks, voice still neutral, but there’s something underneath it. Not sharp, exactly. Just there.

Zayn exhales through his nose. Keeps his back turned. “Yes. Just out.”

He can hear Liam shift again, the scrape of a chair leg.

“With who?”

Zayn straightens. Slowly. Turns around with wet hands and an incredulous look.

Liam’s elbows are braced on the table, and he's looking up at Zayn with an expression that’s impossible to pin down.

“If you must know,” Zayn says, his voice flat, “I have a date.”

Silence.

Liam’s face doesn’t change. Not really. There’s a pause, a flicker of something in his eyes, and then it’s gone. He stands abruptly, chair scraping back behind him.

“Oh. Okay. Cool.”

And then he’s gone. Walking out of the kitchen with his protein shake still in hand, leaving Zayn standing there with soap suds on his fingers and a pit blooming in his chest.

Zayn stares at the empty doorway for a beat after Liam leaves, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.

A tight, restless frustration simmers low in his chest. Not enough to call anger, not really. Just… irritation. Like an itch he can’t scratch.

He rolls his eyes at the ceiling, mutters under his breath, “Right. Okay. Cool.”

He scrubs his hands on a tea towel and tosses it onto the counter harder than necessary. Then he just stands there for a second, staring at the sink like it personally offended him.

It’s fine. Whatever.

He’s going on a date. He has plans. A life. Options. He’s not sitting around waiting for Liam to stop being cryptic and weird.

So he shrugs it off.

Or tries to.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur of movement. Errands, mostly—walking aimlessly through a secondhand bookshop, grabbing a coffee from the place Niall likes, getting talked into trying a turmeric muffin he immediately regrets. Niall shows up halfway through his flat white and spends the next hour hyping him up like he’s prepping Zayn for a job interview instead of a casual drink with a Tinder match.

“He’s a radiologist,” Niall says, wide-eyed. “That’s proper adult shit. He could probably see through your excuses with an X-ray.”

Zayn snorts. “You’re the worst.”

“Thank me later when you’re texting me from his bed.”

Zayn flips him off. But he’s smiling when they part ways.

Back home, the flat is quiet. Liam’s door is closed. Zayn doesn’t care.

He sketches for a bit—half-focused scribbles in his notebook. A hand. A collarbone. A shoulder in motion. The curve of a neck. He doesn’t think about who it looks like. He just keeps moving his pencil until the page is a mess of lines.

By the time the sun starts to dip, he heads to his room to get ready.

He dresses slow, careful. Pulls on the loose, sun-faded jeans he likes. A white tee. A flannel, worn open. The vintage brown jacket overtop. Puts on his scuffed Docs. Adds a few rings. A thin silver chain around his neck. Styles his hair in the mirror until it falls just right. A little messy. Intentionally undone.

He hesitates before the cologne. Then sprays it anyway.

Just once.

By the time he steps out of his room, the sky outside has gone that pale-blue grey of early evening. The flat feels dim and quiet.

Liam’s on the sofa, one leg tucked under him, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. He’s half-watching something on telly, a hand curled around a cup of tea.

Zayn steps into the doorway and clears his throat.

“I’m heading out now.”

Liam looks over.

Takes him in. From the boots up.

His expression doesn’t shift much—but something in his eyes flickers. Then it’s gone.

“Have fun,” he says simply. Then he turns back to the telly like it’s nothing.

Zayn nods once. Lingers a second longer than necessary. Then turns and walks out the door.

He’s halfway to unlocking the front door—keys in hand, mind already jumping ahead to small talk and cocktails and pretending not to compare Alex’s smile to Liam’s—when he hears it.

“Zayn.”

It’s low. Quiet.

He freezes.

Turns around.

Liam’s standing just down the hallway, barefoot in his sweats and hoodie, hair still slightly damp from his earlier shower. His arms hang loose at his sides, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

Zayn blinks. “What?”

Liam doesn’t answer.

Just looks at him. Eyes flicking over him.

Zayn’s stomach twists.

He turns back toward the door, muttering, “I don’t have time for this.”

He barely makes it a step before Liam moves. Crosses the space between them in three strides and grabs his wrist—firm, not rough, just… decisive.

Zayn startles, half-turning to face him. “Liam, what the fu—”

He doesn’t finish.

Liam’s mouth crashes into his before the sentence can land.

It’s sudden. Fierce. All heat and frustration and something dark and tangled underneath. Zayn makes a shocked noise into the kiss—doesn’t mean to—but his body reacts before his brain can catch up.

Zayn drops his keys. They hit the floor with a dull clatter, ignored completely as Liam backs him against the door without breaking contact. Their mouths slide, clash, open against each other like they’ve done this a hundred times and have something to prove.

It’s not slow, not gentle. It’s want. It’s pull. It’s need.

Liam’s hands are on Zayn’s waist now. Hot through the thin fabric of his shirt. Zayn’s breath stutters. His own hands come up—half to push, half to hold—and end up clutching Liam’s hoodie like it’s the only solid thing in the room.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t speak.

Just kisses him back, hard.

Liam tugs him, and Zayn stumbles forward, barely catching his breath as he's pulled down the hallway. They don’t speak—don’t need to. There’s a shared charge between them, electric and reckless.

They barely make it to the living room before Liam’s on him again.

Zayn’s back hits the sofa cushions and Liam is there, knees bracketing his thighs, hands already under his jacket, shoving it off roughly. Zayn lifts his arms, lets it slide to the floor, and gasps when Liam’s mouth finds his neck—open, wet kisses just beneath his jaw.

“Fuck. You’re so—” Liam murmurs, voice wrecked as his teeth graze skin.

Zayn doesn’t hear the end of the sentence. Doesn’t care.

His fingers tangle in Liam’s hair, tugging, and Liam groans—low and filthy—before biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. Zayn swears under his breath, hips twitching up involuntarily. Liam presses him down, hands sliding under Zayn’s shirt, greedy and possessive.

Their mouths meet again, messy and desperate—tongue and teeth and breathless little noises. Zayn bites Liam’s bottom lip and Liam moans into it, pressing even closer, their chests flush.

Zayn can barely breathe, can’t think. Liam is everywhere—mouth on his collarbone now, fingers tugging his shirt higher, nails scraping lightly across his ribs.

“Fuck—” Zayn gasps, arching into him.

Liam just groans low in his throat and pulls the shirt over Zayn’s head in one swift movement. Then he’s back, lips at Zayn’s sternum, biting down, sucking hard enough to bruise.

Zayn fists his hands in Liam’s hoodie and t-shirt and tugs until they’re off too—tossed somewhere behind them. Their skin meets and the sound that leaves both their mouths is involuntary, raw.

Liam grinds down, hips meeting Zayn’s in a frantic rhythm. Zayn bucks up to meet him, gasping when Liam's hand slips low, just brushing the waistband of his jeans.

Zayn pants beneath him, pulse pounding in his throat, his chest, everywhere. Liam’s mouth is hot at his jaw, his weight grounding Zayn in place.

“Liam,” Zayn manages, voice low and wrecked. “We—”

His brain sparks with panic. They shouldn’t be doing this again. It’s too much, too messy. He needs to stop this before it goes too far.

The thought feels almost foreign, floating distantly at the edges of sensation. Still, he’s impressed he can think at all, with Liam pressed against him like this—hips grinding, mouth open on his neck, hand just skimming the edge of his jeans.

He forces himself to say it. “I—Liam.”

Liam freezes, just barely. Pulls back to look at him, face flushed, pupils blown, breath coming fast.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, voice hoarse.

Zayn stares at him. At his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s been running for miles.

His brain tries to form a sentence. A reason. Anything.

But all he thinks is: Oh god, please don’t stop.

So he doesn’t answer.

Just slides his fingers into Liam’s hair, tight at the roots, and pulls him back down. He mouths along Liam’s jaw, down to his throat, across the sharp line of his shoulder. He drags his teeth over skin, licks over the bite, and sucks just hard enough to leave a mark. Liam groans low in his throat, hips jerking.

Zayn works one hand between them, yanking down Liam’s joggers, fingers brushing hot skin and soft fabric. Everything’s frantic now—fumbling touches that turn precise the second they land.

Liam hisses when Zayn cups him through his boxers, breath catching audibly in his throat.

Then Liam’s hand is at Zayn’s waistband, tugging at his jeans in return, their fingers clashing as they both scramble to touch, to get closer, to pull each other apart.

Liam groans into his neck when Zayn wraps a hand around him, hips jerking. Zayn hisses between his teeth, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut as Liam bucks into his palm.

They’re tangled now, breath hitching, hips rolling, the heat between them unbearable. Zayn feels like he’s being devoured, pulled under by the way Liam touches him—urgent and possessive, like this has been a long time coming.

Their mouths meet again, filthy now, panting against each other’s lips.

“Fuck, Zayn,” Liam mutters, breath caught, voice shaking. “You feel—”

“Don’t,” Zayn gasps, cutting him off with another kiss. “Don’t say anything.”

Liam nods against his mouth.

They’re a tangle of limbs now—sweaty, shirtless, half-unzipped. Jeans and joggers pushed down just far enough. Skin on skin, heat on heat.

Zayn's hand moves faster, slick and sure, wrapped around Liam and working him in rhythm with their hips. Liam swears under his breath, head dropping to Zayn’s shoulder as he thrusts into his fist, teeth scraping the curve of Zayn’s neck.

Zayn’s own jeans are shoved low on his thighs, Liam’s hand wrapped around him just as tight, stroking him in messy, hungry pulls that make his spine arch off the sofa.

Their foreheads press together, mouths brushing but not quite kissing—just panting, hot breath mixing.

“Fuck, Liam,” Zayn gasps, eyes fluttering shut.

Liam groans in response, bites at his lip, then pushes their mouths together again—open and breathless, all tongue and friction. They’re panting into each other, gasping between kisses, their hands never stopping.

The sound of it fills the room—skin, breath, the occasional moan punched out too suddenly to catch.

Zayn’s grip tightens, and Liam chokes on a curse, hips stuttering forward.

He buries his face in Zayn’s neck. “Gonna—fuck, I’m—”

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes. “Do it.”

That’s all it takes.

Liam shudders hard, moaning low and broken as he comes, hips jerking against Zayn’s thigh. His hand falters on Zayn for just a moment before he catches himself, lips finding Zayn’s again—sloppy, desperate—as he works him through it.

Zayn’s not far behind.

One more twist of Liam’s wrist, one more stroke, and Zayn falls apart with a bitten-off groan, his back arching.

He gasps through it, forehead pressed to Liam’s, every part of him shaking.

They stay like that for a long moment—both breathing hard, hands still tangled, bodies trembling and slick and sticky between them.

No one speaks.

Eventually, Liam pulls back slightly, breath still shallow, and swipes a shaky hand through his hair. Zayn stares up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, his skin flushed and glowing in the low light.

Neither of them moves to clean up. Neither of them looks each other properly in the eye.

The silence stretches—dense and heavy and too full.

Zayn’s throat works. He shifts just slightly, tugs his jeans back up with shaking fingers.

Eventually, Liam peels himself up off the sofa with a grunt, reaching for his crumpled t-shirt on the floor. He wipes himself off without ceremony, eyes still avoiding Zayn’s.

Zayn stays where he is, jeans half-buttoned, head tipped back against the cushion, eyes still locked on the ceiling. His chest is still heaving. His mouth feels dry.

Liam wordlessly hands him the shirt.

Zayn takes it with numb fingers. Pulls himself upright, face blank, throat tight.

“I’m gonna—” His voice cracks. He swallows hard and tries again. “Gonna shower.”

Liam just nods. Doesn’t say anything.

Zayn walks down the hall with stiff legs, every nerve in his body screaming. He shuts the bathroom door behind him and leans back against it, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging both hands through his hair.

He turns toward the mirror. Stares at himself like he doesn’t recognise what he’s looking at. His mouth is pink and swollen, jaw marked faintly with stubble burn and a few blotchy spots that’ll bloom purple by morning. His hair’s a mess. His eyes—God, his eyes. He looks wrecked.

And still. There’s this… buzz under his skin. Not from shame, exactly. Not just.

His fingers twitch against the sink.

It had been good. Too good. Mind-blowingly, thigh-shakingly, sanity-erasingly good.

And that might be the worst part.

He steps into the shower and turns the heat up as high as it’ll go. Stands there for ages with his eyes closed, forehead pressed to the tiles, water coursing over his skin.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t think.

Eventually, when the water starts to go lukewarm, he steps out, towel-dries mechanically, and pads into his room. He can hear the low buzz of the telly from the living room—Liam’s voice, maybe, talking to himself or the screen—but Zayn doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look.

He shuts his door behind him and exhales shakily. Then he drops the towel and flops face-down onto his bed, skin still damp, muscles aching.

He groans into the pillow. “What the fuck.”

It muffles his voice. Doesn’t muffle the feeling. He rolls over eventually, dragging the duvet up over his hips. His hand fumbles for his phone on the bedside table. He unlocks it and squints at the notifications.

There are a few messages.

From Alex.

Zayn blinks at the screen.

Oh. Right.

Alex.

The date.

The date he didn’t go on.

He stares at the texts for a long moment—

Hey, all good for tonight? Running five minutes late x

You on your way? x

Let me know if you’re still coming, no stress if not!

Zayn drags a hand down his face and lets out another long groan.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He taps out a reply:

hey shit sry. something came up last min. can we reschedule?

He hits send. Doesn't wait for a reply. Drops the phone on the duvet beside him and stares at the ceiling again.

His whole body aches with tension.

It doesn’t quite feel like regret.

But it definitely doesn’t feel good.

Chapter Text

Zayn winces as he catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror the next morning.

There are two bruises blooming along the curve of his neck and on his collarbone—deep, wine-dark things that weren’t there yesterday. His lower lip’s a little swollen too, with the faintest shadow of a bruise at the corner. A bite mark, maybe. From when Liam—

He groans. Physically cringes.

He looks ridiculous. Like some teenager who snuck out to make out with his crush behind the school gym, not a grown man in his mid-twenties with a job and bills and rent to pay. He’s meant to be composed. Put together. He drinks herbal tea before bed and refills the Brita and lays out his clothes the night before.

He is not the kind of person who lets his flatmate pin him to the sofa like a fucking animal and wakes up looking like this.

Jesus.

He was supposed to go on a date last night. A perfectly normal, grown-up date with a sweet, charming radiologist who has his shit together and knows how to wear a good pair of trousers. Someone stable and kind and fit and—

Zayn scowls at himself in the mirror.

Actually, when he puts it that way, Alex does sound an awful lot like someone else. If you just swap the radiologist bit with—

No. Never mind. Not going there.

His gaze flicks back down to the bruises. He raises a hand and traces a fingertip along the mark nearest his collarbone. Then to his lip. His touch is feather-light, but the memory of Liam’s mouth resurfaces in full colour, vivid and hot, and fuck.

His body betrays him.

It starts as a flicker low in his stomach, then flames fast into something undeniable. He’s already half-hard before he’s even aware of it, blood rushing, pulse kicking up, and—

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face like that’ll make any of it disappear.

It shouldn’t be this good. It shouldn’t still feel like this. He shouldn’t want it again already, not when everything about it was so stupid, so reckless, so—

So fucking good.

He grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white.

What the fuck does this even mean? Where does this leave them? They live together. They see each other every bloody day. And Liam—God, Liam had kissed him like he meant it. Grabbed him like he couldn’t help himself.

The first time it happened, sure, Zayn could almost—almost—convince himself it was just a fluke. Drunken madness. Something Liam would regret in the morning. And it seemed like he did. That’s basically what he’d said: “I mean—drunk people do stupid shit all the time, right?”

But last night?

Last night was different. Liam had stopped him on his way out. Had pulled him in like he’d been thinking about it all day. He wasn’t drunk. Not even tipsy. He'd been clear and steady, his touch firm, certain.

Was Liam… jealous?

Zayn shakes his head, hard.

No. He couldn’t be. Don’t be fucking stupid.

Then why?

He doesn’t know. For the life of him, he doesn’t know.

The thoughts stick like gum in his head, thick and messy and impossible to scrape out. He kicks off his boxers and steps into the shower, turns the water on too hot, lets it sear across his shoulders and back. He scrubs at his skin with more force than necessary, dragging the soap over his chest, his neck, the curve of his jaw where Liam’s stubble had rasped against him.

Like it might undo something. Like he might be able to wash it out of his system.

But the heat only makes it worse. Makes everything feel more raw, more real. Last night replays in his head in flashes: Liam’s breath against his neck, the sound he made when Zayn bit down, the way their hips moved together, hot and desperate, Liam’s hand wrapped around him.

Zayn swears under his breath and scrubs harder.

It doesn’t help.

He shuts the water off with a sharp twist and stands there for a moment, dripping and overheated, chest heaving like he’s just run sprints. The steam clings to the mirror and his skin, damp hair sticking to his forehead. He feels wrung out. Stripped bare.

He towels off quickly, with rough, impatient movements, and pulls on clean pants and a soft, faded T-shirt from the laundry pile. His hands move on autopilot: deodorant, moisturiser, hair gel. Except he uses too much, and now his fringe is clumping weirdly and he has to start again. He groans.

Liam had wanted it.

Had clearly wanted him.

So then what? What was it?

Just sex?

Just because he could?

Zayn drags the comb through his hair harder than necessary, jaw clenched. He runs a hand through his hair again, then stares at his reflection.

No answers.

No logic. No clue what the hell is happening or how he’s meant to act now. Are they going to talk about it? Laugh it off? Pretend it didn’t happen, again?

He finishes getting ready and shoves his arms into his jacket with more force than necessary, like it’s the jacket’s fault he feels like this. The zip snags halfway up and he swears under his breath, tugging it harder until it finally gives. He slips on his boots, stomping a bit as he tightens the laces, jaw tight the whole time.

“Get a fucking grip,” he mutters to himself, and yanks open a drawer, rifling until he finds a scarf. It’s soft, charcoal grey, and long enough to wrap around his neck twice.

He checks himself once more. Only the faintest bit shows near his jaw. He can live with that. Probably.

He doesn’t see Liam on his way out.

Thank God, he thinks. He would actually die.

He spends the day behind the till at the art shop, pretending to care about the pencil display and absolutely not thinking about Liam’s mouth. Or Liam’s hands. Or the way Liam had looked at him last night like he was a goddamn meal.

It’s not going well.

He’s halfway through restocking a set of fineliners when someone clears their throat pointedly at the counter.

Zayn startles, then looks up to see one of the regulars—an older woman with short silver hair and a tote bag full of knitting yarn. Mrs. Kendrick. She squints at him through her glasses.

“My dear,” she says, leaning closer. “Are you unwell?”

He blinks. “What?”

She gestures vaguely at his face, then tugs at the edge of her own scarf. “The layers. Indoors. You look… pallid.”

He resists the urge to peel the scarf off and scream directly into a pack of graphite pencils.

“Oh. Uh. Just a chill,” he says. “Bit of a sore throat maybe.”

Mrs. Kendrick hums and drops a small box of watercolours on the counter. “You should try ginger tea. With manuka honey. Works wonders for my neighbour’s son. He’s got sinuses like wet concrete.”

Zayn nods solemnly as he rings her up. “Will do.”

She leaves him with a sympathetic look and a butterscotch sweet.

His phone buzzes the second she’s out the door. He fishes it out of his back pocket and unlocks it.

Lou🧨: why is no one replying im so lonely i might actually do work

Lou🧨: is that what you want?? 

Lou🧨: is that what you WANT

Harold✌️: [gif of Squidward rocking back and forth in a dark room]

Harold✌️: me trying to survive without constant stimulation

Zayn snorts out loud.

Nialler☘️: the corner cup at 4

Nialler☘️: bring your souls or whatevers left of them xx

Z🚬: ill bring the ashes of mine in a takeaway cup

He kills the final stretch of his shift on autopilot, and sets off to face the whirlwind that is his friends in public. The café is all clinking cutlery and warm chatter when he arrives, scarf still snug around his neck, sunglasses perched on his nose like he’s shielding himself from the consequences of his own actions.

Harry’s already seated with a matcha and a half-eaten almond croissant. Louis and Niall arrive right behind Zayn, all windblown hair and loud greetings.

“You look like a poet who’s just lost his lover in a blizzard,” Louis says as Zayn unwraps his scarf halfway and slides into the booth.

Zayn snorts, trying to play it off. “I was cold.”

“It’s twenty degrees out,” Niall points out, squinting at him. “You look like you’re on your way to mourn someone in the Scottish Highlands.”

“I like scarves,” Zayn says flatly.

“Apparently you like them enough to sweat through one,” Harry mutters, leaning in.

Zayn just rolls his eyes and focuses on the menu. “Can we order before you lot bury me in dramatic metaphors?”

They let it go. Mostly.

There’s a brief reprieve as they talk food—what to order, whose pancakes always look better, and the eternal debate over full English versus eggs benedict.

Zayn relaxes a fraction.

And then—

“Oh my God,” Niall says suddenly, squinting. “Is that a love bite?”

Zayn freezes mid-reach for his coffee. “What?”

Niall points. “Right there. Along your jaw.”

Zayn lifts a hand to his neck instinctively, dragging the scarf up. “No, it’s not.”

Louis leans in gleefully. “It is! Oi, you sneaky bastard.”

Harry gasps, delighted. “Wait—you had that date last night, didn’t you? With Sexy Radiologist? Oh my God.”

Zayn hums noncommittally, busying himself with stirring sugar into his drink. “Maybe.” Guilt sticks behind his teeth like toffee.

“Don’t ‘maybe’ us,” Louis says, practically vibrating. “You’ve got a hickey.”

Zayn tugs the scarf higher. “It’s not that deep.”

Harry gives him a look. “So you did go?”

Zayn shrugs, makes a vague noise. “Yeah. Sort of.”

Louis’ jaw drops. “Sort of? Mate, you look like a murder victim in a Gothic novel. Did he court you or devour you?”

Niall reaches across the table suddenly and tugs the scarf loose.

“Oi!” Zayn protests, grabbing for it too late.

All three of them freeze as they take in the full display: the scattered marks, the fading bite near his collarbone, the undeniable flush that climbs Zayn’s cheeks.

Harry lets out a low whistle. “That was a good date.”

Louis fans himself with the menu. “Tell us everything. Immediately.”

Zayn glares at them all, trying to gather the scarf back around his neck. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Niall grins. “Oh, so that’s why you never texted us back.”

Zayn mutters, “I was busy,” and tugs the scarf back up with a little too much force.

Louis leans his chin on his hand. “Busy getting your soul rocked by Dr. Comic Book, apparently.”

“Please,” Harry adds. “Let us live vicariously.”

Zayn just offers them all a tight, awkward smile. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t say anything about kissing.”

Zayn groans. “Can we not?”

But he’s not fooling anyone. Not with that dazed look in his eye, the flush on his cheeks, the way he keeps fidgeting with the scarf.

“Right,” Louis says, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So let’s talk post-date etiquette. Did he stay the night? Did you cuddle? Are you texting him today? Or are you doing that thing where you don’t text first but cry if he doesn’t?”

Zayn rolls his eyes so hard it nearly gives him a headache.

“Don’t text too soon,” Niall adds, nodding seriously. “You’ve got to maintain the power dynamic. Make him sweat.”

Harry sips his matcha, thoughtful. “But not too aloof. You want him to think you’re emotionally stable but also maybe a little bit unhinged. Keeps the intrigue alive.”

“Absolutely unhinged,” Louis agrees. “Text him something slightly threatening. Like ‘I know where you live’ but followed by a heart.”

“Or,” Niall says, snapping his fingers, “text him ‘I forgive you’ out of nowhere. Even if he didn’t do anything. Get in his head.”

Zayn blinks. “Do you all hear yourselves?”

Harry shrugs. “Just trying to help.”

“You’re all clinically insane.”

“That’s why it works, babe,” Louis says cheerfully. “Look at me—I’m in a thriving situationship with a barista who doesn’t know my last name.”

Zayn groans into his coffee. “Remind me why I hang out with any of you.”

“Because we’re hot, supportive, and willing to die for you,” Harry says sweetly.

“Don’t worry. Your scandalous sexscapades are safe with us, babe.” Louis says, nudging him.

“For now,” Niall says ominously.

Zayn just shakes his head and mumbles into his mug, “I hate all of you.”

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

But right now he’d rather suffer through their chaotic interpretations than offer up the truth: that it wasn’t the charming radiologist at all, but Liam. 

Liam, who he lives with.

Liam, who’s quietly become their mate. Who cooks for him without asking. Who knows what Zayn’s favourite mug is, keeps his favourite cereal stocked, and always grabs toothpaste when he’s run out.

Liam, who dragged him back onto their shared sofa last night and got him off with nothing but hands and lips and desperation and that look in his eyes.

So yeah.

He lets them think that.

Because the truth is so much messier.

And he’s not ready to talk about it. Not yet.

* * *

In the days following the first hookup, things are... weird.

Zayn tiptoes around the flat like it’s filled with landmines.

He expects Liam to be cold. Distant. Regretful. He braces for awkward silences, for tension thick enough to cut through with a butter knife. He even rehearses a few lines in the mirror—stuff like it was a mistake, let’s just pretend it never happened.

But Liam doesn’t act like anything happened.

He’s… normal. Too normal.

He still makes tea in the mornings. Still asks if Zayn wants toast. Still watches telly curled up on the end of the sofa like he hasn’t had his hands down Zayn’s pants.

They don’t talk about the missed date. Don’t talk about the kiss. Or the living room. Or the way Zayn had to bite down on his fist to keep in a sound so unhinged it would've stripped him of every ounce of dignity he had left.

Nothing.

Just toast and telly and perfectly neutral conversation.

Zayn tells himself it’s a good thing. That the silence means they’re on the same page. That this—whatever it is—is fine.

But it gnaws at him.

Every look across the room. Every slight touch that doesn’t happen. Every moment that could tip back into something else but doesn’t.

Sleep doesn’t come easy these days. And tonight’s no different—he just lies there, caught somewhere between wanting and overthinking. He shifts. Kicks one leg free. Rolls onto his side. Then back again.

No good.

Fuck’s sake.

He grabs his phone off the bedside table like it’s done something to him.

Opens his email. Nothing from Briar Lane.

Figures.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just something to do. But the disappointment still punches low, sharp and petty.

He tells himself he doesn’t care.

(He does.)

Next he opens Instagram. Scrolls. Nothing.

X. Same memes from earlier.

TikTok. Immediate regret.

Closes everything and just stares at his home screen, thumb hovering.

Then: Messages.

A small red notification bubble stares back at him.

Alex’s name is still there, near the top, beneath the lads’ group chat and three different messages from Louis titled “Important”, “More Important”, and “This One’s Actually Urgent.”

He taps the thread. The last message is from Alex.

Alex: Hope everything’s okay. You seemed really keen before. No pressure, just let me know if you’re not feeling it.

Sent two days ago.

Zayn stares at it. Guilt coils in his gut like a snake.

His thumbs hover. Type, delete. Type again.

Finally:

Zayn: hey. sorry. been a bit of a mad week. would be up for rescheduling if youre still keen?

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it. Locks the screen.

Immediately regrets it.

A few minutes later, the phone buzzes.

Alex: Yeah, sure! Glad to hear from you :) When are you free?

He stares at it. Then, without replying, locks his phone again, flips it face-down, and lies very still in the dark. He gives it another ten minutes. Staring at the ceiling. Watching the shadows shift across the wall. Then he throws the covers back and gets up.

The flat is quiet, dark apart from the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the living room blinds. He pads toward the kitchen in just his boxers and a T-shirt, rubbing a hand over his face.

He’s halfway through filling a glass at the sink, head bowed, when—

“Hey—”

Zayn jumps so hard he nearly spills the water.

He turns to find Liam standing just inside the kitchen doorway, shirtless, hair sticking up in about four directions, wearing nothing but a pair of grey shorts and an apologetic look.

“Shit, sorry,” Liam says quickly. “Didn’t mean to—You okay?”

Zayn lets out a long breath. “Yeah. Just—yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” Liam murmurs, stepping into the kitchen, movements slow and quiet. He clears his throat. “Want a cuppa?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

Liam moves toward the kettle, barefoot and half-asleep, and Zayn shifts to lean against the counter, glass cool in his hand.

He tells himself not to stare. Not to let his eyes trace the lines of Liam’s back, the muscles shifting beneath bare skin as he fills the kettle and flicks it on.

But he does.

Watches the stretch of Liam’s arm as he reaches for the mugs. The way the waistband of his shorts dips when he bends slightly to open a cupboard.

He looks away when Liam turns back around, trying to act like he wasn’t just memorising the curve of his spine.

“Assam okay?” Liam asks softly, pulling it from the cupboard.

“Yeah.”

The kettle finishes boiling with a soft click. Liam pours. Stirs. Hands Zayn his mug without meeting his eye.

No sugar, just a splash of milk. Liam makes it exactly the way Zayn likes it, without asking.

Zayn leans back against the counter, mug cupped between his hands, trying to act like he’s not hyper-aware of Liam’s bare legs, the defined line of his shoulders and chest, the quiet intimacy of this moment. Liam perches on the edge of the kitchen table across from him, one leg bent, the other dangling off the side, knee brushing the air. 

The kitchen is quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the soft sound of them drinking.

But their eyes keep flicking up. Meeting. Darting away again.

They finish their tea in silence. Zayn drains the last sip and sets his mug in the sink with a soft clink. Liam follows a beat later, brushing past him to do the same, and Zayn has to clench his fists at his sides to keep from reaching out.

“Night,” Liam says, voice low and hoarse.

Zayn swallows. “Yeah. Night.”

They both turn toward the hall. Zayn drifts to the left, Liam to the right. But just as Zayn reaches his bedroom door, something makes him glance over his shoulder.

Liam’s at his door too. Hand on the knob. Looking back at Zayn.

Their eyes catch.

Zayn’s breath stutters as he fumbles for the handle, pulls the door open, and steps inside. He shuts it quietly. Leans back against it.

His heart’s thudding.

He sits down on the edge of his bed. His body feels too tight, too wired. He can still picture the cut of Liam’s bare abs in the dark, the low, sleepy rasp of his voice, the way he’d looked at Zayn just now—like something had slipped before he could catch it.

He exhales hard through his nose, stands up, and crosses to the door before he can talk himself out of it. 

It’s stupid. It’s reckless.

But he feels it—like a current pulling him toward Liam, low and electric.

He tells himself not to. That he should sleep. That nothing good will come of it. But his hand’s already on the knob.

He opens the door and freezes.

Liam’s just stepped out of his own room.

They stop. Lock eyes.

Neither of them says a word.

They just move at the same time.

Fast, silent steps down the hallway. Zayn doesn’t know who reaches first, only that they meet somewhere in the middle. Their mouths crash together, all heat and tongue and scrape of teeth, the kind of kiss that feels more like a collision.

Zayn stumbles back a step, hits the wall. Liam crowds in, one arm braced beside his head, the other sliding under his shirt, palm flat and searching. Zayn gasps into his mouth, hips jerking when Liam’s fingers drag over his lower stomach.

Zayn’s fingers find Liam’s ribs, smooth and solid under skin, then rake down to the waistband of his shorts just as Liam grips the hem of Zayn’s shirt and tugs it up. They break the kiss only long enough to pull it over his head—Zayn's arms raised, breath caught—and then Liam's mouth is back on his, hungrier now, hands planted against his bare sides.

When their hips slot together, Zayn makes a sound he doesn’t recognise. His head tips back against the wall, lips parted, eyelids fluttering. Liam grinds against him and Zayn can’t help the desperate little noise that slips from his throat.

Liam kisses down—wet and open-mouthed along Zayn’s jaw, his throat, his collarbone.

Then he sinks to his knees.

Zayn’s heart stutters.

Liam’s fingers find the waistband of his boxers, hook just inside, and Zayn’s whole body goes still. Liam looks up at him in the dark—eyes low-lidded, lips parted and wet, chest rising fast. There’s a pause. A flicker of a question in his gaze.

Zayn jerks out a nod, throat too tight to speak.

Liam moves fast.

He yanks Zayn’s boxers down in one swift motion, no ceremony, just heat and hunger. Zayn’s breath catches, sharp and broken, as Liam’s mouth closes around him—hot, wet, perfect. One hand flies to the back of Liam’s head, fingers tightening instinctively in his hair. The other grips the wall behind him.

Liam groans low in his throat.

Zayn’s head tips back, thudding softly against the wall. His lips part on a moan, eyes fluttering shut. Liam’s pace is relentless, tongue working him over with slick, desperate focus. His hands grip Zayn’s hips, pinning him to the wall.

The sounds are obscene—wet and low and constant, echoing faintly in the narrow hall. Liam hums against him, low in his throat. Each hum sends vibrations right through Zayn’s spine, tightening everything low in his stomach, making his knees tremble.

Zayn looks down again and instantly regrets it. Liam’s staring up at him, lips stretched around him, cheeks hollowing, pupils blown wide. 

“Fuck,” Zayn groans.

His fingers tighten in Liam’s hair, reflexive, like he needs to hold something to keep from falling apart. The grip makes Liam moan around him and his eyelids flutter closed for a second, lashes dark against flushed skin.

Zayn’s other hand slips into Liam’s hair as well, dragging through the strands until both fists are curled in tight.

Liam’s hand disappears for a second. Then Zayn sees it again—wrapped tight around himself, stroking in rhythm with every movement of his mouth. The image sears itself into Zayn’s brain. He whines, honest to god whines, and Liam moans again, like it spurs him on.

Zayn’s fingers tighten in Liam’s hair.

“Jesus, Liam,” he pants, voice cracking. “I’m gonna—”

Liam looks up at him then. Eyes dark and heavy-lidded. He nods—just barely, the motion subtle but intentional—the pace of his own hand quickening.

It hits Zayn fast—like a punch to the gut. He squeezes his eyes shut as it tears through him, sharp and dizzying. His whole body jerks, mouth open on a silent moan, fingers pressing Liam closer as everything goes white-hot. 

Zayn barely registers it when Liam follows—just hears the stifled sound he makes around him, feels the falter in rhythm, the tremor that runs through his body before Liam finally pulls off him.

There’s a beat—long, quiet.

Zayn’s still gasping, chest heaving, his skin buzzing with aftershock. Then, slowly, he dares to look down.

Liam’s sitting back on his heels. Chest rising and falling fast. Eyes fixed somewhere on the floor.

Zayn swallows hard.

Then Liam stands quickly.

Zayn jerks forward, stoops to grab his T-shirt from the floor, and shoves it wordlessly into Liam’s hand. Liam hesitates a second before taking it, fingers brushing Zayn’s for a fleeting moment. Then he turns slightly, wiping his hand off in short, efficient movements.

The silence that follows stretches.

Zayn’s still against the wall, skin flushed, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. His legs feel like they might give out. The hallway is too warm now, the air heavy and stifling, and everything’s coming back into sharp focus too fast.

He shifts awkwardly, tugs his boxers back up with trembling hands. Doesn’t look at Liam.

Doesn’t dare.

His brain’s trying to make sense of what just happened, but it’s all static—his pulse in his ears, the ache of what just happened settling low in his stomach. It feels like regret but isn’t quite.

Liam finishes wiping off and shifts his weight from foot to foot. His hair’s a mess. His chest is flushed, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat along his chest.

Zayn finally chances a glance up. They lock eyes for a second too long.

Both of them open their mouths at the same time.

“I, uh—” Liam starts.

“I think—” Zayn blurts.

They both stop, words crashing mid-air.

Liam gives a sheepish smile and gestures faintly. “You go ahead.”

Zayn blinks. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. “You should… shower. First. Probably.”

Liam glances down at himself—the mess on his hand, the stickiness on his stomach, the front of his shorts. He lets out a short, breathy laugh. “Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.”

He lifts his gaze again, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Zayn looks away instantly. Swallows hard. His throat’s dry. “Right. Yeah.”

His hands are fidgeting now—raking through his hair, adjusting the waistband of his boxers, crossing his arms, uncrossing them.

Liam doesn’t move right away.

The silence stretches again.

Then he nods once—gentle, unsure—and turns toward the bathroom without another word.

Zayn stays exactly where he is, rooted to the spot, heart pounding like it might crack a rib.

“Fuck,” he whispers. Again.

And again.

And again.

* * *

It’s a few nights later.

They’re half-slouched on opposite ends of the sofa, an empty pizza box discarded on the floor, telly still on but volume low. A muted explosion flashes across the screen, some sci-fi rerun neither of them are really watching.

Zayn’s jittery. One leg bouncing, fingers picking at the hem of his hoodie.

The silence stretches, taut and loaded.

He blurts, “So… are we just pretending this isn’t happening?”

There’s a pause. A flicker in the air.

Liam doesn’t look over. “What?”

Zayn fidgets, gestures vaguely between them. “You know. This.”

Still nothing from Liam at first. Just the sound of the telly, too loud in the silence. Then—

“Oh.” Liam doesn’t even look away. Just lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I dunno. Doesn’t have to be a big deal, does it?”

Zayn stares at him, something prickling under his skin. “You mean like—”

“We’re adults.” Liam shifts. Shrugs again. “If it’s just… casual.”

Zayn forces a nod, biting the inside of his cheek. “Right. Casual. Like mates who… sometimes...”

Liam finally looks at him, gaze unreadable. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Exactly.”

Zayn holds his gaze a second longer than he should. Then looks away. “So… like, a friends with benefits kinda thing?”

Liam’s quiet for a second, then nods. “Yeah. Just, y’know—without the whole catching feelings bit.”

Zayn lets out a short breath—meant to sound casual, but it wobbles on the way out. “Right. No feelings.” He nods again, slower this time. “Of course.”

Liam shifts, thumb dragging along the edge of the cushion. “That cool with you?”

“Yeah,” Zayn doesn’t look at him. “Yeah. Totally.”

The telly flickers.

“So… we’re fine?” Zayn asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” Liam says, not missing a beat. “We’re fine.”

Zayn swallows. Nods once. “Cool.”

They go back to watching whatever’s on—neither of them really taking it in. The silence between them shifts. Not awkward anymore. Just charged. A current  pulsing in Zayn’s fingertips.

Liam adjusts slightly. Stretches his legs. His thigh brushes Zayn’s foot.

Zayn doesn’t move it.

Five minutes later, Zayn’s on his knees on the floor.

Liam’s hips are hitched forward, sweatpants pushed low, fingers buried tight in Zayn’s hair.

Zayn’s mouth is stretched around him, eyes heavy-lidded, lips swollen and wet. His hands grip Liam’s thighs like he might float away otherwise.

Liam breathes out a low, broken sound. One hand moves, cradling the back of Zayn’s head as his hips twitch up. “Fuck, Zayn—”

Zayn hums and Liam’s whole body jerks.

It’s messy and hot and quiet, the telly still playing behind them like background noise to something too electric for words.

When Liam finally gasps and falls back against the cushions, panting, Zayn wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and stands up a bit too fast. He doesn’t say anything. Just disappears into the kitchen, the floor cool under his bare feet.

He comes back with a glass of water. Hands it over like it’s nothing. Just holds it out with a quiet, “Here.”

Like this is completely normal.

Chapter Text

It becomes a thing.

They don’t talk about it. They don’t have to. But it happens—again and again.

And soon, it’s routine.

Zayn’s in the kitchen, sketchbook on the counter, pencil tucked behind one ear. He’s halfway through roughing out a thumbnail for a commission, humming to himself, half-focused.

Then Liam’s behind him. Warm palms slide up his back, thumbs digging into the tight knots at his shoulders.

Zayn lets out a quiet groan.

“You’re tense,” Liam murmurs against his neck, already pressing a kiss to the curve where skin meets collar.

“Trying to work,” Zayn says, but it’s breathless.

Liam doesn’t reply. He keeps kissing, licking, biting lightly as his hands slide down, settle on Zayn’s hips. Zayn pushes the sketchbook aside without protest.

The next thing he knows, his joggers are around his thighs, cheek pressed to the cool countertop, Liam driving into him hard and deep. His sketch forgotten, pencil rolling uselessly to the floor.

They’re brushing teeth side by side in the too-small bathroom, both shirtless, both half-asleep.

Zayn’s in the middle of spitting toothpaste when Liam nudges his shoulder, their arms brushing. He looks up and catches Liam watching him in the mirror—eyes low and hungry.

“What?” Zayn asks around his toothbrush, though his pulse has already picked up.

Liam just quirks a brow and slowly sets his toothbrush down.

The next moment, Zayn’s got his back to the tiled wall, knees on the bath mat, mouth stretched around Liam. Liam’s hands are in his hair, head tilted back, a groan punched out of him when Zayn swallows.

It’s messy. It’s intense. It leaves Zayn’s knees aching and his cheeks flushed for the rest of the morning.

They’re on the sofa, watching telly.

Or they were.

Now Zayn’s shirt is discarded somewhere across the floor, his thighs spread wide across Liam’s lap. He’s moving slowly, grinding down in Liam’s lap, riding him with lazy precision. His head’s tipped back, mouth parted. Liam’s hands are tight on his hips, guiding him, eyes glued to the sight of Zayn losing himself.

The telly’s still on, some documentary muttering nonsense in the background, completely ignored.

Zayn curses softly, breath catching as he grinds down just right, and Liam mutters, “Fuck, look at you.”

Liam’s just come back from the gym, still flushed and damp, a faint sheen of sweat on his skin. He’s standing at the kitchen counter, refilling his water bottle, hair pushed back and shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders.

Zayn drifts in quietly, drawn by the heat coming off him and the smell of clean sweat. He steps up behind him, hands resting lightly on Liam’s hips, and presses a wet kiss to the back of his neck.

Liam stills for a beat, then exhales a low, contented sound. When he turns, his expression is soft—inviting—and Zayn kisses him properly this time. Deep and slow.

Five minutes later, Zayn’s sitting on the edge of the counter, shirt open, legs spread, Liam standing between them, fucking him slow and lazy with one hand up the back of his shirt and the other gripping his thigh.

The water bottle never even got capped.

Sometimes it starts quietly.

Zayn stretched across the living room floor, sorting through prints for a shipment. Liam walking by and dragging his fingers across Zayn’s bare lower back—absentmindedly, like he doesn’t even mean to.

Zayn shivers.

Next thing he knows, Liam’s on the floor behind him, tugging his jeans down and kissing across the curve of his arse. Liam’s mouth is warm and insistent against him as Zayn clutches at the rug and tries not to lose his mind.

He doesn’t succeed.

Sometimes Liam gives him a lift—late from the art store, rain coming down in sheets, the world foggy and dim. They talk in half-murmurs, music low. But other times, they don’t make it out of the car.

One night, they’re parked just down the street from the flat. The windows have fogged over from the heater, from their breath. Zayn’s in Liam’s lap, jeans shoved down, head tipped back against the ceiling as Liam mouths at his neck and jerks him off slow and steady. Liam’s seat creaks beneath them, hand tight on Zayn’s hip, the gear stick digging into Zayn’s thigh—not that he cares. Not when Liam’s murmuring in his ear, “You gonna come for me like this?”

Zayn does. Hard. Quiet. Biting his own fist.

They sit in silence for a minute after. Breathing. Then Liam cleans him up, tucks him back in, helps him straighten up, and drives the last block home like nothing happened.

It happens again. And again.

Against the wall. On the floor. In the shower. Bent over the arm of the sofa.

And they never talk about it.

But things have actually turned out kind of great.

They’ve gone back to how they were before the first kiss. Easy laughs and casual touches. Meals together, shared leftovers and teasing over who’s worse at washing up. Watching silly shows tangled up on the sofa, limbs overlapping like it’s nothing. Sending each other dumb memes throughout the day, even when they’re in the same room.

It’s everything it was—plus the sex. And the sex is incredible.

Which just makes everything even better.

Zayn’s never been so relaxed in his life. Even his mates are noticing.

They’re all crowded around Louis’ coffee table on a Friday night, takeaway containers spread out in a chaotic sprawl. The flat smells like curry and cheap lager and someone’s suspicious vape. There’s a half-hearted game of Cards Against Humanity happening, but it’s mostly just banter now—everyone cross-legged on the floor or sprawled across cushions, warm and lazy with food.

Niall squints across the table. “Alright. Who are you and what have you done with Zayn?”

Zayn, mouth full of naan, blinks. “What?”

“You’ve been weirdly… zen lately,” Harry says, lounging upside down on the armchair. “Like. Proper peaceful.”

Louis points a fork at him. “Yeah. You’ve got that ‘just got back from a meditation retreat’ energy. It’s suspicious.”

Zayn snorts. “What are you lot on about?”

“You’re glowing,” Niall says, dead serious. “You’ve got the glow.”

“I do not have the glow.”

“You do!” Harry insists, sitting up. “Your skin’s clear, your hair’s bouncy, you didn’t even cry when that cat ad came on earlier. Who even are you?”

Zayn shrugs, trying to play it off. “I’ve just been sleeping more. Eating better.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. Dunno. Just feel good lately. Balanced, or whatever.”

The others hum like they half-believe him, nodding thoughtfully.

“Shit, maybe I need to sleep more,” Niall mutters.

“I need to eat better,” Harry sighs.

Louis rubs his face. “I need to delete my ex’s number.”

“Same,” Harry and Niall say in unison.

Zayn just sips his drink, lets them spiral into half-serious self-improvement pledges. No one pushes him. No one questions it further.

He only feels a little bad for lying.

He knows he could tell them the truth. Knows they wouldn’t judge him. He could say it outright—yeah, I’ve been fucking my flatmate. Yeah, I know it’s probably stupid.

They’d listen. They’d care. They’d try to be supportive.

But he doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to hear Louis say “this is going to end badly,” or Niall mutter “this has feelings written all over it,” or Harry tilt his head and say gently, “you’re gonna get hurt.”

Because the worst part is, they’d probably be right.

Zayn knows that. But saying it out loud would make it real, and right now, he’s not ready for real.

* * *

It’s a slow afternoon at the shop. The kind where the strip lighting hums too loud and Zayn’s been rearranging the same set of oil pastels for twenty minutes just to keep busy. He’s halfway through debating whether to alphabetise the sketchpad brands when the bell above the door jingles.

He glances up.

The guy who walks in is tall, maybe Zayn’s age or a little older, with dark curls, a denim jacket, and a casual, easy confidence. His eyes flick quickly around the shop before landing on Zayn behind the counter. He smiles—warm, open, a little crooked.

Zayn straightens, brushing pastel dust from his jumper. “Hey. Can I help you find anything?”

“Hopefully.” The guy steps closer, eyes scanning the shelves. “I’m trying to put together a small starter kit. My niece is getting into drawing, and I said I’d buy her some proper stuff for her birthday. She’s obsessed.”

“Nice,” Zayn says, already moving around the counter. “How old is she?”

“Fourteen. But she’s intense. Like, pencil-smudge-on-her-cheek, will-bite-you-if-you-move-her-eraser intense.”

Zayn huffs a laugh. “Sounds like an artist already.”

“That’s what I keep telling my sister. Anyway—I'm clueless. I tried buying her stuff online once and she sent me a two-page critique. She said I got the wrong kind of charcoal.”

Zayn winces in sympathy. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

He walks the guy through a few options—good graphite pencils, mid-range sketchbooks, blending tools that won’t fall apart after one use. The guy listens, asks questions, even takes notes on his phone. He makes a few easy jokes, and Zayn finds himself grinning more than he realises.

When they get to the pen section, the guy glances over and says, “You’ve got a good eye for this stuff. You an artist?”

Zayn shrugs, a little shy. “Sort of.”

“Well, if you ever decide to teach classes or something, sign me up. I wouldn’t mind an excuse to keep coming back.”

Zayn blinks. Then ducks his head slightly, ears going hot. “Um. Thanks.”

The guy just smiles again, friendly and smooth. “Or you know. Just for a coffee. Sometime.”

Zayn looks up, caught off guard. He opens his mouth—and before he can think too hard about it, he says, “I’m actually… seeing someone.”

It comes out so easily. So automatically. Like it’s true.

The guy doesn’t miss a beat. Just nods, still smiling. “Fair enough. They’re lucky.”

Zayn swallows. Doesn’t correct him.

They finish up at the till. The guy pays in cash, thanks him again, and says, “I’m sure she’ll love the gift. Thanks for your help.” Then he’s gone, the bell above the door jingling in his wake.

Zayn stares at the bills in his hand for a second too long.

Seeing someone.

He blinks, then frowns slightly. His brain rewinds, scans the moment again like it might change if he looks at it from another angle.

He wasn’t lying. Not really. He just... hadn’t meant to say it.

Still—his heart’s beating faster than it should.

He sets the cash aside and leans on the counter, drumming his fingers once, twice. Then whispers, under his breath, “What the fuck was that?”

By the time Zayn gets home, it’s nearly dark out. The sky’s turned dusky grey and the air’s cool against his skin as he climbs the stairs, still rattled from what he said earlier at the shop.

I’m seeing someone.

He’s not. Not really. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either. Not in any way that counts. He’s fucking someone. Liam. That’s all.

Isn’t it?

He unlocks the door, steps inside—and the smell hits him first. Garlic and something spicy. Music is playing low from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner—some mellow indie track he vaguely recognises. And from the kitchen: Liam’s voice, humming along, slightly off-key.

Zayn toes off his boots, heart doing something weird in his chest. He walks in, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Liam’s at the stove, in joggers and a sleeveless top, tattooed arms flexing as he stirs something in a pan. He glances over his shoulder and grins when he sees Zayn.

“Hey, you. Perfect timing. I’m making dinner.”

Zayn blinks. “Oh. Cool.”

“How was work?”

Zayn hangs up his bag, padding into the kitchen. “Uh. Slow. Weird, actually.”

Liam glances at him again. “Weird how?”

Zayn shrugs, leaning against the counter. “Some guy came in, asked a bunch of questions about pencils. Hit on me a bit.”

Liam stills for a beat—just for a second—but his expression doesn’t change much. “Oh yeah?”

Zayn doesn’t know why he brings it up. Doesn’t even fully realise he’s going to say it until it’s already out. And now he’s looking at Liam, watching him stir the pan like nothing’s shifted at all.

Then Liam casually says, “What did you say?”

Zayn opens his mouth. Pauses. Then lies. “Told him I wasn’t interested.”

Liam hums. A quiet sound. “Fair.”

He doesn’t look over.

Zayn’s heart is hammering. For what? He doesn’t know.

Liam lifts a wooden spoon from the pan and turns slightly. “Taste this?”

Zayn leans in, lets Liam bring the spoon to his mouth. Tastes something warm and tomatoey and spiced with cumin. It’s good. Really good. He licks his lips and nods. “Yeah. Perfect.”

Liam smiles, turning back to the stove, muttering something about adding just a touch more coriander.

Zayn watches the curve of his back. The way he moves around the kitchen like it’s his and like Zayn’s part of it. His chest aches, sudden and unexplained. He brushes it off.

They eat together at the table. It’s casual. Comfortable. Liam talks about his day—something about a new patient who kept flirting with the receptionist and mispronouncing rotator cuff.

Zayn laughs, halfway through chewing. “People actually flirt at physio appointments?”

“You’d be shocked,” Liam says, grinning. “I once had a girl ask if I’d ‘adjust’ more than just her spine.”

Zayn nearly chokes on his rice. “You’re making that up.”

“I swear on my foam roller.”

Zayn snorts, shaking his head. Liam’s smiling, warm and easy, and Zayn can’t stop looking at him. His mouth. His eyes. The way he gestures with his fork.

He forces himself to glance away, stabbing a piece of aubergine. It’s fine. It’s just a nice dinner. That’s all.

Afterwards, they end up on the sofa like always. Zayn has his sketchpad balanced on his knees, half-hearted lines trailing across the page. Liam’s reclined beside him, one leg bent up, a paperback in his hands.

Their legs are tangled together. Liam’s toes press gently into Zayn’s calf, and every now and then he runs a hand absentmindedly up and down Zayn’s shin. Zayn doesn’t comment. He doesn’t move away either.

The flat is quiet. Safe. Soft.

Zayn sketches without thinking. He draws the curve of a shoulder. The arch of a hand. Then he flips the page. He’s not sure what he’s doing anymore.

Liam shifts, sets his book aside, and looks at him properly. His voice is low. “You look good like this.”

Zayn glances over. “Like what?”

Liam smiles. “Relaxed.”

Zayn doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know what to do with the sudden thud in his chest. So he just nods, eyes back on the page.

Then Liam leans forward, presses a kiss to Zayn’s neck. His hand slides up, over Zayn’s thigh, fingers curling.

Zayn startles, heart thumping.

“I’m—tired,” he blurts, shifting away slightly. “Sorry. Long day.”

Liam pulls back instantly. “That’s alright.”

Zayn nods, standing too quickly. “Gonna head to bed.”

“Cool,” Liam says, stretching. “Sleep well.”

Zayn pauses in the hallway. Looks back once.

Liam’s already reclining again, book in hand, brows furrowed in concentration.

Zayn turns away.

Brushes his teeth. Changes slowly.

When he gets into bed, he lies awake for a long time. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the faint sounds of Liam moving around the flat—music still on, dishes clinking.

His brain keeps replaying one line, over and over.

I’m seeing someone.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Presses the heels of his hands into them.

It shouldn’t feel true.

But somehow, it does.

* * *

Zayn’s sitting on a bench in the park with a takeaway coffee cooling by his side, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers, and his sketchpad balanced on one knee. The morning is grey and damp, the kind of soft chill that clings to your clothes. He doesn’t mind it.

He’s been roughing out ideas for a new commission—some abstract botanical theme for a client who couldn’t decide if she wanted “calm” or “chaotic” energy, which left Zayn somewhere in the middle, scribbling thorny vines that twist and bloom without warning.

He’s halfway through sketching a jagged leaf when his phone buzzes beside the coffee cup.

Doniya🧡

He stares at the screen for a second, then puts the cigarette to his lips and answers with his free hand. “Hey.”

“Hey, stranger,” she says brightly. “You alive?”

“Barely.”

She laughs. “You sound tired.”

“Sketching in the cold with shit coffee and a nicotine dependency. Living the dream.”

“Christ. Don’t let Mum hear that.”

He hums, flicks ash into the wind. “How’s the salon?”

“Busy. I nearly took someone’s eyebrow off yesterday because she called her ex mid-treatment. You?”

“Same, minus the eyebrow drama.”

“Still at the art shop?”

“Unfortunately,” he says with a snort. “How’s everyone?”

“They’re good. Loud. You should call more.”

“I know, I know.”

There’s a pause. She softens. “You doing okay though? You sound… I dunno. Happier than usual.”

Zayn’s quiet for a second. A gust of wind rustles through the bare branches above. He exhales smoke slowly and watches it fade. “Yeah. I think so.”

A beat of silence.

Then she says, “Heard back from Briar Lane yet?”

“Not yet. Still waiting.”

“You’ll get it,” she says, immediate and confident. “Mum’s been telling literally everyone at the mosque that her son’s about to be a published artist.”

Zayn snorts. “Please make her stop.”

Another pause. Then Doniya says, casually but not really, “You seeing anyone these days?”

Zayn blinks. Hesitates. Then says, “No.”

She hums. “Well. I know a really nice guy, Adnan—runs a little bookshop near Manningham. Bit of a nerd, but cute. I could—”

He cuts her off softly. “You know I’m not planning on moving back anytime soon.”

“I know, I know,” she says, in the same tone he used earlier. “Just wish you would.”

Zayn doesn’t answer that.

Instead, he says, “Besides. I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “I get it. I just… I want you to be happy.”

He doesn’t say anything.

She adds, even softer, “You deserve to be with someone good this time around.”

Zayn swallows. Looks out across the empty path, the soft grey sky.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Maybe.”

They talk a few minutes more—about nothing much. Then Zayn hangs up, slides his phone into his pocket, and stubs out his cigarette.

He stays on the bench for a while longer. The commission sketch isn’t going anywhere.

So his pencil drifts. Sketches nothing in particular. A sleepy fox curled in a teacup. A lemon with angry eyebrows. A wonky cartoon hand flipping off a sunflower. It’s soothing in its own way—mindless, aimless.

He lights another cigarette. Watches the smoke curl up into the branches overhead.

Time slips. His coffee’s gone cold. His fingers are smudged grey, and he’s already had more cigarettes than he meant to.

Then his phone buzzes on in his pocket.

Nialler☘️: pub tonight??👀

Lou🧨: already halfway there

Harold✌️: zayn, no flaking

Harold✌️: well drag you by the ears

Nialler☘️: liams coming as well

Z🚬: fine im already out

Z🚬: be there soon

By the time he arrives, the others are a few drinks in and deep in some ridiculous debate.

“Zayn!” Niall shouts across the pub, arms already raised like he’s just scored a goal.

Zayn grins and threads through the tables. “Alright, lads?”

“Louis says Caillou deserves to be drop-kicked,” Niall reports.

“He does,” Louis insists. “Bald menace. No personality.”

“He’s four,” Zayn says, eyebrows raised. “He’s a child.”

“Exactly,” Louis mutters darkly.

Niall shrugs, lifting his pint. “I still say Dora the Explorer would go flying further. She’s got the build for it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Harry mutters. “You lot need therapy.”

“I’m just saying,” Niall goes on, like it’s a serious point of discussion. “She’s got that oversized head. Aerodynamic.”

Zayn laughs and sinks onto the bench beside Harry. The lighting is dim and warm, the air thick with the smell of ale and too many bodies. There’s a half-drunk pint waiting for him.

He settles in fast, smiling more than he means to.

About forty minutes later, the pub door swings open.

Liam steps inside, cheeks flushed from the cool night, wearing a dark jacket over a fitted tee, jeans that sit perfectly on his thighs, and that stupid chain Zayn’s not sure he’s ever going to emotionally recover from. His hair’s still damp from a shower, face scrubbed clean. He’s got the kind of easy confidence that makes Zayn’s stomach flutter.

He watches Liam scan the pub before spotting their table—and when their eyes meet, Zayn can’t help the soft smile that pulls at his lips.

Liam grins back, wide and warm and a little crooked, and starts weaving through the crowd toward them.

“Hey, mate,” Louis calls. “You’re late. We were placing bets on whether you'd ditched us for a protein shake and leg day.”

Liam grins as he approaches. “Got stuck behind a slow walker brigade on the high street.”

“Sounds fake,” Niall says. “You just didn’t want to buy the first round.”

“Caught,” Liam laughs, sliding into the seat beside Zayn.

“At least he’s here—our resident Adonis,” Harry says, raising his pint in greeting.

Liam grins. “Don’t let me stop you, mate. Go on.”

As he settles in, his thigh presses gently to Zayn’s beneath the table—and then his hand follows, brief but warm, squeezing just above Zayn’s knee before falling away again.

Zayn barely manages not to react. Just lifts his pint and takes a long sip.

Conversation rolls on—banter, updates, teasing. Liam blends in so easily. He’s charming and kind and quick to laugh. He compliments Harry’s haircut. Teases Niall about his dating disasters. Offers to help Louis move flats next weekend.

Zayn tries not to stare. Fails spectacularly.

He can’t help it. Every time Liam speaks, Zayn’s gaze dips—his mouth, the curve of his jaw, the way he licks the corner of his lip when he’s thinking.

And under the table, Liam’s hand is running slowly, rhythmically, up and down the inside of Zayn’s thigh.

Zayn shifts, trying to keep his expression neutral. His pulse thuds in his ears. He forces himself to nod along to whatever Harry’s saying about astrology and moral ambiguity—but then Liam leans in closer to hear something Louis says, and his fingers tighten just slightly around Zayn’s leg.

By the time they’re halfway through their third round, it’s worse.

Liam’s fingertips brush the nape of Zayn’s neck absently, carding through the little tufts of hair there. He doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it. Zayn’s sure everyone else must—but when he glances up, no one’s looking.

Zayn lets himself lean in during a laugh. His hand finds Liam’s bicep without thinking—just steadying himself, just casually. He doesn’t pull back when the laugh fades. His palm stays there, warm and lingering.

They’re being reckless. He knows it.

But it feels like they’ve nailed this. Their own little act. Zayn almost laughs. They’d make excellent spies, he thinks. Undercover operatives with dangerously good sexual tension.

And then Liam stands up to get another round.

Zayn watches him go with a soft, tipsy smile. The way his shoulders move, his hand sliding into his back pocket, the way his shirt clings to the dip of his back—

“Okay,” Louis says abruptly. “Zayn. What the actual fuck.”

Zayn startles. “What?”

“You—” Louis gestures wildly. “The smile. The borderline obscene eye contact—what is happening?”

Zayn blinks, all faux innocence. “What are you talking about?”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Don’t play dumb. You were just eye-fucking the man like you’re auditioning for a softcore film.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Zayn says, reaching for his pint. “You once tried to chat up a guy by asking if his shirt was made of boyfriend material.”

“Deflection noted,” Harry chimes in, eyes glittering. “Mate, Liam was literally playing with your hair.”

Zayn shrugs. “He was just—he does that sometimes.”

Three simultaneous reactions hit him at once.

Louis lets out a sharp, incredulous scoff. “Oh come on.”

Harry raises both eyebrows so high they nearly vanish into his curls.

Niall just leans back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. “You said you were over him.”

Zayn stiffens. “I am over him.”

They just keep staring. Silent. Unblinking. Expectant.

Zayn fidgets, glances at his pint, then back at them. His jaw works. “And under him…” he mutters into his pint. “On top of him…”

The silence is deafening.

Harry gapes. Louis spills his beer. Niall makes a strangled noise and points at him accusingly. “You—”

Zayn winces. “Okay. Alright. Fine. Yes. We’re—shagging. Happy now?”

For a beat, no one speaks. Just four gaping mouths and varying degrees of horror and awe. Harry drops a chip into his beer without noticing.

Then Louis claps once, loud and stunned. “Right. Okay. Wow.”

Niall leans forward, blinking. “You’re—sorry, you’re what?”

Zayn exhales through his nose, lifts his pint to his mouth like that might somehow undo what he’s just said. “You heard me.”

Harry squints, as if still computing. “You and Liam. Are... shagging.”

Zayn shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. Like his heart isn’t currently trying to pound its way out of his chest. “Casually.”

“Casually?” Niall echoes. “You’re shagging your flatmate casually?”

“Fuckin’ hell, I owe myself twenty quid,” Louis mutters, shaking his head.

Niall looks genuinely crestfallen. “But you—what does Alex say about this?” he demands, voice pitching higher.

Zayn blinks. “Who?”

Niall throws his hands up. “Who—? Alex! Sexy Radiologist? The guy you were supposed to be seeing! The only decent dating decision you’ve made in the last two bloody years!”

“Oh.” Zayn shrugs dismissively. “Dunno. Never even met the bloke.”

The table falls into stunned silence. Niall’s mouth opens and closes like a goldfish.

“But—” Louis says slowly, “the other week? Your neck?”

Zayn frowns for a beat—then his expression clears. “Ohhh.” He nods once. “Yeah, that was Liam.”

Louis’ pint hits the table with a thunk. Niall makes a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a scream.

Harry presses a hand to his chest like he’s steadying his heart. “Zaynie…” he says softly.

Zayn groans. “Don’t. Don’t do the concerned older brother voice.”

“We’re just—” Harry glances around the table. “This isn’t a thing, right? Like, you’re not catching feelings?”

Zayn forces a laugh. “Course not.”

“You sure?” Louis narrows his eyes. “Because I watched you ogle him like a starving man in Greggs.”

“I wasn’t—” Zayn splutters. “It’s not like that. It’s just fun. And convenient. And, you know. Mind-blowingly good sex.”

Niall winces, slaps a hand over his own face. “Too much detail, mate. It’s Liam.”

“Sorry,” Zayn says unapologetically.

Harry leans in. “Okay, but jokes aside—are you okay?”

Zayn frowns. “What do you mean?”

“This just… doesn’t seem like you. You don’t usually do this kind of thing.”

Zayn shrugs. “People change.”

Louis lifts a brow. “Do they?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Zayn says, quietly. “I know what this is. We’re just… scratching an itch. He’s not looking for anything. I’m not either. We’re just—having fun. No one’s gonna get hurt.”

The silence that follows is heavy with disbelief. Zayn avoids their eyes, takes another sip of his drink.

“Okay,” Harry says at last, nodding slowly. “Okay. If you say so...”

Zayn forces a smile. “I’ve got this.”

Then Niall says, “Alright. But just so you know—we’ll be here with wine and mop buckets when it inevitably goes tits up.”

“I won’t need wine and mop buckets.” Zayn hisses.

“Wine and mop buckets?” Liam says suddenly, right behind him.

Zayn startles. The lads go quiet.

He's standing there, pints balanced in his hands, one brow raised in amusement. “What are you lot planning?”

Zayn shoots the group a pointed look. 

Louis opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Harry blinks rapidly, like his brain’s buffering.

Then Niall blurts, “Harry. For his… lunar cleanse.”

Zayn lowers his pint just enough to give Niall a flat, unimpressed stare.

Liam blinks. “His what?”

“Yeah,” Niall says, eyes wide. “Full moon, wine for the spirits, mop buckets for the bad vibes. All very witchy.”

Harry nearly spits his drink. “I—pardon?”

Louis nods sagely. “You said you were hexing your landlord.”

Niall adds, “Buckets are for collecting the evil residue.”

Harry glances around the table. “Right. Yeah. No—I mean… yeah. You’ve gotta time the hex to the lunar cycle or it won’t take.”

Liam raises an eyebrow. “Right.”

“Yeah,” Niall says again, nodding intensely. “One chant and his wi-fi’s gone for good.”

“You lot need to be studied.” Liam laughs and slides into the seat beside Zayn. “Got you your favourite,” he says, leaning into Zayn’s side, nudging a pint toward him with a soft smile.

Zayn swallows, suddenly hyper-aware of their audience. “Thanks,” he murmurs, not quite looking at Liam.

Instead, he sees three pairs of eyes watching him—three different flavours of mate, really?

Louis is frowning, arms crossed, looking like he wants to stage an intervention on the spot. Harry’s gaze is soft with something that looks a lot like pity. And Niall, who gives him the kind of look that says you’re fooling yourself more than us, mate.

The conversation drifts back to normal—banter, pints, the usual—but Zayn can’t shake the restless pull low in his stomach. Every laugh feels too loud, every glance from Liam too sharp.

They barely make it inside their flat at the end of the night before Liam’s on him again—hands tugging at his belt, mouth hot on his neck.

Zayn gasps as he’s spun and shoved against the door, cheek scraping the wood. Then Liam’s on his knees behind him.

“Been driving me mad all night,” Liam mutters against him. “You don’t even know.”

Zayn’s legs tremble. “Fuck—I think I do.”

Liam groans. Zayn bangs his head forward against the door, stars dancing in his vision, a high moan slipping free as he claws for purchase on the wall.

They don’t make it far—just a blur of movement before Liam stands, flips him around again, kisses him hard and dirty. There’s no teasing—just frantic fumbling and low groans as Liam shoves his jeans down, lifts one of Zayn’s legs, and pushes in deep.

The door rattles with every thrust. Zayn clings to him, dizzy and breathless, nails digging in as they move together—frantic and quiet, too desperate for words.

When they finally still, sweating and wrecked and trembling against each other, Liam’s hands are gentle again—one smoothing down Zayn’s back, the other rubbing his thigh as he whispers, “C’mon. Let’s clean up.”

Zayn nods, dazed, letting himself be guided to the bathroom. Liam wipes them both down with warm cloths, soft and wordless, like always.

Zayn watches him in the mirror—how careful he is, how calm. How steady.

You’re not catching feelings?

Are you okay?

You don’t usually do this kind of thing.

The lads' voices play on loop in his mind. And beneath it, louder still, his own voice from earlier: I’ve got this.

He closes his eyes.

He thinks, I might not have this after all.

Chapter Text

Zayn’s halfway home with a tote bag full of groceries when his phone buzzes in his back pocket. He answers on instinct, juggling keys and tomatoes and a pack of biscuits.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Zayn Malik?”

He stops walking. Adjusts the phone, heart kicking up slightly. “Yeah. Speaking.”

“This is Molly Avery from Briar Lane Publishing. Sorry to call out of the blue—I just wanted to let you know we’ve finalised the shortlist for the cover submissions.”

Zayn’s heart sinks. “Oh—yeah, sure. No worries.”

“We chose yours.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Zayn blinks. “Wait—what?”

“We absolutely loved it. The mood, the textures, the subtle detail in the lines—it’s exactly what we were hoping for.”

Zayn’s still frozen on the pavement. “You—seriously?”

“We’d love to use it for the first run of covers. We’ll send over a formal contract next week, but I just wanted to say congratulations.”

“Shit,” Zayn breathes, barely able to think. “I mean—thank you. That’s—fuck. Sorry—that’s amazing.”

The woman on the phone laughs. “Glad to hear you’re pleased.”

He thanks her again, promises to look out for the email, and hangs up with trembling fingers.

The first person he thinks to tell is Liam.

He tries to push that thought away—tells himself it’s just because Liam’s been invested, because he’s asked about it, because he’s supportive. That’s all. That’s all it is. Still, he half-jogs the rest of the way home, breath caught in his throat.

He fumbles the key, drops his tote bag on the floor as he bursts through the front door. “Liam!”

There’s a shuffle from the kitchen. “What? What’s wrong?”

Liam appears, wiping his hands on a tea towel, worry flashing briefly across his face.

Zayn’s panting slightly, cheeks flushed. “They want it.”

Liam blinks. “Who wants what?”

“Briar Lane,” Zayn says, breathless. “The book cover. They’re picking mine.”

Liam’s face splits into the widest smile Zayn’s ever seen. “No fucking way.”

Zayn nods, still catching his breath, still stunned by it. “I just got off the phone with them—”

Liam crosses the room in three strides and wraps him up in a hug, warm and tight and all-encompassing. Zayn melts into it, breath catching.

“That’s amazing,” Liam says, pulling him in tighter. “You fucking legend. I knew they’d want it.”

Zayn barely has time to register anything before Liam presses a soft kiss to his temple, fingers cradling the back of his head.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

Zayn tries to ignore the way his whole body lights up at the touch, the gentle warmth that settles in his chest like a match pressed to dry leaves.

He pulls back slightly, blinking up at Liam—only to find him already looking back with an expression that Zayn doesn’t have the vocabulary for. Soft. Proud. Fond.

It knocks the air out of his lungs.

Before he can think, he’s surging forward, kissing Liam hard.

Liam makes a surprised sound but kisses him back instantly, both hands coming up to cup Zayn’s jaw like he’s afraid to drop him.

Zayn groans into his mouth, walking them backwards. He reaches for Liam’s hoodie, pulling it up and off, hands sliding hungrily over warm skin, over muscles he’s already memorised but wants to learn all over again.

Liam lets himself be stripped, laughs a little against Zayn’s lips—low and breathy—but it fades into a gasp when Zayn presses closer.

“Bedroom?” Liam mumbles between kisses, nudging Zayn back in that direction.

But Zayn tenses slightly. “No. Not—” He redirects them, tugging Liam toward the sofa instead.

Liam follows without question.

The second they hit the cushions, Zayn’s climbing on top of him, straddling his lap and kissing him slow. Liam’s hands settle on his hips again, gentle this time. Grounding.

Zayn peels off his own hoodie. Liam runs warm palms down his back, then up again, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“You’re gorgeous,” Liam murmurs. “You know that?”

Zayn’s stomach flips.

“Fucking beautiful,” Liam adds, kissing his shoulder. “So talented. You don’t even know what you’ve got.”

Zayn shudders. His hands tremble slightly where they’re braced against Liam’s shoulders. He kisses him again—fierce enough to keep Liam from saying more.

Liam helps him out of the rest of his clothes, eyes never straying far. His touches are slow. Not lazy, just deliberate. Focused. Like Zayn’s the only thing in the world worth touching right now.

They don’t rush.

Zayn moans as Liam presses in—hips slow, movements steady—and clutches at his arms. There’s something in the way Liam looks at him that makes Zayn want to cry.

“Feels so good,” Liam whispers. “You feel so good.”

Zayn buries his face in Liam’s shoulder and tries not to fall apart.

The sofa creaks. Their breathing syncs. Every drag of Liam’s hips is deep and unhurried, and Zayn forgets everything except the way it feels to be looked at like this. Wanted like this.

When they finish, Zayn slumps against him, boneless and dazed. Liam’s stroking his back in lazy circles, mouth pressed to his temple again like it’s habit. Like he means it.

It makes Zayn’s chest ache.

They lie there like that for a moment—sweaty, tangled, quiet.

Then Zayn pulls back gently, mumbling, “I, uh—I’m gonna… shower.”

Liam nods. “Alright. I’ll go after you.”

Zayn grabs his clothes off the floor and ducks into the bathroom. He closes the lid of the loo and sits down, elbows on his knees.

The tiles blur a little as he tries to steady his breathing. Liam’s words are still humming in his ears— beautiful, talented, gorgeous —the kiss to his temple, the way he’d lit up at the Briar Lane news like it belonged to both of them.

Zayn presses a hand over his mouth, like he can hold it all in. It’s too much—too soft, too good, too terrifying. Too easy to lean into.

For a moment he lets himself sit there, feeling warm and weightless in a way that scares him if he thinks too hard about it. Then he shakes his head, huffs a quiet laugh that doesn’t quite land, and pulls his shirt on with clumsy fingers.

He tells himself that it's best not to dwell.

* * *

Telling people had been almost as overwhelming as the phone call itself. His mum had cried down the line, Doniya had screamed in his ear, and Louis had sent a string of voice notes that were mostly just unintelligible shrieks. Niall had got sappy after a couple pints, clapping Zayn on the back with glassy eyes like he’d just won the FA Cup. Harry, meanwhile, had turned up at the flat two days later with a bottle of prosecco, a novelty balloon, and what he claimed was a “celebratory cravat.”

It was embarrassing. It was brilliant.

For once, Zayn didn’t feel like he had to argue with them, or shrug it off, or pretend it wasn’t a big deal. For once, he let himself believe it—just a little.

Which was how he found himself with the confidence to say yes when May asked if he could please cover for Hannah, who was off sick, and host the beginners’ drawing workshop that weekend.

The tables are already set when he arrives—sketchbooks stacked neatly beside pencils and erasers. It’s quiet in the store, the kind of hush that makes every movement sound louder than it is. He’s early, by design. Needed to breathe. Needed to fuss with the setup more than necessary.

He smooths the edges of the workshop schedule printouts. Reads over them like he didn’t already memorise the contents the night before. His stomach is a knot of nerves.

He thinks about Liam’s voice over breakfast a few days ago, soft and easy as he’d poured coffee: “You’ll be brilliant.”

Zayn had made a joke of it then, something about how brilliant people don’t usually spend ten minutes panicking about how to pronounce the word ‘composition.’ But Liam had just shrugged and said, “You care. That’s half the job already.”

People start trickling in. A young couple with matching glasses. A woman in a chunky jumper who immediately heads for the sunny spot by the window. A teenage boy with a nervy energy that reminds Zayn of himself at that age. He greets them all with a small smile and hands out the intro sheets, heart still hammering.

And then, ten minutes in—right as he’s explaining line weight and pencil grades—the door opens again.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” comes a familiar voice, a bit out of breath. “Traffic was brutal.”

Zayn’s whole body jerks before he even turns.

Liam.

Dressed down in a soft hoodie and jeans, cheeks a little flushed from the wind. He’s got that sheepish grin he wears when he’s trying not to laugh at himself, eyes crinkling at the corners.

There’s a small chuckle from the group, the kind people give when someone charmingly disrupts things. Zayn blinks, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Uh. Yeah. No worries. Just… take a seat anywhere,” he says, trying—and failing—not to sound thrown.

Liam gives a two-fingered salute and slides into a chair near the back, already pulling a pencil from the supply jar. Zayn watches him for a second longer than he should, then clears his throat and turns back to the front.

The sign-up sheet sits at the corner of the table. Zayn hadn’t looked closely when people were arriving. But when he skims it now—sure enough. Liam Payne. Plain as day.

He swallows down the flutter in his chest. If he’d known Liam was coming, he would’ve spiralled. Would’ve spent the entire morning preparing to fail in front of him.

But now he’s here. And weirdly—it helps.

Zayn presses forward, moving through the fundamentals—tone, proportion, perspective. He talks more easily now, letting himself get caught up in the subject. He doesn’t look at Liam too often, but when he does, Liam’s always looking back. Attentive. Interested. Nodding along like Zayn’s the most compelling person in the room.

It does something stupid to his heart.

When it’s time to move around and help individually, Zayn leans over the teenage boy’s shoulder, praises the depth of shadow he’s managed, nudges someone else’s pencil grip gently with a, “Try loosening your hand a bit. Less tension.”

And then he reaches Liam.

He hovers behind him a second too long. Liam’s lines are messy and crooked, but there’s a certain effort there, a scribbled determination.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Zayn says softly, crouching a little beside him.

Liam glances over, smiling. “Signed up last night. Tried texting you, but your phone’s clearly off living its own life.”

“It’s in my bag,” Zayn mumbles. “Didn’t wanna get distracted.”

“You’re smashing it, by the way,” Liam says, voice low and sincere. “You’re a natural.”

Zayn feels his ears go warm. “Thanks. I… I was shitting it this morning.”

“Doesn’t show,” Liam replies, then gestures at his page with a rueful grin. “Only thing suffering is this poor drawing.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, reaching for the pencil. “Here—let me show you.” He curls his hand gently over Liam’s, guiding the movement across the paper. “Go softer. Like… sketch it the way you’d pet a kitten.”

Liam tilts his head, teasing. “Oh, I’m like… top-tier at petting kittens. Five stars on Yelp. Glowing testimonials.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. He keeps their hands moving together in slow, fluid strokes, the paper scratching under the pencil.

“You make it look easy,” Liam says, watching him instead of the page.

“It’s just practice,” Zayn replies, glancing up—then instantly regrets it, because Liam is looking at him with that fucking look again. Soft, amused, a little proud.

He pulls back abruptly, straightening and smoothing the front of his shirt. “You’ll get there.”

Liam grins. “Only if I get this kind of personalised attention the whole time.”

Zayn snorts. “Cheeky. Keep that up and I’m assigning you homework.”

“I’m into that,” Liam deadpans.

Zayn blushes and practically trips on his way to the next table.

Zayn wraps up the last stretch of the session with a warm smile and a quiet, “That’s it for today, everyone. You all did great.”

The class claps politely, a few people giving each other awkward high-fives over their smudgy sketches. Zayn chuckles under his breath, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he sets a small stack of feedback forms on the front table.

“Before you go,” he says, voice still just a touch shy, “there’s some quick feedback forms here—don’t worry, I won’t grade them. I just want to know how it went, what I could do better, all that.”

A few people laugh. He catches Liam’s grin from the back of the room and quickly looks away, cheeks pink.

People start trickling out, scribbling hurriedly on the sheets. Zayn busies himself collecting pencils, re-capping markers, stacking sketchbooks for the shop to reuse. When he comes back to the table, he starts scanning through the forms. His fingers still when he reaches one in particular.

“Really well run. Clear instructions, easy to follow, even for hopeless cases. Great atmosphere. Would definitely recommend. Also, the sexy teacher didn’t hurt. Only distracting a bit. Just sayin.”

No name. But Zayn knows that handwriting anywhere. And the last lines have his ears flaming.

Before he can fully recover, a woman in a striped scarf walks over, holding one of the example sheets.

“Hi, sorry—just wondering if I’m shading this right? It keeps looking flat.”

Zayn clears his throat, nods. “Yeah—let me show you—see how it changes if you angle the pencil, use the side more than the point—like this.”

He’s mid-sentence when Liam steps up beside him.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says softly. “Just wanted to say I’ll wait in the car, yeah?”

Zayn blinks up at him. “Oh. Yeah. Cool. Won’t be long.”

Liam nods, sends a polite smile to the woman. “Thanks again, great class.”

Zayn watches him walk off. He’s just turning back to the woman when she says, with a twinkle in her eye, “Your boyfriend’s such a darling.”

Zayn startles. “Oh—he’s not—he’s not my boyfriend. He’s just—my flatmate.”

“Oh.” She lifts a brow, entirely unconvinced. “Could’ve fooled me, hun.”

Zayn’s still blinking when she thanks him and walks off.

He tries not to think about it too hard.

It lingers, though. The word.

Not because he believes it. Just… because it sounded nice. Too nice. Like slipping into something warm you didn’t know you were cold without.

He’s still a little flustered when he slips into the passenger seat a few minutes later, tossing his tote bag onto the back seat.

“You were great,” Liam says immediately, pulling the car into gear. “Seriously. I’m not just saying that.”

Zayn looks down at his hands, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “You’re biased.”

“Biased and right,” Liam says. “You looked really confident up there. Like you do this all the time.”

Zayn snorts softly. “I was dying inside.”

“Well you didn’t show it.” Liam glances over, smirking. “Authoritative. Very sexy.”

Zayn groans. “Don’t.”

“No, really,” Liam says, voice low and teasing. His hand drops to Zayn’s thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles. “You, standing up there with your glasses on, being all bossy about pencil technique—”

Zayn squirms in his seat. “Liam—”

“—telling me I was holding it wrong.” Liam’s hand inches higher. “Could barely focus after that.”

Zayn sucks in a breath.

Liam’s hand squeezes his thigh gently, fingertips brushing just a little too high. “Made me want to be told off again.”

Zayn exhales, sharp and shaky. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously hard,” Liam says, utterly unapologetic. “Wanna help me out?”

Zayn doesn’t answer. Just shoots Liam a look—all dark lashes and wicked intent—and shifts in his seat. A second later, his fingers are working at Liam’s belt.

Liam exhales sharply, fingers tightening around the wheel. “Jesus.”

Five minutes later, Liam’s got the car pulled off into a quiet, tree-shaded lane. Engine still ticking as it cools, music low and forgotten.

Zayn shifts down between the seats, lips wrapping around Liam, cheeks hollowing, one hand braced steady on Liam’s thigh. Liam’s breath leaves in a hiss, his head tipping back against the seat, jaw clenched. One hand stays firm on the wheel like he’s clinging to control; the other finds its way into Zayn’s hair, guiding him with slow, deliberate pulls.

“Fuck—yeah,” Liam groans, low and rough. “That’s it. So good for me.”

Zayn hums in response, the vibration dragging another curse out of him. Liam’s eyes screw shut when Zayn works him deeper. Zayn’s lashes flutter as Liam tugs lightly at his hair—not rough, just a reminder of who’s steering. Liam’s hips twitch once, restrained, his knuckles white against the wheel.

“Fucking perfect,” he rasps, voice catching.

Zayn goes molten at the praise, fluster ricocheting into want before he can stop it. The car fills with the wet sound of Zayn’s mouth on him, with Liam’s ragged breathing as he loses the fight to keep still. His thumb rubs absently just behind Zayn’s ear, a thoughtless touch that makes Zayn shiver.

The tension builds sharp and fast—Liam’s hand tightening suddenly in Zayn’s hair as a broken sound tears from his throat. His hips jerk helplessly before he can stop them, the other hand coming down to cup the back of Zayn’s neck, holding him there through it. His thumb keeps moving in distracted circles until the tremors finally pass.

Zayn swallows, pulls back with the back of his hand swiping at his mouth. He’s about to lean away when Liam’s hand doesn’t let him—still resting at his nape, warm and steady.

“So good,” Liam murmurs, voice rough, breath catching.

Then he tugs Zayn forward and kisses him.

It startles Zayn for a second—the taste, the timing, the fact that they never does this after. Kissing has always been for the climb, the build-up, the act itself, not the messy aftermath. But Liam’s mouth is soft against his, almost grateful.

Zayn freezes just long enough to notice it, before instinct wins and he kisses back.

It’s unhurried, nothing like the frantic edge they usually carry. Liam hums contentedly against Zayn’s lips, warm and steady, his thumb stroking lazily just behind Zayn’s ear. Zayn lets his mouth be coaxed open by Liam’s tongue, pliant under the slow press, every brush and tug leaving him weightless.

And then his own mind betrays him. He’s not supposed to think it, but he does—of what it would be like if this were real.

For a breath, for a heartbeat, Zayn lets himself imagine. That this is his boyfriend he’s kissing after pleasuring him, the same boyfriend who’d turned up to cheer him on at the workshop. That when that woman had said, your boyfriend’s such a darling, Zayn had blushed and said, yeah, he is. That after this they’ll drive home, lose the rest of the day in each other’s company, end up tangled together in the same bed come night. Wake up and have coffee together still tucked in.

It makes his chest ache, too raw and too much, but he keeps kissing Liam anyway, like pressing harder might hide the want.

Liam pulls back just enough to breathe, lips brushing Zayn’s as he hums softly. “Love kissing you,” he murmurs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

Zayn’s chest tightens. Panic flickers sharp under his ribs, and before he can stop himself, he’s pulling back further, huffing out a laugh that sounds lighter than it feels. “Pretty sure you’re just saying that ’cause I swallowed.”

Liam just chuckles, easy and unbothered, and leans over to start the car again. “What can I say? I like to give credit where it’s due.”

The engine rumbles to life, steady and grounding, while Liam starts whistling absently along with whatever’s playing on the radio. The sound is maddeningly light, like none of this has shaken him at all.

Zayn presses his forehead to the cool window glass, trying to push the ache back down where it belongs. Carefully, he takes the too-sweet thoughts—boyfriend, home, forever—and shoves them into the box in his head where all the dangerous thoughts and feelings go. Slams the lid down, locks it tight, like he has a thousand times before. It’s the only way to survive this—pretend he doesn’t want what he can’t have, pretend the box doesn’t rattle when he walks away.

* * *

Zayn’s halfway through rolling a cigarette when his phone buzzes with Harry’s name.

“Where are you?” Harry says, all lazy vowels and background wind.

“Work. Why?”

“I’m around the corner. Lunch?”

Ten minutes later, Zayn’s slipping out the shop door with his coat half-zipped. Harry’s leaning against a lamppost like he’s got nowhere to be, hands in the pockets of some oversized cardigan.

They wander until they hit the park. Zayn lights up.

Harry gives him a look. “You should just smoke weed instead. Better for you. Makes you nicer.”

Zayn snorts. “You’re confusing me with yourself.”

They find a bench in the sun. Across the path, an old woman scatters breadcrumbs in the grass. Pigeons descend like they’ve been waiting all morning.

“People should really stop doing that,” Zayn mutters around his cigarette.

Harry tilts his head. “Why? They look happy.”

“They’re rats with wings.”

“Yeah, but even rats deserve a little joy.”

Zayn shakes his head, pulling his coat tighter. “How’s work?”

Harry sighs, long and dramatic. “I’m ghostwriting a book for this guy who owns a chain of burger vans. It’s supposed to be half memoir, half cookbook.”

Zayn snorts. “Sounds… gourmet.”

“Oh, it’s art. Chapter titles like ‘From Grease to Greatness’ and ‘The Patty That Changed My Life.’ ”

Zayn laughs. “You’re joking.”

“I wish. There’s a whole emotional monologue about perfecting the ratio of gherkin to bun. Had to rewrite it three times because he kept calling it a ‘gherkin journey.’”

Zayn laughs so hard he has to take the cigarette from his mouth. “A gherkin journey? Harry, that’s not a thing.”

Harry shrugs, completely unfazed. “It is now. Might be the title of chapter four.”

“You’re actually insane for agreeing to write that.”

“Pays the bills.” Harry leans back, stretching his arms over the bench. “Anyway, enough about my literary masterpiece. How’s the Briar Lane thing coming along?”

Zayn exhales smoke, glancing down at the toe of his boot. “Signed the contract last week—Louis helped me read over it since it was full of legal crap. They’ve asked for a few tweaks, so I’m working on those now.”

Harry’s smile turns warm, genuine. “That’s huge, mate. I’m proud of you.”

Zayn ducks his head and mutters, “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

He lights another cigarette, the scratch of the lighter too loud. His knee’s bouncing without him noticing.

Harry’s tone is casual on the surface, but there’s a hook in it. “How’re you doing?”

Zayn stiffens. “I’m good. Why?”

“You seem… tense lately.”

“I’m fine,” Zayn says too fast. And yeah, maybe he’s been wound up and hasn’t been sleeping right, but that’s none of Harry’s business.

Harry’s eyes flick sideways. “How’re things with Liam?”

“Great.” he says quickly. He can hear the tiny hitch in his own voice and hopes Harry can’t.

“Still completely fine and super casual?”

“Yep.” Zayn takes a long drag.

Harry lets it go—or pretends to. They sit in the softened quiet, Zayn trying to ignore the prickle under his skin.

Then, without meaning to, he says, “Something weird happened the other day.”

Harry glances over. “Oh yeah?”

“I was teaching that art class. Liam showed up. And then—” he hesitates, rolling the cigarette between his fingers “—this woman thought he was my boyfriend.” He tries for a laugh, but it catches. “I mean, that’s crazy, right?”

Harry’s quiet for a moment.

“It’s weird, yeah?”

“I mean…” Harry shrugs, slow and deliberate. “If I didn’t know you were just friends with benefits or whatever, I’d think you were dating too.”

Zayn stares. “That’s mad.”

Harry glances at him then, voice softer. “Do you want him to be your boyfriend?”

Zayn scoffs, shaking his head. “No, of course not. He doesn’t want a boyfriend—” He catches himself, jaw tightening, and quickly corrects, “We. We don’t want boyfriends.”

Harry gives him a look—slow, steady, knowing. It burns.

“Have you asked him?” Harry says finally.

Zayn frowns. “Asked him what?”

“If he wants a boyfriend.”

“No. Why would I?” Zayn huffs, turning away. “And besides, like I said, I don’t want a boyfriend either. I’m not looking for anything serious. You know that.”

“Zayn…” Harry’s voice is quiet when it comes. “Liam’s not Oliver.”

The name lands like a stone in Zayn’s stomach. His shoulders tense before he can stop them. He keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, jaw working, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

Harry just looks at him for a long moment. It burns in the quiet between them. “Are you scared of getting hurt?”

Zayn gives a lopsided shrug that’s meant to look casual but misses the mark. “Nah, it’s not—” He falters, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “I’m not—” he cuts himself off. Doesn’t say any more.

Harry just nods, like he’s not buying it but won’t call him out. “It’s okay. I won’t push anymore. And I’m not saying you are , but… if you are scared, that’s completely valid.” His tone is light, steady. “Just—know it’s also okay to want more from him. From Liam.”

Zayn doesn’t answer. He hates how the words seem to settle somewhere deep in his chest.

Harry lets it go, leaning back on the bench. “Right, that’s enough feelings for one day. I’m gonna go buy some kale crisps and lie to myself that they taste better than real ones.”

Zayn huffs a laugh despite himself, flicking ash to the ground. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm,” Harry says with a shrug, standing and stretching like a cat. “And you love me for it.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, tugging his hood up as they start walking again. But Harry’s words keep circling back—Just—know it’s also okay to want more from him.

Harry’s still talking, but Zayn only half-hears. All he can see is Liam. All he can hear is more.

Chapter Text

The shop is dead quiet when Zayn looks up at the clock and realises he’s been stacking the same rack of watercolour pads for nearly fifteen minutes. His fingers are smudged faintly with graphite, and his brain’s been switched off for at least an hour—just going through the motions, folding and unfolding, straightening corners, pretending he’s not stuck in his own head.

It’s been like that all week, if he’s honest.

He sighs and presses his palms to the counter, leaning forward to watch the minute hand crawl another notch. The strip lighting above hums loudly in the silence. A faint draft creeps in from under the door. Somewhere in the back, someone’s left the radio on low, a tinny acoustic cover of something he doesn’t recognise.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. Zayn pulls it out, grateful for the distraction, and sees Liam’s name lighting up the screen.

Liam😇: You busy?

He glances around at the empty shop and huffs softly.

Zayn: tragically so 

Zayn: stacked three pads, unstacked them again. might rearrange the coloured pencils next

A beat later:

Liam😇: Don’t make plans tonight. I’ve got a surprise for you

Zayn freezes. His stomach gives a funny little flip that he ignores immediately.

He stares at the words.

Zayn: what kind of surprise?

Liam😇: If I tell you it ruins it. See you at home x 

Zayn doesn’t answer. He just sits there, thumb hovering over the keyboard, pretending his heart isn’t suddenly beating louder than the radio.

Eventually, he tucks the phone back in his pocket, staring at the counter for a beat too long. His heart’s doing that stupid thing again—light and fast, like he’s just sprinted up a flight of stairs.

He doesn’t let himself dwell on it. Instead, he grabs another stack of pads, straightens them, and then moves on to the next shelf, running his fingers over the coloured pencils one by one as though they need organising.

Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to keep his mind quiet.

He hums under his breath, some half-remembered tune, and tells himself it’s just Liam. Just a surprise. Nothing to think too hard about.

By the time he makes it home, the sun’s already dipped behind the rooftops and the flat is warm and glowing. He finds Liam on the sofa, jumper sleeves pushed up, scrolling his phone with a faint smirk on his face like he’s been waiting for this moment all day.

“So?” Zayn says, dropping his bag by the door. “You gonna make me beg or what?”

Liam just grins, taps his screen a few times, and holds up two tickets.

Superman—Midnight Premiere

Zayn actually laughs—sharp and startled and genuine. “No way.”

“Way,” Liam says, leaning back like he’s proud of himself. “Figured you’d wanna see it first. I queued online during lunch. Nearly killed my data plan for these.”

Something tugs at the corner of Zayn’s chest, but he just rolls his eyes and toes off his boots. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Takes one to know one,” Liam shoots back, all easy warmth.

And maybe his stomach swoops a little at that, but Zayn keeps his face carefully neutral.

They eat together before heading out—Liam’s made chicken wraps and set the table like he always does, Zayn finds the good crisps in the cupboard and drops them between them without comment. They don’t even talk much, but it’s comfortable. Easy. Zayn doesn’t realise until they’re walking to the car that he’s been smiling like an idiot the whole time.

At the cinema, the lobby is buzzing—fans in Superman T-shirts and capes, groups taking selfies in front of a giant David Corenswet cut-out, all square jaw and perfect curl. Zayn ducks his head into his hood a little, more from habit than anything, while Liam collects the snacks: popcorn (half sweet, half salty), a bag of pick ’n’ mix, two bottles of soda.

“You’re seriously getting liquorice,” Liam mutters as they make their way to their seats.

“And you’re seriously judging me,” Zayn says mildly, stealing a piece of caramel corn from the top of the bucket.

They find their spots—two in the middle, perfectly centred, with leg room and a clear view. Zayn sinks into his chair, shrugging off his jacket, the lights already dimming. The chatter of the crowd swells as the trailers begin, and Liam leans over to whisper something about how overhyped this one looks. Zayn huffs a quiet laugh, watching the glow of the screen flicker over Liam’s face.

He tries not to think about how good Liam smells. Or how his warm breath feels on his cheek. Or how nice his arm looks draped casually over the armrest between them, fingers just barely brushing Zayn’s sleeve now and then.

This isn’t a date. Obviously.

They’re just… mates.

Mates who have sex. And live together. And cook and eat together. And share snacks. And fold each other’s washing. And watch crap telly on Sunday mornings and end up napping on opposite ends of the sofa.

Zayn fishes another piece of liquorice out of the bag, popping it in his mouth. Chews slow. Keeps his eyes on the screen.

He leans back a little deeper into the seat as the studio logo rolls and the theatre goes quiet. Liam shifts beside him, knee bumping Zayn’s. Zayn doesn’t move away.

He lets himself get lost in the noise, the bright colours flashing across the screen, the swell of the music.

On the way home, Zayn stares out the window, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets even though he’s warm. Liam’s behind the wheel, still grinning as he talks animatedly about one of the fight scenes—how they finally nailed the flying sequences, how Corenswet actually managed to make Clark feel like a real person.

Zayn hums in agreement when he needs to. Says, “Yeah. Looked incredible on the big screen.” Lets Liam fill the quiet with his easy, unselfconscious rambling.

The city lights blur past. The car is warm and quiet between bursts of Liam’s laughter. The faint smell of popcorn still clings to them.

Zayn keeps his gaze fixed outside, pretending he’s too busy counting street lamps to notice how easy this feels.

Not a date.

Just mates, he reminds himself.

Mates who go to premieres. And share popcorn. And sit close enough for their knees to press together.

Mates who let each other ramble the whole drive home, who don’t even turn on the radio.

Definitely not a date.

He tells himself that again when Liam glances over at him at a stoplight and flashes him that stupid, lopsided smile. The one that makes Zayn’s chest feel tight and his stomach feel like it’s falling.

But if it was?

It would’ve been a really fucking good one.

They’re still laughing as they arrive home. Zayn fumbles with the keys, shoulders shaking as he chokes back another laugh. Liam’s close behind him, grinning wide, cheeks pink from the cold night air.

“Mate, did you see the woman spill nacho cheese and her slushie in one go?” Liam wheezes as Zayn shoves the door shut behind them.

“And she—she just kept walking like she was in Mission Impossible,” Zayn says, giggling helplessly.

Liam grins at him, wide and bright and stupidly gorgeous, until the sound of the door latch clicking shut seems to swallow up the last of the outside noise.

The flat is quiet. Dim.

And then the air between them shifts.

Zayn doesn’t even know who moves first. One second he’s kicking off his boots and the next Liam’s there, close, one warm palm cupping his jaw as he leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Just a brush of lips, the faint taste of salt and Pepsi on Liam’s tongue when Zayn opens to him. But then it deepens—slowly, inevitably. Liam licks into his mouth and Zayn groans softly, one hand gripping Liam’s jumper as though it might ground him.

It’s not frantic like it usually is. Not harsh or desperate.

But it’s still heated.

Zayn’s heart thuds as Liam presses him gently back against the wall, kissing him like they’ve got all the time in the world. His hands slide over Zayn’s waist, warm and sure, and Zayn feels himself start to unravel.

It’s soft.

Too soft.

Zayn tries to roughen it up, nipping Liam’s bottom lip, pushing his tongue deeper, tightening his grip on the back of Liam’s neck. But Liam just… hums against his mouth and slows it down again, keeping him there, anchored in this tender rhythm that Zayn hates how much he craves.

The urgency comes anyway, in little bursts—fingers tugging at zippers, fumbling with buttons, fabric falling away between gasps and moans. Zayn’s hoodie hits the floor. Liam’s jumper follows.

And then Liam starts walking them backwards.

It takes Zayn a second to register where they’re going.

The hallway. The open door at the end. Liam’s bedroom.

Panic spikes low in Zayn’s stomach. His hands fly up to Liam’s chest and he pulls back, breathless.

“Wait,” he blurts.

Liam stops, blinking down at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly.

Zayn swallows, shaking his head, trying to find the words.

“We—don’t have to—”

But Liam just smiles. One of those small, crooked smiles that kills Zayn every fucking time.

And then, quiet, coaxing: “Come on, babe.”

Zayn’s stomach drops. He hates how that word makes his knees weak. How Liam’s soft voice and those stupid, beautiful eyes make it impossible to say no.

So he doesn’t.

Liam leans back in, kisses him again, and Zayn lets himself be walked the rest of the way.

By the time they stumble into the bedroom, they’re both shirtless, jeans already halfway undone, kissing and groaning and touching like they’ll fall apart if they stop. Liam pushes Zayn back onto the bed, follows him down, straddling his hips as they fumble to strip the rest of the way.

Liam’s hands are everywhere—sliding down Zayn’s chest, gripping his thighs, fingers curling around the back of his neck to pull him into another slow, wet kiss. Zayn’s already hard, already dizzy from the way Liam keeps looking at him like he’s something precious even as he grinds down against him.

When they’re both naked, Zayn reaches over blindly to the bedside table drawer and grabs the lube, pressing it into Liam’s hand.

But Liam freezes.

Zayn blinks, confused, panting.

“What?” he whispers, voice low, hoarse.

Even in the dim light, Zayn can see the pink rising in Liam’s cheeks. See the way his fingers fumble around the bottle.

Liam glances down, then back up at him, hesitant. His voice is quiet, shy in a way Zayn’s never heard from him before.

“I just… was wondering if…” He trails off. “If maybe… you could—” Liam shifts his hips slightly, eyes flicking away. “top. This time.”

Zayn stares at him for a second, his breath catching in his throat.

Liam looks almost embarrassed now. Biting his lip, like he regrets saying it already.

Zayn’s chest tightens.

Because even though part of him wants to laugh it off, wants to make a joke and pull Liam back down so he can pretend none of this means anything—he can’t.

Not when Liam’s looking at him like that.

Not when his blush is creeping down his neck like a secret Zayn’s not meant to see.

So Zayn swallows, leans up to kiss him, and whispers against his lips: “Yeah. Okay.”

Liam exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. 

It should feel like nothing. Just another thing they do, another line crossed in this endless blur of heat and habit and need.

But it doesn’t.

It feels different already.

Liam’s still straddling him when Zayn shifts his hands to his hips, squeezing gently before leaning up to kiss him again—slow and deliberate. And then, almost without thinking, he presses at Liam’s side, guiding him down, rolling them both over until Liam’s on his back and Zayn’s above him.

The room goes quiet except for their breathing.

Zayn hovers there, propped on one forearm, looking down at Liam.

It’s strange. Usually Liam is the one in control—pressing Zayn down, coaxing him open with steady hands and sure touches. But now…

Now Liam’s lying back on his pillows, wide-eyed and flushed, looking up at Zayn like he’s never been seen before.

His usual self-assurance is gone, replaced by something softer. Vulnerable. Almost shy.

It knocks the wind right out of Zayn.

His own heart is hammering. He can feel the sweat on his palms already, can feel his stomach clenching with nerves. He swallows hard, trying not to let it show.

It’s been nearly a decade since he’s topped anyone. Not since the last time he was with a girl, back before he even really knew who he was, before he’d stopped pretending.

But this—Liam—makes his head feel light, his chest tight, his whole body thrumming with something he doesn’t want to name. The thought of doing this with him, of being inside him, makes him dizzy with want.

Zayn leans down, presses his mouth to Liam’s again—soft, careful—and murmurs against his lips, “You alright?”

Liam swallows. Zayn can feel it under his palm. His breath hitches, his gaze darting away for just a second before coming back to Zayn’s.

“Yeah,” he says, but it’s quiet. Hesitant.

Zayn pulls back just slightly, searching his face.

“You sure? We don’t have to—”

“No. I…” Liam swallows again, his voice dropping even softer now. “It’s just—”

He hesitates. Zayn waits. Doesn’t push.

And then Liam exhales shakily.

“I’ve never… done this before.”

Zayn freezes.

The words hang between them, heavy and delicate, fragile like glass.

Liam’s eyes dart away again, his chest rising and falling faster now.

“Not… like this,” he adds, barely more than a whisper.

Zayn’s throat goes dry. He feels something sharp and inexplicable twist deep in his chest.

Because Liam—steady, confident Liam—is looking up at him like he’s nervous. Like he’s letting Zayn see something no one else has.

And it’s somehow too much and not enough all at once.

Zayn presses his forehead to Liam’s, closes his eyes for a beat, trying to breathe through it.

And then, quiet and certain, he whispers, “I’ll make it good.”

Liam exhales a laugh—just a small one, shaky and embarrassed—but when Zayn kisses him again, he kisses back just as hard.

It’s not frantic now. Not rushed.

But it’s hot all the same—messy kisses and quiet groans and Zayn’s hands roaming Liam’s body like he can’t get enough. Liam’s hands grip his shoulders, his hair, his back—clutching at him like he doesn’t want to let go.

Zayn presses his way down Liam’s chest, kissing across the smooth planes of muscle, feeling him tremble under his mouth. He mouths at the sharp line of his hipbone, then lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of his thigh. Liam’s breath stutters, his legs spreading wider. Zayn noses against the warm skin, lips brushing lightly.

He slicks his fingers carefully and takes his time, murmuring little reassurances when Liam tenses, coaxing him open with slow, deliberate strokes.

“You’re okay,” Zayn breathes against his thigh. “You’re so good for me.”

Liam gasps, his head falling back against the pillow, his knuckles white where they’re gripping the sheets.

By the time Zayn finally pushes into him, it’s all he can do to hold himself together.

He moves slowly—achingly slowly—his breath catching in his throat as Liam’s hips lift to meet him. Liam’s lashes flutter as a soft, broken moan slips past his lips. Zayn swears it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

“Easy,” Zayn whispers, his voice low and unsteady. His hand is on Liam’s hip, steadying him, fingers flexing against sweat-damp skin. “Just—breathe for me, yeah?”

Liam swallows hard, eyes squeezing shut. His breath comes quick and shallow.

Zayn’s other hand strokes soothingly up Liam’s side, his thumb brushing over his ribs as he presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“You okay, Li?” he breathes.

Liam nods, jaw tight, his cheeks flushed deep red.

“Yeah, just—” he manages after a moment. “feels… weird.”

“Good weird or bad weird?” Zayn teases gently, though his voice cracks on the word good.

Liam huffs a shaky laugh, his fingers sliding into Zayn’s hair to tug him down into another kiss.

“Good,” he whispers against his lips.

That’s enough for Zayn to keep going. He groans, closing his eyes for a second to steady himself before he begins to move.

It’s slow at first—so careful it’s almost torturous—rocking his hips just enough to test the rhythm, watching Liam’s face for every flicker of discomfort or pleasure.

Liam lets out a shaky exhale, his thighs tightening around Zayn’s hips as if he’s not sure whether to pull him closer or push him away. 

Zayn leans down, their foreheads pressing together now, his hand slipping between them to wrap around Liam, stroking him in time with his thrusts.

“That better?” he whispers.

Liam lets out a choked sound—halfway between a moan and a laugh.

“Yeah. Yeah—fuck—”

Zayn kisses him again, slow and deep, and murmurs praise into his mouth with every roll of his hips.

“So good for me, babe. Feel so fucking good.”

Liam keens softly at the endearment, his hands clutching at Zayn’s back now, nails dragging faint red lines down his skin.

Zayn doesn’t mind.

He presses kisses to every bit of Liam he can reach—his cheek, his throat, his collarbone.

The more he moves, the more he feels Liam relax beneath him, the initial tension in his thighs giving way to something softer—something that feels like surrender.

And it undoes him.

Because Liam’s always been so sure, so steady, so in control.

But here, with Zayn inside him, he looks completely undone. And he’s letting Zayn see it.

He presses his face into Liam’s neck and lets himself move a little faster now, drinking in every gorgeous sound that slips out of him. When he finally risks a glance at Liam, his eyes are hazy and wet, his mouth parted on soft gasps—and something sharp and terrifying stirs in Zayn’s chest, something that feels dangerously close to love.

And when Liam comes, it’s with a wrecked moan of Zayn’s name, his whole body arching into him, legs trembling as Zayn keeps moving through it.

The sight of him—flushed, ruined, clinging to Zayn like he’s the only thing keeping him grounded—is enough to tip Zayn over the edge as well. He buries himself deep with a low, broken moan, collapsing onto his elbows as his orgasm crashes through him, his breath hot and uneven against Liam’s neck.

The world narrows to the sound of their ragged breathing, the frantic hammer of his heart, the heat of Liam’s skin beneath his lips. 

He presses one last kiss to Liam’s shoulder before he carefully pulls out and lies down beside him, still catching his breath.

For a quiet moment, they just lay there, the sheets tangled around their legs, the air heavy with the warm scent of sex and sweat. He can still feel the echo of Liam around him, the way his hands had clung to Zayn like he’d never let go, can still hear the ghost of his name on Liam’s lips.

Eventually he reaches over the side of the bed, fumbling blindly until his fingers close around the soft cotton of a T-shirt. He drags it up, sits up just enough to wipe them both down, careful and quiet, his throat still tight. The silence between them feels delicate, stretched thin like it might tear if he breathes too hard.

When he tosses the T-shirt aside and lies back, Liam shifts closer without hesitation, curling into his side. His head finds its place on Zayn’s shoulder, one arm draped across his stomach, fingers tracing lazy, almost shy little shapes over his ribs.

Zayn stays very still, watching the ceiling, feeling every brush of those fingers like it’s being carved into him. He feels… full. That’s the only word for it. Full of something so fucking big and heavy and good and scary it hurts.

Then Liam lets out a long, contented sigh against his shoulder, his voice warm and a little wrecked when he murmurs, “That was… amazing.”

Zayn swallows hard, his chest tightening in a way he doesn’t trust at all. He shuts his eyes, and just manages to whisper, “Yeah.”

Because if he tried to say more than that right now, his voice might just break completely.

The room feels impossibly still now, save for the faint sound of Liam’s breathing against his chest. His hand keeps tracing soft, shapeless patterns over Zayn’s ribs—a loop, a line, a little absentminded circle. It’s nothing, really. Just skin on skin. But it’s everything, too.

Zayn’s staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the way his throat feels tight, the way his chest feels cracked open. He feels so fucking happy and sad at the same time he could scream.

Then, in a low, drowsy voice, Liam murmurs against his chest: "Could stay like this with you all night, easy."

Zayn feels it hit him like a punch, even though Liam says it so casually—like he’s talking about the weather, like it’s nothing.

He knows Liam doesn’t mean it the way it lands. Knows it’s just the kind of thing people say when they’re happy and comfortable and lying in a warm bed after good sex. Knows Liam’s probably said it before to people whose names he can’t even remember now.

Still—Zayn’s stomach knots, his throat closing around something sharp.

Because if it meant what Zayn wants it to mean, it would be dangerous. It would be the kind of thing he could never come back from.

And it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

Zayn lets out a short, awkward laugh that sounds nothing like him. “Nah. You’re just knackered, mate. Talking rubbish.” The words come out too quick, like he’s swatting something dangerous out of the air before it can land.

He shoves upright, swings his legs off the bed and snatches his boxers off the floor like he suddenly can’t stand the space between them. He drags them on in one jerky motion, already fumbling clumsily for his jeans. “Seriously—you’ll wake up tomorrow and not even remember saying that.”

Liam blinks at him, the faintest crease appearing between his brows before he smooths it away. “I—yeah,” he says after a moment, tone light but quieter than before. “Maybe.” His fingers smooth over a crease in the bedsheet.

Zayn stands up, back still turned. “Not maybe, mate. Definitely. Bit of sleep and you’ll be right as rain.”

Liam leans back against the headboard, gaze flicking away. “Right as rain,” he echoes.

Zayn nods, eyes fixed on the floor. “Anyway, I’d better get out of here before you start asking me to sleep over.” He pitches it like a joke, but even in his own ears it lands flat—hollow in the space between them.

Liam gives a short, sharp laugh. “Yeah. Don’t want that.” He twists the bedsheet again before letting go.

Zayn swallows, forcing a smirk as he shoves his hands in his pockets and turns toward the door. “Exactly.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to make it uncomfortable.

“Night, then,” Zayn says, aiming for casual, but it’s a shade too bright.

“Yeah. Night,” Liam returns.

Zayn nods once and slips out, shutting the door with more care than he means to. His steps are quick down the hall, like distance alone might settle the churn in his chest.

He’s in his room in seconds, back pressed to the door like he’s keeping something out. His fingers won’t stop moving—dragging through his hair, tapping his thigh, twitching against his sides. He drags in a long breath, then another, but his pulse still hammers in his ears.

He crosses the room, flicks his lamp on, off, then on again. Adjusts a stack of sketchbooks on his desk even though they’re already straight. Checks his phone, finds nothing, drops it onto the duvet. Anything to keep from thinking. Anything to not replay—

Christ.

He’s tried. God, he’s tried. From the start, he’s told himself over and over: this is fine. This is nothing more than what they said it was—sex, fun, easy. Something casual between two people who know better than to let it mean anything.

And he’s tried so fucking hard to keep it that way. To keep his distance. To keep his heart out of it, even when Liam made it nearly impossible with his soft smiles and stupid kindness and the way he looked at Zayn like he was worth something.

He’s tried to convince himself he’s fine. That he can handle this. That he’s not getting in too deep.

But he can feel himself slipping anyway. Every time. Every time, a little more.

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, hard enough to see stars. But the reel won’t stop—Liam kissing him—softly, intimately—in a way Zayn hasn’t felt since… he doesn’t even want to think about when. Then Zayn letting himself be led to Liam’s room, Liam’s bed .

He swallows hard, paces, drags both hands through his hair. 

He never wanted to fuck Liam there. Not in his bed. That was the line, the one he thought he could hold. Too intimate. Too dangerous.

But then Liam had looked at him like that—had called him babe in that soft voice—and Zayn hadn’t been able to say no.

And then—Fuck.

Liam’s blush in the dark, whispering if Zayn could top this time. 

The way Zayn’s chest had clenched at the words. The heat that rushed through him, nerves and want tangling together so tight he thought he’d come undone before they even started.

The way Liam had looked up at him, open and trusting. The way his voice had broken on Zayn’s name. 

And then afterwards, curling into him, mapping lazy lines over his stomach. Murmuring that soft little line that’s lodged in Zayn’s chest like a shard of glass

Could stay like this with you all night, easy.

Zayn groans, dragging his hands down his face.

Because he doesn’t know what the fuck that meant. Doesn’t know if it meant anything at all.

And he can’t—God, he can’t want it to mean something.

He can’t let himself start hoping.

Because he’s been here before. Wanting too much from someone who couldn’t give it to him. Opening up only to get burned so badly he didn’t even recognise himself afterwards.

He promised himself he’d never be that fucking stupid again.

But now he realises that promises never stood a chance against Liam.

Chapter Text

Zayn wakes slowly, drifting somewhere between sleep and waking, his body loose and heavy against the mattress. For a hazy, perfect moment, he swears he can still feel it—Liam beneath him, trembling and open, soft moans spilling from parted lips. The ghost of Liam’s hands still lingers on his skin—gripping his shoulders, dragging down his back, clutching at him.

The memories pulse through him like aftershocks. Liam’s lashes fluttering, eyes wet and heavy as he whispered Zayn’s name. The heat of him, the way his thighs tightened around Zayn’s hips. The broken, desperate sound he made when he came.

And then after—just as vivid—Liam curling into his side, breath warm against his shoulder, fingers drawing absent little patterns over his ribs. The echo of Liam’s sigh, low and content, hums in his ears like a half-remembered song.

His mouth quirks faintly, eyes still closed, as if holding onto the dream might keep it going. Liam’s voice lingers, soft and wrecked: Could stay like this with you all night, easy.

It feels so real he almost believes it—until his hand drags over cool sheets instead of warm skin, and the ache in his body reminds him it wasn’t a dream at all.

It happened. All of it.

And the sweetness in his chest curdles fast, tightening into something sharp. Because right after, instead of staying, instead of letting himself have the one thing he wanted most, he’d laughed. He’d shoved himself upright, yanked on his boxers, and spat out, You're talking rubbish, and I’d better get out of here before you start asking me to sleep over.

As if staying hadn’t been the only thing he wanted. As if he hadn’t ached to stay, to let himself be held, to breathe in the warmth of Liam’s bed until morning.

He presses the heels of his hands hard over his eyes, groaning low.

He drags in a breath, forces his eyes open. The ache in his chest is still there, sharp and insistent, but he shoves it down, buries it under the same armour he always pulls on when things get too close.

He tells himself he was right to laugh Liam off, to pull away. Smarter to shut it down before Liam could say anything else that might stick, that might trick him into thinking it meant more than it did. Because it doesn’t. It couldn’t.

That’s just Liam. Warm, generous, always saying the kind of things that make people feel good. It’s who he is—kind to a fault, soft in ways Zayn’s never managed to be. He probably says shit like that all the time. Probably meant it the same way he means everything else: a passing kindness, a throwaway comfort.

For all he knows, Liam has said things like that to everyone before him. Maybe he'll say it again. Maybe he already is—

He cuts the thought off, jaw clenching. No. Doesn’t matter.

What matters is Liam’s good at this. Too good. The best Zayn’s ever had. He knows how to touch, how to talk, how to give you exactly what you didn’t even realise you wanted. Sweet one second, filthy the next. Praise that makes your head spin. Always knowing the right thing to say.

That’s all it is, Zayn tells himself. Just Liam being good at it.

It twists in his gut until it feels almost unbearable. Dangerous, he thinks. This is fucking dangerous.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls on a T-shirt, scrubbing his hands over his face as he heads for the kitchen.

Liam’s already there, brewing coffee. His hair is damp from a shower, hoodie hanging loose on his shoulders.

“Morning,” Liam says, voice warm but… quieter than usual.

“Morning.” Zayn’s is too quick.

The air between them feels different, stretched thin. Zayn busies himself with the kettle, avoiding looking at Liam for too long. His eyes keep catching on the details anyway—the soft slump of Liam’s shoulders, the faint crease between his brows.

“You got plans today?” Liam asks, reaching for the chipped mug Zayn got him as a joke—World’s Okayest Physio stamped in big, blocky letters. He doesn’t look at Zayn as he fills it with coffee.

“Lads are coming over for breakfast in about an hour,” Zayn mutters. After a beat, he hesitantly adds, “You can stay… if you want.” It doesn’t sound like he really means it.

“Nah,” Liam says, shaking his head lightly. “Got plans.”

Zayn nods, keeps his attention on the tea bag in his hand like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room. They hover in the same space for another beat, both reaching for the milk at the same time, knuckles brushing.

Zayn pulls back first. “You go on. Don’t wanna make you late.”

Liam takes the carton, pours a quick splash into his coffee, then sets it back down a little too carefully. He gives a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Right. See you later.”

“Yeah.”

Zayn listens to the echo of Liam’s footsteps fading down the hall and his bedroom door shut lightly, his chest still too tight.

By the time the lads knock—too loud, too early—he’s grateful for the noise. Louis barrels in first, carrying a bag of pastries, Niall’s got a carton of orange juice under one arm and a bottle of prosecco in the other, already talking about some nightmare student he taught the other day, hands waving like the story’s too big for him to keep in. Harry, inexplicably, has brought a plant. 

It’s warm, easy, familiar. 

“Nice shirt,” Harry says. “Is it new?”

“Nope.”

“Ah, so you’ve just finally learned how to use a washing machine.”

Zayn flips him off without looking, passing Niall a glass of juice.

The kitchen fills with the sound of chairs scraping and the low clink of cutlery against plates. Niall’s already halfway through his toast, Louis is making a performance out of buttering his second slice, and Harry’s helping himself to another scoop of eggs like he made them himself. 

They’re loud and ridiculous and he lets himself get swept into it, if only because it keeps his brain from spiralling.

For a moment, it almost feels normal.

Until—

“So where’s Loverboy, then?” Louis asks casually, biting into a burnt croissant. “Didn’t expect him to let us trash his kitchen unsupervised.”

Zayn freezes, just for a second.

Then: “How would I know?” he snaps.

The room goes quiet. Niall raises his brows.

“Jesus,” Louis mutters. “Just asked a question.”

Zayn sits up straighter, feels his jaw tighten. “No, but seriously. Why would I know where he is? He doesn’t, like—check in with me. It’s not like he’s my boyfriend or something.”

Louis holds his hands up. “Alright, mate. Chill.”

Zayn lets out a sharp laugh, running a hand through his hair. “No, I mean it! Everyone’s acting like this is some big—thing. But it’s not. It’s really not.”

Harry, who’s been suspiciously quiet, tilts his head. “You seem a bit… emotional about it.”

“Emotional?” Zayn barks, turning to him. “Me? That’s the last fucking thing I am, alright? There are no emotions involved here. None. We’re just—”

He stands abruptly, pacing the kitchen.

“We’re just two grown men who happen to live together and also happen to—” He waves his hand vaguely. “—fuck sometimes. That’s it. Nothing more. Nothing less. Everyone keeps looking at me like it’s something else and it’s not. So what if I’m fucking my flatmate? Who cares? Not me. Definitely not me. You think I’m sitting here pining? Nah. Not happening. We just have a laugh, and he gives good head—really good, actually—and fucks me properly when I need it, and that’s it.”

Niall whistles low under his breath.

Zayn keeps going, like he can’t stop himself now: “And what’s the big deal, anyway? We’re both single, we’re both adults. Just two blokes having a bit of fun. He’s fit, sure, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just sex. Honestly, he’s probably already shagging someone else on his lunch breaks for all I know, and good for him, because that’s what this is—casual. No strings. No feelings. Just sex.”

Zayn feels his chest heaving, breath coming too fast, his hands gripping the back of the chair like it’s the only thing holding him upright.

Harry is watching him with that infuriatingly knowing expression. Niall just looks awkward, like he’s debating whether to open the prosecco or pour it directly over his own head to break the tension.

Louis clears his throat. “Cool. Thanks for… spelling it out, mate.”

A faint creak sounds from the doorway.

All of their heads snap towards the sound.

It’s Liam.

He’s leaning against the frame, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His expression is unreadable.

“Hey,” he says evenly. His eyes flick briefly to the boys before he adds, “Just heading to the gym.”

Zayn swallows, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He forces his voice even. “Alright, mate. Later.”

It comes out clipped, cooler than he means, but at least it’s steady.

Liam holds his gaze for a second longer than feels comfortable, then nods. “Yeah. See you.”

His smile is tight, gone as quickly as it comes. He shifts the strap on his shoulder, turns as if to go—then glances back once more at Zayn, before walking out. The door clicks shut behind him.

Zayn exhales slowly, only then realising he’s still gripping the back of the chair hard enough to hurt. The silence in the kitchen stretches, taut and uncomfortable.

No one says anything for a long, long moment.

Then Zayn clears his throat, too loud in the quiet, and claps his hands together like he’s cutting through fog. “Right. Anyway. Who’s hungry?”

Louis lets out a quiet whistle, exchanging a look with Harry, but neither of them says anything. Niall shifts awkwardly, pretending to study the stack of bread on the counter.

“Z, mate…” Harry starts gently.

“What?” Zayn snaps, spinning on his heel, but the laugh he tacks on at the end doesn’t make it any less sharp. “What? Gotta eat, don’t we? Not gonna starve ourselves just ‘cause Payne’s off doing his squats or whatever.”

“Alright, alright,” Louis mutters, raising his hands placatingly.

Zayn turns back to the toast, shoulders stiff, knuckles white on the counter’s edge. 

The flat is quiet when the door opens again later.

The lads have long since left. Zayn’s stretched on the sofa, one arm behind his head, half-watching the telly with the sound low. Not really taking anything in.

He hears the telltale rattle of keys, the door clicking shut..

Zayn sits up a little, glancing over his shoulder.

The sight’s almost comforting—Liam in his gym kit, hoodie unzipped, hair damp at the edges like he showered there. His bag slung over one shoulder, towel hooked loosely through the strap. Familiar. Safe.

Except he doesn’t say anything. Just toes his trainers off, hangs up his hoodie, drops his bag by the door.

Zayn sits up a little straighter on the sofa. “Hey,” he says, voice pitched casual.

“Hey.” Liam’s reply is quiet, distracted, eyes on the fridge as he pulls out a water bottle.

Zayn watches him for a second. “Good workout?”

“Yeah.” Liam twists the cap off, takes a sip, doesn’t elaborate.

The silence stretches.

Zayn clears his throat. “So, uh… was thinking I could cook tonight. Maybe do that chicken thing you like?”

Liam shakes his head, eyes still on the bottle. “Nah, it’s fine.” His voice is gentle, but distant.

Zayn forces a little laugh, tries again. “You still doing that ridiculous intermittent fasting thing?”

“No.” Liam sets the bottle down carefully. “Just not hungry.”

He runs a hand over his jaw, hesitates a beat like he might say more—then just nods once and disappears down the hall. His door shuts softly behind him.

Zayn stays frozen on the sofa, stomach twisted up tight, the telly flickering uselessly in the background.

Something about the whole exchange sits wrong—Liam’s voice too flat, his eyes avoiding his.

He’s off today. Different.

Zayn chews the inside of his cheek, tries to shake it off. People have off days. Maybe Liam’s knackered. Maybe Zayn’s just reading too much into it. Wouldn’t be the first time.

He forces his gaze back to the screen, but the unease lingers, heavy in his chest.

* * *

The weeks that follow blur.

It’s not that Liam changes overnight—it’s slower than that, like a kettle cooling on the counter, steam fading until you realise it’s gone cold.

At first, Zayn can’t quite put his finger on it.

Liam’s still… Liam. Still folds Zayn’s laundry if it’s left in the dryer. Still picks up Zayn’s oat milk when he’s out doing his own shop, even grabs his favourite crisps without being asked. Still offers him a cup of tea if he’s making one.

But there’s something missing.

The easy little laughs that used to spill out of him—even at Zayn’s stupidest jokes—are rarer now, replaced with small smiles that don’t reach his eyes.

The random mid-day texts—memes, weird news headlines, pictures of particularly tragic café sandwiches—dry up. When Zayn sends one, Liam usually replies, but hours later and with a single emoji.

Evenings change too.

Where they used to collapse on the sofa together and watch whatever garbage telly was on, now Liam disappears into his room after dinner. Sometimes Zayn hears faint music or the click of keys from his laptop. Sometimes the flat is just… quiet.

And Liam’s out more. No explanations, no back soon, mate, just gone when Zayn gets home.

The sex changes, too.

At first, it’s just less frequent.

Then there’s the excuses.

It starts small.

A Tuesday night Zayn corners Liam in the kitchen, backs him against the counter with a smirk. “Bet I can make you forget whatever boring thing you’re doing tomorrow.”

Liam’s hands come to Zayn’s hips, but there’s no squeeze, no pull. “Tempting. But I’ve gotta be up early.” He steps around him, grabs a glass from the cupboard. By the time Zayn’s found something to say, Liam’s already left the room.

Friday, after dinner. Liam’s rinsing plates, sleeves pushed up, forearms slick. Zayn steps in close behind him, letting his fingers brush the warm skin just above his waistband.

Liam stills for half a second, then shifts forward slightly. “Long day, mate. Absolutely knackered.” he says over his shoulder, voice mild.

Zayn laughs like he’s not stung. “Sure. Yeah. Course.” He pockets his hands and wanders off to roll a cigarette he doesn’t really want.

Sunday afternoon. Rain on the windows, the flat warm and still. Zayn’s sprawled on the sofa when Liam walks past in joggers and nothing else, hair damp from the shower.

Zayn hooks a finger into the waistband as Liam passes. “Could keep me warm.”

Liam chuckles, gentle but firm as he pries Zayn’s hand away. “Need to finish a few things for work first.”

Zayn laughs too, quickly, like it’s all a joke. “Work, right. Okay.”

He doesn’t bother turning the telly back up. Just stares at the hallway until Liam’s door clicks shut.

By the time the third week rolls around, Zayn’s learnt to swallow the impulse. To keep his hands to himself when Liam brushes past him in the kitchen, to bite back the invitations sitting on his tongue. Every no—polite, reasonable, soft—lands the same way in his chest: a thud of embarrassment, a sting of why’d you even try?

He tells himself it’s fine. That this is what casual looks like. But the knot in his stomach says different.

One night, though, Zayn’s desperate. The kind of needy that makes his skin itch. He finds Liam in the kitchen, still warm from a shower, hoodie loose on his shoulders, hair damp at the edges.

“C’mon,” Zayn murmurs, stepping into his space. His voice comes out low, coaxing. He presses a hand to Liam’s chest. “Haven’t had you in ages. Miss you.”

Liam exhales, looking at him for a long moment like he might refuse again.

Then, without warning, he grabs the back of Zayn’s neck, kisses him hard, and walks him backward to the sofa.

It’s rougher than usual. Liam doesn’t waste time—doesn’t linger like he used to, doesn’t tease Zayn’s mouth open with a slow drag of tongue or let the kiss soften into something sweet. His mouth is urgent, bruising, all heat with no tenderness. By the time Zayn’s knees hit the cushions, Liam’s already got his hoodie bunched up around his ribs, hands insistent on bare skin, pulling rather than coaxing.

Zayn tilts his head back, offers his throat, waits for the drag of teeth, the quiet mine Liam used to leave there, but it never comes. Instead Liam’s shoving at his joggers, fumbling them down with a grunt. Zayn helps, kicking them off clumsily, heart hammering like he can trick himself into believing this is what he wants.

Liam’s hands are steady, practiced, but stripped of their usual care. No idle skims meant to make him shiver, no lingering kisses. Just the quick press of a slicked hand, a couple of fingers working him open.

Zayn’s body still sparks at the touch, still arches into it, still wants. But it’s rushed, Liam focused on the mechanics, on getting them there, not on drawing it out. No slow stretch, no careful curl of his knuckles like he knows exactly where to touch. Just a firm, efficient press, the kind that leaves Zayn aching for more even as he gets it.

And then Liam’s shifting between his thighs, breath hot, grip strong, sliding into him with a low groan.

It’s all heat and friction, Liam’s grip unyielding on his hips, holding him exactly where he wants him. Zayn’s breath comes fast, fingers curling into Liam’s hair, chasing a closeness that never quite comes, swallowing back moans that sound too loud in the still flat. Liam gives him what he asks for. What he thinks he needs.

Except it isn’t. Not really.

And when it’s over, Liam just steps back, already pulling his hoodie off the floor, murmuring something about needing a shower. No aftercare. No lazy stroking. No crooked grin that says you wrecked me. Just the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut.

It’s not until he’s lying awake one night, staring at the ceiling, that he realises he hasn’t touched Liam in over a week—and Liam hasn’t touched him either.

He tries to think of what he’s done wrong. Replays the last few weeks in his head like he’s picking over the scene of a crime—every look, every word, every time Liam’s hand lingered, or didn’t. He comes up empty. No harsh words. No arguments. Nothing that should’ve shifted things this much.

Which only leaves one explanation, and it lands heavy in his gut.

Liam’s bored of him.

Maybe he always would’ve been, sooner or later. Zayn’s never been great at holding people’s interest—not for long. He’s good for the rush at the start, the spark and late nights. But eventually, there’s always someone shinier. Someone who doesn’t overthink, or say the wrong thing, or need too much without meaning to.

It was inevitable, really.

So Zayn stops reaching entirely. Stops trying to pull Liam in for a kiss when he walks past, stops dropping hints late at night. He keeps the banter, keeps the easy flatmate stuff, but he locks the rest of it away, telling himself he’s just giving Liam space.

And if Liam notices the shift, he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look at Zayn any differently. Doesn’t look at him much at all.

Which shouldn’t hurt so much. But it does.

* * *

It’s after one in the morning and he’s still wide awake, the laptop screen casting a faint blue glow across his bed. Some series he’s watched a hundred times playing—he’s not really watching, just letting the dialogue hum in the background. His eyes keep flicking to the clock in the corner of the screen.

Liam’s out.

Zayn doesn’t know where, or with who, or when he’ll be back. He hasn’t known much of anything about Liam these days. They speak—they have to—but it’s all surface-level stuff at this point. Whether there’s milk in the fridge. Whether the boiler’s making that sound again. Not the things that used to fill their evenings. Not the things Zayn actually wants to know.

He should sleep. He knows he should. But every time he closes his eyes, his brain just spins—half replaying the silence between them these past weeks, half straining for the sound of the front door. It’s pathetic, maybe, but he can’t seem to switch it off. He knows that won’t really rest until he knows Liam’s home safe anyway.

His stomach growls, cutting through the stale quiet. He pauses the episode and wanders toward the kitchen, feet dragging against the cold floor.

The fridge light floods the room when he opens it. He leans in, rummaging through takeaway boxes and half-used jars, finally pulling out something that’ll do.

He hears the door swings open, bumping the wall.

Then there’s Liam’s voice. Low. Warm. Chuckling.

Zayn straightens, the carton cold in his hands.

A second voice follows—higher, lighter, spilling into the kitchen in little bursts of giggles.

Zayn’s fingers tighten around the carton until the plastic crinkles. His stomach gives a strange, hollow twist. A girl. Liam’s brought a girl home.

The thought lands like ice water down his back, and he shoves it aside just as quickly. Not his business. Doesn’t matter.

The cold from the fridge seeps up his bare arms, and he realises he’s holding his breath.

He thinks—maybe—if he waits, they’ll head straight to Liam’s room, and he can slip back to his without being seen.

But the footsteps draw closer, clumsy and quick, bumping against the wall. The giggling follows.

Zayn stays where he is, still as anything, the fridge light painting him in pale yellow when they appear in the doorway.

Liam’s got one arm looped tight around the girl’s waist, his mouth against hers, her hands clutching at his hoodie. She’s all flushed cheeks and smudged lipstick, blonde hair falling loose from its pins, eyes bright in the fridge light. They break apart when they spot him, both breathless, both grinning.

“Oh, shit—” Liam’s laughing, a little slurred. “Hey, man. Thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Zayn fumbles the carton in his hands, shaking his head. “Oh. Yeah. No, I’m—not.”

“Well, no, obviously not,” Liam slurs, which makes her laugh harder. 

She tilts her head toward Zayn, voice sweet and easy. “Is this your flatmate?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, lazy smile still stuck in place.

“Nice to meet you,” she beams, still pressed up against him.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, because his brain is apparently empty.

“Anyway, we’ll get out of your hair… uh—” Liam glances down at her. “—Sophie just wanted a glass of water.”

She giggles. “It’s Sarah.”

“Fuck, sorry,” Liam laughs, head tipping back, and she just giggles more.

Her mouth finds his jaw, then lower, mouthing along his neck as his hand slides under her shirt. Zayn’s pulse is thudding in his ears now. He steps back, mutters something about getting back to his show, and slips out past them.

He’s halfway to his room when her voice carries after him. “What’s up with him?”

“No fucking idea,” Liam says easily.

“He’s cute though,” she giggles.

“You’re cute,” Liam murmurs, voice warm and low.

The bedroom door shuts behind Zayn, and his stomach twists so hard it feels like nausea.

Chapter Text

He stays in his room at first. Laptop open, video still playing—though he couldn’t say what’s on the screen. Every muffled laugh from the kitchen feels too close.

He needs to leave. Not because he’s jealous. He’s not. It’s just… common decency, isn’t it? Let your flatmate get laid in peace. It would be weird not to. Rude, even.

He waits, staring at the glow of the screen until the giggles and footsteps fade down the hall. When he’s sure they’re in Liam’s room, he snaps the laptop shut. Slips his phone into his pocket. No jacket. No wallet. Just his cigarettes and his phone.

The voices are softer now, but they’re still there as he passes Liam’s door—muffled and warm, slipping under the crack like they’re meant to follow him. He keeps his eyes forward, forces himself not to glance at the doorway, and nearly trips on the pair of high heels abandoned by the front door.

The air outside is cold enough to bite. He lights a cigarette before he’s even hit the pavement, draws deep and fast, then another, and another, until his fingers smell like smoke and his lungs hurt.

He doesn’t know where he’s walking. Doesn’t care. Just needs to keep moving.

But his brain won’t stop betraying him. Keeps putting her in Liam’s arms. Liam’s hands at her waist. Liam’s mouth on hers, on her throat. Her laugh going high and breathless when he pushes her into the mattress. Liam’s voice dropping low, saying the same things he used to murmur into Zayn’s ear, touching her the same way he used to touch him.

Zayn drags in another lungful of smoke, holds it until it burns. Tries to swallow the sick twist in his stomach with it.

It doesn’t work.

By the time he looks up, his feet have made the decision for him. The streetlight outside Harry’s flat hums faintly overhead, the door just a few steps away. His chest feels too tight, his hands too cold as he knocks—quick, sharp, before he can talk himself out of it.

Harry answers on the third knock, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep. “Zayn?” he says, voice rough. “What the—”

“Hey,” Zayn cuts in, aiming for casual like he hasn’t just turned up unannounced on his doorstep at half two in the morning.

Harry blinks at him, expression shifting from confusion to something a little more alert. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine.”

Harry just looks at him for a beat, like he’s trying to make sense of the words versus the fact that Zayn is standing here, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, shifting on his feet.

Zayn hesitates, tongue caught between his teeth. “Liam’s got a girl over.” He says it flat, like it’s just a fact, nothing more.

Harry’s easy, sleepy expression sharpens just slightly, like he’s trying to decide if he heard that right.

“In our flat,” Zayn adds, quieter. “In his bedroom.” Saying it out loud feels like swallowing glass.

Harry steps aside without a word, lets him in.

They drift into the living room. Harry nods toward the sofa. “Sit down. I’m putting the kettle on.”

Zayn drops onto the edge of the cushions, fingers picking at a loose thread in his joggers. Somewhere behind him, cupboards open and close, the soft rush of water filling the kettle.

Harry comes back a minute later, sets two steaming mugs down on the coffee table, sits opposite.

Zayn stares at the tea, shrugs like it’s nothing. “He’s probably fucking her as we speak.” It comes out shaky and is followed by a breathy, nervous laugh that dies quickly in the quiet room.

Harry doesn’t bite. Just looks at him, steady, something almost like sympathy in his eyes.

Zayn swallows. His throat feels too tight all of a sudden, and there’s a prickling behind his eyes he can’t blink away.

“I'm in love with him, y’know.”

The words scrape on the way out, shaky and raw, but once they’re in the air he can’t take them back.

Harry’s gaze softens. “I know,” he says gently.

And then it’s like something inside Zayn splits clean down the middle.

“I fucking love him,” he says again, voice breaking this time. “Liam. God—what the fuck. What am I doing? What have I been doing?”

He drags his hands through his hair, elbows on his knees, breathing too quickly. “Fuck—God, I’m so stupid. And you lot—you told me. Didn’t you? Again and again. That it would end badly. That I’d get hurt. And I didn’t listen. I just—” He lets out a jagged sound, half a laugh, half a sob. “And look at me now. Fucking idiot.”

His hands drop uselessly into his lap. He stares down at them, but the words keep tumbling out, unstoppable. “He’s just—he’s—Liam.” The name alone makes his throat ache. “He’s so good. So fucking sweet. And the way he looks after people without even thinking about it—he just does it. He cooks for me. He makes me tea when I can’t sleep. Exactly how I want it. Every time. And he listens. He listens, Harry, even when I’m talking absolute shit. He remembers the smallest things—like my favourite childhood movie, or the song I said I liked that one time—and it just—” His breath hitches. “It kills me.”

His eyes blur, and the first tear slips hot down his cheek before he can swipe it away.

Harry’s jaw works, like he’s biting back words. His hands tighten around his mug.

“And I don’t know how to stop,” he says, and the words sound small and broken in the quiet. “I didn’t know how to stop.”

He shakes his head, hands raking through his hair like he could drag the thoughts out by force. “I’ve been in it for so long. Proper deep. And I just—kept telling myself it was fine. That it was casual. Just fun. Just sex.” A bitter laugh twists his mouth. “Like that was ever true.”

His breath comes quicker, uneven. “Not when I’d catch myself staring at him making tea in the morning. Or when he’d laugh at something I said and it’d feel like—like the fucking the sun coming out, or some shit. Or when he’d fall asleep on the sofa and I’d just—sit there, watching him breathe, like a fucking creep.” His voice cracks, the words spilling faster now, like he’s afraid if he stops, he won’t start again. “And the sex—Christ—it was never just sex to me. Not when he’d look at me like that. Not when he’d touch me like I was—” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “It was him. Always him. That’s why it felt like that.”

Harry doesn’t say a word. He just sits there, still as stone, his expression drawn tight—like hearing it is almost hurting him too.

Zayn stares down at his hands, blinking hard, another tear slipping free. “And now I can’t—” He swallows, voice shaking. “I can’t undo it. I can’t go back to before. I don’t know how to want less of him.”

His shoulders hunch forward, hands gripping his knees so hard his knuckles pale. His chest heaves once, sharp and shallow, before the words rip out of him.

“And now he’s fucking her.” It comes out cracked, almost spat, his voice fraying at the edges. “When I want him to be fucking me. Touching me. Kissing me—” His voice breaks mid-word, the next breath hitching hard in his throat. He drags a shaky hand over his face, like he can shove the rest of it back down, but it’s too late. “Loving me.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, eyes fixed on Zayn with this pained sort of stillness, like moving might make him splinter.

“But why would he?” Zayn’s voice is hoarse now, quieter but no steadier. His gaze drops to the floor, unfocused. “I’m just… me. Course he wouldn’t want me. Why would anyone, when he could have—”

He cuts himself off, because saying it—saying someone like her—feels like a knife between his ribs.

The silence that follows is thick. Heavy.

And then Harry’s voice cuts through, sharp but warm.

“Stop.”

Zayn blinks up at him, startled by the suddenness of it.

Harry leans forward in his chair, eyes steady and bright in the dim kitchen light. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to sit there and act like you’re nothing. Like you’re ‘just you.’”

Zayn starts to protest, but Harry barrels on, sharper now. “You’re Zayn fucking Malik. Thoughtful and brilliant and funny without even trying. You care more than you let on. You’ve got more heart than you know what to do with. You’re the kind of person people don’t forget. So don’t you dare sit there and act like you’re nothing.”

He pauses only a beat before adding, with sudden bite, “And another thing—fuck Liam.”

Zayn jerks his head up, startled.

“Okay?” Harry presses, jaw tight. “Fuck him. He doesn’t get to tie you in knots while he—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “You deserve better, Z. Someone who sees you. Treats you like you’re everything. Because you are.”

Zayn doesn’t really believe him—not all the way, not yet. The words are kind, and they sink in somewhere deep, but they don’t erase the gnawing voice in his head that keeps whispering you're not good enough.

But still. He nods, just softly, and murmurs, “Thanks, Haz.”

Harry watches him for another long moment, like he wants to say more, but then he just sighs and straightens up, patting Zayn’s knee.

“You’re crashing here tonight,” he says firmly. “No arguing.”

Zayn opens his mouth to protest anyway, but Harry shoots him a look that brooks no disagreement, and all Zayn can do is huff a quiet, almost-grateful laugh and nod again.

Later, they climb into Harry’s double bed, both of them still in T-shirts and joggers, the faint smell of Harry’s lemon laundry detergent and tea clinging to the sheets. Zayn lies on his side, staring at the wall, feeling Harry shift behind him, pulling the duvet up over them both.

Harry doesn’t say anything else—just rests a warm hand on Zayn’s shoulder for a second before rolling away, giving him his silence. His breathing evens out after a while, soft and steady, a reminder that the world can quiet if it wants to.

Zayn stays awake for a while, lying flat on his back now, eyes fixed on the faint glow of the ceiling. Everything runs circles in his head.

The sound of Liam’s laugh, muffled through the bedroom door. The way that girl’s silhouette had fit against him in the dark. The heat of Harry’s words—fuck him, you’re better than that. The way Liam had once kissed him like he couldn’t get enough.

He thinks about how stupid he’s been, how obvious he must have looked falling for Liam. He thinks about how soft Liam had been in the beginning, about how sharp he’d become lately. He thinks about the feel of Liam’s hands on his body and wonders if they’re on hers now.

It all tangles together—the hurt, the want, the ache of missing something he never really had, the faint flicker of hope he hates himself for still feeling.

Eventually, exhaustion drags him under. Liam follows him down.

* * *

Zayn wakes to thin winter light pooling against Harry’s curtains and a draft sneaking under the duvet. His neck aches from sleeping in one position too long.

For a second, he’s blank. Quiet. Then last night rushes in like a rip current: the click of the front door at home, a girl’s giggle braided with Liam’s laugh, the way Liam said, easy as breathing, No fucking idea, the pair of heels by the door. And after that—the walk through cold air that bit his fingers numb, Harry’s kitchen light, Harry’s face going careful, and Zayn hearing his own voice say I love him like it had been waiting in his mouth for months.

He lies there, very still, and tests it the way you press a bruise. It hurts. It’s true. No haze to hide in. Just the clean, steady ache of knowing.

A soft knock. The door pushes open with Harry’s head poking round, curls pointing in five directions, cardigan half-on like he lost a fight with it.

“Morning,” Harry says, voice husky with sleep but brighter than the room. “Breakfast in ten. Niall and Louis are on their way.”

Zayn scrubs a hand over his face. His throat feels raw, though he didn’t shout. “Right. Okay.”

Harry lingers. “We’ve got hash browns,” he adds, as if that’s a spell you can lay over a bad night.

Zayn huffs something that isn’t quite a laugh. He takes the mug Harry nudges toward him. It’s strong, no sugar, just a breath of milk—the way Liam makes it—and that lands weird, so he swallows fast and looks away.

“You want a shower?” Harry asks, light as air. “There’s a towel hanging on the door and a terrifyingly floral body wash Louis left here in 2019.”

“I’m alright,” Zayn says, even though he isn’t. He pulls the duvet tighter around his shoulders instead. “D’you, um… do they know I’m here?”

“They only know what they need to know.” Harry leans on the doorframe. “If you don’t want to talk about anything, we won’t. We’ll bully Louis about his dating app prompts and let Niall rank crisps by mouthfeel.”

A small, unwilling smile tugs at Zayn’s mouth. “Mouthfeel is a criminal word.”

“Right? I keep telling him.” Harry straightens. “Ten minutes.”

He’s almost gone when Zayn’s voice catches him. “Haz.”

Harry glances back.

“Thanks,” Zayn says, quiet. For the bed. For the tea. For not prying the wound wider.

Harry’s mouth tips. “Always.”

When he’s alone again, Zayn sits up slowly, the duvet slipping to his lap. Zayn wraps his hands round the mug and lets the heat bite his palms. He doesn’t try to think past breakfast. Not to the flat. Not to the closed door at the end of the hall. Not to the pair of heels by his own front door.

Just tea. Ten minutes. Hash browns. Breathe.

The smell hits him before he even reaches the kitchen—coffee, frying onions, something vaguely herby that can only be Harry showing off.

By the time Zayn shuffles in, Niall’s at the table, hair damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up like he’s about to build a shed. Louis is leaning over the counter, pinching bits of fried potato off the tray while Harry swats at him with a tea towel.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Louis calls without looking up.

Niall grins. “About time. I was about to start eating your share.”

Zayn mutters something about manners and drops into the chair opposite him. The mug from earlier reappears at his elbow. Harry’s got a second pan going now, humming under his breath as he flips eggs.

It’s noisy in that easy, harmless way. Louis is halfway through a story about a disastrous first date involving an improv comedy troupe, Niall keeps interrupting with questions that make no sense. Zayn lets himself laugh, lets the warmth of it wrap around him. He eats hash browns straight from the tray when Harry’s not looking.

No one mentions Liam. No one looks at him in that way—not yet.

His phone buzzes on the table.

Zayn’s head snaps toward it and snatches it up before the others can lean over for a nosy. His thumb hovers for a beat, something in his chest lifting—

Ammi🫶

The lift drops clean away.

“I’ll call her back later,” he mutters, setting the phone face down. He doesn’t look at them, just at the crumbs on his plate, appetite shrinking fast.

When he finally glances up, all three of them are watching him—not prying, exactly, but soft around the edges.

“So…” Niall says carefully, “d'you wanna talk about it?”

Zayn stabs at a bit of sausage with his fork. “Don’t know what there is to talk about.”

Louis leans forward, voice gentler than his usual. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

“About what?”

Louis raises his brows. 

Zayn shakes his head. “Don’t think there’s anything to do about it.”

Niall exchanges a glance with Harry, then says, “You planning on telling him how you feel?”

Zayn huffs a laugh with no humour in it. “No way. Don’t need the rejection, thanks.”

Silence for a beat. The scrape of cutlery.

“So you’re just gonna keep living with him like this?” Louis asks finally.

Zayn shrugs. It’s the only answer he’s got.

Harry sets down the coffee pot and says, “You know you’ve got options. All of us have a bed or a sofa.”

Niall nods. “Yeah. Caspian misses you.”

Zayn lifts a brow. 

“Yeah,” Niall says, smirking. “Said something the other day about the flat feeling ‘soulless’ without your artistic aura. Also—” he grins wider “—he reckons your hair could ‘inspire a generation’ or some shite.”

Zayn laughs despite himself. “He’s unwell.”

“Definitely,” Niall says cheerfully.

The warmth comes back, like a small reprieve. Zayn shakes his head, smiling a little. “Thanks. I’ll… let you know if it comes to that.”

“Do,” Louis says. “We’d fight over who gets you.”

Harry lifts his mug in a toast. “To Zayn. May he never be without a sofa to crash on.”

They clink mugs, and for a while the heaviness eases.

They don’t make a plan, exactly—just… stay.

One minute they’re still at the table finishing off toast crusts and lukewarm tea, the next they’ve migrated to the sofa, controller wires snaking across the rug. Niall and Louis argue over the rules of Mario Kart like it’s a matter of national security, Harry heckles from the armchair with a half-empty bag of crisps, and Zayn ends up laughing so hard his cheeks hurt.

Lunch is leftovers from the fridge—half a quiche, a random tub of hummus, crisps, apple slices dunked in peanut butter. Dinner’s takeaway, eaten out of foil trays with chopsticks that keep splintering.

Somewhere between the food and the controller swapping, Harry insists on putting a film on. It’s some dreamy, low-budget thing he swears is “life-changing”—all washed-out colours, people riding bikes through wheat fields, and long shots of clouds moving across the sky. Every so often someone says something vaguely profound. They all groan when he puts it on, but the room gradually falls quiet, and by the end they’re all sniffling into their sleeves, pretending not to notice each other.

The credits crawl up the screen in silence, a soft swell of music filling the room. No one moves for a long moment, all of them sunk low into cushions, blinking at the glow. Then Louis clears his throat like he’s embarrassed to be caught with damp eyes. “Right. I’m off before one of you makes me talk about my feelings.”

Niall stretches with a groan, rubbing at his face. “Yeah, I’ve got work in the morning. Come on, you can share my Uber.”

They bicker about whose stop comes first as they pull on their coats, voices echoing in the hall. Zayn stands by the door, and Niall pulls him into a proper hug—tight and lingering, muttering in his ear, “Don’t overthink it, yeah? You’re golden.” Louis claps him on the back, then drags him into a quick, fierce squeeze. “Head up, Malik. You’re better at this than you think.”

Zayn huffs a laugh, a little choked, trying to play it off.

The flat is quieter once they’re gone. Just the faint hiss of the radiator and the hum of the credits screen. Harry’s rinsing mugs in the kitchen, curls sticking up worse than ever. “You can crash here again if you want,” he says over his shoulder, easy as anything. “No pressure.”

For a second, Zayn almost says yes. The thought of staying wrapped in this little pocket of warmth, of not having to face what’s waiting for him at home—it’s tempting.

But he shakes his head. “Nah. Thanks, but I should go.”

Harry glances at him, brow raised.

“I can’t just… avoid him forever,” Zayn says, quieter now, thumb rubbing at the seam of his sleeve. “He’s my flatmate. Gotta go home sometime.”

Harry doesn’t argue. Just nods once, presses a fresh pack of biscuits into his hand like armour, and says, “Text if you need.”

Zayn manages a small smile. “Always.”

The night air is cold, sharp against his cheeks. He walks with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, hood pulled low. A thought flickers, unwanted—maybe Liam’s thinking about him. Maybe he’s wondering where he is. Maybe—

He cuts it off before it can take root. Liam hasn’t texted. Hasn’t called. Probably hasn’t even noticed.

The closer he gets to the flat, the heavier his steps feel. Like each one’s dragging him somewhere he doesn’t actually want to go.

As he slips his key into the lock, he tells himself it’ll be fine if Liam’s already asleep. Better, even. He can just slip in, shut his bedroom door, and not have to see him. Not have to talk.

Because he isn’t sure he could manage it. Not tonight. Not with Liam’s laugh still rattling around in his head, laced with hers. Not with the image of Liam’s hands on her waist, her mouth on his neck, still sharp behind his eyes.

And not with the taste of last night’s confession still in his throat. I love him. The first time he’s ever said it out loud, and the words had felt like ripping something open.

If Liam’s there—if he so much as looks at him—Zayn’s not sure his face won’t give him away. Not sure he could fake normal. Not sure he could choke it all back down and shrug like it doesn’t matter.

The lock clicks open, loud in the quiet hall, and Zayn slips inside like an intruder in his own home.

His stomach sinks when he spots the kitchen light spilling down the hall. He curses under his breath. No way to reach his room without being seen. No way to keep his head down and slide past unnoticed.

So he squares his shoulders, pulls on something like composure, and steps just inside the doorway.

Liam’s at the table, glass of water in hand, elbows braced on the wood. He looks rough—hair mussed, eyes shadowed, posture slouched like he hasn’t slept properly.

Zayn clears his throat.

Liam looks up, straightening a little in his chair when their eyes meet. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.” Zayn’s voice sounds weak to his own ears.

Silence stretches. The hum of the fridge fills it.

Zayn clears his throat. “Your friend gone home?”

For a second Liam’s brows draw together in confusion. Then he nods once. “Oh. Yeah—yeah.”

Zayn just nods too, eyes flicking to the floor. The silence settles heavy again, pressing against his ribs.

“Well… night then.” He turns, relief flooding in at the thought of escape.

“Zayn, wait—”

He freezes, heart lurching, and glances back. Liam’s looking at him, like he wants to say something. His lips part, then close again. A beat. Then—

“Uh—we’re out of milk,” he says quietly.

Zayn swallows, forces a tight nod. “Right. I’ll grab some tomorrow.”

And that’s it. Liam drops his gaze, turns the glass slowly in his hands. Zayn lingers for half a second longer than he should, then slips away down the hall, pulse still loud in his ears.

Chapter Text

The days slide by, each one heavier than the last.

On the surface, nothing changes. The flat runs the same—kettle on, laundry rotated without asking, the bin taken out before Zayn even notices it’s full. Liam still leaves sticky notes on the fridge when they run out of something, still switches off the telly when Zayn falls asleep on the sofa. From the outside, it looks like normal.

But underneath—everything’s different.

Because now Zayn knows. He can’t lie to himself anymore, can’t pretend it’s just attraction or convenience. He loves Liam. He knows it like he knows his own name, and it’s unbearable.

Every time Liam leaves the flat, Zayn feels it in his chest like a pulled thread. If Liam’s out late, Zayn lies awake, staring at the ceiling, brain running circles: is he with her again? Someone new? Someone better? 

It doesn’t matter who—only that it isn’t him.

And when Liam is home, it’s even worse.

Every silence feels loaded. Every polite nod in the kitchen feels like rejection. Every laugh Liam gives him—small, faint, never the full-bodied ones from before—feels like a mercy Zayn hasn’t earned.

He wants Liam in every way, all the time. Wants him pressed close on the sofa, wants his warmth against him in bed, wants his stupid jokes and his easy texts in the middle of the day. Wants him, full stop. 

And having to stand in the same room pretending he doesn’t—pretending he’s fine with the cool distance Liam keeps—is like being flayed alive in slow motion.

He tells himself he deserves it. That he built this cage himself the second he agreed it was just sex. Liam’s only playing by the rules they wrote.

But the jealousy eats at him. The love carves him hollow. Together, they sit heavy in his chest, sour and sweet, impossible to shake. He can’t imagine wanting anything more than he wants Liam.

And he can’t imagine ever having him.

* * *

It’s a dead hour at the shop. No customers, just the loud tick of the clock above the till.

Zayn slouches in the chair, chin propped on one hand. His eyes feel gritty, his whole body running on fumes from another night of shit sleep.

The sketchbook lies open in front of him, pencil balanced uselessly across the spine. The page is still blank. Has been for days. He stares at it until his vision blurs, like if he looks long enough something might appear out of thin air.

It doesn’t.

“Ooo, bold choice,” a voice says at his shoulder. Zayn jumps, blinking up to find May peering down at the empty page, one brow cocked. “Nothingness. Really makes you think.”

“Seriously,” he mutters, pressing a hand to his chest. “You have to stop doing that.”

She just laughs, leaning one hip against the counter. They both glance down at the empty sketchbook together.

“So,” she says lightly, “blank page syndrome, huh? Even Da Vinci probably had those. …Well, maybe not, but you get my point.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, low and tired. “Yeah, I guess.”

May tilts her head, studying him. The smile lingers, but her voice softens. “But seriously—are you alright? You’ve seemed a bit… distracted lately. More nail-biting, less sketching. That’s not usually your ratio.”

Zayn shrugs. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Mm.” May doesn’t sound convinced, but she doesn’t push either. “Well, tired artists are still artists. Don’t forget that.”

He gives her a small smile.

May watches him for a second longer, then tilts her head. “How’s Briar Lane coming along? You finished all the back-and-forth with them yet?”

Zayn fiddles with his pencil. “Yeah. Sent them the final files last week.” He hesitates, then adds, “They, uh… invited me to their book launch thing.”

Her eyes light up. “That’s amazing. You’re going, right?”

He shrugs, cheeks warm. “Dunno. Haven’t decided yet.”

She snorts. “Free wine and canapés, Malik. Don’t be daft.”

That pulls a real laugh out of him, quiet but genuine. “Yeah, alright. I’ll think about it.”

She just shakes her head, still smiling. “Suit yourself.” 

With that, she heads off toward the stockroom, humming as she goes.

Zayn lets out a long breath and stares at the page a second longer before snapping the sketchbook shut with more force than necessary. The sound echoes in the quiet shop. 

Normally, drawing clears him out, steadies his brain. Lately, though, it’s like reaching for something that isn’t there—every page stays stubbornly blank, and the only thing he’s managed to produce is a growing pile of cigarette butts.

His phone buzzes against the counter. Then again. Then again. By the fourth vibration, he drags it toward him with a sigh. The group chat’s lit up like a pinball machine.

Lou🧨: lads emergency 🚨🚨🚨

Nialler☘️: what now

Harold✌️: if this is about you fighting with the postman again im leaving

Lou🧨: this is worse

Lou🧨: ive been BANNED

Nialler☘️: banned from what

Lou🧨: hinge 😭😭😭

Zayn huffs out a laugh despite himself, thumbs already tapping to scroll.

Nialler☘️: what did u do

Lou🧨: nothing!!! unjust system

Harold✌️: translation: he got reported again

Lou🧨: ok MAYBE i told someone their dog was ugly but thats not a crime??

Nialler☘️: what kind of psycho slags off a mans dog

Zayn’s laugh comes out real, short and sharp, surprising in his chest.

Z🚬: oh god

Harold✌️: zaynnnnn

Harold✌️: he lives

Nialler☘️: morning sunshine

Lou🧨: good ur here 

Lou🧨: back me up: i shouldnt be banned for honesty

Z🚬: honesty is one thing. calling a labrador a butterfaced rat is another 

Nialler☘️: PLEASE tell me thats what u said

Lou🧨: allegedly

Harold✌️: genuinely unhinged behaviour

Nialler☘️: haha unHINGED

Lou🧨: shut up harry u still owe me 10 quid from monopoly night

Harold✌️: unrelated

Nialler☘️: anyway pints after work? we can hold a tribunal

Lou🧨: YES. pub court

Lou🧨: justice for me

Harold✌️: someone call rspca

Zayn stares at the screen a moment longer, torn. His first instinct is to say no—he’s been running on scraps of sleep, and the last thing he feels like is sitting in a crowded pub trying to laugh at Louis’ misfortunes.

But then the thought creeps in: going straight home. The closed door at the end of the hall. The silence that’s somehow worse than noise. His chest tightens.

Z🚬: alright

Z🚬: one pint

Harold✌️: 🥰🥰

Nialler☘️: legend

Lou🧨: hero

Zayn huffs out another laugh, softer this time, but it sticks around a little longer.

The pub’s warm and loud, a soft relief against the raw air outside. Zayn spots them straight away—Louis waving his pint like a flare, Niall halfway through a packet of crisps, Harry sunk low in the booth with his curls in his eyes.

“There he is!” Louis crows the second Zayn steps close. “Our favourite Hinge-hater hater. Tell these clowns I was unjustly persecuted.”

Zayn drops onto the bench beside Harry, smirking into his pint. “Honestly, Lou, you being banned is probably a public service. You’re a liability on that app.”

Harry snorts. “Remember when he asked that girl if she’d be willing to provide a character reference before their first date?”

Niall chokes on his drink. “Or when he used his bio to advertise his Vinted shop?”

“Oi,” Louis protests, pointing his pint around the table. “That was smart marketing!”

Zayn grins. “Mate, your last opener was just ‘rate my jawline 1–10.’”

“That one nearly worked,” Louis mutters.

They go round a bit longer, everyone taking turns to roast Louis until he finally throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Kick me while I’m down. Heartless, the lot of you.” He squints across the table then, head cocked. “Speaking of heartless—Jesus, Z, you look like you’ve just done a stint in prison, mate.”

Niall barks a laugh. “Yeah, what’d they do, let you out on day release?”

Harry smirks, tapping his chin. “Explains the hollow eyes. Solitary confinement’ll do that to a man.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, tugging at the rim of his pint. “Cheers, lads. Nice to see you too.”

Louis grins wickedly. “Don’t worry, we’ll start a collection for your bail.”

The laughter dies down into a hum, the four of them nursing their drinks.

Then Niall leans forward, brows drawn, his voice gentler. “Nah, but seriously, Z. You alright? You look… proper knackered.”

Harry nods, less sharp now. “You’ve been distant lately.”

Louis tilts his head, frown tugging at his mouth. “Things still bad with Liam?”

Zayn’s head snaps up, too quickly. “No. Things are fine.”

Three pairs of eyes land on him at once, all carrying the same look: really?

He huffs, holding his hands up. “No, seriously. I think I’m… I think I’m getting over him.”

Harry raises a brow. “That’s cute, but no one’s buying it. Try again.”

Niall leans back, arms crossed. “Yeah, mate, that line might’ve worked a few months ago. Doesn’t fly now.”

They just keep staring at him, waiting.

Zayn groans, lets his forehead thunk against the sticky pub table. “Alright, fine. It’s horrible. Torture. Like living with someone who’s… I dunno, fireproof, while you’re standing there going up in flames.”

Louis hums, like there it is. “Better. Dramatic as fuck, but better.”

Zayn mutters into the wood, “Fuck off.”

Harry leans in, tone gentler now. “So why don’t you just… tell him? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Niall shrugs. “Yeah, mate. He might actually surprise you.”

Zayn lets out a short, flat laugh. “Not a chance. You’ve seen him lately—he barely looks at me half the time. Cold as ice. Keeps his distance like I’ve got the plague. That’s not someone secretly pining, that’s someone who’s over it.”

Louis opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Niall frowns into his pint.

Zayn huffs, shaking his head. “And if that wasn’t clear enough, I’ll remind you—he brought a girl home. Took her straight to his room." A harsh, humourless laugh escapes him. "Well, not before giving me front-row seats to them sucking each other’s faces off in the kitchen.”

The table goes quiet. None of them meet his eye.

Finally, Niall says carefully, “We don’t know if they actually…”

Zayn shoots him a flat look. “Come off it. I saw them. All over each other. Heard them giggling like teenagers through his bedroom door. Don’t need to spell it out, do I?”

Silence follows, thick and awkward. Zayn twists the ring on his finger, staring hard at the table like the grooves in the wood might give him answers. 

Louis softens, tipping his head. “Z, you know you don’t have to stay in that flat if it’s killing you.”

Harry nods. “Yeah. You’ve got us. Spare beds, spare sofas, whatever you need.”

Zayn huffs. “Don’t want to move out.”

Louis arches a brow. “Course you don’t. You’re in love with the bloke you live with.”

Zayn sighs. “Besides, even if I did want to move, this is London. You try finding a place that isn’t a shoebox above a kebab shop, with rent that doesn’t require a second job and a flatmate who isn’t a murderer or—” He lets out a frustrated, helpless sound. “—a rat. Minimal rats, that’s all I ask.”

Niall laughs into his pint. “High standards, that. No rats. What a diva.”

Louis shakes his head, mock solemn. “Better stick with the rat you know, then.”

That pulls a real laugh out of him, even if it’s small and tired.

Zayn sighs, straightening up a little, palms still pressed to the table. “Look—I’ll just… see where things go, yeah? Maybe it’ll settle. Maybe these feelings’ll just… disappear, and then we’ll be fine.”

Louis gives him a look so dry it could peel paint.

Harry raises a brow, clearly unconvinced.

Niall just shakes his head slowly, like he’s watching someone walk into traffic.

But after a beat, Louis leans back in his chair with a sigh. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

“Doesn’t mean we believe you,” Harry adds, softer now.

“Or that we won’t have to stage an intervention when you spiral, which, let’s be honest, you will.” Niall throws in.

Zayn huffs a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll take my chances.”

The doubt lingers in their eyes, but they let it go—for now. The conversation drifts toward pints and football scores, leaving Zayn with a little pocket of air to breathe in.

By the time they spill out into the night, Zayn’s warmer than he’s been in weeks, stomach full of beer and chips, ears ringing faintly with Louis’ cackling. 

The walk home is short, but the quiet hits hard once he’s inside. He peels off his jacket, leaves it on the back of a chair, and crawls into bed.

Sleep hovers at the edges, heavy and unsteady. He’s drifting when he hears the front door click shut.

The sound cuts through the haze he’s been drifting in, snaps him awake with that familiar surge of dread and relief tangled together. Relief, because Liam’s home, safe. Dread, because he has no idea where he’s been—or who he’s been with.

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to picture it.

He listens to the muted sounds of shoes kicked off, the soft thunk of keys on the counter.

Then silence.

For a second he thinks he’s drifted back under. Then—

The faint creak of his bedroom door.

Zayn’s breath stalls. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe he’s losing it from too many sleepless nights. But then come the footsteps—soft, clumsy, uneven on the carpet.

He freezes.

The mattress dips behind him.

Zayn’s heart is in his throat, hammering so loud he’s sure it can be heard out loud. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare turn over. He just lies there on his side, staring at the wall, pulse racing as Liam settles in close. The smell of him—faint aftershave, a tang of sweat, the ghost of alcohol—wraps around Zayn, dizzying.

Zayn doesn’t know if he should speak, if he even can. His whole body’s gone tight, waiting—for what, he has no idea.

And then, quietly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, Liam exhales and lets his forehead rest against the back of Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn shifts, the tiniest stir of movement, like he’s about to sit up, about to ask what the hell’s happening—

“Shhh.” It comes out low and slurred, warm breath brushing the back of his neck. “Just… relax.”

Zayn goes still again. His pulse is wild, his body buzzing, but he forces himself to sink back into the mattress. He can feel Liam there, close, his heat seeping into Zayn’s skin.

Then Liam’s hand tentatively slides over his arm, fingers tracing the muscle before his lips brush the back of Zayn’s neck—hot, damp, enough to make goosebumps race down his spine.

Zayn swallows hard, every nerve ending lit up.

Another kiss lands lower, along the slope where neck meets shoulder. 

Zayn bites his lip, every breath shallow. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare break whatever fragile spell this is.

Liam hums against his skin, the sound vibrating right through Zayn. He shifts closer, his nose brushing along Zayn’s jaw, mouth finding the tender spot beneath his ear.

The air leaves Zayn in a unsteady exhale.

He just lets it happen, lets Liam map his neck with those unhurried presses of mouth to skin, each one more unbearable than the last.

Then he shifts, turning his head just enough that their mouths almost meet. Their lips brush, feather-light. Not quite a kiss, but enough to make Zayn’s whole body shiver.

Liam lingers there, his nose bumping Zayn’s cheek, his mouth hovering a breath away. When he speaks, it’s a murmur, soft and slurred, more exhale than words.

“Miss this,” he breathes, lips ghosting over Zayn’s.

Zayn’s chest tightens so hard it hurts.

The words hang between them, fragile and impossible, and before Zayn can think better of it, he closes the last inch.

Their lips meet—soft, careful, a kiss that trembles like it might break apart if either of them breathe too hard. Zayn tastes the faint burn of alcohol, feels the heat of Liam’s mouth moving carefully against his own.

Zayn’s hand twitches, then finds Liam’s wrist where it rests against his arm. The kiss deepens, slow but certain, Liam’s lips parting, tongue brushing gently against his.

Zayn exhales into it, heart pounding.

The bed shifts as Liam presses closer, his chest flush to Zayn’s back, kissing him harder now. Zayn turns enough to catch more of Liam’s mouth, to meet him properly.

A low sound escapes Liam, needy and raw. His hand slides from Zayn’s arm to his hip, then up, coaxing him over.

Zayn lets himself be guided, turning onto his back beneath Liam’s weight. Liam’s eyes flicker in the dim light—dark, full of something Zayn can’t name. He shifts, bracing a hand on the mattress as his body slides over Zayn’s, pressing him down, chest to chest, legs tangling.

Then Liam’s mouth is on his again—hungrier now, wetter, tongue pushing against his with a messy, desperate need.

Zayn fists the back of Liam’s T-shirt, pulling him closer, like there’s not enough of him yet, like he’ll crawl inside if he can. Liam groans into his mouth and kisses him harder, deeper, like he’s been starving for it too.

Their hips catch, a jolt of friction that makes Zayn gasp. Liam chases it instantly, grinding down against him, clumsy but perfect, his breath breaking ragged against Zayn’s lips.

The softness of before is still there, under it all—but it’s drowned now in heat.

Zayn arches up to meet him, dizzy with it, helpless under the press of Liam’s weight, Liam’s mouth, Liam’s everything.

Liam’s hands won’t stay still. They roam everywhere—skimming Zayn’s ribs, gripping his hips, sliding up his chest like he’s trying to memorise every inch. Each touch leaves fire in its wake. 

And his mouth can’t stop either—scattering kisses along Zayn’s jaw, down the column of his throat, sucking at the tender spot until Zayn gasps and clutches at his shoulders.

“Liam—” The name slips out shakily before Zayn can swallow it down.

Liam only hums against his skin, like it feeds him. His lips drag lower, across Zayn’s collarbone, then down to the edge of his shirt.

He tugs it up, and Zayn pulls it the rest of the way off, tossing it aside. Liam’s mouth is on him again immediately—hot and wet, tracing down his chest and stomach, following the line of muscle that makes Zayn jolt beneath him.

Zayn’s hands are in Liam’s hair without realising it, holding him there, urging him down.

Liam drags his tongue along the edge of Zayn’s waistband, a low groan spilling from him like he’s the one undone. His fingers hook beneath the elastic, tugging insistently, and Zayn lifts his hips without thinking, desperate, eager to give him anything he wants.

The boxers slide down clumsily, leaving Zayn bare and breathless. The air is cool on his skin, but Liam’s heat is everywhere—hands possessive, mouth pressing urgent kisses all over.

Zayn’s still catching his breath when Liam nudges his knees wider, settling between them like he belongs there. He strokes down the insides of his legs, steady and tender even through the urgency in his touch. He mouths along sensitive skin, teeth grazing, tongue soothing after, like he wants to take Zayn apart piece by piece before he even gets inside him.

Zayn fists the sheets beside him, trying not to lose it.

“Fuck, Liam,” he chokes, voice breaking. His hips twitch despite himself, need spilling over, too much to contain.

Liam only moans softly against his skin, one hand sliding up to stroke his stomach, the other carefully slipping lower. Testing, easing, fingers slick and patient.

Zayn tips his head back, eyes screwed shut. He’s going to fall apart before it even starts, just from the way Liam’s being with him—needy and tender, clumsy and careful, all at once.

Liam’s fingers press deep, slow and deliberate, his mouth hot at the inside of Zayn’s thigh.

“That’s it, babe.” he slurs softly, the words rough in his throat.

The sound of the praise rips through Zayn like lightning, a choked noise escaping him before he can bite it back. He doesn’t know if it’s from need or something deeper, but it leaves him trembling all the same.

Liam seems to feel it, because a moment later he’s dragging himself up Zayn’s body, kissing along his stomach, his chest, until he reaches his mouth again.

Zayn meets him halfway, desperate, lips parting under Liam’s like he’ll drown without it. The kiss is messy, open, hungry—everything Zayn’s been craving for weeks spilling out at once.

Zayn’s still gasping into the kiss when Liam shifts, pressing him deeper into the mattress. Their mouths stay locked as Liam fumbles between them—careful, but so clearly wanting.

Then Zayn feels it—Liam nudging against him. The realisation makes his stomach clench tight, a rush of heat flooding through him. 

“Yeah,” he whispers against Liam’s lips, voice wrecked. “Please.”

Liam groans, forehead dropping to Zayn’s as he slowly and carefully pushes forward.

Zayn clutches at his shoulders, nails digging in, breath stuttering out in broken sounds he can’t hold back. It’s overwhelming—Liam above him, inside him, their faces so close he can feel every breath.

When Liam finally sinks all the way in, they both just stop—foreheads pressed together, mouths brushing, breaths harsh and uneven in the quiet.

Liam cups Zayn’s face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as he kisses him again—soft and unsteady, lips dragging over his in tiny, lingering presses.

Zayn feels himself unraveling on the spot, chest wide open, holding onto Liam like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

Then Liam shifts, a slow roll of his hips that makes Zayn’s breath catch sharp in his throat. The movement is soft, but it sends fire racing up his spine.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Liam mutters against his mouth, voice low and ragged.

Zayn whimpers, clutching tighter at him. He can’t think, can’t breathe—only feel Liam moving inside him, steady and deep, their bodies pressed so close there’s no space left between.

Liam kisses him through it, open and messy, swallowing every sound Zayn makes. His hand drags down Zayn’s side, over his ribs, gripping his hip.

“So perfect for me, babe.” His voice cracks on it, forehead pressed to Zayn’s, eyes fluttering open like he needs to see him fall apart.

Zayn can only gasp, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted around broken sounds he can’t hold back. Every thrust is too much and not enough, every kiss a knife and a balm at once.

Liam keeps the pace slow, steady, every push and pull deep enough to make Zayn shiver. His breath is hot against Zayn’s mouth, their lips brushing with each thrust, like he can’t stay away for more than a second.

Zayn moans helplessly, arching up to meet him, nails biting into Liam’s shoulders.

Liam moans, thrusts harder, his hand sliding down between them to curl around Zayn, stroking in time.

Zayn’s vision blurs, breath breaking apart. He clings to Liam like he’ll disappear if he lets go, mouth open against his cheek, the world narrowing to nothing but the heat and rhythm and Liam’s voice soft in his ear.

The pressure coils hot and unbearable, building with every thrust, every kiss, until it crashes over him—shattering, devastating, pulling Liam with him. A strangled sound rips from Zayn as his body arches tight into Liam, release breaking through him.

It drags a broken noise out of Liam—low and rough—as his rhythm falters. He buries his face against Zayn’s neck, breath breaking hot over his skin, and follows him over the edge with a shudder.

They cling to each other through it, breath mingling, lips brushing in fleeting, messy kisses, too close to let go.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing—harsh, uneven, slowly settling into something steadier. Liam’s weight is warm and solid above him, their skin damp, hearts still racing in sync.

Zayn blinks heavy-lidded, dazed, his chest aching in the sweetest way. He doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want this to end.

Liam presses one last soft kiss to his cheek before easing off him. Zayn makes a faint noise of protest, but he’s too spent to reach out, too wrapped up in the glow thrumming through his body.

He almost drifts off before he feels Liam return, the cool touch of a damp flannel against his skin. Zayn stirs faintly, mumbling, but Liam hushes him with a quiet, “Shhh,” cleaning him with tender, unhurried strokes.

When he’s done, Liam tucks the duvet around him, smoothing it into place. Zayn’s eyes flutter, caught between sleep and wakefulness. “Liam…” he murmurs, soft and slurred.

“Shhh.” Liam’s voice again, low and steady.

The mattress dips as Liam settles back in behind him, an arm curling over Zayn’s waist, the warmth of his chest pressed to his back.

Zayn exhales, long and shaky, his body finally loosening into the hold. Every knot of ache and longing unravels at once. He closes his eyes, letting himself sink into the steady rise and fall of Liam’s chest against his spine, the soft brush of his breath warming the back of his neck.

Safe. Whole. Wanted.

For the first time in weeks—maybe months—Zayn feels peace humming through him, weightless and unguarded. He drifts toward sleep with a faint smile tugging at his lips, lulled by the quiet rhythm of Liam’s breathing.

When he wakes, the light is thin and grey against the curtains. He lies still, eyes closed, letting himself sink deeper into the warmth cocooning him. For a few sweet seconds, it’s perfect—Liam’s arm still heavy around his waist, his chest pressed to Zayn’s back, his breath soft against the nape of his neck.

Zayn smiles, small and sleepy. He shifts just enough to burrow closer, chasing that warmth, that steady comfort. It feels like something he could live in forever.

But then his hand brushes cool sheets. His smile falters. His eyes blink open to find nothing but an empty stretch of mattress beside him, smooth and cold, like Zayn dreamt the whole thing.

He rolls onto his back, heart thudding, staring at the hollow where Liam should be.

The sweetness in his chest curdles slow and sharp.

Because whatever last night was, it obviously doesn’t change anything. Liam’s gone, and Zayn will keep breaking under the weight of wanting him.

And he can’t live like this anymore.

The thought solidifies in his chest, cold and certain.

He needs to leave.

Chapter Text

Liam wakes to warmth.

For a second, he doesn’t move—just lies there with his eyes closed, breathing in the faint scent of smoke and sandalwood shampoo, listening to the slow rhythm of another breath syncing with his own. 

Zayn’s curled against him, head tucked under Liam’s chin, their legs tangled. Bare skin brushes where their boxers don’t cover, the contact easy and unthinking, as natural as breathing. His weight is solid and real, heavy in a way that grounds Liam to the mattress.

It feels… perfect. Dangerous, but perfect. Like everything he’s ever wanted and everything he’s supposed to keep himself from wanting.

He presses his nose into Zayn’s hair, steals a few reckless seconds to pretend. Pretend that this is theirs. That he could wake up like this every morning. That Zayn is his.

But reality creeps in fast. 

By the time Zayn stirs faintly, Liam’s heart is thudding. He shifts, and Zayn’s breath hitches like he might wake—then softens into a quiet sigh that curls straight through Liam’s chest. He slips out carefully, too carefully, telling himself it’s the right thing. That if Zayn woke and saw him still there, saw how much he didn’t want to let go, it’d reveal too much.

Zayn wouldn’t want that. Wouldn’t want him clinging.

He dresses in the quiet, moving slowly so the mattress won’t dip. His hands fumble with his T-shirt, like he’s stalling.

At the door, he risks one last look.

Zayn’s hair is a mess, lashes dark against his cheeks, lips parted in sleep. He looks soft. Beautiful. He shifts into the space Liam’s left behind, curling instinctively into the fading warmth like he’s reaching for him even in sleep. 

Something in Liam’s chest pulls so tight it hurts. All he wants is to crawl back in, wrap himself around him again, stay until morning and after. Stay for good.

Instead, he swallows hard, tears his eyes away, and slips out before he can change his mind.

He pulls his trainers on by the front door, shrugs into his jacket with hands that don’t feel steady. The zip catches on the fabric and he swears under his breath, yanks it free. His gym bag thuds against his hip as he lifts it, heavier than it ought to feel.

Outside, the cold hits harder than he expects, a raw bite in the air that makes his eyes water. He ducks his head into the collar, breath puffing white as he starts down the pavement. Traffic hums in the distance, tyres hissing over wet tarmac, but his focus skates right past it.

He’s heading to the gym, but his steps don’t match the intention. They carry him in loose circles, trainers scuffing against grit, the bag strap sliding and biting into his shoulder until he shifts it again and again. Motion without purpose, as if wearing himself out might quiet the noise inside.

It doesn’t.

Because his mind keeps dragging him back to last night. The pub, the pints, the brief, blessed hours where he almost forgot. Almost. Until a girl touched his arm at the bar, smiling up at him, and all he could think was—wrong. Not Zayn.

It had been so long. Too long since he’d touched Zayn, kissed him, felt the burn of his skin under his palms. The absence gnawed at him, constant and merciless, until he felt half feral with it—like his own skin didn’t fit right unless Zayn was beneath his hands.

Every day of silence, every careful smile and polite bit of distance, only sharpened the edge. 

When he got home, he’d been buzzing with it. Itching with it. Wanting Zayn so badly his whole body thrummed like a live wire.

By the time he finally gave in, it hadn’t felt like a decision at all. It was gravity, brutal and unstoppable, dragging him under whether he fought it or not.

And Christ—it had been so good.

The sliding doors part with a hiss, warm air rushing to meet him. Liam ducks inside, the blast of disinfectant and rubber mats sharp in his nose.

“Morning,” the girl on reception says, all chipper smile and ponytail.

He manages a nod, swipes his card, doesn’t trust his voice to sound steady. His trainers squeak against the polished floor as he makes his way past the mirrors, straight to the squat rack. The metal bar is cool against his palms as he lifts it free, shoulders braced, legs set.

But he just keeps seeing the way Zayn had opened under him, clutching tight at his shoulders like he’d been waiting for this as long as Liam had. The sounds—soft, vulnerable, spilling out against Liam’s mouth when he touched him. And the look—Zayn’s eyes glazed and wide, his voice cracking around Liam’s name like it was the only word he knew.

He had wanted to swallow the sound, keep it somewhere safe, never let it go.

He groans aloud as he racks the barbell too hard, the clang drawing a glance from a bloke a few benches down. He scrubs a hand over his face, sweat and cold air mixing until his skin prickles. 

So fucking stupid. He’d sworn he wouldn’t blur the lines again. And yet—

Hadn’t it been like this from the very start?

He grips a set of dumbbells, curls slow and steady, but his mind won’t stay in his body. 

He should’ve known the second Zayn showed up to view the flat. All sharp jawline and dark eyes, rings flashing when he shoved his hands in his pockets. Liam had stood there like a fool, trying to act normal while every part of him screamed don’t do this, it will end badly.

Because he’d fancied him right there, straight away. Felt it deep and certain in his chest.

He tried telling himself it would fade. That living together would dull it, turn it into something manageable, background noise.

But it hadn’t. If anything, it only got worse.

Every morning Zayn padding barefoot into the kitchen, hair sticking up, voice low and rough with sleep. Every night hearing him laugh at some daft meme on his phone or something on the telly, soft and unguarded.

Every small thing just pulled him deeper—ordinary things, stupid things. Zayn leaving his shoes by the door, the smell of his shampoo in the bathroom. Nothing extraordinary, but it all lodged under Liam’s skin until he couldn’t tell where it ended and he began.

By the time he racks the weights again, arms trembling, he knows it’s useless. He can’t concentrate, every rep sloppy, his head too full. It isn’t burning anything out of him, isn’t having the effect he was hoping for.

He grabs his bag, slings it over his shoulder, heads back out into the cold. Breath fogging, legs heavy, the city already alive with noise. None of it touches him.

By the time he realised how far gone he was for Zayn, the trap had already sprung. Too late.

And the want—it only grew sharper.

At first, it was just slips.

His gaze catching too long on the flex of Zayn’s hand around a pencil, the hollow of his throat when he tipped his head back to laugh. Little betrayals of attention he could almost excuse.

But then it was constant, gnawing.

Zayn sprawled on the sofa, legs stretched out, looking like temptation itself without even trying. Zayn brushing past him in the kitchen, casual and thoughtless, but each touch searing Liam’s skin like a brand.

Every day made it worse, until Liam’s body thrummed with it—desire wound tight enough to snap. 

He ducks into a coffee shop on the corner, the blast of heat and roasted beans hitting him all at once. The barista barely looks up as he orders a black coffee, voice rougher than he means it to be. Paper cup warm in his hand, he sits down at a small table.

And then that night. The wine tasting.

They’d been tipsy, both of them, laughing at how pretentious it all was, Zayn pulling faces as he tried to describe “notes of oak” with a straight face. Liam had been buzzing with drink and warmth and Zayn, so much Zayn.

He’d known he should keep it together, hold the line.

But then they’d ended up side by side on the sofa, wine-sweet and laughing, and Liam kept stealing glances, caught up in how gorgeous Zayn looked in the low light, like the moment had been designed to show him off. Zayn’s laugh had faded when he caught Liam staring. His hand had landed on Liam’s chest and stayed there, drifting slowly over his T-shirt instead of pulling back.

And then—God. He’d leaned in, lips brushing Liam’s with a soft, sure heat that detonated something deep in his chest. It felt like the most right thing in the world, like inevitability itself.

But he should’ve learned his lesson right then. Should’ve sobered up the second he tasted Zayn on his tongue, the second that dizzy rush of right and wrong twisted together.

But instead, he’d kissed him back.

A sigh slips out before he can catch it, long and rough. The old woman at the next table glances over her newspaper, steam curling from her teacup.

“You alright, love?” she asks, voice soft.

Liam startles, nearly sloshing his coffee. “Oh—yeah. Yeah, long day,” he mutters, even though it isn’t even seven in the morning.

She hums, gives him a small, sympathetic look, and goes back to her paper. Leaves him alone with the bitter taste in his mouth and the memories crowding close again.

Afterward, Liam had managed to convince himself it was nothing. Zayn was tipsy, caught in the haze of too much wine and too much laughter, leaning into whatever felt good in the moment.

Not Liam. Couldn’t be Liam.

He’d been mortified the next morning, cheeks hot every time he remembered it, swearing to himself it wouldn’t happen again. Zayn was his flatmate. His mate.

It was stupid, reckless, embarrassing how badly he’d wanted it.

But then he slipped again.

That night with the date—Christ. 

He’d seen Zayn ready to walk out the door, all dressed up, keys in hand, and something in him had just… snapped. 

The thought of him smiling across a table at someone else, laughing the way he laughed with Liam, letting someone else touch him—it turned Liam’s stomach inside out. The idea of Zayn giving that softness away to anyone else had made Liam feel sick.

He hadn’t thought. Hadn’t planned. He’d just grabbed him, kissed him like a man drowning.

The paper cup buckles in his grip, hot liquid searing through the seam. He loosens his fingers quickly, breath catching.

And Zayn hadn’t pushed him away. He’d kissed him back—hard, hungry—until they were tangled on the sofa, half-dressed and gasping into each other’s mouths, hands shoved down into open waistbands like they couldn’t get close enough.

Liam had been ruined by the feel of it—Zayn’s hand around him, the frantic slide of his own stroking Zayn, their bodies pressed together so tight it felt like they might fuse.

It had been unreal. 

Zayn’s voice cracking on his name, the way his whole body shuddered under Liam’s hands, the wild, glassy look in his eyes when they came undone against each other.

But the second it was over, reality came crashing back. Liam had wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Because that wasn’t what flatmates did. That was a line crossed, a point of no return.

The scrape of a chair against tile from the café inside makes him flinch, like someone might have overheard his thoughts.

This time, though—there was no pretending. No way to write it off as a drunken slip.

He’d felt it in the way Zayn’s hips pushed up to meet his, the way his breath stuttered when Liam touched him, the sharp little sounds spilling out of him like confessions.

He hadn’t imagined it, hadn’t made it up in some lovesick haze.

That night had stripped away every excuse he’d been hiding behind. And that was somehow even scarier.

And then he’d opened his mouth and suggested the dumbest thing he could think of. 

Casual. No strings. Just mates, only sometimes more. 

Even now, he doesn’t know what possessed him. Probably the want—sharp and relentless, eating him alive until he was desperate enough to risk it all. 

He’d heard the words leave his mouth and thought, you’re out of your damn mind.

Because it was a trap either way. If Zayn shot him down, he’d lose him. If Zayn agreed, Liam was doomed anyway, because he already wanted too much. Already felt too much. 

So he’d tacked on the “no feelings” part for Zayn’s sake, to make him comfortable. To make sure he knew Liam wouldn’t fall. Even though he already had.

And when Zayn hadn’t laughed, hadn’t walked away—when instead he’d dropped to his knees like it was the most natural thing in the world—Liam had nearly blacked out. It was madness, his lips stretched around Liam, hands gripping tight, every sound wrecking him.

Liam had thought, this will kill me. This will absolutely fucking ruin me.

Still, he never wanted it to end.

And it didn’t.

His leg bounces under the table, heel knocking against the chair leg until the sound grates. A bead of coffee slides down the side of the cup, dampening his fingers. He wipes it against his jeans, pulse hammering.

Instead, it carried on—like once the line had been crossed, there was no going back. And it was fucking amazing. The kind of amazing that made Liam’s head spin, made his chest ache even while his body sang with it. 

The sex—God, the sex—was unreal. 

He dumps the empty cup in the bin by the door, steps back into the morning chill. The air bites sharper now, settling heavy in his chest as he pulls his jacket tighter.

Zayn beneath him, flushed and breathless, clawing at his back like he couldn’t get close enough, thighs tight around Liam’s hips.

Zayn above him, moving with slow, devastating rhythm, hips rolling until Liam was gasping, his nails biting crescents into the sofa cushions.

His lips parted around soft, wrecked sounds Liam would have done anything to hear again—low moans that seemed to vibrate through Liam’s chest, whispers of his name that made his vision go white at the edges.

Sometimes it was frantic—messy kisses, tugged clothes, teeth scraping skin, both of them gasping into each other like they might burn out.

But sometimes it was slow—achingly slow—every thrust careful, every kiss lingering, unbearable in its tenderness.

And always—always—it felt right. 

Like their bodies just knew. Like they were made for this. 

Every kiss hot and hungry. Every touch leaving Liam undone. The slick slide of Zayn’s mouth on him, the sound of his name breaking in Zayn’s throat, the press of Zayn’s palm over his heart—it all wrecked him, over and over, until he couldn’t remember what life had been like before.

But it wasn’t just that. It was everything around it, too. 

The easy laughs, sprawled on the sofa after, still catching their breath. The soft smile Zayn gave when Liam made him tea in the mornings. The way being together didn’t just feel good, didn’t just feel right—it felt inevitable.

He pauses at a crossing, waits for the light. The beep-beep-beep drills into his ears, sharp and insistent, but all he can see is Zayn’s soft smile, tea mug warming his hands.

Friendship, intimacy, laughter, heat—it all tangled together until Liam couldn’t separate one from the other. 

Until he stopped trying. 

Because every day with Zayn felt like more. More than mates. More than casual. More than Liam had any right to hope for.

But God, he’d wanted it. Wanted it all. 

Not just the nights where Zayn’s body burned under his, not just the gasped kisses or the desperate scratches down his back.

He wanted the mornings too—the sleepy smiles, the quiet cups of coffee, the way Zayn hummed when he sketched. 

He wanted every bit of him, loud and soft, storm and calm.

And that was the problem. Because the more he got, the more he craved. Until wanting Zayn was constant. A pulse in his blood. Threaded into every part of his day.

And sometimes—Christ, sometimes—he almost believed Zayn wanted it too. Wanted him too.

He exhales hard, shoulders bowing, shoves his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. The city feels too bright around him, everyone else already awake while he’s still trapped in a dream.

The way Zayn’s eyes softened when they caught Liam’s across the sofa. The way his hand would linger a second too long on Liam’s arm, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go.

The quiet little gestures—tea waiting, a blanket pulled higher when Liam dozed off. They didn’t feel casual. Not to Liam. 

They felt like care. 

And maybe he was deluded, maybe he was just reading his own feelings back onto Zayn. But in those moments—those fleeting, shining seconds—he almost let himself believe it was real.

And he knows he has been reckless, too. Too soft with him. Too many times the truth slipped out before he could stop it. Pressing kisses that lingered, whispering gorgeous against his skin, calling him beautiful like it was fact. Showing up to his workshop just to see him shine. All the things he swore he’d keep locked up, spilling out anyway.

And the worst part? Sometimes it seemed like Zayn liked it. The way he’d keen at the praise, melt under the words, blush when Liam kissed him slow instead of desperate. How his lashes would flutter, breath catching whenever Liam let the truth slip soft against his skin. The way he’d press his forehead to Liam’s like it meant something, like he needed that closeness just as badly. Sometimes he’d grab Liam’s face in both hands, tilt it up, kiss him slow and deep, like he was savouring every second. 

For a second, Liam would think—he wants this too. He wants me too. And then the second would pass, and doubt would come roaring back.

He’d nearly told Zayn once. Nearly bared himself completely.

He sinks down onto a bench, the wood cold through his jacket. Around him, the city stirs—a woman with a pram, a pair of joggers puffing past, an older couple shuffling arm in arm with their shopping bags. Their heads bent together as they walk, murmuring quietly, moving like they’ve been doing it all their lives. Liam’s chest pinches at the sight, sharp and hollow. He scrubs a hand over his face.

Zayn had been going on about the new Superman film for weeks, so Liam queued online at work, determined to get midnight premiere tickets. When he handed them over, Zayn lit up like Christmas, and Liam felt ten feet tall just for putting that look on his face.

At the cinema, Zayn had grinned through the trailers, shoulder brushing Liam’s in the dark. Liam had whispering smart remarks that made Zayn choke on his popcorn. Halfway through, Zayn had leaned in, voice low in his ear, making some joke about Clark Kent’s disguise. His hand had settled on Liam’s arm, warm and easy, and Liam had laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.

The whole time, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking how easy it felt. How much he didn’t want it to end.

The whole night had felt like… well. Like a date. 

Liam knew it wasn’t. 

But if it had been, it would’ve been the perfect one.

And then they’d gone home, and ended up in Liam’s bed for the first time. That alone had felt different—more intimate, more theirs. 

And Liam, heart pounding, had finally asked for what he’d been wanting for a long time. Nervous, embarrassed, blushing so hot he could barely get the words out.

He shifts on the bench, the damp seeping into his jeans, the morning air sharp in his lungs. A dog trots past, nails clicking on the pavement, owner tugging gently at the lead. Liam follows them with his eyes until they’re gone, then drops his gaze back to his hands.

He remembers the way Zayn froze, then softened. The way he’d whispered yeah, okay against Liam’s lips, like it was something delicate and important. And the way Liam’s breath had left him in a rush, his body humming with anticipation and fear and want.

It had been… everything.

Zayn had been so careful with him, so tender even in the heat. Kisses pressed everywhere, quiet reassurances murmured against his skin, hands steady where Liam trembled. 

And when it finally happened—when Zayn pressed into him—Liam had thought he might come undone on the spot. It was overwhelming, terrifying, and so fucking good. 

More than that—it felt right.

The memory still lives in Liam’s chest like a brand: Zayn above him, eyes dark and wide, whispering so good for me, babe. Liam arching into him, giving himself over completely. The sounds that tore out of him when Zayn touched him, when he finally came with Zayn’s name caught on his lips.

And afterwards, lying together in the tangle of sheets, Zayn had cleaned him up, gentle as anything, then settled beside him. Liam had curled into his side without thinking, his head on Zayn’s chest.

He remembers whispering I could stay like this with you all night, and meaning every word. It had slipped out before he could stop himself, raw and honest, but it felt true. Too true. 

He could’ve stayed like that with Zayn forever, wanted to, wanted to tell him everything right then and there.

Across the street, a bus hisses to a stop, doors clattering open. People spill out, chatter rising, and Liam sits rigid on the bench, feeling cut off from all of it.

But then Zayn had laughed. Not his real laugh—the awkward, sharp one that sounded nothing like him. Brushed it off like Liam was drunk and daft, like it hadn’t meant anything at all. 

And when he bolted out of bed, scrambling for his clothes, it had been like the floor gave way beneath Liam.

He’d sat there with the sheets pooled around his waist, cheeks burning, stomach hollowing out. Tried to smile, tried to swallow it down, but all he’d felt was gutted. Embarrassed for saying it, stupid for thinking it, crushed by how fast Zayn had shut the door on it.

And when Zayn joked about not staying the night Liam had felt something in his chest pinch so hard it hurt. He’d forced a chuckle in return, like it was nothing.

The truth was, it had left him sad, embarrassed, and worse than all of it—lonely. Because for one second, just one, he’d really let himself believe Zayn might want the same thing.

But of course he wouldn’t. Why would he?

Zayn is—God, he’s brilliant. Funny and quick, clever in ways that catch Liam off guard. Talented as hell, everything he touches turning into something worth keeping. He’s kind, too—soft with people, thoughtful in little ways, carrying all this quiet care he doesn’t even seem to notice he’s giving out. He’s… Zayn. One of a kind.

And Liam’s just… Liam. Steady, ordinary, nothing dazzling about him. He doesn’t have much to offer, not really. Not to someone like Zayn. Except his body, maybe. The sex. And that had been great—amazing, even—but it’s not enough. Never enough.

He pushes himself up from the bench, wood creaking under his weight. His knees pop as he straightens, shoulders stiff from sitting too long. The pavement greets him again, hard under his trainers, rhythm of his steps uneven at first until he finds it again. 

And it had all been confirmed when he’d heard it—Zayn’s voice carrying from the kitchen the very next morning. Liam had only gone to grab his trainers before heading out, but the words froze him to the spot.

He’d heard every word Zayn said to the lads. Stood there in the hallway like some idiot, gym bag hanging heavy off his shoulder, listening to Zayn strip him down to nothing but someone who “fucks him when he needs it” and “gives good head.” 

Like all the hours spent side by side, all the nights tangled up together, had never meant a single thing.

He pushes through the door of a corner shop without even thinking, bell chiming overhead. The air inside is stuffy, heavy with coffee grounds and stacked cardboard boxes, but it barely registers as he drifts past shelves lined with tinned soup and multipacks of crisps.

It had taken everything Liam had to keep his face blank when Zayn finally noticed him in the doorway. To say “see you” like it was nothing. To leave without letting the hurt show. 

But the truth was, the words had stuck. Cut sharp and deep, the kind of wound that lingered long after. 

Especially coming right after the night before—after something that had felt closer to real than anything else between them.

He told himself he should’ve known better. That he’d made his bed, letting it start at all. That he was a fool for ever thinking Zayn might want him the way he wanted Zayn.

And he couldn’t even be angry at him for it—not really. Zayn hadn’t promised anything more. He was only holding to the rules Liam himself had set. Casual. No feelings. Just a bit of fun. Liam was the one who’d been reckless, letting his heart tangle up in it, forgetting what they were supposed to be.

The only one to blame for the hurt was himself.

His trainers squeak on the linoleum as he turns into another aisle, eyes skating over boxes of cereal and jars of pasta sauce. He’s not really seeing any of it, just letting the rows blur while his chest tightens.

But still, it hollowed him out. Left him pulling away, piece by piece, because the alternative was letting himself fall even harder for someone who’d already told the world it was nothing.

And that was it, really. That was when something inside him shifted.

Because after that morning, after hearing it all laid out like that, Liam knew he couldn’t keep on the same way. Couldn’t keep giving himself over so completely when Zayn had already drawn the line in permanent ink.

So he started pulling back. 

Not all at once—he couldn’t, not with Zayn. But piece by piece. The kind of distance you build slowly, almost invisibly, until it settles into habit.

He stopped reaching out first. Stopped lingering in doorways with some excuse just to keep talking. Stopped letting himself watch Zayn too long, laugh too hard at his jokes, lean too close on the sofa. He learned to swallow things down before they could slip out—those quiet little truths that had been threatening to break loose for weeks.

He pauses in front of the toiletries, blinking at the shelves without focus. His hand lifts almost on autopilot, plucking a tube of toothpaste off the rack. Not even for himself—he remembers Zayn muttering yesterday about being out. Liam turns the box over in his hands, the mint-green logo swimming in his vision.

And when they did end up having sex, he tried to hold himself back there too. To keep it physical, surface-deep. To match the casualness Zayn had described to the lads. 

But it never really worked. Because Liam didn’t know how to want Zayn casually. Every touch still cut deeper than it should, every kiss still left him aching after.

So he built walls instead. He told himself they were necessary, that they’d save him in the long run. He told himself distance was the only way to survive loving someone who had already made it clear he’d never love him back.

And maybe Zayn didn’t even notice at first. Or maybe he did and chose not to ask. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, the gap grew wider with every day Liam forced himself to smile, to play along, to act like nothing in the world was wrong.

Until the only thing between them was silence dressed up as normal.

And then came the night he brought someone else home.

He hadn’t planned it. He’d gone out with a few mates, let himself drink too much, chasing something he hadn’t been able to find anywhere else lately. 

She’d approached him at the bar—smiling, sweet, the kind of girl he might’ve once thought he should want. He hadn’t been interested, not really, but he’d gone along anyway. Because he’d been aching to feel something again.

So he let her walk home with him. Let her laugh at things he barely remembers saying. And when they’d pushed through the door and into the kitchen, Zayn had been there.

The silence had been sharp for a second, the kind that made Liam’s skin prickle. 

The till beeps as the cashier scans the toothpaste, pulling Liam back just long enough to hand over a few coins. The small plastic bag crinkles in his grip as he steps back out into the street, memories pressing heavier than the purchase in his hand.

Zayn’s expression had gone strange, like he’d swallowed a word halfway down, then settled into awkwardness. Not rude—not Zayn—but not warm either. And Liam had told himself that was just how he was. Closed off with strangers. Needing time to warm up, to soften. 

Some small, reckless part of Liam had hoped maybe it was jealousy. That maybe Zayn did feel it after all. But he knew better. Knew Zayn had already made it clear Liam was nothing more than a warm mouth, a casual body. Nothing deeper.

So Liam had taken her to his bedroom. He’d tried. He really had.

But the second her lips touched his, he knew.

She was too soft. Too curvy where he craved sharp angles. Her hair was too long, spilling heavy over his face when she leaned in. Her voice was too light, too sweet, nothing like the low scrape of Zayn’s laugh against his ear. Even her hands were all wrong. Not the kind of grip that left him dizzy and undone.

He froze above her, unresponsive, until she pulled back with a frown. “Is something wrong?” she asked confused, but gentle.

And that was it. The crack split wide open. His chest heaved, throat tightening, and before he could stop himself he was sitting back, breaking apart in front of her. Tears stung hot down his face, humiliating and pathetic, and he hated himself for it.

He shook his head, choking out, “I just… I can’t. I thought I could but—I just can't."

She’d mumbled something soft, awkward, then gathered her things and left.

Liam had sat on the edge of his bed in silence after, head in his hands, the echo of her perfume still clinging to the sheets. 

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t want anyone else. Not when every nerve in his body still wanted Zayn.

And God, he still wants him.

No amount of space or silence has dulled it—if anything, all that distance has only stoked it, made the ache sharper. He’s tried to wall it off, to lock it down, but every time he looks at Zayn it’s there again, bigger than before.

And now… now he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Because last night shouldn’t have happened. Not if Zayn meant the things he’d said, not if Liam was really nothing more than a bit of fun, a mate to mess around with until the novelty wore off.

But it had happened, and it hadn’t felt like nothing. Not to Liam. Not when Zayn had looked at him like that—eyes almost reverent, like every bit of Liam was worth seeing. Not when he’d said Liam’s name like he meant something more than just a body in his bed.

Not when Zayn had touched him the way he had—hands steady, thumbs stroking comfort into his skin, fingers threading through his hair like he couldn’t bear to let go. Not when his mouth had lingered on Liam’s, kisses softer between the frantic ones, like he couldn’t quite help himself.

It doesn’t line up. None of it does.

If Zayn doesn’t want him—doesn’t really want him—then why had he let Liam close like that? Why had it felt so much like… more?

Liam presses the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, trying to breathe past the knot in his chest.

He wants Zayn. Craves him. Needs him. And for all the careful distance he’s built, for all the effort he’s spent convincing himself he can handle it, he’s more lost now than ever.

Because last night had cracked something open, and Liam can’t tell anymore if Zayn is trying to keep him out—or if, for one reckless moment, he’d let him in.

His chest feels tight, too small to hold everything inside him. The gym hasn’t helped. Neither has the coffee or the walk. If anything, it’s wound him tighter, each step hammering the same thought into his skull: 

He can’t do this anymore.

He stops at the corner, breathing hard, hands fisted tight inside his pockets. The air is cool against his flushed skin, his pulse a steady thud in his ears. 

He turns back toward the flat before he can talk himself out of it.

He keeps running the words over in his head, trying them on like clothes that never quite fit.

Zayn, I can’t keep doing this. I want more.

Too blunt. Too harsh.

I like you. I’ve liked you since the second you showed up at the door, and it’s only gotten worse.

Pathetic. Desperate.

It’s not just sex for me. It’s never been. I want you. I want all of it—the mornings, the nights, the in-betweens. I want us.

Too much.

Every version sounds wrong, but the feeling underneath it is the same, steady and immovable.

By the time he reaches their street, his palms are damp, his breath short. But the determination is there now, burning in his veins. 

If he doesn’t say it now, he never will.

He climbs the steps two at a time, heart slamming. The key is cold in his hand, his knuckles white around it. He pushes through the door, adrenaline making his legs feel shaky but unstoppable.

The flat is quiet, except for the faint clink of something in the kitchen. He follows it, pulse roaring in his ears.

And there he is.

Zayn’s at the counter, a mug in his hand, shoulders tense, his hair a mess. He looks up at the sound of Liam’s footsteps and freezes.

For a beat, neither of them moves. Just stares.

Liam’s chest squeezes. He swallows hard, every word he rehearsed tangling in his throat. But he forces them out, raw and rough. “Zayn—we need to talk.”

Zayn sets the mug down a little too hard. His jaw works, like he’s chewing over a hundred words at once. 

Finally, he nods once, sharp. “Yeah. We do.”

The certainty in his voice makes Liam’s stomach swoop. His throat goes dry, nerves spiking. Suddenly he’s not sure if he’s about to leap or fall.

Zayn looks right at him then, eyes dark, tired, unreadable. And when he speaks, it lands like a blow straight to Liam’s chest.

“I’m moving out.”

Chapter Text

“I’m moving out.”

He hears himself say it before he’s even sure he means it. It’s sharper than he intended, and the silence that follows is brutal. Liam just stares, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. 

“You’re—wait. You’re what?” 

He looks so blindsided, so completely unprepared, that Zayn almost takes it back.

Almost.

Zayn swallows, forces the words out again. “I’m moving out.” It doesn’t sound nearly as certain now. 

Liam’s mouth opens, then shuts again. He drags a hand down his face. “But—you—you can’t just—I mean—” His voice falters, broken bits of sentences tripping over each other.

Zayn clears his throat, shifting on his feet. “I’ve been… thinking about it for a while.” He says, steadier than he feels. A lie, sharp on his tongue, but he holds it anyway.

Liam blinks at him, voice dropping low. “Why?”

Zayn’s eyes skitter away, landing on the countertop, anywhere but Liam’s face. Because Liam looks—fuck—he looks almost sad, and Zayn can’t take it. “Just… need to find something closer to work.”

Liam lets out a disbelieving huff. “Closer to work? You’re, what, twenty minutes by bus? That’s practically a miracle for London.” His hands flick out uselessly, exasperation written all over him. “People commute an hour easy and call it lucky, Z.”

Zayn forces his voice steady. “Yeah, well. Can always do better, right?”

Liam frowns, confusion flickering across his face. “Uh—no, you can’t. Not in London. Twenty minutes to work is basically a dream, mate.”

Zayn swallows, pushes forward before Liam can press harder. “Besides—I’m scraping by as it is. Rent here’s too much. Taking up more than it should.”

That makes Liam stop. His eyebrows draw together, almost offended. 

“What? I never had any idea money was an issue for you.” His voice is quiet but firm. “You know I’d gladly cover more of the food, yeah? We already share most of it anyway. And if rent’s the problem—” He shakes his head. “I’ll cover more of that too, if you’d let me.”

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tight. He doesn’t understand it. Why Liam’s being so bloody persistent. Why he looks like Zayn’s just suggested tearing down the walls of the flat around them. He doesn’t get it.

Zayn shakes his head, words coming sharper than he intends. “No—I—that’s not how this works, Liam. I cover my rent and half the expenses, you cover yours and the other half. That’s what we do. That’s what flatmates do.”

Liam doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even look at him. Just drops his gaze to the table between them, jaw tight, knuckles pressed white against the edge.

Zayn’s throat is dry. He swallows, forces his voice to stay firm even as it wavers inside him. “I’m leaving. Seriously.”

That gets Liam’s eyes back on him. But they’re not wide with disbelief anymore. They’re narrowed, sharp with something else. Frustration. 

“That’s bullshit, Zayn.”

Zayn’s brows lift, stunned. “What?”

“I said that’s fucking bullshit.” Liam’s voice cuts through the silence, rough and low. He leans forward, eyes locking on Zayn’s like he’s daring him to deny it. “It’s not about the commute, and it’s not about the rent. Let’s be fucking real here.”

Zayn gives a short, humourless laugh, the sound scraping out of his throat. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth,” Liam fires back, steady, eyes fixed on him.

“That is the truth.”

“No, it’s not.” Liam shakes his head, jaw tight. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

Zayn’s chest goes tight. “What’s you?”

“It’s me.” Liam’s voice drops, almost a whisper, like he’s afraid of his own words. “I’m the problem.”

Zayn exhales sharply, arms folding over his chest. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Then say it’s not me.”

“It’s not you,” Zayn snaps too quickly.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Zayn’s jaw works, throat bobbing. Silence stretches too long, and Liam’s stare only presses harder.

Finally, Zayn slams the words out, louder than he means to. “Okay! Fine. It’s you. You’re the fucking problem.”

Liam squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders knotting. “I’m—”

But Zayn barrels on, the dam breaking. “It’s you. Okay? It’s you coming home drunk from the pub and crawling into my bed like—like you’re my fucking… boyfriend or something.” His chest heaves, the word splintering in his throat. “You can’t do shit like that, Liam.”

Liam blinks at him, stunned, voice low. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” He swallows hard. 

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Zayn shakes his head, words coming out harder than he means.

Liam’s voice breaks in, rough. “I wouldn’t have—if I knew that you didn’t—”

“Well, I don’t,” Zayn snaps, cutting him off before he can finish. “I’m not interested in—” he swallows hard, eyes flashing, “—whatever this is. The confusion, you coming into my bed like it means something when it doesn't.”

Liam nods once, jaw clenched. “Right. Well—I’m sorry. For blurring the lines like that. That wasn’t what we agreed to.”

Silence settles heavy between them. Neither of them looks at the other, both staring fixedly at some point on the table, the floor, anywhere but across the space between.

Zayn’s throat works. Finally, he exhales, low. “This was probably a bad idea from the start.”

Liam only nods slowly, still not lifting his eyes.

“Destined to get fucked up.” Zayn adds, voice rough, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Liam.

Another beat of silence. The air feels too thick to breathe.

And then Liam looks up. Just for a second. His eyes catch Zayn’s, and Zayn could’ve sworn—maybe—his bottom lip trembled, his eyes glassy with something unshed. But before Zayn can be sure, before he can even move, Liam pushes back from the table and heads straight for the front door.

The click of it shutting behind him echoes through the flat.

Zayn stares at the empty space he’s left, chest tight, telling himself he only imagined it. He’s tired, wrung out. His mind’s playing tricks.

The silence after Liam’s gone feels like a weight pressing down on the flat. He stays rooted at the table, staring at the grain of the wood until it blurs. His jaw aches from clenching, his chest heavy and tight.

With a groan, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, thumbs hovering over the screen before finally opening the group chat.

Z🚬: can i crash at one of yours tonight?

The replies come fast.

Lou🧨: did u set the kitchen on fire again trying to make pancakes

Harold✌️: leave the poor sod alone

Harold✌️: he wouldnt ask unless something was wrong

Nialler☘️: u kno u dont even have to ask m8. my sofas urs

Nialler☘️: or the bed, ill take the sofa

Lou🧨: alright mother teresa, calm down

Nialler☘️: lol

Zayn huffs a laugh despite himself, the sound breaking in his throat.

Harold✌️: seriously though Z. you okay?

Lou🧨: if not, well get the wine out and talk shit about whoever it is

Nialler☘️: i dont think we need to ask who it is

Zayn stares at the blinking cursor too long before typing back.

Z🚬: yeah

Z🚬: its liam

The typing bubbles pop up immediately.

Lou🧨: shocker 

Harold✌️: ignore him

Harold✌️: if you do it enough its like hes not even there

Lou🧨: wow okay rude

Nialler☘️: lads pls focus

Nialler☘️: z come over. i have snacks and beer

Harold✌️: yeah well talk it out

Lou🧨: ill bring wine

Z🚬: its not even 8 in the morning

The replies come in a flood.

Nialler☘️: so what

Harold✌️: since when has that ever stopped us

Nialler☘️: its literally saturday

Lou🧨: well just do mimosas instead

Zayn chews his lip, staring at the messages. His chest feels tight, but the thought of sitting here alone feels worse.

Z🚬: fine

Z🚬:  just for a bit tho

Lou🧨: just long enough to slag him off u mean

Harold✌️: or long enough to make louis cry into his mimosa again

Lou🧨: ONE TIME

Nialler☘️: sure keep telling urself that

Zayn’s not sure how it’s barely nine in the morning and he’s already half-drunk on Niall’s sofa, but here he is. A very strong drink sweats in his hand, Harry’s head is pillowed heavy on his thigh, Louis is starfished on the carpet with his glass balanced precariously on his chest, and Niall sits in the armchair like a smug little king holding court.

And… Caspian.

Perched on the coffee table, eyes locked unblinking on Zayn’s, voice rising with each word.

“Your name tastes like smoke and sorrow on my tongue.” Caspian intones, pointing a finger like he’s delivering scripture, “If you died tomorrow, I would throw myself into your grave just to keep you company.”

Zayn takes a long swallow of his drink, bubbles burning sharp down his throat. He tries to sink lower into the sofa cushions, wishing he could dissolve entirely.

“Your aura drips with melancholy,” he continues, hand pressed to his chest, “a wounded wolf pacing the bars of its cage. Your beauty is unbearable. Unbearable.”

Niall snorts first, then breaks into helpless laughter, nearly spilling his mimosa down his shirt. Louis follows, howling, clutching his stomach like he’s in actual pain.

Harry’s giggling too, trying half-heartedly to intervene. “Lads, please, he’s trying to—” But he breaks off when Louis kicks the coffee table in hysterics, and then he’s gone as well, burying his face in Zayn’s knee to stifle the noise.

Caspian glares, snapping his leatherbound notebook shut with a theatrical crack. “Philistines,” he huffs. “Poetry is wasted on the uneducated. Enjoy your pedestrian jokes while art rots around you. None of you are fit to hear it anyway.”

He rises with the air of a man spurned by history itself, tucks the notebook under his arm, and stalks out the door without another word.

Silence holds for a second—then Niall wheezes out another laugh and Zayn finally lets his head drop back against the sofa, joining in. The sound bubbles up rough in his throat, but it feels good, even if it dies off quicker than the others.

The laughter tapers into quiet, the kind that leaves a room humming. Harry shifts where his head rests heavy in Zayn’s lap, tilting up to squint at him.

“So,” he drawls, voice soft but prying, “what’s up?”

Zayn just huffs, dragging a hand down his face.

Louis props himself up on an elbow, looking at him sideways. “Did you finally fuck it up?”

Zayn gapes at him. “Did I—did I fuck it up?”

Louis shrugs. “I mean… well… yeah.”

“Christ.” Zayn drops his head back against the sofa again with a groan. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true,” Louis says, unbothered. “History says so.”

Harry hums in agreement. “Ever since the one-who-shall-not-be-named, you’ve freaked at anything that looks like real intimacy.”

Niall just nods, taking a sip from his glass like he’s king of wisdom.

Zayn throws his hands up. “Fine. Maybe that’s true. But this isn’t—this isn’t intimacy.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Then what is it?”

Zayn stares down into his drink, throat working. “I don’t even fucking know at this point.”

The room goes quiet again, heavy this time. 

Zayn swallows, the words clawing their way out before he can stop them. “I’m moving out.”

The room stills.

Niall’s glass wobbles in his hand, but he steadies it quickly, eyes soft. “Oh, mate.”

Harry blinks up from Zayn’s lap, voice barely above a whisper. “Really?”

Louis doesn’t say anything at first, just watches him, something tight in his expression. Then, quietly: “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” Zayn mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I told Liam this morning.”

“Why leave, though?” Louis presses, eyebrows up. “What happened?”

Zayn exhales through his nose, gaze fixed on the bubbles fizzing in his glass. “I thought I could deal with it. With… him.”

Louis scoffs, loud and sharp.

Zayn shoots him a glare. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

Louis lifts his hands in surrender.

Zayn sighs. “He came home drunk last night. Came into my room.” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Niall’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t speak at first, just shifts forward a little. “Oh.”

“Yeah. He crawled into my bed.” Zayn’s lips twitch, not quite a smile. “And then we had sex. Or more like…” His voice falters. “...made love.” The words are barely out before his whole face twists in a grimace. “Christ. Forget I said that.”

The reaction is instant—Harry’s jaw goes slack, Louis lets out a whistle and Niall just stares at him, eyes wide.

“You’re joking,” Louis says finally.

“I wish I was,” Zayn deadpans. “We… fell asleep after. Cuddled up.”

Niall throws his hands up. “Then why on earth are you moving out?”

“Because I’m not finished.” Zayn’s voice cuts sharp, and the room quiets. He runs a hand through his hair, staring at the floor. “When I woke up this morning, he was gone. Bed cold like he’d never even been there. And when I got up, he wasn’t even in the flat at all.”

The room falls quiet. Niall’s still staring at him like he’s just announced he’s speaking another language, Louis has gone oddly still, and Harry’s eyes are all soft and glowy in a way Zayn can’t stand.

“Jesus,” Zayn mutters, scrubbing at his face. “Don’t look at me like I’m some… lost puppy on a charity ad.”

Harry’s voice is gentle, muffled against Zayn’s thigh. “How’d it make you feel?”

Zayn lets out a short, humourless laugh. “How d’you think?” He shakes his head, ready to leave it there—but the silence doesn’t budge, all of them waiting. His throat works. “It felt… good. Last night. Better than good. It felt—” He breaks off, swallows hard. “It felt right. Like it was supposed to be that way.”

The words scrape out of him, raw. He stares down into his drink. “And then this morning it just… all dropped out. Bed cold. Place empty. Felt like none of it mattered. Like I imagined the whole thing.”

Louis’ face softens, mouth pressed in a line. Niall mutters something low and sharp under his breath. Harry just squeezes Zayn’s leg gently, still watching him with those stupid gentle eyes.

“Mate,” Niall says finally, leaning forward in the armchair, glass dangling from his fingers. “That doesn’t sound like nothing to him either.”

Zayn huffs, shakes his head. “Then why’d he leave?”

The question hangs there, heavy. None of them rush to answer. Louis scratches at his jaw, Harry shifts against Zayn’s thigh, but nothing comes. 

Then Niall shrugs, voice gentler. “I dunno, but… that doesn’t sound like Liam. Not the Liam we know, anyway.”

Zayn tips back his drink, mutters into the rim, “Yeah, well, he hasn’t really been acting a lot like the Liam we know lately.”

Louis snorts, softer than usual. “Or maybe he’s been too much like Liam. Overthinking, tying himself in knots.”

Harry lifts his head, hair sticking in every direction. “Maybe he wants more too. He’s always seemed… so fond of you, Z.”

Zayn lets out a sharp breath, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” Harry says earnestly. “Maybe he’s scared to be honest. Afraid you don’t feel the same.”

“Please.” Zayn waves him off, but there’s no real bite in it. "Give it a rest."

Louis props himself up on one elbow, squinting at him. “Alright, but—remember that one time you two hooked up, and afterwards you cuddled and he said that he wanted to stay like that with you all night?”

Heat prickles at the back of Zayn’s neck. “He didn’t say that he wanted to stay with me all night, he said that he could—”

“That doesn’t sound very casual to me,” Louis cuts in, “and it sure as hell doesn’t sound like someone who doesn’t care.”

Niall hums in agreement, sipping his drink. “And if I’m remembering right, weren’t you the one who bolted then?”

Zayn’s mouth opens, shuts. He rubs a hand over his face. “…Yeah. Because I was—” His voice drops. “I was scared.”

Harry tilts his head, gentle. “And what if Liam’s scared too? What if that’s why he ran this morning?”

The words settle between them, and Zayn feels something twist in his chest. He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Just sits there with his glass sweating in his hand.

Harry, still half-curled into Zayn’s lap, tips his head back to look at him. “So what did he say then? When you told him you were moving out.”

Zayn pauses, chewing the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to say it aloud, but the memory’s been gnawing at him all morning. “He… looked sad.” The word feels dangerous on his tongue. “But—I don’t know. Probably just me imagining it.”

Niall sits up straighter, eyebrows up. “Mate, I don’t think you were imagining that.”

Zayn lets out a disbelieving huff. “You weren’t even there.”

“Yeah, but we know him,” Louis cuts in, wagging a finger. “And we know you. You two get on like a house on fire, spend all your time together, and somehow you still think he doesn’t like you like that? Please.”

Harry nods sagely. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. You should believe us.”

Zayn groans, tipping his head back. “Christ.”

Niall leans forward. “Alright, but did you at least tell him why you’re moving out?”

Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose. “…Yeah. Sort of.”

All three of them exchange a look, eyebrows climbing in unison.

“Sort of?” Louis says. “Did you finally tell him how you feel?”

Zayn sighs, exasperated. “Yeah, well—no. Kinda.”

“Kinda?” Niall echoes. “Go on.”

Zayn rubs a hand down his face, muttering. “I told him he couldn’t just crawl into my bed like that. Like he’s my boyfriend or some shit.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence before Louis bursts out, “You what?”

Niall blurts, “Why the hell would you say that?”

“Because he can’t just—” Zayn breaks off, then bursts out, sharper, “—when he has no idea what that does to me. No idea that I want him to crawl into my bed like my boyfriend, because I actually want him to be my boyfriend.”

The room goes dead quiet.

Harry blinks, eyebrows climbing. “Right. But that was definitely not what you said though.”

“Mate,” Niall adds carefully, “what you actually said was basically the exact opposite.”

“Well, that’s not what I was trying to do.” Zayn groans, muffled behind his palms.

Louis raises a brow. “So basically you’re disgustingly in love with him, but instead of saying that you told him he’s the problem and to stay the fuck out of your bed. Nice work, Romeo.”

“I wasn’t trying to say that either!” Zayn bristles, dragging his hands down his face.

“Then what the hell were you trying to say?” Louis fires back, eyes wide.

“That it wasn’t the arrangement, alright?” Zayn snaps. His pulse is racing, words tumbling too fast. “It wasn’t what we agreed to. Crawling into each other’s beds, calling each other beautiful, kissing like it fucking means something, cuddling until morning—” He cuts himself off with a harsh breath, shoulders tight. “That wasn’t the deal.”

There’s a stunned beat of silence.

And then Harry groans loudly. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He sits bolt upright, glaring at Zayn like he can’t believe he’s hearing this. “Sod the arrangement! You broke that bloody arrangement the second you caught feelings. And so did he.”

The words crack across the room, sharp enough to make everyone flinch. Even Louis looks startled, blinking at Harry like he’s sprouted another head.

Harry throws his hands up, voice still rising. “You’ve both been acting like boyfriends since day fucking one and you’re still standing here trying to pretend you’re just flatmates with an agreement? Jesus Christ, Zayn.”

“Bloody hell, Harold,” Louis mutters after a beat, eyes wide. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

Niall lets out a low whistle, eyebrows climbing. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Zayn just stares at him, floored.

“Blimey.” Niall mutters into his glass, “Anyway, someone needs to talk to Liam.”

Zayn shoots up straight, pointing a sharp finger at him. “No. Absolutely not. Nobody is talking to Liam. Not a word. Swear it.”

“But I’ve got pints with him next week,” Niall protests, sulky.

Zayn groans. “Fine. Have your bloody pints. But you—” he stabs a finger into the air for emphasis, “—are not allowed to mention me. Or this. Or anything even close to it.”

Niall blinks, wide-eyed. “What if it just… comes up?”

“It won’t.” Zayn’s voice is fierce, but the edge frays at the corners. “And if it does, you shut your mouth. I mean it.”

Niall makes a wounded noise but nods. The others murmur half-hearted agreement, though the looks they give him are pointed.

“You’re in denial,” Louis says flatly, tipping his empty glass toward him like a gavel. “Proper, Olympic-level denial.”

“Don’t care,” Zayn mutters, sinking further into the cushions. “It’s done. I’m moving out. End of.”

The room quiets. Niall picks at a loose thread on the chair. Harry watches the condensation drip down his glass. Louis just sighs like it’s all too much effort.

The floor creaks.

Caspian materialises from the hallway in a dressing gown, like he’s been waiting for the cue. His grin is wide, unblinking. “My condolences,” he says solemnly, pressing a hand to his chest. “Your heartbreak wounds me deeply. I may never recover.”

Zayn groans into his hands. “Oh my God.”

Caspian leans in conspiratorially. “But if you’d like a rebound, I could be persuaded.”

Louis chokes on his drink. Harry snorts into the sofa cushion. Niall slaps a hand over his mouth. Zayn just groans even louder.

He spends the rest of the day at Niall’s, drifting in and out of conversation with the lads, half-listening to Louis’ dramatics, half-watching Harry quietly refill his glass whenever it runs low. By the time night falls, the warmth of their company has dulled the ache in his chest, if only for a while. He crashes on Niall’s sofa, lulled to sleep by the sound of their laughter bleeding through from the kitchen.

But the ache is waiting for him the next morning.

When he lets himself back into the flat, the first thing he notices is the quiet. No kettle humming, no radio playing, no Liam singing low under his breath from the shower. Just silence.

His eyes land on the folded scrap of paper left on the kitchen table.

Gone to Wolverhampton for a few days.

That’s it. No explanation. No smiley face, no rushed scrawl of See you soon. Just plain and final.

Zayn stands over it for a long time, fingers hovering but not quite touching. He doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or gutted. Maybe both.

For a moment, he wonders if this is the reprieve he needed—the chance to breathe without Liam’s presence filling the flat, without the weight of their half-spoken words pressing down on him. But the emptiness that fills the space instead feels worse.

He lingers in the kitchen too long, staring at the note like it might rearrange itself into something softer if he waits it out. But it doesn’t.

So he starts packing.

It doesn’t take long—he never brought much to begin with. A few boxes of books, some clothes, his sketchpads and pencils. He folds everything in silence, the only sound the occasional scrape of a drawer shutting, the thud of a box against the floor.

Every object he tucks away feels like another nail in the coffin of whatever he and Liam had—friendship, almost more, whatever it was. The decision’s made now, isn’t it? The damage already done.

By the time the sun dips low again, his bags are stacked neatly by the door. He texts Harry, arranges to stay at his until he can sort something else.

He doesn’t look back as he locks the door behind him.

* * *

It’s been four weeks since he left the flat.

Four weeks since he shut the door behind him, bags in hand, and told himself it was for the best.

He tries not to think about Liam, but his body does it anyway—without asking. He still listens for the jangle of keys in the lock, the quiet hum of a kettle, the shuffle of footsteps down the hall. He misses the easy background of it all: Liam’s terrible singing in the kitchen, the laundry folded neatly on his bed, the way the whole place felt lighter with him in it.

But it isn’t only that.

It’s the quiet intimacy, too. The laughter that filled the flat without effort, the dinners thrown together out of scraps, the nights stretched long and easy. Liam stirring sauce while Zayn leaned against the counter watching, both of them collapsed on the sofa—Zayn with a pencil, Liam with a book, the telly murmuring low. Even silence had been soft with him, something Zayn didn’t realise he’d grown addicted to until it was gone.

And then there’s the rest.

The things that rise up in the night, leaving him flushed and wanting. The weight of Liam’s body pressing him down, the heat of his breath against Zayn’s ear. His mouth—deep, hungry kisses like he couldn’t get enough. The scrape of stubble, the rough grip at Zayn’s hips, the way his voice broke open on a moan.

He misses all of it. The warmth, the laughter, the touch, the heat.

He just misses Liam. And some days, the missing feels endless.

He’s trying, though. Really. He’s looked at flats, dozens of them. He’s thrown himself into commissions, let the hours blur together, anything to keep from thinking too long about what he’s lost. And he said yes—stupidly, maybe—to attending the Briar Lane book launch. The thought of showing up already makes his stomach twist with nerves, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn it down.

He’s on his way back from work one day when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out, sees Ammi🫶 on the screen, and hesitates before answering.

“Hi, Ammi.”

“Beta?” Her voice is warm, steady as ever. “You sound tired.”

“Mm,” he hums, dodging a crack in the pavement. “Long day.”

There’s a pause, the kind only mothers can wield. Then, gently, “Have you found a place yet?”

“Not really,” Zayn says. “Everything I can afford is either two hours out of central or has a view of a brick wall so close I could high-five the neighbour if I opened the window.”

What he doesn’t say is the real reason—how every door he’s stepped through, every stranger he’s shaken hands with, he’s compared to Liam. None of them measure up. Too loud, too quiet, too messy, too tidy. Wrong laugh, wrong energy, wrong everything.

“You’re too picky,” she chides, though it’s soft, affectionate. “When you were younger, you’d have lived in a shoebox if it meant getting away with your sketchbook.”

“Yeah, well.” He shoves his free hand into his pocket. “Don’t really feel like sharing space with strangers anymore.”

“Strangers?” she says, and he can picture her raising her brows, sharp as ever. “You didn’t seem to mind sharing with Liam.”

His chest tightens. He swallows. “That was… different.”

“I still don’t understand why you left, you know,” she says, matter-of-fact but not unkind. “He was such a nice boy. So polite. Handsome, too. And you—well. You seemed so happy there.”

Zayn’s throat works. He presses his lips together, but nothing comes out.

She must sense he doesn’t want to talk about it, because her tone lightens. “Anyway. The girls are very excited for this book launch. Your dad too, though he’s pretending otherwise. Doniya’s planning what she’s wearing like she’s on the red carpet, Waliyha’s already complaining about the train, and Safaa—well, she says she’ll keep them in line, but we’ll see.”

Zayn lets out a quiet laugh despite himself, though his stomach twists tighter at the thought of it. A whole crowd of family there to watch him pretend he belongs at some fancy publishing event.

After a pause, her voice softens again. “It’s not too late to go back, you know. Liam might not have found a new flatmate yet.”

The thought hits like a sucker punch. His stomach knots, the image flashing unbidden: Liam opening the door to someone else. Some bloke with an easy grin, neat hair, carrying his boxes inside. Maybe they’d laugh together in the kitchen, maybe sit too close on the sofa. Maybe Liam would—

Zayn shakes it off fast, like dousing cold water on fire. “It’s too late,” he says, clipped. “He’s probably already got someone. Nice flats with decent rent and a normal flatmate don’t stay open long.”

The words taste bitter on his tongue, even as he forces them out.

“Maybe you could just try call—”

“Ammi, it’s too late.” His voice comes sharper than he intends, cutting her off.

There’s a pause on the line. He pinches the bridge of his nose, guilt curling low. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just… stressed. Got a lot of commissions stacked up, the book launch, flat hunting on top of it all…”

“Mm.” She lets him off gently, like she always does. “I know, beta. I’ll let you go then. I should check on your dad anyway—he’s trying to fix the boiler himself, and I’d rather not spend the evening mopping up a flood.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh despite himself, the tension loosening from his shoulders.

“I love you,” she says, warm and steady. “We’re all excited to see you soon. Don’t worry, we’ll try not to embarrass you too much when we come down to London.”

“You will,” Zayn says, smiling faintly as he sidesteps a puddle on the pavement. “But I love you too.”

They say goodbye, and when the line clicks off, the silence feels heavier than it should.

Her words echo long after the call ends. It’s not too late.

Zayn shoves his phone deep into his pocket, shoulders hunched against the wind, but it clings to him anyway. The thought of just… calling. Dialling Liam’s number and blurting out I’m sorry for being a prick, can I please come back? Or even—God—I love you. Can we try again?

The idea tugs at him like a loose thread he can’t stop picking, and for one dizzying moment he almost wants to give in.

But then the shame floods in. Stupid. He’s being stupid. If Liam wanted him like that, he’d have called. He would’ve reached out. He hasn’t.

Then again—Zayn hasn’t called either, has he? So maybe silence doesn’t mean nothing.

But if Liam had really wanted him, wouldn’t he have stopped him from leaving? Wouldn’t he have asked him to stay? 

Except… Zayn hadn’t really left space for that, had he? He’d slammed the door shut, stuffed the words down, never actually told Liam what he wanted. Not clearly. Not at all.

And now, with distance blurring the edges, he can’t help hearing the lads in his head.

Maybe he wants more too. He’s always seemed so fond of you. Maybe he’s scared to be honest. Afraid you don’t feel the same. You’ve both been acting like boyfriends since day one…

Could they be right?

He thinks of the softest moments—Liam’s lips against his, unhurried and gentle. The way he whispered gorgeous like it meant something. Babe. Beautiful. Talented. The quiet care in the everyday, too—how he’d make Zayn tea without asking, how he’d keep dinner warm if Zayn was home late, how he’d straighten up the flat before Zayn came home from work.

God, it had all felt so special. Like it mattered.

But then the doubt gnaws its way back in. What if he’s remembering wrong? Polishing it with want until it shines brighter than it ever really was? What if he’s just rewriting history to soothe himself?

The line between memory and longing blurs until he doesn’t know what’s real anymore. Did Liam’s hands linger because they meant something, or because Zayn wanted them to? Did his kisses say more than the words he never spoke—or is Zayn just filling in the blanks, desperate for them to mean more?

His head feels like a traitor, twisting everything out of shape. Every certainty unravels until all he’s left with is confusion.

* * *

Zayn slips in just before it starts, shaking the rain from his umbrella before folding it shut. His coat is damp at the shoulders, the storm still beating heavy against the windows outside. The venue’s a converted gallery space in Shoreditch, the kind with high white walls and fairy lights strung between the beams. Tables have been pushed to the sides, a mic stand set up at the front with a banner bearing the book’s title stretched behind it.

The place is buzzing. At least seventy people fill the room—editors in smart jackets, booksellers clutching tote bags, reviewers balancing wine glasses, a few bloggers already angling their phones for the best shot. The air hums with chatter, laughter ricocheting off the walls. Someone uncorks another bottle of prosecco; a burst of bubbles foams into the noise.

Zayn edges toward the back, heart already racing. It isn’t a massive crowd, but it feels like more than enough. Too many eyes, too many conversations, too much attention pressing down. He tucks his hands into his pockets and tells himself he could still melt into the walls if he needed to.

When the Briar Lane editor steps up to the mic, the room hushes. She talks about the author, the long process of shaping the story, how much the publishing house has loved working on it. Then she gestures out into the crowd. “And of course, we were lucky to have a truly stunning cover design for this one. The artwork is by Zayn Malik.”

Applause breaks out. Zayn’s stomach swoops. He hadn’t been expecting that—not really. Heat creeps up his neck as heads turn. He presses a hand over his heart, gives a small smile, a little bow of his head, the only thank-you he can manage without words.

He hates being looked at, but still—it feels good. It feels… proud. Like maybe he’s finally done something that matters.

Scanning the room helps steady him. He spots May first, grinning from across the way, clapping hard enough to sting her palms. That makes his chest lift a little. Then the lads—Louis cupping his hands to shout something cheeky, Niall whooping, Harry waving like an idiot through the crowd. Zayn rolls his eyes, fond in spite of himself.

And there—by the far wall—his parents and sisters, all crammed together like they’ve claimed their own corner of the room. His mum’s practically glowing, his dad’s got that proud little half-smile that makes Zayn’s throat tight, and the girls are waving both arms like they’re trying to flag down a plane.

And then a sharp whistle cuts through the noise.

His eyes snap up before his mind catches up, searching for the source. He knows that whistle. He’s heard it a hundred times across crowded rooms, football pitches, pubs.

His chest tightens even before he sees him.

And there he is.

Liam.

Standing near the back, grinning wide, unguarded, proud in a way that makes Zayn’s stomach swoop. Like there’s nobody else in the room but him.

The noise blurs, applause melting into a distant hum. For a moment it’s just Liam. His smile, bright and boyish, lighting up his whole face. The way his eyes catch the light, fixed steady on Zayn.

Zayn’s breath catches. Everything else drops away—the crowd, the wine glasses clinking, the editor stepping aside. It’s just Liam, looking at him like that. Like he’s proud. Like he’s—

He tears his gaze away, heat crawling up his neck. Forces his attention to the front where the author takes the mic, thanking everyone, talking about process and drafts and late nights. Zayn tries to listen, but his pulse is still skittering, his skin buzzing like he’s been caught out.

When the applause rises again, he barely has time to exhale before the lads descend.

Niall barrels into him first, arm slung heavy around his shoulders. “Look at our bloody superstar!” he crows, nearly sloshing his wine on Zayn’s shoes.

Louis presses a kiss to his cheek, loud and exaggerated. “Cover boy,” he teases, eyes shining. “Don’t forget us little people when you’re famous.”

Harry hugs him so tight his ribs protest. “So proud of you, Z,” he says into his ear, voice soft. Then, pulling back with a grin, “Also, you’re buying the next round, no excuses.”

Zayn laughs, flustered, trying to fend them off with half-hearted shoves, but warmth blooms in his chest anyway.

Then his family breaks through—his mum first, arms already outstretched. She cups his face like she’s trying to memorise it, eyes shining, and kisses his cheeks one after the other. “My son,” she says thickly, proud and a little teary. His dad lingers just behind, quieter but no less proud, giving Zayn a solid clap on the shoulder that says more than words. His sisters swarm him after, talking over one another, demanding selfies, waving their phones like proof they’d always known he’d make it. Zayn lets himself be tugged into the middle of them, shaking his head but grinning helplessly.

By the time May appears through the throng, eyes bright and hands clapping together, Zayn already feels wrung out and full all at once.

“Zayn Malik,” she beams, pulling him into a hug before he can brace. “I’m so proud of you.”

His throat tightens. “Thanks, May,” he says quietly, meaning it more than he can explain. “For everything. For pushing me to do this. Wouldn’t have happened without you.”

She squeezes his arm, soft but firm. “All I did was shove you in the right direction. The rest? That was all you.”

Zayn smiles faintly, but his eyes are already scanning the room. And then he sees him again.

Near the back, Liam stands with Zayn’s family, head bent as he listens to his dad, then laughing at something one of the girls says. His head tips back in that unguarded way that always makes Zayn’s stomach lurch. The sight roots him, something warm and painful all at once.

Before he can think too hard, people start drifting over—strangers with wine glasses in hand, offering handshakes and kind words. Beautiful design. The cover really caught my eye. Perfect match for the story. Zayn ducks his head, mumbles thanks, the bouquet of compliments almost dizzying.

A woman steps in front of him, glass of white wine in one hand, her smile warm.

“You know,” she says, leaning closer like it’s a secret, “this cover is half the reason I picked up the book in the first place. Absolutely stunning work.”

Zayn clears his throat, cheeks warm. “Thank you, that… that means a lot.”

Before he can say more, another voice slips in, low and apologetic.

“Sorry to cut in.”

Zayn startles, head whipping up—and there’s Liam, close enough now that Zayn can see the crease by his eyes when he smiles. The familiar trace of his cologne—warm, clean, steady—wraps around him, a punch of dizzying comfort and memory in the crowded room.

“I know you’re in demand tonight,” Liam says, glancing briefly at the woman, then back to Zayn. His hand comes down on Zayn’s arm, warm through the fabric of his jacket. The touch sends a spark racing up his skin, sharp and impossible to ignore, like his whole body has tuned itself to Liam’s presence. “Wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time. I just—” his voice softens, “—wanted to say how fucking proud I am of you, Zayn. And to give you these.”

He presses a bouquet into Zayn’s hands—deep red carnations wrapped in brown paper, stems cool and damp against his palm.

Zayn stammers, throat dry. “I—uh—that's—thank you.”

Liam’s grin crooks a little further, like he’s embarrassed. “I’m heading out. Didn’t want to keep you from your night. Enjoy it, yeah? You deserve every bit of this.”

Zayn’s lips part, scrambling for something—anything—but all that comes out is a useless, quiet, “Okay.”

Liam nods once, then slips away.

The woman clears her throat gently, smiling still. “Anyway, what I was saying was—”

But Zayn doesn’t hear a word. His eyes are fixed on Liam’s retreating figure, the way he hugs each of the lads in turn, laughter and backslaps shared before he ducks toward the exit. The door swings shut behind him, and Zayn just stares, frozen.

Only then do his eyes drop to the flowers in his hands. Carnations. Red. His favourites. How does Liam even know? Zayn racks his brain, searching through months of conversations, realising he must’ve mentioned it once—casually, offhand. And Liam must have remembered.

“…and of course the paperback won’t have the same embossing, which is just criminal if you ask me—” the woman is saying, voice bright.

Zayn cuts in abruptly, muttering a rushed, “Thank you—sorry, I’ve got to—” before he’s moving, weaving through the crowd at a near jog, bouquet clutched tight in his hand, not thinking—just going—toward the door Liam just slipped through.

Chapter Text

He shoves through the doors into the downpour. Cold rain slaps his skin, soaks through his jacket in seconds, his breath coming fast as he scans the car park.

The tarmac stretches dark and wet before him. No sign of Liam’s car.

“Fuck,” he chokes, hair plastering to his forehead. “Fuck.”

He catches the lads’ confused stares as he bursts back inside, dripping rain onto the carpet. They’re all standing now, eyes wide, question marks written across their faces.

“I need to borrow your car,” Zayn blurts, pointing straight at Louis.

Louis blinks. “You what?”

“Keys,” Zayn pants, hand outstretched. “I need the keys.”

“You don’t even have a license,” Louis sputters.

“It’s fine, I’ll just—” Zayn starts, wild-eyed, like he actually might hurl himself into the driver’s seat anyway.

“Hold on a fucking second,” Niall cuts in, half laughing, half alarmed. “What’s going on, mate?”

Zayn opens his mouth, nothing comes out. His hand flails, the bouquet wobbling in his grip. “He—these—and he—” He gestures helplessly at the room, at the empty space Liam left behind, carnations dripping rainwater down his wrist. His voice cracks. “He dressed up and—fuck, I can’t—”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Louis says quickly, already shoving into his coat. “I’ll drive before you kill us all.”

“Yay, road trip!” Niall crows, bouncing toward the door.

Harry sighs dreamily, pressing a hand to his chest. “This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Christ,” Louis mutters, pushing Zayn toward the exit. “Move it before I change my mind.”

They burst out into the rain, pelting across the pavement like a pack of feral cats. Zayn's clothes sag under the weight of it, hair slicked flat in seconds, but he barely notices—his chest is tight, his breath ragged, his hands shaking as he fumbles for the car door.

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” he mutters, sliding into the back seat, drenched. “What if it’s too late? What if I’ve already—what if I can’t fix it?"

Harry tumbles in beside him, voice hushed with theatrical awe as rain runs down his curls. “It’s never too late for love.”

Niall barks out a laugh from the passenger seat, twisting around to grin at them. “Christ, Haz, you sound like you’re narrating Love Actually.” He shrugs, still grinning. “But he’s right, though.”

“Less romcom talk, more seatbelts,” Louis says, twisting the keys. “We’ve got somewhere to be.”

Zayn gnaws at his thumbnail, staring out the rain-blurred window, his heart thudding louder than the wipers screeching across the glass.

Louis drives like the devil’s chasing him—horn blaring, tyres skidding through puddles, the car fishtailing every time he takes a corner too sharp. Harry whoops like they’re on a rollercoaster, Niall clutches the dash with both hands, and Zayn just sits there, knuckles white on his knees, staring straight ahead as though sheer willpower might make Liam appear on the road in front of them.

“Jesus, Lou, mind the bloody bus lane!” Niall yells as they nearly clip a double-decker.

“Shut it, I’ve got this,” Louis fires back, eyes wild, grin sharper than it should be.

“Statistically speaking,” Harry says serenely, sprawled across the middle seat, “we’re very likely to die in this car.”

“Shut up, Harold!” Louis and Niall shout together.

Zayn barely hears any of it. His heart’s in his throat, stomach churning, every streetlight and corner feeling like it’s wasting precious seconds. He bites down on his thumb, words echoing in his skull—What if it’s too late?

And then they’re screeching to a stop outside Zayn’s old flat.

He’s out of the car before it's even fully stopped, yanking the door open so hard it bangs against the wall. Rain pelts his back, his chest feels like it might burst, but he doesn’t care.

“Go on, lad!” Niall hollers from the car, pumping a fist.

“Get your man, Z!” Harry calls dreamily, blowing him a kiss.

“Don’t cock it up!” Louis yells after him, grinning widely.

Their cheers chase him up the steps as he stumbles toward the door, soaked, desperate, and more terrified than he’s ever been in his life.

He barrels up the steps two at a time, rain running cold rivulets down the back of his neck. He pats at his jacket pockets, frantic—only to come up empty. His keys. He left them behind when he moved out. Of course.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging a shaky hand down his soaked face. He stabs the buzzer anyway, knowing even as he does that it’s pointless. It’s been busted since practically the first week he lived here, never fixed no matter how many times they mentioned it to the landlord. The silence that follows twists sharp in his chest.

He groans, rakes both hands through his dripping hair, tugging at the roots like the pain might ground him. He’s out of options, heart hammering too loud for clear thought.

Right—phone. He’ll just ring Liam.

He digs frantically into his pockets again, then freezes. His stomach sinks. The phone’s not there. He left it in Louis’ car.

He whirls around, ready to sprint back down the steps—only to find the street empty. The car’s already gone, tail-lights swallowed by the rain and traffic.

He staggers back down the steps, shoving his hands deep into his soaked jacket, heart jackhammering. He ends up on the pavement, blinking up at the windows like they might hold an answer.

The living room light glows warm against the rain-dark street. He knows that room. Every corner of it. The sofa they’d spent hours on, the cushions still probably holding dents from where he used to curl up sketching. The light’s on, which means Liam’s in there.

And Zayn has absolutely no idea what the fuck to do.

He paces a few steps, stops, stares up again. His pulse thrums louder with every second. Then, with a groan, he crouches down, fingers closing around a wet pebble by the kerb.

“This is insane,” he mutters to himself.

Still—he straightens, takes aim, and tosses it up. It taps against the window with a pitiful little tick. Barely audible over the rain.

He grabs another, tries again. Tick. Another. Tack.

God. He feels ridiculous. Standing in the pouring rain like some lovesick teenager in a bargain-bin romcom, the kind where the bloke makes a fool of himself outside a window for a girl who probably doesn’t even care. Only it’s worse, because this isn’t a film. This is Liam. And Zayn feels pathetic.

Still, he throws another pebble.

It skitters uselessly off the glass, sliding down into the gutter. Zayn curses under his breath, rain dripping from his fringe into his eyes. He winds up again, wrist aching, and the stone makes a louder clack this time.

And then—movement.

The curtain twitches.

Zayn freezes, arm halfway cocked back, pebble still in hand.

Liam’s face appears at the window, hair mussed, brow furrowed. He blinks down into the rain like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. His gaze lands on Zayn—drenched, wild-eyed, fist full of gravel—and his mouth falls open in sheer disbelief.

For a long, suspended second, they just stare at each other. Rain patters sharp on the pavement, running cold down the back of Zayn’s neck. His arm drops slowly to his side, the pebble slipping from his wet fingers.

Then the window creaks open. Liam leans out, eyes wide with confusion. “Zayn?”

Zayn tilts his head up, rain dripping into his mouth. “I haven’t planned any of this!” he shouts back, voice cracking.

“What?” Liam calls, cupping a hand around his ear.

“Fuck, Liam—I’m in love with you!”

Liam blinks at him. “What?”

“I said I—”

Right then, a bus screeches past, tyres hissing on the wet road, horn blaring. The sentence vanishes into the roar of it.

Liam leans further out the window, half-laughing in disbelief. “What?”

“I said I love you, Liam!” Zayn practically howls, throat raw.

“I can’t hear you!” Liam shouts back, still laughing. He lifts a hand and waves Zayn toward the door. “I’ll buzz you in!”

Zayn rushes to the door, heart hammering. He waits, soaked through, rain dripping off his hair into his eyes. A beat, then the lock clicks open. He shoves it wide, shoulders hitting the frame as he stumbles inside, leaving a puddle on the floor.

Liam’s already there—at the top of the stairs, arms folded across his chest.

Zayn stops dead. They just stare at each other, breath loud in the silence, water dripping steadily from Zayn’s jacket onto the tiles.

Finally, Liam’s voice carries down, low. “I heard none of what you said.”

Zayn swallows, chest tight. “I love you, Liam.”

Liam’s mouth falls open.

“That’s what I said,” Zayn adds, voice steadier now, every word tumbling out like it’s been waiting years. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I’ve been for ages.” He scrubs a hand through his soaked hair, water dripping down his temple. “And I’ve been such a fucking idiot.” 

Liam just stares, eyes wide.

“I don’t even know if you feel the same.” Zayn shifts on his feet like he can’t keep still. “But I thought maybe—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching. “I just really hope—”

He breaks off when Liam suddenly moves—one step down, then another, faster with each one, eyes fierce and fixed on him.

Zayn jolts into motion too, bounding up the stairs two at a time, wet shoes squeaking against the wood.

They collide halfway, breathless and clumsy, mouths crashing together, rainwater still on Zayn’s lips. Liam cups his jaw like he’ll never let go, Zayn’s hands gripping at his shoulders, both of them laughing into it, wild and desperate. The banister rattles as Zayn shoves him back against it, and Liam only pulls him closer, kissing him like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Liam pulls back just enough to gasp against his mouth, grinning like an idiot. “Fuck—I love you too.”

Zayn makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, and surges back in, kissing him harder.

They stumble up the rest of the stairs together, Liam tugging him along without ever breaking the kiss. By the time they tumble through the door of the flat, they’re both soaked and shaking with adrenaline.

Clothes come off in pieces, breathless mutters breaking through the kisses.

“Fuck—you’re soaked,” Liam huffs, pushing Zayn’s wet fringe off his forehead.

“Shut up,” Zayn murmurs, dragging him closer by the shirt. “Kiss me.”

Liam does, grinning against his mouth, tugging him toward his bedroom. They barely make it to the bed before they’re falling into it together, hands everywhere, laughter and gasps tangling in the dark.

They both strip down, skin sliding hot and wet together. Zayn ends up straddling Liam, grinding down, kissing him like he wants to crawl inside his chest. Liam’s hands roam everywhere—hips, ribs, shoulders—before he starts to push, shifting like he means to flip them.

“Wait,” Zayn breathes, breaking the kiss just enough to catch Liam’s eyes. His chest is heaving, pupils blown wide. “Let me. I want to—can I top?”

Liam stills beneath him, body taut. His gaze skitters away, throat bobbing.

Zayn feels the hitch of it instantly, the hesitation. His hand comes up, gentle on Liam’s jaw, urging him back into his line of sight. “Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, steady. “I won’t be a complete dick this time.” He exhales hard through his nose, eyes shutting briefly as the memory of last time flashes, sharp and painful. “Promise.”

A startled laugh escapes Liam, huffed against Zayn’s lips.

“Trust me, babe. Yeah?” Zayn’s voice dips, rough with want but careful too, giving him every chance to say no.

Liam’s chest rises and falls once, twice. His eyes finally meet Zayn’s, flickering with nerves and something deeper. He swallows hard, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah—I trust you.”

Zayn kisses him slow, like he’s got nowhere else to be, nowhere else he’d ever want to be. His mouth trails down Liam’s throat, over the swell of his chest, lingering on every bit of skin like he’s memorising it. Liam’s fingers twitch in his hair but don’t pull, just rest there, steady, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

When Zayn reaches his stomach, he looks up, waiting. Liam’s gaze is already on him, wide and wanting, but there’s a flicker of nerves too. Zayn dips his head, lips parting as he sucks gently at the skin just below his hipbone, tongue soothing the spot after. Liam draws in a sharp breath, chest hitching. Zayn presses a final kiss there, voice low. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

Liam makes a choked sound, half laugh, half protest. “Zayn—”

“Shh.” Another kiss, softer.

He works him open with patience—slow, careful, lips brushing Liam’s inner thigh every time his body tenses, murmured praise spilling between kisses. Liam’s head falls back against the pillow, a broken moan escaping him. Zayn doesn’t rush, doesn’t push too far too fast. He waits until Liam’s body loosens, until he’s trembling more with need than nerves.

When he finally presses in, it’s with a groan he can’t hold back, forehead dropping against Liam’s shoulder. Liam clutches at him, gasping, every muscle taut.

Zayn stills, whispers against his skin, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Liam shakes his head, breath shuddering. “Don’t stop. Please.” His voice cracks, his eyes are glassy, but his hands are sure as they drag Zayn closer.

So Zayn moves—slow, careful, like he’s trying to carve this moment into both their bones. Every thrust pulls another sound out of Liam, soft and desperate, nothing like the frantic messes they’ve been before.

Liam cups his face at some point, pulls him down into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and relief, like he’s pouring years of unsaid words into it. Zayn kisses him back just as hungrily, hips never faltering, until he finally breaks away, breathless.

“Babe,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against Liam’s, “get on top for me, yeah?”

Liam blinks. “What?”

Zayn smooths a hand over his chest, down his stomach, steadying him. 

“Wanna see you,” he murmurs, voice rough.

For a second, Liam looks like he might shy away, eyes darting down, but Zayn catches his chin, holding him there. 

“Please,” he adds, softer this time.

And Liam does. With a shaky breath, he shifts, swinging his leg over until he’s straddling Zayn. The sight knocks the air clean out of him—Liam, flushed and beautiful, pupils blown wide.

When Liam sinks down, Zayn’s hand flies to his hip, the other to his face, unable to decide where he needs to hold him most. 

“Fuck,” Zayn groans, head falling back against the pillow.

Every roll of Liam’s hips is heaven, Zayn’s gaze never leaving his face. Every twitch of muscle, every flutter of lashes and bitten lip, feels like it’s his alone.

He drags Liam down, crashing their mouths together in a kiss that’s hungry and frantic. His hand fists in Liam’s hair, holding him there as if he might disappear. The words tumble out between gasps and kisses, raw and unguarded.

“Love you.” Another kiss, wet and desperate, “I love you.”

Liam whimpers softly into his mouth, hips jerking unevenly, and the sound nearly breaks Zayn in half.

“Zayn—” Liam chokes out, head tipping back, throat exposed. It comes out again, softer, needier, almost like a prayer. “Zayn.”

Zayn holds him tight, thumbs digging into the slick heat of his skin, guiding him steady through the rhythm even as his own control frays. “That’s it, Li—fuck—you’re so perfect.”

Liam tips forward, bracing a hand against Zayn’s chest, his gaze half-hidden beneath his lashes. His lips part on a shaky breath before it splinters into a moan so wrecked Zayn feels it in his bones.

Zayn’s hand slips between them, wrapping around him. Liam jolts, a strangled sound tearing out of him. His whole body arches, chest slick under Zayn’s palm where he steadies him. He’s panting, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, mouth dropping open around desperate, helpless gasps.

Zayn kisses his throat, his jaw, anywhere he can reach. 

Liam shudders under Zayn’s touch, a raw moan breaking from his throat. Heat floods between them, streaking across Zayn’s stomach, and Liam trembles through it, every breath caught on Zayn’s name.

It tips Zayn over the edge. His hips snap up helplessly, pleasure tearing through him, and he groans into Liam’s throat, clutching him close as everything breaks apart. The world blurs until there’s only Liam—gorgeous, perfect, collapsed against him, their hearts racing in time.

They stay tangled, both gasping, sweat-slick skin pressed close. Liam slumps down, cheek to Zayn’s chest, lips still parted against his skin. Zayn strokes a hand down his spine, presses a shaky kiss into his hair, his own chest heaving.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but warmth, breath, and the aftershocks still sparking faintly through them.

Then Liam rolls onto his back beside Zayn. For a while, the only sound in the room is their ragged breathing. Sweat cools on their skin.

After a moment, Liam turns his head. Zayn’s already looking, eyes heavy-lidded but shining. They both break into breathless, crooked grins, sharing the kind of smile that feels like relief and wonder all at once.

“Hold on,” Zayn murmurs, pushing himself up. He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a damp flannel. Without a word, he cleans them both up gently, careful, almost reverent, before tossing it aside and slipping back under the sheets.

He curls into Liam’s chest, cheek pressed against warm skin, arm sliding over his waist.

“Wow,” Liam breathes at last, voice hoarse, still half-laughing in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles into his chest, eyes already fluttering shut, his mouth curving in the faintest, softest smile.

For a long moment, there’s only quiet, the rise and fall of their chests syncing. Then Liam whispers, almost to himself, “Can’t believe this is happening.”

Zayn hums softly, eyes half-shut against Liam’s skin. “You’re so amazing,” he mumbles, almost like he doesn’t mean for it to slip out.

Liam lets out a sheepish little laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “Can’t believe you did all that,” he says, chuckling as he shakes his head. “In the rain. With the rocks.”

Heat crawls up Zayn’s neck, his ears burning as he ducks his face into Liam’s chest. “Shut up.”

“You could’ve just, y’know… waited until tomorrow,” Liam teases, grinning crookedly down at him.

Zayn lifts his head, earnest in an instant. “I couldn’t, Li. I felt like I was gonna explode if I didn’t tell you. When I saw you tonight… At the launch—” His throat tightens, words tumbling fast. “You’d dressed up, wore your nice cologne… it killed me.”

Now it’s Liam’s turn to flush, his cheeks going pink. “You noticed that?”

“‘Course I did.” Zayn smiles, small and soft. “And the carnations—I can’t believe you remembered that. I don’t even remember telling you.”

“Of course I remembered.” Liam’s voice is quiet, almost shy. “I remember a lot of things.” His gaze flickers away for a beat before returning, softer. “Like how you can’t sit through Bambi because it makes you cry.” His mouth curves, fond and a little teasing. “Or how you’ve read The Picture of Dorian Gray so many times the spine’s falling apart.” His thumb strokes absently over the back of Zayn’s hand, like he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. “Or how your favourite place growing up was that corner table at the library, the one nobody else ever wanted because the radiator rattled.”

Zayn just stares at him, dumbfounded, throat tight.

Liam falters, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh. “Oh God, that sounds really creepy, doesn’t it?”

“No.” Zayn shakes his head quickly, voice rough with feeling. “No, Li, that’s—fuck—that’s so… romantic.”

Liam ducks his head, the tips of his ears red. “I’m not even trying to be,” he mutters. “You just make it really easy. I guess—I just wanna know everything about you.”

Zayn swallows hard, too undone to find words, so he just leans in and kisses him again—slow and lingering.

The quiet stretches again, warm and easy, their breathing syncing without effort. For a while there’s only the steady drum of rain against the window, the occasional creak of the old pipes in the walls.

Zayn lies still, cheek against Liam’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. He breathes in the familiar mix of Liam’s soap and skin, and it hits him all at once—how right it feels, how impossibly content he is in this moment.

Then Liam’s voice cuts through, tentative but steady. “So… how long have you known?”

Zayn freezes for a second, blinking up at the ceiling. 

“Wait.” He mutters as he slides out of Liam’s hold, padding across the room to where his bag slumps against the wall. He rummages through it, pulls out one of the battered notebooks he always carries, and swears softly when the damp cover sticks to his fingers. “Fuck. It’s soaked.”

He climbs back into bed anyway, propping himself against the headboard with the notebook on his lap. “Come here.”

Liam shifts without hesitation, stretching out across Zayn’s chest, cheek pressing into the warm line of his ribs. Zayn’s fingers card absently through Liam’s hair as he flips through warped, crinkled pages, until he lands on one of the first sketches.

Even through the water damage, it’s unmistakable: Liam’s eyes, captured in graphite, careful detail in every lash and crease.

Liam blinks at the page, then tips his head back to look up at Zayn, incredulous. “Wait… is that me?”

Zayn doesn’t answer with words—just gives the smallest nod.

He flips carefully to the next page. Liam’s mouth, parted soft, caught in careful strokes of pencil. Another turn: the curve of his back, shoulders drawn with aching precision. Another page: his eyes again, softer this time, almost wistful. Then his whole face, shaded with patience. Then his smile—bright, crooked, alive even in graphite.

Liam stares as the pages turn, his chest rising and falling where it rests against Zayn’s side. His voice is low. “You’ve been drawing me.”

Zayn swallows, his thumb lingering at the edge of the page. “I think… I drew these in the first weeks after I moved in.” His voice is quiet, almost sheepish.

Liam frowns faintly, eyes still on the sketch. “But—we hadn’t even…” He trails off, brow furrowed, like he can’t quite piece it together.

Zayn shakes his head, a tiny huff of breath through his nose. “No. We hadn’t.”

The silence stretches, heavy but soft again, Liam’s fingers brushing the corner of the page like he can’t stop himself.

Zayn flips another page and Liam frowns. It isn’t him this time—not really. It’s his chipped mug, the one he always leaves on the counter no matter how many times he says he’ll wash it. Zayn’s caught the curve of the handle, the faint crack in the glaze.

Liam lets out a startled laugh. “That’s my mug.”

Zayn shrugs, suddenly shy. “You leave it everywhere. Felt like… you.”

Liam stares at the sketch for another long beat, then lets out a shaky laugh, shaking his head. “God, we’re daft.”

Zayn huffs a laugh of his own, nodding. “Yeah. So fucking daft.”

He flips the notebook shut gently, setting it aside on the bedside table, then turns to Liam. “So… how long have you known?”

Liam’s eyes flicker, hesitation clear, but he doesn’t look away. “Honestly?” His throat bobs. “I think since the day you showed up to view the flat.”

Zayn stills, caught off guard.

Their eyes meet in the quiet, something raw and unguarded passing between them.

“Seriously?” Zayn asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Liam only nods, slow and sure. Then, cautiously, like he’s not sure he’s allowed, he leans in. His lips brush Zayn’s in the softest kiss—gentle, trembling at the edges, nothing like the hungry, desperate ones before.

Zayn exhales against his mouth, and Liam kisses him again. And again. Small, feather-light touches, like he’s relearning the shape of him. Zayn lets his eyes flutter closed, heart swelling, as Liam’s hand finds his jaw, thumb stroking warm and steady.

The kisses stay unhurried, sweet, gentle—like they have all the time in the world.

They pull back, foreheads still brushing, breaths mingling in the quiet.

Zayn swallows, searching Liam’s face. “I guess I just don’t get it.”

Liam frowns. “What?”

Zayn leans back a little, words heavy. “I mean… half the time it felt like it was more. More than just sex. You kissed me like it meant something. You—God, the way you’d fuck me sometimes.” His throat works, jaw clenched. “And then out of nowhere you started pulling away. Cold. Distant. And then you brought that girl back here and…” His voice falters. “Had sex with her.”

Liam squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head hard. “Zayn, no. I didn’t. I didn’t have sex with her.”

Zayn blinks, heart stumbling. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Liam’s gaze flicks up, earnest, almost pained. “It’s pathetic, but I ended up crying in front of her. Because I wanted you so badly. And she wasn’t... you.”

A startled laugh bursts out of Zayn before he can stop it, sharp and ridiculous in the quiet. He slaps a hand over his mouth, wide-eyed, but Liam’s already laughing too, cheeks flushed.

“It’s okay,” Liam manages between chuckles, voice hoarse. “You can laugh.”

Zayn drops his hand, grinning through the knot in his chest. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m just—fuck—I’m relieved. If I’m being honest.”

A soft silence drapes over them again. Liam’s fingers trace absent shapes over Zayn’s stomach, featherlight, grounding.

After a beat, he whispers, “I thought you didn’t want me.”

Zayn frowns, turns his head to look at him. “What? Of course I—”

Liam swallows, keeps tracing. “Do you remember the first time you… topped?”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, a little shaky. “God, yeah. How could I forget, Li?”

Liam nods, eyes distant. “That was the night I realised. That I really loved you.” His voice falters, quiet. “But then you got all strange. Distant. And I… I overheard you the next morning. Telling the lads that I was nothing. Just someone to fuck.”

Zayn’s stomach twists. He squeezes his eyes shut, a groan catching in his throat. “Shit. I had no idea you heard that.”

“Yeah.” Liam’s smile is sad, almost self-deprecating. “I did. That’s why I started pulling away.”

Zayn’s hand shoots up, cupping Liam’s cheek, desperate. “Fuck, babe—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was a prick. I didn’t mean it.”

Liam’s brow furrows. His voice is quiet, but it cuts. “Then why did you say it?”

Zayn goes still. The silence stretches, heavy between them, until he finally exhales, eyes slipping shut. “Because I was scared.”

Liam blinks, confusion flickering across his face.

Zayn swallows, forcing himself to keep going. “I was convinced you didn’t want more. And I—” His voice breaks, low and hoarse. “I wanted more. So much more. And that scared the shit out of me.”

Liam’s chest rises and falls, steady, like he’s holding back everything he wants to say. He only nods, urging Zayn to continue.

Zayn looks away, staring at the ceiling. “There was this guy. Oliver.” The name tastes bitter, heavy on his tongue. He can’t bring himself to look at Liam as he says it, eyes squeezing shut instead. “He made me believe I was something to him. Lied to me, used me, until I didn’t even recognise myself anymore. I thought—I thought I loved him. But he gutted me.” He swallows hard, jaw tight. “Left me feeling like I’d never know how to love anyone properly again. Like I’d never be enough.”

His throat tightens, words spilling faster now. “So when you… when you made me feel things I hadn’t felt in years, I panicked. I couldn’t risk it, Li. Not when the idea of losing you already hurt so fucking much.”

Zayn’s voice trails off, the confession hanging raw in the air.

Then Liam shifts, slow but certain, lifting a hand to cup Zayn’s face. His thumb brushes along the damp edge of his cheekbone, forcing Zayn’s eyes back to his.

“Fuck him,” Liam says softly, but there’s steel in it. “Okay? Fuck him. He doesn’t get to live here anymore.”

Zayn swallows hard, throat bobbing against Liam’s palm.

“You deserve better than that. You deserve someone who means it, Z. Someone who looks at you and sees… everything. Who doesn’t make you doubt, or wonder if you’re enough. Because you are.” Liam’s eyes shine, his voice cracking just slightly. “And if you let me, I’ll prove that to you.”

Zayn’s eyes start to sting, heat pricking at the corners, but Liam doesn’t stop. He leans in, presses the softest kiss to Zayn’s mouth—just a brush, like punctuation—before carrying on.

“You don’t even see it, do you?” Liam murmurs, voice steady even as his thumb trembles where it strokes Zayn’s cheek. “How brilliant you are. How—fuck—how lucky anyone would be to have you.”

Zayn shakes his head, but Liam’s already going, words tumbling out in a rush, unstoppable.

“You’re beautiful, Zayn. Proper beautiful. And not just that—you’re clever. You’re funny. You’ve got this heart that just—” He exhales hard, eyes glinting. “You care so much, sometimes I don’t know how you carry it all. And somehow you still think you’re not enough.”

Zayn makes a choked sound, but Liam catches it, kisses him again, gentler this time, like he’s grounding him.

“You’re talented as hell,” Liam goes on, voice thick but sure. “Those sketches, that cover—do you even know how good you are? Everyone else sees it clear as day, but you… you’re the only one who doesn’t.”

Zayn blinks hard, vision blurring.

“And you’re kind. The kind of mate who’d give his last fag, his last quid, his last bit of sleep if it meant someone else was okay. You’re a brilliant brother. A brilliant son. A brilliant mate.” Liam’s mouth twists, tender and fierce all at once. “And I swear to God, Z, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Zayn can’t hold it in anymore. The tears spill hot down his cheeks, and Liam’s there immediately, brushing them away, kissing the trails they leave, whispering soft, steady praise into his skin.

“You’re gorgeous,” A soft kiss. “You’re brilliant,” Another kiss. “You’re mine, if you’ll have me.”

Zayn lets out a helpless laugh through the tears, his chest aching with it, and pulls Liam in like he never means to let go.

They collapse into each other, arms wrapping tight. Zayn buries his face against Liam’s neck, breath hitching, while Liam rubs soothing circles over his back. Neither of them moves for a long moment, just breathing each other in, holding on like it’s the only thing keeping them steady.

When they finally pull apart, Zayn swipes at his cheeks with the heel of his hand. He lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, shaking his head. “God, we’re such idiots.”

Liam huffs out a laugh, forehead pressed to Zayn’s. “Yeah. The biggest idiots. Both of us, blind as anything, when it was right there the whole time.”

That makes Zayn laugh properly, watery and broken but real. He cups Liam’s face in both hands, Liam mirroring him, their thumbs brushing over damp cheeks. 

After a moment, Liam lets out a soft sigh and drops his head against Zayn’s chest. Zayn holds him there, their breaths evening out again.

Then Liam mumbles into his skin, voice pitched like a joke but edged with something tentative. “Bet the bloke you’re living with now’s proper fit.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, running a hand through Liam’s hair. “Yeah, dead fit. Curly hair, big gob, eats my cereal every morning.”

Liam’s head snaps up, frowning. “You’re still with Harry?”

“Course I am.” Zayn smirks, eyes glinting. “Anyway, your new flatmate must hate us by now. Poor sod.”

Liam goes still. “Don’t have one.”

Zayn blinks. “What? How’s that even possible? People’d be falling over themselves for your place.”

“Good rent,” Liam says, with a pointed look.

Zayn swats his arm lightly. “Piss off.”

“Good location,” Liam adds, grinning now.

“Semi-normal flatmate—” Zayn teases, only to yelp when Liam slaps his arm back. He clutches at the spot, mock-offended. “What? You alphabetise your spices, for crying out loud.”

They’re both laughing by then, loose and easy, until Liam’s smile softens. His voice dips quieter. “Loads of people came to see the flat. Dozens. But… they were all—none of them were… you. So.”

Zayn’s grin falters, his chest going tight all over again. He searches Liam’s face, sees nothing but truth staring back at him. Then a helpless laugh tumbles out, relieved and disbelieving.

“Christ, we’ve been torturing ourselves for months,” Zayn says, a helpless grin tugging at his mouth. “With that stupid fucking arrangement.”

Liam snorts, eyes crinkling. “Worst arrangement in history. Who were we trying to kid?”

They laugh together, messy and breathless, foreheads pressed close, holding each other’s faces like if they let go, the moment might vanish.

They’re still grinning when Zayn breathes out, “Alright then. New arrangement.”

Liam quirks a brow, eyes still damp but glinting. “Oh yeah?”

Zayn swallows, mouth twitching. “Mates…”

Liam’s grin widens. “Who sometimes—”

“A lot of the time,” Zayn cuts in, smirking through his tears.

“But more,” Liam finishes, voice dipping soft.

Zayn nods, his chest aching in the best way. “Yeah. A lot more.”

The silence stretches, warm and easy. Outside, the rain’s eased to a soft patter, tapping against the window. Inside, the flat is warm, their laughter still tangled in the air. Zayn curls in close, breathing Liam in, and for the first time in a long time, he feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

And then they lean in together, lips brushing in a kiss so soft it feels like a promise. It’s gentle and sure, no rush, no fear—just the sweet, dizzying relief of finally getting it right.