Strings and Schemes

Chapter 13

I opt for the scenic route to Zayn's house, not even sure if he's there. On the way, I stop by an offie, unwilling to show up both empty-handed and uninvited. I grab a few snacks and some WKDs—the best of the worst drinks.

As the driver pulls away, a knot tightens in my stomach. What the hell am I doing? I hesitate at his front step, my thumb hovering over the Uber app, ready to book a ride anywhere but here. I'm not even sure what I'm asking for. What if this isn't what he expected? Me, in a designer lengha, freshly fucked, emotionally tapped.

Before I can flee, the porch light flicks on, and a sleepy, tousled Zayn opens the door.

"Hey," he murmurs, blinking in confusion. "What are you doing here?"

I open my mouth, but my voice catches. I swallow, fighting back the sudden wave of emotions choking me.

"I—" My throat closes. I try again. "I—"

Zayn frowns, stepping forward. "Hey, hey, come here—come inside." His voice is gentle, no hesitation as he ushers me in.

"No jacket tonight?" He teases softly, attempting to lighten the mood. I shake my head.

"Let me help with your shoes," he offers, already bending down. "I know my mom and sister wear the tallest heels with their lenghas. Your feet must be killing you."

I nod wordlessly, steadying myself against the tufted bench in his entryway as he kneels before me, carefully unstrapping my shoes. His fingers brush against my ankle, sending an involuntary shiver up my spine.

"Good choice," he smiles, eyeing the designer label. "My sister's desperate for this pair—they haven't even been released yet. How did you get them?"

"Long story," I murmur. "Let's just say it involves an H1B visa disaster and a very apologetic famous designer."

Zayn chuckles, standing and offering me his hand. I take it, suddenly hyper-aware of my missing four inches of height without my heels. The trumpet-skirted lengha is impossible to navigate up his stairs, but he waits patiently as I lift the heavy fabric, carefully making my way up.

In the kitchen, I place the bag on the counter.

"What did you bring?" he asks, stifling a yawn.

"I figured I could either show up uninvited or empty-handed—not both." I smirk. "So I brought the most cringe drink in all of Britain. Also, snacks. To make up for everything tonight has been."

Zayn pulls out the bottles, making a disgusted-yet-amused face. "WKD? Oh, at least you brought Lucozade to save us from the inevitable hangover."

I grin. "I'm always prepared."

His lips curl into something lazy and knowing as he leans back against the counter, arms crossed. The dim light casts sharp angles on his bare torso, his grey sweats hanging low on his hips, the brief line peeking through. I swallow, forcing my eyes to stay on his face.

"Like what you see, Raina?"

I roll my lips together, caught red-handed. He chuckles at my obvious attempt to play it cool.

"Don't worry, I'm liking what I'm seeing too." His voice is teasing, but there's heat in his gaze. Then, softer, "But... what are you doing here? In Manish Malhotra, at 11 PM on a Thursday night? I didn't take this to be your usual loungewear."

"Not my usual, no," I admit. "But I have an affinity for this one now. However impractical it is."

He steps closer, eyes sweeping over me like he's memorizing every detail. "I can't think when you look this good." His voice dips. "You walked in here straight out of my fantasies."