Strings and Schemes

Chapter 13

Zayn shakes his head furiously, pulling me into him. And the second my head hits his chest, I break. Zayn holds me as I break, his arms steady and warm, anchoring me in a way I didn't know I needed. His fingers run gently through my hair, a contrast to the storm inside my chest.

"I'm—so—sorry—" The words tumble out between sharp, shaky breaths.

He hushes me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. Not rushed, not distracted. Intentional. "Don't apologize for needing me. You can have needs, Raina. And I can deliver."

I swallow hard, clinging tighter. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me, love." He leans back just enough to meet my gaze. "Just talk to me. What happened?"

So I tell him.

All of it.

The awkward diplomatic dinners. The fear of being seen, and the fear of being caught. The suffocating push and pull of risk—of doing nothing and still being used, or doing everything and getting exposed. The melancholy I've carried my whole life, stretched between two worlds, never belonging fully to either.

I tell him about my apartment in Iraq, about my gallery show, about my dreams. How I desperately want to carve out my own future but still somehow find myself shackled to one I never chose.

And I tell him about him.

How he makes me feel. How new this is. How terrified I am that I've let him in, and how I can't imagine my life without him in it. That somehow, in a world that feels coercive and cold, he's in the clearing.

Zayn listens, not interrupting once. His hands never leave me, gentle touches keeping me grounded.

By the time I finish, my voice is hoarse, my body heavy with exhaustion—but I feel lighter.

"Come here." He pulls me into him again, whispering soft reassurances against my temple. The weight of his warmth, his scent, the steadiness of his heartbeat—all of it wraps around me like a shield.

We fall asleep like that. On the couch, untouched drinks and snacks abandoned, wrapped in each other.

I wake to the soft glow of daylight streaming through the loft windows. For a moment, I'm disoriented—until I feel his warmth.

Zayn stirs beneath me, his lips brushing my hair.

"Good morning, love."

I smile, still half-asleep, pressing a lazy kiss to his collarbone. "Good morning to you, too."

He stretches, pulling me along with him. His fingers graze my waist, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring the feel of me.

"Let's go outside today." His voice is still thick with sleep, but there's something purposeful in his tone.

I blink up at him, reading between the lines. He's offering me something. A chance. A choice.

I swallow, nodding. "Let's."

The sun hits my skin as I step out of the car, Zayn's arm around me, steady and reassuring.

I glance up at the towering structure above us, the London Eye spinning lazily, the Thames shimmering beneath it.For a fleeting moment, I think, maybe people won't notice us.

"You know," I muse, trying to fill the air between us, "I've never actually done the London Eye."

Zayn stops mid-step, genuinely horrified. "You've never done the London Eye? How American are you really?"

I laugh. "I'll probably have my citizenship revoked for wearing an Indian designer last night and being spotted with a famous Pakistani musician today."