Strings and Schemes

Chapter 13

He smirks. "No one else I'd rather offer asylum for, babe."

The second we reach the entrance, the staff at the ticket desk recognize him immediately. The woman at the counter—probably trained to be discreet—fails spectacularly at hiding her wide eyes.

"Hi," Zayn says politely, "I have an appointment for one of the experience pods? I called a few hours ago. It should be under Mal—"

"Zayn Malik?" she blurts, her voice higher pitched than I think even she expected.

Zayn flashes his polite, charmingly unbothered smile.

A few moments later, we're led to the private pod, already stocked with champagne and—of course—tequila.

I raise an eyebrow. "You didn't tell me you requested tequila."

Zayn grins, rubbing the back of his neck. "What's that tradition you and Louis have before you're about to fuck everything up?"

I smirk. "Fuck it."

The doors close. The wheel moves. And as London slowly unfolds beneath us, Zayn pulls me in, pressing his lips to mine in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the eyes watching from the ground.

I kiss him back anyway.

As we settle onto the plush seating inside the pod, I glance out at the city stretching below us. I feel the shift in the air before I even say it.

"Do you ever find it hard?" I ask softly.

Zayn tilts his head. "What?"

"Ignoring it." I gesture vaguely at the glass, at the cameras, at the silent, watchful world below us. "Ignoring everyone knowing what you're doing, where you are, who you're with."

He exhales, tilting his head back slightly, thinking. "At first? Yeah. It fucked me up for a long time." His eyes flick back to mine. "But I realized if I let it control me, it'd own me forever. So, I just live my life." He shrugs. "People are gonna talk, regardless. If they wanna talk about me going to an off-licence or eating in Bradford, let them."

I nod, taking in his words. "But did you ever get used to it?"

He laughs under his breath. "Reading between the lines, are we?"

I shrug.

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something more contemplative. "No. I don't think I'll ever be used to someone caring about my toothpaste brand, or what kind of biscuits I eat."

I smile, studying him. "And what if I care about those things?"

His gaze darkens, turning playful. "I'd think that meant you were pretty interested in me, then."

I raise an eyebrow. "You'll never know."

Zayn lets out a quiet chuckle, then gestures toward the table where our meal is plated. "Come on, let's eat before you decide to ghost me."

I glance down at the carefully arranged dishes. Sushi. Steak.

I lift my gaze to his, surprised. "You really ordered sushi and steak?"

Zayn smirks. "I know Americans love sushi and steak, so I got them from my favorite spots in the city."

The warmth in my chest expands.

It's such a small thing—such a mundane, everyday thing. But the fact that he thought about it, arranged it, made sure it was perfect for me...

I pick up my chopsticks, turning to sit beside him instead of across from him. Zayn doesn't comment on it, but I catch the slight, pleased curve of his lips.

We eat in comfortable silence, his knee brushing against mine. The tension that had been curling around me since last night starts to unravel, piece by piece.

And for the first time in forever, I feel like I can breathe.

Zayn pushes a stray hair behind my ear. "What's going on in that mind of yours?"

I blink up at him. "I'm just..." I hesitate, searching for the right word.

"Grateful."

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Me too."

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to ask the question that's been sitting on my tongue all morning.

"So... how do we do this?"

Zayn tilts his head. "Do what?"

I motion vaguely between us. "This."

He exhales a laugh, gentle but amused. "There's no rulebook, babe. No standard operating procedures. We get to define it ourselves."

That... makes me more anxious than I want to admit.

I feel my chest tighten slightly, the familiar weight of uncertainty pressing in. I've never not known the answer before.

Zayn studies me, then softens.

"It's like art, yeah?" he says, watching me closely. "There are no mistakes in art. No rules. Just expression. You can be yourself, and I'll like you all the more for it."

I let his words settle in my bones.

I've spent so much time trying to curate myself, trying to manage perception, trying to be palatable, digestible, untouchable.

And now, for once, someone is telling me: you don't have to be any of those things.

I swallow, exhaling a quiet laugh. "I've never done this before."

Zayn smiles. "Well, I have, and I still feel just as out of my element as you do." His voice turns softer, reassuring. "We'll figure it out together."

I nod. "I'd like that."

Zayn leans in, brushing his nose against mine before kissing me—slow, deep, unhurried.

He pulls back, grinning. "Okay, but real question."

I raise an eyebrow. "Go on."

"What's your favorite toothpaste brand?"

I blink. Then burst into laughter. Only Zayn would go from deep emotional revelations to oral hygiene.

I shake my head, still laughing. "I can't believe you just asked me that."

He looks dead serious. "I need to know."

I grin. "Crest 3D White. The cinnamon one from the early 2000s."

Zayn nods, mock-thoughtfully. "Sounds about right. A little spicy, a little classic."

I roll my eyes. "Shut up."

He laughs, and suddenly, everything feels a little lighter.