Strings and Schemes

Chapter 22

Zayn groans softly against my mouth, his fingers threading into my hair, his grip firm but reverent. Like he's still bracing himself for the moment I pull away, but also like he's hoping this time - I won't.

I don't.

My hands slip beneath his hoodie, fingers tracing the warm skin of his back, memorizing the way his muscles tense under my touch. I press closer, until there's no space between us, until the quiet hum of his breath is the only thing I can hear.

"Bedroom?" he asks, voice low, rough, his forehead resting against mine.

I nod, leading him there without a word.

When we reach the bed, I don't hesitate. I strip off my hoodie, my tank top, baring myself completely—not just my body, but all the messy, tangled feelings I haven't been able to put into words.

Zayn watches me like I'm something sacred, like he's still afraid to believe this moment is real.

Then, slowly, like he's giving me every possible second to change my mind, he reaches for me.

There's no rush.

No frantic hands, no desperation to lose ourselves in each other.

This is slow. Deliberate. Unrushed.

This is the difference.

His fingers trail down my spine as he lowers me onto the mattress, his lips following the same path, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every inch of bare skin he can reach. My breath shudders, my nails digging into his back as he settles above me.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek, then my jaw, then the corner of my lips. "Are you sure?"

I nod, but it's not enough. Not this time. I cup his face, forcing him to look at me, really look at me.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

This time, when we come together, it's not about running or forgetting or trying to feel something else. It's about us.

About finally choosing each other.

The air between us is different now. Lighter. Like we've both finally exhaled after holding our breath for too long.

Zayn is still lying next to me, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded shapes on my back. There's a softness in his touch, one I've always noticed but never truly let myself sink into before.

But I do now. I shift onto my side, tucking my body closer against his, and he instinctively pulls me in. No words, no hesitation—just comfort. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We don't need to. Silence isn't heavy anymore.But then I remember.

The small sculpture, wrapped carefully, hidden in my closet for weeks while I worked up the courage to finish it. I pull back slightly, looking at him. "Wait here."

Zayn blinks at me, a little dazed, his brows furrowing as I slip out of bed and pull on his hoodie. "Raina, what—"

I don't answer. I just disappear into the other room, heart pounding as I reach for the package. I return to find him sitting up, sheets pooling around his waist, watching me with that look. The one that sees too much, the one that makes me feel so completely known.

I swallow. "I made something for you."

Zayn's eyes soften immediately. "You—what?"

I don't give myself time to overthink it. I step forward, sitting beside him on the bed, and place the wrapped sculpture between us. His fingers brush mine as he picks it up, unwrapping the layers slowly, carefully—like he already knows this means something. And then he sees it.