Strings and Schemes

Chapter 29

"We should go inside," I murmur, pushing the door open.

He follows without a word.

The rental feels different now.

Before, it had been our sanctuary—a place where no one could find us, where the outside world didn't exist. But now, with the knowledge that our privacy has been shattered, the walls feel thinner, the space smaller.

I toe off my sandals, running a hand through my hair. The reality is setting in. My phone is still in airplane mode, but I know the second I turn it on, the internet will have exploded.

Zayn disappears into the bedroom without a word. A second later, I hear the low murmur of his voice. He's calling someone.

I sigh, walking toward the kitchen, trying to busy myself with something, anything.

A bottle of wine sits on the counter. I grab it, twisting the cork free and pouring two glasses, just as Zayn walks back in, his expression a little less stormy but still tight with irritation.

"Everything okay?" I ask, handing him a glass.

He takes it, swirling the wine absentmindedly before taking a long sip.

"Management already knows," he says finally. "I had to get ahead of it before they start spinning shit."

I nod. "And?"

"And they want to know how we're handling it." His eyes flick to mine, measuring my reaction. "I told them it's your call."

I pause, the weight of the situation fully settling on me now.

What is my call? What do I even want?

I could ignore it. Let the headlines swallow us whole without acknowledging it. But I know better than anyone that silence leaves room for people to make their own narratives.

I could say something. We could. But then what? The press will pick us apart, tear me apart, analyze every second of our relationship and my past, turn me into something I'm not.

I swallow hard. The walls are closing in.

Zayn must see it—the way my breathing changes, the way I grip the stem of the wine glass a little too tightly.

He sets his down and steps closer, brushing his fingers lightly over my wrist. "Hey," he murmurs. "Come back to me."

I let out a shaky breath, meeting his gaze. His eyes are dark, steady. A tether.

"I don't know what to do," I admit quietly.

His hand slides up my arm, settling on my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheek. "Then don't decide right now," he says simply. "You don't owe anyone a response tonight."

I nod, feeling some of the pressure ease. He's right. The world can wait. We can enjoy one last night of just us, no politics, no speculation, ignorant to the world outside of our own bubble.

We settle into the couch, wine glasses half-finished, bodies curled into each other. Zayn's fingers run up and down my back absentmindedly as we sit in comfortable silence.

Until my stomach growls.

Zayn chuckles, tilting his head down to look at me. "Was that you?"

I groan. "I was too stressed to eat earlier."

His lips twitch, but he stands, offering me his hand. "C'mon."

I blink at him. "Where?"

"The kitchen," he deadpans. "You're obviously incapable of making rational decisions when you're hungry."