Archive of Our Own

Zayn doesn’t mean to duck into the bakery. Really, he means to leave the record store where he’s been flicking through old albums, then go back to the studio to do some recording like he’s meant to. Maybe he’ll write something, if he can find the time between meetings about sponsorship and the tour they’re talking about and how to capitalize on that golden award that’s sitting awkwardly on a shelf until he figures out what he’s supposed to do with it. He certainly means to do all that. It’s his job. And more than that, he wants to. The studio’s the closest thing he has to a home right now, definitely more so than the flat he’s staying at, and it’ll mean he’s properly out of the public eye and can let his hood down and stop feeling guilty for refusing the bodyguard he was offered.

So really, he’s on his way back, heading to the street to hail a taxi when he sees the sign reading Bakes and Cakes. It’s a stupid name, and Zayn knows he shouldn’t go in, shouldn’t linger on the streets when someone might see him and call the paparazzi—but he can smell it from here, and his stomach grumbles, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten since this morning. He glances in, and it looks empty except for pastries at the counter, so screw it. He deserves a treat if he wants one.

A bell rings as he walks in. It’s a cute place, a little too old lady for Zayn’s taste, but there are a few big comfortable looking chairs that someone could probably read in for hours, even if they’re upholstered in a questionable floral pattern, and the whole place is light and airy. But it’s the smell that really hits him first. It doesn’t smell like home, because home is spices and his mother’s floral scent, but it feels like it, with the scent of baking bread wafting through the air and laughter coming from a room behind the empty counter. It’s just a place Zayn feels comfortable in, even if there’s a magazine on one of the tables with his face on it, the one from a few weeks ago with him on the red carpet at the Grammys on it. Zayn flips the magazine over idly—it’s too weird, having his face staring out at him—and heads towards the counter.

The baked goods behind the glass front look as mouth-wateringly delicious as the smell, brownies and croissants and tarts, and Zayn’s stomach rumbles again as he studies them in lieu of actually ordering something, as there’s no one behind the counter despite the bell.

“Sorry!” A deep, raspy voice comes from behind the lacy curtains that clearly lead to the kitchen, which is so surprising in this fairly feminine place that Zayn glances up immediately to see. A boy—or not a boy, Zayn’s age probably—is coming out from behind the curtain, his arms under a tray of brownies.

Zayn’s first impression of him is laughter—he’s giggling as he comes out, dimples deep in his cheeks. His second one is skepticism, because he’s got hair in curls down to his shoulders, longer even than Zayn’s, and his jeans are as tight as anyone Zayn’s seen before, and he’s wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned at least to his navel, which can’t be sanitary. It is nice to look at, though, Zayn has to admit, his eyes flitting up the toned muscle of the boy’s chest, over the moth inked there, then up to his face.

All that also means, though, that he’s just about Zayn’s demographic, and Zayn bites his lip to wait for the inevitable exclamation, for recognition to dawn behind eyes so bright a green Zayn can see it from here, for his full pink lips to start demanding things. He’d tried his best to disguise himself, but he feels stupid in sunglasses when it’s cloudy out in London, and he’s not good at being unrecognizable. Louis laughs when he says that, says it’s his fault for being too striking, but Zayn sometimes thinks he’d give up some of his cheekbones for the ability to be able to order a coffee at Starbucks without getting mobbed.

But he can’t, and he knows it’s at least partly his face that got him here, and he can’t really complain when his song was playing on the radio when he went to the grocery store last night. He just wishes he could go to the store without everyone pointing.

So he just braces himself for the pointing—but it doesn’t come. Instead, the boy just grins widely and sets the tray down on the counter. Zayn’s mouth is watering just from the sight of it. “Hi!” he says brightly. Zayn can feel his smile down to his bones, he thinks, almost in a daze. It’s nearly blinding. “Sorry you had to wait, I had to finish watching the bread rise.”

“Watching it?” Zayn echoes. “Isn’t that like a watched pot?”

The boy laughs, a low rumbling chuckle. “Maybe. Or, it’s mainly checking if it’s rising right.” His gaze darts over Zayn, but there’s still no hint of recognition, and Zayn lets out a breath. “But I think it tastes better if it knows you’re rooting for it.”

“The bread.”

“Yeah!” The boy nods. He’s a crazy person, Zayn realizes. That’s why he doesn’t recognize Zayn. He’s insane. “I know it’ll rise anyway, but you can taste the emotion put in, you know? It’s what makes it special.”

“Special?”

“Special.” He’s still smiling, apparently not put off by the fact that he’s crazy or that Zayn hasn’t managed to come up with a single sentence yet.

“So it’s not, like, the sugar?” Zayn doesn’t know why he’s persisting. He just knows that this boy isn’t pointing, isn’t casting any sidelong ‘where do I know you from’ looks at him. It’s not like Zayn’s an absolute household name—not yet, his agent says—but still, he hasn’t met anyone in a while who’s his age and who hasn’t at least recognized him as someone they’ve seen. Who hasn’t gotten tongue tied or belligerent or one of the many other reactions he’s heard in the past year. This boy is just chatting with him, and it’s…nice. Easy, in a way nothing in Zayn’s life has been since he got discovered. Like Louis is, like his family.

“That too. Fran—she’s the woman who owns the place—has a lot of secret recipes, so that helps. But I like to think it’s the love I put in.”

“Well, you couldn’t put in the secret recipes.”

“No, she trusts me with them.” He preens a little. “I’m special too.” Zayn can’t help his giggle at that, even though he hides it behind his hand. He doesn’t like to giggle too much anymore, feels undignified, young like they’ll catch on it and attack him and figure out he has no idea why he’s here.

The boy, though, beams at him like he’s personally invested in Zayn’s giggling. “So,” he asks, leaning over the counter so his shirt drapes open even more. “What can I do for you?”

“Um.” Zayn glances at the display, as his stomach makes another sound. “I dunno, what’s good?”

“Everything. Love, remember?”

“Okay.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “What did you put the most love into?”

“I try to change it up, so I don’t play favorites,” the boy explains, very seriously.

“Couldn’t have the pastries getting jealous of each other,” Zayn drawls. The boy just keeps grinning unrepentantly. Insane. Absolutely insane.

“But today, I focused on the brownies,” he goes on, like he didn’t hear Zayn. “See? Don’t they look delicious?” he waves towards the tray. “And they’re still warm.”

“Okay. I’ll have one of those.” The boy nods, and carefully puts one in a bag. He’s got good hands, Zayn notices idly. Big, long thick fingers.

“Here you go.” The boy hands it over, then pushes a few buttons on the old fashioned cash register. “Two pounds.”

“Oh.” Zayn pulls out his wallet. It was one of the things he splurged on when he got his first big cash influx, a sleek black leather thing that makes him feel grown up. He doesn’t regret getting it, but it’s weird to hold it, when he’s so used to the beat up old thing he’d inherited when his dad got a new one. That one’s the old Zayn’s, though. The new Zayn gets expensive leather and—no cash. He pulls out a card, but the boy’s shaking his head.

“We’ve got a ten pound minimum.”

“Shit.” Zayn glances down at the card. Maybe it’s better this way. He won’t see the name on it, won’t make that connection. Even if the brownie smells amazing. “I don’t have any, sorry. I guess—”

“Take it anyway.”

The boy holds out the brownie. Zayn eyes it. He’s gotten plenty of free things recently, merchandise and clothes and even some food, but it’s never really been free. Somehow, though, he doesn’t think this boy is going to arrange for him to be papped eating the brownie. “Really?”

“Yeah, sure!”

“Won’t you have to pay for it then?”

The boy shrugs. “It’ll all even out eventually.”

“Yeah, I’ll pay you back, I—”

“Nah, like, karmically. Someone will buy me a brownie soon. I believe in putting good vibes out there. They’ll come back to me.” He says it so confidently Zayn almost believes him, even though he really doesn’t. But he’s really hungry, and he will pay him back, so he takes the brownie.

“Okay.” He should go now, probably. Should go back outside and grab a taxi and get to the studio, because he’s probably late and people will yell. “I should, like—I’m going.”

“Bye!” The boy waves, and Zayn rolls his eyes as he turns and goes, leaving the scent of baked goods and home behind him.

He eats the brownie in the taxi He doesn’t know about any of that love bullshit, but it’s delicious.

***

It takes Zayn a week to go back. At first he wasn’t going to, but it hasn’t been that long since he was living hand to mouth enough that a few pounds made a difference in whether he and Louis were getting kicked out of their flat, and the guy had to be a student, working in a bakery. It’s not like Zayn doesn’t have money to spare. (And if he convinces himself a little bit because of those dimples and sleek curls and the way the guy had smiled, loud and open, he doesn’t let himself admit it).

So it’s exactly a week later, almost to the minute, that Zayn pulls on a hoodie that’ll at least cover his face a bit, and slips out of the flat he’s renting. He keeps his head down as he walks, careful not to make eye contact. It must work, because he gets to the bakery without being recognized, even if at one point he thinks he saw someone take a second look at him and open their mouths before he ducked into a crowd to lose them.

Unlike last time, the boy’s at the counter when the bell rings, but everything else is the same. It’s nice, that that’s true. That the chairs are still garishly flowery, and the same weird ukulele music is playing, and the same rich smell of baking things is in the air.  There’s also still no customers, but the guy waits until he’s finished writing something in a moleskin before he looks up.

His hair’s in a bun today, but he’s still got those bright eyes and full lips, and his shirt—patterned with what looks like flamingos—is gaping open to his waist again. Those eyes widen and those lips part as he catches sight of Zayn, but then he grins as he scrambles to his feet.

“You’re back!” he exclaims.

“Yeah.” Zayn rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. This is weird. He shouldn’t have come. “I, like, I wanted to pay you back.” This time he does have the cash, but the guy just waves it away when he holds it out. “No, really. ‘s fine.”

“I thought you would be back,” the boy informs him, instead of taking the money. So Zayn just sets it on the counter, more than a little awkwardly, he thinks. This is what happens when he’s just him, without the glamour that comes with fame. It’s just Zayn and his awkwardness.

“Yeah?”

“I had a feeling about it.” He smiles again, winks. “Or I was hoping.”

Zayn’s been flirted with by supermodels recently, by singers and actors and socialites, but there’s something about this that takes him aback. Something honest. “Right. Um. I guess I could—”

“I’m Harry, by the way,” The boy—Harry—says, before Zayn can make his excuses or at least figure out what to say. He holds out a hand, and Zayn takes it, wincing. If people didn’t recognize him immediately, his name’s distinctive enough it sometimes jump starts peoples’ memories.

“Zayn,” Zayn says, and takes Harry’s hand. He waits for the recognition—but there’s no change in Harry’s face as he shakes Zayn’s hand, just that same delighted grin.

“Zayn,” Harry echoes slowly, like he’s trying it out on his tongue. “I like it. I like Z names. There’s something buzzy about them.”

“Thanks?” Zayn tries. He’s not sure if his name being called buzzy should be a compliment or not, but the way Harry’s looking at him makes it seem like it is. “I like your name too.”

“Me too. People always ask if it’s short for Harold, though, and they get confused that it’s not. Just Harry.” Harry shrugs, like this is a great dilemma in his life. He still hasn’t let go of Zayn’s hand. It should be weird and intrusive—it certainly is when fans do that, or even interviewers—but it feels natural, somehow. Like it fits in this weird, empty bakery, where everything about the outside world’s put away like a dream Zayn’s woken up from.

“Nah, like, makes it unique, right?” Zayn replies. Harry beams.

“Exactly!”

“Although, not really, with Harry Potter,” Zayn muses.

Harry shrugs. “I dunno, I haven’t read them.”

Zayn’s jaw drops. “You haven’t read Harry Potter?”

“No, I was never really interested.”

“But it’s Harry Potter!” Zayn repeats. “Even if you didn’t want to, it’s, like, cultural knowledge now! Did you see the movies?”

“No, I don’t really like new movies. Especially not blockbusters.” Harry explains, like that’s normal.

Zayn shakes his head, stepping back. Harry’s hand slips out of his, and Zayn takes a second to maybe regret it. “I’m not sure if I can talk to you if you haven’t read Harry Potter.”

“Didn’t seem to be having any trouble before,” Harry retorts, and Zayn can’t help but laugh at that. Harry grins back, apparently proud of such an easy feat. Except, well, it isn’t easy, not out there. There, he’s too nervous to laugh. But it’s hard to be nervous with Harry smiling at him with those dimples deep in his cheeks.

“Still not sure. You probably don’t listen to the radio either,” he hazards.

“No, not usually. They don’t play the sort of music I’m into.”

“Which is…banjos?”

Harry nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! Among other things. I’m learning to play a mandolin. Or, sort of, my friend Niall, he plays the guitar, has for years, even if he does more sort of rock stuff. But he learned to play, and the mandolin isn’t that different from the guitar, so he’s sort of teaching me and I’m sort of figuring it out. What about you?”

Zayn’s still trying to parse the sentences before, because somehow Harry’s slow drawl made them sound connected even though he’s not sure they entirely were. So it takes him a second before he replies, “What?”

“What do you listen to?”

“Oh, um, R’n’B?” He narrows his eyes at Harry, but there’s still nothing. “You know, Drake, all that.”

“Yeah, I’ve never really liked that.” Harry shrugs apologetically.

“Well, I’ve never liked banjos,” Zayn retorts, and Harry laughs, unoffended.

***

After an hour of conversation, Zayn’s no longer amazed Harry didn’t know who he is. He’s never really met someone as ignorant of mainstream pop culture before, even if it’s weird to think of himself as mainstream. He just doesn’t seem to care, is more concerned with feelings and weird hippie things Zayn’s never heard of. He should be irritating, but he’s just…not. Zayn finds himself liking to listen to him, liking the slow drawl of his voice, even when he’s telling Zayn why kale smoothies are the best things ever.

“They sound disgusting.”

“Nothing’s disgusting if it’s made right,” Harry counters. “I bet I could make you a kale smoothie that would knock your socks off.”

Zayn instinctively glances down at his feet, but his combat boots are still on. When he looks up again, Harry’s grinning mischievously at him. “Don’t think my socks are going anywhere,” he retorts, “Tied on pretty good.”

“Really? There’s no way to get them off of you?” Harry’s lips curve, and there’s no mistaking the flirtation in that.

“Never said that,” Zayn replies, licking his lips because he can. Because it’s nice to flirt with this boy with no fear of repercussions or of it being in tabloids the next day. It’s like flirting with a boy back home, back when all that mattered was the heat between them.

“Great!” Harry claps his hand. “I’ll get on that smoothie, then.”

Zayn snorts, and Harry makes an innocent face, all big green eyes and cherub’s cheeks. “What? Did you think I meant something else?”

“Of course not.” Zayn smirks, the sort of knowing, come hither thing that’s never really failed him. “But I’m not trying a smoothie with anything healthy in it.”

“Zayn,” Harry sighs gustily. “The kale tastes good.”

“No kale.” Zayn shakes his head, leans over the counter of pastries. “So which of these unhealthy things has the most love in it?”

“Hm?”

“The most love. Like you said last time, how you pick one thing to put a lot of love in.” Zayn can feel himself starting to stammer as he says it, because it was just one sentence and the fact that he remembered it a week later and Harry didn’t meant it didn’t mean anything. Not that he had thought it meant anything. He knew better than that, because nothing meant anything here, not in this big city, this new life of his, where nothing ever stopped for a breath.

But then Harry laughs, a little sheepishly, and when Zayn glances up at him he’s tugging at his hair and his cheeks are a little flushed. “Oh, right, that. That was—yeah. Love.”

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” Harry pauses, then, “No, it’s just embarrassing.  But I was mainly just babbling. I do that, sometimes, because I figure it’s better to put things out there then to keep them in. But I must have sounded insane.”

“A little,” Zayn agrees, and he can’t help but laugh too, and the amused but resigned look on Harry’s face.

“It’s just, like, you took me by surprise.”

“A customer took you by surprise?”

“A sudden gorgeous customer took me by surprise, yeah,” Harry confirms. Zayn bites his lip. He’s been called gorgeous a lot, or variations thereof; he knows he’s attractive. But still, there’s something open in the look Harry’s giving him, like he’s not expecting anything; something nice about the honesty of the compliment that makes his stomach flip. “So, I don’t actually cheer bread on when it’s rising. I was just putting it in.”

Zayn can’t help his snort at that, because he’s a guy in his twenties. Harry takes a second, but then he echoes the snort. “But you still had a feeling I’d be back?”

“Yeah. Just a sense. You know, how you sometimes feel like you aren’t done with people? It felt like that.”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that.”

Harry shrugs, doesn’t seem to take Zayn’s skepticism as an insult. “Well, you are back.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees. The word seems to echo, seems to overwhelm the weird music, so the sounds from outside come out more. He’d barely remembered there was an outside, until now, that outside his face was on magazines and somewhere a radio was playing his song and girls were making fanart of him.

“This one,” Harry says, suddenly. Zayn focuses back in, and the outside falls away again, until it’s just the flowers and lace of the bakery and Harry’s bright smile.

“Hm?”

“This one.” Harry points to an almond croissant. “That’s the one with the most love in it.”

“I thought you said you didn’t do that.”

“I mean, not really. But that’s the one you should have today.”

“I don’t know—”

“Are you doubting my pastry skills?” Harry demands, his hands on his hips and his lip jutting out, and Zayn has to shake his head.

“Never.”

“Good.” Carefully, Harry puts the croissant onto a cream plate with a dainty lilac pattern around the edges, and pushes it across the counter to Zayn. “Here.”

It does look delicious. Zayn picks it up, takes a bite. The dough melts in his mouth, the almond and sugar melding into the perfect combination of sweet and tart and thick, and Zayn can’t help the pleased moan he lets out. He hasn’t had something this delicious to eat since he last had his mother’s cooking. For all he’s apparently rich now, he’s still been eating microwave meals and take-away, in the studio or the flat; even at events the food’s not like this. Maybe it is the love, Zayn doesn’t know, all he knows is he takes another bite, then licks the sugar from his lips, and fingers before he sets it down again.

“Okay, you’re right,” he admits.

“What?” Harry’s voice is raspier than it has been, and when Zayn glances over, distracted from the pastry, he’s staring at Zayn, his teeth digging into his lip. “Oh, I mean. Right. Yeah. See? Don’t doubt me. I know what pastries you need.”

“Clearly.” Zayn takes another bite. It’s just as good as the first. “Shit, I—”

The bell rings, and both of them jump. Harry recovers more quickly, his gaze focusing over Zayn’s shoulder at whoever came in, but Zayn ducks his head before he turns, sidestepping to get out of their way.

The new customer is young, probably a uni student, and Zayn recognizes the shirt she’s wearing as his new album art. Fuck, fuck, of course. But—he doesn’t think she’s seen him yet, or there’s been no squealing, just her greeting Harry at the register. And he can’t risk her seeing him, calling someone; can’t risk Harry finding out who he is, that he’s not just a normal boy you can flirt with over the counter. Or something. He just—she can’t find out he’s here.

So he waits until Harry’s got her full attention earnestly explaining the ingredients of the carrot cake, and then ducks out, his hood pulled low over his face.

***

This time, he doesn’t even last two day before he goes back. He stole the pastry, he realized as soon as he’d left. That was illegal, and wrong, and he doesn’t want people knowing Zayn Malik is a pastry thief. That probably would be worse for his image than if the drug rumors were true. And…well, he wants to go back. After a day of nonstop meetings and a photoshoot and the prep for his interview on Radio One tomorrow and the fitting for his suit for some event or another and then leaving the building to a barrage of cameras and yells—he just, he can’t spend another second here. He manages to lose the paparazzi around his flat, then doubles back to end up at the bakery.

It doesn’t even occur to him until he gets there that maybe Harry won’t be working. That he’s probably got class, or something, and presumably does things other than bake, and he’s not just there for Zayn’s convenience.

Still, Zayn’s not expecting the wave of relief that hits when he peeks in the windows to see an empty store and Harry at the counter. He’s paging through a book, his hair falling around his face, and if Zayn ever had a second to paint he might want to paint him, except he wouldn’t be able to do it justice.

Harry glances up when the bell rings. This time, he does look surprised, though not displeased, to see Zayn. “Hey!” he slides a metal bookmark into his book, then sets it somewhere underneath the register. “It’s you again!”

“Hi. Yeah. It’s me.”

“I thought I might have to wait another week for you to come in.”

“You knew I’d come back in?”

Harry wrinkles his nose like he’s thinking very hard, but then shakes his head. “Yeah. Like I said, we aren’t done.”  He smiles, dimpling, and it’s impossible not to smile back. “So, what brings you in?”

“Well, it—like, I seem to have a bad habit of running off without paying,” Zayn mutters. Harry’s not looking away from him, but he’s just smiling like he’s amused. He looks good, this time in a sweater that looks comfortable and oversized, and he looks like he’d be warm and comfortable. “So, um, I figured I should pay you back. Again.”

“Well, Fran appreciates it.” Harry takes the money Zayn hands him. His fingers brush over Harry’s palm, and Zayn can’t be imagining the heat that goes through him. “Or, I would, ‘cause I threw the money in.”

“Thanks.” Zayn rubs at his neck. It’s so stupid. He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t belong here anymore, not in these cute little cafes. “And, sorry. I just—like, she was—I had to go.”

“Okay.” Harry nods, like it makes total sense to have to run away in the middle of a flirtation because someone came in without paying. “Well, I’m glad you came back.”

And there’s that honesty again, almost overwhelming in how easy it is. How different it is, from Zayn’s life now. It feels like being home, talking to his sisters or Louis; it feels like that first time he met a girl’s eye and thought yes.

“Me too,” Zayn agrees, and curls his fingers over the edge of the counter. “So, which of these has the most love?”

“The éclair,” Harry declares, without hesitation, and Zayn has a moment to wonder if it’s coincidence that it’s the most phallic pastry in the place before he’s distracted by Harry’s telling him about the history of éclairs.

***

And so it goes. Zayn finds himself in the bakery most days he can get away. Sometimes it’s just for a few minutes, to give Harry a smile and a wave as he collects whichever pastry Harry declares has the most love in it before he has to run off to rehearsals or a meeting or recording. But sometimes it’s for hours, hours that seem to last forever in the slow drawl of Harry’s voice and the corners of his smiles.

He is a student, Zayn learns, studying architecture at university. Because he’s one of those incomprehensible morning people, most of his classes are early, so he works the bakery every weekday afternoon, probably to finance a farmer’s market addiction. It’s nice, Harry says, because the afternoons are quiet post-lunch, and it means he can read or listen to his weird music or mess around with new recipes, or do things that apparently don’t involve social media at all. Zayn’s almost certain of that, because even the day after there was the Twitter blowup over him being spotted coming out of Perrie Edward’s flat—after a very nice business breakfast about them going on tour together—Harry doesn’t look at him any differently, not like everyone else who seems to think that if they yell at him enough he’ll tell them who he’s sleeping with. He spends almost four hours in the bakery that day, pulling his hood up and turning away whenever someone comes in, just to escape the eyes and the calls from his PR people, yelling at him to be more discrete. He doesn’t know how many more ways he can say he had breakfast with a friend, really, but either way Harry doesn’t ask him about it. Harry just smiles at him, that long, lazy dimpling grin, and starts a rambling story about the adventure he and his friend Niall ended up on, and it’s like everything else disappears.

“What is it exactly that you do?” Harry asks, one day after Zayn finishes complaining about how he has to wake up early the next day for a meeting. “Sounds like you never stop working.”

This is what Zayn was dreading. He’s not going to lie, not to Harry who talks so much about honesty, but… “I work in music,” he says, biting his lip as he thinks how to phrase it. How to give the real things, without breaking this bubble he’s found. “Like, the industry. So there are meetings and events and shit I need to help at all the time.”

“Really?” Harry tilts his head curiously. “I’ve got a mate—Niall, I’ve told you about him—he wants to do something like that. You guys should talk, you could give him pointers.”

Zayn shrugs, rubs his neck. “I—like, it was mainly luck, for me.” Luck, and doing an open mic night in the right bar at the right time, and Louis’s insistent prodding to get him to call the man who gave him his number back. He still can’t believe he was that lucky, really. That they chose him, out of everyone better suited to it. “Don’t know how helpful I could be. And anyway,” he goes on, before Harry can ask more, “Like I said, it’s not that great. You’ve got to work mornings all the time, and I hate getting out of bed.”

“Your bed does sound comfortable,” Harry agrees, his voice just enough lower than usual for Zayn to think that maybe—probably—

“It is,” he confirms. That’s true, at least. The flat has that going for it at least. “Like, the rest of the place I’m staying is shit, but the bed’s good.”

“I’m sure it’s not shit,” Harry protests. He straightens, his eyebrows drawing together like he’s personally offended by that statement. “No building’s shit. It just means the space isn’t being utilized right.”

“Maybe, but feels like—I mean, it’s just not my style, exactly,” Zayn says, slowly. He can’t quite articulate it, how it’s main fault is just that it’s not his parents’ home, or the flat he shared with Louis. How it’s not his, not really. “It’s a place to stay, though.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yeah.” He rolls his eyes when Harry keeps looking at him, his lips pressed together like that fact concerns him. “I travel a lot anyway, so I’m not there that often, usually. It’s fine.” He needs Harry to stop looking at him like that, like he’s worried. Harry’s supposed to be the person who doesn’t worry about him, who doesn’t know how badly he fits into his life now. “Do you have a dream house? You must have one planned.”

“Well not exactly.” Harry gives him one more look, but then his face relaxes into a smile, clearly letting it go. “But I’ve got ideas, for if I ever had money. It’s beautiful, Zayn, a whole room for yoga…”

Zayn shakes his head and laughs, as Harry tells him about natural light and open spaces and the feel he wants. That didn’t go too badly. And he didn’t lie. Not really.

***

“So,” Harry says, one Wednesday, as he watches Zayn nibble on a blondie. He’s trying to eat it slow, to savor it; this is probably the first time in a week he’s had time to savor a meal. “You know how I value honesty, right?”

“You’ve mentioned it, yeah,” Zayn agrees, and concentrates on his blondie. Harry’s said things about it before, how important honesty is to him, and Zayn tries to turn the conversation every time. He hasn’t lied to Harry, not once. He’s told Harry where he grew up, about his parents and his sisters and the music he loves, but he hasn’t told Harry a lie. He just…might not have said everything that there is to be said about the music.

“Okay then.” Harry’s face is serious, and Zayn puts the blondie down, trying to figure out what it means. He hasn’t—no, if he knew, this wouldn’t be how he reacted. And there are no photographers. Zayn glances out the windows to be sure, but no one’s there. “So, are you ever going to ask me out?”

Zayn chokes on nothing at all. “What?”

Harry smirks a little as Zayn breathes in a few hacking breaths. That’ll be great to tell management—sorry, I can’t do the interview tomorrow, I’ve lost my voice via the pretty boy at the bakery, and not even in the fun way. “I’ve been waiting, but I wanted to say something. If you aren’t, that’s fine, but I think you will, so I want to have a timeframe.”

It takes Zayn a second to get his breath back, but when he does, he raises his eyebrows. “You think I will?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a feeling.” Harry’s dimples deepen, “But if it’s wrong, that’s fine. I don’t want—I mean, I didn’t mean to push you into anything. I just thought I should put it out there, in case you were nervous. Because I’ll say yes. When you do.”

“I…” He wants to. Last year, Zayn would have after the first week, after the first time Harry had called him gorgeous. He knows how to do this, usually. He’s introverted, but he knows what his smirk and his eyes do to people; he’s not inexperienced. But now…He doesn’t know how to do this, anymore. Doesn’t know what it means. How he’s supposed to do this. And if they do—the second they step outside, the second they hit a main street, everything would come out, and it wouldn’t be this anymore, wouldn’t be this place where everything goes Zayn’s pace. “I want to,” he admits, glancing down at his fingers. “I just…it’s complicated.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“In a relationship?”

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

Zayn purses his lips. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“Are you out? Because I’m all for exploring sexuality, but I don’t like being a secret.” For a second, Harry’s voice goes hard.

“More or less. It’s not that, anyway.”

“Okay then.” He can see Harry’s chest move as he shrugs, and he thinks from his voice that he’s smiling. “Then we can go at whatever pace you need. I just wanted you to know that.”

Zayn has to look up, to see Harry’s dimples, the way he seems lit up from the inside. He just looks happy, nothing else. His honesty is startling, sometimes, the emotional honesty more than anything. The way he just put himself out there for Zayn to see. It deserves reciprocation, Zayn knows. It deserves Zayn telling Harry everything, telling him why it’s complicated, why he can’t, why they can’t go out to a restaurant or a film or a museum.

But saying all of that would ruin this, would make it into the rest of his life, would make him be Zayn Malik, rising star. And he just—wants to be Zayn for a while longer.

So instead, “We could, like—” What can he do? What can he give to Harry? “I want…”

“Stop thinking so hard, you’re hurting yourself.” Harry laughs, and pushes gently at Zayn’s shoulder from across the counter. “How about we start with being on the same side of this?” He gestures to the glass counter.

“That’d work.” Zayn lets out a relieved breath. “So, does that mean you have a lower half? I assumed you stopped at the waist.”

“That’d put this in a much weirder light,” Harry retorts. “Although, I mean, I suppose I’d still have my mouth…” he rounds out those lips, and Zayn swallows. Those lips have been haunting his dreams a little bit recently, pink and plump and how they would look so good around his cock. “But,” Harry goes on, grinning like he knows exactly what he’d done, “I more meant you could come back here, though.”

“I’m allowed?”

Harry shrugs. “I trust you.”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Not that Zayn’s going to steal anything, not that he couldn’t probably buy this bakery, but—Harry doesn’t know that. A year ago, people were still giving him sidelong looks and calling him a terrorist, guarding their registers when he walked in with his sleeves rolled up.

“I could just be seducing you into letting me back there, so I can steal all Fran’s secret recipes,” he suggests, hesitating. Harry chuckles, the sound a rumble in his chest that’s far hotter than it should be, and opens the little gate.

“It occurred to me.”

“Yeah?” Zayn ducks in. It’s larger behind the counter than he expected, more room to move, especially with the opening to the kitchen giving an illusion of continuity, but it feels like they’re in a closet, like they’re hedged in until all Zayn can see is Harry, those broad shoulders and strong chest and narrow hips and how he smells of vanilla and sugar and would probably taste like it too.

“Well, face like yours,” Harry teases back. He pushes a stool towards Zayn, but Zayn shakes his head. He can’t stay long. He has to get to the studio in an hour, and who knows how long that’ll go. Harry shrugs, and sits down himself, folding long limbs up like a baby deer.

“But you decided not?”

“No,” Harry says. “I don’t think you could.”

“Why not?” Zayn objects. He shouldn’t be offended, but. Well. His career right now is seducing people, more or less. “I’m, like, mysterious.”

“No.” Harry shakes his head firmly. “No, you couldn’t. You’d feel too bad.” He’s got a point, Zayn has to admit. And he can’t argue, not when it feels so good to have someone say that, like they know him and not the image, like that matters. “And anyway. I told you, my feelings are usually right. And I don’t feel that you would.”

“Well…”

“Are you trying to make an excuse to get away from me?” Harry asks. Zayn shakes his head. He’s certainly not doing that. “Good.” He leans back against the counter, his hip cocked in a way Zayn thinks is unconscious but is certainly doing plenty of seducing. “Then let’s appreciate the first step.”

“It is a good one,” Zayn agrees. “So, like, this feeling about me. Would you say it was in your head, or…”

Harry laughs, his cheeks turning a little red. “Well, not only there.”

Zayn leaves for recording an hour later, and he’s smiling enough that he can’t resist pushing back his hood once he gets a little ways away from the bakery, just to soak in some of the sun. It’s not as warm as Harry’s smile, he decides, and whistles a tune he’s been working on as he hails a taxi for the studio.

***

There’s someone in the bakery when he gets there the next day. Zayn pauses outside, almost shocked. He knows other people go into the bakery, he’s been in there before when they come in, but something about them being there already—it feels like an invasion. Like they’re encroaching on even this safe space.

He can’t go in; they’ll look up when they see him and even if it looks like a middle-aged woman, who knows what music they like, or if they’ll recognize him. So he lingers by the window, hunching his shoulders and only stealing glances through the glass. Harry’s grinning at her, too, talking about something very enthusiastically, his hands waving in a way Zayn’s pretty sure means he’s waxing poetic about the cakes, which he does sometimes when he just tried out a new recipe. The woman’s nodding, but she’s shifting between her feet, clearly ready to go.

Finally, after too long according to both the woman and Zayn, Harry hands her one of the boxes they use for larger orders, and she hands him her card. Zayn ducks in at the same bell as her leaving, so she doesn’t have a chance to see him.

Harry’s turned away, stepped into the back to see to something, so Zayn gets to the counter before he’s noticed. There’s a magazine there, probably left by the woman. Zayn flips it open idly—and there’s his face, with a bunch of other celebrity candids, of him walking down the London streets yesterday with his head tipped up to the sun and his lips curved into a smile. Casual or catwalk? the byline under his picture reads. It’s actually nice, saying he could be on a catwalk even though he’s in whatever he threw on, which is better than the ones that try to dissect the meaning of every tattoo he’s ever gotten. He’s lucky, according to his agent; the media’s still happy with him and his “quiet, smoldering good looks.” He really doesn’t want to know what’ll happen when they turn against him.

“Zayn!” Zayn fumbles the magazine closed, as Harry comes back through the door, a tray of macaroons in his arms. “I didn’t know you were here!”

“Yeah, just snuck in.” For good measure, Zayn slides the magazine into the front pocket of his hoodie. Just in case Harry would be tempted to look through it, if he were bored. “How’re you?”

“Good.” Harry’s beaming, and Zayn’s stomach flips. “Better now.” He sets the tray down, then opens the gate to usher Zayn back. Zayn goes. It still feels too small back here, but in a good way, that means Harry feels too close. “Here, try this.”

“Hm?”

Harry picks up a macaroon from the tray, hands it to Zayn. It’s not the first time they’ve touched or anything, but it feels like Zayn’s skin burns where Harry’s fingers brush over it. “Try this. It’s new.”

Zayn takes a bite, feels it melt into his mouth. “Shit, that’s good. What’s in it?”

“Lemon.” Harry bounces on his feet. “I think citrus gives good vibes, you know? It’s such an upbeat taste.”

“As opposed to cherries, which are sad,” Zayn adds solemnly. Harry sticks out his tongue.

“No, obviously. Cherries are like chocolate, they’re sensual. I don’t know if there’s a sad fruit. Maybe blueberries?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Not blueberries. Blueberries taste like summer.” He takes another bite of the macaroon, but he’s tasting blueberries now. “Blueberry pies and ice cream.”

“Like summer,” Harry echoes, glancing outside, where the sun’s just losing that harsh quality particular to winter. His head cocks. “Why?”

“That’s, like, when they’re in season, yeah?”

Harry shakes his head, his curls brushing across his cheek. “I don’t think that means anything. Apples are a fall fruit, but I don’t think they always taste like fall. They taste like warmth.”

Zayn shrugs. “My mum makes blueberry pies in the summer. It’d be our summer treat.” Zayn sighs, the taste still lingering on his lips. “She’d make it for the big family things, when all of us’d be around, all my aunties and uncles and cousins, and we’d eat until my lips were purple.” He’d lie in the sun afterwards, as his sisters and cousins played and the adults talked, his eyes closed and children’s laughter and the buzz of mosquitos in the air. 

“That sounds lovely,” Harry says. His gaze is dreamy too. “Are you going to manage to get back this summer for that?”

This summer, it sounds like Zayn might be on tour, or in LA. The chances of him getting a chance to go back home are slim to none, or so he thinks. He’s not even sure of that.

“I don’t know. Probably not.” Zayn presses his lips together, but tries to sound resigned. “Work stuff, you know. Not sure I can get away.”

“Can’t you take a holiday?”

“That’s…complicated.” Zayn rubs at his ear, then shakes his head to clear it. “So, if citrus is happy, and cherry is sensual, what’s banana?”

“Banana is the best,” Harry informs him seriously, and Zayn laughs, the taste of blueberry receding. “No, really!” Harry insists. “Bananas are the best. They’re easily transportable, they keep you from having cramps, and they’re delicious. Try to find me another fruit like that.”

“Wouldn’t dare, babe,” Zayn retorts. He doesn’t realize why Harry’s smile changes, goes a little surprised and a little pleased, until he replays the sentence. “Oh, sorry, I just—it’s like, something I say—”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Harry’s still so bright, and he reaches out and pats Zayn’s thigh. “You can call me all the pet names you want.”

“Okay, sugarpuff,” Zayn shoots back, and Harry’s giggles fill up the room.

***

“Come here!” Harry whispers, as soon as Zayn enters the bakery two days later. Zayn glances around, but he’d already checked from outside, and there’s no one there, so he’s not entirely sure why Harry’s sounding so secretive.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Harry takes a second to grin before his face contracts into something that’s probably supposed to look sneaky but is far too adorable for that. “Come on!” he hisses again, opening the gate.

It’s…Zayn probably shouldn’t go, if Harry’s acting weird like this. Maybe there’s a cameraman in back, maybe he’s trying to get something…

Harry sighs, and rolls his eyes again. “It’s not actually really bad, you don’t have to do your thing where you check for enemies in every room. Come on!” He widens his eyes into a devastating puppy dog pout. “Please?”

Zayn’s pretty sure no one’s ever said no to Harry when he looked like that, and Zayn’s never exactly been able to stand up to anyone’s pout, as his sisters well know, so he does, following Harry back through the gate—then through the lace curtain that leads to the kitchen.

The kitchen’s a far cry from the old lady décor of the bakery. It’s sleeker, if still a bit stained and dented, like everything’s well used, and there are big steel ovens and cabinets of a lightly stained wood. There are still flowery tiles everywhere, though, so Zayn supposes it fits. It’s not exactly neat back here, but it’s tidy, like everything has its place. It reminds Zayn of his mum’s kitchen in the same way the smell outside does—it’s not at all the same, but it feels the same, has the same sort of air to it. The same aura, Harry would probably say.

“Am I allowed back here?”

Harry heaves a sigh, like he’s so put upon. “Why do you think we’re whispering, Zayn?” he demands, and beckons Zayn over to a counter near the ovens. He motions for Zayn to stop, then grabs an oven mitt from a hook in the shape of a daisy and slides it on before opening the lower oven. Zayn, admittedly, may look more at how his tight jeans outline his arse more than what he’s doing in the oven, so he really is surprised when Harry turns around, a pie pan in his hands.

“What?”

“It’s a pie!” Harry gestures with it, then seems to notice that won’t really do anything, so he puts it down on the counter and leans down again to pull paper plates out of a cupboard. “A blueberry pie.”

Zayn blinks. “You made me a pie?”

“Well, you said you wouldn’t get any this summer, so, yeah. I made you a pie.” Harry shrugs, like it’s nothing, like everyone would do something like that, then very carefully cuts a piece and plates it. “I know the berries aren’t in season, and it won’t be like your mum’s probably, but….”

“You made me a pie,” Zayn repeats. He takes the plate and the fork Harry hands him almost blindly. It’s…he doesn’t even know what. It’s just everything.

“Try it!” Harry urges, laughing. “Maybe it’ll be a bit of summer.”

Zayn can’t help but laugh too, then takes a bite. It doesn’t taste like his mum’s—if he’s honest, it’s not as good—but it still tastes like summer, and when he closes his eyes he can almost believe he’s home, with the cozy warmth of the kitchen almost pretending to be the sun. He can almost believe that it’s last year, that the most he had to deal with was his sisters stealing his shit or if Louis was going to remember to buy milk, that it’s before fame and money and the go go go.

“Harry,” he breathes, as he opens his eyes again. Harry’s gotten closer, somehow, and his eyes are big and his lips are so plush and he made Zayn a pie just to give him a taste of home, even though he had no reason too, and his gaze is going between Zayn’s eyes and his lips where the blueberry’s stained them purple. Zayn just—goes with it. He sets the plate down, and reaches out, his hand settling behind Harry’s neck and pulling him in. Harry doesn’t question, doesn’t even make a noise, just lets Zayn pull him in until their lips meet.

He tastes like honey and vanilla, and his lips are warm and smooth as they move against Zayn’s. One of his hands braces on the counter, the other’s on Zayn’s cheek, big enough that it feels like it’s engulfing Zayn, that Zayn’s fingers tighten as he nips at Harry’s lip until Harry’s mouth opens and their tongues can slide together. Harry’s body is broad and strong pressed against Zayn, all this breadth Zayn wants to explore.

Zayn doesn’t know how long they kiss, how long he’s caught in that dream, but when they separate they don’t really, Zayn keeping their foreheads pressed together and Harry’s hand still on his face, this thumb tracing Zayn’s cheekbone. This close, Zayn can see how Harry’s smiling, how deep his dimples go, all the little imperfect pores on his skin that give him irrepressible character.

“If I asked you to have dinner tomorrow night, would that be too fast?” Harry asks, his voice rough in the silence of the room.

“No.” Zayn’s still caught in the dream, in how this feels so easy and simple, how well they fit together like this.

“Great!” Harry’s smile grows until it’s taken up his whole face, basically. “Come to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Yeah.” His mind’s catching up to him, though. It never goes away too long. “I mean, I can’t—”

“Come to mine,” Harry suggests. His hand doesn’t drop, even if Zayn’s letting go. He has to. He can’t.

Zayn has to smirk. “Angling for something?”

“If we end up having sex, that’d be good. But not’s good too.” Harry’s thumb runs down Zayn’s cheek, brushes over the corner of his lips. “I just want to spend more time with you.”

It’s so simple, said like that. So simple and easy and like it’s supposed to be, no NDAs or tabloids, just two people who want each other, who like each other. “Yeah,” Zayn agrees, and has to taste Harry’s lips again. “Yeah, okay.”

“Six?”

“I—” He has more recording and rehearsals and a meeting about his new album art. “Shit, I don’t think I’m free until eight, we can—”

“Eight then.” Harry cuts him off, “I—” The bell rings, and Harry jumps. But it’s Zayn’s hand that drops.

“Think you have a customer, babe.”

“So annoying, customers,” Harry whines, wrinkling his nose. “If I go, are you going to pull a ninja thing and disappear again?”

“I—” Zayn checks his watch. He has more time. “No, I’m going to have more pie,” he decides, and picks the plate back up, even as he edges into a corner where he’s certain no one from outside will be able to see in. “I’ll be here.”

“You better. I want praise on that pie,” Harry warns, and Zayn watches him walk away without even pretending he’s not ogling his arse.

***

Zayn gets out of his meeting by 7:30. It was a dressy meeting, so he probably doesn’t have to go the flat and change first. But maybe he should, because he doesn’t want Harry to think he’s wearing a suit for him, because that’s intimidating? But he doesn’t have time to go back to the flat. For a second, he thinks about cancelling, about cutting his losses now before things go as wrong as he knows they’re going to—but then someone almost knocks him over on the street, and it’s like all of London comes rushing in, big and foreign and loud. He doesn’t want to cancel. And he’d very specifically told Louis about tonight so Louis could mock him if he did cancel, even if he left out the part where he’s not entirely telling Harry everything. He’s not lying to him. It’s okay.

So he ducks into a taxi and gives him the address, then keeps his face turned away from the window as it pulls out. He doesn’t see anyone following it or keeping track, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still trot quickly from the taxi to the door, through a neighborhood that’s a lot more familiar than the one he’s staying in now. There are some kids on the street and it’s a little dirty and a lot less shiny.

He rings the bell once, glancing around. He doesn’t have his normal hood, and his suit stands out here; he knows it’s only a matter of time before someone sees him. There’s a group of guys in their late teens idling at the corner that are just about the picture of his fans. He rings the bell again.

“I’m coming!” Harry’s voice from calls from inside. Zayn turns, so he’s facing the door, and tries to hunch a little, as the boys draw nearer. “And I’m here.”

Harry grins as he pulls open the door. For a second, Zayn forgets about the threat of the boys, of how if they spot him now he’s really screwed, in the face of Harry grinning at him, all dimples and eyes and a flowing linen shirt that’s open to his navel tucked into his usual tight jeans. He’s barefoot, here in his own home, and somehow that’s charming, even if Zayn’s never really found feet particularly charming before.

“Hey,” Zayn breathes. Then he remembers where he is, and ducks inside, pushing past Harry a little bit to get inside the door to the stairwell. Harry steps back so he can get in, then closes the door. He’s still looking at Zayn, but the grin has faded a little. “I’m not late or anything, am I?”

“No, no. Well, yes.” Harry laughs a little, pushes back hair that’s loose today, long rich curls down to his shoulders that Zayn can’t help but want to pull. “But that’s fine. You just look really nice in a suit.”

“What? Oh.” Zayn glances down at himself, and gives Harry his best sheepish shrug. “I had to come right from a meeting, I didn’t—you look great too.” He interrupts himself. That’s it. That’s how to do this. How normal people do this.

“Thanks.” Harry gestures up the stairs with a flourish. “Come on up!”

Harry’s flat is very much what Zayn expected it to be, honestly. It’s got a lot of old, homely furniture, throw blankets in tribal print over a mismatched sofa. There are candles everywhere, a few of which are lit; a set of chimes is hanging by the windows. A yoga mat’s rolled up in the corner, under big windows that Zayn’s sure light everything up when the sun’s out.

“Do you want something to drink?” Harry asks, as they come in. “I’ve got wine, beer…”

“Whatever’s easy.”

“I’ll get us some wine, then.”

He heads through the living room to the kitchen that’s separated by half a wall, so Zayn can see as he stirs something on the stove. It leaves Zayn to look through the bookshelves on one wall. A lot of the space is taken up with records and knickknacks that have absolutely no coherence except that they’re all a little battered, and clearly a lot loved. There are pictures too, of Harry with random people, with his friends and family. He was an adorable kid, Zayn notices.

It’s so full, almost messy with how much stuff there is, clearly accumulated over time with some sort of care, even if no sort of coherence. It’s so different from the flat Zayn’s in now, all empty with its expensive location and furniture and none of Zayn’s stuff in it, too cold and metallic by half. It’s not like he spends any time there anyway. Not like here, where there’s an empty ceramic mug on a table made of driftwood and a little nest of blankets on one end of the sofa, so clearly lived in that even Zayn can feel it.

“Here you go.” Harry comes back in, holding two mason jars. The wine’s a rich, dark red in them, and he hands one over with the same sort of flourish he uses on the pastries he feeds Zayn in the bakery. “Dinner’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Sounds good.” He can’t look away from Harry, from the way the candles are throwing light on his chest, how his hair is falling a little into his face. So instead, he takes a sip of the wine. It’s of middling quality, which is something Zayn never thought he’d be able to tell at all. It still tastes better than anything he’s had at management parties. But as he drinks, it feels like the silence is stretching on, all that awkward silence that made management decide mysterious was the adjective they were going for. “So, um, what’re we having?”

“Well. I was going to make a sort of curry, but then I realized that might not be a good idea.”

Zayn’s eyebrows rise. “Why?”

“Well, you said your mom made curries. And I already made a pie that wasn’t as good as your mum’s. I figured risking it wasn’t a good move if I’m trying to impress you.”

“Are you trying to impress me?” Zayn asks, but whether it’s from the wine or Harry, something warm’s rising in him, something that he’s not sure he’s felt yet in London since Louis left after that first week.

“Well, I’m not wearing a suit. I have to do something.”

“You didn’t know I’d be wearing a suit.”

“You’re still gorgeous, though.”

Zayn takes a hurried sip of his wine. He still can’t figure out why he can smile and nod when people talk about his looks in the media, but Harry’s compliments bring him low.

“And I am seducing you,” Harry goes, on. Zayn manages not to choke on his wine, lets his lips fall open a little and his gaze go hot.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s eyes settle on his lips for a second, then go back up. “But, it’s a long game, so now we’re doing small talk and wine. I’d have made some sort of appetizer, but classes were bad.”

“How?” Zayn asks, and sits down on the arm of the sofa. Harry leans against the wall, and Zayn listens and drinks his wine as Harry tells him about his classes and his friends and the bakery, the sort of day Zayn remembers having,

Or, well, the beginning of the day, because he’s barely gotten to eleven when the timer goes off. “Oh! That’s supper!” He bounces to his feet, and Zayn gets up too, following him to the table that’s been set nicely, with placemats of woven straw and hand-thrown plates and cloth napkins. He hovers as Harry pulls a casserole out of the oven, then brings it to the table, then goes back for a salad.

Zayn can’t resist holding Harry’s chair out for him when he comes back, and he’s rewarded by Harry’s bright grin and the way his cheeks go a little redder.

“Such a gentleman,” Harry teases, but he busies himself serving them while Zayn sits down across from him.

Dinner’s delicious, and the more so because Zayn can’t remember the last time he had a real homemade dinner. Harry mainly cooks for himself, he explains, because he’s vegetarian verging on vegan and that gets expensive if you eat out. And he likes to cook, when he has time. He’s horrified when Zayn admits he rarely has time to cook, but Zayn changes the subject before he can ask just why Zayn doesn’t have time.

It’s nice, just to talk, to not think about where the cameras might be or who’s looking or where he has to be next. Something about Harry just slows things down, whether it’s how slow he talks or the way his smiles grow or just how he thinks, and here, in his space, it’s easy to fall into that. Into that space where everything can just flow. The wine is also probably helping, Zayn can admit, but more it’s just Harry, who doesn’t watch TV but went all around the UK WWOOFing, who grew up playing with lambs when Zayn was finding new stretches of wall to spray paint.

Somehow, after a while, they’ve made their way back to the living room. Zayn’s jar of wine is full again, but he’s set it down on the table. He doesn’t need to drink more, not when this whole interlude feels like a dream, set apart from the reality—or lack thereof—of his life. He doesn’t think he’s met anyone who’s more real than Harry, even if it’s a weird sort of reality that includes auras and meditation and some sort of world spirit Zayn doesn’t really follow. But he doesn’t need to follow it, when he’s settled into the sofa, more or less eaten by it because it’s that kind of sofa, and Harry is sitting at the other end, his lips stained pink with the wine.

“So,” Zayn says, as a silence settles over them with the end of Harry’s last story. He licks at his lip, more a nervous gesture than anything, but Harry watches the motion, and Zayn can’t help but smile. This is so easy. This he knows. This, and the heat settling in his stomach, and how much he wants to taste the wine on Harry’s lips. “When does the seduction start?”

“What makes you think it hasn’t?” Harry retorts, grinning himself. “Got you drunk didn’t I?”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Good, because consent is important.” Harry nods knowledgably. “And you can’t really consent when you’re drunk, no matter what, so—”

“Harry,” Zayn interrupts. “Are you going to kiss me, or not?”

Harry chuckles, low and deep in his throat. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m still seducing you.”

It’s been longer than Zayn cares to think about, really, because ever since—well, everything—it’s been easier just not to deal with this. But now Harry’s so there, and Zayn’s comfortable somewhere that’s not on stage or in the studio for the first time in what feels like forever. “Come here,” Zayn says, and he means it to be a question, sort of, but it comes out more of an order, or maybe a growl.

He can see Harry swallow, then he’s setting down his own jar, and he’s climbing over the sofa until he’s straddling Zayn’s thighs, and one of Zayn’s hands can settle on the back of his neck, bring him down so they’re kissing again.

And god, Harry still tastes so good, and it’s so good, the kiss, the way Harry isn’t coy, doesn’t pretend he wants anything but what he does, how he opens his mouth immediately and lets Zayn slide his tongue in, how he presses down and moans when Zayn’s other hand finds its way to his arse.

Zayn doesn’t know how long they kiss, either, but he knows that he’s well on his way to hard just from it and from Harry squirming in his lap by the time Harry pulls away from Zayn’s lips on his neck. “Zayn,” he pants, and his eyes are more black than green, his cheeks flushed red, his hair messy from Zayn’s hands. “I don’t—if this is all you want, that’s fine, it is, but I—”

Zayn smiles, and pushes Harry’s hair out of his face. “Where’s your bed?” he asks, instead, and Harry’s breath stutters.

“I—yeah. Okay. Good.” He climbs off of Zayn, then reaches down to help Zayn to his feet. Their hands stay interlocked as Harry leads him down the hall, to a room separated from the main room by a bead curtain rather than a door. Zayn would be amused by it, if he wasn’t focused on where their fingers were interlaced, by the ache of his cock, but how Harry’s shoulders look in his shirt.

Zayn has a chance for a quick glance around the room—fairly tidy except for some clothes and books strewn around, a mandolin in the corner, a dreamcatcher on the foot of the bed—before he focuses on Harry again, who’s finished making a circle of the room, lighting candles.

“So, um, still. Whatever you want. Whatever feels right,” he mutters. The lights are off, but the candles are throwing shadows on his white shirt, on the pale skin of his chest and face, and Zayn wants to trace them. “We—”

Zayn steps forward, cuts him off with another kiss, tasting his lips and his jaw and his neck. Harry moans when Zayn’s stubble scrapes over his cheek, and his hands are everywhere, up and down Zayn’s back, over his arse and in his hair, so fucking big.

There aren’t many buttons for Zayn to undo on Harry’s shirt, so it’s barely the work of a minute, then that’s on the floor and Zayn can trace the planes of his abs with his fingers, but—“Bed,” he decides, and pushes Harry gently in that direction. Harry laughs, and falls down onto the bed obediently.

“Bossy, aren’t you?”

“Do you mind?” Zayn asks. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer, because he can see the bulge in Harry’s jeans, and he knows how Harry’s looking at him from the bed, propped up on his elbows.

“No—definitely not,” Harry adds, as Zayn climbs on top of him, dragging a tongue down from his throat to his belly button. “No, fucking hell, whatever—” He cuts himself off with a groan when Zayn licks at his nipple, arching into Zayn’s touch. “God, Zayn, please, I, please.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees hoarsely. He sits back just to strip off his own shirt, and Harry’s eyes scrape over him, eyes wide as he takes in the tattoos, probably. He reaches out, his fingers tracing over the wings on Zayn’s chest, up to the script on his collar, down the girl on his arm and then to the gun on his side.

“Holy shit. Wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’ve got layers.”

“Clearly.” Harry’s hands keep going lower, until they’re on his arse, squeezing. “Come here and show me more.”

“Thought I was the bossy one,” Zayn retorts, but he kisses him again, then goes back to his nipples until Harry’s moaning and panting under him, his fingers scraping at Zayn’s back as Zayn moves lower, nibbling at the ink on Harry’s skin until he’s at his jeans.

It’s quick work to open his jeans, longer to tug them and his pants down, because they’re that tight, and because Harry’s trying to help but it’s not really working, given how he’s squirming, but finally they’re gone, and Zayn can admire all of Harry, the broad shoulders and strong thighs and his cock, fuck. It’s longer than Zayn’s, though maybe not as thick, and Zayn can’t help licking his lips. He just—he wants Harry. He wants to make Harry feel good, as good as Harry makes him feel just by existing, by giving him this. He wants to tell Harry that, even though he can’t, so instead he leans down and licks up the shaft, his hand wrapping around the base.

Harry whines, his hips arching until Zayn gets a hand on him to hold him down. He doesn’t do it again, just grabs at the covers of the bed as Zayn works at his cock, kissing and licking and sucking until Harry’s swearing at him.

“Please, Zayn,” he gets out in between inarticulate sounds that have Zayn smiling to himself, “Please, gonna come—”

“So you don’t want me to fuck you?”

It might have been too far—Zayn’s sure it is, the second after he says it, it’s too far for their first date, even if they did just fall into bed together, even if he thinks maybe this is something that could last, and now Harry’ll think he’s moving too fast and he’s ruined everything—but Harry just sort of keens and grabs at him blindly, ending up in his hair. He pulls until Zayn has to move up his body, until he can kiss Zayn again, slow and deep and Zayn think if he doesn’t fuck Harry soon, or get off somehow, he’s going to explode. “Yes please,” Harry breathes into Zayn’s mouth, and Zayn has to press another quick kiss to his lips before he answers.

“So polite.”

“It always pays to be polite, Zayn,” Harry replies, which means Zayn has to grind their hips together to get Harry to spit out, “Okay god damn it please.”

“Where’s—”

“Bedside table,” Harry says, flailing a little in that direction, “Second drawer, come on.”

“Patience,” Zayn warns, and retrieves the lube and condom. “All fours okay?”

“Yeah.” Harry rolls over, and that’s a whole new view to admire, so Zayn gets a little distracted watching how his back moves when he kisses it, how it arches when he licks down his spine. “Zayn.”

“Okay.” Zayn nudges Harry’s legs apart, pours the lube on his hand. Harry’s so wonderfully responsive, desperate and loud, babbling about please and more and now as Zayn opens him up. He could probably make him come just like this, Zayn thinks, with his fingers in him and maybe a hand on his cock, or maybe him just rutting against the sheets, but right now he needs to be in him, now. “You good?” he asks, as he curves three fingers to brush Harry’s prostate and Harry’s hips jerk.

“Yeah, fuck, now, please,” Harry moans. “Zayn, want you, please, come on—”

It’s heady, that need, the need that’s echoing in Zayn, that he’s not asking for anything but Zayn and his body, and when Zayn rolls on a condom and pushes slowly into him he has to stop for a second, to get his breath. Harry feels so good, hot and tight around him, and Zayn thrusts in and out, as Harry keeps talking until Zayn has to tilt his head back for a kiss to shut him up, even as he wraps a hand around his cock too.

It’s forever and it’s no time at all, until Harry’s panting out that he’s going to come please Zayn harder now—then he comes, over Zayn’s hand, and he’s clenching around Zayn and Zayn can feel how his breath stutters and he’s coming too, waves and waves before he slumps down on Harry’s back.

After, he pulls out and throws the condom into the wastebasket Harry directs him to, then hesitates for a second. This is where he either climbs back into bed to cuddle, or he leaves. He’s—if it was like everything else, he’d leave. He’d get out the NDA and make excuses and leave, because it hasn’t meant anything, not since the last time he’d just caught someone’s eye across a room, and that had been more than a year ago.

But Harry smiles up at him, sleepy and warm. “I like to cuddle,” he states. And it is a statement, not a request or a question. “If you want to come cuddle with me, I’d like that. If not, I can lend you something to wear so you don’t have to put on your suit again.”

How is Harry so good at this? At letting all the air out of Zayn, in the best way. “I like to cuddle too,” he admits, climbing back onto the bed. Harry mumbles something, then maneuvers them so they’re under the covers together, facing each other.

“So, um. You know my thing about honesty?” Harry asks. Zayn nods. Shit. He’s going to get called out, Harry knows, this was all some sort of ruse—except Harry doesn’t do ruses. Harry’s as honest as he expects other people to be. “Okay. So, I just want to say, we should talk. About expectations.”

“Like—”

“I like you. A lot,” Harry says, simply. “And I think this could be good, so I would like to try it. If you want to be more casual at first, be non-exclusive, you need to tell me now. It’ll be okay. But I need to know. It’s easier if I know.”

Zayn can feel his cheeks warm, but god, this is amazing, and he tries to wiggle closer. “Um, no. I mean, I’m not good with casual? I’d like—yeah. Exclusive.”

“Articulate,” Harry teases, but he’s grinning too, his dimples deep in his cheeks, and he presses a kiss to Zayn’s lips before he rolls over and pulls Zayn’s arm over his waist. “I like to be the little spoon, too.”

“That’s fine.” Harry’s so warm, and it feels so nice here like this, wrapped around Harry. Like nothing exists outside of them.

“Okay. I need a nap before round two.”

“There’s going to be round two?”

“Oh.” Harry wriggles his arse a little, so it rubs against Zayn’s cock, and both Zayn and his cock take a bit of an interest, even if he wouldn’t mind a nap either. “There’s a round two. I haven’t even shown you anything I learned at yoga yet.”

It takes Zayn a little longer than usual to drift off after that, but it turns out it’s totally worth it.

***

Zayn knows he needs to tell Harry. He does. If for no other reason than that Zayn’s not actually very good at hiding what he’s thinking. He’s quite aware that he’s working on borrowed time every time he has to stop Harry from leaving marks, or when he argues Harry out of going out for dates, or has to make plans for the next few months when he doesn’t even know what country he’s going to be in.

It’s just—it’s such good borrowed time. It’s so nice to wake up in Harry’s bed, warm and cozy with Harry cuddled into him, because Harry runs cold and he likes to leech off of Zayn’s body heat. It’s nice to drink the tea Harry makes him in bed, before he has to run off to meetings. It’s nice to have something to look forward to after long hours in the studio, where he can drag himself back to Harry’s flat, with its lived in feel, and do his best to make dinner while Harry finishes his homework before he takes over, kicking Zayn out of the kitchen because Harry never has any of the ingredients he’s used to. It might be borrowed time, but Zayn never wants to give it back. He’s happy. Happy for the first time in longer than he’d thought. He has his music and he has Harry, and that’s what he needs. And if even Louis is skeptical whenever he talks on the phone, well. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“Here, try this,” Harry says, a month after that first night. Zayn’s in the bakery, blatantly breaking health codes by sitting on the counter while Harry fusses with icing brownies next to him. Next to the studio and Harry’s bed, the kitchen is Zayn’s favorite place in London, probably because it doesn’t have windows and has controlled access and also has Harry. Whenever Zayn gets a chance, he sits back here to read or mess around with songs. And it’s not a lie when he tells Harry it’s because he likes his privacy.

Right now, though, he’s happy not to have his privacy, because he likes watching Harry work too. How he concentrates so much on each pastry, how his brow furrows when he measures things, how the muscles in his arms work when he kneads dough. It’s as good as when he’s working on a sketch for an architecture class, and he’s concentrating hard and wrinkling his nose and Zayn has to restrain himself from breaking that concentration by kissing the frown away. He’s got a fifty-fifty record of that restraint, which he thinks is pretty good. He’s better at it in the bakery, because health codes and Harry’s job and all, but it’s not easy when Harry’s hair has started to escape its ponytail to frizz around his face and his cheeks are flushed with the oven’s heat.

“What?”

“Try this.” Harry swirls some icing on a spoon, then holds it out. “I need a second opinion.”

Zayn leans forward to sample. He pulls some off of the spoon, rolls it around his mouth, then swallows, humming thoughtfully. “’s good,” he finally concludes.

“You sure?” Harry demands. “I think it needs more vanilla.”

“It’s good, Harry.” Just to prove it, he takes another sample, scraping the last of it off the spoon. “Perfect.”

“You don’t have to stay that just because you’re my boyfriend.”

“I’m not. I’m saying that because it’s good.” Zayn grins. Boyfriend. He still likes hearing it. “Did it have the most love today?”

“Nah, think that was the banana muffins.” But Harry grins too, and sets down the spoon to pick up the icer again.

“You and your bananas.”

“Don’t diss the bananas, Zayn. I love the more than you.”

“I know,” Zayn agrees, mock-mournfully. “It’s so painful, watching how much you love those…bananas.”

Harry looks up at that, and his grin is a smirk now, his look unabashedly hungry.

“I do love my bananas,” he agrees, and nudges Zayn’s knees farther apart so he can stand between them. Zayn’s taller, on the counter like this, so it’s easy to see when Harry’s gaze flicks up and down Zayn. “But then there’s you sitting here…”

“Well, I’m no banana.”

“No, it’s true.” Zayn’s hands have found their way to Harry’s waist, and he grins as Harry’s dimples show. “You’re a lot better looking.”

“Better looking than a banana? I’m flattered,” Zayn teases, and Harry swats at his hair in retaliation.

“Shut up. It’s not fair. You’re never less than gorgeous.”

“Complaining?”

“Not even a little.” He leans in for a kiss, and Zayn tilts his head down to meet him. But the first kiss is soft, just to his lips, then Harry pulls back a second. “You’re right. It is good.”

“Harry.”

“But maybe that’s just because you’re so sweet,” Harry adds, and Zayn has to roll his eyes and kiss him again, obviously, because that was too corny of a line to even formulate a response to.

It’s the ringing in his pocket that breaks them up. Harry lets go of Zayn’s face, reluctantly enough that it’s flattering, and Zayn pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s the alarm he set, because he’s found that if he doesn’t set alarms for when he has to get to a meeting or an interview he’s going to forget. It’s an interview, this time, which immediately sets his pulse racing for a very different reason than the boy still between his legs. He hates interviews. Nothing he ever says comes out right, and then people call him cold and rude.

But, “I’ve got to go,” he mutters, dropping his head onto Harry’s shoulder. He smells like vanilla and bread and sugar.

Harry nods, but he doesn’t move away. “Okay.”

“I really have to.”

“Okay.”

Zayn sighs, and lifts his head. Harry doesn’t bother averting his gaze, the heat and the affection in it. “I really don’t want to,” he says, like that’s an excuse.

“Why not?” Harry asks. He steps away, so Zayn can hop off the counter, and go find his bag.

“I just—there are parts of my job I love, and parts I don’t, you know?” Zayn says. He’s glad he’s got his back to Harry as he puts the book he’d been flipping through back in. “And this is one of the ones I don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” He really sounds sorry, too. It’s nice—Louis laughs at him when he complains about being famous, because it is first world problems, he knows—but still. It dampens the warmth in Zayn’s gut that the kissing had started. Harry doesn’t know. Doesn’t know why that’s a silly thing to say. “Does the good stuff make it worth it?”

Zayn thinks of what it feels like to be in that studio. To hear himself on the radio. To be on a stage, with hundreds of people echoing his words back at him. To see the art people make of him, for no reason but they want to. “Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, it is.”

“Well than. Balance, see? Told you it’s everywhere.”

“This isn’t the same as karma,” Zayn argues, turning.

“It’s similar.” Harry glances at him, then drops his head, giggling.

“What?”

“You’ve got…” he gestures to Zayn’s face. Zayn glances in the over door, which works well enough as a mirror. He has streaks of flour down the side of his face, like Harry’s hands are still there.

“Brat,” Zayn throws at Harry, then grabs the rag Harry hands him to brush it off.

“Not my fault I like seeing how mussed I can make you,” Harry shoots back. “You’re always so put together. I have to try.”

“You’re lucky I’ve got to leave, or we’d be in a flour war you’d regret,” Zayn warns, but he really does have to go because his PR team will kill him if he’s late to this interview, and he’ll need to do a few circles to make sure no one sees where he’s come out of. “Are you—I mean, if you have a lot to do tonight—or I can—”

“I’d love it if you stayed over,” Harry interrupts him, gently. “You don’t have to ask.”

Zayn shrugs. “It’s your space. Sure I do.”

“Well, you make it better.” Harry grins, and grabs at Zayn’s hips before he can leave, dragging him back in. “That’s what the flat was missing. A Zayn.”

“I’m—like, that’s good.” Zayn doesn’t have the words to tell him everything else. He can’t tell him everything else, about how much it means to Zayn to have that place to stay, that he has a place where he’s just Zayn, where he can relax and not have to worry about pressure or cameras or anything, where he can be normal. “I like being there.”

“There. Balance.” Harry kisses him, quick, then pokes at his nose with a flour covered hand. “I have homework, but come over when you’re done if I’m off.”

“Are you sure?” Zayn has to ask, though. “Like—you’ve stayed in the last week with me. If you want to go out, see your friends, I can just go to mine.”

“Do you want to go to yours?”

Zayn shakes his head. He really, really doesn’t.

“Then come to mine.” Harry gives his arse a quick squeeze, then lets go. “If I wanted to do something, I’d tell you. It’s what’s so nice about honesty. Makes everything simple.”

“Okay, I’ll see you later, then.” Still, Zayn lingers, in the warmth here. “Have a good day.”

“You too, dear.” Harry waves the rag at him. “Get gone. I don’t want to see your perfect face anymore.”

“Liar!” Zayn retorts, as he pulls up his hood and hunches over in preparation for going outside.

“You’ve still got flour on you!” Harry calls back, and Zayn flips him off as he leaves.

He does, he discovers as he sits down at the stylist’s chair, still have flour not only on his face, but there’s an almost perfect handprint on his arse. He swallows down his blush as the stylist giggles at it, just raises an eyebrow in the cool, challenging way he perfected in front of the mirror. She still doesn’t stop giggling until she gives him the ripped black jeans they’d chosen for him to wear, and even then he’s pretty sure she doesn’t stop. He can’t really blame her.

***

It’s late by the time he drags himself back to Harry’s flat. Like usual, he hurries to the door, because there are always people about who look like they might recognize him, and darts in once Harry opens it, but after that he can hardly get up the energy to go upstairs. He hates interviews. Really, really hates them.

Harry doesn’t ask questions as he opens the door, or as they go to the flat, or when he sits back down on the sofa where he had a textbook open in front of him and Zayn settles down next to him, curling up so his head can rest on Harry’s thigh.

“You okay?” Harry asks. His hand’s in Zayn’s hair, and usually Zayn hates people playing with his hair, messing it up, he doesn’t mind now. It feels like when he was sick and his mom would sit next to him to make him feel better.

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, his cheek rubbing against Harry’s jeans. He keeps his eyes closed. “I just—I’m so bad at talking to people.”

“You’re pretty good at talking to me.”

“You don’t count. Apparently.”

“I think I’m flattered.” Harry tugs at a lock of hair, and Zayn makes a complaining noise. That’s not comfortable. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” He doesn’t want to talk about how he’d stuttered and said the wrong things and how he was probably going to be on the front page of all sorts of blogs in an hour talking about how he hated new artists and hated his job and hated his fans. “I just—like, fuck work sometimes. What are you doing?”

“Work,” Harry retorts, and Zayn knows he’s laughing without even looking. “Did you know that there are ten millions bricks in the Empire State Building?”

“Really?” Zayn gets out, and Harry keeps a hand in his hair as he reads, sharing the most interesting tidbits aloud. It’s the easiest Zayn’s fallen asleep after a bad interview in ages.

***

“Okay, we’re here, but just—don’t judge?” Zayn asks. He glances around the street, but he doesn’t see any cameras. It’s not exactly common knowledge where he lives, but it’s not exactly a secret either, enough that Zayn had tried to resist Harry coming. But there’s no real reason he can say as to why Harry can’t see where he lives, especially when he’s basically been living at Harry’s for the past few weeks, so here they are.

“Wow.” Harry follows Zayn’s gaze around the clean streets, the expensive cars parked on the streets, the sleek modern architecture of the building. “This is—wow.”

“Yeah, I know.” Zayn shrugs, and ushers Harry into the building as quickly as he can. He nods to the doorman, who nods back, expressionless, and hurries Harry over into the elevator. “But it’s—like, it’s nothing. It’s just a place.”

“A really nice place,” Harry corrects. His eyes are wide as he takes in the polished glass of the elevator, all the mirrors that make it feel bigger than it is. Zayn reaches out to grab Harry’s hand, and Harry interlaces their fingers easily. “I thought you said your family didn’t have much money?” he asks.

“They don’t.” Zayn replies, because it’s true, his family doesn’t. He does. “I just—here we are!” The elevator dings, and the doors open. The flat is one of two on the floor, and he leads Harry through the hall to his door. The person living next door is some sort of corporate type who goes to a lot of parties and Zayn thinks does a lot of cocaine, and he doesn’t really want to run into him, even if the chances of it happening are slim in the early evening.

But Harry’s quiet as Zayn opens the door and lets Harry in, then shuts it firmly behind them.

He tries to see what Harry’s seeing, as he looks around. It’s an open floor plan, with a massive living room with sofas that look very nice and silver and sleek but actually don’t have very good cushioning, and dark wood coffee tables. There’s a flatscreen TV on a wall, a few game consoles that Zayn brought with him hooked up to it, but that’s just about all he’s added here. It’s a bit better in the bedroom, if Harry were to walk through to there, where at least there are Zayn’s clothes strewn around and the books he tries to read before dropping off, but here it’s just—sterile. There’s nothing wrong with it, really. And it was nice of the label to find him somewhere, because otherwise Zayn’s pretty sure he’d be in a hotel.

“Okay.” Harry squeezes Zayn’s hand. “Give me the grand tour!”

“There’s not much of it.”

“Still, give it to me,” Harry insists. Zayn smirks, and uses Harry’s hand to pull him closer, to catch his hip with his free hand.

“That I can do.”

“That too. But first you need to get me to the bedroom, I’m not that kind of boy,” Harry retorts, pulling away. Zayn pouts. “Zayn! I need to get a feel for your space. This is telling me so much about you.”

“Please don’t let it,” Zayn mutters, but he obediently walks Harry around the living room, then into the kitchen, which is basically untouched other than the freezer and microwave, then the office, which actually is just empty, then the bedroom. Harry stops in the doorway there, his lips finally curving into a smile as he takes in Zayn’s mess.

“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess, didn’t expect anyone to see.” Zayn kicks ineffectively at a sweater on the floor, but it’s not exactly going to do anything. At least his Grammy’s not out.

“No, it’s good. I was worried.” Harry’s got an arm around Zayn’s waist now, his chin hooked over Zayn’s shoulder, even though it’s probably uncomfortable. But Zayn likes the feel of him pressed against his back, so he’s not going to say anything.

“It’s not—I just don’t have a lot of time to spend here, you know?” Zayn mumbles. Harry squeezes him tighter, like he’s some sort of teddy bear. “So, what does that say about me? What sort of feelings are you getting?”

“That you’re a slob,” Harry teases back.

“Just because I want to pick the perfect outfit—”

“Like there’s anything that doesn’t look good on you.” Harry bites idly at Zayn’s ear, as Zayn rolls his eyes. “No, but, I can feel you in here.”

“Sure you can.” Zayn wiggles, pushing his arse back against Harry, and Harry laughs and lets go of Zayn again, shaking his head.

“Not like that.” Harry releases Zayn’s hand completely, to take a slow circle around the room. Zayn takes the time to quickly flip over the CD he just noticed on his desk, which has the preliminary album art on it and his name in big letters. “Just—do you know you never call this place home?”

“What?”

“You never say you’re going home, when you leave. Or anything like that.”

Zayn looks up from the papers he was checking to see Harry looking at him, serious as he only gets about his feelings or about pastries. The fact that he’s getting that serious about Zayn is oddly nice. “Well, it’s not.”

“It could be.” Harry looks around, then steps back out into the main room, pursing his lips. “It’s got—I mean, maybe if you made it a little less metally—softened it a little—”

“It’s not a home,” Zayn interrupts, and Harry lets out a breath.

“God, it’s really not. Do you want to go back to mine?”

“Yes please.” Zayn nods hard enough his hair gets into his face, and Harry has to push it out. “See? This is why I spend so much time at yours.”

“But not all your time.” Harry’s head cocks, like he’s thinking. “Is your job really that demanding? Because you’re not at mine all the time, and if you’re not here—”

“Yeah. It is. Well, when I’m here. There’s a lot of travelling, too. And I’ve only been here a year, so there hasn’t been much time.” Zayn doesn’t even know what he’s saying, what he’s giving away, but he’s pretty sure it’s too much, in the face of Harry’s steady gaze. He does that sometimes, just looks at Zayn, like just watching him talk is enthralling. It’s not like there aren’t gifs of him doing everything on the Internet, Zayn knows, but—somehow when Harry does it, it’s different. Like he’s seeing all those auras or whatnot he always talks about, not Zayn’s face.

“A year is plenty of time to create a home.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Yeah, for me. So let’s go to my home.” Harry gives the room one more distasteful look. “It’s cold. That’s what it is. It feels cold. Like mint.”

“Don’t you like mint?” Zayn asks, as he ushers Harry out with a hand on his back, and locks up behind him.

“In moderation. But too much of it isn’t good.” In the elevator, Harry turns, so he can look straight at Zayn, that serious look still on. “And you aren’t a minty person.”

“What am I, then?” Zayn asks, as they get off the elevator. As per usual, the doorman notes them but doesn’t react. Zayn has theories about how he’s a robot, but no one but Louis listens to them.

“Chocolate,” Harry declares. The sun’s setting, so it’s in Zayn’s eyes enough he has to squint to see Harry, and he can’t really see anything else. “Dark chocolate. Maybe a truffle.”

“Really? Chocolate? You’re going there?” Zayn asks. There aren’t any taxis here. He should have called a car, he knows, but then Harry would wonder why they can’t just take the Tube or find a taxi . He starts to walk the opposite way of the main street. Hopefully a taxi will come along soon.

“What? No, not because of, like, race or anything. But you seem all kinda prickly and dry but are really sweet, and a little gooey,” Harry explains, so seriously, so ridiculously, that Zayn has to give him a look to let him know just how much he doesn’t get that. Harry chuckles, and before Zayn can stop him he grabs his chin and presses his lips to Zayn’s.

There’s a second when Zayn acts on instinct, relaxes into Harry because it’s Harry. Then he thinks he hears a click and he moves before he can think again, turning and yanking Harry so Harry’s against the wall and Zayn can cover him, so no one can see him and it’ll only be Zayn’s back.

All the breath goes out of Harry in a woosh, but he just grins as he hits the wall, as Zayn plants his hands next to his head. “See?” He laughs. “Sweet.”

“Yeah, right.” Zayn presses his forehead against Harry. He doesn’t hear another click, any more of anything that would mean someone got a picture, but they wouldn’t need more than one, and he’s gotten very very good at recognizing what a camera sounds like. He knew he shouldn’t have taken Harry here. Knew it knew it knew it. “Can we go back now?”

This close, he can see the lines in Harry’s skin as he smiles, how the dimples deepen in his cheeks. “I don’t know. I like you here.”

“I’d like it better on a bed,” Zayn retorts. He can’t see any cameras out of the corners of his eyes, but he still pulls up the hood of Harry’s jacket as he takes a step back. “Don’t want you getting cold,” he explains, when Harry gives him a curious look, and tries to ignore the slow churn of guilt at how Harry beams at him in response.  

***

Zayn tumbles out of bed quickly the next morning, barely has time to kiss Harry good-bye and accept the toast he shoves into his hand before, then ends up staying in the studio all morning more or less locked in a sound booth until they finally nail this song, so he really doesn’t get any exposure to the outside world until the afternoon. It’s not exactly something he’s sad about, honestly. This is what he loves about his job, singing and knowing people will hear. Everything else is just—extra.

After the studio, for once he doesn’t have meetings, so he can go straight to the bakery. There’s someone in line, but it’s raining out. Zayn really doesn’t feel like standing outside, so he ducks inside and examines the bookshelves while Harry helps the customer. He really doesn’t know how a guide to poisonous mushrooms helps add to the atmosphere of a bakery, but reading about the horrific ways you can die from mushroom poisoning is a pretty amusing way to wait, enough that he pushes a tabloid to the side to perch on the edge of the table to read.

“Hey,” Harry’s voice in his ear makes him put the book down, look up to where Harry’s next to him, hands on his hips. He’s got flour in his hair, and it shouldn’t be as adorable as it is. “No sitting on my tables.”

“Or what?”

“Or I might need some bribes not to turn you in,” Harry replies, pointing to his lips. Zayn tilts his head, furrows his brow like he’s thinking, then presses a finger to them. He can see Harry holding in his smile, but he just nips at the finger, and the grin spreads when Zayn pulls his hand away, surprised. “Yum, tastes good.” He licks his lips. “Chocolaty.”

“Right, of course.” Zayn rolls his eyes, then tugs Harry in for a proper kiss. “How were classes?”

“Good! Did you know Louis Kahn said that light was an architectural material?”

“I didn’t,” Zayn admits. “I’m not sure why I would, but I didn’t.”

“In case you need to build a castle made of light,” Harry explains. He pushes the tabloid further back so he can settle down next to Zayn, and Zayn catches a glance of his back. He sneaks a hand behind Harry’s back and flips the paper over, quickly as he can. It doesn’t look like Harry’d noticed. “How was work?”

“Good.” Zayn smiles, and pushes down the guilt. He’s not lying. “It’s—like, the project I’m working on is going well.”

“Good.” Harry noses at Zayn’s shoulder, then shoots to his feet. “Oh! I’ve got some croissants in the oven for you to try. Almond,” he tempts, waggling his eyebrows.

“You just like to cover me in sugar,” Zayn accuses. Harry chuckles.

“Now you’re just giving me ideas.” He dances out of reach when Zayn tries to grab for him. “Come on back.”

“Yeah—” The tabloid’s there, in the corner of his eyes. “Or, I’ll be back in a sec. I want to finish this section.”

That gets him a nod, because of course in Harry’s world everyone wants to finish reading about poisonous mushrooms, and doesn’t want to see how well they’re—not lying, not really—to their boyfriends. “Have you read the bit on pigs yet? It’s really cool.”

“Just getting there,” Zayn says, and Harry gives him one last smile then heads behind the counter.

Zayn waits until he’s inside, then grabs the tabloid. It’s not the front page, it turns out—the tabloid’s open to the middle—but it’s definitely the picture of Harry and him outside his apartment last night. Harry’s not recognizable, thank god Zayn managed that much, but it’s clearly Zayn’s profile and his tattoos and they’re unmistakably locked in a kiss. ZAYN MALIK: PLAYING THE FIELD OR OFF THE MARKET? The headline reads.

Zayn skims the article. It goes from Zayn Malik, the new bad-boy heartthrob of the R’n’B world, seen with a mysterious man… to a new beau? Or is Zayn just playing with our hearts some more? To Malik has been seeming happier recently—maybe that’s due to a new man in his life.

He closes the paper before he reads anymore. There’s nothing in it that’s wrong, nothing more than speculation, and it’s not even that insulting, but—his stomach flips, and not in a good way, as he sees it. It’s still weird, how people care about this shit. How people are thinking about his private life like this. How he matters, apparently. 

“Zaynnnnn,” Harry whines from inside the kitchen. “Come on, I can only wait to put sugar on you and the croissants for so long!”

He doesn’t care, Zayn thinks, as he slides off the table. He makes a detour to the recycling bin, throws the paper in. Harry doesn’t care. Because he doesn’t know. And if he did know—he probably still wouldn’t care, except he’d have to. Because Zayn Malik’s boyfriend would have to care, would have to think about paparazzi and fans and media and it couldn’t be normal, ever again. Nothing would be normal again, not for Zayn. But he could—he could have this. Even if it hurts a bit, as he walks into the kitchen to see Harry hunched over the counter, in his apron and jeans and ponytail.

“Okay, what do I have to try?” Zayn asks. Harry turns around, and reaches out a hand to pull Zayn in, close to him.

“Try this,” he orders, and lifts up the croissant to Zayn’s lips. Zayn takes a bite, and lets out the normal moan Harry’s pastries get from him, all the buttery-hot warmth.

“’s good,” he gets out, and chases after the rest in Harry’s hand. Harry lets him get another bite, then pulls it away.

“Sure? Doesn’t need more sugar?”

“Nope. It’s perfect.”

“Hm.” Harry sets down the croissant, then leans forward to kiss Zayn, long and deep, licking the taste from Zayn’s mouth as he pushes him back against the counter. Zayn goes easily, gets his hands in Harry’s hair to keep him there. Everything makes sense when Harry’s lips are on him, when Zayn can lose himself in Harry’s body like this, can forget about the outside world and everything else. “Yeah,” Harry says at last, licking his lips as they separate. His eyes are dark, and his fingers are still hard on Zayn’s waist. “I’d say it tastes good.”

“Really? Second hand tasteing work?”

“It’s actually better,” Harry confirms, his eyes wide and guileless like he only gets when he’s bullshitting. “Gets the full experience, you know.”

“Oh?” Zayn just wants that feeling back, of being lost in Harry, of not thinking about it. Of not thinking about anything, of just the ease of being. “Let’s see.” He grabs the sifter of confectioner’s sugar, and before Harry can react grabs a handful and throws it at Harry’s face. Harry’s still blinking when Zayn kisses him again, licking the sugar off his chin.

“Hey!” Harry protests, but he’s trying not to smile as Zayn nibbles at his neck. “That’s not—stop it—fine!” Suddenly there’s a cloud of sugar over Zayn, much more than Zayn had thrown, and Zayn’s blinking away the cloud of powder when Harry’s lips are on his own collarbone, tasting the sugar over the ink there.

“Hmmm,” Harry murmurs, his tongue dragging over the skin, “Delicious.” Zayn’s hands close on the counter, holding tight, as Harry drags his tongue up Zayn’s neck, slow and hot and Zayn really wishes health codes weren’t a thing so he could just get Harry’s hand in his pants right now.

His lips keep going, up to Zayn’s neck, then he’s starting to suck, and—“Stop,” Zayn forces out. It’s the last thing he wants to say with Harry slowly exploring his body with his tongue, but, “No marks, can’t—”

“Right.” Harry doesn’t just stop sucking, he steps back, too. He’s got much less sugar on him, just a bit still on his nose, but Zayn can feel it all over his shoulders. “Sorry.”

Fucking hell. “No, don’t be—I’m sorry. It’s stupid.”

“No, if you don’t want love bites, it’s fine. I shouldn’t try. I don’t have to claim you or anything.”

It’s not a question, but it should be. If it was anyone else but Harry, it would be, because Zayn knows he’s acting suspicious as fuck sometimes, and it’s only Harry’s faith in his honesty that keeps him from suspecting. “’Cause I’m all yours, baby,” Zayn agrees. When he pulls Harry back towards him this time, it’s just to drop his head onto Harry’s shoulder, to feel Harry’s temple pressed against his. He wants Harry to leave marks, if he wants to. Wants Harry to do anything he wants. He just can’t, anymore. Because he’s not just his own, anymore, or his body isn’t, and he hates it. Hates that he can’t let Harry do what he wants. Hates how his life is pushing him forward so he doesn’t have time to waste here.

“Do you think we’re moving too fast?” he asks, into the quiet space between them. Harry makes a considering sound, low in his chest. “I mean, I’ve only known you a few months, and, like, I’m sort of almost living at yours…”

Harry lets out a long breath, considering it. “I don’t think we rushed, no. It feels right, you know?” Their breath is mingling, tinged with sugar, and Zayn never wants to leave this place, where he can breathe easy and slow, where Harry stands there and sets his own pace. “You feel right. Sometimes people click like that.”

“Yeah.” Zayn wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders, pulls him into a proper hug. It’s right. That’s what matters, what’s between them. The world can wait.

***

“So,” Harry says. Zayn’s not entirely sure how he’s forming words yet, because he doesn’t think he can even move a muscle after that round. He wants to sleep. He wants to grab Harry and keep him here and sleep, then never ever leave. Maybe he could move Harry into his recording studio. Maybe he could move his recording studio to this bed. That’s all he wants. If only Harry would stop talking, and let him bask.

Because he won’t, Zayn at least does the grabbing thing, pulls at Harry until he can cuddle up next to him, his head on Zayn’s chest so Zayn can properly play with his hair. Harry lets out a contented sigh as Zayn’s fingers rub against his scalp, then goes on. “Tomorrow, some of my friends are going to the poetry reading thing? Well, there’s poetry, but there’s also music, and there might be some performance art, I’m not exactly sure. But I’d love it if you’d come.”

And there goes the afterglow. Zayn’s really glad Harry can’t see his face right now, because he knows he looks like he just got hit by a truck. Damn it.

He forces out a laugh. “Are you asking me now because I can’t think about anything but sex?” he asks.

Harry tilts his head back, so he can sort of see Zayn’s face. “Yes. But also, because I thought of it now.”

“You thought of your friends right after you came? I think I’m doing something wrong.”

“You aren’t.” Harry gives him a slow, lazy smile, and pats at Zayn’s thigh. “But I was happy, so it made me think of how I’d be happy if you could meet my friends, because I know you’ll love each other.”

“Another one of your feelings?”

“Yep.” Harry rolls over, which has the unfortunate side effect of pulling Harry’s hair out of Zayn’s reach, but it also makes it easier for Zayn to see Harry’s face, to see the bruise he’d just sucked onto his chest. “Do you want to come? It won’t be your sort of music, but I think you and Niall would have a lot to talk about.”

Zayn’s pretty sure they would, starting with ‘why aren’t you telling Harry you’re famous?’ But luckily, “I can’t.” He doesn’t have to pretend to look disappointed. He is disappointed. He wishes he could go hang out with Harry and his friends, like he wishes he could take Harry out on a proper date, and he wishes he could have Harry meet Louis and his family, take him home properly. But that’s not something Zayn can do anymore, not without changing this. “I’ve got a work function.”

The function’s actually a label party with some other artists and producers and the like, so they can all show how much they’re enjoying each other’s company and answer some questions. It’s the first time in his life, Zayn thinks, he’s ever been thankful for a mingling event.

“Another one?” Harry asks, pouting. “Don’t you ever have regular hours?”

“Not really.” Zayn shrugs. “But it means I can hang out with you in the afternoons.”

“I know.” Harry sighs, and it’s not content anymore. It’s just sad, and Zayn didn’t want that, but he can’t—there’s nothing to say. “I just think you and Niall’d really get along. And he wants to meet my boyfriend.”

“Someday.” Zayn hopes so. Someday, when he gets up the courage to tell Harry, if Harry doesn’t kick him to the curb after that.

“Are you sure?” Harry tilts his head, but he doesn’t quite look at Zayn, instead tracing patterns on the sheets. “If you don’t want to yet—or ever—like, if it’s not that serious for you—you can tell me, you know? It’s better I hear it now.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Zayn snaps. “Of course it’s that serious.”

“Then why don’t you ever want me to meet your friends?” Harry presses. This is exactly what Zayn was trying to avoid, Harry asking these sorts of questions, that skirt to close to the truth.

“Because I don’t really have any here,” Zayn replies. It’s true. There’s Perrie, and some of the crew at the studio, but they’re not friends, not properly. They don’t know him, and he doesn’t know them. “All my friends are back home.”

“All the more reason for you to meet mine,” Harry argues. He sits up, grabs his boxers from the floor and starts to pull them on. “Why don’t you give me some times that will work for you, and I can arrange it?”

“Sure.” He’ll find a way out of that, somehow.

“Really?” Harry asks. He feels too far away, but Zayn can’t reach out to him, not like this. Not when he feels far away, and not physically. “I do think it would be good for you to meet more people. Being alone is droopy.”

“Droopy?”

“It makes you droop,” Harry explains, without hesitating. “And I don’t want you droopy.”

“I don’t have that problem around you,” Zayn shoots back, lowering his voice to a purr. Harry’s grin flashes, in appreciation of the innuendo, but then he’s back to a vaguely concerned look.

“If there’s a reason you don’t want to meet them, you can tell me.”

“There’s no—I want to meet them,” Zayn amends. That much is true. “Really, Harry.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“Okay.” Harry relaxes again, even if he doesn’t come back to Zayn. “Then get me dates.”

“Yeah.” That, he’ll figure out later. Or maybe Harry will forget. It’s possible; when he’s focused on one thing he doesn’t forget it, but he can be spacey. Hopefully this will be more of the spacey camp.

Zayn sits up too, scooting back so he can lean against the headboard. “Why do you have your thing with honesty?” he asks. Partly to distract—oh, the irony—and partly because he is curious.

Harry shrugs. “I wasn’t lied to once and it destroyed me or anything. I just think lying’s really shitty, you know? And it makes everything more complicated. Everything’s easier if you just tell the truth, and then everyone knows where you stand and what you think of people. I just don’t think you can ever go wrong, being honest.”

“Never? Would you tell a girl she looked fat in that dress?”

“I’d tell her that it wasn’t the most flattering, and that she could find one that would make her outer beauty echo her inner beauty more.” Zayn snorts, and Harry grins. “It works on my sister. What, do you lie to your sisters?”

“I don’t let them take me shopping.”

“Honestly?” Harry teases. It’s only been a few months, and he knows enough to tease about this. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t make sense, how time runs wrong around him.

“I say I don’t have an opinion,” Zayn admits. “They know if I lie.”

“See? Honesty.”

“Sisters.”

“Honesty,” Harry retorts. “It’s always better.” He finally seems to understand he’s too far away, because he climbs back on top of Zayn, his hands on Zayn’s shoulders and his arse on Zayn’s thighs. “For instance, honestly, I would quite like to fuck you right now.”

“Well, honestly, I would quite like that,” Zayn agrees, and lets Harry kiss him until he stops thinking about what that means, about how every second’s ticking down.

***

By the time Zayn realizes what’s happening, it’s too late. He thought he’d just gone out with some other people from the label last night, gotten drunk because that seemed like everyone else was doing and also because he liked doing that, and then gone back to the flat, lamenting that he couldn’t call Harry. Then he spent the morning in the studio, with people who don’t care what happens to him as long as his vocal cords are intact, which are in a lot of ways his favorite kind of people. Once he gets out of there, he, for once in his life, has some time to kill before Harry’s shift starts, so he decides to head to the record store that he was at before all this started, that had taken him here in the first place.

His first inkling somethings wrong is when the guy at the counter’s eyes widen when he sees Zayn. Zayn’s been in a few times, but he hasn’t seen this guy before, and that reaction’s never a good one. But Zayn’s in a good mood, had a good day recording and will get to see Harry again soon, so he decides to ignore it. Maybe he’s just never seen a professional before.

Zayn wanders through the shelves, flipping through the albums. He’s determined to find an R’n’B album that’ll convince Harry to like the genre, or at least something better than his ukuleles and weird crooning. Zayn smiles just to think of it, of curling up with Harry to listen to something classic, both of them in Harry’s bed. There’s a song there somewhere, something sappier than what Zayn usually writes, but it’s definitely there.

He’s humming aimlessly when the first snap comes. It’s blindingly bright, and Zayn can’t help how his head jerks in the direction of the window. There’s another camera flash, and Zayn acts on instinct, jerking back into a corner of the store where the cameras won’t reach from outside. What the hell?

The guy at the counter’s staring at him still—fucker—but why is someone here? Zayn’s doing well, and he’s a name, but he’s not Taylor Swift or anything, he shouldn’t be worth this. He didn’t even do anything last night, or say anything. He thinks.

But then there’s more noise, and someone else is out there too. Zayn pulls out his phone—no texts, nothing saying any news, so he does a quick google search.

And there it is, the first article that comes up, him leaning in close to talk to the producer he’d been out with last night. He’d just been talking, but the angle makes it look like he’s mostly in the guy’s lap. The producer who’d just gotten very publically married, to pop music’s newest sweetheart. And now a stupid photo makes it look like Zayn’s coming on to him, because Zayn’s a bad boy or what the fuck ever, and the headline’s there as STEPPING OUT ON THE MISTER? ZAYN MALIK MIGHT HAVE A MYSTSERY BOYFRIEND, BUT THAT DOESN’T STOP HIM FROM MAKING A MOVE.

Shit. Zayn glances outside. There’s three now, like they’re multiplying, and the longer Zayn stays in here the more there will be. He’s not going to ask the fucker for the back entrance, because screw him, and there’s no other way out. He’d just wanted to buy an album for his boyfriend, god damn it.

Zayn takes a deep breath, throws the guy at the counter his most deadly glare, then squares his shoulders and goes outside.

The flashes hit him immediately, and the questions—“…a new item?” “…pre-nup?” “…help your career?”—but Zayn shoves through, walking as quickly as he can. They follow, fucking sharks, and he needs to get to a road with a taxi but that’s the wrong way and there aren’t even any alleyways he knows here, not proper ones with fences he could jump to get away from them.

There’s another bright flash, blinding him enough he almost trips, and he acts on instinct, on a need to just get the fuck away from the questions and the lights and the noise and how they’re throwing words at him so fast he can barely make one out to answer or to deny or to do anything, so fast—

He makes a quick turn down a sidestreet, then another, buying him maybe thirty seconds, and then there the bakery is, and he just needs to get away and he’s inside before he thinks.

“Zayn?” Harry asks, lifting his head, his brow furrowing in confusion. Zayn probably looks a mess, his face flushed from running, his eyes a little wild. There’s another customer there, a blonde with a guitar on his lap and Zayn can’t even look at him other than to hope against hope he doesn’t get a good look at Zayn’s face.

“I need—kitchen?” Zayn asks, and he’s moving before Harry nods, pushes open the gate. Zayn pushes past him, turns sharply into the kitchen, tucks himself as far into the corner as he can possibly go, and sinks to the floor. Please. Please, let them not have seen where he went. Please let them just go away and Zayn will be able to explain this to Harry somehow and everything will just be normal.

But all of Zayn’s luck ran out getting him here, because there’s the ding of the bell and the sound of more than one person coming in.

“Hello?” Harry asks again, slow and clearly confused.

“Did Zayn Malik come in here?” one of the paps demands. Harry makes a confused noise, and Zayn drops his head to his knees. There it goes. There it all goes. “Small guy, South Asian, handsome?”

“Why are you asking?” Harry demands, and oh, of course he would. Of course he fucking would.

“Are you hiding him?” Someone else asks, another one of the reporters, “Are you the man he’s been seeing lately? How do you feel about the pictures?”

“Why are you keeping it so secret? Does this have anything to do with his late nights at Perrie Edwards’?” Someone else jumps on it, and then they’re clamoring more and more, for the bigger story, and Zayn can just picture Harry’s face getting more and more confused and overwhelmed because he never signed up for this, wasn’t prepared for it, and Zayn—Zayn can’t leave him to this.

He takes one last look around the kitchen, then he gets up, and pushes aside the curtain.

The flashes hit him again, but they’re not bad when he’s prepared for it, and he blinks away the light, crossing his arms over his chest. He only spares a glance for Harry, who’s drawn back from the counter and is looking at Zayn like he doesn’t understand what’s happening, then Zayn levels his evenest gaze on the paparazzi.

“No comment,” he snaps out. “I have no comment, so you can all leave.”

“Is this your boyfriend?” One of the ones in front, with slicked back blonde hair and sunglasses, leans forward. “Does he know about your—”

“I’ve never met him,” Zayn spits, and even as he says it he can almost feel something breaking. “But I know that you all are on private property, so if you don’t leave now I can call the cops.”

“It’s not your property,” one of them calls back.

“I can,” Harry adds. He’s still blinking blankly, but he holds up his cell phone. “That’s—if you aren’t buying something, you need to leave.”

“But Zayn, just give us a byte!” the blonde asks, his voice wheedling. He’s got the sort of smile on that some people might find charming, if they’d never seen Harry’s dimples. “Then we’ll leave, nice and easy.”

“I’m no homewrecker,” Zayn spits at him. “There, you got your byte. Now go harass someone else.”

“Thanks, babe!” the guy yells, but thank god they all leave, like some sort of zerg rush out of the place, out to ruin someone else’s life.

Zayn watches them go, watches the door close behind the last of them. Then he keeps watching the door, because fuck, he really doesn’t want to look at Harry. God fucking damn it. Why now? Why like this? He’d—he should have just gone the other way, just confronted them in the street, so they’d just leave him alone and not…

“Zayn?” Harry asks. His voice is very, very calm, in a way that makes Zayn wince. He’s never heard it like that before. “What was that?”

Zayn takes a deep breath, and turns to face him. His whole face is pinched, but that’s the only expression. It looks wrong. Harry should be smiling, should be joking silly and easy, not taken over by all of the shit Zayn brings with him.

“It—they—” Maybe there’s still a way out, if he could just think of it, could just find the right truth. “I—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Harry snaps. It sounds like a rubber band breaking feels, which makes no sense at all, but Zayn thinks it would to Harry.

“I didn’t lie! I never lied to you!”

“Really?” Harry’s eyebrows are almost in his hair. “Okay. Then what was that?”

“I—I mean, that—”

“He’s famous, Haz.” Zayn jerks around. He’d forgotten anyone else was there, but the blonde is giving him a look with bright blue eyes that he thinks is trying to be unimpressed but is still looking pretty impressed. “He’s a massively famous musician, won a Grammy by a landslide.”

“It wasn’t a landslide,” Zayn mutters. He really highly doubts it was. He just—got lucky, or something.

“No, it was!” the bloke retorts. It’s…Zayn’s confused. He thinks that was supposed to be a set down? “Your album’s legend, mate. I even got Harry to listen to it. I’m Niall, by the way,” he adds, and then seems to remember he’s supposed to be angry, and starts to glare again.

“Famous?” Harry echoes. Zayn jerks his gaze back to him, then drops it immediately. “Like, actually famous?”

“Umm…yeah. I mean, I’m not Beyoncé, but, like—” Zayn reaches out for Harry, and Harry pulls his hand back.

“You’ve been lying to me? This whole time?”

“No!” Zayn insists. “No, I mean, I didn’t lie. I swear, I made sure, I didn’t—”

“That just makes it a lie of omission.” Harry lifts his chin. He’s not smiling, still, and it feels so wrong it’s breaking Zayn. “You making sure you didn’t say anything actually untrue just means you were lying consciously. That you were making sure I didn’t know.”

“I wasn’t lying!” Zayn protests again. Harry has to understand, that he told him truer things than he told anyone. “I told you the truth about everything important, about—”

“You lied, Zayn.” He’s still so fucking calm, like he’s not angry he’s just disappointed or some shit, and he’s retreating, actually physically stepping away from Zayn. “I think you should leave.”

“What? No.” No, Zayn needs to fix this, he can fix this. If Harry would just listen to him, he could explain that—that what? That he did lie? That it was so nice to just feel normal for a change, to feel like there was a place he fit, that he had, with premeditation and forethought, kept Harry in the dark? He had lied, and he knew it, he’d always known it. Always known the clock was ticking down to this, to the moment when Harry found out and Zayn was Zayn Malik to him too and this idyll ended.

So he takes a step back, then another, then another, until he’s on the other side of the counter. “Yeah,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. He doesn’t bother trying to make eye contact with Harry. He doesn’t deserve it. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

The bell rings as he leaves. Zayn tugs up his hood, drops his chin, and doesn’t look back.

***

Zayn gets back to the flat, gives it one look, then goes right into the bedroom to pack. He can’t be here. Not when he won’t be able to resist comparing everything in the flat to what was in Harry’s, when every time he looks at the bed he’ll be thinking of Harry’s old, soft comforter and how it had felt to sleep curled up with Harry. So he throws some clothes into a duffle, calls his agent to let her know he’s off for the week, and hangs up on her protests. He can’t be in London anymore. He needs to be home.

He takes a car there, because he can’t do a train anymore without people recognizing him. It gives him time alone to think, which is both good and bad, as he stares at his phone and it doesn’t ring. Of course it wouldn’t. Why would Harry reach out to him? He’s a liar, and Harry hates liars. That’s all there is to it.

His parents greet him warmly, even if they’re surprised to see him. The girls are both out, so he goes right upstairs to his room.

Or what’s supposed to be his room. The first thing he did when he got money, more or less, was to buy his mum this house, this big place like the one he knew she’d always dreamed of, with a massive kitchen and rooms for each of the kids and a yard. But that was only six months ago, and he hasn’t really had time to come home much, since then, so he hasn’t spent much time here. It’s not as bad as the flat, because his mum knows him, and a lot of the stuff from his old room is here too, his posters on the wall and his comforter on the bed and the comic books on a shelf—but it’s not the same. It’s not his.

Still, it’s better, so he drops his bag, flops down on the bed, and passes out before he can think about Harry.

He spends the next day getting fed by his mother, who clucks about how thin he is and how he needs to feed himself better, and trying to avoid questions about his love life. He tells her about his music, about how well it’s going and how sick it all is, and he tells her a little about London, the hustle and bustle, the little spots he’s found—the record store, the pub he likes, the little grocery that sells spices that smell just like hers. When she asks if he’s met anyone, he deflects, and when she raises an eyebrow at him that says she clearly isn’t fooled, he just shakes his head. He can’t tell his mum about Harry. He knows what she’ll say about what he did, and more than that, he doesn’t want to worry her about why he had done what he did. Because she’s the best, she lets it go, and starts filling him in on the happenings here.

Louis’s a little riskier, but Zayn needs him, too. Zayn shows up on his doorstep in the evening, after he knows Louis’s off of work, with his snapback pulled down low over his forehead and his shoulders hunched. Their flat—or what used to be their flat, it’s just Louis’s now—is in a fairly popular neighborhood; there’s no telling who will see him. It’s weird, that he has to stand like that in Bradford. That these streets he used to roam at will, tagging walls while Louis watched out for him, aren’t open to him like that anymore. And it’s more than that, too. Everything feels slower, here. Slower and quieter, and Zayn likes that, he does, but it’s…grating, a little. That he’s so far away. That he’s not in the studio right now. That Safaa’s flirting with a boy in school, apparently, and Waliyha has a tattoo she refuses to show him.

Louis opens the door when he buzzes, then does an exaggerated double take. “What? Is that a celebrity on my doorstep?” he demands, and reaches out to drag Zayn in, into a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming, asshole?”

“Didn’t plan it,” Zayn replies, into Louis’s neck. It’s so familiar, standing there hugging Louis. He smells less of weed and smoke and more of cologne and pepper, like he’s been cooking, but it’s still Louis. “Wanted to surprise you.”

“Well you did. I talked to you three days ago, you could have mentioned it.”

“Lou, are you—oh!” Zayn lifts his head off of Louis’s shoulder. There’s a girl standing at the top of the stairs holding a dishtowel, a pretty girl with long brown hair and a delicately featured face. “Oh!” She repeats, when she sees Zayn’s face and her eyes widen.

Zayn takes a step back from Louis, who gives him a sheepish look before nodding him up the stairs. “Zayn, this is Eleanor, my girlfriend. El, this is Zayn, my asshole best friend.”

“Shut up,” Zayn mutters, elbowing Louis in the side, and holds out his hand. He’s done interviews, he can swallow down his surprise, be polite. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” She takes his hand, and he can see it building in her, enough that he can almost recite it along with her. “You’re Zayn Malik.”

“No, really?” Louis drawls. “Come on, let’s go in.”

He walks past them, pushes open the door to his flat. It’s the same flat he and Zayn had lived in, that one summer before Zayn had found his way to London and stardom, but it’s nothing like the pigsty it had been that summer, sketchbooks and food and weed and footballs and clothes strewn over the whole space. It’s…nice, Zayn thinks, as he walks in, listening to Eleanor talk about how she knew Louis said Zayn Malik was his friend, but she hadn’t really realized what that meant until now.

“Yes, El, he’s very pretty,” Louis says, halfway to snapping, when she’s talked for at least two minutes straight. “We know.”

That gets her attention, and she smiles as she turns to him, leans against his side. “Jealous, love?” she asks, teasing, and Louis makes a face back.

“You would be too, if you’d grown up with him standing there. And now he’s got money, too. How am I supposed to compete?”

“You don’t have to,” she informs him, and drops a kiss on his lips. Zayn can see Louis smile into it, the soft, gentle smile he never lets anyone see. “I’ll go set out another plate for dinner.”

“Oh, you were eating—I can come back—” Zayn offers.

“No, it’s fine. We were experimenting with a casserole, made more than enough.” She smiles again, and it really is perfectly welcoming, which is more than he would do if someone had intruded like this on his and Harry’s time. Except he can’t think like that anymore, he doesn’t get to.  

“Do you need any help?”

“Okay, I am trading you in,” Eleanor informs Louis, “You never offer to help.”

“I co-cooked!” Louis protests. He trails after her into the kitchen, jerking his head for Zayn to follow.

They eat at a nicely set table, with wine in mason jars. The casserole is delicious. The whole time is nice, really, as they chat and Eleanor asks him about all the things everyone asks him about. He likes Eleanor, he realizes—likes how she doesn’t put up with any of Louis’s shit, how she keeps up with their banter, how she’s clearly more clever than both of them. Sometimes it hurts a little to look at them, to see how easy they are with each other, how they move around each other, because it’s too much like him and Harry—or like they were—but it’s a good meal. Even if the last time Zayn had been in this flat, he and Louis had been having Chinese take-away on the sofa in their boxers, debating if they had the money for the new Call of Duty.

Eleanor waves Zayn away when he offers to help with the dishes. “You two catch up,” she informs him. “I won’t tell my mates that I made Zayn Malik do my dishes. They’d never forgive me. They’ll already be angry for not calling all of them so they could stop by.”

“Thanks for that,” Zayn tells her, truthfully, then follows Louis back to the living room.

“So what brings you home?” Louis asks, as Zayn sits on the armchair across from him. “You haven’t made it back in ages.”

“I had a break,” Zayn says. He’s not sure why he doesn’t just tell Louis the real reason, because if he can’t tell Louis he can’t tell anyone, but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just used to lying, now. Or maybe, he justifies, he just wants to lead into it, because he knows Louis’s going to laugh, and then get pissed. “So, I like Eleanor.”

“Me too,” Louis admits, whispering like it’s a secret. “Don’t know why she’s with me.”

“How long?”

“About five months?” Louis narrows his eyes, thinking. “Yeah, ‘cause our six month is soon, I’ve got to start planning that.”

“Five months,” Zayn repeats. He hadn’t expected—five months. He’s talked to Louis at least once a week since he moved out, sometimes more. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t want the competition,” Louis quips, but Zayn doesn’t look away from him. His heart’s pounding too fast. Is this what Harry felt like? Because he’s not sure if he’s angry or hurt, that his best friend deliberately didn’t tell him about this huge thing in his life.

Louis looks away first. “I didn’t want to jinx it, at first. Then I didn’t know if you’d care.”

“Of course I’d care!” Zayn protests, stung. “Why wouldn’t I care?”

Louis snorts. “Why would you care if I got a girlfriend? You’re all celebrity parties and shit now, what does it matter if I’ve got a girl?”

“Because—of course I want to know. I haven’t changed,” Zayn protests. He knows that. He’s still who he always was, even if no one in London knows that. Except Harry. But not anymore.

“’Course you haven’t. How much does that watch cost?”

Zayn glances at his watch. “I don’t know, I—”

“I don’t know either, but I bet it’s more than my savings.”

“Money doesn’t matter—”

“And I’ve seen the pictures, you on the red carpet, talking to presenters. You always know how to talk like that?”

“I don’t—”

“You’ve changed, Zee.” Louis’s gentle when he says it, and that’s not something Zayn wants. Louis’s only gentle when something’s wrong. “Your life’s not here anymore.”

“But—” Zayn knows the look in Louis’s eye, and there’s no arguing with it. “Whatever. You’re still a dick for not telling me.”

“Fuck off,” Louis retorts. “Why are you home?”

“I—” Zayn glances around, at this clean room. At this Louis who’s looking all put together, who’s cooking and cleaning and has a steady girlfriend who he’s being domestic with. Who doesn’t tell Zayn the important things in his life anymore. Who’s changed, from the Louis in Zayn’s head, even if they talk all the time. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit. Zayn, is it about Ha—”

“It’s nothing,” Zayn repeats, and gets up. “I’ve got to go. Promised my mum I’d be home.”

“Sure you did.” But Louis lets Zayn get up, follows him to the kitchen where he bids Eleanor good-bye, then to the door. He pauses there, almost awkward as Zayn pulls on his boots. “You here long?”

“Don’t know. Probably not.” Zayn needs to go, he can see. He doesn’t have Harry, and he doesn’t have Louis, not like he did once, and even his family’s changed. “I’ll let you know if I am. Or tell me if you’re ever in London.”

“Of course.” Zayn straightens up, and Louis rolls his eyes and grabs him again, hugging him tight. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” he asks, into Zayn’s hair.

“Yeah.” Zayn hugs him tight too. He’s still Louis. He’s just not the same, nothing is. Or maybe Zayn isn’t. “You too.”

***

Zayn ends up back in the studio three days after he left. He couldn’t stay home, not when it didn’t feel like home anymore, not like it used to. Not when his family’s growing up, growing different; not when he doesn’t understand Louis anymore and Louis doesn’t understand him. Nothing there’s the same, and at least London doesn’t feel wrong in that way. It’s almost a relief to be back in the flat, where at least everything was familiar. Maybe he’d still rather have been at Harry’s, maybe he wants to bury his face in Harry’s chest and tell him about how seeing Louis and Eleanor made his heart ache with envy for their domesticity, for the home they had built together. But he can’t do that, because he lied and Harry wouldn’t forgive him. Harry shouldn’t forgive him.

The studio is the best, so far. He’s always been able to lose himself in his music, to close his eyes and sing. That’s why he does this, that’s why he’s adrift in this city, because there’s nothing he loves more than the feeling when they play back a song and it’s his. Or when he’s standing on a stage and people are screaming the lyrics along with him, when his voice is filling an arena. So he dives back into work, because he has a place there, at least, even if it only lasts as long as people are working.

“Hey.” Zayn looks up from where he’s packing up his bag to go back to the flat. He’s been trying hard not to think about how he’d go to the bakery now, how Harry’s probably starting to close up, putting the chairs up on the tables.

The man standing in front of him is one of the producers, or an assistant of one, Zayn thinks. Liam, maybe. He’s always sort of liked him, as much as he can—he seems to get what Zayn wants out of the music, and he’s got understanding eyes and a sweet sort of smile. He looks warm, like he’d give good hugs, and Zayn’s heard him making a Batman reference.

So, “Hey,” Zayn replies, cautiously. They haven’t really talked, ever; Liam’s got all of his friends with the other assistants and such.

“So, um, this is maybe really awkward, but are you okay?” Zayn’s eyebrows go up, and Liam goes quickly on. He’s adorable, Zayn can’t help but think. “I know I’m just an assistant and you’re, well, you, but you seemed down today, and you cut your holiday short, so I wanted to ask.”

Zayn tilts his head. He knows Liam has other friends, knows he has places to be. “Why do you care?”

“Because I’m not an awful person?” Liam retorts, quick enough Zayn quirks a smile. “And, I don’t know, you don’t always look like you’re having the best time, which seems weird to me when you’re famous.” He shrugs. “So I wanted to ask. You can tell me to fuck off and I will, no harm, but if you want to get a drink or something, I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

There’s no reason for Zayn to say yes. But he really doesn’t want to go back to the flat, and he thinks after a few days in Bradford he wouldn’t mind being out in London, reminding himself of the flow of it. And Liam has those warm brown eyes, and there’s something about him that’s comforting, that makes Zayn feel like he’s known him forever. “Yeah, sure,” he agrees, and Liam’s eyes only widen for a second before he’s smiling like a puppy who got a bone thrown him.

They end up at a pub near the studio, in a back corner booth Liam heads to without asking. It’s a nice sort of pub, the sort of place that’s got enough activity it doesn’t feel dead but not enough that Zayn has to yell or stress out. Liam’s clearly gone here a lot—the bartender nods to him, and he doesn’t have to think about what beer he’s getting—and Zayn can see why. He could see himself coming here again, especially when the bartender doesn’t blink when she gets a look at his face.

And it’s nice too, to sit in the back corner and chat. Liam is like a puppy, Zayn realizes quickly, in the best way possible. He’s just nice, nice and earnest and friendly, chatting easily about his girlfriend, who he’s clearly besotted with, and his family and superheroes and how much he loves Zayn’s music. It’s easy with him, almost like it was with Harry—or maybe it’s easier, because there isn’t the thrum of tension there always was with Harry, sex and secrecy mixed together—and it’s that ease, Zayn thinks, that makes him actually reply when finally Liam asks, with those earnest brown eyes, “Do you want to talk about what’s wrong, then?”

It all spills out of Zayn, in that pub booth with Liam nodding sympathetically at him, the rush of London and fame and how overwhelming and fast that was, and how Harry had made it better, so much better that he couldn’t lose it, and so he had lied, until it all crashed. Liam listens silently, letting it all roll off of Zayn, the things he couldn’t say to anyone back in Bradford, who wouldn’t understand what it was like to be here.

Finally, he finishes, and drops his face into his hands. It sounds stupid and petty, put out like that, the spoiled boy who doesn’t know what to do with the wealth he’s been given. Who got into a relationship under false pretenses.

“Okay,” Liam says at last, with a sigh. Zayn doesn’t blame him. “Do you want my advice?”

Zayn doesn’t lift up his head. He doesn’t want to see Liam judging him. “Sure, why not.” He hasn’t been doing well running his own life.

“First of all, you need a new flat. One you like.”

“I know, I just don’t have time—”

“Make time.” It’s stern, but when Zayn lifts his head Liam’s not frowning or anything. “Get a realtor, or something. You don’t have to stay in a place you’re miserable.”

“Okay.” Zayn nods. He can do that. And he knows it’s right. It was just easy to put off, when he could go back to Harry’s. “Yeah.”

“And…” Liam trails off, but then he rolls his shoulders back, like he’s girding himself for a fight. “I don’t think the thing with Harry is totally broken forever, if you want.”

Zayn shakes his head at that. He knows better. “He hates liars, and I lied to him. A lot.”

Liam shrugs. “You were an idiot. I’m an idiot all the time, ask Soph. I don’t know why she puts up with me, because she’s the best. But I apologize, and then it’s okay. That’s how relationships work.”

“This isn’t me forgetting to put the toilet seat down,” Zayn argues. “This is, like, foundational.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yeah.” That’s easy. Like is too simple a word for what he feels for Harry, for the mixture of lust and fondness and affection and want and need tied up in the thought of him. He thinks he might know what the right word is, but he can’t think about it now, when it’s done. 

“Do you think he liked you?”

“Well, yeah?” Harry had said he did, and Harry doesn’t lie. “But he liked the me I told him about, which wasn’t, like, me, yeah?”

“Zayn.” Liam reaches out to grab his arm. Zayn glances down, surprised. People don’t touch him, often. There was Harry, and his family, and Louis, but other people just don’t anymore. He hadn’t realized how much a simple touch like that meant. “If you liked him, and you didn’t lie to him about emotional things, than it was still you. Just you with a different job.”

Zayn sighs. “He doesn’t see it that way.”

“Then tell him.” Liam shrugs, and lets go of Zayn’s hand to take another sip of his beer. “Communication is key, that’s what Soph tells me.”

Communication. Zayn’s pretty sure he’s failed at that. “You think that will work?” he asks.

“Think it has to be worth a try.” Then Liam grins, big enough that his whole face squishes up. Zayn has the inexplicable urge to pinch his cheeks. “And if I can get a girl, someone who looks like you and is a famous musician should be pretty okay.”

“You seem like a pretty good catch to me,” Zayn replies, and Liam blushes and rubs his neck, and changes the subject awkwardly enough it makes Zayn smile.

They talk for another hour, about the new Avengers movie and the new song Zayn’s fussing with and studio gossip. It only stops when Liam glances at his watch and realizes he has to go meet some friends for dinner.

“You could come,” Liam offers, as Zayn pays the tab over his protests. “You’d probably like my mates.”

“I don’t need pity friends,” Zayn replies. He’s not that pathetic yet.

Somehow, that ends up with him in a massive bear hug from Liam, squished close enough to him he can hardly breathe. It’s comforting, like being hugged by a teddy bear, and Zayn hadn’t realized how much he missed this sort of casual touching, this sort of friendship. “It’s not pity friends,” Liam informs him, when he releases him. “It’s just friendship. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

He waits until Zayn nods before he heads off, and Zayn’s left outside the pub, feeling somehow victorious.

***

For the second time in a week, Zayn takes one look at the flat, at the empty spaces and cool lines, then turns around and goes outside, this time down to the grocery, where he picks up all the ingredients he’s seen Harry use. It takes him a lot of internet research, a singed finger, and most of a box of eggs, but by the time he falls into bed, he’s happy with the result. While it’s in the oven, he sits down, and tugs a pad of paper towards him, because Harry’d always said he liked paper and ink more than the barrenness of a screen, and he writes until his hand hurts.

He’s smiling as he falls into bed.

***

Liam grins at him when he gets to the studio the next day. He waits as Zayn hands off the box to an assistant, telling her to make sure it gets to the bakery quickly, then bounces up to him. “Is that for Harry?” he asks, like they’ve been friends forever.

“Yeah,” Zayn admits. Then, because he does remember how to be friends with someone, “How was your night?”

“Great! You should have come,” Liam tells him, then glances guiltily at the producer. “Looks like you need to get in. Want to grab lunch?”

“Sure,” Zayn agrees. Then, because—well, because he likes Liam, because he thinks he would like to go to dinner with his friends and meet this apparently amazing Sophia, he asks, “Do you want to maybe help me look at flats, this weekend? I know it’s weird, and we don’t really know each other, but I don’t really have anyone—”

“Sure!” Liam cuts him off, with that same crinkling grin, “Do you know where you’re looking? Or have a realtor?”

“I…can get one?”

Liam sighs, but he pats Zayn on the arm, and Zayn swats at him. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you a lair worthy of the batcave.”

“Think we could find one?” Zayn asks, and Liam’s eyes light up like he hasn’t even thought of it.

***

The assistant Zayn had given the package to taps Zayn on the shoulder as he leaves the booth for lunch. She’s not a kid, not really—probably a uni student on an internship—but Zayn feels infinitely older than her as she drops her gaze when he stops. “Yeah?”

“Um, the guy at the place you had me bring that package to? He said to ask you to come back after closing.” She blushes, the color bright enough on her pale skin to match her hair, but her eyes are bright with interest. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” Zayn says, on instinct, then pauses. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. It’s complicated.” More complicated now, apparently. He hadn’t—he hadn’t really thought Harry would want to see him. Would actually consider it.

“Well, he didn’t seem angry to get the bread,” she informs him, suddenly sympathetic. It’s amazing what heartbreak can do to take away his mystique. Maybe he should talk about heartbreak more, then people will leave him alone. “Maybe even a little excited? I couldn’t really tell.”

“Thanks,” Zayn tells her, truly thankful. He knew he ran a risk that she’d tell people, but he doesn’t think she will, if he’s any judge of character. Maybe he has more people here than he thought.

She nods and goes to walk away, but then nods to herself and turns back. “Also?” she adds, grinning a little. “He’s cute. Not what I thought you’d go for, but really cute. Well done.”

“Who did you think I’d go for?” Zayn asks, curious, even as he smiles at the compliment.

“I don’t know, someone edgier? Less—like, he was really nice, even though I was apparently not the bearer of the best news? Not that you wouldn’t go for someone nice!” she rushes on. It’s kind of nice to see someone else trip over their words. “Because you’re really nice too, even if you’re intimidating when you’re quiet, so of course you’d want someone nice, but I’m going to stop talking now before I get fired.”

Zayn can’t help laughing, and it must be the right thing to do because it wins a wry smile from her too. “Wouldn’t fire you for telling the truth. And I don’t think I can?” he shrugs.

“I don’t want to risk it,” the girl says firmly, and mimes locking her lips.

Zayn chuckles again. “Sorry, I should know this, but what’s your name?”

“Jenna.” Her eyes are a little wide.

“Well, thanks, Jenna. You’re my new favorite.”

The squeaking sound she makes is surprisingly high-pitched, but it’s cut off as Liam comes up next to him. “I thought I was your favorite,” he asks.

Zayn grins at him. “I can have more than one favorite.”

“You can’t, though. That’s not in the definition.” Jenna goes red again, and closes her mouth again. “Now I’m really shutting up.”

“Or you could come to lunch with us,” Zayn suggests, looking at Liam, who nods his approval.

“Really? I mean yeah, sure, I’d do that. I promise I’ll be cool. And not insult your taste in men anymore.”

Zayn’s laughing as he waits for her to get her coat. Harry wants to see him, and he has more than one person to eat lunch with, apparently. Maybe London isn’t all bad.

***

Zayn’s revising that opinion come sundown, as he gets to the bakery. The closed sign is on the door, but the lights are on, and Zayn can see Harry through the window, his hair hanging down around his face. It hits him all at once—how much he wants him, how much he missed him, even if it’s only been a few days. How much he wants Harry to forgive him.

He can do this. If Harry wants to see him, he’ll have read the letter, he’ll have something to say. And even if what he wants is for Zayn to get out, that he never wants to see him again—well, at least Zayn will know. And he thinks he can deal with that, now. If Harry doesn’t forgive him, if Harry doesn’t want Zayn-the-celebrity. If he has to be Zayn-the-celebrity here.

So he takes a deep breath, and pushes the door open. The ring of the bell is so familiar, and the inside is still flowery and over the top and it still feels like his mother’s kitchen and Harry’s flat and something that he can’t identify but just feels like home. And it’s familiar too for Harry to look up from the counter, his face lighting up into a smile before he clearly remembers why Zayn’s there and he schools it back to sobriety again.

He just looks so good, though, that all Zayn can do is stare. The tight jeans, the shirt-gaping open; Zayn wants to touch and taste all over again, wants to fall into him and never leave.

But he can’t, not yet. And Harry’s just looking at him too, and he’s not giving anything away on his face, just a sort of stubborn determination. So Zayn waves, before he realizes that was probably the most awkward thing he could do. “Um, hi? I guess you read my letter?”

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “I didn’t.”

Fuck. He is angry then, too angry to even consider an apology. Maybe he’s called Zayn here to do a tell all, to get the break-up on camera—but no, Harry wouldn’t do that. Harry probably just wanted to properly break up with him face to face, to get closure and cleanse his aura or whatever.

“I don’t want a letter,” Harry goes on, and Zayn tries to listen through the rushing in his ears, “You can’t Pride and Prejudice me. I want you to explain to me why you lied, face to face.” He nods, more to himself than to Zayn, then sits back on the stool and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks like some sort of cherubic Jupiter, sitting in judgment. “So you’re going to stand over there, on that side of the counter, and tell me.”

“Why on this side of the counter?”

“Because I would really like to suck your cock right now, and I don’t want to be distracted by that.”

Zayn’s breath stutters in his throat. “Um. Okay. Yeah.” Harry’s got a hint of a smile in his eyes, like he knew exactly what that would do to Zayn. He probably did.

“So?” The smile fades. “Explain.”

“I…” He trails off, then he swallows. This had been easier to put on paper, to write it out. It sounded better like that, without all his uncertainty and hesitation. But he could try. Harry deserved the truth, at least. He drops his head as he talks, tries to look past Harry’s shoulder. He can’t quite face Harry as he says this, as he lays himself out. “It wasn’t like…I didn’t mean to lie. You just—didn’t know who I was. And that was really nice, you know? That you weren’t thinking of me as the celebrity but just as a person. And, like, I haven’t really—the whole fame thing is weird, you know? People following me around, all the money, people caring. And you didn’t, and that just…it made me feel like me, yeah?

“And, like. I didn’t lie, not about the important stuff. I’ve felt lost and confused and, like, rootless since I got to London, and you were—I felt like I fit. Here, with you, in your flat. Like maybe I could belong there, when I didn’t feel like I fit anywhere else.” Zayn shakes his head, pushes his hair out of his face. Saying that was bad. “But that was unfair. I get that. I was putting too much on you, and I shouldn’t have.

“I’m getting a new flat,” he adds, hopeful. “And I’ve made friends. Or, I’m making them, I guess? I don’t know. But I don’t—like, it’s not—I don’t know.”

He sighs, holds up his hands. He doesn’t have more to say. “I shouldn’t have lied, but I really liked you, and I really liked what we had. I’m sorry. If you want me to go, I will, and I’ll make sure no one ever bothers you.”

With that, he drags his gaze back to Harry. He’s chewing on his lip, but his fingers loosened on his arms, and something like hope starts in Zayn again, at how he’s softening again, even if he’s still keeping himself distant. “Okay.” He nods, like he’s processing. “Now, I’m going ask you questions, and you’re going to answer.”

“Okay.” Zayn will take it, will take him just listening. It’s more than he thought he’d get. It’s more than he deserves.

“When did you decide to lie?”

Zayn pushes his hair back from his face. “I didn’t—like, it wasn’t, like, a conscious thing. I’ve never actually had to tell someone before. What was I supposed to say, I’m sorta famous?”

“That would have worked.” Zayn winces.

“Yeah, but it’s still not—it doesn’t get everything. And I never meant to lie. It just…happened. And then, I dunno. I wanted to keep what we had as long as I could.”

“So you knew it was going to come out?”

Zayn shrugs. “I mean, it had to eventually.”

“Would you have told me first?”

Zayn has to look away again at that, away from Harry’s steady gaze. “I’m not sure,” he tells his hands. “I really didn’t want it to end.”

“Hm.” It’s not a bad sound, so Zayn looks up in surprise. If anything, Harry looks pleased. “Thank you, for telling the truth.”

“I’m not lying anymore.” Zayn holds up his hands, palm out. “Promise.”

“Was that the only thing you lied about?” Harry’s still not looking away from him, and it’s hard to sit under that gaze, harder than under a camera, or under the eyes of so many fans.

“Yes! Just the job. Nothing else. I swear. Or, I mean,” Zayn admits, reluctantly, but he has to say it. “There were probably some things around it. But nothing else, nothing important. I…” Zayn trails off, as he tries to find the right words. It’s important, that he figures out what he wants to say here, that he makes it clear to Harry. “I know I lied. But emotionally, I swear, I was honest. All of the things I told you, about how I felt, about you…that was real. Realer than I’ve been with most people lately, I think.” 

Harry’s fingers comb back through his hair. Zayn wants to replace them with his own, wants to the get his hands in Harry’s hair and kiss him until he’s smiling again, until he’s smiling and babbling on about something.

“Why’d you make the loaf?” he asks, which isn’t the questions Zayn was expecting but it’s Harry, of course it isn’t. “It’s not easy. You could have made brownies or something.”

“Yeah, but.” Zayn can feel himself blushing, and he doesn’t care. “I mean, banana’s your favorite, and lemon’s happy, right? I wanted to add chocolate in, but they felt advanced, and a little presumptuous.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It felt right.”

He waits, but Harry isn’t saying anything. He’s just looking at the bread, the nearly full loaf with one slice taken out of it. “Harry?” he prompts, after the quiet’s gone on long enough to fill up the room.

Harry lifts his face, and it’s still solemn, too solemn. “Was it—I mean, did you—” Harry shakes his head, clearly frustrated, and tugs a bit on his hair. “Were we real?” he asks at last, so straightforward it’s like a blow to the heart.

“Yes!” Zayn insists. He has to take a step forward, even if Harry winces away. “We were, Harry. I swear, I was all in, all of that. If they had asked me if I was in a relationship, I would have said yes, promise. I never, like, cheated or anything.”

“So I wasn’t the secret?” After the bluntness of the last question, it’s almost just as painfully shy, with Harry looking back down at the loaf. His voice is so soft it almost blends in with the cars outside.

“What?”

“I—” Harry’s still not looking at him, and that’s the worst. That he made Harry unsure, cautious, when what he loved about Harry from the start was how he never cared about anyone else, about how he threw himself into the world and trusted the world to catch him. He doesn’t know why he’s here, why Harry had let him come. He’ll never forgive himself for making Harry look like this, and Harry might be a better person but no one’s that good of one. “I thought, maybe, you might have been ashamed of me.”

“What?” Zayn repeats, a demand this time. “What, no, why—”

“I’m not stupid.” Now Harry’s meeting his eyes, and the resignation in them is worse than the anger. “I know how people see me sometimes. I’m weird and spacey and I don’t fit in. And—”

“No.” Zayn cuts him off, and he can’t stay away. He takes three steps to get close to the counter, so he’s as close as he can be even though there’s glass in the way. “No, if anything, I was the secret, I was the one I was ashamed of, that I didn’t deserve you and if I told you you’d know.” Harry’s eyes are wide, and so very green, just like the first time Zayn saw him. But Zayn can’t let him think that, can’t let him believe it was at all his fault for being him when Harry being Harry was all that has kept him sane for the last few months. “I love your weird associations and opinions and I love how you don’t dwell on things and I love how you’re you.” Zayn takes a deep breath, but he has to say it, if only so Harry knows. Honesty. “And if there’s any reason that bread doesn’t taste awful, it’s because it’s got the most love in the room in it, ‘cause I was baking it for you.”

He’s breathing hard by the end of it, by the rant and the confession and the fact that he said it. That he threw himself out, and Harry might not catch him. But even if he didn’t, he’d said it. He’d tried, and that’s…that would almost be enough.

“How do you know that, though?” Harry says, at last, and there’s a hint of laughter in his voice and when Zayn looks up he’s smiling, that smile he gets when he’s teasing Zayn because he thinks he’s being too serious. “I might have really loved the scones. I do love my scones.”

“Nope.” Zayn’s voice is almost shaking with disbelief, that Harry might forgive him. Might believe him. “Not as much.”

“Well, what about an éclair? Those are important too.” He’s off his stool, now, sauntering forward, and he’s got that smile in the corner of his eyes.

“Nope. Not even that.”

“Or—” He’s leaning over the counter, his shirt gaping open like it had that first day, and Zayn can’t stand it anymore.

“Harry,” he cuts him off. “Are we—”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Harry informs him, and then grabs his shirt to pull him closer, and does.

It’s an awkward angle for a kiss, and the counter is digging into Zayn’s hip and he has to stand on tiptoe to really get at Harry, but it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Harry still tastes like honey and vanilla and his lips are full and warm and Zayn never wants to stop kissing him, wants to lose himself in this like he had before.

It’s Harry who breaks the kiss, with a frustrated little huff of breath, but only for a few seconds before he’s gotten around the barrier and is pushing Zayn back against the counter so they can properly kiss. It’s even better like this, because Zayn can get one hand in Harry’s hair and the other hand can explore his body, down his back and over his arse, all the places he’s missed. Harry’s got his hands tight around Zayn’s hips, so tight Zayn thinks they might bruise. He wouldn’t care if they did. No one could see them, and even if they could, he needs them there, grounding him. He needs to remember. Needs to remember the taste of Harry’s skin, so he drags his lips away from Harry’s to nip down his jaw, his neck.

“Fuck, Zayn,” Harry breathes out, but then he’s pulling away. Shit, Zayn should have known, this was too good—“No, I really want to have sex right now, just, we can’t do this here.”

“Stop being sensible,” Zayn mutters into Harry’s neck. He smells like vanilla too, like warmth and baking things.

Harry laughs, and he feels lips brush his temple. “Come on, let’s go home.”

***

They walk back to Harry’s, despite Zayn’s proposing a taxi for speed and secrecy. Harry just gives him a stern look, and Zayn sighs, and pulls up his hood. He’ll see who’s laughing when Zayn gets mobbed.

But maybe Harry’s magic, because they get back to his flat without incident, and there’s barely time to kick off their shoes and shed their jackets before they’re falling onto the bed again, only nearly missing catastrophe of Harry braining Zayn with an elbow. But somehow no one’s hurt, and then Zayn’s back on Harry’s bed with Harry poised above him, holding himself up so his hair’s falling around his face and he’s smiling down at Zayn like he’s never seen anything better.

Zayn can’t help but smile back, but reach up a hand to cup Harry’s face, to feel his smile against his skin. “God, I’ve missed you,” he breathes.

Harry turns his face so he’s pushing into Zayn’s palm, but he’s got a mischievous smile on as his lips brush Zayn’s fingers. “So you didn’t go to any other bakeries while we were fighting?”

Zayn has to kiss him then, and it’s back to the heat, to them kissing frantically as they strip each other, only breaking apart long enough to tug Zayn’s t-shirt over his head before they’re attached again. Harry’s shirt is easier, but Zayn fumbles with the buttons enough that Harry’s laughing into his mouth by the time he finally finishes. “We’ve got time,” he murmurs, just far enough away from Zayn to shape the words, as he moves his hands away from where they were tracing up Zayn’s arms to wriggle out of the shirt.

Zayn makes what he hopes is more grunt than whine in disagreement, and rolls them over, so he can move this properly along. Then it’s Harry groaning as Zayn licks his way down his chest, stopping around his nipples so that Harry’s grinding into Zayn and his fingers scrape over Zayn’s back, just the right side of painful.

“You should fuck me,” Zayn breathes, when he gets to Harry’s navel and starts to fumble with the button there. Harry moans again, and when Zayn glances up at him his eyes are wide and dark. He looks properly debauched already, his hair messy from Zayn’s hands, his lips swollen and pink, his skin flushed.

He thinks Harry’s trying to talk, but he cuts off when Zayn finally manages to get his jeans undone and yanked down enough to get his mouth on him. It hasn’t been long, but it feels like it’s been forever since he had Harry in his mouth like this, thick and heavy on his tongue, since he could coax the pleading sounds out of Harry like this. Harry’s hands are tangled in his hair, just tight enough that Zayn knows when he’s doing it right.

“Can’t let you fuck my mouth today,” he says, pulling off with a regretful lick to the head. “Got to record tomorrow. But—”

“I don’t,” Harry counters, and tugs at Zayn’s hair until he’s kissing Harry again, like Harry can suck the taste of his precum out of his mouth, and he can feel Harry’s cock against his own, trapped in his jeans, with enough friction that Zayn can lose himself in the kiss.

Then somehow he’s on his back, and Harry’s between his legs, yanking his jeans off, then his pants. Zayn hisses with the air hitting his cock, then again at Harry’s mouth licking up the vein. He’s a tease, though, of course; Zayn’s not so distracted he can’t see his dimples as he starts nipping at Zayn’s thighs, one hand playing with his balls.

“Just, fuck me,” Zayn repeats, breathless. Harry’s fingers are hinting down that way, and fuck he had Harry’s cock in his mouth now he wants it in him, wants Harry all the ways he can.

It’s supposed to hurry things up, not to make them stop, but suddenly Harry’s gone, sitting back on his heels so he’s kneeling between Zayn’s thighs, and Zayn really does whine at the loss of him.  

He tilts his head, like a question. “This isn’t about punishment, right? You deserving something because you messed up? Because that’s not how sex should work.”

“What? No.” Zayn doesn’t have much brainpower left, but he can get that out. Needs to, because this has to be honest, here. “No, I just—want to feel you, or whatever. If you want something else, we can do that.”

“Okay.” Harry grins, and Zayn can feel himself get lighter with the sight of it, until he thinks he could drift away, up to the sun. Or maybe just to Harry, because he’s grinning bright as the sun. “Then yes, I would like to fuck you.”

“Convenient.” Harry laughs as he reaches around Zayn to get a condom and lube out of the bedside table, then he’s back between Zayn’s legs, and his mouth is properly on Zayn again. All the breath leaves Zayn at that, and all he can think about is the wet heat of Harry’s mouth, of how his lips look wrapped around Zayn’s cock. Harry keeps sucking as he slicks up his fingers, then slides one finger in. It’s tight, but it feels right, feels good, and Zayn would be grinding down on it if he wasn’t desperate for Harry’s mouth, too.

Harry drags it out, horribly and wonderfully, adding one finger than another, and Zayn just wants Harry, wants him and everything he is. Wants this, without lies or doubt or anything between them. “Harry, just fucking—”

“Bossy,” Harry laughs again, but his voice is hoarse, and that’s probably the best sound Zayn’s ever heard.

“Well do you want to wait?” Zayn demands. Harry’s eyes are dark as they skate over him, like he’s seeing under his skin, like he still wants Zayn even knowing how messy he really is.

“No, I don’t,” he agrees.

Zayn never dared think he’d get this again, but he does, with his legs wrapped around Harry’s waist as Harry slides into him, his fingers tight on his shoulders like they’ll bruise. Harry buries his head in Zayn’s neck as he settles, as Zayn adjusts to him. He’s big enough Zayn knows he’ll be feeling him after, maybe even tomorrow, or he hopes so. Right now, he can feel the beat of his heart, like he can feel the pulse pounding under his skin as they move, Harry mouthing things he can’t hear into his skin. He’s so full of—of everything, of Harry and everything he is, and they’re so close together it’s like they’re melding, like Zayn fits perfectly into every curve Harry has. He can feel his orgasm building in his toes, but he wants Harry to come first, wants to make Harry as happy as he can, wants to feel his need. So he clenches around him, tightens his fingers in Harry’s hair like he likes—then Harry’s coming, thrusting desperately into him as he rides it out.

Zayn’s painfully hard, and Harry’s heavy, but he doesn’t want this to end either, Harry collapsed on top of him, breathing evening out into his chest, his hair spread over them both.

“Your turn,” Harry murmurs, at last, and he pulls out slowly, until Zayn feels empty and wanting and the urgency of his arousal is coming back. Harry must know, because he doesn’t waste any time this time, just wraps his mouth around Zayn’s cock and sucks. He’s got two fingers in Zayn again, and he twists them just right so that it hits Zayn’s prostate, and the shockwave of Zayn’s orgasm comes quick and hard, shaking him apart as he moans out Harry’s name like a prayer.

He sags back into the bed, after, and watches as Harry rolls off the condom and throws it away. He’s fuzzy in the best way, floating on the haze of pleasure, and the bed is so comfortable. He should get one like it for his place, he muses idly, watching Harry’s arse as he comes back to bed. He climbs on, but instead of tucking himself against Zayn’s chest like he normally does he rolls on his side so he can face him, their feet tangled together and his fingers tracing over the ink on Zayn’s arm.

The silence settles, and so does the afterglow, until Zayn can think again, can really think about how he’s back here, where he never expected to be.

“Why’d you let me come back?” Zayn asks, softly. Like asking it will make Harry think about it too much, like it’ll make Harry come to his senses and not forgive him. He doesn’t know he’d have the courage to ask anywhere but here, in Harry’s bed, twined with Harry like it’s where he belongs.

Harry shrugs against the blankets. “I had a feeling we weren’t done, yet.”

Zayn nods. He doesn’t get it, he wouldn’t have done it—but he’s so very glad Harry did.

“And,” Harry goes on, “I wanted you to explain it. I wanted you to convince me.”

Zayn’s breath catches in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry pushes himself up on one arm, so he’s the one looking down at Zayn. He looks like he should be in a museum somewhere, all flushed skin and tangled curls and pink lips. He looks like he needs to be in a song, any song Zayn can give him. “I don’t like liars. But I love you.”

The words come out slowly, drift into Zayn slowly, like they’re filling him up from his toes to his heart. He never expected to hear those words, from Harry least of all. From Harry, who isn’t talking about his fame or his money or his music or any of the things most people see. Who’s giving himself to Zayn without a net, laying it out there even knowing Zayn messed up once and could again.

And he’s been quiet for too long, he knows, even if Harry’s still just looking at him, not like he’s waiting to hear it back but like he’s giving Zayn time to absorb it. “Um…” he needs to say something, needs to figure out what to say, but he’s never been good at this, at talking to people, and Harry knows that. “Yeah. I mean. Me too. Like I said, with the loaf, but—”

Harry laughs, gleeful and loud, and leans down to kiss him again, soft and sweet. “I know. I can see it on you.”

“Good,” Zayn gets his hand on Harry’s neck, to keep him close.

***

He’s still not sure how Harry convinces him to get out of bed, much less go outside, but he thinks it’s something about the look Harry gave him, the one that had a hint of the insecurity he’d gotten a glimpse of in the bakery, the worry about being a secret. And probably also to do with how Harry had asked him to go to the pub where Niall worked because he wanted Niall to meet him properly, and he found he wanted to meet Niall properly. Wanted to meet all of Harry’s friends, to meet his mum and his sister. To do this properly, like he should have the first time.

Still, he tugs up his hood once they step outside, even as he intertwines his fingers with Harry’s, starts to slouch and duck his head like he’s found is best.

Harry lets it go for maybe a three minute’s walk, but then he stops, shakes his head. “Can you put down your hood, please?” he asks, “I don’t like it up. You feel cut off.”

“I’m…” Zayn glances around. It’s still fairly early in the night, there aren’t many people around, but still. He just wants a little time with just Harry, a little time to be before he has to put Zayn Malik back on. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea, Harry.”

“Do you know I thought you might be a spy?” Harry asks, apropos of nothing. Zayn snorts out a laugh.

“What?”

“Well, you were cagy about your job,” Harry admits shamelessly, though he’s got a bit of a smile on too. “And you wore suits and did this thing where you always checked for people whenever you went into a room and you look a bit unreal, and you live in an insanely posh flat and you had a thing about marks. It made sense.”

“Sense?” Zayn scoffs. He doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile.

“Well, Niall said I was being silly. But it was a good explanation.” Harry turns so he can look right at Zayn. “And my point is, you aren’t a spy. Nothing’s going to happen. And when you have your hood up it feels like you’re making a wall between us.”

Zayn sighs, but he can’t say no to that. He can’t say no to Harry, really, which might start to be a problem. He pushes the hood back down, glancing around. There are people around, but none of them are looking at him. Maybe the discrepancy of him wandering around in a hoodie with a boy in a pretty garish Hawaiian shirt will be enough to put people off.

“Would it have been better, if I was a MI6?” Zayn asks, tugging Harry’s hand gently so they can start walking again. At least if they get to the bar they’ll be inside, have a more controlled environment.

“I’m not sure,” Harry hums, in thought. “I mean, it would have been a matter of national security, then. But I’m not sure I could be with someone who had to be that violent.”

“That’s good, because I can’t even kill spiders,” Zayn admits.

“I know.” Harry squeezes his fingers. “You’ve too much green in you for that. I like it.”

“Green?”

“Well—”

“Excuse me?”

Fucking hell. Zayn winces, but he turns at the voice, smiling best he can. There’s a boy there, probably late teens, and his eyes go big when he gets a full view of Zayn’s face. “Holy shit, it is you. Sorry,” he says immediately, “I don’t want to bother you, I just—I really love your music.”

“Thanks.” Zayn nods at him. He’s got a Drake t-shirt on, so, “You like Drake, too?”

“Yeah! He’s my favorite. Well, after you.” Zayn’s not sure, but he thinks the boy’s blushing under his dark skin. “What was it like to work with him?”

“Incredible. He’s exactly what you think he is.” Harry’s hand is still tight in his, but Zayn doesn’t want to look at him. Doesn’t want to see what he thinks of this Zayn, who isn’t his. Who he’s been forced to give to anyone.

But the boy must notice something, because he looks behind Zayn to where Harry is, then down to their joined hands, then his eyes widen even more. “I just wanted to say that,” he says, with the sort of firmness that means he’d probably gathered all his courage just to say it. “And, um. That it meant a lot to me, that you—that you aren’t—” he glances at their joined hands again. “Would you mind, signing something?”

“Sure. Would you like a picture?”

“Really? You wouldn’t mind? That’s sick!” He grins, big enough to take up his whole face, and Zayn can’t help but smile back. “Would your—he could take it?” he suggests, nodding at Harry.

“Of course!” Harry jumps in. It’s the first thing he’s said, but he’s smiling brightly at the boy as he takes his phone, as the boy sidles up next to Zayn. Zayn remembers being awkward like that, growing into his skin—hell, he still is. But he remembers the pain of fifteen, and throws an arm around the boy’s shoulders and ignores how the boy seems to vibrate in excitement, makes a face at the camera as Harry clicks the picture.

The boy runs off soon after, clutching his phone and the snapback Zayn had scrawled his signature on, with a promise not to tweet about where Zayn was when he posted the picture.

“And you thought we wouldn’t get attacked,” Zayn says, turning back to Harry. Harry’s watching the boy go, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

“He was nice.”

“Yeah, sweet,” Zayn agrees. “Can we go? Before someone else sees me?”

“Yeah.” Harry doesn’t take his hand again, and it feels cold as they fall into step. They only make it a few steps before it’s too much, and Zayn has to ask,

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just…” Harry tugs on his hair, screws up his face. “I didn’t realize. Or, I did. I mean, I looked you up, once I knew I should. But you really are famous, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not, like Kanye. But—I might be one day? I don’t know, if it all works out, I guess…”

“Would I fit into that?” It’s heartbreakingly frank, the way Harry asks. Like if Zayn said no, it would be okay. “I’m not exactly Kim Kardashian.”

“It’s true, your arse is way better.”

“Zayn.”

Zayn sighs, but he doesn’t look away from Harry. “If you want to, you could. It’s…better, with you. I’m better, with you. But that’s—he was the best, of what happens.” Zayn nods to where the boy went. “Sometimes it’s paparazzi, like at the bakery. Sometimes it’s just fans being really intrusive. Sometimes it’s articles saying mean shit. There’s, like, there’s a reason, I wanted to hide from everything. And if you don’t want that, then that’s fine.” He swallows, but he needs to say this. Harry needs to know, because he can’t just be Harry’s Zayn, not anymore, not if he’s not hiding. “Or, it would suck for me, but it would be fine. I’d understand.”

Harry takes a deep breath. Zayn can feel his pulse, it feels, beating out the seconds as Harry thinks. He doesn’t know how Harry does this, lays everything out there, without pretense or lies or shields. Just him, and what he feels, and what he wants. It’s terrifying, the wait, the countdown. Until Harry takes him as he is, or lets him go. But he’d be okay, he thinks, if it’s the latter. He could find his way, find a place for himself. Even if it would be better with Harry there, with Harry to slow things down, to make a home for him among the rush of his life.

“I love you,” Harry says, at last, and Zayn’s heart seizes, because that’s not an answer. “And I don’t know how good I’ll be at being a WAG. But I would like to try.”

“Really?” Zayn can feel himself light up, like he’s never felt except when he’s in the studio and everything comes together just right. “Even with—all this?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods, firmly, and takes Zayn’s arms to tug him close. Zayn wraps his arms around his waist, so he can fit them together, all their edges evened out. “But no more lies, Zayn. Really.”

“No more lies,” Zayn repeats, into the skin of Harry’s neck. He just took a shower, but somehow he still smells like the bakery, like the warmth of the ovens and the sweetness of the sugar. “I promise. And you too. if it gets to be too much…”

“I’ll tell you,” Harry agrees. They’re in the middle of the street, and anyone could see, and Zayn doesn’t even care. Let them see. Let them see and write about him, and he’ll figure it out. “But I don’t think it will be.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I don’t.” Harry pulls back, a little, but just so he can get his hands on Zayn’s face, cupping his cheeks so his thumbs can run over Zayn’s cheekbones, so he can look deep into those green, green eyes, that don’t flinch away from anything in him. “But I’ve got a feeling.”

***

Wedding bells in the air? ZAYN MALIK spotted with boyfriend Harry Styles outside their London house, looking fabulous as always. Even after living together for six months, in the gorgeous home designed by Styles himself, they look like they’re still going strong. And is that a new ring on Styles’ finger? Keep your ears peeled for an announcement soon!