A few days have passed, and I'm finally settling into the rhythm of Zayn's chaotic world. Our conversations are brief, clipped exchanges about logistics and schedules, with little room for anything personal. It's almost like we're strangers, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think he truly had no recollection of our first encounter. Part of me is grateful—relieved, even—that I'm not constantly on edge wondering if he'll bring it up. But another part? Another part is oddly disappointed.
Since I started this job, my dad's been...different. In a good way. He's always been my biggest fan, cheering me on in everything from school projects to awkward talent shows, and now, seeing me take on something real, something that actually matters, I can tell he's proud. When I called to tell him about the interview, he didn't say much—just gave one of those quiet, approving nods that says more than words could. He's treating me like an adult, like I'm capable of something beyond just coasting through. I think he needed to see that I could handle this. And maybe, in some strange way, I needed it too.
Tonight, me and Zayn are late again, finishing up a recording session. The studio is dimly lit, casting a warm glow over Zayn's focused expression as he adjusts the dials on the control panel. It's quiet, with most of the staff gone for the night, leaving just the two of us surrounded by the hum of equipment and a few scattered notes from earlier in the day.
I'm organizing tomorrow's agenda on my iPad, reviewing the details of a venue walkthrough, when he glances over, breaking the silence.
"Didn't realize my assistant would be so...detail-oriented," he says, his tone light but his gaze intent.
"Surprise," I reply, aiming for casual. "I take my work seriously. Probably more than you'd expect, considering..." I trail off, unsure if I should finish the thought. Considering our first encounter, I almost add, but stop myself.
He smirks, as if sensing what I didn't say. "Guess I didn't give you enough credit."
I feel a small flicker of satisfaction at that. "Well, the venue's set for next week. The sound quality should be perfect, and I made sure there are plenty of seating arrangements for the VIPs."
He nods, clearly pleased, but his gaze doesn't shift away. Instead, he lingers, his eyes trailing over my face as if noticing me in a new light. I feel the temperature in the room rise slightly, his proximity making me hyper-aware of every movement, every breath.
"So, your dad...he's the reason you're doing all this?" he asks, leaning back in his chair, his attention on me unwavering.
I laugh, a little nervously. "Yeah, he sort of pushed me into it. Told me I couldn't take a gap year unless I got a 'real job.'" I roll my eyes, but when I look back at him, his gaze is intense, almost like he's piecing something together.
"He sounds like a hard-ass," Zayn says, his voice soft but a bit more serious.
"He is," I say, shrugging. "But I'm here now, doing my best." I meet his gaze again, feeling the tension simmer between us, as though something unsaid is hanging in the air.
The silence stretches, and just when I think he's going to look away, his eyes narrow slightly, recognition slowly dawning across his face. He studies me, his brows furrowing as if he's struggling to place a distant memory. And then, just barely, I see his expression change—like a spark igniting in his mind.
"Wait...that night," he murmurs, almost to himself. His lips part slightly, and there's a flicker of something—surprise, maybe disbelief—as he takes a step closer.
I hold my breath, trying to keep my face neutral, but my pulse races as he continues to look at me with newfound intensity. I can see the realization settling in, piece by piece, as he recalls the event, the bar, the way we met.
