The excitement from the event two nights ago still buzzed through me, the thrill leaving a lasting mark I could hardly ignore. My follower count had spiked, my notifications lighting up nonstop, and it wasn't just random strangers, either—real industry names had started following. Gael Hilton even reached out, sending a message: "Thanks for last night.. we should catch up some day" The words brought a rush of pride, grounding me in a way I hadn't expected. I'd been through my first big test, and I'd come out stronger, more certain.
Then, out of the blue, a text from Zayn.
"Need help with the 2025 tour plan. Come to the side gate. Gotta keep it low-key... my dad's home."
I read it twice, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement. The tour plan? Maybe this was work—maybe it was more. Either way, I was going.
When I arrived, there he was, leaning casually by the gate, hands in his pockets and a smirk just barely visible in the dim light. Even through the night's quiet, his presence felt electric, his gaze finding mine as he pressed a finger to his lips.
"You ready for some James Bond moves?" he whispered, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
I laughed, low and careful, matching his conspiratorial tone. "Only if you promise not to get us caught."
He grinned, glancing at the looming shadows of his family's house. "Just stay close," he said, his voice soft but somehow thrilling. "Don't want you setting off any alarms."
With a quick wave of his hand, he motioned me through the gate, our steps careful as we crept along a narrow, dimly lit path by the side of the house. Every footstep seemed louder than it should be in the stillness of the night. Each time a sound broke the silence—a distant rustle of leaves, the creak of the wooden steps—I felt a surge of excitement mix with fear.
We rounded a corner, slipping through the darkness by the kitchen window when Zayn paused suddenly, grabbing my wrist and pulling me close. I held my breath as I followed his gaze, peeking through the window. There, Yasser Malik stood on the phone, his back to us, voice faint but serious. I looked up at Zayn in silent question, but he just grinned, putting a finger to his lips as if we were two kids playing hooky.
I couldn't help but bite back a laugh, glancing at him with wide eyes. He gave a subtle nod, and we ducked past the window as silently as possible, stifling laughter as we passed the heavy drapes, praying he wouldn't turn around.
The closer we got to Zayn's studio—the quieter, more hidden part of the house—the more my nerves settled, replaced by a growing thrill. I'd seen his workspace before, but stepping into it tonight felt different. This was where Zayn created his music, but it was also where he lived, where he slept. We closed the door behind us, and Zayn turned on a single lamp, casting a soft, golden glow over the room, highlighting the stacked papers, the guitars, and the bed that seemed somehow even closer than before.
"Welcome to my place," he murmured, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he collapsed onto the bed, the gray comforter giving beneath his weight. "No one can hear us here. It's my quiet place." He looked around the room, then back at me, eyes gleaming with humor. "Just don't tell anyone it's so... soft."
I smiled, taking it all in. "Mhm," I teased, sitting down beside him, feeling the slight shift of the bed as I settled close. The room felt private in a way I hadn't expected, the world outside seeming far away, even though his family was just yards away.
Zayn leaned back, stretching out and meeting my gaze, his expression softening in the low light. He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face, his thumb trailing down my cheek in a way that made my skin prickle with anticipation.
