Between the Lines

Chapter 9: The Essay Showdown

The moment the bell rang, Zayn stood tall, his presence commanding attention as he stepped in front of the classroom. It wasn't just the way he dressed—though his slim-fit shirt and designer jeans certainly didn't hurt—it was the way he moved, how effortlessly he radiated authority. He was a teacher, but he wasn't here to babysit or play nice. He was here to get results.

"Alright, everyone," Zayn said, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. "You all know what today is. Essay turn-in day. And if anyone thinks they're going to slip by without doing the work... well, let's just say I'm not in the mood for excuses."

The room went quiet, all eyes on him. He let the silence hang in the air for a beat longer than necessary before letting out a dry laugh.

"Yeah, I know some of you think you're too cool for school. But I don't give a shit how 'cool' you are. You're here to learn, and if you didn't do the damn work, you're gonna feel my disappointment. And trust me, you don't want that."

There was a flicker of nervous energy in the room. The girls were still throwing glances at him, batting their lashes, but now there was an edge to their flirting. Aisha, sitting near the front, seemed to be one of the few who wasn't focused on anything other than the work. She was serious, her face intent on her paper, completely immune to the hormonal chaos that filled the room. It was a good look on her.

"Let's see what you've got," Zayn said, his eyes flicking across the room. "Aisha, you up first. What'd you come up with?"

Aisha straightened in her seat, lifting her essay with quiet confidence. "I focused on the main character's internal conflict and how it drives their decisions," she said, her voice steady but with a hint of curiosity. "I also linked it to the theme of redemption."

"Not bad," Zayn commented, nodding as he took the paper from her. He skimmed it quickly, and his lips curled up into a small, approving smile. "I might actually give you an A for this one. You've got your shit together."

The girls' gazes shot daggers at Aisha, though most were trying to hide their jealousy behind sweet smiles. Zayn didn't miss a thing. He knew exactly what was going on.

"Alright, next," Zayn said, scanning the class. "Who else thinks they can impress me today?"

No hands shot up immediately, and Zayn's eyes narrowed. "Come on, people. You know the drill. No one's getting out of here without a little bit of humiliation. Who wants to go next?"

A few hesitant hands finally rose, mostly the ones who had at least made an attempt at the essay. Zayn walked around the room, picking up papers as he went, giving each student a look that could either intimidate or flatter depending on who they were.

One of the boys, Dylan, made the mistake of leaning back in his chair, trying to look like he was too cool for this whole ordeal. "Yo, Mr. Malik," Dylan called out with a lazy grin. "You're seriously gonna grade us in front of the whole class? C'mon, that's some next-level shit."

Zayn's eyes locked on him, hard and cold. "You're damn right I am, Dylan," Zayn shot back, stepping closer. "Maybe if you spent more time reading and less time trying to look like you're about to start a rap career, you'd have a better paper."

The class went silent. Dylan shifted in his seat, looking like he'd been slapped. Zayn didn't let up, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he addressed the entire class.

"You all better understand something," Zayn continued, his tone cutting through the silence. "I don't care how cool you think you are. If you don't put in the effort, you'll fail. Simple as that. No excuses. You're wasting my time and your own. And I don't tolerate wasting time."

He walked back to the front of the class, waiting for the inevitable groans of defeat. The students shuffled uneasily, some of them frantically scribbling last-minute notes while others just stared at him, too embarrassed to even look at their papers.

He gave them one last look, letting the weight of his words sink in before tossing a final remark. "Next time, don't be lazy. Do the work, and maybe you'll get that grade you think you deserve."

With that, the bell rang, and the students were dismissed, but the tension lingered in the air. As they filed out, a few of the girls shot him lingering glances, their faces still flushed with a mix of admiration and something else—something more dangerous.

Zayn watched them leave, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his lips. He didn't mind the attention, not really. He was used to it. But it didn't mean he was here for the bullshit. If they wanted to be serious, they needed to prove it.

Later that evening, Zayn sat alone in his small apartment, a plate of takeout in front of him. It was nothing special—just some bland chicken and rice—but it was enough for him tonight. He shoved a bite into his mouth, chewing mechanically, his mind wandering.

Zayn had always preferred being alone. He didn't need the company, not after all the chaos that had come before. As he chewed, the room seemed too quiet, too empty. The faces of his students—especially Aisha's—flashed in his mind. She was different. She didn't fawn over him like the others. She asked questions, like she genuinely cared about the lesson. It had been... refreshing.

The past wasn't as easy to escape as the present, though. He let his fork fall onto the plate, his mind sinking back into darker waters.

Bradford. His stepdad's voice echoed in his mind again, drunk and vicious. The memories always seemed to find him when he was still, when he was alone. He thought he'd buried it all. But then it came crawling back, a ghost that refused to stay buried.

He shook his head, forcing the thoughts away. He wasn't that kid anymore. He wasn't that scared boy in the corner anymore. He was Zayn Malik, teacher and bartender, and he damn well earned his place in this world.

With a frustrated sigh, Zayn pushed the plate aside and grabbed his shower supplies. The warmth of the water enveloped him as he stepped under the stream, letting it wash away the grime of the day. He tilted his head back, water streaming through his hair, the droplets running down his sculpted chest, tracing the lines of his toned body. The heat felt good against his skin, like a momentary escape from the weight he carried.

He washed his hair, working the shampoo through his dark locks, his fingers massaging his scalp. For a brief second, he allowed himself to relax, just as the last of the water rinsed away the tension in his muscles.

A few hours later, Zayn was back at the bar, the low hum of the crowd around him filling the air. His body, still damp from the shower, slipped into the familiar rhythm of bartending. He moved effortlessly, crafting cocktails with a speed and grace that came naturally to him.

Tonight, though, he wanted to make something different. Something to shake off the memories that still lingered in the back of his mind.

He reached for a bottle of tequila, tossing in a bit of cranberry juice, some lime, and a splash of club soda. Shaking it with a flourish, he poured the mix into a glass with ice, topping it off with a touch of agave syrup. The drink was sharp, sweet, and smooth all at once.

He smiled at the result. "I'll call this one... The Reckoning."

It was strong—like him. Not a drink for the faint-hearted.

But then, Zayn didn't do things halfway. He'd been fighting for too long to let anything slide. And in that moment, as he slid the drink over to a customer, the weight of the past didn't seem quite so heavy.

Not yet, anyway.