Between the Lines

Chapter 12: Lessons in Heat

The classroom was abuzz with chatter as Zayn entered, exuding that effortless, intense energy that seemed to demand everyone's attention. The students settled down as he took his place at the front, casually leaning against his desk with a book in hand. He didn't have to try hard to command the room; he just did.

"Alright, everyone, I'm expecting actual answers today," Zayn announced, his thick Bradford accent cutting through the room. "Let's start by going over the themes from yesterday. And no, don't all look terrified at once."

Several students raised their hands, and Zayn called on a few, nudging them towards deeper insights with his usual dry humor and sarcastic edge. He'd earned a reputation for being a challenging teacher—demanding but oddly captivating. He'd throw out casual, sardonic remarks that made the students chuckle, even as they scrambled to keep up with his quick wit.

As he walked around the room, Jessica leaned over, her eyes holding a glint of mischief. "Mr. Malik, I was thinking... maybe you could tutor me after class. I could really use some, uh... extra help."

Zayn smirked, unfazed but clearly amused. "Jessica, it's page 12 of the book. Pretty sure you can handle that on your own."

"Oh, come on," she pouted, her gaze lingering. "What if I promised to keep my grades up?"

"Yeah, well," he replied, his tone layered with mock severity, "I'd rather you kept your eyes on your book."

Despite his professional boundaries, Zayn's subtle amusement was evident, and the class took note of it, with a few of the boys casting him looks of grudging respect. They knew Zayn could handle himself, and he was sharp enough to put them all in their place when needed.

After the school day ended, Zayn found himself accepting Jessica's invitation to grab coffee under the guise of an academic meeting. He maintained a respectful distance, knowing full well the dynamic between them needed to stay professional, but her flirtations were persistent. As they walked, she reached out, touching his arm and giving him a lingering look. Zayn kept his expression neutral, though internally he was as amused as he was guarded. He steered the conversation back to safe topics, ensuring the boundaries remained firmly in place.

Later that evening, Zayn returned to his apartment, indulging in a quick, simple meal before getting ready for his shift at the bar. After dinner, he stood in the shower, the hot water cascading over his shoulders as he scrubbed away the day. He let his mind wander briefly, but the quiet was always a trap—because in that silence, the shadows of his past had a way of creeping back in.

The faint memories of his stepfather's voice, cold and biting, lingered like a bruise. He'd spent years trying to push those memories down, pretending they didn't have any power over him. But as he stood there, he couldn't shake the feeling that those ghosts were a little too close for comfort tonight.

Freshly dressed and with his hair slicked back, Zayn made his way to the bar. It was a busy night, the air filled with laughter and the hum of conversation, which suited him fine. The busier it was, the less time he had to think.

He took his place behind the bar, where he could slip into his role and lose himself in the rhythm of pouring drinks, wiping counters, and keeping an eye on the regulars. One of the patrons—a familiar face—leaned over the counter, grinning. "What's on the menu tonight, Zayn? Any of those new creations you're always experimenting with?"

Zayn flashed a quick smile. "You lot are in luck. Got a new one I've been working on—think you can handle it?"

The crowd around the bar perked up, and Zayn got to work. He reached for the vodka, poured in a splash of pomegranate juice, a dash of lime, and topped it off with a hint of ginger syrup, stirring it with a precise, practiced hand. He slid the drink across to the customer, a smirk on his face. "I call it The Red Mist. Strong, with just the right amount of bite. Let me know if it's too much for you."

The customer took a sip and laughed, raising the glass in approval. "Zayn, you've outdone yourself. This is amazing."

But Zayn's night wasn't over. He mixed another creation, this time with bourbon, a touch of honey, and a hint of smoked rosemary, calling it The Midnight Ember. He enjoyed watching the reactions of the regulars as they took their first sips, savoring the flavors he'd crafted. In this way, Zayn could pour himself into something, letting the art of drink-making replace the darker parts of his mind.

A group of women at the end of the bar eyed him as he worked, one of them finally mustering up the courage to call out, "Hey, bartender, you got a name or just those devastatingly good looks?"

Zayn looked up, an eyebrow raised, clearly amused. "Devastatingly good looks will do just fine. But I suppose you could call me Zayn if you insist."

They giggled, one of them winking. "Well, Zayn, any chance we could get one of those special drinks you've been making?"

He chuckled, taking his time as he set up another round. "Only because you asked so nicely." He poured the next drink with flair, making a show of it just to keep them entertained. And they watched every move, utterly entranced.

As the night wore on, the bar hummed with energy, laughter, and the occasional shout over a pool game in the back. Zayn lost himself in the rush of it, focusing on keeping up with orders, teasing the regulars, and keeping the atmosphere light. But every so often, when there was a lull, the past crept back, just out of sight but always lurking.

By the end of the night, as he locked up and turned off the lights, Zayn took a moment to let out a long, tired breath. The bar was empty now, silent, and as he stood there, he couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how much he tried to escape it, his past was always there, waiting.