°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Me and You Together Song 🌃

ZAYN

I've been in love with her for ages
And I can't seem to get it right
I fell in love with her in stages
My whole life

There's been no way for me to say
That I've felt a certain way for ages
Oh I think our story needs more pages
'Cause I've been in love with her for ages
It had been nearly three weeks since that night—the night—and Zayn still remembered waking up with a pounding skull, dry mouth, and the kind of nausea that made him question every decision that led up to the first drink. And the second. And... well, the rest was a blur. He had no idea how much he'd had, but his body had clearly taken issue with it.

The physical symptoms were gone now. The headache, the grogginess, the inability to function like a normal adult—all had faded in a day or two. But something else hadn't. Something gnawed at the edges of his thoughts every time he paused, something that felt like a thread left untied in the fabric of his memory.

He had no recollection of the party, not really. Just faint impressions. Lights. Music. Laughter, maybe his own. A sense of being too warm and too full of thoughts he hadn't planned on sharing. But the strongest clue that something had happened came not from his memory, but from Naisargi.

He'd asked her casually a couple of days later what had gone down that night—expecting a few embarrassing anecdotes, maybe a reminder of a speech he didn't remember giving. But the moment he brought up Harry, her tone had shifted. Every single time. Conversations would grow clipped, her voice tense, her posture guarded. She admitted that she'd met him, yes, but wouldn't say more. And Zayn, while grateful to be spared total humiliation, was left suspended in a fog of not knowing.

He'd joked once—hopefully joked—that he might've confessed his undying love to the man. Naisargi had laughed too tightly, too briefly.

Now, weeks later, he had almost made peace with the mystery. He'd focused on other projects, other deadlines. Harry's album, which he had poured so much of his soul into, was out in the world now and soaring. His part was done, and though that left him feeling oddly hollow, he took pride in what they'd accomplished. He told himself that it was okay to move forward. That the ambiguity of that night didn't need solving.

And he might've believed that... if Harry hadn't come into the office that day.

Zayn had been at his desk, half-listening to a rough demo and sipping on lukewarm coffee, when he heard the quiet commotion down the hallway—the kind that always followed Harry Styles. He was there to collect his plaque for going platinum. Zayn had smiled to himself, proud in that distant but personal way, and had stood up to stretch his legs.

He hadn't meant to run into him. He'd only wanted another coffee. But the timing couldn't have been worse. Just as Zayn stepped into the hallway, Harry rounded the corner—and stopped dead in his tracks. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments before Harry bolted. Not walked. Bolted. Into a nearby conference room.

Zayn stood frozen, coffee mug clutched in his hand, his mind spiraling. What the hell was that?

A moment later, the door opened again. Harry stepped out, looking flustered, muttering an apology Zayn couldn't fully hear, before darting into the bathroom like it was a hiding place. And maybe it was.

Zayn stared after him in disbelief. Did his face just make Harry Styles need to pee? That made no sense. None of this made sense.

And suddenly, the fog around that night didn't feel so harmless anymore. It felt urgent.

⸻

9:30 PM

He had waited all day. Had gone through the motions of work like a man distracted by a distant siren call. But finally, the time was late enough. He called her.

"Hey!" Naisargi answered brightly, clearly tired but happy to hear from him. She'd left for a different project a few days ago, and they'd only exchanged a few quick messages since.

They spent the first half hour catching up—how her new gig was going, what she'd been reading, how she and Niall still texted now and then. Zayn laughed along, but he was barely present, his thoughts pacing like an anxious cat.

Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore. "Hey, uh," he began slowly, "Can I ask you something? About the party?"

There was a beat of silence. He imagined her face on the other end—sighing, rubbing her temples. And then she did sigh. Deeply.

"Zayn... being completely honest, I really shouldn't tell you any of this. I kinda gave Harry my word I wouldn't."

That made his heart stumble in his chest.

Harry asked her to keep something from me? That was a twist he hadn't seen coming. But he didn't interrupt. He needed the whole story now.

"He came up to us when we were at the bar," she continued, her voice measured. "You were totally out of it—like, completely. And he looked amused, honestly. Thought you were adorable in that chaotic drunk way."

Zayn groaned. "Oh god, embarrassing."

She chuckled. "Niall and I hit it off too, by the way. He's funny. Got that whole Irish mischief thing going on."

"Yeah, I noticed," Zayn said absently, the weight of her next words pressing in from the silence between them.

"You said the crowd was too much and you wanted some air. You went to a balcony. I didn't know which one till Niall told me there was one on the second floor. So we went up..."

Her voice trailed off. Then faltered. "Zayn, you were kissing."

His brain stuttered. "Wait—what?"

"You and Harry," she said gently. "When we opened the door, you were... wrapped up in each other. I don't know who kissed who first, but when we walked in, his hands were on your waist and yours were around his neck. It wasn't just some clumsy drunken thing either. It looked... real."

Zayn didn't say anything. He couldn't.

He felt his pulse spike. His palms had gone clammy. His stomach curled in on itself. They had kissed?

She went on, more hesitantly now. "When I opened the door, he pulled back fast. Like really fast. I don't think he realized I'd seen anything. But I did. And then he pulled me aside and begged me not to tell you."

Zayn's mouth went dry. "Why?"

"I think... I think he thought it would hurt you," she said after a long pause. "He was scared it meant more to you than it did to him. Or maybe he was scared it meant too much to him. Honestly, I don't know. But I do know that he didn't regret it. He just... he seemed afraid. Of what it might start. Or end."

Zayn felt lightheaded. "But why would he think it would hurt me? I mean—did I force myself on him or something? Was it—was it even consensual?"

Naisargi's voice softened. "Zayn. You were drunk, but you weren't out of control. And Harry kissed you back. I don't think you did anything wrong. But I think it scared him. I think he felt something he didn't know what to do with."

He let the words settle into the silence between them. They filled the room like mist. Like memory.

His head ached again—not the hangover kind, but the emotional kind. The kind that came from wanting something so badly and realizing you may have already had it for a second... and lost it.

"I don't know if that made anything clearer," she added gently.

Zayn leaned his head back against the couch. "It didn't. But... thanks for telling me."

He ended the call a few minutes later and sat in the stillness of his apartment, Harry's music playing faintly from the speaker in the corner. The chorus of one of the new tracks repeated like a mantra he hadn't noticed before.

If I could hold you, I'd never let go.

And Zayn, heart pounding and throat dry, finally allowed himself to ask the one question that had been building behind every heartbeat:

What the hell do I do now?