°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Bad Liar 🦝

ZAYN

Oh, hush, my dear, it's been a difficult year
And terrors don't prey on innocent victims
Trust me, darlin',
It's been a loveless year, I'm a man of three fears
Integrity, faith and crocodile tears
Trust me, darlin',

So look me in the eyes, tell me what you see
Perfect paradise tearing at the seams
I wish I could escape it, I don't wanna fake it
I wish I could erase it, make your heart believe
All my dreams never mean one thing
Does happiness lie in a diamond ring?
Oh, I've been askin' for problem

I wage my war on the world inside
I take my gun to the enemy's side

Zayn knew ambushing Harry wasn't the smartest move. In fact, it was probably the worst possible approach considering everything that had happened, or more accurately, everything he thought had happened. But it wasn't like he had options. After that one surreal, humiliating moment in the office hallway—Harry all wide eyes and stiff shoulders before diving into a conference room like he was fleeing the scene of a crime—Zayn hadn't seen him again. Not once.

Harry hadn't been back to the office since. There were no meetings scheduled that required his presence, no promotional materials to approve, no sound checks or fittings or last-minute edits. And Zayn couldn't exactly knock on his front door with a bottle of wine and an apology. That felt like a violation of some unspoken line neither of them had acknowledged, but both clearly understood.

He'd considered calling—of course he had—but dismissed the thought almost instantly. This wasn't a conversation that could happen over the phone, not with so many blurred edges and silences between them. And anyway, Harry probably wouldn't answer.

Which led him to this. A plan that rode the line between impulsive and desperate. It had taken him the better part of a week to orchestrate it, and even longer to convince himself it wasn't completely insane. He'd lied to at least three people, and risked his own credibility in the department. The so-called "merch crisis" he reported was a total fabrication, one he barely managed to sell with an urgent tone and a slightly wild look in his eyes. Shockingly, it worked. Apparently, no one wants to be the person responsible for delayed tour merchandise.

He felt vaguely guilty, but pushed it down. This—whatever this was—felt bigger than protocols or schedules. It was about clarity. About honesty. About finally getting to the truth before it drove him fully mad.

So now, he waited. Alone in the neutral-toned conference room with sweaty palms and a breath that wouldn't even out no matter how many times he inhaled and exhaled. He paced. He checked the door. He second-guessed every word of the email he had written to Harry, carefully omitting his own name, making it seem like it was simply a routine consultation with the textiles team.

The door creaked open.

Zayn froze.

And then there he was.

Harry stepped into the room with the easy grace of someone half-distracted by his phone, his expression calm for a moment—until he looked up. His eyes met Zayn's and everything shifted. Surprise. Confusion. And then something sharper—panic.

He stumbled back a step, hand instinctively reaching for the door handle.

Zayn saw the retreat happening in real time and lurched forward, speaking before Harry could vanish again.

"Harry! Please wait—I just want to apologize."

Harry paused, hand still on the door, his brow creased in uncertainty. "You... want to apologize?"

Zayn nodded, probably too fast, words tumbling out of him in a flood he couldn't stop if he tried.

"Yes. I mean—yes. That night, at the party, I was drunk. Like, completely out of it. I didn't know what I was doing, and I don't remember any of it. That's not an excuse, I know that, but... I just—I act like an idiot when I drink too much, I become someone I don't like. And if I did something I shouldn't have, something that made you uncomfortable or pushed a boundary—if I kissed you or came onto you—I am so, so sorry, Harry. I never meant to do anything like that. I swear. I would never want to make you feel—"

He didn't even know how long he was talking. He only realized he'd stopped when the silence hit him like a wall, the weight of all his frantic confessions suddenly settling between them. He couldn't look up. He couldn't breathe.

Then Harry's voice, quiet but steady, broke through the tension.

"Did Naisargi tell you?"

Zayn hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah."

Harry's jaw flexed. "Did she tell you that you forced me to kiss you?"

Zayn blinked, caught off guard. "Not exactly. She just said she saw us kissing, and I figured—well, how else would it have happened? I mean, I was drunk and—"

"You didn't."
The words were quiet. Clear.

Zayn's heart stopped. "What?"

"You didn't force me to kiss you."

Zayn stared, stunned.

"I kissed you, Zayn. I wanted to."

Zayn's breath caught in his throat.

"I don't—" he stammered, eyes wide. "But that would mean—that would—wait, what?"

Harry's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "That would mean that maybe I like you. And maybe I wouldn't mind if... we kissed again."

Zayn's brain short-circuited. "What?"

He didn't mean for his voice to squeak like that, but Harry was already stepping closer, a soft chuckle under his breath. And then—before Zayn could say anything else—Harry was standing right in front of him. One hand cupped Zayn's cheek with gentle certainty, the other found its way around his waist. Zayn's entire body seemed to melt at the touch.

And then they were kissing.

Sober. Electric. Real.

It was nothing like Zayn expected and everything he didn't dare hope for. It was soft and slow and certain. It was the kind of kiss that rewrote the definition of kissing. The kind that filled in the blanks of every song lyric he used to roll his eyes at. The kind that made the world momentarily irrelevant.

He leaned into it, into him, and thought to himself—this is the moment I'll remember forever.

But just as suddenly, it ended.

Harry pulled back slowly, his expression unreadable at first. Then it changed—his eyes dimmed a little, his mouth pressed into a tight, almost apologetic line.

Zayn blinked. "Harry?"

Harry stepped back, the warmth of his touch vanishing like a ghost. "I'm sorry," he said, almost under his breath. "That was probably a mistake."

Zayn's stomach dropped. "Wait—what do you mean?"

Harry offered a small, sad smile, the kind that looked like it cost him something to give. "I meant what I said. About liking you. About the kiss. But..." He exhaled shakily. "Sometimes wanting something doesn't make it easier to have. And I think... I think this is goodbye."

And before Zayn could stop him, before he could make sense of what just happened—Harry turned, walked backward toward the door, and left with a final, softly spoken: "Goodbye, Zayn."

Then he was gone.

Zayn stood there, body still pressed against the edge of the conference table like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His mind raced to make sense of the moment, to untangle the hope from the heartbreak, to figure out why it felt like something beautiful had just bloomed—only to be cut off at the stem.

And that final word—goodbye—kept echoing in his chest like a bruise.

It felt like a door closing. No. It felt like the door.

And for the first time since that night he couldn't remember, Zayn found himself wishing desperately for a second chance he wasn't sure he'd ever get.