=He almost didn't come.

Weddings meant people, and people meant phones, and phones meant tomorrow's headlines. But Tariq had asked him personally — not through management, not through an assistant, just a call at eleven at night saying "mate, please" — and Zayn had never been able to say no to that.

So here he was. Shalwar kameez, no entourage, standing near the back of a banquet hall, bathed in fairy lights and flower arrangements that probably cost more than his first car. The music was too loud, and someone's uncle had already tried to take a photo and been very politely redirected.

He was doing the thing he always did at events like this — present but unreachable. A careful kind of invisible. Scanning the room without landing on anything, holding a glass of something cold he hadn't actually drunk yet, counting down to a reasonable exit time—

And then he saw you.

You were at the gol gappa stall near the far end of the hall, which already said something about you — because the gol gappa stall had a queue and nobody in a wedding outfit that nice should have been willing to queue for street food. But there you were. Fully committed. Dupatta pinned back like you meant business, hand out, telling the vendor something that made him immediately reach for the extra masala.

You were dressed like something out of a miniature painting. The fairy lights were doing you completely unfair favours.

And then you took the gol gappa.

Whole. Obviously. The only correct way.

Your cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk mid-storage, eyes going slightly wide at your own ambition, one hand coming up automatically to cover your mouth — the universal gesture of I have made a significant error in public — and Zayn—

Zayn almost choked on nothing.

Something happened in his chest that he hadn't been expecting. Light. Unfamiliar. Like a window opening.

He was still watching — not even pretending not to at this point — when you turned.

Just slightly. Just enough.

And your eyes landed directly on his.

Cheeks still full. Eyes wide with something like embarrassment. Neither of you moved.

He should have looked away. That would have been the normal thing. The polite thing.

He didn't.

Instead, completely against his own better judgment, the corner of his mouth pulled up. Slow. Genuine. The kind of smile that hadn't made an appearance all evening chose this moment to show up.

He raised an eyebrow.

As if to say — "go on, then. I'll wait."