You were not doing anything important.

That's the thing. You were just — home. Weekend, no plans, possibly in the middle of something completely unremarkable when the doorbell rang, and you weren't expecting anyone, and you opened the door—

And there was Tricia Aunty.

Tricia Aunty, who smelled like attar and wore her dupatta the same way she always had, who immediately cupped your face in both hands and said "mashallah, you look so well, beti" before you had fully processed that she was there.

And just behind her.

Him.

Taller than you remembered. Obviously. You'd last seen him — properly seen him, in person, not on a screen or a magazine cover or a billboard — years ago. But the face was the same underneath everything. The same eyes. The same jaw that had grown into itself somewhere around fifteen and never really stopped.

The boy who used to pull your hair in kindergarten.

Who you'd sat next to in maths in middle school and tutored through long division with the patience of a saint because he kept getting distracted.

Who used to come to Friday dinners with his whole family and eat two plates of whatever your mum made and compliment her cooking so genuinely she'd send extra home with them every single time.

That boy was standing on your doorstep in dark trousers and a shirt that had no right to look like that, and he was — quiet.

Eerily quiet.

You brought out chai. Obviously. Because Tricia Aunty was in your living room and there was no universe in which you didn't bring out chai and whatever biscuits were in the tin. Your mum had raised you correctly.

You set everything down. Sat across from them.

Looked at Zayn.

He was looking at the chai.

This was wrong. This was deeply, fundamentally wrong. Zain Malik, as a child, had been incapable of silence — he talked through films, through dinners, through car rides, through things that did not require commentary and received it anyway. You were aware that fame had done something to that — the broody, mysterious persona of the 1D years, the careful quiet of his solo era — but you had assumed, naively, that in your living room with his mum beside him and a cup of chai in front of him he might revert.

He did not revert.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

And then he explained. More so, he talked, and Tricia Aunty provided context. Zayn was trying very hard to keep his deep voice levelled and not raise an octave out of stress. Apparently, there was an event tonight. Red carpet, press, cameras, fans, and whatever else came with being a pop star. And he needed a date. Not just any supermodel he had dated in the past, someone respectable (Tricia Aunty’s words). Someone like… you, apparently.

He stopped.

"I know it's—" he started again.

Stopped again.

Tricia Aunty reached over and patted your hand.

"You were always such a sensible girl," she said warmly. Like this was already decided. Like she had driven here knowing it was already decided.

You sat in your living room.

Across from Tricia Aunty, who was looking at you with complete, serene confidence.

And Zain Malik — kindergarten hair-puller, long division disaster, Friday dinner regular, current international pop star — who was looking at you like you were the only person in the world who could help him and he knew, deeply and privately, that he did not deserve it.

“…Please?” He asked quietly, giving you a wobbly smile.