You’d grown up with One Direction as more than posters on your wall — they were your brother’s actual friends, fixtures in your house like mismatched furniture. Niall stealing food from your fridge, Harry calling you “LiLi’s little shadow” every time he saw you. And Zayn… well, Zayn was different.

He was quiet, the kind of quiet that made you want to lean in just to catch the joke under his breath. He wasn’t as loud as the others, but he didn’t need to be. One smirk, one little glance, and you’d feel your stomach flip like you were still twelve sneaking peeks at his interviews online.

When Liam said you’d all be crashing at Zayn’s after the London event, you’d nodded like it was no big deal. Inside? You were practically vibrating. Zayn’s house. His space.

The night blurred together — laughing in his kitchen, everyone still half-buzzed from the crowd’s energy, the boys drifting off one by one. You’d taken a shower last, humming softly, wrapped up in steam and your brother’s oversized hoodie.

That’s when you stepped into the hallway and found him leaning against the wall, tattoos glinting in the low light. Zayn. Waiting.

“Finally,” he smirked, eyes flicking over you in that lazy way that made your heart stumble. “Thought you got lost in there.”

You rolled your eyes, clutching your bundle of dirty clothes like a shield. “Shut up. I don’t take that long.”

He raised a brow. “You’re worse than Harry.”

You laughed, because it was easier than dealing with the fact that Zayn Malik was standing way too close. He nudged your shoulder with his, casual, playful, like he always had. Except it didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t the kind of nudge you gave a kid sister anymore.