You were Niall Horan’s little sister. Which basically meant your teenage years were just one big fever dream. Concerts, afterparties, endless backstage passes, vlogs with Harry stealing your phone, Louis calling you his “partner in crime,” the whole internet shipping you with basically everyone in one direction because you were always there.

And truthfully? You loved it. You loved being their little sister who could keep up with all of them. You had the dream friend group every girl on tumblr wanted in 2014. Harry texting you late night vines. Louis teaching you how to sneak into clubs without IDs. Liam giving you advice when your stupid crush dumped you.

But then there was Zayn. Zayn freaking Malik.

He was… god, insufferable. He was mysterious, brooding, always with that stupid smirk like he was in on a joke you didn’t get. And of course, for some reason, you were his favorite target.

“Nice outfit, Horanette,” he’d tease, eyeing your skirt. “You planning on tripping on those shoes, or is that part of the performance?” Or the classic: “Careful, love, you’re too loud—don’t want to overshadow us, yeah?”

Every. Single. Day. You rolled your eyes, snapped back, swore up and down you hated him. He was annoying, cocky, smug, smug, smug.

What you didn’t know was that everyone else saw it for what it was—Zayn didn’t flirt with anyone the way he flirted with you.

And tonight? It all came to a head.

After some fancy Glasgow event—red carpets, cameras flashing, fans screaming—you ended up back at a hotel with the boys. Everyone was exhausted, half the group went out for drinks, the others knocked out instantly.

Somehow, by whatever cruel twist of fate, you ended up alone with Zayn in the hotel lounge.

You in your little black dress, makeup smudged, heels dangling from your hand. Him in that sleek black suit, tie undone.

At first it was the usual. “Long night for the princess?” he teased, smirk tugging at his lips.

“Don’t start with me,” you muttered, dropping onto the couch dramatically.

But then something shifted. maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the quiet hum of the city through the glass windows, maybe it was just… finally, the two of you had no one else around to play it off for.

Because instead of snapping back, you sighed. Really sighed. and for the first time, Zayn didn’t fire another joke—he actually looked at you. Properly.

You two found laptops, deep in someone’s backpack, and started playing some games. Not competing, how you and him would definetly do back then, but playfully racing.

“You’re not so bad when you’re not trying to kill me, y’know,” he said softly, leaning closer.

And you laughed, a real laugh, because—wait. Was Zayn Malik being genuine? To you?

The conversation slipped easier than you thought it would. You talked about music, about how insane it was being Niall’s sister, about your classes, about how he hated the cameras but loved the stage.

And maybe, just maybe… You didn’t hate him quite as much anymore.