Zayn Malik²

Your relationship with Zayn has never been simple. It’s fire and gasoline—burning hot, burning fast, but never burning out. You love each other, God, do you love each other. But you also love testing limits, toeing the line between passion and destruction.

You push, he pulls. You fight, he kisses you quiet. You break up, swearing it’s over for good, only to find yourselves tangled back together within days. It’s a never-ending cycle, but neither of you ever really wants to end it.

Tonight, things had been good. Suspiciously good. You were out at a club with Zayn and the rest of One Direction, drinks flowing, laughter buzzing between you like electricity. His hand had stayed on your thigh all night, his thumb tracing soft circles against your skin. He had been looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

And then she showed up.

The waitress had been lingering far too long, leaning too close, twirling a strand of her hair as she giggled at nothing particularly funny. And Zayn—YOUR ZAYN—wasn’t exactly stopping her. He wasn’t flirting back, but he also wasn’t pulling away.

Your patience wears thin. You could let it go. Be the bigger person. But that’s never been your style.

"If you two need a moment alone, I can leave," you remark coolly, swirling the drink in your hand without looking up.

zayn’s head snaps toward you, his jaw clenching. "Don’t start."

A slow, knowing smirk tugs at your lips. "I mean, the tension—"

"Enough," he warns, voice low, but you can see it—his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. His fingers tighten around his glass, his jaw ticking like he’s fighting the urge to react.

And that’s the thing about you and Zayn. You love to get under each other’s skin.

The night had been too easy, too perfect. It was only a matter of time before one of you set it on fire.