DENIM SERIES 1.1: JIRO

DENIM SERIES 1.2: ZOE

DENIM SERIES 1.4: ELLEN

Soph blinked.

“I’m sorry, what?” She asked politely, as if she hadn’t quite heard correctly.

“I said,” Iftikhar said slowly, watching Soph’s reaction very carefully. “This is Zayn and his father and they’re here for your hand in-”

“Marriage.” Soph mouthed, her lips barely moving as her father spoke, glancing between Yaser and Zayn. Zayn was watching Soph with a carefully guarded expression, the only thing giving anything away being the force to be reckoned with that shone in his eyes as he looked meaningfully at her.

The three men watched Soph expectantly.

Soph couldn’t move. She could feel her body beginning to quiver and she felt as if she was going to be sick. She knew she’d be angry, but right now, she was too paralyzed with shock to feel anything other than a vicious, overtaking nausea.

Zayn.

Zayn was sitting in her home. Sitting on the small silk chair, with its back pressed against the wall, the seat Soph usually sat in whenever her family sat there, with the sun streaming in, or the electric fire burning. He was sitting where she usually sat, where she would sit when Iftikhar spoke to her and her mother once Zayn and Yaser had gone.

That chair, so innocent before now, was now only a symbol of doom.

These thoughts flitted through Soph’s head at a thousand thoughts a millisecond and barely two moments had passed since Iftikhar had repeated himself. Soph forced herself to pull herself together. She was going to have to somehow try her best to fix this. She wouldn’t be able to, but if she lost her cool now, then it would become something even more beyond her control.

Slowly, Soph clearing the horrified expression on her face to make way for a smooth, guarded and understanding one, nodded, just the once. She bit on the inside of her bottom lip and, to the two men in the room who knew Soph – Iftikhar and Zayn – they noticed the way she masked her true emotions, so effortlessly and professionally, that it was as if the conflict that had showered her face had been nothing but a mere illusion.

“Why don’t you get dressed and come downstairs and we’ll all talk?” Iftikhar offered kindly, the slight condescension that Soph noted in his voice obscured by his soft, gentle tone and the kindness in his eyes. For a fleeting moment, he’d seen Soph scared – and he reminded himself she was a silly little girl, who thought she had Daddy issues when she really had none.

Soph nodded and tried to speak, but her throat was dry. She coughed and nodded again, coarsely whispering “jee”, yes in Urdu, to her father, before stepping out of the threshold of the room and closing the door gently behind her.

She wanted to just... Stop for a moment, to rest her head and back against the door and just... Just stop. But the only thing separating her and her father was a piece of only semi-thick wood. So, knowing how intently Iftikhar – and Zayn, she supposed, with a sick feeling that made the room spin – would be listening for her footsteps, as soon as the door closed, she made way for the stairs.

For the briefest of moments, as Soph went to go up the stairs and her mother came down them, they met eyes.

Something passed between them, between mother and daughter, their expressions mirroring each other ... The expression of fear. The fear of what was happening, what had happened and what was going to happen next.

Soph carried on walking, not a footstep out of a normal pace, her mother equally smooth. Soph ran gently up the stairs as she normally would, she went into her room and grabbed the clothes her mother had laid out on the banister, carrying it up to her bedroom, making sure the gentle click of her door could be heard in the silence of the house.

Then she ran to her bathroom, quietly slammed the door shut behind her and leant against it, forcing herself to take strong, deep breaths.

“Ohh God.” Soph moaned to herself, her voice shaky. She covered her face in her hands, digging at her hair. “Oh my God.”

The conversation stalled as Soph left the room, all of them tense as they heard Soph and Robina’s unfaltering steps as they crossed one another. Zayn felt unease, knowing Soph hadn’t stopped to talk to her mother; there was something... Odd about it. Surely she’d talk to her mother about what she was feeling right now? She’d talk to someone?

Iftikhar only became more suspicious – he knew how close Robina and Soph truly were and that they’d known he was listening. But it made no difference. He heard the quiet, distant click of Soph as she closed her door and felt himself relax again – he was back in control. Soph’s initial reaction could have easily taken away the hold Iftikhar currently held against his guests; but Soph, for once, had played the obedient little daughter to perfection.

“So, Iftikhar, what were you saying?” Yaser asked in Punjabi, with an awkward smile. He was still partially numb from what Zayn had asked of him. He’d said it was an emergency; that he needed his father in London right away and to bring a suit.

And then, only then, when Yaser had gone running to his son’s aid, meeting him outside the small Tube station of Stockwell, Zayn had looked sincerely at his father and told him something.

He told him he wanted to get married and that he’d found the right girl.

And then he’d fearfully – something Zayn had never done before – asked his father if, if he approved and accepted this, he’d help ask for her hand.

Because, Zayn had explained as Yaser stared at him in horror, the girl he’d chosen was a Muslim. She was a Pakistani Muslim, a Rajput and in every way Zayn’s superior and although Zayn knew that, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let her go away. He told Yaser how Soph’s cousin was pressuring for her marriage, how with Adam in hospital even Soph wouldn’t accept how much more vulnerable she truly was, how he knew she held feelings for him too, even though she was a good girl and that he knew he could make spending the rest of his life with her work, he could make it work easily and he knew it with an utmost confidence he’d never felt with anything – or anyone – else before.

“What else is there to say, friend?” Iftikhar replied in fluent Punjabi, something he was more comfortable with than Urdu. “The school opened in Islamabad nearly three years ago now, and, mashallah, it’s doing well.”

Zayn noticed Iftikhar’s quick praise to God, despite knowing – somehow – that he wasn’t a spiritual man. There were copies of the Holy Book in every room, placed subtly on bookshelves. As Zayn eyed a white one, almost tucked away unseen at the top of the fireplace shelf, he promised himself he’d utter the phrase praising Allah –and anybody else who was listening and willing to participate – if this worked.

Iftikhar and Yaser discussed business some more, Yaser talking about his company of contractors and the small boxing clubs he owned around Bradford. Iftikhar knew about those sort of things – his younger brother Kayden was in the same trade and Iftikhar had been a sporty lad in his youth – whilst Zayn listened silently. Absently, as he stared at the table, Zayn traced the tattoo on the side of his wrist, in a sort of mantra, hoping it would help create the peace it symbolized.

Soph, two floors above, gripped the sink and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

One side of her plain white scarf, draped across her shoulders, fell slightly as she did. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm herself – she thought of the silk of her bottoms and how the gathers fell perfectly in place at her ankles, the soft cotton tunic with its short sleeves and borders of plain white lace, the feeling of her hair as it fell in front of her face.

Soph shook her head by a minimal amount, opening her eyes and seeing her fearful expression. Despite the worried arrangement of her features, her eyes were steely. She couldn’t hide in there forever. The show wouldn’t go on without her – she was the main entertainment. The longer she stayed in that bathroom, the worse it would be.

“Keep me going, Adam.” Soph prayed under her breath, before giving herself one more determined look in the mirror. Then she flung the bathroom door open, slipped on some shoes and forced herself down the stairs, clenching her fists and feeling her heart pound in her throat as she did.

*

“Hey!” Rose smiled as she entered the kitchen, seeing Harry checking his hair with the glass of one of the cabinets. “Going anywhere special?”

Harry said nothing.

“Don’t ignore me.” Rose muttered teasingly, nudging Harry’s hip.

“Do you mind, Rose? Personal space.” Harry frowned, turning back to reflection. Rose raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I’ll see you later. Let me know if Soph calls.”

“Yes, sir.” Rose mumbled, as Harry buttoned his blazer, pointedly ignoring her. Liam’s reaction yesterday – reaction to what, Harry was unsure of, but it was definitely a reaction – had woken Harry up. Rose was Liam’s girlfriend. Liam’s girlfriend. How had he, even for a second, allowed himself to forget what that meant?

With one finalizing glance in the mirror, Harry stalked out of the room.

Rose watched him, perturbed. That was so... Different. Harry was never so blunt. He’d acted as if Rose were a nuisance.

“Was he bothering you?” Liam asked, walking into the kitchen and browsing for a green apple.

“Oh, hey.” Rose smiled, allowing Liam to take her hand in his. “No, nothing like that, he just seems a bit... Off, is all.” Liam said nothing, tracing patterns on the back of Rose’s hand. “So, what’s the plan?” Rose asked. Liam simply smiled, pulling her hand and dragging her away from any thoughts of Harry.

*

Soph waited with slightly baited breath as finally, her mother entered the room, the echo of the door closing feeling like an omen to Soph. This was it. It was about to begin.

Robina and Soph both sat facing Zayn, something sort of twisted in that, Soph thought. She didn’t understand the reasoning behind this feeling, but all the same.

“I think that’s enough formality.” Iftikhar finally said, taking a sip of his freshly brewed tea before setting it down on the table. Soph felt her heartbeat suddenly accelerate by a thousand and, somehow, she knew Zayn felt the same; they both glanced at each other, Soph’s fear clear on her face.

She expected him to be the same, or at least show that same spark of determination she’d seen in him earlier; but he didn’t. Instead, he did something he’d never done before, well, not in a particular way Soph noticed.

He offered her a small, slightly amused smile.

It wasn’t the smile that surprised Soph. It was everything it meant. Something had shone in Zayn’s eyes as he’d smiled at her understandingly, admittedly a little wryly, acknowledging how they were both sharing each other’s feelings. He was... Taking control. Reassuring her.

Letting her know everything would be okay.

Soph wanted to scream.

“Why do you want my daughter?” Iftikhar asked, his tone businesslike and cool. Robina kept her eyes trained sharply on Zayn, whilst Soph reminded herself of what she’d often referred to as marriage, in her teenage years – cattle trading. “I know you work with her, but considering you were there to see her brother in a car crash-”

Soph saw Zayn take an intake of breath, ready to defend himself, but she noticed the way Yaser glanced sweepingly at Zayn. Zayn stopped. Soph watched in awe as Yaser suddenly seemed to grow taller – and wider – facing Iftikhar with squared shoulders and sharp eyes.

Soph really, really wanted to scream, now.

“- this can’t just be a coincidence, something must be going on. Am I wrong?” Iftikhar asked Zayn, who opened his mouth to speak, before Iftikhar turned to Soph will furious eyes. “Well?”

The sudden hostility emanating from her father made Soph feel dizzy. They were screwed. So screwed. What was she meant to say? And Zayn didn’t know what to say – how would he?! He was going to embarrass himself, his father and Soph all in the process of trying to do something as stupid as to try and marry her.

That in itself was... Something else. Marry her? Why – how – marry her? Marriage was a lifelong commitment. A solid promise. Something that held meaning. And Zayn wanted that with... Her?

Soph quickly cleared her head, as she realized Zayn had said something. She’d missed what. She couldn’t see her father’s face; he was turning the other way, looking at Zayn, and the curtains were drawn, so she couldn’t see his reflection in the glass of the window.

“What was that, sorry?” Iftikhar asked, genuinely having not heard.

“I said, Soph has nothing to do with this.” Zayn said, clearer this time, his shoulders relaxed and his voice clear. Soph felt her mouth open slightly as a sudden confidence Soph had never seen before took Zayn over, as he addressed Iftikhar directly. “Seeing the crash was a coincidence. I knew about Adam, obviously.” Zayn added, seeing Iftikhar’s face cloud with suspicion. “Which is why I came out to help. But... Other than working with me, Soph’s never really had much else to do with me.” The side of Zayn’s mouth twitched. “I’m probably going to get ignored on Monday.”

Soph couldn’t help herself, despite knowing how much Zayn’s confidence in Soph’s character would infuriate Iftikhar and Robina alone.

“Who just randomly shows up to somebody’s house and asks them to marry them?” Soph muttered, shaking her head slowly, looking at Zayn with wide, her eyes slightly crazed with fear. “Who does that? No-one.” Soph paused for emphasis. “No-one.”

Yaser glanced at Zayn for a moment – hadn’t Zayn assured him this girl felt the same way? That it was just a matter of convincing her parents – only to find himself even more shocked than before. Zayn had just glanced at the ground, smiling to himself, whereas the girl – Sophia – looked like she was torn between strangling Zayn and passing out. But there was something behind her expression that Zayn seemed to understand and Yaser decided to trust his son’s judgement – for now.

Because, of course, Zayn knew exactly what look Soph was giving him. He knew what she was thinking, too, in all of its incoherent glory; her fear, her shock...

The small glimmer of pride that had flashed in her eyes, when Zayn had spoken up.

Oh, yes. Zayn had noticed.

“I think you may have wasted your journey.” Iftikhar said after a moment, not missing the interaction between Zayn and Soph. How had something so small, so insignificant, managed to create static in the room? Iftikhar didn’t like it. Not one bit. Somebody was lying to him. “I don’t think you know, but Soph’s cousin from Scotland made a formal inquiry just a few days ago-”

“We know, that’s why my wife isn’t here.” Yaser interrupted, with a small, apologetic smile. “Zayn called. Apparently, he already knew.”

“I found out through one of the interns at work.” Zayn clarified, as Robina’s eyes rounded on him accusingly. Zayn turned to face Soph again and Iftikhar felt like hitting him. He had to remind himself that, as the girl’s side, he was meant to be the gracious one. “You should have told me.”

Soph’s eyes widened.

The unsettling feeling that Zayn had planned this more thoroughly than Soph had thought swept through her body and despite rationality telling her that she should most certainly not be looking at the bright side of things in such a bleak situation, she couldn’t help but feel a warmth in the centre of her chest. Whether it was affection, or just respect at the way Zayn had clearly made everybody else clear of the fact he was there for one reason and one reason only – to be allowed to marry Soph – she was unsure. But all the same.

The warmth was there.

“I...” Soph, for one of the rarest moments in her life, was at a loss of what to say. “I... It had nothing to do with work, why would I have?”

They were playing her parents, Soph realized, with the same sort of manic , internal mental laughter that was usually associated with psychopaths. They were playing her parents, so they could get them onboard.

And, Soph realized with a surge of undistinguishable emotion, Zayn was doing it in such a way that he was the bad guy. He was acting as if he were the one pushing for more than what they had, that Soph had no idea how he felt.

Soph realized, with a lump in her throat, that Zayn was protecting her.

It was that thought alone that silenced Soph enough to manage to get through the remainder of the evening. Soph could only watch dumbly as Iftikhar coolly interrogated Zayn – asking about his job, his family, his future.

Soph heard all of it and none of it at the same time. She felt as if she were in a haze – she didn’t know this Zayn, the same way she hadn’t known the Zayn who had held her a few days ago. But at least that Zayn she’d been... Familiar with. This Zayn was somebody else entirely.

He was a man and strangely enough, Soph found herself evaluating him as one.

“What makes you think you’re a better choice than her cousin?” Iftikhar asked Zayn, making Soph’s head snap up.

Zayn didn’t glance at Soph this time. Instead, he looked calmly at Iftikhar and Robina. He didn’t have to think about his response. It was just... Automatic.

“Because I won’t care for her because I have to.” Zayn replied quietly. “I’ll care for her because I want to. And I promise you, Uncle, it’ll be my priority. I’ll do it for as long as I’m breathing.” Zayn paused for a moment, before looking briefly at the floor, his jaw clenched in anxiety as he spoke, Soph staring at him with shocked, parted lips. “Because, I swear to you, I’ll never let her cry.”

There was utter silence.

Complete and utter silence.

But somehow, as if they’d been shouting at each other from across the room, Soph and Zayn met eyes; and it was if there was nobody else in there with them.

The three adults glanced at each other as Soph and Zayn watched each other, both of their faces expressionless, but their eyes saying it all for them.

Yaser was the one to finally break the silence.

“Zayn, I think we should be going.” He coughed. “I think Sophia and her parents have a lot to talk about, yeah?”

Reluctantly, Zayn tore his mesmerizing hazel eyes away from Soph’s own, chocolate brown ones, releasing her from the magic trance they seemed to have put her in. Soph’s face flushed bright red as she trained her eyes on the floor, Zayn and Yaser both standing.

Soph’s parents stood up then, too, Soph forcing herself up last. She couldn’t bear to look anywhere near Zayn, let alone at his eyes, or his reassuring smile, or the way he was already acting as if Soph were his to protect.

Soph had already planned what her reaction would be. She could see it now; storming into the 1D house, demanding to see Zayn, abusing him on the brink of tears as she shoved and punched and slapped at him, trying to explain how he’d signed their death warrants, when really, she was only worried about him.

But any resistance – any sort of fierceness, any emotion she could have allowed herself to manifest into aggression – had... Disappeared.

The rest happened quickly. Iftikhar and Yaser shook hands and Yaser gave Robina a warm smile and thanks for her hospitality as a goodbye. Zayn and Robina exchanged the briefest of polite smiles and when Iftikhar kept a firm grip on his and Zayn’s handshake, he noticed that Zayn didn’t so much as twitch.

It was when they were already in the car that Robina remembered some food she’d packed for Zayn’s mother and his sisters, as a goodwill gesture. Iftikhar and Soph stood at the door, Iftikhar falsely merry and Soph just numb, as Robina approached the car.

“I knew you were after my daughter.” Robina said quietly, as she handed Zayn a bag through the window.

“I’ll look after her.” Zayn said sincerely. “I promise you, I will.”

Robina just looked down at Zayn seriously.

“Well.” Robina shrugged. “You’ll have to convince her father first, won’t you?”

*

Iftikhar and Soph watched as Robina approached the car.

“Well, we’ll find an excuse.” Iftikhar said cheerfully, waving them off as Robina stepped back and they drove away.

“What do you mean?” Soph asked, her eyebrows furrowing.

Iftikhar looked down at her patronizingly, as Robina came towards them.

“He’s half-white, he sings for a living and he thinks we’re cheap enough to hand our daughter over on a platter just because he wants it so.” Iftikhar told her. “What, do you seriously think I’m going to let that happen?”

Soph just looked at her father as he closed the door, Robina and Iftikhar both heading for the room they’d just left. But Soph stood there for a moment; she closed her eyes and stood there.

Do you seriously think I’m going to let that happen?

With startling clarity, Soph realized that she wished he would.

The next morning, Soph dressed slowly. Her limbs felt heavy with the effort. She’d deliberately pretended to have slept in late, so she could pretend she had to leave in a rush while her father was in the shower. In reality, she’d been staring at her white-painted ceiling and listening to sad Asian songs.

She wore a pair of black skinny jeans, grey boots, a grey sweater that was so big it kept falling off one of her shoulders, with a grey leather jacket to hide it, because she couldn’t be bothered to keep hoisting it up. She didn’t bother with her hair and wore heavy Aviators to hide her eyes.

As Soph drove aimlessly through the city of London, not really knowing where she was going, she played the same song on loop, one verse in particular wrenching at her heart. It didn’t sound the same, translated in English, but it spoke of love – its control over you, how it had the power to make you do what it wanted and take it down any path it so wished. Soph felt a twist in her stomach at the sound of the words that applied to her now so profoundly.

She’d spoken with her parents about Zayn last night, for quite a while. Her father had demanded to know – in that soft, intimidating tone of his, that reminded Soph how dangerous he was – whether Zayn had been the “better” proposal Soph had thought of. Soph had firmly denied the allegations. How could she have told her father that, although that was what she’d had in mind, back then she never could have dared to believe it?

The matter seemed closed – Zayn was not a viable option for Soph’s future – but Soph knew that wasn’t true. Zayn was in every aspect of her future. Even if – she couldn’t believe she was even thinking it – they didn’t get married, as Zayn had planned (married!), they’d still be working together, they’d still be seeing each other.

They’d still have feelings for each other.

Soph had kept quiet during her parents’ discussion, ringing alarm bells for the both of them inside their heads. Soph had known her mother wanted to discuss things with her privately, when her father prepared himself for bed, but Soph hadn’t wanted to know. She’d pretended she was in the shower, with her bedroom door locked. Eventually, Robina’s soft calls had become irritated and eventually, gone.

As Soph stopped at the red light, she glanced at a couple, eating ice cream on a bench. She watched as the girl pressed some ice cream against the boy’s nose, laughing as he scrunched up his face at the cold. She watched the loving expressions on their faces, the way they kept their hands clasped subtly between each other.

For a moment, Soph saw more than just a couple; she saw herself and Zayn, messing about in the park with ice cream. She saw their laughter eventually subsiding, she saw her resting her head against Zayn’s shoulder and watching the sky peacefully.

And then somebody blared their horn behind her, informing her of the green light, and Soph shook her head and carried on driving.

It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for; Regent’s Park Mosque, on the edge of the Park itself. She hadn’t been there since she’d been a young girl – Soph was fluent in Arabic and had finished the scriptures some time ago and that had somehow diminished her need to visit mosque every Friday with her mother. It was more of a social event these days anyway, and that kind of thing Soph had never had the patience for.

She remembered her way around; through the main entrance, to the side leading to the washing area and toilets. It was fairly quiet; it was too late for morning prayer and too early for the next.

Soph quietly washed herself in preparation for prayer as she’d always been taught, mumbling the Arabic quietly, enjoying the sound of the water against the marble. Once she was done, she walked up small staircase and allowed herself to stare in awe, as she always had, at the mosque.

The women’s section was on a balcony, overlooking the large hall used for the men. It was high and ornate – the balcony itself was an elaborate wood carving and she could see the full beauty of the mosque, with its Arabic inscriptions painted artistically on the dome. She’d always preferred the women’s section; it was more private, more calm, less... There. You could lose yourself there for hours, just sitting in the corner and thinking.

It was empty, save for one young woman prostrating, in saj’dah, praying to God. Soph was sure not to step in front of her, skirting along the ends of the balcony and heading for the bookshelf. She’d grabbed a black shawl from her car and had wrapped it loosely around her head.

Soph aimlessly picked out a book in English, wishing the woman would leave soon. Soph was on her period; she couldn’t touch the Holy Book and she’d look a bit silly holding it with her scarf. Soph peeked every few moments to check the woman was still reading. Eventually, she left.

Soph wasn’t sure how long she sat there for, huddled with her knees up in the corner, observing the inscribed Arabic on the walls and dome. The words were written in Arabic calligraphy and twisted and turned into each other, but Soph found it easy to decipher.

She wasn’t the most spiritual of people and she never had been – but she enjoyed the peace and quiet that the mosque was bringing her and had always enjoyed the way the Arabic words had always flowed so effortlessly from her tongue.

But if there was any time to pray, now was as good a time as any.

She prayed for her brother to wake up soon. She prayed for Keisha, for her parents to have long and healthy lives (... well, maybe not necessarily her father), her job.

She prayed for Zayn.

She knew her parents were waiting for her to make some sort of stand or argument in regards to Zayn – but Soph didn’t know what to say. What could she say?

Soph fell asleep somehow, despite the chaos of her thoughts. She awoke nearly several full hours later – she hadn’t slept much the night before, for obvious reasons, worrying about Zayn and what he’d said and done – and  just stayed sat there for a while. The large, crystal chandelier now shone brightly overhead and she could see how dark it was outside. She’d have gotten a parking ticket.

Soph absently picked up the phone as women began filtering in for evening prayer. She’d have to leave soon. It was late and anyway, she wasn’t in a state to pray.

“Hello?” Soph yawned, standing up and stretching, making sure she hadn’t desecrated the holy building by leaking blood on it. Thankfully, she hadn’t. She was glad. She didn’t need more of an excuse for her life to be ruined. “Sorry, I came to the mosque and fell asleep.”

“You were at the mosque?” Aunt April said in surprise, before quickly carrying on. “We need you at the hospital, come right away.”

“Is Adam okay?” Soph demanded.

“Yes, he’s okay.” Aunt April said crisply. “Though I think you’d prefer it if you came and asked him yourself.”

Soph felt her heart stop.

“He’s – he’s-”

“He’s awake, Soph.” Aunt April said gently, as Soph felt tears of relief swell in her eyes. “And he’s asking for you.”

“I’m on my way.” Soph replied immediately, looking around at the mosque as she went to leave.

Adam was awake. And all Soph had done was sleep in a corner for a few hours.

Maybe she should visit more often.

*

Zayn, meanwhile, waited cautiously at the Regent’s Park Gate, now closed, for Dianna. It had been a peculiar place to meet, but Zayn didn’t care. He’d once cared for Dianna but now, the sooner she was gone, the better.

Zayn wasn’t sure how the previous evening had gone. Soph hadn’t made any contact with him and in all frankness, Zayn was scared to go first. Speaking to Iftikhar had left him know that being allowed to marry Soph would be harder than he’d imagined, but the idea alone brought such a surge of determination within Zayn, that he found it hard to care. He would be with Soph, in a way that she couldn’t feel guilty about, in a way she could be happy with. He’d fight the world if he had to; and as it turned out, it seemed it was only Iftikhar Khan in the way.

“Zayn, there you-”

“Got the money?”

Zayn turned abruptly at the sound of the two voices – one Dianna’s and the other’s, Zayn recognized with irritation, as the same guy who he’d lost her to. Not much of a loss, Zayn thought to himself bitterly. Something much better had come of it. But all the same.

“Dianna, is this the guy who’s been blackmailing you?” Zayn’s eyes narrowed as he took in the blonde dreadlocks and the earring piercing. Identity crisis, Zayn thought. He knew them well. Everyone had expected him to have one.

“We really need the money.” Dianna said, flashing Zayn a tight smile.

Under the dim light of the night sky, Zayn noticed nothing afoot; not the puffy red glaze of Dianna’s eyes, nor the stress on her face. Shrugging, Zayn took an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to Dianna.

“There.” Zayn told her. He watched, raising his eyebrows, as she handed it over to the dreadlock dude. “It’s all in there.”

The guy with the dreadlocks snatched it, weighing it in his palm, before looking at Zayn in disbelief.

“Are you serious?” He murmured.

“Well, yeah, you’re the one who asked for it.” Zayn retorted, aware that he was clearly dealing with an idiot.

“Yeah.” He spat, stepping towards Zayn threateningly. Zayn’s eyes widened slightly. Wow. Someone needed anger management. “And this is not what I asked for.”

“It’s in there.” Zayn said stubbornly, folding his arms across his chest in defiance.

“Zayn.” Dianna hissed. “No, it’s not. I said seven!”

“Yes, and there’s seven hundred and fifty there in cash!” Zayn argued, getting impatient now. “Is there somehow a problem?”

“No, no there’s not.” Dianna’s accomplice sneered harshly, stepping towards Zayn. Zayn recoiled slightly in disgust, smelling the acrid waft that had breached his nostrils. “Because you’re going to go to the cash point and get out the fucking rest.”

Zayn looked at Dianna over the man’s shoulder, incredulous.

“Who even is this guy?”

“I meant seven thousand, you idiot, not seven hundred!” Dianna hissed, pulling on the other guy’s arm. “Come on, Al, let’s go, forget it-”

“I’m not leaving without that money!”

“Dianna, what’s going on? I thought you said-”

Zayn wasn’t quite sure of what happened. One moment they were all arguing over each other – Al apparently sharing the same temperament as that of a five year old – and then Al and Zayn were in a scuffle – and Dianna was pleading between them and trying to pull Al away so they could go and then...

And then something strange happened.

Zayn felt a sharp pain in the side of his stomach. The suddenness of it nearly took the wind out of him – it felt cold and warm and sharp and soft all at the same time, the kind of ninja cramp you expected after working out too much. It felt like that. Like that, but... Not, at the same time.

It was Dianna’s scream that did it.

Snapping out of his daydream, Zayn watched in confusion as Al ran away, dragging a screaming, shouting, sobbing Dianna with him by the arm. She was calling to him, begging Al to stop. Zayn tried to open his mouth and step forward, to ask what she was suddenly screaming about, but as he tried to do so, he felt that cramp sweep a wave of shock through his body. Automatically, Zayn’s hand fell to the pain.