ATTRACTION
SUMMARY: It doesn't matter if you've only known each other for days, don't deny yourself what is divinely given to you.
NOTE: ZAYN IS SO HOT FR. (edit: I didn’t even read this fic againg bc I know I can get too picky and then I'm gonna wanna change it but I don’t have the time to do it properly, so I'm so sorry if something is fucked up!). xoxo
The meeting room was silent, lit by clean white panels that reflected off the polished table. Zayn sat at the far end, one hand resting casually on the armrest, the other tapping lightly against the wood. He looked relaxed, but his head was busy—lyrics swirling, ideas unfinished—until the door swung open and your voice cut through the stillness.
“Hi! I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, a little breathless. “I wasn’t feeling very well, I’m really sorry I kept you waiting!”
Zayn’s head lifted, and his chest tightened instantly. Fuck. He’d seen you before, on screens, on stage, in every possible headline, but nothing compared to this. You weren’t just beautiful—you were distracting, magnetic. His eyes swept over you once, twice, like he couldn’t trust them the first time.
“It’s okay, don’t worry,” the manager said.
“No problem,” Zayn added smoothly, his deep voice carrying just enough warmth to pull you in. He stood to greet you, tall, composed, his presence filling the room. He extended his hand, and when you took it, his lips twitched into the kind of smile that made your stomach flip.
“A pleasure to meet you, Zayn.”
“Zayn Malik himself needs no introduction,” you teased, lips curling. “I’ve been a huge fan for years.”
His eyes darkened just slightly at your words, and he held onto your hand a second longer than he should have. “Same here,” he murmured, gaze dragging down and back up. “Talented and beautiful. A complete artist.” He winked, and the gesture wasn’t innocent—it was deliberate, filthy in the way it lingered.
You laughed under your breath, shifting in your seat as the manager tried to steer the meeting back on track. The conversation unfolded, but beneath the surface, the room thrummed with something else—charged glances, half-smiles, silences that stretched just long enough to make your skin buzz.
By the time your manager stood and excused himself—“Don’t stay too long, I’ve got a birthday party to run to”—you were already aware of how different the room felt without him.
“Working on new music?” you asked, tilting your head toward Zayn, voice softer now.
He smiled, leaning back in his chair, legs spread just slightly, posture relaxed in a way that drew your eyes where they shouldn’t linger. “Actually, yeah. An album.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” you said, your tone laced with a genuine admiration… and something else.
His gaze flicked down to your lips before returning to your eyes. “Maybe someday I can show you a sneak peek,” he said, slow and heavy on the last words, as if he knew exactly how they could be taken.
Your stomach twisted at the way he said it, teasing, promising. “I’d be honored,” you replied, but your voice carried the same dangerous edge, a little huskier now.
The silence stretched, thick, suggestive. You felt it settle low in your stomach, his eyes refusing to let go of yours.
“It was a pleasure,” you said eventually, forcing yourself to move, though your body wanted to stay planted in that seat across from him. “And I’d love to chat more, but I have a publicity meeting. I don’t want to be late again.”
He laughed under his breath, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table. “Please,” he drawled, “I don’t want to be the reason you’re late… though I wouldn’t exactly complain about stealing a bit more of your time.”
You smirked, bold now, your words sharper. “Someday,” you murmured, letting it drip off your tongue like a promise you had no business making.
His grin widened, lazy and dangerous, his eyes dragging down your frame and back up to your face. “Someday,” he echoed, but the way he said it made it sound less like a possibility and more like a guarantee.
-
The studio doors swung shut behind you with a satisfying click, and the evening air wrapped around you, cool and refreshing after hours under harsh recording lights. You pulled your jacket tighter, tucking your phone into your pocket, already mentally scrolling through the emails and obligations waiting for you. But before you could take more than three steps toward the street, you heard your name.
“[Y/N].”
You turned, and there he was. Zayn. Dark hoodie pulled over his head, chain catching the glow of the overhead lights, tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeves. He looked effortlessly good, the kind of good that made your pulse tick faster without your permission. He was standing just outside the studio doors, apparently about to head in, but the second his eyes caught yours, he froze. A slow smile tugged at his lips. “Running away already?”
You smiled, shaking your head. “I’m not running away. Just… escaping.”
“Same thing,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Where you escaping to?”
“Anywhere that sells caffeine,” you admitted. “Before I collapse.”
That was all the opening he needed. He pushed off the wall with easy confidence, closing the distance in two slow steps. “Let me buy you one,” he said simply.
You raised a brow. “Just like that?”
“Yeah. You’ve been locked in there all day, yeah? You need coffee. I need coffee. We can suffer together.” His grin widened. “Besides… if I don’t, someone else will. And I’m not letting that happen.”
The heat in his tone made your stomach flip. You tried to brush it off with a light laugh. “That almost sounded possessive.”
“Almost?” he teased, eyes gleaming.
You rolled your eyes, but you followed him anyway.
The walk was easy, far easier than you expected. No awkward pauses, no fumbling for conversation. He cracked a dry joke about managers being slave-drivers, you teased him about his “brooding artist” vibe, and he fired back with a playful “You like it though, don’t lie.”
You laughed more than once, real, belly laughs that left your cheeks warm. And each time, Zayn glanced at you like he was memorizing the sound.
By the time the café came into view, tucked on the corner with its warm lights spilling across the sidewalk, you weren’t even thinking about how strange this must look: two world-famous artists walking side by side, grinning like old friends.
When you reached the door, he stepped ahead, pulling it open smoothly. “After you,” he said, dipping his head in mock formality.
You narrowed your eyes playfully but stepped inside. “A gentleman. Didn’t expect that.”
He leaned closer as he followed you in, his breath brushing your ear as he murmured, “Stick around, I’ll surprise you.”
Heat flared in your stomach. You ignored it by moving quickly to a booth by the window, sliding into the seat with a forced nonchalance. He sat opposite you, pulling his hood down at last. The café lighting hit his face just right, sharpening his jaw, throwing little glints into his eyes. You tried not to stare, failed miserably.
“So,” you said, resting your elbows lightly on the table. “You asked me for coffee. What’s the real reason? Are you doing a market study for a new lyric? ‘She said yes to coffee, then I broke her heart in verse two?’”
He smirked, leaning back against the seat with his arm stretched casually across the backrest. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to sit across from you and see if you’re as good in real life as you are onstage.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Dangerous line, Malik.”
He leaned forward now, eyes narrowing slightly, not in seriousness but in play. “I don’t do lines. I do honesty.”
The intensity in his tone made your chest flutter, and you looked down quickly, pretending to fuss with the sugar packet in front of you. “Honesty, huh? That could get you in trouble.”
“Maybe I like trouble.” He smiled then, a little crooked, and it hit you low in your stomach.
The barista brought over your drinks, and you busied yourself with stirring, trying not to show how flustered you were by the sheer ease of his flirting. But Zayn wasn’t letting the moment slip. He watched you carefully, a lazy fascination in his expression.
“So,” he said finally, voice quieter now, more deliberate. “Do you… have a boyfriend?”
The question was casual on the surface, but you caught the undercurrent—the almost-too-careful way he asked, like he needed to know. Like the answer mattered.
You couldn’t help it. You laughed, loud enough that the couple at the next table glanced over. “That’s your smooth move? Really?”
His smirk widened, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I’m asking.”
“No,” you said honestly, still smiling as you lifted your cup. “No boyfriend.”
Something in his expression shifted then, just a fraction, but you saw it—the spark of satisfaction, the silent good.
“Interesting,” he murmured, taking a slow sip of his own drink, never breaking eye contact.
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“Depends,” he replied smoothly, a little smirk tugging at his mouth. “Good for me, maybe.”
You tilted your head, matching his energy now. “And why would it be good for you?”
He leaned in, elbows on the table, his voice dropping just enough to make your skin prickle. “Because it means I don’t have to feel guilty about how much I’m enjoying this.”
You laughed again, shaking your head, but under the table your leg brushed his accidentally, and neither of you moved away.
Out on the street, a camera clicked. A paparazzy, hidden across the road, had found his shot: the two of you, leaning close across the window, faces glowing with laughter and something more.
Inside, though, you didn’t notice. You were too caught up in the warmth of his gaze, the sound of his laugh, and the growing, undeniable realization that this was only the beginning.
-
The notification popped up on your phone late in the evening, right after you’d finished brushing off a long day at the studio. Your manager’s name glowed on the screen, subject line simple and neat:
“Confirmed: Lead Role – Zayn Malik Music Video.”
You froze.
At first, you thought it was some kind of mistake. Maybe he meant to forward it to someone else, maybe you’d been cc’d by accident. But no—your name was there, clear as day, attached to the production contract.
You hadn’t auditioned. You hadn’t even known there was a casting call. And yet here it was, a done deal, your face on the lead role agreement of Zayn Malik’s next project.
You sat back in your chair, heart thundering. The name itself carried weight, and though you’d been in the industry long enough to be “used” to seeing famous names, this one hit differently. Maybe because you’d seen him everywhere. Maybe because you remembered the way people spoke about him—magnetic, elusive, impossible not to watch. Maybe because part of you was curious in a way you didn’t want to admit out loud.
Still, you said yes. You weren’t about to pass up an opportunity like this.
The studio was buzzing the next morning, assistants darting back and forth with clipboards, cables being taped down across the floor, makeup lights glowing bright along the walls. You pushed your sunglasses higher on your face, trying to look casual, though your stomach was flipping like a storm inside you.
You hadn’t even had the chance to find your manager before a familiar figure across the room turned toward you.
Zayn.
He was mid-conversation with someone, but the second his eyes landed on you, it was like the rest of the room faded out. He excused himself without even finishing his sentence and walked straight toward you, that slow, purposeful stride making your breath hitch.
“Are you stalking me now?” he teased as soon as he was close enough, his lips curving into that smug, half-smile.
Your laugh burst out before you could stop it, half nerves, half disbelief. “I swear I have no idea why I’m here. I didn’t even know about the video until last night.”
His brow quirked, eyes glinting with something sharper, and then he leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “Would you be mad if I said it was me?”
The words caught you off guard. Your smile faltered into confusion. “What do you mean?”
He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly less cocky, more boyish, almost shy. “Maybe… I potentially asked for it to be you specifically.”
“Maybe?” you repeated, frowning, though the corners of your lips betrayed you, tugging upward into the faintest smile.
He shrugged lightly, lips pressing together like he was weighing how much to say. “It depends on whether you’d get mad and think I’m crazy or not.” His voice dropped softer on the last word, eyes flicking to yours like he was waiting for the verdict.
You stared at him for a beat, surprised, touched, a little stunned that Zayn Malik looked genuinely nervous in front of you. And then it hit you so unexpectedly that you laughed—light, warm, the kind of laugh that makes your chest loosen.
“I’m honored,” you said honestly, shaking your head. “And it’s not crazy. It’s… kinda cute.”
For a split second, his face lit up, the kind of grin that wasn’t for cameras, wasn’t practiced—something real, something unguarded. His eyes softened, like your answer had taken a weight off his chest.
“Cute, huh?” he murmured, tilting his head, smirk threatening to come back. “Guess I can live with that.”
And just like that, the tension shifted—buzzing, unspoken, pulling you closer without either of you moving an inch.
The set was dressed like a lived-in apartment, dim lighting giving everything that late-night haze. Clothes scattered carelessly over chairs, bottles left on the counter, the faint hum of the city coming through the fake windows.
The director clapped his hands once. “Alright. We’re rolling on rehearsal. Don’t hold back, I want it to feel messy, raw. Like this argument’s been simmering for months and tonight’s the breaking point.”
You nodded, taking your mark by the front door, your pulse quickening. You’d read the script a dozen times, but it didn’t capture how close everything would feel—how close Zayn would be, how much the tension in the room would coil around you both like smoke.
“Ready?” the director asked.
Zayn gave a quick nod, shaking his shoulders loose, slipping into character with ease. You forced a steady breath, gripping the doorknob.
“Action!”
The door slammed open as you stormed inside, your voice sharp enough to cut through the air.
“I can’t do this anymore, Zayn!”
Your bag dropped on the floor, your chest heaving as you spun around, anger spilling through every line of your body.
He followed you in seconds later, slamming the door so hard it rattled the frame. “Don’t put this all on me—you’re the one walking away every time we get close to fixing something!”
“Fixing?” You scoffed, your laugh hollow, disbelieving. “You think screaming at me every night is fixing things?”
His jaw clenched, and he ran a hand through his hair, pacing like he couldn’t contain the frustration in his body. “I scream because you don’t listen! You shut down, shut me out, like I don’t even matter.”
The words hit harder than you expected—his delivery wasn’t just acting, it was molten, raw, his voice breaking like it came from somewhere real. Your chest ached, even as you pushed the heat back into your own lines.
“You don’t matter?” you shot back, your voice rising, a hand pressing to your chest. “I’ve given you everything! Every part of me—and it’s never enough for you!”
For a beat, silence. The crew held their breath.
Zayn’s eyes locked onto yours, sharp and wild, and the way he looked at you made the world outside the scene dissolve. He stepped forward, closing the distance, his voice dropping lower but somehow more dangerous. “You think walking out is gonna make it better? You think leaving me is the answer?”
You swallowed, your body trembling with the weight of the fight, but you didn’t back down. “Maybe it’s the only choice I have left.”
His nostrils flared, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. And then—without warning—he moved.
Two long strides and he was in front of you, slamming his palm against the wall just beside your head. The sound made you flinch, though you didn’t look away. His body crowded yours, heat radiating off him, every inch of him pinning you in place without even touching you—until he did.
His hand caught your wrist, lifting it above your head, pressing it lightly to the wall. Not rough, not painful, but enough to make the air leave your lungs.
The script had told you “tension rises,” but this wasn’t tension. This was something entirely different—raw, magnetic, the kind of electricity that made your knees weak.
The cameras kept rolling, the director stayed silent, and for a suspended moment, you weren’t sure if either of you remembered you were acting.
Your lips parted, your next line forgotten, the words stuck in your throat. His eyes flicked down to your mouth before dragging back up to your gaze, his breathing heavy, ragged.
It was supposed to be a fight scene. But it felt like something else entirely.
And when the director finally shouted, “Cut!” neither of you moved right away.
-
The studio lights dimmed until the set glowed in shadows, the kind that clung to skin and made every movement look heavier, slower. A single spotlight cut across the room, landing on the chair in the center.
Zayn sat there, shirtless, tattoos on full display, his posture deliberately casual—legs spread just slightly, arms resting on the chair’s frame. But the look in his eyes gave him away. There was nothing casual about the way he watched you.
The director’s voice cut through the quiet: “This one is all about tension. No words, just body language. Don’t hold back. Let it feel dangerous, let it feel… tempting.”
You inhaled slowly, rolling your shoulders back as the music began. The bass thrummed deep and slow, crawling under your skin as you stepped into the circle of light, your heels clicking softly against the floor.
Zayn’s gaze snapped to yours immediately. He didn’t even blink.
You circled him once, slow, deliberate, your fingertips brushing along the back of the chair as you passed behind him. He tilted his head slightly, following you with his eyes, his lips parting just a fraction as though he’d forgotten the camera existed.
Coming around to his front again, you stopped in front of him, locking eyes. The music drove your movements—hips rolling, hands sliding up your own sides, your body swaying in perfect rhythm.
Zayn’s jaw tightened. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the chair’s arms, tattoos flexing with the strain of his restraint.
You leaned closer, letting your hair fall forward so a few strands brushed against his shoulder, your lips hovering close to his ear before you moved away again, teasing, dancing just out of reach.
Zayn’s chest rose and fell, slower than his pulse, and for a split second, his tongue darted across his bottom lip like he was fighting not to speak.
Then, on the next beat, you let your body sink down onto his lap, straddling him. The heat of his skin pressed into you, every inch of him tensing beneath you. His instructions had been clear—hands off, let her lead—and for a few seconds, he obeyed, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, though his eyes burned holes through you.
But then impulse betrayed him. His hands shot up, gripping your hips firmly, pulling you flush against him. His fingers dug into your curves, thumbs pressing into your waist, as if his body refused to let the moment slip by.
You smirked, your hips rolling against him with a deliberate slowness that made his breath stutter. “That wasn’t in the script,” you whispered, your voice low and teasing, just for him.
His lips brushed dangerously close to your jaw as he murmured back, “Neither was sittin’ here torturing me.”
Your laugh came out softer, breathier than you intended. “Looks like you’re enjoying it.”
He tilted his head, letting his nose skim along your cheek, his grip on your hips tightening. “Enjoying isn’t the word. I don’t want this to end.”
The cameras kept rolling, the crew silent, the director too entranced to cut. For Zayn, none of it existed anymore—not the lights, not the lenses, not the stage. Just you, on his lap, moving like you were made for him, your eyes locked on his as though nothing else mattered.
You leaned in just enough that your lips hovered a hair’s breadth from his. “Careful, Malik. You sound like you mean that.”
His smirk deepened, rough and filthy at the edges. “What if I do?”
-
The director reset the cameras, his voice firm. “Okay, this is the continuation of the fight. Take it into the bedroom, let it build until it breaks. Remember—this is passion disguised as rage. Let it feel explosive.”
You nodded, chest still rising and falling from the earlier takes, but your skin burned for reasons that had nothing to do with acting. Zayn didn’t even look at the director—his eyes were already on you, sharp and unreadable, his tongue pressing against his cheek like he was holding something back.
“Ready?” the director asked.
Zayn gave a curt nod. You turned away, stepping into position, bracing yourself.
“Action!”
You stormed through the bedroom door, heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Your voice rang out, loud and furious, every word cutting like glass.
“I’m done, Zayn! Do you hear me? I’m done with this!”
He followed, his voice just as sharp, carrying an edge that felt a little too real. “You say that every time, but you never leave! You can’t leave!”
Your body whirled, pointing a finger at him, anger radiating. “Watch me—”
The words never finished.
In a sudden, dizzying motion, Zayn’s arms wrapped around you, lifting you clean off the floor. A startled gasp ripped from your throat as your back hit the mattress, the soft give of the bed bouncing beneath you. Before you could process, he was on top of you, his body hovering, his lips crashing onto yours.
It wasn’t a stage kiss.
It was hot, messy, unrestrained. His mouth moved against yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs, his hand sliding into your hair, the other braced against the bed to keep from crushing you.
Your body reacted instantly—fingers clutching at his shoulders, your chest arching into him, your legs shifting instinctively as his weight pressed down. The kiss slowed for a moment, his lips dragging over yours, deep and sensual, and then it picked up again, his tongue sweeping against yours like he couldn’t get enough.
Somewhere in the haze, you felt him hardening against you, the growing heat undeniable through the thin barrier of clothing. His hips pressed closer without thought, his breathing ragged, the kiss growing filthier with every second.
“Cut!” the director’s voice snapped from across the room.
You didn’t hear it.
Zayn’s lips moved to your jaw, kissing down the line of your throat before finding your mouth again. His hand gripped your thigh, pulling you tighter, the kiss so consuming it felt like nothing else existed.
“Cut!” the director yelled again, louder, almost frustrated.
This time, you heard it. Barely. But you didn’t stop right away. Neither did he. For a few more desperate seconds, you stayed locked together, kissing like the world could end if you pulled away.
Finally, your lips broke apart, both of you breathless, chests heaving. His forehead leaned against yours, his grin spreading slowly, wickedly, as though he’d just gotten away with murder.
“Maybe we should do more scenes like that,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes flicking down to your lips again. “Just in case.”
Your laughter spilled out, breathless and playful, though your heart was still racing. You brushed your thumb across the ink on his shoulder, teasing, “I have all day free.”
His smirk deepened, his eyes darkening with mischief. And though the cameras had stopped rolling, everyone in the room could see it: neither of you were acting anymore.
-
Your dressing room trailer was quieter than the chaos outside, a haven of warm lights and scattered clothes. You’d just peeled off one of the heavier costume pieces when a knock rattled the door.
“Come in,” you called, not bothering to look up as you adjusted the strap of your top in the mirror.
The door opened, and before you could turn, Zayn was already inside. He shut it behind him with a soft click, twisting the lock without hesitation. His eyes found yours in the mirror—dark, unreadable, blazing—and then, without a word, he crossed the room.
His mouth was on yours before you had time to speak.
The kiss was immediate, urgent, swallowing whatever greeting you might’ve given him. One hand cupped your jaw, the other pressing to your lower back, dragging you closer. You gasped, your hands flying to his chest, but not to push him away—never to push him away.
“Zayn—” you tried to whisper against his lips, but he cut you off with another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours like he’d been starving for it all day.
Between kisses, his voice came out rough, low, almost desperate. “If you don’t stop me now, I don’t think I can later.”
Your chest heaved, your pulse pounding in your throat, and you could barely think past the haze clouding your head. His hands had already found their way to your waist, fingers sliding under fabric, hot against your skin.
You tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging his mouth back to yours, and breathed against his lips: “I would never stop you.”
That was all it took.
Zayn groaned softly, the sound vibrating through his chest, and you jumped up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He caught you effortlessly, his hands gripping your thighs as he backed you into the small vanity table. Bottles of makeup rattled against the surface when your back hit it, but neither of you cared.
He pressed into you, hard and undeniable, his hips grinding just enough to make your breath hitch. Your hands roamed over the tattoos on his shoulders, nails dragging lightly down his arms, and he shivered under your touch.
“You drive me insane,” he muttered against your throat, kissing and biting gently, his lips tracing fire down your skin. “On set… watching you… I couldn’t fucking breathe.”
You arched against him, trying to stifle a whimper when his hands slid higher, exploring every inch like he was memorizing you. “You think it was easy for me?” you whispered back, your voice trembling. “Sitting on your lap, feeling you… knowing I couldn’t do anything?”
His growl was low, dangerous, and his hips pressed harder between your thighs, making the vanity creak. “Say that again.”
Your laugh came out breathless, broken by another kiss. “I wanted you, Zayn. I still do.”
Outside, voices passed the trailer, crew laughing, footsteps clattering. You both froze for half a second, realizing how close they were, and then your lips crashed back together, even more frantic, like the danger of being caught only pushed you further.
Your legs clamped tighter around his waist as Zayn pressed you flat against the vanity. The edge dug into your back, but you didn’t care—his body was all you could feel. His mouth devoured yours with a hunger that had been simmering all day, his tongue tangling with yours like he had no intention of letting go.
“Fuck,” he groaned when he finally tore his lips from yours, his breath ragged against your ear. “You feel so good. I can’t stop touching you.”
His hands roamed higher, slipping under your top, palms flattening against the bare heat of your skin. You shivered as his thumbs brushed under your bra, deliberately slow, teasing. Your fingers clenched in his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours, but when his lips broke away again, they trailed down your jaw, your neck, biting gently until you let out a sharp gasp.
“Shh,” he murmured, smirking against your skin. “They’ll hear us.”
The thought should’ve scared you. It only made you wetter.
“I don’t care,” you whispered back, biting your lip when he sucked a bruise into your throat.
Zayn chuckled darkly, dragging his mouth back up to kiss you again. His hands, finally impatient, pushed your top higher until he pulled it over your head, tossing it onto the floor without looking. His gaze raked over you, hot and unfiltered.
“Beautiful,” he muttered, his voice breaking into a growl when he dipped his head and closed his mouth around your breast. The wet heat of his tongue made you arch into him, fingers clutching his shoulders, stifling a moan that wanted to echo off the trailer walls.
Your hips shifted against his, and that’s when you felt him—hard, straining against his jeans, pressing into you with every subtle roll of his body. He grunted low in his throat, grinding into you deliberately, like he wanted you to feel every inch.
“Feel what you do to me?” he rasped, biting lightly at your skin.
“Yes,” you breathed, desperate, rocking back against him.
You fumbled at his belt, but his hands were faster, tugging it open, shoving his jeans down just enough to free himself. The sight of him made your mouth go dry, your pulse racing with anticipation.
He hooked his fingers under your skirt, dragging your panties down your thighs, and before you could even breathe, he slid a hand between your legs. His fingers traced your wetness, slow at first, then deeper, teasing you open.
“Already dripping for me,” he whispered like a sin, his forehead resting against yours as his fingers slid inside, curling, pumping until you had to bite your knuckles to stay quiet. “God, you’re perfect.”
You tugged at his hair, whispering against his lips, “I need you, Zayn. Now.”
He growled something low and guttural, pulling his fingers out only to grip himself, guiding his cock to your entrance. The stretch made you gasp, your head falling back against the mirror as he pushed into you, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
“Fuck—” he hissed, his jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut. “So tight. So fucking tight.”
You clung to him, nails digging into his back, trying to stifle the moans tearing from your chest as he began to move. His thrusts were sharp, deep, the vanity table creaking loudly with every push of his hips. You both froze for half a second when footsteps echoed outside again, but instead of slowing down, he drove into you harder, his hand clamping over your mouth.
“Quiet, love,” he whispered against your ear, his voice wrecked. “You don’t want them to know what I’m doing to you, do you?”
Your muffled moan vibrated against his palm, and his smirk curved against your throat.
Every thrust had you unraveling, your legs trembling around his waist, your body arching up to meet him. His name tumbled against his hand over and over until he removed it just to kiss you, swallowing every broken sound you made.
“Come for me,” he groaned, his hips slamming harder, deeper, until the pleasure snapped and you came undone around him, clenching tight. He cursed, biting down on your shoulder, and within seconds he followed, spilling hot inside you with a strangled moan.
You collapsed against him, chests heaving, sweat-slicked and trembling, the air thick with sex and adrenaline.
A distant voice outside shouted for Zayn, reminding you both where you were.
You caught your breath enough to whisper, giggling softly, “If anyone asks, we were… rehearsing.”
He smirked against your lips, brushing a kiss there before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Yeah, baby,” he said, still breathless. “Rehearsing how I’m never letting you go.”
-
The shoot finally wrapped, and the set cleared out slowly, the hum of crew voices fading into the night. You slipped into your hoodie, sunglasses perched low even though the sun had already dipped, more out of habit than necessity. Fame taught you to be cautious—even when you were exhausted.
Zayn was waiting by the door. Not inside his car, not rushing off to avoid the cameras. Just leaning against the wall, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looked relaxed, but his eyes lit up the second they found yours.
“Walking?” he asked casually, nodding down the quiet street.
“Walking,” you agreed, tugging your hood tighter as you fell into step beside him.
The air was cool, crisp, with that kind of late-night stillness that made the world feel like it belonged only to the two of you. No screaming fans, no stage lights, no directors yelling “cut.” Just you and him.
“You were dangerous today,” he murmured after a beat, his voice low but teasing.
“Dangerous?” you tilted your head toward him.
“Yeah,” he said, glancing at you from under his lashes, the faintest grin curling on his lips. “Couldn’t focus on a single line without thinking about what we did in that trailer.”
Heat flooded your cheeks, but you laughed softly, nudging him with your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re addictive.” He stopped walking suddenly, tugging lightly at your wrist to turn you toward him.
You froze, your back nearly brushing the wall of some quiet little boutique, your chest rising and falling too fast. His hand slid from your wrist to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with an almost reverent touch, though the hunger in his eyes betrayed him.
“Zayn—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.
It wasn’t the careful, stolen kind of kiss you’d shared on set or the desperate, muffled one in the trailer. This was slow at first, tender, his lips savoring yours, his tongue sliding against yours with the kind of passion that made your knees weak. Then it deepened, fast, messy—his other hand gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him as if he couldn’t stand the distance for even a second longer.
You clung to him, fingers twisting in his hoodie, kissing him back like you’d wanted to since the first day in that conference room. The world fell away—the empty street, the cars in the distance, the faint hum of nightlife blocks away.
Neither of you noticed the faint click of a camera. Or the fact that in the shadows across the street, a lens was trained directly on the two of you.
All you felt was him, the taste of cigarettes and mint on his tongue, the press of his body against yours, the way his hand tilted your chin so he could kiss you even deeper.
When he finally pulled back, both of you breathless, his forehead rested against yours, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.
“You know someone’s gonna find out eventually,” he whispered.
“Let them,” you replied, your voice soft but certain.
justjared
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justjared ✓ NEW COUPLE ALERT! 🚨 Just a couple of hours ago, singer @yourusername and former One Direction member @zaynmalik were spotted kissing passionately after suspicions swirled online about them. Could this be confirmation?
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