Chapter Text
It started innocently enough, as most of Louis’s antics do. A stray thought he grabbed onto like it was the most brilliant idea anyone had ever had. By the time we all knew what was happening, he was standing at the front of the classroom, spinning the handler like he was hosting some high-stakes lottery. The balls of crumpled paper rattled inside, the sound grating but somehow thrilling.
“So what you’re saying is,” Olivia drawled, side-eyeing Louis from her desk, “I’m going to be stuck with whoever’s name comes out of that thing? Like, forever?”
Louis didn’t bother looking up. “Not forever, just long enough to see if it works. Let’s say… a month. Minimum. All in the name of experimentation.”
“A month ?” Olivia straightened, her brows shooting up. “What happens if I get paired with that guy ?” She jerked her chin toward James, slouched in his seat at the back of the room. “Because if you think I’m talking to him for more than five minutes, you’re delusional.”
“Hey!” James sat up, clearly offended. “What’s wrong with me?”
Olivia didn’t even bother sparing him a glance. “Do you want the list alphabetically or by severity?”
The room erupted in laughter, a mix of snorts and muffled giggles that seemed to fuel Olivia’s smugness.
James sent a wink her way. “I must really live rent-free in your head if you’ve got a whole list about me.”
Olivia finally turned to him, one brow arching. “More like a pest I can’t evict.”
“Harsh,” James shot back. “But hey, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I shrank a little further into the chair, my fingers gripping the edge of the desk with dread. My name was in that handler. Louis had practically cornered me earlier, waving a blank slip of paper and insisting that everyone was doing it. Now, the thought of being matched with someone, anyone, sent a nervous buzz through my chest. What if I ended up with someone who hated me? Or worse—someone who didn’t?
Beside me, Niall leaned forward, perched casually on the edge of his seat. “Ay, megaphone,” he called out to Louis, “count me out. The only love story I’m invested in is between me and a triple cheeseburger."
As if the room had been waiting for a cue, a wave of reactions surged through the class.
Ellie raised her hand dramatically. “I second that,” she began, her voice dripping with disdain. “Boys are gross. They’re sweaty, they burp at the wrong times, and they can’t even hold a decent conversation without talking about football or whatever it is they think is interesting. I would never date one. Ever.”
The room went silent for a moment before a wave of gasps rippled through the boys, while the girls murmured in agreement.
James hollered from the back of the class, “Well, lucky for you, there’s always the girl-girl trope. Could be your moment.”
Ellie shot him a glare. “I’d rather marry a cactus. At least it knows how to keep its distance.”
James smirked. “Fair enough. A cactus has more personality than half the guys in here anyway.”
“Guys,” Louis cut them off. “It’s not like I’m marrying you off. It’s just a month. One month. And who knows? You might actually have fun.”
The entire class exchanged skeptical glances at the word fun , and Louis straightened, clasping his hands together in a way that almost made him seem serious. “Look, I get it. You think this is one of my dumb ideas. And maybe it is. But hear me out. This isn’t just some random gimmick.”
Ellie snorted. “Oh, give me a break.”
Louis ignored her completely, continuing to pace with fervor. “Think about it. We’re going to spend the next three years together. That’s a long time to be stuck in the same room, seeing the same faces, without actually knowing who you’re sitting next to.”
The room quieted. Restless shuffling stopped as people exchanged uncertain glances.
“Three years of classes, projects, presentations…” Louis went on, his hands animatedly gesturing as he spoke. “And let’s not forget the awkward small talk at parties, where everyone sticks to their little cliques. Do you really want that? Because I don’t.”
Seeing a few thoughtful nods in the crowd, Louis pressed on. “It’s just a game. No one’s forcing you to do anything. But maybe, just maybe, this could be a way to actually start knowing the people you’re going to see every day for the next few years. Worst case? You laugh about it later. Best case? You make a friend.”
The room fell into a brief silence, as if his words were actually making some of them consider it. A few more heads nodded in reluctant agreement, and the atmosphere in the room shifted ever so slightly.
Olivia shrugged skeptically. “Fine. But if you think I’m letting you pick my partner, you’re terribly wrong.”
Louis’s grin widened. “Fair enough. Why don’t you go first, then? Set the tone for everyone else.”
With a dramatic sigh, Olivia strode to the front, glancing at the handler like it held her doom. “Let’s get this over with,” she muttered, reaching in.
She pulled out a slip, unfolding it with deliberate slowness as the room held its breath. Her expression morphed into a horrified grimace, and she stared at the name as if willing it to change.
Then, painfully slow, she looked up, the class following her gaze to the back.
James, slouched in his chair, straightened under the attention. He pointed to himself, grinning. “Me?”
“Unfortunately,” Olivia deadpanned.
Laughter erupted as James leaned back, entirely too pleased, and threw her a wink.
The game dragged on, each name called tightening the knot in my stomach. I chewed on my bottom lip, trying to focus on anything but the dwindling number of people still waiting for their turn. It wasn’t working.
Niall caught my eye as he strutted toward Amelia, his grin wide and smug as if he’d won the lottery. He shot me a thumbs-up, and I managed to return it with a weak smile. But as soon as he turned away, my smile slipped, replaced by a grimace. The stress was getting to me, crawling under my skin.
“Malik, your turn,” Louis called, not quite hiding his amused smirk.
Every head turned toward Zayn, and the atmosphere shifted, the kind of tension you could practically taste. I swallowed hard, feeling the stress even though it had nothing to do with me.
Zayn stood unhurriedly, his movements so smooth it was like he’d rehearsed them. The room held its breath, the silence broken only by a few muffled squeals from the girls.
“Oh my God, it’s coming. I’m feeling it,” someone whispered, followed by a chorus of barely suppressed giggles.
Zayn didn’t react, of course. He never did. Hands tucked in his pockets, he strolled to the front of the class. Even Louis looked a little starstruck as he held out the handler.
I couldn’t stop myself from shrinking a little further into my chair. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out the low buzz of chatter that had started up again. While everyone else was caught up in the excitement of Zayn’s draw, all I could think about was my own name still sitting in that handler, waiting to be called.
Zayn plucked a slip from the handler. The room leaned forward, a collective inhale as he unfolded the paper.
“Liam Payne,” he read out, his voice just loud enough to carry through the quiet room. Unfortunately, in my head, it echoed like a shout.
For a second, I thought I’d misheard. Me? My name? My throat tightened, and my stomach twisted itself into a knot as a rush of heat crept up my neck. The air felt thicker somehow, and I could hear my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
Zayn’s eyes scanned the room, searching. He was looking for me. It wasn’t just him, though—half the class seemed to be following his lead, their heads turning as if on cue, trying to spot the so-called lucky person paired with Zayn Malik.
I sank a little lower in my chair, heat rushing to my face as whispers rippled through the class. My name was on everyone’s mind for the first time ever, and all I wanted was to disappear into the floor.
Why me? Out of all the names in that handler, why did it have to be mine?
Fighting against the prickling embarrassment, I forced myself to raise my hand.
“Here,” I mumbled, my voice barely audible over the buzz in the room.
Zayn’s eyes locked onto mine, and I couldn't help the nervous lip bite as he gave me a quick once-over, his expression giving nothing away. No smirk, no frown—just that cool, detached calm that only made my heart hammer harder.
The class didn’t seem to notice; they were too busy whispering, some girls throwing me glances I couldn’t decipher. And me? I could barely breathe.
***
Zayn Malik was, for lack of a better word, perfect. Not the loud, charming kind of perfect, the kind that filled rooms with laughter or drew crowds with effortless charm. No, Zayn’s perfection was subtler. He wasn’t a social butterfly; he wasn’t even particularly approachable. He had this calm, almost detached way about him, like he didn’t need to chase attention because it already trailed after him wherever he went.
And he was good-looking—too good-looking, honestly, to the point where it felt unreal. Add to that his academic brilliance and his knack for sports, and you’d think he’d be the kind of guy who would let the world know just how untouchable he was. But he wasn’t. There wasn’t a trace of arrogance in the way he carried himself, no smug smirk or overconfidence. If anything, Zayn seemed more content to blend into the background, minding his own business as if he didn’t realize—or didn’t care—how many people idolized him.
That was the problem, really. There were no flaws to detect, no cracks in his perfect exterior. It left too much room for imagination, which was dangerous when you were me. Because, of course, I had a stupid crush on him. Just like anyone in their right mind would, honestly. It was embarrassing how predictable it felt, how inevitable.
So, naturally, my brain had to ruin it by convincing itself that Zayn had to be a womanizer. What other explanation could there be? Someone that effortlessly attractive and enigmatic had to have a flaw, and if no one had found it yet, well, I’d make one up.
Rumor had it he dated someone new every week—quiet flings, whispered names, stories passed around like campfire tales. It was all just plausible enough to stick, even if no one had ever actually seen him with anyone. Not once. Not in the halls, not at lunch, not even at parties.
Still, it was easier to believe the stories than to confront the truth. That he was untouchable in every way, and whatever little crush I had on him didn’t stand a chance.
An open book landed on my desk, startling me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“Can I sit here?”
I blinked, my gaze snapping up, only to find myself staring directly into a pair of amber eyes. Zayn Malik’s amber eyes.
My brows furrowed in confusion, my brain taking a second too long to process the situation. Zayn Malik wanted to sit next to me? It didn’t make sense.
But then, as his gaze swept briefly around the room, I followed his line of sight. And only then did I take in the obvious pattern—everyone who had been paired up was now sitting next to each other.
Of course. It wasn’t a choice. It was a forced situation.
Still, knowing that didn’t stop the nervous flutter in my chest as I nodded, shifting slightly to give him more room. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
Zayn sighed, almost imperceptibly, as if he’d just avoided some massive inconvenience. It wasn’t until he was fully settled, leaning back in his chair and cracking open his book, that I realized the fatal mistake I’d made.
I had taken the seat next to the wall.
A silent groan escaped my lips as panic bubbled up in my chest. I was trapped. Completely and utterly trapped. Because there was no way, absolutely no way , I was going to ask Zayn Malik to move if I needed to get out. Not with the mere thought of having to speak to him again turning my stomach into knots.
I was stuck. Glued to my seat. And as Zayn calmly flipped a page in his book, looking as unaffected as ever, I couldn’t help but feel like I was in way over my head.
Sitting next to Zayn Malik was nerve-wracking enough on its own, but having to study under his watch? That was a whole new level of torture. Zayn was a genius. Academically untouchable. And me? Well, let’s just say studying wasn’t exactly my strong suit.
Every time he turned a page in his book, seemingly lost in thought, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was silently judging me. What if he figured out how clueless I really was? The thought alone was enough to send my anxiety spiraling, especially when I remembered what our first class as deskmates was: math.
Of all the subjects, it had to be math.
“Liam, would you solve this one on the board, please?”
My stomach dropped. My pulse spiked. I could barely hear my own thoughts over the blood rushing in my ears.
Before I could even process what was happening, Zayn was already stepping out of his seat to let me pass. I caught the faintest glance of curiosity from him, as if, for the first time, he had a chance to figure me out without resorting to sneaking looks at my notes or my fidgeting hands.
And that realization only added fuel to the anxiety already twisting in my chest.
I rose slowly, like I was moving underwater, gripping the edge of my desk for stability. By the time I reached the board, my hands were clammy, and the chalk felt too fragile in my grasp. I stared at the problem written out in neat, precise handwriting, but it might as well have been in another language.
Come on, Liam, I told myself. Just start. Something. Anything.
My mind scrambled for a solution, flipping through vague, half-remembered math lessons that all felt like they were from a lifetime ago. The numbers swam in and out of focus as I hesitated, the chalk turning over and over between my fingers. I managed to scrawl a half-hearted attempt at the first step, but even that felt wrong. Eventually, I had to turn back to the teacher, offering her a silent, defeated shrug.
To her credit, she didn’t make a fuss. “Take your seat,” she said with a small nod.
As I sank back into my chair, I could feel Zayn’s stare out of the corner of my eye. Of course, he was judging. His last deskmate had been Harry Styles—a genius who could solve problems after problems like he was reciting his ABCs.
Zayn didn’t say anything at first, but then I caught his voice over the teacher’s call for another student’s name. “It was a very basic linear equation.”
I froze, biting the inside of my cheek. Despite knowing exactly what he meant, I didn’t engage. Instead, I let out a noncommittal hum, ducking behind my notebook like it might shield me from his judgment.
But Zayn wasn’t done. “Seriously, though. Substitution was all it needed. You didn’t even try.”
My embarrassment spiked. “I was sick the day we covered that,” I muttered, immediately regretting it. The excuse sounded flimsy, even to me.
Zayn’s gaze stayed fixed on me, and I felt every second of it. Finally, he leaned slightly closer, his voice surprisingly soft. “Are you doing anything during break?”
I blinked, caught completely off guard. “Why?”
He gave a casual shrug. “I’ll show you how to do it. Won’t take long.”
I stared at him, bewildered. Of all the ways I’d imagined this interaction going, this wasn’t it.
***
Break time came faster than I expected—or wanted. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to sitting through a math lesson from Zayn Malik of all people. I barely had time to gather my thoughts before Zayn turned to me, his notebook already open.
“Alright,” he said, sliding his chair a little closer to mine. “Let’s try this again.”
His tone was patient—unfairly so. I half-expected him to roll his eyes and give up on me before we even started, but instead, he leaned in, pen poised, walking me through the same problem I’d failed to solve in class.
“See this?” He pointed to the equation with the end of his pen. “Here’s where you got stuck. You want to get the variable by itself first. So, move this over here.” His hand brushed against mine briefly as he gestured, and I fought the urge to pull back like I’d been shocked.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and tried to follow his instructions. It wasn’t as intimidating as I thought. His calm explanations cut through the panic fogging my brain.
By the fifth try, I’d actually solved a problem on my own. It took a ridiculous amount of effort—yes, laugh it off—but it was the best I’d ever done.
A smile broke out across my face before I could stop it. “Got it.”
Zayn chuckled approvingly. “Not bad. You’re getting it.”
His praise sent a warmth through my chest, a pleasant hum I tried to shake off as I buried my focus in the next problem he was scribbling out for me. Pencil in hand, I started working through the steps, determined not to mess up this time.
The faint shuffling of papers beside me barely registered at first. But then came his voice, casual as if plucking a thought out of thin air.
“You have nice handwriting.”
My head snapped up, and to my absolute horror, there he was—Zayn Malik, flipping through my literature notes. The sight hit me like a bolt of lightning, freezing me mid-stroke.
“No!” I reached over, yanking the notebook back, maybe a little too forcefully, and stuffed it under my desk. “You can not read this!”
Zayn raised an eyebrow. “Touchy, huh?”
I shook my head, muttering something incoherent, my cheeks blazing.
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Let me guess,” he teased. “You’ve got some deep, dark secrets scribbled in there. Or, oh—” his grin widened, “is it a diary? Maybe about someone in this room?”
My heart slammed against my ribs. My eyes widened, betraying me.
Zayn caught it instantly, grinning almost gleefully. “Oh, no way.”
I scrambled to cover, stammering, “It’s—it’s not like that. I was just—”
I tried to find words, but nothing came out of my tangled thoughts. The truth was, he wasn’t wrong. Out of pure boredom during literature class, my mind had wandered. I might have, maybe, started writing a pseudo-diary entry at the back of my notebook. Not like I dropped names or anything, but the details—his sharp jawline, his silky jet black mane of a head, his amber eyes—yeah, those details weren’t exactly subtle.
And if Zayn had read even a sentence of that?
I didn’t dare look at him, choosing instead to bury my face in my hands, silently praying the floor would swallow me whole.
To his credit, Zayn didn’t push it. A soft chuckle escaped him. “Relax. I’m just messing with you.”
“Well, don’t,” I mumbled, dropping my hands and trying for nonchalance, even as my voice betrayed me. “Because it’s not fun.”
Zayn shrugged, like the whole thing was nothing too serious. And maybe to him, it was. But to me?
I swore to myself, right then and there, that I’d be more careful. No more careless scribbling, no more letting my mind wander to places it shouldn’t when Zayn Malik—the living embodiment of my stupid, inconvenient crush—was sitting less than two feet away.
***
The first week passed uneventfully, or at least that’s how it felt. We weren’t exchanging numbers or making plans to hang out. Outside the classroom, it was like we didn’t even know each other—just two people who happened to share a desk.
Zayn helped me with studying during class, while I found myself returning the favor in an unexpected way—steering him away every time he reached for the red paint to color something plant-related.
As ridiculous as it sounded, Zayn Malik was colorblind.
I first noticed it during art class, in a lesson on chromaticity. He was squinting at the color wheel, his brow furrowed as he mixed the wrong shades on his palette. At first, I thought he was just being lazy—half-heartedly mixing colors without much effort. But then he dipped his brush into a deep green, swirled it with red, and confidently declared the resulting murky brown as “purple.”
I blinked, certain I’d misheard him. But no, he was already applying the sludge-like mixture to what was supposed to be a vibrant sunset. It was so spectacularly wrong that I couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
“Uh, that’s... not purple,” I pointed out, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.
Zayn stopped mid-stroke, tilting his head at the palette with a frown. “It’s not?”
“No. It’s... it’s brown,” I said as gently as possible.
He dropped the paintbrush back into its place with a quiet sigh, his fingers skimming over the others before he picked up another and dipped it into a bright yellow.
I winced. “That’s... also not purple.”
Zayn’s jaw tightened, and he swapped brushes again, this time landing on a shade of green so vivid it practically glowed.
“You’re colorblind,” I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them.
He froze for a moment before shrugging, his casual demeanor almost masking the faint frustration in his eyes. “Red-green,” he admitted, as though it wasn’t a big deal. But the way he avoided my gaze for a second too long told me otherwise.
I sighed softly, and before I could overthink it, my hand reached out, catching his wrist mid-stroke. He stopped, watching as I gently unwound the brush from his fingers. Without a word, I picked up a clean one and dipped it into the rich purple he’d been hunting for.
“Here,” I said, holding it out to him.
Zayn hesitated, but took it eventually, muttering a quiet, “Thanks.”
That’s when I saw it—a faint flush creeping across his cheeks, the telltale sign of embarrassment. It was subtle, just enough to catch the light when he glanced down at the canvas.
As I turned back to my own palette, a small chuckle escaped me. Of all the things I’d thought I might witness today, Zayn Malik blushing wasn’t one of them. And yet, there it was—a sight rare enough to feel like a secret I’d somehow stumbled upon.