An Ayesha and Zayn Bonus Chapter

While my hands are busy washing themselves thoroughly in the sink, my mind seems to be other places. More specifically, my dupatta getting caught on the sleeve of Zayn's shalwar kameez causing a momentary beat of us scrambling off of each other in hopes the gossip aunties haven't taken a picture and posted it on their collective Whatsapp forum.

A slight blush rises on my cheeks at the memory, seeing Zayn's less than subtle smirk as he gently unwound a loose thread from around his button, setting me free.

I already knew our moment was caught by many, Sophia telling me how she overheard two aunties talk about it in the bathroom not so later.

"What has you blushing, ya amar?" I hear a deep voice call from behind making me look up in the mirror. Zayn is there, leaning against the wall with his sleeves rolled up and forearms on display.

I immediately shut off the water, ripping off a paper towel from the dispenser beside me all while engaging in this little staring contest we have going on.

"What are you doing here? If one of the aunties catches you near the women's bathroom, it'll spread like wildfire." Which is technically true if an auntie decided to wander away from the communal one downstairs for all the guests and venture upwards near the back where a single stall lays at the end of the hallway.

"You're evading my question."

"And you're being foolish. You know how brown people can be."

"Maybe..." he pushes off the wall, coming toward me in a stance I am all too familiar with. "Or maybe I know how you can be."

The paper towel in my hand crumples under the weight of my hands perching behind me, trying to find some stability on the counter as he crumbles me whole from just one heated look.

"You talk like you're insinuating something pretentious."

"Come on, Ayesha." He groans lowly, looking away from me for a beat. "You've been avoiding me all night. The only times we ever were near each other was when we were talking to those aunties or somehow, getting stuck in each other's paths."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. I've been keeping a respectful distance like a respectful girl should be surrounded by her family and friends."

He's quiet then, a small quirk to his lips as he nods to himself like he's going to agree with what I say. I can tell he lets my evasion go when his eyes divert back to me, giving me a once over.

"Did I tell you today how beautiful you look? Because Ayesha..." He reaches over, gently peeling one hand away from the sink and cradling it in both of his as if I am made of gold. "You look so pretty, my heart."

I look down at our hands, mine encased in his, and a small smile lifts my mouth as it tightens slightly in his grasp. We don't touch often, or at all. We don't kiss or hug or do any of what people consider the norm. Holding hands has been as far as we've both gotten in the years we've known each other.

Our small moments usually end in secret smiles, words, or the smallest touch known to man. Zayn is every bit respectful, always the gentleman unbeknownst to what people may think of him. He may flirt as a joke or in a friendly way, but he's never deliberately done anything that would insinuate that he wants to start a relationship or hookup.

And that's when my smile falls, a small intake of breath as I realize the position we're in. Him and I, hiding away in a bathroom with our hands holding as if we're in that word. Relationship. All of a sudden, it's too much and I need to stop it before our feelings get hurt.

"Zayn..." I step away from him, my head shaking as our connected hands simultaneously fall limp by our sides. "I can't...you know I can't do this."

He looks confused for a moment until it hits him and his eyes are traveling down to my hand, one that's free from an engagement ring I know he was searching for. It seems like a breath of fresh air has been let out of his chest at the sight, like it would physically pain him to witness a ring there.

"You're not seriously considering marrying that guy, are you?" When I don't respond he falters, stopping in front of me as his voice lowers to a whisper. "Are you...?"

He's bringing up the guy I told him about weeks earlier—one my mother has set up a dinner with, with his parents over at my house to consider things further. Further like an engagement and then marriage.

"He comes from a good family," is all I can say to him, turning away from his heated gaze. "His parents are religious, he has a good education, a stable job—"

"—Oh, bullshit!—"

"—And my parents approve of him!"

"And what about me?" His hand is curled in a fist now, pounding at his chest in desperation. I can see it in his eyes; the longing, the hurt, the anger. "What about me, Ayesha? What about us? Has this all been one sided? Was I an idiot to not see that the girl I've been in love with since university doesn't love me back?"

"You're not an idiot." I choke out, tears gathering in my eyes. "And love has nothing to do with this."

"I have waited for you." He continued. "For half a decade, I have waited for you. You have all my firsts, ya hayati. There has been no one on my mind—no person more worthy of the things I would do for you. You have my soul, Ayesha." He says softly. "I have waited five years and I can easily wait five more. Or ten, or twenty, or however long you need because that is how much I love you."

"Stop saying that." I whisper, lowering my gaze and covering them with my hand. I can't take anymore chances to look at him because he's so beautiful, and kind, and I know if the next words that come out of his mouth is please I'll end up doing whatever he says.

"Stop saying what?" He's walking again, coming closer to me, and with my back against the wall I'm cornered. "I love you? Stop omitting a truth you and I both know? I love you Ayesha Hassan Asif. I fucking love you."

"Zayn." Both hands are covering my face now as I cower. I'm at my wits end with this, with him. I don't know what to do, don't know what to say that will make him hate me. Make him want to leave me and move on. Because he deserves better than someone like me, someone with a family that will accept him with open arms.

"I love you, Ayesha." He repeats, a finality attached to his words. Zayn makes the move to cup my cheek but stops himself short, as if realizing the weight this action will have. "You own my heart. My body, my soul, my existence. So never, not even for a second, doubt that what we are is real."

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TERMINOLOGY:

Ya amar - my moon / my beloved / my most beautiful
Ya hayati - my life

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A/N: hi lovelies! from the moment i started rewriting pessimist i started getting comments/dms about the classroom smut scene in the first version. so...yeah just wait i guess.

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