Archive of Our Own

Harry didn’t look up when the door creaked open, but the sharp scent of smoke—faint and clinging—carried in on the breeze and told him everything he needed to know. Rooftop again. Zayn always ducked out before briefings, claiming a walk, but everyone knew it was for a fag and a few moments of silence above the city. The others didn’t care. Harry did.

Not about the smoking, necessarily. That wasn’t what got under his skin.

He looked up just in time to catch Zayn slipping into the seat opposite, his movements fluid and unhurried, like the meeting was an afterthought. He stretched out under the table, legs long, posture relaxed. Too relaxed.

Zayn didn’t even bother to pretend surprise at Harry’s glare. He just tilted his chin in greeting, that infuriating ghost of a smile playing at his mouth. There was always something about the way he looked at Harry—like he was amused by a private joke Harry hadn’t been let in on.

Harry’s eyes flicked down, catching the edge of ink winding along Zayn’s forearm, just beneath his rolled sleeve. He looked away too late. It was a stupid reflex by now, automatic. It had been nearly two years since Malik transferred from counter-terrorism to MI5, and Harry still hadn't figured out how to ignore how good-looking he was. His jaw clenched.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Malik,” Harry said coolly.

Zayn shrugged, draping an arm across the back of his chair. “Traffic.”

Harry didn’t smile. “From the rooftop?”

Zayn cocked his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You keeping tabs on me, Styles?” he said, mild but pointed. “Bit obsessive, don’t you think?”

“I care about professionalism,” Harry replied, sharper than intended. There was a flush at the back of his neck—caught out again. Zayn didn’t rise to it. He rarely did.

“Could you two manage your flirting elsewhere?” came Liam’s voice from across the table, dry and unimpressed. “Some of us actually want to get through the agenda.”

Harry stiffened. “We’re not—”

Zayn chuckled, low under his breath.

Before Harry could shoot back, Chambers entered the room with the clipped precision of someone who had no time for posturing. She barely spared them a glance before placing a thick dossier in the centre of the table.

“Styles. Malik. Whatever your personal issue is, park it,” she said, her tone icy and final.

Harry straightened instinctively. Across from him, Zayn shifted just slightly, his lazy façade replaced with a calm, neutral expression. Always good at slipping into formality when it mattered. It should’ve impressed Harry. Instead, it made his teeth grind.

Their problem had never been easy to define, not even to himself. Once, they’d got on. Properly got on. There’d been a few months—back when Zayn first transferred—where it had almost been fun. He’d been sharp, interesting, and dryly funny in a way Harry hadn’t expected. They’d worked well together. Until Paris.

That mission had changed everything. A throwaway insult over comms—something snide Harry hadn’t realised was live—had undone whatever tentative rapport they’d built. Zayn had laughed it off at the time, kept it quiet, professional. But he’d pulled away, and Harry had felt it immediately. Since then, things had been… tense.

Zayn hadn’t been cruel. Just distant. Careless with him, in a way that didn’t match how careful he was with everyone else.

Chambers’ voice snapped him out of it. “Antoine Moreau’s surfaced again. Monaco. You’ll go in under deep cover. No security, but tight-knit circles. We need eyes in.”

Harry blinked. “You want us to infiltrate as—”

“Married couple,” she confirmed, sliding the file toward them. “Two years married. New expats from London. Harold and Zain Hart.”

Harry felt the ground shift beneath him.

He cleared his throat. “Are we… really the best choice for this?”

Chambers looked at him, eyes cool. “Yes. You fit the profile. And frankly, I’m tired of this unresolved tension. Maybe a bit of forced proximity will do the trick.”

The conversation was over before he could object again. She walked out, heels echoing down the corridor.

Harry sat back, the silence between them thick and pulsing. He refused to look up.

Zayn stood first, gathering the file. “Think you’ll survive, babe?” he said.

Harry’s eyes snapped to him. “Don’t call me that.”

Zayn grinned, wide and amused now. “You’d better get used to it. We’re married now.”

Harry’s glare deepened. “Funny how much you’re enjoying this.”

Zayn leaned in, just close enough for Harry to catch the remnants of smoke and something warmer beneath it. His voice dropped.

“You’re the one with the problem, Styles. I’m fine.”

That landed. Not because it was smug, but because Zayn looked genuinely unbothered. Soft, almost.

“You’re fine?”

Zayn’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah. Got over Paris ages ago. You’re the one still acting like I knifed your nan.”

Harry stared at him, thrown. He’d built a whole story in his head—a version where Zayn had been angry and sulking for two years, just like he’d been. This didn’t fit.

Zayn shrugged. “Just don’t fuck it up. No hard feelings, yeah?”

And then he was gone, the file tucked under his arm, his footsteps fading down the hall.

Harry stayed where he was, hands clenched in his lap, pulse thudding against his ribs.

No hard feelings.

Except now he wasn’t sure if Zayn had ever had any at all.

And suddenly, that felt worse.

The lobby gleamed. Gold accents, marble floors, chandeliers hanging like overindulgent jewellery. It all shimmered under the low hush of money and old elegance. Zayn stood just behind Harry at check-in, watching the way Harry smiled at the receptionist in flawless French, soft and deferential. His voice low, calm. Charming, in that curated way he did when he slipped into persona—too polished to be real.

It irritated Zayn. Not because it was fake. But because it wasn’t.

Harry was good at this. Always had been. He could walk into any space, any room, and become whoever was needed. His charm had edges, if you looked closely. It came from being watched his whole life and learning how to disarm people before they could judge him.

Zayn hated how well he understood that.

The receptionist handed over the keycards with a warm smile, and Harry turned to him, that same polite expression still pinned to his face.

But Zayn knew better. Harry's careful politeness was a shield, one he'd been wielding ever since their misunderstanding in Paris. And despite what Zayn had claimed yesterday—yes, maybe he was "fine," but he certainly hadn’t forgotten. He wasn't that bloody forgiving.

“Room 708,” he said, unnecessarily, holding out a card. Zayn took it without a word.

The lift was all polished brass and mirrored walls. Zayn kept his eyes fixed on the doors as they slid shut, but he could feel Harry next to him—warm and tense, back straight, jaw tight. He didn’t speak.

Zayn glanced sideways. The mirrored surface showed Harry’s profile in clean lines, lit by golden light. The shorter hair worked for him, suited the bones of his face—stronger now, more defined. His mouth was set, unreadable. There was a time Zayn had known how to read him. That was long gone.

He wasn’t supposed to find Harry attractive—not now, not still. But it had always been there, simmering beneath the annoyance, complicating every interaction. He’d realised quickly enough, back in London, that Harry wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended. He’d caught Harry staring more than once, lingering too long. Each time it felt like a tiny victory, yet somehow also a loss—because Harry might want him, but he certainly didn't respect him. And that, Zayn reminded himself bitterly, was the entire issue.

The doors opened onto a plush corridor, all quiet wealth and subtle carpeting. Harry led the way, unlocking the suite with a smooth swipe of his card, stepping aside to let Zayn enter first.

The suite was ridiculous: chandeliers glittering overhead, plush carpets muffling their footsteps, expansive views of the Mediterranean sparkling beyond wide, sunlit windows.

Zayn barely made it two steps in before he stopped short.

The bed.

Massive. Singular.

Pillows fluffed, linens crisp, one enormous mattress in the centre of the room like a slap across the face.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Zayn muttered, staring at it.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t book the room.”

Zayn turned to him, incredulous. “Obviously. God forbid you make a mistake.”

That hit. Harry’s mouth tightened, a flicker of irritation passing across his face.

“Grow up,” he said, and walked past him toward the balcony, wrenching the doors open hard enough to rattle.

Warm air spilled into the suite, smelling of salt and heat and money. The curtains shifted gently behind him. Harry stood there in silence, silhouetted against the sunlit Mediterranean.

Zayn dropped his bag on the nearest armchair and rubbed a hand over his face. His heart was pounding, and it had nothing to do with the bed.

“You might want to look less pissed off at your husband, babe,” he said lazily. “It’ll blow our cover.”

Harry turned. “Could you drop that already?”

Zayn smiled, all teeth. “What? ‘Babe’? Just staying in character.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. There was a flush along his cheekbones now. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Yeah,” Zayn said, stepping closer, “because you’re so bloody fun to be around.”

He regretted it almost immediately—not because it wasn’t true, but because it landed too hard. Harry flinched, just slightly, before turning back to the sea.

They stood in silence for a beat. Zayn could feel the charge building again, the crackle that had haunted every moment between them since Paris.

“You’re always accusing me of being immature,” Zayn said, quieter now. “But you’ve been cold ever since Paris. Like that one comment erased everything else.”

Harry’s spine stiffened. “That comment was…” He stopped. Bit the inside of his cheek.

Zayn waited.

Harry’s voice came low. “It was bad. I know that.”

Zayn scoffed. “Bad?” He stepped forward, something hot uncoiling in his chest. “You called me thick. On open comms. The whole bloody team heard it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Zayn cut him off. “Yeah, well, you said it. And then you didn’t say anything else. No apology. Just carried on like nothing happened.”

Harry flinched. “You laughed.”

“Because what else was I meant to do?” Zayn snapped. “Throw a fit? Make it worse? I was already humiliated, Harry.”

Silence fell between them like a dropped plate—loud, and impossible to ignore.

Zayn swallowed, his throat dry. “You want to know why I’ve been distant? That’s why. You made me feel like I didn’t belong. Like I was a fucking joke.”

Harry’s face shifted. Not angry now—just stricken. He looked, for the first time in ages, like he didn’t know what to say.

Zayn turned away, fists curling at his sides. The heat inside him didn’t feel clean. It never did, where Harry was concerned.

“I wind you up,” he added, softer now, “because it’s easier than pretending it didn’t matter.”

Zayn felt suddenly too exposed. He didn’t wait for a reply. Just moved past Harry, brushing his shoulder in the process, and shut himself in the bathroom again, this time leaning back against the door. The quiet roared in his ears.

He hadn’t meant to say all that. Not like that.

But it was done now.

Later, when he stepped out of the bathroom, the air had cooled a little. The suite was quieter. Softer. Harry stood by the bed, folding a shirt with too much focus, his jaw tight, eyes avoiding Zayn like it was an assignment.

Zayn glanced at the enormous bed again.

It still looked ridiculous. Like some kind of set piece.

He cleared his throat. “Look—forget it. I’ll take the sofa.”

Harry looked up immediately. “Don’t be daft.”

Zayn blinked. That was unexpected.

Harry shrugged, voice clipped but careful. “It’s just a bed. We’re professionals. We can handle it.”

Zayn watched him for a second. The slope of his shoulders, the way he wasn’t looking directly at him, like sharing the bed wasn’t a big deal and also the biggest deal in the world.

“Right,” Zayn said eventually, quiet again. “We’ll manage.”

But as he moved to unpack, his eyes kept drifting back to the bed.

He wasn’t sure if he was trying harder to convince Harry—or himself.

Harry woke slowly, the way you do when the world is too still and something is wrong. Except nothing was wrong. The bed was warm. The room quiet. The morning sun streamed in gentle and gold through sheer curtains, curling around the corners of the suite.

Waking up beside Zayn Malik was exactly the disaster Harry had feared it would be.

Zayn was asleep beside him, on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other loosely draped across his own chest. His t-shirt had rucked up at the hem, revealing a sliver of bare skin and the top edge of a tattoo Harry couldn’t remember the meaning of. His breathing was slow. Soft.

Harry lay still. Muscles locked, heart too loud in his own ears.

It was the intimacy that rattled him, not the fact itself. He’d shared beds on missions before. This wasn’t new. But there was something about Zayn asleep, completely unguarded and so close, that made Harry feel like a voyeur in his own skin.

Zayn’s lashes were long, ridiculous really. His mouth slightly parted, the shape of it inviting in a way Harry didn’t want to think about too much. The light caught on the curve of his cheekbone, on the edge of stubble at his jaw. And fuck, he was beautiful. Stupidly beautiful.

Harry turned onto his back, staring up at the ornate ceiling like it might offer some kind of answer.

It didn’t.

His mind circled the conversation from the night before. The heat in Zayn’s voice, the bitterness. You made me feel like I didn’t belong. The words had stuck somewhere just beneath Harry’s ribs, wedged between guilt and something that felt too much like shame.

Zayn shifted slightly in his sleep, his fingers curling against the pillow. Harry looked over and felt the ache of something he couldn’t name press against his chest.

He still remembered the moment far too clearly. That slow, gut-twisting realisation that Zayn’s comms had been open.

Harry had been pissed off—rattled from the mission, adrenaline surging—and he’d said it sharp and thoughtless, “Are you actually thick, Malik?” Just into his mic. Just out of habit.

The room had gone quiet. Not instantly, but in that weird, delayed way where people register discomfort and try to laugh it off. Someone had chuckled. He couldn’t remember who. The rest of them had said nothing.

Zayn had laughed too, at the time. Just once. Hollow and strange.

Harry hadn’t been able to hear anything else for days. Weeks. The silence had set up shop in his head, echoed every time he tried to talk to Zayn after.

He saw it happen, clear as anything—Zayn’s expression dimming in the space of a breath, some invisible shutter pulled down between them. And then the shift: professional, distant, untouchable.

Zayn had never raised it. Never called him out or demanded an apology. He’d just stopped… being reachable. And Harry, being Harry, had folded into himself.

He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. Told himself Zayn was fine. That they were fine. He’d let pride keep him silent because it was easier to act like he wasn’t hurt than to admit he’d caused it.

But he had.

And the thing Zayn would probably never believe—the thing Harry had never said out loud—was that he’d never meant it. Not really. He didn’t think Zayn was thick. He never had.

The truth was far worse.

He respected Zayn. More than most people he’d ever worked with. More than he’d ever said. That had been the worst part: knowing he’d disrespected someone he admired, and knowing Zayn thought that was the real version of him.

Harry shut his eyes, exhaling hard through his nose.

He hadn’t ignored Zayn. He’d just never known how to reach him after that.

And now they were here. On this bed. In this fragile peace.

Two years of silence wedged between them like a blade.

Zayn shifted again, face soft in the morning light. His lashes flickered slightly with the edge of a dream. The scar just beneath his jaw caught the sunlight.

Harry stared. Memorised.

This was impossible. All of it.

And yet he couldn’t look away.

Zayn stirred with a soft noise, something between a sigh and a yawn, and Harry froze.

The sheets shifted. The mattress dipped slightly.

Harry turned his head just enough to see Zayn blink blearily at the ceiling before scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Y’alright?” Zayn murmured, voice gravel-rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” Harry said, too quickly. “Just woke up.”

Zayn yawned, stretching beneath the covers. His shirt had ridden up further, exposing a glimpse of the tattoo just above his hip. The ink looked softer in the daylight, half-faded into the warm tones of his skin.

Harry looked away.

Zayn sat up with a low grunt, hair tousled, still blinking against the sunlight. He didn’t look at Harry right away—just reached for his watch on the bedside table and let out a sigh.

“We should scope the place out today,” he said. “Get our bearings.”

Harry nodded. “Good idea.” He was already climbing out of bed, grateful for the excuse to move, to do something other than feel.

Zayn padded into the bathroom, muttering something under his breath about needing a shower. Harry followed ten minutes later, fresh clothes clutched in one hand, his thoughts trailing behind him like tangled string.

By mid-morning, they were outside, Monaco glittering around them in pastel sunlight. The streets were clean and glinting, peppered with luxury boutiques and wine bars that hadn’t yet opened for the day.

Harry kept his sunglasses on, not for disguise, but to hide the way his eyes kept flicking to Zayn.

Zayn, who walked like he owned the pavement—shoulders loose, stride confident. The kind of casual that wasn’t trying to be noticed but always, somehow, was.

He’d put on sunglasses too. Not the mirrored type—plain black frames, understated. Still, they didn’t do much to obscure how absurdly good he looked, especially with the ocean behind him and the breeze tugging lazily at his hair.

Harry glanced away. Again.

Zayn turned suddenly, catching him. “See something interesting?”

Harry huffed out a laugh. “Just making sure you’re keeping up.”

Zayn raised a brow. “Don’t worry, babe. I won’t lose you.”

It was said lightly, like a joke, but it landed crookedly in Harry’s chest.

They walked on in silence after that, wandering the promenade. Zayn paused occasionally to glance into a shop window or nod at a map posted on a corner wall. He looked like someone on holiday. Like someone unbothered.

Harry was about to say something—anything—when a child came sprinting past, laughing breathlessly. He was barely four or five, wide-eyed and messy-haired, a fist clutching a melting cone of ice cream.

He tripped, right in front of them. The ice cream splattered across Zayn’s pristine white trainers in a wet slap.

Zayn froze. Looked down. Then up.

The boy looked up at him, bottom lip trembling, face already collapsing into panic.

Harry half-expected a grimace, or some clipped “it’s fine” as Zayn stepped around him.

Instead, Zayn crouched.

He crouched down until he was eye-level with the boy, voice soft. “Hey. It’s alright. Accidents happen.”

The boy blinked up at him, stunned by kindness. Zayn smiled, slow and easy, and Harry felt something shift inside his chest.

He hadn’t seen Zayn smile like that in years.

Not the smug grin. Not the teasing smirk. But that real smile—the one that lit up his whole face, that made his eyes go soft around the edges.

Harry stood still, watching.

Zayn looked over his shoulder at him a moment later, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Got any tissues, husband?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Zayn gestured down at his trainers, now streaked with chocolate and cream. “Can’t exactly walk around Monaco like this, can I?”

Harry fumbled, pulling a packet of tissues from his jacket and tossing them over. Zayn caught them one-handed, flashed him a crooked grin, then crouched again to wipe at the mess.

The child’s mum arrived seconds later, all flustered apologies in French. Zayn waved her off gently, said it was nothing.

The moment passed. The boy was whisked away.

But Harry didn’t move.

His throat felt tight. Too tight.

Because it had been so quick. So small. But he’d seen it—Zayn, soft and instinctive, offering comfort without hesitation.

And God, he’d missed him.

Not the colleague. Not the frustratingly composed asset he’d worked beside for years.

Him.

The boy who used to crack jokes in the back of vans and hum quietly when they were setting up surveillance. The one who’d once drawn Harry’s tattoo by hand on hotel stationery, just to prove a point.

That smile had only ever been his for a minute. And now Harry didn’t know if he was allowed to miss it.

Zayn tossed the tissues in a nearby bin, straightened, and brushed his hands down the front of his jeans. He caught Harry staring again.

“What?”

Harry shook his head, voice quiet. “Nothing. It’s just… been a while since I’ve seen you smile like that.”

Zayn’s expression faltered. Just a flicker. But it was there.

He looked away. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, walking ahead. “Haven’t had much reason to around you lately, have I?”

The ache came back full-force.

Harry didn’t reply.

“Forget it,” Zayn said. “Let’s just get back. We’ve seen enough for today.”

He just followed.

The terrace was quiet but not empty, soft music playing from somewhere Zayn couldn’t place. Below, the street buzzed in low, expensive murmurs — the shuffle of footsteps, cutlery on china, distant engines.

Zayn sipped slowly, pretending to care about the angle of the sun or the slow drip of condensation on his glass. But really, he was just trying to stay calm.

Harry sat beside him, sharp in profile, eyes trained on their target. Antoine Moreau, right on schedule, seated across the street beneath a linen awning, looking every bit the quietly dangerous man they’d been sent to track.

They should’ve been focused. He should’ve been focused.

Instead, Zayn’s gaze kept drifting to Harry’s hands. The way his fingers tapped rhythmically on the side of his glass. The tension in his shoulders. The careful way he wasn’t looking at Zayn.

He didn’t trust it. Not the quiet. Not the softness.

Harry finally spoke. “He’s here often. Same time, same spot.”

Zayn nodded, watching Moreau turn a page of his paper. “Good. Makes things easier.”

Harry leaned back. Exhaled. “Zayn…”

Zayn glanced at him.

“You alright?” Harry asked, tone too gentle. Like he already knew the answer.

Zayn kept his expression neutral. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve just… been quiet since this morning.”

Zayn huffed. “Didn’t realise that was a recent development.”

Harry grimaced, but didn’t bite back. Just looked down at his hands, like they might explain something he couldn’t say.

Zayn set his wine glass down. Carefully.

“You’re trying,” he said finally. “I can see that.”

Harry looked up. And Zayn hated that his stomach clenched.

“I want to get this right,” Harry said quietly. “I’ve wanted to. For a while.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “Then why didn’t you?”

There was no accusation in it. Just the question.

Harry hesitated. Then, with visible effort, said, “Because I was a coward. And because I thought maybe you didn’t care.”

Zayn looked away. The light was too golden, the moment too fragile.

“I liked working with you. Before everything happened,” Harry added. “I just didn’t know how to say I was sorry without sounding like it was nothing.”

Zayn turned back to him.

“I am sorry,” Harry said, voice steady. “For Paris. For not saying anything after. For not realising sooner how much it hurt you.”

Zayn stared at him.

He wanted to say something cutting. Wanted to brush it off with a joke, or a shrug, or one of those easy lines that let him slip away untouched. But he couldn’t. Not this time.

Because Harry looked… honest. Tired, but open.

Zayn felt the tension in his shoulders soften, just slightly.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” he said. “But it still stuck.”

“I know,” Harry murmured. “That’s on me.”

They sat in silence. Not awkward now — just full of things they didn’t need to say again.

Zayn picked up his glass. Sipped. “You were a bit of a prick.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Zayn let himself look at him, really look. The lines around Harry’s eyes were deeper than he remembered. His hands still fidgeted, like he didn’t know where to put them. But the apology had landed. That much Zayn could feel.

Maybe it wasn’t everything. But it was something.

“It’s not all on you,” he murmured finally, looking down into his glass. “Maybe I… maybe I could’ve handled it better too.”

“We both could’ve.”

Across the street, Moreau stood, shook hands with his companion, and disappeared into the crowd.

They watched him go.

“Guess that’s it for today,” Harry said softly, glancing down at his still-full drink.

Zayn nodded, not really looking. “Guess so.”

Neither of them moved.

The sun had dipped low now, casting the terrace in a buttery, forgiving glow. Their glasses sat between them, the wine warm, the silence warmer still. It wasn’t heavy anymore, not like before. Just full — with the shape of what had been said and what still lingered, unsaid.

Zayn didn’t quite trust it yet, the stillness between them. It felt like stepping onto ice that might hold, or crack. He was tired of the cracks.

Harry shifted, a slow lean forward, fingers brushing the base of his glass. “You hungry?” he asked, voice quiet. Careful.

Zayn glanced at him, the words catching him slightly off guard. It wasn’t the question, not really. It was the tone — not casual, but not tentative either. Something warm tucked behind it. Like a peace offering.

He hesitated, then felt the corner of his mouth lift, unbidden. “Starving, actually.”

Harry smiled, and this time it wasn’t the easy, performative one Zayn had seen a dozen times in briefing rooms or across surveillance monitors. It was quiet and open, a little shy at the edges. It landed low in Zayn’s chest, curling there.

“Good,” Harry said, standing slowly. “Me too.”

He pulled Zayn’s chair back with an easy, unconscious grace, not showy — just thoughtful in a way that made Zayn’s throat tighten.

He stood, brushing off the front of his shirt, pulse skipping for no reason he’d admit to. Harry hadn’t done anything extraordinary — just smiled, just stood up — but it rattled something loose inside Zayn anyway.

He cleared his throat. “You’re too charming for your own good, Styles.”

Harry arched a brow. “Bit dangerous saying that aloud, isn’t it?”

“You’ll get a complex,” Zayn said, nudging his shoulder as they moved together toward the stairs. Their arms brushed briefly. Neither of them pulled away.

Harry’s laugh was low and warm, and it tugged at Zayn more than he wanted it to. He glanced sideways as they walked — took in Harry’s profile in the shifting light, the faint crease between his brows even while relaxed. He always looked like he was carrying something, thinking too much.

It made Zayn’s chest ache, a little.

They stepped out into the street, the city glowing soft and slow around them. The air was still warm, the breeze curling off the sea.

Zayn kept his hands in his pockets. It was easier than letting them hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure whether to swing loose or press gently into Harry’s.

None of this was fixed. That much he knew. But there was something cracked open now, light creeping through.

He looked over at Harry again, who was gazing out at the street with that same calm focus from earlier, like he wasn’t aware of how close they were walking. Like this wasn’t strange, or loaded.

Zayn could feel the words in his chest, rising unwanted. I missed this. I missed you. He swallowed them down. Too soon. Too soft.

Harry looked over at him, and Zayn looked away quickly, the heat rising in his neck betraying more than he wanted.

“You’re being quiet again,” Harry murmured.

Zayn shrugged. “Don’t get used to me being nice. You’ll start expecting things.”

Harry grinned. “Bit late for that, babe.”

Zayn rolled his eyes, but it felt… light. Easy.

And that scared him more than anything. Because he knew, deep down, he still wanted this. Still wanted him. And wanting Harry Styles — warm, complicated, impossibly earnest — had never gone well for him before.

But he couldn’t stop.

He walked on beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder, and let himself pretend for just a little longer.

That maybe things could be different now.

That maybe the thing growing between them again wasn’t just memory.

It had started to feel like a rhythm.

Not a routine, exactly — they hadn’t been there long enough for that — but something close. The kind of slow-moving, unspoken pattern that settled between two people when proximity stopped feeling accidental.

Harry woke early now. Not by choice.

The Monaco sun came in bright through gauzy curtains that didn’t quite block it. And anyway, there was no part of him that could stay asleep with Zayn in the same bed.

He always stirred just before Zayn. Lay still, eyes barely open, and watched the light creep up the walls while Zayn breathed beside him, slow and even, still caught in sleep.

There was something reverent in it, something stupid and aching.

Today, like the last few days, Zayn moved first. Quiet footsteps across hardwood, a soft creak of the wardrobe door, the low gurgle of the espresso machine clicking on. He didn’t speak. He never did. He just… moved, with a kind of quiet precision that made Harry feel like he was watching something choreographed.

By the time Harry padded out into the suite, Zayn had already set out two cups. One full, one waiting.

Harry hesitated in the doorway, rubbing a hand over his mouth, hair a mess, still in the grey t-shirt he slept in.

Zayn glanced up just once, eyes flicking to his and then away. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Harry echoed, voice rough with sleep.

He crossed to the little counter, the soles of his feet cool against the floor. The espresso was black and bitter — just how Zayn liked it. Harry usually added a sugar, sometimes two.

Their fingers brushed when he reached for the cup. Just barely. Just enough.

Harry felt the jolt of it travel straight up his arm and settle somewhere tight behind his ribs.

Zayn didn’t react. He just sipped his own coffee and moved toward the window, standing there like he wasn’t undoing Harry one silent morning at a time.

Harry leaned against the counter and watched him — shameless now, because Zayn wasn’t looking.

His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, pushed back from his face in waves. His shoulders were broad beneath a plain black t-shirt, tattoos just visible at the sleeves. He stood with one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding his coffee, eyes on the sea.

Harry thought, not for the first time, that Zayn looked like something out of a painting. One of those moody portraits where the subject never quite faces the viewer — always turned slightly away, unknowable.

There was a quiet in the room Harry couldn’t bring himself to break.

He’d always thought Zayn was beautiful — anyone would. But it was more than that, now. It was the intimacy of it. Watching someone go quiet in the morning. Watching them make coffee. Watching them choose to do something for you, even if they didn’t say it.

Zayn turned slightly, eyes flicking toward him.

Harry quickly looked down, like a schoolboy caught out. Focused on his coffee instead.

Zayn’s voice was soft. “You still half-asleep?”

Harry smiled faintly. “I’m fine.” He took a sip. “Are you always this functional before 8am?”

Zayn shrugged, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “Better to get it over with.”

There was something so deeply Zayn in that — a refusal to coddle the day, to ease into it. Just get on with it. Do the job.

Harry watched him over the rim of his cup, his heart knocking against his ribs in that annoying, fluttery way it had started doing around day two.

He should’ve had this under control by now.

They weren’t here for each other. They were here for Moreau. For the mission. For the fucking paperwork.

But none of that explained why he liked watching Zayn pour coffee. Or why he knew, without looking, that Zayn always set the handle of his cup to the left. Or why his stomach clenched when Zayn used the word “husband” in public with a lazy smirk and a voice low enough to crawl under his skin.

He was losing the plot.

And Zayn was right there, quiet and composed and utterly unaware — or worse, not unaware at all.

Harry finished his coffee in silence and set the cup down gently.

“You want to walk the route again this morning?” he asked, casual.

Zayn nodded, still looking out at the water. “Yeah. Might as well make it look like a honeymoon.”

Harry felt something sharp and warm twist inside him. He didn’t answer.

Because the thing was — it already did.

They made their way down the promenade slowly, the kind of slow that had to look deliberate — not aimless, not rushed. Just two people basking in the luxury of free time. Married, in love, a little bored.

Zayn walked with his hands in his pockets, a pair of sunglasses perched low on his nose. Harry was hyper-aware of him — of the angle of his jaw, of the casual way he moved, of how people looked at him when they passed.

It was ridiculous how good he looked.

And maybe it was just the heat, or the soft press of afternoon light, but everything about Zayn seemed more vivid in Monaco. His voice quieter. His humour sharper. His silences heavier.

Harry had the route memorised now — the loop around the harbour, the café-lined street just ahead, the narrow lane where Moreau always sat at the same table reading Le Monde.

“Right,” Harry murmured, slowing his steps. “He’s there.”

Zayn nodded, not looking. “You want to go in first?”

Harry shook his head. “No. Better if he sees you alone first. Looks natural. Fluke of proximity.”

Zayn gave a low hum of agreement.

They stopped near a street stall, one of those kitschy tourist traps selling postcards and little resin towers of the Casino. Zayn picked up a postcard idly, fingers brushing over the cheap matte print.

“You think our fake flat needs artwork?” he murmured.

Harry stepped closer. “Could be a wedding souvenir.”

Zayn rolled his eyes without turning. “Romantic.”

Harry grinned, leaning just a little closer. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Zayn looked over his shoulder, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Don’t get carried away.”

Harry didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Because even now, even here, Zayn still had the ability to unmoor him with the smallest thing — a look, a quip, a brush of his voice low like that.

He cleared his throat. “Alright. You’ve got five minutes to bump his table, look like you mean it, and get invited to sit down.”

Zayn adjusted his sunglasses, gave a faint smirk. “You always so bossy over brunch.”

Harry didn’t rise to it. “Don’t be charming. Be memorable.”

“You say that like I’m not both.”

Harry let out a breath as Zayn turned and walked away. He counted his footsteps as they crossed the road. Watched him pause at the entrance of the café, wait for the waiter to pass, and then — exactly on cue — sidle a little too close to Moreau’s table.

It was smooth. Natural. Like he’d done it a hundred times.

Harry watched as Zayn apologised with a laugh, hand raised in mock embarrassment. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he didn’t need to. He could read it in the tilt of Zayn’s head, the way Moreau leaned in.

The way his eyes dragged over Zayn too slowly.

Harry’s fingers curled around the postcard he hadn’t realised he was still holding.

There it was again — that quick, sharp twist of something in his stomach. Not anger. Not jealousy, not really. Just something territorial and ugly and hot.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t known Zayn was attractive. Objectively, absurdly so.

But seeing someone else notice it — seeing someone else enjoy it — made Harry feel like he was watching something private happen in public. Like someone had reached across the table and touched something they hadn’t earned.

He told himself it was the mission. That he was invested in the outcome. That any twitch of protectiveness had nothing to do with Zayn, and everything to do with the fact that this was dangerous.

Except that wasn’t true.

Because it wasn’t fear that was making his chest tight.

It was the way Zayn smiled when he turned his head just slightly — not at Moreau, but toward the table, toward the air, toward Harry. It was the way he looked in the sunlight, edges soft, eyes bright.

And it was the sudden, bitter thought that if Harry had apologised sooner — if he hadn’t let pride curdle everything between them — he might’ve been the one at that table now.

Talking. Laughing. Looking at Zayn like that.

Wanting him without having to pretend it was all for show.

The hotel bar was dipped in low, honeyed light, the kind that made everything feel slower than it was. Jazz played somewhere in the background — soft, brassy, lazy. The hum of conversation was distant, muffled by thick carpet and heavy walls.

Harry leaned on one elbow, fingers toying with the stem of his wine glass. The red swirled slowly inside, legs catching along the side of the glass, clinging.

Zayn sat opposite, legs stretched out, posture all indifference — but Harry could tell he wasn’t relaxed. Not really. There was a certain sharpness to his calm. A stillness that wasn’t rest, just containment.

They hadn’t spoken much since the café. Not really. Just enough to coordinate — enough to keep things moving.

Harry hadn’t mentioned how long Zayn had spoken to Moreau. Or how Moreau’s hand had lingered unnecessarily at Zayn’s elbow when they parted. Or how Zayn hadn’t brushed it away.

He shouldn’t have cared.

The mission was the priority.

But the wine in his hand, and the memory of Zayn’s laugh earlier — low, amused, smooth as syrup — were making it harder to lie to himself.

“You’ve been quiet,” Zayn said suddenly.

Harry blinked. “Thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“Only when I’m drinking.”

Zayn quirked a smile, one corner of his mouth tugging up. It wasn’t kind. But it wasn’t cruel either. Just amused. Just Zayn.

Harry sat back in his chair, letting his gaze drift across the room. Then back to Zayn. Always back to Zayn.

“Good work today,” he said finally.

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know I needed your approval.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You don’t. Just thought you might appreciate hearing it.”

Zayn didn’t answer, but he didn’t look away either.

The silence between them stretched — not awkward, but not easy. Weighted.

Harry drained the rest of his wine, the taste dry and sharp on his tongue.

Zayn sipped his more slowly, thoughtful. He always did things like that — with intention, like he was pacing himself against something unseen.

“You were good with him,” Harry said eventually. “Moreau.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Zayn looked at him, brows lifting slightly. “That jealousy, Haz?”

Harry snorted. “Not everything’s about you.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Because it was true — not the jealousy, not exactly. Just the way Zayn could slide into any conversation, any space, and make it feel like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t carrying two years of fractured history and silence under his skin.

Harry envied that. Envied how easily Zayn could compartmentalise.

“How do you do that?” he asked, not meaning to.

Zayn tilted his head. “Do what?”

“Be so…” Harry searched for the word. “Unbothered.”

Zayn let out a low breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. He looked down at his wine, swirling the glass slowly.

“I’m not,” he said. “I just got good at pretending.”

Harry felt something shift in his chest — a slow, painful click, like a door unlocking somewhere deep inside.

It was easy to forget that Zayn wasn’t made of armour. That he wasn’t all sharp lines and measured words.

That he hurt, too. Just quieter.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Zayn’s gaze flicked up to meet his. For once, he didn’t look away.

“Don’t I?” he asked, voice low.

Harry swallowed. The distance between them felt too small now. The lighting too intimate. His thoughts were getting louder than the room.

He didn’t trust himself to answer.

And maybe Zayn saw that — saw how close he was to coming undone — because he reached for his wine again, calm and unbothered, like nothing had shifted at all.

But Harry could feel it.

Something had changed.

And the worst part was, he wanted more.

It was the first morning he hadn’t woken up annoyed.

Not that he was exactly relaxed — the suite still felt too warm, too quiet, and Harry was still Harry — but the edges of his mood weren’t as sharp. The coffee helped. So did the breeze, faint off the harbour, soft against his face as he sat on the shaded terrace with his cup in hand.

Harry was across from him, elbow resting on the little iron table, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He looked less polished in the morning. Rumpled shirt. A crease in the front of his hair where he’d clearly fallen asleep before it had dried.

Zayn let himself look for a moment too long, then dropped his gaze back to his coffee.

They weren’t speaking. But it wasn’t a bad silence. Not anymore.

Then, softly — “Did you always want to do this?”

Zayn looked up.

Harry didn’t clarify. Just waited.

Zayn leaned back, arms crossing lightly. “Spy work?”

Harry nodded.

Zayn considered it. “Not really. I kind of… fell into it. Didn’t have a grand plan. Just needed something that made sense.”

Harry’s head tilted slightly, curious. “Why’d you stay?”

Zayn ran a thumb over the lip of his cup. The answer felt close, but not easy.

“Because I got good at it,” he said finally. “And because it let me disappear without actually leaving.”

He glanced up, expecting some quip. But Harry was watching him carefully — no grin, no teasing. Just open.

Zayn cleared his throat. “And because… I liked the idea of helping people without anyone knowing. Just — doing something that mattered, even if no one saw it.”

Harry nodded slowly, like he was filing that away.

He hadn’t meant to say so much.

That was the problem with Harry. He had this way of sitting in silence without letting it turn cold. A way of waiting just long enough to make it feel safe to fill the space — to say things Zayn would never normally voice aloud.

But then Harry had tilted his head slightly, frowning in that gentle, assessing way of his, and said —

“I think it’s more than that. You pretend it’s all duty and service, but I reckon you also like the idea of proving people wrong — showing them you’re capable of something extraordinary.”

Zayn had gone still.

The words landed with quiet precision, like a pin sliding into its lock.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared.

Because Harry had got it. In one sentence, he'd cracked open something Zayn rarely let anyone near — not even himself, most of the time.

The need. The sharp, stubborn urge to be seen as more. To rise above what people thought. What they expected.

Zayn’s throat felt dry.

“How do you do that?” he asked, voice quiet.

Harry blinked. “Do what?”

Zayn hesitated, then gave the smallest of smiles — crooked, reluctant. “Know exactly what I’m thinking. It’s bloody irritating.”

Harry laughed softly, eyes brightening. “Years of practice.”

And Zayn believed him. Because that was the other problem — Harry didn’t guess. He remembered. He’d always watched Zayn like he was a puzzle he wanted to solve, not to own, but to understand. It had been maddening. And, sometimes, it had felt like safety.

They sat for a while longer like that. Not talking. The square around them buzzed gently with the late-morning lull — clinking glasses, shoes on cobblestone, a moped grumbling past.

Zayn wished, not for the first time, that he could freeze the moment. Just this. The soft hum between them. The peace of it.

But peace never lasted. Not in their line of work. Not between people like them.

He knew he should leave it there. Let the quiet be what it was — rare and rarefied.

But instead, he heard himself say, “We should go out tonight.”

Harry looked up. His sunglasses had slipped lower on his nose. He pushed them back, slowly. “Out?”

Zayn played it off, kept his tone light. “For the cover. A date. Makes sense for a couple newly settled in Monaco, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t need to look to know Harry was staring at him.

“A date,” Harry repeated, voice caught somewhere between amused and surprised.

Zayn shrugged. “Unless that’s a problem?”

Harry shook his head. Slowly. “No. No, it makes sense. It’s a good idea.”

Zayn nodded, feeling a strange flicker in his chest — something too close to hope.

There was no reason for this to matter. No reason for Harry’s slight flush to make Zayn’s skin feel too warm.

But it did.

Harry looked at him differently now. A little softer. A little more open. Like maybe the years between them hadn’t ruined everything.

Zayn looked away first. Not because he wanted to — but because if he kept looking, he might say something reckless.

“Alright then,” he said, quieter now. “Tonight.”

He could still feel Harry’s gaze on him. Still feel the tension humming beneath the surface of things.

This was dangerous. Not the mission. Not the target.

This.

Letting Harry see too much. Letting himself want too much.

Because the truth was, he didn’t just want to be good at his job. He didn’t just want the win.

He wanted that softness again. The way Harry used to laugh at his jokes. The way their voices used to fit together in those early ops — banter threaded with trust.

He wanted that back.

But wanting was how things fell apart.

And if he let himself forget that — even for one night — it wouldn’t be the mission that burned.

It would be him.

The bar was tucked into a corner of the hotel Harry hadn’t noticed before. Low-lit, intimate. The kind of place where time slowed down on purpose. Someone was playing piano in the corner — not well enough to be paid, but not badly enough to be asked to stop. The notes bled softly into the room, familiar but unintrusive.

Zayn sat across from him at a small round table, wine glass in hand, eyes warm with the beginnings of tipsiness. His cheeks had flushed slightly — whether from the alcohol or the heat or just from laughing too much, Harry couldn’t tell.

He looked beautiful like this.

Too beautiful.

Harry felt off-kilter, like he was watching the scene from just outside his body — from across the room, maybe. He hadn’t meant to drink this quickly. Hadn’t meant to lean forward every time Zayn spoke.

Zayn had gone loose-limbed with the wine, his posture still composed but softened, his voice that little bit lower, a little slower, as he talked about some novel he’d picked up on the train to Berlin last spring. His hands moved with the story, fingers describing shapes in the air, and Harry found himself mesmerised. Every gesture was familiar, but somehow newly intimate here. In this light. In this quiet.

And Harry had just… watched.

Had sipped his wine and watched, helplessly transfixed.

“You’re staring,” Zayn said, interrupting himself mid-sentence.

Harry didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “Maybe I like what I see.”

Zayn’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. His smile twitched at the edges. “Wine’s kicking in, is it?”

“Maybe.” Harry tipped his glass in mock salute. “Or maybe I’ve wanted to look at you like this for a while.”

The words surprised even him.

Zayn blinked. A soft silence fell.

Then — he looked away, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Careful. You’re flirting with your husband.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze linger. “He’s fit. Can you blame me?”

Zayn laughed, low and quiet. Shook his head like he didn’t know what to do with any of it.

He was going to do something stupid.

“Dance with me?” he asked, cutting across whatever Zayn had just said.

The look he got in response was one of mild disbelief, eyes flicking briefly over the room. “Seriously?”

Harry offered a hand, palm up. “We’re undercover,” he said, like it was an excuse. “We’re meant to look convincingly in love.”

Zayn stared at him for a beat too long. Then he sighed — theatrical, but not annoyed — and slipped his fingers into Harry’s.

The contact was electric. The kind that settled under the skin and stayed there.

They crossed to the small patch of polished wood near the piano, slow and deliberate. Harry turned, guided Zayn in, placed one hand at the small of his back. The other still held Zayn’s, fingers intertwined now, and somehow that was the part that made his throat go tight.

They began to move.

Barely — just a slow sway, one body shifting in time with the other, their hips brushing gently as they circled. It wasn’t about dancing. Not really. It was about proximity. Contact.

Zayn’s hand came to rest at Harry’s shoulder. His touch wasn’t hesitant — it was careful. Measured. But not distant.

And the moment Harry felt the press of Zayn’s fingers curl just slightly at the edge of his collarbone, he lost his grip on what this was meant to be.

It was pretend. It was all pretend.

But Zayn’s breath was hitting his neck in soft waves, and his body was warm and solid against Harry’s, and his eyelashes fluttered like he was trying not to look, even as he leaned a little closer.

“You alright?” Zayn murmured, barely above the music.

Harry shook his head, laughing breathlessly. “No. Not really.”

Zayn’s smile curved slow, half-resigned, half-knowing. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Because he was already moving — closing the last inch of space between them, lifting his hand to Zayn’s jaw, brushing his thumb just once along the line of his beard.

Zayn didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back.

And Harry kissed him.

It was slow at first — careful, uncertain. Their mouths brushing once, twice.

Then it cracked open.

Zayn made a noise low in his throat and surged forward, kissing Harry back with a heat that unravelled something deep and coiled in Harry’s chest. Their teeth bumped slightly, noses grazing awkwardly — too much wine, too much urgency — but none of it mattered.

Zayn’s fingers were in his hair, gripping tight, pulling him closer, and Harry was all hands and mouth and heat. He pressed Zayn back slightly, only enough to get his other arm wrapped around him properly, not thinking, not breathing.

The kiss deepened. Got messy. Hot.

Zayn kissed like he had something to prove — like he’d been holding this back for years, and now he didn’t care who saw.

Harry couldn’t keep still. He dragged his hands down Zayn’s back, feeling the muscles shift beneath his shirt, the solid press of his body against his own. It was too much. Not enough.

He gasped into Zayn’s mouth, one hand fisting in the fabric just above his waistband. “Fuck.”

Zayn pulled back just enough to look at him, lips slick, pupils blown. His voice was rough. “Harry. Upstairs.”

Harry nodded, heart thundering. “Yeah. Yeah, fuck — yes.”

They didn’t speak as they left the bar. Didn’t need to.

Zayn’s hand in his again. The lift doors sliding shut.

The lift doors hadn’t even closed before Zayn had him pressed against the mirrored wall.

It wasn’t desperate — not quite. But it wasn’t slow, either. There was a kind of urgency in the way Zayn moved, like this had been building for days and he’d finally let go of the reins. His hands bracketed Harry’s hips, firm and sure, mouth dragging along the column of Harry’s neck in slow, claiming passes.

Harry tipped his head back against the glass, eyes fluttering shut, breath catching as Zayn’s tongue found the edge of his jaw.

“You’re unreal,” Zayn murmured against his skin, voice thick with heat. “Fucking—look at you.”

Harry could barely breathe. His hands found the hem of Zayn’s shirt, slipping underneath, palms gliding up over warm, taut skin. He felt the slight hitch in Zayn’s breath, the ripple of muscle beneath his touch.

The doors slid open on their floor.

They barely made it down the corridor.

Zayn kissed like it was the only language he remembered. Messy, open-mouthed, teeth dragging over Harry’s lower lip until Harry groaned into him, dizzy with it. Harry shoved the key card into the door, half-missing the slot, hands shaking.

Zayn took it from him without a word and opened the door smoothly, then tugged him in by the front of his shirt, mouth already back on his.

The suite was dark, just the streetlights outside casting dim blue lines across the floor. Harry kicked the door shut blindly and reached for Zayn again, fingers curling into the waistband of his jeans.

Zayn kissed him hard — nothing soft or slow about it now. Harry stumbled back against the wall, Zayn’s body pressing into his.

He felt Zayn’s hand slide between them, unbuttoning his shirt with unhurried confidence. Harry tried to help, but Zayn batted his hands away gently, mouth still on his, voice breathless against his lips. “Let me.”

Harry let him.

Each button gave way slowly, Zayn’s fingers deft and deliberate. When he pushed the shirt off Harry’s shoulders, it hit the ground with a whisper.

Zayn’s hands paused — just for a beat — at Harry’s bare chest.

Harry watched his expression shift. The faint crease between his brows. The way his mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the words.

And then he leaned in, kissing down the line of Harry’s throat, across his collarbone, open-mouthed and hot.

Harry’s hands scrabbled at Zayn’s belt, undoing it with clumsy fingers. He wanted more. Wanted to feel Zayn — solid, moving, real.

Zayn hissed when Harry’s hand brushed over the front of his jeans, hips jerking forward. “Fuck, Harry.”

It was the sound of it that undid him — the way Zayn said his name, rough and reverent.

“Bed,” Zayn said roughly.

Harry nodded, didn’t trust himself to speak.

They staggered toward it, half-tripping on discarded shoes. Zayn shoved him down gently, hands flat on Harry’s chest, and climbed into his lap, straddling him with ease.

He rolled his hips once — slow, testing — and Harry gasped, hands flying to Zayn’s thighs.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Harry said, voice broken.

Zayn smiled, eyes hooded, lips pink and swollen. “You’ve got no idea.”

Harry leaned up to kiss him again, slower this time — deep, dragging. Zayn’s hands found his face, fingers curling against his jaw as their tongues slid together, hot and slick and devastating.

Harry felt like he was being taken apart piece by piece.

Zayn shifted in his lap, grinding down again, and Harry let his head fall back with a groan.

“Take this off,” Zayn murmured, tugging at his own shirt.

Harry helped, yanked it over his head, breath catching at the sight of Zayn bare in the low light — tattoos spilling across his chest and down his arms, lean muscle beneath golden skin.

“Jesus,” Harry whispered.

Zayn just smirked, palming Harry’s cock through his trousers. “Flirt.”

Harry’s hips jerked up instinctively. “Not—fuck—not flirting. Statement of fact.”

Zayn chuckled, low and pleased, and pressed him down against the bed, leaning in to kiss him again — slower this time, reverent. Their bodies aligned perfectly, bare chests pressed together, skin already damp with heat.

Zayn rolled his hips again, harder this time, and Harry made a noise he didn’t know he could make — desperate and surprised and needy.

“Wait,” Zayn said, breathless. “Need to—hang on—”

He reached toward the bedside drawer, found a bottle of lube, tossed it to Harry, and crawled back into his lap like he belonged there.

Harry caught it with shaking hands, eyes wide. “Z—”

Zayn kissed him again, one hand sliding over Harry’s bare stomach. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and hot. “I want to feel you.”

Harry’s heart stuttered. He nodded, incapable of anything else.

He didn’t know how they got here. Didn’t know how they’d gone from cold stares to this.

But right now, Zayn was in his lap, half-naked and flushed and wanting him, and Harry would give him anything.

Zayn was already half-naked, his jeans somewhere on the floor, his shirt discarded in the corner. Harry had kissed him dizzy — properly, like he meant it — and now Zayn was spread out beneath him on the bed, breath short, body thrumming, cock hard and aching against his stomach.

The sheets were still cool against his back, but his skin was burning.

Harry hovered above him, braced on his hands, eyes raking over him like he couldn’t believe Zayn was real. Zayn reached up, slow and careful, and slid his fingers into Harry’s curls.

“I thought you were meant to be the composed one,” he murmured.

Harry didn’t laugh. He just kissed him again — slower this time, messier.

Then he started to move downward.

Zayn stayed still, heart hammering.

Harry kissed along his jaw, down his throat, licking gently at the dip of his collarbone, then lower. His mouth trailed heat all down Zayn’s chest, stopping to bite softly at his ribs before continuing, slow and reverent.

Zayn’s fingers curled into the sheets.

He felt exposed — too seen, too wanted — and it did something terrible to him.

Harry pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the sharp edge of his hip, then licked across it with a low hum, like he liked the taste of sweat and skin there.

And then he mouthed along the base of Zayn’s cock, tongue slick and teasing, deliberately avoiding the place Zayn needed it most.

Zayn groaned, hips twitching. “You’re kidding me.”

Harry looked up at him through his lashes, eyes dark. “Do you want me to stop?”

Zayn’s throat was dry. “Fuck off.”

Harry smiled — pleased, hungry — and then wrapped his lips around the head of Zayn’s cock.

Zayn choked on a breath, hand flying to Harry’s hair, not to guide him, just to hold.

The heat of his mouth was unbearable — wet and hot and unrelenting. Harry sucked gently, tongue working in slow circles, taking more of him with every pass.

Zayn couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

His hips bucked once, instinctive. Harry just took it, moaned low in his throat like he liked it, and that nearly undid Zayn completely.

“You’re fucking—” Zayn gasped. “Jesus, Haz—”

Harry’s hand was firm around the base of him, stroking in time with his mouth. His other hand gripped Zayn’s thigh, fingers digging in, anchoring.

It wasn’t fast. Wasn’t showy.

It was intentional. Like Harry had decided he was going to learn Zayn by heart.

And Zayn let him. Let his head fall back, eyes shut tight, mouth parted around a helpless string of curses.

When Harry pulled off briefly, just to lick a stripe up the length of him, Zayn’s whole body jolted.

He could feel himself teetering. Close, but not quite.

And then Harry sucked him down again — deeper this time, throat relaxing, hands steady on Zayn’s hips.

Zayn made a noise he’d never heard himself make before. A high, broken thing that sounded far too desperate.

Harry pulled back with a wet breath, hand still stroking him slow and firm.

Zayn reached down, touched his face — not rough, not to move him, just to touch.

“Wanna make you feel good too,” he said, voice still wrecked from the high of it.

Harry leaned into the touch. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, lashes grazing Zayn’s fingers.

“There’s plenty of time for that,” he whispered.

Zayn’s heart gave a little stutter.

He let his hand fall back to the bed, chest still heaving. “Plenty of time, huh?” he asked, trying for lightness.

But the words felt heavy in his mouth.

Harry looked at him, gentle and impossibly open. “Yeah,” he said. “Want you more than just tonight, Z.”

And Zayn couldn’t do anything but kiss him.

Because that sentence—so simple, so devastating—cracked something wide open in him.

Harry moved over him with something almost cautious, like Zayn was breakable — not in the sense of fragility, but in the sense that this moment might not survive being handled too roughly.

He shifted back, kneeling between Harry’s legs, and slicked his fingers quickly. He worked himself open, rushed, two fingers pressing in, breathing shallow. His body tensed, then loosened, nerves sparking as the stretch hit and melted into something sharper, warmer.

Harry watched him with open awe, cock flushed and twitching against his stomach.

“You sure?” he asked, voice already ragged.

Zayn smiled faintly — not sweet, not cocky, just certain. “Lie back.”

Harry did. Immediately.

Zayn swung a leg over, knees bracketing Harry’s hips, the lube slick on his thighs. He stroked Harry once, slow and firm, just to ground himself, then positioned him at his entrance and started to sink down.

He let out a sharp breath.

“Fuck—”

Harry gripped his thighs, not pushing, just holding. “Jesus, Zayn.”

Zayn couldn’t answer — not with words. His body clenched around the slow, thick press, and he had to still his hips to breathe through it.

But God, he loved this.

Loved the stretch, the fullness, the control.

Loved being able to see Harry fall apart.

He bottomed out slowly, thighs trembling from the effort. Harry’s eyes rolled back briefly, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

Zayn rocked his hips experimentally, just once, and Harry gasped like he’d been punched.

“Fuck—fuck—you feel unreal.”

Zayn began to move in earnest.

Slow at first, the grind of hips against hips, the drag of skin, the ache low and deep in his spine. He rolled forward again, and Harry’s hands flew to his waist, steadying, reverent.

Zayn pressed his palms to Harry’s chest for leverage and rode him with slow, deliberate rhythm, his own cock bobbing against his stomach, smearing wet across his skin.

Harry looked wrecked.

Completely gone — lips parted, sweat at his hairline, eyes locked helplessly on where their bodies met.

“Zayn—Zayn, look at me.”

Zayn did, and Harry’s face crumpled into something so soft, so undone, it hurt to look at.

Harry kissed him again, messy now, their mouths sliding together with no rhythm at all. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he panted. “Fuck, Zayn, you have no idea—”

Zayn flushed, heat climbing up his throat, but he didn’t stop moving.

He rode harder now, bouncing slightly, the slap of skin filling the room.

Harry bucked beneath him, matching pace. “Touch yourself—please, I want to see you—”

Zayn grabbed his cock and stroked, hips grinding down.

He could feel himself getting close — the pleasure building in steady waves, everything tightening.

And then Harry said it — barely a breath: “Zayn. Come for me.”

Zayn felt it snap — pleasure cresting and crashing, blinding, hot, tearing through him all at once.

His whole body locked, the orgasm ripping through him like fire. His thighs trembled. His hand stuttered. He gasped Harry’s name like a secret.

He clenched around him, and that tipped Harry over too — a loud groan, hips jerking up, hands gripping Zayn tight as he spilled deep inside him.

Zayn collapsed forward, chests pressed tight, sweat cooling on their skin.

They lay there, still joined, Harry's arms around his waist, his lips brushing against Zayn’s temple.

“You okay?” Harry whispered eventually.

Zayn nodded. “Yeah. Just—” He cleared his throat. “Gonna need to lie here for a bit.”

Harry laughed, breathless. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not moving.”

Harry’s hand found his hair, stroking softly, and Zayn let his eyes fall shut.

The air was still heavy with what they’d done. What it meant.

He was too full. Too raw.

But he’d never felt more wanted in his life.

Harry woke to warmth.

Not just the heat of the sun on his face, or the weight of the duvet tangled between his legs — but the weight of Zayn, still curled half on top of him, face pressed into Harry’s neck, one leg draped over his hip like they belonged to each other.

And maybe they had.

Last night, at least.

Harry didn’t move. He couldn’t.

He just lay there, eyes open, heart thudding slow and deep, and let himself feel it — the press of Zayn’s thigh against his own, the faint rasp of stubble against his collarbone, the way Zayn’s fingers twitched slightly against his side, even in sleep.

He looked peaceful like this.

Unguarded.

Harry stared at him, memorising it. The slope of his lashes. The curve of his lips, soft and a little swollen. A faint flush still lingered at his chest and throat, like he’d been held too tightly.

Harry had touched every part of him last night. Had kissed him like he might never get the chance again. Had held him through it, after.

And now...

The phone rang.

Zayn groaned against his shoulder, arm tightening briefly around Harry’s ribs.

Harry reached over and picked up the receiver.

“Yeah.”

The voice was crisp. Their MI5 contact. “Target is in the café. Arrived at 6:14. You have until eleven before he’s joined. Malik is expected to escalate. Physicality is on the table.”

Harry’s gut clenched. “Define ‘physicality.’”

“Whatever reads as natural. You’re being watched. Don’t waste it.”

The line clicked dead.

Harry sat there for a second, hand still holding the receiver, the quiet of the room suddenly too loud.

Zayn shifted again beside him, eyes barely open. “Was that…”

“Briefing,” Harry said. His voice didn’t sound right. “Moreau’s at the café. He’s alone for the next few hours.”

Zayn groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “We’re meant to move now?”

Harry hesitated. “You are.”

Zayn’s head dropped back onto the pillow. “Of course I am.”

Then: “Do I need to flirt?”

Harry swallowed. “That’s… yeah. That’s the ask.”

Zayn stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then he laughed, joyless. “Should’ve known.”

He started to sit up, wincing slightly as he pulled his leg back from where it had been wrapped around Harry. The duvet slipped down, baring his back, and Harry stared at it — at the lines of muscle, the way the light cut over his skin.

Zayn’s voice cut through it, flat: “They said physicality?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

“You think that means touching?”

“Probably. Eye contact. Hand on the arm. Letting him get close.”

Zayn sighed. “That’s fine. I can do that.”

But Harry’s stomach twisted.

Because he knew Zayn could do that. He’d seen it before — how charming he could be when he wanted something, how easily he could drop his voice, tilt his head, laugh like he meant it.

Zayn could flirt with Moreau. Could touch his wrist, lean in, smile that fucking smile.

And Harry would have to watch.

After everything they’d done — after the way Zayn had looked at him, moaned for him, held him — Harry would be the one sitting across the street, earpiece in, camera trained, watching.

Zayn looked over. Saw something shift in his face.

“Haz,” he said softly. “It’s not real.”

Harry looked at him — really looked — and saw the wear behind his eyes.

“You’re gonna have to sell it,” he said, voice tight. “To him.”

Zayn nodded. “Yeah.”

“Just be careful, alright?”

“I promise.”

Another pause.

Then Harry reached out, curled a hand around the back of Zayn’s neck, and pulled him in for a kiss. Just once.

When they pulled apart, Zayn exhaled. “We should get dressed.”

Harry didn’t say what he was thinking — that it wouldn’t matter what Zayn wore. He’d still be the most magnetic thing in that room.

He just nodded. “I’ll be watching.”

And he would.

From across the street.

From behind glass.

While Zayn smiled for someone else.

The café hadn’t changed. Same pale umbrellas, same white ceramic plates, same stone courtyard dappled with sunlight. The same seat — always the same one — waiting for Moreau near the edge of the terrace, where he could watch the street and be seen.

Harry had eyes on him through the surveillance scope, van parked discreetly across from the corner florist. The feed streamed steady through his tablet.

Moreau sat with a cup of espresso, one ankle neatly crossed over the other, hands loose in his lap. Clean-cut, tailored, soft-spoken in recordings — but Harry didn’t trust softness. Moreau’s eyes never stopped moving.

Harry caught the shift in posture before the camera did.

Zayn.

He entered through the side gate, hands in his pockets, sunglasses still on. His body language was textbook casual — not languid, not tense. Measured. Unassuming.

Moreau’s gaze snapped to him instantly.

Hungry.

Like he’d been waiting.

Zayn approached like he wasn’t sure if the seat would be taken. A beat of hesitation — performed, not real — and then:

“Hope you don’t mind,” Zayn said, sliding the sunglasses into his shirt. “I thought you might be here.”

Moreau smiled, all charm. “I was hoping for the same.”

Zayn took the empty seat across from him without asking, all ease and loose limbs.

Harry adjusted the feed slightly, zooming in to catch their expressions.

He knew Zayn’s face too well.

The smile he gave now wasn’t fake. It just wasn’t his.

This one was calculated — soft enough to suggest interest, guarded enough to suggest he wasn’t stupid.

“Still on espresso?” Zayn asked, glancing at the cup. “You’re either disciplined or deeply unimpressed with French coffee.”

Moreau chuckled. “Habit.”

Zayn leaned back, draped one arm across the chair beside him. “Dangerous thing.”

“I thought that was desire.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

Zayn didn’t blink. “They’re not that different.”

There was a pause. Then Moreau said, voice lower now: “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

Zayn tilted his head. “I’m full of surprises.”

“Your husband must know that already.”

Harry exhaled — slowly.

Zayn’s smile widened just slightly. “He’s a trusting man.”

“Foolish?”

Zayn shrugged. “Confident.”

“I admire confidence.” Moreau leaned forward just a touch. “And loyalty. Though I don’t always believe in it.”

Zayn stirred his drink, expression unreadable. “You’re a romantic, then.”

“I’m a realist.” Antoine said.

Harry could feel the temperature shift in the van. The way Moreau looked at Zayn wasn’t subtle — his eyes tracked every movement, every breath, like he was imagining him naked already.

Harry’s throat felt dry.

The handler’s voice crackled through his earpiece: “Maintain position. Subject engaging. Malik is in control. Let it play.”

Zayn shifted slightly, letting his fingers brush his own collarbone. “Are you always this forward?”

“With people I’m interested in?” Moreau smiled. “Yes.”

“And you’re interested in me?”

“I think I could be.”

Zayn made a sound — not quite a laugh. “That’s very generous.”

Moreau tilted his head slightly. “Come by this evening. I host small dinners at my flat. Wine. Music. Nothing formal.”

Zayn blinked, sipping his drink slowly. “With your usual guests?”

“No,” Moreau said, and smiled. “Just you.”

There was a beat.

Zayn didn’t flinch. “That might raise eyebrows.”

“Only if your husband knows where you’ve gone.”

Harry’s grip tightened around the tablet.

He’d known there’d be an offer. They’d discussed the possibility — the kind of subtle bait Moreau would dangle once he thought Zayn might bite. But knowing didn’t make it easier to hear.

Zayn leaned back in his chair, expression smooth. “You’re assuming I keep secrets from him.”

Moreau chuckled, slow and rich. “No. I’m assuming he lets you wander the city alone, looking like that.”

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tense.

Zayn smiled — lazy, unbothered. “He does.”

“He's a lucky man.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Harry watched as Zayn lifted his cup again, graceful as ever, not a single twitch in his posture.

“I’ll think about it.”

Moreau inclined his head, gracious. “That’s all I ask.”

Harry forced himself to breathe.

Zayn had done exactly what they’d planned. Played it warm, played it curious, just enough intrigue to get an invitation.

It had gone perfectly.

So why did it feel like someone had scraped a knife along the inside of his chest?

He watched Zayn now — the way he stirred his tea, the way he kept his body angled just slightly away from Moreau. The performance was precise. Controlled.

Harry trusted him.

That wasn’t the issue.

The issue was that he knew exactly what he’d say if he ever caught Moreau looking at Zayn like that in a room without glass between them.

Harry heard the door unlock, then the quiet hush of it closing again behind Zayn.

He didn’t move from the table.

Two coffees sat in front of him — one untouched.

Zayn came in like he hadn’t just spent the last hour being watched, being wanted. His shirt was still unbuttoned at the throat, his sunglasses pushed into his pocket. He walked barefoot across the floor, eyes flicking briefly toward Harry before heading straight for the kitchen counter.

He didn’t speak until he’d poured himself a glass of water.

Then: “He invited me to his flat.”

Harry nodded. “I know.”

Zayn leaned back against the counter, glass in hand. “He made it sound like it wasn’t optional.”

“I know that too.”

Silence stretched between them, soft and full.

Zayn looked tired. Not like he’d been exerting himself, but like the pretending had cost something anyway.

“He’s not stupid,” Harry said. “He knew exactly what he was asking.”

Zayn gave a faint shrug. “They always do.”

Harry met his eyes. “You okay?”

Zayn didn’t answer right away. He drank the rest of the water, set the glass down. Then walked toward the table, slow and steady, and pulled out the chair across from Harry.

He sat down without a word.

Harry studied him in the light. He looked like himself — but a little more polished. The performance still hadn’t fully worn off.

“You sold it,” Harry said. “The way you looked at him.”

Zayn’s mouth lifted at the corner. “That a compliment?”

“It’s terrifying.”

Zayn leaned back in the chair. “It’s what they trained me to do.”

Harry nodded, but it didn’t ease the feeling in his chest.

“I trust you,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

Zayn looked at him, surprised by the seriousness. “Yeah. I know.”

“But I still hate this part.”

Zayn exhaled, some of the tension in his posture softening. “Me too.”

There was a pause.

Then Zayn glanced down at the second coffee cup on the table. “Is this mine?”

Harry slid it toward him. “If you want it.”

Zayn took a sip. Then set the cup down and looked at Harry again — for real this time, not through the veil of cover or mission briefings.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

Harry didn’t move at first.

Zayn didn’t press.

But something about the way he was looking at him — soft, deliberate — broke Harry apart.

He stood slowly. Crossed to Zayn’s side of the table.

Zayn looked up, tilted his face slightly.

Harry leaned down and kissed him — slow, unhurried, warm.

Zayn made a quiet noise and pulled him closer.

And just like that, the room shifted.

Zayn stood up.

He grabbed Harry by the front of his shirt and pulled him into a kiss that was rough, messy, and completely unapologetic.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He melted into it instantly — hands already clutching at Zayn’s waist, pressing their bodies flush together as their mouths collided, breath exchanged like something sacred.

Zayn kissed him like it would be the last time he’d get to — hungry, hot, filled with something too big to name.

He broke the kiss only to drop to his knees, breath already catching in anticipation.

Harry stared down at him, eyes dark, lips parted. Zayn didn’t speak. Just reached for Harry’s belt, unfastened it with deft fingers, tugged open the zip and eased his trousers down.

Harry’s cock was already hard, flushed and heavy against his thigh. Zayn reached out, wrapped his hand around it slowly, watched Harry’s breath stutter.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, already tilting his hips into the touch.

Zayn smirked. “Miss me?”

Harry huffed a broken laugh, then choked on it as Zayn leaned in and licked a slow stripe up the length of him, from base to tip.

He moved with intention — mouth warm, tongue deliberate, each flick and suck calculated to make Harry lose composure.

He teased the head of his cock with his tongue, lips soft, just barely sucking, letting Harry twitch against his mouth. He could feel Harry trembling already — thighs flexing, hands fisting at his sides.

When Zayn finally took him fully into his mouth, the sound Harry made was obscene.

“Jesus, Z—fuck—”

Zayn hollowed his cheeks, dragged back slowly, then swallowed him again, working him in steady, unhurried pulls. His hands gripped Harry’s hips, grounding them both.

Harry tangled his fingers into Zayn’s hair, not forcing, just holding.

Zayn could feel him unraveling.

“Fuck—Zayn—you’re—” Harry’s voice broke. “You’re gonna make me come—”

Zayn hummed in response, sucking deeper, faster, until Harry’s whole body jerked above him.

He came with a cry, hips stuttering, cock pulsing hot against Zayn’s tongue.

Zayn swallowed every drop.

When he pulled off, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looked up, eyes still blown.

Harry stared at him like he was seeing him for the first time.

Zayn stood slowly, letting his hands trail up Harry’s chest as he rose. “Better?”

Harry let out a shaky laugh. “Unbelievable.”

“Good,” Zayn murmured, voice still rough.

But Harry’s eyes were already sharper again — and Zayn felt it.

Felt the heat stir between them again.

Harry stepped forward, crowding him until Zayn’s back hit the wall. His mouth found Zayn’s again, this kiss deeper now — slow, claiming.

Zayn gasped as Harry’s hands slid under his shirt, lifting it over his head and discarding it in a second.

“You’re fucking impossible,” Harry whispered against his throat. “And I need you.”

Zayn’s breath hitched.

Harry turned him gently, palms flat on Zayn’s back, guiding him until his chest pressed against the wall.

Zayn felt hands at the waistband of his trousers, tugging them down. His forehead rested against his arm, breath short.

Harry’s mouth kissed a line down his spine, soft, reverent.

Zayn shivered.

Then he heard the drawer open. The familiar sound of the lube bottle.

His heart pounded.

“Hold still,” Harry said, voice quiet.

Zayn braced his hands against the wall.

Harry’s fingers were slick, warm, careful as they pressed into him — first one, then another. He worked him open slowly, methodically, each curl and twist sending a tremor through Zayn’s thighs.

“Fuck,” Zayn gasped. “Harry—please—”

Harry kissed the base of his spine. “Almost there.”

He added a third finger, and Zayn moaned, hips pressing back, craving the stretch.

By the time Harry slicked himself and positioned at Zayn’s entrance, Zayn was already shaking with need.

He pushed in slowly, carefully, one hand gripping Zayn’s waist, the other pressed flat against his lower back.

Zayn groaned at the stretch — sharp, tight, perfect.

Harry paused, kissing his shoulder. “Tell me when.”

“Move,” Zayn gasped. “Just—move, Haz.”

Harry obeyed.

The first few thrusts were slow, deep, achingly steady. Zayn couldn’t breathe. Every slide of Harry’s cock dragged moans from his throat.

Harry’s mouth was everywhere — kissing his neck, biting gently at his shoulder, whispering filth and affection all in one.

Zayn braced himself harder against the wall, pushing back into each thrust, chasing the pressure.

Harry groaned. “You feel amazing—so tight—can’t fucking think—”

Zayn was already close. Everything was heat and pressure and the sound of Harry behind him, skin slapping, breath ragged.

Then Harry reached around and wrapped a hand around Zayn’s cock, stroking him in time with every thrust.

It was too much.

Zayn came with a shout, spilling over Harry’s hand, body locking up as pleasure roared through him.

Harry fucked him through it, hips stuttering, then froze with a loud groan, spilling deep inside.

They stayed there, breathing hard.

Harry pressed soft kisses along Zayn’s neck. His hand never left his waist.

Eventually, Zayn turned slowly, and Harry caught him — held him, kissed him again, slower now.

They ended up curled together on the bed, Harry’s chest pressed to Zayn’s back, arms around his waist.

Fingers traced lightly along the lines of his tattoos.

The room was quiet.

“Stay safe tonight,” Harry whispered.

Zayn pressed his forehead against Harry’s arm. “I promise.”

Harry kissed his shoulder, held him tighter.

Zayn didn’t say more.

Because he didn’t need to.

Everything that mattered had already been said in the way Harry touched him — like he was something worth protecting. Like he was already his.

Zayn stood in front of the wardrobe in a pair of black trousers and nothing else. Shirt still hanging from the back of the chair. Hair damp from the shower, towel hanging loosely over his shoulder.

Behind him, Harry was dressing too. Not rushed. Not casual. Just efficient — his version of focus.

Neither of them had spoken in a while.

Not since Harry had kissed the top of Zayn’s spine and murmured you’ve got time to shower. Not since Zayn had stepped under the water and let the heat chase away the ache in his muscles, the way Harry’s hands had left his skin oversensitised.

The silence between them wasn’t tense. But it was full.

Zayn reached for the shirt he’d laid out earlier — black, clean, slightly rumpled. Soft. Easy. Like him, tonight.

Harry was already half-buttoned, collar turned down, comms mic clipped to the inside of his jacket. He caught Zayn’s eyes in the mirror.

“You good?”

Zayn nodded. “Yeah.”

Harry held his gaze for a beat longer. “You don’t have to go if you’re not—”

“I am.”

Harry didn’t push.

Zayn rolled his sleeves up slowly. It gave him something to do with his hands.

“Handler wants you in the flat across the courtyard,” he said quietly.

“I know.” Harry picked up the small encrypted tablet from the table, tucked it into his bag. “Comms on. Audio live. I’ll have a visual.”

“Good.”

Zayn’s voice didn’t waver. But it did feel thinner than usual.

He moved across the room, to where his boots sat neatly by the wall. Sat to lace them. Harry passed him his watch without needing to be asked.

The movements between them were smooth now. Habitual. Unspoken.

Zayn liked that. Maybe too much.

He fastened the watch slowly.

“You’ll be out of sight?” he asked.

Harry nodded. “Upper level balcony. Across the alley. I’ll see you come in.”

“Right.”

Zayn stood. Straightened his cuffs. He looked fine. He looked like cover.

He caught Harry watching him — not evaluating. Just… looking.

Zayn let himself reach out, just once, and touch the hem of Harry’s jacket, smoothing it down. “You look like someone I should miss.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “You already do.”

Zayn exhaled.

He stepped closer. Kissed Harry gently, not for heat, not for grounding — just to feel him again, one more time.

Harry didn’t break it.

When Zayn pulled back, Harry’s hands rested loosely at his waist. Not holding him. Just there.

“You’ll be watching?” Zayn asked.

Harry nodded. “Always.”

That landed somewhere deep.

Zayn grabbed his coat, checked his earpiece once, then turned toward the door.

Harry was already zipping up his field jacket, slipping into something more remote. More operational.

Zayn glanced back once, just before stepping out.

Harry didn’t speak.

But his eyes followed him out the door like a hand at his back.

Harry shifted restlessly at his vantage point, eyes locked on the feed from the hidden cameras threaded through Antoine Moreau’s opulent seaside flat. The dining room glowed with warm candlelight, all white linen and gleaming silver, the Mediterranean visible just beyond the glass. It was the kind of luxury that didn’t try to impress—it simply assumed it was owed.

Through the comms, Zayn’s voice hummed steady in Harry’s ear. Calm. Measured. Perfect.

It made Harry feel worse.

Because the calmer Zayn sounded, the closer Antoine leaned.

Zayn sat across from Antoine at a table set for two, posture loose, his shirt black and slightly open at the collar, tattoos peeking just beneath. He looked relaxed—gorgeous, composed—but Harry could tell by the angle of his shoulders that he was bracing for something.

Antoine poured wine smoothly, eyes drinking Zayn in with far too much interest. “To beautiful company,” he said. “And the hope of more evenings like this.”

Zayn smiled politely, lifted his glass. “To Monte Carlo’s unexpected charms.”

Harry watched the way Antoine’s fingers brushed Zayn’s when their glasses met. Watched the smirk that curled at the edge of his mouth when Zayn didn’t pull away.

The worst part was knowing that Zayn didn’t need direction.

He already knew exactly how to sit, exactly how to look up through his lashes, exactly when to laugh softly and lean forward so his shirt shifted just enough.

He was good at this. Too good.

And Harry hated every second of it.

Plates were cleared. Dessert arrived—something delicate and plated in gold-rimmed porcelain, completely ignored as Antoine leaned back in his chair and shifted the conversation.

“You never did tell me,” Antoine said, swirling his wine, “what exactly brings you and your husband to Monte Carlo.”

Zayn tilted his head slightly. “We needed a change of pace. The city suits us.”

“Your husband lets you wander off to private dinners alone?”

Zayn’s smile was lazy. “He trusts me. Should he not?”

Antoine chuckled, full of implication. “I’d keep you on a shorter leash.”

Harry’s jaw tensed.

“Fortunately,” Zayn said smoothly, “he’s more of a hand-on-the-back kind of man.”

Antoine leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “And what about you, Zain? What kind of man are you?”

Zayn didn’t blink. “One who doesn’t answer questions like that before dessert.”

Antoine laughed, clearly delighted. “You’re quick.”

“I’ve had practice.”

Harry shifted forward, hands gripping the edge of the desk in front of him. He could see Antoine reaching out, brushing a hand over Zayn’s wrist.

Zayn allowed it—for a beat. Then casually moved to pick up his wine again, breaking the contact as naturally as breathing.

Harry’s pulse slowed.

He could see how this was going. See how easily Antoine was getting drawn in. Zayn wasn’t just playing the role—he was the role.

Antoine sat back slightly. “I admire restraint. But not forever.”

Zayn glanced at him over the rim of his glass. “You’re not the only one with desires, Antoine. But I don’t rush mine.”

Harry’s stomach turned.

Antoine’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I hope your patience doesn’t keep you from pleasure.”

Zayn offered a faint smile. “I’ve found the best pleasures are the ones you’re forced to wait for.”

The conversation pivoted then—lightly, smoothly.

Zayn steered it.

Back to logistics. To international transfers. To the quiet movement of funds through Luxembourg and the Balkans. Humanitarian aid as cover. Arms shipments disguised as medical relief. Antoine was careful, but arrogant enough to let things slip.

Zayn asked the right questions. Antoine, too pleased with his own cleverness, offered answers.

Harry’s pulse spiked. This was the intel they needed.

Still—watching Antoine lean in again, voice dropping to a purr as he murmured, “I could think of better uses for your mouth than asking questions,”—Harry nearly crushed the pen in his hand.

Zayn didn’t flinch. “You’re very direct.”

Antoine smiled. “I prefer it.”

Zayn tilted his head, voice amused but firm. “And I prefer to leave before the wine does all the talking.”

Antoine’s smile faltered, but he recovered quickly. “Another time, then.”

Zayn stood, smooth as ever, setting his napkin gently on the table.

“I’ll walk myself out.”

Harry exhaled when he saw the balcony doors close behind him.

Zayn moved quickly, but not hurriedly, slipping into the alley behind the flat where Harry was already waiting, half-shadowed beside the door of the parked car.

“You alright?” Zayn asked, voice low.

Harry looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded. “You?”

Zayn shrugged. “He talks too much.”

Harry reached out, wrapped a hand around the back of Zayn’s neck, and pulled him in. Not for a kiss. Just to hold him.

Zayn leaned in willingly, forehead pressed to Harry’s shoulder.

“You were brilliant,” Harry whispered.

Zayn smiled against his shirt. “So were you. All that not kicking the door in? Very impressive.”

Harry let out a breath. “Don’t make me do it again.”

Zayn pulled back slightly, met his eyes. “No promises.”

But he was smiling.

And Harry held onto him a second longer, just in case.

The speakerphone cut out with a soft beep, leaving the room too quiet.

The tension didn’t break—it just settled. Shifted. Changed shape.

Zayn stood with one hand braced on the edge of the desk, eyes fixed on the dark screen of the tablet as if it might change something. It didn’t.

The voice on the line had been calm. Measured. Unbothered by the discomfort it left behind.

“You’ll need another meeting,” their boss had said, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t his body they were putting back on the line.
“We need something explicit. Names. Shipments. A clear connection.”

Zayn had responded quietly—“Understood”—because there was nothing else to say.

Now the silence thickened, heavier with everything unspoken.

He glanced sideways.

Harry stood with his arms folded, shoulders drawn tight beneath his shirt, jaw working slightly, like he was chewing on something bitter.

He wasn’t angry. Not at Zayn.

But the resignation in his posture hurt worse.

Zayn stepped forward, slow, cautious, reaching out to place a hand gently on Harry’s forearm.

“I’m sorry.” he murmured, voice soft in the quiet.

Harry didn’t look at him straight away. Just exhaled sharply, staring out the window like the Mediterranean beyond the glass might offer him something to hold on to.

“It’s not your fault at all,” he said eventually, his voice low. “It’s the job.”

But Zayn could feel it beneath the words. The ache. The helplessness. The frustration of watching but not stopping. Of trusting and still hating every second.

He squeezed gently, fingers curling over Harry’s wrist.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

The silence between them had changed over the past few days—it wasn’t the same guarded, brittle thing it had once been. It held weight now. Meaning.

Harry finally looked over. “Lunch?” he offered, voice quiet. “Something easy. Let’s just... be us for a bit.”

Zayn’s chest eased slightly. He nodded. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Harry moved into the kitchenette, rolling his sleeves up slowly. The movements were small, but purposeful—pulling plates from the cupboard, slicing bread, setting things out. Zayn sat at the small table and watched him, grateful for the pause in adrenaline.

The room smelled faintly of toasting bread and something herbal from the tea they’d abandoned earlier. It felt warm. Settled.

They ate in near-silence for a few minutes—just the quiet clink of cutlery, the occasional breath.

Then, softly: “D’you miss England?”

Zayn looked up. Harry was watching him gently, eyes warm, the corner of his mouth tilted in a way that made Zayn’s stomach shift.

“Sometimes,” Zayn admitted. “Mostly family. And I miss Bradford, weirdly. Haven’t been home properly in ages.”

Harry nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “I miss stupid things,” he said. “Corner shops. Grey skies. Decent tea.”

Zayn chuckled, quiet. “This place is a bit of a dream, isn’t it?”

Harry shrugged. “Mostly because you’re in it.”

Zayn looked at him. Really looked.

Harry blinked, then glanced down at his plate, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Zayn smiled faintly. “Maybe when this is done… we could go back. Together. Catch up. Properly.”

Harry’s eyes lifted quickly. There was something open in them now. Unmistakable.

“I’d like that,” he said, voice steady. “A lot.”

Zayn felt it again—some unnamed thing fluttering low in his chest.

They didn’t say more after that. But they didn’t need to.

And when Harry reached across the table, curling his fingers lightly around Zayn’s arm, Zayn let him.

The intel wasn’t complete. The job wasn’t done.

But here, in this quiet, Zayn let himself rest in the warmth of Harry’s touch—something still, and solid, and waiting.

Evening came quickly, painting the flat in slow gold, the kind that looked beautiful but always felt like a warning.

Zayn stood in front of the mirror, half-dressed, buttoning the collar of a fresh black shirt. He hadn’t chosen it by accident—Antoine liked black. Said it made Zayn look sharp, unfazed, a little sexy.

It wasn’t untrue.

Across the room, Harry was slipping into his field jacket. His movements were clean, methodical. Surveillance gear was already packed — tablet, spare batteries, the spare comms receiver.

They didn’t speak. Not yet.

The silence between them was familiar now.

Zayn could feel the knot forming low in his stomach — not fear, exactly, but anticipation. Antoine was circling closer each time. There was no guarantee he’d wait much longer. And Zayn would have to let him believe he wanted him. That was the job.

He did the last button of his shirt slowly, eyes locked on his own reflection.

He didn’t hear Harry cross the room. But he felt him — the way he always did. A shift in the air, then the quiet warmth of hands at his waist, sliding around to pull him gently back.

Harry pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. Then another.

Zayn closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself lean into it.

“You’re not making this easy,” he murmured, voice low.

Harry’s mouth brushed over his skin. “That’s the idea.”

Zayn smiled despite himself, even as he reached down to still Harry’s hands. “I’ve got ten minutes.”

“Plenty of time.”

Zayn turned slowly. Met his eyes.

Harry was already half-zipped into the jacket he wore on surveillance runs — black, plain, forgettable. But his eyes weren’t forgettable. They were warm. Watchful.

Zayn leaned in and kissed him — slow, searching, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for more but still held something deep underneath.

He pulled back gently, thumb brushing the line of Harry’s cheek.

“Later,” he said quietly.

Harry nodded, swallowing. “Later.”

They both finished dressing in silence. Zayn fixed his collar in the mirror. Harry adjusted the receiver on his wrist.

Antoine’s villa felt different tonight.

The lighting was lower. The music softer. The air thicker with something unspoken.

Zayn stepped through the door and felt it settle in his bones — not fear, not quite. Just tension, pulled tight like wire under his skin.

Antoine was waiting for him in the doorway, smile wide, eyes dark.

“You look irresistible, Zain,” he said smoothly, stepping in close, eyes dragging slowly over Zayn’s open collar, the tattoos just visible beneath the soft black shirt. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint.”

Zayn smiled, slow and practiced, stepping casually sideways out of Antoine’s reach. “You’ve always been generous with flattery.”

“Only honest,” Antoine murmured, holding out a glass of wine. Their fingers brushed as Zayn accepted it.

He sipped slowly, watching Antoine from beneath his lashes. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

Zayn raised a brow, as if puzzled. “You’ll have to remind me.”

Antoine chuckled, stepping forward again. “You know exactly what I want. You. Here. Now.”

His voice dipped. “Beneath me.”

Zayn laughed lightly, tilting his head. “Maybe I prefer being on top.”

Antoine grinned — delighted. “Even better.”

He gestured toward the table. “But business first. I believe we promised each other a little discretion before pleasure.”

Zayn let himself be led, careful to stay just half a step behind. The table was laid for two again — candles, wine, untouched plates. A performance, like everything else.

They talked. Or rather, Antoine talked.

Zayn asked the right questions — about the shell companies, the shipments disguised as humanitarian aid, the brokers in Serbia, the buyers in Yemen. Antoine, arrogant and half-drunk on attention, gave him more than he expected.

It came in fragments. A name here. A port there. Nothing shouted, but all of it stacking.

Zayn kept his smile on, even when Antoine reached across the table and ran his fingers slowly up his wrist.

“You’re very confident,” Zayn said, letting the words stretch. “Aren’t you worried someone might betray you?”

Antoine leaned in, eyes sharp. “I choose my partners carefully. Just as I chose you.”

Zayn held his gaze. “And what is it you think I want?”

Antoine’s fingers trailed lower — down Zayn’s forearm, to the curve of his elbow. “I think you want to be looked after. Kept.”

He leaned closer. “I could offer you more than you know, Zain. Security. Wealth. Absolute freedom.”

Zayn’s skin prickled. “That’s quite a pitch.”

Antoine’s smile sharpened. “I don’t pitch. I promise.”

He stood then, moved around the table slowly, hands deliberate. Zayn didn’t move.

Not when Antoine touched his shoulder. Not when his mouth brushed close to his ear.

“I want you.”

Zayn’s heart didn’t jump. His pulse didn’t quicken. He’d trained those things out of himself long ago.

But the discomfort ran cold beneath his skin.

“Say yes,” Antoine whispered, lips close now. “Let me give you what you want.”

Zayn turned his head, just slightly, letting their mouths nearly meet.

Then he stepped back. Smooth. Unhurried. Smile still in place. “Patience, Antoine. That was the deal.”

Antoine sighed. Frustrated. But not angry. “You test it.”

Zayn tilted his head. “And yet, here we are.”

Antoine laughed, let the moment pass.

The conversation drifted again — back to logistics, contacts, off-the-record partnerships. Zayn soaked it all up, threading every detail into memory.

By the time he rose to leave, Antoine’s hand was heavy on his lower back. Zayn allowed it, just for a second.

“Next time,” Antoine murmured.

Zayn smiled, cold at the edges. “We’ll see.”

He stepped outside into the cool night air and exhaled slowly — the kind of breath that left his chest hollow.

Harry was already waiting near the car, half-shadowed beneath the awning.

Zayn didn’t speak. He just walked straight into Harry’s arms.

Harry held him close — no kiss, no questions. Just the tight press of arms around his waist and the strength of someone holding himself back.

“You okay?” Harry murmured into his hair.

Zayn nodded. “Got everything we needed.”

Harry didn’t let go.

Zayn let his eyes fall closed. Let his forehead rest against Harry’s collarbone.

“I’m alright,” he said, softer now. “He didn’t touch me. Not really.”

Harry’s voice was low. “He wanted to.”

Zayn nodded against him. “Yeah.”

Harry’s arms tightened slightly. “We’re almost done.”

Zayn nodded again.

They stood like that for a long moment. Just breathing.

And then Harry leaned in, kissed his temple, and opened the car door.

Zayn didn’t look back.

The call came just after six.

The sun was still low behind the curtains, pale gold brushing across the floorboards like it was sneaking in, unsure of its welcome.

Harry sat up in bed, phone pressed to his ear, listening to their handler’s voice with half his body still wrapped in the warmth of sleep — the other half slowly icing over.

“You’ve done it,” she said, brisk and clipped, like she hadn’t been sending them into danger every night for the past three weeks. “The evidence is airtight. Antoine Moreau is finished. You can come home.”

She hung up without asking how they were.

Across the room, Zayn stood in boxers and a t-shirt, barefoot and rumpled, sleep-mussed hair falling over his forehead. He was folding his jacket neatly into his case, slow and methodical.

Harry watched him, chest suddenly too tight.

They’d been living in a pressure cooker — high-stakes, high-alert, high-heat — but now the lid had been lifted. The mission was over. The rooms would be packed. The aliases dropped. And Zayn would go.

Harry’s throat closed.

Because he couldn’t. Not like this.

He loved him.

He didn’t know when it had happened — maybe over morning coffees, or the way Zayn always tilted his head to listen, really listen. Maybe it was in the heat of a balcony kiss or in the cool quiet between surveillance shifts.

All Harry knew was that it had taken root in him, slow and irreversible. And now he couldn’t leave without saying it.

“Zayn.”

His voice cracked.

Zayn looked up instantly, gentle, concerned. “What’s wrong, Haz?”

Harry crossed the room in three strides. “Just—wait.”

Zayn frowned slightly, brow creasing. “Haz?”

Harry cupped his face, fingers shaking slightly. His voice was raw. “I can’t go home without telling you. I can’t pretend I don’t feel this—”

Zayn’s eyes widened, lips parting, soft with surprise.

“You’re amazing,” Harry rushed, breath hitching. “You’re brilliant. Brave. So fucking clever. I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re calm in chaos, kind in silence—you make me feel like I’m not a mess. Like I’m safe.”

His voice cracked again. “And I’m so fucking in love with you, and I think maybe I’ve always been.”

Zayn’s breath caught. Something shifted in his expression — something open and beautiful and deeply tender.

“Harry—”

But Harry was already kissing him.

Desperately. Completely. Like he’d die if he didn’t.

Zayn kissed him back instantly, arms wrapping tight around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him close, closer.

They stumbled backward, half-blind with need, limbs tangling. Clothes stripped quickly but with reverence — Harry’s hands worshipping every inch of skin he revealed. Every tattoo, every freckle, every soft breath Zayn gave him in return.

“You’re everything, Z,” Harry whispered against his collarbone, kissing down his chest. “Everything.”

Zayn groaned softly, hands threading through Harry’s curls. “Please,” he whispered, desperate. “Need you.”

Harry moved lower, taking Zayn into his mouth slowly, gently, savouring every gasp and twitch, every whispered curse.

Zayn’s hips jerked as he cried out, the sound ragged, raw. “Fuck—Harry—”

Harry smiled softly, kissing his way back up, murmuring into Zayn’s ear, “Need you too. Let me—”

Zayn nodded quickly, eyes glassy, lips parted in surrender.

Harry reached for the lube, slicking himself carefully, positioning above Zayn with shaking hands.

He pushed in slowly, eyes locked on Zayn’s, watching the way his lashes fluttered, the way his mouth parted in soft, aching pleasure.

They moved together like they’d been doing this forever — slow, deep, intimate. Harry kissed Zayn’s jaw, his throat, the bridge of his nose. Every touch was a confession.

“I love you,” he breathed. “God, I love you so much.”

Zayn’s eyes opened, shining. “Harry—fuck, I love you too.”

That was it.

Harry groaned, hips stuttering, the world tilting beneath them. He came hard, Zayn shuddering beneath him moments later, their bodies arching together like they’d always belonged.

They stayed like that for a long time. Pressed close. Breath shallow. Skin slick and trembling.

Harry cradled Zayn’s face gently, forehead pressed to his.

“You meant it?” he whispered.

Zayn smiled, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Every word.”

Harry kissed him again — soft now, grateful.

“Come home with me.”

Zayn nodded. “Wherever you want, I’m there.”

And Harry believed him.

Two weeks later.

The kettle clicked off softly.

Zayn reached for the mugs without thinking, hands moving on autopilot — one sugar in Harry’s, oat milk in both. The rain tapped gently against the windows, the kind of steady grey drizzle London did best.

Harry padded in barefoot, still in the t-shirt Zayn had slept in the night before. He yawned into the back of his hand and dropped a lazy kiss to Zayn’s shoulder on his way past, like he did it every morning.

Because now, he did.

Zayn passed him his coffee. Their fingers brushed.

Harry smiled — that quiet, content smile that only ever surfaced in the mornings, when he hadn’t put his armour back on yet.

“Still can’t believe you let me bring that hideous ceramic bowl,” he said, gesturing toward the monstrosity on their kitchen counter. A souvenir from Monaco, bright blue and thoroughly awful.

Zayn sipped his coffee. “I didn’t let you. I just didn’t unpack it fast enough to stop you.”

Harry grinned, leaned in, and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Same thing.”

Zayn rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue.

They moved through the kitchen easily now — passing behind each other for cutlery, for toast, for the morning paper that neither of them really read. It was strange, how quickly this life had started to feel normal.

Their bags had barely been unpacked.

MI5 had debriefed them quickly, quietly. Gratitude handed down like rationed praise. Antoine was arrested within a week, his operation gutted. Names had gone black in the files. Zayn hadn’t asked if his name was among them. He didn’t want to know.

Now, there was this.

Harry's flat in Shoreditch. The soft hum of the street outside. The half-finished bookshelf in the corner.

Harry sat at the table with one leg tucked under him, hair still damp from the shower, reading something off his phone with a soft crease in his brow.

Zayn watched him for a moment — not because he meant to, just because it was impossible not to.

He looked peaceful.Not the Harry who’d climbed balconies and whispered threats over comms. Not the Harry who’d fucked him breathless in the gold light of Monaco’s last morning. Just his.

Zayn reached out, rested a hand on Harry’s knee under the table.

Harry glanced up.

Zayn didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Harry smiled again, setting the phone down, covering Zayn’s hand with his own.

“You alright?”

Zayn nodded. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

Harry squeezed gently. “Dangerous habit.”

“Maybe. But not when it’s about you.”

They finished breakfast slowly.

And when Harry leaned across the table to kiss him — soft, morning-warm, certain — Zayn let himself lean into it fully.