Small Bump

Zayn would be the first to admit that he'd never expected anything serious out of this relationship. It was just a flingy sort of thing, a no-strings-attached deal - a "Hey-I'm-horny-come-over-and-let's-fuck" type of relationship. He liked sex, and so did she, and therefore he liked her. And the sex was good. And while over time he'd learned to fancy certain things about her, like the way she wiggled her hips and hummed Temptations tunes while cooking eggs the morning after, or the way she didn't nag at him when he didn't text every night like most girls did, he still didn't really have many high expectations for the future. They met over Twitter, for Pete's sake. It wasn't like he was planning on getting down on one knee anytime soon.

Then again, he hadn't planned on this, either. He had planned on coming over, throwing the deadbolt, shoving her onto the coffeetable and riding her until they both collapsed, then ordering Chinese take-out from down the street and watching some One Foot in the Grave re-runs before taking off back home again. He'd say he had to head over to headquarters to do some band stuff early the next morning, and she'd just smile and kiss him on the cheek and let him go, not questioning a single thing. It was like their little routine. They were good at it.

No, things weren't going as planned. And instead of getting laid and eating some pork lo mein like he should have been, he was now sitting on her musty-smelling futon, staring at a little white stick in the middle of the coffee table, eyes glued to a tiny blue plus sign upon which his entire fate seemed to rest. He'd been staring at it for a good fifteen minutes now, completely silent, and yet the feeling hadn't really sunken in yet. He was still waiting for her to pull her top off, grab him by the belt buckle and drag him into the bedroom. He was still waiting for the doorbell to ring and for some zit-splattered teenager to be standing outside with a big bag full of all the delicious, greasy food Danielle had warned him would ruin his complexion.

"I'm sorry," Erika said, staring at him from the opposite end of the couch. Her eyes were puffy from tears, but she looked as numb as he felt. "I'm really, really sorry."

He felt like saying, You should be. You should be sorry. This is your fault. Why did you do this to us? To me? I didn't ask for this. It's all your fault. But instead he just stared at that stupid fucking plus sign and didn't say anything at all, because as angry as he was at her and the dumb pregnancy test and everything else, he knew that it was really himself he had to blame.

"You don't have to stay," she added, as if to make herself sound less desperate. He could hear her swallow; the room was so silent. "I mean, you've got your career and everything - and your family, and - and your fans, and I know that you don't want this. I don't want this. So if you just wanna...I mean, if you just wanna leave...I'd understand."

Her voice wavers in this way that makes him feel slightly guilty, but the ultimatum sounds like a good one. Get up and get out, leave forever without a single obligation at all and forget that the whole mess had ever happened. It sounded too good to be true, honestly. He'd tell Simon, who in turn would hire attorneys and the like to keep her quiet; he'd send a couple hundred bucks a month for child support and that would be that. No harm, no foul.

But then he saw a vision of himself, a little five-year-old Zayn Jr., sitting on the swingset at the park. Alone. Watching the other children play on the jungle gym; feeling a root of sadness plant itself deep inside his gut as he watched their fathers race after them up the steps and chase them down the slides. Wondering what he ever did to not deserve a daddy like they did, why his daddy didn't seem to love him enough to stick around.

With a single decision, right here and now, he could potentially ruin a child's entire life.

He'd never had a responsibility like that before. Sure, he had the band, which was his baby in its own right. But if everything fell through, it only came back on him. No one else got hurt. Now...now, with just a single word, he had the power to potentially crush another person's childhood. And the thought of it made him sick. He didn't want to be that guy - that dad that sent birthday cards in the mail on the off-chance he remembered the occasion, the dad who talked more to tabloid reporters than he did to his own son. He had always told himself he wouldn't do that to his child, no matter what the circumstances.

And no, these circumstances weren't ideal. And maybe his mother would say he's making a bad decision. Maybe the fans would be disgusted if they knew, if they found out that she wasn't really his girlfriend; she was just a booty call gone wrong. And maybe Simon would just about wring his neck when he told him, but he had to take his chances. He could say he'd been pretty lucky so far. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

He didn't really know what he was doing, couldn't find a place to put his eyes or something to busy his hands, and as he said it, his voice nearly cracked. But it was loud enough for her to hear. "I'll...stay. With you. We can, um, raise the child together."

Her eyes widened. His stomach sunk.

"You...will?"

All he could do was nod.

She stared at him for a moment, her disbelief oozing from her pores and hitting Zayn like a slap to the face. As if she didn't expect him to ever even consider staying. But then she was shrugging and pushing herself off the couch, nonchalant like she usually was, and her hips swung mesmerizingly like they always did as she walked to the kitchen and grabbed the phone. "So, we're doing Beijing Gardens like usual?"

And just like that, it was almost like it had never even happened. She ordered the usual, tugged him into the bedroom like usual; they fucked as usual and then ate their take-out naked, as usual. And after they watched crappy cable TV for a couple hours, as usual, she turned the set off and wandered toward the door, holding his boots and jacket out to him like some sort of free ticket to flee. As usual.

But tonight, he didn't peck her on the cheek and make his way toward the elevators. Tonight, he took the shoes and the coat and threw them on the floor, then took her by the hand as he led her back to the bedroom. Tonight, he laid her down on the bed and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close in a way that didn't feel natural but felt right. And tonight, they fell asleep together for the first time.

Tonight, Zayn Malik somehow started to become a man.