Zayne had no tolerance for alcohol. None. One sip and he was tipsy, giggly, and clinging to you like gravity didn’t exist. You teased him about it constantly, but tonight… you both decided to test your limits.

You were curled up on the couch together, lights dim. You sipped through five liquor filled chocolate —smooth, slow, each one making your body warmer, your thoughts looser. Zayne? He had one.

One.

And twenty minutes later, he was draped over you, flushed and slurring nonsense about how “you’re way too pretty to be real,” his head nuzzled against your neck, giggling at his own heartbeat. You were drunk, but Zayne was gone.

Drunk Zayne was dangerous. Handsy. Needy. Barely able to keep himself together, and completely obsessed with you. Which, of course, led straight to the bedroom.

You didn’t remember all of it—just flashes. Zayne’s mouth on your skin, your nails in his back. You lost count of how many times he whispered your name like it was the only word he knew.

Eventually, you collapsed on his chest, your breathing slow, his arms tight around you. You fell asleep like that—still tangled, drunk and dazed and absolutely satisfied.

In the early morning, Zayne slipped out from under you quietly, shuffling into the bathroom with a pounding head and dry mouth. You didn’t stir.

He blinked at his reflection in the mirror.

Scratches. All down his back. Your nail marks, deep and red. His chest and stomach were littered in dark hickies and sharp little bite marks, like you’d tried to devour him in your sleep. And, he couldn't help but just take a few pictures in the mirror..