you wake up and hear the tv downstairs, you pick up your blanket and waddle downstairs to see your husband, Zayn.

there he is, manspreading across the sofa, he looks scary right now, all his big muscles, broad shoulders, large body, he’s so tall, so big, he runs a hand through his black undercut.

he doesn’t notice you, his back is to you while he’s watching the television, you stare at his arm veins for a moment, his arms tensing with every boring word the weatherman speaks.