Zayn comes home late one night, tossing his keys aside as he sees you walking towards him in one of his t-shirts that flows down to your knees. The shirt he wears is wrinkled and spotted with blood.

“Ah, there’s my pretty girl. I’ve missed you.” He holds his arms out and open for you, but he sees you staring at the blood, hesitant. “Don’t worry, it isn’t mine.”

Zayn peels off his shirt, dropping it to the floor as he approaches you. He wraps one arm around your waist, holding your lower back. The other arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you close as he leans down to kiss you.