Zayne was a mess when he was drunk. Not loud or wild like most people—no, he was clingy. Needy. Ridiculously pouty.

And tonight was no different.

He was on his knees in front of you, stripped down to nothing but his boxers, a hard bulge you could feel against your ankle as he didn't do much ot hide it. His face buried against your thighs like it was the only place he could breathe. His arms were wrapped lazily around your waist, and every few seconds, he let out this quiet little whine like he was dying inside.

You ran your fingers through his thick hair, slow and gentle, scratching at his scalp just how he liked. It calmed him, and it kept him still—for a minute.

“Babyyyy,” he mumbled against your skin, voice low and slurred, lips brushing your leg. “You don’t love me anymore. You ignoring me…”

You couldn’t help the amused sigh that slipped from your lips. “I haven’t stopped touching you for an hour.”

He lifted his head just enough to give you a full, tragic pout. “Yeah, but… you looked away. For like, five years.” He rested his cheek back down dramatically. “I felt it. My heart stopped. I died.”

Your fingers kept combing his hair. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m sick,” he whined, his hands squeezing your hips as if he was trying to hold himself together. “I’m gonna fade away if you don’t hold me. I need you to keep me alive.”

“You’re not sick,” you said, laughing softly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” he muttered, smushing his face deeper into your leg. “I’m in love. S'not the same.”

You bit back a grin, letting your nails scratch a little firmer along his scalp. He melted with a soft groan, like you were physically healing him. You knew he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon—he needed you like this. Wrapped around him. Taking care of him. Making him feel safe in his pathetic, drunken mess.