temporary fix one direction ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a one-night stand. That’s what you told yourself, again and again. When you climbed into the taxi with Zayn that night, when the two of you ended up on his couch watching some shitty rom-com that he pretended to hate but secretly found funny.

When you fell asleep at his apartment, wrapped up in the warmth of him and his mismatched blankets.

You wanted it to be more. More than fleeting glances and accidental touches. More than whispered conversations that never dared tread too deep. You adored Zayn; his dark, expressive eyes, his wry British humor, the way his smile tugged at the corners of his mouth like it was a secret meant just for you.

You could have anyone, they always said. Supermodel you on magazine covers and runways, desired by millions. But you didn’t want “anyone.”

You wanted him.

The tabloids had already spun their narrative the morning after you were spotted together in London. You’d read dozens of articles, scrolling through photos of the two of you walking side by side. The thought of it made your chest ache in the sweetest, most unbearable way. It felt real, even if it wasn’t. Yet.

And now, here you were again. Back in New York, back with him, replaying every detail of his perfect smile and the way his hand brushed yours, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him hold it.

You wanted to tell him, to ask him if he saw this as more than a fleeting moment. But instead, you trailed behind him, your heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

He pushed open the door to his apartment, pausing to glance back at you. “Here we are,” he said, his grin laced in his quiet voice, as he smiles faintly. “Not like you need a tour at this point, but I could always... make one up.”