"I can't believe you're making me do this," I muttered, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Zayn's sleek black car. My foot was still sore, but somehow, Zayn had managed to convince me to go shopping.
Of all things.
He said he wanted me to be protected and that is shopping?
"You need new clothes," he said, his left hand gripping the steering wheel confidently as he maneuvered through the city streets. "Trust me."
"I have clothes," I argued, though my voice lacked any real conviction. I couldn't focus on anything besides how calm and collected he was, as if the chaos of the last few days didn't even exist in his world.
"You have bandages, and you're wearing hospital pajamas," Zayn deadpanned, glancing over at me with a teasing smile. "That doesn't count."
"That's because I have been at the hospital, genius, I have clothes at your house."
"Our home."
