The motel room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the floor. Zayn walked in ahead of me, his broad shoulders stiff with tension. I could see the outline of his muscles beneath his white T-shirt, but then my gaze caught on something else—a dark stain spreading slowly across the fabric.
Blood.
"Zayn," I called softly, but he didn't stop. He moved toward the bathroom, removing his jacket and tossing it onto the bed. That's when I saw the full extent of it. Blood seeped through the back of his shirt, staining the white cotton red. It was from the injury he'd sustained while pulling me out of the fire.
I felt a sharp pang of guilt. This was my fault.
"Zayn, wait—" I reached out, but he disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the water running, and when I followed him, I found him standing in front of the mirror, dabbing at the wound on his shoulder with a washcloth. He winced slightly but continued working on it, as though nothing was wrong.
"You should let me help," I said, stepping closer.
"I've got it," he muttered, his tone gruff.
"Zayn, please. You're bleeding because of me. At least let me clean it up," I insisted.
" I am sorry, extremely sorry"
For a moment, he didn't respond, his eyes fixed on his own reflection in the mirror. His jaw was tight, and I could tell he was in pain, even if he was doing his best to hide it. Finally, with a sigh, he relented, dropping the washcloth into the sink.
I moved toward him, grabbing the first aid kit from the counter. My hands trembled slightly as I opened the kit and pulled out some gauze and a bottle of tincture. I'd seen and treated wounds before, but there was something different about this. Something about being this close to Zayn, seeing him so vulnerable, made my heart race.
"This is going to hurt," I warned softly, dampening a cotton pad with the tincture.
Zayn didn't flinch.I saw his reflection on the mirror.
I gently pressed the pad to the wound, watching as the antiseptic did its job. Zayn's jaw clenched, but he made no sound. His eyes, though, were locked on me through the mirror, watching my every move. His gaze was intense, and I found it hard to concentrate under the weight of it.
My fingers worked carefully as I cleaned the wound, but my mind was spinning. The way he looked at me made it hard to breathe, like there was something simmering between us that neither of us wanted to acknowledge. I felt his eyes tracing the contours of my face, and heat flushed through me despite the cool air of the room.
"Zayn…" I started, unsure of what I wanted to say.
He didn't respond, just kept watching me. There was something in his gaze—something dark and possessive—that sent a shiver down my spine. It made my pulse quicken, and I had to remind myself to focus on treating the wound.
I applied a bandage over the cleaned area, taking a step back when I was done. But Zayn still hadn't moved. He just kept staring at me in the mirror, his eyes unreadable.
"I must say,You're not that bad" I said softly, almost without thinking.
Zayn's expression changed instantly, his eyes narrowing. He turned around so quickly I barely had time to react. Before I knew it, he had me pinned against the cold bathroom wall, his hand wrapped around my throat—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make my breath hitch.
My heart was racing, the adrenaline from the earlier fire still coursing through me. But this—this was different. His body was close, his breath warm against my skin as he leaned in, his lips dangerously close to my neck.
"Sweet pie," he whispered darkly, his voice low and rough, "don't tempt me."
I felt a shudder run through my body at his words, his tone dripping with a kind of dangerous allure that made my knees weak. His hand on my neck was firm, possessive, like he was holding back a storm of emotions.
"Zayn…" I whispered, my voice barely audible.
He breathed deeply, his lips hovering just above my skin, sending waves of heat radiating through me. "Go," he growled softly, his voice almost a plea. "Go before I change my mind."
I stood there for a moment, frozen, every nerve in my body alight with sensation. He was so close—too close. His scent, a mix of smoke, sweat, and something uniquely him, filled my senses. My head spun, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered what would happen if I didn't leave.
But then I saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers trembled slightly against my throat, and I realized he was barely holding himself back.
Zayn's grip loosened just enough for me to slip out from under his arm. I hurried out of the bathroom, my heart hammering in my chest, my mind racing. What had just happened?
I rushed out of the bathroom, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The motel room felt cooler than before, or maybe it was just me—flushed, burning with emotions I wasn't ready to confront. My skin still tingled where Zayn's hands had been, his grip around my neck, firm but not painful. It was the way he'd touched me—not with anger, but with something deeper, something more possessive—that shook me to my core.
I wanted to push it all away, the thoughts, the feelings, the temptation that had surged between us. But the heat in my body was undeniable. I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath, trying to calm the rush of sensations that had overwhelmed me.
But then I heard it.
From behind the bathroom door, Zayn let out a deep, guttural groan, and my pulse quickened all over again. The sound was raw, primal, and it shot through me like lightning. I could picture him in there, trying to rid himself of the same tension that had gripped us both. It was ferocious—his way of releasing what we'd both been holding back.
God.
I bit my lip, my body betraying me as a surge of desire hit me hard. I shouldn't be feeling this. Not after what had just happened. Not after everything that had transpired between us—the fire, the arguments, the way we kept clashing. But here I was, standing in the middle of this motel room, my legs shaking, my core aching for something I wasn't supposed to want.
I shifted, crossing my arms over my chest as if that could contain the heat that had built up inside me. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to shake the image of him, the sound of him, from my mind. But it was no use. Every groan he let out from behind that door only made things worse.
My body reacted to the sounds, and a rush of shame filled me. How could I be this affected? How could I want this when it was all so wrong? But no matter how hard I tried to push the thoughts away, they lingered, fueling the fire inside me.
I felt wetness between my legs, a throbbing need that refused to be ignored. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. What was wrong with me? I shouldn't be thinking about this, about him, like that. But the truth was, I was. I was thinking about Zayn, about the way he'd looked at me, the way he'd touched me, and the way he was now, behind that door, losing control in a way that mirrored how I felt.
I leaned my head against the wall, closing my eyes. For a brief, reckless moment, I imagined going back into the bathroom, imagined what would happen if I didn't resist anymore. If we didn't resist anymore. I could picture it so clearly—him pinning me against the wall again, but this time not holding back. This time letting all that tension explode between us.
The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through me, and I felt myself getting wetter, the need growing stronger. It was wrong—so wrong—but in that moment, I didn't care. I couldn't care. All I wanted was relief. I wanted to feel him, to let him touch me in the way I knew he wanted to, in the way I wanted him to.
I hated that I wanted it, but it didn't stop the ache.
I heard another groan from the bathroom, this one even more intense than before, and I couldn't help but imagine what he looked like right now. My stomach flipped, and I squeezed my thighs together, trying to suppress the throbbing need that had taken over my body. But it was useless.
My mind raced. What if I didn't resist? What if I let myself go, just this once?
No.
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of desire that clouded my judgment. This wasn't right. Whatever was between Zayn and me—it was dangerous. He was dangerous. And giving in to this temptation would only make things worse.
I forced myself to step away from the wall, my legs unsteady beneath me.
The bathroom door creaked open, and Zayn stepped out, his expression hard again, as if nothing had happened. His shirt clung to him, still damp with blood, but he didn't seem to care.
We locked eyes for a moment, and I could see the tension still simmering beneath the surface, but neither of us spoke. The room felt charged, like there was something unspoken between us, something dangerous.
He grabbed his jacket from the bed and threw it over his shoulder, his movements stiff, though he tried to act nonchalant. "I'm going out for a walk," he muttered, heading for the door.
There was something between us now, something that hadn't been there before. It scared me, but at the same time, it thrilled me in a way I wasn't prepared for.
I lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the way my body still buzzed with the memory of his touch. What was I doing? Why was I even thinking about this? About him?
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to calm down, but the truth was, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was falling for Zayn. Slowly, but surely. And I didn't know how to stop.
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