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Summary
He remembered spending hours at that same table, drawing until his fingers went numb, warm lips sometimes pressed to his neck as hazelnut kisses were exchanged. Zayn could still hear that mellow sultry voice whispering in his ear, how he worked too hard how he needed to take a break. He also remembered how those breaks often ended in the tiny bathroom meters away, clumsy make out sessions as large hands palmed his ass, grinding against him until he was breathless.
"Stop," mumbled Zayn to himself as he stripped his soaked coat, hanging it on a vacant hook before taking a seat. Don’t do this yourself, he’s gone. He never came back.