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Summary
Zayn still looks like a statue, Harry thinks, like he’s carved from marble. Or not marble; it’s more like he’s a painting with one of those big DO NOT TOUCH signs on them, all delicate, deliberate lines, from his narrow hips in his tight jeans to the oversized blue sweater the hangs off his shoulders to the curve of his lips, tilting downward as he frowns at the easel. Harry’s never much liked those signs, had always been the sort of kid who touched despite the risk he might break something. He’s a little worried he still is.