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Summary
The thing he missed most was Zayn. All of him, from his cranky morning self to the wanton boy fucking down on Liam’s dick later that night (and sometimes in the afternoon as well). The one who could spout poetry like it was his native tongue and the one who could barely say anything when he was deeply upset. The one who wore fake glasses and felt at home in Liam’s clothes. The one who was mad for kids and shrieked at the sight of spiders. The one who cried in Ghana and the one who drew superheroes who looked like Liam. The one who didn’t eat pork and the one who quietly but fiercely loved Allah.
Zayn. Liam’s Zayn. The one who, not long ago, had whispered things in Urdu into Liam’s neck that felt like beautiful promises.