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I can feel him grin as he wraps his fingers around my wrist and pulls my hand away gently. “Good thing we don't have a basement then.”
His smile is contagious, and I find myself unable to hold back one of my own. “Good thing.”
Just then, some guy slips behind him and knocks Zayn forward, making his drink spill all down the front of me. My breath hitches at the cold liquid. The blond dude pretends to apologize before mumbling a not so subtle “you're welcome” into Zayn's ear and walking away.
Zayn's jaw locks. “Fucking Trayland.”
“S-so c-cold,” I gasp.
His expression changes to one of both panic and arousal as he notices the state of my shirt, though the latter is masked almost as quickly as it appeared. I probably should've thought twice before wearing a white shirt, being as now it's almost completely see-through. Then again, I also didn't expect to have anything spilt on me.
“Shit, Meelz.” He looks conflicted as he glances around the room. When he doesn't find what he's looking for, he sighs. “Come with me. I'll give you another shirt to put on.”
I wrap my arms around myself and follow Zayn through the house and up the stairs. We walk a little ways down the hallway before he turns into a bedroom. The smell of his cologne fills the air, and it's more intoxicating than any of the alcohol I've had tonight.
There are band posters on the wall, along with a few pictures of him and the guys. The bed is messily made, with the comforter thrown on top of wadded sheets. The nightstand is covered with lip and eyebrow rings, along with a copy of Inked Magazine. Out of the whole room, the only thing that looks out of place are the textbooks neatly placed on the desk.
He walks over to his dresser and pulls a T-shirt out of the drawer. It's tattered and torn from years of wear, but as he hands it to me, I can already tell it smells like him. I mumble a thank you and turn around, pulling my soaked shirt over my head and replacing it with his dry one.
I glance back to see him staring up at the ceiling, afraid to look anywhere near me. I chuckle softly.
Such a gentleman.
“What should I do with this one?” I question.
His brows furrow for a second before he realizes what I'm talking about. “Oh. Just toss it into my laundry basket. I'll wash it.”
Wow, okay. I hand him the crop-top. “Thanks.”
“It's the least I can do. Carter is a douchebag.”
My head tilts slightly to the side. “Carter is...?”
He snickers. “The asshole that made me spill beer all over you.”
“Ah.” Honestly, I'm thinking he's not all that bad, but that could be due to the fact that I'm completely surrounded by the smell of Zayn. It's messing with my headspace.
“Do you want to go back down to the party?” he asks calmly.
I know I should, but I shake my head. “Do you mind if we sit up here for a bit? The loud music is starting to give me a headache.”
“Sure,” he agrees and walks over to sit on his bed, leaning against the wall. “So, how was your first day?”
Following suit, I climb next to him. “It wasn't bad, except for the part where I walked into the wrong classroom.”
“You didn't.”
I cringe. “I definitely did.”
The laugh that leaves his mouth is one that I want to set as my ringtone and hear on an endless loop. “Was it as mortifying as it sounds?”
“Being as it was an ESL class, and I look as American as they come, absolutely.”
That only makes him laugh even harder. He runs his fingers through his hair and looks over at me, still snickering. I roll my eyes playfully and nod.
“I'm so glad you find humor in my trauma,” I tease.
“I'm sorry, drama queen,” he mocks me. “It's just such a you thing to do. Like the time you insisted on joining Easton’s all-boys sleepover.”
