Zessa

chapter 9

Tessa

Zayn's windows don't have curtains.

That's the first thing I notice the next morning, because when the sun rises at around eight, the light immediately sears through my eyelids, jerking me awake from a sound sleep.

I'm still curled securely in Zayn's arms, but sometime in the night I must have turned over, because now my head is tucked underneath his jaw, my temple pressed against his collarbone. One of my arms is draped loosely over his waist, my fingertips brushing the warm, bare skin just above the waistline of his boxers.

Stealthily, I remove the offending hand, then poke him in the stomach. He groans and turns his face up to the light.

I gasp.

Mottled purple and blue bruising covers his entire face. There is a swollen welt by his left ear, and the blood has dried in his dark hair and soaked into the white pillowcase.

He opens his eyes and notices my shocked expression. "What's wrong?" he asks languidly, his voice still thick and dry and sleep-heavy.

For a moment, I can't speak. "Nothing," I reply uncertainly. "It's just - your face."

He frowns, then winces, then says, "Ow."

I let out a humourless half-laugh. "Yeah." I bite my lip and sit up, fiddling with my bracelet. "I didn't notice how bad it was last night."

He grabs his phone off the night stand and holds it up, turning his face from side to side. "It didn't look this bad last night," he chuckles. "It's fine, Tessa. Don't worry about it."

I cross my arms and fold my legs. "Does it hurt?" I ask softly, guilt rising up in the back of throat, thin and sour and choking.

He shrugs. "Only when I make faces," he says, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out at me and smiling. "And when I smile. And when I talk."

"I'm really sorry," I apologise fervently. "Is there something I can do? I still feel like it's my fault, Zayn."

He rolls his eyes at me. "Not. Your. Fault." He grins, then winces, then says, "Ow."

"What can I do?" I ask, reaching out and brushing the wound on the side of his face with my knuckles.

He gives me a thoughtful expression. "Distract me," he offers, rolling out of bed and fumbling through his dresser for a pair of jeans.

"How?"

He tips his head back and lets his mouth fall open, glancing at me through the corner of his eye and letting a small smile curl the corner of his mouth. "Just talk," he suggests. "Say something."

"You look terrible."

It's quiet for a moment, and then we both laugh. "I meant, talk about something that doesn't have anything to do with my face," he says flatly, grinning at me. "Seriously. Talk about anything."

It feels wrong, to be so lighthearted on the morning after what happened last night. The memories are still sharp in my mind, brittle and bitter.

"Um, why don't we go out for breakfast?" I ask. "My treat."

"We can go wherever you want," Zayn tells me, with a brilliant smile. "But I think you better change first."

* * * *

After I've put on a pair of Zayn's joggers and a WSU pullover, brushed my teeth, and made a vague attempt to tame my hair, we take my car to Panera Bread. We both get toffee nut cookies (Zayn gets some sort of breakfast burrito too) and coffee. I add milk to mine. He takes his black.