Zayn Imagine: First Date
*Requested*
“Um…” The sound is deafening in the hush of the crisp chill, suspended like a woolen blanket over the brilliant city lights.
You rock back on your heels, timid, clouded eyes flitting to his in anticipation. “Oh,” you flash him a graceless smile, slipping the musky leather from your shoulders. “Here you go…thanks.”
“Yeah, don’t mention it,” an intoxicating grin teases the edges of his sturdy lips as he takes the jacket from your fickle fingers.
Another quiet cloaks the dank, taut atmosphere in a gauche stillness. Your lips part as if you might speak, but it seems as if your vocal chords are grating the arid circumference of your throat like sandpaper against wood. The prospect of a nimble kiss dangles in the thickening air—you can feel it like one might feel an oncoming rainstorm. It douses your rapidly beating heart in a sordid love syrup, and the bile in the pit of your stomach rises steadily at the thought of such anxieties.
Your gaze sweeps to your feet uneasily as you fumble behind you for the doorknob. He’s stepping closer; you glimpse it from the corner of your eye—raven hair, dark and thick, swathing the bronze skin of his forehead in wispy cusps, candy eyes, smattered in delicate flecks of the richest gold. You’ve never studied him so closely before, and doing so brings the soft pitter-patter of your heart to a screeching halt. You can feel the breath being lapped away from your aching lungs, leaving you empty and parched for an unattainable something.
There’s nothing to anticipate, you mulishly remind yourself. “Thanks,” you mumble once more, your voice a silky whisper wafting along the breeze.
Not everyone kisses first date. Sometimes it’s better this way; sometimes it’s more polite—
He presses forward. You plunge back into the splitting mahogany of the door. “Don’t mention it,” he breathes a fog of bitter, ashen air across your face, and you feel your cheeks flush crimson with a scorching heat.
It’s a sweet, tender kiss—if you can even call it a kiss. His mouth brushes your flesh for the briefest of moments; he nibbles at your lower lip. And then he draws away—just a bit—as if to gauge your reaction. He’s lucidly beaming, a small, lopsided smile, his eyes darting between your fixed gaze and the quivering of your lips.
His mouth is against yours then, his hands clutching at your waist. A velvet tongue shrouds your skin, thawing your lips apart with a low moan. He tastes of sugar, his tongue vanilla—it’s strange, how sweet he feels to you.
It only lasts for a while.
And then you’re away from each other once again. Your ruby lips tingle with the shivering sensation that his are still pressed to yours. It’s different from any other kiss you’ve experienced, and you struggle to jab a finger at reasoning. It feels unnatural now, the space between the two of you—like there shouldn’t be any at all.
“That was…good,” you murmur, veiling your sentiment behind a thick fray of black lashes.
He laughs, ducking his head, his eyes searching for yours somewhere in the muddle. “I’d like to take you out again,” he croons thoughtfully, smoothing a moist kiss to the tip of your nose.
You wait for him to continue—to elaborate, perhaps—but he’s simply watching your hazy movements, the miniature factions of your softening features, as if they possess the answers to every query he’s ever marveled. “I’ll call you, yeah?” he smiles finally, turning towards the walkway.
You ogle the muscles in his shoulders stretching effortlessly against the lean fabric of his sweater. And there you remain for quite some time, stranded on your front stoop, lost in the midst of what is reality and what is illusion.
