Zephaniah // z.m

Eighteen

Hannah

Walking inside Zayn's house, my eyes widened when they fell on the clock, realising I had mistaken two thirty for one thirty, meaning I was an hour too early.

I frowned deeply, wondering how on earth I could've mistaken that. Sighing deeply, I knew turning back home now wasn't an option anyway, so I took off my boots and coat, neatly placing it in the wardrobe.

I'd have to face Zayn and I could only hope he'd act the same way as he was yesterday. Not too rude, too harsh and whatsoever. He even cooked dinner for me and Zephaniah, helped me iron and do some of his laundry without snapping at me.

However, when I entered his living room, it was dead silent. No noises were heard, not even from his small office. Tiptoeing over to his office, I peeked through the door only to find out he wasn't in there. I frowned again. It was his workday, right?

I shrugged it off, as it wasn't my business at all knowing what he was doing. So I walked back over to his living room and started to clean up a bit as cups and small dessert plates were still on the table.

Fluffing the yellow cushions on his grey couch, I stared at the photos that were hung on the wall above it. I noticed a picture of a baby, cheeks pink and a full head of raven hair, a small birth card attached to it.

I smiled when I realised it was Zephaniah. The next photo was his little hand in Zayn's much bigger one, confirming that from the tattoos I noticed on his hand.

The other photo was one from Zayn and Zephaniah, where Zephaniah was definitely not older than four years old. The little boy was giggling, while Zayn had a bright smile on his face as his son was sitting on his neck, their hands holding.

My heart warmed deeply. I could just feel how much Zayn loved his son, even by just seeing photos of them. There was just one thing that still confused me the most, especially after seeing a family picture with probably his parents and sisters, and baby Zephaniah in his arms.

Where was Zephaniah's mother? What had happened to her? Did she die? Did she leave them? Why was Zayn such a young father?

I sighed and removed a loose strand of hair from my eyes, tucking it behind my ear as it was in the way. Things like these weren't my business either, I guess. No matter how curious I was.

Because when did I tell people that?

Deciding to go upstairs to see if I could help him out with something there, I stood still when I heard soft snores coming from his bedroom.

Odd. I thought. I knew he was a hard working man, so it confused me as why he would sleep around this time in the afternoon. I quietly made my way inside his room and stared at him for a while.

His cheeks were pink from the warmth as he slept in a hoodie, his legs and waist tucked into the white duvets. He wore a beanie and his hands were resting on his stomach, head slightly turned to the right and lips pouted.

Zayn looked extremely vulnerable like that, innocent, and Zephaniah once again resembled him so much.

I realised he wasn't snoring naturally, it sounded more like his nose was stuffed, probably explaining why he was sleeping at this time. He probably didn't feel well.