Stripped (a Zayn Malik Fanfic)

I Crave You

A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay on this chapter guys! So unfortunately there isn't Harry as promised, but he will be in the next chapter 100%. This is a continuation from the point of Leila storming out of her apartment. Updates will resume on Tuesdays and Saturdays! Thank you all so much for your support, kind words, and votes! They are what allow me to thrive and endure! 

Accompanying Music: I Crave You – Flight Facilities (Adventure Club Remix) 

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Zayn's P.O.V: 

The door shut with a resounding slam. 

In a panic, I started for the door. "Leila!" I yelled after her, my voice answered with nothing but silence. I trained my eyes on the door, knowing that it still wasn't too late to go after her. I had been a decent runner back in high school, before I picked up smoking and all my other questionable habits. My lungs would explode in the process, but at that point I couldn't give less of a shit. Again I made for the front door when the taunting voice of Simon Cowell stopped me in my tracks. So help me God, I'll pull the plug on this whole thing. If Leila and I were spotted together, the media would have an absolute field day –ZAYN MALIK ROMANCING STRIPPER emblazoning the headlines –which upon further research would inform the whole world as well as Harry that our night at Victory Strip Club was not the first time I had ever met Leila Karim. 

My gaze was transfixed on the door. "Come back, come back, come back." I repeated in anguish, like a mantra below my breath. A few moments passed and I knew Leila had no intention of returning, but could I entirely blame her? 

It took me a few moments to realize that I was completely alone in Leila's apartment. I took a sweeping glance around the living room, its impeccable state and the fact that not one was thing out of place telling me that in some ways, Leila had not changed at all. Like many apartments in London, the building that Leila lived in was quite antiquated, the water stains on the wallpapered walls showing its true age. Despite all of this, Leila had done a good job of making the place her own, such a good job that I would never believe it belonging to someone else. Against the wall on the right was a sunken in red sofa and across from it a small television that hardly looked operational. I smiled when I saw that it was unplugged, something Leila regularly did back in Bradford. "Why watch the telly when you can read books?" She'd often state in exasperation. 

Smiling, I meandered over to the wall nearest to me that was consumed in a wide book case. I scanned the titles curiously, trailing my fingers over their relaxed spines and recognizing the authors that Leila used to list off to me –Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, Dodi Smith. I kept looking until I paused abruptly, my fingers grazing a barely recognizable copy of Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights. It was nearly in tatters, but I recognized that it was the same copy Leila totted around with her everywhere. She's still in there, I told myself. Over the years I had come across a few copies –one at a used book store my Mother had dragged me to, one at a yard sale some houses down from ours in Bradford, and of course one hovering over Waliyah's face when she read it for school. I didn't pick up the book any of those times, knowing that if I did, all I would be able to think about was her. Leaving the book case, I decided I was a coward then, and I was still a coward now. 

Walking aimlessly down the hallway, I blinked in surprise when I found myself standing in the doorway of Leila's bedroom –pink walls and bed sheets which were nearly a mirror image of her old room. Entering with trepidation, a waft of Leila's pumpkin spice perfume surrounded me and sent me into a dizzying panic. The scent always used to remind me of the autumn, the start of a new school year and new adventures with Leila. All it was doing now was churning my stomach. Stepping further into Leila's room, I gently perched on the side of her small bed, wondering she dreamt about when her head was on her pillow. My eyes widened by a fraction when I caught sight of what could be nothing other than our Tong High year book, sticking precariously out from a pile of papers.