𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 » 𝐳.𝐬.

52

harry loves to watch the sun rise in the morning. it's a natural response for his body to awaken when the first rays of sunlight begin to spread over the horizon.

he watches it nearly every morning, whether he's ready for his day to start or if he has to go back to sleep after it's finished. he finds it comforting to watch the city, painted in warm arrays of blues and pinks and purples left over from the nighttime smog.

that was one of the reasons he picked this house not too many years ago—the full glass balcony gave an amazing view of the sunrise and sunset all from the comfort of his own bed. well, that and his wife at the time gave him a limited range of houses she would find suitable to live in. this was one of the least extravagant, and that says something.

thus, he wakes up the next morning naturally. at the ripe age of thirty-one, his body has had plenty of time to find it's natural circadian rhythm. it falls and rises just like the sun. his eyes blink open into the slowly dissipating darkness, and for a second he's confused at the heavy warmth pressed against his stomach.

that's different.

los angeles mornings and evenings are cold—something to do about the geography of the mountains and deserts around them. his wife, or... ex-wife now, explained it to him once while they watched the sunset from the back of their jeep in the mojave desert. it's a distant memory now, but he figures he was too busy watching the way the purple smog slowly begin to replace the golden and red tones dominating the sky.

anyway.

it's chilly and the arm around his waist is a welcome source of heat. his curls are rumpled and messy, and uncharacteristically tainted with the smell of chlorine despite their shower last night. his skin itches at the thought as he rolls onto his back and looks down at the dark limb that wraps tighter around his torso from the movement. his eyes travel up the span of indistinct tattoos until they finally settle on the face resting against the pillow beside him.

for once, it's not his son whom he wakes up to. it's his lover... if he can call him that.

his heart pounds a little erratically in his chest at how adorable zayn looks when he sleeps. the harsh edges of his jawline and cheekbones are morphed by the darkness, but his lips are soft and pouty and harry just wants to kiss him.

so he does. he presses a soft, lingering kiss to the younger boy's lips and wonders what lucky god he prayed to to get a man as beautiful as zayn malik in his bed.

he pulls away to trace his fingers over the man's tattooed neck, his rings now a discarded, piled mess on his nightstand. he drags his palm along zayn's prominent collarbone, remembering a time when his own use to jut out prominently like that. his touches are light and gentle, not truly trying to wake him up because he knows zayn doesn't sleep well and that scares him more than it probably should.

the sheet is bunched around his own waist, the white comforter discarded past their feet, but pulled sharply over zayn's midsection to protect him from the cold. he wants to move the fabric down and expose more of his beautiful brown skin, but before he even gets the chance a lazy smile forms on zayn's lips despite his eyes still being closed.

"are you watching me while i sleep?" the younger man asks and his voice is absurdly deep (and sexy) from someone who looks so small and cute curled up at his side.

harry blushes and rests his hand firmly on zayn's shoulder, feeling the taut muscles stretched beneath his skin. "maybe," he giggles quietly, his own voice strained with a deepness that rivals zayn's.