Need • Zarry

2. Guilty

Harry wasn't exactly sure what to expect by letting Zayn stay with him. He had never lived with anyone before, other than James during college, and he wasn't married, he didn't have kids, and he hardly ever had any people over at his home as it was. Harry was someone who valued his privacy but that often came with the price of being alone, which was also something he didn't particularly enjoy, especially not lately. He had a routine that he was pretty used to be now and it hardly ever changed:

Wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, run errands, see friends, make dinner, watch a film, read, take a shower, go to sleep.

But most of the time he spent his nights alone, and the more he thought about it, the more Harry decided it might be nice to have someone to do those things with.

Maybe I need change.

There was something about Zayn, something in particular that he couldn't put his finger on. But he could sense it. It wasn't every day that Harry ran into someone like Zayn, someone who didn't really fit in with the type of people he saw in Montclair every day. Someone who lived on the streets, who didn't have a life plan, who didn't know what their next move was going to be; completely and utterly unlike Harry. And Zayn intrigued Harry, made him wonder more about who he really was deep down and what his life had been like. It was probably more interesting than any stories Harry could share.

And he looked over at Zayn on the drive home after work, who was leaning back in the front seat of his Volvo, noticing then that he looked a little on the thin side. He had incredible bone structure, but his cheeks seemed a tad hollow and he had these slightly dark circles under his eyes, as if he wasn't sleeping very well. And his lips were a bit chapped from what Harry assumed was probably a combination of the cold air and being dehydrated. Harry frowned slightly before starting up a conversation, hoping he could understand more about Zayn.

"So...how long have you been homeless for?"

"Eh, I've been runnin away from foster homes since I was 12. But I left my last one like, two weeks ago. They didn't fuckin want me there anyway, never did. I was livin in Philly but it got bad, so I just took a bus here," Zayn explained as he manually rolled the window down of Harry's Volvo.

"What made you come to Montclair?"

"I heard it was safe," Zayn said softly.

Safe.

Montclair was a safe place in comparison to Philadelphia, Harry reasoned. Nothing terrible really ever happened in a small town like his. You could leave your doors unlocked and no one would rob you. You could trust your neighbors. You could sleep on a bench in front of a public library on the brink of winter and someone would offer you a place to stay.

Once they returned back to Harry's home on the outskirts of town, Zayn silently followed him inside and looked around as he walked through the living room, taking it all in and Harry stayed quiet, letting him observe.

The inside of Harry's cottage was homey, rustic, filled with plants and framed artwork. The walls were painted this specific shade of Parisian blue and Harry chose a color palette of pale yellows and cream colors to compliment it. He was a man of aesthetics, taste, and put a lot more effort into his appearance and the elements of design, probably more than other men he knew. And he wasn't sure why he cared about details; he just did.

Harry hadn't done much to the second bedroom in all the years he owned that house because hardly anyone ever stayed in it, but he started setting Zayn up in there because it was the only available room he had in the two bedroom cottage.

It was located across from the bathroom and right right next to his own bedroom. It was rather small and on the plain side with off-white walls and just a twin sized bed beneath the double hung window with long, navy blue curtains. And there was a navy blue comforter to match that rested on top of the bed, never been used, but adorned with tiny white embroidered ships. Opposite the bed hanging on the wall laid a vintage brass anchor and beneath it, an oak dresser with an old, black Crosley record player that was still covered in dust because Harry only ever used the one in his living room.