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I should probably be strong for him. He’s the one who went through a traumatic experience—not only physically, but mentally too—but I’m absolutely petrified.

I know he’s okay. I heard the doctor explain in that hospital room that he is out of danger, that they kept us waiting so long before letting us see him because they had run every possible test and scan to make sure everything was fine.

But the fear inside me refuses to disappear.

I don’t realize how much time passes as I remain in that position, my head still resting against the door, until a hand slides gently around my waist.

“I’m right here,” he whispers into my hair.

His scent envelops me, bringing the same comfort—and stirring the same overwhelming emotion—it always does.

Placing my hand over his, I straighten slowly and let my head rest on his shoulder.

But it’s not enough.

Nothing feels like enough.

So I turn in his embrace, searching his eyes, studying every familiar detail as I lose myself in that hypnotizing shade of blue.

“I could’ve lost you,” I whisper, my voice trembling as tears begin slipping down my cheeks again. “I could’ve been left without you, Zayn.”

This time, my voice breaks entirely.

His hand moves to the back of my head, drawing me firmly into his chest. And with my face pressed into him, I finally let myself cry freely.

I cry from the relief of knowing he’s here.

I cry because of the terror that nearly tore me apart.

I cry because of the emptiness that swallowed me whole until the moment I saw him lying in that hospital bed with his eyes open.

“I’m really okay, pixie,” he murmurs over and over, trying to reassure me that none of this is some terrible dream, trying to calm me down. “I’m here, and I promise I’ll always stay right beside you.”

He lets me cry until every ounce of fear has drained out of me, until my tears finally run dry and exhaustion settles deep into my bones.

And then I realize he’s been standing this entire time because of me, when he should be resting.

“Oh my God,” I cry out. “You shouldn’t be standing this long, babe.”

I gently take his uninjured hand and lead him to the stairs.

“I can stand just fine, pixie,” he says, amusement threading through his voice.

“Yeah, but you were told not to,” I remind him firmly. “And that you need to rest.”

I make sure we climb the stairs painfully slowly, watching him carefully to see if it’s too much effort, if any movement seems to cause him pain.

We finally reach the top floor and head for the bedroom, but he doesn’t let me pull him to the bed. He stops in the middle of the room, forcing me to stop too.

I look up at him with wide eyes, terrified that something is wrong.

But he glances at the walk-in closet and says, “I wanted to come home because I needed to see our closet with my own eyes.” Then he looks back at me, his mouth lifting into a grin. “And because I wanted to fuck you in every corner of it.”

Sighing, I chuckle softly as he guides me into the closet.

“You’re delusional if you think there’s going to be any kind of sex between us before I hear from the doctors that you’re fully recovered.”

Zayn freezes instantly and shoots me a genuinely horrified look.