“Pen, goddamn it, don’t you dare shut down now. Give me something, anything. It’s important.” “Why?” “Please, Pen.” Our gazes clash, our breath mingles, and I get the distinct impression that Zayn isn’t a man who pleads very often, that he doesn’t beg for anything. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s showing a more vulnerable side, the absolute misery in his gaze—or the fact that I’ve missed his touch, him, so much—but I give him the only thing I can in the moment. My kiss. My lips smash against his as I grip hold of the lapels of his jacket and yank him close. I kiss him in anger and with love.
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