"Is the print too busy?"

He snickers and I frown before glancing at the full length mirror again.

"Seriously babe? That's your style. Besides, anything looks good on you. You could made a garbage bag trendy."

I laugh and wrap my arms around him, my head resting on his shoulder.

"But it's your credit card."

"Don't care," he mumbles. "You're worth it."

"Ever made out in a fitting room?"

He shakes his head and I clutch onto the tail of his shirt, fisting it up in my hand.

"First for everything," he beams.

He turns to face me, our warm bodies pressed against each other.

"Fuck you look good in glasses."

He gives a little smirk and it drives me wild. My lips find his and my arms loop loosely around his neck. I pant into his mouth and he presses me against the wall.

It's cold and it makes me shiver but his body is feverish, his lips hungry. My heart is thudding so loud in my chest I can't hear my thoughts.

I don't care if we're not the only ones in here. It feels like there's no one else in the world.

"What do you want to do today," his breath ghosts my neck.

I'm about to respond when his teeth tug at my earlobe and I can't find words. I can't even summon any breath. A small little gasp escapes my mouth as his lips move to suck love bites into my neck. My heartbeat is erratic, frantically pounding away as he locks my arms up over my head and pulls off my shirt.

"Shhh, we gotta be quiet babe."

His hands roam over my torso and his fingers stop at my right nipple, rolling it slowly. My teeth sink into my bottom lip and I fight back a moan.

The vibration of his phone in his pocket makes him stop. He fumbles for it, his face dropping before he presses decline.

I try to pretend I didn't see the name that flashed across the screen but it's unnerving so I pull away.

"Sorry. I can't do this."

"This has nothing to do with us being in a fitting room, does it?"

I shake my head silently and he cups a hand behind my head.

We swap saliva once again and share oxygen. He's pouring everything he has into this kiss but I don't need convincing.

When he moves away he smiles gently, realizing the fragility of the moment.

"I just want you to know," he exhales softly. "There's a reason I didn't answer the call."

...

The slip of paper flitters before settling on the quilt.

Unanswered calls but never you. I always heed your call.

"Sorry," he mutters. Our fingers brush as he leans down to pick it up.

A sharp gust of wind blows my hair and it's a disheveled mess. He chuckles and tousles it more. I steal his chocolate covered strawberry just to get even.

"Never been on a picnic. Sam wasn't the type."

He frowns and takes a sip of his lemonade before scribbling something in his notebook.

I tilt my head curiously, my mischevious eyes searching his. "What are you writing about babe?"

"You. How you stole my strawberry but you're even sweeter. I'll have you know, I have quite a craving for sweets."

My lips find his and his tongue skims over mine.

Now he can have a taste too.

"There are subtle things I pick up on every moment I spend with you. How you twiddle with the rings on your fingers when you're nervous and how you run your fingers through your hair when you're feeling uncertain. How you could squirt a whole spray can of whipped cream in your mouth and not get sick."

I laugh until my sides hurt. It isn't particularly funny but he's grinning, the ocean breeze feels nice against my cheek and everything is how it's supposed to be.

"You curl your lip when you're concentrating and get frustrated when your handwriting starts to slope downward. And you hum late at night when you can't fall asleep, just a little tickle in the back of your throat."

His smile reaches the corner of his eyes and he presses his nose to mine.

"Your curls tickle me at night and sometimes you're hard," he teases. "Dreaming of me of course."

My cheeks flush as I suck my bottom lip into my mouth.

"And you're still bashful. Bashful but beautiful."

I let my thumbs rub circles along his cheekbones as I reply "You have a thing for alliteration. You're always so good with your words, know just what to say-"

He kisses me again, stealing my breath and I think to myself over and over

he knows

just what to say,

just what to do

to make me lose

my mind

to make me delirious

to make me high

to send my nerves

on edge

to push me to

the brink

to make my cheeks

flush pink

to make my lips

tingle,

his name on

the tip of

my tongue

so good with

his words

and his tender

hands

his heart

so gentle

his love

so good

so good

so good

so good

so good

"The chocolate is going to melt, better catch up on the strawberries."

He laughs lightly; bubbly.

There isn't a care in the world. No marks in red ink or lectures or lesson plans.

"That isn't the only thing that's melting."

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"You gonna answer that?"

He bites into a strawberry and shrugs his shoulders.

"Zayn," I say sternly.

"Harry," he mocks.

He lies down, his back pressing against the plush quilt. I sigh but do the same, my fingers entwining with his.

"He isn't important right now. I'm with you."

And he's here with me, his gaze landing on a sailboat off in the distance.

Everything carries me

to you, as if everything

that exists; aromas, lights, metals, were little

boats that sail towards

those isles of yours that wait for me

Neruda has a poem for everything.

Waves lick their way to the shore, lapping and ebbing back out to sea. It's a beautiful symphony, the repetition filling my ears.

There's a shattered piece of green glass partly embedded in the sand nearby. Cheap beer. A cheap person, littering in a drunken state. Zayn catches sight of it too, saying my eyes are that color.

It's intened as a compliment of course, it does look rather pretty glinting under the sun but it's broken and discarded. Jagged edges that could slice through skin.

"I don't know if that's a good comparison."

I keep expecting his phone to ring again but it doesn't.

The ocean keeps calling but his phone makes no sound.

"It sounded more endearing in my head."

He turns to face me, a smile cracking on his face and laughter spills out of me.

"Just when I praised you for being good with words, you go and say my eyes resemble a broken beer bottle."

"Oh hush," he reprimands. One last giggle leaves me before I ask

"May I read your notebook?"

And to that he gives an answer.

A/N: FUCKING PHONE CALLS