"Give me the goddamn phone Zayn."

I startle him a bit, he shudders and the headboard slams into the wall. His skin is glistening, a thin sheen of sweat coating it. My heart has just settled down but his touch is still on me. I can still feel him.

"We just made love and you're texting him? Hand it over."

He grunts, placing it on the bedside table. "Why do you not trust me?"

"Why don't you block his number?"

"Would that make you happy?" I nod silently and he taps away at his phone.

"Consider it done."

He kisses my forehead and I nuzzle into the crook of his neck.

"I love you," I murmur into his skin.

He doesn't even have to reply. Sometimes it's the unspoken words that mean the most. His lips find every inch of my face and I giggle, my fingers scratching at his stubble as he pulls away.

It doesn't hang in the air for long becsuse his fingers lace with mine and the words slide off his tongue "I love you with every fiber of my being."

"I want to do something special for you Zayn. Come on. Get up."

He laughs at my enthusiasm as I tug him out of bed.

"Where'd you get those glasses babe?"

"They're fake," I blurt out obviously. He chuckles and my cheeks redden as I straighten them on the bridge of my nose.

"You wear them as a fashion statement and here I am wearing them because I can't read up close for shit."

I laugh as I throw my hair into a bun.

"Shut up."

He pinches my cheeks and coos, "you're so cute when you're angry."

"Get dressed cheekbones."

He rolls his eyes playfully. His hair has gotten long too and he puts it in a ponytail. I want to tug on it but that would probably turn him on and we'd be here all day.

"So I have this idea..."

"Great," he jokes. "Hope we live until tomorrow."

"I have a feeling you're going to like it. Last night I did some research."

"Research?"

"You'll see."

...

"It's just a small cafe Harry. I don't get it."

I frown, thinking it's quaint and cozy. The stage is already up and a small crowd has gathered, people buzzing and murmuring.

"What's going on?"

I hush him and order us some triangle cut chicken salad sandwiches and a fruit bowl.

A woman with frizzy auburn hair taps on the microphone, a smile on her face.

"Thank you guys for joining our annual slam poetry competition."

Zayn nearly chokes on his strawberry lemonade and I have to slap his back.

"How'd you find out about this?"

I just smirk and shrug nonchalantly. He lets every word sink in, his hands raw as he claps for each poet, the way their words sway your heart and make your breath get caught in your throat. But he doesn't expect me to find the stage, a lopsided smile on my face.

i know

when you

kissed him

it wasn't

really him.

your lips

touched

but it was

the flavor

of someone else

in your mouth

a different

feeling

on your

tongue

you kissed him

because his lips

were convenient

but tell me,

what did it

feel like

because love

is soft

and his lips

were rough

and his hands

were greedy

and now

i have

kissed you

enough times

to know

you taste like

poetry

i will never

write

"You didn't," he inhales sharply, his hand trembling as he reaches for his glass. "Tell me you were performing."

"Sorry I thought-"

"How," he shallows. "How do you know his hands were greedy?"

"Were they Zayn?"

He nods but doesn't speak. It's always the words unspoken. The silence that flooded my ears before the roar of applause. What was left floating in the air.

"Sometimes I didn't even want it. I was such a pushover. I..." he wipes away a lonely tear and my heart shatters as it drops to the bottom of my chest. "Love is soft," his whisper gets lost. "Fuck Harry. Your lips are soft. Your love is soft. Dammit."

"Hey," I lean across the table, my hands cupping his face. "Leave some syllables in my mouth."

He nods, understanding my request and kisses me firmly, making me dizzy because we're in public and he doesn't give a damn. His tongue is still searching mine, soft noises hitting the back of my throat. All the poems I can never write, emotions I can't form into words, all left in a little trail on my tongue. He tastes like strawberries and pineapples and passion. His lips feel like dew on grass and the warmth of the sun on my shoulders and a light drizzle when you just want to cuddle up in a hoodie and read a book. He's starlight and nectar and the seven seas.

I can't get over it.

The taste he leaves in my mouth, the poetry he etches.

Using no words at all.

We pull apart. I'm breathless. Even if I wanted to speak I can't. My tongue is tied, my brain sticky. He can't seem to muster words either.

Nobody is even watching us. We're tucked away in a corner, near a window.

We could do it again

a

n d

a

g a i n

unspoken

w o r d

s

"Thank you for this," he breaks the silence. "This was nice."

His lashes graze across his cheek as he blinks, the sun is filtering across the left side of his face. He's radiant, his tan skin glowing in the glimmering light. I want my tounge to taste him, to lap up the sunlight. It's unfortunate really, he has no idea how beautiful he is.

"You're breathtakingly gorgeous. It actually hurts to stare at you for too long."

He laughs lightly but my thumb traces over his bottom lip and the tip of his tongue finds the pad.

"He never told you that, did he?"

He shakes his head so I tell him again just so he's certain.

"You're beautiful Zayn."

💕