Zayn pushed the bedroom door open with more force than he intended, the heavy wood hitting the stopper with a dull thud that echoed in the quiet darkness of the room.
His breath was uneven, thickened by whiskey and frustration, and despite the alcohol swirling through his veins, he walked with the sharp, impulsive determination of a man hanging by a thread.
The room was dim, only the faint moonlight slipping through the sheer curtains, casting pale silver across the bed—their bed. And in it, curled beneath the duvet, was Lana, her dark hair scattered across the pillow in soft waves, her breathing slow and deep, unaware that her presence alone was tormenting him into madness.
He stood still for a moment, his chest rising and falling quickly as he stared at her, resentment and desire war
