I can't explain the joy that rushes through me when Zayn's face fills my screen. He's shirtless, lying on his bed, one thick arm behind his head, the other holding the phone up.
Here in Melbourne, it's 8 p.m., which means it's 1 a.m. back in L.A.
He must've set an alarm for me.
"Hey, baby," he rasps, his voice rough with sleep.
Goosebumps race across my skin. "Hi."
Zayn smirks lazily, his black eyes heavy-lidded. "You're wearing my jersey."
I glance down at the sleeveless oversized thing that drowns me out.
It's the only thing I have on me right now. Not even undies.
"Yup. Stole it from your room before you packed out and I left. Smells like you."
"Hm." He rasps. "Looks good on you."
His hoarse voice makes me ache between my legs.
"Tell me about your day," Zayn asks.
I'm so
