Don't Burn Out (Currently Editing)

Sixty Six

POV Tiffany

Oh my god. Before me is a beautifully hand-crafted 1945 Porsche Speedster with the body of the darkest raven and wrapped with a bow the color of a passionate lover's blood.

"Zayn, t-that's a Porsche Speedster. Oh my god. It's beautiful."

Zayn stands with the same awestruck expression as myself. He strokes the leather seat of his bike. "A BMW. Jesus this is a beautiful bike."

This simply can't be the other present he talked of. Across the passenger seat lies a stack of books. My favorites. Zayn knows that I have copies of all these books. I pluck the top book off, Breakfast At Tiffany's. The worn, weathered finish to the book confuses me. I hold the book gently as if it were a rare work of art because in my mind it's more. After all, it is my favorite book. I flip the cover and turn each page with a whisper touch. On the second page, written in black delicate cursive scrawl, is Truman Capote's signature.

I trace the signature, feeling the dents where he stopped to slash his Ts and where the oils of his hand stained the page. This isn't a print; this is handwritten ink. The agedness and the signature tell me everything. This is an original copy. This has to be at least a hundred or so dollars. Each book held the same aged look and hand written signature. Breakfast At Tiffany's. To Kill A Mockingbird. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. The Outsiders.

"Zayn, these can't be mine. . .all this. . .you must have spent thousands."

"I'm glad you like it; I was a bit worried you wouldn't. I know you like Lamborghinis, and I was going to buy you a Tiffany Blue Aventador, y'know to be cheesy everything. But no matter how hard I tried to picture it, I could never see you driving a Lambo. They just don't fit your personality. They're too modern--"

"H--" I start to tell him off.

"Shh, baby. I didn't mean that as an insult. It's just. . .you're so vintage, but somehow you make 1950 look like 2014 and vice versa. Timeless and never going out of style. You're so unique, Tiffany. I've never met anyone quite like you. You're brave, beautiful, and adorable. Kinda preppy in a way, but you have a certain edge. Like I previously stated, you're an angel with a bit of hell. You kind remind me of Classic, the song by that band you like, MKTO. This still isn't any less cheesy than buying you the Tiffany Blue Lambo, but at least this is more you."

I look over the car again. "I have no idea what to say."

"That's good because I have a lot to say about my motorcycle," Zayn continues, going on about his bike: the sleek black finish, the hum of the engine, the sleekness of the body.

We talk, soon forgetting the topic of his new bike as well as the snow and cold. At least it was like that until the snow came down harder than before and blanketed everything in a raw, cotton colored sheet.

"Well I guess it's time to go in."

"Yeah."

New York's blizzard storm is hot on our tails as we put away our new toys. I relieve myself of the painful death traps that adorn my feet and the tight pencil skirt. Black leggings and a red Christmas sweater of Zayn's

He complains of me never wearing my own clothes. "...that's why I can never find my clothes." (AN: My parents have the same argument every day.)

-:-:-:-:-

POV Zayn

As the storm outside speeds up and the snow covers the windows and roof, I hold Tiffany's sleeping body closely under a wool blanket. Her curls tickle my jaw. Her cheeks blossom a faint red. Mrs. Bristol called about an hour ago. She was going to stay in the pack house.

The credits of Casablanca roll down the television screen. She had fallen asleep halfway through, but I don't mind. She needed rest. Sleeping off some of the alcohol she consumed today would do some good.

I adjust her into a more comfortable position, and my hands fall on her slightly muscled, tone tummy. An image of her full belly with my child coats my brain. I'd like a child in the near future. A little girl that looks exactly like her beautiful mother. I place my hands on her bare stomach, imagining a little girl growing a few layers under my palms. A baby with skin like hers, chocolate colored doll-like orbs that glow like amber sap in the sun, and little black ringlets that bounce around whenever she moves.

My little girl would be brave even when it was dark. She would know it's okay to be vulnerable sometimes, but she won't let the dark win. She will know how to fight a battle. I refuse to let her be a Rapunzel waiting for someone to save her when she could save herself. She would be like her mother: strong and brave.

I join Tiffany in slumber with thoughts of my unconceived child on my mind.

POV Tiffany

I wasn't asleep.

In the month that I completely lost myself, I learned to feign sleep. I am nothing like the woman he thought of me as. I want my future daughter to be that woman, but I am not her. I want to be there for her, Zayn, my mother, the pack, and the several packs we now have control over, for my unborn children. I will become that woman.

When my depression and PTSD come to swallow me alive within the next hour or next week. Whenever I have my next "bad day," I swear on everything I love: my mini library, all the good people in my life, my movies, and shoes that I will raise my sword, and I will fight. If I am overcome by darkness, I'll wait for the next sunrise then raise my sword again. Even if it takes a thousand days, I will stand tall over my demons; I swear I will. I don't want to be weak anymore.

I carefully slip out of Zayn's arms, careful to not wake him. I decide that I will make him a Christmas dinner because my mother is staying in the main house.

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Hey guys,

Soo..Zayn left. And all we got was a Facebook post from Modest!. I just..idk I just want to cry, cry and only stop when our Adonis returns. I've accepted that Zayn might be happier, and all I want is for him to be happy even if that means him leaving. It's just I've been in this fandom for three years and their where signs we were all oblivious. Maybe we could've saved Zayn...

I've seen many WP Authors are editing Zayn from out of their stories.. I just can't. We can't continue this fandom as if Patricia never pulled Zayn out of bed. Zayn was here. He was our god. I don't care if I paid 10 or 16 million dollars to end his contract with Modest! he still and will always be a member of One Direction, and this is a One Direction fan fiction. I will not act like he never existed. I will not edit him from this story.

Remember, keep your heads up. We still have four boys that need a strong fandom.

If you need to talk here's how to get me bc I don't really check my Wattpad inbox:

Kik - miss_sass14

Twitter - @MsDirection1993

One more thing, guys I love you. Yeah, I don't know all of you, but I'd assume you all are Directioners that means you are family. Don't hesitate to send me a message.

-Ashley-

xoxo