Winters in London are cold. Harry drinks tea to keep warm. Lena doesn't like that. She's much more of a coffee person, really.

When you're about to give up during the zombie apocalypse and Zayn Malik saves you, you don't succumb into depression--you fight for your life because the world might count on you to continue the human race. You will take the challenge with a grain of salt and an eyeful of tattoo-covered abs.

Nothing but intoxication. Nothing but a cold soul in the middle of the night, when the moon is at it's highest and his glass is at his lowest. When his hand raises, it's enough for me to beg on my knees. It's enough for me to fend for myself, to stop myself from saying anything that intensifies his anger, to stop him from going any further and worsening his canvas. My body - his canvas.

"orion, it says here that from your mythological background . . . you're a hunter." "yeah." harry stared at me with his eyebrows furrowed as he rested his chin on his palm. staring into his eyes is as the same experience as being lost in a forest full of beautiful, green trees. and i wouldn't mind being lost because i'd rather spend my time being preoccupied into something as beautiful as the forest rather than spend my time finding my way back. "orion, what the fuck?!" he suddenly exclaimed. i was stunned with his choice of words that were completely arbitrary. i chuckled. "what?" "orion, did you hunt my heart by stealing cupid's bow and arrow? to shoot me straight into my heart? to make me fall hopelessly in love with you?" note: involves a little bit of mature content

“take these sunken eyes and learn to see.”