And then he notices the bump on the guy’s head, and the scrape on his jaw, and it hits him. Unconscious guy from the bank, the one Zayn figured had tried to stop the robbery all by himself.
“I should probably get going,” the guy says, rocking back on his heels. “I’m Liam, by the way.”
He’s holding out his hand, and it takes Zayn almost a full minute to realize he’s supposed to shake it. So he reaches out, clasping Liam’s hand in his, and as soon as they touch Liam jerks his hand back, hissing in pain.
Zayn’s eyes widen. Shit, shit, shit. This is why he doesn’t talk to people. This is why his social circle consists of a psychotic teleporter, a hostile telepath with super strength , and a reclusive genius who spends most of his free time monitoring the city’s security cameras.
“Shit,” Zayn moans. “I’m so—”
“Must have burned myself while working,” Liam muses, looking down at the red welt already forming on his palm. “Guess I didn’t notice it. And I didn’t get your name.”
“I'm… Zayn,” Zayn says slowly, as if he’d somehow forgotten or something. Fuck, he’s an idiot.