BLACKHOUSE [H.S.]

Twenty-Three

My cheeks burn as the hot tears drip down to my chin, and into my hands that are covering my face.

What the fuck just happened?

"Katie, hey, it's alright," Harry attempts to comfort me as he speeds down the freeway. "We're safe."

"We're not fucking safe Harry!" I scream, lifting my face from my hands. "You heard him, we have to go back next week!"

"I know, but-"

"No, you got me into this," I seethe, clenching my jaw. "I can't do that again. I won't."

"Do I need to remind you that you were the one who followed me into that warehouse?" Harry argues, glancing at me angrily before shifting his attention back to the road. "I'm not the only one to blame here."

I shake my head, wiping my cheeks with my sleeves. I hate to admit it, but he's right. I should have listened; I should have stayed in the car.

Why the fuck did I get out of the car?

I stay quiet for a while, the only sound is the wind outside and my soft sniffling. "Where are we going?" I finally ask, my voice raspy from crying.

"I'm taking you home," he montones, getting off on the exit near my apartment. I feel my nerves pick up at the thought of going home to my empty apartment, by myself.

"Harry, I-" I breathe, biting my lip as I debate whether or not I really want to ask him this question.

"What?" He presses, looking at me with furrowed brows.

He drives slowly through the streets of my neighborhood, finally pulling over across the street from my building. He puts the car in park, and turns his body to face me.

"I-I don't want to stay alone," I whisper, my eyes brimming with tears again.

Why is it always so embarrassing to ask for help?

"Do you want me to call Cass for you?" He suggests, raising a brow.

I mentally curse at him for making me ask again. "It's too late, it would only worry her," I shake my head. "Please, Harry. I need you to stay with me; I can't be alone tonight."

I'm afraid if I go in there alone, I'm going to hurt myself, and I don't want to do that. I can't do that.

I hate that self harm is always my first instinct when something bad happens.

He blinks at me a few times, as if he's wondering if he heard me right. I pick at my cuticles anxiously, my nerves getting worse the longer it takes him to answer.

"Okay," is all that he says as he turns his car off.

"Really?" I hesitate, waiting for him to tell me he's joking.

"Yes, just shut up about it," he mumbles, unbuckling his seat belt and opening his door.

I scramble to get out of the car as he walks toward my building.