Adore [H.S.]

26

Habits (Stay High) - Tove Lo

HARRY

The drive back to London from Manchester was long. Too fucking long. If I had to drive in my car for another minute, I was about to lose my shit. I guess that's what happens when I decide to leave the day after Christmas. Everyone and their dog is out on the road, getting to their next destination. A car ride that should have taken me four hours turned into six. I was fucking ready to run my car into a tree.

I pull up in front of Ben's apartment. The lights are off throughout the whole building. I make my way up to our floor. The moment I walk inside, I am hit with a cold breeze. Who the hell left the window open? It's a good thing we're on the seventeenth floor, or I'd be fucking worried that someone broke into this place. But, to be sure, I do a quick walk through of the apartment, making sure nobody was in the place and that nothing was stolen.

After making sure all was well, I make my way over to the kitchen. I open up the top cupboard and grab a mug. The water begins to boil in the kettle. A low grumbling sound emits from the pit of my empty stomach and cuts the silence in the kitchen. To my luck, there is no food in the fridge.

Of fucking course. No food. Where is my fucking phone. Opening up my duffle bag, I search through the mess of black t-shirts and sweaters in hopes that my phone is somewhere inside. Thankfully, I retrieve it from the bottom of the bag and begin to dial the number for a local pizzeria.

Forty-five minutes later, I am sat in only my boxers on the couch with a gooey slice of pizza in my hand and the remote in the other. I flick through the channels, getting increasingly more annoyed with each passing rerun of some overplayed Christmas movie. The holiday was over. I didn't understand why TV networks felt the need to play A Christmas Carol every fucking hour. The movie was shit in comparison to the book anyways. Granted, every movie was relatively more shitty than the book. You just couldn't beat a novel. As much as those snobby Hollywood directors try, it's impossible to emulate the same story, emotions, and characters that an author does with his or her novel.

Granted, Peter Jackson didn't fuck up too bad with The Lord Of The Rings. I'd give him that.

Becoming increasingly more bored by the minute, I grab my cell phone. Opening up a brand new message, I type in a simple text.

You should come here. To my apartment. I'm home.

Seconds later, my phone begins to buzz.

Are you alone?

I quickly respond, Yup. Come now.

Okay. xx

Patiently, I sit and wait for her to come. I grab another slice of pizza, eating it quickly. My I look down at my half naked body, but don't bother to put on clothes. I know for a fact that would be a waste of time. My clothes would be off of me the moment she comes here anyways.

Minutes go by. Fifteen minutes later my door beeps. I buzz her in and wait for the soft knock to come from the door. I open it up and I am met with the familiar head of blonde hair. "Hey," I smirk down at her. She blushes automatically but doesn't hesitate to smash her lips against mine.

Hanna's fingers dig into my scalp as she fists a head full of curls. "I've missed you," she whispers against my lips. I don't say anything back before I crash my lips against hers again.

I ignore the nagging feeling that kicks me in the gut. This is fucked up man. You're leading the poor girl on. Ignoring the words that my snarky subconscious speaks, I continue to kiss her. I wrap my hands around her body and lift her up while managing to shut and lock the door behind her.