𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋! | harry styles

𝐗𝐗𝐈

THE front door clicks shut, leaving the apartment quiet.

He should leave me. Run far, far away. God. The guy should have left me months ago.

But he didn't.

He won't.

I don't know how I know, but I do.

In the wake of the horrific events of the night before, with a bruised body and my emotional state even more fragile, I feel... awake. Like someone has poured ice-cold water over me.

As awful as it was, what happened with Alex was like a slap in the face.

A wakeup call.

Harry is right; I can't keep doing this. Not to myself, and certainly not to Cody.

Throwing back the bed sheets, I jump into the shower quickly, scrubbing off the filth of the night before, and then call Pete at the diner. I feel awful, especially knowing that it means another day without pay, but I'm so tired I can feel it all the way down to my bones. Not to mention that a black eye would raise all sorts of questions I really don't want to answer.

Wiping the steam from the mirror, I turn my face in the bathroom light, checking the bruise that covers my cheekbone. The skin is still swollen and red, and there are already patches of dark purple and blue showing beneath my eye and across my cheek. I touch it gingerly, hissing at the pain that lances through my face as I do. Dressed in my towel, I walk to the freezer to grab another bag of peas to help with the inflammation.

Harry arrives just as I'm wrapping the frozen pack in a kitchen towel.

He stands inside the front door, his keys still in his hands, and my fingers tighten around the towel as his eyes travel up my bare legs. I can feel my hair dripping water down my back and over my shoulders, but it's the heat in Harry's eyes that makes me shiver.

A grin creeps across his face, the architecture of his face drawing my eyes to him like a magnet. "Go put some clothes on," he says, tossing his keys on the table beside him.

I press the peas to my cheek and slip quietly back into the bedroom. I dress in a sweater and leggings, and tie my wet hair up and off my shoulders. The smell of coffee draws me out of the bedroom, and by the time I come out Harry is sitting at the kitchen table, two steaming mugs of fresh coffee in front of him.

He sits up as I enter, his mug clasped between his hands. He nods his head toward the seat beside him. "Sit."

Tucking my legs beneath me, I sit cross-legged on the kitchen chair across from him.

"How are you feeling?"

I shrug, blowing across the top of my coffee. "Fine, I guess. A little bruised and battered, a sore head, but otherwise fine."

Harry's long fingers slide around his mug. "You want to talk to the police?"

My head shakes instantly and painfully. "I don't want the police involved. I just..." I think of Nick. Of Leah. Of what would happen if I went to the police. "...don't."

Harry doesn't seem fazed. I watch his thumbs skim the side of the coffee cup, his face pensive. "Okay," he says finally. "I get that."