Devil's Due [h.s.]

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

I'd resolved to myself that I wasn't going to sleep. That I was going to stay up all night, alert, and keep my wits about me like I had done the previous two nights here alone just in case that small part of me that was still slightly wary about Harry proved to be right.

Though it seemed that apparently, my subconscious felt much safer in this environment than I did, considering I ended up passing out only minutes after Harry had helped to half-drag me upstairs to the guest bedroom. I'd slept better than I had in days, something that I scolded myself for internally when I was suddenly wrenched out of my sleep this morning courtesy of a loud bang coming from somewhere in the house.

Sitting bolt upright, I pulled the comforter to my chin and brought my knees up to my chest. The noise had woken me up. It sounded like someone had thrown something.

"Oh God," I muttered, reaching over to grab my phone from the nightstand. It was 6:27 am. "Jesus." I ran a hand over my face, letting it rest at the base of my neck – taking solace in the heart that was still beating beneath my fingertips. For now, at least.

Another noise sounded out this time, muffled slightly, but enough that I jumped from the bed and quietly padded over to the doorway. Placing my ear flat against the wood, I listened for any sign of distress on the other side. Not that I really knew what I'd do if I did hear someone shouting or screaming. Nor did I think I'd want to deal with it anyway.

Nothing. There was silence on the other side now.

Steeling myself with a small breath, I cracked the door open a fraction, careful to do it with enough precision that the hinges didn't squeak.

Did Harry have a cat? Or a dog? I wondered as I slowly stepped into the hallway, trying to ignore the slight twinge of pain between my legs with every step. I feel like I would have seen a pet if he had one.

A few more noises sounded out while I rounded the corner to the stairwell, starting my slow descent on shaky legs. If I got killed thanks to a murderer in Harry's home, I was going to kill him. It was about halfway down the stairs that I realized I hadn't properly equipped myself for that specific scenario anyway, considering I'd left my knife upstairs, and would be left only to defend myself with my fists –

Music. There was music that I heard when I reached the bottom step. Something I definitely hadn't expected but I doubted an intruder would go so far as to throw on Running Gun Blues by David Bowie, the tune that currently wafted out from the kitchen and into the hallway where I was currently stood. The volume was low, but loud enough that I could make out the lyrics.

And when I took another few steps, peeking my head through the doorway, my chest suddenly bloomed in relief that the only murderer I currently had eyes on was one Harry Styles, who was facing the open fridge with his back to me.

He was clad in a pair of grey sweatpants and a sweater to match, different from the outfit he'd put on last night. His hair was pulled back with yet another headband and I couldn't help but wonder if he had a collection of them hidden somewhere – something I scolded myself for not trying to find last night when I'd been here alone.

Harry spun around, his face downcast toward the carton of eggs he'd grabbed, and I couldn't help but marvel for a few seconds at the way his brows pulled together and his lips moved silently, mouthing along to the lyrics of the song. He set down the carton beside the stovetop, reaching for the pan to his left, dragging it over in front of him.

My eyes were fixated on his hands, watching as his fingers flexed and wrapped around the handle of the pan, picking it up a few inches. I hadn't even realized his gaze had been drawn back upwards until the pan fell out of his grip and landed on the stovetop with a loud clatter – akin to the one that had woken me up this morning.