A Journalist and a Singer [h.s]

14.

This is my favorite chapter, so i hope you like it :))

Maggie's POV:

It's dark now, the headlights of my car reflecting off of the next, the stars barely visible from the city lights. The only sounds you can hear is the tires on the road, a low hum from some 80's station on the radio, and Harry's quick breathing.

He hasn't said a word, but his actions and body language are doing all the talking for him. His leg is bouncing, his breaths are deep and heavy, his hands are shaking, his whole body on the verge of trembling. He keeps rubbing his legs like he's waiting for something to happen, like the alarm to ring or the other shoe to drop.

I haven't said anything to him. I don't want him to feel pressured to say anything back, or explain what I walked into. He needed a drive, I'm driving. I don't usually ask questions, I just do what he needs to feel okay again. Sometimes we talk as a distraction, but tonight we sit in silence, riding along a road that seems to lead to nowhere. He doesn't say anything until I reach the other side of the city.

"I didn't, by the way. I didn't drink any." he says, like he's worried that I'm judging him.

"I didn't think you did." I say giving him a kind smile. He locks eyes with me for a quick second before looking back out the window.

His leg continues to bounce, his hands still shaking tremendously. He's craving something to drink, and doing everything in his power to shake it off. His eyes dart to everything out of the window, to the light posts, to the cars passing by. He can't concentrate on anything when he's like this. It reminds me all too well of the drives we took back before I knew anything about this double life he leads.

"It's probably not safe to be out here right now." he says, chuckling to himself. I laugh as well, thinking back on the day it's been.

"I'll take my chances." I say, staring back at the road.

"I'm sorry you had to see that earlier. I was trying to keep you away from all of this." he says, gesturing around him. I assume he's talking about the fire and what happened with Nick.

"I'm sorry you had to do it." I rebuttal. He nods, but doesn't say anything. He's shaking less now, his knee still.

"You can turn around whenever you want." He says, his voice more steady. He sounds more sure of himself. I nod in agreement, turning around on the lonesome road.

"So your grandfather..." he says carefully, seeing how I react.

"Yeah, shocker huh?" I laugh it off, not really processing it all. I'm sure the shock will hit me eventually, but right now it's one of the last things on my mind. 

"This is so much more serious than I realized." he says, folding his hands in his lap. "But it'll be alright. It has to be, can't get much worse than this."

"I'm sure it can, but I like your thinking so I'm gonna go with it." I chuckle, looking over to him. We share a smile and then look back to our respective sides of the car.

We drive back to the bunker in silence, but the tension in the air is a little more breathable. I can't help but look over at him as he stares out the window. His curls are falling into his eyes, his fingers are subconsciously picking at his lip, ink littering his body. You'd be lying if you said he wasn't attractive. I let out a quiet laugh to myself, but he overheard.

"What?" he asks, slightly worried.

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking." I tell him, technically not lying.

We make it back to the bunker around 8 pm, parking next to the SUV with a few bullet holes in it. Tate is in a tank top, jeans, and a flannel wrapped around his waist as he fixes something under the hood, a cigarette between his lips. He turns towards us as we get out of the car.