Ignition [h.s]

05

HARRY STYLES

I wince as a fresh rivulet of blood trails down my cheek, I think the Rivals almost collapsed my eye socket if the tender throb in my skull is anything to go by. There's a searing pain in my side from where the leader struck me with a shard of the fractured statue and I need to take it out before I'm forced to go to the hospital.

"Are you okay?" A frail voice comes from my left and then I remember that Elise is stood in the dark doorframe of the store cupboard still.

Does it fucking look like I'm okay?

Her hands are trembling as her eyes survey the blood-stained floor and her messy blonde hair sticks in strands across her tear-stained cheeks. She's wearing a white cropped top with beige high waisted jeans and some white boots with black laces.

As innocent as she looks, she throws a detrimental wrench in my plans now she's watched me fight off five robbers. Even worse, I'm pretty sure the robbers saw her. My throat grows tight at what this could mean for me, for her. Before, she was just an overbearing and slightly annoying shadow at American Gothic Art Gallery. Now she's like a clueless phantom causing me more trouble than she's worth.

I swallow the lump in my throat and wobble over to the lobby counter, swiping a blind palm around for some alcohol. I need to clean my cuts up and calm my erratic thoughts down before I can even begin to decipher my next move.

"Styles?" My last name is delivered in her annoyingly soft tone. She's stood by the counter now too, watching me with her wide green eyes. There's a hint of fear in her dilated pupils and her irises are a shade which I detest, so I don't look into them for long.

"Why are you calling me Styles?" I ask curiously. In any other circumstances, I would have laughed at her for addressing me by my last name, but the situation we're in is anything but amusing.

"Well, I don't know your name. I heard that guy call you Styles." She clarifies before wandering behind the counter and tugging a first aid kit off the wall. She sets it atop the counter and flips open the lid, digging through bandages and medical equipment, seeming to have completely shaken off her previous bout of nervousness.

"I'm Harry." I introduce myself begrudgingly. Not because I want to, but because her innocent eyes somehow trip me into talking. That sort of thing never happens with me, normally I'm the one pulling answers out of people. The change in dynamic makes me feel weak.

She looks at me doubtfully for a moment, as though I'm lying about my name, before shrugging and returning to pulling out bottles of liquid and tissues.

"What are you doing?" It's my turn to ask the questions now. She picks up a few things and cradles them in her arms as she rounds the counter again so that she's stood in front of me. She's quite a bit smaller than I am so she has to peer up to look into my eyes, but she speaks indignantly all the same. "Sit down." She commands.

"What? Why?"

"You're injured, aren't you?" She furrows her brows like I'm the stupidest person in the world, holding up the contents in her arms to confirm her statement. I'm confused why she'd want to help me after all of the times I've yelled at her and treated her with no remorse whatsoever. It'd make my life easier to bark at her to go away right now, like I have done easily so many times before. She always listens to me when I yell, I think she gets scared of me. But for some reason the roof of my mouth is dried shut and I can't seem to get my words out.

"Come on Harry Styles," she tests my name out on her tongue for the first time. "Let's get your wounds cleaned quickly. I'm sure the cops are on their way."