invasato [h.s]

23

Surprisingly, the remainder of my session with Harry wasn't a nightmare.

I feel a little more confident, and I learned some new things. Being somewhat civil with him made it easier to actually listen.

Obviously I'll need more practice, but hopefully I won't be randomly attacked until that point. It's sort of scary to think that people involved in organized crime want to hurt me, even if it is just Leo and Marco.

They already got to Harry again and hurt him. If they got to me—the one that shot one of them—I'd surely get a worse punishment.

My hands grip the edge of the bench I'm sitting on in the lobby of the gym. My fingernails mindlessly scrape against the wood as I ponder. It's late afternoon here in Milan. The sun is at the point in the sky where it rests just above the tree line. 

Summer in Italy feels warmer than summer in Denver, regardless of the temperature. Maybe because Denver feels like such a terribly cold place in my heart now.

Soon enough, I'll be spending my summers in Paris...hopefully.

It's like a constant state of nerves checking my email everyday for a response from the institution. I know it hasn't been long since I submitted my piece, but the waiting is agony.

The softness of footsteps enter through the back room. I lift my head up to see Harry walking into the lobby with his phone in his hand, his eyes glued to the screen.

"Zayn won't answer his phone." he mumbles, not looking at me but acknowledging that I'm there.

I sit up, straightening my back. "Is he okay? Did something happen?" I start to inquire with almost immediate concern.

"He's fine, I'm sure." Harry brushes it off. "Asshole just doesn't check his phone."

I sit back so my back hits the wall as I nod. I'm choosing to think that everything is okay and Zayn isn't in any danger.

Harry stuffs his phone into the pocket of his track pants. He looks out the window before eventually turning his head to me, hands in his pockets and hair falling to his ears in dark curls. He looks me up and down and then furrows his brows.

"Whose shirt is that?"

I instinctively look down at my attire in response, the breathable green fabric blanketing my torso down to my lower thighs, the '21' in yellow lettering.

"Oh," I murmur. "It's Isaac's—my fiancé."

I look back up at Harry to see his nose scrunched as if he was displeased.

"It's ugly." he simply states.

I laugh a bit under my breath, not taking offence to the comment. "How'd you know it wasn't mine?"

"Because you usually dress like a grandmother."

My brows crease together at his comment, my mouth dropping open. "I do not." I reply.

He scoffs. "Yeah, you do. You wear overalls and knit sweaters...willingly."

With an eye roll, I lean back against the wall now crossing my arms. "You wear the same thing everyday. Jeans and a shirt." I retort.

"And I look good doing it." he swiftly replies.

I squint my eyes, tilting my head as he looks back at me.

"Are you saying I don't look good?" I inquire with passiveness in my tone. I don't care if he thinks I look good or not, but I'd like to see his response.