17 BLACK | HS

SIX

Harry Styles

"Hey Styles, I need the write up on the JOHNSON-BROWN accident before you leave today." Poppy –my boss– calls out at me while practically running past my desk, blowing some of the papers that are laying here off of it in her wake.

"No pro–" I begin to reply, but cut myself off as I turn around in my chair to see her already out the door. "Problem," I finish with a sigh while bending down to pick up the few papers that blew off in her haste.

Ever since the accident, I haven't been able to trust myself. When I choked while trying to save Greg the other week– everything was put into perspective. I can't in good conscience put myself back into the field knowing there's a possibility I could freeze again.

I know that the last time was sparked by realizing it was Greg that was in need of my help, but I can't take the chance that there might be some lingering PTSD that could reignite when I see another person in need of help. Especially if the person or situation is in any way similar to his accident.

The decision to keep myself out of the field wasn't one I took lightly. Poppy kept trying to convince me to get back out there, but I told her I was sure about this. She didn't fight me too hard– knowing I wasn't going to fold that easily. I thought long and hard about it before committing to a desk job for now, but I know this is for the best.

I've dedicated my life to saving people– I can't let myself be the cause of another person's passing.

I'm content with my decision to take a small break. Poppy's been trying to give me anything and everything to keep me busy– lots of paperwork and random filing. Sometimes I feel like she's finding busy work for me just so I still feel like I'm being useful. I'm sure there's more I could be helping with, I mean she's always running around –moving a mile a minute– trying to get things done, but there's only so much I can do while not being in the field as well.

Mace has been great too. If I miss one thing it's probably riding around with one of my best mates all day. He gives me updates at the end of every shift, filling me in and assuring me that victims of that day's accidents are okay, encouraging –not pressuring– me to step back out there.

I'm grateful for all of them, but I just need some time.

"Desk Job Styles," A booming English accent pulls me from my thoughts. Rolling my eyes slightly at his words, I finish grabbing the papers that had fallen, and sit back up in my chair.

"Zayn." I acknowledge without even a look in his direction, trying to refocus onto the paperwork in front of me, reading the first line of the first page.

Zayn is like a brother to me. Out of everyone, he is my best mate, hands down. He moved across the world with me when I needed help. He's been an Uncle to Phineas and a brother to me– sometimes it feels like Zayn and I are parenting Phin together. Normally I would say Phin is my rock. The one who keeps me going, gives me motivation, something to hold onto and fight for. But when I can't cling to Phin, when I need an adult in my life to tell me everything is going to be okay, to remind me what I'm fighting for– Zayn is it for me.

I am, however, not too in the mood to talk with him right now. I know he has good intentions, but almost every conversation we've had since the accident is him trying to convince me it wasn't my fault and that I should get back out there. I love the man, but I'm just so tired of the same conversation. It's exhausting when you don't believe what someone's trying to convince you of.

He lets out a small gasp showcasing his faux hurt, and even with my head somewhat down, I can see his hand coming up to his chest out of the corner of my eye. "Oh come on mate, I come all the way over here on my lunch break, and this is how I'm treated." He scoffs while finishing making his way over to me. "I'm hurt."