Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER4.

313 days before the deal.

Instinct, the body's natural reaction that the rational mind can't explain, has the ability to sense danger, warn us of predators, and anticipate defeat.

This has led humans to develop a complex mechanism often referred to as the "fight or flight mode," allowing us to quickly respond to threats. Instinct never lies, because it stems from our nature and emotions, and yet I struggle to listen to it, preferring to rationalize things instead.
Tonight is no different: my instinct warns me, making me feel in danger for no apparent reason.

I enter the room where Harry Styles, the black cat, awaits, squinting to bring clarity to the blurred shapes shrouded by darkness. The soundproofed room is filled with tense silence, and the loud music outside already feels distant. The air feels thick and heavy, almost tangible.

I break into a cold sweat. It's hard to see anything clearly, and I freeze, unable to venture further into the unknown room.

Then, I hear a faint, amused chuckle in the distance.

Damn it. I feel sympathy for the gazelle paralyzed by the hungry gaze of a tiger.

"Hello?" I greet, my confidence faltering in my uncertain, emotional tone.

I get no response.

I rack my brain, trying to remember why I'm here, and with a barely noticeable gesture, I activate the recorder in my front pocket.
Fight or flight mode.

I proceed cautiously, barely able to see where I'm stepping, and narrowly avoid tripping over a heavy glass bottle.

I regain my composure, casually tuck my hair back, and hear footsteps right in front of me.

There's a cozy-looking couch with a vague shape resting on it, could be a person or just a cushion. I lower myself towards the couch, attempting to touch what I believe to be a leg (?) of a complete stranger, but I feel my hair being brushed aside, as a warm breath caresses the exposed skin of my neck.
That on the couch was not a person.
But the one whispering into my ear certainly is.

"And who the hell are you?" the voice hisses.

Harry's voice is warm and slightly hoarse, pleasantly scratching my ears. He's got a strong English accent, dragging the words as he speaks.

I quickly turn around, and... there he is, catching me off guard after hours of anxious anticipation.

I see him, and he's completely different from what I remembered.

His green eyes sparkle in the darkness of the room, and I can see them clearly because Harry has leaned in, our faces dangerously close. I can't help but think he's incredibly handsome—a beauty that's hard to describe or imagine, a gift that makes him stand out of the crowd, unattainable, unquestionably better than the others.

My eyes wander between his, cat-like and green, the inviting lips with a cigarette hanging from them, the thick curly hair pulled back, and a hoop earring adorning his ear. In that moment, I realize that he possess a beauty that goes beyond mere physicality, hinting at a depth of character that intrigues me.

I stay silent. I think my vocal cords have already frayed.

"I asked you a question," he insists, taking a step back to get a better look at me. I feel a hint of disdain—maybe even disgust—in his expression, and it only further intimidates me. He seems to exist in a realm of his own, an enigmatic figure who effortlessly commands attention.

"I'm Mabel," I say, hoping my kind manners can break through the icy wall between us. "I'm a... groupie."

Harry chuckles, carefully scrutinizing my outfit, his eyes lingering on the leather boots I'm wearing.