Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER21.

tw// violence; mention of sa

I crash down onto the dirty floor amidst the wild fun and twisted euphoria, much like a bomb exploding on the rooftop of slumbering houses.

My senses become muffled, and it's as if my body is composed of the same airy particles as clouds. Yet, to remind me that I'm not just air, there are two firm hands gripping me, lifting me up from the ground. These hands are concerned, rough yet determined; they belong to someone who must be taking charge of situations, and who can balance strength.

Harry makes his way through the crowd, an arm wrapped around me to keep me from slipping away, shouting something that I can't quite make out.
His concern shakes everyone around us like an earthquake.

It's like my vocal cords have been severed: not a single sound comes from my mouth. Yet, my brain remains alert, even though it's  tired, deciphering gestures and words swirling around me as if I'm on a carousel.

"Keep fucking moving!"

Harry pulls me along through the crowd, which seems more curious about his comeback than concerned about the situation unfolding. We weave our way past heated bodies, his grip unwavering, and oddly enough, providing me with a sense of... solace.

Michael must have spiked my drink before offering it to me: the sluggish drowsiness that has overtaken me goes beyond even the most intense hangover.

Harry pushes open a weighty door with his free arm, being careful not to trip over my feet.

With my head bowed, I imagine myself as a wilting flower, with Harry as my sturdy stem.

I can't quite wrap my head around the fact that he's the one coming to my rescue, as he's also the cause of my stress-induced acid reflux, both the beginning and the end of my problems.

Once we get into a room – presumably, a bathroom – Harry gently eases me down onto the floor. My back presses against the bathroom wall, the cool plaster providing some relief against my heated, sticky skin.

"Mabel," he calls to me, standing in front of me. Maybe he stays upright to avoid getting too entangled in such a weird, messed up moment of complicity.

"Mabs."

His voice is rough, charged with intensity. I can barely manage to open my eyes, catching a glimpse of his face. He wears the expression of an inquisitive scientist, ready to analyze every twitch and spasm. His hair clings to his forehead, damp with sweat, strands mingling in a tangle of heat and panic. There's a fresh cut on his chest which I immediately recognize, a bruise beneath his eye.

I want to tell him I'm here, that I can feel him, but I can't find the strength to respond.

"Shit..." Harry mutters under his breath, running his hands through his hair in a gesture of frustration. Then he reaches for his phone in his back pocket, struggling to retrieve it, and the sound it emits confirms he's just sent two messages.

The bathroom, quiet and insulated, amplifies Harry's deliberate footsteps as they echo off the walls. With my eyes half-shut, I notice him casting a fleeting glance my way, as if discreetly keeping watch. His gaze feels like an accidental collision, me, half-lifeless on the floor, an unintended consequence of wandering eyes.

Footsteps draw nearer to the bathroom, followed by the door opening and then closing with a solid thud.

"About damn time," Harry exclaims. I catch sight of blond hair and a leather jacket.
It's Niall.

"I hope you've got a fucking good reason for dragging me here, Styles, 'cause I was just about to fuck the hottest ginger I've ever seen, and..."

"Tell me about it," Harry cuts in, his tone carrying an escalating edge of aggression.