Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER31.

I-... yeah...

TW// NSFW.

The elevator doors are shut, sealed tightly, as if there's no escape, and all the anxiety in the world seems to have squeezed itself into this tiny metal box where Harry and I are stuck. It's weighing on me like a ton of bricks, gnawing at my insides, and setting my heart on fire, as if it might start blazing with every beat.

We're standing dangerously close. I say "dangerously" because every time Harry and I find ourselves in such a confined space, with only our heavy breathing separating us, things tend to take an unpredictable turn. His gaze feels scorching, like a whip running over my skin, snapping loudly with every inch it covers.

"Where were we last week, kitten?"

This last word sparks something deep in my brain, making it tingle. It's strange for him to call me that; it's not a nickname he uses often, and I have a vague feeling that I've heard it somewhere before. It affects me, adding to the already potent mix of emotions swirling around my head.

"I don't remember," I lie shamelessly, though I've replayed the events from last week with Harry in my head at least twenty times a day since then.
The truth is, I do remember where we left off: the tension between us, culminating in the exchange of a strawberry candy, his successful attempt, much to my dismay, to assert his dominance; him, the confession about the paparazzi, his unrestrained need for revenge, and his subtle threat, along with the request to keep quiet about what he just shared, a request I failed to honor when I tried to act like a heroic journalist in front of the guys a few minutes ago.

"No fucking way," Harry comments, calm and collected. "Then it looks like the elevator's gonna be stuck until you remember."

A wave of weakness washes over me. I feel like a limp noodle, my limbs unable to hold me up. It's as if this day has decided to be particularly unkind to me.

"Must be your unlucky day today, Mabel."

I swallow hard, my saliva feels thick and I struggle to get it down. Harry's eyes are fixed, clear, and slightly bloodshot. They are confident eyes, stern, as if holding a promise of something intense.

He's playing some invisible power game, knowing he's already won. The mention of my supposed bad luck only confirms it.

"Unlucky?" I echo, as if saying that word out loud might make me believe it.
"So this is how you plan to make me pay? By keeping me trapped in here?"

Harry's lips, full and rosy, curve into a sly little smile that speaks volumes without him uttering a word.

"What's your fucking endgame, Mabel?" he asks, catching me off guard.

His words bounce off the elevator's walls, and the cold LED lights illuminate his face, revealing the transparency of his shirt that I've only just noticed.

I'm at a loss for words, my thoughts racing chaotically, like bumper cars on high-speed.

"Endgame? I don't have an endgame," I say. Our conversations usually fall into one of two categories: me trying to uncover something about Harry, with little to no success, and him consistently cornering me, having me decipher his thoughts and emotions.

"I don't like playing games, and you know that," he says firmly, my name on his lips sounds like a reprimand. He steps closer, narrowing the gap between us by just a few millimeters, but it feels like he's closing in by miles.

I can't escape his presence.

"I know exactly what you're fucking up to. You want to tell everybody how much of a bad guy Harry Styles is because he occasionally beats up paparazzi, don't you?" he says this with a tone that hints at mockery. My cheeks burn, my chest tightens, and the discomfort is exacerbated by Harry's intense, close proximity and the warm air we're sharing in this elevator.