PULSE [H.S]

022

"Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves." — Henry David Thoreau

I'm on a run.

Alone.

It sounded like a good idea when I woke up and Harry was in the shower, but now that I'm going to have to go back in there and face him, I'm starting to question if this was a good call. Maybe he'll think I'm still sleeping and won't even notice that I left.

That hope is squashed the second I open the door to the apartment. The sight of him and his cloud of rage is the first thing I see when I step inside the room.

He's leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, like he's been waiting for me to get back. Waiting to punish me.

And shit, he looks pissed.

His jaw is clenched tightly, making his jawline as sharp as a knife. His eyebrows are pull inward slightly, and I can tell his eyes are darker than usual even from halfway across the room. All of his features are harder than they were yesterday.

It's kind of hot.

I take my shoes off, not saying anything. I put them on the shoe rack, the anticipation of his angry lecture making me feel uneasy. He's silent as I take my jacket off and hang it up.

His silence is excruciating. The tension is so thick, filling the entire room and making it impossible to get any air into my lungs, which are aching next to my rapid heart.

When he still hasn't said anything, I just walk past him, planning on going upstairs. If he isn't going to acknowledge me with anything other than his simmering glare, then neither am I. I walk past him swiftly, his scent filling my nose as I take one step past him. Two steps. Three—

His hand wraps around my upper arm, his long fingers taking hold of me. He stares at me so darkly that I think I might never see light again.

"You think you're so cute, huh?" he says. His voice is deadly quiet, but it holds so much power. "Running around, disobeying me, and shit?"

I shrug. "Yeah, I do think I'm cute, actually. Maybe not when I'm this sweaty, but—"

His voice is louder now as he cuts me off, hissing, "Someone went to your apartment yesterday with the intent to kill you, yet I'm the bad guy here?"

I pull my arm out of his grip, turning to face him fully. He's still casually leaning against the counter like an arrogant prick.

I say, "There can be more than one villain in a story."

Fuck me. I want to take the words back and swallow them. They sounded like they came straight out of some twisted romance book, and with the amount of books I've read, they probably did.

"I'm a villain?" He laughs dryly. "For trying to keep you safe? That's all I've been fucking doing for the past two months, trying to keep you safe, and you couldn't give less of a fuck. Maybe you should go back to your old apartment. See if there's a bullet waiting for you for all I care."

I'm so sick of fighting with him, but there's still fight in me.

I yell, "I get it. I'm an entitled brat who should be thanking the Lord that Harry fucking Styles is here to save me, even if that means making me a prisoner and ruining my entire life. I mean, honestly, death doesn't sound too bad right now."

"What if he, or someone else who wants to hurt you, pulled up next to you on your run? What if they shot you where you stood or took you with them?" he questions, standing up now so that he has even more height over me. He says, "Did you even think about your own safety, or were you just thinking about spiting me?