Charcoal Grey [H.S.]

CHAPTER TWO - DISASTER

Her grandfather always told her there would be times in life where you would be stuck. Where you would have absolutely no clue what to do...you would just be there. Still and stuck.

That was one of the times right now.

She was about to spout a snarky comment just to piss him off, but decided against it once she saw who the monotonous voice belonged to. Lo and behold, it was Harry Styles.

She cleared her throat, her hand still holding onto the plastic bag, "Sorry, didn't mean it."

He scoffed, clearly unamused by her half-arsed apology, "I'm sure you are. What are you even doing here, this late? You don't belong in this part of the city."

He's so right about that.

"Not that it's any of your business but I just came here for some fresh air. Now, I'll get away from here."

"Not so fast, grey," Harry grabbed her wrist, his face still blank as ever.

Grey? What the hell?

Before she could inquire about the unusual yet unique nickname, he began to talk, "I don't usually do this shit but since it's late, I'll be giving you a ride. All I ask for you is to shut the fuck up and not do anything."

She cocked her head to the side, "You could be a serial killer."

"Touché. Now, hurry the fuck up.Hurry up." He let go of her wrist, turning on his heel, presumably heading towards his car. Lennon was cemented to the ground for a few seconds before she reluctantly followed him. He took long strides, not bothering to even pause or look over his shoulder to check how she's doing. Panting heavily, she jogged to catch up with him until he led them to a sleek black Porsche. "Get in."

It wasn't a request. It was a goddamn command.

She clutched the handle, gently opening the door and slowly sliding her tired body in. A concoction of fresh leather and ocean musk attacked her senses as she leaned back, feeling the rich material dip underneath her. She kept her thighs closed, lifting her hand up to bring the buckle of the seat belt and strap it around her abdomen and tightened it in its hold. Harry got into the driver's seat smoothly, closing the door with a loud thud. He rotated the key, the engine purring angrily to life as he steely used one hand to manipulate the steering wheel which kind of turned on Lennon.

No. Bloody hell, get a grip.

She shook her head, propped her elbow against the window slowly and rested her chin against her open palm, intently staring outside at the flickering streetlights and the other cars passing by.

Harry's free hand reached out to play with the radio set, changing tunes until he found one he liked. He stopped when a Fleetwood Mac's song played, Stevie Nick's raspy voice filling the tense air between them. Harry stole glances to embed her into his mind. She was at least 5'5", dark brown hair reached her shoulders, cute curtain bangs framing her forehead, soft facial features and a beautiful pair of grey eyes. There was an aura of innocence radiating from her despite the obvious spunk she had. An aura no man had ever had the possibility of relishing. He wondered...

He wondered what she does, what she likes and dislikes, her quirks, how she—

Bloody hell, get a fucking grip.

He gritted his molars together, mentally screaming at himself for even going there. Keeping his unwavering gaze ahead and pressing his lips in a fine line before he parted them, he said, "You didn't exactly tell me where you live."

"Don't worry, I was hoping you'd guess." Once Lennon saw that her sarcastic remark didn't make him smile, she sighed. "Just drop me near the UCL dormitories." He gave her a curt nod.