Harry Styles, a secret service agent working for British intelligence is tasked with finding the killer after a series of brutal but calculated murders across Europe. His mind is sharp, he's smart, arrogant and works with a precision that leaves no...
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Winter.
I couldn't say how long it had been. In Harry's bed, tucked under a blanket and a duvet that smelled so strongly of him, I was still wide awake. My hands were still shaking, and my eyes were open, staring at nothing but a blank wall in the darkness.
In his bed, my mind replayed the events of the last day or two over and over again in a loop. I tried hard to piece together what had happened, what parts I remembered, and what parts I was even aware of.
Before ending up in that car park to hurt Niall, everything was a blur, pieces and small flashes were all I had to try and piece together a timeline, where I was and what was happening to me.
It was a typical feeling, whenever I was taken back—nothing seemed to make sense afterwards. But, I never usually thought about it. I accepted it and never tried to figure out what had happened. Because I'd never been made to kill someone that I wouldn't want to hurt. I didn't know anything was different. The fact they had fucked with my mind enough to make me forget who Niall and Harry were—I wanted to know what they did to me.
The bedsheets were so cold. I shifted slightly beneath them, hoping my body would be enough to warm them up but it never was. It only made me more aware of the fact I was alone. Something I wanted. Something he'd offered to change but I refused.
His room was dark, the curtains blackout and there wasn't a single light source, yet my eyes had adjusted enough that I could make out the shapes of all the different items he had. The set of drawers that remained in the centre of his room from when he had pulled them out, from when I was in that little space. That tiny fucking space. The air had been so thin in there. I could feel the walls again, how they closed in on me. How I couldn't straighten my legs or stand up. How I couldn't breathe. My throat tightened again at just the thought of it.
I rolled over so I was facing the other way, towards the empty space in the bed beside me. Even if there was a thick wall of pillows, just hearing him breathe was enough.
But as fucking usual—I pushed him away.
My eyes squeezed closed for a second, and I tried to breathe deeper.
Before I could stop myself, I was up, out of the bed and exiting his bedroom.
The spare room door across the hall was already cracked open, allowing me to only just peer inside. It was equally as dark inside, but I could see him in the bed, asleep, resting. In his spare room because he'd let me stay in his bed. My knuckles tapped gently on the wooden door, hoping even to wake him enough that he knew I was here.
"Harry?" I whispered, even though I didn't think he had woken up. "I... I don't want to be alone." There was a burn in the back of my throat. "Can I please sleep beside—?"
I cut myself off, shaking my head.
"God, what the fuck am I doing?" I turned on my heels, leaving the spare room to return to his empty bed. He'd already asked if I wanted him there, and I said no. It wasn't fair to wake him up only because I had changed my mind. It wasn't fair.
