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 got you something."
Harry's voice sounded from the kitchen behind me.
He'd gotten back from work only ten minutes ago. It felt like he was gone for hours but it hadn't been more than one or two.
It was a long, terrifying day spent alone in his flat, wondering whether he was going to manage to lie his way out of this or not, wondering what he was going to say to them.
I'd been on edge the entire time he was gone, expecting that Mi6 agents were going to break into his flat again once he was gone and search for me. Not that I necessarily cared if they caught me, because I could have killed them all, or let them take me. I'd been worried about what the repercussions for Harry would be. If he was caught hiding a killer.
Being so on edge was one of the reasons I spent most of the day on his couch with a weapon just within reach. I wasn't sure what my reaction would be if people were going to come looking for me.
My natural instinct would be to kill them all, but I knew that would do more harm than good. If Harry ended up with dead bodies in his flat, it would be obvious he was hiding me here. And if they found me, they would also know. There wouldn't be a way to win.
Leaving. That was my third option. Letting all of this go. Because if he didn't have me here then there was no issue. Being in his life, spending time with him, staying in his home, it was always going to end in disaster. If I got up and left, disappeared, he wouldn't have to think about me again, and he could go back to living his life.
But I also knew that if I left and ran, I'd end up crawling right back to him as I had so many times before.
And I didn't know how many more times he was going to let me back in.
Every worry I did feel for the hour that he was gone had disappeared completely when he arrived back. The crease remained between his brows but wasn't as deep as it had been before he left, which I took as a good sign. Somehow, I hadn't panicked at all when I heard him walking up the stairs to his flat door, I knew it was him—I recognised the sound of his footsteps. While he hadn't explained everything that had happened, he did tell me that it was going to be fine, and I believed him.
"It's your birthday. Isn't it meant to be the opposite way around?" I asked, realising then that I hadn't replied to what he'd just said to me.
"I got you two things, actually." he corrected himself, not properly replying to my question.
He made his way from the kitchen over to the couch where I'd been sitting with my knees tucked to my chest for the past few hours. Two coffees in hand—a hot one for him, a cold one for me.
"Thank you." I took the glass that he handed me before he sat down. I didn't ask him to make me one, and appreciated it. "Why did you get me two things?"
