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
Harry wasn't holding me when I woke up.
In fact, had his back to me, his arms to himself, and there was a noticeable gap between us.
After getting cleaned up last night, when he came into the bathroom and washed my hair, helped me dry and held me, I stood replaying the events of the night over and over in my head. My hair was still wet but I'd tied it up to keep it out of my face, I was too exhausted to care about sleeping with wet hair.
I'd climbed into the bed, terrified he wouldn't want me there.
I just wished he hadn't woken up.
I wished he'd stayed a sleep and never had to know I'd left.
If he hadn't woken up, he wouldn't have known I'd left. Wouldn't have seen the blood. He would never suspect me of anything. Because it was inevitable that he was going to find out what happened, and now, he was going to know it was me.
The mixture of confusion, anger and worry on his face was something I was all too familiar with. But I'd seen something much worse too. Disappointment. And it hurt more to see than anything else.
I seemed to always be doing something that had him staring at me like he didn't know what to do with me. How could I blame him for getting mad? I'd snuck out with the clear intention of him remaining clueless, and I'd returned covered in blood and smoke. Then I refused to tell him who I'd hurt or what I'd done.
I knew he would find out it was me eventually. I just didn't want to be the one to tell him.
Staring at his back, his shoulder blades, the soft skin and muscle, I wished he was holding me. Because I knew that when he did find out what I'd done, he was never going to forgive me, and I was never going to feel his arms around me again.
He always held me, he always wanted to be touching me in some way, whether it was holding my hand, or having his fingers graze my skin gently. To have his back to me confirmed that he was angry, and that he was truthful when he said this wasn't going to let this slide.
Maybe this was it. Last night was the final straw, and he was done with me. But how could I blame him?
The absence of his touch told me everything I needed to know.
I reached out to him, my palm resting lightly on his back. The warmth of his skin was both a comfort and a punishment. He didn't react to my touch like he usually did if I were the one to reach for him. And I knew he was awake. I could just tell by the way he was breathing.
I traced my hand up to his shoulder, then down his arm, searching desperately for a sign that I hadn't already lost him because of last night. I waited for any kind of response.
