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 and I hovered around each other for the rest of the day, careful to avoid the conversations we both knew we needed to have.
Louis left shortly after we finished the cups of tea he made for everyone. I didn't drink mine, mainly because I hated tea, but also because I'd spent the better part of half an hour staring at the wall instead. Thinking. Thinking about everything and nothing at the same time. I tried to plan out the conversation I'd have with Harry, creating a script in my head that I knew deep down we'd never follow. As long as it didn't end up in another argument, I'd be fine. We'd be fine. Right?
Since it was now confirmed I was safe and alive, Harry didn't need him to help look for me anymore, so Louis said his goodbyes and left.
Only a handful of words were exchanged between Harry and I after that. He let me know he was heading to the supermarket, and then later when he left to walk Bean, which ended up being a walk that stretched into an hour. He hadn't asked me to join him for either outing. Instead, he simply told me where he was going and told me he'd be back soon, adding that I should eat something while he was gone. But I didn't. I couldn't.
Instead, I sank into his couch, barely paying attention to the shitty dramatic soap that was playing on the TV. When he returned with shopping, he quickly cooked a stir-fry, but his attention remained elsewhere while we had dinner. On his laptop, on the phone calls he answered between bites. Cleaning up the mess I made. I ate in silence beside him.
The moment dinner was over, I told him I was heading to bed, and Harry said he'd be up soon. There didn't seem to be any reason for me to stay awake since he wasn't speaking to me. Barely even looking at me. I'd been honest with him. I'd told him everything. Surely, he knew that what happened wasn't my fault, that I didn't have a choice. And yet, his distance told me otherwise. He was still angry at me, what I'd done was unforgivable, whether it was against my will or not. I didn't know what else to do to make him forgive me.
I eventually went upstairs. He'd told me he would be up soon, which made me contemplate whether he wanted me in his room with him or not. Why tell me if we were sleeping separately anyway?
I hesitated when I reached the upstairs hallway. He said he'd come to bed. Did that mean his bed? Did he want me there? I wasn't sure, and the uncertainty was enough to push me into the spare room instead. I didn't sleep in his room, I curled into the fresh sheets of the spare room bed, a bed that felt enormous now that I was alone in it.
I slept restlessly, drifting in and out of a half-sleep, until I woke fully in the still, silent hours of the night.
Outside, there was nothing but the sound of rain tapping against the window and the faint sound of wind. No voices. No traffic. Just the quiet that always seemed to amplify and spiral my thoughts.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my mind looping over everything I'd said and done today. I wondered what I'd said today to piss him off, or if there was something different I could have said, or if I should have been the one to initiate that conversation we needed to have. The more I thought, the more restless I became, until I finally threw the covers off and got out of bed.
