Four hours. He said he'd be home four hours ago. That was it; you'd had enough. That night, as he stumbled into the flat at two-thirty in the morning, you finally snapped.
"Were you planning on lying to me when you got home too?" you said, startling him as he had obviously thought you were asleep.
He whipped around, his eyes blood shot and his hair a mess. He had been doing this a lot lately; coming home late, with his collar scuffed up now and then, or what he swore to be a wine stain on his tie, though you knew it was red lipstick.
"Babe, you're awake," he mumbled.
"Yeah, I am. And I'm also confused, Harry."
"What about?" He tried to act innocent by pretending to be stuck trying to unbutton his shirt, but you could see the way his hands slightly shook as he avoided direct eye contact.
"About why my boyfriend has been lying to me for who knows how long! You told me you were at Niall's tonight, Harry, but when I called him he had no idea what I was talking about. Don't tell me you think I can't smell the cheep perfume, either, because we both know every night you wreak of it!" you said, venom laced delicately within your words.
"Wait, are you accusing me of cheating, (Y/N)?" he gaped, eyes narrowing and his face turning red as anger began to course through his veins.
"Oh, of course not! No, actually, I'm accusing you of being a manwhore, Harry! A lying, cheating, selfish, fucking—"
You were cut off with a fierce slap to the cheek, causing you to stumble back a few feet. Your eyes watered with tears as you looked up to find him just as shocked as you. Grabbing your jacket and slipping on you shoes, you tried desperately to hold in tears.
Harry quickly tried to find the right words, but found them stuck in his throat. "(Y/N), wait!"
"Too fucking late, Harry," you spat, then slammed the door behind you as you left.
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