Flawlessly Broken (Harry Styles)

Chapter 3

Harry bends down to wrap his muscular arm around my waist, pulling me up to my good foot. My arms stay glued to my sides.

"You know you can put your arm around me, right?" He asks, eyeing me. One eyebrow raised, and his eyes – oh – his eyes. The richest, deepest shade of green I've ever seen. It's reeling me in and I. Can't. Breathe.

I swallow.

"You're going to be a challenge, aren't you?" He asks with a smug grin.

He chuckles softly, his chest rising and falling against mine. Butterflies aren't fluttering in my stomach, no, they're raging. They're attacking and battling in a full out war in my stomach. 

Another devious smirk. God, he is so arrogant.

He reaches for my wrist with his free hand and slings my arm across his shoulders. He has to slouch down a bit since he is so tall. My heart is pounding so fast I wonder if he can hear it.

He uses his hip to push open the glass doors since his hand is occupied with a firm grip on my wrist. Why hasn't he let go?

A relaxing spring breeze flutters through the air as we exit the building. As soon as the sun hits his dark brown hair it shimmers like gold. Breathtakingly beautiful.

I'm practically leaning all my weight on him as we slowly hobble across the parking lot. His torso is pressed against mine and I can't help but enjoy the sudden contact. I've been without it for so long. I'm hungry for touch, desperate for compassion, thirsty for friendship. And if I can find it I will devour it. I will savor it. I will not share because I'm greedy and selfish. It will be all mine.

What silly thoughts.

"What's your name?" His raspy voice asks. And that accent – my god! – so incredibly sexy.

My throat is dry. I've been robbed of words.

"Shay," I manage to choke out after a moment.

He's staring intently at the ground. Soon he breaks out into a wide, crooked grin, flashing his perfect teeth. Crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, and, Jesus Christ, a dimple folds into his left cheek. I'm melting and it's only May.

He repeats my name as if he's trying to savor it. "Shay."

My name on his lips sends a shiver down my spine. I'm probably turning fifty shades of red and I'm praying that he doesn't notice. I want him to say it again. I want him to record it on tape and wrap it up in a nice little box with a shiny ribbon on top. I want to keep it forever. I want to swim in it and feel it caress my skin and brush against my lips. Because no one has ever said my name like that.

They say it as if they're scared, disappointed, upset, tired, aggravated, sad. My name has come to be of that use. No one is ever happy to see or speak to me. What makes him different?

What is he doing to me? He's making me hopeful, that's what he's doing. Bad. Hope breeds eternal misery. I've let my guard down. I need to stay isolated so I don't get hurt. He is simply giving me a ride because I’m in pain, nothing more.

It takes longer than it should to walk across the parking lot. I see a red truck a few feet away, it must be his. I expect him to bring me to it but instead he's pulling me in the opposite direction.

Towards a motorcycle.

I come to a complete stop. He tries to keep me moving. "What's wrong?"

I can't take my eyes away from the black Harley that will soon lead me to a sudden death.

“No.” My voice is shaky. “There’s no way in hell that I am getting on that.”

“Would you prefer to walk then?” He asks, sarcastically.