numbered days // n.h.

one

Three months earlier.

KAT

The sky was a sleepy grey and the sun was just beginning to open its eyes as three heavy knocks rang against my window.

A familiar head of blonde peeked through the glass. Piercing blue eyes melting into my drowsy green. I heard a soft laugh escape the figure, and my mind clicked. His voice bled through, a muffled "up and at 'em, sleepyhead."

I reached for my phone tucked away in the nightstand. My limbs were made of molasses, incapable of motion. The device clicked on, blinding white digits printed across the screen. 5:12 a.m.

"It's five in the damn morning," I muttered, pulling the covers over my head, encasing myself in its warmth.

"Kat," he persisted, knuckles colliding with glass in continuous knocks. The sound grew to be as bothersome as a bumblebee attracted to your eardrum, buzzing its heart away.

Brain battled against muscle as I forced myself up. My head was pounding. An expected occurrence after surviving an all-nighter. I looked over at him, my sight blurry yet able to define his messy blonde tips and clouded eyes.

"Give a girl some privacy, Horan. I'll be out in five," I mumbled, running my hands over my face and pulling the tie from my hair. My bangs looked electrocuted, spiked up in conflicting directions and I made no move to deal with them.

He lifted his hands in defeat, a small grin on his face before my order sunk in and he abandoned the windowsill. A layer of goosebumps coated my skin as I ripped away from the warm embrace of my covers, sluggishly pulling down the ends of my shorts that had ridden up in the night.

I stumbled around the room, discarding my clothes and pulling on the first sweater that caught my eye. I was convinced it belonged to Louis, but in the moment I didn't care. It was a soft blue shade, hitting just above my knees, and I liked it. He owned the largest collection of oversized sweaters. He could live with me holding custody over one of them.

I slipped on leggings and tattered adidas, attempted to tame my bangs, and deemed myself alive enough.

"You're looking rather zombified this morning," Niall noted as I met him outside, patiently settled on my doorstep in loose shorts and a white cotton hoodie.

"I try," I said, slinging a small bag over my back. My red locks were lifeless, devoid of volume as they fell just above my shoulders, and the bags under my eyes were prominent yet typical. Blue eyes trailed over every detail, his gaze wary, knowing all at once that something was off. A sixth sense of his.

"Rough night?" he asked as we took off down the pavement. The sky was stretched into a lazy fog, difficult to navigate through.

I chewed on my lip, fiddling with the strap of my bag. "You could say that."

We fell into a light pace, running down a path that cut through a small area of forestry. It was a routine of ours, an accepted habit.

Being trapped in the same neighborhood as Niall Horan meant two things: excessive coffee runs and daily wake-up calls at the edge of dawn. The coffee was decent—the timing, not so much. Yet, here we were. Five in the morning, running until our lungs heaved and limbs ached.

"What happened?"

"The usual."

"So, another fight."

"Bingo."

The crisp morning air chilled its way to my bones as we blurred through the towering trees, body heat overpowering it as I sped up the pace. The scent of pine and fresh soil was something I desired. It's become a scent of familiarity for me, of home. Torn shoes crunched over fallen leaves and red hairs tickled my neck as I pushed on, and for the first time that week, I felt at ease.