weapons † hs [two]

1. pack your bags

🚨
my queen:

In other local news, our country has a new fugitive on the loose from just outside of Chicago that the FBI have announced has been added to their Most Wanted List.

"Caroline?" Ryan calls over the soft, background noise of the tv in the living room.

"In here," I reply, turning around and greeting him with a smile just as he joins me in the kitchen.

From small town Pebblebrook, multimillionaire Harry Edward Styles was charged for second degree murder this past December. The twenty-three year old received his wealth handed down from his father, who traveled the world building up cities with Styles Enterprises. Styles was arraigned and imprisoned for his crimes before the new year. However, due to mental issues that he possessed, the protocol of insanity defense claims it's best for him to be transferred to a mental hospital and fulfill his sentence out there. Although, if you recall a few months ago, we reported for your safety that during transport, he attacked the officers and escaped the van, disappearing.

"Good morning, babe," my best friend addresses me, returning my grin as his tired body slouches into the kitchen, nearing me while I serve myself the fresh, steaming decaf coffee.

He proceeds to perk up from that exhaustion and repeat his every day action by bending over to hold onto my robe-covered stomach and cooing, "Good morning, baby."

"That's never going to get old," I roll my eyes in a playful way as he stands up straight again, grabbing the coffee pot from me.

"Neither do your constant mood swings, but I don't ever complain," he fires back, a cunning look on his face as he serves himself.

Sheriff McCarthy of Pebblebrook, the man that kindly took up the case from the beginning, had asked our station at that time of his escape to inform you, and for your help if you spotted him. Three months have passed without hope.

"Why'd you wake up so early? You know I'd bring you coffee in bed," Ryan wonders, pouring his hot coffee and placing the pot back in the machine.

I hold onto the counter as he leans his back on it, looking over to me as he takes a sip.

"Like this baby would ever let me sleep," I roll my eyes, holding my hand over the small bump on my tummy that has started to show. "Between going to the bathroom five times a night and the nausea, I can already tell this baby is going to be stubborn."

A smirk grows on his face behind the mug as he utters in a high-pitched hum, "We know he got that from his father..."

"Hey," I silence him, holding up a finger. "We don't know if it's a he—"