Capture

Between Doors

The ride back was quiet, save for the faint hum of the radio. Niall drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, content to let the silence breathe.

Not Liam. "So," he said from the back seat, casually, like he wasn't about to dig in, "what brings a well-dressed American with an attitude problem to our side of the pond?"

"Liam," Niall groaned without even turning around, like this was a familiar routine.

I let out a slow breath, eyes still on the passing buildings. "Can we not?"

But Liam, of course, ignored the ask.

"Come on, doll face. You expect me to believe you dropped your entire life and moved across the ocean just for a job?"

"I don't care what you believe," I muttered.

He leaned forward slightly, voice lower now. "People run for a reason. I just wonder what you're running from." I turned my head, met his eyes. Sharp. Direct. But underneath that cocky tilt of his brow, I saw something flicker. Something wounded.

"You think everyone's running?" I asked.

He shrugged. "That or they're pretending they're not."

"And what about you?" I said quietly. "What are you running from?"

That shut him up.

Niall pulled up in front of my building, a little too enthusiastically. "Home sweet home," he announced, hopping out to help Liam with his bike.

I stepped onto the curb and turned toward the door. "Thanks for the ride," I told Niall, grateful for the out.

He smiled, pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. "See you tomorrow, Em."

I barely made it to the elevator before Liam walked in behind me, pushing his bike through the lobby doors like a storm cloud on two wheels. "Fancy running into you here, Doll Face." he said.

I didn't even turn. "Do you ever not talk?"

"Do you ever stop pretending you're above it all?" he shot back.

I turned around, and for once, I didn't snap. I looked at him. His shirt clung to his chest, sweat from the day still drying on his skin. His mouth was tight, his jaw clenched like it had nowhere to go but closed. And his eyes—dark, restless, tired—didn't match the smirk on his face.

"You know," I said, "for someone who pretends to hate people, you spend a lot of time trying to get reactions out of them."

He blinked, just once. "I think it's because you don't know what to do with silence," I continued. "Because silence means you have to actually feel something."

The smirk faltered. He stepped closer. I didn't back away. "You don't know me," he said, voice suddenly quieter, like it cost him something to say it.

"No," I agreed. "But I think you wear your anger like armor. And I think it's because there's something under it you don't want anyone to see."

His expression twisted, conflicted. Not mad, exactly. Just... exposed.

The elevator dinged. He stepped inside. Turned to face me. "You should be careful, doll face," he said. "Curiosity like that gets people hurt."

I didn't follow him into the lift, but I didn't look away either. "Maybe," I said. "Maybe someone should've asked you why you're so angry a long time ago."

The doors slid shut between us. I turned, took the stairs two at a time—not because I was scared of him, but because I couldn't stop thinking about that look in his eyes.

Whatever he was hiding, it wasn't evil. It was pain, and for some reason I didn't understand yet... I wanted to know why.

I reached the third floor and quietly pushed open the stairwell door.

Liam was still standing in the hallway, phone pressed tight to his ear, his voice low but sharp. "I told you not to call me on this line," he snapped, tension threading every word. "You're going to get yourself killed." His tone wasn't just angry, it was raw, laced with fear that cracked through the surface.

I lingered just inside the stairwell, hesitation gripping me for a moment. Part of me wanted to turn away, but another part—a deeper, stubborn curiosity—kept me rooted. Who was on the other end? What was he so scared of?

The fear in his voice was unexpected, unsettling. It made me wonder what kind of life he was running from—or toward.

Then suddenly, my phone rang loudly in my hand—Casey's name flashing across the screen. Panic surged through me as I fumbled to silence it, the abrupt noise snapping Liam's head in my direction.

The moment he saw me, his eyes wide open, sharp with panic, then instantly hardened. I couldn't hide anymore, so I stepped into the hallway out of the stairwell.

"You caught me," he snarled, voice rough, almost frantic beneath the anger. "Watching me, huh? You don't get to watch me."

"I'm not spying," I said, voice steady but cautious, stepping past him toward my flat.

He blocked my path without hesitation. "Don't walk away like that. You think you can just stroll around and pretend you didn't see shit?"

"I live here," I said evenly, trying to brush past.

His eyes flickered, wild and unsteady for a heartbeat, then he lunged, grabbing my wrist hard, yanking me back just enough to hold me in place.

A sharp sting flared where his fingers squeezed.

"Don't ignore me, doll face," he hissed, his anger barely masking the fear beneath. "You have no idea what you just stumbled into."

I froze, heart hammering as adrenaline surged through me, a flicker of something darker flashing in his eyes.

Harry appeared behind me like a shadow, slipping past in one smooth motion and driving his fist straight into Liam's jaw. The sound was sickening. Liam let go of my wrist and crumpled to the floor, blood seeping down the corner of his lip.

I gasped, heart slamming into my ribs as the air snapped back into my lungs.

Liam pushed himself upright, wiping his mouth. No fury now. Just cold, trembling silence. "This isn't your fight, Styles," he said, steadying himself.

Harry didn't flinch. "Emma. Inside." I hesitated, my gaze flickering between Liam on the floor—eyes blazing with fury—and Harry standing firm beside me.

I knew Liam's temper wasn't just bluster; his history in boxing meant every moment out here was a powder keg ready to explode.

If it were only Liam and me, I could manage—face his anger, hold my ground, but Harry was caught in the middle, and leaving him out here was like handing Liam a loaded gun.

I made the only decision I could, then, without a word, I stepped behind Harry and slipped my hand into his. Liam watched me—eyes dark, unreadable. A storm he refused to show me. "He's not worth it." I whispered to Harry, opening my door and pulling him inside after me.

We stepped into the apartment, and the moment the door shut, I realized I was still holding Harry's hand.

"Sorry," I mumbled, pulling away.

He caught me gently, one arm sliding around my waist.

"I heard him yelling. When I looked out, he had your wrist," Harry whispered into my hair. "Are you okay?" He held my hand again, looking at my wrist, and I could see some slight bruising already.

"I'm fine," I assured him. "How's your hand?"

"It's been better." He laughed as I pressed my head to his shoulder, all I could see in my mind was Liam, and the fear in his voice.

That wasn't the fire of someone dangerous. It was the fire of someone desperately trying to hold the darkness at bay, and I wanted—needed—to know why.