Wildfire // H.S // AU

03

sorry for the late update, but enjoy!!!

   Ivy breathing was shallow as she was scooped up into Harry's arms. He stared down at the soft, pained features of her face and attempted to swipe the blood trickling down from the base of her scalp. He hadn't seen or realized the way her aggressor had tossed her out of the way. Harry blacked out, only seeing red – as in the blood of his target's nose – he came to when his opponent was lying limp. Not dead limp, but too weak to try to do anything else but breathe limp.

   Harry's long legs carried Ivy back to his car, carefully placing her in his backseat before climbing into the front. As he drove he kept glancing into his rearview mirror to make sure Ivy was still breathing. If it was possible, he would've tried to ask her for her address or where her keys were so she could be someone else's responsibility.

   But rummaging through her bag, he found nothing but tampons, her wallet, makeup, and gum wrappers. And her bag had too many pockets for him to comprehend so he gave up and tossed the bag over to the passenger seat. He wasn't in a panic or rush. It was like this was just a walk in the park.

   They pulled into the parking lot outside of a lavish apartment building, not an ER. He climbed out the driver's seat and tended to Ivy, scooping her back up into his arms like a feather and nodded at the doorman who stood in a panic at the site of Ivy. It was a little unsettling just how calm Harry was. The older concierge rushed from behind the desk, his wrinkled hands holding out a phone, asking if Harry needed 999. Just the look Harry shot the old man made him shrink back, apologizing instead calling the police like anyone else would have done. Why he hadn't taken her to a doctor remained a mystery in everyone's head but Harry's.

   As Harry stepped into the elevator, both the doorman and concierge stared dumbstruck. The elevator doors shut and Harry and Ivy rode up to the sixteenth floor in silence. A deep crease that had become permanent due to Harry's constant frowning, formed as he stared straight ahead at the mahogany doors. They slid open and he stepped out on to his floor, turning left and head straight down to apartment 1245D. He kicked the door open to a loft that he had called home since the age of seventeen believe it or not.

   Hard to imagine a seventeen year old with a heavy mop of curls on his head with lanky limbs and the hand eye coordination of a seven-year-old would live here. Alone. Let alone turn into the twenty-three-year-old that struck fear in people with unreadable green eyes and made women swoon like doves. All the walls were brick except for one near what looked to be the living area rather than living room; it was unevenly cut steel, bolted over the brick. The furniture was mix of forest green, deep reds, and oranges; they gave his home an eclectic feel.

   A sectional, love seat, coffee table, and single seat, excluding the hard wood coffee table sat near a television the length of Harry's body. A blanket that looked as if it was picked up at a resale shop was thrown over the edge of the sectional, it almost matched the worn out novels sitting on the table and trinkets that had just accumulated over time. Everything was placed anywhere but that was its place and it made his home look sleek and urban.

   The walls were lined with a few pictures. None of them personal, of course. Paintings that looked to have some hidden message, that'd he'd found at art galleries he'd been to and some stolen street signs Harry had taken as a delinquent. Then there was his kitchen that looked to be picked straight out of Ikea, all stainless steel and amber cabinets. No dirty dishes in the sink or empty beer bottles on the counters. Ironic that someone who didn't give a shit was one of the most organized men on the east side of London. The place wasn't completely spotless, but it was as neat as you could get a man to be without his mother living with him.