All's Fair [ A Harry Styles AU ]

twelve

warning: this chapter contains detailed descriptions of physical violence, gun violence, and pain. please be careful as i don't want to trigger anyone!

Harry hasn't stopped smiling since he woke up this morning, but who can blame him after a night like the one he had? As he waits in line at the cafe, hoping to grab one of the last croissants they have for Priya, his mind floods with memories — snapshots of last night. The feel of her smooth skin under his fingers, the locks of her hair wrapped around his hand, her breathy pleas for more. Harry smirks when he remembers her waking him up for another around. What he remembers the most, though, is the effervescent glow around his heart after all was done.

He's never felt it before, this intense connection to someone. He wants to be around her all the time. If he were to call up his mum and tell her that, he knew what she'd say. That  he was in love. It felt odd, if he was honest. Not in a bad way, but in a peculiar way. He wondered if it was entirely rational to go from not being able to stand a single thing Priya Rai said or did to wanting to touch her every second of the day.

As he walks back into the motel, croissant and two coffees in hand, he decides he has time to figure it out. Everything is still so fresh, so bright and new. He doesn't need to make a big declaration of his feelings for her just yet. After what they did last night, it's obvious they both care about each other. Right now, all he wants is to hold her before the inevitable call comes in from Niall and they both have to get back to the mission.

He juggles with the coffees as he slides his key into the door. "They had those fluffy croissants you told me you like," he says, announcing his arrival. As he sets down their breakfast on the table, he glances around.

The room is quiet.

Harry frowns and glances at Priya's suitcase that's sitting on the bed, open and haphazard. He walks over to the bathroom, where the door is slightly ajar. He raps his knuckles against the wood gently. "Baby?"

When there's no response, no inkling of sound, Harry pushes the door open. An ominous creak gives way to the empty bathroom.

In an instant, Harry's heart drops to his stomach. He can feel the dip, the crash of it. He turns around, gripping the doorframe tightly. His eyes scan the room for signs  of foul play. When he came in, he missed that the laptop was open — that Priya's phone, mic, and camera were sitting in her suitcase.

"Fuck," he says, his feet moving on their own will. His hands throw the clothes out of her suitcase, looking for anything to clue him in. He's been on enough missions to know that something is not only wrong, but deadly wrong.

When he finds nothing in the suitcase, he looks at the laptop. After furious jabs at the keyboard, it comes to life. The screen is black, but Harry looks at the url of the website Priya was on and every nerve in his body stills. He stares at the screen, connecting the few details he has.