killer instinct - || h.s. ||

16 *

" don't take it easy, you like it hard like me "

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harry styles *

I sit with my back against the door and my legs over the center console of my running car, god- this girl owes me so much fucking gas money.

I listen to my music play through the speakers in my car with a burning cigarette in between my fingers. My phone landscape-oriented in my hands as I bring the filter of this cigarette to my lips, sucking in the remedying nicotine and pulling it back. I hold the potent smoke in whilst I grumble under my breath at the dilemma in front of me.

"What singer gave Marilyn Monroe a white poodle named Mafia?" I mutter under my breath with only have a few letters on the screen, the rest leaving me puzzled with the blank spaces I need to fill. I take another drag of this cigarette in between my fingers to feel the smoke fill my damaged lungs and hum to the tune of the soulful song pathetically echoing through my space.

"For fuck's sake ..." I mumble to myself as I rack my brain for the answer to this while breathing the smoke into the warm car. I reach behind me, twisting to tap the ashes out the crack of the window before sitting back comfortably. I stare at it for a second, racking my brain of every possibility and it hits me.

I laugh to myself in realization, resting my cigarette in between my lips while I get the letters for them to be approved. "Who is Frank Sinatra?" I mutter as my phone chimes in success.

Fuck, I'm so good–

I look up from the game on my phone, pulling the filter back and groaning out of annoyance from my momentary win. I see none other than this girl walk out of her apartment building.

Her breath forms in front of her like little clouds in the cold as she pulls out her smokes from her pocket and I continue to stare. She's wearing a pair of leather trousers that flare at the bottom and a tight shirt, accompanied with an open long coat that drapes to her knees on her lean frame.

I just sit here like a sociopath wondering who the fuck gets to see her like that, either way, they don't fucking deserve it.

I watch her pull a white cigarette out of her pocket and stick it in between her lips, lighting the end with the simple orange flame and I continue to stare. Her roughed-up black vans are always on her feet, practically falling apart to pull the entire outfit together to completely scream: her.

She starts to walk, making me groan out loud in annoyance. I pull my legs off the center console and sit forward again, flicking my cigarette out the window and shifting the car out of park.

I pull away from the curb while I look for her on the sidewalk, scanning around to see her walking way ahead of me. I just lean back against the leather seat, one hand at the top of the wheel while I pinch my bottom lip with the other.

I fucking hate this shit, I feel like a fucking creep as she calls me. This isn't an all the time but I can't have what happened a few nights ago happen again, I already feel the guilt for being late that night. Also, I don't need to get my ass beat for letting her idiot self get hurt.

I lose her for a little on the sidewalk, cursing under my breath at the fact that she fucking walks everywhere but I know the reasons why.

I don't get far before I see her disappear into a flower shop and the slight guilt runs through me. She walks in and out relatively fast but leaves with a bouquet of sunflowers in her hands. She brings her nose to the flowers like it's nostalgic for her while she walks. She doesn't walk in the direction I thought she would, instead, she heads down to the diner and I groan slightly.