The Only Exception | W2S

FORTY TWO.

It was a split second decision, but I stuffed the hoodie into a bag, also bringing my cigarettes, and swung it over my shoulder. 

Everyone was still in the kitchen, still eating their food. 

"Holly, your hash -" Hattie started, but stopped as I zoomed right past the table, without speaking a word. 

"Holly!" George yelled out from behind me, but I was already out of the door, slamming it behind me, knowing it would give me a five second lead if anyone tried to follow me. 

They didn't. It would be useless, anyway. I was on a mission. 

I left out of the front exit, so fuelled by my own determination that I forgot about the paparazzi, and now had cameras flashing in my face, trying to fight my way through to my car. 

I'd never sped out of the car park so quickly in my life, but my foot was all the way down on the pedal, absolutely racing down the roads until it led me to his building.

I spotted his car immediately, parking just next to it. I'd barely turned off the engine before I was already climbing out of the car, bag in hand. 

Before I knew it, I was outside of his apartment, my hand poised to knock on his door. 

One knock. 

That was all it took before the door was opening, and Harry opened it, his hair wet and dishevelled, just in a plain white shirt and shorts.

"Holly?" He asked, the confusion evident in his tone. 

"You - you left your hoodie at mine," I stutter, the confidence I apparently felt earlier all gone now.

Harry stares at me, eyes dark, unreadable.

I should say something. I should do something. But I just stand there, gripping the hoodie like it's the only thing tethering me to reality.

"You came all this way," he says slowly, stepping forward, voice low, "to give me my hoodie back?"

The way he says it makes something inside me snap.

I shove the hoodie against his chest, forcing him to grab it, my jaw tightening. "You left it at mine. Thought you'd want it back."

Harry doesn't look at the hoodie. He doesn't even move. Just stays rooted in place, eyes locked onto mine, like he can see right through me. Like he knows exactly why I'm really here.

"You're angry," he murmurs, his voice calm, too calm.

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, you think?"

His jaw clenches, his fingers twitching against the hoodie in his hands. "So, what? You're here to yell at me some more? Tell me again how much of a prick I am? How you'll never forgive me?"

His words drip with sarcasm, but beneath it, there's something else. Something hot and dangerous, laced with frustration. With want.

I don't answer. Because we both know exactly what this is.

His chest rises and falls a little faster, like he's trying to keep himself together, but failing miserably. "You missed me," he accuses, stepping closer.

I shake my head, my breathing shaky. "No."

"Liar." His voice is lower now, his body just inches from mine.

My fists clench at my sides, the anger curling tighter in my stomach. "You ruined everything, Harry. You didn't listen. You didn't care what I wanted."

His eyes flash. "I care about you more than anyone."

"Then why didn't you—"

Before I can finish my sentence, Harry moves.

One second, he's just standing there, taunting me with his presence, and the next, his hands are gripping my face, his lips crashing against mine.

I gasp, caught off guard, but it takes seconds for my body to respond. For my hands to fist into his shirt, pulling him closer.

It's messy. Desperate. It's full of frustration, anger, weeks of tension boiling over all at once.

I shove him back into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind me. My bag drops to the floor, forgotten, as Harry spins me around, pressing me hard against the door, his hands roaming down my sides.

"This why you came here?" he rasps against my lips, his breath hot, his grip tight. "To fight? Or to fuck?"

I let out a breathy, bitter laugh. "Both."

He groans, his mouth moving down my jaw, teeth scraping against my skin. "You drive me fucking insane," he mutters, his fingers digging into my waist.

"Good," I breathe, dragging my nails down his back, making him hiss. "Now you know how it feels."

His hands grip the backs of my thighs, and in one swift motion, he lifts me. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, my back pressing harder against the door as his mouth devours mine again.

His grip is unrelenting, fingers digging into my skin like he's trying to brand himself onto me. Like he needs to prove a point.

I let him.

I want him to.

Because even though I hate him right now, even though I'm still so fucking angry, my body doesn't care. It's moving on instinct, responding to him the way it always does—like I belong to him, even when I don't want to.

Harry growls against my lips, his teeth biting down before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hands slide under my hoodie, up my spine, his palms hot against my skin, and I arch into him, my own fingers tangling in his damp hair, yanking him impossibly closer.

His lips break from mine only to trail lower, down my jaw, my neck, biting, sucking—marking me.

"Fucking hate you," I gasp, my head hitting the door as his teeth scrape against my collarbone.

Harry laughs against my skin, the sound dark, rough, mocking. "No, you don't," he murmurs, his hands gripping my thighs tighter. "You wouldn't be here if you did."

I clench my jaw, shoving at his chest, trying to push him away, but he barely budges. He just smirks, daring me to try harder, knowing I won't.

Because we both know I don't want to.

I slam my lips back onto his, frustration spilling over into the way I kiss him—hard, desperate, punishing. He groans, his fingers flexing against my thighs, and in the next second, he's moving, carrying me effortlessly away from the door, his lips never leaving mine.

I don't even know where he's taking us. I don't care.

I just need more.

He drops me onto the couch, and before I can even process it, he's on me again, his body pressing me down into the cushions, his hands gripping my wrists and pinning them above my head.

His eyes flick between mine, dark and unreadable, his chest rising and falling just as erratically as mine.

"This what you wanted?" he taunts, his voice low, teasing, but I hear the edge in it—the frustration, the pent-up need. "Storm in here, throw a tantrum, get me all worked up?"

I glare at him, twisting my wrists in his grip, but he doesn't let go. "Fuck you," I snap.

Harry grins, leaning in, his nose brushing against mine. "That's the plan."

And then, all at once, we break.

There's no more talking. No more thinking. Just hands and lips and teeth and frustration, tangled up in messy desperation.

I don't know if this is a mistake.

I don't know if I'll regret it afterwards.

But right now, I don't care.

Because if I can't fix what's broken between us, I can at least burn in it.