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gurugirl · 38 minutes ago

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I’m so curious to find out what happened that’s making Harry’s senses so sensitive. Love the way you introed Nova too! Love Bash!!

And the creepy dream at the beginning… foreshadowing perhaps 👀

Xoxo

[welcome to chapter two] + [young god masterpost ] — [5.5k] + [story playlist]

Note: This chapter and the next will likely be the last to be posted on tumblr and patreon simultaneously. You can join mine if you’re so inclined to, to help a broke bitch out, for access to all of my writing, and for early access to this story. Also remember, this is a Harry x reader story! Nova will only be described by her clothing and accessories.

— — —

Dark, murky water sloshed around their ankles as the six trudged through the mud and then the rusted wrought iron gate. The gate and its equally rusted fence defined the divide between the living and the had once lived. Jagged tombstones rose from the soft grass, saturated from heavy, steady drops raining from the sky.

Dressed in black from head to toe, they slipped and slid through the mess, yet they marched on, upright, stiff, lifeless eyes forward. Despite the joint effort, not one of them was any wiser to the others’ identities. Armed with only the knowledge that this was something imperative, they moved onward.

Leading the group was Harry. A grunt sounded from low in his throat as they stumbled collectively, nearly dropping the heavy casket they hauled. Its surface was polished to perfection, the dull gray clouds reflecting in the coffin’s black lid.

Soaked chestnut strands of his hair stuck to his skin, obstructing his vision, yet his feet seemed to know where to go. Thunder crashed and lightning flashed above as the storm raged on, blanketing the world beneath in darkness.

Ahead, Harry spotted a freshly dug grave at the cemetery’s edge, red dirt piled high at the foot of the hole. Undoubtedly, this was their destination. They were nearly there. A few more yards and they’d lay the unfortunate soul trapped inside the coffin to rest. Their load was suddenly lightened as one of the others tripped, the side handle slipping from its hand.

Horrified, Harry turned, noting that the others had slowed to a halt, dead expressions intact. His eyes darted toward the ground only to witness his very own body tumble from the casket. Its closed eyes shot open, revealing black eyes, eyes that slowly panned toward where he stood, alive, bewildered, and lightheaded. Knees weak, he collapsed but never met the ground.

“Fuck,” Harry grumbled breathlessly, fully expecting to be greeted with the wet, sticky mud he’d just landed in, but was met with the soft cotton of his bed’s sheets instead. The sweat covering his bare chest had dampened the fabric.

He tossed the sheets aside, running his hands over his face, releasing a heavy sigh. He’d have to do laundry for the fourth time that week, goddamn nightmares. Slowly sitting upright, he reached toward the night stand and felt around for his phone.

Further annoyed to discover that he’d awakened approximately fifteen minutes before the alarm was set to sound, he shook his pounding head, grimacing as he tasted last night on his tongue. “Gross,” he mumbled.

What he’d been thinking by mixing both clear and brown liquor, he didn’t know. Perhaps there was never much thought involved. Only careless people partied until three in the morning knowing they had to work the next day. He’d stumbled into his apartment around a quarter until four. It was now a quarter until eight.

He’d at least remembered to close the curtains before passing out. The blackout drapes he’d recently installed in his bedroom were tightly drawn. It was the only way he could sleep these days, even the faintest sliver of light enough to disturb his slumber.

And by god, he didn’t care for light of any kind at the moment. He clicked the device’s side lock and restored the darkness. The thought of leaving bed was almost too much to bear; however, he’d cashed in his last favor from his boss and he preferred to remain employed.

Like clockwork, his phone vibrated and his employer’s name appeared onscreen. He had hardly answered before the fussing started.

“Where the hell are you?”

“I’m five minutes away.”

“Don’t piss on me and tell me it’s raining. You’re still in that bed, ain’t you?”

“... Maybe. Also, hi, Raymond. Damn. It’s too early for this shit.”

“If you were ever early, we wouldn’t have this problem,” Raymond said, chuckling. “Please get your ass here in the next half hour.”

Harry checked the time again. “I’ll keep it real with you. I need at least forty-five minutes. Forty-five plus the fifteen you just stole from me.”

“You’re useless. I’m gonna fuckin’ fire you one day.”

“No, you won’t. I’m getting up now, I swear,” he promised, right before Raymond hung up.

Rent and bills, along with Raymond’s insults motivated him to get to his feet to head for the bathroom. He somehow managed to avoid the countless obstacles along the way; the ottoman near the wall, the tv stand, and the clothes he’d shed the night before.

Feeling along the bathroom’s tiled wall, he flipped the light switch and immediately regretted it. It was as if he’d stared directly into the sun, the overhead light blinding as his eyes burned. Any hangover worth its weight triggered this, and it had many times, but never so intensely.

Taking a step back, he rubbed his eyes, hoping they might adjust. Seconds later, his vision cleared. Blinking rapidly and confused, he moved on. He pulled the shower curtain back and twisted the tub’s knob, letting the water run as he studied himself in the mirror. He looked like shit, he’d admit that. He hadn’t met anyone yet that didn’t after a night of hard partying. Still, the bags underneath his eyes were larger than usual, his irises a dull, stormy green.

"What've you done, Styles? And continue to do," he mumbled, stripping down.

There was no time to contemplate the oddities. He was in and out of the shower in ten minutes. He brushed his teeth and gargled mouthwash before hurrying to find his work uniform. The navy coveralls were in the dryer, his boots next to the washer. Retrieving the clothes, he rushed for the bedroom and dressed in the dark.

With his phone, last night’s clothes, and the sweat-stained sheets in tow, he stopped by the laundry room again, ignoring how strongly he smelled that sweat, along with last night’s alcohol in the clothes. There may as well have been a shot of tequila under his nose, the mere thought turning his stomach. He tossed the garments into the washer, which he’d start later after throwing in the coveralls. He then grabbed his keys, wallet, and helmet from the mail table, and locked the door behind him.

Most unwelcomed rays of sunlight awaited as he emerged into yet another day. Unfortunately, it was a gorgeous one and the hangover hated it. Still, life wouldn’t wait. He approached the complex’s small parking lot, tucking his things into his backpack. Slinging it onto his shoulders, he then threw up his long, damp hair with the tie from his wrist. Then, on went his helmet as he approached his beloved Ducati Panigale.

It’d taken him a year to save enough money to purchase the sleek, black motorcycle. That had been five years ago. It was his pride and joy; he’d never truly owned anything. He’d even rebuilt it after the accident, fully restoring it to glory with his own two hands.

Still, the past was behind him now. He’d survived to see his 30th birthday, two days prior, right when all the weird shit started. Still no time to wonder. He had to get to work.

And he might have gotten there faster if he hadn’t run into a Second Line. They danced through the streets, dressed in white and bearing jubilant smiles as they followed the carriage carrying a white casket.

Ahead of the carriage were more participants, some playing French horns and trumpets, others blowing whistles and swinging feathered fans. Some twirled white umbrellas as they celebrated the life of and bid a farewell to the recently deceased.

“Go on home! Heaven awaits! I’ll see you when I get there!” shouted an older man as he shimmied at the rear of the line.

They deserved their time to mourn, to send off the lost one with love. Harry could respect that. He drove an appropriate distance behind the line as they made their way down the street, inching forward enough to maintain his balance.

Main and Second lines had been young Harry’s fascination. It was like nothing else he’d ever seen, these people singing, dancing, and rejoicing in the face of death. He’d come from England to New Orleans at three years old, right before his mother had left him with a neighbor and never returned.

“Sit here and don’t give Mrs. Franklin any goddamned trouble, you hear me?” she’d warned in that way of hers, that resentful tone she reserved for him alone. No kisses, no hugs, just her hasty clamoring out of Mrs. Franklin’s house, screen door slamming shut behind her.

Like anyone else, he didn’t remember much prior to three years old. He could hardly remember his mother’s face, nor did he care to. The chip on his shoulder had grown over the years, though he’d come to accept the abandonment.

What he did vividly remember were those parades. No matter which temporary home he occupied, there were parades citywide any given day and he’d always find a window to watch them. It was one of the few constants in his life, if a bit macabre.

His turn was ahead and the line had cleared, noise fading as they moved along. He made a left and sped away. If he really booked it, he’d be there in five. Three minutes later, he pulled into one of the garage’s empty bays. The other mechanics worked on vehicles on either side.

He threw a long leg behind him to dismount and pushed the bike toward the rear of the building. He refused to leave it on the street; Raymond’s shop wasn’t in the safest neighborhood. But still, the place survived. Whirring drills and saws sounded throughout the building like usual. There was never any shortage of work.

“Woo-hoo, he’s gonna kick your ass,” came a voice from the right.

Harry shook his head as he propped the bike against the wall and pulled off his helmet. Bastien Cobain was at the coffee station. A beloved pain in the ass, his determination to befriend Harry started a decade ago.

Met with resistance, Bastien persisted and eventually wore him down, satisfied when one day, he’d asked Harry a question. That time, Harry’s standard answer of “Oh my god, do you ever stop fucking talking?” never came. They’d officially become best friends that day.

“He probably could today. I feel like shit, Bash,” Harry confessed, slipping off his bag.

“You look like it, too. Like dog shit. After it done turned white,” Bash said, a product of his environment, New Orleans dialect intact. He and his family were Creole, born and bred in Louisiana. He had sandy blonde, close cropped curls, bright hazel eyes, and a wide, easy smile that had claimed countless victims.

“Fuck you. This is why your mum doesn’t love you,” Harry said, frowning as he moved toward the back office, not actually knowing a damn thing about Bastien’s mom. Raymond was definitely lurking somewhere.

Harry took his time storing the bike in its usual corner, giving it an unnecessary inspection when the office door to his left swung open, the papers and calendars taped to the glass flying in its wake.

“What’s your excuse this time?” Raymond asked, cheeks red as he stared at his most problematic employee. He could count on two hands how many fights he’d had to break up between Harry and the customers. Customers could be disrespectful and unfortunately, Harry’s temper was quick, vicious, and twice as disrespectful. Nobody was safe when that temper flared. Raymond knew that better than anyone.

“You want the truth or a lie?” Harry asked, placing his helmet on a nearby table.

“Gon’ give it to me straight,” Raymond said in an accent like Bash’s, blue eyes fixed on Harry. “No need in lying.” Raymond was tanned from the lifelong Southern sun, stood tall and slim, was just on the cusp of fifty years old, and was considered a silver fox, attractive down to his salt-and-pepper hair and goatee. He had two ex wives and stories from his younger, wilder days for anyone who’d listen.

“I got drunk last night. Then I got stuck behind a second line on the way here. My head hurts and I could throw up on you–”

“So, you haven’t gotten it together yet,” Raymond interrupted, leading as Harry followed him into the small, cluttered office. Raymond disappeared into the adjoining supply closet, talking all the while. “You’d think a little blunt force might’ve knocked some sense into you but it’s been four years already.”

Four years since that car had cut him off. That rainy Saturday night. It’d been 11:35 pm when that car had suddenly switched freeway lanes. He’d have never been able to brake in time. By the time he’d come to, he was on a stretcher wondering what was happening. And why he was in so much pain. And why the hell he was in an ambulance. One of the paramedics slammed the double doors just as Harry caught sight of the Ducati, wrecked and smashed to pieces.

Sort of like his brain. Eventually, he’d made a mostly full recovery. Only, he’d lost bits of his past. Since the accident, there were entire years he could no longer remember. Some, he didn’t want to remember, so that was all right with him.

“Low blow, first of all. Second, what’s there to get together? The bills get paid, I do what I gotta do,” Harry said, dropping into Raymond’s chair, tapping the laptop sitting on the desk. He groaned as he checked the schedule. There were appointments booked from open to close with few gaps in between. “God, today is gonna be longer than a fuckin’ Monday.”

“That, it is. Now go join the people that bothered to show up on time this Wednesday. We’re getting behind,” Raymond said, reclaiming his seat as Harry stood. “And thank the almighty God that I didn’t give you a pink slip.” Raymond was a devout man, aside from all the profanity, gambling, and fornication.

Harry chuckled as he pulled the door behind him, checking that it was closed before he spoke. “Almighty God. What a concept.”

American townhouses straddled the sides of the rain slicked streets. The iron balconies of each were garnished with carved pumpkins, clunky gray skeletons, spiderwebs, and endless strings of lights. The city usually celebrated Halloween early, from late August and on beyond October 31st. Not that there was any shortage of the morbid or ghastly any other time. After all, it was New Orleans’ specialty, its history. There was a good haunting any given Thursday.

Harry’s attention remained on an especially large pumpkin situated on the sill of someone’s apartment window across the street from the restaurant. Baudelaire’s red brick building wasn’t much to look at, but there was no better spot for an authentic po’ boy sandwich. Harry had practically lived off them years ago and the price hadn’t changed. Although he could afford more ‘refined’ dishes these days, he’d never turn his back on Baudelaire’s. Or his chicken po’ boy.

He fished out his phone as it vibrated in his jacket’s pocket.

Hey, you sure you don’t wanna go drink off last night?

Harry shook his head and tried not to laugh as he replied to the text.

It was hell no the first time, it’s still that now. Go find something to do, Bash.

Just the thought of alcohol made him retch. It’d led to a difficult, annoying day. Every inch of his body ached, hand rubbing a sore shoulder. He’d worked his ass off, especially for being late and wanting to stay off of Raymond’s shit list. There was no way he was going home to cook, couldn’t spare the energy.

Luckily, he’d made it to Baudelaire’s open patio and underneath a table’s umbrella before the rain started. His food would be handed through the pickup window a few feet away soon and he could go home.

Tourists wandered the streets, some carrying umbrellas, others wearing rain ponchos. A little rain wouldn’t stop their exploration of the charming city. It was nine o’clock and some were just getting started. The neighborhood had come a long way. In his younger days, the area was to be avoided by those with a choice. He’d had very little. The shelter he’d frequented at eighteen was just two blocks from the restaurant.

“Leave me alone, just go away!”

Shouting voices cut into an otherwise quiet night. A family of four across the street had stopped in their tracks, jaws dropped as they stared at the commotion around the corner of Baudelaire’s. Certain he’d regret playing hero, he quietly followed the sidewalk toward the end of the block. Leaning around the corner, he surveyed the scene, having learned the hard way about situational awareness. Walking blindly into chaos was never a good idea.

“Look, I don’t want any problems,” said a woman, eyes wide behind a set of glasses with a rainbow-colored frame as she inched away from the two obviously intoxicated men leering at her, even cackling while yanking at her flowing white skirt. She steeled herself, shoulders square as she advanced toward them. “If you’re not gonna help me, just fuck off!”

Harry saw the car stalled in the middle of the intersection. The small blue sedan was clearly old but well maintained. Outwardly anyway, hence its owner’s current situation. Its hazard lights flashed weakly, casting temporary golden glows on the wet asphalt. Other cars drove past, casting curious gazes on the broken down vehicle and the poor woman fending off two drunken guys.

Harry wished he could mind his business, but the poor girl clearly needed someone’s help. Passersby were occupied with simply watching the mess unfold. Sighing, he slowly approached, noting the trembling she tried so hard to hide.

“You’re scaring the shit outta her, you gotta know that,” Harry said, nodding toward the cowering woman who’d worked her way between Harry’s back and a nearby lamppost. She didn’t know him from a wad of gum on the sidewalk, yet she’d instilled her trust in him instantly.

“Oh, we’re just having some fun with her,” said the ginger man standing beside his blonde buddy. Neither of them stood as tall anymore as the long-haired guy with the big, broad shoulders challenged them.

Wondering if he was serious, Harry let out a dry laugh. “Does it look like she’s having fun?”

“What are you going to do?” slurred the blonde with a sloppy shrug and a French accent.

Stone-faced, Harry blinked slowly. He couldn’t escalate this. Though he usually lived and breathed for a good fight, the state of his body said otherwise. He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Leave her alone and you’ll never have to find out.”

“It’s okay. I can just call somebody to tow my car,” said the woman, clutching the front of her sweater as she looked between the three men. Of course, she’d never seen the tourists, but the other one, her savior, seemed familiar. Despite him being alone, she wouldn’t doubt he could take them both.

It looked like he worked out. He wore a dark jacket but she still suspected he was fit. Not to mention, he hadn’t moved an inch since he’d come to her rescue. He wasn’t afraid. She jumped when he spoke to her over his shoulder.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Nova. Nova Roman,” she croaked, swallowing hard. She swiped a finger over each side of her glasses to wipe away the water falling from the sky in a light, slow drizzle.

“Nova’s coming with me,” Harry told them with a slight nod. Could he have fucked them up? Sure. But he was already sore. Who was to say they wouldn’t fuck him up?

The rain picked up as Nova did indeed follow him as he moved toward the street, leaving her harassers with little choice but to leave. They stumbled down the sidewalk and out of sight, likely to find themselves legally charged with something by dawn.

“Shit,” Harry sighed, yanking the hoodie of his jacket over his head. He glanced at Nova, the tension gone from her brows and mouth as she walked quickly next to him. “Could you pull the hood release?”

Nova struggled for a moment to find her keys, her hands shaking as she dug through her crossbody bag. After locating them, she opened the door and leaned inside, pulled the release, then reached toward the passenger’s seat. She exited with an umbrella, popping it open as she rejoined Harry, who’d gotten the hood propped.

“Thank you,” Nova said as he examined the car’s internal parts. “For saving me back there. And for this.”

“No problem,” Harry said, eyes glued to the car. Drops of water landed on his high cheekbones and slid toward a sharp jawline. The umbrella Nova held overhead was utterly useless, but it was sweet that she’d tried, huddled close as she watched. “What’s been going on with it?”

“My battery died recently, someone jumped me off. I knew I was on borrowed time,” she said. “This is the third time it’s stalled this week. And sometimes the lights are too bright.”

“Sounds like an alternator thing,” he said, wincing to himself. That could get expensive. “Speaking of lights, the battery light’s usually on, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she said, embarrassed as she broke eye contact between hers and his surprisingly kind green ones. “I haven’t been able to afford a new battery.”

“You might have bigger problems than that.” He hated to give her the bad news.

“Is an alternator thing a big one or a really big one?”

“It’s a three-hundred and fifty dollar problem, at least. It's got a little life left since these lights are still sort of working, but it won't be long.”

“Damn,” she muttered, letting her head fall back briefly. “I’ll have to come up with it somehow.”

“For now, it can’t stay here. I’ll call someone to pick it up, have it towed to Raymond’s Auto Body.”

“Is that a good place to take it?”

Harry had whipped out his phone and was making a call. “That depends on who you ask. I work there. It sucks, but we could fix it if we tried real hard.”

“Real hard? What’s real hard? Did you mean to call me?” said a voice from the phone’s speaker.

“Bash, I don’t have time for your shit right now. I need help.”

“You’d think you might ask me more nicely,” Bastien drawled.

“Bastien, you bastard. It’s not like you’re doing anything. Anything important, anyway.”

“Man, a good Jerry Springer rerun is on.”

“I need you to go get your uncle’s truck and meet me at the address I’m about to send. Somebody needs a tow.”

“You’re asking me to do more fuckin’ work?” Bash cried, but sounded as if he was on the move. His uncle Travis owned a towing company where Bastien worked part-time.

“Please?”

“Since you finally asked like a decent person. Dammit. Be there in less than an hour.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Harry said, burdened with the task of having to say ‘please’. Nova stood nearby, umbrella still over her head, though she was soaked from head to toe and shivering in the cool night air. “You wanna go sit at Baudelaire’s? I’ll get it out of the street.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” Nova asked, watching as he put his phone away and zipped up his jacket.

“No, I got it. Just get outta the rain,” he said, already on his way toward the driver’s side.

It wasn’t the easiest thing to do on wet pavement especially, but he’d gotten the car moving after a good push off and steered it out of the intersection.

“I think this is yours,” Nova said, holding up a bag of food where she sat under one of the umbrellas when Harry returned to Baudelaire’s patio. She cast a sad glance at the brown paper bag. “It was on the pickup window sill. I can tell it’s pretty much cold.”

“It’s okay. It’s a chicken po’ boy, I’m gonna eat it anyway,” he said, sitting on the opposite side of the table, facing her.

“I’m gonna buy you another one,” Nova said, that bag back in her lap as she searched for her wallet. “It’s the least I can do, you’re helping me out so much.”

“Please, save your money. You’re gonna need it,” he reminded her. She was right. He’d gone out of his way. Yet it was the decent thing to do for someone who’d had bad luck.

“I’ll feel bad if I don’t. You would’ve had hot food if it weren’t for me,” Nova countered, wallet in hand. She realized it was a lost cause when he shook his head again, his chin in his hands, elbows on the table. Nova made a face. “Seriously?”

“It’s fine, Nova. You don’t owe me anything,” he said, glancing around, making sure those French guys hadn’t circled the block.

“All right, fine. What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

“I’m trying to make sense of your accent, Harry. I can hear some Louisiana for sure, then something else I can’t pin down, it’s faint.”

“Well, I was British when I got here.”

“Really? I thought British people were polite,” Nova said with a tilt of her head.

This made Harry laugh. “I was only there for three years. I guess it didn’t take.” He considered her words and smiled. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“Tell me about it. I was just leaving work when that stupid damn car broke down. The Lafayette House down on Laurent Street.”

The sound of the name froze Harry’s blood in his veins. The Lafayette House. He didn’t usually go past Baudelaire's in trying to avoid that place. He’d lain his head there on nights he’d been lucky enough to be given a bed. The area’s unhoused souls always lined the sidewalk outside of the two story home turned shelter, hoping for somewhere dry to sleep each night.

“Lafayette House, huh?” he said finally, folding the top of the food bag over, unfolding it, and folding it again, eyes downcast. “The shelter.”

“Yeah. It’s already exhausting working there. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love the work,” Nova said with a soft smile. “Gettin’ folks in off the street, helping out. It’s just that saddest stories come through there. I try not to take it home with me, but…”

“It follows you every single time.”

“Exactly,” Nova said, nodding. “I guess it’d be hard for most people not to.”

Most people wouldn’t care. Harry wouldn’t tell her so, though. She was convinced and his inner cynic didn’t need to get involved.

For a while, they sat in silence. Raindrops drummed the soaked ground surrounding them, loudly enough that it kept any extra awkwardness at bay. There was plenty already, the two strangers sat quietly waiting for help to arrive, exchanging nervous glances here and there.

It wasn’t the worst thing, looking at her. Nova Roman might’ve dressed like she’d just left Woodstock, but he couldn’t deny her pretty face. In fact, maybe the vintage digs suited her after all, even worked in her favor.

Each of her fingers bore rings, large crystals or smooth, polished rocks. A small diamond stud filled a piercing in her right nostril. Her shoes, compared to his boots especially, were impractical for the weather. The city often flooded at a moment’s notice. Uggs were the last thing she should have worn on a day calling for rain.

“My shoes are ruined,” she said, frowning as she lifted her leg, fabric falling back to expose her leg as she studied the soggy boots. “I forgot to check the weather this morning.”

That explained that.

A few minutes passed before the sounds of an approaching truck roared from down the street. Bash slowly backed into view, steady beeps sounding until he’d shifted into park. “I’m here, you ungrateful bastard,” he said as he opened the door and climbed down, donning sweatpants, sneakers, and a hoodie. He approached the patio and waved at Nova. “How ya doin, ma’am?”

“Good, thanks,” Nova said, shaking Bash’s outstretched hand. “I appreciate you coming out here, I know you didn’t have to.”

“Sadly, he was right. I wasn’t doing anything important,” Bash confessed. “I’m Bastien, but call me Bash.”

“All right, let’s get this over with,” Harry said, leaving behind his beloved sandwich with every intention of returning. “Then we’ll get you outta here, Nova.”

“Awesome. Don’t worry, I’ll guard your food,” she promised and reached across the table to pull the bag closer. Harry didn’t doubt that she’d guard it with her life.

“Nova’s a cutie,” Bash said once they were out of earshot and heading for Nova’s car to set the hitch. “Probably not that smart, though. You look like a criminal and she still trusted you.”

They paused working on either side of the truck, catching one another’s eye.

“I don’t look like a criminal,” Harry said, brows furrowed as he mulled that over. “Do I?”

“I’d run from you in a dark alley, at least. I can be a little bitch sometimes.”

“That’ll go unopposed.”

The two worked quickly, finishing just as the lights inside of Baudelaire’s shut off. Ten PM. Closing time.

“Damn,” Harry heard Nova say as they rounded the corner to retrieve her. She was standing at the window of the restaurant, hands on her hips. Realizing she was no longer alone, Nova grinned. “I should’ve been faster than that.”

She’d waited until they’d gone, and once she’d found her wallet, she discovered she couldn’t find her debit card. She’d already used any cash she’d had to spare. She emptied the bag to try and find the damn thing. She’d spotted it just as it slid through a crack in the table. She’d needed a tool to pull it from the poles underneath that table.

She’d located a nail file and shoved it through, attempting to wiggle the card from where it’d gotten stuck. By the time she’d fished it free, the lights behind her went off. She turned in horror, plans thwarted. She couldn’t order him anything from a closed restaurant.

Harry chuckled and grabbed his sandwich as she stared at the dark window. “Ready to go?”

“I guess,” Nova said, dwelling on her foiled scheme. She slowed as they reached the sidewalk, watching as Harry walked toward a black motorcycle by the curb. “That’s yours?”

“It is. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“I thought we’d ride in the truck?” she asked and he knew she wasn’t keen on hopping onto the bike.

“We can’t all fit in there,” he said, releasing the latch that kept his helmet attached to the handlebar.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Besides, I can’t leave my bike here,” he said as Bash slowly began to pull away, back in the driver’s seat of the truck. Harry mounted the bike, stuffed his food into his backpack, and put the bag onto his shoulders. “Are you coming?”

Nova’s eyes went between the two guys. Harry could vouch that Bash was trustworthy, but she seemed intent on staying with him. And that was fine with him.

Shoulders dropping, she accepted the helmet as Harry handed it to her. She steadied herself, hands on Harry’s shoulders as she hoisted herself onto the seat, wrapping her arms around his torso as if it were the most natural thing ever. “Okay, but don’t kill me. I’ll haunt the shit out of you.”

“Got it. Where am I going?” he asked, starting up the motorcycle, feeling Nova jump where she’d just slid behind him. In turn, her hold tightened around his waist. He sort of liked it.

They arrived at Nova’s home twenty minutes later. It was only ten minutes from Baudelaire’s, but he’d taken special care to drive safely, didn’t want to hurt her or himself. He drove cautiously after dark, usually. Nova lived in a shotgun house painted yellow with white trim. Somehow, it fit her. The sound of leaves blowing in the wind floated through the tree-lined neighborhood. He cut the engine as he parked off the street.

Nova had just removed the helmet and muttered something about not being able to breathe when Harry’s phone came into view.

“Here, give me your number.”

Nova glanced between him and the phone, then at him again. “My trust only goes so far.”

“If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it by now. You don’t make the best choices. I mean for tomorrow so you could come and see about your car,” he said, fighting a laugh.

Nova slapped her forehead, grimacing where she stood underneath the streetlight lighting the pathway to her front door. “Ooh. Oh yeah. I’m sorry,” he said, returning his helmet before storing her details into his contacts. “Wait, what do you mean if you wanted to ki–”

The bike’s engine drowned out her incredulous question. He retrieved the phone and then pulled his helmet over his head. Nova’s eyes narrowed in a hard look, which sort of tickled Harry. “Sorry about your shoes.”

“Whatever. I’ve got Hulu to watch.” She turned and walked the path, her boots squishing with each step. Harry laughed some more, leaving after she’d gotten through the door.

It was off for home and that poor, cold sandwich.

#hs fic rec #harry styles #young god #harry styles smut

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