A laugh cracks out of him.
“Can’t just take a whole week off. Doesn’t work like that.”
I pat his chest?—
“Then make sure you win.”
27 /KIWI
HARRY STYLES
// 10:13 PM //
Andrew follows me back across the building,
ceiling's so low it could scalp him if he stood too tall.
Smoke hovers above,
bodies packed elbow-to-elbow, drink to drink.
Space between us? Paper-thin.
I could rip it in half, reach back, grab his hand.
But I won't. Same way he won't grab mine.
Not with the bet standing between us.
We’re both too stubborn,
competitive,
proud.
We’re halfway past the crowd when?—
“Damn. Slow down, sweetheart,”
some voice growls as we pass.
“Don’t walk off, I ain’t finished lookin’.”
I keep walking, ignoring.
I learned the art young:
don’t react, don’t feed it.
They can’t reach what they can’t touch,
and they can’t touch what doesn’t flinch.
I canfeelAndrew's frostbite at my back.
His silent restraint is its own kind of violence.
The guy fades into the crowd.
