addicted || h.s

"He was her dirty little secret. Her guilty pleasure. He was like a drug, and she wanted more."


2. i

She sat in the little coffee shop, as she did every morning. Her chipped nails thrummed repeatedly on the wooden table. She was waiting, for what you may ask. The answer, strode lazily through the door. His disheveled curls were damp with the morning's drizzle. His calloused hands gripped his worn journal, it pages frayed and yellowing. A pair of damaged, black skinny jeans clung to his toned legs. He had a seemingly too large sweater pulled over his broad frame. He had a pair of worn out brown boots on his feet, and his ever present look of distress marred his perfectly chiseled face. 

He mumbled his order to the barista and walked to a table in the far corner of the little shop. He opened the little brown journal and flipped its pages. He settled on a seemingly empty page and began writing furiously. His curled head was bent over the journal, and his face held a look of utter immersion. His eyebrows furrowed as his white knuckles traveled viciously across the page. He was so engrossed in his writing that he barely noticed the barista placing is coffee on the table. 

He subconsciously reached for his coffee and sipped it whilst still writing.  Her brown eyes focused on the way his brows knitted together. Oh how she wanted extend her fingers and caress his face, to relieve every bit of stress, worry, or anger that plagued his body.  She tucked a strand of her mahogany colored hair behind her ear and sipped her coffee. She had always wanted to talk to him, to hear that deep, raspy voice murmuring sweet words of perfection in her ear. But she never had the confidence to do so. 

Then, the nameless boy stood up and walked to the doors. Unthinkingly, she stood and walked hurriedly after him. She stuffed her untouched notes in her bag, and proceeded to follow him out the door. She had no knowledge as to why she was following him. The only thing she knew was that she needed to talk to him, to have him acknowledge her existence. So she followed him. She followed him down the busy streets of New York, and to the empty bus stop. He sat down and brought out, once again, his tattered journal. She studied him from afar.  The way he bent over his journal, his brows furrowed in concentration and his curls falling in front of his face. He looked like an angel, but not just any angel, one who is constantly being barraged with unwanted thoughts; Thoughts that shook him to the core. That rattled his very being. He looked distraught. 


She was so absorbed in thought that she hardly noticed the bumbling bus screech to a stop beside her. She followed the boy into the bus and sat in the seat across from him. He was looking out the window, staring at the raindrops that had begun to fall stain the glass. She picked nervously at her fingertips. This was the closest she had ever been to him. She focused the way his green eyes focused so intently on the scenery that passed by.  They were probably her favorite thing about him

"You know, it’s quite rude to stare." A deep voice said dully.

It was those six words that caused her breathing to stop, and her pulse to race. Was he really talking to her?

"W-what?" She couldn't help but stutter.

"You're nor very discreet. You've been staring at me for a while now. It's hard not to notice." He chuckled.

"O-oh I'm sorry." She blushed profusely. Embarrassment didn't even begin to describe how she was feeling.

He extended a large hand and smiled. "I'm Harry."

She reached out and grasped his hand firmly in hers. "I'm Jasmine. It's nice to finally meet you Harry."  






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