Harry Styles Imagines/Blurbs

Slow Dancing and Jokes

From the moment you’d walk in the door, he’d know something was up. He’d see the way your eyes were full and wet, the way your hair was thrown into an aggravated lump on the top of your head, the way you’d slowly shove everything out of your arms like it’d be the hardest thing you’d done all day. And before you’d have a chance to escape somewhere alone, he’d take you by the hands and pull you with him into the living room. You’d be reluctant at first, preferring to allow yourself a good cry session in the shower, but Harry wouldn’t have any of it. He’d insist on making you stand right in front of him, his hands cupping your face as he’d droop his head to peer into your welling eyes. You’d look down, not wanting to let him in just yet, and he’d frown, mumbling questions about what was wrong and if you were okay and really, love, what had happened? He’d need you to tell him, need to know why his girl was so upset, so sad.

And really, it wouldn’t take him long to draw an answer out of you because you’d never be able to resist those pleading eyes, those concerned brows, those tight lips and tense shoulders. So you’d finally mumble an answer about how you weren’t really quite sure why, but you just felt sad. Inadequate. Like a failure. Like you were trying so hard to be this or that, but every time you turned around you just didn’t measure up. And his face would turn into a disappointed frown, concerned and upset as he’d brush your cheeks with his thumbs murmuring a, “What? No. That’s not true, love. That’s not true.” And despite your efforts otherwise, tears would break over your eyelids and roll down your face, overwhelming emotion washing over your soul like a storm surge. “But it feels true.” you’d eek out before your voice would get lost somewhere between your heart and your throat and he’d pull you into his chest, one hand sliding under your arm and up your back, the other catching your hand and pulling it up in his, and his chin meeting your temple. Your hand would grip his shoulder, elbow draped over and back, and you’d hold on— or rather, let yourself be held on to— like a ragdoll in her stand.

And he’d begin to sway to the soft music already playing, an almost indistinguishable line between hug and dance, and it’d make you feel better for no particular reason other than being so close to his breath, so entwined in movement and silence. He’d know that you weren’t looking for advice, that you weren’t looking for him to fix all your problems. He’d know from the last time that all you needed was for him to just hold you and make you feel safe, allowing you tears and warmth for as long as it took until he could shush your sniffles into a smile.

And he always would. Eventually the “Shhh”’s would turn into a silly joke or stupid anecdote from his day and despite your red nose he’d make you laugh about a new knock knock joke he’d learned or the way his feet were even awkward when he slow danced. “They’re just too loong..” he’d playfully whine, his familiar dimples giving his charade away and making you forget about your troubles, if only for a moment. Yeah, maybe he wasn’t always sure what to say or do, but you’d never doubt the fact that even in his bumbled, goofy attempts at making you feel better that he cared, loved, wished more than anything that you’d be happy again. And maybe he couldn’t fix your problems, but he couldmake you smile, and he’d figure that was the next best thing.