Cannes | H.S

Legend

Layla

My stomach is filled with absolute butterflies as he laces our hands together, guiding me backstage into the hustle and bustle of it all. With the sun down, the coffee is out and passed around. The energy is undeniable and uncontrollable, radiating practically off the walls as I struggle to keep up with such a pace. Because before I can process my whereabouts, he's thrown into a quick fitting, leaving me alone in the small hallway for a few short minutes. I don't mind, knowing how show business works after so many years. For he's running quite low on time; being nearly an hour and a half late as his crew is not the happiest with him. The fitting room is rather large, resembling of his little touches here and there with placements of various bold and dazzling outfits along with colorful instruments.

I can hear the thrilled and happy screams of the crowds from where I stand, eager for the man of the hour to emerge on stage. For he's due in fifteen, causing excitement and hysteria to be heard all around. He can tell I'm a bit nervous as he attempts to make conversation about the weather and how exactly water bottles are shaped and formed from behind the curtain. I appreciate this from him. I appreciate the fact that he cares so dearly for me when nobody has before in the past. From the subtle placement of his hand tucked within the creases of my back or the soft touches and kisses he gifts upon my skin. All these small reminders of affection melt my heart evermore.

Eventually, we're reunited as he steps out bashfully, dressed in a white button up, tucked loosely in black striped trousers with a matching blazer. His hair has been combed and styled as he approaches me, barely holding it together, wanting to kiss my shy lips as his gaze falls upon them eagerly. He looks absolutely beautiful; a soul and face meant to be shared and adored by the entire world. He deserves to be plastered upon billboards throughout the glistening city as he's surrounded by sparkling lights. He smells of musky vanilla and lavender as he pulls me into his chest, tracing alongside my chin, settling his temple upon my own. We remain in this very moment briefly, neither one of us wanting to part ways if only for a little while.

"Are you nervous?" I ask him.

He smiles softly, exposing the prominent dimple on the right side of his mouth. That dimple is only shown if it's a true smile, this is quite the smile I'm receiving right about now. "A little, yeah."

"Does that happen often? The nerves? Thought you'd be used to it all by now."

"Hmm, no. It doesn't really bother me often."

"Then why tonight?"

"Because a certain woman will be watching me."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. She's quite the catch too."

"Really? Do I know of this woman?"

"You might. She's been in a few movies here and there. Her work is brilliant."

"Go on."

"She's clever."

"Tell me more."

"Undeniably gorgeous if I may add. You may know her. She goes by the name of Layla James. A stubborn, yet compelling woman. I'm already wrapped around her little finger."

He pulls me in for a tighter embrace, planting a big kiss onto my own mouth. His hands wander down to the bottoms of the grey dress that I selected in a true rush. He seems to like it, hands traveling down, begging for some attention as he whispers such private words into my ear. However, before true intentions can rise to the honest and sandy surface, we're interrupted with a turn of the door. For three others join us, causing me to instantly pull away at such a scene. I'm not allowed to venture far for he confidently takes my hand in his own, holding me close, silently telling me that all will be well as his mother and sister have entered the room. An older gentleman who appears to be quite friendly with Harry smiles kindly at me, offering a hand.