Harry Styles One Shots.
These are one shots I have found on tumblr.
All credit goes to the writers of which I name at the end of every chapter. If any original writers of these one shots would like me to remove them, please let me know.
description: talking shit with Harry and bitching with him.
word count: 1.7k
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You closed the door, immediately resting against it as it shut to, head knocking back to lean against the glass.
With your eyes closed you took a deep breath in, smelling whatever masterpiece was being put together in the kitchen.
Heavy bags still hung to your body, thick winter coat sitting against your shoulders, shoes that were way too high on your feet.
You couldn't help but smile as you heard him muttering something to the food he was cooking, obviously wanting to take away some of the stress that you were feeling and wanting it to be perfect in the process.
Resting your bag next to Harry's shoes you reached down and pulled off your shoe, moaning under your breath as your feet hit the floor, toes curling to help continue to relieve the tension that you heels had brought.
As you reached for your second heel, hopping on your now bare foot, you let that one you had removed haphazardly drop to the floor slowly giving less and less of a fuck as the tension dissipated.
Walking through the house, you watched him quietly for a moment dressed in some shirt that should be worn by a convention dad but probably cost more than your most expensive designer handbag (which he had also bought you). There was the faint sound of Van Morrison coming from your lounge that he was really zoned in on as he faintly sang along with the lyrics.
Your eyes took in the kitchen once they had moved away from Harry. The mess that was left in the sink, the way whatever was on one of the hobs bubbled away. Extractor fan above the cooker turned on, two plates set out on the side ready to be plated up.
He must've sensed you, glancing over at you waiting in the doorway before looking back to the food. You watched him still before he looked back at you, his eyes holding yours softly.
You'd been texting him whenever you could today. The stress of work positively getting to you. A deadline that was unmeetable being handed over to you to sort out.
He'd phoned you a lunch time, a growled "again", leaving his lips when you spoke about the boss at work that was once more making your life a living hell.
Quickly, he reacted, standing behind the island of the kitchen and grabbed the large glass of wine that sat next to the one that he had clearly been sipping while he cooked.
Walking to you, he handed over the glass which you gratefully took off him with ease. You closed your eyes as you drank, taking the largest sip you could muster. Even that seemed to take too much energy.
