The Fence || h. s.

29 || Going Up In Flames

I wouldn't classify myself as an easily irritable person, but there is nothing that irks me more than having my beauty sleep disturbed by some obnoxious person who can't wait to call me until a more appropriate hour. 

Hence why I'm far from pleased when my phone blasts up at exactly two in the morning, forcing me out of the rather pleasant memory of my gallery tryst with Harry. Especially since the dream version—unlike the real one—ends up with us sharing a sensual kiss with no interruptions from Sarah or anyone else.

Yes, Harry's lips have been on my mind a lot these past few days… Guilty as charged. Even though we have mutually agreed on keeping our relationship strictly friendly, there is no stopping my thoughts from running feral anymore. Not after discovering just what kind of a guy Harry Styles is in the bedroom, and I am pretty certain it's the type that's down for absolutely anything.

It's like the universe has created this man specifically for me; it drives me absolutely mental.

Groggily reaching out to switch on the bedside lamp, I then squint at the caller ID and prepare myself to give whoever's on the other side an earful. However, my anger quickly turns into surprise when I see the letter displayed on the screen—H.

I know he's probably calling because it's around noon in France right now, but for a guy who travels a lot, I'd expect him to be more aware of the time zones. 

"Harry, it's the middle of the night," I greet him grumpily, hoping he'd catch on to my annoyance.

"I miss you."

It's not what he says, but rather how he says it that makes me sit up in my bed, instantly becoming more aware of my surroundings. "Are you okay, H?"

"'M a bloody idiot," he mumbles, his words so jumbled up that I have trouble understanding them. "You're so beautiful. My perfect pretty girl."

Despite the unfortunate circumstances, I feel my lips quirk up into a smile. "Are you drunk, Harry?"

"Yeah. 'M drunk. On you." 

I can't help but snort at that. "Okay Romeo, why are you wasted in the middle of the day? Aren't you supposed to be working there?"

"You've got freckles on your nose, y'know?" he ignores my question.

"Yeah, I've been aware of it for about twenty years now," I giggle, laying back down on my side.

"I wanna kiss the freckles, and your cute cheeks, and your pretty strawberry lips, and–" he begins to list out drunkenly.

"How do you know they taste like strawberries?" I butt in, amused.

"Your lipstick, remember? I stole your purse…"

I let out a small, "Oh" remembering the way he had once tasted my lip gloss, months ago during our fence days. His memory is exceptional—I have to give him that.

"I should have kissed them when I had the chance. What if I never get one again?" he thinks out loud, clearly not expecting an actual answer from me. "'M upset."

"Because you didn't kiss me?" I ask gently, reminding myself that you need to be patient with a drunk person.

"I ambushed you like some bloody animal. I always do things backwards." I can almost hear him pouting. "You deserve flowers, candlelight, and songs… Lots of songs. Tons."

"Technically, I've received all three from you at some point in time," I tease.

"More. More flowers. More songs…" he slurs before I hear a noise sounding suspiciously like him falling off a bed. Ouch. "I also don't wanna call you Cherry anymore, okay?"