Painted Lady {h.s}

television

"Lor-Lor! I'm sure it's great! Please!"

I slowly pull the poster from behind my back, laying it on the bed in front of us. I wait anxiously for his reaction, watching his face intently to gauge what he is thinking. I watch his eyes analyze every inch of the page, his hand feathering over the letters on the page. It's only a couple of letters on a page, but it seems like it's taking forever for him to process it. His mouth opens and closes multiple times, trying to think of something to say. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, my brain coming up with the worst case scenarios.

Maybe he hates it and doesn't know how to tell me?

"Baby..." The nickname sticks, and he sighs a large breath when he speaks.

"If you hate it, it's fine, my feelings won't be hurt-"

"Are you kidding?" His eyes jump to mine, his pupils appearing double the size.

I don't say anything in response, but I think the nervous look on my face tells him that I need a bit more reassurance.

"It's perfect..." He whispers, staring at me with such admiration it makes my stomach flip. He gently lifts my hand from my lap, raising it to his mouth and lightly kissing my knuckles. "I love it. I really do. I can picture it plastered all over the city." A warm smile takes over his face as he speaks.

He looks back down to the poster, his eyebrows creasing in confusion for a moment.

"Is this why you had red lipstick on... when... y'know..." He questions, pointing out the red lipstick mark on the page.

I just nod in response, not exactly in the mood to reminisce on that night. He notices the shift in my mood, and gently places the poster onto the floor. He grabs my forearms and pulls me onto him, laying back down onto the bed. I rest my chin on his chest, watching as the sun slowly illuminates his features. He runs his hands through my hair, just like I did to him earlier. His face leans in, pecking my lips once before laying his head back down onto the pillow. I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. The noise is something that has quickly become a lullaby to me. My eyes slowly close and I hold Harry's waist just a bit tighter as I drift off to sleep.

I know he will be gone when I wake up, but it's something that I've gotten used to. I wish that we could tell everyone, but I fear what would happen if we did. It's better this way.

༺ ˖࣪ ∗ ਏਓ ∗ ˖࣪ ༻

I sit down on the couch, watching the group plug in a thousand different things and bicker about their positions.

It's finally time that I get to hear them play together, and I have to say, I'm extremely nervous. What if I hate it? What would I tell them then? Give up on your dreams? Get used to slacks and cubicles? I'm really hoping they are as good as they make themselves out to be.

They've set everything up in the living room. Harlow's drums are closest to the door, kept in the back because of the volume. She sits on a small stool, tapping each drum piece to test their sound. Zayn stands closest to her, his bass plugged into a small amp. He strums a couple of the strings, adjusting the volume when needed. Mitch stands towards the hallway, tuning his guitar as I wait. Harry stands front and center, adjusting the mic stand to his height. He looks a tad nervous, which makes me even more nervous. He occasionally whispers things to everyone else, most likely about timing and tempo. Maybe about the key they are playing in. I'm not sure, I don't know much about live music. All of their equipment is plugged into their own amplifiers, which makes me scared for a noise complaint, but I guess we'll deal with that later.

Harry walks up the mic, sending me a small smile that no one else can see. Everyone gets situated in their positions and I hold my breath.

Harlow clicks her drumsticks together four times before playing a beat. The tempo and sound already make me want to bob my head. So far so good.