Matilda | Harry Styles

THIRTY-FIVE

It scared me that our morning was just as blissful as any other, even when I felt like I'd done something wrong last night. In my head, even though everything I'd ever known about Harry contradicted my fears, I'd decided that he'd have despised me by the morning; that he'd have been angered by my continued failure to live up to what he deserved, and he'd have lashed out.  If he remembered my neglect to respond to his question about us, then he wasn't showing it, or holding it against me - this morning, he'd been just as adoring and attentive as he ever was. Getting to wake up beside him was a dream, with how his legs would lace with my own, and my face was buried into the crook of his neck as his arm wound around me. It was one of my favourite parts of us - the first few moments before the day began, where if I was lucky enough to wake up before him, I'd get to just watch him, there, existing. It was one of the most beautiful sights I'd ever known; Harry, free of expression or any form of deliberate movement - just peaceful, and just him. And, in the times when I didn't wake up before him, I was lucky enough to be greeted with his affection, regardless, whether it be through the emergence of a bouquet of tulips beside the bed, or simply by the tracing of his fingers over my bare skin - he was there. I never wanted to lose that.

Harry had been out on the balcony of the hotel room, only for the previous few minutes. He'd stepped out just after he'd finished his cup of coffee - and that was something else that I liked about us. I noticed, particularly on Harry's off days, he liked to sit in bed with a cup of coffee, that he'd always make from whatever machine was provided in the hotel room. He'd always make one for me, first, making it exactly how I liked it without me even having to make a request - if he was awake first, he'd somehow time my coffee to be ready the moment I opened my eyes. I'd noticed another of his little morning habits - he'd make his coffee, and flick the television on in the hotel room. He'd always click it to the news channel, and the volume would either be incredibly low, or on mute, completely - but he'd always put it on. He'd sit with his coffee, glancing between the empty space ahead of him, and the television screen, and it was one of the most endearing things I'd observed. He was never even paying any attention, with it often being a random local news channel, but it was always on, first thing in the morning, if he had the chance to spend it resting. Only after that, would he begin his day - usually by going to the gym, either alone, or when Pauli would join him.

We had around ten days, now, without a show. It was a rare, extended break, before the final two shows of the entire tour would take place in California. Then, it would all be over. 

Harry had suggested that I joined him in heading to California, early - he had his own house, there, after all. The remainder of the band, and the crew, were either going to be heading home, or hanging around here, in Jersey, for a short while. It would've been a week of Harry and I staying in his home, and it was something that felt incredibly daunting, but also deeply inviting, all at once. I found myself wanting to experience that kind of domesticity with him - our entire relationship had been spent living out of hotel rooms, with him constantly on the move; it would've been nice to experience Harry just living at home, in whichever way he preferred. We were due to leave the following morning, to head there, and despite the tumultuous battle going on inside my head, I found myself excited to return to California. That was where it had all started for Harry and I, properly, and it felt almost like a fitting, full-circle moment to finish the tour there. Though I had no idea where the end of the tour would take Harry and I as a couple, I wanted to live in the moment as best as I could for the remaining couple of weeks.

I set my laptop down beside me, just as Harry reached an arm on either side of me, to lean against the headboard of the bed. His hair was still slightly dishevelled from his sleep, the boyish grin that had refused to leave his lips since he'd hit the stage last night still very much apparent on his features. I could taste the coffee on his tongue as he leaned in to kiss me, letting his fingertips trace briefly over my jaw.