Harry Styles Oneshots

Knight in Skinny Jeans

Y/N gets stood up and Harry is her knight in skinny jeans and a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt.

WC: 2k

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In all her years of life, Y/N's only ever been hauntingly afraid of one thing. Spiders and bugs have never bothered her, and even as a child, she didn't mind the dark. She seeks comfort in thunderstorms and welcomes the rush of adrenaline when she stands at great heights. She's not afraid of much, but there's one thing that makes her wish the ground would swallow her whole.

In retro respect, she supposes it wasn't the best idea to agree to meet him at the restaurant. And looking back now, she guesses making as much as an effort would only get her hurt.

It doesn't change where she is now, though—tucked away in the booth with a half-empty glass of water and a grumbling belly. And let's not forget the overwhelming sense of nausea in the pit of her stomach.

Embarrassment. That's Y/N's biggest fear.

Y/N supposes it stems somewhere deep in her childhood, where a traumatising memory takes place that her mind has blocked from remembering.

She's been stood up. Plain and simple.

He's over an hour late and not replying to her texts, so she thinks she gets the message.

Y/N feels a little sick. Her hands are clammy, and she can't seem to stop her knee from bouncing under the table. She gnaws her bottom lip raw, and her eyes are scatty as she gazes over other guests in hopes they're not all looking at her and realise what's going on.

She's never been stood up before, and in a classy restaurant such as she's in now, dressed to the nines, it only makes matters worse. If she stands up and walks out, everyone will know she's been stood up. But she can't sit and wait around, either.

Y/N feels like they already know—like they're snickering under their breaths and all eyes are on her.

She's wrong. No one has noticed yet, and she needs to get out of the damn booth before another waiter comes over with a pitty-filled smile and asks if she'd like to order or not.

Maybe she's lucky her tea dress can be considered a little casual, and perhaps if she plays her cards right and leaves smiling, people may think she's left early from dinner with a group of friends.

Y/N knows she shouldn't be overthinking it this much, but she is. Her chest and neck feel hot with heat, and her eyes are prickling with tears as her nose starts to tingle. She needs to get out of here.

Y/N clears her throat and reaches for her little purse, standing and evening out her outfit. She's put the bag over her shoulder as she manoeuvres through dim, candle-lit tables to make for the restroom.

She tries to keep a light smile on her face when she brushes past a brisk waiter before pushing into the toilets. It's empty inside, the harsh lights reflecting over her and highlighting her most unattractive features. She closes the door and makes for the line of sinks, a long mirror coating the wall behind them.

Y/N lets out a shaky breath and braces herself against the counter. She can feel her eyes starting to water, the way she loses control, and her lower lip begins to tremble. She can feel the way her knees start to buckle, how her head grows fuzzy, and everything becomes too much.

She feels stupid. How could she believe she had a chance with someone like Daniel fucking Morell? The idea of seeing him again in class next week is disgusting to her. So much so that she starts to wonder if it's too late to change her major completely.

Boys are horrible.

Y/N takes another deep breath and stands taller. She straightens her back and plasters on her most believable smile. Her theory is: if nobody sees her sad, how can they have pity?