No Matter What // Harry Styles AU -- Dunkirk inspired

Chapter Fifty-Three

"Only one way to find out," I shrug.

Harry takes hold of my hand and together we skip across the empty road. I trail after Harry and his long legs, giggling like a school girl as I press down on the top of my hat to keep it in place. We trot up to the front door and hurry inside. A rusty bell above the door clatters with a harsh din as we flee the winter air and tumble inside. 

Of the handful of elderly patrons, only two gentlemen bother to lookup from their crinkled newspapers.

"Morning," Harry chirps with the tip of his hat as we scamper by. Annoyance and curiosity burrow into their already creased brows, making the urge to giggle all the more tempting.

"Oh good grief," I pull Harry along to a wooden booth in the back.

"Ah, cool your jets," he says, flashing a cheeky grin. "I'm just being polite."

"I'm not sure everyone fancies Mr. Congenial in the morning as much as I do."

"I hate to break it to you, Roses, but I'm working on the impression that you aren't one for fancying much of anything in the morning. Well, maybe somethings..."

"Oh would you quit it!" I take off my coat and hat. "I'm here aren't I?"

"And bless you for it," he says. He takes my hand and places a quick kiss on my fingers. The brush of his lips against my cold skin as his eyes meet mine sends an electric bolt up my arm and down to my toes. I look down at the small paper menu as I try to push down the growing knot of desire in my stomach.

"I feel so fancy," I say as my eyes skim over the listed prices. 

"You are fancy."

"Am not," I snort. It's so foreign to have a meal outside of the house.

"Yeah, well, me either then. Truth be told, I feel a bit of place."

"Harry, you look right as you should," I say firmly. "And besides, you're always in the right place if you're with me," I say.

Harry looks up at me a little cautiously, a nervous boyish smile flashing across his face. It make my heart clench with the reckless urge to dive over the table and kiss him.

"Ah-hem."

I look up, startled by the bristling voice. An older woman dressed in a thick sweater and an apron tied about her square waist stands besides us.

"How may I help you?" she asks curtly. Her steel gray hair seems to be about as cold as her voice.

"Oh, right," Harry stammers. Looking down at the menu and then a little nervously back at me, he asks quietly, "Is bread and jam okay?"

"It sounds perfect, Harry," I tell him. Harry's been nothing but generous with me, and I'd hate for any of his nerves to be about money.

As the woman pencils our small order on her pad, she asks warily, "Haven't seen you lot before. Are you visiting family?"

"The fair," Harry corrects.

I smile up politely at her when I notice how her eyes scan between Harry and my hand that rests on the table. I fan my fingers out wide, wiggling them against the smooth wood of the table, wondering what could be so interesting to her. 

Then it hits me.

I slowly look up into her pious, wrinkled face and feel as if I've gone straight to judgement day.

With her blue eyes boring into my sullied soul, she asks Harry, "Anything for your... sister?"

"Oh, no- she's not my sister," Harry rushes. My cheeks flush with a wild flame as the woman's stern face crinkles with disdain. "She's my-"