About (Harry Styles)

35.

"Why New York?"

"I don't know. It just seems like the place to be."

"Yeah, it's really lovely there," he tells me as if he's replaying memories he's spent there before his eyes. "I think you'll fit in perfectly."

"You think so?" I ask, my voice hopeful.

"I know so," he pleasingly smiles, indulging me. His hand takes mine from my lap, slipping his fingers through the gaps of mine as he squeezes gently.

For a moment, everything in my life seems to be in place. I finally found someone who understands me, supports me on a whole deeper level. He knows things without me having to explain anything. He doesn't have to say or do anything. He doesn't have to perform grand gestures to move me. Just one simple smile, one simple touch can ease away all the worries and doubts I have.

"Here," he suddenly speaks. I don't realize he's writing something in my hand with a pen - the pen from the journal. The arbitrary sensation is ticklish on my palm. Once he frees my hand, I closely observe the small written random numbers etched on my skin.

"What's this?" I ask, glancing from my palm to his face.

"It's my number," he casually tells me. My eyes move back to the black numbers on my palm. "Call me or text me when you need anything. I won't always be around because you know .. but I always answer my phone."

How can a simple line of numbers seem so life changing?

It's not just random numbers. A number in which I can use to call him. Someone who I can depend on. If I allow this number into my life, there's no taking it back. I've always said that the most important people are just a phone call away. And Harry has become one of those people for me.

He flicks out his hand to me and says, "Your turn." Without having to say anything, I happily oblige and write my number along his forearm, thinking I would never regret it.

...

Before long, the night sky has settled upon us. And since it was the last night of the cruise, I kindly, without any underlying intentions, asked Harry if he wanted to sleep on the bed with me since he looked so unbelievably uncomfortable on the couch the past few days. To be honest, I think it was the alcohol talking. If I was sober and in my right mind, I would have left the sleeping arrangements as they were.

Might I emphasize that I said "on the bed." Harry's face was absolutely one of pure shock as he took in my words. But it didn't take long to convince him to agree. I'm a very convincing person.

This time he's the one to construct the pillow wall behind us. It's kind of cute watching him carefully position them, making sure there are no open gaps and all.

"What's the wall for?" I ask, cocking a brow.

"To .." He pauses for a thought. "You know."

"What? You afraid I might come on to you," I joke.

"Ha ha," he exaggerates. "You're very funny. It's quite the opposite actually."

Opposite? He's afraid he'll come on to me?

"Now go to bed." He mumbles before laying down on his side, his head hitting the pillow with a soft thud as he keeps his body over the duvet. I can't help but smile at how extremely careful he's trying to be. It's not like anything is going to happen.

...

"Why do you keep a journal?" I ask, suddenly curious. I know he's still awake.

After a while, he replies, "To record my thoughts and stuff."

"What kind of thoughts?"

"My thoughts." He's not uncomfortable with me prying, but I am not going to let him get away with that answer so easily.

A smirk of determination appears on my face, as I jump off the bed as I advance towards his suitcase by the other wall.

"Elaine," he calls out as he sits up, his deeply stern yet emphatic voice calling from by the bed.

I quickly lurch for the brown book, hiding it behind my back as I spin around, seeing Harry keeping a foot of distance between us.

He's not amused, his hair in all disarray, but I play foolish, inattentive to his mood.

"Tell me," I demand.

"This isn't funny," he tries to say lightly, sticking out an arm for me to return his journal. "Come on now, Elaine."

"Just tell me one thing," I try to negotiate. "You know so much about me but I don't know a thing about you." As the words fall from my mouth, I realize that's why I'm doing this. I've shared so much about myself that he hasn't had the time to talk about himself.

"Okay, I will.  Just give me back my book."

"How can I trust that you'll tell me?"

"You have my word," he says, the light of the moon highlighting his face as he nods.

Inhaling a breath, I cave in and extend out the arm with his journal. He lazily reaches for it but I retreat quickly, a taunting expression on my face as he wears one with astonishment. I snicker as I run past him, my feet not making it that far before a hand wraps around my wrist, whipping me around.

I feel Harry's journal slip out of my fingers as he pins me down by my wrists, the soft surface of the bed hitting my back as his body hovers right over me. Our breaths, the only audible sound as his eyes flit across mine before they dart down to my lips. Though his parted lips aren't even on mine yet, the mere thought excites me, an uncontrollable spark of butterflies in my chest.

I force a light laugh to decrease the tension, but my laughter quickly fades as his gaze rips away behind closed eyes. His grip loosens on me as he uses his hand to push himself from the bed, a strange part of me disappointed that he didn't seize the opportunity to kiss me. Cold air of the room quickly seeps above me and I sit up, to clear the chilled air.

"Harry," I say his name under my breath. "It's alright."

He doesn't say anything as he runs a hand through his hair. Without thinking, my hand settles on the right side of his face, slowly pressing his eyes to meet mine. Once his worried gaze burns into mine, I try to appease him with an apologetic grin. Without a rational thought left in my body, I lean into him with eyes closed, in hopes that I would feel his lips on mine, but he rejects me.

His hand tentatively pushes against my shoulder, and I open my eyes at the gesture, scarred by the sudden rejection.

"I'm sorry," he lowly says, swallowing something difficult as his brows furrow in dread. He looks at me intently. "I don't like to take advantage of girls when they're drunk."

"I'm not drunk," I spit out. I feel my shallow breaths growing deeper as he begins to make some logic of my statement. With slightly hazy thoughts, none that are effects from the alcohol, my arms wound around his neck, my fingers playing with the ends of his hair as I pull him to me, my lips stopping right before his ears. "I want this," I whisper desperately.  "I want you."

"We have to be smart, Elaine," he says breathlessly. "I can't do this."

"Don't you want this?" I ask, placing a soft kiss on the corner of his lips. "Don't you want me?"

That's the last thing that was said before he laid me onto the bed, his clouded gaze momentarily contemplating this before smashing his lips onto mine, possessing every last ounce of me under his control.

Some things just don't go as planned.

It's true. They don't. I didn't expect myself to be so drawn to Harry. I didn't expect to have sex with him, and I didn't expect to love every bit of it.

I also didn't expect him to be gone the next morning, no trace of him left behind but the smeared black ink on my palm.

A/n: Please don't hate me. And so, the infamous drama ensues. Comment and vote!