Golden [h.s.]

10. magnets

I'm standing in front of the mirror, splashing water on my face to calm down. My reflection is warped; an indication of how drunk I am.

Come home with me.

The words echo in my head. I touch my lips lightly, already reminiscing on the wild kiss Harry and I shared only moments ago.

I shake it off — it's been more than 10 minutes since he walked out the restroom. Go home with him? After the stunt he pulled, leaving me hanging for two weeks, only for me to melt like putty in his hands with another kiss?

I'm fucking pathetic.

Making my decision, I head out the bathroom, and pay my tab at the bar. The room is spinning; maybe the full effects of all the liquor I've been consuming is taking over my senses since they're no longer being clouded by Harry.

I stumble out the front entrance, walking past the stupid paparazzi who don't bother flashing their cameras. I walk in the direction of the subway, I can't even get a grip on myself to look at my phone screen long enough to get an Uber. I walk down the block, stumbling in my heels.

Fuck this.

I turn the corner, sitting on the front steps of an apartment building. I try to unbuckle my heels, but my vision makes it look as though it's quadrupled.

Suddenly, a large black mass appears in front of me. I narrow my eyes, focusing them in, and make out a familiar black car.

"You've gotta be shitting me!" I exclaim out loud.

The car door opens, and Harry steps out, looking godly, almost divine — it has to be the alcohol coursing through my veins.

"Now, why do you keep running away from me, Aurelia?" he asks, walking to me.

I back away, forcing myself to turn around, but I trip, and grab onto a lightpost for balance. Harry runs to me, grabbing my arm to help me stand up, and I almost feel the electricity from his touch.

"You're wasted, Miss Bartender." He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval and smirks at me, almost sinful. He licks his lips, and I'm reminded of the taste of his mouth.

"I'm f-fine," I mumble, but my head is spinning; my cheeks enflame once I hear how my words are slurred. This is embarrassing. I try to wiggle out of his grip, but his hand tightens on me. "Let me g-go, I'm gonna m-miss the train!"

Harry raises an eyebrow, his green eyes peering into mine. "Train? Aurelia, it's midnight. Not to mention you can barely walk."

I shake my head and tear my arm away from his hand. I turn around and start walking, but I know he's right; I'm walking all zigzagged.

"Would you stop being difficult, please?" Harry calls out from behind me with a sigh. "You're in no condition to try proving a point."

What the fuck?

That pisses me off, and I turn around abruptly. "Prove what point?"

"The one where you insist on taking the subway home all alone, knowing how drunk you are, just to avoid me," Harry replies, crossing his arms. I roll my eyes, and I regret it immediately; it only makes my vision even more blurrier than it is.

Harry smirks again. "Get in the car, Aurelia."

Aurelia — My name sounds like music when he says it. I don't know why this makes me frustrated, it has to be the liquor making my emotions so offbeat.

"Why do you call me that all the fucking time?" I throw my hands up in exasperation. "'Aurelia,'" I mock his English accent, but this only makes him laugh.

"You love when I say your name, remember?" Harry asks with a raise of his brow, and I groan, shaking my head.

"You're ridiculous," I say, but I move neither away or near him. "Thank you, Harry, but I'm going home. We can't keep d-doing this." 

Harry's eyes dance in amusement. "Doing what?" He asks innocently, cocking his head to the side. I groan in exasperation, gesturing between us.

"This! This silly little back-and-forth we have here! You can't just show up out of nowhere, kiss me, and tell me to go home with you!" I exclaim. "I don't know what girls you're used to, but I'm not fucking like them." My feet hurt and I plop down on the edge of the curb, desperate to sit. I cross my arms.

"Aurelia, get in the car, or so help me God, I will pick you up myself and throw you in the backseat," Harry threatens, but his expression shows enjoyment. The prick is enjoying this!

"Oh, I bet you'd love that," I mumble, only to feel the air being swept up around me.

"Hey!"

Harry, despite being drunk himself, picks me up easily in his arms; I take note of how his arms feel around my waist, and I pray that he can't hear the rate of my heart. He lets go of me as he opens the door, and sits me on the backseat.

"You're right," Harry smirks, scooching in beside me. "I do love it, though not quite how I imagined you in the backseat."

I roll my eyes, but my body disagrees with me and instead I get that same flutter in my stomach that I'm all too familiar with when he does that delicious smirk; and with those words, that feeling in the pit of my stomach ignites.

Harry nods at the driver, who has a small smile of his own on his face, and we're driven off. I notice we head in the direction of my apartment.

I stare out the window, an effort to distract myself from how close Harry's leg is to mine. I can feel his knee bouncing; being so close to him without really touching is maddening.

The world looks like it's in waves because of how drunk I am, and I'm forced to turn my head towards Harry, only to find him already looking at me.

Why does it feel like we're magnets, constantly being allured, tugged toward each other?

His eyes are glazed over, a tell that he's also drunk, but those same emerald eyes enchant me.

What is it about him that has me so enthralled? He gets under my skin, but I can't seem to avoid him.

"I told myself I'd stop fighting it," I mumble, and Harry's eyes darken. My pulse quickens. I can smell the cologne on him as he steps only inches away. He looks into my eyes, then brushes my hair back before speaking.

"So don't," Harry whispers, speaking even softer than I am.

He licks his bottom lip, that habit that always seems to make my breathing stop. He leans closer to me, and I can smell the whiskey on his breath. I swallow hard when I see his eyes flash down to my lips.

It's like I'm battling an internal war against myself. I know this can't possibly end well. I know this can't, by any chance, be good for me in the long run; all of this is coming from the logical, rational part of me.

But the senseless part of me — the part that's utterly infatuated by this beautiful man — is too far gone. I can't get enough of the man that is Harry Styles.

"Harry," I start. The alcohol in my veins take control, and I press my lips to his. His mouth opens, his tongue moving against mine, and I sigh at the taste of his mouth. I could kiss him for hours. I pull away, only for a second, to say something.

"Take me home with you."