About (Harry Styles)

63.

"Your name is hard to miss, Bubble Wrap," Harry adds, causing me to roll my eyes. I remember I had written down "Bubble Wrap" on the envelope as a joke. Why did I do that?

"Where's your uncle?" I ask him, changing the subject.

"You mean, Pete?"

"Yeah."

"He's retired now," he says, his tone slightly mournful. I turn around to find him studying the photos of strangers on the wall as well. "So I bought this place. He wanted to give it to me for free, but I insisted on the money."

"Why?"

He turns to me, his arms crossed against his chest.

"Why didn't I accept it for free?"

"No," I say, though that's the question the old me would probably ask. "Why did you want this place?"

"Because ... because I wanted it. It holds a lot of special memories for a lot of special people," he speaks as he returns to the wall.

"That's very sweet of you. To keep this place alive for others. Even when no one's asked you. Is he really your uncle?"

"No, I always call him that. Ever since I was a child," he explains. "He's more like a father to me than anything since, well, you know."

I don't say a word, only replying with a meek smile. I did understand it the best. My own mother has been replaced with others so well.

As my eyes roam around the dim lighted space, they stop at an unfamiliar object, sitting on the edge of a white table. I think it's called a phonograph.

"You like it?" Harry asks, realizing my sudden fascination with the antique. I nod.

"I've never seen one in real life before. I didn't notice there was one here last time I was here."

"It wasn't," Harry walks over to the object and I casually follow. "I received it as a gift from a fan and thought it matched the ambience of this place."

He received this from a fan? A rich fan, I'm assuming. It doesn't look cheap by any means.

"Does it work?" I ask.

"We'll have to find out," Harry replies with a smile that says it's the first time he's using it. Right beside the golden phonograph are a few vinyl records, artists whom I've never even heard of before.

"This one is my dad's favorite," he tells me. Though he assumes I don't notice the longing tone in his voice, I do.

Even though he wears a smile as he carefully places the record on, etched in his eyes is a pain he cannot hide even if he tried.

I've grown to know him. The Harry who hides his troubles and his secrets deep in his heart to prevent his loved ones from getting hurt. What weighs on his shoulders, what he harbors underneath those eyes and that smile, I wish, one day, he will allow me to carry some of it so he doesn't have to bear it himself.

"May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Woods?" Harry asks in a gentleman-like voice as the swing music begins to play.

"You may," I chuckle. He happily waves out his right arm and I gently lay my hand in his.

He sways first and I attempt to reciprocate his moves. Though he moves way more gracefully than I do, I've definitely improved from the last time we've danced.

"Sorry," I say as my foot, having a mind of its own, trips over one of Harry's. I look up underneath my lashes to see a full smile on his lips.

And like last time, Harry lifts me upward, the toes of my feet settling upon his. But unlike last time, I don't pull away, letting myself wholly onto Harry.