For the first night in what felt like forever, Harry hadn't spent it in the studio. After the show - after his surprise rendition of 'What Makes You Beautiful', he'd somehow made me feel even more like I was walking on air.
He'd made it backstage before I had - I'd lingered out there, taking pictures of the crowd on the barrier behind me, who seemed to be absolutely reeling at the fact he'd played the song that he had, even despite several songs having been played since then. My heart was practically thumping out of my chest, as I was sure theirs was, too.
The atmosphere in the room was incredible. I wondered if he knew just what he'd done; how he'd stirred every single person into pure elation. I practically had to force myself to head backstage, away from the buzz, and tears, and shaking hands of the crowd.
The moment I'd stepped through the curtain to the backstage area, Harry had turned his head from where he'd been standing talking to Mitch to meet my eye, a boyish grin on his lips.
"You're unbelievable," I'd told him, laughing as he closed the distance between us and wound his arms around me. My hands rose to cup his face, tracing over the dimples marking his skin as he grinned down at me.
"That was really fun," he returned, breathing out an blissful sigh. "Maybe I'll keep it."
When we made it back to the hotel, I didn't even check into my own room; I didn't even have the chance to consider it. Everybody was collecting their keys from the front desk, when Harry had nudged me gently with his arm, as if silently offering that I went with him, instead. His eyes had met my own, posing the question as if I'd ever have said anything but 'yes'.
"Okay," he said, taking a seat on the couch beside me, after we'd been in the hotel room for a short while. He'd showered and changed back at the arena, trading his sparkly attire for one of his baggy hoodies; one of the ones that always seemed to make him look so achingly warm and inviting. "What are you thinking?"
I pursed my lips, staring blankly at my laptop screen for a moment, where it rested in my lap. "Are you sure you want to help?" I asked, glancing over at him, still slightly thrown by his interest in assisting me. "You don't have to."
He frowned, "I want to." My face felt warm. I could tell that he really did.
He shifted his position to extend his legs out, his back resting against the arm of the couch. He exhaled, then, pushing his hand through his hair, and I could've melted just at the sight of him. I knew he was tired, still - he hadn't slept properly in days, but he still insisted on helping me out. I looked over at him, as he poorly attempted to stifle a yawn.
I bit back a smile at him. "I'd have more sympathy for you if you hadn't been the one to get me into this in the first place."
"Oh, there's my Iz; so much empathy, so much warmth..." he said, his tone laced with wit as he suddenly lurched forward to grab me and pull me into his grip. I collided with his chest, discarding my laptop on the seat behind me, and laughing as I fell into the space between his legs, my body pressing to his own.
The fact he was able to alleviate my stress for even a moment was borderline incomprehensible to me. When I was ever anxious, or stressed, it was all-encompassing; it was relentless - but somehow, he had the ability to draw me back down.
I shuffled my position, reaching over to grab my laptop again, but returning to lean back against Harry's chest, immediately feeling at ease. The back of my head pressed to his shoulder as one of his arms wound around me, his palm flattening against the lower part of my hip and causing butterflies to arise in my stomach.
"So," he repeated his question, "what are you thinking?"
I sighed, defeated, feeling his cheek pressed against the side of my head, "I've got nothing."
"That's not true," he replied. "Did Ally give you anything to follow?"
I shook my head, tilting it back against him. "Not really - she just thought a black and white cover would work, but that doesn't really narrow anything down. I can edit anything to look like that," I paused, blowing out a defeated sigh. "I don't even know where to start."
"Don't be so negative," he told me, softly, his hand rubbing gently against my hip. "You've got loads of ideas. You have the camera you took to LA, no? Wasn't that all in black and white already?"
"Yes, but," I stopped for a moment, narrowing my eyes at the screen in contemplation, "I don't think I really want to use those. They feel private," I told him, craning my neck around in an attempt to meet his eye.
"Can I see them?" he asked, then, tilting his head to equally meet my gaze. I hadn't expected him to ask that. There was nothing I didn't want him to see - he'd been there for the entire day with me - they were our pictures - but for whatever reason, I hadn't expected him to be interested.
I clicked on the folder in which I was storing all of my current photos, which was subsequently filled with a further set of folders, each labelled by date, and city. I heard a short, amused puff of air fall from Harry's lips as my organised setup filled the screen, and I brought my elbow back to gently nudge him.
I brought up the pictures - the first of Harry filling my screen; a bright grin on his lips, and my middle finger directed at him. I clicked through, showing him the ones I'd taken of him, and the ones I'd taken from the car; from the garden; from the entire day.
"Can I have them?" he asked.
I nodded, a smile pulling on my lips. "I can send you the file."
"Please," he returned, pressing his lips lightly against my hair in a way that made my stomach flip. I exhaled deeply, closing my eyes for a second.
"Now, help me. You know so much more about how this works than I do," I told him.
"Can you use anything else you've got?" he asked, and I bit my lip, hesitating, before shaking my head. "Then do you want to shoot something?"
"Ally said that there wasn't enough time."
"We can make time if you know what you want to do," he returned, and I pursed my lips in thought. I didn't know the first thing about doing a photoshoot for a song cover.
"Hm," I hummed, "d'you know what would really help?"
"Mm?"
"If I knew just something about the song. Anything, so I could actually conceptualise..." I trailed off, feeling Harry's chest rise and fall behind me as he sighed, dramatically. I turned my body as best as I could to see his face. He peered back down at me, a playful disillusionment in his eyes.
"It's called 'Complicated Freak'," he said, after a moment, and I was sure my eyes lit up. Finally.
"Okay," I began, shooting him an excited grin, "I can work with that."
"That's good, because it's all you're getting," he replied, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear and letting his fingers linger there in the way that always prompted a shiver to travel along the length of my spine.
"'Complicated Freak'," I repeated, then, staring mindlessly ahead of me. I set my laptop down, shuffling forward a bit, reluctantly away from Harry's touch so that I could properly turn and face him. "You're the freak?"
"Watch it," he warned, with a playful narrow of his eyes at my implication. I tilted my head, waiting for him to answer my question. He pressed his lips together, as if reluctant to reveal too much. "Okay, maybe."
I pinched at my own lip, lost in intense thought for a moment. I looked back up at him after a minute, watching me. My eyes were drawing aimlessly across the room, as if a solid idea was bound to jump out at me at any given moment. I pushed my tongue into the hollow of my cheek, desperate to reach a conclusive idea. I asked, then, "Can it be messy?"
"Please don't ask me that question if you're not planning on undressing."
"Shh," I returned, leaning back over to place my hands on his knees, the rapid brainstorm in my mind almost masking the thump I felt in the pit of my stomach at the statement he'd just made. Silence fell between us for a further few moments, my eyes fixed across the room as I tried to conjure up an idea; and at last, it felt like one was beginning to click.
"Can I use fruit?" I asked, and he frowned, waiting for me to continue. "I mean, you do all that fruit stuff- I can use fruit, right? It's not overdone?"
His eyes followed the frantic turns of my head as I spoke, as if trying to catch onto my train of thought, his expression slightly puzzled. "No, it isn't. You can do whatever you want, Iz."
"When do we go to New York?" I could see the glint in his eye, as he witnessed the cogs turning rapidly in my brain.
"The day after tomorrow," he replied, casually drawing his hand over the lower part of my leg, where it was crossed in front of him. "You want to shoot something there?"
"Not particularly," I shook my head, "I just wanted to see how much time we have. Do you have media stuff tomorrow?"
"No," he returned, and I brought my hands to my mouth, still very much in my own thoughts. He paused, "Can we go back to you thinking that I've overdone it with the fruit thing?"
I didn't answer for a moment, narrowing my eyes as I stared into the open space across the room. I bit my lip, unintentionally dismissing his question - I could tell he wasn't hurt by it; he was only looking to make a joke, but my mind hadn't even really processed what he'd said - I was too focused on trying to pinpoint my idea.
"I have an idea - I think. But I don't know if it'll work," I announced, finding myself directing my gaze at him, inadvertently in search of some kind of reassurance - and he didn't hesitate to provide it.
He looked back at me, his eyes achingly soft, "It'll work. Just tell me whatever you need me to do, and I'll do it. I know you can make it happen."
"We," I said, suddenly, unintentionally testing the word on my tongue, toying with the sleeve of his hoodie in front of me, "we can make it happen. Like you said." When I said it like that, I almost believed it.
I watched as a tired smile overtook his features, as he leant sideways into the surface of the couch, his eyes lazily meeting my own in a way that could've made me melt. "I'll support you in any way that I can, love, but when this all works out; it's going to be because of you. You don't actually need me for this - the idea you've got now, and the way you'll execute it; that's all you. I'm just here if you want me."
I felt my heart flutter at his words. How could he be this perfect - truly, he couldn't. How could he actually be this way - so gentle, so understanding; so patient, and so praiseful? It was like I couldn't do anything but gaze across at him, attempting to piece together how on earth I'd managed to find myself here, with somebody like him.
"Of course I need you," I said bluntly, disputing his claim, before my stomach dropped. Oh. I hadn't meant to say that; I hadn't even meant to think it. You don't need anything, or anybody - do not place yourself in his hands.
Increasingly, as Harry and I's relationship progressed, I could feel my head attempting to interfere; being with him felt almost too easy, to the point where my instincts were aching to overcomplicate it. With every wretched thought that I'd had from the moment I'd laid eyes on him; throughout every second of attempting to deny that I felt even half as much as I did for him, everything had felt so heavy. It had felt like this constant weight on my shoulders, where I'd been unable to truly make sense of any of it. Despite every attempt to be in active control of it all, it had run away from me - I had absolutely no control over how I felt for him, as much as I'd tried to convince myself that I did.
I was learning - I was trying to. It was all so foreign and so new to me, and it felt like he knew it. I was trying to be honest, as difficult it was - and though I hadn't told him so much, it somehow felt like he saw me so much clearer than most people ever had. I wanted to do this right, so desperately - and I wasn't at all sure how to. Even if there wasn't technically any more taboo between us, it still terrified me - even to make a statement, like I had; if I needed him, that was where it would become dangerous. I didn't want to rely heavily on somebody else; I didn't want to find myself stuck there, really known by him; susceptible to being hurt by him, but it already felt like it was too late. It was already beginning to feel that way, and as petrified as I found myself - I just couldn't bring myself to draw back. I couldn't pull myself back away from him. Somehow, as equally as I wanted to protect myself, I wanted to be with him, just the same.
Each gesture from him; it felt like I wasn't worthy. But I wanted it, all of it - every stare, every word from his lips; every touch, and every time he'd listen to me like there was never a thing more important that he could be doing - and I wanted to be the same for him. I wanted to be enough - for once; just once. I wanted to be able to make him happy.
He believed in me. I'd always done everything on my own, with nobody there to really hold me up. I supported myself, because I didn't dare rely on anybody else to support me. The only person I could really trust; the only person I could really rely on to permanently remain by my side, was me. No matter what anybody tried to tell me; no matter how differently they'd tried to frame it, I'd never believe it - ultimately, everybody would put themselves first - nobody would just be there, unconditionally. The way I'd learned to push people away had come to feel somewhat like a blessing and a curse; it kept me safe, but it drove away and angered those around me. Calvin had blamed me with such anger for our ultimate collapse - it was me, and how I'd shut him out so harshly. But it had never felt this easy with him. And as much as I found it so innate; so easy to simply relish in every moment with Harry - it felt like it was inevitable that he'd resent my inability to be truly open, too. Part of me yearned to change it; but the much larger part screamed at me to guard it with everything I had. My problems were mine; my failures; my shortcomings; they were mine, and only mine. I'd never believed in myself, and he'd been right - I'd never have thought myself worthy of a job like this. But he did.
I broke myself out of my own thoughts, clearing my throat as I met Harry's eye, only to find him already watching me, undoubtedly sensing the relentless spiralling in my head. He pressed his lips together, somewhat unreadable.
"Sorry, I was just-" I paused, biting my lip briefly, "I'm thinking about this shoot." I was only half-lying, but I hated the way I felt a twist in my gut for doing it to him, even over something so small. I'd spent my life lying to anybody who dared ask about my feelings, or positions, or just about anything personal - it was almost an auto-response, at this point. But with him, I had to do so deliberately - and that made it feel hugely different; weighted - wrong.
Maybe we'd be okay. Just like this - maybe we could stay like this. I could keep myself to myself; I could struggle alone, as much as I found myself yearning to share things with him - I could keep my safe distance, but still be with him how I wanted. Maybe we could stay this way; somehow closer than I'd been with anybody else, feeling so much more than I had with anybody else - but in my own hands, rather than his; without handing over the ability for him to ruin me.
I reached down to where I'd discarded some of my things on the floor, and I grabbed some fresh paper from a notepad I'd placed on the ground. I was about to begin jotting down a rough plan of action, before I glanced back at Harry.
"You don't have to stay up," I told him, watching his tired eyes on me. I loved that he wanted to be there, but I knew I'd likely obsess over ideas and potential shots for hours, and he was deeply sleep-deprived. I wanted him to feel better than I knew he currently was; he needed rest, and was denying it to himself for the sake of supporting me.
"Then come to bed," he said, in a way that made me tilt my head back in a gentle sigh. I'd have liked nothing more than to accept his offer, but I knew my mind wouldn't rest until I'd determined every individual detail of what I needed to do.
"I can't," I told him, watching him make an attempt at stifling another yawn. I bit back a smile. "Please go, you're making me feel bad."
"If I keep making you feel bad, will you come with me?" he asked, letting his eyes close momentarily in a tired gesture, and I found myself suddenly desperate to reach over and kiss him.
"Mm, no," I hummed, though I'd have been lying to say I wasn't deeply tempted by his invitation. That, in itself, was crazy to me - that in a moment of pure stress and anxiety, I was still tempted to drop it all to be by his side, instead; to take a moment and be with him, rather than relentlessly panic, and obsess. "I wish I could. But I need to figure all of this out or I won't be able to sleep, anyway."
He looked like he wanted to protest, but his eyes were practically drawing closed of their own volition. I eyed him, and I knew he knew that I was right in encouraging him to go to bed.
He blew out a tired sigh before he stood up, reaching his arms upwards to fully stretch his body, a yawn escaping his lips. He leaned over me from the great height he'd been towering above me, and pressed a gentle kiss against my forehead, his hands taking equally gentle hold of my face. I tilted my head back as he drew away, slightly, his tired eyes meeting mine.
"Can we go back to the whole, 'overdone' fruit thing, actually?"
I rolled my eyes, laughing up at him as he eyed me with a joking suspicion. "I love the fruit thing, I promise," I told him, watching him raise his eyebrow. "I do!"
"At least say it like you mean it," he pursed his lips in playful disapproval.
"I do," I repeated, firmer, as I couldn't help but grin up at him. He only hummed, letting his lips press to my forehead again.
"I can call my stylist, tomorrow. I can get them to bring down the outfits they brought along to see if there's anything you want to use," he told me, then, and I nodded, sending him a small smile. "Wake me in an hour or two," he said, dropping one of his hands from resting upon my face, but allowing the other to remain there, "if you're still at it." I could tell he didn't want to go to sleep and leave me here, but even if he didn't move over to the bed, it looked like his body was going to send him to sleep, regardless. He'd be mere feet away from me, on the bed in his own hotel room, but he still seemed hesitant, and it made me feel so warm inside.
Part of me worried that without him beside me, coaxing me through the never-relenting waves of anxiety about this, I'd spiral. Out of the pair of us, it was only him who seemed to believe that I was capable, here; only he seemed to think I could do this - if he wasn't reminding me of that, I wasn't sure how I'd hold up working on a project so unfamiliar to anything I'd done before.
"You'll be great," he murmured, then, stroking his thumb across my cheek, "you're already doing great."
I didn't wake him, as he'd requested. I'd thought about it, once or twice, but each time I'd change my mind the moment I laid eyes on him. He'd brought a pillow to clutch in his arms, his temple pressed against the edge of it, his lips parted ever so slightly to allow him to blow gentle breaths between them. He looked so peaceful that I didn't want to disrupt it; I wouldn't have wanted to, even if he wasn't as sleep-deprived as I knew that he was.
My body was beginning to grow tired, but my mind was undoubtedly awake. The 'rough plan of action' I'd aimed to compose had, in actuality, turned into what felt like pages of notes to guide myself; ideas, wonky sketches and rough outlines - praying that this idea would somehow work, because I certainly didn't have anything else. I yearned to possess the faith in myself that Harry seemed to, but my mind wouldn't rest even for a moment.
Harry had nothing to do today, other than work on this with me. He had no media appearances, and he didn't have a show, or a writing session scheduled with the others - for the first time in what felt like forever, he had a free day. Though I knew he'd never have been annoyed at me waking him, I wanted him to stay asleep a little longer. After today, I wasn't sure when he next had a day that wasn't jam-packed, and though I knew he'd never admit it, he needed the rest today ought to provide. On top of that, I still feared my idea wasn't going to be good enough - if he were to wake up, my night of endless lulling over the concept would need to conclude, and I'd have to commit to it.
By the time it was light outside, and I still couldn't contemplate even a moment of sleep, I knew I needed to get started - even though I hadn't an ounce of confidence in myself, I had nothing else. This idea had to be it; I wanted it to be it. I had what felt like endless pages for me to follow, and I needed to go and gather the fruit I needed as a prop.
It was after nine AM when I finally left the hotel room, grabbing one of the room keys to stuff in my pocket, so that I could hopefully get back in without waking him. I'd showered, changed my clothes, and tried to pull myself together - somewhat - hoping that it somehow didn't show that I hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours, now.
I could see on my phone that the others were all exchanging messages about heading downstairs for breakfast soon, but I didn't reply. I couldn't think about that just yet. I slipped out of the entrance to the hotel, passing a large crowd of people, who appeared pressed against a barrier that I hadn't noticed the night before. It was only when I saw a group of girls, each wearing the same shirt - a shirt with Harry's name plastered across the front - that I realised they were all waiting here, outside of our hotel, for him.
Only the occasional person seemed to know who I was, from Harry's fans. I'd had my name called once, maybe twice at most whilst in public - I was recognised a little more often by those who occupied the front row of Harry's shows, but that was all; and that was enough. I couldn't imagine what it was like to actually be Harry - to have people waiting for hours outside of your hotel just to catch a glimpse of you; monitoring an following your every move. Harry would've never been able to walk casually out the hotel without being swarmed by people; not without some kind of security detail, which I knew he hated.
In every encounter I'd had, nobody was ever overbearing, or anything but kind to me - and why would they be, when I was simply somebody who happened to work on Harry's team, who most people wouldn't even know? But it still caught me by surprise that anybody at all knew who I was, and that I was associated with him; and it wasn't unfathomable, considering my own mother had stumbled upon photos of me beside him in one of her big magazines.
I made it past the crowd, undetected, and headed down the street in search of a shop. I passed a few convenience stores and a pharmacy, before I stopped. A little market.
I tried not to spend too long there, simply due to the fact that every additional moment that my task for today remained unfinished, my anxiety only grew. I grabbed the few bits that I needed; I'd jotted down a range of fruit that I thought might work, but I wasn't sure exactly which one would work best, and so I grabbed a range. I grabbed a watermelon, some apples, some berries, and a pomegranate - praying that this would work out how I wanted it to.
When I made it back to the hotel room, I was careful to enter as quietly as possible, my bag filled with my shopping slung over my shoulder. I gently pushed the door open, attempting to keep my footsteps light as I slipped inside the room. It was far brighter in here, now, the sunshine streaming in through the blinds to fill the entire space. I quietly stepped away from the entrance, expecting to find Harry still sound asleep against the pillow; but instead, he was propped up on his elbows, slightly, clearly having heard me come back in.
"Hi," I said, laying the bag of fruit down at my feet. He couldn't have been awake for longer than a few minutes - at most - his bleary eyes and dishevelled hair confirmed that to me.
"That wasn't an hour or two," he mumbled, laying his head back against the pillow, referencing how I'd failed to wake him up last night. I walked over to him, sitting beside him on the bed and bringing my fingers to his hair, brushing the loose strands away from his forehead.
"I know," I replied, looking down at him with his eyes closed, "but you were so tired."
"Mm, where did you go?" he murmured, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow.
"I just went to get some fruit to use in the photoshoot."
"What time is it?" he asked, and as I drew my phone from my pocket to check, he continued, "when did you wake up?"
At my sustained silence, he lifted his head from the pillow, forcing his eyes open. "Actually," he continued, peering down at the pillow across from him, where I likely would've slept, if I'd ever gotten around to it, "I don't even remember you coming to bed at all." He met my eye, and then began to frown. "Isabella..."
"I wasn't tired," I went to try and convince him, but it wasn't much use. He was sitting up, disapproval on his features.
"Baby, you should've come to sleep," he sighed, dragging his hands across his face before he raked one of them through his hair. "Or you should've woken me. Then at least I could've made you-"
"Shh, it's fine," I responded, bringing my fingers back to push them into his hair, repeating, "it's fine. Honestly, I got a lot done. It worked out."
"You worked all night?" he returned, leaning around me beside him to eye the couch where I'd been sitting, his eyes landing on the seemingly endless stacks of paper and my laptop, still open, where I'd left it. He sighed again, "you're crazy."
"Like you wouldn't have done the same thing," I replied, brushing him off as if I didn't feel deeply flattered by his instant concern.
"Have you eaten anything?" he asked, and when I wrinkled my nose in anticipation of disappointing him further, he groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow. "Don't answer that," he said, as if annoyed at me, but his hand still landed on my thigh where it lay on the bed beside him.
"I can do all that later," I waved my hand dismissively, hearing him groan again.
"Have mercy," he huffed, burying his face into the pillow for a second longer before he sat up, rubbing at his eyes. "Okay," he said, as if directed more toward himself, rather than me, and he looked around instinctively for a moment before he landed upon his phone, on the bedside table. He grabbed it, and I watched his eyes narrow for a brief moment as they adjusted to the brightness of the screen. A moment later, he brought the phone to his ear.
"Who are you calling?"
"Wardrobe; my stylist," he replied, staring mindlessly ahead, his thumb drawing a gentle line along my inner thigh, "and then I'm ordering some food." I bit back a grin as he cleared his throat, and his call appeared to connect.
Within an hour, I was surrounded by half a dozen racks of clothes, each one full to the brim with what looked like a hundred different outfits. Harry had showered, now, and he was sitting beside me in a fresh pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, still shooting me the occasional huff, just so that I knew he was annoyed with my actions.
"Do they actually fly all of these clothes everywhere that we go?" I asked Harry, who was now picking at the array of food that had also showed up at our door in the past hour, courtesy of room service. It was far more than either of us would've been able to eat, but it seemed like he was proving a point in trying to ensure there was enough there that it would've been impossible for me to refuse something. I didn't have much of an appetite at all - I was overly tired, and overly stressed, but when he pushed a bagel in my direction with a furrow of his eyebrows, I tried to take a few bites, just to make him happier.
He nodded, cutting a piece of toast in half before biting into it. "Do you see anything you like?"
I stood up from the couch, gently running my fingers over the item of clothing closest to me; it was a silky, satin material, and the moment my fingertips touched the fabric, I felt like I was going to ruin it, somehow. I didn't dare ask how much it cost.
I rifled through the racks, pulling out a number of outfits that I thought might potentially work. I lay them down on top of the bed, standing back to eye them intently. I folded my arms.
Harry surfaced from the couch, standing behind me, the back of my shoulder pressing to the front of his.
"Are you really annoyed at me?" I asked him, not meeting his eye yet.
He blew out a breath, "No. I'm annoyed at me, for somehow thinking you'd stop at a rational time, before you were completely satisfied."
"Everything about me is rational," I returned, humorously, raising an eyebrow and tilting my head to meet his gaze. The corner of his lip turned upwards, a faint smirk overtaking his features. He didn't reply, only pressing his lips gently to my temple. I closed my eyes for a second, leaning into his touch. "It's okay - at least I'll sleep well tonight."
"I know," he said, patting his hand lightly against my hip, "I'll make sure of that."
I raised my eyebrows, as he drew his eyes from mine to land on the outfits in front of us. My stomach was doing backflips, but I didn't have the chance to press him further, because he stepped forward to pick up some of the clothes in his hand.
"What about this one?" he said, picking up one of the outfits I'd laid out. This one, in particular, was a pale blue suit - the jacket was boxy, like it would hang off him, with a light frill adorning the cuffs, and the trousers seemed equally flared. I glanced at the suit, and then back at him.
"Can you put it on?" I requested, and he nodded, pulling his t-shirt over his head without a moment of hesitation. I'd seen Harry without a shirt on multiple occasions, now, but it still didn't fail to ignite an unbelievable reaction in me; I wasn't sure this addiction to him would ever waver. Each flex of the muscles in his arms; his back; his chest, the way the light seemed to reflect off the definition of his abdomen - it was tantalising, to say the least. He stepped into the trousers, as well, and even with his looming height, the edges trailed over the floor. He then pulled the jacket on, and it hung off him, just as expected.
I took a step back, my eyes scanning over him momentarily. Hm. I moved back toward him, bringing the edges of his blazer together and hooking it closed. Then, I noticed how the long chain, adorned with a cross pendant that he always wore around his neck, wasn't sitting correctly. I brought my fingers around the chain, feeling Harry's eyes on me in the same way they had been when I'd adjusted his tie for him, in LA, and my body was already reacting to him.
"Stop it," I said firmly, hearing a laugh escape his lips. I didn't need to look at him to know that his eyes were fixed on me, the very same prominent glint in them that I knew would make my knees weak. His hands landed on my waist, as I pulled the pendant around, attempting to stifle the grin fighting its way onto my face.
"This feels familiar," he remarked, and I rolled my eyes, ignoring him. As I untangled the charm, and brought it back around, the cool metal between my fingers suddenly reminded me of the very first night I'd spent with Harry. When I'd found myself in his flat in London, I'd found this very same necklace tangled between my fingers, beckoning his lips to my own; if only I'd have known, that night, where I'd be several weeks later.
I felt my cheeks heating at the recollection, and I wondered if Harry had thought of the very same moment. His fingertips pinched lightly at my sides as I went to move away, and I couldn't ignore the elation he was causing me to feel, even with zero hours of sleep and occupied with an excess amount of stress.
I stood back, eyeing him carefully. I took the sight of him in, before me, and I nodded.
"Perfect," I told him, feeling a sudden buzz - which I likely could've attributed to pure adrenaline, at this rate. Maybe this could work out. "Go stand by the wall for me," I requested, and Harry obliged without hesitation.
Harry leant against the empty wall on the far side of the room, awaiting further instruction from me, as I grabbed my camera and followed him. I made some adjustments to it, and he was nothing but patient, silently waiting for me to be done.
"Do you need the fruit over here?" he asked, tilting his head toward the shopping bag, but I shook my head.
"Not yet," I said, suddenly feeling incredibly nervous, as if I wasn't just here alone with Harry, photographing him. I bit my lip. "Can we just take a couple with you as you are?"
He nodded immediately, as if sensing the way I'd tensed up. His eyes were on me, as I brought my camera upwards and took my first shot. I narrowed my eyes, taking another step back from Harry, trying to even out the amount of backdrop that there was behind him. I took another photo, but it still wasn't quite working. Harry didn't speak, only continuing to wait for my adjustment to be made.
I ended up moving a few steps closer to Harry, and I took another photo, bringing it up on my screen to check it. I almost breathed a sigh of relief, realising how panicked I'd already become and the last few photos not looking quite right. Harry's eyes were still on me, clearly catching the doubt in my expression.
"There you go," he said, sensing that I was now satisfied with the angle and proximity of the photos. He straightened up again, as I brought my camera back up to take a couple more photos, his eyes fixing on the lens so naturally. This seemed to come so easy to him; modelling wasn't at all a part of his job description, and he was certainly aided by how torturously attractive he was, but he seemed to know exactly what to do. That certainly made it easier on me.
He tilted his head a tiny bit, and just as I was about to reach for the fruit to test out the shots I'd actually envisioned, I noticed the smirk that was pulling on Harry's lips, before me, his eyes fixed on the camera lens. Almost through muscle memory, I took another photo, his chin tilted slightly upwards to emphasise the line of his jaw, but his eyes lazily peered down at me. It was an expression he tortured me with so often; those lazy, tantalising eyes, whether accompanied by a grin, or a teasing twist of his lips; it never failed to make my knees weak.
"Don't look at me like that," I could've almost whined, bringing my camera back down momentarily to meet the smirk of the man in front of me. My cheeks felt hot, even several feet away from him; just from him looking at me.
"I'm not looking at you like anything," he returned, innocently, but his smirk remained plastered on his lips. He'd sensed my anxiety, and he was goading me as a distraction, undoubtedly to lighten my mood and ease some of the tension I was feeling, but I would've been lying to say I was fully opposed to it; the knot in my stomach and the goosebumps along the surface of my skin would've corrected me in an instant.
The stress of my situation would've driven me to grow impatient - if he hadn't so easily eroded my stress. He did it without me even realising it; I wasn't sure how he seemed to constantly succeed in doing it, but he did. He knew just what to do; just what to say - he eased my anxieties without me even realising it.
The need was there; I could feel it. I didn't want to pinpoint it as the very thing I'd been seeking to avoid, but it was there. I needed him just as much as I wanted him. No matter how much I wanted to categorise it as something different - something easier for me to digest - I knew it, all too well. I should've known it from the moment I'd laid eyes on him, and the never-ending, unprecedented effect he'd had on me in an instant. Nobody had ever made me feel like he did, all my life - whether it had been platonic, or romantic - there'd never been anybody else.
There was never going to be anybody else.