harry styles one shots

camboy!h

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(Y/N) didn't like her physics class.

Not only did the material go over her head, but she was also almost halfway sure the professor was actually just a walking robot. From the moment she sat down—attendance was a huge part of her grade unfortunately—, she was assaulted with his monotone voice and the too-small projector he had displaying dated notes she doesn't think he's updated since he nineties. None of that helped the fact she also just wasn't very good at this. She had only signed on for the semester because a friend of her's needed the credit as a pre-req, and didn't want to take it alone, only to drop the class a week in without telling (Y/N) until the cut off had already passed.

Now, she was stuck with Professor Stanfill and a file on her laptop full of useless notes.

That's what she was expecting when she walked into the lecture hall on Monday. (Y/N) was quick to claim her spot towards the back, closest to the exit so she could leave as soon as possible when class was dismissed. She dropped her bag beside her preferred chair, pulling her laptop out onto the bench style table top. The space beside her was unoccupied, the boy who regularly sat there apparently running late as he was usually set up before she even walked through the doors. Eventually, just as (Y/N) begrudgingly had opened up her never ending document of notes, her seatmate stumbled through the heavy door with a flustered expression marring his features.

He ran a heavy hand through the swirl of curls on his head, (Y/N) able to hear the audible sigh he heaved as he climbed the stairs to their row. He wore a pair of fitted trousers and a white t-shirt messily tucked into the hem with a striped button down draped across his shoulders, his shoulder bag falling down his arm to land in the crook of his elbow. He clumsily sat down in his spot beside her, a mess of handwritten notes and colored highlighters and pens spilling out from the unfastened flap of his bag. Despite the mess, he breathed a sigh of relief as he sat down, the tension in his muscles dropping as he saw Stanfill hadn't started class.

As his mess of utensils spilled across the tabletop, (Y/N) was quick to save a few of the pens and markers before they could tumble off the ledge. She passed them to him, settling them in a neat row beside the pile he was curating of his mismatched papers.

"Thank you," he responded quietly, his hands shaky as he straightened his jumble of notes.

She had never seen him so out of sorts like this. Although they had never really talked before, nothing outside of a couple of polite excuse me's and thank you's when passing by, she always pictured the boy beside her as the man at the top of the class, dean's list, with everything in order. If the way he took his dutiful, color-coordinated notes, the way he breezed through exams, and the near perfect scores on lab write-ups were anything to go by, she was sure he wasn't used to being out of it like this either.

"You okay?" she asked, just as quietly as he had spoken. She felt a pinch in her brow appear, hopefully he didn't take the question the wrong way like she thought something was wrong.

"Y-Yeah," he stuttered, finally setting his things out the rightful order he always had them in, "Jus' had a late start this morning." A blush painted over his cheeks as he reached into his bag to pull out his glasses case, slipping the large frames onto his pink nose.

Just as (Y/N) was about to respond, Professor Stanfill started up his ancient projector and began babbling on with no introduction.

Beside her, (Y/N)'s classmate sifted through his notes with a purpose, pulling the preferred paper out before detailing more notes on the already filled page. Usually, she wouldn't be so surprised that all of the information—being so monotonously presented—were things she didn't quite understand, but today was a whole other story.