50 shades of Styles

Chapter 5: The Morning After

It's very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm, in this bed. Hmm... I open my eyes, and for a moment, I'm tranquil and serene, enjoying the strange unfamiliar surroundings. I have no idea where I am. The headboard behind me is in the shape of a massive sun. It's oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and plushly furnished in browns and gold's and beige. I have seen it before. Where? My befuddled brain struggles through its recent visual memories. Holy crap. I'm in the Didsbury hotel... in a suite. I have stood in a room similar to this with Zayn. This looks bigger. Oh shit. I'm in Harry Styles' suite. How did I get here?

Fractured memories of the previous night come slowly back to haunt me. The drink­ing, oh no the drinking, the phone call, oh no the phone call, the vomiting, oh no the vomit­ing. Niall and then Harry. Oh no. I cringe inwardly. I don't remember coming here. I'm wearing my t-shirt and boxers. No socks. No jeans. Holy shit.

I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and two tablets. Advil. Control freak that he is, he thinks of everything. I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don't feel that bad, probably much better than I deserve. The orange juice tastes divine. It's thirst quenching and refreshing. Nothing beats freshly squeezed orange juice for reviv­ing an arid mouth.

There's a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can't seem to find my voice. He opens the door anyway and strolls in.

Holy hell, he's been working out. He's in gray sweat pants that hang, in that way, off his hips and a gray singlet, which is dark with sweat, like his hair. Harry Styles' sweat, the notion does odd things to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two-year old, if I close my eyes then I'm not really here.

"Good morning Louis. How are you feeling?"

Oh no.

"Better than I deserve," I mumble.

I peek up at him. He places a large shopping bag on a chair and grasps each end of the towel that he has around his neck. He's staring at me, green eyes dark, and as usual, I have no idea what he's thinking. He hides his thoughts and feelings so well.

"How did I get here?" My voice is small, contrite.

He comes and sits down on the edge of the bed. He's close enough for me to touch, for me to smell. Oh my... sweat and body wash and Harry, it's a heady cocktail - so much better than a margarita, and now I can speak from experience.

"After you passed out, I didn't want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here," he says phlegmatically.

"Did you put me to bed?"

"Yes." His face is impassive.

"Did I throw up again?" My voice is quieter.

"No."

"Did you undress me?" I whisper.

"Yes." He quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.

"We didn't," I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can't complete the question. I stare at my hands.

"Louis, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my men sen­tient and receptive," he says dryly.