Pirouette [h.s.]

chapter 11

// the rest of the world was black and white //

// but we were in screaming color //

"Out Of The Woods"  -Taylor Swift

Harry's POV

--------

It's been two weeks since Phoebe and I kissed, and a few days since we picked up lunch together. I've been trying not to come on too strong, but she's just so addictive. I think she's starting to get used to me; comfortable around me. It makes me smile every time I think about it.

I called Tate the moment I got home that night, after dropping Phoebe off. I didn't want to kiss-and-tell like a damn highschooler, but I was reeling and I just needed to talk somebody. He had left Barry's shortly after we did and all but yelled at me once he picked up the phone.

"Hey, asshole, I was about to send the search parties out to look for you. Mais and I were getting ready to knock down your door." He sounded a little tired, his voice heavier than usual, but mostly mad that I hadn't called him sooner.

I apologized and we sat in a few moments of silence until I butted in with, "Tate, Phoebe kissed me. Or, I kissed her? We both kissed each other."

A 'what the fuck?!" so loud and excited I think I might have hearing damage flooded my ears. "Shit, Harry, why didn't you open with that? Why the hell are you talking to me right now?"

I explained the situation, how she was quick to ask me to leave and how I didn't want to make her uncomfortable or cross any boundaries, so I did as she asked. How I wanted to kiss her again, even if it led to nothing. I just wanted to feel her lips against mine, soft and pillowy and exhilarating. It really did feel like I was in high school all over again. I told him that I drove home in something of a daze and called him the moment I stepped foot in my bedroom because I couldn't think straight.

"I know I'm going to sound crazy, but I want to see her again. I need to see her again. Is it too early to say that I want to date the woman? She's a fucking siren, Tate." I ran a hand through my hair, fiddling with the ends of my curls.

He laughed through a yawn before responding, "I know. I thought I was gonna catch her down at Barry's tonight before I realized you were in the picture, you bastard." I smiled to myself at his words, "It's like I told you earlier, just see where it could go. Obviously you're obsessed with her, and you've always had good intuitions about people. Your heart's the best thing about you, Styles, don't be afraid to use it."

He was right, and I knew he was right before he even spoke the words. She's become a drug; one that my addictive personality is begging for. Like I'm in withdrawal without ever having used.

We said our goodnights and I thanked him for the night, to which he had jokingly said, "Yeah, you fucker, you owe me. Stealin' girls away from me."

As I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, all I could think about was the kiss. Her chapstick tasted like lavender and it lingered on my lips during the night, in my dreams, and through to the following morning. I fell asleep tasting lavender, letting the tingle on my lips intoxicate my every last sense. A reminder of where hers had been, plush and delicate, before I reeled her back in for a moment of open flame.

I felt her in my dreams, beckoning me in. She danced through my head, and I was transfixed, trying desperately to memorize the fluidity of her body in my imagination. The taste of her lips, her skin, her body, imprinted onto my tastebuds. Like they never knew taste before her. I explored her with my mouth first, and then my hands; endless trails of kisses and touches and beautiful blue bedroom eyes. Sweet and warm; rolling waves of velvet and sugar. Gentle and carnal.