Matilda | Harry Styles

TEN

I was beginning to understand why Harry was as famous as he was.

I'd only worked two shows, so far, but god, I could understand it. As soon as he made his way onto the stage, it was electric. His voice was so effortlessly beautiful, and he had a stage presence like nothing else I'd ever seen. It was like some wave of confidence and pure joy came over him the moment he was under a spotlight; prancing around and throwing himself about with an elated smile upon his lips. I couldn't deny how much I loved watching it; I loved having the opportunity to capture it.

He'd often wander over to where I was crouched beneath the barricade, causing the fans behind me to burst into an array of screams and cheers. He would send them a small wave, or a cheeky grin, but his eyes would then land on me, allowing me to take closer photos as he'd stop with his mic to his lips, before me. I'd yet to take a photo that he didn't look unbelievably good in - I wasn't sure he possessed a single angle where he didn't look his best, even if I were to catch him in the middle of singing a line, or dancing playfully around the band, he looked annoyingly incredible.

Harry had invited me to his dressing room after the first show, immediately causing my heart to drop. He'd said he'd like to have a look at the photos I'd taken. Not only was that a grave reminder that we agreed to be merely amicable, something I feared would prove difficult in a setting such as that one, but that I was also working as an employee of his on this tour - though Ally had found me and was pulling the literal strings, it was Harry who truly needed to be impressed by my work.

He'd stepped off the stage, breathless, panting with a sheen of sweat over his face and his chest, his hair dishevelled in a way I was beginning to recognise through other means, and he'd caught my eye and requested my presence in his room a little later on. This almost felt like a test. I was to be alone with him, now, properly, for the first time with our new commitment to being friends. Not that I couldn't control myself.

My heart was racing as I made my way down the corridor towards his dressing room. The idea of being alone in a room with him again was causing my senses to feel so oddly heightened. We'd had easy interaction after our conversation at the hotel; it seemed as if Harry had meant it when he said he wanted things to be easier for us both. I wasn't yearning for more from him; I knew the risks involved, and I knew the impracticality of it. I was fine with 'friends' - we could be friends, easily. He was a likeable person, to say the least, and him and I could get along; we'd certainly gone the extra mile in proving that so far. I hadn't wanted something serious or romantic anyway, but I couldn't ignore the way my heart never ceased to thump in anticipation of spending such time with him. I couldn't ignore the funny twist in my stomach at his presence, or when he spoke to me. I was hoping that would wear off upon us spending some more innocent time together.

I clutched my laptop to my chest, the photos from that night loaded onto it, prepared to show Harry. Apart from my nerves regarding spending time with him, I also had the sneaky fear that he wouldn't like them. What was to stop him from hating them, and sending me packing, straight back to London?

I'd apprehensively raised my fist to knock on the door of his dressing room, nervously tapping my foot on the floor, awaiting Harry's permission to enter. A few moments passed, and I feared I'd have to knock a second time, only for the door to swing open in front of me, revealing him to me.

His hair was wet, hanging over his forehead, and his chest was bare, slightly damp as well, and I had to draw my lip back into my mouth and force my eyes away from the sight of his inked skin in front of me. A pair of sweatpants hung low on his body, and the towel grasped in his hand told me that he'd just finished showering. God, I hated him.