Matilda | Harry Styles

THIRTEEN

I felt like it was quickly becoming a deliberate habit of his; for him, to enter last. We'd all be waiting, together, and it was only then that he'd walk in. I wasn't sure if he just had that about him - the rockstar aura that surrounded his every move - I supposed it just made sense that he'd be the one to always make an entrance. But, waiting for him now, I bit nervously on my nails. Why had I invited him?

The answer was rather simple, actually. It was largely out of selfishness; I wanted Harry to be there, tonight. And I shouldn't have. Everything I'd spent the past day mulling over; my relentless consideration of everything that had gone down between Harry and I, alongside the unexplained cold shoulder I'd received from him - everything pointed to the fact that I should've taken full advantage of his planned absence this evening; this was some ideal space and separation from somebody who had been clear in wanting to avoid me. But he'd talked to me, in the end; he hadn't actually stayed away. I couldn't stand silence from him - it didn't seem like it came particularly easy to him, either. I thought back to when he'd told me he couldn't stay away from me, and couldn't help but wonder if that was still the case, though I knew it most likely wasn't.

I felt overwhelmingly nervous, now; I was nervous to see him again. Part of me was worried that whatever had been bothering him earlier may have returned to cloud his mood again - but the larger part of me didn't care. Even if something was bothering him, I'd rather he was around, still, even then. I felt this strange urge to try and fix it for him; to try and alleviate some of the weight from his shoulders, or provide some kind of distraction or temporary relief of some kind. That was why I'd felt such an odd satisfaction when he'd agreed to come out with us. To think I'd been able to alter, or better his mood, even a little bit, filled me with a funny sense of joy that I wasn't quite sure I'd felt before. 

The ding of the elevator signalled that he was finally here, and I subconsciously braced myself to see him. He was looking down at his phone as the doors drew open to reveal him, before he tucked it into his jacket pocket. He was wearing a loose, button-down shirt - mostly unbuttoned, of course - white in colour, with thin stripes upon the fabric. He wore some suit trousers, in a checkered pattern, that he'd somehow managed to pull together with a blazer that undoubtedly stood out the most - tailored to him as if it had been crafted and sewn solely to be worn by his body; a rich, tiffany blue in colour, it only emphasised the deep, glowing tan of his skin.

I wondered how he put his outfits together. I felt a strange flutter of warmth in my stomach at the idea of him holding different items to his body in the mirror, debating which patterns to mix with one another. I imagined him grabbing the blazer and holding it up to the other patterns with a grin on his lips. 

His eyes landed on mine first, that unidentified look on his face yet again, before he turned to the rest of the group with a smile. I wondered if he was really feeling much better than he was earlier. Though he appeared to be much more himself, I still sensed some hesitation; I wasn't sure how, or why, but I felt like it was there.

"Finally," Pauli broke the silence, "let's go!"

Harry stood back, letting everybody else go first, as we piled our way out of the hotel. I glanced back at him as he started to move behind me, trying to ignore the way my skin was heating at his presence.

"I thought you might have changed your mind," I said, sending him a small glance. He turned to look at me as we walked, as if broken from being deep in thought. It was like at any moment of silence, he spiralled into deep contemplation. We had that in common, I supposed.

He stared at me, his lips twitching a little, and I watched carefully, desperate to see him flash my favourite smile of his. He looked down at the floor, perhaps in more hesitation, before looking back to me. "Maybe if you hadn't asked so nicely." I felt a pang of relief at the teasing nature of his tone, as well as a definitive flush of my cheeks. I'd convinced him; I'd persuaded him to come out. He was here because of me.