Matilda | Harry Styles

TWENTY-FIVE

For the first night in what felt like forever, Harry hadn't spent it in the studio. After the show - after his surprise rendition of 'What Makes You Beautiful', he'd somehow made me feel even more like I was walking on air.

He'd made it backstage before I had - I'd lingered out there, taking pictures of the crowd on the barrier behind me, who seemed to be absolutely reeling at the fact he'd played the song that he had, even despite several songs having been played since then. My heart was practically thumping out of my chest, as I was sure theirs was, too.

The atmosphere in the room was incredible. I wondered if he knew just what he'd done; how he'd stirred every single person into pure elation. I practically had to force myself to head backstage, away from the buzz, and tears, and shaking hands of the crowd.

The moment I'd stepped through the curtain to the backstage area, Harry had turned his head from where he'd been standing talking to Mitch to meet my eye, a boyish grin on his lips.

"You're unbelievable," I'd told him, laughing as he closed the distance between us and wound his arms around me. My hands rose to cup his face, tracing over the dimples marking his skin as he grinned down at me.

"That was really fun," he returned, breathing out an blissful sigh. "Maybe I'll keep it."

When we made it back to the hotel, I didn't even check into my own room; I didn't even have the chance to consider it. Everybody was collecting their keys from the front desk, when Harry had nudged me gently with his arm, as if silently offering that I went with him, instead. His eyes had met my own, posing the question as if I'd ever have said anything but 'yes'.

"Okay," he said, taking a seat on the couch beside me, after we'd been in the hotel room for a short while. He'd showered and changed back at the arena, trading his sparkly attire for one of his baggy hoodies; one of the ones that always seemed to make him look so achingly warm and inviting. "What are you thinking?"

I pursed my lips, staring blankly at my laptop screen for a moment, where it rested in my lap. "Are you sure you want to help?" I asked, glancing over at him, still slightly thrown by his interest in assisting me. "You don't have to."

He frowned, "I want to." My face felt warm. I could tell that he really did.

He shifted his position to extend his legs out, his back resting against the arm of the couch. He exhaled, then, pushing his hand through his hair, and I could've melted just at the sight of him. I knew he was tired, still - he hadn't slept properly in days, but he still insisted on helping me out. I looked over at him, as he poorly attempted to stifle a yawn.

I bit back a smile at him. "I'd have more sympathy for you if you hadn't been the one to get me into this in the first place."

"Oh, there's my Iz; so much empathy, so much warmth..." he said, his tone laced with wit as he suddenly lurched forward to grab me and pull me into his grip. I collided with his chest, discarding my laptop on the seat behind me, and laughing as I fell into the space between his legs, my body pressing to his own.

The fact he was able to alleviate my stress for even a moment was borderline incomprehensible to me. When I was ever anxious, or stressed, it was all-encompassing; it was relentless - but somehow, he had the ability to draw me back down.

I shuffled my position, reaching over to grab my laptop again, but returning to lean back against Harry's chest, immediately feeling at ease. The back of my head pressed to his shoulder as one of his arms wound around me, his palm flattening against the lower part of my hip and causing butterflies to arise in my stomach.

"So," he repeated his question, "what are you thinking?"

I sighed, defeated, feeling his cheek pressed against the side of my head, "I've got nothing."