Dr. Harry Styles

Welcome Home

~ Lucy's POV ~

I woke up with a headache, cotton in my mouth, and laid down in my bed.

How on earth did I get here?

The last I can remember was Harry, telling me that it was all over.

I walked over to the bathroom, still half asleep. One look in the mirror told me that I was not doing my best. My face was swollen to the size of a watermelon.

Well maybe not a watermelon.

Anyways, I took out the cotton and dropped it in the bin. My tongue went over the spot where my tooth once was.

Not only did that hurt incredibly, but I felt like I missed something.

I left the bathroom in search of answers. I sleuthed my house for anything that could jog my memory.

And then I gasped. My dining room table.

~ Harry's POV ~

I walked home after I was finished with helping Lucy.

She was such a sweetheart, I felt so bad for what she went through.

But without realizing it, Lucy had completely left my mind. Especially since I had come to my house bombarded by fans.

Are you kidding me?

Please don't misunderstand - I absolutely love all my fans, and I know that I am important to them, but I had just come home from a tour. I was still recovering from jet lag.

I played with my hair nervously as I stood about a block away from my flat.

I checked my phone and sure enough there it was:

Paul : So sorry about your flat Harry, meet me at Brookfield's Diner.

So I typed back:

Harry: be right there. Thanks.

Honestly, I was at least greatful that I had people who knew how to deal with all these kinds of things.

People would probably start to leave after they realized I wasn't in my flat.

I'd still probably have to move, which is such a shame. I was starting to like it here.

Anyways, as I walked over to the Diner, I saw Paul there waiting for me. We both hopped into the back of his car.

At least the tinted windows would hide me for now.

~ Lucy's POV ~

I gasped when I saw my dinning room table.

On the top was a vase with a few pink roses collecting at the top.

Harry's guitar laid rested against a chair in what I guess was his guitar case.

There was a bottle of pills on the counter with a label that read my name along with some instructions.

My purse was on the ground by the guitar case.

And then there was a note on a piece of paper:

Lucy -

I hope you are starting to feel better. You fell asleep, so I carried you back to your flat. I hope you don't mind. Please call me to tell me that you're okay. My number is 020746251.

- Harry Styles

Woah. I don't really don't know how I felt about this. On one hand, Harry freaking Styles carried me, Lucy Forrester, home and left me notes and numbers.

But how did he get into my flat? Did I say anything embarrassing? I've watched so many YouTube videos where people loopy from all the drugs just lose the plot.

I don't remember the roses being there in the first place either.

What does this even mean?

I flipped open the cover on my laptop and logged in.

I was about to bite my nails off nervously as I typed in the all-too-familiar name: Harry freaking Styles.

All I wanted to know is if he was single or not, because I didn't want to play any games, but I saw something much much worse.

Oh poor Harry.

Apparently, at least according to this media site, a huge mob of fans has figured out where he lives.

I grabbed the bottle of pain pills and took two with a glass of water, because all this Harry drama almost made me forget about the excruciating pain I am in.

I reached for my phone to call Harry, but it wasn't there.

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