No Matter What // Harry Styles AU -- Dunkirk inspired

Chapter Thirty-Six

Hazels P.O.V

The next morning is marked by the gentle hum of blue daylight, the sky still glowing from the kiss of the moon. With sleepy eyes and a dreamy heart, I huddle underneath the heavy blankets, clutching my pillow as the memory of Harry's touch dances on my skin. I sink perfectly into the bed as the soft covers cradle me, reminding me just how much I adore Harry's embrace. His strong arms just might be my favorite part of him to daydream about- how they hold me tightly, keeping me close to his heart, shielding me from the world.

But then, as my mouth tugs into a smile, I remember his lips- how they curve up into a crooked smile even when he thinks no one's looking. It makes my heart flutter like a hummingbird. It's almost as adorable as the way his eyebrows go cross when he is thinking really hard, or the way his eyes light up when he laughs, and his hands- my goodness, his perfect hands. They're strong yet weathered, calloused but tender, and when they cup my face or grab ahold of my waist, I feel like the most precious thing in the entire world. How I long to feel his hands all over me- cupping my face, tracing my collarbones, grasping my-

"Ugh," I groan to myself as I bury my face in the pillow. 

With a deep sigh, I turn my head to peak over the edge of the covers at the clock. Innocently pointed at the little black nine, the sinister short hand has me leaping out of my skin as I frantically scramble out of bed. Mother almighty, why in the heck did Gran not wake me?

It's then that I remember why I ended up at Harry's house at all.

The party.

Jack.

Gran.

Gran never lets me sleep in this late- she must be genuinely angry to have avoided me for this long. I groan loudly as my hands fly up to my face. I try desperately to rub out the memory of last night, but it's no use- my bliss from a few seconds ago is completely spoiled.

I hop out of bed and quickly pad my way over to the dresser but, before I can make it much further than past the door, my foot suddenly lurches forward. And, like a cow on ice skates, I flail wildly, crashing with a loud thump on the cold, hardwood floor.

"What in the Sam Hill?!" I grumble to myself. I slowly sit up, clutching my now aching lower back and look down at my foot, quickly identifying the slippery culprit. There, stuck to my foot, is a creme colored piece of paper that must have been slipped underneath the door. I pick up the note, my eyes scanning the carefully typed blue ink.

Please fill this out before retiring for the evening:

What time do you want to be awakened?

Will you breakfast upstairs or down?

Underscore your order:

Coffee, tea, milk

Eggs, how cooked?

Rolls, muffins, toast

Pear, grapes, melon

"What in the..." I quietly stammer, wide eyed as my fingers flip the card over and then back again. Why on earth would Gran ask me for my breakfast order?

It's then that it hits me.

Gran's stupid party still isn't over.

Crawling from my injured spot, I slowly reach up and creak open the door. Much to my chagrin, my assumption is confirmed by the sound of a lively hubbub downstairs- one that's undoubtedly from more than just Gran and Grandfather.