Ambition || Harry Styles

*26*

The TV is on, a hum of background noise necessary in the plight to not go completely insane with thoughts of cross tattoos and floral suits.

I got home hours ago but I've been taking my time, having a long shower, blowdrying my hair, carefully preparing an indulgent meal. Deliberately trying to slow down and relax.

Something I've never been good at.

I'm grinding salt and pepper into the beef ragu pasta sauce that has been simmering away when the doorbell chimes and sends my body into a frenzy.

"Hello?" I pick up the phone and twirl the ends of my hair nervously, awaiting with equal parts hope and apprehension that the person on the other end is he of both my dreams and nightmares.

"Already home from work! You getting slack without me?" Harry's voice sends an electric shock through my nervous system.

"Oh, look who's back from the dead," I decide to bite back, smacking my forehead at my attitude but his hearty laugh warms me from the outside in.

"You gonna let me in or you have better plans for your Friday?"

I don't bother responding to the smart-arse question he already knows the answer to, instead hitting the unlock button and hanging up.

I look down at my red, tartan pyjama pants and my favourite white cashmere knit and close my eyes briefly, wondering why I just don't do myself any favours. For a second I wish I was one of those girls who lounges around the house in a silk robe or tiny sporty shorts and knee high socks.

Flicking the lock on the door open, I shake my head and remember that this attraction is predominantly in my mind and there's no use pretending I'm something that I'm clearly not.

"It's open!" I yell from the kitchen when I hear the two sharp knocks on the door and I grip the counter top as I pray for a little strength and poise when I finally see him.

"I go away for three weeks and she doesn't even bother greeting me at the door anymore!" I hear Harry's gravelly voice boom through the apartment, amusement in his tone as I look up from the open plan kitchen to see him standing by the lounge.

Three weeks is far too long to go without the sight of his heart-stoppingly gorgeous face. 

His arms are out by his sides in jest, questioning my behaviour and I can't help the smile that creeps across my face, a refection of his own.

"Well, to be fair, you said it would be two," I rebut as he strides towards me, my hands dropping the wooden spoon back into the saucepan as he bends his knees and scoops me into a warm embrace.

"Something came up," he mumbles without apology or reason into my shoulder and I wish I could freeze time and stay here forever.

"When did you get back?" I ask, my arms still wrapped around his neck.

"About an hour ago," he confesses and my heart leaps with false hope. "Mmm, you're so cosy in these clothes," he mumbles and I'm relieved he can't see the embarrassment on my face.

I try not to mope as his attention is distracted and he places my feet back down on the floor with a sharp inhale, which already sounds like it's mocking me.

"What's all this red stuff? Where's the lettuce?" he jokes, stirring the sauce in the pan and I elbow his ribs gently, his boyish cackle ringing in my ears as I take back the utensil.

"Piss off, I was having a perfectly pleasant night without your ridicule," I half joke, knowing deep down my mind was full of him before he arrived anyway.