Something About a Feeling

Something About a Touch

Harry was fucked.

He knew it from the moment he opened Instagram to find you had gracefully accepted his follower request, and was met with what he could only describe as 'the most strikingly beautiful selfie to ever grace the palms of the earth' – and what didn't help was it was the same picture you had taken on his sofa only the day before, an empty chow mien box laid discarded on the table by your side.

The caption read: 'Chow mieny soy sauce you want?'

A heavy quake erupted deep in Harry's throat, a sound he could only describe as an unmanly squawk, and he instantly goes to cover his agape expression as he retains the joke he had told you just the night before.

He doesn't take a second to think before he quickly double taps the photo, only just before noticing Niall had gotten there first, and continues scrolling.

It's only a quarter passed eleven that morning, and you've been gone for two hours, and the one thing keeping him calmly situated in the comfort of his sofa is your scent left lingering on the hoodie he has taken upon wearing the moment you stepped foot out of his house – the same hoodie you claimed as your own the night before when, after grumpily swinging your legs over the sofa with a deep exhale, you trudged over to his wing chair to steal the Muscle Machine hoodie he had hanging over the back.

"Were you born in the Arctic?"

After sharing your intricate meal of Chinese takeaway, it was left to his surprise when you brought up the idea to break out the wine, and it dawned on Harry quickly that the second you start to bat your eyelashes and pout your lip out, there's no way he could ever say no to you.

Another thing he learned about you was you were, in fact, very dangerous.

The two of you sat on your opposite sides, passing the bottle back and forth as reruns of TopGear played on mute in the background, with only the sounds of your shared laughter left to fill the silence, which only became repellently boisterous to the point not much noise was managing to come out.

He hadn't laughed like that in a while.

Harry has been notorious for being the 'cuddly drunk', and that night had been no exception. He wasn't sure how he got there, but after downing half of the bottle after you told him he couldn't do it, he gently laid his head on your shoulder as a SPCA commercial came on.

"I jus' wanna adopt them all, y'know?" He slurred in your ear, grasping the bottle from your hand to rest on his lips. "They deserve all the love."

"You're right," you start, cocking your head to the side as an imagine of a puppy in a cage appeared on the screen. Harry's silent as he takes a quick swig, passing it back off to you. "Hope you don't have cooties."

"Y'just now worrying 'bout m'cooties?"

And just like that, not sure where the confidence comes from, he lets his red-stained lips leave a trail up your jawline before landing on a spot below your ear. He didn't kiss you, didn't leave any marks, but just let his lips relish in the closeness, feeling the warmth leave your skin that seemed to give him an entire new level of comfort.

"I just want to build a farm and let them all run free." You mutter into the bottle, taking the final remaining gulp. "You falling asleep on me?"

He hums into your neck, not finding any will or reason to move from his new spot; he thinks he's found a new home himself, and would be happily to stay just where he is. But just as he's gotten himself situated, and his eyes flutter close, you squirm beneath him and slowly begin to rise from your spot.

"Harr—hey, get off—" You push him lightly so he's leaned against the back of the sofa, and when his eyes meet yours, glossy and half-open, the smallest hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips. "You're so gone," you begin, gently kicking him in the leg. "Where's your bathroom?"