Through The Dark || Harry Styles

25. LUCY

LUCY

Harry hums in pleasure as he pushes the fork past his lips and the satisfied noise makes my chest swell with pride.

We are standing in the kitchen, barefoot and in our underwear.

Our hips casually bump into each other as we lean over the same steaming dish on the countertop that encases a vegetable frittata that I just pulled from the oven.

With a fork each, we dig into the colourful meal, blowing carefully to cool down our mouthfuls before Harry makes that noise again and I'm not sure what I find more enjoyable.

It took us a while to drag ourselves out of bed, but in the end, the angry grumbles of Harry's stomach made me feel too guilty to deprive him for much longer.

He kissed me, walking my body backwards, away from putting more clothes on and towards food and coffee.

Things escalated so quickly after he came over last night and to be honest, I'm too happy in this moment to worry how long it's going to take for it to turn sour; for him to regret me.

I don't really care - for once. And it might be reckless, or stupid or naive, or maybe I've resigned to the fact that nothing lasts forever. But with Harry here, half-naked and grinning at me like I just made his whole life better with this meal, the hole in my heart feels like it's healing. Or at least patched up for the meantime.

Harry holds his fork out towards me and I giggle like a schoolgirl before I take the bite, humming as a quiet joke to myself as I savour the flavour.

With an infectious grin, his arm wraps around me and his large palm squeezes my butt. I slap his shoulder and my stomach flips when he winks at me before filling his mouth with food again.

"Where did you learn to cook like this?" he asks, take a sip of his espresso.

Blend three.

"My mum's an amazing cook, way better than me," I tell him. "My dad used to tell her she missed her calling as a chef."

My breath leaves my body in an instant, the words I can't believe I've spoken hitting me like a kick to the chest and my fingers feel numb.

The resurgence of the memory startles me; my dad's smiling eyes, my mum's proud face.

I was younger, optimistic, unscathed.

I can hear Dad's voice as he tells my mum how delicious the dinner she prepared for him is and she leans to kiss him swiftly. Her hair is down and her sleeves rolled up; casual, carefree.

"I'd forgotten about that," I admit barely above a whisper as I stare down at my hands that are gripping the edge of the stone top. "He loved my mum's cooking so much."

"Your dad?" Harry asks.

"Yeah."

Harry puts another bite in his mouth, his eyes unsure but his body remains relaxed against the kitchen counter.

"I think I love yours just as much," he tries to keep it light.

He reaches for my hand but I take an instinctive step back.

Our eyes lock, his brows twitching into a crease but his voice stays calm.

"Don't do that, babe. Kinda hurts."

The last thing I want to do is transfer my pain to him, or anyone else.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"You tell me about it when you're ready," Harry stretches his arm out again and takes my hand in his. I want to pull away but I don't.

"Not today," I mumble and he nods.