Harry Styles Imagines

used to this

 or, the one where crossing a definitive line is easier than both of you realize, and harry can't wait to get used to it.

He really should get out of bed soon. Technically, he should be out already, seeing he is supposed to be at an early interview, but Harry just... can't.

The bed is warm, you see. And he's too busy watching YN sleep, head pressed against his naked chest, one arm thrown around his waist, the other tucked under the pillow to be arsed to think rationally. It's kind of a thing. It happens, when she's around. He gets caught up, body and mind, like tunnel vision or something. It's her. All her.

Besides, he hasn't seen her for a while, so it's even worse this morning. Pretty bad last night too, when he sneaked out after a performance, jogging up the stairs of her building as fast as he could, heart on his throat when she opened the door.

She was on his arms before her sleepy brain could fully comprehend he was really there, a solid presence, his breathing raising goosebumps where it hit her skin.

He didn't want to let her go, so when she just pressed herself closer, he decided he wouldn't. He was fine, more than fine, standing there with the cold from the hallway hitting his back, the scent of YN's coconut shampoo making his head spin with the realization he missed her much more than he had let himself be aware of, voice muffled and full of surprise when the greeting came.

It had been over a year since they met, but the surprise had yet to fade: Harry could sense it, spot it in the first seconds of every late call, watch it whenever one of them came over with bags of take out and cheap spirits, the slimmer of doubt, the hesitant smile before he pulled her close like she was waiting for him to realize this, them, shouldn't be a thing.

Harry felt the same. It scared him shitless, made him a trembling mess every time this sweet girl smiled at him, pushed him off of her way or told a joke that was as bad as the ones he had memorized over the years: all he could do was wonder if it was the last time, every time.

Maybe that was it. The fear of losing her, maybe that's what had Styles biting his tongue every time he almost let her name slip when one of his other friends asked what kept him glued to his phone in every spare moment. There were at least a couple of people that would want his head if they knew the story anyway. Harry wasn't supposed to go and give his number out to fans, for fucks sake, not even the ones that worked in a small restaurant he liked to escape to every now and then. Not even if they let him sit on the corner and just be when the nights seemed too long, making conversation about anything that weren't the things the world was convinced it already knew about him. Especially not if their smile made his heart rate increase, if it had him blurting out excuses to linger around just five minutes more...It was careless, could be dangerous, even.

He took the risk anyway. Fame had given him his wildest dreams, but it robbed him of so much at the same time...moments like the previous night, nestled in bed while YN's voice filled the room with words from the book she was trying to finish before he got there, were Harry stealing something back.

More than worth it, if you still had doubts.

Now, while his hand grabs at the black bedside table in search of his phone before the bloody alarm goes off, the musician wonders how he'll manage the day without her, how he'll focus on anything that isn't the memory of her lips on his just hours ago: he can still taste it, her along with the nerves that dissolved as the night went on, bodies slowly relaxing in the moonlight, the words of a stranger and a hardcover the last barriers left standing.

He moved first, right when YN's voice got hoarse a couple of chapters in, his head on her pillow, telling himself it was just so she didn't have to speak as loud, but he still came closer every time her eyes flickered into his in between paragraphs.