Flicker 》Harry Styles x Kennedy Walsh {COMPLETED}

18: Is Red My Color?

Here's part 1 of Day 2.

Ps: All my love and appreciation to people who regularly comment and leave their vote on the chapters. You guys keep me going. 🤍

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Tossing and turning. That's how I've been spending the entirety of my night. Partly because I know Harry's just in the next room, and for the most part because of my freaking messed up body clock. On regular days, I sleep at around two in the morning and wake up at around noon. Ideal, I know.

Claudia hits my arm when I turn for the nth time tonight. I yelp.

"I swear if you move one more time, I will push you off of the bed," she threatens, voice groggy.

"Grandma," I mumble.

She pushes me but not hard enough to send me flying off the bed. I giggle at her attempt and she tries to hide the lifting of the corner of her lips by switching to her other side.

"Go clean the house or something."

I spare a moment to think about it.

"You know what? I will."

I get up from her bed as messily as possible, arms flailing and feet stomping. With her eyes closed, she blindly reaches for a pillow and hurls it towards me, which I dodge of course.

"Such a loser," I mock her with a British accent.

"Harry!" She yells so suddenly and so loudly I'm sure it vibrated off of the walls.

I hurry to her side to shut her up, almost stumbling in my haste. "What the fuck Claudia?" She laughs and I swat her arm. "Not cool."

"What's not cool is you keeping me awake because you badly needed someone to stay up with you. Let me sleep," she says with a groan.

I leave her room and head over to our cabinet that housed our cleaning materials. I fish the vacuum out and make my way to the kitchen. I will not have Harry thinking the Walshes are slobs. I pass by the clock, only now noting the fact that it's five in the morning. I've only slept a wink since the other day. If this was how the week is going to play by, I would be dropping dead by the end of this.

I get to work.

Halfway through finishing vacuuming the kitchen, I hear footsteps descending the stairs. I turn, jumping at the sight of Harry pulling a shirt past his chest, his butterfly and fern tattoos on show for a split second before being covered by the fabric.

I face away from him immediately, sure that my face is sporting yet another one of those crimson shades. Jesus.

"You're awake," he comments, his voice gravelly.

I feign surprise, not facing him still. "You are too."

"I'm usually up before six—tour," he explains and I nod. Silence for a few beats, then, "But there's no better alarm than hearing your name screamed bloody murder. Do you erm—do you usually vacuum at five in the morning?" Humor was clear on his tone.

I close my eyes for a moment, basking in the embarrassment of getting caught. I turn to face him but keep my eyes averted. "Do you like sandwiches? I make mean sandwiches. I think I'll make you some, yeah. Sandwiches."

I busy myself grabbing the array of choices available for filling the sandwich. I lay them all out in front of him as he sits.

"You don't have to," he mutters, shy.

"No problem," I answer, but then realizing, "unless you're a germaphobe." I drop the butter knife on the plate so suddenly, making a loud clank. Why the hell am I so jittery? "Sorry."