oh, anna [-hs]

blue

a/n HI NEW READERS! There's so many of you! I hope you're all enjoying! Brace yourself! This chapter is a lil rocky!

12.

My internal clock wakes me up at nine in the morning. I blink sleepily, glancing out at the orange and pink sky from our bedroom window. From the kitchen, I can hear the stove softly whirring. I smile, Emma's never up this early.

I climb out of bed and wander down the hallway, stretching from the achyness of last night. Last night? Why am I so sore? I turn the corner of the hallway and freeze.

It's Harry. He stayed the night. He crashed on our couch. Here he is in his new yellow corduroys and shirt from yesterday, standing over our stove with an intense concentration. He hears the floorboards creak and glances up.

"Good morning, Quinn, I--" his eyes dart to my leg, and my heart seizes.

My leg. I'm not wearing any pants. He's looking at my tattoos.

For a second we stand there, him staring dumbfounded at my thigh, my figure frozen like a deer in headlights. And then he realizes what he's doing, and he forces his gaze back up to my face.

"Sorry if I caught you off guard, I'm just an early riser, don't sleep very well."

"Um. It's okay." I blink. Fuck. Shit. What is happening right now. I'm just standing here in my underwear and old shirt, my feet stuck to the floorboards. I smell terrible. I forgot that Harry Styles spent the night at my apartment. And he saw my tattoos.

"I'm making breakfast if you want any," he gestures, trying to break the silence.

And he made breakfast. He stayed the night and saw my tattoos and made me breakfast. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I start to breathe really fast, and his eyebrows knit together. "Quinn, are you okay?" He takes a step forward, but I hold up my hand.

"I just, fuck, I just, I'll be right back." I turn on my heel and run back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Who was the last person to stay the night? Literally nobody. Who was the last person to see my tattoos? Wes. Definitely Wes. Or maybe that girl from the grocery store in France, but she doesn't count, I never saw her again. Who was the last person to make me breakfast? Emma. Definitely Emma. No one makes me food. Except Harry cooked dinner for me last week. He's already cooked for me. He's cooking for me.

I feel myself hyperventilating, the walls rotating and shrinking in on me. I reach my hand up to grasp at my throat, trying to force myself to breathe. From her bed, Emma stirs and looks over at me.

"Are you okay?" she murmurs, still half asleep. I shake my head wildly, and she sits up, rolling off the mattress and coming to sit down in front of me. She's not asleep anymore. "What's wrong, what's going on?"

"He, I," I whimper and twist my shirt around in my hand, wringing it back and forth. She nods, not understanding but listening.

"Breathe with me," she murmurs again, and then takes my hands gently and raises them slowly up and down, like bird's wings. With each inhale our arms go up, and with each exhale they gently glide back down. She breathes with me for a few minutes, until I finally feel myself calming down.

"Thank you," I whisper and close my eyes. She runs her hand softly through my hair.

"Now tell me what happened," she commands.

"Harry's out there," is all I say. She purses her lips, nodding.

"I see."

"And he's making breakfast."