hazy cosmic jive @sushirrrry - Tumblr Blog

CATCH A GLIMPSE || a harry styles x you one shot. word count: 5,683 summary: you and harry are walking around paris, and he's stopped by fans; it's your first interaction with him out in public, and it starts to make you think about how he feels about it all.

the story is based on this request:

author’s note: I'm back!!!! something short and quick like this was such a fun moment for me to write harry - I've never actually written "real" harry before, so I hope you like my interpretation of him!!! if you have any requests or anything you'd like to see, or just wanna chat, please know that my ask is open! I'd love to hear from you <3

📩 if you’d like to request a prompt, please send them my way.

By the time you even remember to take the picture, the foam has already started to blend into the coffee, leaving it frayed and darker than before.

It’s not ruined, just not as perfect as it was when it was first set down in front of you, the little leaf pattern still visible if you tilt the cup slightly toward the light. You do that now, nudging the saucer a fraction of an inch across the table, angling it so the late-morning sun catches the surface just right. The café is bright without being harsh, that golden kind of light that makes everything feel warmer than it actually is.

“Wait—don’t move,” you say, reaching out without thinking to adjust his hand where it rests loosely around his mug, so easy and so casual.

Harry lets you, easy about it, like he always is with these small things. His fingers shift when you guide them, the rings glinting faintly as they catch the light. There’s something familiar about the weight of his hand now, something you’ve gotten used to seeing in your periphery, across tables, draped over the back of chairs, brushing absentmindedly against your knee.

“Am I being styled?” He asks, voice low and amused as he’s watching the way that you hold your phone up, trying to find the best lighting.

“Obviously,” you murmur, focused on your screen as you lean back slightly to frame it. “You’re part of the composition, my muse.”

“Lucky me.”

You hum in response, already snapping the photo before he can move again. It’s instinctive to capture something small and keeping it saved in your phone for a rainy day. Not for anyone in particular, not even really for yourself in a deep, meaningful way. It’s a quiet documentation of moments that would otherwise blur together.

You drop back into your seat, pulling the photo up and tapping through your story settings. The colors are slightly muted at first, so you warm them, soften the shadows, bring the highlights up just enough to make it feel like how it looked in real life.

His hand is in it, but barely.

Not his face, not anything obvious, you think. Just the edge of his wrist, the curve of his thumb against the ceramic, the glint of silver that you, now, would recognize anywhere—but to anyone else, it’s nothing. It’s just someone’s hand—it’s his hand, that you know so well.

“You and your little posts,” he says, not unkindly, more like he’s thinking out loud than teasing you directly.

You glance up at him, a small smile tugging at your mouth, trying to decipher if that was meant to be pushing at you a bit. “What, you don’t like them?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replies, shifting slightly in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table, just slightly. “Just interesting how you feel the need to record everything.”

“I don’t record everything,” you say, even though you kind of do; you know that you take photos of it all, moments between you that you have to keep for days when he’s not around. “Just the nice parts.”

“That feels like a biased archive, if I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug lightly, eyes dropping back to your phone and the image presented. “That’s the point—it’s my archive.”

You hover over the post button for half a second, not really thinking about it. It’s automatic at this point, the motion of your thumb, the quiet satisfaction of sharing something small and inconsequential.

“Hey—”

It’s the soft voice that is sharp, something about it has a plea that reminds you of what is was that you found so adoring of him before. Not sharp enough to startle you, but enough to interrupt the rhythm of what you’re doing. You pause, thumb still hovering, and look up.

His expression hasn’t changed much, not in any obvious way. He’s not tense, not upset, not even particularly serious, really. But there’s something more deliberate in the way he’s looking at you now, something that wasn’t there a second ago when he was joking about being styled.

You watch as he takes a small sip of his coffee before asking quietly, “Can you not post that one?”

For a second, it doesn’t fully register and you blink at him with a bit of confusion, then down at your phone, then back up again like you’re missing something obvious.

“What?”

“The picture,” he clarifies gently, nodding toward your screen. “Can you just not post that one.”

There’s a beat where you just stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking. Then a small laugh slips out of you that feels ridiculous, because it feels like it should be a joke.

“Why?” You ask, tilting your phone slightly so he can see it more clearly. “You can’t even tell it’s you.”

He glances at the screen, then back at you, his mouth pulling into a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I know,” he says, plainly and without much conviction, “I just—”

He stops there, like he’s trying to find a way to explain something that feels obvious to him but might not land the same way for you. He bites at his lip slightly before you can see that he stands his ground.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

You shift in your seat, one eyebrow lifting slightly as you study him more closely now.

“It’s literally just your hand,” you say, the words coming out a little more playful than pointed, like you’re trying to keep this in the realm of something small and silly; you practically roll your eyes. “No one is going to look at that and think anything of it.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head just slightly as he takes another sip, “You’d be surprised.”

“Would I?” You counter, still smiling, still not quite taking it seriously. “Because I feel like you’re giving people way too much credit. It’s a latte in a coffee shop in Paris and a hand.”

His fingers tighten just a fraction around his cup, not enough that you would notice if you weren’t already looking at him differently now.

“Babe, it’s never just that,” he says, and there’s something steadier in his voice now, something that isn’t trying to convince you so much as state something he knows to be true.

You tilt your head, your smile fading just a little at the edges.

“What do you mean?”

He leans back slightly in his chair, as he glances past you toward the window. It’s subtle, the way his eyes move, the way they take in the reflection in the glass, the people walking by outside, the car that slows just a touch too long at the curb before continuing on. The green in his eye’s freckles at the late morning light before he focuses back in on you.

“It starts out as that,” he says after a moment, nodding toward your phone again, “and then it’s where you are, and then it’s what time it was posted, and then someone recognizes something in the background, and then—”

He trails off, making a vague gesture with his hand like the rest of it should be obvious: “It turns into a whole thing.”

You stare at him, the weight of what he’s saying not quite matching the simplicity of what you’re holding in your hand, and you wonder if he’s just paranoid. You understand why he would be so, but you also need to wonder if there’s something else buried beneath it.

“It’s a café,” you say, a small crease forming between your brows. “There are like a hundred cafés that look exactly like this one, I guarantee no one would know before we left.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, not dismissing you, just… adding to it. “And there are people who make a living out of figuring out which one it is.”

The way he says it is so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it makes it harder to brush off. Still, a part of you resists it, because it feels too big for what this is.

“That feels a little extreme, Harry,” you say, quieter now, but still holding onto the idea that this is being blown out of proportion.

Harry isn’t defensive, he’s not one to argue. He’s really never one to have a definitive stance on any of it, but something about this bothers him and you can see by the way that his eyebrows crease and he stares down at his coffee that maybe, just maybe, you are out of lien.

“You haven’t really seen it yet,” he says.

There’s no accusation in it, no judgment, just truth. You feel your stomach dip slightly, though you’re not entirely sure why.

“Seen what?”

He exhales through his nose, glancing down at the table for a second before looking back up at you.

“What happens when they figure it out,” he says.

The café feels the same. The light hasn’t changed, the music still hums softly in the background, someone laughs near the counter like nothing in the world has shifted. You look down at your phone again, at the picture that, just a minute ago, felt so normal about posting a morning with your boyfriend.

Now it feels like something else entirely, and you wished that it didn’t or that he hadn’t made a comment. Your thumb hovers over the screen again, but this time you don’t move to post it.

Instead, you lock your phone and set it down on the table, face down, the soft click louder than it should be.

He watches you for a moment, like he’s trying to gauge whether you actually understand, or if you’re just agreeing to avoid pushing it further.

Then, as soft as he can, “Thank you.”

You nod, your fingers tracing the edge of your sleeve as you try to settle the strange, unfamiliar feeling sitting in your chest.

The rest of the café trip felt tense, almost like there was something he wanted to say or needed to say but couldn’t find the words to do in a public setting. You understood that—there were many things that he didn’t want to display in front of the world, no matter what. But this was sacred, what you two had.

But Harry knew more than anyone that it was the beginning of a trail, a long and winding trail that would lead people to finding more about him—which meant knowing you. And you were sacred to him, especially in moments like this.

It hadn’t been too long since you had started to date; maybe a couple of months now. There were so many nights in the house, so many private dinners. Harry had explained how easy it was to not be seen, but that he knew that once you had started to go out, it would be known immediately. So, you took his word and continued the late nights at home, enjoying each other’s company.

You understand that his life was different than yours, and you understand that his world had a different view point than yours ever could.

Once you’re both finished with your drink, you both decide to make your way to the door; Harry thanks the baristas one more time, giving them an extra cash tip that was certainly not necessary, but he was generous in small moments like that.

It doesn’t feel like anything is wrong when you first step outside.

The air is cool in that soft, early afternoon way, the kind that makes you glad you grabbed a coat but not cold enough to rush anywhere. The street hums with life in that low, constant, comforting way. A bus exhales at the corner, brakes sighing as it comes to a halt. Someone laughs too loudly just ahead of you, and music spills faintly out of an open storefront.

It’s normal enough that you don’t think twice about the way your arm brushes Harry’s as you walk, or how easily your hand slips into the pocket of his coat where his already is, your fingers finding his without looking. It’s become second nature, the way you move around each other now, like your bodies have figured it out before your minds had to.

He adjusts his sunglasses as you step off the curb, his hand intertwined with yours as it briefly comes up to rest at the small of your back in a guiding motion when you cross the street. It’s protective in a way that feels instinctive rather than intentional.

“Left or right?” He asks, glancing down at you.

You look up the street, pretending to consider like it’s a serious decision. “Left feels right.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at your pun, letting you steer him in that direction without argument. “Alright. Lead the way.”

This had been your first time to Paris, it was a trip that Harry had made quite on a whim. Walking the streets felt like everything you could imagine, but at the same time, you feel like being a tourist with him feels instinctually normal.

You point out things as you go like a bookstore window with handwritten staff picks, a dog in a sweater that looks vaguely annoyed about it, a couple arguing in hushed, intense voices outside a café. Harry listens, adds commentary when it suits him, teases you when it doesn’t.

“You absolutely judge people by what they’re reading,” he says, following your gaze to the bookstore.

“I do not.”

“You just said you trust her taste because that girl picked up a hardback.”

You bite your lip as you try not to let the smile over take you, “I think that’s valid—hardback books have a kind of badass vibe to them that paperbacks don’t. They feel classic.”

“Whatever you say.” He smiles at that, shaking his head slightly, his shoulder bumping into yours.

But then, something shifts. You don’t notice it as quickly as you wished you had, but more of a slow-motion moment.

It’s not a single moment, not something loud or obvious that demands your attention because it really didn’t have your attention quickly. It’s smaller than that, and quieter, as it was meant to be.

There’s a girl walking toward you that slows, not enough to be strange or out of the ordinary, just enough to linger. Her phone is already in her hand, angled outward like she’s mid-text, but her eyes flick up once, quick, before dropping again.

You catch it, but only halfway. Your brain registers it as something slightly off, something that doesn’t quite match, but you don’t hold onto it long enough to question it. People look at people all of the time—that’s normal, and you keep walking.

Harry does too.

“…I’m telling you, that place is overrated,” he’s saying, and you’re catching the tail end of his comment as he’s nodding toward a bakery up ahead with a line curling out the door. “It’s all aesthetic. Croissant is average at best.”

“You’re impossible,” you reply, glancing at the line before you think back to the girl you’ve passed. “People wouldn’t wait like that if it wasn’t good.”

“They absolutely would,” he counters, his hand pulls yours back into his jacket pocket. “People love a queue. Makes them feel like they’re part of something.”

You open your mouth to argue, and then it happens again, but closer this time. It’s far less discreet—Hary definitely notices now, you’re certain by the way that he tilts his head down, almost to shy his face away from the people who notice him.

It’s a few girls this time that are standing just outside a shop window, one’s body is angled toward the street, phone held loosely in front of her, casual, but not raised in your faces.

Your steps falter—barely, just enough that your rhythm breaks for a second, but Harry doesn’t stop the rhythm of your walk.

Inside his pocket, his fingers curl more securely around yours as if to anchor you back into reality. His pace doesn’t change, but his presence does—subtle, controlled, like something in him has sharpened without becoming visible.

You glance up at him, searching his face for confirmation, for some kind of reaction, but you can’t find anything. At least, not one anyone else would notice. You see the way his jaw has set just slightly, and the way his gaze flicks—not toward the small group thad had gathered, not directly, but toward the reflection in the glass as you pass.

Of course he’s aware; he’s seeing everything, maybe even before you are because he’s been anticipating this.

“Harry,” you murmur, your voice low enough that it barely carries beyond the space between you.

He hums in response, not looking at you, not breaking stride.

“I think,” you hesitate for a solid moment, the words catching slightly in your throat as your eyes flick back, just for a second. “I think that people are taking photos of us.”

You expect a reaction, but instead he just confirms everything you thought.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, because he knows that’s what’s happening. “Don’t look.”

It’s enough to see them still standing there, their phones now lowered slightly, their posture just a little too stiff, like they’re trying to pretend they weren’t doing exactly what you think they was.

Harry’s hand tightens, just a fraction, but it breaks your thoughts again.

“Hey,” he says, softer now but firmer, pulling your attention back to him without actually touching your face or forcing you to turn. “Don’t.”

You freeze mid-motion, caught between instinct and instruction.

“Why?” You whisper, your voice thinner than it was before. “How can I not?”

“Because that’s what makes it worth it to them,” he says. “They want to be perceived; that’s the goal here.”

You blink up at him, confusion flickering across your face. “What do you mean?”

He exhales, his gaze still forward, his expression composed in a way that suddenly feels like effort.

“They want you to notice,” he explains, in a friendly way, not condescending. “They want the look, the reaction, the—” he gestures slightly with his free hand “—moment where it becomes something.”

Your chest feels tighter now, your awareness stretching outward in a way that’s impossible to pull back.

“So, I just… we pretend it’s not happening?” You ask him and it feels like an impossible feat, especially when people are close to you, and when people want to sneak photos of you and invade your privacy for their own gain.

“Yeah.”

“That’s—” you let out a small, disbelieving breath. “I mean, that’s insane, Harry.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s something almost apologetic in it. “But it works, and it’s worked for ten years, and I want it to work for the next ten.”

You swallow, your gaze dropping to the pavement as you try to steady yourself. But now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it. There are wandering eyes everywhere now, especially when others see people looking at you, wondering who it could be. Maybe even shuffles of whispers that amount to him being seen with a new girl.

There’s a girl across the street who slows just a little too long, she stops mid-conversation on her phone.

Now, a couple who stops walking as you pass, their conversation pausing mid-sentence. It’s a phone angled outward, held just a second too still.

Instead, he shifts closer to you, not dramatically, not in a way that would draw attention. Just enough that your shoulders press more firmly together, that the space between you disappears.

“I don’t know how to act,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper now. “Like, what do I do with my face? Where am I supposed to look?”

That gets a small smile out of him, softer this time, something warm breaking through the control.

“At me,” he says. “Look at me,” he repeats gently. “Or straight ahead, really. Anywhere that feels normal to you, just don’t search for it. The sunglasses helps you not be so obvious.”

You take what he says and let it rest in the corners of your brain like a token of wisdom, wondering how he’d made it this far with this many eyes on him at all times. It feels like such an invasion of your day, and while you know that this comes with the territory, you wonder if he’s self-conscious that you have to follow his rules too.

You walk beside each other, your shoulder brushing his every few steps, your hand tucked into the pocket of his coat where his fingers rest loosely around yours. It’s a small, contained thing, something private in the middle of a public space, and you find yourself holding onto it a little more deliberately now. Not tightly, not in a way that would draw attention, just enough to feel anchored in something that still belongs to the two of you.

He’s begun mid-sentence, talking about something inconsequential like some place he used to go years ago, how it’s changed, how everything eventually does. You follow along easily, responding where it fits, letting the conversation carry the same way it always has. But underneath it, you’re tracking the

There’s a group of girls a little further down the street, clustered together in that unmistakable way, heads close, shoulders brushing, their energy just slightly too focused in one direction. You don’t look at them directly, but you notice the way one of them leans in, says something quickly to the others, the way their attention shifts all at once.

You can tell in the way his hand shifts against yours, the way his posture stays relaxed but becomes more deliberate, more aware of space, of distance, of timing and of preparing for interaction that may not necessarily be welcome at the moment. You don’t say anything because you don’t want to make it something out of the ordinary.

“Harry?” One of them calls, a little breathless, a little disbelieving, like she’s not entirely sure she’s right but hopeful enough to try.

You both slow to the corner where you’d all be crossing the street. There’s no point pretending you didn’t hear it because it’s quite obvious.

They approach together—three of them then, moving with that mix of excitement and hesitation, like they’re trying to be respectful but can’t quite contain themselves. Their phones are already in their hands, not raised yet, but ready.

“Oh my god, hi,” one of them says, smiling wide, her voice overlapping slightly with the others. “We didn’t want to bother you, but—hi.”

Harry turns toward them fully, his expression open and warm in a way that feels genuine, not performative and that’s just because he is. You’ve seen that before, but now you notice the precision in it, the way he controls the moment without making it feel controlled.

“Hi,” he says, easy and calm.

He steps slightly forward—not away from you, but just enough to meet them where they are—and reaches out his hand. It untangles with yours, but you smile at the acception of that.

“I’m Harry,” he adds.

It’s such a simple thing, but it catches them off guard in the best way. They laugh, a little flustered, each of them taking his hand in turn.

“What are your names?”

They tell him, one after the other, and he repeats them back, nodding, like he’s committing them to memory even if it’s just for the moment. It slows everything down, turns what could’ve been rushed into something steadier, something that feels more like an interaction than an interruption.

You stay just beside him, close enough to feel included but not pulled into the center of it—you don’t know that he’d want that, you hadn’t really talked about that, but you figure that this isn’t your moment at all. It’s theirs. One of the girls’ glances at you briefly, curious but not intrusive, before her attention returns to him.

“Can we get a photo?” Another one asks, already lifting her phone slightly.

You watch him closely now, not because you expect him to struggle with it, but because you want to see how he does it, how he keeps it kind without letting it get away from him.

“Do you mind if we don’t?” He speaks out.

His tone stays soft, the same warmth still there, but there’s a quiet firmness underneath it that makes the boundary clear without making it uncomfortable. They hesitate, just for a second, the request still hanging in the air and the disappointment slowly travels to their face.

“Oh—it’ll be really quick,” one of them says, not pushy exactly, but hopeful that maybe she can change his mind.

“I know,” he tells her gently, his hand over his heart in the genuine way that he does. “I’m sorry.”

There’s no edge to it, no frustration, but hopefully an understanding that he doesn’t want to have photos today—it’s your day, together. Just a calm, steady refusal that doesn’t leave much room to push further. They exchange a quick glance between themselves, then nod.

“Okay,” one of them says, her smile softening. “That’s okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says easily, as if to help ease their sadness. “It’s nice to meet you all, thank you for the support—are you coming to the show tomorrow?”

The lights in their faces start to beam back as they all nod graciously, telling him yes and how excited they were and that makes him smile. They thank him, still smiling, still a little breathless, before stepping back, letting the moment dissolve without turning it into anything bigger.

You both give small waves back to them as you turn to go your separate ways.

You start walking again as soon as there’s space to, falling back into step beside him as you feel the quiet hum of adrenaline under your skin now, not overwhelming, just enough to make everything feel slightly sharper.

“That was…” you start, searching for the right word.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing down at you briefly. “I would do that a million times over, it always means so much.”

Harry’s head turns just slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you see it, and his expression changes in a way you haven’t seen yet. The lines between his brows start to crease as he pulls his lips into his mouth for a moment.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?” You ask, your voice low, already knowing the answer before he says it.

“Paps, over there” he replies, just as quietly, tilting his chin to the left near the small park that you’re passing; you can hear the small clicks of the automated cameras.

Harry’s hand tightens around yours, and his pace picks up—not rushing, not running, but purposeful like he wants to get off of the streets.

“Come on,” he says softly.

You match him immediately, your steps falling into his without hesitation. He keeps you close to his side, guiding you through the movement of the street with practiced ease, his hand at your back again, more constant now. You pass a corner, then another, his awareness stretching outward in a way that feels almost tangible.

“Hotel’s just up here,” he murmurs.

You nod, your grip on his hand tightening slightly, not out of fear, but out of instinct.

When you reach it, he doesn’t slow. He moves straight inside, the shift from street to lobby immediate and noticeable, the noise dropping away, the space suddenly more controlled, more contained like you both are in control now. Only then does he let out a breath.

His shoulders drop just slightly, the tension easing in increments rather than all at once.

You stay close as you cross the lobby, your steps finally slowing to something normal again. The elevator doors slide open, and you step inside together, the space closing around you in a way that feels almost surreal after the street.

You both walk towards the elevator, thanking the door man before you step inside to go to your room on the twenty-fourth floor. He removes his sunglasses, and you place yours on your shirt collar for a moment. It’s the small moment of silence with the two of you that makes you exhale, too.

For a second, neither of you says anything, then he turns toward you.

His hand comes up to your jaw, warm and steady and guiding, and he leans in, kissing you softly. It’s not hurried, not desperate, like he’s reminding both of you where you are now. You exhale into it without realizing you were holding your breath.

When he pulls back, his forehead lingers close to yours for a second before he drops his hand again.

You study him, really looking now at the way that his skin freckles and his eyes are greener under the blue hat he’s wearing.

“Sorry our walk had to be cut short.” You say quietly.

“You’re sorry?” He add, almost instinctively, his expression shifts at that, something gentler settling in.

You frown just a little. “I mean it—I know I don’t have to be sorry, but I feel sorry that you have to deal with all of that just by going out. That’s—” you exhale softly. “That’s a lot.”

He leans back slightly against the wall as the elevator continues its slow climb, his gaze steady on yours.

“Everything comes at a cost,” he says, almost as easily as he could have—it’s not a lie, it’s just to you. “But it’s nothing I’d change because there’s nothing I love more than this life.”

When the elevator reaches your suite, you both step off and the sound feels heavier than it should, like it seals something out instead of just closing a space. For a moment, neither of you moves very far from where you’ve stopped. Harry drops his keys onto the console by the door, the soft clatter loud in the stillness, and then runs a hand back through his hair, exhaling slowly.

It isn’t dramatic, the way the tension leaves him. It doesn’t vanish all at once. It loosens in pieces—his shoulders easing, his posture becoming looser, the sharp edge of awareness dulling now that there’s nothing to track, nothing to anticipate. There’s nothing new here.

You slip your shoes off near the door and drift a little further into the room, your fingers trailing absentmindedly along the back of a chair. The adrenaline from earlier has settled into something quieter, something more reflective, and you’re aware now of how much you’ve been holding in your body without realizing it.

“Are you alright?” You ask, as you watch him cross the room.

He nods once, then again, like he’s confirming it to himself as much as to you. “Yeah. Are you?”

You give a small, understanding nod, leaning back against the edge of the table. “Yeah, I’m totally fine.”

That earns you a faint smile, something softer than what he gives the world, less practiced. It’s when he backtracks, working his way back to you before he lets his eyes drift down to your lips now. It feels intimate, and you lift your hands to rest on his biceps as you hear the exhale expel from him.

There’s a beat of quiet after that, not uncomfortable, just… full. The kind that follows something shared, something understood without needing to be picked apart immediately.

You reach for your phone without thinking, more out of habit than intention. The screen lights up in your hand, and for a second you just look at it, your thumb hovering without moving.

“You can post it, you know,” he says, the words rolling off of his tongue. “The picture,” he clarifies then, nodding toward your phone. “If you want to.”

You study him for a second, searching his expression, trying to figure out if he means it or if this is something he feels like he should say.

“No—I mean, why? Are you sure?” You ask.

He nods, a little more firmly this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “I trust you.”

The words land softly, but they carry more weight than you expect.

You tilt your head slightly, wondering if he feels some sort of guilt around it. “What changed?”

He lets out a small breath, his gaze dropping for a second before coming back to you.

“Today,” he says simply. “The way you handled it.”

You consider it for a second longer, your thumb brushing lightly over the screen, then you lock your phone without another second to consider.

“I don’t think I need to.”

Harry watches you, something curious flickering across his face. You shake your head slightly, a small smile pulling at your mouth as you continue.

“I think I like it better like this,” you say to him, and only him. “That it’s just ours, you know?”

There’s a quiet pause after that before you watch the way that his dimples start to make their way on his face, crossing his cheeks in that shy, coy way that always enveloped him.

His hand slides a little more securely around your waist, pulling you closer, and this time when he kisses you, it lingers just a fraction longer and you let your hand drift up to pull at the hair at the nape of his neck before you pull back to look at him once more.

“I like that people can have small glimpses,” Harry tells you, pushing some hair behind your ear before he lets his gaze draw down to you, “But I like that I’m the only one who can have you.”

The smile then pushes on your lips as you feel him push your hips against the table, almost trapping you, “I feel the same way.”

He kisses you once more, then twice before whispering against your lips, “Mine, all mine.”

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

hazy cosmic jive