𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐞
Pairing: Harry Styles x fem!reader
Summary: Holmes Chapel is always quiet. Except for today, because an old friend’s in town.
Warnings: resentment (sorta ?), fluff. this is all my original work, please do not copy!!
Word count: ~1.6k
Holmes Chapel has always been a quiet, quaint place. The tight-knit community always seemed to buzz with chatter, a soft hum settling over the town like a blanket. It was never too loud though, not like New York or London by a mile, just a couple thousand people going through daily life. This included you.
Well, you actually were just coming up for the weekend. Going to college at the University Manchester was a nice change of scenery for you, especially considering how you grew up in this tiny town. It felt as though you could actually be something there, not just be trapped in the confines of the small community you grew up in— and it’s great, really, but you still like to visit from time to time.
So here you are, an apron tied around your waist as you ring up your grade seven English teacher’s bread. A welcoming smile is sitting on your face, shaking your head in part amusement and part annoyance as she prods you about your love life.
“No boy has asked you out this year yet, dear?” Mrs. Allen asks, tsking disapprovingly. “Well all those boys are missing out.”
“I’m sure they are,” you slightly laugh, skillfully sliding her sourdough loaf into a paper bag.
You slide it over to her on the counter, taking cash from her in return and putting it into the cash register. With quick hands, you focus on getting her change, completely tuning out your past teacher.
Your delicately pick up three pennies and a quarter, placing them in the palm of your hand and extending it and looking up, “Here—”
Standing only a couple feet away is your childhood best friend. Or, at least he was.
Harry’s pulling Mrs. Allen in for a hug, dimples creasing into his cheeks as he wraps his arms around the old woman. His eyes flutter shut in what looks like pure bliss, the ones that you used to look into with the same emotion.
“You look so handsome!” Mrs. Allen exclaims, pulling away to get a good look at him.
Harry only chuckles, green eyes sparkling as he grins like an idiot. Then, his eyes meet yours. The prolonged eye contact almost causes a shiver to rack up your spine, but you fight it. You won’t allow yourself to give in just like that.
It doesn’t take long before your old teacher finishes coddling Harry, waving goodbye before exiting the shop door. The echoing of the bell ripples through the air, adding a crescendo to the unsaid words hanging in the air.
“Hi,” Harry quietly greets, a sheepish smile splaying on his lips, “It’s been a while.”
“It has,” you almost immediately reply, slight bitterness lacing your tone.
Harry senses the sourness in you, he always has been able to. It’s clear to him why you’re upset, even though you’ve only spoken two words. He remembers the day he stopped answering your calls, then your texts, and God, does it make him feel guilty. Seeing you there, standing in your apron like you’re sixteen again, it psychically hurts him.
“Can I, erm, get a loaf of wheat bread?” Harry requests, voice quiet, “Please.”
“Sure,” you answer, quite dryly, before ducking under the counter to grab a loaf.
“So,” Harry draws out, awkwardly shuffling up to the counter, “How’ve you been?”
You stand back up with the wheat loaf of bread in hand, letting out a quiet breath while you grab a paper bag.
“Good, actually,” you mumble, voice softer now, “I’m going to the University of Manchester. S’really nice there.”
A smile twitches at Harry’s lips as he looks down at you, watching you effortlessly place his loaf of bread in the bag. He remembers when you both used to work behind that counter, when life was simpler. When he wasn’t playing stadiums all over the world and going out every night. Back when he went to school, the bakery, then went home.
“That’s great, m’glad you’re doing good,” Harry replies, and he genuinely means every word.
“What about you?”
Harry doesn’t really expect the question, especially considering you’ve probably seen how he’s doing from the tabloids alone— assuming that you even still care about him. Harry scratches the back of his neck and shifts his weight from foot to foot, mumbling out, “Busy.”
You raise an eyebrow, knowing for a fact that Harry’s not telling the whole truth. It’s obvious in the way he stands, posture slightly slumped over. His slow blinking eyes and hoodie tells you that he’s jet lagged at the very least, which only worries you. As much as you tell yourself that you shouldn’t care about someone who doesn’t even care enough to text you, it just comes naturally.
“You’ve just been busy?” you lean slightly over the counter, eyes flicking from his loaf of wheat bread to his eyes. Then, of course, you mutter under your breath, “Too busy to call me, I guess.”
“Look—” Harry instantly counters, “Being in the band is a lot, alright? I didn’t mean to lose contact with you. It wasn’t on purpose.”
“But still,” you glumly comment, gazing down at your hands.
It’s quiet for a moment, just the crinkling sound of the paper bread bag and the click of the cash register as you open it.
“That’ll be £2.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry takes a few shuffled steps forward, eyes glued to yours, albeit sincerely.
You pause your movements, hands stilling on the linoleum counter. It’s silent for a moment, just two people standing in the place of what used to be a lifelong friendship. Harry slowly pulls out his wallet, his rough fingers that you remember so well slipping out a five pound note from it. He takes a small, shuffled step closer and slides the money slowly across the countertop.
It’s then that you realize that maybe you’re being a bit harsh. Harry’s eyes never lie, and right now they’re clearly displaying his guilt. It shows in the way he bites the inside of his cheek, hands settled along the edge of the bread counter.
With a soft sigh, you quietly mumble, “I know you are.”
As much as you hate to admit it, you could never not accept Harry’s apologies. Even when you two were younger, blissfully unaware of the mundane life that’d soon overtake— although more so you than Harry— you’d still come crawling back to him. Like the time when he broke your favorite picture frame, eyes glossed over as he picked up shards of glass, apologizing every two seconds. Even though you held a small grudge against Harry, he saved up for months to buy you a new one, and he thought it was more than worth it just to see your eyes light up.
“Keep the change,” Harry tells you, voice familiar and homely.
You blink up at him before giving a quick nod, offering a small smile as you put the money in the cash register. The strain in the air seems to ease up, almost thaw, like butter sitting out on a warm counter. Slowly, but surely. Harry’s smile twitches higher, the faint outline of his dimples creasing into his cheeks.
It feels as though your resentment is melting into a puddle of nothing. All you can imagine is how hard it’s been without Harry here for three years, your best friend, your everything. Every brush of his hand against yours or stupid inside joke comes flooding back to you like a damn tidal wave. Because, truthfully, you don’t know where you’d be if it weren’t for Harry. If he had never pressured you into applying at the bakery with him or hadn’t told you about the University of Manchester, where would you be? The thought makes your stomach twist, the painful kind that envelopes you in anxiety, as if just thinking about the fact might make it snap into reality.
And so, with your bitterness rendering away, you honestly utter, “M’happy for you, Haz. Really.”
The grin that you know all too well spreads across Harry’s face, moving his hands to shove into his pockets. A pocket of warmth fans out into your chest, the stars in your eyes seem to be illuminating as you slide his loaf of bread across the counter towards him.
Harry picks up the bread perched on the edge of the counter, an array of silent words transmitted between the two of you. The guilty look in his eyes is still there, evident as ever, but so is part of his old self. Not Harry Styles, just Harry. Haz, the sixteen year old boy who would work with you at this exact bakery, stealing “damaged” pastries and teasingly swiping flour across your cheek.
“Um, I’ll be here for a couple of days,” Harry murmurs, taking a few steps away from the counter and towards the door, “Maybe we can catch up if you’re free.”
The resentment that had jammed itself into you releases, the feeling of closeness and naturalness filling the space instead. You find yourself widely smiling at Harry, genuinely this time, and it’s almost like he never left. He gives a small wave before turning to walk out of the door.
“Hey—” you pause, watching as Harry turns around to look at you, already halfway out the bakery door with a look of curiosity settled on his face, “If you’re ever tired of being known for who you know, you know, you’ll always know me.”
That makes Harry smile too, a breathy chuckle leaving his lips as he nods. And just like that, he’s gone, a trail of wind flowing into the bakery. The bell above the door dings, signalling his departure before the door clicks to a close.
This place is the same as it ever was.
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