Ghost Writer [Harry Styles][H.S. Fanfic]

18 - MAYBE

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Okay, so I probably should've listened to Harry. I shouldn't have broken my promise to him. But just hear me out...

It was an accident.

I haven't been able to tear my eyes away from my phone for the past four-ish-plus hours. To be honest, I'm not even sure what time it is. Harry had an early afternoon meeting with his manager and producers about his upcoming album, so I've been left to my own devices. It's his fault this happened. I blame him.

Needless to say, I was far too enthralled with what I was watching to notice him walk into his bedroom where I've been sleeping. His couch really did a number on my back. Besides, I think he likes that we sleep in the same bed. But for me, it provides a sense of relief and security that I've severely lacked since the whole Jack incident. Well, until now, that is. I always feel safe with Harry.

When the left side of the bed dips, my heart stops, and I jump so hard that I toss my phone in the air. In a poor effort to prevent it from hitting the ground, I swat at it like a cat doing a shitty juggling act until I catch it, locking the screen and placing it face down on my lap so he can't see what I was just doing.

Slowly and with noticeable suspicion while I try to keep my face stoic, I turn my head, and my eyes lock on his humorous expression. His eyebrows are lifted damn near to his hairline as he rolls his lips between his teeth to bite back his laughter. Heat trails up my neck and soars across my now red cheeks, peppered with shame and embarrassment as I pull out my earbuds one at a time.

"What are you doing?" he asks while trying to control his face by pressing his lips together tightly, but the 'pff' sound he makes soon after breaks his character.

Lie! Make something up! Absolutely anything!

"I have a confession." No!

Oh god.

"Are you high?" he chuckles, scooting back to lean against his headboard.

That's not quite what I was expecting him to ask. But damn. He's good. How could he possibly know that?

Riiiight. Morphine drip. Ah, my old friend.

Good times. Good times.

"No!" Shit, I said that way too fast. And why did I yell it? Let's try again. "Maybe... Only slightly... Alright fineee, stop looking at me like that! I'm fucking toasted. Mitch brought me some stellar organic brownies - for my diet obvs - while you were out doing all the Rockstar things." Now I'm tattle-telling. Awesome.

"I might've, possibly, maybe eaten all three. Shhh, don't tell." High five, girl. He'll never suspect a thing.

Harry's eyes nearly bulge out of his head, his voice rising in shock, "You ate all of them?" But then he squints at me skeptically, "What did you do during your trip to Blissville, exactly?"

I flick my thumbnail off of my front tooth guiltily, "I did a thing."

"What?" He drags out his question, the crease between his brows carving deep into his skin.

"Okay, don't get mad." That's the one sentence people say right before they confess to doing something that'd make someone else mad. Good job, Sunny. You're doing great. Keep digging your hole. "But I was really, really bored, so I crept on your Instagram. Cuz, you know... payback... And yeah, I kinda ended up in your tagged photos."