We'll Be Alright || H.S.

5. Georgia Rose.

July 30, 2019.

Isabella's POV:-

Why the hell did I agree to come to Harry's house and meet his backup band?

It's like, I can't think straight when I'm around him. I always act against my better judgment.

Now the question is, what am I going to wear?

I frantically rummage through my clothes and end up practically emptying my closet on the floor. Which one shall I choose? Should I go with something casual, or should I make an effort to dress up nicely?

Oh God.

I'm behaving as if I'm going on a date.

It's just a casual dinner at an old friend's place.

Yeah, casual.

With that, I rummage through my clothes again and pick up a pair of high waist blue skinny jeans and a black fitted crop top. I throw my hair into a messy bun, apply a very light makeup, and I'm ready to go.

It would take me about half an hour to drive up to Harry's place, so maybe I should play some music. That would also help to ease my nerves. Nerves for what, I don't know. Maybe for visiting that house after such a long time, or maybe for spending time with him once again, or maybe for facing his backup band mates for the first time in two years.

I play my personalized playlist, and as I'm about to pull up outside his house, one of the very few particular songs I didn't want to hear today, starts playing.

If I Could Fly.

One of the many, many songs that he wrote about me.

I want to pause it and get out of the car, but I can't bring myself to do it. The atmosphere in my car suddenly feels heavier, and I feel suffocated. Memories rush back to my brain and I can't help but keep on thinking about them.

Flashback:-

September 28, 2015.

Harry is in an extra joyous mood today, God knows why.

I woke up to him peppering kisses all over my face and cheekily wishing me a good morning. And then he made me breakfast. He is the one to make breakfast most of the days though. Not that I'm complaining, I'm absolutely in love with his cooking skills. If only I could cook half as good as him.

He called a day in today. Right now I'm laying lazily on his chest, playing with his soft, long curls. He has one of his hands over his stomach, and the other loosely around me, drawing patterns on my waist. And the conversations never run dry between us.

"I wanted to tell you something." He says.

"Go on."

"I've been working on a song for our fifth album for a while now, and I think it's done. I wrote it for you."

I look up at him with a smile, "Why am I not surprised?"

"Because I write too many songs about you." He deadpans, earning a laugh from me.

"Yeah Styles, I know that you're absolutely whipped with me."

"Can't disagree though," he chuckles, "you still want to hear the song, right?"

"Of course, I'd listen to anything you have to say or sing."

"Who's whipped with whom again?" He teases. I try to look serious for a moment, but I can't help the smile creeping up my lips.