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Your phone's default ringtone goes off from its place on the coffee table. Your eyes shoot up from the book you're reading, and you see Harry's name appear, along with your lock screen, which is a candid picture of both of you. After bookmarking the page you were engrossed in, you reach forward and slide your thumb across the screen to answer.
"What's up?" you say, holding the phone to your ear.
"C'mere," Harry murmurs lowly on the other end.
You screw your face up and absentmindedly pick at a loose thread on your pants. "Why?"
"Because I need to discuss something with you."
A scoffed laugh escapes your mouth. He's literally in the room next to you, getting ready for the show, so you ask, "Can't you just text me or tell me right now?"
He's comically silent before uttering an innocent, high-pitched "No?"
You sigh loudly and rise from the comfy couch. As you hang up, you leave the lounge and traverse down the hall. It takes precisely seven steps to reach his private dressing room. The door is wide open, with aromatic cologne and quiet melodies wafting through.
Harry is the first thing you see. He's sitting comfortably in a canvas chair with only a towel around his waist and socks on his feet. The counter in front of him is a mess with hair products, cosmetic brushes, and face creams scattered on the surface. His phone lies on his lap, which means he's been talking to you on speaker.
You clear your throat, which causes him to turn his head and look at you. "What did you need to discuss with me?"
He meekly smiles. "Hi."
"What do you want?" you rephrase impatiently, wanting to return to your romance book. It was just getting steamy!
"Come closer," he says, glancing you up and down.
You notice that he hasn't moved his hands away from his face. They both unnaturally cup his cheeks, and you can't figure out why.
"Why are your hands like that?" you ask with suspicion.
His eyebrows scrunch together. "Like what?"
"You're being weird."
"You're being weird."
"We're not doing this," you say, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Tell me what you need, or else I'm walking away. I have a book to finish."
Harry keeps his hands on his face and curls his pinky finger to beckon you closer. "Get over here."
Your heart flutters when he says it in a way that implies you might be in trouble. You rack your brain for anything that could have led him to call you and have you come to his dressing room.
As you slowly tread to him, his eyes don't leave yours. When you stand in front of him, his legs spread in invitation, and he says, "On my lap, baby."
You do as he commands and sit on his left thigh. One of his hands moves from his face to rest on your waist while the other stays put. He hasn't put his rings on yet, so his fingers feel bizarrely bare on your skin.
"What?" you whisper, your gaze curiously dancing over his face.
Harry leans back in his chair. "Wanna know why I'm covering my cheek?"
"Yeah. I've asked that already."
"Don't get sassy with me."
You swallow nervously. "Did you cut yourself while shaving?" you guess, knowing it's happened a few times before.
"Nope," he replies, tapping his fingers against his cheekbone. "Try again."
You purse your lips and ponder. "Hmm... do you have a zit?"
Harry runs his tongue across his teeth, obviously not amused. "You're on a roll today, aren't you?"
"Just tell me," you breathe out as your shoulders slump.
"You," he says while jerking the leg that you sit on, "gave me a hickey the other day. Right on my jaw where everyone can see."
You roll your lips in to try and hide your smile. "I'm so sorry."
Harry removes his hand, revealing a brownish-red mark on his jawbone from when the both of you were in a hotel suite in Tacoma. It's a known rule not to leave marks, especially since it's common for him to be photographed in the cities he visits. You take all the blame. You couldn't help it, really — it's nice to be a little greedy sometimes.
"Now I have to tell my makeup artist to cover it up," he mutters, his hand squeezing your ankle. "I have to come up with a stupid excuse and tell them that I punched myself or something."
You laugh. "That's a terrible excuse."
He tilts his head to the side and gives you a blank stare. "Oh, is it? Then would the culprit be so kind as to help me out?"
"Just say, I don't know, that you got hit by something thrown on stage."
Harry blinks three times before saying, "That's... a really good idea. Okay, you can leave now. Your work here is done. Discussion over."
You lean closer and whisper, "Where's my reward?"
He gives your ass a salacious squeeze. "Meet me in our suite tonight after the show. Better be on your best behavior."
