You pay enough rent for the walls to not be so fucking thin. 2:35 AM and you're burying your face in your pillow because Harry Styles was born to terrorize your existence, you're sure of it, and you hate this, really fucking hate this, because whoever he's currently fucking moans as if she's dying.
Amidst the third cry of "RIGHT THERE, HARRY, RIGHT THERE" you sit upright. Because you're sure he's doing it on purpose. That bastard probably heard you complaining to Mrs. Ackerman from the fourth floor while getting the mail, laughed to himself, and decided to fuck against the walls, even though you told him politely (the first time) to do something about the 'disruptions' that often occur in his apartment during the middle of the night.
Well, now it's time for him to learn a lesson. A harsh one, but it's for his own good. Not really. For your own good. So you can sleep without having to hear that high-pitched voice begging to come every two seconds.
You shrug on your robe and can't help but smirk as your plan unfolds in your head. The hallway air is chilly and you're sure your nipples can be seen through the thin fabric, but what are you to do? Sleep is essential to survival. This is all apart of Harry's drawn-out plan to torture— then eventually kill— you, which you're sure he began to formulate the moment he moved in. Seriously.
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1 1/2 years ago. He arrived, all swagger, with an accent that compelled every resident. Except you. You couldn't see the appeal about it, as Laila from 5B described, "the matter-of-fact, yet elegant, Sydnenian timbre of his voice." That didn't mean you were rude, though. Far from it.
You knocked on his door. In your hand, zucchini bread, fresh out of the oven. By the time he opened the door, it had probably cooled around ten degrees.
"Sorry, missus was being a real pain in the ass," was the first thing he said. Tall and tan he was, clothed in a black shirt that admittedly stuck to his body quite nicely, showing off muscles and swirls of ink. His accent, you realized, was not as sorely Australian as Laila had fangirled over; there was a rough Californian twinge in his vowels. He flicked a stray curl from his eyes and leaned against the doorway. "That for me?"
You resisted the urge to say 'well, duh.' You didn't like men who spoke about their wives like that, and you were quite surprised he was married—he didn't seem like the type. Your gaze dropped to his hands, looking for a wedding ring. You couldn't find one, but maybe it was because he was wearing so fucking many it was hard to spot.
"Yeah," you said, handing it to him. "Welcome to the building."
"Thanks. You want to come in?" he said, quite pleasantly. "I've got some beer. It's fucking boiling."
"Alright," you said slowly. He was too busy kicking boxes out of the way to note the apprehension in your words. There were vinyls lying on the floor. Billy Joel, Stevie Nicks, The Bee Gees. You almost slipped on one.
"Sorry," he said sheepishly. He rummaged through the mini-fridge next to the sofa and threw you a can, which you caught. "Please," he said, gesturing for you to sit down.
You did so, taking a sip of the beer, which was lukewarm. He coughed and scrunched his face. "Christ, this fridge is shit, I bought it from a garage sale," he muttered. "Got it a few hours ago when I was on my way over here. Missus wouldn't stop being annoying so I stopped for some fresh air, then I saw that piece of cheap junk thinking that maybe, just maybe, it'd work."
There he was again, degrading his wife. Your irritation flared. "I'm Harry, by the way," he said, regaining his courtesy, holding out his hand. A deep dimple appeared. "Harry Styles."
