Harry Styles Imagines Book 2

Fine Line

“Okay, I love it.” You said as Golden began to play. Your hands were flat on your cheeks, cupping your face.

“It just started.” Harry laughed.

You shook your head, your hands still planted in place, your cheeks warm from the two cosmos Harry had made for you. “It’s so fucking good.”

When it got to the bridge, your heart ached. “Oh—“ You grabbed his hand, which was hanging. He was sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, his left hand holding his right wrist, keeping his knees up. “You’re not alone.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Oh, my god. You’re so open!”

“I shouldn’t have played this for you while you’re drunk. This was a mistake.” He went to hit pause on his iPhone, but you shook your head vehemently.

“Don’t you fucking dare. I’ve been waiting all year for this.”

You and Harry had been friends for a little over three years and he had made you wait until the record was done for you to hear it. Now that you were, you were way beyond excited. You had hyped it up so much in your head that, no matter what, every song would be legendary.

“Is this the pussy song?” You asked halfway through Watermelon Sugar.

He laughed. “I mean, yes…but, like, that’s a bit much, yeah? Like, you haven’t got to say it like that.” He was trying to hold in his smirk.

You rolled your eyes playfully. It wasn’t a secret how much he enjoyed it. The last time he ate you out, he wouldn’t shut up about how good you tasted; he always felt the need to make it known just how much he enjoyed himself.

Okay, so maybe your friendship was on a slippery slope. He liked to make you feel good and you would never deny him the opportunity. It was something casual; something that happened when the two of you were drunk or touch starved. He came to you when he needed a fix and didn’t want to deal with all the uncertainty and anxiety that came with a casual hookup—or a hookup with his past. He came to you when he wanted something easy—and you were easy, not that there was ever anything wrong with that. You were busy getting your masters, busy studying Woolf and Coleridge and Baldwin. Sometimes you needed your fix too—and he was always there, always available, always just as easy.

“Okay, I know this is about you-know-who.” Your eyebrows bounced twice as you stared at him.

He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s about a fish.”

Your brow furrowed. “A—what?” You shook your head. “No. I know this is about her. The second you met her it was all: I absolutely adore her’ and ‘you’d adore her, (Y/N)’”.

Harry laughed when you imitated his accent, but he knew you were right. It was the word he had sometimes used when talking about her—but it was also the word he always used when talking about you. He wished you could hear it, that you could understand it. He knew how you saw the two of you. You were so focused on your degree, which he understood and respected—but it stopped you from realizing what was going on between the two of you. You couldn’t see that you were hooking up two to three times a week; that one of you was staying the night each time; that neither of you were seeing other people—that he wasn’t interested in seeing other people. Harry couldn’t ask what you two were doing, though—his pride wouldn’t allow it.

Harry watched as you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth. You took a sip from your glass in order to try and hide your smile, but it was so clear.

“It must be nice to have someone think of you in that way.” Your voice was soft, almost as if you didn’t expect to say it aloud.

Before he could say anything, the song changed to Lights up—and your face was poised in anticipation.