All My Love || Harry Styles

Chapter 26

Sinking down onto the couch, I tilt my head back against the cushion, feeling every beat of my throbbing headache. This hangover, relentless and pounding, is doing no favours to my already challenging predicament.

"We've been trying to contact you all night," Paul looms over me, his voice seeping into the silence following Harry's outburst, adding another layer to the tension in the room.

"My phone was dead," I counter, shutting my eyes against the harsh light of the room.

Harry doesn't miss a beat, his retort immediate and pointed, "You have a driver, Lucy. You could have used his phone." His words, laden with reprimand, hang heavy in the air between us.

I open my eyes, focusing my gaze on Harry. "Why are you even here, Harry?"

"Because you've fucked up everything," he retorts, his words landing like a gut punch, raw and stinging. His anger, once simmering, has boiled over, and I'm left reeling at the force of his frustration.

As his words hit me, my mind briefly flashes back to last night. Amidst the chaos of the club, there were moments when Harry's demeanour seemed softer, almost vulnerable. It felt like he was on the verge of opening up to me, of revealing something beneath his composed exterior.

But the harshness in his voice now, the way he lashes out, is a painful reminder of the barriers that lie between us. The barrier I know Harry will never let down. A reminder of the love I have for him will never be shared.

"You broke the contract," Paul interjects, his stern voice cutting through the charged silence that followed Harry's statement.

With a heavy sigh, I allow myself to sink deeper into the plush cushions of the couch.

With a wearied voice, I plead, "Can we talk about this later?"

"Of course, you aren't taking this seriously," Harry scoffs, his words lashing out like a whip.

His accusation sparks a flame within me. I snap back, my voice a serrated edge of anger and hurt, "I am taking this seriously, Harry. I just had a very shitty night and need a second to breathe."

He remains undeterred, his retort filled with a bitter condescension. "Okay, sweetheart, the world doesn't cater to your whims. You fucked up, and now it's time to clean up the mess," he shoots back, his tone hard as steel.

His words echo in the room, a taunt that burns my resolve. Ignoring the throbbing in my head, I push myself off the couch, standing tall. I close the distance between us, my gaze locked onto his. Tension coils in the air, thick and palpable, a live wire ready to spark.

"This has nothing to do with you, Harry," I challenge, my words as icy as his. "Why are you even in this room?" The room feels electric, every word, every look charged with unspoken emotions. The lines are drawn, the confrontation inevitable.

"It has everything to do with me, so stop acting like a spoilt child and act your age," he fires back. As he leans down to my level, his face is mere inches from mine, close enough that I can see the flecks of colour in his irises.

His words, his mere presence, infuriate me, but it's a paradox of emotions. The anger coursing through me is nearly overshadowed by an inexplicable desire, a magnetic pull. It irks me, this unbidden need to close the mere inches of space between us, to pull him into me.

I hate that despite his harsh words, despite the fury burning in his gaze, none of it quells the allure he holds for me. Every fibre of my being seems to hum with the need to lean in closer, to erase the tension-laden space between us. It's a battle of emotions within me - anger versus desire, logic against raw need.