Espresso

Chapter Four

Harry 

It's been a couple of weeks since I caught Jet taking pictures of us and there's now more tension backstage. We've actively avoided each other more than usual; she won't even stay in the room whilst Lou does my makeup. I haven't seen her sulking about as usual and to be honest, it's odd. I'm assuming she comes back after we've gone on stage to tidy up her station and pack away her kit when we're moving onto the next place. 

She hasn't taken any more photos of us. 

I almost feel bad. Almost. 

I've been flirting with Hazel to fill my time. She hasn't made it into my pants just yet. 

Tonight is the last date of the UK leg of the tour before we're off for 9 days and as much as I love being on the road, I'm looking forward to spending a few days at home. We're ending this leg in Manchester, which is close to my home of Holmes Chapel, a quaint little village in Cheshire. My Mum, her husband Robin and my sister Gemma are all coming down for the concert tonight and I'm excited to see them. 

I wonder if Jet's looking forward to being home too. Her family are from Manchester and I'm sure she mentioned Eric being at uni there. She must be excited to see him. Fucking Eric, what kind of name is that? 

Not that it matters, I won't have to see her for 9 whole days. What a blessing, I think as I sit back in the makeup chair, my legs up on the dresser as I flick through my emails on my phone. 

The blessing is short lived as Jet stumbles through the door of hair and makeup, tripping over her size 7 Dr Martens and cursing to herself. She manages to break her fall with the back of a chair, swinging her bag onto it and placing her coffee cup on the table. 

"Lucky you didn't spill that one over you," I muse, nodding at the coffee cup. 

"Fuck off."

"Hey, I was here first."

"And this is my room. What are you even doing in here, you don't usually crawl out of your pit until lunch time."

I don't know why I am here to be honest. 

"Couldn't sleep," I shrug, "seemed quiet in here. Well, it was until some idiot fell through the door."

"Oh well excuse me."

I don't say anything. 

An awkward silence lingers in the air as she shifts my legs from the dressing table and begins to lay out her kit. I sit back watch her intently as she lays each product down gently, all categorised and perfectly spaced. I don't budge from the chair, watching how her eyebrows knit together and she chews inside of her lip in concentration through the mirror. The silvery tint to her cheekbones reflects under the light and I notice how soft her brown eyes are beneath the thick black liner. She's wearing a black crop top with a green flannel shirt over the top, the sleeves rolled up the reveal her forearm tattoos. I've never noticed the gravestone taking pride of place or the butterfly decorating her wrist. They're pretty. 

She's pretty . 

I give my head a shake when I realise what I've just thought and she meets my eye in the mirror. She stops for a minute and gives me a small smile. 

"Are you staring at me Styles?"

"You wish."

"I hate you."

"Mutual babe, mutual." 

"I'm not your babe."

"You wish you were."