Reckless {HS}

thirty-one

Delilah's Pov

The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that seeps into your bones, making you feel like you're the only person in the world who's still awake. Everyone else had gone to bed, or at least, that's what I assumed. I was about to lay down myself when a soft, almost hesitant sound caught my ear.

A guitar?

I furrowed my brow and quietly slipped out of bed, padding across the floor to the living room. As I got closer, the gentle strumming became clearer, the sound both calming and melancholy, like a lullaby that carried more weight than the notes it played. I rounded the corner, making sure to keep quiet.

There, sitting on the couch, bathed in the dim light from a lamp on the side table, was Harry. He was hunched over, shirtless, guitar resting on his knee as his fingers moved effortlessly over the strings. I froze where I stood, not daring to move any closer. It felt too intimate, like I was witnessing something I wasn't supposed to see.

His tattoos were on full display, and though I'd seen glimpses of them before, I'd never really taken the time to notice them like this. Each one seemed to tell a different story, a patchwork of who he was underneath the surface.

And the way he played—so focused, like it was his own form of escape—made me wonder what kind of person Harry Styles really was when he wasn't playing the part of the tough, mysterious criminal.

I couldn't take my eyes off him.

But then, as fate would have it, the floor under my foot gave the slightest creak. I flinched, and Harry's head snapped up, his green eyes locking onto mine.

For a moment, neither of us said a word. His expression shifted, from surprise to something else I couldn't quite place—maybe embarrassment? I wasn't used to seeing him vulnerable, and it seemed like he wasn't used to being seen that way either.

"You—uh—sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt," I finally said, my voice low, as if I could still avoid disturbing the quietness of the room.

Harry's fingers stilled over the strings, and he sat up straighter, his face tightening slightly. "You didn't. Just... wasn't expecting an audience."

There was a softness to his tone that I hadn't heard before, and it threw me off. "I didn't know you played."

He shrugged, setting the guitar down on the couch beside him, suddenly more self-conscious than I'd ever seen him. "It's nothing. Just messing around."

"Didn't look like 'just messing around' to me," I said, offering him a small smile. "You're... really good."

He glanced down, running a hand through his messy curls. His usual cocky bravado was nowhere to be seen. "I used to play a lot more. Before..." His voice trailed off, and he didn't finish the sentence, but I understood.

Before his life became this.

"Well, I'm glad you still do," I replied, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. "I like it."

His eyes flicked back to me, and for a second, the air between us felt heavy, like something unspoken was hovering just out of reach. But before I could figure out what it was, he gave a half-smile and stood up. "You should get some sleep. It's late."

The moment passed, and just like that, the Harry I knew was back—guarded, unreadable, like he'd put his armor back on.

"Yeah," I nodded, feeling a strange pang of disappointment as I turned to leave. "Goodnight, Harry."

"Night, Delilah."

As I walked back to my room, I couldn't shake the image of him sitting there, playing in the dark, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide peeking through. And for some reason, that made my chest feel tight, like I was missing something important.

Something I wasn't sure I was ready to understand.