What a Feeling (Harry Styles Fanfic)

Intro

She was standing there, and I couldn't help myself. She was sitting outside, alone, at a party that she threw, and I found myself getting bored amongst the intoxicated young adults who were lurking in her house, and of course I know that it's an awful idea to kiss a close friend, but I did it anyway.

"Camryn?" I called, sliding open the door to her patio. The cool air hit my face and I welcomed the breeze, taking another step closer to her.

"Hi, Harry," she said without even turning around. I didn't mind, though. It gave me a few more seconds to stare at her without her noticing. I don't think she ever noticed. I must've stared at the curls on her head a million times, must've memorized the color of her eyes. Hell, I probably memorized every little thing about her and I still want to learn more.

"So," I begin, "Tell me again why every time you throw a party, you end up in this chair all alone?"

Her eyes met mine and she just smiled, motioning for me to sit in the chair beside hers. I did, and I scooted closer to her, waiting for her eyes to look into mine once more. They did, but she stayed quiet. I didn't even try to stop the smile that was tugging its way at the corners of my mouth. She's got me wrapped around her finger and she doesn't even know it.  

     All of a sudden she brought a bottle of water to her lips, leaned back in her chair, and whispered, "Styles, why aren't you inside getting drunk with everybody else?"

"Why aren't you?"

"Touché," she laughed. I liked it when she laughed. Her nose crinkled and her smile widened and everything about her was even more beautiful. Her laugh slowly faded into a slight smirk, and she bit her bottom lip as her gaze found the moon. She stared at it so intently and I so desperately wanted to know what she was thinking. I guess I should have asked. I should've said something. But I didn't. I just sat there, staring at her like a mad idiot, and when she noticed, I dropped my gaze into my lap.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," I say, turning my attention towards the moon as if I had been marveling at it the whole time.

"No, really, what is it?"

     I want to tell her everything I'm thinking. You know, that she's beautiful, and that I've thought she was beautiful ever since we turned eight and both developed interest in the opposite sex, and that I've wanted to hold her hand since we were twelve and everybody else seemed to be involved in immature, budding relationships, and that I want to take away every inch of pain she's ever felt and will ever feel, and that she's the one and only thing I've ever really wanted and craved and longed for.

But, of course, I don't.

I do, though, lean in. I push our chairs together until there's no space, and she doesn't move. I lean on my side so I'm facing her, and I draw closer. She still doesn't move. Something's buzzing within me, and I can't quite figure out what the feeling is. I scan my eyes over her, over the entirety of her body, and I pull my lip between my teeth. I want her to be mine, and I want her to want me. My fingers seem to have a mind of their own, because they find hers and intertwine gently, carefully. But she still doesn't move. She's not even looking at me.

"Harry, don't," she whispered. I untangled our fingers but didn't draw away.

"Sorry, I-"

"No," she said, sitting up. I copy her motion and merely watch as she pulls her hand away. "No, don't apologize. It's not you."

"Then what is it?"

"It's me."

     I cringe at her words, wince at the overused it's not you, it's me speech that I know is about to come. So I sit with my hands folded in my lap and wait. But she doesn't continue. When I look at her, she's already looking at me, so I nod, encouraging her to finish. She never does. Her eyebrows furrow and she stares at me, her dark eyes dancing with an expression that I'd never seen before.

"Cam," I whisper, "What is it?"

     Silence. So we sit there, neither of us saying a word but both of us gazing intensely into each other's eyes. She always has such an interested, intrigued look when our eyes meet; am I wrong to assume that she's mutually interested in me? And if that is the truth, then why won't she let me kiss her?

     My heart starts to pound, and again something buzzes inside of me. She gives me this sort of feeling that I don't get with anyone else, and I don't know whether I love it or am utterly terrified by it. At that moment, though, I don't care. I toss aside every thought in my mind, every ounce of my pride, every shred of my anxiety, and lean in again. My face is six inches from hers, four now, three now.

"Tell me to stop," I say, "and I will."

     My hand falls to her thigh and I run my thumb against the fabric of her jeans. Her breathing increases and my stare falls to her lips as I lean more, two inches away from her now. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment and a feeling rushes through my veins, warming my chest first and the rest of my body after. 

One now.

"Harry," she breathes.

And that's when our lips touch for the very first time, when she wraps her arms around my neck for the very first time, when my fingers press against the bare skin at the curve of her waist for the very first time; and what a feeling it was to finally hold in my arms the one thing I've always longed for: her.