Harry Styles.

Kiwi

The night air is crisp. Cool. Crazy as the nerves buzzing in Harry's core.

     He analyzes himself in a car window. Smacks his face a few times and shakes his hair. He knows what he's getting himself into—knows he'll pay for it.

     But he's kinda into it.

     He walks to the bar and sees you: sitting outside, working your way through a cheap pack of cigarettes. You've always been a slut for nicotine, no matter how inexpensive. The high is all you need.

     You stir hard liquor that you can't drink. Condensation rolls down the glass the way you always rolled off his tongue. You flick the burning cherry in an ashtray, scrutinizing Harry's every lineament—such a pretty face on a pretty neck.

     You're surrounded by men. At least that's what they call themselves. But they're measly boys who claim to be into "it"—this facade you wear.

     These mutts wouldn't know stupidity from intellect.

     But Harry. He's a different breed.

     A pure breed.

     An alpha male who knows how to breed.

     "Hey," he says, breath visible in the chill of night. You take a long drag. Trash the butt. Open the pack. Light another.

     "Hey back."

     Your response drives him crazy, insides aflame.

     "Where's James?"

     Another drag. "Cleared off somewhere."

     Harry sits beside you, forcing the mutts to shove off. "You look ravishing." He takes the cigarette from your mouth and puts it out. It drives you crazy.

     "Yeah, well—"

     "Agree with me for once."

     "If I agree, then I lose." You smoke another. "And I always win."

     Harry taps his foot, nerves overwhelming. No doubt he's losing it. And he's only been here a moment.

     You sit beside him like a silhouette, wearing a leather jacket and a black dress. With fishnets that he's worn around his neck. The same ones that go home to a cactus.

     "Does he know I'm with you?" Harry asks.

     "No."

     Such an actress.

     "You should tell him."

     "There's something I should tell you, actually." You inhale tobacco and exhale the truth: "I'm having your baby."

     "What?" He's losing it. "What do you mean having my baby?"

     "It's none of your business," you confess. And then you're all over him. Like he paid for it.

     You crash your lips into his, sloppily consuming him. You love and hate the way he makes you feel. He's too much and not enough. The father but not the dad.

     Painstakingly, you release him and stand.

     In that moment, he knows what you mean, unspoken words hanging like dead bodies in the stagnant air. You brush his florid cheek; he places one palm against the fabric over your stomach.

     "You're having my baby."

     "And it's none of your business."

     You leave, lighting another cigarette while dulling Harry's soul.

     He grabs your liquor and savors it, hoping to taste you on the glass.