Wild Love: A Harry Styles One Shot Collection

Saint Knickers

The scent of sweet peppermint and spicy cinnamon swirled through the air and was all that kept you company on set. Not even a light was on, as you preferred to work by candlelight in the evenings, to provide even the hint that you were still tending to minor tasks long after everyone else had gone home.

Just as you liked it.

As a set designer, you spent a lot more time than you liked with people and relished in the moments when it was just you, your tools, and the script. It was in these mos when you able to walk around your sets in peace, step into the shoes of the characters and really understand how and why they used the space. Frankie's bedroom was more than just a bedroom—it was his safe haven; he'd moved back to his childhood home after his gran died, and instead of taking over the master bedroom, returned to the room his juvenile years were spent, the room where his craft as an artist was honed.

Which is why you were now sprawled underneath the rickety wood desk and drawing a pencil mural of a superhero—Captain Lonelyheart—begging at the feet of his one true love—Natalia—as his bleeding heart poured out around him.

Did the script call for it? No. Did that matter to you? No. And that's why you tended to these small details when no one was around.

"Whoa."

It was a low, breathy noise and you were almost content to ignore it, brush it off as the wind howling outside in the cold December night, but the tingling sensation that crept up your spine told you it was something more.

You gasped, pushing up on your hands to right yourself. But you overestimated the height of the desk and cracked your skull against the underbelly. For old wood, it sure was sturdy. You'd certainly have a knot on the back of your head in morning.

Slowly you crawled out from under the desk to face the intruder, hand holding the pulsating bump. Shrouded in darkness it was hard to see who it was, but as your eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting, the bulky hoodie sticking out from beneath a shearling coat gave a hint as to who it was.

Frankie.

Well, not Frankie, but the actor who played Frankie. Harry Styles.

"You alright?" he asked, searching around for a light. He flipped the switch on the wall behind him, but of course nothing happened; it was just for show. "What yeh doin' in the dark?"

"I'm working," you responded grumpily, not appreciating being snuck up on nor the injury that was a direct result of it. "Have a nice look a my bum, did you?"

"What? No," he stammered. "I just—I was—that's not..."

You giggled, never having seen Harry so flustered before. Truthfully, you hadn't had many interactions with him, choosing to keep your distance because you found him quite intimidating. Not because he was rude, quite the opposite actually—you'd seen him be nothing but gracious and kind from everyone to A-list co-stars to the craft service caterers and extras. Which is what made him intimidating—he was just so bloody charming and had this air of ease that surrounded him. He made even the most accomplished actors admire his talents and the most self-assured women giddy with his compliments.

Harry gave a half smile, running a hand through his short curls as he looked away and composed himself. "It's just..." He ran his fingers down the length of his jaw, pointer and thumb coming to meet in a grip around his bottom lip as he tucked it.

You prompted him to continue with a keep rolling hand gesture as you brought out the cinnamon candle from underneath the desk and placed it in front of you, the light illuminating a large enough circumference that the a dim glow was cast over both your faces. And you were surprised by what you saw on his.