Wild Love: A Harry Styles One Shot Collection

Make Tea, Not War.

If it weren't for the sturdy construction of a late 2008 MacBook—yes, white (well, more like off-dingy-white) shell and all—and the soft, fluffy rug—a housewarming gift from your mother--that covered your hardwood floors, the computer would have been shattered when you vaulted from the couch after the article—sent from a friend that was in desperate need of a lesson in softening the blow--loaded on the screen.

"Fuck!" you cursed, haphazardly picking your laptop up by the corner and tossing it on the sofa. "Shit, fuck!" Snatching your not-yet-empty wine glass from its perch, you stomped into your flat's little kitchenette and uncorked the bottle of red while downing what remained in your glass. You poured and downed another.

"Really?!" you screamed at the pocket pig calendar hanging opposite you, a bit of spittle and wine flying from your mouth.

Poor Darius; he and his little cowboy hat didn't deserve any of this.

You tried to calm yourself, really you did, but after a few huffing breaths that were anything but calming, you gave up and grabbed the bottle of wine before heading back to the couch. Your phone was at your ear, number selected and dialed, before the blankets and pillows had even settled from the force of your entire body weight slamming dramatically into them.

"Honey, are you alright?" Despite the hint of worry in her tone, your mum's voice managed to calm you a bit; suddenly air wasn't being forced in and out of your lungs as a more natural rhythm took hold.

"No," you answered tartly before taking another swig of wine. It was silent as you both waited for the other to speak.

"Well are you going to tell me or can I get back to bed?" Mum was always impatient when it came close to bedtime; she was a solid eight-hour sleeper—nothing more and nothing less—and she coordinated her bedtime and wakeup time perfectly so she always got the right amount of sleep.

"He's...engaged," you said bitterly, lips puckering around the words, a sour taste left in your mouth at the admission; it didn't feel right coming off your tongue. And it wasn't jealousy—or at least you didn't want to admit it was—because you weren't entirely sure that if He were replaced with We you would be left with the same sour feeling.

"Oh." It was quiet, you almost didn't hear it; the sounds of her switching on the lamp, getting out of bed, opening the bedroom door were all louder.

You knew what she was doing; she was doing what she always did when things were wrong.

Making tea.

It struck you odd when you found out other mums' first instinct wasn't to stop whatever they were doing and make tea when things went tits up. You'd seen your mother make tea in countless storms when you were scared and cowering under blankets. She'd often make tea when numbers were off and paying the bills would be tight for the month. She made tea when Nan (the pet Bichon Frise) died and again when Nana (her mother) died. She had even made tea the minute after her water broke when you were ready to grace the earth with your presence and refused to leave until she had her cuppa.

The world could be crumbling to bits, burning to ash at her very feet, and she'd be in the kitchen, tending to the kettle and fussing over which biscuits suited the mood.

"To who?" she asked over the clatter of the kettle banging about as she filled it and set it atop the stove.

"Some—some...some girl," you answered, voice full of venom without words to match. You had nothing bad to say about her, you didn't even know her. And your anger didn't lie with her, but Harry. How dare he have the gall to not only move on from you, but commit himself to a life and marriage with someone that wasn't you while you were sat at home alone on a Saturday night with shit telly, a bottle of cheap wine, with no sign or even a hint of a date in the last six months?