Before the Factor

Fangirling

Dear Reader,

I. Am. Sorry.

I really did not mean to take so long to make this next chapter I SWEAR. And I will not make stupid excuses to justify my actions *sniffle*.

Anyway, here goes nothin.

Yours truly,

The Author Xx

***

It's been three months.

Three months since I left L.A for England.

And you know what? It's awesome.

By technicality I am living in Harry's back house, which is a lie, and the media is eating up every single detail about us. Whatever I wear? Yea, they know it. Even my brand of socks(they're from Costco, super soft, you should try them).

Whatever I eat? Oh, my god, it is a debate every morning on talk shows.

Harry's been over the moon having me back, taking me to eat every night, buying me a crap-load of clothes because mine "couldn't stand the weather here" even though it's fall and it's not even that cold, and tackling me with random hugs while I do chores and whispering in my ear "I'm so glad you're here.".

It's quite adorable, I must say.

I am currently making pasta for dinner, stirring the noodles and heating up the sauce. Harry left for a recording or something this morning and called saying he would be home for dinner. This is the first night I'm able to cook dinner without him dragging me somewhere expensive and fancy.

It's been a bit of a mission, dealing with the paparazzi and all, but it's their jobs ya know? They gotta to do what they gotta do.

Maybe people never get used to this, the fame I mean. Always being followed and written about, never asked about your personal opinions.

For gods sake they thought I was a vegetarian, smoked weed, and was a hippie.

I HAVE NEVER SMOKED IN MY LIFE, OKAY? I HAVE NEVER HAD DREADS AND NOT SHOWERED FOR MORE THAN TWO DAYS.

But you know, who cares right?

The front door opens and closes just as I turn off the stove and scoop the noodles and sauce into a serving bowl.

"Mmm," a familiar raspy voice says behind me, keys clanking into a bowl.

"Smells good, Mia."

"Thanks." I blush as his arms wrap around me like dream boys do in movies and books, and kisses my neck once, sweet and warm.

He chuckles, I pick up the bowl but he gently takes it from my hands,

"Here," he says, "let me help you."

"I'll grab the salad." I say, quickly wiping my hands on my apron and taking the large salad bowl from the other side of the counter.

Now let me explain something to you, Harry's house? It's nothing like I imagined it to be. I thought it would look like the fancy hotel rooms he's stayed in. Like Milan, L.A, New York. But no, it's not.

It's made of wood, dark and warm, the color of my brown hair. Pastel colors, blues and whites decorate the walls. Home would be the best to describe it as. Maybe after staying all over the world all you want is somewhere to make you feel safe and warm.

The kitchen has top of the line appliances and utensils. The bedrooms have the best beds and decor, white beds and blue pillows and blankets. Except for my room of course, he made mine a soft purple, splashes of yellow here and there.