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Excerpt of New Harry Styles Fanfiction

Hey guys! So, I'm writing this new book. I've been working on it since the summer. Here's an excerpt of one of the chapters. Please tell me if it's interesting and if you'd read it?? If so, then I'll definitely start publishing it soon! thanks! <3

"The Last Chance"

"Harry, what are you doing here?" I asked, opening the door fully. I was just about to give up on another story idea and go to bed when the doorbell rang. And continued to ring until I opened the door to Harry, grinning at me like I was taking his third-grade picture. Like he got caught doing something he wasn't supposed to and to prove his innocence, shows every tooth in his mouth.

Harry walked through the entryway, a little hop in his step, knees bent. I could smell the alcohol on him. I was so suffocating, I imagined him in a bathtub of various brands, dunking his head down for a gulp every few minutes.

"You reek," I said, closing the door. He turned to me, swaying his arms around his body, which seemed extra lanky. His third-grade grin suddenly dropped, and his eyes bulged. His breathing appeared strained, too forced like it was a burden to inhale. For a moment, I worried that it really was a burden. I wondered, can alcohol affect your breathing? I wished I knew more, so I could help him. He looked as if he was trying to push the weight of the world off his shoulders but only had his breath to support him.

"I'm getting married tomorrow," he said, lunging to grab my shoulders. His accent was more prominent than usual. Over the years, it had noticeably faded. I'd always suspected it was because of the amount of time he spent with me. But Harry always argued that his accent would have eventually softened by living in America so long. Annabelle or no Annabelle.

"Yes, you are. To an amazing woman that loves you and would've appreciated her future husband not being totally hungover during her wedding."

"It's my wedding, too," he said, thinking about it. Chewing on it. "Don't I have a say?" he asked. He blinked repeatedly. Not quite meeting my gaze, but trying with his best effort, it seemed.

I took his hands off my shoulders and tried leading him to my room. "She's not you," he grumbled, pulling me down to the cold, hardwood floor with him. I groaned, he huffed.

"Of course she's not me. We're," I said, gesturing to the two of us, "not getting married."

"Why not?" His pout deepened. He let his back fall to the floor. Once again, he took me down with him. We laid side by side on the floor of my dark hallway. I wondered about the last time I mopped. Or swept.

Harry rolled onto his stomach and tucked me under the crook of his arm. I grimaced, smelling his sweat and man musk. And alcohol. I tried not to gag.

"You love Maggie," I said, the words feeling like I was throwing up chunks of salt. I pushed his arm off and tried convincing myself that this conversation was drunk-stimulated. Meaningless.

"Oh, right." He giggled. "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. She's so funny."

"Yes, we love Maggie." I stood, trying to pick him up along with me, but he rolled out of my grasp.

"No, we don't."

"Then, we'll pretend." I felt my fingers hardening, aching to clench. I smoothed my hair back.

"Why?"

"Because Maggie loved you."

"Do you love Maggie?" He rolled. Back to stomach, stomach, to back. Repeat.

"I think she's great," I said genuinely. But I no longer felt in tune with my words. My mouth was on autopilot.

"Do you love me?"