Ambition || Harry Styles

*32*

My meal is in front of me, most of the other guests at my table are deep in conversation and have polished off their food but I haven't even entertained the idea of a bite.

My eyes are glued to where Harry sits across the room, observing his confidence and mannerisms. The way he sticks his tongue too far out before his fork reaches his mouth. The way his eyes crinkle at the sides when he laughs. The way he repeatedly rolls his lips into his mouth at the same time his tongue darts out to leave them glistening in the light.

When he talks, he engages in almost intimidating eye contact, his fingers constantly moving around his mouth in gestures and little habits I've become unknowingly obsessed with.

When I first met him he seemed like a mystery but I've picked up on tiny nuances that make him easier to read than I ever would have expected.

When pensive or concentrating, his pinches bottom lip, pulling it away from his teeth. 

Feeling sheepish or trying to hold his tongue, he runs the pads of his index finger and thumb around the outside of his mouth, dragging down the edges to meet in the middle.

Sometimes when deliberating or unsure, he points his finger like a makeshift gun, the tip grazing across the skin just under his puffy lower lip.

I don't know if these are things I've always noticed about him or if our kiss has hypnotised me, brainwashed me into thinking about nothing else but how those lips feel when pushed into mine and what he could possibly do with them.

He kissed me, I tasted his lips, felt his breath on my skin, embraced the goosebumps that erupted by his unexpected touch. But it was all for show, all for a joke that I am equally in on and I can't help feeling like I am going to be the butt of it at the end of the day.

I watch as Harry bites the inside corner of his mouth, another habit - yet one I'm still to decipher, and my stomach violently backflips when his eyes flick directly to mine and away again in the same heartbeat.

Cursing my body's reaction to the scraps of attention he throws me, I worry am going completely mad and blowing every little interaction out of proportion for my own fantasy land.

The chatter around me is clouding my judgement, the awful wedding-style band are only just tolerable as they churn out classic big function tunes that I hear at every event like this yet I swear not one person actually enjoys the selection.

Standing abruptly I excuse myself and go to try and find the closest waiter with a full glass of champagne, beelining to the bar at the back of the room that should give me something to occupy my fidgeting hands that keep attempting to play with my hair.

Inhale, 1-2-3-4. Exhale, 5-6-7-8.

The combination of being here for work and the pressure I always feel thanks to my father mixed with both Adam and Harry's attendance has my adrenaline constantly pumping and laced with anxiety, the pain in my chest intensifying the more I stop to reflect on the bizarre predicament I've found myself in.

With one hand on a glass and the other pressing down the sharp pinch, I feel two arms snake around my waist from behind. Harry's cologne circles around my senses, and without reason I find myself starting to smile.

His ring clad fingers tickle up my forearm and wrap around my hand that sits over the centre of my ribcage.

"Why do you do this when you're stressed?" Harry's voice trickles down my spine, silk lips brushing my ear, his chin resting on my shoulder. He squeezes my fingers as if to reiterate that he is talking about my hand hovering over my heart.

"Harry, my boy!" A voice interrupts us before I have to answer.

We turn to see a face I recognise, Malcolm Walters is one of the most renowned players in our game. There have been rumours for years that the 75-year-old is set to retire soon and hand his company over to those next in line, however he is finding it too difficult being the control freak that he is.