Affection (H.S.)

three.

Harry was pretty damn proud of his work, if he did say so himself. He sort of fell into a groove with cooking; it had always been one of those mindless tasks that helped him get his mind off things, and it was just a bonus that at the end of it he had a something yummy to account for his time. It was the same with baking too—much to Niall's delight, because he had a vicious sweet tooth. (He always teased Harry about not eating his own sweets, but Harry generally preferred to eat healthier; he didn't like it when his tummy felt all gross from too many cupcakes.)

The finished casserole sat cooling on the counter, and he had an hour and a half to spare until Greg was due to arrive, so he really wasn't sure what he'd been all stressed about. He'd cleaned up and everything, the table was set, and the kitchen smelled delicious if he did say so himself.

Now that he was done cooking, the kitchen silent, his playlist having played through two times, Harry realized he needed something else to do. Something to keep him busy until company arrived—

Someone was knocking on the door. Confused, he shuffled to the door, swinging it open carefully (last time he'd accidentally hit himself in the nose—but that was a story for another day.)

Niall shot past him, calling out a greeting as he zoomed to his bedroom. "I'll be out in a bit, buddy! Make sure to, like, stay near the door just in case someone knocks!"

And. What?

Frowning but discounting his friend's odd behavior, Harry went over to the couch, planning on reading some of his book (Bukowski's Love is a Dog from Hell; he was giving it a try). He was a couple pages in by the time someone knocked on the door. Again.

He really was tired of getting the damn door every time someone knocked. Couldn't Niall get it once in a while? And what was the deal with all this knocking anyway? Harry was at the point where he'd rather just not lock it so people could walk in as they pleased (which posed safety risks, obviously, but he didn't care at the moment.)

He was sure there was a grimace on his face as he swung the thing open, although it immediately dropped as soon as he saw who was on the other side of the door and he was sure his breath stopped some too. (It had started doing that every time he saw YN lately, getting her mail and whatnot. It seemed that the more Harry tried avoiding her, the more his brain rebelled. The mere sight of her made him feel like he was about to implode.)

"Hi. C-come in, please." Oh, and the talking thing, he was bad at that too.

She sent him a smile that had him clutching the doorframe for support, clenching his fists to quell the overwhelming desire to take her into his arms.

"Wow, it smells delicious in here. You've been cooking?" Harry couldn't answer right away because the sight of her aimlessly wandering through his living room and into his kitchen, leaning against the cabinets and looking so comfortable, like she just fit, was giving him heart palpitations.

"Y-yeah, uh, Niall's brother is coming over tonight, so I made, uhm, a casserole." Briefly wondering if it was rude to mention that they were having company over in front of YN since she wasn't going to be there (simultaneously wishing she could and trembling in nerves at the thought), Harry tried to calm his nerves. They seemed to be worse now than when he'd first met her, which made no sense. He felt unusually hot, a bit shaky, a little unsteady on his feet, and his cheeks were for sure several shades too dark.

It was her, this was what she did to him. Just being in the same room with her, Harry realized, was too overwhelming because he wanted to hug and kiss and hold onto and talk to her about everything at the same time, for all of eternity. She was like a tall glass of water and he was the lost soul wandering through the desert, seeing her and needing her, needing more than just a taste but to absolutely drown himself in her presence.