my sister's boyfriend's bestfriend ⋆ a harry styles fanfiction

11: she's got a book for every situation

About two weeks had passed by since my initial arrival in London, the city that buzzed with an energy both intoxicating and overwhelming. Harry was supposed to move out after the first week, but the boys had been occupied recording their new album, leaving him scarce around the apartment. I decided there was no point in mentioning the move during our few and far between moments.

Despite the uncertainty of our living arrangement, we had fallen into a comfortable routine. Each morning, Harry would brew a pot of coffee before disappearing into the studio and other commitments. In return, I would leave dinner on the table, knowing he would find it when he finally returned home. Typically it was nothing fancy - I never quite learned to cook. For the past few days he's been coming home to chicken nuggets and ketchup but he never complained. It was a quiet, unspoken agreement that has provided the only sense of normalcy in my ever-changing life.

As much as I loathed admitting it, having Harry around was unexpectedly comforting. His presence, even in its fleeting moments, anchored me amidst the chaos.

"So what are your plans for today?" Harry asked between bites of his breakfast.

The band had moved on to recording solo snippets, so he wasn't due to the studio until the afternoon. I sat on the barstool while he stood, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. Sitting at the dining table felt too formal and intimate. So here we remained, lazily in the kitchen. The white marble countertops were littered with crumbs from our pastries. We hadn't had a morning together since the day I woke up in his bed. It was nice.

I don't know, probably just stay hiding in here," I shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant.

Part of me desperately yearned to explore the unfamiliar streets of London. I remember looking at all the photos Eleanor would send me, dreaming of the day I'd see it for myself. Having grown up in the countryside, I longed for the cobblestone roads bustling with life - it called me. But the reality of the paparazzi, permanently encamped outside our house made it impossible.

Harry's expression dropped at my response. His face flickered with disapproval and a hint of guilt. He ran a hand through his brown tousled hair, sighing deeply.

"That's no way to live," he murmured, shaking his head slowly. His eyes bore into mine, filled with a sincerity that made my chest tighten.

"Believe me, holing up here wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I moved to London," I replied, my shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug.

Harry's gaze softened, and he leaned in. Despite him standing on the opposite side of the kitchen island, the space between us drew smaller. His voice a mixture of determination and compassion. "You should go out today. I can arrange for some security to come with you."

I raised an eyebrow, half skeptical, half intrigued. "Security? Really? Isn't that a bit... excessive?"

"Not at all," Harry insisted. "You deserve to see this city, to live your life without being trapped by fear. Let me do this for you."

I hesitated, glancing towards the window where the curtains were drawn tightly shut, shielding me from the prying eyes outside. The thought of stepping out, of reclaiming a bit of normalcy, was tantalizing. But the anxiety of the paparazzi and their relentless pursuit held me back.

"It's okay Harry, really. Don't worry about me" I responded.

I broke our eye contact and begun clearing our cups into the sink. He cooks, I clean. We continued to stick to the agreement he made that first night.

"Alright" He sighed. His words had an aftertaste of disappointment. "I have to head out to the studio, let me know if you change your mind".

He paused for a moment, contemplation flickering in his eyes. Awkward tension settled in the air. Sure, we faked affectionate gestures when the paparazzi were around, but in private, physical contact was rare. We danced around each other awkwardly, unsure of how to bridge the gap, before finally settling on a hesitant fist bump. As he made his way out of our house, I couldn't help but find myself wanting for more.