Harry Styles Blurbs (Reader Insert)

nostalgia

a/n: hello! this is for a challenge i signed up for on tumblr. the bolded line is my prompt. happy angstgiving, lol. this piece of writing has smut - please read with caution. 

Harry's fingers drum against the leather of his steering wheel — steady, impatient, and nervous all at once. He cranes forward in the seat, looking at the crosswalk countdown with a glare. He watches the numbers go down and his fingers curl tight around the wheel, waiting for the moment his light turns green. His foot hovers above the gas pedal, itching to press into it and zoom forward.

He doesn't have much time left. Or maybe he does. He's not quite sure, but these days he's not sure of anything and if there's a chance he gets to see you — even a single fleeting glimpse — he's going to take it.

In the blink of an eye, the light changes and he speeds through, quickly switching lanes when he realizes the car just up ahead is going too slow. He's sneaking dangerous glances at his phone, resting in the cubby under the stereo where he'd tossed it in a haste. The screen has yet to light up with the notification he's dreading, one from his security system alerting him that someone has locked the front door.

He'd received the notification that you'd opened it 15 minutes ago and promptly rushed out of the studio, mumbling an excuse of feeling poorly to his bewildered colleagues.

You stopped answering his calls last week. He hasn't heard a word from you in 7 days, not after you told him that you needed space — that'd you be by in the next week or so to pick up the rest of your things from his place.

 His place — he still can't decide what had hurt more, your word choice or the fact that it was the truth. It was no longer your place, despite half the closet still filled with your clothes, little details of you left lingering throughout the house. Your favorite mug in the drawer. Photos of you two through the year of your relationship scattered in frames along the walls. Your hair ties in the bathroom drawers.

 How can it just be his place when you were in every inch of the house?

He'd taken to sleeping in the studio, at Jeff's occasionally, avoiding coming home because of it. The empty house made him nauseous and if he spent more than 20 minutes there, he lost himself in the ghost of memories he made with you.

Making late night dinners in the kitchen when your stomach grumbled in the middle of the night. Movie nights on the couch. Sitting out in the backyard when the sun was just warm enough to envelop you like a good hug.

He hasn't even been able to look at the bed. The rumpled sheets remind him of your sleepy morning smiles, warm cuddles, and other more steamy memories that he isn't quite ready to recall. He wants to hold on to them as long as he can, since you're no longer his.

He's pulling into the driveway before he knows it, his shoulders slumping with relief when he sees your car still parked in front of the house. He rushes out, hurrying to the front door and fumbling with his keys. His hand is shaking with such ferocity that he drops them, flinching when he hears the clanging sound. He leans down and picks them up again, shoving the key into the door and stepping inside.

The security system chirps in accordance as he steps inside his home. He locks the door and starts walking through the foyer, keeping an eye out for you. He used to come home to you singing, or cooking, or watching tv. The house is quiet now, eerily so, as if the two people who made it into a home no longer exist.

He's more nervous to see you now than he was after your first date. It seems like forever ago, but he still remembers coming back to this house and knowing that you were the only one for him.

But that was all before you broke up with him two weeks ago.

He sets his keys on the kitchen counter, spotting a box on the far end that he certainly didn't put there himself. He walks over to it, peeking inside with the hope that it's not what he thinks.