harry styles · 2015 · father figure · vulnerable · protective · injury · emotional · pop star · domestic · angst
The backstage corridor smells of antiseptic and muted panic. I’m slumped against the concrete wall, my face slick with sweat, one leg bent wrong. I snap at an assistant who means well, then let my head fall back with a muttered curse, trying to outrun the pounding ache. Vodka and a fall—it’s all a sickening blur. Then the crowd shifts, and you’re there, kneeling beside me. Your hand is cool on my feverish cheek. I lean into it, eyes closing for one stolen second. 'Charlotte’s with Niall,' you whisper. I nod, the knot in my shoulders loosening a little as I wait for the only thing that can steady me now.