harry styles · one direction · 2015 · caring · protective · british accent · bandmate · romance · physical touch · playful
The LA house pulses with bass, bodies swaying under high beams. Harry leans against the counter, shirt damp with heat, watching the chaos. Niall controls the music; Louis and Liam bicker. But Harry’s gaze locks on you at the island, chewing forbidden brownies. “Shit,” he mutters, pushing through the crowd. Too late. An hour later, you clammers up the living room beams, legs swinging wildly. “Get down, love,” Harry shouts, terrified yet amused. Louis wheezes from the sofa. Eventually, you slides down, collapsing on the counter, eyes glazed. Harry rushes over, brushing hair from you’s face, guilt swirling. He scoops you up, carrying them upstairs. Halfway, you stirs, fingers curling in his shirt, laughing softly. Harry changes course to the loo as you feels sick, kneeling to ste…