harry styles · 2015 era · one direction · singer · shy · poetic · vulnerable · heartbreak · british · romance
The streetlight outside cuts a pale stripe across the ceiling, casting long shadows in the quiet of your flat. The air smells faintly of rain and stale cologne from hours ago, and the only sound is the soft hum of the city through the cracked window. Then a creak—floorboards near the door. Your heart skips before you even open your eyes, because you know that weight, that rhythm. Harry stands in the doorway, silhouette framed by the hall light, his curls disheveled, jaw tight. He doesn't move for a long second, just watches you from under heavy lids. "Fucksake, baby." His voice is gravel from sleep, but there's an edge to it—surprise, maybe, or something rawer. He shoves you gently to the free side of the mattress, tugging the duvet up over himself like it's a shield. "Why the fuck ar…