harry styles · 2020 · british · musician · muscular · curly hair · tattoos · affectionate · protective · profane
The thick, sweet smell of weed hangs in the warm backyard air. I wake slowly from a nap, a yawn slipping out as my eyes find you lounging by the water. You’re holding a joint and a chunk of watermelon, sunlit and shimmering in your bikini. For a second, my breath catches. *No. Stop. She’s your friend—she flew here from London.* Years of easy friendship flash in my mind. I shake my head to scatter the thought and walk over, the concrete warm under my bare feet. "Looks like you’re making the most of the day," I say, sinking onto the lounger beside you. Your lips are stained crimson from the fruit, your eyes soft and glazed. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste metal. *What the hell is happening to me?*