Amber Easton

Sometimes I wonder if my life is actually real.

I wonder if there's a possibility that I might not even be laying right here on this bed — feeling the safest I could with Harry's arms wrapped tightly around me.

I hear his soft breaths being brought into his lungs with ease, and identically being dragged out, creating a quiet snore. With my forehead against his chest, I can feel his heartbeat jump up and down so gracefully, that I might even start adoring a foolish attribute like that.

Even in this sleep-like position, I sense one of my curls being wrapped around his finger, indicating that he's not entirely resting. He keeps twirling the single piece of hair like the action just brings him at ease.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm just dreaming. Or hallucinating. Maybe this is just some sick joke, and I'm actually still living the life I was a few years ago.

Out of fear of that possibility, I shoot my eyes open to check if I haven't had a horrendous lucid dream.

I blink — I'm still here.

I close my eyes, then open them. Still here.

Well, that's a good sign.

My eyes roam around my bedroom, the sight being very limited since I'm between Harry's arms. The only thing I'm very aware of — there's an episode of 'Friends' blazing from the TV.

"Joey doesn't share food!" Joey's voice echoes through the room, being repeated a few times over Harry's light snores and puffs.

Food.

"Harry?" I whisper and feel him pull me closer to his chest as if to make me more comfortable.

"Harry. You asleep?" I feel his heart start beating a fraction faster once he's comprehended my voice.

In a matter of seconds, a shy smirk that he obviously tried to hide comes upon his cheeks, as he rasps, "Maybe."

"You okay?" He checks, rubbing small circles on my back with the hand that isn't tangled in my hair.

"Yeah," I speak over the tv show, speaking the first thing on my mind. "Do you want pancakes?"

He's taken back by my question since it's literally the middle of the night. He breaks out in radiant laughter, nuzzling his nose in the place between my neck and my shoulder. "One more minute, okay?" He seems to be desiring a few more moments of this calm air, clinging to me like it's all he needs to feel full right now.

I spend a minute between his nest of comfort, watching as his butterfly tattoo's wings expand and contract with each serene breath he lets me be a part of. It's nice — being secured between his arms and having the feeling he needs this as much as I do. After having the other side of my bed empty for months, it feels pleasant to find myself in the warmth of somebody again.

I try to consume the warmth as much as I can, knowing we'll have to go to our separate studios in the morning. I try to take in his smell of vanilla as deep as I can, not knowing when I'll get to be around it again.

Once I'm sure at least five minutes have passed, I press my lips against his chest, whispering again, "Please? They're going to have powdered sugar."

"Just one more minute, Am." He groggily says, his fingers still twirling the single strand of hair.

Am.

Nobody really calls me that. Yet, the more he says it, the more I start admiring the way it rolls off his lips so softly.

"...Maple syrup as well." I tease, already imagining what the pancakes would taste like. As if on cue, my stomach makes a low noise, being loud enough for both of us to hear.

To that statement, he flutters his eyelashes open, breaking a smile that shows his bunny teeth. "Whipped cream too?"

"Whipped cream too," I confirm, already feeling his grasp on me loosen.

I slowly unpuzzle myself from his hold, being almost on the end of the bed. Just before I jump down on the fluffy rug, he sits up, outstretching his arm to mine.

"Wait!" He pulls me back by my hand, making me fall back to the bedsheets. I let out a confused hum for his action, only making his lazy smile expand.

"Look!" He points to the dream catcher above the headboard of the bed, which he got to hang up earlier. "A mistletoe."

He raises an eyebrow.

I grin.

I inch closer to him, shaking my head at his scheme. A chuckle reaches past my lips, before I press them against his rosy ones, sending a satisfied hum out of his throat.

The kiss was more like a peck — very short-lived but much sweeter than any pancake would offer. I finally stand up on my feet, the dress shirt Harry wore yesterday now hanging until the middle of my thighs. Harry's only left to crawl into his jeans now, seeing as he insisted I wear his shirt.

I hear his sleepy footsteps follow behind me as I enter the kitchen, ready to start baking. I turn around, leaning against the counter, and watch as a gloomy smirk crawls up on both our faces at the fleeting memory of what went down in this very spot earlier.

The more he looks at me, the more the pupils between his forest-green irises expand.

"So... sugar, butter, flour, milk, eggs?" I try to list all the necessary ingredients, but end up just looking the recipe up on my phone. The screen flashes 3:12 am.

"Don't forget the whipped cream as well." He points out, making his way to my fridge, tiredly rubbing the palm of his hand over his eyes.

Once he pulls open the fridge's door, I watch as a thick line forms between his eyebrows at the emptiness between the shelves, only a few items sitting there. He turns my way to ask something about it but then decides against it, closing his mouth, and pulling out the only egg and carton of milk from the door.

A bitter feeling sets in my chest.
Being a musician, it's crazy how little you get paid in the beginning. Especially now, when I've quit my job at Beachwood, and haven't uploaded any monetized content.

The only way I get to pay my bills is by working with Harry on his TV-show appearances. Speaking of which, we'll be performing 'Two Ghosts' on James Corden in just 2 days.

Looking at Harry's still-wondering features, I try to come up with the right words to announce that we probably won't have anything to eat for breakfast — considering the omelet or cereal option is out of the mix, now that the pancakes demand milk and eggs.

I'm about to bring the unpleasant news to him, but when looking at his understanding expression, I get the feeling that it doesn't need to be expressed.

I push on a smile, pull a large bowl out of my drawer, and pour in the remnants of the flour, at this point just messing up the measurements. "Would you like to turn some music on?" I offer him my phone, which is already connected to the BlueTooth speaker across the room.

He grins at my offer, taking the device carefully between his hands. "You know I'm going to stalk your playlists, right?" He scrolls through the endless lists, reading some names out loud. "Let's see... 'For showers', 'For dancing', 'For meditating', 'For knitting'. Wait, is that a 'For Harry' playlist I see?"

With my laughter filling the air, I pull the phone out of his hand, forbidding him from opening that playlist. Instead, I push on the search button, scrolling up and down multiple times, until stopping on a random playlist and hand the device back to him. "Here. Pick a song. I selected a random list."

While I mix together the rest of the ingredients, he carefully scans through the tracks, stopping on one particular one. I put the pan on the stove, preparing to bake the dessert, and he lets the song begin. "This is a good one." He adds, letting me know he's familiar with the tune.

*play the song NOW*

"What's your type?
She'll paint a cabinet from the '60s
And find diamonds when she's thrifting,"

Harry mumbles along with the lyrics, taking the whisk out of my hand, and mixing the batter together in my place.

"Oh, what's it like?
To be the muse of every true romantic
West of the Atlantic"

Now that he's gotten more comfortable with the song, his voice gets louder, as he unashamedly looks at me on particular lines, a small smile acting up every once in a while.

"Hey little darling, run like the weekend
I get lost and found in your arms

He moves his head along the beat, a single curl flapping against his forehead at every movement. I just stand there in front of him, silently admiring the way his puffy eyes are glowing through his sleepy daze.

I start pouring the batter onto the sizzling pan, waiting for the moment I could flip the small circles. While I'm at that, Harry takes the whisk out of the bowl, letting a few drops fall onto the countertop, and managing to make the object work like a microphone.

"Now which do you prefer?
To be alone, to be in love?
Or to just be worth it?"

He turns to me, belting out the lyrics as if the song was written about me. His expressions turn in a questioning manner, while he puts his other hand on his hip, ready to receive my response to the question sang between the lines.

Instead of waiting for my answer, he mouths out the following lyrics like it's a secret he's been holding for a long time,
"I think you're worth it."

He breaks out in a grin after that line, putting the make-believe mic back into the bowl, and taking small strides my way. Without getting my approval, he pulls me back from the stove, twirling me in a circle to the song. He encourages me to move around the kitchen, twisting and turning in foolish positions in the small interlude between the parts of the song.

When I start becoming out of breath from the swift motions, he pulls me back into his embrace, his hand on the small of my back, the other interlaced with mine, as we've found ourselves in the usual dancing pose — just like on the boat. Instead of singing out the next lyrics, he pulls his lips near my ear, quietly muttering the lines;

"Meet me under the movie screen
I'll kiss your face in the dark
Don't really care if it's too soon to say
But I like the way you pull me apart."

After whispering the lyrics to me, he turns his face to press a light kiss on my cheek, before pulling away completely from me to dance to the tune himself.

I can't help the laugh that spills out of me, watching him be so free with his movements, as he bounces to the music with his eyes closed. With the sound getting more intense, I feel myself letting loose again, beginning to twirl and jump around, moving my arms where my body guides.

I let out a few more laughs — this time about myself — squeezing my eyes shut, and letting the melodies bring a smile to my lips. My chest feels so light with the ease that doing this brings me. I move around so rapidly that I become sure Ms. Middleton's ceiling is bouncing hard right now.

Seriously, it's like the rest of the world is blocked out now.

I like how simple it is being with him in the same room. We don't have to worry about the way we present ourselves or how we act. It's so easy to forget everything going on around me.

I continue to twirl around the kitchen while bouncing up and down, ignoring the way my hair keeps getting in my face or the shirt barely stays over my thighs until my lungs almost give out, and I need to stop my movements to regain my breathing.

I finally open my eyes.

Harry's a few steps apart from me, standing still like a statue.

With my hands on my knees, hunched over, I breathe in and out, gathering that he'd been watching me dance for quite some while, considering the calmness of his breaths. I didn't even realize the song had already switched to the next one.

The more he looks at me, the wider his grin spreads.

Fucking hell.

I can't tell if I'm out of breath now because of the crazy swaying or the view ahead of me.

I carefully inspect the way his eyes are drilled into mine, and gather that a new emotion has flashed through his irises for a millisecond; it wasn't really affection or admiration. It wasn't exactly adrenaline or some revelation. It simply looked like a mix of it all at once.

"You're so beautiful." We both mumble at the same time, instantly widening our eyes at the coincidence, but end up just laughing it off in a way that makes your belly ache.

He takes a step toward me, and this time, instead of taking one back, I make a stride in his direction, still trying to calm down. With my chest heaving up and down, I start to lean my lips closer to his but stop midway, when a heavy realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

The fucking pancakes.

I instantly turn around, rushing to the stove to check the situation. My hand shakes as I grab the spatula, carefully flipping the pancakes around. A giant laugh erupts from both of us when we comprehend that every single one has turned to charcoal. Seriously, it almost seems like it's blended in with the frying pan now.

I quickly scoot the burnt pieces onto the plate, rushing to the balcony to let the awful smell follow outside. I abandon the dish there, leaving it for the birds to have a taste later.

I hurry back inside, stopping my strides halfway when I meet Harry taking the initiative and cooking the remaining batter himself. He moves the pan, making sharp motions to make the pancake flip in the air, and end up back in the same place, only this time having a nice golden-brown tone to it.

"See? That's how you do it." He proudly sends a grin my way, only teasing me. He continues to cook the next one, while I still stand in the middle of the room, dazed.

"You know, I'm actually not that bad of a cook, I promise," I assure, while he pours out the last drops of the mix, concluding that we'll only have about three pancakes to actually enjoy.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," He playfully scoffs, a wide smile never leaving his cheeks. "Every time you bake something, it ends up burned. Too bad I didn't bring a backup pancake mix here."

I bury my face in my hands, reminiscing the time we spent in London filming the YouTube video, only to have the cupcakes become completely inedible. "You should have more trust in me." I declare, finally able to move in his direction.

"I do. However... My stomach does not." He finishes the last pancake, easily sliding them on another plate. I scoot around the kitchen to find the last bits of the toppings I'd promised him.

I shake the whipped cream container, pushing thick lines on the dessert. Adding the powdered sugar and the maple syrup, I create the masterpiece of a sun symbol.

"There we go." I proudly add the last touches, grabbing a single fork, and hopping onto the countertop again.

I sit there with my legs crisscrossed, Harry on my level again. He spends a moment with his head pointed down, inspecting the drawing I'd just made. A new emotion flashes before his eyes, but it's gone so quickly that I didn't have the time to unpuzzle it.

I ruin my drawing by stabbing a fork in the middle of it, snipping a golden-brown piece off from the big pancake. I turn my fork in Harry's way, implying on he getting the first bite.

He shakes his head, grabbing my wrist in a way that makes the cutlery face me instead. "Don't worry about me." He raises his eyebrows, hinting that I should eat instead of him.

He eyes me the whole time as I consume the piece and release a pleased hum as the maple syrup runs nicely down my throat. It's way too good for him not to try, so I pick up another bite-sized slice, attempting once again.

There is a long moment where I've lifted the fork between us, waiting for him to respond. He doesn't even flick his eyes to the object in the air, watching me with the most intense gaze instead. With the TV show's muffled chatter around us, and the smell of whipped cream, his eyes seem to be clouded in deep thought, and I can practically hear the gears spinning in his mind.

He still has his sight glued to mine, giving me the perfect opportunity to take a look at his eyes. I've found that they've always been the gateway for his feelings, but right now they seem to have locked me out in the most splendid way. They hold so many hues of green that I couldn't even name.

Turns out, green is a beautiful color.

His eyes fall to the vase of sunflowers next to me, letting me know I can finish the rest of this plate without his involvement. He fiddles with the stem of the flower, twisting into a circle. The blooms of each one are turned in opposite directions, looking quite disordered.

"Tell me something. Anything." I brush my tongue over the whipped cream on my upper lip, finishing the last pieces of the dessert.

With the clank of my plate, he finally seems to fall out of his train of thought, clearing his throat. Sleepiness doesn't leave him for one second, as he gently rubs his eyes to try to rid the tiredness.

He twists all of the blooms of the flowers in my direction. One by one. Until they're fully turned to face me.

His attention is back to me again. "Did you know that sunflowers always turn their heads to face the Sun?"

A laugh bubbles in my throat at his random fact, before my sight falls to him. Really falls.

His hair is a total mess, his eyes are droopy — like they're about to fall shut.
It makes me see him in a different light, over a million thoughts rushing through my mind.

A sharp pang pierces my heart;

There are dark circles underneath his eyes, yet he still woke up for me.

He pushed through his sleep to cook pancakes in the middle of the night with me.

To cook pancakes, which he didn't even end up eating, but made sure my stomach was full.

I don't deserve him.

He tiredly rubs his eyes again. "Let's go to bed, yeah?"

It takes a moment to snap out of my daze. "Y-Yeah." I hadn't even realized I was zoned out somewhere until his hand softly brushed against my cheek.

I hop down the counter, making my way to the bedroom. I stifle a yawn, dragging my fingers over the cotton apparel hanging loosely around me — his white dress shirt. "You do realize that I officially own your shirt now, right?"

"Obviously." His tone has a hint of adoration. "Wait. If you've occupied my clothes... What am I wearing tomorrow, then?"

I make my way under the soft bedsheets, while Harry's still on his feet, his bare chest displaying the beautiful butterfly. "Dunno. Maybe you can find something in my closet?" I shrug, pointing to my left.

He follows where my finger leads, flicking the light switch on to scan over the closet, its shelves stacked with a different kind of clothing. He skims past all the hangers, passing the shelf with jeans and shorts, thrifted tops until his hand hits one particular section that's caught his eye.

He carefully takes one piece out of the stack, an orange crochet top, it having green ruffles on the sides. "You ever wear this?"

"No, I was thinking about donating that whole stack, actually. It just doesn't fit me right." I admit, to which Harry widens his eyes immensely.

"The whole stack?" He drags his fingers over the knitted and crocheted pile. "Amber, you can't! They're bloody gorgeous."

"Thanks, I made them myself." I stay hidden behind the soft comforter, still managing to see his shocked expression through the half-dark.

He puts the orange top back onto the pile, dragging out a brown sweater this time.