𝒾𝒻 𝒾 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒻𝓁𝓎 𝒽𝑜𝓂𝑒 (𝓁.𝓈.)

thirty-eight

"Are you sure this one's good?" Harry asks, fidgeting nervously with the buttons of his silky shirt, a pale pink with black polka dots, reminding me of Minnie Mouse. He's paired it with some black skinnies and his brown Chelsea boots.

"You look great in anything, love," I tell him, pulling a Fleetwood Mac T-shirt over my head. "But yes, that's good."

Harry nods, his eyes catching on my shirt. "You know I met Stevie Nicks once?" he says.

"Yeah? That's cool," I reply, and he agrees.

"It really was. It was a bit awkward, though, because I was drunk off my arse and nearly spilled my drink on her."

I snort. "Do you have a habit of doing that to people?" I wonder, remembering how we officially met.

Harry shakes his head, his mouth twisting into a contemplative frown. "I don't think so. Do I?"

"How would I know? I've only seen you drunk twice."

He shrugs. "To be fair, I don't drink a lot very often. I probably won't tonight, either. Designated driver. I know you'll want to properly celebrate with your friends."

I nod, agreeing. "Thanks, H. I appreciate your sacrifice."

He grins, shaking his head and walking over to press a kiss to the curve of my neck, hands finding the dips of my waist.

"You're amazing, you know that?" he mumbles into my skin. His voice is soft, the way I'm used to it being when we're intimate like this. Well, there was that time about a week ago when I could barely walk...but we don't talk about that. Yes, it was amazing, and I would absolutely do it again, but I prefer to be in charge. Sue me.

"You're...exquisite," I respond, turning and tilting his chin down so I can kiss him.

"Aren't you a dictionary today," he jokes, his arms tightening around my middle, pulling me flush against him. I hum against his lips and lock my hands behind his neck.

"We should probably get going," Harry reminds me after a few minutes of gentle kisses, neither of us in any particular hurry. "You don't want to be late to your best friends' engagement party, do you?"

I shake my head, reluctantly stepping out of his arms. "Well, let's go, then."

***

"So, who exactly is here?" Harry asks, looking anxiously around Zayn and Liam's kitchen. My hand is casually resting on his waist, and it's lucky no one's paying attention to us, because I really don't want to move it.

"All friends of Zayn and Liam's in some way," I tell him. "Music collaborators, a couple childhood mates, you know."

Harry nods slowly, before his eyes widen a bit and he steps forward, tapping a short ginger-haired guy on the shoulder. "Ed! Long time no see, mate," he says as the guy turns around, and I remember that this is Ed Sheeran, Liam's friend since they met headlining a music festival and drinking too much beer together.

The only thing I don't know is how Harry knows him.

I'm standing there, confused, until Harry recalls my presence.

"Oh, yeah, sorry, sorry," he says, reaching out as if to touch me, but thinking better of it at the last second. "Louis, this is Ed Sheeran. He wrote a song for me once. Ed, this is Louis, my...um, friend," he finishes awkwardly, and Ed grins, reaching out to shake my hand, which I easily reciprocate.

He has a steady grip, but a soft touch, kind of like Harry. Ed's fingertips are rough, the sign of an aged guitar player.

"Nice to meet you," I tell him. "Which song?"