Know: A Harry Styles Fan Fiction

Desperate to find shelter, Harry and I dart through the first door we see. Inside, a rich, toasty aroma fills the air and my stomach starts to growl. I notice a chalkboard sign propped on the floor, reading "Welcome to Pablo's Pizzeria" along with a list of daily specials.

"'Elllo pumpkins," greets an elderly man in an apron. "Will it be just the two of ye this evenin'?"

"Are you hungry?" Harry asks, turning to me.

I nod, although I'm not sure if I want to dine here. I haven't had much luck finding a pizza place that isn't lousy anywhere in England.

The man leads us to a round table near the center of the room and gives us two menus. Out of curiosity, I peer at his name tag. It says Pablo, just as I suspected.

"I'll come back in a coupl'a minutes," he says with a warm, toothy smile, and disappears around the corner.

As I flip through the menu, I can feel Harry's eyes studying me. "Is something bothering you? Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"We can't leave now," I say, glancing at the window, ruthlessly pelleted by rain.

"Not too fond of pizza?"

"No, pizza's great. In fact, I used to love pizza until I came to the UK," I admit.

The side of his lips curve up just a bit. "Oh, come on, our pizza's not that bad."

His hair is still damp and disheveled from the rain. He rakes his hand through it, pushing the dark curls out of his forehead.

"It's terrible," I say, stifling a laugh.

Shortly after, Pablo returns to take our orders. Harry chooses chicken and sweetcorn while I go with plain cheese.

"Cheese? What a daredevil," Harry teases after we're left alone again.

"I'm playing it safe," I defend. "I figure cheese pizza is pretty hard to mess up."

I idly glance around the room. Traditional Italian paintings hang along the wooden walls and soft orb lights are strung up around the border. Behind the counter, a stout, elderly woman laboriously kneads the dough. She notices me watching and flashes a bright smile at me. I smile back.

I have a feeling that it's just the two of them who run this business. The entire restaurant is tiny but cozy. Five or six tables are crammed inside the dining space, all of which are vacant except ours.

"Hmm," Harry says, examining the tabletop. "Something's missing."

He gets up from his seat and heads to the front. When he returns, he's carrying a small glass of water which he places in the center of the table.

"But you haven't even finished this one," I say, pointing at his full glass, but he ignores me.

"Be right back," he says, before exiting the restaurant.

I watch him from the rain-splattered pane. He's analyzing something under the window outside, but I can't tell what it is. After a bit of deliberation, he reaches for it and hurries back inside, newly drenched from the downpour.

"There," he says, placing a delicately pink rose into the glass of water. "Now the table's complete."

A drop of water gently slides down the leaf and I catch it on my fingertip. Harry's eyes meet mine. They match the color of the leaf. I wonder if he knows how heartwrenchingly handsome he is.

"You know you just made this more like a date," I note.

"Oh, it wasn't already?" he says with a cheeky smirk.

"Harry..."

"I know, I know. Just friends."

The front door chimes, signaling the arrival of new customers. I turn around and see two teenage girls, at least five years younger than me, standing petrified and gawking at us both. They gradually make their way over, whispering and giggling the whole time.

"Do you know them?" I quietly ask Harry.

"No but they probably know me," he replies under his breath.

"H-hi, Harry," one of the girls nervously begins. "We, erm, we saw you outside a minute ago and, um, we were just wondering if we could take a photo with you?"

"Of course," Harry says cheerfully. "Would you like one each or the two of you together?"

The girls turn to each other, muttering incoherently. "Um, we were wondering if we could maybe do both," says the second girl.

"Sure," Harry says. "Should we do one without my shirt, too?"

The girls' eyes bulge dangerously out of their heads.

"I'm just kidding, I haven't been to the gym recently," he says, patting his stomach.

They both explode into giggles, seeming thoroughly enchanted by him. After various shots and poses, I take a final one of all of them. Harry grins with his trademark dimples and the girls shine their smile full of braces.

"Thanks so much, Harry!" they both gush.

"Absolutely, anytime," he says with a sincere smile.

They linger for a little longer. I can tell they want to sit down and talk to him for hours, possibly even the rest of the night. But their eyes flicker to me and they start to leave.

"Bye, Harry! Wonderful meeting you!" one of the girls calls over her shoulder.

"Lovely meeting you too," Harry replies.

They both squeal with delight and continue squealing past the door.

"Wow, that commercial you did must've been pretty popular, huh?" I say, chuckling.

He shrugs without answer.

Something feels off about the way he avoids my eyes and fiddles with the silverware, and my curiosity nags with interest.

"Wait, has this happened to you before?" I ask.

He shrugs again. "Idunno."

"Harry, is there something you're not telling me?"

He takes his eyes off the table and flickers them on me.

"It's not a big deal, really," he begins. "But remember when I said I was in a band?"

I nod.

"Well, we're sort of a big boy band as far as boy bands go," he continues with a faintly apologetic expression.

"Wait, wait," I laugh. "Boy band? You mean like N*Sync or The Backstreet Boys?"

"Sort of..."

"Synchronized dancing and matching outfits?"

"Not quite..."

I sit back and cross my arms, still feeling a little doubtful. Harry doesn't look like the boy band type. His hair is too messy, his voice is too husky and low and his ego's not inflated enough.

"So how big are we talking here, like five million followers on Twitter?" I joke.

"I think it's at fourteen," he says.

"You guys have fourteen followers on twitter?"

"Fourteen million."

I'm extremely doubtful now. I start to pull out my phone to do a quick fact check but our piping hot pizzas are served at the same moment.

"I'll prove it to you later," Harry promises before chomping on his slice of chicken and sweet corn.

Hesitantly, I take a bite of my own slice and I'm astonished to find it doesn't taste horrible, nowhere near it.

"So," Harry asks, "how safe was the cheese choice?"

"This is the best slice of pizza I've ever had," I mumble around my food.

"Jules, please. Manners," he pretends to scold.

I finish chewing and stick my tongue out at him.

When the check comes, he lunges for it and tucks his card into the flap. I glare at him expectantly but get no reaction out of him.

"If you think I'm letting you pay for me, you're seriously mistaken," I deadpan.

"How come?" he asks.

"Because," I say, attempting but failing to snatch the check from him, "it would basically confirm that this was a date."

His eyes light up and his lips spread into that irresistibly adorable grin.

"Good," he says, and hands the check off to Pablo.

Notes

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