Damn This Wild Young Heart.

“Where exactly are we going?” Harry wondered. We were the only people in the entire train car, sitting across from each other in our seats.

“I’m thinking The Castro.” I was staring at the map above his head, figuring out how many stops we had to go before we had to get off. I could feel Harry staring at me, the burn of his gaze on my face. I was a hesitant to look at him. Nothing had changed, really, in the past hour or so that he’d been in my company, but now sometimes when he looked at me I thought that maybe my heart was going to leap out of my throat.

“What’s that?” He asked, his head a little cocked to one side.

“Seriously?” I raised an eyebrow. “How can you travel as much as you do and not have at least some knowledge of San Francisco?”

“I do have knowledge of San Francisco, thank you very much,” Harry protested. “The Giants. Golden Gate Bridge. Full House. I think I’ve pretty much summed it up right there.”

“Um, no,” I scoffed at him. “This is a much more culturally relevant city than just Full House. And that’s not even the best TV that’s been filmed here! Charmed? That’s So Raven?”

Harry was grinning at me, amusement playing all over his face, but I kept my eyes narrowed in his direction. The Giants and Full House? Psh.

“I’m eagerly awaiting my history lesson then, Lola.” He snickered.

I only rolled my eyes. “San Francisco is the gay capital of the world. And The Castro is the gay capital of San Francisco. It’s almost as essential to San Francisco as the Golden Gate Bridge.” I explained to him.

“So what are we going to do there, then?”

That much I hadn’t really figured out yet. “Maybe turn you into a drag queen?” I guessed. “I think you’re pretty enough for it.”

Now, Harry looked outraged. “Pretty?” He sputtered. “I will have you know that there is nothing but pure manliness beneath this sweater!”

“Oh really?” I challenged. “Because I think my ice cream scooping arms might be bigger than yours.”

His mouth opened in mock outrage, before he hastily started pulling the hoodie he was wearing over his head.

“I didn’t ask for a show!” I protested (ahemfakeprotestedahem), immediately bringing my hand up to shield my eyes. “I’m not interested in seeing your lack of muscles!”

“Lack of muscles my arse,” Harry growled, but there was still a hint of amusement in his voice. “And I’m wearing a t-shirt, you brat, so quit shielding yourself and observe the beauty!”

“Observe the puny?” I asked, purposefully mishearing him as my hand still covered my eyes. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

There was about a second of silence before there was a hand on mine, prying my fingers away from my eyes. I struggled against Harry, moving my head to the left, then to the right, but he was resilient, and after a few moments of struggle, he was holding my hand in his and shoving his torso in my face.

He was clad in nothing but a slouchy white t-shirt, the collar stretched out to show the beginnings of tattoos along his collarbones. I forced myself to look away, eyes roaming up to his face.

“Yes?”

“Stop denying my muscles!” He exclaimed, before he let my hand go, turned on his side, and started flexing his bicep over dramatically. “Aw, yeah,” he commented, “Look at those guns. Work it, work it.”

I couldn’t withhold my smile when he started using the train car as his runway, strutting back and forth dramatically, flexing his biceps and moving them from side to side.

“Stop, stop!” I called through my laughter. “I get it, you’re very proud of your pea-sized arms!”

“I’m not stopping until you take back the insults, woman!” He continued with his struts, stopping in the middle of the car to strike some awful pose, his arms and legs flailing about.

“Is your masculinity really that important to you? That you need me to validate your muscles?”

“Yes.” Harry sniffed. “Now please, take back your insults--”

With an eye roll and a sigh, “I take back my insults.”

“--and you promise to never insult my manliness again--”

“Really?” I barked out in a laugh, but Harry was just staring at me quite seriously, arms poised on his hips. “Ugh,” I groaned out. “Fine. And I promise to never insult your manliness again.”

“--and you admit that I am a hot piece of man meat.” He finished, another grin spreading across his face as he stared at me triumphantly.

“I’ll admit that you’re a piece of meat, but your hotness is still to be determined,” I bit out quickly, just as we rolled to our stop and the train jolted forward, Harry’s body jolting with it. His arms clutched for something to grab onto, finally securing around the bar next to my seat, and I instinctively put my hands out against his chest, securing him in place.

He was looking directly down at me, face pulled into somewhat of a serious expression. One of my hands was around his middle, cupped around his ribcage, while the other pressed against his chest. I was trying to distract myself from how his chest felt, the definition of his muscles under my skin. His t-shirt was extremely soft and pulled down even farther now, exposing more of the swallows on his collarbone.

I’d known this boy for less than two hours, but already I apparently felt comfortable enough to be putting my hands all over his person. I thought that maybe there was going to be a moment, with Harry staring down at me, me groping his chest, but after a few seconds of (possibly intense?) staring, Harry wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at me.

“Can’t keep your hands off me, can you?” He teased.

My cheeks flushed immediately, my neck and cheek heating up with my embarrassment. I ripped my hands away from his chest, putting them safely back at my sides.

“You wish.” I sneered, with another eye roll that was so forceful it actually kind of hurt my head.

“Would you hit me if I said I kind of do?” Harry lowered his eyebrows and pursed his lips into something that he probably thought was an attractive look.

Really, he looked a bit like he’d eaten something extremely sour. I told him so.

“You’re just well up with the insults tonight, Lols.” He said with a sigh, finally moving away from me and grabbing his black sweatshirt as the doors opened. We excited the train car, letting the small crowd of people inside.

“Lols? Have we already progressed to nicknames?” We started up the stairs of the station, a few blocks away from the most exciting part of Castro.

“I feel that we have,” Harry confirmed. “and I also feel that Lols is perfect for you, because you’re such a laugh, especially when you’re insulting my manlihood.”

“Oh, your wit is astounding.” I muttered dryly, but I was fighting the smile off my face.

“You are such a weirdo,” I said as we emerged onto the main street.

Harry only looked over at me with a smile and a shrug. “That I am.” He agreed. “Now where are we going?”

“Well,” I started. “It is--,” I read the time from the watch on my wrist, “—10:34 at night and I for one, am starving. So I suggest we get something to eat.”

“Sounds superb.” Harry agreed, shrugging on his hoodie again. I was a bit sad to see the white t-shirt disappear, the fabric so thin that if I stared long enough, I could begin to make out the definition of his muscles. My hand twitched at my side, almost longing to place itself back on his chest, and I shoved my hand in my pocket and that thought away immediately.

Really, I had no business going around and groping British pop stars. What would my mother say?

The first place we stumbled across was a little pizza place, the narrow rooms packed to the brim with tables and chairs. The place was fairly busy for a Tuesday night. We were seated in the middle of the restaurant, squeezed against a wall. My legs weren’t nearly as long as Harry’s, but they were still squished uncomfortably underneath the table.

“All I request,” He started, “is that you do not get mushrooms on the pizza. That is it. That’s all I ask.”

“You don’t like mushrooms?”

“You do?”

“You mean do I love the delicious fungus that defies all standards and allows to be eaten?” I shot back. “Um. Yeah.”

“Is it too late to terminate this friendship?” Harry asked in faux seriousness.

“Well, you have already given me a nickname.” I opened my menu with a swish, scanning the menu for all mushroom-related pizzas.

“You know, this is the first restaurant I’ve been to in San Francisco,” he said after a moment, looking up from his menu to me. “It’s kind of a monumental moment.”

“Really?” I asked skeptically. “Do you normally starve when you’re in the city?”

“No,” he said with an eye roll. Those were getting incredibly common between us. “But usually we don’t have much time, so they just bring food to us. We were all supposed to go out tonight, but I wanted to explore on my own.”

“You sacrificed what was probably a five star dinner to get mobbed by a bunch of fans?”

Harry just shrugged. “I wanted some alone time. And I wasn’t exactly planning on getting mobbed. Apparently my disguise wasn’t good enough.”

“You mean your sunglasses and hoodie method?” I gestured to his not-so-secretive get-up. “Yeah, I’d say that failed. At least get a wig or something next time.”

“I’m sorry; I was unaware that you were an expert at celebrity disguises. Please enlighten me, oh smart one.”

“You’re one cheeky little bastard--,” I observed, leaning towards Harry, but I was cut off by a waiter, who was suddenly at our table and chalk full of smiles.

Harry ordered some type of beer (“You aren’t even legal to drink in this country,” I hissed when the waiter walked away, but he just gave me a smile.) and I ordered an iced tea. We compromised on the pizza, because he wanted something with mountains and mountains of meat on it and I wanted spinach, feta, and mushrooms, so we split a medium in half.

“Favorite color?” Harry asked, as we sipped on our respective drinks and waited for the pizza.

“Are we resuming Getting to Know You?” I replied.

“Yes.” Harry said shortly. “Now answer the question.”

“Teal. You?”

“Navy blue. Favorite movie?”

And it went on and on like this for twenty minutes, quizzing each other on little things, like favorite cereal (me, Honey Nut Cheerios; Harry, Cinnamon Toast Crunch) to preferred drinking beverage to Did we play any sports in school? and Where is your favorite place to travel? We fell into a comfortable routine of asking and answering, teasing each other a bit about our responses before moving on to the next. With each question, I was growing more comfortable with him, probably shown by my ability to insult him more easily, and I was starting to think that I should be the new editor of his Wikipedia page, because I probably knew more about him than I did most of my friends.

The pizza arrived and we lapsed into an easy silence. We were halfway through devouring our pizzas, little conversation going on at the table besides the occasional appreciative food noise, and Harry was fiddling with his phone. I paid no attention to it, continuing on with my slice of pizza (technically it was Harry’s slice of pizza, because he made me try some of his; it was delicious, but he still refused to touch the “mushroom infested catastrophe” that was my choice) and trying to figure out where to go from here.

I was dipping my crust in some ranch when my phone started buzzing uncontrollably in my lap. I set the crust down, digging in my pocket to find my phone, and unsheathed it just to see “Noemi” going to voicemail. Noemi was one of my best friends from high school, obsessed with celebrities (specifically Tina Fey), and was well on her way to making it in the world of professional improv. I felt bad for missing her call and was making a mental note to call her back when she started calling again.

“Do you mind if I take this?” I asked.

“Go ‘head,” Harry said, through a mouthful of pizza. I would’ve commented on his charming manners, but I quickly swiped across the screen and pressed the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Lola Antoinette Knox,” Noemi greeted. “I have a question for you.”

“Um,” I started, a bit hesitant. Noemi never used my middle name, generally because it was kind of awful. I didn’t like being reminded of my French namesake, because when I was twelve I found out that Marie Antoinette was kind of an awful, selfish person and my name was ruined ever since. “Sure?”

“Awesome, lovely.” She said. “Would you care explaining to me why you are on both Harry Styles’ Twitter and Instagram?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m looking at my phone right now and Harry Styles just posted a picture about three minutes ago of you eating a slice of pizza with the caption, ‘San Francisco. Pizza. Lols.’ You’ve got a bit of sauce around your mouth, by the way, which I’m assuming is the funny part.”

“That bastard.” I hissed. At this, Harry looked up, mouth still full of pizza, and shot me a big, cheeky grin.

“Hold the phone,” Noemi continued. “You’ve actually had pizza with Harry Styles?!”

“Unfortunately.” I admitted. “I’m sitting across from him right now.”

She started laughing manically, cackling into my ear. “That is some rich shit,” she giggled. “I expect the full story tomorrow morning. If you’re still alive, that is, because I’m reading some of these comments and you are basically a dead woman walking.”

I groaned loudly. “Bye, Gnomes.”

“Bye, my little celebrity. Use protection!” She shouted as I hit the ‘end’ button.

Harry was still smiling at me, grinning from ear to ear as he chewed.

“You little shit,” I started. “And to think, two hours ago I thought you were a swell guy.”

Harry chewed quickly, his mouth half stuffed with food when he said, “I am a swell guy.”

“You’re also a bit of a shit.” I pointed out. “There are probably three thousand people who want me dead right now. And you gave away your location! Now everyone knows that you’re in San Francisco and they’re probably going to be on a manhunt.”

Harry only shrugged. “You had sauce on your mouth. It was funny.” He explained.

“You know what’s going to be funny? When I sell you to drag queens.” I threatened. “I think you’ll make a great Hilary Clinton.”

Harry only chuckled, before taking another slice of pizza. I grumbled in my seat, before hesitantly opening Instagram. It was a few pictures down in my feed, but there I was, mouth open, mid-bite of pizza, and sure enough, there was sauce above my lip. The restaurant was dark and my face was only illuminated by the light hanging above our table. I wasn’t looking at the camera, but rather off to the side.

“I’m seriously going to give you to drag queens,” I muttered again, as I read through some of the comments on the picture. Some were nice, most were curious, and a few were awful.

“Will you please take that awful picture down?” I asked him, going back to my home feed because I refused to read anymore comments about my face.

Harry only shook his head.

“Harry--,” I started, the protests already forming on my lips.

“I think it’s cute,” he said.

And immediately I shut up, because even though I wanted to have more resolve than that, even though I’d only known him for two hours and counting and he was already annoying the shit out of me, I knew that I had a soft spot for him, and a little bit of me melted when he called me cute.

My phone started buzzing again in my lap, this time the name of a girl I hadn't talked to flashing across my screen. I ignored the call, but as quickly as I did that, another one came in, and then again and again, until finally, in an act of desperation, I turned my phone off completely.

“Just hurry up and eat your pizza,” I ordered to Harry. “We have drag queens to find.”