Damn This Wild Young Heart.

Harry was still complaining about the spot where I’d smacked him ten minutes later.

“Honestly, woman, it’s like you want me to bleed internally.” He complained as he rubbed his side, bunching up his t-shirt. A sliver of tan skin peeked out from underneath the fabric and I looked away quickly.

I only scoffed. “It was a gentle tap. Not my fault you bruise like a peach.”

“I do not.” He protested. “I bruise like a man.”

“Oh my God I don’t even know what that means.” I laughed, shaking my head at him. “Now you’re just making shit up.”

“Whatever.” He still continued to rub his side, sobbing it up for all that it was worth. “Where are we going now? And why are we walking?”

“Telegraph Hill. Or near Telegraph Hill. And because it’s only like a 20 minute walk and exercise is good for you and why are you still complaining?”

“I was just asking a question!” I couldn’t understand how he still had enough energy to yelp with that much conviction. It was past three in the morning and I was well on my way to tired. The MoMA had filled me with a sense of calm, even after the Kissing Debacle of 2013, and I probably could have crawled onto a park bench and fallen asleep right there, still slightly high off of the experience of the empty museum. (And okay, maybe Harry’s lips helped a little with the floaty feeling radiating through my body, but I was still pissed about him not asking me first, so I’ll be damned if he got to know that.)

“I thought we were on the search for croissants,” He reminded, finally removing his hand and letting his shirt fall back into its rightful place. He moved his hand up to run a hand through his hair, fingers brushing back the curls before smoothing them out again.

“Is that a nervous twitch or something?” I asked, disregarding the fact that he had even spoken. “Or is it in your contract to make your hair look like a perfect mess every two hours?”

“Are you asking me if I have tourettes?” He retorted, now looking mildly offended.

“No,” I protested. “I’m asking why you constantly mess with your hair.”

“I dunno,” He shrugged. “I just do. There’s a lot of it so sometimes I move it about. Pisses our hairstylist off constantly.”

“I’d probably be pretty pissed too, if I spent hours crafting a head full of curls only to have you muck it all up.”

“Force of habit, I suppose.” His hand reached up to run through his hair again, but he made a conscious effort to stop, pulling his hand back down with a sheepish smile on his face. “Croissants?”

“There’s a bakery by Telegraph Hill that has really good ones. I have no idea when they open, but I’d think pretty early.”

Harry hummed in agreement, before we lapsed into silence. There were streetlights everywhere, illuminating both the street ahead and Harry’s face. It didn’t even feel like nighttime, with the lights glinting off the side of his face. I forced myself to look away, to stop staring at him, to keep my hands shoved in my pockets and focus on chocolate croissants.

I wanted to ask him questions and keep them to myself at the same time. The lingering reminder of a kiss – a stupid, for-show, no-real-meaning kiss suddenly made me feel awkward, anxious to be in his presence. I’ve had many different kisses before, some with meaning and some without, some lovely and some not so much, but I couldn’t quite recall one then that had affected me so much, made my entire body tingle with anticipation as Harry stood beside me. I thought that maybe someone should measure the current running between our bodies, because one was there and if I got to close it was going to burn.

“Where are you from?” I asked him suddenly, jerking myself out of my thoughts before I got too far in. I didn’t want to think about the conundrum rolling around my head, the thoughts taking up precious synapses space and making me feel groggy and ill.

“England.” He replied instantly, looking away from the building he’d been surveying and focusing in on me.

I tried to stop the snort that escaped my mouth. “Really? I would’ve never guessed.”

Harry didn’t even attempt to look bothered, keeping his eyes trained on me as we continued walking. “Holmes Chapel.” He provided. “It’s about three hour outside London.”

“Do you live there now?”

“Nah,” Harry shook his head. “It’s easier to live in London, with work and everything.”

I wanted to bottle up the way he talked, the lilt of his words and the way he swallowed letters, stripping them away and making the words sound more beautiful. I also wanted to stop obsessing over his speech patterns, the way his mouth moved when he talked, and the gestures he formed with his hands, because I knew that with every gesticulation and lip-bit my spine was getting even more tense, the nerves I’d previously been expelling creeping back up.

I am not good with crushes.

In the ninth grade, I had a huge crush on James Wilks, a junior whose locker was in the same hallway as mine. I spent class periods grabbing books and sneaking peeks at him, blushing when he walked anywhere remotely in the same vicinity as me. Once, he stood behind me in the lunch cart line and I blushed so hard the lunch lady asked if I was having heatstroke. I could look at him, fancy him from afar, but when he was near I got flustered, anxious, and made a general fool out of myself. By the time he graduated, I was more relieved than saddened by his absence.

I didn’t take to crushes well. I didn’t like the anxiety, the fluttering glances, the blush that stained my cheeks. I hated the lack of control I exerted when I compulsively checked Facebook timelines and twitter updates, stalking Instagrams and googling names. I felt like a silly high schooler all over again with Harry, blushing when he stared at me and obsessing over the way he walked.

So I reacted the only way I knew how – talking, asking, distracting, attempting to keep my head on straight by reminding myself that he was my friend (was he my friend?), even if I was in dangerous territory of putting him in a different category entirely.

“What was the first really expensive thing you bought?” I continued, but I refused to look at him now, concentrating on the buildings up ahead and the closed shops that we passed.

“Is this an interview?” He inquired, raising an eyebrow at me.

I gave a noncommittal shrug. “No, you prat, we’re just talking.”

“I’m really not that interesting.” He protested, moving his hands about as if to show indifference.

I was letting out a noise of protest before he’d even finished his sentence. “You’re Harry Styles!” I exclaimed. “You’re in the biggest boy band in the world, have like a bajillion followers on Twitter, and you can’t even walk around a city in daytime without getting mobbed. That’s a hell of a lot more interesting than me.”

“But none of that is about me,” Harry argued and this time I looked at him because he sounded aggravated, his voice tight. “That’s about the fans and the band, not me.”

“That’s a part of you, isn’t it? The band? The fans? They’ve pretty much made you who you are, haven’t they?” We were still walking, Harry’s strides moving faster and I struggled to keep up with him. I noticed how his shoulders tensed and I knew that I should probably stop, fall back and lay off with the questions, because his prickly posture was giving me all of the signs I needed, but I was curious and irritated with myself and by extension, him.

Harry refused to comment, continuing to stalk down the sidewalk.

“Why are you upset that I asked you a question?” I continued, struggling to keep up with him.

“Just forget about it, yeah? Let’s get some chocolate croissants.” His casual tone was forced and he still refused to look at me.

“Harry,” I started, but I didn’t have a plan for what to say next. Did I want to continue the interrogation, at the sake of his irritation? Did I care?

He didn’t respond.

“Harry.” I said again, impatient and irritated at his petulance. I was falling behind him now, confused at his sudden backlash and annoyed because he wasn’t responding.

“Harry!” I snapped, my voice interrupting the silence in the streets.

“What, Lola?” He finally snapped back, entire body on edge. He had whirled around to look at me, his face set in some type of unpleasant snarl. The harshness in his tone made me flinch, drawing away from him. I met his eyes for a second, before I looked away, looking to my left.

“You’re going the wrong way.” I finally got out, irking my head to the right. My voice was smaller than I would’ve liked it to be. I moved to turn the corner, not even bothering to wait for him to follow.

I could hear his footsteps behind me as we made our way down another street, Telegraph Hill looming in front of us.

I concentrated on the road in front of me as I attempted to sort out what had just happened in my head. Apparently I’d hit a sore spot with the fame thing. A small part of me knew that I shouldn’t have pushed the issue, noticing the body language he was putting off when I brought it up, but I swept that away and focused instead on the inevitable feelings of hurt panging around in my stomach.

I didn’t appreciate being snapped at. I could give it out, but I knew that I couldn’t take it. Humorous sneers and joking eye rolls I could tolerate, but I absolutely hated when people were genuinely upset with me. Any type of conflict at all made me uncomfortable and anxious. When I was younger, I couldn’t even sit through a teacher’s reprimand without bursting into tears and while it had gotten better as I matured, still not by much.

“Lola,” Harry sighed behind me, his footsteps falling rapidly until he was standing right next to me. “I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

“It’s fine.” I told him. “It’s whatever.”

“No, it’s not.” He rubbed at a spot on the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. It’s been a really long day.”

I wanted to remind him that he wasn’t the only one who’d had a really day, who’d been up early and was exhausted from our city-wide gallivanting, but I also didn’t want to take a good evening and turn it to shit with my drama.

“Everyone’s mad at me for leaving and I don’t want you mad at me too.” He continued.

“It’s fine.” I repeated, though this time more sincerely.

When I looked over at Harry, he was pulling his bottom lip between two teeth, looking on the edge of saying more.

“We’re here.” I stopped him from saying anything else and gestured to the hill we’d stopped in front of. “These are the stairs of Telegraph Hill.”

Telegraph Hill was actually an entire neighborhood of San Francisco, full of slanting houses sitting atop a very large hill that overlooked the bay. The stairs of Telegraph Hill wound through the best of the hill, providing a very lovely view and an even more intense workout. Normally the stairs were crowded, throngs of people hiking up the journey, but as it was the very early morning, the entire thing was empty. The stairs led to Coit Tower, a nice touristy destination at the top.

“How long does it go on?” Harry was judging the stairs with a squint, as if calculating how much energy he was willing to exert right then and there.

I gave a shrug. “I don’t know, really. I’ve never gone all the way to the top.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Probably not.” I conceded. “I just never felt like giving it the full hike.”

“I say that we do it.” Harry said with a nod.

I made a face. I was tired enough, the stairs weren’t lit properly, and just the thought of hiking up them made me exhausted.

“Come on,” Harry insisted, nudging me towards the beginning of the narrow stairs. “The first person up gets bragging rights for the next month.”

I opened my mouth to point out that I wouldn’t be seeing him in the next month to brag, but he was already off, his legs pummeling up the stairs and hand gripping the bar for support.

With a groan, I headed out after him.

We were probably a little over a hundred stairs in when I slumped against the railing, refusing to move anymore. My calves burned, my feet hurt, and the altitude was giving me a headache. The stairs were steep, I could hardly see ahead of me, and I knew that getting far up would also mean getting down and I wasn’t up for that type of commitment.

“I’ll catch up with you later!” I called out to Harry, who was still apparently going strong.

“What?” He called back. He was so far ahead of me that I couldn’t see him at all.

With a pant of breathe, I dropped down to the side of the stairs, leaning against one side.

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” I replied back to him, but I didn’t have the energy to project, the words falling flat.

I had my head cradled between my knees, attempting to gulp in enough air to convince my body that no, I wasn’t dying, this was just exercise, when I heard Harry thunder back down the stairs.

“Alright?” He called as he approached; looking entire nonplussed by the probably 200 steep stairs he had just taken.

“I think I’m going to die,” I wheezed out. “And then who will feed Studley?”

“Studley?” Harry asked. Apparently that was the only part of my death declaration he actually cared about.

“The pug from across the hall,” I clarified. “His owners are in Europe for the summer. I’m responsible for him and if I die he’ll have no one.”

At this, Harry let out a snort, but he sunk down next to me, taking up the rest of the room on the stairs. He placed a comforting hand on my back.

“I take it you aren’t into exercise.” He acknowledged with a bit of a laugh.

“Is anyone?” My breathing was slowly regaining back to normal, making it easier to fill my lungs with air.

Harry only chuckled, continuing to rub soothing circles into the small of my back. I wanted the layers of fabric between my skin and his to burn away, desperately wanted to feel his hand on the small of my back.

“I take it you don’t want to continue.” He concluded after a moment, but he wasn’t staring at me, rather straight ahead. We were high enough that most of San Francisco spread out before us, the houses and skyscrapers in the distance. The city was dimly lit, covered by a thin blanket of fog, but still breath taking.

I only gave Harry a look in response, before taking in one last calming gulp of air. The burn in my calves was starting to lessen and I felt calmer. Without much thought, I slumped against Harry, resting my head on his shoulder.

(Okay. That was a lie. There was a lot of thought included in that, but after a battle of pro/cons, I gave a mental “oh fuck it” and decided that the entire world wouldn’t burst in flames if I rested my head on his shoulder.)

“Beautiful.” Harry murmured, his eyes trained on the city in front of him.

I hummed in agreement. The exhaustion was slowly setting in, causing my eyelids to flicker as I rested against Harry. I might’ve fallen asleep for thirty seconds when Harry was laughing, shaking the arm that I was on.

“Lola.” My name sounded like velvet in his mouth.

“Lola, wake up.” I refused to listen to him, only letting out a groan and burrowing farther into his shoulder.

“If you fall asleep, you can’t have any chocolate croissants.”

I let my eyes flutter open hesitantly, moving my head up to shoot a glare at him. “I’m exhausted.” I muttered.

“The night isn’t over yet.”

“Ugh,” I groaned, but I finally lifted my head.

“C’mon,” Harry urged. “We’ve got a city left to explore.”

“In a minute,” I sighed. “Just enjoy the view.”

My head was groggy and my limbs were tired, but apparently my mouth was still capable of moving.

“I’m sorry for irritating you earlier.” I mumbled into Harry’s shoulder.

I felt him still underneath me, before his body drooped slightly. His hand resumed rubbing circles on my back. “I wasn’t mad, just tired.”

“Seemed more mad than tired to me.”

“I’m sorry.” Harry only sighed. “I just…”

He trailed off, failing to complete his sentence, but my attention was grasped.

“What is it?” I asked him softly. “You can tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, promise.” He replied softly, his voice husky in my ear.

I couldn’t stop the shiver that rolled through me then, spreading from my shoulder to my spine. It was that current again, some type of palpable electric shock shared between us.

“What’s your biggest fear?” Harry whispered, his head ducking down to look at me.

I hesitated for a moment, thinking over my options as I breathed in Harry’s scent. It was as intoxicating as ever. “Complacency,” I decided after a moment.

Harry gave me a questioning look and I explained. “Like, I don’t want to be eighty years old and on my death bed and realize that I’ve become complacent with my life, settling for second best and accomplishing none of my dreams for the easy way out, you know? I don’t want reality to break me.”

Harry nodded, resting his head against mine. “I don’t think you’ll ever settle for anything less than you deserve, Lola.”

“That’s a pretty big observation for only meeting me a few hours ago.” I hummed.

Harry shrugged gently, careful not to disrupt me too much. “I’m an excellent judge of character.” He assured me.

“What’s yours?”

“I’m afraid of what’s going to happen when the band is over.” Harry admitted quietly. San Francisco was quiet around us, considerate of the heavy conversation we were sharing. Harry’s words were almost breathed directly in my ear, his hesitation along with them. “Because I don’t know what I’ll do then.”

It was probably the most serious thing Harry had said all night, his tone thick. He hesitated in getting the words out and I wondered how many times he’d spoken that fear aloud, actually letting the weight of his confession hit him. We sat in silence for a second, his confession settling between us, before I decided to lighten the atmosphere.

“You’re pretty enough to marry rich,” I whispered back with a smile. Harry’s laugh suddenly broke the tension in our conversation, the intimate moment we had replaced by something more lighthearted.

“Come on, you cheeky girl,” He mused. “We’ve got croissants to get.”

Harry got up first, reaching his hand out to me. With a sigh, I took his offering and hoisted myself up, dusting the dirt off my jeans. I attempted to release my hand from Harry’s, but he continued holding onto it, latching his fingers through mine as he started to make his way down the steps.

I stumbled behind him, staring at our hands once again. Apparently it was a reoccurring theme tonight.

The trek back down the stairs was slightly unbearable, but Harry was pulling me along and that helped. We stumbled down in silence. A few times I opened my mouth, ready to fill our walk with mindless chatter, but then I decided I liked the comfortable silence between us.

Our night was slowly coming to an end, a quick glance at Harry’s watch telling me that we were only a little over an hour away from the sunrise. There were so many other things I had planned to do that night, exciting, San Francisco-related things, but in the end I didn’t exactly mind bumming around with Harry, meandering from one place to the next.

It took some effort to get back to the bottom of the hill, but eventually we were there, taking one last step before reaching lovely, comfortable flat ground.

“Where’s this bakery?” Harry asked, refusing to let me rest a minute and continuing on with his walking.

“Why’re you in such a rush?”

Harry spared a glance over at me. “Time’s a wasting, Lols,” he murmured. “We’ve gotta make it count. Now which way?”

“Erm.” I chewed on my lip, looking at the two different streets in front of me and waiting for one to give me some flash or recognition. I’d only be to the bakery over here once, with Dakota, and I’d blindly followed her the entire way. My preferred bakery was all the way across town, nestled in Little Italy, but I didn’t have the energy to travel all the way over there.

“Let’s go left.” I suggested and then we were off.

Harry was a peculiar hand holder. His hand dwarfed mine and he kept our fingers loosely tangled together, the casual way he held onto my fingers more intimate than if he were gripping them tightly. I was self-conscious that maybe my hand was sweaty or clammy or gross, but he seemed completely relaxed as we marched up the street, passing closed store window after closed store window.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Harry asked, after we’d passed three blocks and there was no bakery in sight.

“Not at all.” I confessed. “I’ve no idea where we’re going.”

Harry pulled out his phone, unlocking the screen and starting to look something up.

“Do you know the name?”

I sucked in a breath. “No, but you can probably just Google ‘bakery, Telegraph Hill’ and hopefully get something.”

I waited for him to do his Googling duties, watching intently as his hands swiped across the screen. My phone was still snuggled in my jean pockets, delightfully off. I dreaded to think of the mess I was probably going to handle tomorrow, but I put off thinking about it much for the night.

“You didn’t post any other pictures from tonight, did you?” I asked Harry as we waited for his internet to load.

He gave me a weird look. “Why?”

I shrugged a bit. “I’m just trying to gauge how much damage control I’m going to have to do tomorrow.”

Harry laughed, shaking my head as he read over his phone and pocketed it once again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“What?”

“We’re going the complete wrong way.”