The sun’s barely made it through the curtains when I find myself standing in the kitchen, hair a mess, sleeves pushed up, trying to remember how long eggs are supposed to stay in the pan before they burn. I’m not great at this — never claimed to be — but it’s the thought that counts, right? She’s still asleep upstairs, probably curled up in the same spot she fell into last night, and the idea of her still tucked under the covers makes me grin like an idiot.
There’s something strangely peaceful about mornings like this. No interviews, no shows, no cameras. Just the quiet hum of the kettle, the smell of toast, and me trying not to set anything on fire. I glance at the tray I’ve set up — coffee, orange juice, a stack of slightly lopsided pancakes, and a small vase with a single flower I found in the backyard. It looks a bit ridiculous, but she’ll laugh, and that’s the whole point.
As I’m carrying the tray up the stairs, one of the forks nearly slides off, and I have to nudge it back in place with my elbow. Typical. By the time I push the bedroom door open with my shoulder, she’s still fast asleep, one arm stretched across the pillow, her hair a complete mess — the perfect kind of beautiful.
“Morning, love,” I murmur, my voice low enough not to startle her.
She stirs a little, groaning softly, and I can’t help but smile. I set the tray down on the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed. “You gonna wake up, or should I eat your breakfast for you?”
That earns me a sleepy mumble. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused, and then she blinks up at me like she’s not sure I’m real. “Harry?”
“The one and only,” I tease, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Made you breakfast. Against all odds, nothing’s burnt.”
She squints toward the tray. “You cooked?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
Her lips curve into a slow smile as she pushes herself up, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. “I’m impressed.”
“Yeah? Wait till you taste it before you start handing out compliments,” I laugh.
She picks up a piece of pancake with her fork and takes a bite. Her eyes widen slightly. “This is actually good.”
I feign offense. “Actually? You doubted me?”
She laughs, that quiet morning laugh that always makes me feel like the world’s slowed down just for a moment. “You’re full of surprises, Styles.”
“Trying to be,” I admit, reaching for the mug and handing it to her. “You’ve been running yourself ragged lately. Figured you could use a morning off.”
She leans her head against my shoulder, still half-asleep, still warm, and murmurs, “You’re too sweet sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?” I grin.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she says, but she’s smiling when she says it.
We sit there like that for a while — her eating slowly, me stealing bites off her plate, both of us laughing softly whenever I get caught. The sunlight creeps further across the sheets, the coffee cools a little, but neither of us really cares.
“Next time,” she says, turning toward me, “I’ll make you breakfast.”
“Deal,” I say, pretending to think about it. “But I might still bring the flower. Adds charm.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “but at least I’m your impossible.”
Her smile softens, and for a second, the whole world feels like this — quiet, golden, easy. No stages, no noise, no rush. Just her and me, and a morning that turned out better than planned.
And yeah, the pancakes might be crooked, and the coffee’s probably too strong, but when she looks at me the way she does — sleepy, amused, and entirely mine — I figure it’s all worth it.