Your Harry Fantasies.

Fancy boots, suede boots, leather boots and winter boots were just the few he could list that were lined neatly along the wall of his London home.
With a heavy pocket of his monthly pay and his love for the specific style of shoe, weekly trips to the stores in London were a must, to keep him modern and up to date with the new style gracing the shelves; a style that many would begin to wear to kick of he fashion trend. When Gemma would see a pair that he knew would fit right in with the colours he already had, she would instantly inform him, with a text or an immediate phone-call, of the news and he’d waste no time grabbing his car keys and making the trip to the shopping centre to get what he yearned for.
Online shopping only took place when he felt too lazy to stick on his shoes, grab his car keys and pop to the shops to get the latest shoe, and if he was to be honest, he loved and preferred to sit behind the screen of his Macbook or scroll down the lists upon his phone and look through boots that took his fancy.
His current ones were his favourite.
After throwing away and bidding farewell to his worn-out, dark brown leather boots that had holes forming at the toes and scratches along the material, he needed new ones to look after and wear and pair with an outfit consisting of black jeans and a coat that kept him warm from the cold days of the month; an outfit that brought attention to his feet because of the contrasting colours - brown suede Chelsea boots brought and delivered and stored, ready to be collected upon his free own time, in the London Yves Saint Laurent store; a store (both online and on the streets) that he’d taken a loving too upon his stumbling arrival to the part of London that he’d never really spent enough time in and, beyond his first visit and a friendly conversation with the one behind the counter, he’d found difficulty in walking the streets outside of the doors and not popping in to see if there had been new stocks sent in of new and needed and loved boots that people were after.
Once the arrival email from Yves Saint Laurent had been sent to him in the hours of the mid-afternoon, he was out of his front door before anyone could say and finish the word boots. His car keys hung around his fingers, his house-keys tucked into his coat pocket with a few tissues stuffed in to suffice and wipe at his running and red and sniffling nose, his phone slipped into his front jean pocket and turned up in case someone from management or one of the boys had tried to contact him to get to the studio for an impromptu recording session. He’d had a tough few days with work running him down to the ground and the winter weather peering around the corners and bringing his immune system down to weak and feeble and tired, and, this was the added bonus to his life that had brought excitement through him.
Excitement that anybody would feel when something they’d been so excited for had been delivered.
With a tissue in his hand, wiping at his running nose, he’d entered the store with wide arms and a coat tail caught up in the wind. A box on the glass counter-top that he knew had a pair of brown suede boots calling his name, awaiting for his feet to be slid into the thick and tight constraints. And with an a-okay from the receptionist behind the counter in removing the shoes from the box, he’d toed off his buckled boots and let them fall haphazardly to the shiny and tiled floor of the store, his eager and selfish hands immediately grabbing the shoes and sliding them over his socked feet without an hesitation making it’s way over his limbs.
He was eager to have them on his feet.
Eager to wear them in and make them as comfortable as his others.
Eager to show people just how lovely and luscious he though they were.
And with an internal and guttural groan followed by a quiet yet audible verbal thank-you to the receptionist, he was out of the shop in no time. A new and bright and happy grin on his pink and plump lips, his cheeks rosy red and his teeth showing, dimples popping and ready to make people weak at the knees; the tissue from before was now stuck into his hand to wipe at the bridge of his nose, to save himself from papped shots that had him be the talk of town because he’d ‘snotted and made a fool of himself’. He’d thrown his old boots in the front footwall of his car, before he’d jogged across the road, a Starbucks cup of tea seemingly desired and causing a craving in his tummy - and he had the time to waste in the coffee house.
Dodging puddles and hopping over fresh gum stuck to the gravel of the pavement, he’d made it across the small one-way road without a scuff or a mark on the toes of his new boots, and with a palm flat against the window of the door, he pushed the barricade open and stepped foot inside the building. Much needed warmth flushing his body immediately, a sigh leaving his mouth as the yellow-filtered lights shadowed his figure. His nose tingling and his cheeks becoming more flushed by the moment, with his eyes set on one seat in the seating area that gave him the privacy he desired - he really didn’t want to meet fans when he was sick, because the last thing he wanted to do was give someone a dreaded cold. It was a nearly empty coffee house, with 2 queuing for a warm beverage and a couple sat at one table by the window, so, he hadn’t run the risk of bumping into anybody or come to the trouble of having a seat stolen from him.
He’d stood as the third customer in the queue, behind a man with glasses and earphones hanging down his chest, poking up from the neck of his t-shirt as well as directly behind a girl who stood with her head down in a book that must have been interesting because, when her bag fell from her shoulder and hung from the joint of her elbow, she did nothing but leave it without adjusting it back up her shoulder. To Harry’s preferences and his opinions, she’d taken a risky deal about bringing the new E.L James book out in public, the current named book ‘50 Shades of Grey’ being the conversation topic for many women who had been excited about the Christian Grey era, but, who was he to judge?
He’d read the book himself, per request of Gemma.
A blush could be seen on her cheeks when it was her time to order, and he swore, he felt his heart skip a beat when her order rolled off of her tongue. A caramel cappuccino to have in, paired with a slice of carrot cake and a packet of brownies that she hesitantly reached for. You had a sweet voice - as sweet as the sugar he’d put in his cup of tea - and it was one he felt he could listen to on a daily basis.
One he could imagine saying yes to his proposal of going on a date, one he could imagine saying yes to his proposal of becoming his wife, one he could imagine saying I do at the alter on your wedding day, and one he could imagine reading to your children when it was time for them to go to sleep.
He didn’t want to jump the gun and, he wasn’t one to jump in and sweep a stranger off their feet, he felt a different feeling with her - a stranger of which he knew nothing about.
Her name was (Y/N), given as an response to what the order would be named under. And, now he knew her name, he wanted to know more.
“Mr Styles, hello. How may I help you?” The young barista questioned as (Y/N) moved from her space with her book clutched tightly in her hand. He’d expected her to show admiration or give him her attention, much like others would do when he was named in public, heads turning almost immediately turning to confirm their minds wanders.
But nothing was given to him. And his brain had been planted with the thought that maybe she wasn’t into him or maybe she hadn’t the bother to give him the time of day because of his status. Maybe if he wasn’t famous and part of a worldwide-known boyband, she’d have looked up at the claim of his presence.
“Would you like your usual?”

He was pulled from his thoughts, his trance, his swimming mind.
“Of course. Thank you,” Harry smiled, pulling his wallet from his coat pocket and pulling his card from a section inside. “It’s cold out there today.”

“Everyone who’s come in has complained,” the young barista laughed, her hand clutching a pen and writing his name on the side of the paper cup, “have you been up to anything nice today?”

“I just popped opposite to grab my new boots. Trying to wear them in as we speak,” Harry chuckled, looking down at his still fresh, still unmarked, still tight around his feet brown suede boots. “Could I get a chocolate muffin on the side with that? I’ve not eaten much today and I feel like going off my diet.”

“A diet, Harry? You have to be joking,” she laughed, setting the cup on the side, ready to be filled with his order. “Feel free to go and sit down. We’ll bring everything over for you, if you’d like.”

“No, no. It’s more than okay. I’m going to pop to the toilet anyway,” he smiled slipping his card into the machine and pushing his pin in; he was thankful that payment was so simple these days.
With a smile given to the barista, he walked around the counter and made his way to the side door marked W.C, the door closing behind him and locking it with a click.
As Harry went about his business, flushed the chain and washed his hands, he shrugged his coat off and let the sleeves of his shirt flat out from being crinkled beneath the thick and heavy sleeves of his coat, his arms flushed with the cold air, before he pushed open the door and made his way over to the counter, his coat hanging over his forearm as he saw his named cup sitting with hot water steaming inside. His fingertips were itching and tingling for the warmth he could imagine fro the steam emitting from the rim, and, he could just reach out and grab it in his hold.
A soft thank-you could be heard from beside him, and Harry knew that (Y/N) wasn’t even partially aware of his presence behind her, and with his body reaching forward for the paper cup of water and her body turning on her heels, he’d not expected to be covered in her beverage. His white t-shirt stained brown, his black jeans patterned with dark spots of liquid and his boots wet and already smelling like coffee.
He looked up to scold her, his chest constricting as he caught sight of her features; she stared at him in awe as well as shock as well a look that he thought was going to end up in her leaking a few tears and dabbing at his shirt with shaking hands.
“Oh, my god. I am so sorry,” she panicked, her eyes bug-eyed and her lips agape. As she gulped nervously, unclear about his reaction. She examined her damage, gasping loudly when she looked down at his speckled and stained boots; boots she knew were brand new and fresh on his feet. “Oh, my god. Your boots. I heard they were new. Oh my god, I am so sorry, Harry. Please, let me buy you a new pair, and a new coffee, and-”

“Hey, hey. Stop it, love. It’s more than okay,” Harry stated, “please, don’t worry about it.”
“But, you’re probably wearing such expensive clothes. I can afford to pay for them. I’ll save up my months pay and I can buy you some new ones and they’ll be exactly what you have on now,” she panicked, his hands coming to cup her shoulders, “I’m so clumsy today. I tripped over at work and people laughed at me, and I dropped my notes into a puddle and people just stared at me, and I just spilt my coffee over Harry Styles.”

A snicker left Harry’s lips.
“(Y/N), please. It’s okay,” he cooed, rubbing his thumbs against the curves of her shoulder. “Please, don’t worry.”

“But, you’ll be walking around in coffee-smelling boots,” she explained, looking down at the suede material and internally groaned at the sight. She was only fresh out of college education, a new intern job on her hands and she wasn’t exposed to the handfuls of cash and triple figure payments made to her account, and she couldn’t begin to imagine just how much the shoes on his feet cost - he’d been in the public eye for 2 years already, and, she felt threatened and poor when it came to thinking about the money he’d earned by doing his dream job. “I really am so sorry, Harry.”

“(Y/N), please. I have my old boots in the car, so, it’s fine. I was going home after this cup of tea anyway, so, I wouldn’t be walking have coffee-drenched socks for long,” he snickered and pulled his hands away from her body, “let me buy you a new coffee?”

“No, no. I couldn’t, Harry. I should be doing things for you. To make up for my clumsiness,” she whispered, your chin ducking down to her chest, “I honestly cannot believe I just spilt coffee over you.”

Notes