Harry Styles...

You didn’t know what you and Harry were. All you knew was that he was a struggling rock star who worked at a restaurant and only called you when he was high. You walked into his tiny studio after the call and he took a sip of his beer when he saw you, with your eyeliner smudged, your hair disheveled and your guitar on the floor along with your jacket. “Why do you only call me when you’re high?” You asked sharply, but he just smiled. “There’s my girl,” he said, a joint between his teeth, grinning.