The Montreal Problem
Chapter 5
Summary: The reader has big plans to spend a month in Montreal with her boyfriend. The problem? He breaks up with her just as her flight is leaving. Now she’s going to be stuck in an unfamiliar city for a month with no place to stay. That is, until an unexpected hero offers her a solution.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Epilogue 1 Epilogue 2 The London Problem
Word count: 2702
Author’s Note: Surprise! Chapter 5 is a bit earlier than I said it would be. It’s not quite as long as the past chapter so editing went much more quickly. I’m really excited about chapters 6 and 7, so there may even be another chapter tomorrow or the next day! As usual, I hope you guys enjoy it! Feel free to message me to let me know what you think, if you want to be added to the tag-list, or if you just want to talk in general.
Y/N–Your Name
B/F/N–Boyfriend’s Name
Somehow you had managed to forget to ask what time to set your alarm for in the morning. You woke to a rhythmic knocking at your door.
“Yeah, I’m up!” you called a bit groggily. It was just after eight in the morning. You trudged over to the door and opened it before you realized that all you were wearing was a big tshirt. Nothing else. “Hey,” you said to Harrison, praying he wouldn’t notice your lack of clothes. But his eyes immediately drifted to your bare legs and back up again. You could feel his gaze as if it were physical. His cheeks turned slightly pink. “Are we late?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, kind of. Tom and the twins just left because he has to be in makeup and Harry had….something. I’m not sure. And I was a huge div and forgot to tell you when to be ready, so we’ll leave whenever you’re dressed.”
“Okay, give me like…fifteen minutes?”
“Yeah, sure, no problem.”
Fifteen minutes later, you were in the car. Harrison gave you a quick rundown of what set would be like–namely, crowded. You asked question after question to try and prepare yourself. You’d never even come close to a movie set before. The closest you got was an aunt who worked on local, indie films and got little recognition for it despite her long hours. She would be floored to know you were visiting the set of a star-studded, big-budget film.
“And the stadium they’re filming at today is actually where the first perfect ten in gymnastics happened, or something,” Harrison was telling you as he drove up to the barricade around said stadium. He’d explained that everything around it was closed off for the film. He flashed some sort of ID and showed the guard your license, which you thought made the whole thing feel like entering a military base or something instead of a movie set. You already felt starstruck and hadn’t met any stars yet.
“Nadia Comaneci!” you said. “I took gymnastics for three years when I was little.” Harrison looked impressed. You’d gotten obsessed with famous gymnasts for a while and still remembered a lot of useless trivia. “I don’t actually remember anything other than how to do a cartwheel, though,” you hurried to explain.
As Harrison parked, your conversation suddenly stuttered out. You chewed your lower lip as you peered up at the massive stadium. You could see cranes and safety equipment on one side of the stadium’s roof, where Tom apparently had a scene being filmed. You wished you had read the books so you could try and guess what kind of scene demanded the use of an Olympic stadium’s roof.
“Don’t be nervous,” he said with a smile as if he could read your mind. “They’ll all be super busy, so it’ll just be us for a bit, yeah?”
You nodded. You weren’t going to tell him that you were glad you’d be sticking with him, but you were. Immensely.
He squeezed your shoulder and climbed out of the car.
Here goes nothing, you thought. You steeled yourself, and stepped outside.
Inside, there was a whole process to Harrison “going to work” that you mostly just idled around for. You found a little coffee cart and poured yourself a cup with plenty of cream and sugar. You thought of bringing Harrison a cup, too, but didn’t know how he liked it or if he preferred tea. He was British, after all.
You meandered back to Harrison, who now had a headset and his ID card clipped to the bottom of his shirt.
“Bad news and good news,” he told you. His expression was grave.
“Bad news first,” you said without a moment’s hesitation. “Always.”
He smiled at that. He pointed to the top of the stadium. You could see a ton of people, cameras, lights, and other movie-set stuff you didn’t know the uses for. “We have to go up there.”
You groaned. “And the good news?”
His grin widened. “That’s where Daisy Ridley and Nick Jonas are. Oh, and Tom.”
You laughed, remembering the night before, and gestured for him to lead the way. “Let’s get going, then.”
Halfway up, Harrison much farther ahead of you and barely breathless, you gasped, “Good thing I wore–comfy shoes.”
He stopped where he was. “Pretend you’re Rocky Balboa,” he suggested. He fake boxed and jogged up a couple of steps as he did.
“Never seen it, but then I would definitely die. He ran up the steps, right? I can’t–run up–them.” You stopped and pressed a hand to the stitch in your side.
“This is pitiful,” he laughed. You shot him a glare.
“I’m just not in shape, okay!” you retorted a bit defensively.
“Almost there, Y/N,” he said a few minutes later when you finally caught up to him. He stepped down a step and gently encouraged you until you started moving again, already regretting chugging the coffee as you felt both a little sick and a pressing need to pee.
“Harrison,” you said very seriously as you neared the top and therefore the press of people. He stopped to look at you. “I swear…if you tell any of the boys how unathletic I am, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you in a way that involves no work on my part. I promise.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “You’ve got it, love. My lips are sealed.”
“Hey, Harrison! Nice of you to finally show up,” a pleasant, accented female voice called from behind the pair of you a few minutes after you reached the top.
The girl was familiar. It took you a second, because of her blonde wig, to recognize her.
Daisy Ridley.
Your heart stuttered to a stop and restarted again. You tried your best not to let your shock and awe show so blatantly on your face. But you experienced a weird, deja-vu type feeling of being starstruck. It was so strange to look at her and know it was the same person who was in the Star Wars movie you’d rewatched for the fifth time a couple weeks before.
“Daisy!” you said a bit louder than intended. “Wow–wow, it’s such an honor to meet you. I’m–”
“Y/N, right? Lovely to meet you as well. Tom and Harrison can’t shut up about you,” she laughed. She held out her hand. You hoped she didn’t notice that your hand was trembling.
Harrison laughed nervously. “Yeah, ah–where’s Tom?”
“Pissing and moaning about you not being here to follow his every whim, of course,” Daisy teased with another laugh. Then she pointed. “They’re wrapping a scene over there, I think.”
“Nice to meet you!” you called over your shoulder as you followed Harrison.
Somehow, you made it through the day without embarrassing yourself. Daisy and Nick were very down-to-earth people, like Tom was, and they made you feel comfortable around set. You learned a lot, too, and found yourself daydreaming about getting a job on a movie set. You watched with wide eyes as Daisy and Tom filmed a dramatic scene together. It was incredible to see them go from tearful, angry characters and switch right back into their normal, laughing selves.
After a while, once you figured out that the boys wouldn’t be late in getting home, you offered to go to the store and pick up something to make for dinner. You weren’t the greatest cook, but had perfected a few recipes. One in particular, for a simple chicken alfredo, was a recipe for eight people. You figured each of the boys would eat about two servings based on how much you’d been seeing them eat over the past few days.
The four of them returned right as you started making the alfredo sauce, the noodles boiling softly on the stove. You were impressed with how fancy the kitchen was. You thought about what it’d be like to live in a house like this permanently.
There was a quick bout of hushed arguing in the living room before someone sighed loudly and the TV was turned on. You heard the distinct noise of Michael Scott making a fool out of himself as Harrison and Tom shuffled into the kitchen with matching expressions of embarrassment. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watching you as you mixed fresh garlic into the sauce.
“Give me about half an hour,” you said to the boys, distracted with making sure your noodles weren’t going to be overcooked. “Do you all prefer al dente noodles or do you like them softer?”
When there was no answer, you looked up. Both boys shrugged. They continued watching you cook.
“Do you…need something?” you asked, uncertain. They looked almost like creepy horror movie twins.
“We’ve been asked to spy on you,” Tom said very matter-of-factly. Harrison elbowed him in the ribs, hard. Tom shoved him back. “And to get a taste test if we can.”
“It was supposed to be covert, mate!” Harrison said. He sighed dramatically. “Forgive him, Y/N. Wouldn’t know how to be secretive if it bit him in the arse.”
You laughed. “Give me five minutes and you can taste, alright?”
Tom muttered a bit bitterly, “I’ll show you secretive when I tell her–”
He got another elbow to the ribs. They started tussling, which ended in what you were finding was the typical way–laughter. After a few minutes, your sauce was simmering nicely, and you let Tom and Harrison each taste it.
Tom made an appreciative face. “Not bad, Y/N. I think we’ll keep you.”
“Wow, that’s quite good, Y/N,” Harrison said. His voice was tinged with the slightest bit of awe. “That’s really good.”
“Thanks,” you said shyly. “It’s one of the only three things I know how to make.”
You turned off the noodles so they wouldn’t be too soft, and added the chicken you’d cooked earlier to the sauce. You grappled with the big pot to get it to the sink where you could drain the noodles. Harrison hurried over and took it from you, dumping the contents into the colander and spilling noodles everywhere.
You stifled a laugh. “Slowly, Haz. Slowly. That way you don’t dump them everywhere.”
He flushed pink. You saw Tom bent over with laughter from the corner of your eye. “Sorry!” Harrison said. “Should I throw these away?” he asked. He indicated the noodles that had missed the colander.
“No, just put them in there with the rest and rinse them all. Then pass them to me.” You turned your head to hide your laugh.
“I’ll go tell the others you can stay,” Tom offered, a shit-eating grin still firmly on his face. “It’s hot bread all over again, Haz.” He snickered and went off to the living room. A minute later you heard all three of them laughing, no doubt at Harrison.
“I guess I shouldn’t tell him about the time I dropped a whole pot of noodles on my foot and burned myself,” you mused to Harrison, who was dutifully rinsing the noodles.
“Probably not.”
“Still have a scar.”
“What? No way! You burnt yourself that bad?”
You nodded and lifted your bare foot so he could see the small, almost noodle-shaped scar on the bridge of your foot. “Like I said, I’m not the best cook.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with being a good cook,” Harrison noted. “That just makes you clumsy.”
You pushed him playfully with your shoulder and took the noodles from him to mix in your sauce.
“What did he mean by ‘it’s hot bread all over again?’” you asked innocently.
Harrison groaned. “Years ago, I made this dumb tutorial video on how to cut hot bread. Thought I was being quite clever and could get a good laugh. Really I was just being a huge div.”
“Oh, I am definitely looking that up after dinner.” You smirked over at him. He looked horrified.
After a moment his eyes narrowed. “If you watch it, I’ll tell the others about you reenacting Rocky earlier.”
Horrified, you gasped, “No! That’s a secret! Your video’s just out there on the Internet for everyone to see!”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Watch it if you must. But go easy on me.”
“Depends on how ridiculous it is,” you said. “I make no promises. And go tell the others it’ll be ready in just a couple minutes.”
Dinner was comprised of all of the boys singing your praises while accusing each other of being the worst cook in the house. They then played rock-paper-scissors over who would do the dishes, though you argued that you could do it. That, too, seemed part of their complex betting system. They were constantly arm-wrestling for things, betting against n each other, challenging each other to all sorts of games.
“You cooked, we clean,” Tom said, even though it was Harry who had drawn the short straw.
“Mate, how are you not famous enough to have a dishwasher installed in your house?” Harry complained after he was finished. Everyone had settled in for what was apparently going to be a late marathon of the Office.
“Yeah, who are you again? Who do you play?” Harrison joked. Tom threw an empty beer bottle at his friend, who thankfully caught it before it could smack anyone nearby in the face.
After a while, Tom passed out with his mouth open and Sam and Harrison both disappeared. You sat watching the TV with Harry, warm and comfortable and happy. You realized, all at once, that after only a few days…this house was starting to feel like a home.
Harrison came back in wearing a tight white tshirt and sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was wet and starting to curl wildly. You tried not to let your gaze linger, but before you knew it, you were staring. He was wearing glasses now, too–and, well, he looked really good in them.
Your face flushed when you realized that you’d been staring for a moment too long. But, as long as you had been looking at him, he’d been looking back. Harry glanced between the two of you and shook his head.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” you said in an attempt to cover up the awkwardness. Harrison sank into the couch next to you, knee bumping yours, and rubbed at his face.
“Yeah, I know, they’re stupid.” He laughed in a self-deprecating way.
“No, they aren’t at all, you look really h–” You stopped mid sentence and bit your lip. Hot, was the word about to come out of your mouth. “Smart,” you finished lamely.
Harry coughed. You thought maybe it was to cover up a laugh.
After that, thankfully, Harry went to bed. Tom remained passed out on the couch so you and Harrison turned on Parks and Rec, which he had never seen. You told him that you had to at least make it through the first season, which was like the Office in that the show was still trying to find it’s stride.
Tom slept on. You and Harrison slowly gravitated closer and closer together. You were both sinking into the couch cushions. Into each other. You could feel the warmth of him surround you, like a blanket. His smell was intoxicating. Your legs touched hip to knee, pressed flush together. Neither of you moved.
You began opening up to each other. You talked about anything and everything and nothing. You told him exactly what had happened with your ex at lunch–proud of yourself for not even tearing up over it–and he told you about his last girlfriend, who had been unwilling to travel with him and Tom and hadn’t even wanted to give long distance a try.
Before you knew it, it was three in the morning. Tom awoke with a small groan. You and Harrison jumped apart like you’d been caught doing something besides simply sitting next to each other.
You forced yourself to get up and bid them both goodnight.
In your room, you leaned against the closed door and bit your lip against a smile. Maybe getting stuck in Montreal wasn’t a problem after all.
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