Inherent

“Stay at mine tonight.”

Harry’s abrupt demand stirs within me a new surge of anxiety. We haven’t even been in the car for three seconds, having just left The Uptown. Obviously Harry doesn’t want the night to end yet. I stare straight ahead, clutching onto my phone as if it will protect me from Harry’s bright idea and concerned stare.

Yes, concerned. As soon as we left the theatre, I felt the magic of the night slip away. Reality came crashing down on me as soon as we emerged from the alleyway and back into real life.

It’s not only that, either. Suspicions are fast to rise, quick paranoid thoughts invade my mind and for the first time all night, I level him with a guarded, blank look. I don’t know why he’s suddenly ‘suggesting’ I stay at his place for the night (which would give cause for a whole other panic attack in itself), but it’s not a good idea. That’s putting it lightly… and I’ve done enough damage tonight as it stands.

“Harry…” My voice sounds small and as insignificant as I feel in his car. “It’s getting late.”

What have I done? What have I done? Every single wonderful thing that’s happened tonight turns itself into a bad, selfish act, and I can’t believe I’ve done this to Harry. He opened up to me, he showed me something he’s never shown anyone, and I can’t even tell him of my heart. I’m a mess. I’m a selfish fucking mess.

“It’s only midnight,” he protests, eyes darting to the digital clock recessed into the dash.

Only midnight… sheesh, if I was home right now I’d be in bed tossing and turning, trying to sleep. I’m well aware that Harry otherwise spends his Friday nights much differently than I do.

But I’m not at home. I’m with Harry, and he doesn’t want me to leave. If I want to be honest with myself, I don’t want to leave either. All I can think about, though, on top of my selfish behaviour is what I’ve heard about Vivian’s past dates and what happens when she stays over to a guy’s place all night. And I can’t do that. Even the premise of sleeping with someone scares me out of my wits.

Is that all Harry wants? The idea itself is laughable, of course, because I know I’m nothing special. No, I’m the exact opposite. I’m trouble. Harry can’t be interested in me just for sex… can he? I find that I can’t even look at him while I try to figure out him and his motives.

I want to believe my irrational suspicions if only to make myself feel a little better. Maybe Harry is as dishonorable as I am a liar.

“Harry.” My voice cracks when I say his name again and I stop, ducking my chin so he can’t see my pitiful expression. Damn it, I just need to go home and forget about all of this that’s happened, the momentary happiness I felt with Harry that is so addictive. I won’t let myself slip up like that again, even though the damage is clearly done.

As if sensing my vulnerability, Harry shifts toward me and reaches over the center console to take my hand, but I remain tense in his warm, reassuring grasp. I have to. I feel like such an idiot for not thinking of this possibility, and I damn my own naivety.

Harry’s just like every other guy.

“Jules,” he begins, his voice gone soft like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “Look at me.”

When I remain as I had been, head lowered and staring at my jeans but not really seeing anything while I focus too much on all of my fears, Harry sighs. His hand leaves mine and for a moment I believe he’s just going to let it go and take me home, but instead he brushes my hair over my shoulder so he can see my face and presses his index finger under my chin, forcing me to turn and look at him.

I may not be close to tears, but I am causing my heart quite a bit of stress with all the panic and hurt. I shouldn’t feel hurt, because although he doesn’t know it, what I’m keeping from Harry is much worse than whatever his intentions might be with me. Cheeks flushed under his scrutiny, I can only meet his softened gaze for a couple of seconds before I lose my nerve.

“I’m not some idiot boy. I just want to spend some more time with you, alright? Maybe watch a film or something. Then I’ll take you home if you want.”

If you want. Maybe he has plans of some elaborate wooing or seduction between now and then. Such paranoia might seem silly to some, but my inexperience when it comes to sex makes me both insecure and fearful. His frankness shocked me, too, and I feel a flustered heat creep up from my chest and settle on my cheeks. He’s been forward in everything else, so I don’t know why I didn’t expect such honesty from him. It’s almost reassuring, in a way, and then I wonder if he’s just that good of a liar.

If all this means nothing to him.

“Do you promise?” I sound like a vulnerable child and I can’t even summon the courage to help it. Yes, even through all my suspicions I recall very easily all he’s done tonight, and how much trust I’ve come to find in the dimpled green eyed wonder. Should I put more that much more faith in him, take it a step further even when I know I shouldn’t—for both our sakes?

Can I commit another selfish act?

Harry smiles softly, sensing his victory, and the atmosphere in the car loses some of its tension. I can breathe a little easier at least. He lowers his hand from my chin and wraps his pinky finger around my own, limp on the seat next to my leg, for the second time tonight.

“I promise,” he vows.

For a solid few seconds I study him, try to judge his character and his ability to tell either the truth or a lie with a straight face. Nothing in his soft olive eyes gives me any reason to believe his intentions are too unsavoury. He seems to know what I’m doing, and holds eye contact with me easily with a small quirk of his lips.

Sucking in a deep shuddery breath, I nod and feel silly for making such a fuss over something that should be as simple as going over to Harry’s place. But nothing is ever simple for me, is it? It’s not as if he’s a menace, and he has proved to be trustworthy so far. After all he’s doing for me tonight to make this so memorable and wonderful, what could spending a little more time with him hurt?

Besides, it hits me now that I shouldn’t be one to judge him if he’s lying, because I’m lying too.

I nod once more in confirmation and pray all of this doesn’t come back on me tenfold. “Let’s go.”

Harry, as it turns out, is a man of his word. He remains as chivalrous as ever, telling me to wait when he parked his car so he could open my door for me. I find this side of him to be endearing, too, an equal contrast to his otherwise forward, cheeky personality. I realize that Harry is indeed a gentleman. A cheeky one, but a gentleman nonetheless. I wonder if he’s like this with all the other girls he dates, because with his looks and money and sheer charm I know he must have lots.

But still—he does just as he promised and I’m grateful for it, being perhaps the one thing that keeps me from falling apart completely in panic. I don’t think about the fact that he’s bringing me to his home, such a personal place, and instead focus on his apartment. I hadn’t gotten much of a look at it before he brought his car to the basement parking, and though it looks costly to live in such a place it isn’t too extravagant or outrageous. More than a few floors high, it’s a red brick building with balconies lining the sides for each apartment. The landscaping around it is what sets it off, towering trees shrouding it like security and shrubs and bunches of flowers sit around the gate. The gate is the only means of access to the place, and it makes it all feel very exclusive.

While I take Harry’s offered hand and I feel his grip steadying me as I get out of the car, I catch a glimpse of his sleek black motorcycle. It sits, seemingly innocent next to his sexy sedan and the empty parking space reserved for guests. My Camry would look like a joke next to those two. A pitiful joke, but I suppose it’s my pitiful joke just like it’s my pitiful life.

Harry smirks when he catches me looking at his bike, and I blink before looking up to him in curiosity. Surely he wouldn’t mind my appreciation. The motorcycle reminds me of a monster, a beautiful monster.

“Fancy a ride sometime?” He quizzes, eyes light even though his features are shaded underneath the car park’s harsh lighting.

“Maybe,” I reply coyly with a sudden newfound confidence, and I can tell by his raised eyebrows and sudden grin that he didn’t expect such a response from me. Hell, I didn’t either.

He laughs, deep and booming while it resonates off the cement walls and I swear I can feel it in my chest—his happiness. I almost feel happy too. This is surprisingly easy. He tugs on my hand, still chuckling as he leads me out of the car park.

The lobby reminds me of The Uptown with its marbled floors and rosewood columns down the hallway that leads to the elevators. It’s understated, and I’m beginning to think Harry likes that. From the outside his apartment building looks like any other. In the elevator he stays close to me, his hand warm and engulfing mine and the silence is comfortable for the few moments we have to wait. Then he leads me by the hand, out of the elevator and into a small foyer, and I feel more heat creep up my neck when he helps me take off my coat. I don’t know why I’m so nervous with such a simple, courteous act, and I suddenly feel awkward and sad all over again.

Keeping my eyes downcast and my hand limp in his firm grasp, I allow him to take me into an expansive living room. It wouldn’t even be an exaggeration to say that his living room alone is three times the size of my own. He must have the whole top floor of the building to himself. It’s sparsely decorated, with golden hardwood floors and white walls.

Across from a set of dark leather sofas and an immense TV in front of several sprawling floor to ceiling windows, one entire wall is taken up with a mural. It reminds me of a piece of steampunk art, with five interlocking, heavy gears and an industrial compass circling them. In one of the gears is a large, analog clock that I can hear ticking in the deafening silence.

I bump into Harry when he stops in front of the largest sofa, adjacent to the windows and straight in front of the TV hung on the wall. In my admiration of the art I had all but twisted around, following Harry blindly while my gaze focussed on the art.

Yet another thing I didn’t expect from him. It’s oddly fitting, what with his love for the old Uptown, and it breaks up the otherwise stark décor. He shoots me a toothy grin over his shoulder when my chest bumps into his back, though I remain silent when he lets go of my hand and collapses onto the sofa.

Without his hand in mine, I begin to grasp my sense of reality. Crap… I really, really shouldn’t be here. Damn Harry and his promises that melt my resolve and willpower.

For the first time tonight, I swear I can distinguish what looks to be mild exhaustion coat his features. His eyes droop and his smile seems tired, though still genuine. But he does a double take on me after he gets comfortable, having sprawled his long legs down the length of the couch. I bet I look like a shy, intimidated little girl there in front of him with my posture slightly hunched forward, arms crossed, and pensive expression. I can feel his eyes on me, abruptly concerned and I imagine he’s staring at me with intensity, trying to figure me out and what the hell is always wrong.

I’m sad. I’m so freaking sad. I feel it, feel it in my damaged heart and I know I’m not just sad in the emotional sense. I’m said because I have to resort to withholding important information just for a boy to like me, and I would say that’s about as sad as it gets.

What Harry does surprises me: he doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Instead he nods his head to the free space on the large sofa with soft, sympathetic eyes. Way to dampen the mood, Jules.

In abrupt panic I swivel my body to the side and shoot a wild look to the foyer, to escape, and for a moment I really just consider running home to my empty lonely bed to be sad and forget all the things I’ve screwed up with Harry tonight.

“Hurry up,” Harry breaks the silence and my panicked, racing thoughts. His demanding tone causes me to look back to him in partial shock—he’s never spoken to me in that way before now. I see him wearing a gentle smile, however, and for some reason the sight of it eases my nerves. “I’m cold and I want to cuddle.”

Even more shock bewilders me, skews my view of Harry even further. He wants to cuddle? With me? He’s right, though—it seems like he hasn’t been home since he left for work this morning. The temperature feels almost the same as it does outside, and I almost wish I kept wearing my sweater. Maybe then I’d have an excuse to sit quietly by myself and not cuddle. Thankfully, though, Harry cranked the thermostat as soon as we arrived.

While he sounds his usual playful self along with a healthy dose of challenging roughness, the one thing that gives Harry away is his eyes. Always so expressive, the green of his irises intensify and turn into pools of raw emotion. I can tell that he’s sad too, sad because I’m sad. I don’t want him to feel that for me, especially since I have finally smartened up enough to withdraw again.

And cuddle? I’ve never done that before.

“Maybe…” I take slow cautious steps back toward the door, unable to form a coherent sentence while Harry observes my uneasy behaviour with curious, dark green eyes. It’s ridiculous, how I feel as if I’m some animal of prey and Harry’s the predator. But that’s what panic does to you; it makes you see things in a different, terrifying light, and only serves to amp you up even further.

Then my heart begins its tremendous flips right as my pulse rises and panic really set in deep into my system. I feel jumpy, my body ready to spring into action even though there’s no danger. Not with Harry—I know at least that much and I only feel sillier. My heart definitely, for certain cannot keep up with the sadness and fear I’m finally allowing myself to feel. Harry sits up straight on the sofa and looks at my retreating form worriedly. Perhaps it’s now he realized demands aren’t really the best method of dealing with me and my histrionics.

“Julia,” he begins, lowering his voice. Observing me closely, it looks like he’s caught on to how freaked out I am. When he moves his hands to push himself up off the sofa, I flinch backward even more. He frowns at the action, pausing, and finally I conjure the nerve to speak.

“I should go. This—I have to go.” I was about to say that this was a bad idea, but the words lodge in my throat. No, there’s no way tonight has been wrong or a mistake in any way, shape or form. In fact, I’ve felt happier with Harry tonight than I have in years. And that’s the whole problem… I know this won’t last. I know he won’t want me anymore after he finds out. I begin to teeter preciously on my socked feet, feeling light headed all of the sudden.

Quick as lightning, Harry is off the couch and drawing me into his arms. I can’t even find the will to fight him, closing my eyes in an effort to stop the spinning in my head. I wonder if he notices how close I am to passing out altogether. He must think I’m such a freak—at this thought, I fist the fabric of his t-shirt and squeeze my eyes even tighter shut, frustration and sadness and hurt all bubbling up at once. “I’m sorry,” I gasp.

“Calm down, baby. Take it easy for a minute,” he murmurs. One careful hand on my lower back, Harry steers me to the couch and I sit down stiffly next to him, still holding onto him in the belief that if I do, I’ll hold onto consciousness too. I gain far too much comfort from his hold. I like it. I like him far too much.

“I need to go home, Harry,” I all but plead, voice gone so quiet it’s just about a whimper. I feel like I did last weekend when I almost fainted after I dragged Harry through the city. I feel out of control, and I can’t always expect him to be here for me every time when I’m like this. I have to deal with it on my own, like I always have.

Because I can’t rely on him. I can’t.

His side presses against my rigid arm when he tries to get me to lean back and relax. I don’t budge, and Harry pauses to look at me in thought, eyes assessing. Slowly, pointedly, he looks me in the eye.

“Why?” He asks, and I know he doesn’t want some lame excuse. He expects the truth.

My chest tightens even more when I realize I can’t give him the one thing he’s asked of me. The truth. Damn it, the truth. I hold back a wavering, pain wracked cry and close my eyes again. Instead, I tell him the closest thing to it. “I’m sad, Harry. I’m just really sad.”

“No.”

Opening my eyes, his firm refusal jolts me a little closer to reality. I look at him through my blurred vision—distorted from withheld tears—and I watch in awe as Harry’s jaw sets and he shakes his head, clearly having made up his mind. He ignores my weak protests and pulls me back against him by my waist, unrelenting even when I try to get up.

“Let me go,” I try uselessly, and I only feel his arm tighten around my waist. No, I don’t want him to let me go, and it’s as if he knows that just like everything else he just seems to sense about me straight off the bat. The last thing I want him to do is let go of me.

“No, Julia. I won’t let you go home to be sad by yourself. You can stay here and be sad with me.”

I stop struggling the instant the last sentence leaves his mouth, clearly enunciated and full of conviction. Harry takes advantage of my momentary shock to pull me down onto my back, resting against the cool, comfortable leather.

“You don’t need to leave,” he reassures me once more while I remain frozen in shock, trapped underneath him with his legs straddling my thighs. His voice is deep, sensual and soft. I don’t know he’s managed change our positions so drastically when he pulled me down with him, his torso bent down and his face close to mine.

Tears sting at my eyes. Does he realize what he’s just said, and how much that really means to me? You can stay here and be sad with me.

“What are you doing?” I try in one last attempt, shaken. He’s so close the heat he radiates does a better job at warming me up than the electrical heating ever could. He ignores me, probably sensing exactly how much I want this even though I know I shouldn’t, but he doesn’t kiss me like I have come to expect from him tonight. Instead, he leans down even further and buries his head in the crook of my neck with a deep inhale.

“You smell good.” His deep hum tickles my neck as he speaks and his hand winds around and under my torso, capturing me completely in his embrace. The tips of his fingers trace comforting patterns into my sides, underneath my shirt. His hands to me feel burning hot, and I feel cold as hell, especially with what he’s just told me. My face heats, yet I find myself wanting him to warm me more.

“Harry…” I don’t recognize the sound of my voice, distant and dazed. All I can do is stare up at the tall ceiling and revel in his comforting, hot touch, and repeat the only thing I can think of. I’m lucky I can speak at all. “What are you doing?”

I don’t receive a deep chuckle and a cheeky response to my dumb, innocent question. His bent knees support most of his weight and allow nearly every part of his body to touch mine, and the feeling he stirs from being so alarmingly close doesn’t make me want to lie still underneath him—it fills me with such energy I feel as if I can run laps. Exhilarating. Aside from my legs Harry completely covers me, as if he’s acting as a physical shield from every single one of my saddened thoughts.

“I’m cuddling you,” he says simply, and there’s no edge or sarcasm to his statement. It’s like he knows that I’ve never been in such a position. The sensation of being cold from the outside temperature is dimmed significantly with the exchange of heat from both our bodies. Soon enough I know I’ll be sweltering in the best way possible. When I shift underneath him, Harry’s hold around my waist tightens. I bet he thinks I’m trying to get up, but really I’m just trying to become accustomed to this. To cuddling. To cuddling with Harry, the man who wears business suits one day then leather jackets and beanies and drives a motorcycle the next.

Despite him being so forward and touchy-feely, I hadn’t pegged him as a cuddler.

“Hold me back,” he coaxes, quiet, and nudges my hip gently with his elbow.

Only now do I realize that this is all Harry wants from me tonight. He’s not on some scheming hunt for my virginity; none of this is a joke to him. He just wants to hold me, and he doesn’t want me to be sad alone. Nobody’s ever been so intuitive to my emotions and the situation he’s put me in so foreign, yet I also understand that it might be exactly what I need.

I need him to hold me, and he sensed that even before I did. Previously laid lifeless at my sides, I disentangle my arms from his and loop them around his back, the movement timid and hesitant.

“I’ll take care of you, Jules,” he mumbles into my neck again, unbothered by my shy silence. I realize that maybe he expects it, but I’m too stuck on the weight of his words. Does he mean what he’s doing right now, holding me when I’m hurting and there’s nothing else that can be done about it? If that’s what he means, then I want him to take care of me, too.

Rendered totally speechless, I’m stunned once more. Even chance he gets, Harry always manages to surprise me. Cuddling me practically by force is one thing, but to make himself so vulnerable and ask for me to hold him in return… seeing this side of his eases my worries, but for a long while I remain tense underneath him.

He feels like a giant on top of me, even though he’s made sure none of his weight lands on my body. He’s all around me, assaulting my senses one by one with his touch, his masculine smell, his deep voice in my ear. Even still he doesn’t seem to mind how stiff I’ve gone or my total muteness. When his fingers at my sides don’t falter, I close my eyes and relax back into the sofa. My eyes began to hurt long ago from staring so hard at the ceiling, mind spinning. Harry seems to feel the tension leave my body, and he smiles reassuringly into my neck.

I release a shaky breath and try to enjoy this, to seek refuge in his comforting hold, to savour the sensation of his unruly chocolate curls tickling my cheek. The urge strikes to run my fingers through the silky strands like I did while on his lap up in the balcony seats at the Uptown. A distinct heat spreads through my body at the memory, though I don’t grow nervous. It seems impossible now to worry, not when I’m with Harry and he’s doesn’t want me to be sad by myself. I find that when I’m with him, it’s very hard to be that way. Even when I’m reminded of all the reasons why I shouldn’t be happy.

Perhaps he knows that too.

When I unhook my hands from his lower back, Harry pauses his hypnotic, feather light motions in anticipation of my next move. He probably thinks I’m going to push him off me, which is in fact a valid assumption given my past refusals of his comfort. Instead I choose to go out on a limb and surprise us both. I run the tips of my fingers up the broad expanse of his back and sink them into his hair at the nape of his neck, the action as hesitant as always. Especially since he’s so absorbed in what I’m doing. It makes me nervous as all hell.

Surprise rattles me when the muscles beneath his skin can be felt contracting through his t-shirt at my touch, and as soon as I run my fingers through his hair, Harry releases a quiet pleasure filled groan and tugs me even closer. He draws me so close that I have to arch my back into him. I stop at this, shocked at his tight and possessive hold and overwhelming response.

He pauses, too, but only for a moment, and only long enough to nudge me onward. “Keep going,” he urges huskily, persuasion and quiet desire laced in the two words.

I do, and after about thirty seconds of raking my fingers through his hair, his grip relaxes and finally he allows my body to rest against the couch again. I find myself getting lost in the repetition of the movement, of wiggling my fingers through his curls and eliciting soft shivers from the boy on top of me every now and then. This is all so very new to me.

“That feels wonderful,” he says a while later, and the admission stirs funny feelings in my abdomen and a flutter in my chest. But it’s that good, addictive flutter that I’ve only ever felt with Harry. I know that my heart is no longer racing, that I’m as relaxed as I possibly can be in his presence, and that it’s okay to feel this way.

For now.

His body relaxes, too, and it seems he’s come undone by the simple act of playing with his hair. Eyes remaining closed, I feel his chest brush against mine with each of our shallow breaths and how his arms have all but constricted around my torso still. Right now, he reminds me of a contented lion. A handsome, knowing, contented lion.

We lay like this for a long time—I don’t even keep track of the time, though I suspect it’s getting late. Harry doesn’t ask why I’m sad, and I don’t ask how he knew why I wanted to leave. I never thought that I was easy to read. Is Harry so tuned into my emotions that he knew? Like how I knew how much the theatre meant to him before I even knew what he wanted to show me.

Something like that.

There’s this silent truce formed between us in this moment. He’s letting me know so many things, building so much of my trust in him, in that he’s all but verbally telling me it’s okay to feel the way I do. For as long as I can remember I’ve always been ashamed of all the sad feelings warring within me constantly. It’s okay. He doesn’t even have to tell me out loud. It’s okay.

He isn’t judging me or pitying me. No, far from it. What he’s offering to me is support, something I haven’t ever received in this form. It makes me want to cry and relax further into his embrace at the same time. Upon this revelation of mine, of the feeling of unconditional acceptance, my mind jumps to my list and one specific item.

To feel accepted.

While I may not be able to say I want to cross it off just yet, progress has been made. That much is for certain. Harry draws in a deep breath and turns his head to the side to yawn, and when he turns back I catch a glimpse of his sleepy smile and drooping eyes. He’s so boyishly handsome right now, and I wonder how I even ended up here cuddling with him on his sofa. I wonder why he took it upon himself to take interest in me, to show me the life I could have if only I was normal. To show me love and acceptance, things so absolutely foreign to me.

“Screw the movie,” he mumbles. “We’re staying like this.”

I smile, a rush of feelings overcoming me in a single second, and I resume running my fingers through his hair while his own still linger at my sides. It’s shocking to me that he could be anywhere he wants at this moment, he could be partying, drinking, and with girls I know would be more than willing to do more than just hold him. And yet he wants to be here with me, letting me be sad for just a while. The thing is, though, is that I don’t even feel so depressed or guilty any longer. Not while I’m with him.

“I’m fine with that,” I finally offer a verbal response, and I’m quite pleased that my voice doesn’t shake or otherwise give off the impression of how nervous I actually am.

No longer is there a heavy, looming weight pressed down on my chest—Harry knocked it clear out of my mind. Nobody else has ever had such an effect on me before, not like this. Not like him. I’ve never even felt the same acceptance from my own family, not even Caleb. He calms me, I realize. He’s like a strong stone wall separating me from all the bad.

Content. I’m content. Perhaps not quite happy, but happy to be here, underneath Harry while I’m almost sure he falls asleep on top of me.

After several more minutes spent in easy silence and my own eyelids begin to feel heavy, Harry shifts his weight and then suddenly our positions have changed and he is the one with his back pressed against the sofa and I’m on top of him, my head resting on his firm chest and my legs between his. He wraps his arms around me much like I had with him, except his hold is secure and tight. Not loose and hesitant like mine.

The sudden change doesn’t even shock me, and I come to find that I’m growing used to Harry rearranging me to fit with his body, holding me, and even picking me up like he had tonight at the Uptown before we danced. I hear his soft chuckle when all I do is sigh and close my eyes again, the action of holding onto his arm a shockingly natural one. It feels nice, to have hold of him, and to know that he isn’t going anywhere.

Right now, at least. But I don’t think about that.

“Did you enjoy tonight?” He asks, low and throaty, his voice rough from withheld sleep. I don’t know how he hasn’t succumbed to exhaustion by now, sure that in the morning I’ll have huge, dark circles underneath my eyes.

It will be worth it, though. It is worth it.

“Yes.” Definitely. But I don’t want to let on exactly how much of a dweeb I am and how much I loved every part of tonight, even though Harry without doubt deserves the praise. He stays quiet for another minute, and I still when he reaches up to card his fingers through my long, unruly hair much like I just did with him. It’s as if he’s deep in thought while he tries to weigh my one worded response, unsure of whether or not I’m telling the truth. How can he possibly doubt that I had a good time? I decide, for his sake and perhaps a little for mine, to put myself on the spot that much more. “Tonight was wonderful. I couldn’t have asked for anything more, Harry.”

“You’re sure?” He wonders aloud. I can’t help but to smile at his hesitance, because it’s not often I see it.

Still I wonder why of all things he doesn’t believe that he’s able to show a girl a good time. From what he told me tonight I suspect he’s usually used to just partying with girls and that sort of thing (something I have zero experience with), but the date he put together for me truly was special. He accomplished the task he’d set out to complete, and I hate that he doubts himself. Just being in his presence lifts my spirits and it’s proving harder and harder to fight his pull.

“Yes. Positive.”

In a gentle, tender advance Harry leans upward to plant a lingering kiss to my forehead. My eyelashes flutter at the sensation, heat growing in my cheeks from the miniscule contact.

“Good. I like seeing you happy.”

Is that what I was, tonight, before I forgot the promise I made to Harry and all but lost my mind for a moment there? Damn it, I was. I was freaking happy, and it’s all thanks to Harry Styles. I might have realized this earlier, but the fact that Harry saw it too somehow makes it worse. Its scares me just as much as it reassures me, because I know that Harry can and will leave in a heartbeat.

Where will that leave me then? As silly as it sounds and as long as I haven’t known him, what will I do when he does take his inevitable leave?

I stop myself. I stop the thoughts snowballing into a panicked storm inside my mind right in their tracks. I stop thinking about it, because Harry—who, the day I met him his towering form intimidated the hell out of me—has completely let his guard down with his even breathing and halted drags through my hair. The position he’s moved us to isn’t even uncomfortable, and I feel secure and protected laying here with his arms around me. Over the next few minutes, I focus on his breathing and how I can feel his heartbeat, right against my ear, its simple but vast reassurance. I fall asleep along with him, listening to his heart, and I fall asleep so easily too.

All I had to do was let go—I didn’t lay there and think about the past and all the things I worry could change in the blink of an eye.

And it’s the most peaceful sleep I’ve had in years.

Notes

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