“M’home,” Harry called, closing the front door behind him as he dropped his leather, brown shoulder-bag to the floor, toeing off his brown boots and situating them beside the bag, wedging between the little table set in the hallway. “Gorgeous? Are you here?”
“I’m upstairs. I’ll be down in a second, I’m just putting some laundry away,” he heard you call back, a smile forming on his lips as he adjusted the bandage tied around his wrist. The white material tight around his limb yet soothing against his aching and bruised and scraped hand, and he knew, that as soon as you stepped foot on the lower level of the house, you would go into full worry mode. Panicking about his injury and making sure he wasn’t doing too much work to cause more damage to his limb. “Do you have dirty laundry in your bag that you need me to wash? I’m washing some lights so, if you have any boxers you need cleaned, I can stick them in with my whites,” you added, your voice coming louder as you neared the top of the stairs.
“I’ve got a couple of boxers. And some socks I need washing. I’m running low, so, it’s pretty great that I’ve got a home trip now,” he teased, smiling as you poked your head around the bannister. His wrist out of sight as you took in his signature appearance – a white t-shirt covering his upper body with his black jeans tight upon his legs. His feet bare and you knew he’d be caught spraying his boots in an hour or so to make sure they weren’t giving off an odour.
“Hi, Peaches.”
“Hello, Gorgeous,” he grinned, his teeth bright under the light of the hallway. “How have you been?”
3 weeks prior, you had said your last goodbyes at the front of the airport in Dunkirk, the sun blaring down upon the two of you as you stayed lodged in his arms. Your small suitcase, matching with one Harry had back home, held tightly in your hands as you spent moments wallowing in just how comforting his arms were, reveling and storing in the idea to last you weeks without his presence.
“I’ve been good. A little bit bored without you here causing havoc and making a mess, but, it’s been quite peaceful without you,” you admitted, sending him a cheeky wink. “It’s good to have you back for the weekend though.”
“It’s good to be home for a few days,” Harry grinned, watching as your figure disappeared, the creak of the master bedroom floorboards telling him you’d entered the room to finish putting away the clothes. Freshly smelling clothes that he could smell distinctly from your path through from the kitchen and up the stairs. “Have I missed out on anything? I saw a few of your Instagram posts.”
“Ah, me and Gemma went out to a new restaurant in London and I must take you there now that you’re back,” you stated, your voice becoming quieter as Harry made a noise whilst rummaging through his shoulder-bag to pull a plastic bag filled to the brim of his dirty underwear and socks over the last 3 weeks. “You’ll love it. They’ve got pretty much every food to ever exist and they cook it delightfully.”
To take your mind off of Harry being away from you for months and weeks on end, Gemma had taken it upon herself to keep you occupied. To make sure you were eating and taking care of yourself and to ensure you were getting the right amount of fresh air – and she knew you had a tendency to keep yourself to yourself when Harry was away, busying yourself with activities around the house; tidying the bedrooms, repainting the walls if you fancied a change and rearranging the hanging frames of your families as well as a couple of photos of you and Harry, and you would always find yourself cleaning up Harry’s desk in his office to make sure it was kept clean and organised.
And taking you out for lunch or for an impromptu dinner one evening a week had become something common in Gemma’s life. A night where she got to have female company to chat and have drinks with to relieve the stresses upon her shoulders, as well as a night to catch up with friends and fill one another in on the week just passed.
And that one evening when you were feeling rough and in need of escaping the house that reminded you too much of Harry, she offered to take you for a drive around London until you found a place he two of you were willing to try out. Ready to tell those who had never tried it to before to try it out on time when they were on that side of the town.
And it was definitely a place you would take Harry too for a date on evening, as it gave of a vibe that Harry would see himself in.
“We should go out tomorrow afternoon. Go for a nice dinner and maybe spend some time in Hyde Park or something,” he offered, the bag hanging off his fingers belonging to his injured hand. As he heard the door upstairs close and a grunt as you shifted the laundry basket in your hands, he decided to make a quick run to the kitchen and get started on stuffing his dirty laundry into the washing machine. Your clothes already stuffed inside and waiting to be washed and smelling great with the wash coming to an end. “Speaking of Gemma, how is she?”
“She’s really good, yeah. Her and Michal are seemingly doing well in looking for a new apartment and her blog and magazine article writing is coming along really well,” you smiled, catching his figure walking into the kitchen, your eyes sub-consciously moving down to his bum; his jean-clad bum that seemed a lot more accentuated behind the denim material. A curve of his bum that you had never paid attention to, yet knew it never used to be as accentuated and as perky and peachy as you’d remembered. “You’ve been working out, haven’t you?”
“I have to keep in shape, you donut. But, I haven’t been working out much recently, no, why?” He wondered, crouching down and eliciting a soft groan from your lips. “Ah, that’s why. You’re starin’ at my bum again.”
“I can’t help it. I’ve missed it,” you grinned with cheekiness, setting the laundry basket upon the breakfast island. “Catch me up though. How is filming? When are coming back to the UK to film?”
“I think we’re scheduled to come back next weekend and start filming a couple of scenes in Dorset. Down by the beach,” he stated, his arm stuck into the washing machine as he pushed in his dirty boxers with your own clothes, the bag rustling around as he pulled the cotton material out each time he dipped his hand in. “You can come down and visit and stay in the hotel with me until I have to go and do some scenes some studio in Los Angeles,” he murmured, and you could hear the smile on his lips.
He loved Los Angeles. You couldn’t lie.
It was second home.
And it sent shocks of excitement through his veins when he reminded himself that he was heading somewhere that he loved so much, doing something he was enjoying with his entirety.
“That sounds fun. You love LA, so I’m sure it’ll be enjoyable for you. And Dorset sounds so enchanting. Being beachside and everything,” you grinned, walking over to his crouching position and running your fingers through his short hair – something you were still getting used too against your hands with the short strands being a lot softer and groomed better than his long locks – your eyes looking down at him as you watched his hand tuck into the plastic bag. “We could have some date nights on the beach, couldn’t we?”
There was something about the idea of taking late night walks along the shore, the lights along the roads and the pier lighting up your path as you took steps across the sand, rocks and shells sharp beneath the pads of your feet. Your hand lodged into his with your fingers laced with his as he took it upon himself to swing your arms between you. Light chatter forcing itself into the comfortable silence as you spoke about pretty much anything that came to mind – and usually it was him running lines that he remembered from his scenes the next day or his wonders for how home life was without him whilst he was busy doing something he was new in or even questions aimed to him as you became curious about how he was finding his new and slight change in careers to keep himself occupied on the hiatus from the band.
“That we could do, for sure,” he grinned, throwing his last pair of dirty socks into the washing machine, before balling up the plastic bag. “I should have a couple of days off too so I can introduce you formally to the crew and get you to meet Tom Hardy, like you wanted, and- Oi,” he grumbled, rubbing his head as he looked up, bewildered by your sudden outburst. Your arm swinging down with a mixture of anger and shock as you looked towards his bandaged hand, your mind instantly going to the worst – the idea of his skin being impaled by something or his hand becoming sprained from a stunt he was too careless to think more into with the consequences.
“What the fuck have you done to your hand?” You gasped, hearing him sigh as he stood from his place in front of the washing machine. His knees cracking from the air between his bones as adjusted his jeans and pulled them more comfortably upon his hips. “Peaches, what did you do? Why didn’t you tell me what happened? Are you badly injured? Was it during a stunt? Is it broken?”
“Hey, hey. I’m fine. Well, my head isn’t okay because you’re just knocked my brain about, but, it’s just a bruised scrape on the heel of my hand,” Harry smiled, turning on his bare heels and running his hands up and down your forearms – one hand soft and smooth and warm and one hand rough and bandaged and cold against your skin – his lips pressing against your forehead. “Don’t worry about it. I was just advised to keep it on for a couple of nights to make sure an infection doesn’t happen and to make sure it’s not properly damaged,” he explained, looking at his hand before looking to you. Your attention focused fully upon his injury.
“Why wasn’t I informed about this though? You tell me everything,” you grumbled, sighing as you stepped away from his hold and reached up for his arm. His hand being brought down so you could look closer at the covered up injury, your fingers tracing over the bandage. “How did you do it?”
You couldn’t help but think of the worst.
“It wasn’t even doing my own stunt, honestly,” he muttered, his cheeks being coloured in with pink, heat rising to his face as he avoided eye contact with you, staring down at his toes. “It’s so embarrassing.”
“Harry, what did you do? Wait, did you cramp up again? Were you wanking again?” You questioned, looking at his wiggling and ringless fingers. “I swear to God, Harry. One day, you’re going to properly cramp up and it’ll stay in that one position,” you grunted in amusement, a snort leaving his mouth.
He’d been caught multiple times in the past with cramps in his hand, the same area of his hand always cramping up, his boxers at his ankles. And the boys got a kick from it when it happened on tour – multiple times on tour, much to his dismay – hearing his grunts and uncomfortable groans leaving his room after a night where he’d spend it to himself with his laptop, his earphones and a bottle of clear liquid they had seen in his hand a few times in the past.
And you had caught him too, being the one to massage the cramp from his hand just to have him go back and cramp up again because he knew you weren’t in the mood to have sex. His cock seemingly hardening on and off throughout the day, and his only option was pleasing himself as best as he could in the bathroom.
“You’re joking, right? And no. I was not wanking. I did this on set, and I would never wank on set. Not even in my trailer,” he admitted, looking up from his feet. “I tripped over a chair when I rushed to get into place for the next scene and fell and I grazed my hand on the concrete as I fell to the floor,” he murmured, embarrassment lacing with the words that rolled off of his tongue.
A bellow of laughter leaving your lips as you brought his injured hand to your lips, pressing your lips to the piece of skin on his hand above where the bandage stopped, peppering soft kisses up his fingers before you dropped your head against the back of his hand. The bandage smelling of antiseptic and giving himself a Keith Lemon sort of vibe that had your mind amused and a giggle occasionally leaving your lips.
“I didn’t think it was worth telling you about, Gorgeous.”
“Harry, I’m your girlfriend. If you get injured, I should know,” you mumbled, looking up at him, his green eyes looking at you as he watched you fuss over his hand. “Are you okay? Go and sit down. You probably want a cup of tea and some biscuits. Go and sit and I’ll make you something and we can catch up,” you grinned, pressing up on your toes.
“I can do this, Gorgeous. I’m not dying or anything, and I don’t have a broken bone. I’m just a bit scraped up,” Harry stated, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you to his body. “I’m capable of making my own tea, I promise.”
But you didn’t want him to fuss around. He’d only just got home, and he looked drained and tired from the flight and you knew that all he wanted to do was relax and get comfortable in a pair of his sweats and a hoodie, with the hood pulled over his hair – his insecurity still lingering in his mind – and his sleeves covering his hands. Trying his bed to hide his bandaged hand and trying to brush the thought of his little accident out of his mind; yet he knew you’d be telling Gemma and his mother as soon as he fell asleep against your body, with informing the boys of the humorous story that they would get a kick out of when they next saw him.

“But, you have a poorly hand. I don’t want you damaging these perfect and fragile and very large hands that I love so very much,” you admitted, your lips inches from his own. Your flesh brushing against his smooth skin. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re home. Injured but still in one piece.”
“I’m surprising myself that I’m still in one piece honestly,” Harry chuckled, a snort-like laugh leaving your lips as you pressed your lips against his. A fresh taste of mint from his chewing gum – something he was always caught chewing when on a long haul flight – that was still sitting in his mouth. The smell of his Tom Ford cologne wafting up from his body, his clothes smelling vaguely of him with an aroma that you found yourself bathing in when you cuddled up in bed during the nights; the night when you’d begin to miss him more, your mind occupied through the day but empty by the night. “This movie is all stunt and gore and blood, and it’s impressive, but, I’m surprised I’ve got no broken bones or anything.”
“I mean, you broke the smallest bone in your foot just dancing on stage, so, yes. I’m very shocked too, especially after seeing the stunts you’ve been performing,” you teased, your fingers squeezing at his hips. “But, seriously. Go and sit down on the sofa. I’ve been recording your TV shows for you, and the new series of Family Guy started recently so, I figured I’d record that for you in case you didn’t know,” you grinned.
“I love you. I knew I loved you for a reason,” he stated.
“And here I was thinking you loved me for my personality.”

“I love you for many reasons, I promise. You just surprise me with different things every day, and it makes me love you even more,” he whispered, his lips pressed against your forehead. “I just love you so much, Gorgeous.”

Notes

Oh, my goodness. He did, he did hurt his hand and that makes me so sad. I just want to go and give him a hand massage and make sure he’s okay and not in any pain.