Pretty Boy // H.S

5.

TW: while this is a light hearted story, this chapter will have conversations surrounding emotional abuse. it's brief, but i just wanted to warn you in case it makes you uncomfortable.

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Harry

Joni didn't want her gift.

To my surprise, as we arrived at the hotel room, my lips darting across the skin of her exposed neck, her hands pulled mine away and she paced around the room instead. When I tried to ask what irked her, I was only met with one word responses or sentences that didn't quite string together. I quickly accepted that this was a panic attack, the tell-tale signs all too familiar to me. Symptoms I'd both experienced and witnessed happening to loved ones first hand. A bomb I knew how to diffuse.

In the car, for the most part, we were comfortable, exchanging words of seduction, hands caressing each other's skin. Then, as I touched her leg, I noticed her body tense. The muscles contracted and suddenly her breathing became jagged. Just ghosting my fingers along the area caused her hands to shake. She claimed she was just tired, had too much wine, but when I slowed down the symptoms still remained.

She received a call as we walked through the doors of the hotel, and that's when it all changed. Joni stepped aside for a moment, but I watched her across the room. Her eyebrows were knitted together, fingers pinching at her lips, foot bouncing on the floor. Abruptly, the call ended, and she remained in her place for a few minutes. She brought her head to lean against the wall, hands either side, and I noticed how her chest heaved with every breath.

As I approached, she tried to hide her condition, but I knew it wouldn't be something she could easily control like that. In the elevator, I grasped her hand, bringing it to my lips in a subtle gesture of affection, but I could tell behind her eyes that it was a futile attempt. I kissed more of her skin, her shoulders, her neck, her cheeks. Nothing seemed to calm her unstable mind while we waited to arrive at her suite.

Stepping inside, her belongings were thrown across the floor, and her feet brought her straight to the bar. Some more champagne had been placed there in our absence, but I knew the bottles would be empty by the morning. It's a habit that many take up in moments of worry, defeat. I could tell the minute she poured her first glass how broken she felt. Whatever conversation had occurred on the phone, it clearly destroyed her. I still struggled to read her, though. I couldn't quite place the kind of pain behind her eyes. In some moments I considered it to be despair, others felt like guilt, then in the odd few minutes of silence I'd understand some of it to be remorse. Remorse at herself. Remorse at something she had done, or rather, what she hadn't done.

In the car it became clear that the encounter with her work colleague under the table had made her uncomfortable, and I wanted to speak with her first before we continued with our sexual relationship to make sure she was alright, but this was different. Something bad had happened and she blamed herself.

We sat on the balcony for a while, myself trying to distract her weary mind from whatever thoughts plagued it. I brought up the dinner, how wonderful she did and the fact that one of the board members wanted to hear her out. I mentioned the behaviour of their wives, and how much they clearly enjoyed the break in conversation when I called out Ben. I recalled the tastes of the food and drinks, a luxury I'd rarely consumed in my life. But nothing helped.

After some time, she made it clear that business wasn't something she wanted to discuss, and I didn't question it. She said she wanted to keep business and pleasure separate, felt that the lines were already blurring and she just needed a break from everything. Though her words stung slightly, an ache that I couldn't quite explain, I accepted them. I was here as an employee, after all. Here to make sure her week goes smoothly and to distract her with my body. That is my job. But somehow, throughout the past 24 hours, I seem to have detached myself from that. I seem to be forgetting that I'm here for a reason other than because I want to be, because I enjoy her company.