favorite crime [h.s]

forty seven

Harry closes the door behind him when I flick the light switch to light up my hallway. I take off my shoes and place them on the floor next to the wall.

He's walking past me to head into the living room, but I catch his arm and turn him around. I almost smile at the fact that my place feels comfortable enough for him to walk around like he's at home.

I wish he could see what I'm seeing, because his face looks like a battle field. The blood has already dried on his cheek and there are a few traces of blood all over his skin.

I'm shocked the people in McDonald's didn't call the cops on him.

"Let me clean your face." I place my hands on his shoulders. "Please," I add.

"If it means that much to you." He runs a hand through his hair and suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, I can tell.

"It's for your own good, c'mon." I grab his hand and take him into the bathroom. He sits down on the closed toilet seat.

With a warmly damped towel, I dab over his face carefully, ridding the dried blood from his skin. It's the most difficult at the spots where his skin cracked into little cuts, and I'm careful not to hurt him.

I glance at his eyes to find him staring at me.

Blood creeps into my cheeks as I look away and focus on his wounds. "Stop staring at me," I whisper with a grin.

"Why? I like looking at your face."

"It's distracting." I bring my hand up to his chin and turn his head to the other side.

Harry grins as if that was his plan all along.

"I'm right back." I hurry out of the bathroom and into my kitchen to grab a bag of frozen blueberries from the freezer. It's the closest thing to an ice bag I could find.

Harry hasn't moved an inch when I return. I get his full attention the second I enter the room.

I hold the cold bag against his face to ease the bruise on his cheek. He flinches a bit due to the cold, and his eyebrows draw together. It looks brutal and I'm glad he didn't get injured any worse. He can be so careless sometimes.

As glad as I am that Harry prevented Blake from hurting me physically, I hate to see him get hurt. I don't think he would have stopped, hadn't he been dragged away by the security guards.

"Hold this." I wait for him to take the bag before I let go of it.

"Are you mad at me?" He keeps his eyes on me, the corner of his lips tugging up a bit.

I smile at him reassuringly. I grab a bottle of wound antiseptic and damp it on a cotton pad. I dab it on the cuts, and all he does is close his eyes. I whisper, "Just a little worried."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to take care of yourself and I don't think you're doing that," I respond.

I can tell he doesn't get my point by the way his smile widens.

"I think you forgot that I'm in the Mafia, babe," he declares. "For all we know, I could be dead by the end of the next heist." His hands have found their place on my hips, gently swaying me back and forth.

"Don't say that."

"We both know it's true," he's quick to reply, keeping that unbothered expression upon his face. "It's new that someone cares about my safety, but I can't promise that I'll do the same."

"I hate you for this," I murmur, looking down as I fiddle with the pendant of his necklace.

"Don't make that face," he chuckles, holding the side of my face with his free hand.