May [H.S]

12

Harry
•••

Ne pas étre dans son assiette.

"I'll never tell." He wiggles his brows at her teasingly, admiring the flushing glow of sex all over her features. A rosy scarlet on the bridge of her nose, and the mahogany tint to her normally honey-shade eyes. He knows the smittenness shows all over his face, in the comfort of themselves, he doesn't seem to care. "You know mine," She bites playfully, knowing the bat of her lashes will coax an answer from him. 

"The whole of Oregon knows yours, sweetness." Except, against her intuition, he fires back. More stubborn than she figured. This only tempts Meg, wanting a solid, thought-out response from him. Where she stands, she's certain she'll get one. He's wrapped around her finger.

Rolling onto his side, he loses the remaining space between their sweat-lined bodies, wiping his raven hair out of the way. Meg trains her narrowing eyes on him, admiring the dusting of stubble to the top of his plump, kissable lips. A grungy lukewarm cupped her in the center of the bed, the air reeking of lust– an afterthought. With such an accumulating high, there was bound to be a plummeting fall. And Meg could feel that low threatening her subconscious, she knew how dangerous that pit in her stomach was. For now, she ignored it, pulling on a smile.

"What does it start with... At least tell me that." Meeting him halfway, calm, almost to the point it was teetering on the edge of cold, she can feel her mood starting to disintegrate in the air. It's not anyone's fault, really. He falters his eyes ponderously, wondering if it's worth telling. Eventually coming to the conclusion, it is if she stops asking questions– looking into things he knows she shouldn't be.

"L." He says under his breath, regretting the fact he took away the mystery as her eyes light up, all curiosity as Meg hums, exhaling a thinking breath.

Watching her with tired eyes, he wonders why she collects herself up from the bed, her movements are slow, drenched in exhaustion. He thinks about creaking up himself and helping her into some fresh clothes, letting that thought float away as she does it herself.

Gathering some old, tattered hoodie from the floor, he recognizes it, knowing exactly who that piece of clothing belongs to. But as the memories of a certain blue-eyed girl with it on her person fade, he chooses to ignore them. Registering that she's shuffling through drawers for more than just something to wear, he pulls himself up from the cigarette-smelling sheets.

The mood is flipped on its head.

Knowing exactly what she's about to ask him, he speaks up, "I don't have any," The expression on Meg's face drops almost instantly, sending a rush of worry over his body. And hers, as the underlying panic steeps in, all the work of an unconscious craving in the back of her mind. "What do you mean you don't have any?"

The sharpness in her voice stings the back of his throat. Sighing, he fails to gather himself, "I'm out, and even if I wasn't I don't think you taking Oxy is the best idea— that shit's too strong." He pauses, genuine with his words, though, she doesn't care. Not right now, not at the height of her quickening pulse. "You scared me the other night blacking out like that— I thought you OD'd." 

He can't bear that thought, it's something that keeps him up at night. Being the cause of her ultimate demise, he wouldn't know what to do with himself if that even came close to happening. The other night awoke that unsettling realization in him.

"Cam, just shut the fuck up and give me the damn pills." Magnolia outbursts, staring daggers into the brown, barrenness of his eyes. He won't budge, and it's clear she doesn't see that. Continuing to emotionally force him under pressure.