Vice (H.S)

CHAPTER 23 - T.L.C.

It is only when I wake that I know I had fallen asleep at all. Harry croons from beside me, gently whispering as his fingers gently tuck wild rain-and-bathwater-soaked hair behind my ear.

"Can I help you to bed?" His dark, dry curls frame his face, a halo of gentle waves. An angel.

Sleepily, I nod, once again feeling out of my body. My limbs are heavy, my fingers and toes pruny. The bath has grown lukewarm and the air chills my skin as I leave the water. Holding out his hands, Harry reaches for me and I blush. But meeting his eyes I see that his are gently closed, offering me privacy as I step, wobbly, from the bath and into the embrace of a dry towel. Once I am standing, he whirls around, closing the door behind him.

Something within me flutters to life, deep in my core. An unfamiliar feeling arises. I cannot name it, cannot put a word to the sensation flowing through me.

A stack of warm, dry clothes is laid out by the sink. A thick, wool fisherman's sweater. A large pair of striped cotton pajama pants. Some socks. The feeling strikes again, a chord echoing inside of me. I chance a look in the foggy bathroom mirror and nearly start at the girl I see in reflection.

She is radiant, rose-bud lips and wild hair and sleepy eyes. Who is she? Loved, doted upon, nurtured, protected. Safe. She is safe. And only then can I begin to understand the feelings unraveling within me.

Safety. Gratitude. Lust. Love.

I slip into the sweater, the heavy material scratchy but comforting on my skin. I'm warm in an instant. Wool is certainly more functional than cashmere. Something to get used to, I suppose. Something to wear away at my resolve until I am absolutely desperate for it, cannot live without it.

Leaving the bathroom, I tip toe across the hall. There's no need to sneak around, I know that. And yet the knowledge of being in someone else's home is enough to send a quiet thrill through me. There are doors in every direction, so I don't know what compels me to enter this room in particular. But something draws me in. And when I enter, I know why.

The room is Harry's bedroom, it has to be. It smells like the forest. It smells clean, warm, soap and rich wood. The bed is made, hastily, hardly, pale linens draped across the form. The frame is wrought iron, centered on the wall between two windows. I bet he wakes with the sunrise.

If I thought the living room was filled with books, these walls are no different. In every direction the bedroom is full of poetry, romantic fiction, books on art and history. My fingers brush against colorful leather and canvas spines, resting on a stack of European travel guides. I pull two from the shelf, carrying them to the bed, pulling the covers back to rest.

I set aside Italy and begin with France, tracing the old photographs and flipping through the dog-eared pages.

"Winnie." Harry makes his presence known from the doorway and I look up, meeting his soft green eyes.

The way he says my name, it's like I'm hearing it for the first time. It's like something comes alive, some part of my brain lights up, some part of my soul awakens. When he says my name, when it leaves his mouth like a sigh, it's like he's speaking some sort of language only the two of us can comprehend. The way his lips move around the word. Winnie. It's all I want to hear. It's all I ever want to hear.

"Come, lie with me," I beg, part command and part gentle plea. And he listens, he obeys. He is too good to me.

"Reading anything of interest?" He slowly makes his way towards me, removing his wrist watch and setting it on the dresser. He works to roll his shirtsleeves up next.