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Harry has been asleep all morning.
He didn't wake up to work out. Didn't wake up to shower. Didn't wake up to do anything. He's just lying here, on his stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow.
Abby has been awake since 8:00 a.m., and she's been staring at him for two hours.
He's usually up by six. Sometimes earlier.
She worries that he might've missed a lot of important things by now. She has no idea if he has meetings or specific places to be today. She doesn't know if he's ruined his schedule by being asleep so late.
Abby does know that she doesn't want to wake him.
They were up very late last night.
She runs her fingers down his back, let's them rove over the smooth muscles. She curls her body around his, rests her face against his back, her arms holding fast to his sides, she drops a kiss on his spine. She can feel him breathing, in and out, so evenly. So steadily.
Harry shifts, then rolls over in his sleep.
Abby knows they should probably get out of bed.
She sighs, hating to wake him up—he seems so tired—and turns around, slowly, in his arms. He only squeezes her to him, more firmly. "Come here," he husks.
He shifts so that his chin rests on her head; her face is now pressed gently against his throat, and she breathes him in, running her hands along the strong, deep lines of muscle in his arms. Everything about him feels raw. Powerful. There's something both wild and terrified about his heart, and somehow, knowing this only makes Abby love him more. She traces the lines of his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine.
He stirs, but only a little, and buries his face in her hair, breathing her in. Drops a kiss on top of her head. Croons, "Good morning, sugar."
"You slept for a long time," she tells him quietly, smiling dozily even though he can't see it.
He flips onto his back, arms stretched out at his sides. "Did I?" He grins, eyes still closed.
"'S already ten."
"One of the best sleep I've ever had." Dimples etch into his cheek as his grin spreads.
"Why do you smell so good?" he asks, still smiling, peeking at her through one eye. He leans in again, leaving sloppy kisses along her jawline, under her chin. "It's making me crazy."
"I've been stealing your soaps," she admits bashfully.
He raises his eyebrows at her.
"Sorry," she rushes out.
"Don't feel bad," he says, serious so suddenly, "You can have anything of mine you want. You can have all of it."
"Really?" she asks. "Because I do love that soap."
He smirks at her then. His eyes glimmer wickedly, devilishly.
"What?"
He shakes his head. Draws back. Slips out of bed.
"Harry—"
"I'll be right back," he promises.
She watches him walk into the bathroom. She hears the sound of a faucet, the rush of water filling a tub.
Her heart starts leaping.
Harry walks back into the room and she's clinging to the sheets, already protesting what she thinks he's about to do.
He tugs on the blanket. Tilts his head at her. "Let go please."
"No."
"Why not?"
"What are you going to do?" she challenges.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"'S okay, sugar," his eyes are teasing her. "Don't be embarrassed."
"It's too bright in here. Draw the curtains."
A laugh barks out of him. He yanks the covers off the bed.
She bites back a shriek, "Harry—"
"You are perfect," he says. "Every inch of you. Perfect," he assures. "Don't hide from me."
"I take it back," she cries, clutching a pillow to her body. "I don't want your soap—I take it back—"
But then he plucks the pillow out of her arms, scoops her up, and carries her away.
