Bad Friend

36. Late Nights

"Hey, what are you still doing up?"

I turned around to face where Harry was standing at the foot of the staircase and shrugged. "Just couldn't sleep."

Harry took that as an invitation to come closer. He joined me on the couch, pulling me into his lap while I continued to sketch. He didn't ask me any more questions, didn't tell me I should stop, just held me while I continued working in my sketchbook, kissing my neck occasionally and humming along to the music playing from my phone.

"I like this one," he said softly, his breath fanning across my skin.

It was another attempt at a frame tattoo. This one had a purple base decorated with flowers, tree branches, and a full moon that had a soft glow around it. I liked it too, but like the countless others that came before it, something about it felt off.

"It's okay," I said, debating on whether I should try to fix whatever was bothering me about the sketch or move onto a new one.

That decision was taken away from me entirely when Harry plucked the sketchbook out of my hands. "I hate when you do that," he said. "You undersell your talent sometimes, and I have no idea why."

"I don't, it's just—"

"Just these ones, I know," he finished for me. He pressed a lingering kiss to my temple, making me relax against him. "Truth?"

"Of course."

"I...I don't think you'll ever make one that you think your father will be proud of. Like I think you're always just going to be chasing that approval from your father."

Well that was definitely food for thought. I didn't know what to say to that, so I just didn't say anything. Harry had a point, and I think deep down I always knew that I would never be satisfied by any of the sketches I did, but even knowing that, I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to stop doing them. Sketching these frame tattoos was like second nature to me. I did it late at night when I couldn't sleep, I did them in between tattoo appointments, I did them on plane rides when I flew to wherever Harry was. It was something of an obsession, and while I was better at keeping it in check, there were still times where I sketched until my hand cramped or my eyes got blurry. Harry was pretty good about helping me when I got like this, though. If he realized I still hadn't come to bed he would try and coax me upstairs or would hang out with me until I was finally finished. He would talk about random things or read a book aloud, and on rare occasions he would pull out his guitar and pluck it idly and sing softly, sometimes his own songs, sometimes not. It was sweet, and sometimes it made me wonder what I would do without him.

"Gwen? You still with me?"

"Huh? Yeah, I was just thinking," I said, blinking myself back into reality

"Tell me. Let me into that beautiful mind of yours."

"You sure? It can be a scary place sometimes," I said, but instead of recoiling from Harry and his request to know what was on my mind, I sunk further into him.

"Not to me. You should know that by now," he said, his hands gripping mine in our lap.

I did know, but hearing him say it always settled me. "I just think...I don't know, maybe I just feel closer to him if I keep trying to...to please him or something."

"He would be so proud of you, baby, but you could also honor your dad's memory in a way that doesn't completely drain you or isn't so obsessive."

Turning around so I could look at him, I took his face in my hands and kissed him. "You're so wise for your age."

Harry chuckled and kissed my forehead. "My age? You're a year older than me. Barely."