May [H.S]

29

Harry
•••

SEATTLE

5 AM

Petit à petit.

The sound of rain eventually simmered away through the night, nothing but the wind to rock the building, hammering at the floor-ceiling windows. The scent of dewy, humid fog glided alongside the quietness of the night.

I was swept up in daze rather quickly, lulled by the pressurized warmth of her body, tucked into my chest and filling the bed beside me. She'd fallen asleep on top of the bedspread, her skin nearly feverish and hot to the touch, radiating. Lucidness drifted in and out from the moment she climbed into the bed, my mind too loud to ever achieve that deep, soundless sleep.

As the cold crisp sheets call out at me, I'm once again ripped from the fuzzy nothingness. My hand naturally gravitates to the place where it knows she's supposed to be, and what's left of my drowsiness is ripped from me as my fingertips register the bed is empty on her side.

The medium blue surrounding becomes clearer, and my ears are the next to engage, hearing what sounds like shuffling in the next room. Squinting my eyes, I glance at the alarm clock next to me, reading the blurry red lettering and feeling my heart skip a beat. Only slightly getting up from the bed, I realize the light from the other room is creeping from under the door. It's too early for whatever the fuck is going on.

"Meg," I grumble out, exhaustion yanking down the tone of my vocal cords.

I debate my options as my eyes fail to adjust, stuck on the shadow dancing across the bit of light that spilled onto the floorboards. My legs untangle from the firm tucked edges of the sheets, and my head hums in exhaustion.

The carpeting in the next room shuffles and I wince as the door is pushed open, invading the dark room with a bright warm light. Squinting through the burn, I examine her from between my parted fingers. Too tired to bargain with her to shut the door and spare my corneas.

Meg stands in the illuminated doorway, soaked in expression. She's red in the face, sickly red. Something I can't quite put a finger on is off about her demeanor, she'd slept and woke up on the wrong side. Glistening with dewy sweat-lined skin, she furrows her brows at me, sporting a head of disheveled waves.

Standing there, seemingly out of breath, I get the feeling she wants something from me, a reaction or a slew of questions. I'm far too tired to be anything but confused.

"You are so full of shit." Her tone cuts through me even from the other side of the room, and I fail to hide how frazzled I sound with my reply, speaking loud enough so she can hear me, "What?"

An empty laugh vibrates from her throat, and the rasp alone tells me how drained her body is, even if her face didn't look the part. Her response to my confusion only undermines me, leaving me twice as disoriented as before. Meg's expression does a fine job of kicking me while I'm down.

She breathes, and I sit up from the bed, "It was fucking hot in here, and I wanted water. Then, I thought," Meg pauses, her hand placing firmly on the bit of her chest below just under her collar bones, a flushed shade of crimson. I can tell her skin is burning up merely by the way it reacts to her palm. "The gun, you told me you'd leave it here." Her face crinkles in annoyance with her words and I stare at her dumbfounded, which only pisses her off further.

I think back to earlier in hopes to try and deescalate whatever fire is swindling out of control in her mind. Racking my brain and retracing the now hazy memories from earlier and before we left for the night– I remember every bit of our conversation, the traded silliness as she tried on sweaters, and the events that led up to now.