Little Bird [-hs]

007 - older

Trigger Warning:

Police (mention)

NAOMI

There's a sunbeam painted across my face. I squint and throw my arm over my eyes. The light is relentless, and with it comes an uncontrollable rush of thoughts. Everything hits me at once. I shoot up and look around.

I'm at Harry's apartment. His blanket knots itself around my legs. I kick it off and plant my feet on the freezing floorboards. I'm still wearing my jeans. The wires in my bra dig into my chest. I adjust the straps and wince.

I don't know what time it is, but the way the light is piercing through the window, I would guess that it's late morning. I hear the kitchen sink running, dishes clattering against each other in brilliant cacophony. I close my eyes and grip the edge of the mattress. The unrest in my head only builds. Thought by thought, my mind drags me back into that horrible dark room, and the ropes of the boxing ring dig into my back. Before it goes too far, I open my eyes, stand up, and storm into the kitchen.

Harry's standing over the sink in a ratty white shirt and plaid boxers. He tosses a wet plate onto the drying rack. It clinks against some other drying dishes. He turns off the faucet and attempts a welcoming smile. "How're you feeling?" He asks.

I glance over him, the most I've seen of his skin. His arms choke with tattoos. They strangle his wrists and leak onto the backs of his hands. The hem of his underwear ends taut against his thigh. A few tattoos creep along the edge, hidden mostly by the thin, plaid fabric. The glance ends at his bare feet, and then snaps back up to his eyes. He smirks.

"Get a good look?"

My face goes hot. I turn on my heel and dart into the bathroom. Stupid. That was so so so stupid.

I turn on the sink and pace the tiny room. Why would I look? Why did I let my eyes linger that long? I'm sick. This guy is blackmailing me. This guy pinned me to the wall last night. I don't want to think about the other reason that I shouldn't. I don't want to think about it. Stop it, Naomi.

I stop pacing, and my hands grip the edges of the basin. The water looks so nice. I splash some over my face. My heart rate slows back down, but the sick, twisting feeling in my gut doesn't go away. It settles deeper and makes itself at home. I turn off the sink and leave the bathroom. He's still standing there, the flirtatious expression replaced with a blank face. "Are you doing okay?"

I ignore the question, looking past him. "Do you have food?" He waits for me to look him in the eye. My gaze hardens, and he gives in. He grabs a spotted banana and a peanut butter bagel from the counter.

"Thank you."

"Mhm."

I go back to the living room and eat the food on my makeshift bed. After the first few bites, I hear the dishes start up again. It's a sweet and rich breakfast. The sun warms my back and bare arms. I finish the food and play with the edge of the worn plate. Small silver lines break through the ceramic glaze in a million messy webs where a utensil has scratched the surface. I pick up the plate and take it back to the kitchen. Harry glances over me, and then holds out his hand. I give him the plate, and he tosses it into the sink with the others. The stains that were on the walls are smaller, lighter. The pile of dishes has diminished. His hair falls over his face. His eyebrows arrive at a sharp point between his eyes.

"What are you doing?" I mumble.

"Cleaning."

I push my hands into my pockets and rock on my heels. "Harry, I need to go home."

He stops and wipes the back of his hand on his forehead, pushing his hair back. Then he squints over at me. "Yeah, okay."

My eyes widen. "Really?"