REDAMANCY [h.s. au]

21

*some mentions of poor mental health

"I want to make love, but my hair smells of war and running and running."
- Warsan Shire

⭑Holland⭑

I keep finding myself here.

And by here, I mean, standing on Harry's doorstep. Not forced-willingly here.

I try not to delve into the abyss of my mind and what that might mean because I don't think I'm ready to confront that yet. The growing beam of light that started as the tiniest flicker, so dim you'd probably miss it, has become a permanent fixture to me, however much I try to douse it.

And trust me, I do try to douse it-turn off the switch, put a blanket over it. Anything to get rid of it.

I replay the evening Harry left me with tear stained cheeks over and over. My attempt at keeping the disdain for him alive. But then I remember the gentle way he held my chin with his hand and wiped the makeup off my face, the way his eyes go all soft when he spots me, the way he kissed me last night in a way that's going to screw me up forever. And it's hard to hate him.

I've become so accustomed to running away from any semblance of affection, scared that it'll turn me into a naive fool again. But fuck, I despise how much I like it when I receive it from Harry-the little touches and glances. It's turning me into someone I thought I shed the skin of years ago.

So I knock on the door with piercing hesitation, not enjoying the way my heart is shaking and clawing at it's confinement so I try to shove that feeling to the side and focus on the footsteps I hear approaching.

Soft green eyes. A loose curl that's escaped. Pink lips that tug to the left. A small towel draped over his shoulder. Light wash jeans that hang loose. Vintage Beastie Boys t-shirt. Arms with scattered tattoos.

That's what I see when the door opens up and the most delicious smell wafts all the way out from the kitchen.

"You're here," he remarks with a smirk that looks like it's fighting hard to not become a full blown smile.

"I'm here." I'm here.

He gestures for me to come in and I have to bring my gaze downward while walking past him. "You look beautiful, by the way," he says clearly and brightly.

I tried not to spend too much time on my appearance, because it's not a date. So my hair is down and natural. I didn't do anything special with my makeup(maybe a little extra mascara, but let's not count that), and kept my clothes simple and covered up, although that's how I showed up to his place last night and look where that ended-unclothed and having the most satisfying orgasms I've had in longer than I'd like to admit.

I shake my finger at him. "None of that! You can't compliment me on my appearance. It's not a date, remember?"

He rolls his eyes. "Sorry, sorry! I'll be on my best behavior," he replies, standing tall and straight.

His long legs stride in front of me, walking into the kitchen so, naturally, I follow. He's got a chopping board out and a knife, something in the oven that smells amazing, and a half empty glass of red wine on the counter.