Reckless {HS}

twenty-eight

Harry's Pov

I'm in the kitchen, the smell of fresh eggs and bacon filling the air. Mum's by the stove, her back to me, humming that soft tune she always used to. For a moment, everything feels peaceful, just like it used to. The light pours in through the small window above the sink, warming the tiled floor beneath my bare feet.

"Mum?" I say, stepping closer.

She turns her head slightly, her hair falling over her shoulder, and gives me that smile—the one that always made me feel like everything would be okay. But I know what's coming next. I know, and my chest tightens.

Footsteps. Heavy, familiar footsteps.

Dad walks in, his face as hard as stone. I can feel the tension already before he even says a word. He never liked it when she hummed. Said it got on his nerves, that it was pointless noise.

"Shut up," he growls, and I see her stiffen, her hand pausing mid-stir over the frying pan.

I move closer, instinct telling me to protect her, but I know it won't change anything. I've stood here so many times before, trying to shield her from him, and each time, it's been the same.

"Leave her alone," I mutter, my voice low, barely louder than a whisper, but he hears it.

He always hears it.

Dad glares at me, his eyes cold, unforgiving. "What did you say, boy?"

I step between them, my heart pounding, and stand tall, even though I'm shaking inside. "I said leave her alone."

His fist clenches, and before I can react, he's pushing me aside. Mum's too quick, though. She turns, her voice trembling but still calm, still trying to protect me, like she always did. "It's alright, Harry. Go to your room."

No. No, I can't leave her like this. Not again. "Mum, I—"

She gives me a look, one I can't argue with, one that breaks my heart every time. "Go."

My throat tightens, and as I turn to leave, I hear him yelling at her, hear the sound of something breaking. I want to run back in, but I know how this ends. It always ends the same.

I wake with a start, heart racing, sweat dampening the back of my neck. For a moment, I'm still in that kitchen, still feeling like a helpless kid. But then I breathe, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The smell of something cooking hits me, and for a second, I'm confused, thinking I'm still dreaming.

I get up, running a hand through my messy hair. It takes me a moment to piece it together. Delilah. The safe house. The boys. I push myself out of bed, the lingering ache of the nightmare gnawing at the back of my mind as I follow the scent to the kitchen.

Delilah's there, standing by the stove with her back to me. Niall, Louis, and Liam are already at the table, eating, their sleepy expressions a mix of confusion and amusement.

"Morning," she says brightly when she sees me, her smile far too warm for this early.

I rub the back of my neck. "You made breakfast?"

"Yep!" She nods enthusiastically. "Just trying to be nice."

"You didn't have to do that," I mumble, feeling strangely off-balance by the whole thing.

"I wanted to," she replies, her tone light, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Niall gives me a look over his plate, raising an eyebrow. "She's nicer than you, mate."

Louis smirks. "Way nicer. Should keep her around more often."

I shake my head, not really in the mood for their teasing, but I can't help but glance at Delilah again. She's still smiling, like none of this is strange to her—like she's completely unfazed by everything.

For a second, I think back to my mum.