Stitches

1.2

I woke up in a strange bed, my senses disoriented, blinking against the soft gray morning light that crept in through the half-drawn curtains. It took a few breaths, calm and slow, for everything to click into place. Harry's house. The memory of last night returned in fragments: the unease, the break-in, my fear—and Harry insisting I stay here. Now, in the muted daylight, it all felt surreal, like some half-finished dream.

The room he'd put me in was surprisingly warm, almost cozy in the morning light. Soft, muted colors on the walls, the kind of deep charcoal that made you want to burrow in and sleep forever, and the bed linens, thick and soft, smelled faintly of cedar and something minty. I sat up slowly, stretching and scanning the room as I rubbed the lingering sleep from my eyes. I caught sight of my bag, which I'd haphazardly tossed onto a chair last night, clothes spilling out in a rushed jumble. My cheeks flushed as I remembered Harry retrieving a T-shirt for me after realising I hadn't packed any pyjamas. 

Still, there was something unexplainably comforting here. Despite the fact that I was in Harry's space, it was surprisingly devoid of anything personal. No family photos, no trinkets or tokens, nothing that spoke to the person I felt drawn to yet couldn't quite figure out. I shook off the thought and pulled on a sweater, feeling the coolness of the hardwood floor under my feet as I tiptoed down the hall, following the faint aroma of coffee. I stumbled around what felt like a maze of a house, long corridors, with doors on every side. I wander around the corner to the staircase from last night, and guess that's my best bet at finding a way out. 

The stairs lead me down to a large open plan space, a space that looks vastly different in the morning. In the kitchen, Harry was there, already dressed, leaning over the counter as he poured coffee into two mugs, his face uncharacteristically soft in the morning light. His hair was tousled, his expression unreadable as he focused on the task, but he looked...different somehow, almost like someone else, someone more approachable, someone I didn't need to be wary of. As if sensing my presence, he looked up, arching a brow, his eyes widening as he looks me up and down, his mouth an unreadable straight line, his jaw tense.

"Morning," I greeted softly, my voice almost a whisper, though the word felt heavier, hesitant.

He looked surprised I'd made it this far without trying to leave already. "Morning," he replied.

"Thought you'd sleep in," he said, voice casual but with that ever-present guardedness. It wasn't the first time he'd caught me off guard, but this morning, it felt heavier, like we were both balancing on an invisible tightrope.

"Hard to sleep in a strange place," I replied, trying to keep my tone light. I was grateful he'd offered to let me stay, but the tension still clung to me, lingering from last night's events.

He slid a plate of toast across the counter toward me, adding another small mug of coffee beside it. "Eat" I was starving —but instead of starting in on the food, I found myself looking around his place in the daylight. It was different from the night before, revealing small touches I hadn't noticed: security cameras angled discreetly in corners, locks on every window, a high tech alarm panel by the front door.

For a minute, we just stood there in silence. I wanted to ask questions, but he was guarded, almost distant, the tension from last night still crackling between us. Instead, I looked around the kitchen, eyes tracing the cabinets and countertops, their polished surfaces somehow stark and unwelcoming. The silence stretched between us, uncomfortable and charged. I wanted to press, to ask the million questions I had to ask, but a sliver of caution held me back. Instead, I let my gaze drift around the room and caught sight of another painting mounted on the wall the far side of the counter, a swirl of colors that looked oddly familiar, haunting, like an echo of something from a dream.