Harry:
The rain softly tapped against the window, a steady rhythm that mirrored the heaviness in your chest. You sat curled up on the couch, knees tucked tightly to your chest, trying to hold yourself together. The grief had been suffocating all day, wrapping around you like a dark fog that wouldn't lift. No matter how hard you tried to distract yourself—scrolling through your phone, flicking through TV channels, even attempting to nap—it lingered, stubborn and unrelenting.
Harry hadn't left your side, sensing from the moment he'd walked through the door that this wasn't the kind of pain that could be fixed with words. Instead, he stayed close, quietly supporting you in the way only he could. He'd brewed you cups of tea, though most of them went untouched. He'd brushed stray hairs from your face and placed a reassuring hand on your knee when the tears silently streamed down your cheeks.
Now, he sat beside you on the couch, his green sweater soft and warm against the chill of the gray day outside. He didn't speak right away, giving you the space to process, to feel whatever you needed to. Finally, when he noticed the way your trembling hands clung to the blanket draped around your shoulders, he shifted closer, his voice a low, gentle murmur.
"Come here, love," he said, opening his arms.
You didn't hesitate, collapsing into his embrace like it was the only place you could truly breathe. His arms wrapped securely around you, holding you as if he could shield you from the weight of the world. The familiar scent of vanilla and citrus surrounded you, grounding you in the present even as your thoughts threatened to pull you under.
"It hurts so much," you whispered, your voice breaking as you buried your face in his sweater.
"I know," Harry said softly, resting his chin lightly on the top of your head. His voice was steady, soothing, a quiet reassurance that you weren't alone in this. "It's okay to feel like this, darling. It's okay to let it out."
As the tears came again, hot and relentless, he didn't flinch or try to stop them. Instead, he simply held you tighter, one hand gently rubbing circles on your back while the other threaded through your hair. He didn't rush you, didn't try to fill the silence with empty platitudes. He just stayed, his presence unwavering and safe.
"I wish I could make it go away," you choked out after a while, your voice muffled against him. "I wish it didn't hurt this much."
"I know you do," he whispered, his lips brushing softly against your temple. "And I wish I could take it all away for you. But you don't have to go through this alone, yeah? You've got me."
His words were simple, but they carried a weight that settled into your heart like a balm. He wasn't just saying them; he meant them, every single one.
Minutes passed, maybe even hours, and the storm outside seemed to mirror the one inside you—gradually softening, losing its edge. When your tears finally began to subside, you realized how tightly you'd been gripping Harry's sweater, your fingers clutching the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you afloat.
"I'm sorry," you murmured, pulling back slightly. "I've ruined your sweater."
Harry gave you a small, crooked smile, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. "You could cry all over my entire wardrobe, and I wouldn't care," he said. "It's just a sweater, love. You're more important."
His words brought a faint smile to your lips—the first in what felt like forever—and he noticed, his own expression softening in response. "That's better," he said, gently nudging your chin with his knuckles. "See? We'll get through this. One step at a time."
Later, as the rain eased into a light drizzle, he coaxed you into eating something small, sitting with you at the kitchen table as you picked at a piece of toast. He didn't pressure you to talk, but when you did, recounting memories and sharing the depth of your grief, he listened intently, offering quiet words of comfort when needed.
