Harry Styles, a secret service agent working for British intelligence is tasked with finding the killer after a series of brutal but calculated murders across Europe. His mind is sharp, he's smart, arrogant and works with a precision that leaves no...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Winter
Harry's head was heavy on my chest when I woke up.
The morning light seeped into the room, a testament to the soft and golden February sun. It hit his cheek in a way that made his skin glow, the kind of light that enhanced the green of his eyes, showing the mirage of blended colours that I found myself staring into at every opportunity I had.
The bedsheets were down at our hips, but I wasn't cold. The warmth of him seeped into me like sunlight. The rise and fall of his breaths were slow, steady, and I matched my breath to his, our bodies moved in sync. He was calm, still resting and those steady breaths brushed over the curve of my shoulder, tickling my skin. His arm was draped over me, resting on my side, having slipped under the material of my shirt to touch my skin. Beneath the sheets, our legs were tangled together. He held me like he wanted to be closer, like this wasn't enough for him.
I didn't really remember falling asleep with him last night. Everything after finding him downstairs was a little blurry. Part of me was sure it had been a dream until I woke up in his bed, knowing I'd not been here at the beginning of the night. I'd been caught somewhere between shock and exhaustion, my body had been running on autopilot as soon as I was downstairs. I had no idea what time it was when I'd found him, but I knew it was the kind of hour where most people were in a deep sleep. I wondered if I'd fallen asleep first. I wondered if he'd lain awake for longer than me, if he'd thought about the conversation we'd had. Or if he had been drunk enough that he drifted off just as quickly as I did, if not before me.
But his position, the way he lay now, felt deliberate. His head rested on my chest, his arm draped heavily across my waist like he was afraid I might slip away if he didn't hold on tight enough. It didn't seem like he'd just rolled over and landed there. And if he'd been in that position before I was asleep, if I was aware of how he was laying I never would have been able to rest. Now, I didn't mind it. I enjoyed it. Because I knew he was resting, and I had too.
I must have missed the moment he moved. I'd been lying on his arm, I remembered that. He held me the way he always did when my thoughts were too loud to bear, when I let myself be vulnerable. Even after everything last night, he still made sure I was okay. He comforted me. He must have moved after then, shifted down until his head was on my chest, he'd wanted to sleep like this. Intoxicated, seeking something from me that he always knew how to give, but never received from me. The way I always wanted to lay with him, the way I did lay with him whenever I had something on my mind, because as soon as I heard his heartbeat beneath my cheek, and felt his arm wrap around my shoulder, all of my thoughts were silenced.
I rested my cheek on top of his head, letting my arm slowly move from my side to rest on his shoulder, only so I could feel his skin and each breath he took. I wanted to hold him while he slept as he always did with me, even when I convinced myself I didn't want him to. I wanted to be able to make him feel the way I did when I felt him rest his arm across my body.
