Unlikely (H.S.)

forty*

~Harper~

A few hours pass and we're both still lounging on the couch. An uneasy feeling knots itself in my chest, refusing to fade. The warmth of our quiet moment on the couch lingers, but beneath it, something unsettled simmers—an awareness that everything between us is still so fragile. The fight, the hurt, the uncertainty.

You were up front with him, you aren't hiding anything anymore.

This is going to be okay now...

Harry is stretched out beside me, his head resting in my lap, his breathing slow and steady. At some point, exhaustion must have caught up to him, pulling him under. His curls are soft beneath my fingers as I absentmindedly thread them through his hair, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

It should feel peaceful. It does, almost. But the anxiety hums at the back of my mind, a persistent buzz that refuses to be drowned out. No matter how steady his breathing is, how solid his presence feels, there's a whisper of doubt coiled inside me, reminding me how precarious this still is.

What if he gets mad at me again?

What if I fall asleep again and wake up to him kicking me out?

Anxiety grows within me again, but I continue watching the mindless reality on the screen, exhaustion beginning to bloom.

I haven't slept well since I left...

My head tips against the back of the couch, and despite my best efforts to resist, my eyelids grow heavy, but I fight it.

Suddenly, I feel Harry begin to stir at my lap, his hands fluttering up and down my legs. His fingers lingering at the apex of my thighs. He pulls himself to his knees and leans down to kiss me, simultaneously pulling me up into him.

It isn't soft or innocent. It's pure, unadulterated heat.

Fucking hell, this is so hot.

He hasn't even said anything to me yet.

I can feel his hands grip my waist, his mouth trailing down my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin, sending a violent shudder through me. There's a desperation in his touch, the kind that steals breath, that makes the ground feel unsteady beneath me. My back hits the couch, and suddenly he's on top of me, pressing me down, fitting himself between my legs.

"Harper," he groans against my throat, voice thick with need. His fingers dig into my hips, holding me still as he rolls against me, slow and deliberate, igniting something electric in my veins. I arch into him, my own desperation clawing at me, needing more.

His mouth claims mine, hot and insistent, and I can taste the hunger in the way his tongue slides against mine, in the way his fingers tighten their grip. My hands claw at his back, dragging him closer, urging him on.

He grinds against me, and I swear I can feel everything—the rough friction, the sharp pulses of pleasure coursing through me. His breath is ragged, his hands relentless, his body pressing me deeper into the couch.

"I need you," I whisper, and his only response is a low, guttural sound as he pushes my thighs apart—

Ding dong.

The doorbell rings.

I jolt awake, my heart hammering, body still flushed with heat from the dream. For a second, I don't know where I am. Reality and fantasy blur at the edges, and it takes me a moment to remember: I'm on Harry's couch, he's still asleep, and I am very much not pressed beneath him in a feverish haze of lust.