The Junk Drawer

unfaithful

Imagine laying on Harry's bare chest, smelling of sweat and his aftershave. Tracing the lines of his tattoos because he told you that it makes him feels invincible when you do that, like he can do anything because your touch is engrained in his skin along with the ink. He says nothing can go wrong when he knows he has you. That he can't be doing that bad if you're still around. His arms hold you to him, just dancing on the verge of too tight, like he thinks he might lose you. And he's not wrong, because soon enough you'll have to get in the shower and wash away all traces of him before you go home.

"Come back, please," he whispers, squeezing your hip and bringing you back to the present moment. Your finger easily finds its path again on his stomach, tracing the intricate patterns of the butterfly on his stomach like it has so many times before. "I want you here before you have to go again."

"Sorry," you quietly apologise, eyes flickering to the digital clock on the bedside table past Harry's shoulder. Somehow, he seems to sense this and reaches for it, turning it on its face so that the numbers can no longer be seen. You're shifted aside as Harry moves from beneath you and shuffles lower down the bed so that you're eye to eye. You know for a fact that his feet are now hanging off the bed.

"Stay a little while longer," he begs, cupping your cheeks in his hands. His rings are warm from having been pressed to your skin, but the weight of them, the solidarity of them pressing against your face is reassuring. "Please, baby. Stay with me."

Your eyes flutter shut so you don't have to stare into those swirling pools of green, all sad and pleading. This part breaks your heart every time, he knows that - but he makes it as difficult as possible whenever he can, because one of these he's hoping to break you, if only to have one night beside you. "I have to get back, you know that."

"No, I don't know that," Harry argues, his scowl audible. "What I know is that you're miserable, and what I know is that I make you happy."

"He's my husband," you whisper, voice trembling. "I can't do this anymore. This has to be the last time."

At this, Harry laughs - actually, genuinely laughs. Your eyes snap open in surprise that sound, zeroing in on the genuine amusement glittering in his eyes. His lips come down on yours and- oh, those lips. Those lips that kiss you so softly and sensually and with so much care and attention that they make you forget that there's a world outside of this. "You say that every time," Harry chuckles into your mouth, nibbling at your bottom lip before sliding his tongue across it to soothe the light sting. A moan leaves you as he does so, just as he knew it would. "He can't make you feel like I do," he whispers, his palms migrating from your face down to your neck, caressing over your shoulders and down your sides. Your body reacts to his touch even without your consent, your back arching into his body. "He doesn't make your body come alive like I do. He doesn't know where to touch-" A whimper leaves you as his fingers circle your belly button, curving dangerously low. "-or where to kiss." His lips suckle delicately at the hinge of your jaw, kissing down to the juncture at your shoulder. You can't even deny his bold words, because they hold nothing but truth. If your husband ever came close enough to try, he wouldn't know your body at all - not like Harry does. He probably doesn't even remember your favourite colour, let alone how to make you moan.

"Leave him," Harry breathes, breath tickling your skin. "Leave him for me."

But as much as your chest hurts and every breath feels like it takes all of your energy, you push away from the warmth of his embrace and scramble from the bed before he can tug you back.

"I'm sorry," you repeat as always, truly meaning it although it has more than likely lost all meaning to Harry by this point. Your hands clench into tight fists that leave deep crescents in your palms as you twist on your heel, making your way to the bathroom - Harry's bathroom. You don't look back to see the wounded look on his face as he sits there staring after you, lost and alone.