blue (book one) - h.s. ✔️ watty's 2019

chapter 14

Harry has been quiet ever since we arrived back. The little conversation I tried making in the car, was interrupted by his turning up the radio. A very rude action.

I love hanging out with Harry. I truly do. He's exhilarating, but if he's going to be rude, I do not wish to be on the receiving end.

"Would you like me to warm up your soup?"

Silence. Instead of responding to my question he grabs the remote to the television and turns it up.

"Harry?" I ask a little louder, irritated by his actions.

"What?" he growls.

His voice startles me. Initially, I want to shout, challenging him, but I stay quiet. My thoughts surprise me, but the feeling is lessened every time. I do end up warming both our soups, and place his right in front of him, on the coffee table.

His expression is unreadable as I glance from my peripheral. I consider speaking, but decide against it. If he wants to play this game, then so we shall. I take a seat sitting as far away from him as possible before digging into my soup. The liquid is extremely hot, but I ignore the burn after tasting it. It's so good! The liquid continues to burn my lips as a flashback of Monica's 'bigger' years plays.

We continue like this for two entire episodes of FRIENDS before I start into a fit of coughs. I must've sipped the liquid too quickly.

"Why must you always be so difficult?" His voice resonates, low and harsh. The bass in his voice shocks me as the cough gets unruly. Regardless, I can tell he's referring to my actions from earlier - whatever they may be -, and not my coughing spell.

His eyes are on me intently as I make a slow recovery. They soften after a moment, and he pulls me in his arms, rubbing my back gently.

"Thanks," I mutter, breathing heavily.

He gets up from the couch and for a second I think he's leaving.

"Where are you going?" I say rising.

"Sit," he orders. I quickly oblige. At least he's talking.

His steps are graceful as he enters the kitchen. I hear him rustling around and I tense up. The sound continues for another few minutes before I feel inclined to get up, worrying for the clean condition of my kitchen.

Right on cue, he comes back with a cup of steaming liquid - tea?

"Here. Drink," he orders.

I take the cup of green tea from his hands, our fingers brushing during the action. With small, hesitant sips at the hot liquid my attention is cautiously on his slender figure. He moves to his same spot on the couch, returning to his stony position.

"Are you still mad?" I ask hesitantly, after a couple sips of my drink. The tea burns my tongue, but the singe is bearable.

"No."

His response is curt. His face is still casual, facing the television not paying attention to me. He begins biting his bottom lip an action I've noticed he does when he's thinking.

"Are you still not talking to me?"

"I am now, aren't I?" His tone is harsh despite his calm demeanor. I wince. He has changed positions on the couch now slightly facing me yet still not looking at me.

"May I ask why you were mad?" I ask, avoiding eye contact.

"I wasn't mad at you, okay? I was mad at myself for getting mad at you," he claims, rubbing his temples: honesty surprising me. His eyebrows are scrunched together as he makes his next couple of moves.