Shakespeare | Harry Styles

Part IX

It's only two A.M. when you wake up on a Sunday morning in Harry's bed.

Today isn't just any Sunday. It's the last Sunday. It's the day that Harry leaves to start his life in England and you stay put. This is the day that an ocean settles on your relationship and the two of you start trying not to crack under its mounting pressure. The thought hits you like a ton of bricks.

It's mid-December, and if you squint, you can see the sparkle of snow falling just outside the window. Harry is wrapped around you, like usual. His body gives off just enough heat to shield you from the house's winter chill when he's positioned correctly.

"Yeh all righ', baby?" Harry asks when you shift in his arms, and his voice startles you into a gasp. You didn't know he was awake.

"Did I wake you up?" you ask after recovering from your surprise, twisting in his hold to face him. Harry's hand slips down your back to coax your leg around him and pull you closer.

"'S fine, love. Somethin' wrong?" His lips press a gentle kiss to your forehead while he rubs your thigh. "Yeh cold?"

"A little bit," you confirm. He tugs you ever closer, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and humming into your hair.

"Better?" he whispers.

It's been two weeks since one of the scariest days of your life. You've been far touchier than usual, you know, but Harry doesn't seem to mind. He satisfies your reaching fingers and puckered lips every time without complaint.

Harry's hands fist the material of his own t-shirt that adorns your body when you sponge soft kisses down the front of his throat. He swallows thickly under your touch.

"Want you," you mumble into his collarbone, tightening your leg around his hip.

"Y/N," Harry groans weakly. He twists to get a look at the clock beside the bed. "'S two o'clock."

"I know," you affirm with a sigh, pressing a kiss to his chin and then letting your fingers roam the thin line of hair along his jaw. "If you're tired, it's okay. We can just go back to sleep."

When you look up at Harry's face, his eyes shine in the dim light from the backyard. He shakes his head dismissively and leans in to give you a slow kiss. Your eyes flutter closed and your hand moves to cup the back of his head, fingers burying in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Breathin' like a beast," Harry mumbles against your lips with a chuckle. He cups your cheeks to separate your mouths and laughs harder, tugging his glasses from his face. "Fogged up m'glasses, love. Why d'yeh always do tha'?"

"Harry," you whine, sitting up on his torso. You've got his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel and you press your hands into the exposed skin.

"'M s'posed t'be helpin' yeh study fo' the final," he reminds you, setting his glasses on your desk and gripping your thigh with his other hand. "Tha's why yeh wanted me t'come over, yeah?"

"But I'm prepared!" you protest.

That was the original reason, you're sure, but you just can't keep your hands to yourself. Not when he's in a button-up and a pair of well-fitting dress pants. He had a dinner with his small creative writing class tonight.

"Are yeh?" he asks, biting down on his lip to hide a grin. "Who wrote 'bout double consciousness, then?"

Your lips part before snapping shut again. You know the answer. It's right there, at the front of your mind, but it won't connect with your mouth.

You groan in frustration, dropping your face into the crook of Harry's neck. He chuckles and wraps his arms around you in a comforting hug.

"'S all right, love," he assures you. Then he twists to let you fall onto the mattress beside him and sits up. "Let's get yeh studyin', though."