Shakespeare | Harry Styles

Part X

It's four-thirty in the morning.

You notice the time passively. It's the least of your worries. You've been tossing and turning, in and out of sleep for the past couple hours. Harry is sprawled out across the mattress on his stomach. His legs are spread, arms outstretched. One hangs limply over your waist. He's facing you and his cheek is pressed against his pillow, lips parted, hair disheveled. You've been staring at him for twenty minutes, thankful that he hasn't woken up to your probing eyes.

He smells just as he always has when you finally shift into his body, settling your forehead against his shoulder and letting your eyes rest closed. His arm curls around you and you bask in the essence of him—the soft snores and rolling heat. You're not sure when you'll get to be this close again.

You're drawn across the mattress before you even know Harry's awake. He gathers you up in his arms as he rolls onto his side, pressing his lips into the top of your head.

"Should be sleepin', love," he rasps, pulling the blankets up around your shoulders. "Gotta drive home today, yeah?"

"I've been trying," you whisper against his chest. "I just can't."

"Need yeh to," Harry presses. His hand glides along your bare back—you've shed your shirt at some point. The gentle touch and soothing rumble of his voice are almost enough to lull you right into unconsciousness. "Can't have yeh fallin' asleep b'hind the wheel. Want yeh t'get home safe. Can yeh please try t'sleep fo' me, angel?"

Your cold palms press into Harry's abdomen and he hisses, reaching down to lift your hands. He brings them up to his mouth, warming them with his breath and feathering his lips over your knuckles. Then he returns them to his chest and layers his own hand on top.

"I don't wanna sleep," you whisper after a few moments. Your fingertips dance over where you know his tattoos are. "Time moves too fast when you're sleeping."

"Y/N, love." Harry breathes out a sigh and then yawns softly. "Need yeh t'sleep fo' me. 'M beggin' yeh. Wha' can I do t'help yeh sleep?"

"Can you sing?" you ask, nuzzling into his shoulder. "Or just hum?"

Harry nods and presses a kiss to your head. His throat vibrates as he picks up a low, familiar tune. You can't pin down what it is, but it's soothing, and you don't feel yourself falling asleep until you're unconscious.

***

Harry wakes you up again at seven o'clock. His hands brush your hair from your face and he peppers kisses over your cheeks.

"'S time t'go, love," he informs you in a quiet rumble. "Gotta be at the airport b'fore eight."

You hug the blanket around yourself as you sit up, reaching for Harry's shirt to hand it to him.

"Wear it t'day," he urges you, pushing your outstretched hand back toward your body. "Can keep it, too."

You swallow around the hard lump of loss that's already begun to form in your throat and crawl off of the mattress, pulling on your bra and a clean pair of pants. You tug Harry's shirt over your torso. It smells like him. His cologne has soaked into the material and you hope it never fades.

Harry folds up his blankets and shoves them into a duffle bag, along with his pillows. He's dressed now, in a pair of comfy sweatpants and a large hoodie. He zips the bag up and takes a spin around the room to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything.

You turn slowly. It looks so different empty. The bookshelf is bare, the desk wiped clean. All of his belongings were packed into boxes and shipped back home, except for the few bags he's taking on his flight.