weapons † hs [two]

7. just like old times

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this one might be my favorite manip... it looks so real! don't they look cute?

A deep, uneasy feeling rumbling in my gut causes me to stir in my sleep, tossing and turning in the sheets. Barely squinting, I discover the morning light shining through the transparent curtains, illuminating the room, the faint luminosity warming me from behind.

I'm facing Harry, or rather the pillow I placed between us as a cover when he tried to put his arm around my waist in the middle of the night, his hand gripping the pillow right where my protruding stomach would be.

I revel in this moment to appreciate him in this calm, simple state. As the sunlight carefully strokes his face, Harry appears youthful and peaceful in his sleep, everything from the sadistic habits he was charged for to all the stress of our lives stripped away. He, in this moment, is solely my boyfriend cuddled and dreaming under the covers beside me.

He's resting his chin on the edge of the pillow, probably thinking it's my shoulder, with a lazy smile tugging his lips and subtle snores resonating from him.

When sleeping next to Harry got taken away from me, I remember waking up in the middle of the night sometimes and just bawling, longing for his warm presence beside mine. It's such a plain thing to ask for, but I can't hide the bubbling inside of me that now we're actually here together.

The bliss comes to a rapid end when I realize that bubbling feeling has made its way up my throat; in actuality it's my morning sickness banging on the door for me to unload.

Fumbling out of the bed, I scurry to the bathroom across the hall and lock the door behind me as to not disturb anyone, immediately falling to the floor next to the toilet and gripping the expensive seat, puking.

After a few final coughs, I sit back on my knees and flush the toilet, the back of my hand wiping the dribble from my face as I inhale deeply in attempt to relax myself.

I was told that the morning sickness would diminish as the second trimester came around, and so far, that's not the case for me.

My hand lifts up the thin fabric of Harry's old t-shirt and I peek down at my stomach, carefully placing my palm over the contorted bullet scar from when I was shot, right over the baby.

It's been two days and I still don't know how to begin telling Harry about it or have any idea how he'd react to an actual baby that is ours.

Reluctantly thinking of his violent, careless past, he just seems like the type of person who would never want kids, so why would he want one even with me?

No matter what, it's his, and he needs to know. Maybe today, if we finally get to spend an evening just the two of us, we can have that serious conversation about us and where things left off, and I'll let him know then.

Once he's aware, we can either resume our relationship right where we left off, or we could be broken up for good.

Rising from the floor, using the countertop for support, I wash my mouth and my hands, tiredly returning back to my room, abruptly gasping and clutching a hand to my chest when I find Harry awake and sitting up. Flexing his body as he stretches, the tattoos on his glistening skin draw in my attention.