weapons † hs [two]

11. it's ours

🚨
are you ready?

I step out of the bath after thirty minutes or so, changing into one of Harry's favorite old shirts I kept over some leggings. It's a pale yellow button-up with his last name embroidered on the front, which I wanted to surprise him with.

Neither Anne nor Harry are talking downstairs like I expected to overhear when I walk into the hallway, and I gather the two had finished and he might be waiting for me in bed. I hope he'll be up for telling me how it went with her over.

Knowing how everything started now and contemplating it in the bath, I plan to inform him just how proud of him I am for being strong with having these awful temptations in his head all these years and a wrongfully disappointed father.

He hasn't listened to those temptations in months with my support, and I want to let him know I appreciate it. It must take a lot of energy to reject the voices haunting his mind.

Though what I find when reaching the bedroom contrasts the tranquil scene I imagined of Harry laying there tiredly, ready to talk and beg me for a back massage.

All of my folded clothes in once organized piles are now scattered around the floor in a chaotic, wrinkled mess. My shoes that I hadn't even touched to unpack are sprawled all over, the luggage they were in flipped upside down.

The room appears to have endured a tornado while I calmly sat in the bath with headphones plugged into my phone just next door.

Then I notice a massive gnash through the wall above the headboard, scanning to find the culprit to be a plastic bottle sat on the mattress near my work phone that I left here. I tip toe over the mess to pick it up, finding my prenatal vitamins, putting the pieces together to my horror.

"Harry!" I wail, tossing the vitamins back on the mattress and hurrying downstairs, the house spinning as fast as my heart races.

I run into the kitchen, finding only Anne on a barstool with her head down.

When I slam my palms on the counter, she gapes at my panicking self.

"Anne, where is he?"

"He stormed out of the house minutes ago. I didn't see him take a coat so he has to be close. But the only thing open nearby is a bar—"

"He drinks when he's upset," I interject, scurrying over and snatching his coat to wear to Anne's disapproval.

"Caroline, don't. You know it's not safe for you to go out alone to a bar like this. Maybe he'll come back."

"Anne," I lean over from the front door to look at his mother, oblivious to the demons her son truly struggles with, "I need to find him."

Before he does something he'll regret, or that we can't move past, I have to talk to him.