Styles Towers.

Don't stop to smell the roses.

Start writing your story

Author's Note: Hey, hey!! Here is part 8. I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I have writing it. Xx

Warning: Rated M for Mature audiences.

|| Elise. ||

The warmth around my body leaves from being enveloped around me for most the night and I feel the comforter moving slightly from under my grasp.

My eyes open and blink a few times, gradually adjusting to being awake. I watch Harry's silhouette gingerly make it's way around the bed, his figure settling in front of the wardrobe, his hand wrapping around the handle before discreetly drawing the doors open, being vigilant to pull them in a certain way so they don't creak and wake me.

He's considerate like that, perpetually doing his best to be as placid as possible in the ungodly hours of the morning.

I watch his hands intertwine with the fabric of his t-shirt before he hauls it over his head and tosses it into the hamper for dirty clothes in the corner of the room. It's arduous not to admire him without a shirt on. It's as fascinating as it is sexy to see the shape of his muscles and the way they stretch and contract as he moves.

He lets out a heavy groan as he draws his shirt up his arms and brings the fabric to his front. His fingers work gradually to button the buttons from the bottom, moderately hiding the beautiful body and the few tattoos painted on his arms. He turns back towards the wardrobe and steps in and I lose him in the closet. I lie quietly, soaking up the warmth of the covers, continuing to admire my view—Nice ass—.

He turns back toward the bed to see how I'm doing and that's when he realizes I'm awake and he completely freezes.

"how long have you been awake?" Harry sounds as though he doesn't even recognize his own voice.

"A couple minutes," I speak softly, my voice a little raspy from being quiet overnight night. I can tell he can see it in my eyes that I have been awake long enough to watch him get dressed. The look in his eyes tells me he wants to be mad at me.

He watches me shift back the covers before thoroughly sliding out of bed. I let out a small shiver as my feet hit the raw floorboards before I make my way towards him.

"You're still handsome to me, you know?" I answer softly, my hands coming to rest on his waist.

Since he has been home, I have noticed how he doesn't roam the house in the same way he did. At night, he usually just wears a pair of sweatpants and leaves his torso exposed— he hates sleeping with shirts on— even in winter he tends to stay shirtless. But since his accident, he has hidden his body like he's ashamed of it— self-conscious you could say. I have come to notice how he tends to get dressed when I'm not looking or busy in another room.

"scars and all. I don't like how they got there, but I find them kinda sexy if I'm honest." I grin cheekily.

He doesn't really smile back, I can see he wants to do, but he just won't allow himself to.

"You don't have to sugar coat it. I know my body doesn't look the same as it did before." His voice is faint and saddening, his eyes leaving their gaze with mine for a brief moment.

"To a small extent, I know how hard this is for you. I've struggled with my own appearance and how I look and you were always there to remind me how beautiful I am. That we're all beautiful in our own way. I'm not sugarcoating anything as some half-assed attempt to make you feel better. And I'm not saying it because I'm your wife. I'm saying it because it's true. But more than anything, I'm just pleased that you're still alive and you came back to me. Your scars don't have to be a negative thing. They are a symbol of the battle you fought and won." I express my words in a way that I hope comforts him.