sign {h.s.}

hoofdstuk vijfentwintig*

"HARRY," I HISS, gently nudging his chest in order to wake him up. According to Harry's watch, it's around three in the morning. No light seeps into his bedroom, save from the yellow gleam of the overhead lights that flicker as they attempt to illuminate the parking lot below.

His arms are still tightly woven around me—just as they had been when we had fallen asleep. True to his word, Harry brought me back to his apartment. All night long, he was exceptionally doting. He offered me food and drink. He offered me clothes to wear to bed. Most importantly, he was very clear in drawing the line. Everything he was doing was an offer. After the nightmare of last night, he was even more determined than usual to gain my consent for everything that he was doing; even things that didn't involve his hands on my body.

Once I was situated, he finally moved to take care of himself. I offered to help him clean off his knuckles. He declined my offer, telling me that I could wait for him in his bedroom, but I didn't want to be alone. I followed him into the bathroom and sat on the lidded toilet while he carefully cleaned the blood off of his reddened knuckles. 

As though sensing my concern, he looked at me with something of a wry smirk. "It's not mine," he assured me. I didn't answer.

He gave me a wash cloth to wash the makeup off of my face. I felt bad about staining it with my makeup—particularly my dark lipstick—but he had promised me that was the least of his concerns. "If it doesn't come out, I can get a new one," he told me, his hand clenching at his sides as he fought the urge to reach out and cup my face. I could see the struggle written clearly across his face. He was walking on eggshells around me; walking the line of doting but tentative—nervous to say or do the wrong thing. It was a side of him that I'd never seen before.

When finally we retired to his room, I was the first one to crawl into bed. Harry had sat beside me, ensuring that I was okay. Once he figured that I was all set, he packed up himself and went to move to the couch. I think he had figured that I would want some privacy, now. After having my personal space violated merely hours before, it was a safe bet that he was making. But still, there was little I wanted less than to be alone. Perhaps the company of some I would have politely declined; though, Harry was not on that list.

My asking him to stay with me was little short of begging. Upon seeing the state that I was in, Harry quickly dropped his things before heading back into the bed with me. This not being the first time that we have shared a bed, but this was most definitely the first time that Harry had entirely taken me in his arms. He was holding me to his chest in a way that I could feel the erratic pounding of his heart. Quickly, it began to slow to a more consistent thump. That being the best lullaby I've ever received.

"Harry," I whisper again, shoving him slightly more forcefully this time.

He stirs, though his hold on me does not break. Instead, he only tightens his grip on me, as though he is looking for confirmation that I am still there. A groan falls from his lips as he begins to finally wake. "Stai bene?" He asks, his eyes checking over me in his arms. There's both a light panic in his eyes and his tone, his words escaping his mouth before he has control on them. Shaking away the fog, he repeats the phrasing for me again, in English. "Are you okay?"

"Cassidy?" He speaks my name softly, as though to confirm that it was intentional for me to have woken him up. Worry is laced against his features as he tries to make sense of the situation in front of him. Having been up longer than him, my eyes are well adjusted to the dark. Harry's eyes, on the other hand, are frantically searching for some indication of what is wrong. With our chests pressed so tightly together, I can feel his heart begin to speed up in his chest. Panic most definitely his natural reaction.