sign {h.s.}

chapter thirty-one

TEARS OF FRUSTRATION prick at my eyes as I fight to pull a brush through my hair. Slowly but surely I had made my way out of bed. Harry waited for me patiently in my room as I took a shower. Massaging shampoo and conditioner through my hair, shaving my legs, and exfoliating felt better than I would care to admit, making it one of my longest showers to date. But, when I finally got out of the shower and pulled on a pair of my brother's sweatpants and a t-shirt that belonged to one of us, it seemed that the realities of the past three days caught up to me in the form of my hair.

It'd been a while since I had properly run a brush through it and combed it through. I'd opted for throwing it up, not caring what happened beyond that point. By nature, my hair is a curly mess—one that I take the minimal effort to tame on a good day. But now I'm the living product of a series of bad days and updos, and the knots that are forming in my mass of curls is untamable.

Angrily, I throw the brush down against the countertop of the bathroom. Fingers wrap around the side of the vanity, tightening to the point of white knuckles as I heave in and out deep breaths, forcing myself to look in the mirror and see myself. In spite of everything—the funeral, the days of recluse—I look healthy.

A soft knock against the bathroom door tears me from my thoughts. Backing away from the vanity, I swing the door open to see who stands on the other side. Harry stands there, hair messily shoved back from his face and his eyes softly studying the bathroom over my shoulder. "Alright?" He asks simply, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the frame of the door. On any other person, the stance would come across as smug. Only through my intimate knowledge of Harry Styles do I see this for what it is: shyness.

Vaguely, I throw my arms up in a gesture of defeat. One arched eyebrow shoots upwards quizzically, unsure to the meaning of my distress. Realistically, I can tell that I'm overreacting. Had it not already been abundantly obvious, his expression would have painted it so. Despite having spent the past several days in the confines of my bed, I felt utterly exhausted. "I can't brush my hair," I huff in annoyance, fighting down my reaction to blush; knowing how childish my complaints must sound.

Harry shows me no such mercy. His lip quirks upwards, a ghost of a smile haunting his face as he straightens his position. "Seriously?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"Unfortunately," he remarks after playfully studying my face for a few seconds longer than necessary, "I'm inclined to say you don't."

Bitterly, I purse my lips not finding his humor entirely enjoyable in the moment. Of course Harry, being Harry, finds an enjoyment out of my clear annoyance with him. "You're hilarious," I sarcastically bite, busying myself in picking the brush up again and attempting once more to get it through my hair. Messily, I pick up a clump of it in one hand and begin trying to work the brush through the bottom before working my way up. A quiet has filled the bathroom, aside from the sound of the brush failing to smoothly run through my hair, as Harry studies me brushing my hair carefully.

"C'mere," he says after a minute, stepping towards me. His hand extends, but to do what, I don't know.

Cleverly I step out of his grasp, my brows furrow as I say, "Why?"

Sighing, Harry rolls his head to the side, setting his jaw as an exercise of maintaining patience. Letting out the breath, the same hint of a smile returns to his face. Wordlessly, he steps towards me one more time. This time, I don't move out of his way as his hand wraps around my crooked elbow. I allow him to lead me back in the direction of my bedroom, confusion apparent on my face; but not finding it in me to put up a fight. Aside from myself, Harry potentially is the most stubborn person I know. If he wants something, he'll get it. Resistance is futile and it is essential to pick my battles.