Bruise of Love | L.S ✔

Feel Again

a/n: this is an epilogue of sorts. it all takes place two years later.
• • •

If he could only touch for the rest of his life, he'd spend his eternity worshipping Harry and if he could only feel, he'd beg for the touch of his lips on his freckled face forever.

Until the end of their times, he wants Harry Styles to be his everything.

● ● ●

I wake up in a cold sweat, my hand instinctively lowering to my legs.

Instead of my pants or sore bruises, I find bare and hairy skin under my palm.

I grip his thigh a little too hard, rousing him from his slumber. 

"Oh, Lou. Another flashback?" I shake my head in denial, not wanting to let Harry know that I am indeed scared.

I turn around away from him, our sweaty backs touching, and I force the whimper to not spill out of me. All I want is to beg for comfort.

Harry gives it to me, wordlessly. He wounds his arms around a traumatised me, letting me soak and bask in the tenderness he so willingly offered.

"Let go love, I'm here to catch you.  I'll keep you safe," Harry promises, stroking my sweaty forehead, his body warm and comforting behind me.

.

I'm up in the attic, hiding away from Harry. I don't want a cucumber in my chicken wrap, thank you very much.

Just no.

I sit down on the dusty floor and cross my legs, cringing at the dust.

There's a lot of junk in our house. Old newspapers, once glossy magazines that were now covered in a layer of dirt, shrunken clothes we were too attached to give away, you name it.

A stray photo album catches my eye. I flip through the pages, the cracks of the spine and the crinkling of the cover, filling the attic with noises.

The first few are photos of me. They're old, three or fours years ago, with minimal of the tattoos I currently had.

Harry Styles convinced me to have our love on our skin. The ink was his way of love.

The photos seem old and fragile but still in excellent condition. They're candids of me, laughing, scowling, smiling, some simply fonding.

I remember Harry clicking away on his disposable camera, me protesting and raising my middle finger in return.

All those playful clicks were immortalised in the album.

We have Polaroids hung in our bedroom, lots of them, taken on the date nights. Simple parties, close get-together gatherings and some blurry laughter filled shots.

A fragment of time frozen forever.

I caress the edge of a photo, it's of me in one of Harry's black shirt. I remember it being taken, the memory was fond.

"Is that mine?"

"It was yours."

I carefully put it away, making a mental note to later scold Harry for abandoning it in the attic to gather dust.

The attic's door creaks open, it reveals Harry standing at the door with a cupcake in his hand.

I scowl and turn away from him, only to hide my smile in my sleeve.

Harry ambles over, stubbing his toe into one of the many piles of magazines. He whimpers an ouch and tightens his grip on the cupcake, crushing it effectively.