Art | Harry Styles

37

"I need you to touch me."

She lifts the lower half of her face from his hair, the scent of his shampoo still lingering inside of her nose. His face has been nuzzled against her chest for nearing an hour, his cheek pressed to the covered swell of her breast.

"What?" she asks, unsure she'd heard him correctly, as she tucks a curl behind his ear.

Harry tilts his chin upwards, his eyes glinting with something indistinguishable as he shifts his position slightly.

"I just- I need you. Need to feel you," he whispers all of a sudden, eyes landing on Sophie's face, "n-need you to feel me, baby." His lips land on her neck, and despite her subconscious reacting by allowing her head to fall back, her fingers tug on his hair in a silent objection.

"Harry," she protests gently, her lips parting as he swipes a line with his tongue along her bare collarbone. The movements of his lips are intoxicating, but she forces herself to stand her ground. "Harry, stop. You're not in the right frame of mind for-"

"But I am, angel - I promise I am," he purses his lips, fingertips trailing over the space between her breasts, before he moves his hand upwards to run smoothly over the lower point of her throat, "I need to feel you touching me; I- all I can feel is her. I can still feel her hands on me, a-and I need to feel you, Soph, please."

"Don't push yourself into anything, Harry," she gently tries to reason with him, "it's only been a couple of weeks, you don't have to do anything-"

Sophie's cut off by Harry's lips pressing against her own, his mouth moulding against hers as he shifts his body to hover over her frame. His tongue smooths over her bottom lip, pushing into her mouth, and as his palm moves to cup her breast, a soft moan escapes her lips only to be caught in his own mouth.

He's about to push himself up against her, encouraging the progression of her own movements - and it's working; it is. Her hands are trailing along his back, and the muscles in his back are beginning to relax at the feel of her hands on him - but suddenly they don't feel like hers. They feel foreign; like that of a stranger, rather than those of his girlfriend, and the feeling of dirt returns to his skin, his chest beginning to tighten.

"Fuck," he mutters, turning his head to the side and breaking their kiss, Sophie's eyes facing the side of his head now. He clears his throat to keep his tone even, shifting his position so that he can sit beside her, burying his face in his hand as he feels his cheeks heating in embarrassment, "For fuck's sake," he whines quietly to himself, as Sophie's hand lands on his shoulder.

"It's okay, Harry," she murmurs, pressing her lips briefly to his shoulder, her touch feathery light but still causing his breath to hitch in his throat, before she repeats, "it's okay."

"It's not," he whimpers, turning his head to face her, "it's not okay. I-I'm sorry, I thought I was ready, I-"

"Don't apologise to me," she reassures him, "you don't have to. You don't need to be ready, nothing has to happen."

Harry brings his lip back between his teeth, shaking his head slowly, his voice dropping down into a whisper, "I can't even kiss you, love. 'Can't even kiss my own girlfriend, what kind of-" he breathes, his voice shaky, "what kind of guy does that make me?"

"Shh." Her arms wind around his torso, and he has to exhale deeply in order to attempt relaxing his muscles, his arms resting over hers. "I love you," she whispers in the same manner he had, the quiet declaration prompting a sob to arise in his throat, a defeated sigh leaving his lips the moment he feels it. He's sick of crying. "I love you, hm? Don't forget that," she soothes gently, as another sob shakes through the entirety of his body.

"I'm so tired, baby," his voice breaks, as he sniffles quietly, his head tilting forwards, "so fucking tired. I hate this, I hate this so much, I-"

"Breathe," Sophie encourages, her voice soft as it always is when calming him, "hey - breathe, don't work yourself up." And in all honesty - he has a lot of reason to be losing it. He's been swamped in paperwork since he'd first walked out of the police station - unnecessary paper after unnecessary paper, coating near enough every surface in his apartment. He's bombarded - having to relive the experience over, and over again as he writes out her wretched name over, and over again.

"I want to go home," he mumbles, as Sophie rakes her fingers through his curls, keeping them out of his face, "soon. I want to go home soon. Just for a few days, I-I don't know, I-I need to see my mum, s-see Gem, just b-be home for a while-"

"Okay," she nods, "it might be good for you. It's a good idea."

"Come with me," he says suddenly, his fingers fumbling with the rose-shaped ring on her own finger, "only if you want to - I mean - but I'd really like it if you came. So much. I'd like it so much."

"I'd like it too," she smiles honestly, "I'll come, yeah. Of course I'll come."

"We only have class on Monday and Tuesday next week, we - uh - we could fly out after our last class? Stay for a few days, or something?" he suggests, playing with her fingers to keep himself occupied, "y-you don't have to come with me. Don't feel like you have to-"

"If I didn't want to, I wouldn't," she reassures him, and he chews on his lip.

"She'll be there," he says quietly, partially in realisation as he starts to question if he truly wants to act on such a rash decision, now.

"You're going for your family," she reminds him, "and trust me, she won't get anywhere near you. Not if I have anything to say about it."