chiaroscuro

non finito

non finito in terms of art means unfinished, as in an sculpture or painting that is in progress

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That didn't... go well.

Harry sighed as (Y/N) slumped in his arms. He could tell from the moment realization hit her, that her night wasn't going to end well. As much as he loved being able to hold her pretty body in his arms, the circumstances never seemed to be favorable.

He carried her out of the bathroom, bypassing the bed that was meant to be hers, as it was now covered in wooden shards from the door he would have to replace. He instead brought her to his own room, gently setting her on his bed and tucking her under the duvet. He did his best to make her comfortable, knowing that this was something she would need to take the time to sleep off.

Harry couldn't help himself—seeing her wrapped up in his bedding just like the night he found her back at the manor—from climbing on the bed next to her. He settled on top of the comforter, knowing that his low body temperature might not be the most comfortable thing for her right now.

He just wanted to be close to her.

He kept his hands to himself, but that didn't mean his eyes couldn't wander. He traced along the planes of her face, the slope of her nose, the high points of her cheeks, the pout of her lips, everything he wanted to commit to memory. The pump of her heartbeat rang through his ears, a comforting noise that showed him she was still alive and healthy and (hopefully) happy. He counted each of her breaths, the now evened puffs of air scenting the room with her sweet smell.

God, she's the kind of woman poets would have prosed over when he was young.

He hoped she wouldn't want to leave when she woke up, he doesn't think his old heart could handle it. He'd become attached to her, and he doesn't even know why or how it happened so quickly. Why after so long, this one human wiggled her way into his life and now not a single day had been spent without a thought of her (although they started out as maybe not the nicest, he will admit). It felt like his existence had now been separated into two different eras: Before (Y/N) and After (Y/N).

He knows Niall would insist that he's in love with her. That she's got him under her spell; a spell consisting of fluttery lashes, warm skin, and soft words. That Harry got one whiff of her scent, and one look at her pretty face and then he was whipped. (Y/N) was always one to stroke his ego a bit too, consistently complimenting his paintings and she never was good about hiding her longing glances at him, but it had to be more than that. (While he is right about all of that, Harry likes to think he's into things a bit deeper than just appearances and ego boosts). He'd been around long enough to know that shallowness gets you nowhere, so he knew there had to be more than just fleeting moments of infatuation that drew him to her.

He felt a twist in the pit of his tummy the longer he laid with her. It's a familiar hunger pain that came usually a week after a feeding. He was typically able to go a couple of weeks, but now being so close to this pretty human girl and having had that faint taste of her blood not even a full twenty-four hours prior, it seemed to rush the process. The smart part of him knew he should sneak away and feed, if only for her safety, but the thought of leaving her alone strained his heart.

He couldn't bear being away from her.

He knew it was dangerous for her, but he was nothing if not in control. The thought of leaving her hurt him more than any need for so-called food. Surprisingly enough, the sound of her heartbeat actually helped fend off those thoughts. He would have thought it would only taunt him, ruin his control, but he found it to be a soothing sound. It helped him focus, finding his priority in the moment: