The Fence || h. s.

37 || Therapy With Otis

TW: conversations about mental health

The following morning, I wake up with the worst case of a hangover I've experienced in months—years, even. My head is pounding with a cracking headache, and even the tiniest of movements upsets my lurching stomach. Still, it's only when I notice the person resting on my right that I feel truly sick.

Harry. The same Harry who had been an unfortunate witness to my humiliating episode last night. In an ironic twist of things, I begin to regret not having drunk more. At least that way, the details might have grown fuzzy… And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be staring into those inquisitive eyes right now.

"Good morning, darling," he speaks quietly, but with a certain note of confidence, as if he's been rehearsing this conversation in his mind for hours.

Lifting the duvet up to my chin, I make sure my face is mostly covered from his stare. "Morning."

"Fancy some breakfast?" he offers, and immediately, I'm hit with the smell of food. "I made you your favourite… Fruit salad, right?"

The kind gesture should make me feel nice, appreciated. But, all I can see is a man trying to coddle me, which only furthers my embarrassment.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," I lie, hoping he'd get the hint and leave me to wallow in my misery alone. Instead, he picks up a piece of pineapple with a fork and waves it right in front of my nose.

"You sure?" There's a teasing tilt to his tone now. "It took me ages to make this…" he adds, as if cutting up a couple of pineapples took him hours. "Have one bite, at least?"

"Fine," I huff in agreement, but when my mouth nearly closes around the fork, he promptly snatches it away. Sighing, I press my face into the pillow. "H, I'm not in the mood."

"Sorry, my hand slipped." He hits me with his trademark dimpled smile. "Try one more time?"

I lean in, only for him to move the treat out of my reach again. "Harry," I grumble. "Do you really want to make my already shitty morning even worse?"

"Just need you to move a bit closer, s'all," he urges with a playful wiggle of his eyebrows. 

This time I don't hesitate, my hand shooting out to hold his wrist steady. But just as I swallow the bite, he uses his free arm to wrap around my waist and pull me into him.

"Hello there," he murmurs once I'm settled comfortably in his embrace. "That's much better, hm?"

Instead of gracing him with an answer, I grab the bowl and begin to nibble on an apple slice.

"You're beautiful," he attempts to pull me out of my shell. "I admit I was being a bit of a creep, watching you." Again, his words are met with nothing but silence. "You looked adorable, making those little noises in your sleep. I wanted to kiss you so badly."

I snort. "I probably couldn't breathe, you idiot. I'm hungover as fuck."

"And that's okay—you don't need to look perfect to be perfect to me," he retorts, making my traitorous heart skip a beat. "In fact, I prefer you this way."

"So you like it when I look like shit," I conclude with a scoff. "Charming."

"No, I like it when you feel real," he clarifies. "You don't need to be the golden girl around me. You can just be yourself, even if it means having small moments of...doubt." 

I can tell he purposely avoids using the word 'weakness'.

"If you're referring to last night..." My fingers fidget nervously, closing around the edge of the duvet. "I got drunk, H. The lights made me feel dizzy, so I figured it was better to bolt before I puked all over the stage. That would have made headlines, for sure…" A half-truth is always better than a straight lie.