Pirouette [h.s.]

chapter 18

// days are good and that's the way it should be

you sprinkle stardust on my pillowcase. //

"Bright"  -Echosmith

--------

My boyfriend.

Harry didn't stop talking about the fact that I called him my boyfriend for three weeks. And, as much as I want to pretend it annoys me, I can't stop the warm feeling that blossoms in my stomach every time the word leaves his lips. It slipped out so easily to that lady. Without any ounce of hesitation. As if it was just any random word. Maybe that's all it actually is, but it felt...different, somehow. It felt meaningful. Important. The click of a deadbolt, or the first revv of an engine. Secure.

We were curled in my bed yesterday, his chest pressed firmly against my bare back, skin kissing skin, with his leg wedged between mine, the looming threat of a new Monday hanging over our heads. The sun was just peeking through the windows in the early morning, before Harry left to go wake up Nate. And, when I turned my head to steal a kiss, he was looking down at me with a goofy grin, one side of his mouth quirked up higher.

"...what?" I asked after he happily handed over the treasure I was trying to thieve.

"Yours. All yours. M'all yours." He nuzzled into the top of my head.

Fluttering wings bat against the inside of my stomach, "Mhm," I hummed, "my boyfriend." I tried to ignore the twinge of giddiness that pulled at my lips. Tried to ignore the depths of green staring into my eyes like they could read my every thought.

The efforts were futile, though, because Harry murmured out a quiet, "mine," the warmth of his breath sending a wave of heat through my body. And just like that, I was done for, as he rolled overtop of me, sinking gently inside without a second of hesitation.

Each time we'd fucked since, he made sure to whisper out little harmlessly possessive sentiments. Praising me for saying I'm his girlfriend, for having his perfect fuckin' pussy, for being his good girl. His pretty baby. His sweet honeybee. His Phoebs. His. As if my name had to be preceded by the little indicator. As if he got off on the reminder, alone.

Harry had stayed to soak up some cuddles and plant soft kisses to any expanse of skin he could attach his lips to, telling me, "Nate will be fine if he wakes up late, I don't wanna go. You're so warm."

We'd fallen into something of a routine over the past three weeks, where Harry would come to Dino's on Friday after Nate went to bed and hook my bike up to his car, sitting with me inside until it was time to go home. He'd wake me up Saturday morning with a glass of water and peanut butter toast, planting endless cascades of kisses into my hair while we shared breakfast. His oozing sweetness amplified tenfold in the moments of early morning before the sun fully rose - when the world's still pale yellow, color skewed by the light on the horizon.

Harry drove me into the studio on Saturday morning before going home to get Nate ready for the day, met me at the same door promptly at 4 pm with a bag of something new from Peking and an order of potstickers, and spent the rest of the night by my side. Save, of course, for the 45 minutes it took to go home, make sure Nate was ready for bed, and come back. Saturday night was ours, until the birds signaled Sunday morning and off he went to wake up his little brother.

Harry told me that Nate is a terror when he's not around to wake him up or put him to bed. It's become part of his routine - and Nate thrives on routine. Without it, the train goes haywire. Which is why, without fail, Harry would wake me up to kiss me before the sun kisses the horizon, and would take his radiating night light glow home for a moment when the moon peeked through my window. Human security blanket. I can't blame Nate; Harry oozes comfort. I want him around to wake me up in the mornings, too.