flower [book 2] ❊ l.s.

two - lost in my mind

After his shower, Louis crawled into bed behind Harry, cuddling into his boyfriend's back and throwing an arm over his stomach. Even in his sleep, Harry pressed back into him, curling up tighter as Louis's body encircled his own.

The dinner meeting had taken longer than expected. By the time he was climbing the stairs back up to their apartment, it was nearly midnight and Louis was so exhausted, the world around him muffled by a blanket of blackness. He had closed the front door carefully, locking it behind him with a too-noisy click. Slipping his shoes off, he padded through their shadowy living room, his sock-clad footsteps barely audible in the silent apartment.

After all of the police and detectives poking around his company, business meetings had become a bit more complicated. Luckily for him, Liam was extremely good at working around investors' questions. His best friend's skills had saved him more than once over the past few months, that night included. The stress of the dinner still floated like a tangible raincloud around his head.

Then he had stepped into the bedroom and saw Harry's curled-up form in their bed, buried in a ridiculous number of blankets, and he was home.

Just like that, he was home again. Home is where the heart is, and his heart would always be with Harry.

As if reading his mind, Harry shifted impossibly closer, whining in his sleep. Louis rubbed his thumb over the soft swell of Harry's stomach, just listening to his boyfriend breathe.

"It's alright," he murmured, his lips lingering on Harry's temple. "I'm here. I'm right here."

Harry exhaled, turning his face into the pillow. Louis didn't drift off to sleep himself until he felt Harry's own breathing level out, a steady rise and fall beneath his fingertips.

The nightmares hadn't stopped, and Louis didn't think they ever would. It was something that they had to live with -- a constant intrusion on Harry's brain. In one of his weaker moments, he had confessed to Louis that his mind felt like an object of someone else's design, like he could never be his own.

The thought still kept Louis up at night. The helplessness terrified him, far more than he would ever admit to Harry.

Tonight, just a short while after falling asleep, it was the cold that jolted Louis awake.

Still half asleep, he immediately reached for Harry, frowning when he found the space beside him empty. The lack of Harry in his arms explained the freezing, uneasy feeling in his gut. The sheets were still warm, and he followed the slight dip of the mattress upward until his fingers brushed over Harry's ankle.

Louis forced his eyes open. Harry was curled up in a tight ball at the head of the bed, his arms wrapped around his knees. Faster than an anchor, Louis's heart sank.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low. "Bad dream?"

"It's alright." Harry's fingers brushed over Louis's forehead, threading tentatively into his hair. His words stumbled over each syllable, his voice catching on the lump in the back of his throat. "It's alright. Go back to sleep, love, I'm alright."

"You're not."

Louis sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The darkness was thick as a blindfold, but he could hear the fear in Harry's voice, the tremble of uncertainty that he worked so hard to hide. He slid his hand from Harry's ankle to his knee, squeezing gently.

"What's wrong? What was your nightmare about? Talk to me."

"It's the same. It's been the same for a few weeks now."

"The same . . ." Recognition washed over Louis's face. His eyes darkened even in the pitch black room. "Him."

"It's him, and these shadows, but I can't . . ." Harry dropped his gaze to his lap. He pressed his fingers to his temples, a deep crease splitting his brows.