ASSUMPTIONS [H.S.]

chapter 35

Amber Easton

Sometimes I wonder if my life is actually real.

I wonder if there's a possibility that I might not even be laying right here on this bed — feeling the safest I could with Harry's arms wrapped tightly around me.

I hear his soft breaths being brought into his lungs with ease, and identically being dragged out, creating a quiet snore. With my forehead against his chest, I can feel his heartbeat jump up and down so gracefully, that I might even start adoring a foolish attribute like that.

Even in this sleep-like position, I sense one of my curls being wrapped around his finger, indicating that he's not entirely resting. He keeps twirling the single piece of hair like the action just brings him at ease.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm just dreaming. Or hallucinating. Maybe this is just some sick joke, and I'm actually still living the life I was a few years ago.

Out of fear of that possibility, I shoot my eyes open to check if I haven't had a horrendous lucid dream.

I blink — I'm still here.

I close my eyes, then open them. Still here.

Well, that's a good sign.

My eyes roam around my bedroom, the sight being very limited since I'm between Harry's arms. The only thing I'm very aware of — there's an episode of 'Friends' blazing from the TV.

"Joey doesn't share food!" Joey's voice echoes through the room, being repeated a few times over Harry's light snores and puffs.

Food.

"Harry?" I whisper and feel him pull me closer to his chest as if to make me more comfortable.

"Harry. You asleep?" I feel his heart start beating a fraction faster once he's comprehended my voice.

In a matter of seconds, a shy smirk that he obviously tried to hide comes upon his cheeks, as he rasps, "Maybe."

"You okay?" He checks, rubbing small circles on my back with the hand that isn't tangled in my hair.

"Yeah," I speak over the tv show, speaking the first thing on my mind. "Do you want pancakes?"

He's taken back by my question since it's literally the middle of the night. He breaks out in radiant laughter, nuzzling his nose in the place between my neck and my shoulder. "One more minute, okay?" He seems to be desiring a few more moments of this calm air, clinging to me like it's all he needs to feel full right now.

I spend a minute between his nest of comfort, watching as his butterfly tattoo's wings expand and contract with each serene breath he lets me be a part of. It's nice — being secured between his arms and having the feeling he needs this as much as I do. After having the other side of my bed empty for months, it feels pleasant to find myself in the warmth of somebody again.

I try to consume the warmth as much as I can, knowing we'll have to go to our separate studios in the morning. I try to take in his smell of vanilla as deep as I can, not knowing when I'll get to be around it again.

Once I'm sure at least five minutes have passed, I press my lips against his chest, whispering again, "Please? They're going to have powdered sugar."

"Just one more minute, Am." He groggily says, his fingers still twirling the single strand of hair.

Am.

Nobody really calls me that. Yet, the more he says it, the more I start admiring the way it rolls off his lips so softly.