You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Thirty Five

Zayn:

Sunlight blasted in from the windows, playing over Harry’s smooth, pale skin, and filled in the sleek lines and planes of his muscled back.

He lay on his stomach, head turned away, toward the window where the only traces of last night’s storm were the pebbles of water on the glass.

It looked like his lazy ass was going to sleep until noon, so I sunk my teeth into his bicep, then sucked the skin and ran my tongue over its salty warmth.

Harry grumbled deep in his chest and turned his head my way. His eyes, fringed by light lashes, opened and the beautiful dimpled smile that came over his lips when he saw me lying beside him was everything, because it was automatic; before thought or self-consciousness.

Holy shit, I’m in trouble.

He brushed his thumb over my lower lip. “Hey,” he said, sleepily. A lock of his tousled hair fell over his eyes.

“Hey, yourself.” I reached over and brushed the hair away. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking like. . . how you look.”

He laughed. “What poetry, Zee. You’re gonna make a guy blush.”

“Bumbling compliments are my specialty.”

He leaned over and kissed me, and my body started to wake up. But before it went too deep, Harry broke the kiss and climbed out of bed to go to the window.

Disappointment tried to nip at me, but I brushed it off. There was a slight undercurrent of unease running through
Harry, and I got the immediate impression that he was taking things as fast as his fucked up time in Chisana would allow:

bursts of heated, potent desire tamped down by cold memories and insidious lies that no doubt still whispered in his head.

Giving him his space wasn’t just the right thing to do, it was imperative for his healing.

“So, you have the day off, right?” Harry said from the window, shirtless, wearing only sleep pants. “It’s looking like we’re going to have decent weather out there.”

“You have a plan?”

His expression darkened as he regarded the city below. “I want to get Marcy out of that fucking house.”

I sat up and yawned. “Marjory was telling me he’s ready for a group home. He can socialize, make friends, and maybe even work.”

Harry turned. “She told you that?”

I nodded. “Wants me to bring it up with your dad.”

“My father will never go for it. And Marcy can’t be yanked out of the house and dropped into a new place. He needs a
gradual transition. Hell, getting him out of the front door might be a challenge.”

“Might not,” I said. “Only one way to find out.”

He glanced at me. “That’s not the stuff of dates, hanging out with my autistic brother. . .”

“Shut it, Styles. I love Marcel.”

Harry stared at me for a moment.

“Goddammit, Zee.”

He crossed the room and crawled on hands and knees on the bed to lean over me. His lips brushed mine as he spoke.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“Being like. . . how you are.”

~~~~~