About (Harry Styles)

84.

"Don't leave ..."

I hear him mumble the indistinct words from behind me.  I turn on my feet slowly to find Harry still asleep, his brows woven deep together as his lips formed into a frown as if he's having a bad dream.

"Don't leave me ..." He faintly mumbles again.

Though he doesn't say my name, his words are enough to call out to me. 

As I make my way to the side of the bed, my heart aches as I study his broken facial expression. To see him like this makes me never want to leave him alone again.

"Elaine," he utters past his lips. He's calling me. "...Don't go."

I swallow the lump in the back of my throat, making a promise to myself that from now on, I'm going to spend the rest of my days with him, never letting go, never feeling afraid, no longer making myself feel guilty for loving the son of the man who accidentally killed my best friend.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper beside him, hoping he might hear me in his dreams.  My hand moves on its own, reaching forward to brush away the few strands of hair sprawled on his forehead.

I search in my bag for my phone and send a text to Chris, letting him know that I'm staying over at a friend's place, asking him to take care of Charlotte for the night. 

The next morning when I wake up, I realize I am now laying on the bed and underneath the sheets.  I try to recognize the unfamiliar surroundings around me, glancing around the rather large hotel room.  

Hotel room. 

My eyes flee to the other side of the bed, but I don't see him sleeping beside me. I immediately jump from the sheets, afraid that he had already left while I was still asleep.

I rush to the door, slip on my shoes but another door opens before I can even reach the doorknob.  Glancing across the room, I see that it's only Harry wearing a black sweater with grey trousers.  Relieved and shocked, I clutch my chest and heave out a breath.

"You scared me," I breathe.

"I thought you weren't afraid of me."

We don't say anything for a long moment, both recalling the memory from yesterday.  So he didn't forget even though he was intoxicated.

"I -" we say in unison.

"You first," he says.

"I ... umm," I seem to have lost my train of thought. ".. How are you feeling?"

"Groggy," he smiles meekly. "You?"

"I'm fine, I think."

He chuckles at my response.  Whether that's a good or bad thing, I can't think much of it as he's walking back deeper into the room.  He stops at the glass doors to the balcony and looks down - at what specifically I'm not sure.

"I'm sorry about last night," he calls out, his eyes still scanning whatever is out there.

"Sorry about what?"

"For kissing you."

"You don't have to be sorry for that," I try to keep my tone casual but it's irritating - his haughty attitude right now.