Styles & Co.

Chapter Twelve.

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My eyes gradually wake up to a ray of sunlight inching its way into the eclipsed room, piercing through the small crack of the curtains, reminding me that there is life outside my sleeping state. I smile to myself feeling my legs tangled with his, the covers draped over our bodies, keeping us warm.

I am not quite sure what time we fell asleep; I assume we fell asleep sometime after four— four was the last time I remember glancing over at the time in the midst of pouring another glass of wine, ultimately finishing off the bottle with Harry.

We spent hours talking, laughing, and at one point I was in tears—What specific reason I do not remember, I think the wine was to blame, along with a sentimentally cute comment from Harry.

I feel his arm drape itself around my body, pulling me closer as I feel his soft breathing on my bare shoulder. I don't move from my position as the little spoon, it is on rare occasions we stay nestled into each other's bodies for more than ten minutes while leisurely waking up.

I try to discreetly shuffle away from his tender body, but he only pulls me closer, a soft whisper escaping his hoarse voice. "No, it is too early."

With a slight chuckle I respond, "I don't think it is still morning." I enlighten him, feeling him nuzzling into my neck.

"Well, fuck." He mutters with a groan.

I hum an 'mhm' as I feel his fingertips begin to travel along my skin, gliding delicately down my arm.

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My fingers lace with Harrys as I allow him to guide us through the Art Gallery, his eyes seeming overwhelmed by all the exquisite paintings ordered on the walls.

He settles in front of a monochromatic, black and white painting, a composition that catches my attention thoroughly as my eyes set their sights on it. The painting is exuded, elegant, and timeless.

Beautiful, just beautiful.

They say that Mood is an internal and rather subjective emotional state; calmness is what washes over me the longer I stare at the illustration.

There is just something about the texture and depth of the canvas that fascinates my eyes to every detail of the finely shaded rose petals. I tilt my head slightly, cherishing the perfect strokes the artist etched, taking note of how it continues to entice me further and further.

Perhaps it is the impeccable shade and lustrous characteristics it expresses; perhaps a personal reflection is what I perceive within the canvas.

Harry's voice distracts me from my gaze, "You have stared at this painting longer than what you have ever stared at me before."

I smile and pull my eyes from the comprehensive representation of a rose, "Well, maybe if you were etched into a ravishing form of art, I would stare longer." I teasingly respond, watching his eyes roll before he sighs, moving his own gaze back to the art. "I like it, let's buy it." He expresses effortlessly, not even thinking twice about his words.

"Harry, you can't just decide to buy this painting."

"Yes, I can." He nods, "Unless, of course, our bank accounts are both at a zero balance." He grins, being a little cocky, knowing very well and good his balance is far from a fucking zero.

"Where would we put it? We can't buy it without having a place for it." I remind him of the other times he has brought a canvas with no idea where he wants to put it.

If I remember right he has at least five of them stashed away somewhere because he could not find a suitable place for them to hang in our house. He forgets that impulse buys do not always blend well with our colour schemes of the house.