.Perfect Fantasy. |H.S.|

Chapter 28. Point Of Origin.

.Natalia.

"Talk?" I was sinking my feet into the fluffy carpet right by the bathroom door, my confidence thrown out of the window at the prospect of this talk being something really serious. "Is it a good talk or bad—"

"First of all, clothes." He pointed his index finger at me and the robe, there were no rings there, but somehow it was intimidating how he ordered for me to obey him at once. "I can't talk to you like this."

What?

"Like this?" I felt my fingers touching the cloth fabric of the robe, still securing the sides so that they wouldn't open at the slight distraction.

"Yes, and please don't wear that shirt my mother gave you."

"I love that shirt."

"I don't really like it."

My heart fell at his words, I did loved that sleepshirt, it'd been one of those gestures about Anne that stole my heart at once, just like Harry did when he asked me for advice back at the hospital, or when he thanked me for showing him the helipad.

"Well, it's the only thing that is easy for me to wear, I take too many minutes to dress, and you have no idea how hard it is to..."

"All right, wear it then... just hurry, I'll be downstairs." He said nodding towards the door, and I couldn't look at him, my heart was in my throat, and I had so many questions about this talk.

***

Glancing at the large mismatched but fancy couch in the expansive living room, I saw Harry sprawled across all of the cushions, his long legs stretched halfway into the middle of the carpet. His hair was more tousled than it had been when he got out of the shower, and I found myself thinking that he probably rocked that look more than any other I've seen on him. Both of the cats were lounging next to him, as he scrolled down on his pink phone.

My mouth went dry, remembering all of the things I've dealt with before, and secretly wishing that there was nothing deadly serious in this, or at least something that didn't had a solution. So I pulled the door behind me, closing the space and bracing myself for whatever he wanted to talk about.

"Interesting development on the scared stunt you just pulled." He mentioned cockily, wiggling my previously opened bottle of champagne in his hand. "Were you intoxicated, Natie?"

I gasped at his accusation. "Are you serious? I barely had a glass."

"If you say so." Harry chucked and shifted on the couch to offer me a space to sit. He patted the cushion beside him and then moved to grab another set of glass flutes to pour on. "Here, have one with me."

"Are we celebrating something?" I asked ignoring the way that my heart was beating or how I took my time to smell the familiar bubbly liquid that he was now handing me.

"In a bit, yeah."

Oh, this was such a bad idea.

"But first things first."

I just sat there and waited for him to keep talking.

"I thought a lot about what you said... about me not trusting you." His words were like a slap on my face; the realization had my back stiffening with tension and my heart beating harder by the second. Oh god, holy shit. "And I made up my mind."

Tightening my lips to keep me from talking, I watched him speaking, yet I felt like I was hearing his voice from some distance, where his words were formed with a very vacant and very distant sound, almost haunted. I looked at him and was surprised to see that he was staring at me and nowhere else. He had a look of worry and concern in his eyes, and a tiny flick of fear was visible.