A Compelling Motive (h.s.)

six

I wince, Harry's hand pressed to my cheek as the other brushes over my cut with a damp cloth. He adjusts closer to me, my hand wrapped around his wrist as he moves. It's not that I want him to stop, but rather to make sure I have something to help with the pain.

"It's not as bad as I had originally thought," he says, easing my mind slightly. He keeps his gaze focused on the cut, but when he sets the ice pack on my face is when his green eyes meet my blue ones. My actions are reserved, anticipating the inevitable question to be asked in regard to what happened. I don't know how to explain the situation, because it's a situation I've been told never to speak of.

"My last name isn't Marx," I blurt out, trying to randomly open up. He observes me, but I know my strange, and rather abrupt statement, doesn't confuse him in the slightest. He's interested; something I've never experienced.

"I-I took my mom's last name," I continue, and he only nods in encouragement. I feel his fingers wrap into my hair, only to release it from the bun it was previously in. My curls now fall onto my shoulders, but Harry only moves them behind me.

"Your mother and your father are not together anymore," he states, and all I can do is shake my head. It's a shameful thing what occurred between them, but I have to live with the outcome for the rest of my life.

"I was an accident," I am able to tell him, but his response is simply grabbing my cheek. As my head casts downward, he leans his forehead on mine. There hasn't been anyone I've opened up to like this; the fear of the consequences always eating me alive. However, this time, the trust of Harry keeping my secret is very present.

"So was I, darling," he whispers, and I feel my heart drop to my stomach. It's different to hear it from another, but that only makes myself grow sympathetic towards him.

"My father was considerably older than my mother. They had my sister, but never planned on having me. I have not spoken to them in years," he tells me, giving me a small insight into his own life.

"My mother passed away," I respond back, the two of us unable to look anywhere but at each other. His eyes are so intense that I'm unable to even remotely tell what emotion he is feeling.

"She got sick, and I was forced to live with my father," I elaborate, taking a deep breath to build my stength. "He didn't know I existed."

And that's when the pieces are put together; his expression noticeably figuring it out. "An affair," he whispers, and I simply nod. It's a shame that I was the outcome of adultery, but I was given life. There were other options, but I grew up to be independent. I'd rather be who I am than stuck in my sister's position. Living off of someone else is the worst kind of life I could imagine.

"You will never be an accident," he tells me, and I feel his thumb run along my lower lip. "At least not in my eyes. Life is given to someone for a reason."

I can't understand how he makes everything so poetic. It makes my heart race and my stomach erupt in those hypothetical butterflies. My world has been brought so much enlightenment since he's entered it. It's clear to see that he is a gentle person, but clearly has a side to him that is intense. He is a unique human being and I crave to learn about him.

"I find that every person has purpose, and a purpose to which they control. It's making sure the pathway is clear and concise to find that true purpose. In my time of school and work, there has only been one sort of revelation I've come to that makes me understand a purpose to life that most can't comprehend," he elaborates, and I find myself enticed to learn more.

"You see, in books and fairytales, they don't give the truth. Reality is harsh, but there is one common ground to every story," he says, and I can only give him a smile. I know exactly what he is speaking of.

"It's love. A trait everyone is capable of. People are entitled to their own emotions and it's love that brings out the best in people. It's all an evil doer needs to recognize they don't need to exist in a world of evil. It's what a romantic pursues to be brought down from their pedestal of a love-infested world to that of the reality of love. Love is something that is expressed in so many different ways that it is possessed by all humans in their own purpose. It's how it is fulfilled that a person controls," he explains, and I can't stop from feeling overly infatuated with the man in front of me. When an articulate man, so intelligent as Harry, explains something so complicated as the feeling of love, he transforms it into an easy point to understand. I've never been told I love you, except by my mother until I was five. It's been too long.

"Come with me," he says, and takes the ice pack off my cheek. He helps me off the counter and guides me through one of the most elegant homes I've ever seen. It's like a museum, but so comfortable. It's a home; welcoming and never ending.

He takes me up the stairs and holds my hand as we maneuver the winding staircase. The floor we get on is furnished so beautifully that I can't help but let my eyes wander the walls.

"This is beautiful," I tell him, astonished at the beauty of the house. He turns to look at me and I stop, watching him take a step closer to me. He grabs my cheeks once more and I move my hands to his wrists, lightly grabbing them.

"You've become the only one to enter my home," he tells me, my eyes widening. I'm shocked at the fact; heavily assuming that there have been many people here prior to me. "I live a very private life, darling."

I'm not surprised in the slightest as he lets me know. He seems very reserved, but passionate all together. It's no secret he is not one to open up; however, he's allowing me to figure out just bits and pieces of himself.

And those bits and pieces continue to appear as I look at the frame of the walls. There are news articles, Harry Styles written on multiple headlines. I've found out his last name; something I have not told him about myself.

There are articles ranging from Harry's sports accomplishments, to literary excellence. I stop at one particular article, where he's proudly displaying a smile I've never seen before. His teeth are showing, eyes are gleaming, and dimples are prominently displayed. Though I had seen the dimples appear only slightly, it's something about this smile of sheer happiness that catches my attention.

It is of him graduating from college, and his hand is shaking that of the chancellor. I've never seen anyone get their picture plastered in a news article just for receiving a diploma. He's someone important; someone I want to know about.

I've noticed Harry's allowing me to read what is on the walls; his gaze felt as I read. Harry earned three degrees in four years at Imperial College London, one of the highest ranked schools in all of England. As I read, he's majored in Philosophy, English, and English Composition.

My head turns to look at him in amazement, his eyes focused on me. "You should be so incredibly proud of yourself," I manage to say, his lips only curving slightly.

"Darling, I did not sleep most of college," he tells me, grabbing my hand once more to continue walking down the hall. "I've worked hard to get to where I am today. Not many people have entered into my life."

He takes a seat in the room we've entered, and I notice it has nothing but bookshelves and chairs. This is what I imagine my heaven to look like.

"But you've allowed me to," I respond, astonished at the walls and walls of books. I manage to take a seat beside him and all I feel is his arm wrapping around my shoulders, bringing me closer to him.

"Without an intention to watch you walk out," he whispers in my ear. I've never heard a man so sure of anything, let alone express his feelings the way Harry does. For barely knowing each other, it doesn't feel that way in the slightest. We know each other on a level most can only feel after years; lack of communication and willingness to open freely the issue to most. But with us, we speak our minds. He's letting me learn more and more, while I am developing the ease of allowing him in.