Cover Your Tracks [HS][2014 VERSION]

69. Skinny Love

"Come on, skinny love, just last the year . . ."

There's something absolutely euphoric about waking tangled up with your lover, your bones aching with both the desire and satisfaction from needing them deeply. Having fallen asleep in the early hours of the day, night has now fallen upon us and greets me as I wake alone. The moon is cast high in the sky in all of its glory, displaying a small light show in the dark room through shadows that dance on the walls. Outside, the wind whirls heavily, shaking the trees that tap at the windows incessantly.

The noise seems to be in sync with the rhythm of my heart as I look to Harry, who sleeps soundly above me. Chin pressed snugly atop my head, arms encircling my body. Wishing to see his face, I wriggle out of his strong hold. Rains falls lightly onto the roof. His sharp features are illuminated by the moon and I reach out lightly to brush back his hair. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. To think he'd been so full of lust mere hours before and now looking so peaceful and content warms my heart.

After all, nothing has changed. He still looks the most innocent when his eyes are closed. There's little to be seen when the depths of them are hidden from view, his past conveyed behind relaxed features that no longer convey his emotions.

Fingers entangled in his fringe, a loud crack of thunder booms and shakes the walls. At once, his eyes are open, and they're on me. Lightning strikes and illuminates the room fully every two or three seconds before letting darkness fall once again. Harry moves closer, pressing our foreheads together rather than hiding his face away from me or mine from his. And although practically blind in the dark space, I can feel the burn of his eyes trained on me throughout the chaos going on outside.

"Still scared of thunderstorms?" he breathes quietly, teasingly. There's amusement in the curl of his lips, I'm sure.

"No," I say without missing a beat. My imagination may be getting the better of me, but he seems to catch on, wrapping his arms around my waist as he had so many nights before, when he'd stopped my asthma attack and stayed with me throughout Hurricane Ike. I cuddle myself comfortably into his side and bury my head in the familiar crook of his neck. "I'm caged in. I'm not going anywhere, remember?"

"I remember," he replies softly. The love I have for him swells in my chest as he presses a kiss to my hair. It distracts from the heaviness of my bones and the ache felt in both my muscles and my legs, lifting the unsettling feeling, even if only for a mere moment in time. Something about lying here with him, feeling so warm and at home amidst an outbreak of sudden chaos and destruction, possesses me to whisper something timidly in the dark.

"I love you."

I'd implied the confession indirectly before, but never had I gained the courage to speak it aloud. And I know that he'd heard, for he'd grown accustomed to my shy nature and learned to listen in for the little details that others often missed. I can sense the change in the atmosphere, in the way his body goes from soft to rigid against my own. My words elicit a response that's the direct opposite of what I'd been hoping for, and it nearly breaks my heart.

And it hurts, because just hours ago I'd given him my all and now, he can't even give me reassurance. I know that he's damaged and that some of the blame lies not in him but in whatever monster made him this way, but I'd been damaged too and I'd still found a way to let him in.

"Country," his voice is low, and threatening, but then it changes direction. "You should go to sleep, sweetheart. The storm will be over soon."

Sweetheart. The nickname brands itself into my skin, clawing away at my insides. I replay the sound of it coming from his mouth as he shifts on the bed. There was pity in his tone and I absolutely hated it. It was as if he was saying, Sweetheart, you can't love me and you won't, because I'm not going to let you.