Priory // h.s.

chapter forty-two

I wake up with Harry's arms around me, his soft breath tickling the back of my neck. Without opening my eyes, I mumble, "Please tell me it's Saturday."

"It is, but I'm pretty sure Maura wants you to go down and help clean up after last night's dinner," he responds easily.

"Screw that, and screw her," I groan and blink, twisting to look up at him.

Holy shit. He looks adorable, curls rumpled from sleep, a lazy grin spread across his pink lips. A little thrill of happiness runs through me at seeing him like this; I hate seeing him as torn up and hurting as he was last night.

"What's the time?"

"Dunno. Almost ten o' clock, I think." He pulls his arm out from under me with a little grimace. "Shit; my arm's gone numb." He massages it with a slightly rueful expression.

I stare at him incredulously. "Why didn't you wake me? Or at least push me off of you?"

He gives me an embarrassed smile, still trying to restore the circulation to his arm. "Didn't want to. You looked so peaceful."

"Oh please. I probably drooled all over you," I scoff, feeling a little self-conscious. 

"Nah. But you do snore like a rhino," he teases, which earns him a gentle slap on the cheek.

Pushing the covers off of me, I say, "I should probably head back to my apartment and get dressed..."

"Good luck not getting caught."

I slide off his bed and smile down at him. "Eh. The hall monitors are all trying to suck up to Mr. Reeves by doing extra work for PCOS anyway. I'll be fine."

He bats his eyelashes at me and squeaks in a girlish falsetto, "Have I ever told you that I adore your Winnie The Pooh pajamas?"

"Shut up," I grumble, chucking a pillow at him. 

Ducking, he laughs at me, his cheeks covered in a healthy glow and his eyes bright as morning stars. "Okay, get dressed, and then join me for breakfast? I'll finally make those award-winning pancakes of mine."

I blink at him, surprised that he's actually inviting me back. "Sure. They better live up to their reputation, Styles."

"Oh, they'll floor you," he promises.

"We'll see about that." I wink at him before stepping out of his room and heading back to my own apartment.

 —

Harry makes the best pancakes in the world.

It's a fact that he finally forces me to admit, after I've wolfed down an entire stack. He sits across from me at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, watching me amusedly through the plumes of smoke rising off his hot drink.

"I don't know how you can drink black coffee. It's just nasty," I tell him, wiping maple syrup off my fingers.

"It's an acquired taste, I suppose," he says in an exaggeratingly snooty accent, taking another deliberate sip.

"I thought British people only drank tea."

"And you say I perpetuate stereotypes of Southern people?" he asks incredulously. "You better be kidding."

I snicker at him. "Tea 'n' crumpets. Or wait, was it croissants?"

Harry groans and shakes his head at me. "Please shut your mouth before I smack you."

"Do you miss England?" I ask carefully. I've never really heard him speak of his home country, and the shadows concealing his past intrigue me.

He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes scrunching at the corners as he ponders this question. "No," he finally decides. "I mean, I miss the good times I had growing up there. But my strongest memories of that country are bad ones. Ones of my father diagnosed with cancer, being in the hospital, memories of my mother constantly losing sleep worrying about him."