PRECIPICE [h.s.]

Chapter Twenty Three

When I got home Harry was still asleep on the couch, arms tucked into his chest like I left him. I put the plastic bag on my counter and started making a coffee for the both of us. He told me one day that he only drinks his coffee black, like a psychopath, so I poured him a cup in my favorite mug that had red flowers surrounding it.

The little dink that came from placing the mug on the table woke him up. He twisted his body and blinked his eyes, adjusting to the light.

"Well good morning, Sunshine," I say while sitting sideways on the space left on the couch. Our hips are lined up perpendicular on the couch, and my face heats at the memory of the way our hips were pressed together all night.

"I'm pretty sure that's my line." He groans as he stretches out his limbs and pushes his hands against his face. The tee shirt he's wearing lifts slightly and I will away the deep blush that is creeping onto my cheeks. His head turns in all different directions as he takes in the sight of my house.  "J, how the hell did I get in your house?"

All that blood that was rushing to my face immediately disappears and I become pale. Does he not remember? I guess that's okay. I didn't think he was that drunk but maybe he was just good at hiding it.

My legs bounce up and down as he looks up at me with blank curiosity.

"You got in my house because I brought you inside. I found you drunk on my dock." He was taking in everything I was saying, nodding. "I'm assuming you're pretty hungover so I went out and got us breakfast and I made you coffee."

His face falls, conveying a look that is a mix between embarrassment and shame. "J, I am sorry. I shouldn't have come here drunk. I'm trying to remember what happened, but after leaving Annette's party it's a little fuzzy, but I also just woke up. Are you alright?"

He felt guilty because he caught on that I wasn't the biggest fan of drunk people. But that is where he is wrong. Yes, drunk people can make me uncomfortable, but that is because my history dictates that drunk people equate to some sort of violence that I don't want to be a part of. Harry, on my dock because his drunk brain told him to come to me, sitting with me and ranting about art history, doesn't really fit that mold.

"I'm fine. Promise. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, just had some crazy dream. I'm gonna go put some cold water on my face," he tapped lightly on my thigh so I would get up. When his fingertips touched my thigh his eyes went straight down. "You're wearing shorts today," he stated.

"Yes? It's the middle of summer." I said. "Is that a problem?"

His eyes were glued to my thigh. It hit me at that moment that he had only seen me in pants. That was pretty unusual for Jersey in the summertime, but I had been in jeans the last few times he saw me and I always wore long jeans to work.

His fingertips were lightly tracing the large jellyfish tattoo that was on my thigh. "No, not at all."

I was entranced by his touch as I watched his fingers dance across my skin. The way his eyes followed his fingertips made me feel like he was trying to memorize every inch of my skin. Under his gaze he made me feel like I was worthy of being art. Like, if I was lucky, one day he might take the time to paint me. The touch was so delicate, it was like he was barely there at all. Goosebumps arose on my skin. His fingers were whispering to my skin, telling it secrets that neither of us knew.

His eyes eventually moved up to meet mine. I smiled at him. He cleared his throat and removed his hand, like I caught him doing something wrong. It took everything in me not to grab his wrist and place it back where it was. "I'm gonna go freshen up," he mumbled.