Devil's Due [h.s.]

Chapter 50

Instead, I pulled away. Enough that I had a clear view of his face. Harry was weird with boundaries and only because I wasn't exactly sure what they were until I happened to stumble upon them and send him fleeing. But he was getting there. He was communicating with me, being open and vulnerable. I would let him take the lead on whatever he wanted to do.

His lids were half-hooded over his eyes, with lashes that stopped just above his flushed cheeks with every slow blink he took while he looked at me. I was still acutely aware of the fact that Harry's arms were still around me and I drew in a shaky breath when he started to trail his knuckle softly up and down my spine, his other hand still flattened over my waist.

Is he still drunk?

"Hi," I said, chewing nervously on my lower lip. "Morning."

Harry's eyes flitted once to my mouth and then back up again. He angled his head to the side, letting it fall against the pillow, before huffing a small chuckle. "Morning."

My gaze danced the length of his face, hoping my expression didn't shift when I glanced at his sunken black eye. Carefully, I asked, "How are you feeling...?"

"It looks worse than it is, Riv."

Something flashed across his face and his hold around me loosened. I knew he was about to pull away – both physically and metaphorically – so I hastily asked, if only to keep him distracted, "Your head. How's your head feeling this morning?"

I knew maybe I started off a little too strong. Should have kept it light for just a bit longer but I felt like a bit of a cheat beating around the bush.

Harry was silent for a moment, eyes still on me like he was trying to read some unspoken thing I hadn't voiced. "It's fine," he paused, sucking in a short breath. "I was drunk, but I didn't blackout." My gaze must have lowered because suddenly Harry's fingers were under my chin, pulling me up to look at him. "I remember what I said, if that's what you're talking about. And I'm not about to take any of it back. I'm not that much of a fucking dick."

"I don't think you're a dick," I said quickly, shaking my head.

Harry's fingers closed around my jaw where he gave a little squeeze, an amused grin now on his face. "Sure, you don't."

"I'm serious," I countered. "I mean you can be dickish, but you aren't a dick."

"Dickish," Harry laughed, falling onto his back and letting my hands fall free. His one arm was still tucked beneath me, his fingers now lazily drawing circles over my shoulder. "I like that word. Pretty dickish of me to crash your birthday party yesterday though, hm?"

"It wasn't a birthday party," I was still on my side looking at him and tucked my hand to rest under my head. "And if it were, my friends wouldn't have left. They'd have just invited you in."

"If I'm to remember correctly," Harry mused, his head tilting in my direction. "You and your friends had an entire group chat where you talked about how much of an asshole I was to you after getting your tattoo." He frowned, glancing at my waist. "Which, by the way," his hand drifted down to slip under the hem of my shirt, which he promptly lifted up to my ribcage, "how is that?"

His fingers danced across the ink, eliciting a steady trail of goosebumps in their wake. "It's fine," I said, shaking my head. "Harry, it's been almost three months. It's healed, don't worry. And to be fair, you were an asshole that day."

"Mm, you think so, yeah?" The corner of his mouth quirked up into a smirk. Seconds later, that expression of amusement vanished, to be replaced by something serious. "Thank you though," his voice was low when he spoke, eyes directly on mine. "For letting me come in yesterday."