theadora : harry styles

so it goes...

Waking up to Harry was something so precious, something she did not know how to explain to someone who's never tasted and felt love– a love so crazy, yet so filling. She felt full; full of love, like she's just eaten a full course of meal. It was bliss, yet so terrorising, knowing he's there, at arm's reach, because she knew if it were a dream, as soon as her hand reached there, he would be gone– gone like the wind.

But today, her hand reaches for his naked shoulder, and skin touches skin, and Harry's still there.

Instead of disappearing into thin air, he grunts, and covers his face with the duvet, and if it were possible she thinks, he would curl into a ball like one of those bugs just so he can get warmer and warmer in the sheets. He doesn't stay grunting, though. Instead, he grunts only once more, and laughs– a croaky one, and opens the duvet, revealing his face, eyes all puffy with sleep and dimple out just like she remembers it. She doesn't know if it's because of all the sleep she wishes she would be getting, but Harry somehow looks like he's shining, just like the first time they ever shared a bed in his small flat in North London.

"Mornin'," he croaks, hand reaching from under the duvet, and he places it on her cheek, the one that isn't pressed into the pillow. He strokes the soft, warm skin there and smiles even wider, and she wonders if he feels it, too.

She smiles, eyes closing, and places her hand on his. "Good morning," she whispers, like she's afraid to destroy the stillness of the room, and everything in between.

"What's the time?" Harry whispers back.

"Seven something."

He groans, then lets out a breathy laugh. She doesn't care for the morning breath. "Why are we awake?"

"We're parents. We do parent-things in the morning."

"Like morning sex?"

She groans, though can't help but laugh at the cheeky tone of his. She opens the duvet, and places her leg over his.

"No, Harry."

A pout.

"Why?"

"Because."

"Okay, okay, I'm awake," Harry yawns into his hand. He opens the duvet, copying her, and his hand falls to her thigh, and he strokes the skin there, then the tattoo with his thumb.

Another minute passes, and neither of them make a move to get out of the bed.

Harry sighs, but it sounds like a happy one from where she's laying.

"What," she murmurs into the stillness of the morning sunshine creeping into their room.

"I'm just–" he falters, and looks to his side, eyes finding hers. They hold eye contact for a moment before he smiles. "–happy. Relaxed. Content."

"Are you?" She smiles, too.

"I am. Very much so. Thank you."

"Why are you thanking me?" She says, giggling into her arm.

"Thanking you, because... because you make me happy– as cliche as it sounds–"

"–I like cliches."

"I know."

"Do you think– are we crazy for doing this?" She murmurs, voice low as if she doesn't want to disturb the stillness in the room.

Harry reaches and moves her arm from her face, and she looks at him.

"Doing what?" He says. He sounds curious, on edge.

"Us."

"No," he says. Curt. Sure of himself.

"No, I– I don't think so, too, but sometimes... I get nervous."