Butterfly Keeper // h.s. au

Chapter Thirteen

I wake up lost in the fluffy white sheets of Harry's bed. The suns is slightly coming in through the blinds, casting rectangular streaks of brightness on the bed. Last I remembered I had been getting sleepy on the couch. I guess he brought me in here...

I look around and he's nowhere to be seen in the tiny room. But the scent of coffee comes floating in from under the small crack of the door, meaning that he must be awake. I use this time to groggily fish my phone from my pocket and check my texts. My screen is bright in the semi dark room causing me to squint and I'm immediately bombarded with seventeen texts from Courtney. All of them are asking where I'm at and if I'm okay but the last few are in caps lock. I didn't even think to text her after all that happened last night, and I feel horrible for worrying her.

Quickly I type out a short text apologizing to her and telling her I'm fine before getting out of bed and stretching. When I emerge into the living room the smell of coffee is stronger now and I wander into the kitchen to find Harry sitting at his desk in the corner, hunched over his laptop.

He turns to me with a half smile on his lips. The bandages I put on his chin from last night almost soften his look, making him appear like a little boy that scraped his chin. And his curls are loose, lying messily on the tops of his shoulders. I'm surprised that he's already dressed in an oversized red plaid flannel and his black jeans.

"How'd you sleep?" he asks.

"I slept good... Where did you sleep?" I ask with curiosity. My voice is heavy with sleep and I'm sure my hair looks terrible but I try to push those thoughts to the back of my mind.

"On the couch." He says simply before turning back to his laptop. "I made coffee. You can have some." He adds, the sound of his fingers typing on the keys behind his words.

He slept on the couch... I feel bad that he basically gave up the bed for me. But at the same time it sends a warm feeling through my chest, he carried me to the bed. Like my dad did when I was a kid and I wouldn't be all the way asleep, just enough so that I could get a free ride to bed.

I sit on one of the bar stools in front of the island and examine the picture on the wall. It's the profile of a beautiful woman, looking to be in her early thirties. Her hair is falling out of her bun and her lips are pursed in a familiar way. She looks worn yet filled with beauty and strength as her line of eyesight is cast somewhere in the distance.

"That art is beautiful. Where did you get it from?" I inquire.

He looks up at the picture for a moment, his eyes running over the perfect shading and curve of each line in the picture. But then he looks to me and shrugs out, "I didn't buy it, I drew it."

My mouth falls open. "You drew that?"

"Did I stutter any part of that statement?" He says with dry humor in his voice. I choose to ignore his relentless sarcasm.

"I didn't know you could draw... It's beautiful."

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me." He replies, not taking his eyes off the piece of art. There's no indignation in his voice though, only mystery.

"Who is she?" I question softly. He frowns at this, but only slightly.

"My mum."

"Wow, you look a lot like her... She's stunning." I tell him. "What does she think of it?"

He shakes his head causing his curls to dust the tops of his shoulders. "She died when I was eleven." His words are masked, but I think there's emotion hidden somewhere deep beneath them.