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Y/N's POV
Bringing up the hot tea up to my room, Harry's buried under my covers. Still trembling and sweating.
His eyes are closed, tightly. Almost as if those eyelids will tear right off. I put down the mug, placing my hand on his forehead, he's burning up. "Damn it," I mutter. This was going to happen, all because Harry's too damn stubborn to not listen. Now, here I am playing nurse to the man I told I was done with. Being selfish shouldn't be taken in consideration right now, he saved me from those horrible people, I should at least help him get better.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs silently. It's heartbreaking seeing him in this state. Usually, Harry's not one to get sick on a constant. What was to be expected if the idiot slept out there in the rain?
"You're gonna have to sit up Harry. The tea's ready. In the mean time I have to go get a damp cloth to put on your head," The moment I make a turn, I feel his hand snatch my wrist, halting me from moving any further. "Harry," I groan but he doesn't let up. "Please. You have a fever, let me take care of it." I jerk my hand away gently. Seeing Harry this weak is complete melancholy. Scolding him isn't going to help either.
Walking into my bathroom, I huff and puff at least 5 times in the last minute. The words still fresh in my head. Marry him.. Marry Harry and be his wife. He wants to marry me? The thought is absurd, it is. He's sick, I doubt he meant it. But I can't help the small smile of being Mrs. Styles, being his wife and him being my husband. This would be ideal if we were older, we're still teens. Harry doesn't turn 20 until February and right now it's only September. I just turned 19 not too long ago.
Way too young to be thinking about marriage. Shaking away the fairy tale dream from my head, I run a cloth over cold water. When I walk back into the room, he sat up like I asked him to, sipping slowly from the hot tea. His chest and torso are exposed, glistening. Not a day goes by that he doesn't grow even more attractive than he already is. I flush a deep crimson noticing just how much my body wants his touch all over again.
How much I want to feel him again and unravel in ourselves. That same Harry was kissing my enemy in front of my house, and that sting is still as fresh as if it only happened seconds ago.
I walk up to him, placing the cloth over his head. He looks at me with sad, tired eyes. Those eyes look familiar, a look I have seen on myself far too many times. "Why did you do it? You are insane." I dab the cloth all over his face.
"Because you wouldn't listen to me. You said I was bluffing, which only made me want to prove you wrong," he coughs, shuddering from what I assume are the chills. Hard headed as always, damn it Harry. Although, thinking about it, all that trouble just to hear about him kissing Kendall? Spare the details, but that's hard to believe. It's a sweet gesture, in a weird way.
I take the mug from his hands, putting it down along with the cloth before climbing into bed with him, "scoot," I mutter. "Come here," I open my arms and engulf him warmly, trying to rid of his shakes. He's lucky I know how to take care of him. I can pretend and act like I'm not hurting but I am, this is all just a mask to cover it. I told him I was done but here he is and here I am, running my hands through his hair. That soft, silky hair that I want to touch for hours, tug it while we.. No, that is not going to happen anymore.
My first time with Harry will be my last. It was a breathtaking encounter but that's all it will ever be. A memory that will become distant in the near future. "Don't ever pull that shit again Harry," I threaten. My arms are crossed over his chest while he holds them down, holding me with force. His lips are close to a normal color, and he doesn't feel as warm anymore. Oh thank goodness.
