☆ Safe and sound II

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• When immense protectiveness has a reason behind it's intensity, no one can halt the tears and none can avoid the pain. But hey—that doesn't mean there won't be any swooning •

Part II

Part II

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You lay half awake on the bed—yes bed, basically your couch didn't bare any cologne that of Harry's, but the bed did—while you heard a car at a distance, followed by some shuffling down stairs after a few minutes of silence.

Your mind was barely conscious but you knew Harry was home. It'd been quite a while though—almost an hour, probably half past eleven in the morning but you couldn't gather up the strength to move. Jetlag was finally kicking in.

You leaned in towards the left side of the mattress before letting out a comfortable sigh, snuggling further into the sheets. Already on the verge of sleeping, you didn't bother to open your eyes even after hearing light footsteps heading upstairs towards your room.

A slight click reverberated through the bedroom when Harry pushed open the door, feeling quite necessary to not disturb the peaceful hush around the house. He'd already assumed you were asleep, hencing the profound silence around the bungalow.

Letting himself through, he immediately threw a glance over your silhouette—who was buried deep within the covers—as a small smile managed to tug over at the corners of his lips. He let out a relieved exhale before tossing the master set of keys on the coffee table, along with a baby blue document that he had carried over from work.

Stauntering towards your side, he unloaded his pink iPhone over the nightstand and discarded his rings—who were perfectly clasped around his slender fingers—wearily going through the motions. Time to time, he kept looking down at your dainty figure.

The boy couldn't help it. It'd been two hell of a months apart.

He escorted himself inside the bathroom for freshening up and doing his stuff, before getting himself ready for an afternoon nap. He hadn't slept all night, after all. Actually—nights.

Harry pulled out a pair of newly washed boxers and a white plain shirt before deserting the black tee and ankle lengthened plazo into a basket.

Dressed for the ocassion, he merely made his way out of the bathroom, switching off the lights grimly. His actions speaked louder than words though—he was flagged, absolutely in a need of proper bedding after spending days and weeks after his album. There were nights where he wouldn't even come back home, busying himself at the studio during nightfalls. Being barely capable of dosing off, he used to tangle himself into work. There was simply no one to come home to.

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