Come June [ h.s. ]

19

19
.

It was Eileen who woke up first.

The sky outside her bedroom window was dark and a greenish-blue. It was early in the morning, and the sun had yet to rise.

She could feel the weight of Harry's arm across her stomach. In the dim light, all she could make out was his silhouette. For a few minutes she just watched the outline of his shoulder as it rose and fell, admiring that steady rhythm, and the peace it brought her.

The way he had spoken to her earlier was unbearable. There was no denying it. It hurt her on the inside, and broke her down, in a sense — no one had ever treated her that way. She wasn't used to bitterness. But she knew that somewhere, beyond the stinging and aching, beyond the hateful words, beyond the emotional chaos, there was just Harry.

And he needed time.

There was a shift in his breathing beside her. He grunted like he was starting to wake up, and her heart quickened as she leaned closer to him.

"Harry?" she whispered.

He didn't say anything. Instead he tightened his grip on her and rested his face against the side of her head, breathing in the sweet smell of her hair.

"Are you awake?" asked Eileen.

He muttered something that she didn't quite understand at first. She asked him to repeat it, and he did.

"Do you still love me?"

The question fell from his lips as if it were the most natural inquiry in the world. His voice was heavy, and tired — Eileen wondered if maybe he were dreaming, but answered anyway.

"Yes," she whispered, and he nuzzled closer to her neck. "Yes, I still love you."

The steady rise and fall of his chest returned, and Eileen felt her eyelids grow heavy again. Before she knew it, she had fallen back asleep.

.

Harry knew instantly that the room didn't belong to him.

His eyes squinted tightly as they adjusted, peering inquisitively at his surroundings. Eileen was nowhere to be found — though he knew she must've been nearby, since the place where she had slept was still warm. He practically fell off the mattress as he got up. He couldn't help himself — even in his tired state, he just wanted to see her.

It took him a minute to find his clothes. The pants he'd worn last night were all crumpled up on the floor beside her bed, and still wet. He quickly deduced that he had no other options but Eileen's closet. Her blue robe was hanging inside (the one he had seen her wear while she was reading), and he slipped on the soft material and tied it snug, hoping she could forgive him for it later.

It smelled like her; like spring time.

He found her standing in the kitchen, leaning over the countertop, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She was dressed in one of those old-fashioned nightgowns with long sleeves and everything. As if sensing his presence there, her eyes drifted upwards and glinted with warmth.

They shared silence for a few fleeting moments — it was like they were balancing on the tower of emotions they had built. Harry wanted so much to say the right thing; but what was the right thing?

How could his words ever be good enough for her?

She kept her feet planted. In this way, she allowed him to choose what exactly he wanted, and without hesitating he crossed the kitchen and carefully wrapped his arms around her.

She sighed into the curve of his neck as he held her close. He was warm and gentle and familiar.

"How do you feel?" he asked.