About (Harry Styles)

43.

There's a loud banging at my bedroom door which causes me to break from my sleep. I find myself panting heavily, my breaths jagged and sharp as I blast up right into a sitting position. My hand moves to my burning forehead, my fingers drenched with a my sweat. I wipe the sweat off on my blanket and move to sit on the edge of the bed.

Oh God. The pounding has now transferred to my head. My nightmares have worsened since last night.

"Elaine! Are you alright in there?"

It's not my mother's voice. It's a much deeper pitch.

Harry ...

"Elaine! Would you open the door already?"

He sounds frantic as he continues pounding against the wood, which isn't helping my headache either.

Forcing myself to get off the bed, I use my hands to push my body upwards. Once I steady my balance, I walk to the door and open it, letting Harry's blurry face fill my vision. I can't see him clearly, but he's clearly worried about something.

"What's wrong?" I ask groggily at the same time he asks me if I'm alright.

"What's wrong?" He asks, mocking me. "You were screaming bloody murder in there."

Screaming? I don't remember screaming.

"I thought someone was hurting you."

"No, I'm fine ... It was just a nightmare," I tell him.

"Nightmare?"

"I need to take some ibuprofen. After that, I'll be fine."

His expression is gradually becoming clearer by the second. When I can fully see the sharp color in his dilated green eyes, I'm quite bewildered.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"It's three in the morning. You don't look well," he comments. His hand reaches over and presses against my forehead. I'm stunned by the sudden contact but don't flinch back. I only close my eyes, soaking in the cold temperature on the back of his hand. It feels amazing across my heated skin. "Go back to bed and I'll go get you some medicine."

"It's fine. I can get it myself."

"Please. Let me."

"I can do it, Harry."

"Elaine, you won't make it downstairs. I don't want you to fall down the stairs when you're still half asleep. Don't overwork yourself."

I swallow the small amount of pride I had left and nod. He's right. I am feeling a lightheaded and if I go down the stairs, I might end up falling over my own two feet.

I tell him where we keep the pills, and he storms off while I return to bed.

It feels like a second hasn't even passed when he reappears by my side. He switches on the light, the brightness only adding onto my throbbing headache.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Just bare with it for a moment."

He hands me a glass of cold water and the two orange pills. After taking them, he suggests I lay back down since I'm as pale as my white walls and I do as I'm told. I heave in a long breath and close my eyes, the light too much for me to take. His large hand flattens across my forehead again, this time even colder than before. Probably from holding the glass of cold water.

"I think you're running a fever," he tells me worriedly, his hand lifting from my skin. I want to ask him to put it back, but hold myself back. "Do you want to go to the hospital? I can take you."