It's You [H.S.]

8.8 | Only you

>

Eloise stands hunched over the sink in their ensuite bathroom, arms braced against the counter.

Harry squats on his haunches below her, rummaging through the back of the cupboard.

"Ah, ha!", he pops back up to his full height, triumphantly wielding a first aid kit.

He sets aside antiseptic wipes, a little pack of butterfly closures and a rectangular adhesive dressing, before turning to straighten her up, guiding her hand under the spotlight to see better.

As she hisses again at the movement, he gets to work whilst fishing for answers. "How are you feeling, really?"

"Hmm... Still not brilliant", she admits lowly. "Pretty shattered; I tossed and turned all night".

"I know".

"Shit, sorry".

"Don't be. Just go back to bed", he says, simply enough.

"No way! That would be so rude", she shakes her head, horrified at the thought of burrowing back under the duvet with guests downstairs. "And what about lunch?".

"The beef needs at least two hours", he shrugs. "Do it. Sleep is always the best medicine".

Once he's finished tending to her hand, he takes matters into his own and guides her towards the bed.

Pulling his hoodie over her head, he stretches the sleeve gently over the dressing on her hand.

Lifting the corner of the duvet for her, he frowns when she lets out a whimper whilst twisting to lay down. Bending over, he drops a kiss to her forehead as he tucks her in. "Rest up, baby".

>

Harry returns a couple of hours later, before serving lunch, to check in on her, with a glass of water and painkillers in one hand, and a hot water bottle tucked under his arm.

He finds her fast asleep, curled into a ball around his pillow, looking a bit sweaty and dishevelled with the duvet tangled around her.

Dropping his wares on the bedside table, he reaches to brush some hair from her face. But, feeling the heat emanating from her, drops his palm to her forehead.

"Shit". She's too warm, but looks oddly pale rather than flushed.

Quickly grabbing a cool wash cloth from the bathroom, he dabs her brow and tugs the duvet lower.

Stroking his hand from the top of her head down to cup her cheek, she reflexively nuzzles into the relative cool of his palm, but doesn't stir.

She must have been feeling worse than she let on. He realises he's never seen her properly unwell, other than colds or hangovers, and doesn't like it.

With a final worried look, he heads back downstairs, palming the rest of the glass of red wine he'd been nursing off on to his mum.

>

A short while later, a disorientated Eloise wakes up to a stabbing pain.

It takes her breath away; she's never felt anything like it. This can't just be cramps.

Steeling herself, she pulls up from her foetal position with a wail, abdomen protesting violently as she twists.

Once the wave of nausea passes and she tries to straighten up, the pain only intensifies and she knows something's very wrong.

She's scared, and in so much pain that she can't call out for Harry. With no idea where her phone is, she grits her teeth, hauls herself up and staggers down the landing, holding her breath against the white hot pain.