Day
As soon as the icy shell cracked around my heart, everything changed. Heat flooded through me, flushing my cheeks and searing my veins. I felt strong again – powered by rage, I felt stronger than ever. And I was angry. Inexplicably, dangerously angry.
"You lied to me!" I boomed from across the room, pointing at Fitz in accusation even though she was the only one there. "More than once! Over and over and over!"
"Muffy asked me not to tell you."
"So what?! Who is she? I'm your boyfriend!"
Fitz tilted her head and gave me a knowing stare, one that implored me to be reasonable.
I was past reason.
"You're loyal to her over me, is that it?"
"Harry, how could you—"
"Why does she get to be put first?!"
"She isn't, Harry. You are. I thought it would be better this way."
"Stop deciding everything without me!" I cried, tugging at my hair in frustration. "Stop deciding what would be best and just tell me what's bloody going on!"
It took everything Fitz had not to flare up and fight with me. Her eyes shone from the struggle as she took a deep breath to calm down and gritted her teeth to force herself from biting back.
"I'm sorry, Harry," she said, though her voice shook with the effort of keeping it even. "I know this kills you. But you should know it wasn't planned. Muffy was terrified when she found out that day. Terrified to tell your father and terrified to tell you."
"I don't care," I spat. "I don't care about any of that."
I took a step back when she took a step forward, warning her not to come any closer. My heart was beating frantically in my chest, hot blood pumping through my veins. All I felt was fury – nothing else.
I'd never felt like that before.
"Yes, you do," she insisted, nodding her head. "I know you do."
I shook my head, unwilling to listen. Nostrils flaring, I cried, "Christ, Fitz. Do you not understand how much you betrayed me?"
"This isn't about me," she was quick to say, rounding the end of the bed. "This is about you and your father."
I didn't listen. Didn't, or couldn't – my pulse was pounding so hard in my ears I could barely hear anything at all.
"How could you do this to me?" I asked, frowning deeply.
Sighing in exasperation, she shrugged her shoulders in helplessness. "I was so scared, Harry." She approached me with caution. "I knew what it would do to you and I wanted to protect you as long as I could."
"Well, you didn't," I snapped, and even I didn't understand why. It was obvious that Fitz was trying as hard as she could not to fire up and unleash on me, but all I had in me was fight. Her gentle tiptoeing was not what I needed. "Now I know and it hurts just the same." The next step she took toward me, I backed away. "You should go."
Indignant, she huffed. "I don't want to."
"I want you to! Go!" I pulled my car keys form my pocket and tossed them to her.
"No!" She set the keys on the dresser and took another step in my direction.
"Don't!" I called, though the word got caught in my throat. I held up a hand to warn her to stop in her tracks. My stomach lurched, and I found myself swallowing back emotion. It was rising in me all at once, causing the anger to recede as something new took over. Something rather foreign that tightened in my chest and thickened in my throat. The anger was chipping away, but I wanted it back.
This other thing – it hurt. It choked my words and gave me a new, uneven voice altogether as I said, "Just go! I want you to go. You're just as bad as them."
I gulped, trying to rid my throat of the thickness, but it only got worse. It was as if the harder I tried to push it away, the more it bubbled at the surface. Whatever I was suppressing wouldn't be suppressed – it was taking me over. In my moment of weakness, it became me.
And it scared me. I was terrified of what I was feeling and what it might make me do or say.
Fitz didn't move. Arms lifeless at her sides, she simply stood there and stared, observing me as I waged an internal war on the part of me I wouldn't let anybody else see.
She wouldn't budge, and when I gasped for breath after swallowing it down again, I panicked.
"Fucking go! Leave!" I shouted, gesturing wildly to the door.
I tried to channel my anger again, whipping around and kicking my nightstand. The furniture shifted and the lamp fell to the floor with a clatter, but I couldn't summon anything more. I'd been overtaken by another feeling. One that left me standing helpless and alone, grateful that my back was to Fitz as my shoulders began to shake involuntarily. Bringing a thumb to my lower lip, I realized it was quivering.
My breaths came in gasps even though I hadn't physically exerted myself. Inhaling was painful and sharp, and though I tried, I couldn't breathe deeply. The more I struggled, the more I panicked.
Misty and I are going to be starting a family.
We're so excited, Harry.
Work gives one purpose. Without it...
what is there?
A hand on my shoulder blade – even a ghost-like brush – shook me from my thoughts.
"Don't touch me!" I snapped, surprisingly high-pitched. I shirked away from her, pleading while fighting back tears, "Don't touch me. Go. I know I'm acting like a child."
"You deserve to act like a child," was Fitz's soft reply. "He never allowed you to be one."
I wished she'd never spoken at all, because all it took was her gentle, patient tone to elicit a whimper from me.
And once I started, I couldn't stop.
Tears welled in my eyes and poured over, streaming down my cheeks. My chest racked with sobs, my shoulders hunched over as I tried to stop myself but eventually cried into my hands. As I was furiously wiping away my tears, I realized that Fitz had shuffled around and stood in front of me, watching with eyes steeped in sadness. I wanted to tell her to leave again, but I knew that I was past speaking. Past giving orders. Past doing anything but sobbing pathetically in front of her.
I flinched when her hand reached out and grazed my shoulder.
"I'm not leaving you," she said.
I swallowed again, emitting a choked sob as I nodded in understanding. When she took a step forward, I didn't back away. She hesitated, but when her hands slid tentatively around my waist, I didn't flinch. Instead, I encircled her with my arms and pulled her close, instantly burying my face in her neck.
And there we stood, holding each other while I sobbed – ugly, heaving sobs that produced spasms in my chest.
"I'm sorry," Fitz whispered, slowly rubbing my back. "I'm so sorry."
But I couldn't be angry with her anymore. Instead, as I clutched a section of her hair in my fist and my tears dripped onto her shoulder, my mind was on other things. Memories I'd blocked and pushed away in the hopes that they'd never resurface.
Like when I was six years old with massive hunger pains. The sky was dark and I still hadn't eaten dinner. I went to his home office and asked him when we were eating – he said, "Later." I tried to ignore the hunger by turning up the volume on the telly, but my grumbling stomach was louder. An hour passed, and I asked again. "I'm busy," he said. Half an hour later I was back, and this time, I was pleading. Hunched over his computer, he barked at me to go to my room. "Irritating" was what he'd called me. But I did as I'd been told and shut myself away, crying on my bed until, when it was certainly past my bedtime, I was called down for a frozen dinner.
Or when I was eight years old and my nanny suggested we make him a cake for his birthday. We spent all afternoon baking and decorating in the kitchen, and I made him a pop-up card with construction paper and coloured pencils. I had everything set up for his arrival, but he never came home from work. My gran came to watch me instead, with news that my father was on a date. I stayed up as late as I could, but he never came, and I cried in heartbroken disappointment as I fell asleep. "Too sweet for my liking," he'd said when he finally tried a sliver of the cake the next day. So my nanny cut it into little pieces and I brought it to school to share with my classmates, who loved it – but their enjoyment meant nothing to me. Later on, I found my pop-up card in the rubbish bin.
Or when I was ten years old and scored the winning goal in the football championship. He said he'd make it to the game after work, but as I cheered with my teammates, I looked into the stands and he was nowhere to be found. My nanny took me home with my trophy, and there he was, hunched over in his office again. I placed it on his desk so he'd think of me while he worked. Not even a week later, he gave it back to me and told me to keep it in my bedroom. "Silly trinket," he'd called it. I wiped my tearful eyes in shame when, later that day, I threw it out.
Or when I was twelve years old and Louis and I spent the day riding our bikes around the neighbourhood and skipping stones in the stream and playing video games in my basement. I couldn't sleep that night, so I went to the bathroom for a drink of water only to hear voices in the kitchen. My father told the woman he was dating that I took pleasure in "simpleminded activities" and wasted my days with "that mischievous brat." I held back my tears until the next weekend, when I told Lou I couldn't play and sat at home alone instead.
Or when I was fifteen and spent my first week alone while he was on a business trip. The day he returned, I tidied all afternoon, did my laundry, walked to the store for groceries and picked up a pizza for dinner. All he asked for at the dinner table were the results of my Maths test, and when I told him the sorry truth, he asked me what I'd been doing all week instead of studying. "Is it even worth pouring money into a tutor for a lazy student?" he'd asked. I stayed up as late as I could under the light of my desk working out problem after problem, and I only allowed myself to sleep when my eyes began to water. By then I was too old for crying, and I told myself they were tears of exhaustion.
Of all the memories brought to the forefront of my mind, not one featured my father's eyes the way I'd seen them that night: bright, sparkling, happy. For the first time, I sifted through everything I'd tried to forget, and not once could I find that image. Not once had he smiled at me that way.
I wasn't sure how long I'd been hanging onto Fitz, but the strap of her dress was damp with my tears.
"Harry," she whispered, a soothing breath meant to calm me.
"Why didn't he love me?" I cried, and I was unaware that I spoke aloud until my voice broke on my next thought. "What did I do? I tried to be everything for him."
I forgot how to breathe when my shoulders shook violently, and though I squeezed my eyes shut, tears found a way to leak. When Fitz's nails began to rake comfortingly through my hair, I hugged her tighter, gasping for air.
"I just wanted him to love me," I sobbed against her, my ribs sore from heaving. "Why wasn't I enough?"
That was all I could say before I broke down into another round of sobbing that seemed endless. Through it all I clutched her tighter, like she was all I had, my fingertips pressing into her back and my heart beating against her collarbone. I sniffled, blinking hard as I tried to rid my thoughts of memories I'd sooner lose, and focused as best as I could on her fingers through my hair and the scent of her skin, flowery and light.
It required heavy concentration – more than I had the strength for, really – but after a couple of minutes, my sobs died down to sniffles and gasps, and when I rested my chin on her shoulder and shut my eyes, not a single tear leaked.
That was when I realized I wasn't the one trembling anymore. Fitz's chest was rising and falling against mine in stilted gasps, and when I left her shoulder and straightened to look down at her, tears streaked silently down her cheeks. Avoiding eye contact, she placed the palm of her hand on her opposite cheek to wipe them away.
With a frown, I held her head in my hands, swiping the pads of my thumbs underneath her eyes to catch fresh tears.
"Why are you crying?" I asked, thick with emotion. As I blinked, I noticed tears on my own eyelashes. "Because," she said, lightly shutting her eyes as I swiped my thumbs across again, "I love you so much." I continued to brush away her tears with a thoughtful expression. "You're so good and so kind," she went on, pausing as she succumbed to a whimper before regaining her composure, "and you give everything your all, despite..."
She locked a hand around my wrist just underneath her ear, gazing at me with watery eyes.
"Sometimes I hate him," she whispered, her eyes burning. "I hate him for what he's done to you."
My lips went to her forehead, fingers pushing her hair behind her ears. One final tear slipped from the corner of my eye before I brushed it away, capturing her head with my hands again and looking in her eyes.
"S'all right," I assured her, resting my forehead against hers. I pressed a firm kiss to her lips. "I'm okay."
Sniffling, she brought her hand between us to wipe away more tears. "No, you're not."
It destroyed me to see her this way – to see her this way because of me. I nodded fervently, desperate to prove it to her, desperate to forget. My eyes flickered to her pouted lips before descending to take her bottom lip between mine, kneading it gently. When she didn't respond, I gathered her closer, kissing her hard.
From the moment I felt her lips move against mine, my insides began to burn with the toxins I'd buried. And when she quivered against me and I feared I'd do the same, I let the flames envelop me instead. I let the anger creep back in because it was less painful than the despair. I let it take hold of me because it let me feel like I was in control, even if I wasn't.
It was when I dragged my tongue across her lower lip that she recoiled, worried creases in her forehead.
"Harry," she said. "You're so upset."
"Please," I begged, tenderly tucking her hair behind her ear. "Please, Fitz. I need you."
From the look on her face, she was on the verge of tears again. Her pained eyes glowed with her internal struggle, and I knew she required further convincing. My hand slid to cup the back of her neck as I kissed her again, probing her lips for entrance.
"Please," I breathed, catching her in a sloppy kiss as my hand travelled to her front to firmly cup her breast. "Baby, please."
Even with a whimper of protest, she gave in, grasping my shirt at my chest.
That was all the go-ahead I needed. As soon as I had her consent, I was pushing the strap of her dress off her shoulder and kissing the exposed skin, drawing her hips close to mine, squeezing her in urgency. No longer a victim to weakening emotions, I caved in to only one: anger. I let it take me because it gave me a semblance of control. Whether that was control over myself or control over Fitz, I didn't know.
I didn't care.
All I knew was that I was ravenous, hungry to feel anything but pain and loneliness. And she had stayed with me.
I helped her remove one arm from the strap of her dress before roughly and impatiently tugging down the neckline along with the cup of her bra, zoning in on her breast. Fitz made a sound in the back of her throat though she wriggled, and as her hands went to my hair, she gasped when my teeth brushed her nipple. I raised my head to see her biting her lower lip and, cheeks already flushed with heat, I met her lips in a scorching kiss.
Breaking the kiss, Fitz took a breath, frowning. "Harry, we—"
I shook my head, pleading with her to keep quiet as I shushed her with another kiss. Otherwise happy and willing to give in to her, this was one time I clung to the hope that she'd give in to me.
I needed this.
Locked in an embrace, I expertly turned us around while my fingers fumbled with her dress. I tugged it in one direction and it didn't budge.
"Up," Fitz said against my lips.
Gathering the dress in my hands, I lifted it up and over her head, letting it fall to the floor as I wrapped an arm around her back and slowly lowered her onto the bed, lips travelling speedily down her chest.
"All your damn dresses operate differently," I complained, turning my focus to her bra and removing it in one fluid motion.
"You're a smart boy," she returned, arching her back when I hooked my fingers in her knickers to pull them down. "You're just not very patient."
Once she was bare before me, I ripped off my button-up and the t-shirt underneath.
"I think we can both agree," I began, hesitating when my head was lost in my shirt, "that I'm very patient."
After flinging my clothing across the room, I lowered myself onto her, grasping the back of her shoulder as I tried to pull us both further up the bed. At the same time, I kissed her greedily and attempted to unbutton my jeans, which ultimately landed us in a heap in the middle of the bed. It took a few frustrating moments, but I managed to rid myself of my jeans.
"Mr. Patient," Fitz whispered, biting her lip and raising a brow in surprise when she realized I was fully hard.
"Don't patronize me," I said in a breath, abandoning her for a moment to retrieve a condom from my bedside drawer. I realized how hungry I was for her. I realized how much I needed her and how little I could stand to wait.
But it was barely even me. It was the hardened man I'd allowed to take over.
Fitz propped herself on her elbows while I shimmied out of my boxer-briefs, furrowing her brows in apprehension as I rolled on the condom. I crawled over her quickly, fingers digging into her thigh as I silently asked her to spread her legs for me. Her shallow breaths were hot against my cheek, and when I reached between us to guide myself in, her muscles clenched around me as she braced herself. I paused.
"Ready?" I asked, nudging into her.
She squirmed, palm flat on my chest. "No."
I didn't know where the low, throaty growl came from until Fitz's frown deepened and I realized it was from me. By then I was already shimmying down the bed, stationing myself between her legs and hooking my hands around her thighs, roughly tugging her forward.
Her nerves were building even faster than my lust. Panic flashed in her eyes as she struggled to determine my plan of action. Fitz hated to lose control, but I wasn't thinking of her comfort. She was propped on her elbows again, wide eyes following me.
"Harry—" she began, only to be cut off by my lips latching onto her clit. Unprepared for my forwardness, her jaw dropped in a gasp, followed by a moan she hadn't been expecting.
Eyes unfailingly focused on hers, my mouth didn't leave her for a second, tongue probing at her inner folds. When Fitz wriggled underneath me, I only pulled her closer, sliding my arms under her legs and around her midsection. Palms flat on her belly, I clasped my fingers, effectively locking her in place.
After a minute or so of this unrelenting and almost cruel stimulation, it was too much for her. She collapsed on her back, no longer able to support herself. But I kept on, spurred by the slipperiness developing between her legs.
She breathed my name again as her fingers tugged at my hair, and if she tugged too hard, I couldn't even feel it. She begged to buck her hips against my lips, but I had too firm a hold on her, and so she was trapped, her soft moans growing louder even though she struggled.
I was holding out for one thing, and she knew. With a cry bursting from her lips, she nodded fervently, and moments later, I released her from my clutches just before she sneezed.
Then I was swiftly moving up her body, gathering her in my arms. I didn't give her time to recover as I captured her in a deep kiss, giving her a taste of herself on my tongue. Fitz mumbled something against my lips, but I didn't pause to ask her what it was before guiding myself into her, hot and slick and tight and mine.
She broke the kiss, hooking an arm around my shoulders as she again attempted to prop herself up, wincing in discomfort as I pushed all the way in.
"Harry," she said breathlessly, "should we do this?"
"Yes," I answered without thought, pulling out only an inch or two before sliding back in.
She grimaced. "Wouldn't you rather just talk to me?"
"No."
Those were the last words spoken. Once she yielded to me, I eased myself in once more. I searched her eyes for a signal, and she nodded, lower lip taken firmly between her teeth.
And I let myself go – whatever of myself had been left. There was no time to waste on softness or self-restraint. I gave her quick, deep thrusts, only one goal in mind. If Fitz was unsatisfied, she didn't show it. Soft cries left her lips and she met me with each slam.
But she worked against me, too, trying to rein me in, slow me down, ease my urgency. She protested, but I didn't listen. Otherwise so good-natured and lenient, this felt like my fight, so I fought on, overpowering her like a lion would its prey.
My need for dominance existed for one simple reason: I didn't want to be touched. It was release I craved, not closeness. Every sweep through my hair and glide along my shoulder blades at her fingertips was more intimate than the collision of our pelvic bones, and every touch reminded me of who I was and what I didn't deserve. What I wasn't worth.
Determined not to succumb, I eventually gathered her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head. Fitz struggled, her eyes flying open to glare at me and surprised to find mine hard and icy and staring right back at her. My hold on her was so strong that all she could do was squirm underneath me, begging for leeway that I wouldn't give.
I knew I was frustrating her, but I couldn't stop myself. I was afraid of what I'd feel if I did.
As both of us were driven closer to climax, Fitz was dying to take over. Our skin felt sticky against one another's, our bodies working overtime. My hot breath hit her neck over and over again, and she shivered, her head lolling to the side. Realizing she couldn't win against my upper body strength, she wiggled her hips instead, never one to go down without a fight. Her attempts to break free only served to create more friction between us, and I felt her heart rate accelerate in her chest as my name left her lips over and over.
When her wrists went limp in my hand and her long legs locked around my waist, I knew she'd finally surrendered. And I went wild, channelling my anger and pounding into her until I was seeing red; not talking, not touching, purely aiming for release.
In the midst of my fury, I found it, burying myself in her as I rode it out. And she felt so good beneath me, long and lean and lithe and smooth, that I stayed there for a minute while I gasped for air, nuzzling her neck. As I came down from my high, chest slowly rising and falling, the scent of her shampoo was heavy in my nose as her hair tickled my cheek.
Those sensations were what brought me back.
I held her wrists several seconds longer before releasing them. Slowly, I relieved Fitz of my weight, supporting myself on my elbows as I loomed over her. Gazing down in confusion, she was looking back at me with a curious expression, lips slightly parted and brows gently furrowed and eyes particularly soft and searching. Though I'd released her hands, she kept her arms above her head as if she was afraid of moving, wary of disturbing me.
Or maybe she wasn't thinking of being in control anymore. Maybe she was too preoccupied by my stare, just as I was preoccupied with hers.
Moments passed. Locked in a perplexing visual exchange, neither of us moved or uttered a word. I waited for my anger to evaporate, but it never did. All it did was change its course until it was directed at me, and it only grew stronger the longer I stared at Fitz.
My Fitz. Stubborn, misdirected, always up-to-something Fitz. The girl who had my whole heart. What had I just done to her?
Suddenly, I was horrified. Horrified with what I'd done and what I couldn't take back, and furious with myself for letting it happen.
In a move so quick the bed shifted on its wheels, I pulled out of her and slid to the edge of the bed, where I slipped on my boxer-briefs and stood up. Facing the wall, I covered my face with the palms of my hands and inhaled deeply. I was surprised to learn that my breath was still shaky and uneven, not fully recovered from the heaving sobs I'd experienced. I slid my hands up and into my hair, pushing it away from my head, squeezing my eyes shut and tugging on the ends of the curls.
Then I had to move, so I rounded the bed and had my hand on the doorknob when Fitz's voice chimed softly from the bed.
"Harry?"
I glanced at her over my shoulder. One of her legs was bent at the knee, the other long and stretched. She'd propped herself on her elbows to look me right in the eyes, not at all bothered to bare herself in front of me.
"I love you," she said.
I froze.
It was something she always said after we'd been together, but it had never before been so painful to hear. Probably because it had never before felt less deserved.
And so, to spare my girl the sight of my face crumbling, I turned and slipped out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind me. On the other side of the flat but in plain view, Niall sat on the couch surrounded by bags of crisps and technological equipment. He looked up, surprised to see me, and when I saw that he was removing his gigantic headphones from his ears to say something, I locked myself in the loo to avoid his jabs.
From the look on his face, he'd meant to ask a carefully worded and sensitive question and not deliver a jab. But I wasn't sure I could handle soft and sensitive, either.
Leaning over the sink, I splashed water on my face – cold, then hot. I felt stripped and raw and emotionally exhausted. My eyes were puffy and swollen and my cheeks were pink and flushed. I stared at my reflection for a long time, wondering how I could have so much of my father in me when he had never been there at all. When he had more or less removed himself from me, like I was something he'd rather forget. A reminder of a past life that didn't go as planned.
I brushed my teeth without glancing once at the mirror. I couldn't stand to look at myself anymore. I couldn't see his eyes staring back at me, lifeless and broken and empty. I couldn't bear the thought of Fitz having to look into those eyes, either. I couldn't imagine she could look at me at all after this.
When I returned to my bedroom, Fitz had changed into one of my t-shirts. Her legs looked particularly long in the cropped cotton shorts she wore. She was twirling her hair around her index finger, which she sometimes did when she was nervous and uncomfortable.
Nervous and uncomfortable because of me.
Hating myself, I merely shook my head when she opened her mouth, passing her without a word as I went to the bed. I sat on the edge, rounded my back as I stared at my knees, gripped the edges of the bed, and concentrated on breathing. With my back to her, the only way I knew she'd left the room was the creaking of the hardwood floor as she tiptoed across.
Misty and I are going to be starting a family.
You're going to be a big brother.
As their voices echoed in the empty caverns of my mind, I expected another barrage of painful childhood memories. My breath shortened and my eyes welled with tears in preparation.
Instead, I thought of the Christmas exams in my last year of uni and how I'd worked myself to the point of keeling over dead. When it was finally over, I passed out for hours only to wake up to Fitz's concerned face just centimeters from my own. I'd meant to go out that night, but instead, the two of us watched a movie. And she'd happily crawled onto my bed and made herself comfortable and laughed at all the right parts – but I couldn't even remember what movie we'd watched because, out of the corner of my eye, I was watching her instead.
And I remembered my graduation night – the day I got the car. I'd begged her to christen it with me in the abandoned carpark of our building. Despite the wariness in her eyes, she'd eventually flashed me a devious smile and caved. The small backseat had been awkward and difficult to navigate, but she'd giggled whenever I'd stuck her in an uncomfortable position. Once skeptical and nervous of being somewhat in public, she forgot her fears somewhere along the way and all she wanted to do afterward was snog. Kiss and kiss until our mouths felt bruised and we had to join the party taking place upstairs in our flat with red, swollen lips.
And then there was New Year's, which we celebrated with Louis and Josie and Liam and Macy in Gran Canaria. There had been a huge party on the beach with hundreds of people and beers and bonfires and island music. Sometime before midnight, she'd found me and asked me to come away with her. "Because I love you the most," she'd said. Barefoot, we'd walked down the beach until the bonfires were just specks of light behind us. Shrouded in darkness, I'd persuaded her – against her initial better judgment – to go skinny dipping with me. I'd pretended to feel seaweed tangling in my legs and fish nipping at my feet just to tease her, and even though her eyes were wide with nerves, she swam out to me anyway. We rang in the New Year with her legs locked around my waist and her arms around my neck and holding on dearly, but still she kissed me in the ocean when the fireworks announced the turn of the calendar.
All of that because she felt safe with me. She trusted me.
Whispered voices were outside the door, but I couldn't make out what Fitz and Niall were saying. I didn't even try, though it must have had something to do with me.
Once the whispers stopped, the door opened and closed, and the floor creaked as Fitz made her way back to the bed. It shifted underneath me as she crawled on. She came closer and closer until I was certain she was right behind me, and I grew wary of her touch.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw her on her knees facing me, palms resting on her thighs. She regarded me with caution and didn't say a word.
"I can sleep on the couch," I offered, barely moving my lips as I spoke.
She frowned. "Don't be stupid." Shaking her head, she added matter-of-factly, "But you do have to move. This is my side of the bed."
I looked down, realizing where I was. At her flat or mine, Fitz always slept on the right side of the bed. It wasn't something we discussed; it just became a natural rhythm for us.
With a grunt of acknowledgement, I pushed myself up and walked around to the other side. I slid under the sheets and faced the wall, my back to her.
And I could hear her heart break with every word:
"Are you so furious with me that you can't bear to sleep in the same bed?"
She thought it was her. She thought she was the reason for all of this. And I wanted to assure her she wasn't – she was so far from it – but tears blurred my vision and I knew I'd never get the words out.
So I took a different approach, along with a steadying breath. "Why did you do that, Fitz? Why put me through all that?"
"Because, I..." she trailed off, shifting under the covers behind me. "I didn't know what to do. If I told you myself, you'd feel betrayed by them. If I waited until they told you, you'd feel betrayed by me."
"I wish you'd chosen yourself over them," I mumbled.
"I don't," she answered. She paused. "You have every right to be mad at me. But I wish you wouldn't be."
She'd righted the lamp I'd knocked over on her side of the bed. She hadn't bothered to turn it out yet. She had no intentions of sleeping soon.
I sighed. "You took the fall for her. I spent the last month frustrated with you and all you had to do was say you were covering for her."
"I'm not saying it didn't suck, Harry – it sucked. But at least when you're angry with me, it doesn't hurt you as much. You know I love you. We're closer than you and your dad. We can get through this stuff." She hesitated, her voice turning small. "We'll be okay, won't we?"
Staring at the wall ahead of me, I swallowed. "I want us to be."
But it was hard to believe she could forgive what I'd done when I wouldn't forgive myself.
After a while had passed, I rolled onto my stomach, hands buried under the pillow. My eyes scanned her up and down and landed on the sleeve of my t-shirt.
"I wish you'd let me touch you," she said softly.
I stared in contemplation at the t-shirt, wondering if she wore it because it was comfortable or because it was mine.
"Why?"
"Because," she answered, as if that should be enough. Later, she elaborated, "You need a hug. A long one. And a kiss. A long one."
Finally, my gaze travelled from her sleeve to her eyes, which had been waiting for mine all this time.
"You would do that?" I asked, my voice weary and my cheek squished against the pillow. "After what I did?"
She nodded, and with her hand curled in a fist, she took the nail of her thumb between her teeth.
"How can you look at me?"
A slight frown crossed her features. "What?"
My voice cracked with emotion as I asked, "Did I hurt you?"
She shook her head. "No."
"I didn't mean to," I said, sadly shaking my head. "It didn't feel like me."
Drawing her nail away from her teeth, she licked her lips. "I've never seen your eyes like that before. It scared me. You looked at me like... like you saw right through me. Like I wasn't even there at all."
I shut my eyes in pain, burning with shame. My voice cracked again with the broken remnant of a sob. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry," she stressed. "I'm sorry you're treated like this. I'm sorry you're made to feel like you're not enough." She waited for me to open my eyes and stare at her. "You're enough for me, Harry," she said quietly. "Wherever you live and however much you make and whatever you do. It's enough because you're you. And if you ever changed your mind, you would still be enough."
I let out a trembling breath, insecure and unsteady, and shook my head to let her know it was too difficult to reply.
After a moment had passed, there was something else I had to say.
"Did you see his eyes tonight?" I asked slowly, hesitantly. "The way they lit up?" I waited for her nod before continuing weakly, "I don't know if his eyes have ever looked like that for me."
My eyes were burning with weariness, but I saw her mash her lips together as she sighed. Gently, trying not to shake the bed, she scooted closer to me. My instinct was to back away, but I stayed still for her.
Gingerly, she reached up and took my hair between her fingers, carefully pushing it off my forehead. When she was satisfied that I wouldn't recoil, she threaded her fingers through my hair and pushed it aside, smoothing it down or fluffing it out. I didn't know or care – it was immeasurably soothing, and that was all that mattered. Even if I didn't deserve it, it would have killed me to push her away.
I watched her without flinching, fascinated with the way she took her lower lip between her teeth as she worked. Fascinated that she hadn't run from me or turned me away when I was at my worst. Fascinated that she loved me, because nobody else ever had.
I brought up my hand to lightly graze her cheek in silent gratitude and adoration, tracing her bottom lip with my thumb. She bit down softly with the slightest trace of a smile.
"I love you, too," I finally said back.
Her fingers raked tenderly through my hair and lulled me into a calm sleep, and I drifted away hoping that she knew all the things I didn't say back – that she was so much more than enough for me. That even with a heart so bent and misshapen, I loved her more than I could imagine anybody had ever loved before. That she was my one. My only one.
My only one.