——
Harry likes to think he knows you well. He wants to believe that no matter how much time has passed, he still understands you to your core. He knows your voice raises an octave when you try to hide exhilaration. He knows you shyly shrug one shoulder up to your cheek whenever you receive a compliment. He notices everything you do or don't do. It's evocative, but he holds onto it with his final frayed string of hope.
What he doesn't know is how you would react to his unforeseen kiss.
He's standing completely still in the doorway of his empty dressing room, seeing no signs of you or his daughter. There's no scribbled note left on the table. No conversation was passed off to him from a crew member about where you went. No stray belongings of yours were accidentally left behind.
You're gone, having left without a trace, and the last thing he did was kiss you like an idiot. He ruined everything like he always does, never thinking rationally when he's around you. Your presence consumes him until it suffocates his lungs like the sweetest smoke. You've been clouding his judgment since the day he met you.
Harry had told everyone not to follow him after he finished the show so he could talk with you about what happened, yet now it's just him and his regret casting long shadows into the room. His skin becomes prickly and uncomfortable as he cautiously steps forward and blindly closes the door behind him. Once the outside noise is drowned out, his chest starts heaving, but it's not from the exhaustion of performing.
It's from sheer panic.
He can't breathe. The room spins around him, and his throat begins to tighten like a poisonous rope is being tied around his neck. A shaky hand reaches up to rub at his aching heart. His legs feel numb, and there's no way he'll be able to make it back to the tour bus without collapsing.
Harry fumbles with the lock on the door and then stumbles into the bathroom, holding onto the walls as they cave in on him. He flicks the light switch, causing white fluorescence to brighten his surroundings. He grips the edge of the sink to steady himself. A dreadful anxiety rolls around in his stomach, making him nauseous. He turns the faucet handle and splashes his face with ice-cold water. While scrubbing his overheated skin, he has to do a double take when he sees a glimmering object in his peripheral vision.
It's... his wedding ring.
A wretched sob escapes his mouth as he crouches into a vulnerable position, pressing his forehead onto the sink's edge and letting out sounds of pure agony. He ruined the chance of becoming a family again. He scared you off and set back any progress he made with you by miles. He's going to fall down a dark hole again after he spent ages trying to crawl out of it. He lost you again.
That's when his knuckles start pounding the counter's surface repeatedly until he can't feel his right hand anymore. He inflicts self-torture until his skin is bruised and bloody, maybe even broken, his pain staining the marble and the white silk of his trousers a crimson red. His cries as he does so sound like those of a child trying to catch a single breath, wheezy and helpless.
There's no remedy for this type of heartbreak. It feels almost worse than the divorce. The love was fading at the time, and he was expecting the demise to come knocking on his door eventually. It still hit him like a ton of bricks, but his petty anger toward you softened the blow, even though his anger was simply a mask for his hurt.
Now, his current anger is nothing but desperation of just wanting to be loved by you.
Once his cries have subsided to occasional hiccups, he clumsily removes his phone from his pocket and unlocks it. He finds your contact, presses the call button, and then sets his phone on the floor. A long beep sounds before it goes straight to voicemail.
"No," Harry chokes out. "No, no, no. Please don't do this to me."
A robotic voice tells him to leave a message after the tone. He weakly inhales and picks up his phone, holding it against his ruptured heart.
"Baby." His voice thickly trembles and he's too shattered to notice the slip. "Please listen to me. I'm s-sorry for kissing you, okay? I didn't mean to. I wasn't thinking properly." He sniffles and palms his teary eyes like a kid. "Fuck, don't leave me. Why did you leave me? Just tell me where you are, and I'll f-fix this, I swear. Tell me you're safe and with our daughter. I love you."
He manages to press the button to end his message. His throat is raw, and he can barely breathe through his nose, the tears still falling down his neck. He's surprised no one has gone to check on him, but he supposes the seriousness with which he told everyone to leave him alone is the reasoning behind it.
Shakily standing, Harry regards his reflection in the mirror and feels another wave of nausea pass through him. He's seeing himself in double vision, the blotchy complexion of his cheeks and the swollen puffiness of his eyes staring straight back at him. There used to be a time when he looked this unrecognizable every day. When the divorce had been finalized, he vividly remembers being skin and bones with pale skin and lifeless eyes. The deep depression he succumbed to was one he thought he'd never come out of, but somehow, he did.
He did it for you. He did it for his daughter.
His phone suddenly dings and vibrates twice, making his heart leap out of his chest. He hastily checks the screen as it lights up with your text message.
I'm at home. I called the babysitter because I needed some time to myself.
He exhales a relieved breath and attempts to call you again. This time, you answer on the fourth ring.
"Harry, please stop."
He ignores you because he's not letting you go without putting up a fight. "Let me come over. Please. I have to fix this."
He's ashamed that he didn't have this mindset a year ago, but he hopes you can give him the benefit of the doubt. This is him trying.
"I want to be alone right now. Can you respect that?"
Harry feels dizzy. "My hand... I think I broke my hand."
"What?!" you exclaim.
"My hand hurts." He's clawing for any emotional reaction from you. "Is there gauze at the house?"
"Harry, what did you do? You broke your hand? How in the world did you do that?"
"Dunno," he mumbles. "I need help."
"Aren't there medics at the venue? Go get them."
He gulps and tilts his head back. "But I need you. Need you to fix it for me."
"No, I'm not... I- I can't just be around you after what happened."
"Okay," he says quietly, licking his chapped lips. He won't push someone he could lose again in an instant. "Okay, that's fine."
The silence that ensues is so loud. Harry can hear the blood rushing in his ears and every subtle movement he makes. He hates to make you worry, but if it's the only way he'll be able to see you, then he doesn't care that he broke his hand.
"Are you bleeding?" you ask timidly.
Harry weakly smiles for some reason. "Yeah. It's getting all over my outfit."
You sigh and say, "Don't make me do this."
"Do what, love?"
He hears a noise get caught in your throat. "Let you come over. Just tell me to hang up and go to sleep."
"I can't." He won't.
The clock ticks on the opposite wall. The faucet still runs. A trail of blood drips down his wrist.
"I'll send you the address."
Harry's face screws up as he tries not to cry from your solace. He nods even though you can't see him, every tense muscle in his body alleviating. The blood stains are worth it after knowing you didn't run away from him for good.
"Thank you," he whispers in one breath.
He knows your address by heart but doesn't need to tell you that.
——
The knock on your front door could have been easily prevented. If you had just said no and possessed a single ounce of dignity, you wouldn't have let Harry break down your walls so effortlessly.
Yet the voicemail he left broke those walls into a million little pieces. The torment in every syllable he spoke, the way he called you baby after so long, and hearing his pained voice tell you he loved you are all what made you pick up the phone when he rang for the second time. To leave him in a state of panic is the last thing you'd want. You've done it before, and it would kill you to see it happen again.
You hesitantly unlock the deadbolt and open the door, coming face-to-face with Harry's tall figure. The first thing you focus on is his apparent broken hand, which is lazily wrapped in an ice pack. Then, it's the cable knit sweater he wears under his long black coat, seemingly dressed for winter despite humidity lingering in the air. He looks exhausted with his slouched posture and raw-bitten lips.
You want to hold him. Kiss his sadness away. Bring the gleaming light back to his beautiful eyes.
"I forgot how chilly it gets here at night," Harry greets with a scratchy voice that you know is from crying. "I, uh, also brought some leftover macaroni and cheese from the catering room. Didn't know if you'd be hungry."
You peer at the aluminum pan in his uninjured hand. "I have food here."
"I know, but... it's macaroni." He clears his throat and holds the dish up. "It's really good."
His endearing personality has always been dangerous. You can't let it soften your heart.
"I'm not hungry right now but thank you." You take the dish from him, feeling the quick brush of his hand. "Come in. I already have the gauze and rubbing alcohol set out."
It's always strange whenever he's in the house you once shared with him. He's never gotten far past the kitchen since the divorce. You lead him to the couch, where the supplies are spread out on the coffee table. You set the dish down and sit next to him, your thighs nearly touching his as you pick up the rubbing alcohol and washcloth.
"How did this happen?" you ask worriedly, pouring a splash of the potent liquid onto the fabric.
Harry takes his coat off with a shrug. "I got a bit overwhelmed. It's not broken, by the way. Only sprained."
Guilt swells in your chest. Is it because of you? Your unannounced departure?
You take your time disinfecting and bandaging his scrapes and cuts, his bruised hand in yours. He doesn't say anything except for the occasional murmured swear from pain. After his hand is wrapped nicely, you watch him shift on the couch and pull something from his pocket.
"I know you probably want me gone as soon as possible, so I'll just get straight to the point." He holds up his gold wedding band. "Do you know what this ring means?"
Staring at what was once a symbol of commitment, you defeatedly whisper, "Obviously, Harry."
"But do you know why I kept mine?" he questions further.
"All I know is that you shouldn't have," you reply, squeezing your eyes shut. It's an unfair jab, considering you shouldn't have kept yours either.
"I wasn't going to just throw it away like it's worthless junk."
"Good. It was expensive."
"Stop." Harry turns his body toward yours and crosses his legs on the couch. "Just hear me out, okay?"
You slowly nod and bring your knees to your chest.
"I kept it because I still love you. And I don't expect you to sit here and accept that, but it's the truth. It's been the truth since we separated."
You let out a sob and cover your face with your hands. How could he say that? How could he look at you and say that? Shaking your head, you reply, "You don't mean that. Don't say things you don't mean."
He gently grabs your wrists and pulls your hands away. "You have no idea how many times I've wanted to say it to you. No fuckin' idea."
You blearily gaze at him and see that his eyes hold unwavering seriousness. "You love me?"
He nods as he wipes away your tears. "Always have. It never, ever went away."
"Are- did you ever see someone else? Since our divorce?" The thought makes you sick, but you need to know if he opened his heart to another — if he really has loved you all this time.
"God, no," he says, tugging his sleeve over his hand to dry his waterline. "Even if I had, I'd only be looking for you in them."
You scoot closer to him. "I haven't seen anyone either. No one interests me more than you."
Harry tilts his head to the side and scrunches his nose. "What do you mean by that?"
Taking a deep breath, you decide to admit your buried revelation. "It means I still love you."
All you hear is his staggered inhale. It's like the air ran out of his lungs, and circulation ceased as he closed his fist around his most important ring.
It's painfully beautiful the way his body falls into yours, his hands clutching your shirt and his forehead pressed against your collarbone as he begins to cry. Sobs of relief dampen your skin, and you can't help but tightly wrap your arms around him and sway him like he did with you earlier.
Harry sniffles and lets out a vulnerable whimper. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You're not quite sure if he's apologizing for loving you or for the things he said that made you feel like he didn't.
You run your fingers through his hair and say, "It's not your fault. It's neither of our faults. We needed to be apart. Otherwise, it would've been hell if we stayed together."
"It was hell either way." You just hold him, soaking up his tears the best you can. "I want" — he hiccups a cry — "I want to try again. I need to be with you. I love you so much. And I can't make it go away. I- I don't want it to go away. Please, baby—"
"I love you, Harry," you interrupt. You pick his head up and cradle his cheeks. "Do you hear me?"
He melts into your touch. "But you don't need me."
"I never said that."
"It's true, though. You can't even look at me sometimes."
You furrow your eyebrows. "Have you ever thought that maybe it's because I still love you? That you still make me so nervous, and I can't look into your eyes for too long before I lose my composure?"
His watery eyes dance around your face. "You mean that?"
"Anyone would be lucky to love you in the way that I do," you say, choking up from your own words. "I could never throw something like that away."
"Then what do we do?"
You know he's changed for the better in the past year. There's no need to worry about whether or not he'll be a good dad or partner. He has always been those things, but the stress of his job made the ugly side unfold. His priorities have clearly shifted if his showing up at your door at midnight with a sprained hand and macaroni and cheese is any indication.
"We take things slow," you say after contemplating. "Really, really slow. We have a daughter who goes through enough, and I don't want things to get worse before they get better. She's our top priority if we're going to do this."
Harry nuzzles his nose into your hair. "Are we doing this? I need you to be all in."
"I'm all in if you are."
"Of course. I sprained my hand for you, didn't I?"
You softly laugh and feel his chest rumble with laughter too. "When's your next show, by the way?"
He grabs a tissue from the box on the coffee table and quickly blows his nose. "Day after tomorrow. I planned to spend another day with you guys before my flight."
"We can have a family day together," you think aloud. "Maybe walk along the river or something."
He smiles hopefully and nods, his curls rustling against your shirt. "Yes, please."
The settlement sinks in. You'll try again with Harry, this time with a clearer outlook and abiding love. You're sure you'll tell him about the ring you kept someday. You'll tell him about all the times you wanted to call and ask him to come over just because you missed being around him. You'll tell him how proud you are of him for becoming a better man for you and your daughter, even while he was hurting.
For now, you let his love cover your crumbled stone walls, a tender shield that never stopped growing.
——