Could Harry ever love someone else this much?
The room’s cold and is only dimly lit with his night lamp turned on its lowest setting, his lower body underneath the comforter that you’re letting swallow you whole as you’re tucked underneath it, your back facing him as he massages the spot near your thumb while he holds your hand — he isn’t in the state of sleepiness yet but he’s willing himself to.
His love came home tired so his first instinct was to automatically take care of her, but you were too tired to last through the little warm pampering he has planned to go on for an hour and more, so he did the most important things instead.
Prepared a meal that wasn’t finished all the way so he finished it, all while he asks what happened when he sees you holding on to his hand which was a sign that you were ready to talk, but even if, he’s only answered with brief answers too.
Doesn’t force it out of you but you can’t blame him not to be worried either, seeing his glances at you when he’s setting the water up for you to take a bath in, his hand curling around your wrist gently as he’s looking at you in concern.
“Not leaving, angel.”
He sat on the edge of the bed thinking on what you were thinking about, knowing that you’re contagious to him with everything you do so he’s influenced by the slump of your shoulders and the pout on your face, his gaze looking at the bathroom door every few seconds.
Harry distracted himself while he waited for you; prepared your pajamas and a fluffy towel he could encase you in, because he knew how annoying it was to step into an airconditioned room from a bath.
But that was two hours ago, and even if he’s given a little timeline of what happened on your day and kissed and squeezed the stress out of you, he still couldn’t sleep.
And Harry knew then he could never love someone else this much.
“Y’never believe me when I tell you that you make a face whenever you’re sleeping.”
He yawns as he turns on his side to face you, well-aware that you’re knocked out which makes it even better because he’s bound to get a reaction or two if he says these things while you’re awake, and he’s just not that ready yet.
Taking his phone from his bedside table and he’s opening the camera quickly before your face could contort into your normal one, the “little sleepy look” as he dubs always varying — and he adores it really, with this time consisting of you with your head laid low on the pillow, your eyebrows scrunched in the faintest bit and it makes you look irritated, cute if he must compliment, and cheeks smushed in that makes you look even more irritated.
He’s careful with what he’s doing because sometimes the flash was set on automatic, and he doesn’t want to add in another reason on why you just badly want to sleep and wake up maybe twelve hours later (even if it means that you’ll get sleep, carefully raising himself before framing you perfectly, just telling himself to edit it later because even if you’re all asleep, he probably knows that you’ll wake up all of a sudden to tell him not to strain his eyes.
Harry, out of fear that you’re probably gonna do that, immediately gets his glasses from the tray on his bedside table, slipping them on and now he feels a blanket of comfort over the worry he created himself, sleep still clearly not washing over him.
“I hate your boss, by the way.”
He mumbles then, and the thoughts that came along with it just made the painting of your boss in his mind (that he never saw) a little more worse, imagining him to be someone as a short and stout man with his hair balding in the middle, dark and heavy clouds on top of his head with his knickers in a twist.
He hates seeing him in his mind, and he cusses him out again for appearing when he himself brought it upon himself, but he’s making another excuse since your boss is a prick — so yeah, he isn’t the one at fault.
“How could someone ever stomach to give you something you don’t deserve?”
It was truly a question, because the moment he sees you, the light of his life when he’s being cheesy and sentimental, through the door with tears just edging your eyes, Harry could feel it.
Harry could feel the painful lump in your throat when you’re about to cry and it must’ve been so painful because you’re holding onto it for too long, tears still not sleeping even if he was hugging you tightly and snugly.
He could feel the heaviness in your body that you just want to be comforted, and that you don’t mind sounding and looking selfish with what you’re trying to imply because you truly needed him at the moment.
He could feel the tiredness in your hands when he’s massaging them while you’re laid in the tub, and the dominant hand you used was a little puffy and that means you’ve used it too much, pressing his thumb and his index finger a little harder to the sore muscles and not even the little satisfied hum could ease his worry.
“Hurts to see you cry over reasons m’not fond of.”
He hates your boss with a burning passion that he’s seeing the tears again even if they were non-existent at the moment, frowning a little at that.
And out of instinct does Harry briefly stop playing with your top, thumb wiping under your eyes just to make sure there aren’t any.
He smiles to himself because he realizes that he’s being a little too worried again, tucking his thumb in underneath his four fingers in embarrassment, considering he’s wearing glasses and still saw tears that he made up with his mind.
This room comforts him in all honesty, and so do you. It’s a massive room that reminds him of a small cozy nook, an area of coldness that gave him warmth.
There’s the device at the corner that was for putting essential oils in so it could swirl it around with the water and basically make your room a haven, but he forgot to turn it on and his figure’s all burrowed to the mattress with you so comfortable that he fights the urge to turn it on.
There’s a telly right in front of him just some meters away, the settings already set up with the cinema surround sound, and the brightness just right so it wouldn’t be glaring at the both of them in the middle of the night when they finally pick a good movie (that Harry hears and/or knows that has a satisfying ending).
There’s so much in here that Harry’s attached to and reminded of, the space being home and a reminder of something that’s been on his mind for a while.
“How about we get an apartment complex or something set up? Really nice, but not overpriced, y’know? For when we’re gonna retire a little earlier? Gonna become an asset when we grow older.”
He has his mind set to it, and so much plans to just uphold his future even if he shouldn’t be from what his income says, and as much as he knows that it’ll keep him covered for some more time, and there’s much more charities and organization he could contribute to — he wants to have a fallback or summat.
Harry’s smiling, having looked upon Pinterest and daydreaming for quite some time, and he could see it unfold right in front of his eyes.
An apartment complex with ten floors, maybe four on each. Has a cute front desk on the ground floor and he’s already thinking of a uniform for the receptionist and some people. Has an elevator. Has a sleek black door that needs a keycard to be opened in order to enter. Maybe a pool at the back and a lounging area. Maybe he could decorate the interiors so it’d be fully furnished and ready to be moved into.
“And maybe when we’re old, we can go ahead and visit it with our then-kids, right? Have a grand apartment there as the penthouse, and it’s all reserved for us?”
He shakes his head to himself and he’s thinking of so much when in fact, he’s maybe more than half from being there.
It sounded nice.
It is nice.
Harry hums for some while, suddenly being conscious with your hand holding onto his now that he isn’t babbling and God was it endearing — your fingers interlaced with his that they looked perfect against his and made you look even softer.
He pauses whatever he was doing, and that was being fazed, and detaches his hand from yours carefully, your eyes not fluttering even in a millimeter that he knows you’re still asleep.
He turns to his side and then he’s aware of what he already had, opening the drawer to his bedside table that had the box.
The little velvet box with your ring in it.
Harry’s bought it a couple days ago, and it must’ve slipped his mind that he put it here for whatever reason, but he remembers now, opening it and seeing the band in all its glory — practically remembering the grins on his, his mum’s and his sister’s faces when they saw it.
“S’a perfect fit.”
He mumbles to himself once he’s slipped it to your ring finger, testing it out with his eyes flickering to your face and to your ring that he’s taken aback for a while.
“M’so nervous to propose to you — think m’gonna make a fool out of m’self.”
Harry admits and the thought of it brings a chill to his spine, taking the ring out gently before putting it in the box again as if he’s never taken it out.
“But s’alright — as long as I get to propose and you get to say yes.”
He drags out a breath before putting it back on the drawer again.
Harry yawns and the sleepiness has finally hit him, taking the pillow he rested his back upon away and resting it on his lap, taking a look at you who he really thinks is an angel, lips puckering as he presses them gently to your cheek.
“M’not done falling for you yet anyway.”