or… y/n rethinks her decision about leaving harry
category: mild angst & fluff
part i. part ii.
two months later…
She wakes up to the heavy sound of pans crashing to the floor downstairs, and a cold draft of air brushing over her bare shoulder. Harry had told her that he liked to sleep with the ceiling fan on, but the A/C as well? Was the man raised by Father Christmas himself?
Her hands press around Harry’s white comforter in search for a shirt or maybe a robe to cover her barely clothed body. She’d find some way to keep more of the chilled air to hit any more of her skin. She eventually finds the silk button-up she planned on going to sleep in, down on the floor near Harry’s side of the bed; in the process of picking the shirt up, she finds herself feeling somewhat like a 5-year-old with her very first crush when she thinks about her having her own side of the bed. Of his bed.
When her shirt is somewhat buttoned up, she slips on Harry’s house shoes left by his ensuite bathroom and begins to make her way down the steps. There’s a bit of smoke clouding the area around the kitchen, but the smell coming from the large space was anything but unpleasant. She watched his bare back plate the food on a cute breakfast tray she remembers him buying the other day. He jumps, turning around to face her when he hears his shoes she was wearing slide against the marble tile.
“What are y’- Babe, no.”
She laughs at his peeved expression moving around the counter to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “Harry, it’s 6 in the morning. What are you doing up?”
“I was makin’ you food. Breakfast on your first night over, you’ve gone and ruined that now, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I was the one that dropped whatever woke me up.”
He can’t help but crack a sheepish smile. “The oil splashed all over the damn handle– impossible to get a grip.”
“Do you need help carrying it to the table?” She moves to pick up a slice of a strawberry before Harry moves to swat her hands away.
“Breakfast in bed, minus the sausages I dropped. Get y’cute ass upstairs and pretend to sleep.”
She’s now the one to swat as his hands with a smile when he tries to grab squeeze of her bum. “One night of sex and you’ve already had a confidence boost?“
“Can’t help it.” he calls as she begins to scurry up his stairs.
“Give me 3 minutes to brush my teeth!”
He’d surprised her with a desk that morning, the main reason he had woken up at 4 in the morning and slept the rest of the day. She appreciated his gesture nonetheless, thankful for him taking the time to build the pesky (and very complicated) piece of furniture.
Every morning since he’d placed the desk on the left wall of his room (right under the window so that she could have the best amount of light), she’d be sat in the comfortable chair he’d provided just a few days later, doing last minute paperwork or typing away for an essay due the following night –her favorite morning talk show playing in the background.
He’d always toss a small pillow at the back of her head when he was finally awake, then spend 10 full minutes trying to convince her to get back in the bed for one last cuddle before she left for school.
When he looks over at the desk now, it’s empty. Her plush fleece sweater was no longer hung over the back of her chair, her laptop wasn’t sitting atop of the surface, displaying a PDF of a book she’s never been able to go out and buy a physical copy of. The desk looked dead, in fact– the light poking through the blinds brought anything but nice thoughts. She left her favorite pencil holders and he wonders if she’d be able to write a “good arse essay” without her lucky pen that was now sitting in an unused cabinet with the rest of her things she forgot.