(hinny angst)
“Stay,” she says, when he makes to move. She clutches his spent body to hers. The aftermath is a dreamlike state: she feels strangely light, like if she wanted, she could float away, and yet, the feeling of Harry on her, moors her to this world.
His face in her neck, her arms around him. The lights from the London traffic pressing on the ceiling of his bedroom. She traces the ridges of his spine delicately, the way you’d trace the topography of a long-forgotten, precious land.
“Okay,” he says now. “I’ll stay.”
“Okay,” she tells him. “Alright.” She can feel herself being lulled to sleep by the pattern of his exhalations.
She wants to fight the sleep. Scared, so scared he might leave again. Scared of the emptiness he will leave, if he goes. She doesn't think she can bear it, to have him go again. Like a kid, she needs assurance. She is suddenly needy.
“Will you really stay?” she asks him. Identical rivulets run down from the corner of her eyes. All her life, she has loved him. All her life, she will love him.
Harry can sense this dread inside her, perhaps. Can tell her pulse has accelerated.
“Gin,” he says. All this time, she’s been looking at the ceiling. “Gin.”
She looks at him.
“I’m staying, okay? I’m staying.”
“You won’t leave then? Again?”
Pain creases his face, and she wants to rub it off with her palms. Wants to wipe it and paint this beautiful, beautiful face with golden happiness.
“No. I’m here to stay.” He kisses her forehead. “Where else have I to go?” he asks her. He could be crying, too.
“What if I leave?” she breathes onto his lips. Because it is true, she is scared of herself, too.
“I’ll follow you. I’ll go wherever you go.”
