Breaking Hearts
"Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all, but lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall."
- 'Awake My Soul' by Mumford and Sons
It's raining, when you awake. A harsh drumming against the bedroom window. It's dark, too. Four a.m. on a cold November morning.
The sheets wrapped around you are cool against your warm skin. Your tousled blonde curls are splayed out on the unfamiliar pillow beneath your head.
Across the room, a radiator gurgles as the central heating system springs into life.
You find that you're fighting tears, and part of you isn't sure why. But one question, one extremely pressing question, is chasing itself around your head.
What the hell have you done?
Slowly, gently, you roll over so that you're facing the middle of the bed and the man lying beside you.
His dark hair is sticking up at odd angles, his lips parted slightly as he breathes deeply. He's fast asleep, with one of his arms slung over your bare stomach.
That's what you've done. You've slept with Harry Cunningham.
It had been late when you'd turned up on his doorstep the previous evening. Very late. Nearly midnight. But you hadn't cared about that. You were upset, feeling sorry for yourself because you'd been on a date with what you'd believed was at least a semi-respectable man, only for him to practically admit that a long-term relationship was the last thing on his mind and did she want to go back to his place or hers?
You hadn't been able to stand the idea that men only ever want you for sex, and so you'd given the taxi driver the address of the only man in your life that you've ever been able to really depend on.
Harry had still been up, which you were grateful for. Before long you were sobbing in his arms (you suspect the rather copious amounts of alcohol consumed at the bar played a part in your vulnerability) and he was being his usual amazing self and holding you tightly and cracking bad jokes.
He had made you laugh at something which now seems so unimportant, and that had been when everything had changed. When you had stopped laughing and realised just how close your faces were, how his thumb was tracing your jaw, how one of your hands was on his shoulder.
And you had kissed him. Or he had kissed you. Or you had kissed each other. Whichever it was, it hadn't taken long for you to fall into bed. The sex had been – the sex had been just as incredible and just as mind-blowing as you'd always dared to hope it would be. There was – there still is – something so different about Harry from all the other men you've been with.
Watching him now, a sad smile graces your lips. He's so at peace with the world as he sleeps, and you can't remember the last time you'd been like that. The last time you'd had a night without bad dreams and restlessness.
It's a beautiful sight to wake up to, an image that you wish you could see every morning. Except you know it can never be that way, especially not now.
Your smile fades and a tear slips unbidden from the corner of your eye and onto the pillow. Ever so lightly, your fingers brush the short hair scattered across his forehead to the side slightly.
He doesn't stir as you proceed to carefully extract yourself from under his arm and slip out of bed. Shivering now that you've left the warm cocoon that was Harry's bed, you stretch down and pluck your discarded underwear and skinny jeans from the floor and pull them on.
There don't appear to be any more of your clothes in the bedroom, so you tiptoe across the soft carpet and quietly open the door, slipping through the small gap and closing it softly behind you.
Your bra is lying in the middle of the floor outside the bedroom, and you have a flash memory of being pressed up against the wall and giggling as he had expertly unhooked it one-handed. "Something tells me you've done that many times before," you had teased, to which he had replied, "Wouldn't you like to know?" whilst kissing your neck.
Sighing now, you pick up the offending garment and put it on, then head into the lounge to find your top. It's haphazardly strewn across the top of the sofa, inside out. You right it and slip it over your head, smoothing the soft fabric down over your hips and stomach.
There's a single one of your fluffy socks on the floor, too, but you can't find the other and you're pretty sure you were wearing two when you arrived. Clutching it in your hand, you head into the hallway. Your handbag and shoes are by the front door, but no sock. Come to think of it, you don't even recall taking either of them off in the first place.
Silently, you step into your shoes. The insides are cold against your bare feet, and you wish that you had more than one sock.
"Going somewhere?" comes a voice from behind you.
You swear under your breath, straighten up and turn around. Harry is stood watching you, a t-shirt and pair of boxers on now. You can't quite read the expression on his face.
"I've lost a sock," you say. It's the first thing that comes to mind. Harry turns and vanishes, only to reappear a moment later with the missing sock in his hand. He passes it to you, and you try and ignore the shiver that runs through you as your fingers brush against his. "Thanks."
An awkward silence descends. You put your socks on just for something to do. When you're done Harry says again, "So, where are you going at four-thirty in the morning?"
"Home," you say simply, although it's clear to both of you that what you really mean is 'I'm running away'.
"Home..." Harry repeats slowly, and it's clear he's waging some kind of internal battle. Indeed a moment later he says, "I'm not sure whether to let you go or persuade you to stay."
You're not sure what to say to this – you're not even entirely sure which you want him to decide on. There's a longing inside you that's willing you to go back to bed. His bed. But then you remember why you're leaving in the first place and you shake your head slightly. "I have to go," you breathe.
"No, you don't. You could stay and we could talk," he says, and whether you're imagining it or not, you're sure you can detect a trace of anger.
Anger because you're disappearing, running out on him. Anger because you're breaking his heart.
You blink away tears, determined not to let your resolve slip. You can't stay, but at the same time he can't possibly understand why you need to leave.
"There's nothing to talk about," you mutter.
He snorts derisively. "Yeah, we had sex last night but that's nothing. Two best friends who have struggled with this for seven years, finally slept together. But you're right, we don't need to talk about that," he spits caustically.
"Harry..." you whisper imploringly, "You don't understand."
"Then make, Nikki!" he shouts and you flinch, "Because no, I don't understand!"
The tears fall unrestrainedly now. "I can't tell you," you say, your voice the opposite volume to his. "Because I don't want to hurt you."
"You have to tell me," he counters, "otherwise we might not get past this."
He's right, you know he's right. And if there's one idea that you can't bear, it's the idea that what happened a few hours ago might ruin your friendship for good. You're going to have to tell him what made you wake up feeling sick with guilt, why you were trying to sneak out.
"I used you," you mutter.
"What?"
"Last night. I was upset and I just wanted to be ... I don't know, needed, I guess. I'm sick of people only seeing me as a one-night stand, and I knew you wouldn't. I wanted the comfort, Harry. That's the only reason I slept with you. It wasn't the start of something, it wasn't the result of seven years of anything, it was just that you were there and I was lonely," you tell him, the tears falling freely now as you watch the pain of your words shining in his eyes.
"I don't believe you," he whispers, almost desperately.
"Well you should. There's no point in me staying, Harry, because there is no me and you. I'll see you at work in a few hours time and we'll just pretend like this never happened." You can't tell him how much you're hurting yourself, how you'll never be able to forget those magical moments last night when everything just felt so ... so perfect.
He swallows hard before he speaks again, and when he does he sounds determined and defiant. "There are so many things wrong with what you just said."
You sigh. This is why you tried to sneak out. "Harry, please..."
"No! Listen to me," he demands, and the fierce glint in his eye shocks you slightly. "You completely contradicted yourself! You said that you didn't want people to see you as a one-night stand, but according to you that's all last night was! You made yourself into your own worst fear!"
There's a tightening in your chest as you realise that perhaps he has a point.
"And I know for a fact that the whole 'it didn't mean anything' is a load of crap," he continues brashly. "Because I felt it, Nikki. I felt it. When I was kissing you, it was like everything else in the world stopped mattering. And you can't tell me that you didn't feel it too, because I know you and I'm certain you did."
The sob that you've desperately been trying to repress escapes your lips as he throws the unavoidable, powerful truths at you – his truths, not what you had convinced yourself was the truth. You gaze at him beseechingly, silently begging him to stop for it's all proving rather too much.
But whether he understands what you're trying to say or not, he ploughs on relentlessly. "And, I don't know, maybe you did just want comfort," he says, his voice slightly quieter now, "but have you stopped to consider that it was me that you came to? You could have picked up any guy, Nikki; men would fall over themselves for a chance to be with you. But you didn't. You came here. To me. What does that tell you?"
It tells you all kinds of things. Things that you're too terrified to admit. All these years, it's always been him that you go to. Always. Everything you've been through together, all the hurt and the pain and the difficult cases, you've always turned to him. He's your constant, the one person you can rely on. The one person who's never let you down.
"I'm damaged, Harry," you whisper, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself.
"I know," he says simply, nodding and attempting a somewhat reassuring smile. "I know your fears, I know your flaws. I know your strengths. I know how to make you feel better and I after last night I know how to make you moan. I know that you wear your hair down when you're trying to impress a guy. I know your favourite brand of chamomile tea. I know that you don't eat the skin on yoghurt and are very OCD when it comes to sell-by dates. I know that your favourite colour is lilac and your favourite butterfly species is the Holly Blue. I know that you wear heels to make yourself look taller when faced with an obnoxious detective at work. I know how to love you, Nikki."
You bite your lip hard for a moment, brushing away the hot, salty tears rolling down your pale cheeks, then murmur, "I don't know how to let you."
He steps forward, taking both of your hands in his own and forcing you closer to him. "You already do," he insists. "That's why you came here last night."
You're not even sure what to think anymore. Everything you had held certain has been crushed and suddenly what you had only ever dared to dream was being told to you as fact. Your whole world has been knocked out of kilter, yet somewhere inside you, you know that Harry's really only telling you what you already knew.
"I'm scared," you breathe, running your thumb over the back of his hand.
He nods and whispers, "Me too."
And then he leans down and kisses you, and you realise that he was right: everything else in the world does stop mattering.
Hmm, I finished this a lot quicker than I thought I would. Not sure if that's a good thing or not... You'll have to tell me. ;)
Charlotte x