I Miss You

                                    

                                          
He was late. Again. Harry had missed dinner. Again.
                          
It was the third time this week, and though he'd called to tell you so, you were tired of sitting alone at the dining room table, or resolving to bringing your plate to the sofa with the TV just so you'd have some company. A couple weeks ago when he'd had to work late, you were already asleep when he'd come home, climbing into bed behind you and pulling you flush against his body while he whispered his apologies in your ear. That time you'd forgiven him, as you'd rolled over onto your back, getting a glimpse of his face in the moonlight through the curtains. He'd made love to you then, every resentment you'd felt stripping away.
                          
That was the last time you'd had sex. And now the resentments were flooding back.
                          
He was a celebrity, you got that. And you weren't angry at him for that really. His work demanded a lot from him, and you were proud of him. But you had to admit you wanted your own time with him too. Time that was yours and yours alone, where you didn't have to share him.
                          
You'd just finished cleaning up in the kitchen, had turned off the lights and were headed upstairs when you heard the front door unlock. You stopped on the middle step, clutching the banister so hard that your knuckles were white.
                          
"Hey," he greeted, his voice low, shutting the door behind him. "Good, you're still up."
                          
"I've already eaten, sorry," you muttered. "Dinner's in the kitchen."
                          
"That's okay, love," he replied, crossing the room to stand at the bottom of the stairs. "I didn't expect you to wait for me."
                          
"Didn't figure," you said with a frown.
                          
When you turned around and continued to ascend the stairs, Harry called your name. You reached the landing before you turned to glare down at him. He could certainly sense that you were perturbed.
                          
"Something wrong?" he inquired.
                          
"Nope," you shook your head. "Just tired. Think I'll get ready for bed."
                          
"Oh," Harry mouthed. "Alright then. I'd say I'd be joining you soon, but I still have some things to work on and phone calls to make after I eat."
                          
You ran your fingers through your hair, your frustration rising with every breath you took. Dropping your hands by your side, you were about to say something, but held your tongue. Turning on your heels, you headed for the bedroom.
                          
"[Y/N]," you heard Harry call after you.
                          
You ignored him, but taking two steps at a time, Harry caught up to you as soon as you entered the room. You walked over to the bureau, placing your hands on it with a sigh.
                          
"You need to talk about something, baby?" Harry asked from the doorway.
                          
You didn't turn around, and although he used a term of endearment, you could tell he was less than sympathetic. He knew you'd been aggravated about your time together being stolen.
                          
"Not really," you said.
                          
Finally turning to face him, you saw that his brows were furrowed, his eyes squinted to slits. You knew what he was doing. He was trying to pry it out of you, to confess how angry you were. But you weren't about to convey your feelings. It would only cause problems, telling him you were unhappy. You'd end up feeling guilty and have to apologize. So you bit your lip and walked around the bed toward the bathroom.
                          
"You're angry," Harry pointed out, stepping further into the room.
                          
"I'm fine," you argued.
                          
"Clearly you're not. Talk to me."