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She was well past ready to get up.
She didn’t know how long she had been lying there awake, but it was long enough that the slant of bright sunlight slicing through the gap in the curtains had moved in an arc across the ceiling. From the angle of the light, she calculated it was likely at least half-past ten, but she couldn’t see the clock from here. Her bladder was fit to burst and there was a rumble in her stomach as she contemplated what to cook for breakfast and hell, but she could murder a cup of tea right now.
Still, she didn’t rise.
Her head turned to look at the sleeping face on the pillow beside her. He’d fallen asleep with his hand on her breast. His breath moved in and out through his nose in long, soft snores. Harry always could sleep like the dead on a Sunday morning.
She looked back to the ceiling, feeling the weight of his hand holding her there as though, even in sleep, he feared losing her. It was sweet. But damn, she really had to pee.
Slowly, so as to avoid waking him, she rolled to her side, intending to swing her feet over the edge of the bed. His hand slipped down to rest over her navel as she did. Reflexively, without waking, Harry let out a soft sigh, wrapped his arm around her waist and tugged her backwards against him. Her body moulded against his snuggly, arse pressed firmly against his pelvis. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back, feel each exhale tickling the hair at her neck. Her eyes fluttered closed as she felt the resigned smile stretch across her lips.
She groped blindly for her wand on her bedside table. When at last her fingers had managed to grasp it, she flicked it at the curtains. The gap snapped shut with a slight clatter of the rings, and the streak of sunshine flickered out.
Her bladder could wait a little longer.