“H”

Harry is your dealer and you accidentally sleep with him after taking some aphrodisiac edibles together as a joke.

H. 9:32 AM.

Got your stuff.

You. 9:32 AM.

Perfect, thank you!

H. 9:34 AM.

Come by sometime this afternoon?

You. 9:34 AM.

I’m in midtown now but could make it out to Queens by like 3pm if that works for you?

H. 9:36 AM.

Sure.

…………………………………………

You. 2:41 PM.

Just got off the subway, be there in a few.

H. 2:42 PM.

See you soon. x

The sound of the W train rattling away overhead startles you from down on the sidewalk. You slip your metro card back into your wallet before stuffing it into your backpack along with your earbuds. There hadn’t been enough time after class to stop at an ATM before catching the subway to Queens, so you duck into the Duane Reade a block away from 30 Avenue Station and withdraw some cash from the card machine there. As you head out into the street again, the skirt of your dress blows in the breeze.

The trees are just beginning to show off their fiery, autumnal range of color and the orange and yellow leaves brighten the rest of your walk to H’s apartment. The past few times you’d made the trip uptown, you had finally been able to find your way without double checking the map on your phone. It’s only about a five-minute walk from the station, though his building is easy to miss as it blends right in with the mix of new construction and narrow brick townhouses lining the streets of Astoria.

Before long, you’re turning onto a quiet street off the main road and approaching a sleek, contemporary triple-decker made of cinder block with an exposed wooden trim. The fence enclosing the building is towering, cobalt, and modern; you press the call button for his floor on the keypad and wait.

“Hi.” H answers after the first short warble. His voice is staticky and faint through the speaker.

“Hi, it’s me.” The gate unlocks with a familiar click. You slip through and secure the latch behind you.

Fountain grass lines the gravel path that leads to a set of steps up to his front door. You adjust the collar of your denim jacket and quickly smooth on another coat of lip gloss as you wait for him at the top of the stairs, until you eventually hear the echo of footsteps coming from within the building.

The door swings open just wide enough for H to see through. He nods down at you once before quickly opening it the rest of the way, carefully closing up behind you after you step in through the threshold.

“Hey, how are you?” you greet. H smiles at you over his shoulder with his hands in his pockets. The stairs creak beneath your feet as he leads you up to the second level of the building.

“Alright. You?”

“I’m good, same old.”

Today he’s wearing a vintage mustard yellow tee shirt with a necklace hidden in the collar and a dark grey design across the front—the name of some obscure band, perhaps? His black jeans have a hole in each knee, and there’s a hair tie around his wrist. You remember the way H wore his hair when you’d met at the beginning of this year; it’s grown longer by now. The natural wave and luster of his curls is beginning to show with the new length, and it suits him. As you reach his floor, you breathe a laugh down at his scuffed Ward lo Vans because you have the same pair and you’d almost worn them today.

H chuckles softly as the two of you approach the door to his unit, pulling you from your reverie. “You’re back again sooner than last time.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “School has been pretty stressful lately. I’ve been smoking a lot.”

He nods with a sympathetic tilt to his mouth, holding the door open for you. “Understandable.”

You pick up on the trace of his cologne, and the mint gum he’s chewing as you step into the entryway of his apartment. None of the lights are on, but soft white sunlight touches every surface in his living room.

H locks up without a word so you wait for him by his bedroom door, left slightly ajar. He breezes past you to his room and you follow closely behind, then assume your usual perch on the end of his bed. The duvet is cool and soft beneath the bare backs of your knees.

The ceiling in H’s room is high, which gives the space a light, open sort of ambiance; one of the walls is a window that looks down to the street below. You suspect the building’s interior had been renovated in recent years. The furniture is uncomplicated, made of either metal or wood, and compliments the charcoal of the bedsheets and his worn Turkish rug. A few records tile the walls—the White Stripes, Eric Clapton, ELO, and the 1975—and piles of old library books and biographies lay strewn on his dresser off in the corner. There’s a bamboo plant on the floor by his desk that’s only slightly overgrown, and a grey hoodie hung from the doorknob to his walk-in closet, but the placement of everything is oddly meticulous, and poised—almost deliberate. You’ve never seen his bed unmade or clothes laying amuck.

You tear your eyes away from the assortment of sundry silver rings laying out on his bedside table to meet H’s gaze; he’d been watching you with a somewhat tentative tilt to his head, but looks away quickly.

“I’ve got a fancy hybrid today,” he muses. “’Case you’re feeling adventurous.”

“I’ll stick with my usual. Thanks, though.”

“Sativa, right?” He looks over his shoulder at you, making his way to the closet. You simply nod. “It’s Strawberry Cough.”

You smile, crossing your legs. “Works for me.”

To your understanding, H’s whole operation is small-scale, and you’re almost positive he works independently from any complex network of suppliers. Nonetheless, the guy had a pretty comprehensive selection to choose from; he sold herb, wax, oil, pre-rolled, and pens, but most of that was too expensive or too much of a fuss for you.

Admittedly, it’s a bit odd not knowing his real name, but you couldn’t blame him—these days it’s rare to find a dealer who doesn’t wish to remain anonymous. You absently wonder if he has a day job and cock your head in thought. To you, and to the few of your friends who he sells to, the boy before you had only ever been a solitary letter H in your phone.

And for the handful of times you’d met him in person, you know little about H apart from the observable; he is reticent, harbors a faithful affinity for Gucci, speaks in a British accent, and has this peculiar, coy sort of flourish that draws you in no matter how hard you’ve tried to ignore it.

What’s more, he’s the kind of attractive that’s almost interrupting at times. From the slight convex slope of his nose in profile, to the way the apples of his cheeks press up against the corners of his eyes when he smiles… H is enigmatic to say the least, but it’s certainly not a chore to look at him for long periods of time.

He shuffles into the closet, rummaging through a few drawers before emerging a minute later with an unlabeled tin paint can, a portable electric scale, and a black, opaque capsule about the size and shape of a pill bottle. H sets the items on his desk, switches the scale on, and thoroughly brushes any leftover residue off the weighing platform before setting it to zero. You watch him wedge the lid off the can and the unmistakable, pungent smell of cannabis immediately permeates the air.

“You want an eighth?” he murmurs without looking up.

You nod, eyes trained on the digital screen of the scale. “Mhm.”

H’s rings catch the light as he gently places the weed from the can onto the platform until the weight reads exactly three and a half grams.

That was one thing you always appreciated about H. He never skimped out on you, he never used a sleight of hand to make it look like anything weighed more than it did, and the quality of what he gave you was consistently incredible.

You watch closely as he pops the lid off the small plastic capsule with his thumb. He drops the larger clumps into the container first, then carefully dusts everything left over on the scale to add with them. H starts to reach for the lid of the capsule set aside on his desk, but his hand hovers over it for a beat.

In confusion, your eyes flit to his face; he appears to be reconsidering something. You catch the beginning of a blush grace H’s ears and the high points of his cheeks before he turns to the paint can again, discreetly adding a few extra nugs to your capsule, but avoiding your eyes.

“Thank you,” you laugh. “You really don’t have to do that.”

It wouldn’t be the first time this has happened; H had been slipping you suspicious amounts of free weed long before the two of you made a habit of smoking together out on his deck the past few times you’d bought from him. Regardless, H doesn’t acknowledge your thanks. He wordlessly passes you the small plastic container, then ducks into his closet to put away the paint can and scale.

You briefly set your eighth aside on the bed to dig around in your backpack. “Forty?” you ask lightly.

H clears his throat, returning to lean on his desk and pull the money clip out from his back pocket. “That would be great. You need change?”

You look up as you pass him two crisp twenties from your wallet. “No, I got it.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, taking the bills from you before folding them into the thick wad of cash. He grabs a packet of rolling papers and a stainless steel grinder from off his desk before nodding at you. “You wanna smoke a little?”

“Definitely.” A smile immediately lights your face as you stand with your backpack slung on one shoulder and the small black capsule in hand. The shadows of H’s dimples appear as though he’s trying to refrain a smile, as well.

“Is Mitch home?” you ask. “Does he want to join?”

H grabs his grey hoodie from off the door to his closet then shrugs as he leads you out into the living room, glancing over his shoulder and pursing his lips in contemplation. “Dunno, actually. I think he may be sleeping.”

“Okay.” You nod. “We’ll leave him be then.”

“Think that’s probably best.”

H unlatches the sliding glass door, then pushes it open the rest of the way with his hip. The balcony is situated at the rear of the building; it looks down to a courtyard hidden from the main street. The two of you find a place across from each other at the small patio table with an ashtray between you.

As H is pulling his Randy’s Doughnuts sweatshirt on over his head, his shirt rises up and you’re able to see a sliver of his stomach; you find yourself doing a double take at the symmetrical laurel tattoos poking out of the waistline of his jeans. He looks over at you as he’s slipping his arm through the second sleeve. “Warm enough?”

“Yeah I’m good, thanks,” you assure him, tugging the cuffs of your denim jacket over your fingertips.

He empties the contents of his pockets onto the table; you set the capsule you’d just bought from him beside H’s wallet, phone, burner phone, grinder, and papers.

“I’ll take that,” he teases, grabbing your container and popping the lid off with a flick of his thumb.

H cards his fingers through his hair before leaning over and tapping some of the bud from your capsule into his grinder, but a singular curl escapes, falling in front of his forehead. A small part of you wants to reach out and run your fingers through it, so you softly shake your head to refocus and stare at the edge of the table instead. You listen to the faint squeak of metal as he twists the grinder for a minute.

“How was your weekend?” you ask.

H smiles up at you, nodding softly. “Good. I went to a show with some friends and uh… yeah. Had a good time… How was yours?”

You shrug. “It was alright, I guess. Had some work to get out of the way, but I finished it all.”

“Ah,” H laughs once, then licks his thumb and methodically plucks one of the rolling papers from the pack, folding it in half longwise. “So we’re celebrating, then?”

“You could say that, yeah. Who did you see in concert?”

The green of his irises looks lucid and clear in the muted sunlight filtering through the clouds. His gaze is steady and focused as he pours out the crushed marijuana in a straight line down the crease, then rolls it a little to pack it all together.

“Black Keys,” he murmurs in concentration. You offer a thoughtful hum, but keep quiet from then on as to not distract him.

H carefully lifts the paper and licks down the edge and you notice the small mole to the left of his mouth that you’ve always privately appreciated. He wraps the joint up immaculately, twisting the end into a fine stem before tucking it behind his ear and repeating the whole process over again.

There’s just something about watching him go through the motions of grinding and licking and rolling with such fluid dexterity that makes you purse your lips to the side to conceal a smile. It’s impressive that he could be so nimble with the sheer size of his hands.

As H is sealing up the second joint, you unbutton the breast pocket of your jacket and offer your lighter to him. He glances up at you then quickly shakes his head, his lips flushed pink around the joint already. Reaching into the pocket of his hoodie, he takes out his own lighter—a plain black BIC—then cups a hand around the flame to light up.

The end of the joint glows orange as his cheeks hollow around a slow drag. The wind hisses between his teeth as he pulls his hand away to inhale even deeper, leaning over to you to pass you the joint. Your fingertips brush against his a little unnecessarily. H smiles while holding his breath and nods at you softly as though to confirm he’s wrapped you both a good one. You laugh faintly and bring the joint to your lips, and god almighty was he right.

You’d smoked enough with H to know that he has a fairly high tolerance compared to you. The smoke is smooth, but concentrated and undeniably potent in your lungs. Your eyes water as you hold your breath and it takes everything in you not to cough.

H opens his mouth and smooth, rounded puffs of thick white smoke pour out into the air from his lips; he plays with the clouds, sucking in another breath before exhaling more slowly. You sigh out your toke and lean over to tap some ash into the small ceramic bowl, narrowing your eyes to inspect the joint between your fingertips.

“You’re so much better at that than I am.” Your voice sounds small and hoarse, even to yourself.

H watches you take a second hit as a grin flirts with the corners of his mouth. “Better at what?”

You nod at him once, holding your breath as you pass the joint back to him before breathing out a long trail of smoke. “Rolling. Mine somehow always end up looking lopsided and uneven. And skinny.”

He huffs a laugh before raising the joint to his lips again, taking a long pull and holding it awhile before responding with but a single word: “Practice.”

“Can you do any tricks?” you ask. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”

H raises an eyebrow in your direction. “Uh,” he starts, tapping the joint on the edge of the ashtray. “I can do, like, the smoke rings.”

“Can you show me?”

H shakes his head negatively through another hit. “There’s kind of a breeze so it won’t work out here.”

“Huh,” you glance up to the silhouette of the sun through the clouds before meeting his eyes again. “Can you do anything else?”

H shrugs. “I mean, not really… ghosting, I guess… French inhale I can do… shotgunning, but that’s not really a trick.”

“What’s shotgunning?”

H’s head snaps up to look at you, a gradual, almost incredulous smile gracing his lips. “You don’t know what shotgunning is?” You simply shake your head. “How d’you smoke weed and not know what shotgunning is?”

You raise your hands in defense. “I don’t know! I’ve never heard of it.”

You cannot help but to mirror H’s lackadaisical smile. Your head feels a little lighter and the world seems to move slower than usual; you’re more aware of the beat of your heart.

H’s expression grows softer, but only just. He shifts closer to you in his chair. “C’mere.” His voice is low and even. “Get all the air out of your lungs. And breathe in when I say.”

You swallow, but nod your head as your heart begins to race. H takes a prolonged drag, looking right at you. His eyes are wary as though he’s trying to anticipate your next move, but there’s a certain curiosity and hunger behind his steely resolve, as well.

Suddenly he’s leaning in and you register that he’s about to kiss you; the air leaves your lungs and your grip tightens on the armrests of the patio chair. As he closes the distance between you, you’re able to see the small freckle by the corner of his eye, the faint, imperfect stubble along his jaw, and the round arch of his parted lips up close.

H’s eyes flash down to your lips for an instant. Your heart drops straight into your stomach at the sight of him mere inches from your face. He nods softly and you realize it’s your cue to start breathing in when, in a whirlwind, he’s pressing his mouth against yours.

Is he trying to kiss you? Should you kiss him back? Are you about to make out with your dealer?

H’s lips are sleek and warm enveloping yours, but his stubble scratches your skin and the contrast raises goosebumps all along your arms. This is physically the closest you’ve ever been to him, but after the initial panic, you piece together that you’re essentially supposed to be inhaling the hit H just took.

His hand floats up to the side of your face and his fingertips idle on your cheek as though to keep you still. You close your eyes to concentrate on breathing in steadily and it’s an odd sort of push and pull as the smoke leaves his lungs and enters yours. From a distance, this would look like a kiss. You have no idea what to do besides remain stock-still until it’s over.

H pulls back a few inches and your eyes flutter open. Something passes between the two of you and for an instant, you swear he is actually going to kiss you, but perhaps that’s just the echo of your own desires ringing in your ear. His hand falls to his lap as you both lean back and settle into your chairs a little; the wind carries away the smoke as you breathe out.

H’s jaw flexes; his eyes search yours. “That’s shotgunning.”

“Oh.” You blink, then blink some more, the memory of his stubble still tingling around your mouth. “I’ll be—um… more prepared next time.”

He nods, turning away from you to re-light the joint, then takes one last hit before holding it aloft between you. He’s dodging your eyes. “Wanna finish this one off then?”

“Sure.” You take it from him and smoke as much of it as you can but the end is getting rough.

H reaches behind his ear for the second joint, and poises his thumb on the lighter before you wave your hand to stop him. You’re holding in a lungful of smoke and ashing the dregs of the first joint all at once; he looks up at you with confusion etched into his brow.

“Wait, wait,” you cough. “Stop.”

He frowns. “Wha’s wrong?”

You’re already feeling pretty floaty, and you know that you’re going to be decently stoned in about twenty minutes. You’ll need at least a brief respite before lighting up again, even if H can handle a lot more than you, so you wrack your brain for an excuse, then hit his arm lightly with the back of your hand. “Doesn’t food sound really good right now?”

H chuckles softly then looks away from you a moment, sort of delayed. “I mean… yeah. Yeah it does.”

You laugh in relief. “Do you wanna eat before we smoke again?”

He scratches his head. “Um… I don’t really have food here. We could go get…” H trails off before his eyes go wide suddenly. “Actually wait. You know what I have?”

You shake your head and the two of you slowly smile at each other over nothing at all, as though you’re trying to pace the expression.

“What?” you laugh. “What do you have?”

H leans in. “Chocolate.”

You gasp and cover your mouth with both hands as though chocolate is your favorite food and he’d known all along. “Do you really?”

He nods. “Be right back.”

H disappears through the sliding glass doors and you’re left alone on the balcony for a minute. You brush your fingertips over your mouth and lick your lips; the taste of spearmint is still there. The sound of his footsteps out on the deck again startles you, and your hand drops to your lap immediately.

There’s a roguish lift to one side of H’s mouth as he joins you again in his seat, tossing two small red boxes down on the table between you. Intrigued, you reach for one of them and scrutinize the packaging.

HIGH LOVE, for Arousal by 1906 New Highs

You tilt your head in confusion. “What is this?”

H gestures at the table vaguely. “It’s chocolate.”

“It sure is fancy chocolate.”

He chuckles. “Well they’re not exactly peanut M&M’s, darling.”

You flip the box over in your hands and squint at the label on the back.

HIGH LOVE is an aphrodisiac that will make your bed levitate. Contains Blue Dream cannabis and five plant medicines for sensuality, including Damiana to curb inhibition, Catuaba to increase sexual desire, Theobromine for energy, Ashwagandha to reduce stress and boost libido, and Muira Puama, known as the “Viagra of the Amazon.”

You begin to laugh, looking up at H again and shaking the box beside your ear. “Is this… are these edibles?”

He licks his lips around a smile. “Yeah, but to be honest I’m convinced they’re duds.”

You shake your head. “What do you mean?”

“Well like, a friend gave me a bunch of boxes of these to sell and the company that makes them offers a few different kinds.” H counts on his fingers as he lists them off. “There’s one called Midnight for sleep, and another one called Go for energy. Mitch and I have tried both of those and they sort of work as edibles even though the other effects are bogus. But the chocolates are fuckin’ delicious.”

“Oh.” Your eyes narrow. “So these won’t make us, like… weird?” H simply shakes his head so you go on. “You haven’t tried these ones, though…”

“No, I haven’t. But if none of the other types worked, I really doubt these will.”

“Okay, well are you sure you don’t want to sell them? Don’t you want to, like, make a profit?”

He breathes a laugh through his nose and his lips twitch around a smug smile as though he’s parsing how to phrase what he’s about to say politely. “M’ doing just fine as it is.”

You gnaw on your lip. You trust H, and you’ve certainly had your fair share of pot brownies, but nobody’s ever offered you anything quite like this before. “Okay… you promise you’re not fucking with me?”

“Course not… Loads of dispensaries sell stuff like that but it’s never actually effective. They just want people to buy it. I um…” H clears his throat. “I would never take advantage of you, if… that’s what you’re asking.”

You hold his clear, level gaze for a minute, studying his face. He seems sincere, so you sigh, satisfied. “Alright, well… if we’re taking these we probably shouldn’t smoke again, right?”

H scoffs beside you with a smirk. “Yeah, no. They also definitely won’t kick in for at least an hour, maybe longer.”

“How strong are they anyway?” You lift the box closer to your face and H’s brows furrow as he reads along over your shoulder.

MILK CHOCOLATE GEMS: 5 MG THC/CBD EACH

He hums thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

“Yeah,” you agree, the thought of milk chocolate melting slowly on your tongue growing more enticing by the minute. “How many should we take?”

“Well the recommended dosage is one, so…” he trails off. You meet his eyes, and he’s pressing his lips together against a smile.

“So we should probably take, like, four each?” you finish.

H is nodding in agreement, already stifling laughter. “Good idea.”

“Great.”

“Brilliant.”

You begin to rip the paper packaging off one of the boxes and your brain is lagging just a bit; when you turn your head, the world seems to follow a beat late.

“Here,” H starts, abruptly rising from his chair. “Let’s go inside, it’s getting a bit chilly out here.”

You simply nod and follow behind him to the living room, then crash on his couch while he secures the glass doors shut. Once you finally rip the box open wide enough to pour the four small candies into your hand, H is crouching down to play some music from his TV across the room.

You must admit he’s got taste—you always found yourself looking up the lyrics of the songs he played whenever the two of you would spend hours talking nonsense, stoned on his couch… His collection of Travis Scott, Mura Masa, Tropics, Brockhampton, and SZA never failed to set the mood. You recognize the opening notes to Back Pocket by Vulfpeck and instantly perk up.

“I love this song.” The admission slips through your lips before you can help it as you nestle into his couch, kicking off your shoes and setting them to the side. H looks over his shoulder at you with a fond smile as your head falls back against the cushions.

“Yeah?” he laughs. You bob your head a few times in confirmation, so he ambles over to join you, and lays an arm along the backrest as you face each other.

“Okay,” you sigh, raising your handful of chocolates up to show him. “I have mine.”

“Alright.” H shakes his head, tutting his tongue as he tears into his own box. “Bottoms up, I guess.”

You place the first square on your tongue and immediately close your eyes in a moan. The chocolate is thick and pillow soft in your mouth; it coats your tongue as you chew, syrupy and nostalgic. You’ve never tasted such a robust, rounded palette of cocoa, milk, and sugar before. H’s chuckle pulls you from your trance. You crack your eyes open and he’s watching you, amused.

“Hitting the spot?” he asks. His chocolates are in hand, but he hasn’t started eating them yet.

You raise your eyebrows and nod at him slowly. “You have no idea.”

He pops one in his mouth, begins to chew, then pauses for a moment to look across at you with hooded eyes and a languid smile. He shakes his head. “This was such a good idea.”

You cover your mouth to laugh, tossing a second chocolate in and chewing as you nod in agreement. “I always get the munchies so bad…”

He laughs along with you and sits up a little straighter on the couch before continuing around a sticky mouthful of chocolate. “Like, smoking before you eat is just never, ever, ever a bad idea. Nobody has ever done that and regretted it after.”

You’re laughing even harder now, and it’s difficult to stop which is usually how you can tell you’re getting buzzed. You swallow, then tip your head back to drop in the last two pieces of chocolate from your hand, savoring them for longer this time as you watch H finish off his portion as well. He dusts off his hands before murmuring, “we’re gonna need some water,” then rises to slip off to the kitchen.

You hear the faucet running in the next room over before H reappears with a glass of water large enough for both of you to share. He takes a few gulps before catching a droplet at the corner of his mouth with his thumb and passing the drink to you. You sip a little as well, then lean over to set the glass down on the coffee table.

Both of you sink back into the couch to get comfortable and don’t exchange another word as you listen to the rest of the song play out. Your legs are tucked beneath you and H’s thighs are spread out on the cushion; your knees nearly brush, and the proximity to him makes you think unbidden of the feeling of his lips against yours as he passed a breath of smoke to you. He hums along with the music and taps his foot to the beat, and since he’s sending a few messages and swiping through Snapchat, you take a minute to mindlessly play around on your phone, as well.

After a while, you sense him watching you discretely so you lock your phone and glance up to meet his eyes.

“How you feeling?” you ask.

He thinks for a moment, then gives a half-hearted shrug, pausing to lower the volume of the music with the remote. “Fine, I guess.”

“Do you feel high yet?”

He chuckles, running a hand over his stubble. “Um… sort of.”

Feeling a bit funny yourself, you recall that the chocolates were supposedly intended to stimulate arousal, as well as get you high. Your heart begins to beat a bit faster and you hesitate before you’re able to speak again. “Do you feel anything yet?”

H shifts a little. His palms are spread out on his thighs, but the way he’s sitting is slightly charged and he isn’t quite meeting your stare. “Well, I’m uh… really hard right now and that doesn’t often happen at random anymore.”

Your jaw drops as your heart all but stops beating in your chest. “Holy shit… you are?”

You’re not sure what it is about his admission that you find so utterly funny, but you raise a hand to your mouth and smother a giggle before you can help it. He jerks back a bit as though he hadn’t been expecting that reaction from you, but soon he snorts into a laugh, as well.

It occurs to you, however, that he was likely joking about being hard—you had simply misunderstood because you’re sort of stoned and unaware, so you shake your head and backpedal. “Oh, wait. You’re fucking with me.”

H looks at you then, his eyes bloodshot as he shakes his head slowly. “I really wish I was.”

All at once, you’re slipping into laughter with each other until it hurts and you’re doubling over to clutch your stomach. You can hardly catch your breath to ask, “you seriously have a boner right now?”

He’s laughing so hard that he has to swipe a tear at the corner of his eye, nodding his head. “You don’t believe me?”

And it’s almost as though the room is moving in slow motion as H absently slides his palm up the inside of his leg.

You allow your eyes to follow his hand; he’s watching you, watch him. He squeezes himself lightly through his jeans, and your eyelids flutter in noticing just how far down his thigh he has to reach in order to run his thumb over the tip a few times… You swear it’s like he’d done so subconsciously, plus the fact that you’re both a little out of it makes him touching himself right in front of you, unprompted, a bit easier to accept.

Before you can dwell on your inhibitions, you’re reaching out and placing a hand gingerly on top of his as though you’re going to call his bluff. The humor has vanished completely from H’s eyes, and he lets his hand fall to the side as you begin to stroke him through his jeans. Your heart is pounding in your throat all of a sudden as you both sit in this new intimacy—this breathy, gradual latency of desire between you.

Your fingertips trace the outline of his erection through his jeans. You take your time, and a familiar tingling warmth begins to pool at the floor of your stomach. There’s a dull ache between your thighs, and you’re not sure if it’s him, or the aphrodisiacs in the edibles, or both, but your mind is racing and it’s still sort of surreal that your ridiculously hot dealer is fully letting you feel him up through his pants.

H’s lips part as you cup his balls through the fabric and squeeze gently. His breath hitches in his throat and he lifts his hips off the couch slightly to arch into your hand. It’s enthralling to have him at your mercy like this. He licks his lips before his hands are in his lap, undoing his button and pulling apart the zip of his jeans. His eyes are glassy, and absolutely incandescent staring into yours.

You pause for a moment; you know that if you cross this line with H there’s no going back. But with the way he’s undressing you with his eyes, you’re having trouble remembering what kept you from making a move sooner. You slip your fingers beneath the hem of his underwear and he is smooth, firm, and hot to the touch. His Adam’s Apple bobs in his neck. You pull his erection out from his briefs and tentatively begin to pump.

Before you have time to take a breath, both of his hands are on either side of your face, pulling you in; he brings your mouths together, practically in a collision. His lips move against yours with purpose this time, leaving nothing up to your imagination; the kiss is wet, sensual, greedy, and uncoordinated. You continue getting him off with your hand and every time you pay special attention to the tip, the rhythm of the kiss is thrown off by H’s jaw going slack for a moment. He’s hard as stone in your palm and while his obvious size and girth makes your heart flutter in anticipation, he’s also difficult to get a good grip on.

His tongue dances with yours. Your free hand tangles in his hair. His stubble feels just the same as when he’d blown smoke into your mouth, but you’re actually able to revel in the sensation of it scratching against your skin as your lip gets caught between his teeth time and time again.

The sound of the kiss fills the room. Something tickles your thumb, so you break away from him to glance down at the precum beginning to dribble over your fingers. H is uncut, and the tip of him is so flushed, it’s only a shade shy of purple. A quiet sound rumbles from his chest.

You look up at him again and you’re sure you’ve never seen less of his irises. His lips are a deep, shiny pink. He’s shaking his head softly, taking you in as if for the first time. “Please get on top of me,” he murmurs.

You waste no time in swinging a leg around to straddle him on the couch. H pulls you in again for another kiss, and you realize there’s absolutely no way that the stimulants in those chocolates were ineffective. You’ve longed to do this with him for ages, and you have a healthy libido—but not like this. He’s sinking his teeth into your shoulder. You’re practically clawing at each other. It’s impossible to get close enough as you roll your hips against him.

He hasn’t taken a stitch of clothing off your body, and you’re already aching to feel him inside of you. The thought alone is almost too much, what with your bodies pressed up against each other like this. You could close a few inches of distance, shift your weight minutely, and you’d be riding him; it’s absolutely dizzying.

His hands are squeezing your hips, and cupping your backside beneath your dress. He helps you shrug out of your denim jacket, and tosses it off to the side without looking. Taking two fistfuls of his hoodie at the shoulders, you rock your hips forward once more and feel the featherlight graze of H’s length through the seat of your underwear. You practically melt in his lap the moment he groans quietly against your throat, sliding a hand around to rub over your center through the crotch of your underwear.

He parts from your neck with a wet, indulgent lick. “Can I?” His voice is low around the request. You look down to meet his gaze, only able to manage a small nod as you chase your breath.

H’s breathing is labored now, too. He releases you in favor of taking a minute to pull off each of his rings individually, maintaining eye contact with you all the while. A square red ruby, an ornate rose, a plain silver band, a golden signet ring… they clink in the cup of his hand before he hastily tosses them all to the coffee table with a clatter and your thighs are quivering in anticipation by the time H’s attention returns to you.

His brows are pulled together, but his features relax completely as he’s tugging your underwear to the side and pushing two fingers up into you to the knuckle. At long last, you sigh at the slow, heavy, and deep feeling of him inside of you. His fingers are cold, but the sensation is grounding; it heightens your awareness that this is actually happening to you—that you’re probably going to cum around the same skilled hands you’d watched roll a joint half an hour ago.

He holds your stare; his eyes flash between yours, almost with a desire to know, or understand. His thumb is rubbing into your clit. You can see the strain of his bicep and forearm moving with enough steady force to rock your entire body gently above him. He adds a third finger, and when he curls up to reach your sweet spot, you find yourself in that midheaven right before you know you’re about to finish. You’re trying to keep quiet as he reaches up further inside of you, but you’re certain the intensity of your breathing is giving you away.

You don’t remember slipping your hands to the back of H’s head but dark curls poke out from the space between your fingers around fistfuls of his hair. He leans forward, planting a kiss in your cleavage with damp, audible suction. His teeth hook around the neckline of your dress, dragging the fabric to the side an inch to kiss the swell of your breast with a bit more verve. You can’t think straight so close to the edge.

“Do you want—”

Your eyes snap open as the words leap breathlessly from your tongue, though you stop yourself from completing the thought. H’s mouth freezes on your skin as he removes his fingers from you slowly.

The two of you meet eyes, almost timidly; his lips are parted with a pink sort of glow. You swallow once. He’s waiting for you to finish your sentence—you can tell.

“Do you want to have sex?”

H’s eyelids flutter a little bit. He nods and it’s maybe the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him.

He’s staring at you in concentration the next time he pulls you in for a kiss by the back of your neck. You relax into his lap as he presses his lips against yours, deliberately gentle, as though more thought had been put into it this time. The tip of his nose nudges your cheek when he turns his head to kiss you the other way; he traces the pad of his thumb along your jaw as his mouth moves with yours.  

“Should I—” he asks between kisses— “get a condom?”

You pull away from him to shake your head. “I’m on birth control.”

Rising briefly from the couch, you shimmy out of your underwear while H lifts his hips to pull his jeans down a few inches; you smile privately at the roaring tiger inked into his thigh, then find your place again with a knee on either side of H’s waist.

“You’re sure?” he asks. “How do you feel?”

“In control,” you reply earnestly. “And I’m sure I’m sure.”

“Cause I want to, and it’s not just because of the, y’know…” he trails off a bit sheepishly.

“I believe you.” Your voice is even and assured in contrast with his, but your heart gushes in your chest to hear him admit that aloud. “It’s the same for me, too.”

“Okay.” A shadow dances on his neck as he swallows. “If you want t’stop would you be able to tell me?”

You nod softly, and gaze down at him a moment before answering. “I would. I promise.”

Apparently satisfied with your answer, H nods, shifting down the couch a little to slouch into the backrest. It takes a moment or two to readjust after soldiering through the more sobering conversation, but part of you appreciates that having it was important to him.

He reaches a hand down to stroke himself, slowly at first, and you watch as his chest rises and falls faster over time. After a minute, he’s devouring you with his eyes as though he’s using you as inspiration to get off, which is equally surprising to you as it is flattering. You jolt a little as he encircles your clit a few times with the head of his penis before rubbing himself up and down your slit. You have to fight the urge to sink down around him each time he passes over your center but his eyes are hooded now, too, you can feel how wet you’re making his hand, and you know he won’t be able to hold out much longer either.

H is reserved by nature but this may be the quietest you’ve ever seen him; he keeps licking his lips, shifting his weight minutely on the couch, and avoiding your eyes. Is he… nervous?

“Ready?” he asks. You nod.

H stops tracing over you suddenly and with one, steady push you feel him deep in the space between your hips as you grip onto his shoulders. His head falls back against the wall with an ungraceful thud as his hands land on your waist beneath the fabric of your dress. You only feel his fingernails digging into your skin once you begin to ride him.

Whatever elixirs were in those chocolates, they were doing their job. Nothing at all hurts, and you’ve never felt so sensitive, or confident, or been so aware of every nerve ending in your body to the point where the softest touch could be your undoing. And then there is H’s size… you’re stretched around him in a way that feels similar to stretching after a long slumber, as though every part of you is coming alive. The hem of your dress tickles your thighs as you rock into him like the tide.

H grabs your wrist to move one of your hands from his shoulder to his mouth. His cheeks hollow as he sucks on two of your fingertips, flicking his tongue around and between them; you watch him unabashedly and begin to ride him a bit faster. He moans faintly below you, releasing your fingers and tossing his head to the side. Your own head falls back slightly as your eyes close for a moment—you can’t help yourself.

“Fuck.” His voice is low and clipped. “You feel so fucking good.”

At that moment, your head whips around to follow the sound of a door swinging open across the living room. H freezes below you. The blood drains from your face as you look, with horror, directly into the eyes of Mitch—who you’ve smoked with a number of times, and whose roommate is literally inside of you right now… It’s lucky that your dress is shielding everything important from sight. The scene might have looked somewhat innocent if H’s pants weren’t hung around his knees.

Your mouth gapes open as he stands there, stunned, looking between you and H, and the only sound in the world is Joan Jett’s guitar solo seeping through Mitch’s headphones. He’s wearing shoes and a jacket so you suspect he’d been on his way out, but what’s most bizarre about the whole exchange is that Mitch seems somehow unfazed. His eyes widen ever so slightly as you and H blink back at him, motionless. But then, he turns on his heel as though to emphasize the action, making his way nonchalantly to the front door and showing himself out with a wave… A wave.

You and H glance at each other; his eyes are still bloodshot and he appears to be holding back laughter. You, on the other hand, are gripped by terror and have to raise a hand to cover your mouth still hung ajar.

H simply shrugs. “S’fine. He’s probably more stoned than we are.”

“Oh my god.” You cover your face with both hands and peek out at him. “What should we do?”

“S’not much we can do now.” He heaves a sigh and blinks up at you once, so slow it’s almost pained. He shakes his head. “I really… really don’t want to stop.”

“I really don’t want to stop either.” Your hands are still covering your face, but H tugs them apart by your wrists, pressing his mouth against yours again.

If it weren’t for the warm, insatiable ache compelling you to arch forward and feel the firm pressure of him inside of you, you might have forgotten that you and H had been in the middle of something before the interruption. It takes a minute for you both to shake off what just happened but eventually you pull away from his lips to continue riding him, so slow it’s almost cruel. His eyes rake up and down your body before his hands slither down to your thighs again.

He glances up to you for a moment and his jaw tightens. Your lips part around a shaky exhale as H lifts your dress up to your navel, then watches closely, and without shame, where the two of you are connected.

You catch his irises following your movements as you sink down around him in steady dips. You reach for the hem of his sweatshirt and H raises his arms to let you tug it over his head before he peels your dress up and over your body, leaving him in his tee shirt and jeans, and you in nothing but a bralette that you’re hopelessly spilling out of.

You keep thinking the chocolates have finally hit you completely, but it seems as though you want him more and more as time goes on and nothing is quite enough to quell the flame inside. The first, unmistakable stirrings of an orgasm are beginning to arise in the pit of your stomach. You close your eyes, tune into how you feel, and move the way your body is telling you to move as the soft sounds escaping your lips are beginning to fill the room.

“Let me go on top.” The low hum of H’s voice pulls you from this headspace, but you have no intention of stopping.

“I’m about to cum—”

“I know, I want to fuck you.” You glance down at him as he cuts you off. He looks deadly serious, so you gently pull off to lay back horizontally across the couch. H follows your movements, situating himself between your legs before dipping down to press a few kisses into the slope of your shoulder.

The necklace you’d noticed tucked into his shirt earlier dangles down, grazing the crest of your collarbone. His lips are still moving on your neck as you slide your hands up H’s back beneath the fabric of his shirt. He shifts on his knees a few times, then reaches down to guide himself back into you with a low groan from the back of his throat.

Your breathing hitches as he adopts a rhythm, traveling up to your mouth in a row of pecks along your jaw. It’s strangely affectionate for someone you’ve never been intimate with before, yet as he opens his mouth in the kiss to let you in a bit more, somehow tangling your fingers in his hair and brushing your tongue against his feels right.

Before long, you feel that same rhapsody of heat and ecstasy tightening the muscles in your stomach; he’s walking you right up to the edge again. You’re trying your hardest to fight the noises bubbling up in your throat but every sensation is so much more intense than you’re used to because of the chocolates.

You wrap your legs around his back as his hand slips to the soft crook behind your knee, spreading you wider slightly. Suddenly you feel him even deeper inside of you and your climax hits like the last sixty seconds of Nessun dorma! You feel as though you’re transcending out of your body while simultaneously feeling so intimately connected to it, aware of every crevice and curve—it’s the kind of orgasm that makes you start thinking about God.

“H,” you sigh as you come down. “H… H—”

“Harry.” His voice comes stern from above you. Your eyelids flutter and you can barely keep them open; his jaw is locked and he’s watching you closely.

You shake your head, blinking. “What?”

“That’s my name… say Harry.” It isn’t a question. Dangling strands of his hair sway with the tremors of his body as he begins to thrust a bit harder.

“Harry.” The name falls from your lips in a breath as you try it out.

“God, fuck.” His voice is husky as he leans in to meet you with another kiss before murmuring, “again” against your mouth.

“Harry,” you repeat with a touch more confidence. He lets out a quiet, strained grunt and it’s maybe the first time you’ve viscerally noticed someone grow harder inside of you during sex.

“That’s it.” The praise is hardly above a whisper; you’d have missed it if he weren’t sealing his every word into your skin with kisses.

A sweat is breaking on Harry’s back beneath your palms. The cadence of his breath has increased and his chest is pressed up against yours as he rocks into you. He stops abruptly, gently pulling out before rising to his knees and reaching behind his head to tug his shirt off.

Harry’s length and the center of his chest are flushed in an identical shade of pink, and tapered curls adhere to his temples with perspiration. Two swallows and a butterfly decorate his chest, and his left arm is covered in so many miscellaneous tattoos that he almost has a full sleeve. It’s invigorating to see them all up close after having wondered for so long about the obscure little pictures usually hidden by the sleeves of his hoodies.

Harry hesitates for a moment, then hoists himself up off the couch to stand on the floor. He uses the armrest to keep balance as he toes out of his vans and raises his knees individually to pull his legs the rest of the way out of his jeans. With your lip between your teeth, you sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the couch, then reach back to unhook your bralette. You’ve caught Harry’s attention now so you toss the fistful of lace at his feet and sink to your knees on the floor, facing the couch. The textured pile of the fabric is coarse against your bare stomach and breasts, and the hardwood isn’t exactly comfortable beneath you, but you hardly mind.

Harry drinks you in as you bend over the seat cushions before glancing over your shoulder at him innocently. He shakes his head, almost in awe before he’s kneeling on the ground behind you.

He nudges your knees apart with his, shifting closer until you feel the tip of him glide over your entrance. There’s a hand on the small of your back and suddenly he’s pressing you down into the couch even more before pushing into you with a sigh. You arch your back as he alternates between taking things slow, and thrusting into you so hard from behind that the back of the couch knocks against the wall in what is beginning to sound like a percussion. If you focus for too long on the feeling of his fingertips digging harshly into your backside, you could easily cum again.

The hand pressing you down into the couch snakes up to the back of your head. Harry carefully tugs you up by your hair until his mouth is wet and hot on your neck. A faint cry falls from your lips as he bites down on your shoulder and you’re certain you’ll have marks tomorrow where his teeth drag along your skin. His hands explore your body, gliding over your waist, hips, and neck before landing on your breasts with a light squeeze. His mouth parts from your skin with a loud smack.

“Fuck—” Harry is winded as he halts his movements behind you, dropping his hands to the couch. “Need to slow down.”

Catching your breath, you reach back and push against Harry’s chest; he pulls out and shuffles away from you on his knees. You collapse to the floor on your back, chest heaving and mind racing. That joint you’d split with him is really beginning to hit; you feel as though you could float right up to the ceiling, and every touch—every smell, sound, and taste is decadent, blossoming in your brain. Sweat is beginning to bead at the back of your neck and your temples, but you look hard into Harry’s eyes and beckon him down to where you lay on the floor by spreading your legs open wide.

He tilts his head, glancing down between your thighs before his jaw tightens and eyes close, almost pained. Harry lets out a strangled exhale, resting both hands on the floor. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was frustrated. You shiver as he leans in, pressing a slow kiss just below your navel, nipping you once, then crawling up your body to find your mouth again.

This time, you reach down to grab a hold of him, using the tip to play with yourself a little before he guides himself back inside of you. Harry takes his time to work back up to a faster, more frantic rhythm, and it’s enough to awaken the warm, tingling beginnings of another orgasm in the pit of your stomach. You sigh his name like a warning as he reaches down and begins to rub practiced circles into your clit. Your head falls to the side.

“I’m close,” you breathe.

“Cum.” His fingers move faster on your clit. “Cum on me please.”

You let out a faint cry, and fight back a string of profanities poised on your tongue as you clench around him. One of your hands snakes around to his backside to push him even deeper, and the other flails blindly on the floor until you grab hold of one of the legs of the coffee table. For a moment you forget where you are, like the only thing that matters in the world is the continuation of this acute, frenzied euphoria inside you. Your grip tightens on the leg of the table and a few of Harry’s rings fall to the floor.

“I’m cumming,” you breathe, strained.

“What’s it feel like?” He’s staring down at you intently, unwavering in his movements above you.

It’s difficult to concentrate on anything for long while you’re high—let alone while you’re having sex—so you’re unable to form a response until you’re at the tail end of your climax.

“I can’t even describe it.” You shake your head, delirious.

Harry’s eyes are still pink around the edges as you lay below him, trying to make out his expression. You wonder if perhaps the THC coursing through his veins had emboldened him to raise the question; you’re positive that sober H would never venture to ask that, but it doesn’t seem like something out of the realm of possibility for a fucked out, stoned Harry to get curious about.

His face twists. “Fuck, I’m really close.”

You quickly scan his living room—the hide rug beneath the coffee table and the dark, fabric couch. Aside from the fact that it’s a bit disrespectful to his roommate, this doesn’t seem like the best place for him to leave a mess on your stomach and risk staining something.

Your eyes search his. “Where do you want to finish?”

Harry’s thrusts are growing more convulsive with each passing moment. His eyes flash up and down your body and you can palpably see the wheels turning in his head as he considers… your stomach, your breasts, your face.

He licks his lips. “In your mouth,” he replies, steadfast.

Your eyes flutter as your lips part. Harry watches closely as you open your mouth a little wider, letting your tongue peek out slightly to rest on your bottom lip. His eyes squeeze shut, the vein in his neck swells, and he’s pulling out of you to crawl up your body until his knees are positioned on either side of your waist. You prop yourself up with an elbow, gazing up to him.

Harry’s jaw is tight. His eyes are trained on you as he strokes himself with the tip poised by your lips. You know he’s about to cum when his mouth gapes open in a soft circle while every other muscle in his face relaxes, and a prolonged, guttural, “oh,” falls from his lips.

Harry slides his free hand to the back of your head. You close your eyes as the first hearty stream hits the roof of your mouth, tepid and thick with a velocity that’s almost impressive. You reach up to gently squeeze his balls and feel a streak dribble down your chin.

“Bloody fuck… Jesus Christ.” His hand bumps your chin occasionally as ribbons of his cum continue to land on your tongue. One after another, after another. You keep thinking to yourself with each stroke that he can’t possibly still be going, but sure enough, he fills your mouth even more.

After you swallow a few times, Harry lowers your head carefully to the floor, hunching over to squeeze every last drop into your mouth. The only thing you can hear above the ringing of your ears is him heaving above you. He has to sit back on his haunches for a moment until his breathing evens out; you swipe your chin with the back of your hand.

Harry shifts to lie beside you on his back; his arm is warm and clammy pressed up against yours. The two of you lay still in the silence of his apartment until the ceiling stops spinning and you can no longer hear the wild thrum of your heart like a bass in your head.

Harry clears his throat. “That was… fun.”

You laugh once, a bit breathlessly, then turn your head to the side to look at him. “You still think those chocolates don’t work?”

“Think I’ll need to leave a raving review on Yelp now, actually,” he deadpans.

You fall into laughter and Harry turns his head to meet your eyes before joining in. He rolls onto his side to face you, reaching out as though he’s going to brush your hair out of your face but he seems to think better of it at the last moment, pulling his bottom lip between his thumb and pointer finger instead.

“Harry?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m about to be really fucking high in a little bit.”

Harry snorts into a laugh, running his hand down his face. “Christ… so am I. No idea what the fuck m’ gonna say to Mitch.”

You shudder. “Please don’t remind me.”

A long, comfortable silence follows, but his eyes change as he looks at you again. “Would you maybe want to go get something to eat? There’s a shop just up the street.”

You press your lips together against a smile at the mental image of you and Harry standing beside each other in the candy aisle of 7-Eleven, blazed out of your minds under the fluorescent lights, trying not to astral project as you decide between Sour Patch Kids and Twix.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “No special side effects this time?”

Harry rolls his eyes as his dimples sink into his cheeks. “Right. No Viagra of the Amazon, I promise.”

“Um…” you trail off with a sigh, lifting your head to glance at the setting sun through the window. The shadows in Harry’s apartment are growing longer and the light has begun to dim to a soft, lunar blue. “I don’t know. It’s getting late and it’s supposed to drop down to thirty tonight—”

“I can give you something warmer to wear,” he cuts in. A slow smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. Harry goes on in the wake of your silence, but he’s dodging your eyes, and toying with one of the rings that had fallen to the floor earlier. “We could go get some real food, then come back here and watch a movie or summat.” He glances up to you suddenly with a snicker. “We could smoke that second J together.”

You laugh, pulling your knees into your chest before leaning in to press your mouth against his again, and it’s almost compulsive. Harry startles a little, but reciprocates the kiss in a way that feels shy, hopeful—unsure. Like he’s never kissed you before. Like this is the most intimate the two of you have been with each other. He’s blinking as you pull back; his lips are parted slightly as though he wasn’t quite finished yet.

“I’m sold,” you murmur before pressing a single, chaste kiss into his cheek. “Let’s go put some clothes on.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

FIRE AND ICE

Breaking a few laws on Fire Island with your beau. A continuation of  “H” or Harry is your dealer and you accidentally sleep with him after taking some aphrodisiac edibles together as a joke.

There is an islet along the southern coast of Long Island that hasn’t been glossed into opulence yet by the elites of Manhattan who own summer homes in the Hamptons further east. It’s called Fire Island, on the cusp of the bourgeois but still an outsider. The air is cold and clear and the tidepools are shallow and hurt to walk through barefoot. The ocean is freezing and void of any blue even in the summer months. The wind carries the pungent smell of the tide and the driftwood is alabaster, reminiscent of bones in the tall beach grass. Cigarette butts and kelp hide along the coast. A proletariat beach. The kind of beach where you have to watch where you walk.

Around here, the summer homes are empty and pale yellow and the painted slats are peeling and the porches creak and everybody owns a rusty cruiser bike with a basket. The sand is white under the sun and not quite powdery. The shore is endless and flat; there are no rocks for the waves to crash into so the sound of the tide is tranquil, even, almost metric. You’ve been listening to this rhythm for so long that it feels like it’s become a part of you, like a breath or a heartbeat, and when you go back inside eventually, you’re sure the world is going to seem eerily quiet. In the distance comes the faint trill of seagulls.

Your eyes flutter open to a squint as you shadow your face with your forearm, turning away from the light. Harry’s old wayfarers dig into the bridge of your nose and the hard, pilling terry cloth of the beach towel is scratchy on your cheek but you don’t care. The sun warms your hair and the tops of your legs, the occasional spray from the ocean graces your ankles, your swimsuit is cool and damp on your back, and you are so at peace.

Harry shifts a little to get comfortable as you sigh; his head is heavy on your stomach and his hair tickles the skin over your last rib as he nestles against you. He’s laying beside you, tracing a dutch clover all along your legs, up to your thighs and back down again, dazed, serene. Your fingertips weave gently through his hair; it’s still drying and the salt from the water is making it a little stiffer than usual. Every now and again his eyelashes brush your skin as he looks around at the world and then back down to you.

He adjusts his head to stare down at your knee as he encircles it with the flower. The petals begin to tickle so you bend your leg to gently push his hand away and he laughs once, scratching the spot for you before continuing to trace down your shins and it’s just one of those moments when you wonder how his brain works.

A smile grows slowly on your lips. “Why do you always want to listen to my breathing after we smoke?”

Harry simply shakes his head. “M’ not high anymore. Besides, I’m listening to your heart.”

You exhale a laugh and his head does a little jump on your midsection. “What’s it saying?”

Harry doesn’t look up but you can feel the movement of his cheek with the beginning of a grin. “Nothing yet,” he replies. “Your body’s a little noisy right now.”

“Oh?”

Harry nods. “Your stomach just growled… Think we’ve got another clementine in the cooler if you fancy.”

You hum, lifting your hands from his hair to absently pick the remaining orange peels from beneath your nails. “I’m fine, thanks. My fingers still smell like oranges from lunch.”

“Lemme see.” Harry lifts his head, reaching for your wrist. His shoulder is covered in sand as he props himself up on his elbow, tugging your hand to his nose before flipping it over and carefully smelling both sides. He hums, then lays back down, tossing the clover in favor of tracing his fingertips up and down your legs. Again, you wonder how his brain works sometimes.

Minutes pass before you feel Harry begin to chuckle softly. “Are you trying to pace your breathing with the tide?”

“Yes,” you laugh.

“Your stomach’s growling again.”

Your book falls from off your face as you shove him away, suppressing a giggle. “Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.”

When Harry looks up at you, his lower lip is between his teeth as his dimples frame an animated smirk. He crawls up your body and meets you with a quick kiss, plucking the sunglasses from off of your face before putting them on himself.

He lifts his hand and follows its shadow carefully until he’s blocking the sun from your eyes. “You taste like suncream.”

“Actually, I might need to reapply soon.”

He frowns. “Are you burned?”

“My chest stings a little.”

Harry tugs at the straps of your swimsuit before leaning in to get a closer look at your bare breasts with a long, indulgent hum. The beach is deserted but you smack his shoulder either way, quickly adjusting your suit.

“You’re such a pest!” you scold, but the words are broken up by laughter.

There’s a smug lift to one corner of his mouth. “They look fine to me.”

You give him a warning with your eyes and Harry relents, taking you by the wrist and pressing a kiss into your palm. There’s a special kind of handsome about him this afternoon. The sight of him looking down at you with the daylight glowing in a halo behind his head, his cheeks pink from the sun, and the golden chestnut luster of his hair is making your heart a little erratic.

“Should we go for a dip?” you suggest, idly grazing your fingertips down the slope of his shoulder.

Harry looks beyond you to the shoreline, shaking his head.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” you try.

He scrunches his nose after a minute of thought. “Kinda don’t wanna leave all our stuff,” he murmurs, eyeing the cooler. You tilt your head.

“We could smoke again—”

“No.” Harry turns to you suddenly as he nearly cuts you off, then blinks as though he’d startled himself, as well. “I mean, you can if you want to. I’m alright for now. This is…” He trails off, nodding softly and pursing his lips to the side. “This is nice. Yeah… you know?”

A beat passes before you nod in agreement. Something in his admission feels vulnerable and worth celebrating; you’d been spending less and less time together high over the past few weeks and you were beginning to let yourself get curious about the nature of your relationship.

Being affectionate towards each other anywhere outside of Harry’s apartment is still relatively new territory for the both of you. It’s a state of limbo—a dizzy teeter between moments of insecurity and moments of clarity and tenderness. Part of you is worried that you’re in too deep too soon and that love born of lust surely won’t withstand the test of time, but there are instances when he looks at you with this quiet, yielding curiosity, the way that he is looking at you right now, and you’re convinced, unequivocally, that what you have together is honest, and rare.

“Let’s stay like this then,” you concede finally, reaching for your softcover copy of The Boys in the Boat to use as a pillow and letting your eyes close. “For a little while longer… then we can head back into the city and grab a bite to eat. If you want.”

You hear Harry breathe a laugh as he shuffles back down to lay his head on your torso again. “I want.”

He removes his sunglasses and tosses them to the side, settling in further south than he had been laying before; his nose is nudging the hem of your bikini. The proximity makes your heart flutter a little. Suddenly you feel more in tune with your body—you’re more aware of the warmth of the sun through the fabric of your bathing suit.

Before long, Harry begins to rub your legs again, following a trail that runs from your ankles to your shins, along your thighs to the skin just beneath your navel, then back down again in a long, lazy oval.

“Have we got any water left?” His voice comes softly from below.

“You can have some of mine if yours is gone,” you offer, nodding vaguely to the nearby pile of your belongings.

He pushes himself up, reaching over you for the cooler before you hear the metallic echo of ice cubes stirring against the hard steel of your water bottle. Your eyes remain closed as Harry takes a few swigs until you feel the cool sting of something frozen against your skin. You gasp.

Harry is pressing an ice cube just below your navel, meeting your eyes with a smirk. You push him off but your smile softens the gesture. He breathes a laugh, fastening the lid on the water bottle and tossing it back into the cooler before laying his head down again.

You flinch a little as the cutting chill of the ice returns, though this time right over your ankle. Harry gently drags the small cube up your legs, along the inside of your thighs all the way to your hips as he had done before with his fingertips. It’s uncomfortable at first, but the sensation grows on you and the crease between your brows gradually relaxes. You hadn’t realized the full extent of the sun’s rays scorching your skin until the cool, refreshing contrast of the ice was introduced.

“Feel nice?” he asks. You hum in confirmation, a bit removed.

Harry continues in this circuit, smoothing his hand along your skin as the ice melts like butter in his palm. The trail of water left behind tickles as it drips down to the sand. At one point, he pops what’s left of the ice into his mouth and you can feel the oscillation of his jaw against your stomach as he occasionally crunches softly.

His hand wanders to the soft back of your knee and he raises your leg to a bend, lifting his head momentarily to nip at the uppermost part of your thigh. That mild, fluttery pull of desire returns in the pit of your stomach with the freezing graze of Harry’s lips and teeth across your skin. You exhale a shaky laugh but he heaves a sigh, turning his cheek to sink a soft, slightly more indulgent bite just over your hip bone before kissing the spot and resting again. The warm touch of sunlight over the icy memory of Harry’s kiss is bracing in a satisfying way that sort of catches you by surprise.

His hand is atop one of your knees; he’s drumming his fingers over the bone—shifty, bored, restless. He flattens his palm, slides it up a few inches, pauses, then dips to the inner part of your thigh where he squeezes once. You’re hyper-aware of every minuscule movement that draws his fingers inadvertently closer and closer to where you’re beginning to want him the most. He sighs again.

He lifts his head and the abrupt absence of weight on your abdomen startles your eyes open. The tip of Harry’s nose is grazing over the fabric of your bikini. He inhales—tentative—by the uppermost hem, then gently tilts his head between your thighs to take a deeper, slower breath in. His eyes close in concentration, or contentment, or both.

He’s curious about your scent. There’s something so carnal, and hungry, and boyish about it and you wonder if he even knows you’re watching him.

You swallow dryly and focus on the steady cadence of the waves as Harry’s thumb begins to stroke the crease where your innermost thigh meets your hip. The dew of his breath fans over the tops of your thighs, but the sensation is vaguely chilling and you remember with a sudden rush that he’s still sucking on the ice cube.

His thumb is moving so carefully that it trembles through the small motion. Your eyes flutter closed. His every move is premeditated and minute; it’s excruciating. Your bathing suit has long since dried after your dip in the ocean an hour ago but the small length of fabric at the seat of your bikini is slick, clinging to your center.

After a while, that spot on your thigh tingles under his touch, so pleasant that it’s almost unpleasant. There’s a slight resistance between his skin and yours that you hadn’t noticed a minute ago; his hand has become clammy. That subtle yearning you’d felt before is swelling and there’s an ache between your thighs that had come on so gradually, you hadn’t noticed it until you were unable to focus on much else. You cave and shift on the towel a little, spreading your legs an inch—perhaps two inches—apart. Harry’s thumb stops moving.

The pressure of his hand vanishes and your heart falls for a moment before you feel it on your opposite thigh. Ever so gently, he pushes your legs apart just that little bit more, encouraging you. Your heart is in your throat.

You lift your head from the book to find that Harry is already peering up at you. There’s something familiar about the expression taking his features—a sort of low, earthly hunger. You recognize this look from the time he’d pulled off all of his rings one by one without breaking your eye contact before pushing his fingers up inside of you for the first time. He licks his lips as his eyes flash between yours, preemptive, beckoning—he wants to ask permission. He wants to know if you’re thinking what he’s thinking.

In one swift motion, Harry bends your leg at the knee and ducks beneath it so that his head is square between your thighs and one of your legs is draped over his shoulder. The muscles in your abdomen tense as he gazes up at you over the horizon of your waist. You quickly survey the coastline. Your primary senses are in a headlock between the pragmatic worry that you could get caught at any moment and a paralyzing anticipation for what he’s going to do next.

Harry leans in close, tugs the seat of your bikini to the side, carefully spreads you apart with his fingertips and opens his mouth wide. His breath passes over you in a long, steady exhale like an arctic breeze that makes your toes curl and you are every bit as wary as you are enraptured. The tingling sensation of the cool air escaping his lips is accentuated by the moisture from your arousal and in a moment, more abrupt than you’re prepared for, Harry licks in a long, flat strip up your center, wintry and swift.

Your entire body jolts. The sensation is electric—an icy spark that you can feel in every nerve ending. You gasp softly, unable to decide if the dichotomy of the hot and cold is the most incredible thing you’ve ever experienced or if it’s much too sensitive to feel pleasurable. Regardless, it’s certainly making you think twice. Harry moves up to your clit, sucking in soft little pulses. The cold is all but piercing. You cry out, but not in pain.

It never ceases to fascinate you how lost Harry could get when he’s going down on you. Shamelessly, you study the focused crease between his brows, and the way his head tilts every which way to get just the right angles, the unsubtle, intense pattern of his breath through his nose as he refuses to come up for a proper breath. He’s making out with your entrance with as much verve as if it was your mouth and the pointy tip of his nose smooths over and over your clit. Zealous, fervid, doting… you could cum from the view of the top of his head alone.

He weaves through your every crease and corner with the tip of his tongue and each cool stroke is consistently startling. His face is slick from the tip of his nose to the bottom of his chin, glistening, and the sound of it all is clouding your mind. Harry takes hold of your thighs firmly such that your skin dimples beneath his fingertips, lifting you up an inch off the ground before plunging into you with his tongue again and again, colder, colder; you could go numb.

“God, please,” you breathe. Harry pauses to sink his teeth into your thigh before getting back to business.

Your hand slips into his hair and he yields when you tug him up from between your legs. Enough of this—you want him.

Harry wipes his mouth messily with the back of his forearm, then finds your clit with the pad of his thumb, guiding his index and ring fingers up inside of you with one, steady push. You arch into the firm, familiar yet ever foreign feeling of his fingers inside of you.

Everything he’s doing to you is gradual—practically incremental—like he wants to take his time. He’s giving you the opportunity to really appreciate every sensation. It’s as though he’s forgoing speed for depth and technique, and the way he’s simultaneously rubbing your clit with his thumb is making you dizzy. You’re unable to help the faint moan that falls from your lips.

Harry glances over one shoulder and then the other before sighing, as though to make the act seem more nonchalant as his fingers curl up inside of you.

“Feel nice?” he echoes, his voice low as he leans in close.

Although you haven’t seen another soul all day and what he’s doing to you now is much more discreet than what he’d been doing moments ago, neither you nor Harry has lost sight of the fact that this is a public beach, after all. If someone were to pass by on a sailboat with a good pair of binoculars, you’d be in trouble. Regardless, that doesn’t seem to be a deterrent for Harry. He slips a third finger inside of you.

“Mm—there… there,” you sigh.

He studies your face intently; his eyes are alight with this almost naïve desire to understand. It’s indulgent, what he’s doing—you can tell. He’s getting a sense of your body while watching you come undone and with your every choked breath, every soft contortion of your face, it’s like you can feel his interest peaking. Harry’s chest is beginning to rise and fall faster than it had been; you can feel yourself getting close to the edge.

“Harry.”

His jaw tightens before he’s shifting to lay by your side, still meeting you at eye-level. Inches from your face, his gaze flits from your eyes to your lips to your pebbling nipples beneath the fabric of your swimsuit—deliberately withholding from meeting you with a kiss as you writhe below him.

You moan quietly again, cutting yourself off with a strained plea.“Don’t stop.”

“Jesus.” The word escapes under his breath as he shakes his head softly.

You watch in disbelief as he hunches his back to press his groin into the sand through his swim trunks, so subtly that you wonder if it had been subconscious. It’s as though he’s so invested in getting you off that his hips had rolled forward in search of resistance of their own accord. A blind, static warmth is pooling at the floor of your stomach. You’re watching him, watch you.

Your breath is beginning to sound like short, soft gasps. You reach up to cup Harry’s jaw and study his face because honestly the way he’s looking at you right now with the near strenuous flexing of his jaw and the sound of his rapid breath through his nose is enough to inspire an orgasm. His irises are shrinking rings of green around his pupils. You’re reminded of that Clementine von Radics poem:

“God I want you in some primal, wild way animals want each other. Untamed and full of teeth. God I want you in some chaste, Victorian way. A glimpse of your ankle just kills me.”

Your gaze wanders to his bare arm; the tail of his eagle tattoo is dancing faintly over the tendons by his wrist, and for a minute you indulge in the sight of his bicep swelling slightly in the sunlight with every dutiful pump of his fingers inside of you. When you wrap both hands around the uppermost part of his arm, your fingertips don’t even reach all the way around the muscle. He adds pressure to your clit. You find yourself stifling another soft cry and Harry’s lips immediately part.

Again, his back curves in lordosis before he’s grinding his hips down in the sand. He does it once, twice, then evidently gives in and adopts an even rhythm and the thought that he’s getting himself off by whatever means necessary while devoting all of his attention to getting you off pushes you into that delirious frenzy of euphoric alarm right when you can tell you’re about to finish.

The sound of your name in Harry’s mouth is your undoing. “Cum,”he murmurs. “Cum right on me.”

A wave of pure exaltation washes over you. It begins in your core and spreads all the way to your toes. You’ve never had an orgasm while staring up at the sky before but you feel as though you could fall forward into it forever, engulfed by the endless blue, breaking through the atmosphere, lost in the suspension of this moment. For an act so sacreligious, this release feels divine, or cleansing—like there was something trapped inside of your body that Harry had set free.

Your fingers claw at the sand and you arch so far off the ground that your shoulders lift off the towel and the crown of your head holds your balance. Harry doesn’t muffle your recklessly loud cry of his name with a kiss or the palm of his hand, he simply lets it happen, peering down at you, selfish, voracious. As you come down, you find his eyes with a hand on either side of his face.

“I want you,” you breathe. “Please.”

Harry’s fingers move slower inside of you. He swallows roughly. “What if we get caught?”

You shake your head weakly. “I don’t care.”

His eyelids flutter a little as he lets out an all but pained exhale. “I don’t have a condom.”

“I’m on the pill and we’re both clean,” you reason, brushing a few rogue curls from his forehead.

“I’m not gonna last.” He shakes his head softly, apologetic. A little sheepish. “A minute, maybe. I’m, um—”

“Harry it’s okay—”

“I’m really worked up. I didn’t think… I dunno. Sorry.”

“All the more reason,” you offer, breathless still. “The faster we are, the more likely no one will catch us.” He hesitates. You go on. “I just want to feel you.”

Harry takes a long breath in, nodding at you quickly before pushing himself up to lay over you. He nudges your knees apart with his before reaching down and pulling his erection out from his bathing suit. The bright yellow of his swim trunks isn’t particularly subtle, but you’re both far beyond the point of caring. Truthfully, they’d look much better in a discarded heap beside you along with your bikini, but the risk is too high. Harry shifts on his knees a few times, lining himself up and sparing one last, tentative glance over each of his shoulders. You feel tip graze your entrance.

He looks down at you. “You’re sure?” His voice is hushed, shaky.

“Completely.”

Harry’s lips are parted, hovering above yours, and as he sinks himself inside of you, his soft, strangled “Oh” falls directly into your mouth.

He’s achingly hard, silky as he slips in, hitting that insatiable place deep inside of you that cannot be reached by his fingers or tongue alone—a place that is both physical and psychological. The warmth of his length melts away the icy sting of what had once been so cold under his tongue. You realize that some part of you had longed for something this firm, for this gratifying stretch, for this pleasure-pain. You can feel Harry’s pelvis pressing right into your clit.

“You’re so big. God, fuck me.” The words slip out in a whisper. In truth, you hadn’t meant to say them aloud. “Harr—”

“Stop talking I’ll cum.” Harry’s warning is clipped and slightly hostile but then he brushes his cheek against yours, smooth and warm like an unspoken apology and when he speaks again, his quiet “please”doesn’t have such an edge.

At first he starts off steady, slow, filling you up; his every movement draws a shaky exhale out of you and you have to fight to keep your eyes from drifting shut. Harry coasts his hand along your arm to find your hand, lacing his fingers with yours and the feeling is granular; a lot of sand gets trapped in the clasp. It’s a small gesture but he’s never done it before and when you glance over at him in surprise, he’s only able to keep your gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes. You hold on tightly to each other.

His hips bump against your thighs as he moves into you in long, burying strokes; the momentum slides you up a few inches off the towel and into the sand. He nips at your earlobe and the delicate part of your neck just beneath your jaw. It’s is as though some primal, hedonic urge had taken hold of him and you can’t get enough—any distance between your bodies is unbearable.

“You’re amazing.” Harry drops his forehead to yours with a quiet grunt. “Feel so bloody good, fuck.”

His breathing is shallow. He catches your parted lips with his, but sometimes your chin and the apple of your cheek, pressing desperate, spongy kisses wherever he can. You tilt your chin up and tangle your fingers in his hair as he spends some time at the slope of your shoulder; his mouth is hot and wet and it’s never been more difficult to reign in the incomprehensible pleas bubbling up in your throat. He nudges your leg up an inch with his thigh, pushing himself incredibly deep. Inevitably, a stifled moan escapes you.

“I love it when you get like this,” he breathes. “God, I love fucking you.”

Every so often Harry’s eyes dart up to scan the grove of trees lining the coast, wary of onlookers, yet every time his attention returns to you, his eyes have this dark, yearning appetite and it’s clear that stopping is no longer an option. You’re still delirious from your first orgasm and he seems to be feeding off that dazed bliss. His cheeks are a blotchy pink and his arm must have grown tired while he was getting you off because he’s trembling slightly under his own weight. Exhausted, determined, yet somehow decidedly tender. His thumb brushes over the clasp of your hands covered in sand.

Without warning, Harry unlaces your fingers, pulling your hand to your pelvis before flattening it against the soft plane right between your hip bones. He covers your hand with his, applying gentle pressure, and together you feel as the head of Harry’s penis nudges up into your palm from inside you.

Your back arches off the ground. “Harry.”

“Yeah?” he asks softly, knowing.

It’s maybe the smuggest, hottest thing he’s ever done to you during sex. He wants you to really feel how deep inside of you he can reach. Throwing caution to the wind, you wrap your legs around his lower back while simultaneously pushing down on your own stomach against the bulge of his erection.

Harry pants half a broken, “Fuck,” interrupting himself with a guttural, lasting groan. “I can’t stop it, I’m sorry. I have to cum.”

His entire body tenses above you as he leans his forehead into your temple. The pattern of his strokes becomes slack and disjointed. Harry takes a tight hold of your hair by the crown of your head and pulls. Your chin tips up and his breath is hot on your neck as he thrusts into you, shuddering.

“God, it’s so much,” he chokes out, his voice layered in what sounds to you like disbelief. “You make me cum,” he breathes between strokes, “so much.” But after a minute, he begins to slow above you.

Harry collapses on your chest, heaving, pushing into you weakly a few more times as though it’s compulsory. The two of you lay still for a minute in each other’s arms; his weight is crushing but there’s something oddly grounding and intimate about feeling the faint twitches in his fingers and the easing of his entire body as he recovers. And when he eventually rolls off to lay by your side, tucking himself back into his swim trunks, some part of you yearns for the closeness again.

Harry reaches over you to the cooler, retrieving a handful of paper napkins leftover from lunch before shuffling closer and sparing a glance over his shoulder. “Here, spread your legs ‘fo me.”

Your thighs quiver from exhaustion as Harry cleans between them; you sit up a little and feel his traces begin to trickle out of you. Although Harry seems comfortable and nonchalant, it’s difficult for you not to feel slightly self-conscious so you take the spare napkins from him to do it yourself. He complies, easing off to lay by your side and you join him after a minute.

It’s silent for a long, long while as you rest together shoulder to shoulder, listening to the waves and the distant cries of the seagulls.

“That was really good,” he observes quietly.

You exhale a laugh. “Yeah.”

When Harry starts up again, his tone is a touch more sobering. You turn your head to look at him while he speaks. “I don’t think, um…” A concentrated frown takes his features, like he’s fixated but on nothing in particular. “I don’t think I want to do that with any… one else. Right now. Like, at this… point.” Your heart starts to thrum wildly in your chest and at long last, he meets your eyes. “I mean, do you?”

A beat passes. You blink at each other. “Do I what?”

“Do you, like… ” Harry gestures vaguely at the sky, searching for the words. “Are we… you know?”

You’re squinting at him in confusion but he laughs once, a bit winded, and that seems to cut the tension. He shakes his head at himself, covering his face with both hands. “God…” he groans into his palms. “I’m so shit at this.”

“Shit at what?” you laugh, tugging the crook of his elbow. His hands fall to his chest as he looks over at you again. “Harry, I don’t want to sleep with other people if that’s what you’re asking. I kind of… you know, haven’t been anyway.”

He nods at you with a solemn sort of air but you can see the dimples beginning to take shape around his mouth. “Me neither.” He clears his throat. “Alright. Glad we talked about that.”

All of a sudden, Harry flips over to face the other direction, giving you a nice view of the breadth of his sand-covered back. You come close to bursting out in a laugh. This is a very different Harry than the one who’d been cuddling into your side, tracing your body with a daisy and peppering kisses over your bare skin for the majority of the afternoon.

You force yourself to fight the smile playing on your lips before speaking so that he can’t hear it in your voice. “Was that all?”

Long pause.

Harry nods and crosses his arms, still facing away from you. You cave into a chuckle; it’s almost juvenile.

You hook your hand around his shoulder and push him down until he’s laying with his back to the sand again. He turns to look at you. You raise your eyebrows at him.

He smiles at you in his small way. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you laugh. “You know you’re like, the worst liar on the planet.”

The lift to the corner of Harry’s mouth grows a little wider, a little tighter, like he’s suppressing it. “S’ probably not a very good thing for my line of work, is it?”

You laugh harder than you should and he bites his lip, a bit too pleased with himself. “No,” you agree. “It’s not… are you sure that was all you wanted to talk about?”

Harry drops your gaze, and after a moment, turns to face the sky again. You prop yourself up with your elbow, leaning into your palm, waiting. He doesn’t offer a response long enough for you to assume he’d abandoned your question but then he scratches his head, drops his hand to his chest, and starts talking to the clouds.

“Uh, I like you. That’s… yeah. I’ve been trying to say it all day. I guess now’s as good a time as any.” His Adam’s apple jumps in his throat as he swallows. You allow a pause, just enough to keep him on his toes. “I mean obviously I like—I like hanging out with you. I like smoking with you but I also like… not smoking? With you?” His eyes search yours. The words don’t tumble out. It’s Harry; he takes his time saying what he needs to. “I like driving you places, and showing each other music, and snapchatting you, and having sex when we’re not stoned. And I really like it when you sleep over and we can just talk.”

You will your face to remain passive and even as not to give away just how elated you are to be hearing these words come out of his mouth. Reaching out to brush away the sand stuck to his cheek with the pad of your thumb, you nod.

“I feel the same.”

He breathes a laugh through his nose. “No you don’t.”

“I do!” you insist. “In fact, I think I did first.”

Harry shakes his head. “Nah. I never really thought of you as… I dunno. I always kinda fancied you since we met if I’m honest.”

Your eyes grow wide. “Really?” The word comes out softer than you had intended.

Harry snorts into a laugh before nodding but then his face falls a little. “I kind of like… I kind of wish we could’ve met some other way.”

You frown. “What do you mean?” He just shrugs as his gaze flits between your eyes and for a minute you think that’s all you’re getting out of him. “I don’t get it.”

“Like, just… I wish I could’ve… like if we met in a club or summat more natural like that.”

The scoff bursts out before you can help it. “You think you’d come in, guns blazing, and sweep me off my feet at some nightclub? Harry, have you met you?”

He purses his lips, dimples on full display, failing miserably to mask his smile. You laugh even harder. He just shakes his head in spite. “Yeah maybe not.”

“What’s wrong with how we met?” you push.

He shrugs again. “Um, I dunno… I sell you pot. That’s a bit corrupt, is it not? I mean, there’s kind of a power dynamic worth addressing. I don’t want you to feel like… any pressure.”

“I don’t think it’s corrupt. And I’ve never felt any pressure from you whatsoever.” Your voice is small but earnest and you hope he can hear that. “If we didn’t meet the way we did, maybe we never would have met at all. Maybe we wouldn’t be here… That doesn’t seem worth it to me.”

“S’pose you’re right.”

“Well,” you start. “If you want, we can do more stuff together. I also like doing stuff with you not-high.”

Harry hums absently, extending his arm until his knuckles brush yours. He isn’t smiling but his eyes are warm. “In that case, when we’re ready to go do you wanna change and like… maybe go to more of a sit-down place for dinner instead of grabbing takeout on the way back to mine?” You nod, a small smile gracing your lips as he stumbles through asking you out. “We can still go back to mine after if you like.”

“That sounds really nice.” Your words are nearly drowned out by a wave crashing on the sand but Harry’s lips twitch into a smile. His eyes flash between yours, then down to your lips and the contented expression he’d been wearing melts. He takes your face in his hands, stroking your cheeks with both of his thumbs with strenuous care before leaning in.

Harry presses this long, firm stamp of a kiss into your mouth, but then he pulls back for a moment to look at you for the length of a heartbeat. It is you who closes the distance this time, slipping your hand to the back of Harry’s neck. His lips are warm, plush, and slick; he’s opening up to let you in more and you’re tilting your head to follow his until your tongues are brushing and you can feel the tip of his nose nudging your cheek.

You’d kissed on countless occasions in the past several weeks. Harry had kissed you fast and rough with your teeth clacking together by accident, clawing and desperate. He’d kissed you slow and deep with his hand at the back of your neck, moaning softly, practically melting into each other in his bed. He’d kissed your cheeks, your chin, your wrists—he’d kissed you in his car, outside of your apartment, and once on the subway. But this kiss… with this kiss, it feels as though everything about Harry that you’ve ever thought, or kept, or longed for comes pouring out of your chest.

You’re unsure of how long you lay there like that but by the time you break away from each other, a breathless tangle of limbs in the sand, the sky is significantly darker.

Harry licks his lips, swallowing once. “So are we like… dating now? Is that what this is?” His voice is light; he’d framed the question in a way that sort of makes fun of itself, but you sense some real timidness behind the playful exterior like he might need some actual reassurance. The corner of his mouth raises into a smirk. “Can I finally tell my mum I’m seeing someone?”

Your face is beginning to feel slightly sore from all of the grinning. “I suppose so if you’re taking me to a sit-down place for dinner,” you tease. “That’s quite the upgrade from customer.”

“Right… speaking of which. You remember those chocolate edibles we um… took a while back?”

Your eyes narrow. “Yes I remember.”

Harry clears his throat. “Mitch stumbled upon a few more boxes so I’ve actually got some more of them back at my flat if there’s… any chance I can talk you into dessert.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

UNDER THE SAME ROOF

Part One: A Stickler For the Rules

Tuesday, 1st February 2018. 7:48 PM  ……………………………………………

In spite of the biting chill just outside, it’s about a million degrees in this lobby. You wonder if the heater is broken and if it’s always going to be like this here. The hair escaping your ponytail is pressed flat in perspiration against the back of your neck, and you’re struggling to balance the crate between your chin and the massive box in your arms.

One of the corners is digging into your gut so you raise a knee to adjust it, but the box slips in your grip and you barely manage to hang on. There’s a faint meow from Chowder’s crate. The doors to the elevator whirr open with a ding and you shuffle inside.

“Which floor is it again?” India grunts. The box that she’s carrying is lighter but larger—more cumbersome. It obscures half of her face from sight and the way she’s leaning over can’t be any good for her back.

“Eight,” you reply, strained. India stretches an arm out to the keypad, struggling to reach the right number. She misses.

“Yeah,” you deadpan, unable to keep from scoffing, “so press four twice.” The sound of a breath into a quiet, stifled chuckle turns your head to the back corner of the elevator by India.

A young man perhaps a year or so your senior is leaning against the hardwood of the elevator wall with his hands clasped in front of him, a belay clip of keys dangling from his belt. He is tall and lean but looks strong in his legs, and in the shape of his back—the swollen, humble kind of strength that sneaks up on you. Thick, silver rings adorn his fingers. His hair is wavy and cocoa brown, as though he used to have a businessman’s haircut but is letting it grow out. He’s wearing gray tartan tweed pants and black ward lo vans. Tattoos poke out of the sleeves of his sweater. It’s an arguably strange ensemble, but he pulls it off well.

The man pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose with a thumb, gaze trained on the floor. His lips are still pressed together against a smile that flirts with the corners of his mouth. Only then do you realize you’d been staring.

You tear your eyes away as heat nips your cheeks and ears. In your flip flops, mom jeans, and grubby moving flannel, you feel suddenly small. Chowder meows plaintively, like he needs to remind you of his current status in, on, and surrounded by boxes. The elevator jolts to a stop on the fourth floor and the doors peel open in silence as nobody moves.

“Sorry, ” India murmurs. The man just shakes his head. The back of the door to the elevator is a mirror so you’re able to privately relish in the invisible threads of your curiosity that reach out to him.

“S’ fine, ” he replies softly.

By the time you’ve reached the sixth floor, you’re still peering at the man periodically from beneath your eyelashes. He looks up and holds your stare in the reflection of the doors moments before they part, and a ding resounds through the small space. He smiles at you, poised, before pushing off the wall and stepping carefully between you and India to the hallway. The doors close once again and you are alone with your friend.

She drops her box a few inches and bugs her eyes out at you from over the cardboard lid. “Dibs,” she says.

You step forward, laughing, and bump your box into hers. Finally, you reach level eight, pile the last two of your boxes by the front door, collapse on the mattress on your bedroom floor still covered in clear plastic packaging, and order pad thai.

Friday, 30th March 2018. 7:23 AM …………………………………………

“Hold the elevator!” you call mid-jog, and immediately wince. You need to be better about calling it a lift.

You make it through the doors of the lift before they close halfway, but not before noticing an arm outstretched to hold them open for you nonetheless. A cross tattoo and the bottom of an anchor poke out from the sleeve of his suit. It’s black velvet that has a navy lustor in the light.

You’re in the same company now as virtually every other morning since you’d moved here—the man with the glasses who noticed you in the lift on that first day. You’re pretty sure his name is Harry, unless he’s pinning someone else’s name to his chest every day on a badge beneath red emboldened letters reading, The National Gallery, London. It’s surprising to see him as you get on, however, because he lives below you on the sixth floor. Perhaps he’d forgotten something today and needed to pop back up… if this were the case, you’re glad to have caught him by chance.

Every so often the cast of characters rotates. Sometimes a stout older man with an emerald green briefcase and a mustache rides down with you on weekdays. A slender woman who is almost always on her headset, hovering by the button pad occasionally makes an appearance. They both must live above you because when you see them, they’re already in the lift by the time it reaches your floor.

Most mornings, however, are like today. It’s just you and Harry together, without fail, if only for those few measured moments of quiet at sunrise. Perhaps you two are on the same tube schedule.

For someone you see so often, you know remarkably little about Harry apart from the observable; he is reticent, has poor eyesight, and boasts impeccable taste in professional suits. It occurs to you that you still haven’t had a full conversation with him. You absently wonder if he’s single and cock your head in thought.

You’ve even made progress from polite nods of acknowledgment to a consistent “Good morning,” from him and a nearly unflustered, “Morning,” from you… though realistically speaking, a smile before you’ve had your first cup of coffee is only manageable because India would disown you if she knew that you weren’t taking every opportunity to talk to this stupidly handsome stranger.

“Thanks,” you murmur, stepping through the doors Harry’s held open for you.

“Sure.”

The ride down passes in silence. You can’t work up the nerve to speak until the doors part and Harry gestures for you to exit first, and by then it’s too late.

You offer a faint parting smile.

But, you reason, there’s always tomorrow.

Sunday, 8th April 2018. 2:42 PM …………………………………………

The lift stops on the sixth floor in its descent and you look up from your phone. Harry’s voice is audible from the hall as the doors open and it startles you because he’s usually alone.

You take a sip of your iced coffee as Harry steps into the lift with an umbrella and reusable grocery bags rolled up in one hand. He’s wearing a black knit sweater with pink and orange planets across the front, black jeans, worn leather boots, sunglasses, and—most surprisingly—a toddler strapped to his chest in a carrier, who looks to be about two years old and says one word: “Nanas.” Harry situates himself in his usual spot by the back corner, cups the little girl’s head with his palm and presses a kiss into the top of her forehead. Her chubby little thighs squirm out from the seat of the carrier.

“Nanas,” she repeats. It isn’t a demand, or a request, or a plea. It’s a statement that she is confident about. “Nanas—”

“Shh, pumpkin,” he coos. “We won’t forget bananas… Daddy wrote it down, remember?” With his free hand, Harry fishes out a folded piece of Hello Kitty paper from his back pocket and holds it up in front of her face, more than happy to let this child snatch it from his fingertips and shake it around in her tiny dimpled fist. You almost choke on your cold brew.

He has a kid? He has a kid. Is there a ring? Do you see a ring? You’d never noticed him in a wedding band before and he certainly isn’t wearing one now.

“Star!”

You almost choke on your coffee again as Harry’s gaze follows his daughter’s waving hand, still gripping the pink, polka-dot paper with cat ears, all the way to the golden star dangling from your neck. Your cheeks instantly tingle in warmth and you’re ashamed that simply the candid words of a child had brought it on.

“Yes, star,” Harry nods down at her, agreeing in a voice that could only be used with a child. “Very good.”

Now that she’s craned around in her carrier to look at you, you can’t stop from taking a small breath in. From the the quirk in her smile, the long, shiny eyelashes, and the dimples… her dense mess of curls is a shade darker than Harry’s, her eyes are closer to brown than hazel, and her skin is a warm golden hue—but she is otherwise her father’s spitting image. And from what you’ve seen of Harry’s taste in clothes, you wager he had dressed her in those navy blue corduroy overalls with a ruby red sweater underneath, and velcro sneakers.

“Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle…” the little girl sticks a finger out at you, singing to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but with about half the words.

“Don’t point, Angel… S’not very polite.” Harry smiles at you, almost apologetic, and gently wraps his hand around hers to lower her outstretched arm. “You have your own stars at home, for bedtime.”

The lift stops on the ground floor. You gesture for Harry to exit first, a courtesy he always seems to extend to you, and you melt into a smile as he lifts one corner of his mouth in timid gratitude. He hesitates in the doorway on his way out.

“Sylvia, can you say bye-bye?” he asks in the same high lilt. The little girl flashes you those sparkling brown eyes once more and your heart stops in your chest.

She puffs her cheeks up with air and makes a long, slobbery whoopee cushion noise. You’d been fighting a budding smile up until now but it breaks free at her show of defiance.

“We’re working on it.” Harry shakes his head.

You wave your fingers at the little girl and she buries her face into her father’s neck. Harry keeps his tender smile when he glances at you over his shoulder once more before he and Sylvia disappear out the lobby doors and into the rain.

Thursday, 7th June 2018. 8:24 AM  …………………………………………

You’re pinning an earring in as you step into the lift. It stops on the sixth floor in its descent and then it’s silent as usual between you, Harry, and the mustached emerald briefcase man. This is your every morning, and has been for the past five months. You still haven’t had a complete conversation with either of them, but you hardly mind. It’s gratifying to have a few moments of peace before the triathlon, that is your final exams, the gym, then straight into your evening shifts at work.

Even though you’re looking forward to drinks tonight with India to celebrate the end of the term, you’re weary and your body is stiff. Another sleepless night of distress had come and gone and you’d struggled to cover the bags beneath your eyes with makeup earlier this morning. You frown in your recollection of the nightmare, the same icy stare appearing in your subconscious on loop, tormenting you.

There is an older man—with near translucent blue eyes—who you see so often around London that you’re beginning to wonder if he’s a figment of your imagination. Yesterday you’d caught a glimpse of him in the reflection of a shop window on your daily walk home from the tube station. He was staring straight at you, but when you’d spun around to look closer, he had vanished from sight. It had unnerved you so much that you hurried straight home without stopping at the shops for kitty litter.

London is a crammed little metropolis. At this point it’s likely nothing, but that doesn’t stop you from losing sleep over it.

“What are you reading?” The man with the emerald briefcase asks you, pulling you from your stupor.

“Oh, um…” You let go of your now fastened earring and hold up the book that was pinned under your arm so that the cover is on display.

This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

“How do you like it, then?” he continues. You offer a small smile and a nod.

“It’s sweet, yeah… ” Harry’s eyes flash to the book and then your face as you speak. You flip it over and frown at the inscription on the back. “A bit all over the place, though. There’s verse, prose, a drama in the middle… so,” you shrug. The stout man laughs once, brushing over his mustache with his thumb and index finger.

“I never knew you were an American!”

“Oh, yeah.” You feel your ears warm, breathing a laugh. Harry looks down to the floor and you catch the last second of his smile. “I am.”

“What brings you to London?” The older man continues.

“I’m a student at UCL.”

“Impressive. What do you study?”

“History and law.” The man nods. His mustache twitches as he mulls this over.

“What year are you?”

“Third year,” you reply confidently, then hesitate, “but I worked for a year before starting at university, so I’m a little older.” You steal a glance at Harry through the reflection of the doors and hope it wasn’t too obvious why you added that, but he simply pushes his glasses up his nose. You’re startled by the lift’s ding at the ground floor.

“Cheers,” The old man nods at you before exiting.

“Cheers,” Harry adds like a reflex, stealing a side glance at you before brushing past into the lobby. You could have sworn you’d seen a dimple sink into the side of his cheek, flexing to mask a smile.

Sunday, 22nd July 2018. 4:30 PM …………………………………………

“Sweet creature! Sweet creature! Wherever I go…”

You’re pressed up against the doors of the lift, inches away from the reflection of your face. Bodies are crammed all around you such that if you so much as bend an elbow you’ll nudge the person beside you. It’s humid in here. Your shirt clings to your back in perspiration from your walk home and a sunburn has faded into a few freckles at the top of your forehead.

There is no noise apart from Sylvia’s voice and the sound of her body bouncing against Harry’s chest as she sings from the back corner of the lift. It’s challenging to fight your smile as you watch her dance in the mirror.

“You bring me home!”

“Sylvia—”

“Sweet creature!”

“Pumpkin—”

“Sweet creature!”

“Shh…” Harry’s hoarse whispers are futile. She’s not in the baby carrier today so his hand is wrapped around her tiny chubby arm in a gentle fist as she wiggles her middle from side to side. He has to dodge every now and again as Sylvia reaches up for his glasses, smudged already with teensy fingerprints. His head thuds ungracefully against the back wall in avoiding her last swipe for them.

“When I run out of road, you bring me home!”

“Shh, angel. Stop that,” he whispers.

You squint down at a loose thread in the seam of the carpet. You’ve never heard this song before and even though it’s being sung by a two-year-old who cannot pronounce the “R” sound, it seems beautiful. You make a mental note to google the lyrics once you’re back in your flat. For a minute it’s silent as Sylvia heeds the advice of her father. The lift dings to a stop and a few people clamber out, though you’re still restricted to a small circumference of movement in between the remaining bodies. Suddenly there’s another outburst from the back.

“'Cause when the loving starts, and the lights go down,”

“Sylv—”

“And there’s not another living soul around,”

“That’s enough—”

You have to cover your mouth to muffle your laughter against the back of your hand, and turn your head away. Sylvia is tossing her head back, really belting it now. The words are mispronounced and slurred together in a child’s lisp, but she seems to know more of the lyrics to Fleetwood Mac than she had to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

As you compose yourself and discreetly scan the faces of those surrounding you, everyone else seems irked save for you. It’s hard for you to accept that you’re the only one who finds it funny that this unassuming toddler had misinterpreted a scolding as a request for her to switch songs.

“Then you woo me until the sun comes up, and you say that you love me!”

Harry caves and gently covers Sylvia’s little mouth with his hand, pursing his lips to the side in an attempt to mask his deeply dimpled smile. He looks to the ceiling and shakes his head but his daughter just giggles into his palm.

This second song you know, Say You Love Me. Is it off of the Rumors album? You don’t remember. She can barely pronounce the words; it’s the tune that you recognize, truthfully. It’s really not a song that a two-year-old should be singing but it makes you wonder if it was an accident that her developing mind had sponged up the lyrics to the slightly sexually suggestive melody.

Perhaps Harry sings it absentmindedly at home while he’s making her breakfast. Perhaps they dance together in the kitchen in their pajamas on the weekend while it plays on a stereo. Perhaps they have a whole morning playlist with a mix of songs they both picked out like Bear Necessities from the Jungle Book and Build Me Up Buttercup by the Foundations.

Sylvia is still singing and giggling and trying to pry his fingers apart when in a moment, Harry looks down from the ceiling and meets your gaze in the reflection. He closes his eyes, shaking his head slowly as though the three of you have a secret. You chuckle softly before clearing your throat as you earn a few more irritated stares, and decide to keep your eyes downward for the rest of the ride.

Thursday, 27th September 2018. 8:51 PM …………………………………………

You knead the back of your neck with your fingertips and frown toward the ground as you wait for the lift. You usually don’t get home this late but your research advisor needed you to come in a little earlier to your shift this afternoon, and you hadn’t been able to get in a workout until an hour ago. What’s more, readjusting to London’s time zone after spending the month of August back home is taking a toll on your sleep. You sigh and try to relax your shoulders. The first term in your final year at university seems determined to bury you early.

Once you hear the familiar ding, you turn with an outstretched arm to press the auto-lock button on India’s set of keys and wait for the chirp of her car, just to be safe. You managed to finagle a guest spot in the garage beneath the lobby, though it’s your first time using it. It’s eerie and poorly lit down here; you tread lightly into the lift.

You’d seen him again today—the blue-eyed man—and by this point it had just been… too often. You convinced India to let you borrow her car to pick up some archives for your advisor in Ilford forty-five minutes out of your way. It was the first time you’d been to that part of town. You had never even driven a car in England, so you were already on edge.

You remember crossing the street over to a small brook beside the road and when you glanced over your shoulder, he was there in your wake, watching you. It was the middle of the day but you were alone, so you faked a phone call and took an indirect route to the Ilford Historical Society. It was enough to solidify your suspicions that something more serious was taking place, and on the drive home, you mentally worked out a time in your schedule to visit the police department in your neighborhood and file a report next week.

The lift stops in the lobby on your way up, and your worries from the day promptly evaporate. You have to smile at your feet as Harry creeps inside the tiny corridor with a very measured, and even gate. Sylvia is passed out, sprawled out across her father’s chest and in his free hand, he holds her booster seat by the handle. He’s in a charcoal gray tuxedo tonight and his usual glasses are switched out for contacts which makes your heart stutter.

You reach out to press the sixth-floor button, and Harry thanks you with the beginning of a smile, nodding once. The two of you are stood at the back of the lift together, shoulder to shoulder facing the mirror, so it’s easy to indulge in your loving gaze toward the small child in his arms. You don’t try to hide the fact that you’re staring the way you might have a few months ago.

Even in sleep, Sylvia’s tiny dimpled hand clings to the fabric of Harry’s collar and she nuzzles into his neck when the lift jolts into motion. Her cheeks are rosy and she wears a onesie covered in primary-colored dinosaurs with rainbow snap buttons. Her dark bob of curls, which have grown longer since you’d seen them last, are spread out across his shoulder. Her bloated toddler belly rises and falls against his chest.

You smile privately at the short trail of memories you have of Sylvia, but your reverie is interrupted when you notice that Harry is looking into your eyes with the same doting stare that moments prior, you had been giving Sylvia. It makes you do a double take.

Had you… imagined it? Is that a blush? Had you embarrassed him? You’re still staring at each other in the reflection when the lift reaches the sixth floor with a ding and you take a small, uneven breath through parted lips. Your eyes dart to the floor and you only allow yourself to look up once Harry is stepping into the hall, well in front of you. He pauses in the doorway to turn around.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

“Night,” you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear before adding, “Goodnight, Sylvia.”

Harry breathes a laugh through his nose and gives you a smile wide enough to show his teeth, so instantly that you can tell you said something that had actually sparked some joy in him. The lift doors whir to a close and only then do you rest your head against the wall and beam up at the ceiling with your lower lip between your teeth.

Something catches your eye as the lift reaches the eighth floor. You crouch down and pick up a plush kangaroo toy the size of your palm in the corner opposite you. You flip the small thing over in your hands. It’s ratty, and has been washed so many times that the pink cotton on its ears is beading. One of its miniature black buttons for eyes dangles loose. The synthetic fur is matted. What was once chestnut has faded into a dull, tawny copper.

“S.S.,” you breathe. The initials are stitched in red to the bottom of the kangaroo’s long feet—a solitary letter on each. Your eyes narrow.

The sound of the lift doors beginning to close catches you off guard and you leap to your feet, tucking the small stuffed animal into your purse as you hurry down the hall and fiddle with the keys to your apartment.

Saturday, 6th October 2018. 2:31 PM …………………………………………

From the inside of the lift, you stick your arm out of the entrance far enough to press the auto-lock button on India’s keys, triple-checking that her car is secure. Only when you hear its familiar chirp do you fasten your earbuds back in place and tap the button on the keypad for the eighth floor.

Today marks your third trip to the Ilford Historical Society this week, and soon you were going to need to ask your advisor for reimbursement to fill India’s tank, but on the bright side you hadn’t seen the man with blue eyes since the first time you’d made the trip…You just hope that this means he’s retreating and not that he’s getting stealthier. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and increase the volume of your classical playlist by a few notches.

As usual, the first stop is the lobby. Unusually, a flash of purple, white, and green bolts into the lift and it gives you a start.

Sylvia is in a Buzz Lightyear costume today. Harry’s tattooed arm swings through the half-open doors immediately behind her, going for the jet pack wings, but she squeals and escapes his hold. You watch the scene play out like a Tom and Jerry skit with La Traviata in the background as Sylvia darts around the corners of the lift and her father fails to corral her; Harry lunges for her, misses, lunges, misses again, then catches her by the elbow as she screams in laughter and squirms out of his grip.

You silently pause your music and press the button for the sixth floor as Harry spreads his feet apart in front of the entrance, catching Sylvia in his arms like a goalie as she tries to bowl through the closing doors. It’s fortunate that nobody else was trying to get in. She kicks her legs before adopting that pose children do when they don’t want to be held, and makes a rigid plank with her body.

Hair disheveled and glasses sliding down his nose, Harry lurches for the keypad with his daughter wedged under his arm a few seconds after the doors close.

“Oh.” He stops in his tracks once he sees the button for his floor is already illuminated. “Thanks.” You flash a quick smile in response.

Harry sets Sylvia down breathlessly and she finds a hiding place behind him, her pudgy little arms wrapped around one of his knees. He leans against the back wall of the lift, clutching the smallest backpack you’ve ever seen to his chest with the initials, “S.S.” reappearing sewed in red on one of the straps. Blood rushes to your face with the sudden pounding of your heart. You swallow and tug your earbuds out by their chord before slowly crouching down to get on eye-level with Sylvia.

For a moment you look up at Harry because you feel the instinct to ask for permission for some reason, certain your expression is more serious than necessary. He’s frowning but he’s also smiling at you as though to gauge your next move—so are you to some degree. You shift your eyes back to Sylvia and her eyes are already fixed on you. You hold your breath, and reach cautiously into your purse.

Sylvia’s eyes widen at the sight of the small kangaroo you retrieve from your bag, her mouth gaping in a tiny, square-toothed grin. It might just as well be Harry beaming at you himself with such a chilling resemblance. Both of the kangaroo’s black button eyes are fastened tightly in place now. You make your voice light as you speak to her.

“Is this yours?”

As soon as you have asked, you hear the sound of a zipper coming from above your head. You glance up to catch Harry pulling yet another kangaroo out of the backpack.

How many does she have?

He hands the stuffed animal down to Sylvia and you see now that it’s quite a bit larger than the one you’d found last week. It’s also different from yours because it has a long white stripe along its front with a wide, empty pouch halfway down its belly.

Oh… perhaps it’s just the two.

If your knowledge from elementary school serves you, you have the joey to Sylvia’s mother kangaroo. She cautiously approaches you with the larger toy in tow, until you’re close enough to snuggle the joey back into its mother’s pouch. She stumbles backward into the shadows behind Harry’s legs and you sigh into a smile of relief before rising to your feet.

“Sylvia, can you say thank you?” Harry folds his arms behind his back and leans over to whisper against the top of his daughter’s head, but loud enough for you to hear. Her curls bounce as she bobbles her head in a bashful nod, wrapping an arm around dad’s leg again.

“Thank you.”

She’d phonetically started with an “S” sound, so you’d really gotten a tiny sank you.

“We tore the flat apart looking for him this weekend,” Harry says, shaking his head before meeting your eyes. “Where did you find him?”

“In here,” you reply. Harry hums.

“Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do.” You lean back against the wall opposite them as the lift reaches the sixth floor with a ding and you wave to the two of them on their way out.

“Cheers,” Harry nods to you, “Sylvia, can you say bye-bye?” She gives you a small wave. Harry gently nudges her forward into the hallway with his foot. You smile to yourself once they’re out of sight.

There is an interim of about ten seconds of peace before Sylvia is hurtling back into the lift, making a beeline to you and wrapping her arms around your legs. She beams up at you for the second time with a smile cut-and-pasted from her father. Bubbling laughter overcomes her and you uncross your legs, unable to help yourself from joining in her smile.

“Hi!” you croon down to her before it occurs to you that you probably shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior.

“Sylvia,” Harry says. His voice is stern as he storms back into the lift.

You bend over to scoop her up and she’s lighter than you were expecting. You reach out in an effort to pass Sylvia to Harry, but she winds her tiny dimpled fingers tightly around your thumb with one hand and grabs a fistful of the fabric of your blouse with the other.

Once you’ve successfully passed her from your arms to Harry’s, he begins trying to pry Sylvia’s hands from off of you. You stumble forward ungracefully with the child between you both so that Harry can stand in the entrance and hold the doors open. It’s evident that neither of you are sure how to deescalate the situation. Sylvia shrieks into another fit of laughter.

“Someone’s having a ball.” Harry scolds, but slips up and laughs once. You want to help but you’d rather have Harry take the lead because you don’t want to hurt Sylvia by accident.

“One…” Harry begins.

He manages to free your blouse from Sylvia’s hold, and almost gets one of her fingers unclasped from your thumb but she’s too quick and readjusts her grip. She laughs harder.

“Two…”

You chuckle with Harry in exasperation. With Sylvia under his arm and one of her hands free, he wraps his hand completely around yours and brings the clasp that connects you to his daughter up to his lips. The air leaves your lungs.

Harry presses one kiss into Sylvia’s balled fist, and then a dozen more, pecking audibly against her skin. The corner of his mouth grazes your thumb with a gentle scratch of stubble. Harry travels up Sylvia’s arm in a trail of kisses until he reaches her neck and shoulder where he begins to make a gobbling noise as though he’s going to eat her up. She relents with a squeal, letting go of you completely.

“So sorry,” Harry says, his voice much less flustered than you’d expect. Sylvia wiggles in his arms, cracking up, euphorically naughty. You simply let out a breathy laugh as you shake your head, mouth still dry at the feeling of Harry’s lips on your skin.

He carries her out of the lift. Down the hall, you hear Sylvia’s giggle melt into a screech against gravity as you lean over to catch a glimpse of Harry flipping her upside down on his chest with her belly out, legs flailing back and forward over his shoulder.

“Oh, you’re bad. You’re… bad.” Harry jokes through clenched teeth. He does not show his daughter the kindness of waiting until they’re in the privacy of their apartment before the tickling begins.

“You’re gonna get Daddy in trouble.”

Monday, 8th October 2018. 8:23 AM …………………………………………

Riding in the lift alone is nice because you don’t have a full-length mirror in your apartment. You brush the cat hair off of  the front of your sweater and fix one of the sleeves that had bunched underneath all of your layers. The yarn is a warm, autumnal bay that compliments your thick scarf and the gold buttons of your roomy black overcoat. The colors make you wish Halloween was more celebrated in this country.

You’re startled out of your homesickness when you hear a ding and your eyes flash up to the floor indicator above the entrance to the lift. You almost trip jumping back from your reflection when you see the illuminated number six.

Hastily, you run a hand through your hair  and bite your lips to make them rosy. The doors separate and Harry steps in beside you, closer than usual. Today he’s in a forest green, double-breasted jumpsuit with faint pinstripes and for some reason, it seems fitting to you that he works in an art museum.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Good morning.”

You feel something tense pinned to the air between you two. You can’t decipher whether it’s the good kind of tension or the tense kind of tension but if you don’t keep your chin nestled completely in your scarf, the shadow of the light against your throat might give away how fast your heart is beating.

“Did you fix Jojo’s eyes?” Harry asks after a beat, almost accusatory. You look at his reflection in the doors before turning to him directly and it takes you a minute to summon to mind what he’s referring to.

“Jojo?” you echo. He flushes a little, just enough to warm the tips of his ears.

“The um—” Harry clears his throat, shaking his head, “He’s…” You have to tuck both lips in between your teeth so you don’t smile at the level of sophistication he’s trying to add to this. “The baby kangaroo.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was embarrassed. But as you’ve come to learn, it is simply that Harry loves his daughter.

“It was nothing,” you reply. Harry breathes a light, almost defensive scoff beside you.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know,” your eyes drop to the carpet. The lift hums down a few floors before you speak again and when you do it’s barely audible. You laugh once, softly, before joking, “I thought he deserved to see how beautiful your daughter is. You knew before, during, and after saying it that you were going to blush, but you had mustered the courage to get the words out anyway. In your peripheral vision, you sense Harry’s head turn to look directly at you, but you keep your eyes trained forward. The lift stops on level two with a ding. Three people step on, mid-conversation, then bellow out in laughter. He’s still turned to look at you and you’re still staring ahead, resolute.

When you reach the ground level, the group of people from the second floor shuffles out of the lift in a huddle. You brush past them through to the lobby without waiting for Harry to politely beckon you to go ahead, and you do not look back until you hear the crunch of leaves beneath your shoes.

Wednesday, 7th November 2018. 8:23 AM …………………………………………

“Ouch, shit―” You jerk your hand from your pocket, staring in disbelief at the tiny pinprick of blood welled on the tip of your pinky.

Returning your hand carefully into your coat, you pull out the red paper flower just as the lift doors ding on the sixth floor and Harry walks in. Sucking on your finger helps your wound, but isn’t enough of a distraction from his smiling, vaguely concerned eyes.

“Alright?” he asks, and you nod with a little hapless shrug, holding up the offending fake petals with a black button center and protruding silver pin out the back.

“Forgot I had this.”

It’s an only slightly embarrassing admission. Commonwealth countries mark the day of the Armistice, November eleventh, in a particular, unfamiliar way; India had explained the Poppy Appeal briefly to you last week when the pins had begun to appear all over the city, and you finally had a spare pound coin for the volunteer offering you one yesterday after class.

You have a scant three seconds to look at the poppy pinned smartly to the left lapel of Harry’s trench coat before he turns to face forward, but in looking down at the one in your hand, you realize you have no idea how he’s done it. Surely it can’t be that difficult, right?

You frown down at your own jacket. A tentative stab of the pin into the fabric is met with an audible chuckle from the other side of the lift. You flush; Harry’s smiling gently with one corner of his mouth. You try a second time, going at it from a different angle.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” You haven’t had enough coffee yet to justify how warm you’re getting. You shake your head, accepting defeat.  “Best let me help you before you hurt yourself again.”

Despite his offer, he makes no move to take the poppy until you sheepishly hold it out to him. Neither the mustached, emerald briefcase man nor the headset lady have appeared today, but the space of the lift seems remarkably smaller when Harry gently takes the flower and shuffles forward to get a grip on your coat. An impressive array of rings on each of his hands catches the light. You have no idea what to do besides stand ramrod straight.

“Trick is to put the pin through twice so you’re not poking yourself on it all the time,” he explains, his eyebrows pulling together in focus. You watch his chest move as he breathes; the scent of Harry’s cologne wraps around you like an invisible shroud.

It occurs to you that this is the longest interaction you’ve had since he noticed your careful restoration of Sylvia’s tiny treasured kangaroo. You wonder how long she’s had the pair of them. You also wonder if Jojo’s eye had been falling loose for a reason―if perhaps Sylvia preferred him a little rough around the edges, and it leads you down a strange rabbit hole of is Harry upset that you did that?

“I hope it’s okay that I fixed Jojo’s eye,” you venture.

Harry pauses a moment, then laughs once, which draws you inadvertently closer together. “You’re funny. Which you shouldn’t be when I’m holding something sharp.”

You almost stop breathing altogether.

“Course it’s okay,” Harry continues without looking up. His nose is now scrunched as he pinches the tough wool. “She loves that thing, and I’m shit with sewing.” His eyes finally flick up to yours, a self-deprecating tilt to his mouth, and you smile tentatively.

“Glad I could help.”

With that, you’re quiet until he’s done and his concentrated frown relaxes into satisfaction. You watch Harry consider his handiwork, tracing the side of a petal with one of his fingers.

“That should do it,” he says, stepping back. Your eyes meet again. You’ve reached the ground floor, but the doors simply sit open. “Looks nice.”

He’s talking about the poppy. Your cheeks warm anyway. “Thank you.”

Harry smiles slowly, as though he’s trying to pace the expression. “That’s alright.” He turns and ushers you out of the lift. “Have a good day.”

You wave because your words are suddenly absent.

The edges of your poppy flutter as you force yourself to turn the corner out of the lobby without looking back.

Thursday, 20th December 2018. 4:11 PM …………………………………………

You’re thankful that everyone else in line for the lift has ruddy cheeks and runny noses from the storm—nobody would be able to tell by looking at you that you’d been crying all afternoon.

Just when you thought you’d never see those glacial blue eyes ever again, you’d felt a hand brush against yours on the crowded tube just hours ago. You turned, distraught to see whose pinky was resting atop your knuckles as he clutched onto the pole directly above your hand. In your life, you’d never experienced such a visceral reaction to fear in your body; every follicle of hair above your shoulders prickled, your lips went cold, and you couldn’t get yourself to start breathing again before stumbling back into the chest of some unsuspecting passenger. How long had he been standing there?

You bolted out of the doors the first chance you got, a good seven stops from home. You didn’t think you were followed but of course you couldn’t be sure, so you ducked into a coffee shop instead of jumping straight onto the next train. You used up all your data to call your parents, hardly able to hold your cell phone steady with the sheen of sweat on your palms.

The police had no record of such a man you described. He was middle-aged, taller than you could have imagined so close up, and had a deformity or some sort of scarring on his upper lip. You would have recognized him if you stumbled across his photograph, but you’d gone through every headshot on the books within a ten-kilometer radius of London at the police station. You’d lost sleep combing through the online database of sex offenders in your area without any luck. And since you didn’t have a name or a solid instance of harassment, they could only add the encounter to the file you’d started in October.

Once you’d managed to get a hold of India, she immediately came to rescue you from the coffee shop and dropped you off at home. You insisted she pull into the gated underground garage rather than letting you off by the front doors. With a hand on your lap, she offered to stay the night. You had declined.

There were some days when you swore you were going mad, but all it took was one last look into his eyes on the tube today for you to know in your gut that he was real, he was watching you, and you were right to be afraid. You hadn’t heard the ding of the lift but you notice when the people around you begin to huddle on.

It’s a tight squeeze inside, and you sigh when you see that nearly every floor up to ten is illuminated on the keypad. You sneak into a corner by the doors and try to distract yourself by focusing on the overwhelming smell of rain carried into the lift on everyone’s rubber boots, and how snug you are in your beret and the ever warm overcoat with golden buttons hung upon your shoulders. A faint buzzing noise thrums overhead, and the light seems dimmer than usual—one of the bulbs in here must need replacing.

The lift comes to a stop at the lobby. Your eyes are on the carpet but you recognize a familiar pair of black leather boots ambling through the doors and you look up to catch Harry shaking the rain out of his curls with one hand.

He licks his lips and scans the lift briefly, only moving from the entrance once he sees you by the keypad. His eyes change, the corner of his lips quirking up against his dimple. Harry parts a few people to stand in front of you, chest to chest, carrying a box of Legos almost as tall as you, covered in fire trucks and construction vehicles. They’re the bigger, softer type of plastic blocks that come in lighter shades made for toddlers. You didn’t even know they made sets with so many pieces. It doesn’t seem necessary. The thing could be a column.

Harry rests the box on the floor against his hip and even more people pack inside behind him, so many that you have to give up your corner spot which you thought was already tight, and sandwich yourself in between Harry and the wall. And why is the person stood directly behind Harry trying to leave a voicemail? The two of you share a breathy laugh, looking down at your feet and shifting to get comfortable as the lift vibrates into motion against your back.

Ding. Level three.

You always privately indulged in the notes of Harry’s cologne that clung to the air in your morning rides together on the lift, but the smell of his shampoo, aftershave, the air of detergent lingering on his clothes, and his skin… it’s succulent like pollen and you wish there was a way to bottle it. You could compare it to the forest or a cup of coffee or the feeling of nuzzling your face into a cool linen pillow on a hot night, but Harry’s smell is so much more human than any of that—a scent manifested in memory that you’d grown accustomed to in a year.

Someone to the rear of the lift needs to get closer to the entrance and in order to let them through, Harry actually has to press up against you and prop his hand on the wall behind your head as to avoid crushing you completely.

“Sorry,” he says, strained.

“It’s fine.”

Ding. Level four.

The last thing you need is for your heart to race like this after the mess of a day you’ve endured. To make matters worse, being close enough to Harry to sense the heat radiating off his body and hear the pattern of his breath washes you over with the most staggering urge to just… lean forward a few inches. It would be so nice to bury your face in his sweatshirt, to be engulfed in the embrace of his arms, to let yourself cry about your afternoon until you feel empty and full at the same time, and to just have him to do all that with.

Your breathing picks up as you fight this urge, and you choose a button on his open black overcoat to stare at, flustered and humiliated by your own sensitivity. If it were any other afternoon you’d be having a field day with this but you’re too much of a coward to look anywhere near his face in your state. A single drop of rain falls in the silence from the end of Harry’s chin and lands on your collar. His mouth is aligned with the top of your forehead. That’s how close you are.

Ding. Level five.

Your eyes are dry and puffy, your breathing is still ragged after hours, and you seriously consider holding your breath altogether until you reach the sixth floor. You’d known since the coffee shop that you were going to cry the moment you stepped foot into your apartment tonight, but you hadn’t considered the possibility that it might happen sooner than that. You shake your head and huff a breathless laugh at yourself. Ridiculous.

In your close proximity, you hear Harry’s lips part above you. You look up idly to find that he is watching you. Your eyelids flutter before opening all the way up again. His chest is suddenly rising and falling faster than it had been. You tilt your chin up incrementally. Harry licks his lips, frowning down at you in concentration. Is anyone looking? How is nobody looking?

You take a small breath and Harry’s gaze flashes to your lips as they part. Your palm brushes the back of his hand, hidden by the toy box, and he tilts his wrist toward you, spreading his fingers just enough to fit the tips of yours between his knuckles. His hand is cool from the rain and yours is warm from the car. How is someone still leaving the same voicemail? There’s enough space now in the lift for him to give you a few inches of distance so why is Harry drawing closer to you? Why is he leaning in?

Ding.

“It’s you,” you blurt, and swallow roughly before adding more quietly, “This is your stop.”

A few people stuff their cellphones back into their pockets, making their way into the hall of the sixth floor. Harry clears his throat and leans over to lift the toy box. Your hands fall apart but he reaches out to gently brush the side of your arm in goodbye, unable, it seems, to meet your eyes.

You watch him as he turns on his heel to shuffle out behind someone else, carding a hand through his hair. You close your eyes and exhale without a sound as Harry’s back is turned to you, and only open them in time to catch him glancing over his shoulder at you before rounding the corner into the hall. Neither of you had smiled. When the lift reaches the eighth floor, you almost forget to step off.

You lean on the back of your door and sigh once you’re in your apartment after the long, slow trek down the hall, dropping your keys to the hardwood with a clatter. Alone in the dark, after one of the single most distressing days of your life, you press two clammy palms to your face and laugh—giddy—like a fool into your hands.

Tuesday, 1st January 2019. 1:33 AM …………………………………………

You swing your leg inelegantly out of the cab; your foot slips on the road’s thin polish of ice. The ankle strap of your stiletto comes undone at the clasp as you only just remember that you began taking them off in the back seat. Your hips wobble forward and you laugh at yourself, nearly dropping your half-empty bottle of Prosecco, hobbling to the sidewalk through the rain with one shoe in hand.

“Thanks—Thank you, goodnight!” You wave your shoe in the air as the cab speeds away after having left a fifty-percent tip—it’s half past one on New Year’s Eve for Christ sake—and turn toward your building.

Have the doors to the lobby always been this heavy? Perhaps it isn’t the best call to try and hop back into your shoe while shouldering through the doorway because you bang your head against one of the large, protruding handles with a metallic thud.

“Agh.” Your hand flies to your temple. It hurts a little but the jello shots and bottle of Sangiovese you’d guzzled with India earlier are helping.

You squint up because the lobby is spinning, and spy the outline of a man facing away from you with his hands in his pockets. He looks over his shoulder as he waits for the lift, lackadaisical. It’s a familiar profile. The half of his face visible to you is in shadow apart from the crescent moon-shaped hollow of his dimple sinking in as he smiles.

“Hi,” Harry drawls with a chuckle.

You step into your shoe without bothering to fix the ankle strap and wobble over to the lift. All night you had glided so effortlessly in your four additional inches. Now, you feel as though you’re walking a tightrope in flippers.

“Hello.” You enunciate too much in your efforts to sound sober. You and Harry look at each other and smile until you laugh, at absolutely nothing at all. There’s no sign of his glasses tonight; his hair is sopping, and the shoulders of his burgundy suit are damp. Harry gives you a once over and licks his lips to speak.

“How’re you?” He’s slurring a little. You bob your head in a nod.

“M’good.”

The lift dings and you both lurch forward to step between the doors before Harry stumbles backward and gestures for you to go first. You almost fall forward again in your shoes and have to grip the side of the lift on the way in to steady yourself. These need to come off.

Harry moves to his usual corner, leaning against the back wall with a hand on either railing and you do the same in the corner neighboring him. You bend each leg at the knee, one after another, and shimmy off your heels to hold them in one hand while balancing your half empty bottle of Prosecco against your hip with the other. The carpet is coarse beneath your bare feet. You take a gulp of wine and the curled silver ribbon around its neck tickles your chin.

You and Harry glance sideways at each other at the exact same moment, both of your heads leaning against the back wall of the lift. You have to lean forward and cover your mouth with the hand holding your shoes so you don’t spit out your drink in laughter. It’s not even funny, really. How many times had you both accidentally caught the other staring over the past year in this very room?

Harry’s chuckle builds into a laugh from deep within his belly, too, and the echo of it reminds you of Sylvia the day she had clung onto your blouse. You notice that Harry’s eyes crinkle like hers and his chin tucks into his neck, too, if he finds something especially funny.

The laughter melts and you stretch the arm holding the bottle out to Harry. He looks down at it, then back up at you before taking it gently from your grasp and helping himself to a swig without breaking eye contact.

“You know wha’s not fair?” Harry starts. “I’ve—” he hiccups. “I’ve got to wear a name tag. T'work. And I see you everyday—”

“Almost—”

“Almost everyday… So you probably know my name.” Harry’s eyes narrow at you. “Do you know my name?” You nod, a bit delayed. He passes the bottle back to you and you notice the intricate gold and silver embroidered detailing on the cuffs of his sleeves.

“I’ve got a pretty good guess.”

“What’s your name?” Harry asks after a beat, rolling his back off the wall to lean on his shoulder and face you. “Charles doesn’t know either.”

“Who’s that?” You cock your head in a frown.

Harry rests a pointer finger on top of his upper lip in a straight line. It takes you a minute to process. You grin slowly before answering his question. Harry echoes you with an equally slow smile, his voice italicizing the sound of your name. He says it again and it seems your heart is about the only part of your body able to move quickly.

“Nice to meet you,” Harry says around a smile you can tell he’s trying to fight.

You pass your shoes to your left hand and wedge the Prosecco beneath the same arm, taking a step forward with your free hand outstretched. Harry shuffles to meet you halfway in a handshake and his rings are cool against your palm. The height difference between you two is even more staggering barefoot.

You remember the feeling of his hand in yours when it was hidden by the Lego box. It would be so easy to just shift a little and clasp them together the way you had before. You can smell the memory of whiskey on his breath and see the flush of his cheeks close up.

“You look like a disco ball.”

You laugh and he releases you, like the sound had awoken his sense of propriety from its slumber. His eyes take you in again, almost reflecting the shimmer of sequins scattered across the fabric of your dress before he looks back up at you.

“Yeah,” you agree, tugging the hem an inch down your bare legs. “My best friend dragged me to some formal thing the other American students were trying to throw together. Really random.” Harry nods in thought so you go on after a pause.

“You’re handcuffed to someone and have to finish a bottle of wine, but India and I didn’t coordinate beforehand so we both brought one.” You raise the Prosecco and it sloshes up against the neck of the bottle in tiny waves. “And you,” you raise your eyebrows, “look like a Turkish rug.” Harry guffaws into a wider smile.

“Where’s Sylvia tonight?”

Harry’s face goes cold in a deep, furrowed brow as he pats the breast pocket of his jacket before running his hands over the front and back of his trousers. He looks over his shoulders, comically frantic, scanning each corner of the lift until you start laughing. He smiles at you, a little too pleased with himself.

“She’s with her mum and her mum’s fiancé this week—so I guess her, um… soon-to-be other mum… They were having a little gathering at their new place tonight and we did the countdown a few hours early for her.”

“Hmm,” you nod thoughtfully.

Without a second thought, you inch closer and begin reaching for a stray piece of confetti in his hair even though it is well within reach from where you were standing before. You can tell you’re drunk because you indulge a little in combing your fingertips through one of Harry’s curls, though it’s probably subtle enough for him not to notice. He goes rigid under your touch.

So much for that.

“Did—did you press the thing?” Harry blurts suddenly, his attention jerking to the keypad. “I didn’ press the thing.”

“Oops,” you laugh, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the doors as you turn to watch Harry hit the sixth and eighth floor buttons. Though the rain has offset India’s efforts to tame your hair, there really is no combination like a popping red lip, some color along your cheeks, and a touch of waterproof mascara.

“Why are you so wet?” you ask as Harry returns, a hair closer to you than where he’d been standing before. He slouches with his back against the wall and turns his head to talk to you at eye level. You lean on your shoulder to face him and cross your arms over your chest.

“Walked home,” Harry replies. “Was expecting t’drive and then definitely could not.” Your jaw drops.

“In the pouring rain?”

“S’like ten minutes—really not bad,” Harry shrugs. “My New Year’s resolution was to go a little easy on the booze.” He shakes his head in a chuckle. “I can’t really handle what I used to since the little one came along. M’not much of a drinker anymore.”

The lift jumps as you reach the sixth floor and your arm reflexively flies out to balance yourself in the same moment that Harry offers both hands to catch you. You clutch onto his forearm and then immediately let go.

“Sorry,” you murmur, taking one last look at him. “Goodnight, Harry. Happy New Year’s.”

The look he is giving you is peculiar, as though the last sober part of him is leaning forward on its elbows, trying to ask if you agree without telling you first what it wants. Harry turns his head to look down the stretch of hallway through the doors and his head falls back against the wall with a gentle, almost resigned thump.

“You know, New Year’s isn’t really over until you finish all the champagne,” Harry muses with a soft, humorless laugh that you cannot help but return.

“Prosecco,” you grin, and he waves away the correction.

“Fine, all the Prosecco.”

“New Year’s isn’t over until you get every last piece of confetti out of your hair,” you challenge. Harry raises his eyebrows, looking back at you. If he doesn’t get off soon, the doors are going to close.

“New Year’s isn’t over until your shoes come off in the lift,” he shoots back. You burst out in a laugh.

“New Year’s isn’t over until you’ve broken your resolution an hour into January.”

Harry rolls his eyes, licking his lips as the corner of his smile presses softly against his dimple in the dim, golden glow of the lift’s broken light. He’s stalling.

All at once, you’re acutely aware of the lingering smell of rain and Harry’s cologne and the buzz of the light fixture. You swear you can hear the echo of that never-ending voicemail from the day you’d slotted your fingers into his like it was a secret, just feet away from where you’re standing.

He had tried to kiss you once before and you had stopped him. But now, in this moment, with your heart in your throat, you desperately want him to try again. Harry starts to speak and you don’t wait for him to finish.

“Well, New Year’s isn’t over—”

“—until you kiss someone at midnight.”

You try to even your breath in the daunting silence that follows. The lift doors seal closed. Harry is close enough for you to see the flecks of hazel in his eyes like a pile of sea glass as they flicker between yours. You try not to tremble when Harry floats his hand up as though he’s going to cup your jaw, and traces the tip of his middle finger in a line up your cheek to push back a strand of hair, so lightly it tickles. His jaw flexes and just when you swear he isn’t going to, Harry leans in. It’s impossibly gradual, as though he’s waiting for you to change your mind, but your heads are tilting and then the tips of your noses brush.

If you turn, even minutely, the corner of your mouth will come into contact with his. You can feel your pulse thumping in the side of your neck. Your eyelids flutter closed as it dawns on you that you’re both simply waiting to see who is going to do it.

“S’not midnight,” Harry breathes.

“Don’t tell me you’re a stickler for the rules.” The warmth and dew of his laugh grazes your cheek.

With that, Harry brushes his mouth against yours so gently that there’s almost no pressure at all. His lips meet yours with a tiny push; it feels painstakingly tender, like he’s never kissed anybody before. You’re so apprehensive and spellbound that you’re hardly even sure how to reciprocate something so soft. Harry’s bottom lip hovers over the very tip of your cupid’s bow for a moment before he pulls away. Was that even a kiss? The very edges of your mouths had met, but only just. It had been so slow, and yet you still feel the tingle of where his lips had been moments ago.

You open your eyes and Harry is a few inches away now, looking down at you. His hand is still ghosting the side of your face, like he’s afraid he might break you. When had your own hand slid flat against his chest beneath the lapel of his suit? His head is angled downward a touch, eyes searching yours. It’s exhilarating to see your own wanting reflected back to you like this.

“Is this a good idea?” you breathe, sliding your hand from out of his lapel to trace one of the round, fabric buttons with your fingertip. He swallows roughly.

“Maybe not.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he yields. But neither of you move away.

“Maybe this should just stay between us,” you suggest after a beat, heart sinking in your chest.

“Well then if it’s just staying between us…” Before you have the chance to inhale, Harry leans in to press his mouth against yours, harder, like he means it this time.

Harry’s lips are warm and slick and tugging as they move with yours—it’s surreal to be kissing him after a year. How much time had lapsed in total since you’d seen him that first day you moved in? How many mornings had been spent beside each other in silence? You’d spoken more through side glances and subdued smiles from opposite corners of a crowded lift than you ever truly had with words. But this… this feels like threads made up of every intimacy you’ve ever shared in this tiny room pulling you together at last.

You’re on your toes as one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, the other snaking around your waist to pull you into him. It’s not a drowning kiss, nor senselessly lost passion; it is poised, contained, almost introductory as though you have an audience. You pull apart just before the lift dings on the eighth floor.

You’re both somewhat winded as you rest your foreheads together. Harry moves his hands to cup your elbows, his thumbs stroking the soft crook of your forearms in circles. You release two unintended fistfuls of his jacket and flatten out the fabric against his waist.

“Goodnight, Harry.” It comes out in a whisper. “Happy New Year’s.”

“Drink a glass of water or two before you go to bed,” he murmurs before dropping your arms. You’re unsure of why either of you are speaking so softly—there’s no need. Harry pauses and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Goodnight.” He says your name too, like a promise—like he’s determined to make up for all the days he didn’t get the chance. You didn’t know it could sound like that.

You smile over your shoulder before padding barefoot into the hall as he reaches out to push the sixth-floor button for the second time. The last thing you’re able to see through the closing doors of the lift is Harry rubbing a thoughtful hand over his stubble, smiling down at his feet.

UNDER THE SAME ROOF

Part Two: The Blue Eyed Man

Friday, 4th January 2019. 8:34 PM …………………………………………

You’ve never been worried that the pounding of your own heart might break one of your ribs before now. Every gulp of air burns your throat, but you can’t stop it—you can’t even slow down. Blood roars in your ears as you hurtle yourself through the parking garage, but the sound isn’t loud enough to drown out the footfalls that aren’t your own. Visible puffs of your breath pour out into the cold; the constant hum of industrial ceiling lights overhead is the only other source of noise. No one would hear you scream.

You’d heard the second car door after yours, and the initial footsteps. A quick turn of your head was your worst fear realized: the blue-eyed man beelining towards you, so quickly you’d barely had a chance to try and outpace him. A heavy hand landed on your shoulder. The man grabbed a fistful of your cardigan before yanking back on the fabric; you’d twisted desperately away, hearing a faint pop-pop-pop as the stitching around the collar snapped and gave. It was just enough for him to let go of you in surprise. You’d practically fallen away from his grip, scrambling upright, sliding with the little traction on the dusty concrete beneath your feet before bolting towards the open center of the lot.

It’s a full on chase now. You can’t outrun him forever. A white, hot panic inside your head makes it hard to think, but you must. You can’t take the lift. That section of the parking lot is a dead end; there’s no way out, and there are no security cameras. It’ll have to be the stairs. The echo of your boots and your own gasps ricochet up to the low, concrete ceiling and back down again, louder and endless. The torn neck of your sweater leaves one of your shoulders naked to the cold air. You came so close to draping a scarf around your neck before you left your apartment this morning. Had you kept it on, you could have been dead by now.

You tear through the door to the stairwell at the other end of the garage and take the steps by two, trying to even your ragged breath. At any moment, an obstacle could arise—a locked door, a dead phone battery, a hard fall on the stairs—and that would be it for you. Your chance would be gone. You’d be a gruesome headline or a face on a milk carton. You would never see your siblings, or India, or Chowder, or your parents ever again. Hot tears sting the corners of your eyes. Your mouth has run completely dry.

On the last flight of stairs before the lobby, you hear the door leading to the garage slam. The sound rings up the stairwell and you look instinctively; a black, gloved hand is making its way up the railing. You almost lose your balance bursting through to the lobby. Even though your legs are screaming, you do what all the brochures have ever told you to do, and break into another full-fledged run to the lift around the corner, wishing you’d chosen to live in a building with a doorman or security desk—some kind of human checkpoint. To your surprise, the doors are already open, and in fact, begin to close as you approach.

“No, no, no.” You beg under your breath, and launch an arm between them. You stumble in, half expecting it to be empty, and find yourself face to face with Harry. His eyes skim you over, widening from behind his glasses, his National Gallery, London badge pinned to a muted floral lapel.

You’re still clinging to the wall of the lift. You feel the path of a single tear as it travels down the apple of your cheek, dropping off at your jaw as you heave, struck speechless in panic. You swipe it away with the heel of your palm. Down the hall and around the bend, the door to the stairwell bangs open again. You jump at the sound. Harry’s brows knit together.

You drag your hand along the keypad, illuminating just about every random floor up to the penthouses in the twenties, but not eight, and nothing before it. Concern is etched deep onto Harry’s face by now and he slowly straightens his posture, his eyes darting between yours. The footsteps in the hall behind you grow louder. You smash the close door button a dozen times, but something in you knows it’s a lost effort.

Out of options, you rush forward and tuck yourself into the nook between Harry’s side and the arm he’d outstretched to lean on the railing, tearing the National Gallery badge that says his name from off of his suit jacket and shoving it into your bag. He jumps reflexively and twists to look at you. His confusion is palpable, but you stick to your guns and slip your arm around his lower back. A moment later your eyes meet in the vaguely distorted metallic reflection above the keypad. Question marks are in Harry’s eyes and a plea is in yours. For a second time, the doors of the lift begin to close but are stopped by an interjecting hand. A third body enters.

A pall of danger and menace suddenly hangs over the room. It is him. That yellow-grey hair, the wrinkles and the scar on his lip, the worn, leathery skin and the broad, angular shoulders… you knew all of it. You just never dreamed that he would have the gall for this kind of confrontation.

Immediately, the man turns to stare; it feels as though he’s taking something from you without permission. He scoffs at the sight of you. You jolt and grab a handful of Harry’s suit at his hip before letting go and patting the fabric down once, weakly. Your heart thrums in your throat. You do not return the blue-eyed man’s stare but you can feel it on the side of your face. Your knees buckle and you internally curse yourself, willing them to be still.

The lift doors close. It is silent until the car lurches into upward motion.

Suddenly you feel a warm, heavy pressure on your shoulder opposite the arm wrapped around Harry’s back, and you glance up to the reflection of the doors. His arm is around you. Your frantic gaze is placated by his much more fixed one as Harry tilts his head downward ever so slightly, only enough for you to notice. His eyes are solemn, absolutely incandescent behind his glasses, communicating with you.

Harry’s thumb moves softly on your shoulder in circles. The blue-eyed man sighs impatiently and your knees begin to buckle worse than before. Harry moves his hand to your waist and squeezes you gently into his side. The ding of the lift is deafening in the silence it interrupts. The car bounces once to a stop on the sixth floor as the doors glide open before you, and it dawns on you that you had not thought this through terribly thoroughly.

What now? Do you go with Harry? What if you put his family in danger? What if the blue-eyed man had a weapon?

Your heart continues to hammer against your ribcage as Harry unwraps his arm from your waist and takes a step forward to exit. For an instant, you think he’s going to leave you there to figure out another plan, but sure enough, Harry puts himself between you and the man, smiles back at you as though nothing is out of the ordinary, and offers his hand.

Wide-eyed, you fit your hand in his instantly, albeit embarrassed about the clammy state of your palms. The blue-eyed man inhales deeply through his nostrils as you walk past even though Harry keeps between you two at all times. As you begin to make your way down the hall side by side, Harry glances over his shoulder, then gently tugs you to walk in front of him. You do not hear a third pair of footsteps trailing you and you do not dare turn around to check. The sound of the lift doors closing echoes behind you but the two of you do not falter in your walk down the hall.

“This is me.” Harry’s voice is low around the jingle of his keys as he nods to the only door in the hallway hung with a wreath. You say nothing as he steps aside to let you through to his flat.

Harry peers into the hall one last time once you’re both inside before locking the deadbolt and chain guard. You lean your back against the door with your arms across your chest, clutching your sides, and Harry drops his keys into a bowl on a chest table in the entryway. He looks over at you slowly, hesitates, and takes a step toward you. You see his Adam’s apple bob once against the shadow of his throat. Suddenly the air leaves your lungs entirely and you begin to heave.

You feel as though you’d been sprinting on a treadmill for an hour and then stopped immediately, which keeps you from realizing that Harry had been saying your name. Tears gather in your eyes again, though you do not allow them to spill over. You begin to sink against the door and Harry rushes over to you, snapped out of his frozen stupor. He puts his hands below your elbows for support, but you slide to the floor anyway and he crouches down with you.

“Sorry,” you pant.

“You’re safe,” Harry just shakes his head. “I’ve got you.” You nod and try to send a few deep breaths to the pit of your stomach, then clear your throat.

“Call the police.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s on his feet, flicking on light switches and digging his phone out from his bag, jogging between the kitchen and the living room to look for a charger. Suddenly you hear his voice coming from the kitchen, reciting the address of your building followed by some yes and no questions. He reappears from the kitchen in a deep, concentrated frown, watching you.

“No, she’s safe.”

You pick yourself up off the floor and Harry gestures for the two of you to move to the small, wicker, two-person dining table. He angles the mouthpiece of his cellphone down to his chest as he’s pulling the chair out for you.

“Do you want to speak with them?” he whispers.

You nod and hold out your hand after a deep breath. Your fingers tremble. You can’t bear the weight of his phone, so you place it face up on the table instead and turn on the speaker. Harry may as well get filled in now; you can’t imagine having to explain this all a second time.

“Hello?”

“Hello, my name’s Officer Warren. We hear you’ve had quite a scare tonight. I know it’s hard, but try to stay as calm as possible and just answer a few questions for me as best you can.”

The fact that the dispatcher is a woman comforts you for some reason. You nod. “Okay.”

“Can you just confirm your full name for me? And your address?”

You rattle off your details, noting with strange detachment that you and Harry live precisely two floors apart. His flat is 6F; yours is 8F.

“How long have you lived there?”

“Almost a year.”

“How long have you been in the UK?”

“Two and a half years.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“I understand you’re with a neighbor. Do you feel as though you’re in immediate danger?”

You look up at Harry before your eyes dart to his front door, hesitating for longer than you want to. “No.”

“Can you tell me what’s happened?”

Your eyes flutter shut. “A man tried to grab me in the parking—in the car park.”

“Do you know him? Have you seen him before?”

“He’s been following me since June. I see him everywhere I go—it happened the first few times in public places like on my walk home or when I go jogging, but then I started seeing him everywhere.” Your eyes open again. “Like, I’ve seen him on campus and in restaurants where I was eating. He was walking behind me the first time I ever went to Ilford, which is completely out of my way. He took the same tube as me once and tried to grab my hand.” Your voice wavers.

“And how long ago was that?”

“December twentieth.”

“Have you ever come to the police with this information?”

“Yes. I filed a report at the Lavender Hill station on the first of October and we went through some headshots but none of them were him.”

“And can you describe what happened today?”

“I have to pick up archives at the Ilford Historical Society periodically for my job—”

“Where do you work?”

“I assist my advisor with her research, which I get a small stipend for. There’s a postbox under her name at the Ilford Historical Society. I usually pick up the archives for the week on Thursdays, but I didn’t get around to it until a few hours ago. It’s usually just three or four storage boxes but today there was a sealed yellow envelope—”

Your voice runs higher, choked, as you try to speak through the suffocating lump in your windpipe. You turn your face away from Harry as you swallow back another wave of emotion, but your voice is hardly any different when you begin speaking again. When you turn back, Harry’s hand is half an inch closer to yours on the table.

“Today there was this big yellow envelope with my name handwritten on it and I figured it was just something from my advisor so after I carried everything to the car, I opened it and—and it… there were all these pictures of me taken from a distance.”

Harry’s fingers clench into a fist on the table, so subtly you almost miss it, then relax.

“Are you able to tell where these photos were taken? What you were doing in them?”

Your bag sits half open on the table beside you; you can tell without looking that Harry’s followed your eyes to the top of the mustard envelope poking out the top. You don’t want to open it again. You don’t have to. The images are burned behind your eyelids.

“There’s one of me on the tube looking at my phone. Another one shows me leaving the shops carrying grocery bags. There’s a few at the gym.” You sniffle. “M—Most of them, though, are taken through the window of my flat. They must’ve been across the street because you can see right in and I’m—when I don’t…” You stare at the edge of the table. “When I’m undressing.”

You lean your forehead into your hand. Harry is stock still across from you. The pause before the dispatcher speaks again feels like it stretches forever.

“Can you tell when the most recent photo was taken?”

You swallow. “It’s from two nights ago.” The clack of a keyboard is suddenly audible through the phone.

“You said you’ve been to the Lavender Hill station before? Have you reported these photos yet?”

You gather your thoughts carefully so you can explain yourself. “I was going to go straight there, but I’ve been writing long, detailed descriptions of all the past times I’d seen him. The officer I spoke to the first time I went in—she told me to write down absolutely everything I remembered, so I did—the times of day I’d seen him, where I was, what he was wearing… She said having my own record would help my chances of getting an investigation. I keep all of that—everything I’ve written—in my flat, so I decided to go home and grab my notes to bring with me to the station, along with the pictures. I borrowed my best friend’s car to commute to Ilford, so I drove straight home.”

“And what happened when you got home? In the car park?”

You take a deep breath. And then another. Your eyes squeeze shut again.

“Take your time.”

“I turned into the car park… I pulled into my usual spot. I turned off the ignition. I took off my jacket and left it in the passenger seat, thinking I would come back to it in a minute. I got out of the car and locked it… ” You swallow dryly. “I heard a car door shut behind me. I turned around and saw the man—I recognized him.”

“Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“He was wearing, um, black gloves, a grey sweat—I mean, jumper, black jeans, and I think his shoes were black too.” You open your eyes with the memory, frowning at your hands. “I could hear how quickly he was walking up behind me. I tried to get away, and he—” You stop, swallow, and lick your lips. “He grabbed me. Or at least, he tried. He tore the seam of my cardigan and I managed to like, pull away. And then I just ran. I was too scared to try the lift so I just took the stairs, all the way up to the lobby. But he followed me.”

Your eyes flicker up to Harry absently before you go on, looking through him. “Harry was in the lift—the—my neighbor, so I ran over and put my arm around him to make it seem like I wasn’t alone.” Harry nods at you from across the table, solemn.

“And the man was able to follow you into the lift?”

The tips of your fingers ache at the memory of slamming desperately against the close door button. “Yes.”

“Did the man try to communicate with you in any way?”

“No,” you shake your head. “He was just staring at me.”

“Has he ever approached you or tried to make contact before?”

“No, just the one time on the tube and the pictures.”

“Were you followed out of the lift?”

“No.”

“And you’re in your neighbor’s flat now, is that right?”

“Yeah,” you nod and run your sleeve beneath your nose with a sniffle.

“Do the windows in both of your flats face out on the same street?”

You have a terrible feeling about where this is going. “Yes… They do.”

“I want you to remain calm and stay on the line, can you do that for me?”

It’s deadly quiet in the room as you and Harry look at each other. You feel eerily as though you’ve wound up in a Hitchcock film. “Yes.”

“Move away from the windows and find a place in the flat that’s not visible from the street—”

The legs of Harry’s chair are scraping the floor before you get the chance to react.

“…and do not turn out any lights or change the way any of the blinds are positioned.”

“C’mere,” Harry’s voice is gravely, more urgent than you’ve heard up to this point. He leads you to the kitchen with a hand between your shoulder blades and brushes past you to lower the blinds to cover a small window above the sink. Your eyes widen momentarily and your hand reaches toward him.

“Harry—”

He looks over his shoulder at you, the blind already drawn.

“Don’t… ” you hesitate. “Don’t fix any more of those.” He nods once. There’s a short pause on the other line.

“Yes, don’t touch the blinds. Don’t change anything that would make it out of the ordinary. If someone has been watching you through your window from the same place across the street every night, you could give away your location and put yourself at risk.”

“Okay.” Harry leans against the sink with his arms crossed and you set your bag down, resting a hip on the counter to face him. The phone is still on speaker and you hold it out between the two of you.

“Since you already have a file on record and the whereabouts of this man are still uncertain, it might do more harm than good to have you come in again for questioning at this hour. But we’ll need you to come by first thing in the morning. You absolutely cannot go back to your flat tonight. Do not turn on the lights, do not fuss with the blinds, do not go to retrieve any belongings. If it’s something dire, an officer can escort you.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t even leave the building if you can help it. If you need a place to stay, there’s a section of the precinct that can hold you ‘til morning. An officer will have to drive you there, too.”

“Okay,” you parrot.

“Listen carefully… it’s not forever, but right now we need you to keep yourself absolutely out of sight due to the severity of the situation. Anything that could result in your being followed, your chances aren’t… well, we would strongly advise against. We obviously want to keep you and anyone else involved as safe as possible.”

“I understand.”

“A patrol officer is en route to your address. He’ll stay posted outside the building for a few hours. If something happens, don’t hesitate to call. Is this a number we can redial if need be?”

You look up to Harry; he nods fiercely. “Yes.”

“Try to get some rest. You’re safe now, and we’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you, officer.”

Harry’s background appears in place of the black call screen as you hang up; Sylvia’s dimpled, square-toothed grin fills the frame. Her eyes are hidden behind an upside down pair of enormous sunglasses that you assume are Harry’s, and she’s laughing in her car seat with her knees tucked into her chest. In spite of yourself, the image lifts your spirits a lot more than you would’ve been able to manage on your own. When you glance up, Harry’s eyes are trained on his lock screen, too. He’s looking down at the image of his daughter with such a tender, doting smile that the knot in your throat inexplicably reappears in full force.

You set Harry’s phone face down on the counter and retrieve your own from your bag sat beside it. Without a second thought, you quickly punch in a few numbers and turn to face the living room as the dial tone rings in your ear. You’re sent to voicemail.

“Uh… hi, Mom. It’s me. Just give me a call back when you get this, okay? I—um… Everything’s fine I should just… give you an update, so. Anyways. Talk soon. Love you.” You set your phone beside Harry’s on the counter, but can’t manage to meet his eyes quite yet.

Some part of you had been worried that he would judge you—or worse, pity you. He doesn’t speak, nor does he try to touch you, yet somehow the weight of your conversation with Officer Warren is melting away by the second. You’re finally able to relax your shoulders as you take a moment to have a look around at the place Harry and his daughter call home.

The atmosphere of the apartment is busy, bustling and restless, but the furniture and the color scheme are poised, deliberate, and tasteful. The floor plan is different from your apartment with more square footage. The ceilings are much higher and it’s more open. The windows are larger, though he has the same view down to the street as you. Much of the furniture is wooden and modern.

Two brimming bookshelves stretch to the ceiling, plants line the windowsills, and a glass coffee table rests on a small cowhide rug beside the humble brick fireplace. A half-sized Christmas tree stands off in the corner of the living room, wrapped in twinkly lights, strings of popcorn, and is adorned with an angel topper clearly made by a child. A black guitar case leans upon a speaker the size of a nightstand, which is tucked beside the couch; records tile the wall behind it. Otis Redding, Electric Light Orchestra, Fleetwood Mac, Nina Simone, The Stones, Eric Clapton, Pink Floyd, The Doors, The Cars, The Velvet Underground…

There is ample evidence that a child lives here, too, however. The walls are dotted with drawings in watercolor, crayon, and sparkles. Some are framed and some are hung with pins. You spot a red highchair stood by the dining table. A rocking horse, bead maze, and letter blocks litter the floor. Two hand and footprints are framed on cardstock above the fireplace, and suddenly you’re reminded of why you’re here at all: the imposition you’ve entitled yourself to, the risk involved, the implications. A gripping wave of nausea and remorse washes over you.

“Thank you,” you rush. Harry jumps at the sound of your voice. “For everything. I should—” you loop an arm through the strap of your bag— “I should be going.”

“Woah, woah, woah… ” Harry’s hand catches your arm before you can take three steps. You freeze. “And go where? You heard the officer, yeah?” He’s shaking his head at you slowly. “You can’t go back to your flat.”

“I did hear her,” you counter. It comes out more curt than you had meant it. “There’s a safe place for me to sleep at the precinct… Thank you again, I can show myself out.”

“That’s ridiculous—” You turn away but Harry is still holding your arm, his fingers wrapped around the soft of your elbow; you could pull away with no effort at all. He says your name, once, imploring. It’s more of a plea than a demand. You still have your eyes on the door, but since you’re no longer moving, Harry seems to think it’s safe to continue.

“You can stay here, it’s fine. I’ve got a spare bed n’ all. You can sleep in Sylvia’s room. She’s at her mum’s for the week.” Your resolve is wavering, your gaze trained on the tile of the kitchen floor. When you don’t reply and the silence stretches on, his voice is a touch softer as he asks, “What is it?”

Your mouth hangs open a moment before you can find the right words.

“I don’t—we don’t…” We don’t know each other seems far too accusatory with everything that’s transpired between the two of you, especially after tonight. You grind your teeth, reeling the words back.

Tears well up in your eyes again and you can’t blame them on the fear, guilt, anger, exhaustion, or relief alone… it is the combination of all of your emotions at once that leaves you itching to escape.

“We’re practically strangers,” you settle on finally. “I put you in danger, and I put your family in danger—”

Harry’s thumb rotates in tiny circles in the crook of your arm in a touch so light you can barely feel it. You think unbidden of the lift on New Year’s Eve, and the brush of his lips over yours. You want to fall headlong back into that memory—to abate what is shaping up to be one of the scariest nights of your life.

“I’m Harry.”

“What?” You blink.

He smiles at you—a quick, sanguine flicker of a thing.

“I’m Harry… Styles. I’m twenty-five. I graduated from Kings in 2016 with a Bachelors in Art History and Psychology. I’m an Administrative Assistant to the Director and Board Secretary at the National Gallery, which is how a posh person might say I’m somebody’s bitch.” You find yourself fighting a quiet laugh before he goes on. “I have a daughter named Sylvia. She’s almost three. I get her every other week. I grew up in Cheshire. I’ve got a sister called Gemma and my mum’s name is Anne.”

You sniffle. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“So you and I aren’t strangers anymore.” You uncross your arms with your bottom lip between your teeth and turn your attention to the buttons down Harry’s suit jacket instead of the floor before he goes on.

“You’ve never been here before. If someone’s been keeping close tabs on the side of our building, then they’re going to know that. If I felt you were putting my daughter in harm’s way—” you open your mouth to speak but he raises a finger— “I would ask you to leave… As it is, if you go now, I feel that I would be putting you in harm’s way. And I don’t want to.” The two of you stand in the kitchen at a stalemate, breathing in the silence. “Please don’t make me.”

Harry lets go of your arm and eventually backs up to lean against the sink again, tucking his hands beneath his armpits across his chest. You could leave if you wanted to.

After a prolonged, charged silence, you sigh and drop your bag down to the kitchen floor with a thud.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

You shake your head with a frown to reassure him, but after a pause, you nod your head quietly in defeat. Harry uncrosses his arms and begins to sift through cabinets.

“It’s alright, Harry, really. I’ll live.”

“I was going to fix something up for myself anyway.” He rolls up the sleeves of his suit and crouches to fetch a pan from beneath the oven. “I’m not sure I’ve got much besides Sylvia food. I need to do a shop at the weekend.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself—maybe I can run upstairs and get something from…” You trail off because Harry is shaking his head.

“You a vegetarian or anything?” You shake your head and watch him for a minute as he rifles through the fridge before you hear him breathe a laugh through his nose.

“Do you like fish fingers? Beans on toast?” He smiles over at you and pushes his glasses up his nose. “I have Honey Nut Cheerios?”

Harry’s lopsided smirk and paradoxically serious tone is chiseling at your resolve not to crack a smile. You purse your lips to the side before you’re able to return his stare with an even expression. The corners of his eyes crinkle knowingly.

“Alphabet soup, goldfish, applesauce… I could go on.”

“I’m fine with anything.”

It’s not a lie, exactly—it’s just that you have a more powerful urge to erase this night from memory, to scrub away the feeling of a rough hand on your shoulder, and eating is the last thing on your mind. You absently rub your thumb into the sleeve of your shirt where the grime from the door to the stairwell had smeared. Your shoulder is still bare from the gaping hole.

When you look back up, Harry’s head is tilted in consideration. “Want to hop in the shower then? While I throw something together?” His voice is gentle. He smiles as if to reassure you that your obvious relief is alright. “Promise I won’t poison you.”

You meet Harry’s eyes for a moment before nodding. “That would be really nice.”

“Sure,” he shuts the fridge and grazes a hand along the side of your arm as he brushes past you. “This way.” You’re lead to the end of a brief hallway with three adjacent doors, only one of which is open.

“Be back in a sec.” Harry slips through one of the closed doors and emerges moments later with two folded towels, shouldering past you through the door left slightly ajar.

He flicks on the light as you trail behind him and your eyes are immediately drawn to Harry in the broad mirror that covers the entire wall above the sink. His bathroom is virtually identical to yours apart from the tub, but it’s striking to see the familiar purview of his reflection outside of the lift. Harry pushes aside the curtain to the shower.

“Fuck.”

He sets the towels down on the toilet seat and hastily gathers up the army of rainbow rubber ducks lined along the rim of the tub before yanking off a plastic water wheel suction cupped to the faucet. Clear synthetic stickers in the shape of cartoon rocket ships and planets cling to the shower wall which Harry peels off in a stack after scooping out a myriad of other colorful knick-knacks from the bottom of the tub.

“Harry, you don’t have do that.”

“I’m just now realizing how mad this must look to someone who isn’t the parent of a two-year-old—”

“Harry, please. You’re already doing so much for me… You don’t need to remodel your bathroom.”

“Alright, well… ” Harry rises, brushing his hands down the front of his suit trousers with flushed cheeks and glasses halfway down his nose. He cards his fingers through the disheveled pile of curls atop his head. “Just be careful not to step on those little sparkly buggers ‘cause they hurt the worst by far.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You have to suppress a laugh at the image of him having stepped on every last toy in the tub enough to compare.

“So, like, the red is hot and obviously the blue is cold but it’s very sensitive so I find it’s best to just leave it at about three o’clock—wait you…” Harry shakes his head in a frown. “You probably have the same one, don’t you?” You nod, wringing your hands.

“Do you have a shirt or something I could borrow for after?”

“Of course.” He almost cuts you off, disappearing into the hallway. You perch on the edge of the tub and run the faucet, adjusting the temperature just shy of three o’clock. Three raps on the door come from behind you.

“Come in!” you call. Harry squeezes through the door and you catch his eyes in the mirror.

“Let me know if these fit.” You watch his reflection lift the clean towels, put down the bundle of clothes, and restack the linens on top with the ease of someone who’s clearly used to taking care of someone else.

“Thank you, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

Sylvia’s bath wrap, bright yellow and embroidered with her initials, hangs by its duck shaped hood on a hook next to the door. Steam is starting to rise from the shower. You take a deep lungful and step in carefully.

Although the children soaps and clutter are unfamiliar, the water pressure is the same as the shower in your apartment, if not better. It pounds down against your back and shoulders, and for a minute you let yourself just stand in the hot spray. It takes several seconds of inner coaxing before you can close your eyes and tilt your head back beneath the water; a hardened blue stare flashes in your mind’s eye, but you push it back determinedly. You think of Harry’s clear, level gaze. You think of the way he’d looked as he pinned a poppy to your chest—as he’d drank from that half-empty bottle of Prosecco. You could spend a long time thinking about Harry.

So you turn your attention to the soap instead. It’s strange to see the source of several of the mingling scents you’ve picked up from him in the lift over so many months, and even more strange to pick the bottles up and use them on yourself. But there’s something cathartic in the act of scrubbing yourself raw, especially the spot on your shoulder where you had to wrench yourself away from that painful grip. By the time the last of the shampoo and soap are swirling down the drain, buoying a tiny rubber duck that Harry had left behind in his mad scramble to clean the tub, you finally feel a bit more like yourself again.

The towels are in easy reach. You wrap your hair in one, wind the other around your body, and tiptoe across the bathmat, wading through a junkyard of toys to inspect the pile of clothes Harry had left for you. You look at yourself bare in the mirror. The dappled beginnings of a bruise blossom in faint plum along your collar and you have to turn away with a shudder. You notice a hotel toothbrush packaged in plastic atop the pile of clothes Harry had left and quickly brush your teeth before giving the bathroom a cursory tidy.

After changing, you hang one of the towels on a hook beside Sylvia’s, leaving the other on your head. Harry’s sweatpants fall far too loose on your waist; you have to pull the drawstrings to tension and roll up the cuffs to your ankles in order to look less like a ragdoll. The smell of bacon has wafted under the door so you creep into the hall, clutching a neat bundle of your clothes. You set your things down on the chest table in the entryway beside the key bowl and double back to make sure your bra is hidden at the bottom of the stack before returning to the bathroom.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Harry calls over his shoulder from the kitchen as you pass by.

You leave the door to the bathroom open this time; you’re only here to tame your wet hair a bit. There’s a small, sparkly brush on the counter that’ll have to do for now. You unwrap the towel from your head and bend at the waist to shake your hair out over the floor.

“How many pieces of—” Harry’s voice echoes in the bathroom. You finish patting down the wet tangles and stand back up straight to look at him in the mirror; his head alone is poking through the doorway.

Your cheeks are warm from the bloodrush of gravity, and you tilt a little to jostle the ends of your hair with the towel still in hand. The shoulders of the shirt Harry had given you are damp and your nipples are noticeably pebbled beneath the fabric. Lingering moisture on your skin seals the cotton to the underside of your arm and the swell of your breast; the hem of the shirt is dragged up, lopsided above your belly button. The tie of his sweats has come a little loose, too, and so the waistline hangs low on your hips, the lace of your underwear peeking out on one side. You catch Harry’s jaw flex in the mirror as his eyes scan your body for the tenth of a second

“… toast do you want?”

You look at him innocently in the dead silence and Harry takes a long breath in through his nose, staring directly into your eyes with what seems like a great deal of commitment.

“Two,” you reply lightly. “I’m ravenous. Thanks.”

Harry disappears into the kitchen again and you sort yourself out, returning the towel to its hook before moseying in to join him. You hoist yourself up on the counter and notice that Harry has changed out of his work suit and into a plain white tee shirt and soft grey sweatpants. Sundry, mismatched tattoos are scattered all along his left arm and it catches you by surprise. No rings. You’ve never seen him so dressed down.

“Iggy Pop?” You cock an eyebrow as The Passenger plays faintly from a dated stereo alarm beside the stove. Harry bobs along to the tune, moving the spatula in his hand like a drumstick on the skillet. He glances over his shoulder as the corner of his mouth kinks upward against his dimple.

“I see the stars come out tonight… I see the bright and hollow sky,”Harry sings along. “Over the city’s ripped-back sky… And everything looks good tonight, oh.”

Your jaw hangs open privately in shock. Harry’s singing voice is deep, rounded, and syrupy—almost decadent. You want to watch it drip slowly from a honey wand. It suddenly makes perfect sense to you that Sylvia would know every word Say You Love Me. How is it so fitting that they were a family of songbirds?

“Fancy something to drink?” Harry pops a spare piece of crust into his mouth before turning to pass you by and rummage through the fridge. “Looks like I’ve got,” he begins, chewing, “apple juice, almond milk, beer, lemonade… ”  You see the wheels turning in his brain before the imminent terrible joke. “Prosecco?” Choosing not to indulge him, you roll your eyes, curbing a quiet laugh.

“Water’s fine, thank you.”

Harry smiles to himself, dusting the crumbs off his fingers before reaching a hand to the back of a pantry for two mugs. The oscillation of a man’s jawline while he chews should not be as enticing as this is. You hadn’t properly appreciated the small mole to the left of Harry’s lips before now. He covers his mouth to talk to you.

“I’ll probably make myself a cuppa, actually. Would you like one?” You nod.

“I’ll have that instead, thank you.” Harry laughs at you under his breath. You narrow your eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he swallows, dropping tea bags into each of your empty mugs on the counter. “S’just you’re very polite. Always saying thank you for everything. I didn’t realize how accurate that stereotype was about Americans.”

“I’m polite?” Your hand flies to your chest. “You’ve held the lift open for me every day for a year without fail.”

He chuckles, filling the kettle in the sink. “I don’t do that for everyone in London all day. You say thank you every time, without fail.”

“I definitely don’t.”

“Well you smile at least, so.” Harry shrugs with his back to you, setting the kettle on the stove beside the skillet. You’re not sure what to say, so you stay quiet and Harry keeps singing along to the music.

“Oh, the passenger, how-how he rides… Oh, the passenger, he rides and he rides… He looks through his window… What does he see?”Harry’s shoulders tense and he turns around slowly to face you in a sheepish grimace. “Sorry.”

You smack your forehead with one hand, the blood already rushing to your cheeks, and laugh at him. If his expression were any less authentic you might be a little stung.

“Too soon?” he asks through a laugh.

“Definitely too soon. That was… such a dad joke,” you scoff.

“Think I’m allowed, love.”

The endearment is remarkably easy to accept from his mouth. The kettle screams and Harry fills each of your mugs before reaching into the cutlery drawer and dropping a small spoon into each. You feel your phone vibrate against your hip and pull it out to skim the text on your lock screen.

Mom. 9:41 PM.

Hi, honey. Sorry to miss your call earlier, hope everything is alright… It’s late for you now so I’ll try back in the morning. Hugs.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as guilt taps you on the shoulder. You’re drained and it would be lovely not to rehash tonight’s events for a second time when you know it would do nothing but worry her. Since you’re in good hands, you lock your phone and shove it back in the pocket of Harry’s sweatpants.

“How do you take it?” Harry murmurs.

“Sorry? Oh, with a little bit of cream, if you don’t mind.” He breathes a laugh, placing your tea on the counter beside you before adding the milk.

“I don’t mind,” he mocks your accent, and it bothers you how good he is at it. Harry carefully passes you the mug by the handle. You raise it to your nose and inhale the steam the way you had in the shower, and then stir your drink in thought.

“Thank you, Harry, for being so… okay with all of this, and for just like, rising to the occasion. I… ” You trail off, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to have, like, an ounce of normalcy tonight after all that.”

You tuck a strand of wet hair behind your ear and look over at him as he leans against the countertop beside you with his legs crossed. Harry pushes his glasses up his nose with his thumb and idly plays with the tag of the teabag on the rim of his mug with his lips, staring off into space.

“I’ve heard you take responsibility a dozen times tonight for the danger that a man put you in,” he says after a minute. His voice comes out in a measured, temperate gate, his gaze trained on the drawn blind as though he’s trying to see through it. “Tonight was not your fault…  Like, you were smart, brave and that, but you shouldn’t have had to be.” Harry blows steam from his tea and his words echo in the mug. “I’m glad I was there.” He turns his attention back to the stovetop—you’re thankful because you were about to cry again and he hadn’t noticed.

“Bacon’s gonna burn,” he mumbles. Harry crosses the kitchen to scrape the contents of the skillet onto a wooden chopping board before doubling back to the sink to rinse his hands.

“See, the trick is… ” he starts, his tone snapping immediately back to its velvety, impish tease, “to make the bacon fresh while you’ve got the toast going, and mix it in with the plain beans.” He points to the can, drying his hands with a dish towel. “And then you spread them on the toast.” You nod enthusiastically with a smile that stretches your face tight because you’re still sort of trying not to cry.

Harry chops up the bacon before wiping off his hands and fetching a can opener for the beans. You watch him carefully pour the slimy, less-than-appetizing contents of the can into the bowl, suddenly elbowed in the ribs with a memory.

“Chowder!” You shout, covering your hands over your mouth. Harry jumps a little, then frowns apologetically over his shoulder at you.

“Well I’ve made us a nice beans on toast and I know it’s not much but I was saying I’ve got a few fish fingers in the freezer—”

“No, Harry!” you cut him off. “Chowder, my cat!” You cover your eyes with your hands and groan but Harry just squints at you. “He’s all on his own in my apartment.”

“Does he have water?”

“Yeah, and food. And he’s a few years old so he’ll be fine… I just feel awful, he’s never spent the night alone.” You shake your head. “Sorry for making you jump, it just crossed my mind.”

“No, it’s okay… Do you want—should I go up and check on him for you—”

“No, no. That’s not necessary. I’m just, you know… a terrible cat mom.”

“Ha!” Harry bellows. It’s the loudest sound you’ve ever heard him make. “You don’t even want to… Oh Christ,” he shakes his head at you, unable to cease his chuckling. “You haven’t even scratched the surface.”

“What?” You ask after a minute, unable to help yourself from joining in his laughter. His face is turning pink.

“Do you have any idea how many nappies I’ve put on completely backwards?” Harry leans a hip on the counter to look at you, scraping the bacon into the bowl before beginning to mix. “How many haircuts I’ve botched? How many times I assembled both of Sylvia’s cribs upside down because the instructions were in Japanese? One after the other. It was the same fucking crib.” You lean over a little and stretch out the arm holding your cup of tea to contain yourself and he deadpans your name at you. “Sylvia’s first word was ‘fuck’ because her Daddy couldn’t shake the habit of saying it all the fucking time.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.” He raises his eyebrows slowly at you, nodding his head. “We thought she was just a quiet kid, but then we were getting concerned that she wasn’t speaking by her second birthday. We took her to a speech therapist. So imagine you’re me, watching your daughter in her little highchair with her mum right up in her face, going ‘Sylvia, can you say Mumma?’ and the child throws her binkie… and yells, ‘Fuck!’”

You’re losing it and so is Harry.

“Didn’t say it.” He swipes a tear from the corner of his eye with his thumb and it bumps up his glasses a little. “Yelled it. Not a thing wrong with her… Oh,” Harry sighs. “Her mum wouldn’t speak to me for weeks.” He shakes his head.

“That’s incredible.”

“So, like, newsflash… ” He returns to the food, pouring the mix evenly over four slices of toast. “Nobody has any idea what they’re doing. There’s no such thing as a perfect parent or, um—cat mum as you said.”

You and Harry do not bother moving to the dining table, largely because you can’t with the blinds, so you stay perched where you are, and Harry leans back against the countertop opposite you. You balance your plate in your lap and Harry holds his in one hand, periodically sipping from his tea on the counter.

“So… ” you begin around a bite of toast, covering your mouth with your pinky. “Sylvia’s… mom?” Chewing, Harry laughs once through his nose, rolling his eyes in a nod.

“Alright, alright. Fair.” He sets his plate down on the counter and reaches for his cuppa to wash down the beans. “I need some Prosecco,” he says, chuckling dryly into his mug before meeting you with a composed stare.

“Sylvia was definitely… unexpected… ” Harry gives you a delicate smirk. “But she’s, like… the funniest person I know and also my favorite person on the planet and my best friend. So… I dunno. It worked out.” He pauses to clear his throat. “She was conceived on the night I met her mum at a bar in Essex and that was that. Haven’t really looked back. Annie—Sylvia’s mum—is an amazing person, too. We were never in love or anythin’ even close, but she’s the best co-parent I could ever dream of.” Harry stares at some middle distance, smiling like he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. “I love our fucking odd little family and I’m really looking forward to her wedding. Sylvia’s in store for two really incredible mums.” He looks back at you and shrugs. “S’not such a bad life. Sometimes I wish there was a more exciting answer.”

“That doesn’t seem like a bad life at all.” You nod in agreement, cheeks aflame for no reason.

The corners of Harry’s lips drop a little the moment you open your mouth; his head is tilted slightly as though he’s trying to gauge your reaction. You try to mirror the same reassuring smile he’d given you after he’d offered you his shower, then smother a yawn with your hand.

“What time is it?” you ask. Harry clicks the side button of his cell.

“Half ten—or just gone.”

“No it’s not,” you frown, but Harry holds up his phone to show you. “Oh my god… ”

“Time flies when you’re talking about parenthood.” Harry opens the cupboard under the sink with his foot and shakes the crust of his dinner into the trash before setting his plate gently in the sink. “You get enough?” Harry gestures to your half-eaten dinner with a look of concern, and you’re struck with a pang of guilt since he’d made such a great show of making it to distract you, but perhaps that was the point more than the sustenance itself. You nod.

“Thank you.”

Harry gets closer to you than necessary to take the plate and empty mug from your hands as he wedges the untouched piece of toast between his teeth. For an instant, you swear it would be the most natural thing in the world for him to just tear off a bite, shimmy between your legs and give you a peck that left crumbs on your lips. You take a shaky breath and clear your throat.

“So, bed?” The question isn’t exactly worthy of a Pulitzer.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, chewing. You get up and stand hip to hip with him once you hear the faucet running. He passes you the first plate with sudzy hands and you nab a clean dishrag from off of a nearby cabinet handle. The two of you move in this assembly line, Harry waiting for you to finish drying before handing you the next dish. The plastic sippy cups and animal-shaped tupperware are a little harder to dry.

“I think I’m gonna have you sleep in my bed and I’ll take the air mattress in Sylvia’s room.”

“Absolutely not,” you shake your head. “Harry I swear if you insist on that, I’m calling a taxi to the police department.”

“No, honestly… They’re the only two rooms in the flat with the blinds consistently drawn, n’ her room’s empty most nights anyway since I’m such a pushover.” It takes a moment for that comment to sink in and when it does you feel your heart melt into absolute oblivion in your chest. “You’ll sleep much better in my bed than on my inherited air mattress from the sixties.”

“I won’t,” you lie seamlessly. “I don’t sleep well in new places anyway, so at least one of us should get a good night’s rest.”

“Alright, alright.” Harry concedes, handing you the last plate. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

“Here,” he mumbles, squirting a dot of soap in your palm and his after cooling the water. You wash your hands in the sink together, catching the warm, soapy streams as they fall from Harry’s hands onto yours until you’re immaculate up to your elbows; you hold them under the faucet for so long that both your fingertips and his have become raisins.

Harry leads you to the linen cabinet in the hallway and removes a cardboard box from the very top shelf. A dust cloud falls over him like a mini-avalanche and he coughs hysterically, scrunching his nose in a wince.

“Last chance to change your mind,” Harry croaks, wiping his glasses on the front of his shirt. You shake your head and he turns to the door in the hallway that isn’t his bedroom or the bathroom, holding the box under his arm. He nods for you to go first.

The two of you shuffle into a cubby of a room, and you don’t realize how heavy the box is until Harry drops it on the plush pile rug with a cushioned thud. Your neck cranes as you look around the tiny space, about as roomy as the lift. The walls are painted navy blue with silver and gold stars exploding in a galaxy up to the ceiling, and your hand floats to your chest in memory of when Sylvia had pointed at you with a tiny dimpled finger, recognizing the shape at the end of the chain hung around your neck.

A beehive-shaped mobile hangs above the head of her bed with tiny, felt bumble bees dangling down from each string. Her crib is painted a deep, forest green and the two small pillows upon it are shaped like rain clouds. Plastic dinosaurs of all different sizes and colors line her windowsill—she must have at least thirty. A small, homemade bookshelf is aligned by the crib, and you wonder if Harry reads to his daughter every night to put her to sleep—if he uses different voices for all the characters and the two of them have to bargain over how many more pages before night night.

“Mind helping me spread it?” Harry’s voice brings you back down to earth, and you grab two corners of the plastic to lay out the mattress like a picnic blanket on the floor.

It’s a tight squeeze, but at least it’s a queen. You look down at it with your hands on your hips, and Harry cocks his head to the side, running a hand over his stubble. It occurs to you that another way to do this would be to drag the thing to Harry’s room and sleep on the floor in there with likely much more room to move around, but if he’s not going to suggest it, you aren’t either. You are the guest in his home, after all.

Harry steps back out into the hallway, ducking into his bedroom. You hear the creak of a closet door and shifting fabric as the beam of light from his room slants across the hall into Sylvia’s, illuminating a diagonal path right up through the wooden slats of her crib. There’s a small, familiar outline of shadow on the mattress.

You crouch down to pick up Jojo in one hand, running your fingers over the coarse fur of his floppy ears. It feels a little odd, to be so comforted by a child’s toy that doesn’t even belong to you, but here you are.

“I see you’ve found an old friend.”

Harry leans against the doorframe, watching you. His arms are full with a clean mattress cover, spare pillow, and quilt. The fondness in his voice is hard to miss, but you wonder if it’s for his daughter, for the toy, or for you.

“I would’ve thought Sylvia brought him to her mom’s, too,” you note, instead of trying to figure out his expression. Harry’s lips twitch with amusement before he puts the pillow and quilt on top of Sylvia’s dresser, advancing with the mattress cover.

“She used to take him everywhere.” He visits every corner of the mattress and tucks the corners into the sheet.

“Here, let me help you with tha—”

“No, no, it’s always easier like this before you blow it up.”

Harry steps with a wide berth into the corners of the nursery that aren’t completely swallowed up by the giant, deflated bed, and removes a paper lantern night light with constellation cutouts from its outlet to replace with the wire for the motor to the air mattress.

“This part always takes a minute.” The small plastic box sputters into a whine and the mattress begins to inflate. Harry nods. “Just give it like ten minutes—fifteen tops… S’ old.” Soft whirring fills the room before he speaks over it. “We almost lost him on a trip to Brighton once—” he nods at the baby kangaroo, still in your hands— “Sylvia was inconsolable until we found him wedged in the corner between the bed and the wall in the hotel. Managed to convince her that leaving him at home—or at least at Bridget’s on the first floor while I’m at work—was the best way to keep him safe.”

He steals a glance at you and unfolds the massive quilt on top of the bed as it rises, before fluffing the pillow and tossing it to one of the long ends. “Then she started insisting on leaving him here on the weeks she spends at her mum’s.”

“How come?”

Harry’s smile is somewhere between pointedly self-deprecating and unbelievably loving. “Says she doesn’t want me to be lonely while she’s gone.”

Before you can fully process all the ways your heart is both warmed and a little broken, Harry is disappearing into the hall again, returning this time with the throw blanket you recognize from the living room couch, fanning it out over the quilt.

“Okay.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “That should do it. Do you want another pillow?” He turns to you suddenly, jabbing a thumb backward over his shoulder. “I have a couple more on my—”

“No, no. This is more than enough… Thank you again, Harry,” You reassure him with the understanding that this… this is goodnight. Harry runs a hand through his curls and a little puff of dust is drawn out.

“If you, um—If you need anything, I’ll be… my bedroom’s just there.” He twists around to point. “Don’t hesitate to like… yeah, wake me up if you need—if you feel… ” He laughs once at himself, exasperated. “Sorry, I’m tired.” You shake your head and smile sympathetically.

“So am I.”

“Goodnight, then.” Harry backs out into the hallway. He licks his lips, his hand poised on the doorknob, and you watch him from the other end of the nursery. At that exact moment, the motor clicks off and the sudden silence feels unbearably loud.

“I want you to feel safe here.” The room is so still that you see the shadow against Harry’s neck bob as he swallows in the yellow light of the hallway. His eyes are steady and clear. You take a breath in, and nod.

“I do.” You say, steadfast. “I promise… Goodnight, Harry.”

He shuts the door behind him.

Saturday, 5th January 2019. 12:46 AM ………………………………………

There had been a knock, of that much you are sure.

You had awoken to the sound of one jarring, solitary rap, followed by the raucous succession of a dozen more as you sat up on the air mattress. It stops for a moment. Then starts up again.

“Harry?” you whisper into the blackness, your heart suddenly pounding in time with the muted, far off rumble. In your groggy trance, you weren’t sure the first time you heard it if someone was knocking on the door to the nursery, but by the time your eyes are adjusting to the room, you’re sure it’s coming from farther away. It stops.

You’re still for a minute, careful not to rustle the quilt. There is no sound apart from a faint siren in the distance. You reach to unplug your phone from where it charges beneath the nightlight and click the side button, squinting at its bright little face.

12:46.

You don’t allow your mind to wonder about who could be on the other side of that door. Perhaps it’s a police officer? Surely they would have announced themselves, wouldn’t they? The rhythm of your breathing picks up. You slide down the mattress to cross the room before rising to your feet at the door, pressing an ear against the wood. There is nothing but the echo of your own blood rushing in your ear.

You have to close your eyes and count to three before rounding up the courage to soundlessly turn the doorknob and pull. There’s nothing unusual in the sliver of Harry’s apartment visible to you so you slip through to the other side and gasp. Harry is already in the hall, the door to his bedroom left gaping. His head turns to you and immediately he brings a finger to his lips in a hush, his eyes darting to the floor in concentration. The unmistakable smacking of an open hand resounds from the front door. Your eyes snap back to each other’s instantly.

He pushes past you, taking care to step lightly in his path to the front door before freezing. He twists to look back at you from the mouth of the hall, reaching his hand back with fingers outspread.

Stay here.

You swallow and Harry rounds the corner out of sight until it becomes absolutely unbearable to stand there a moment longer, and you tiptoe inaudibly in his wake. You see him in the entryway in the crisp, blue ray of the moon. You move at the same time he does, just as Harry glances over his shoulder. His eyes look surprised for a moment, but not angered. He nods at you once before training his eyes on the door again.

Even though your brain is struggling between staying where you are and hiding behind the coat hanger in the entryway, your feet move of their own accord, as though they have unilaterally decided that the safest place for you is as close to Harry as possible. It seems ludicrous to you, that this man in a tee shirt and boxers is the same man who, not a week ago, seemed like a piece of art with his burgundy suit and damp curls; the memory of loose limbs and laughter clashes against the image of him fraught before you.

Harry inches toward the door and peers through the peephole. Your eyes are cemented to the back of his head and you begin to feel dizzy, only just realizing you’ve been holding your breath. The muscles in his back visibly tense.

You know in a freezing rush of dread, who is on the other side of that door. In the muted light, you can clearly see Harry’s face, the expression upon it shocks you cold to the bone. It’s one you’ve never seen on anyone, let alone Harry: anger, frustration, fear. It roots you to the floor. Your jaw drops to pull in a low, strangled inhale.

You know you shouldn’t panic. Harry raises a finger to his lips again in another soundless imperative and you know—from a place that feels somewhere outside your body—that the last thing you should be doing is opening your mouth. But you can’t remember how to breathe; this is a terror hurtling beyond fight or flight. Your primary functions are in a deadlock with a searing hysteria clamoring for you to scream, and something desperately carnal that believes you could only survive this moment if you were silent enough.

Harry is still gesturing at you to keep quiet. He turns his back to the door and approaches you, the weight of his gaze keeping you motionless. The hand raising a finger to his lips reaches forward and your eyes flutter as he presses his palm firmly against your parted lips. You hear the rapid cadence of the breath from your nose against Harry’s hand. All of a sudden you’re just as close as you were in the lift four nights ago when he tasted like wine and whiskey. The look he had given you on New Year’s was playful and wanting. In this moment, however, a pair of hard and urgent eyes bore into yours, igniting the pit of your stomach with a different kind of fear.

With his other hand, you feel Harry wrap his forefinger and thumb around your wrist. You blink and blink and blink; a layer beneath the steel resolve in his face, a desperate question forms. Do you trust me? You want to answer but you don’t know how. So you just keep staring. He pushes you backward, gently, leading you around the corner and down the hall, his hand cupped to your mouth all the while. Even if you’d wanted to glance at the front door, Harry’s gaze is a magnet to your eyes.

He walks you all the way into his bedroom until you feel the mattress on the backs of your legs. You’d fall if not for Harry letting go of your wrist to guide you down with a hand on your waist. His lips move soundlessly around the words, stay here, and you manage to nod. Only then does he release your mouth.

Your eyes can only focus on the closet door directly in front of you. It takes every ounce of your concentration to just keep breathing so you don’t pass out as Harry doubles back out into the hall, leaving you alone on the edge of his bed. You can feel an outbreak of sweat around your temple and on the back of your neck. You know you’re shaking but that feels distant, too.

You have no idea how long Harry is gone. You just know when he returns, he closes the bedroom door. You’re still trying to pace your breathing as he crouches down in front of you. He has his phone to his ear. It feels like you’re underwater; you can only catch a few of his words at a time.

“My name is Harry Styles… previously reported an, um, altercation… yes… no… returned… knocked on the door. No, he’s gone now… I waited, to be sure. But I—” There’s a pause. “I think he’s knocking on every door on this floor.” You hear something like a choked gasp; only when Harry’s eyes dart to yours do you realize it was you.

You have put the entire building in danger. There is absolutely no other way to spin it.

“Yes, she’s still here.” His free hand reaches up to your knee as he listens to the dispatcher, but he seems to think better of it at the last moment, worrying the edge of the duvet between his fingers instead. “Right, yes. I understand. I will. Thank you.”

“They’re sending someone,” he says in a low murmur after hanging up. “He’s gone.” You hear that broken gasp again. “He’s gone, I promise.” Your shoulders cave inward when you feel the full, painful heave of your sob. Tears stream down your cheeks as you cover your face in shame.

Harry’s hand lifts again. You shrink away and he moves from you to stand. “I’ll be in th—”

You seize at the first part of him you can reach, grasping a weak fistful of his soft cotton tee shirt. Harry is completely still beneath your trembling fingers. He doesn’t pull away or move closer. He just hovers there, steady.

“Please…”

You want to ask him to stay. You want to ask for help. You want him to touch you so you know that you’re real—that you’re not in fact still trapped alone in the most terrifying part of a nightmare, but the words are unbearable.

The sound of your name in Harry’s mouth undoes something inside you. Through your tears you finally lift your head to find his eyes. His expression exudes both yearning and uncertainty, like he wants to comfort you but doesn’t know how. You’re not sure which one of you bridges the gap, but your forehead lands in the warm slope between his neck and shoulder and that seems to be all the answer Harry needs.

His hands slide up your back to hold you and you all but collapse into him, crying with enough force that Harry draws you off the bed and onto the floor with him. He sits up on his knees while you remain crumpled into his chest, one hand smoothing up and down the length of your spine as the other wraps so far around your back that you can feel his fingertips hooked over your hip.

“S’ok,” he murmurs, his lips moving above your ear, twisting to press into your temple like he intends to seal the words to your skin. “S’gonna be alright. ‘M here… I’ve got you. You’re safe… I’ve got you.” Harry doesn’t try to shush you, and when your wracking sobs give way to hiccups and finally to something halfway controllable, he stops talking and just holds you, rocking ever so slightly in a sort of motion that only a parent can do. You have no idea how long you sit like that, a tangle of limbs and soaked collars and cheeks, until you’re finally able to speak.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, feeling pitiful. “You—”

“None of that,” Harry says immediately. You feel his nose dig into your hair as he sighs. “I mean it, alright? No more apologizing for any of this. Might have to make you a jar like the one Annie has for me in her flat.”

The thought is strange enough to pull you, however briefly, out of your current misery. “You have an apology jar?”

His next exhale is sharp, like he’s trying to muffle a snort. “Swear jar, actually.” Your laugh bursts out unexpectedly, sort of wet and weak, but there nonetheless. “That’s more like it.”

You draw back and Harry’s grip tightens, just for a moment, before he releases you. He moves before you can do it yourself, brushing at your damp cheeks with the side of his palm, then his thumb with the same concentrated frown he’d worn when pinning the Remembrance Day poppy to your jacket. Harry cradles your face with one hand; it takes effort to silence that instinct to be ashamed of yourself and keep his eyes.

“They said it might be a little while before an officer can get up here,” he says, searching your face. “They’re putting together a couple patrol teams to canvas the building and stay outside the rest of the night.”

All you can think to do is nod. Harry is still watching you carefully. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“Please,” you reply, grateful. “I should—” you make a vague gesture at yourself— “clean myself up a bit.”

Harry opens his mouth like he wants to comment, but just nods instead. You have to use his shoulder to push yourself to your feet; his hand covers yours.

You say, “Thank you,” but it’s not nearly enough. He squeezes gently, staring up at you and saying nothing. You walk on unsteady legs out of the room, across the hall, and into the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you even when you close the door.

Lacing your fingers atop your head, you heave a sigh at the tearstained, pink-faced version of yourself staring back at you in the mirror. After blowing your nose and splashing a few handfuls of water across your face, you slip back into Harry’s room, joining him on the side of his bed. His phone is in his hands; he finishes sending off a long, blue bubble of text before looking up and passing you a glass of water from the nightstand. He holds his own in his lap, and runs the tip of his middle finger around the rim.

You bring the glass to your lips and then lower it immediately; it clacks against your teeth with the tremor of your hand. You can feel Harry’s eyes on you even though he doesn’t turn his head. Again, you try taking a sip with the same result and sigh.

“I think I’m gonna try my parents again.”

“Sure.”

You rise to set your water glass on the nightstand yourself, turning on your heel to Sylvia’s room and shutting the door behind you. You take a deep breath before collapsing back on the mattress. The stars rotating on the ceiling like a merry go round make you nauseous so you lean over to unplug the nightlight before dialing in the familiar number by heart. Your mom answers after the first ring, emphasizing your name like a scolding.

“Hi, Mom.”

“What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night in England. Is everything alright?”

“That’s… what I need to talk to you about, actually.”

You hardly get a sentence in before you hear her rushing to get your dad and the three of you have an hour-long, emotional crash-course on the last five hours of your life. There isn’t much else to fill in as you’ve kept them more or less updated on the blue-eyed man and your trips to the police department. You assure them that you’re in one piece and that you couldn’t have wound up with a more generous host, but that doesn’t assuage your mom from insisting on speaking with the Metropolitan Police personally. She makes you promise to stay on the line until the authorities arrive.

At around 1:50, you hear a light rap on the door to the nursery. “Yes?”

Harry cracks it open without peeking his head inside.

“Police are here—take your time. I’ll go out and speak with them.”

“Thanks, Harry… Mom, some officers just arrived I think.” You pinch your phone between your cheek and shoulder to softly close the door behind you from the hallway. “I’ll call you back once we’re done with questions and everything.”

After rushing through a quick goodbye, you meet Harry in the entryway. He’s thrown on some gym pants and a sweater and his arms are laced across his chest. The fully-uniformed man seems bulky and out of place here, and two more officers hover in the sixth-floor hallway as though they couldn’t squeeze in the entrance of Harry’s modest apartment. As you approach the conversation taking place, your heart races like you’re the one who has committed a crime.

“… every floor of the building and searched the surrounding perimeter with no sign of anyone matching the description, and from the security footage we seized, we can see that he pulled out of the car park about forty-five minutes ago.”

“Okay,” Harry nods, pushing his glasses up his nose with a frown. “Alright. Great.” The officer who had been speaking turns to you.

“And you must be the young woman who—”

“Yes,” you nod quickly. “That’s me.”

“We were just filling your neighbor in that we were unable to find the culprit, but the building and surrounding area seem to be clear. If at all possible, we think it would be best for you to stay here just for the night, and then come straight to the station in the morning for a more in-depth conversation about the details of what’s taken place, and to make a plan moving forward.” You simply nod.

“I will.”

“You’re flat 8F, is that right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Were any of these marks on your door before this evening?” The officer pulls a cell phone out of his pocket by his baton, unlocking it to reveal the last few pictures in the camera roll. Your blood r uns cold as your eyes skim a photograph of a long, black skidmark above the handle of your front door. You scroll to the next one which shows a sizeable ding in the wood by the door jam; the impact was hard enough to scratch the paint.

Your heart begins to race for the umpteenth time tonight. Would the blue-eyed man be inside the next time you stepped foot in your apartment? Poised and waiting to finish what he had started in the garage?

“No,” you breathe. “I don’t recognize those.” The police officer turns to face Harry again.

“And you’re certain that the man showed no sign of knowing that she—that the two of you were in this particular flat?”

“Yeah. I watched him make his way down, knocking on a couple more doors.” Harry rubs his stubble.

“Was he stopping by every door?”

Harry takes a minute to think. “No,” he replies, solemn. “It seemed a bit random if I’m honest.”

“Right. Well, keep an eye out for any unusual activity in the next few days, especially on this floor. Don’t hesitate to let us know if anything changes.” The officer turns to face you. “In the meantime, we’ll see you at the station tomorrow?”

“Yes—um… ” You clear your throat as your cheeks warm. “I’m sorry. Would one of you be willing to speak with my parents on the phone? They’re a bit worried and want to talk to a professional.” You hold up your cell.

“Of course.”

After dialing for him, you hand the officer your phone and he begins to engage your mom in what sounds like a very animated, reassuring dialogue. You and Harry are leaned against opposite walls in the hallway, looking in each other’s general direction, spaced out in exhaustion. You cover a yawn with your hand and catch him doing the same immediately after you. You grow drowsier by the minute with the drone of the officer’s voice.

Do you dare check the time? Your hands absently pat the front and back pockets of Harry’s sweats and you frown in trying to recall where you’d last set your phone; you roll your eyes at yourself in glancing up at the officer pacing Harry’s entryway on the phone with your mother.

“S’ just gone two.” Harry mumbles. You make a light noise in the back of your throat.

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

“That’s a tenner in the apology jar.” You breathe a laugh without humor, shaking your head back and forth against the wall.

“I just can’t wait for this day to be over,” you whisper.

“Would you like to speak with her again?” The officer’s voice clips into your half-conscious conversation with Harry. You hold out your hand and tuck the phone between your cheek and shoulder again as Harry thanks the officers one last time before showing them out. Apparently satisfied with the conversation she’d had with the police, your mother circles back to the matter of your current state of limbo. Harry double crosses you to the kitchen after retrieving his empty water glass and your full one from the nightstand.

“You’re sure you’re comfortable staying with this neighbor? Where are you sleeping?”

“It’s fine, Mom. We’re friends… sort of.” Friends that drunkenly make out in the lift. Harry’s lips twitch. “He has a spare mattress. I’m staying in his daughter’s room.” You can practically hear the alarm bells from across the Atlantic. “Don’t freak out, she’s three. Her mom has her for the week.” Your own mother digests this information in silence while you muster the energy to be reassuring. “I’m alright, I promise. It’s just for tonight.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “I want you to call us, alright? No matter what time it is here or there, I want you to check in with us every day until we know for sure you’re absolutely safe.”

“I will,” you vow. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay? I’m exhausted.”

“Right yes, go get some rest. We love you.”

You swallow with a little difficulty. “Love you too.”

Harry’s turned away to place his glass in the sink. You walk up behind him and set your phone on the counter.

“Sorry about that,” you say, and then wince when he gives you a sidelong look. “They can be a bit protective.”

He shakes his head, the motion somehow more grave than you were expecting. “I know exactly how they feel.” Your brows pull together with the sudden touch of heartache. Harry rubs his eyes under his glasses with his fingertips, leaning back against the sink.

“I’m sorry,” he says into his palms. “I’m knackered.”

“Yeah, of course… Have a good night.” You pause. “I haven’t told India about any of this. I might shoot her a text before I pass out.” You look up at Harry tentatively and he nods.

“You sure there’s not anything else I can get you?”

“I’m sure. Sleep well,” you bid. He pinches the flesh above your elbow softly before patting the spot once with his hand.

“See you in the morning.” He looks back at you once over his shoulder, disappearing into the hall. You listen to the sound of his bedroom door click shut before tilting your head to the ceiling and letting your eyelids close, literally twenty feet below your own apartment. You could probably throw a basketball higher than that. You sigh and look back down to your phone on the counter, quickly drafting a text to India and then deleting it.

For a minute you stay like that, a statue in the pale light of Harry’s kitchen—the relic of a girl who woke up this morning unscathed. It’s probably for the best that you get some sleep tonight, but when you’re stood in front of the nursery after tiptoeing across the flat, you can’t bring yourself to face the pitiful air mattress again. Almost in humiliation, you turn to Harry’s bedroom door in defeat. Who on earth are you trying to fool?

Your heart is hammering as though a woodpecker is perched on your ribcage. As silently as you can manage, you swallow your pride and crack open the door to Harry’s bedroom, stepping gingerly inside before leaning back on your hands to clasp the knob behind you. Ages pass before you hear it shut with a delayed click-click.

You’re able to see nothing apart from blackness before you, but suddenly comes the sound of a long breath in from somewhere in the room. Blankets rustle. Your fingers tighten on the doorknob behind you. With a mechanic tink, soft, yellow light spills over every surface in Harry’s bedroom, his hand poised at the beaded chain of the lamp on his bedside table. His nose is scrunched as his eyes squint to dilute the light around you.

Harry’s outstretched hand flounders once against the nightstand before he locates his glasses, pushing them swiftly onto his face. His expression relaxes as he props himself up on one elbow to get a better look at you. Your face stings with heat from your chin to your hairline but you try to keep your breathing even and hold your ground. His eyes are soft, careful, yet strangely unaffected.

Any reaction from him would be justifiable. You’ve put everything out on the line and you need to be willing to accept the consequences, but it’s getting harder by the instant not to hang your head in shame from where you stand. Without a word, or the slightest suggestion of ambivalence, Harry reaches an arm out to the opposite side of the mattress, and tosses the corner of the duvet halfway down the bed before meeting your gaze again from across the room.

There are many, many ways you would like to react right now, but you will your face to remain even and passive as you very softly make your way over to accept his invitation. Backs turned to each other, you curl yourself up so far from Harry that your kneecaps hang over the edge of the bed. You hear the cool sliding of blankets once more before absolute stillness; the last vision you have of the day is the dim, golden glow of Harry’s lamp vanishing on the ceiling as your eyes flutter shut.

Saturday, 5th January 2019. 4:07 AM …………………………………………

You’re slowly coming into consciousness. Your head lifts from the pillow a bit. It’s disorienting, adjusting to a room you can immediately tell isn’t your own, momentarily teetering between asleep and awake. It’s even more disorienting when you realize that you are not alone. Harry’s chest is pressed to your back. There’s a knee between yours and a heavy arm slung over your waist. You’ve migrated to the center of the bed somehow during the night. But what draws your attention the most is the warm breath in the curve of your neck.

“Harry?”

It was the asleep half of your brain that had thought to puncture the silence with the croak of his name. You don’t know what kind of reply you’re expecting to receive in this blue, small morning hour. Perhaps you won’t get one at all. Perhaps you’re dreaming. You stare up at the ceiling, curious. If you close your eyes now, would you even remember this come dawn? But the grip around your waist tightens, just for a moment, before you feel a sigh fanning over your cheek.

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice is low and gravelly, but unmistakable. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest through the fine cotton of the shirt he’d loaned you, and he sounds surprisingly alert. A small silence lingers. “Alright?”

Your eyes stay trained on the ceiling. Are you?

Part of you wants him to clarify what he means; are you alright after what happened tonight? Are you alright… with this?

“Yeah,” you breathe the answer to one of those questions, sinking your head back down to the pillow.

Harry doesn’t say anything else. For a moment you think he’s fallen back asleep but then he shifts closer to you and you watch in fascination as the shadow of his arm reaches over your body for your hand—you had left it open and maybe a little vulnerable beside your head on the pillow. You can feel the callouses on Harry’s fingertips as they slide up your palm and find the space between yours. You don’t dare turn your head because there is a question in your eyes that you realize you can no longer ignore, and you are afraid of his answer.

So you close your fingers around his and do not speak. Harry exhales; you’re hyper-aware of the way his body relaxes as he squeezes your hand. You take a deep breath. You know it’s no use wondering whether or not Harry is going to remember this in the morning. Even if this is a dream, you cannot deny that you’re warm and you’re safe and that you will remember, possibly forever, regardless of whatever happens or doesn’t happen between you. It’s a vaguely scary thought.

You close your eyes.

UNDER THE SAME ROOF

Part Three: All the Time You Need

Saturday, 5th January 2019. 9:24 AM ……………………………………………

The second time you’re roused from sleep, there is sunlight illuminating Harry’s room. You lift your head on the pillow again, squinting, but more quickly you recognize where you are. Harry’s arm is still wrapped around your waist, though you’ve flipped in sleep to face him, chest to chest, and the duvet has been kicked to the end of the bed.

Harry is leaning into you more than before. One of your arms is hooked around his neck and you can’t feel the other, so you wiggle your fingers to find that it has slipped up his back beneath the fabric of his tee shirt; his bicep is cutting off your circulation. Your own shirt has bunched up around your ribs. Harry’s cheek is clammy and pressed into your neck like a child’s, and he is snoring so softly it’s almost just heavy breathing. One of your legs is wrapped around his waist.

Should you try to get up? You at least want to tug down your shirt a little. What if you wake him by untangling his sleeping body from yours? Should you leave him in privacy and slip off to the police station with a note on the pillow? Lest you forget the circumstances of why you’re in his flat in the first place. Ever so gently, you unwrap your leg from Harry’s back; a moment later, you hear his long inhale as his body starts to tense.

Relaxing every muscle in your body like a marionette, you close your eyes and pretend to sleep. Harry’s cheek lifts from the crook of your neck and you hear him open and close his mouth a few times before uncoiling his arm from your waist to pull a few of your hairs from his mouth. You feel him prop himself up on one elbow. It’s a challenge to keep your face relaxed when he moves a bit of hair from off your cheek. The tips of Harry’s fingers idle on your temple longer than they need to. Suddenly his body is shifting and he’s removing his knee from between your legs to roll on his back.

Harry shifts away from you and your heart falls a little, but then you feel him slowly pull the blanket up your body with strenuous caution and you know that if you don’t pretend to wake up at this exact moment you’re going to smile and blow your cover. You blink a few times before opening your eyes completely.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Harry draws back as though he’s been caught. His voice is hoarse and covered in sleep; it almost sounds like he has a cold.

“It’s okay.” You shake your head on the pillow. “Were you able to sleep?” Harry just nods and leans over to reach his glasses from the night stand, then looks away for a moment as you hurry to fix your shirt. He props an elbow up and leans against his knuckles to look at you across the bed, but you simply pull the covers up around your shoulders, nuzzle into the pillow, and meet his gaze from there. Harry’s lips twitch before he speaks.

“How are you feeling?”

Your eyes drift to the side as you remember the pictures and the sound of your cardigan tearing. You shrug under the blankets.

“Better.”

“That’s good. You’re sure?” You nod.

His elbow is scant inches from where your own arm lays palm up, parallel with his. Your fingers are spread open as they were last night when he’d held your hand. He could easily reach out and graze his thumb in the crook of your elbow the way he does sometimes.

You want him to try. You want him to touch you. It wasn’t a solicitation; Harry’s fingers laced with yours had made you feel shelter and safety in the same night that a different set of fingers had left bruises on your skin. You’re afraid your eyes may betray you but he glances away first.

“What about you?” you ask. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m good, yeah… I was thinking—if you don’t mind—I’d like to come with you to the police department this morning.” Harry pushes up his glasses.

“No, no, Harry. Don’t worry about that.” You begin to uncover your shoulder from the duvet and shift to swing your legs off the bed, and his hand is wrapped around your wrist before your feet even hit the floor. You don’t mean for it to be charged, when you turn back to look at him, but he releases you almost immediately.

“No, really. It might make more sense. I saw him in the hall last night and I was with you on the lift. They might need to ask some questions of both of us.”

He watches carefully as you consider this for a moment. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“I don’t have to,” Harry counters. “I want to. I want you to, y’know… ” he trails off, briefly looking to the side. “I want them to get this guy.”

You blink at him a few times. There’s a strange feeling in knowing that Harry has clearly thought about your wellbeing beyond the night that you’ve effectively been trapped in his flat. Regardless, it’s too early for a battle of wills, and he has a point. You slouch against the headboard.

“Alright. Well… I still have India’s car so I can drive us.” A smile lights up Harry’s face.

At that exact moment, your stomach rumbles so powerfully and for so long that it almost interrupts the conversation. You cover an embarrassed laugh with both hands and Harry’s eyebrows raise.

“Well,” he begins, exaggerated. “Let’s take care of that… Throw the kettle on I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Sure.”

As you make your way over to the kitchen, the first thing you see is your phone in the same place on the counter you left it last night. Your conversation with India is still open when you unlock it.

You. 9:31 AM.

Hey babe… I have a lot to update you on but it’ll be much easier to explain in person. I still have your car and I need it for one thing this morning but I promise I’ll fill the tank ASAP. It’s about the guy that’s been following me but just know that I’m safe and everything’s okay. I’ll call you when I can. Love you.

Send. That’ll have to do for now. The kettle is already by the sink so you move to fill it before setting it on the burner. By the time it begins to whistle, Harry still hasn’t come out of his room. You eye the stereo beside the stove and recall when he had sung along to it while cooking last night. After filling two mugs of tea, you fiddle with the controls until the first notes of Under Pressure fill the kitchen.

“Love a little Bowie.” Harry’s voice startles you from behind. “Wish Sylvia were here, this is one of her favorites.”

You glance over your shoulder and hold his tea out to him, thanked with a sleepy smile and a hand to the small of your back as he brushes past you to the stove. The steam rising from the mug fogs his glasses. Harry methodically turns on one of the burners and grabs the skillet he’d used last night from the drying rack. You return to your perch on the counter from last night and watch him turn the volume of the stereo up as he passes. He opens the fridge and smiles at you from behind the door before setting a packet of bacon, carton of eggs, and two small tomatoes on the counter, shutting the refrigerator with his hip, and retrieving a loaf of bread from the cabinet.

“It’s one of the only songs she knows all the words to. She goes crazy at the end, like, we have this whole duet—” he gesticulates with the hand holding two slices of white bread— “and she… yeah.” Harry shakes his head with a small laugh. “Nevermind.”

You hide a smile behind the rim of your tea. “I see where she inherited her taste in music… ” Harry’s grin turns smug. “Did you teach her to sing, too?” He shakes his head.

“Been singing since before she could talk.” You watch him ration out a few slices of bacon, tapping along to the beat of the song with a knuckle on the counter. “Annie blames me, naturally. I used to sing to her belly.” You sit in a quiet that feels sentimental and let the image linger between you for a minute.

“Do you play?” Harry follows your gaze across the flat to the living room, and the guitar case.

“Not so much anymore, to be honest,” he says, gesturing broadly at the toys scattering the rest of the living room. “I used to be in a band so, yeah… But I play for her. Sometimes it’s the only way I can get her down for the night.”

“That’s nice,” you comment, but your words are drowned out b y the sizzling of bacon.

“How do you take your eggs?” Harry asks, popping both slices of bread into a silver toaster.

“Sunny side up.” It shouldn’t be this attractive, a man comfortable with tomatoes, garlic, and a knife.

“Can you pass me the salt?” he asks, gesturing with a spatula at the pair of green porcelain dinosaurs on the counter next to your leg. “S’the darker one.” You offer him the long necked shaker and try not to smile too much. He cracks a second egg to join the first. “Trick is to cook the bacon first and use the grease to fry the eggs and tomatoes in the same skillet.”

“You seem to have a lot of tricks up your sleeve,” you muse. Harry’s dimple appears and you can tell he’s trying not to smile.

“Got a lot more than poppy pins and bacon grease, love.”

You should think nothing of the endearment again, if only to save your own pride. But the opening guitar riff of Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get it On coming from the stereo completely undermines you, like a wink from God. You have to cover your mouth to hold in peals of laughter and set down your tea to keep from spilling but Harry’s smirk almost makes it worth it.

A third of the song passes before you’re able to look directly at him again. He doesn’t sing along to this one.

“We’re about ready to eat.” Harry turns the stovetop down to a simmer as the toaster pops. He grabs two plates from the cupboard before lowering the volume of the stereo.

“Can I help with anything?”

“Yeah can you get us a couple napkins from just there?” Harry nods to a drawer as you push off the counter. “Be right back,” Harry rushes, already halfway out of the kitchen. You pull a few paper napkins from their packet as he returns with two chairs that you recognize from his small wicker table. “Since we have to stay in here I figure we might as well make a proper meal of it.”

“Now this is living.”

Harry barks a laugh as he gestures for you to sit. The two of you get adjusted with your plates on your lap and mugs of tea on the countertop behind you. He takes a sip from his and glances at you over the rim.

“S’ a good batch of tea. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” you insist, “for the two delicious meals.”

“And counting,” Harry quips, rolling his eyes. By the flush of his cheeks, you can tell he’d spoken without considering how the joke might land. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you laugh, and then you both dig in.

“I’d make you bubble and squeak, too, but we’re fresh out, and you and I finished off the beans last night so…” Harry lowers his voice to a whisper. “S’not technically a full English fry up.”

“Don’t worry, my bubble and squeak cherry was popped a long time ago.” Harry pauses in chewing for an instant before he continues eating.

The rest of breakfast passes by in silence; the stereo plays softly in the background and you catch Harry occasionally humming along while he cuts his food. You’re eating much faster than you had last night so you finish at about the same time as him. He looks up at you, a touch more serious than you’ve seen this morning.

“Shall we think about heading to the police station soon?” You dab your mouth with your napkin and nod. Harry stands from his chair and reaches an open hand down to you. For a moment you frown at it in hesitation, your heart racing as you gently place your hand in his and lift yourself up by the weight of his arm. Harry laughs—hard—and shakes his head at you.

“Your plate, dummy.”

The blood rushes to your cheeks so fast, you’re sure the weight of your head could topple you over. You have to bite your lip against a blossoming smile and duck your head as you yank Harry’s plate from his hands, shouldering past him to the sink. Your back is turned but you can still hear him laughing; you flip on the faucet and begin to scrub.

“Oh, oh… ” Harry tuts at you lightheartedly. He puts a hand on your shoulder in a chuckle. “Don’t—come on, let me help with that.”

“No, no,” you nudge him away with your elbow. “You did them last time, I got this.”

“You’re a guest.”

“I’m a captive.”

“No you’re not! You’re—” He breaks off, hesitating for a moment before plunging on with a barely-contained smile. “You’re my sort-of friend.”

It’s a wonder you have any blood left for all the blushing you’ve already done this morning, but you were under the impression he hadn’t overheard that comment to your mother last night on the phone. You stop in your scrubbing to hang your head over the sink, pressing your lips together against another laugh. He’s moved to stand directly behind you, leaning over your shoulder to make his way around you to the pile of dishes. In the corner of your eye, you see his head duck a little, as if to gauge any lingering embarrassment.

“Lemme deal with this,” he insists, still trying to talk through laughter. His fingers curl around the plate in your hand and the two of you play a gentle game of tug-of-war with it before his other hand finds the crook of your elbow. “Go change. You take the first turn in the bathroom.”

“Fine,” you relent before slipping from between him and the sink to gather your small pile of belongings by the entrance.

You sling your bag over your shoulder as you stand there, but something keeps you from heading immediately to the bathroom to change. Your cardigan lays at the top of the stack. Four of your fingers fit through the gaping hole in its collar, and soot covers one of the sleeves. You hadn’t forgotten about the shape it was in last night, but you didn’t consider it a problem until now, as you hold it up in front of you by the shoulders, squinting.

The sound of water from the kitchen sink ceases and when you glance across the flat at Harry, he’s already watching you. He ducks out of the kitchen before reappearing around the corner, joining you by the front door.

“I think I’m going to go upstairs and grab a new one,” you murmur.

“Well you probably can’t, yeah? Not before we talk to the police, at least.”

“Maybe I should call them to ask if it’s safe for me to go up there this morning.”

“You’re not serious.”

“They said to call if I needed anything!” you defend lightly.

“I don’t think you’re meant to just call with a question like that.” Harry has to bite back another laugh.

“Well last night they said an officer could escort me or something… ”

Harry says your name, then, like it proves his point. “You’re not in imminent peril, you want a shirt. Let me give you a jumper, it’ll look fine.” There’s no use in arguing; you just want to get to the station.

“Alright, alright,” you concede. “Do you mind if we go soon, then? I want to check on Chowder.”

“Of course. We can go as soon as you pick something.”

Pick something? You were expecting him to grab the first thing in his closet and toss it to you on your way out. He’s going to let you pick something? You nod because you’re worried the surprise is painted on your face.

“Okay.”

You follow Harry as he leads you to his bedroom again, and over to the large wooden wardrobe. He pulls the double doors open and you cannot help yourself from gawking a little bit. You’re taken by all the exquisite patterns and intricate textures of the suits, but it’s oddly wistful to run your fingertips along all of them hung in a row. You smile privately, a bit removed.

“What?” Harry laughs from behind you.

“Nothing!” you defend, glancing over your shoulder at him before saying more softly, “I just recognize some of these.”

“Oh, thought you were sizing them up. Loads of my mates take the piss… say my suits are eccentric.” He rolls his eyes, reciting the insult like he’s quoting their words verbatim. You turn back around to his closet.

“I think they look nice—I think you look nice in them.” Harry remains silent behind you. You take a step back and crane your neck to the shelf of folded sweaters above the hanging rod.

The extensive array of muted wool and yarn is a bit overwhelming. You spot the planet sweater he’d worn the first time you saw Sylvia, the oversized yellow one that reminded you of Charlie Brown, the black one with half a red heart and the letters, NY in bold white text… It takes a minute of jogging your memory before you can recall him wearing something more plain. Harry doesn’t own a lot of plain.

You still can’t quite reach the shelf after stretching your arm to extension and standing on your tiptoes, but Harry is at your side immediately.

“The brown?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you confirm as he tugs one from the stacks and passes it down. You examine the camel colored fabric with tiny flecks of black thread, and run your hand along the smooth purl. “This should do.”

With Harry’s sweater and the rest of your things in tow, you slip off to the bathroom to change, washing your face with something you found in the shower and revisiting your toothbrush from last night. You try to tame your hair with the sparkly brush to no avail, so you take a quick look around to see if Sylvia kept any spare barrettes or pins. To your surprise, you find a pack of plain, black hair ties in Harry’s mirror cabinet, and throw your tangles up in a messy bun.

After slipping into your jeans, camisole, socks, and boots, you tug Harry’s sweater over your head; it’s boxy, your arms aren’t long enough to fit, and it isn’t doing any favors for your shoulders. You have to roll the sleeves up past your wrists before the outfit can half pass as something you purposely wore out of the house. As a saving grace, you find a loose tube of red lipstick and blush in the bottom of your bag, applying a little before fixing your bun again. You can hear Harry close the door to his room, the shoes on his feet echoing against the hardwood, so you give yourself a once over and sigh before heading out to join him.

“Does it look normal?”

Harry is adjusting the collar of his overcoat in the entryway, but stops in his tracks to glance over in a double take at the sound of your voice. His jaw flexes as he gives you the up-down, his eyes lingering on the oversized brown sweater hung on your frame. You fiddle with one of the sleeves, rolling it up once more.

“Yeah,” Harry says, clipped. “Looks normal.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed a hair tie from Sylvia… ”

Harry frowns for a second with his hand on the doorknob before his eyebrows relax again. “Those are actually mine. I used to have really long hair… And ‘course I don’t mind.”

“Oh.” He turns to unlock the deadbolt, door, and chain so you’re left to process your surprise in private. You hadn’t pictured that.

It’s bizarre walking through the level six hallway; it’s identical to the hallway on level eight, but the last time you’d been here, everything down to the carpet and light fixtures had been tainted by your deafening fear. What’s more is that riding down in the lift with Harry feels entirely different now. You see it all from his perspective, and try to imagine stepping into the lift and seeing yourself standing in the corner with your school bag, pinning a pearl in your ear.

The lift picks up a few people on its way down, but by the time it reaches the garage, you and Harry are alone. You catch his eyes in the reflection of the doors a moment before they open.

He clears his throat in his hand. “I know it’s probably… we’ll be fine, but… Stay close, yeah?” You look up at him and nod.

It’s easy to keep to your word. Harry guides you to walk in front of him the entire way as your eyes scan the shadows in between the rows of cars. You’re sure you will never be able to see this garage quite the same way.

“It’s the old Volkswagen,” you say with a glance over your shoulder to Harry. He nods.

“I see it.”

You’re so out of it that you almost try to get in on the passenger side. It’s the kind of slip up that Harry might usually make fun of you for, but he’s quiet and looking around, too. You pull the jacket you’d left on the seat last night into your lap, the two of you strap in, and you cannot pull out into the street fast enough.

It’s a quiet drive to the precinct. A series of images floods in your mind’s eye, all from a vantage point that looks directly into your bedroom window from across the street: you see yourself alone in your room, reading a textbook with Chowder curled up in your lap—your nose is pink, and crumpled tissues litter your bed. It’s raining outside. You see yourself craning your neck over your shoulder to get a better view of your dress from the back in the mirror of your vanity. You see yourself smiling against the lips of that boy from Manchester last Valentine’s Day, stumbling back to your bed. You see India passed out by your side above the covers with the light of morning peeking through your blinds against her olive skin in slats—you remember the night leading to that. Neither of you had been sober enough to wipe off your lipstick or throw out the empty box of pizza on the floor. You see yourself reaching on tiptoes to the top shelf in your wardrobe, in nothing but your underwear. You see yourself crying after a hard phone call home about Grandpa. You see the face you’d made, tangled up in your sheets with your hand slipped beneath the waistline of your pajama shorts the day Harry had almost kissed you in the lift.

You see red.

Who knew about these photos? How many people had taken them? How many are there that weren’t in your envelope? Are they somewhere online? Would they follow you to law school? You think of what this man has taken from you. Your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Right then and there, through gritted teeth, and hot, blinding fury, you make a promise to yourself. Whoever he was… whoever this mother fucker was—the blue-eyed man—you would become his worst nightmare. You would sprinkle his demise in arsenic and feed it to him on a spoon, and you would drag him to hell yourself if it came to that.

“Alright?” Harry’s voice from the passenger seat pulls you from your trance. He’d asked you that question when he’d seen you prick your finger on the Remembrance Day poppy in your pocket, he’d asked you that in his arms on the most terrifying night of your life, and he’s asking you now.

“Yeah.” You nod. “I’m alright.”

Saturday, 5th January 2019. 10:42 AM …………………………………………

In the parking lot behind Lavender Hill Police Station, you’ve killed the engine but remain in your seat. Part of you is still reluctant to have Harry come along; keeping your composure in front of the police feels hard enough without the prospect of him being there, too, but maybe that’s the one thing that will get you through this.

“Sorry,” you shake your head, suddenly aware of how long you’ve been sitting motionless at the wheel. Harry’s gaze is steady and unperturbed. He watches you push anxiously at the sleeves of his sweater, which had fallen loose around your wrists as you drove.

“Take as much time as you need.”

It’s the same phrase the initial officer who’d taken your statement all those weeks ago had used. It’s more or less what Officer Warren had said to you on the phone last night, and you’re so tired of hearing it. You don’t want to have as much time as you need to feel calm or steady or normal again. You want your time back. You want to reclaim all the extra seconds spent checking your shoulder, the minutes you had to go out of your way to change routes, and the hours you’ve spent staring up at the ceiling when you should have been asleep.

Rationally, you know that there will be time to relearn how to walk down the street and be at ease, and to plan that trip to Brighton you and India have been talking about for months. There will be time with Harry that isn’t this… stuck in a cramped space, crushed by the weight of your own fear. You hate the way you felt with him in the lift this morning; you want that time back most of all.

“Faster we get in there,” you say, half to Harry, half to yourself, “the faster we’ll get to leave.”

Harry nods. “C’mon then.”

The heather grey of the building is no less intimidating than it was in October, but at least this time you don’t have to pull the heavy glass doors open on your own.

Inside, you speak with the officer at reception, who gestures for you to sit in a small waiting area just beyond the desk. People in uniform bustle back and forth, stopping at each other’s desks to exchange files. Harry’s leg brushes against yours as you sit. He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

You have no sense of how long you sit waiting—this doesn’t feel like a place where it’s appropriate to play Super Mario Run on your phone. You can feel Harry looking at you periodically, but you don’t glance back until a woman with a familiar voice appears before you, ushering you to follow with a professional, quick smile. Harry doesn’t quite offer the same, but you’re reassured anyway.

“I’m Officer Warren,” the woman says. She stops at a desk with an empty chair sat just beside it. You take care to shake her hand firmly, introducing yourself with all the confidence you can scrap together. “Are you comfortable sitting here?” She quickly reaches past you to shake Harry’s hand too.

“Harry.”

“Nice to meet you.” Officer Warren nods once. “We can also find a conference room, if you’d like somewhere more private, or if you’d both like to sit,” Harry speaks up when you don’t right away.

“I’m fine standing,” he says. You quickly search his face for any sign of a lie, but he looks exactly as he had in the car—calm and willing to take your lead, so you sit before you can change your mind.

“Here works, thank you.” If either Harry or Officer Warren notice your voice is an octave higher, neither of them make any sign. She smiles again, clearly trying to put you at ease. You wish it was more effective.

“Right, well I won’t take up too much of your time. Since I took your statement last night, I’ve already got a copy of the transcript from our conversation over the phone and you won’t need to go over all of that again.”

You feel your shoulders cave a little in relief. Harry’s fingers brush the back of your shoulder, hooking gently over the top of your chair. “Okay.”

“But,” she continues, “there is the matter of how to proceed. What we talked about regarding your flat still stands… it really isn’t safe for you to remain there, especially since the perpetrator seems to know which one is yours, and we still don’t have a clear idea of where he is now, or how he was able to access the car park in your building in the first place.”

“So…” you shake your head, in either confusion or denial. “I can’t even go home?”

“I’m afraid not, for the time being.” Her eyes are soft and mildly sorrowful. “Not if the perpetrator knows where you are. Not if there’s a chance he could get more photographs through your window, or try to break in again.”

Your stomach twists. “Were you—were you able to figure out who he is?” You’re not sure you even want to know.

Officer Warren’s mouth pinches apologetically. “Not yet. We have a couple technicians working on the security footage and the photos you’ve turned in, so hopefully we’ll be able to get something from them. The car he was driving had no plates. You haven’t seen any sign of him since we spoke last?”

You shake your head, and she glances up at Harry as if to confirm. “Alright, that’s a good sign at least. He knows we’re watching, now. In the meantime, we can send an officer back with you this afternoon so you can gather a few of your things. Do you have somewhere else you can stay for the time being? With a friend?”

You open your mouth, but the “Yes,” is not your own. For some reason you dare not turn back to look at him; Harry’s fingers touch your shoulder again. “Yes, she does. She can stay with me. I live in the same building, so it’ll hardly be disruptive.”

Officer Warren gives him a long look. You can’t tell if she approves or is displeased with him for speaking for you, but now that the initial shock of it has worn off, gratitude is making your knees tremble a little.

You don’t have the words to articulate to Harry the stress he’s just lifted from you, with what sounds like so little effort. Asking India to stay with her indefinitely would have been out of the question; there’s no way you’re endangering your best friend any more than you already have. You’d be putting her in a position where she couldn’t say no. She has four roommates. She doesn’t even know about the photos yet, let alone that she’s in a few of them. And as much as it pains you to bring gender and physical stature into it, if an incident like last night were to happen again—if you came face to face with the blue-eyed-man, or if he tried to break in wherever you were staying—it’s simply more pragmatic to have someone like Harry around instead of a fearless, plucky young woman who barely clears five feet and is probably about a hundred pounds soaking wet.

This will only be for a few days, you reason—it’ll buy you just enough time to find your feet. By then, you can sort out a longer-term place to stay if the police still haven’t found the culprit. The officer is speaking again, and it takes effort to actively refocus on the conversation.

“—should avoid altering your normal routines as much as possible. We don’t like you having to upend your entire life, and realistically we’ll have more luck of catching him sooner if you’re staying in the same place.”

Her eyes are kind when she leans in a little, looking at you more carefully. “I know it’s frightening, but you’ve been incredibly strong. This won’t be forever.” All you can do is nod.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

You force yourself to say “No, thank you,” which Harry echoes from behind your shoulder. Officer Warren nods, almost perfunctorily, and stands.

“If you wait here just a minute, I’ll introduce you to the officer who’ll take you back to your flat. He’ll meet you at your building, so you can take your own car.”

You shake her hand again, though your mind is stuck on this won’t be forever. As you rise from Officer Warren’s desk, you feel Harry’s hand slide to the small of your back with gentle pressure. When Officer Warren returns with another uniformed policeman, you don’t want to move, but your legs carry you anyway. Harry’s hand lingers on your back.

He insists on driving this time so you can call India. After reassuring her again that you’re fine, you gloss over the details of staying in Harry’s flat. You can tell even in her silence that she’s not going to let you off the hook that easily, so you start rambling about what to do with Chowder before she gets the chance to say something embarrassing while Harry is sitting right there.

“Let me take Chowder,” she says before you get the chance to finish explaining. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll get in a cab right now so I can help you pack up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“You’re the best.”

“Be there soon. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Harry’s intense focus on trailing the officer eases when he glances at you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” You smile a little and for the first time in ages, it doesn’t feel forced. “She’s gonna meet us at home and take Chowder for me.”

“That’s great news.”

“I know,” you reply, a little distant. “Harry, thank you for coming with me… It was nice not to have to, y’know, do that alone.”

“S’alright.” His voice is equally gentle. “We’re gonna… They’re gonna find him. And they’re gonna fix this, and then everything’s gonna go back to normal.” You aren’t sure which of you he’s trying to reassure, but Harry looks over at you after a beat and you nod.

Back at your building, you and Harry meet up with India and the police officer waiting out front. It really is a small, mismatched troop banded together to help keep you safe; your heart aches on your way up in the lift, but in a warm sort of way.

“Think I might just pop home, if that’s alright,” Harry says, going in for the sixth-floor button on the keypad. “I told Annie a little bit about what’s going on, but I owe her an update.”

“Of course,” you look up at him in the reflection of the doors. “We’ll see you down there.”

You haven’t been to the eighth floor since yesterday morning. It’s your first time seeing the dent and scratches on the door to your flat in person. You shiver. With your best friend at your side, you hand the keys over to the officer so he can open it up for you.

“Chowder!” you shout after him as a flash of orange darts through your legs, meowing down the hall. The officer’s hand had reflexively landed on his baton as your cat had scared all three of you half to death. Once you manage to corral him back to your corner of the hallway, you struggle to keep him still in your arms. “Indy, his crate is under my bed—”

“Hold off a minute, I’m going to do a quick walkthrough. I’m sure everything’s fine, but wait here.”

Your head and India’s bob in unison as the officer leaves the door cracked open behind him. India offers a small, encouraging smile when you flinch at the sound of the officer announcing himself in your apartment. You stroke between Chowder’s ears; he is heavy and warm in your arms, and his fur sticks uncomfortably to the sweat on your palms.

“All clear,” the officer reappears. “Let’s try to be quick about this.”

India immediately ducks through the door following the officer, but you have to take a deep breath before stepping through the threshold.

The place looks completely untouched. Had you been expecting company, perhaps you would have thought to clear the dishes from the sink or remove your laundry from the drying rack in the entryway. After coercing an unusually talkative Chowder into his travel crate, you and India work as a team to stuff as much into your suitcase and duffel bag as will fit. Shirts, bras, and pants hurtle past your head.

“Indy, I’m staying at a neighbor’s for a few days—what on earth am I going to need this for?” You hold up the silk, strappy dress that just landed on your neatly-folded stacks, shooting her a look from beneath your brows.

“I’m just grabbing and throwing!”

“Well just… y’know… let’s make sure we’re not speeding through this at the expense of packing sensibly.” The suitcase is open on the floor and you have to sit on it to get the zip around all the way.

“In my defense, I mean… ” India peeks over her shoulder at you from the wardrobe. “I don’t know. Maybe not a silk gown but you might fancy something a little nicer at some point since you’re staying with the bloke we both called dibs on when we first—”

“I told you it’s not going to be like that! He has a daughter, and he’s like, a few years older than me, and the only reason I’m staying with him at all is… is because—” You cut yourself off, riding a wave of nausea.

“I know, babe.” You’ve rarely heard India’s voice so soft.

“It’ll be fine. I actually… it took some warming up but I think I actually feel good about this.” You hadn’t realized you’d stopped packing, but India turns to face you completely before rushing over to wrap you in a near strangling embrace.

“We should probably get going.” The officer’s voice from the other room startles the two of you from each other’s arms. “Are you two about ready?” India hoists you to a stand, and you poke your head out of the bedroom; the officer is peeking through the blinds across the street.

“Yes,” you reply, steady. “We are.”

Duffle, suitcase, and Chowder in tow, you clamber back onto the lift. To anyone else, it would appear as though you and India are getting a one-man escort to the airport.

“Did you get your toothbrush?”

“Yes.”

“Face wash?”

“Yes.”

“Pillow?”

“Indy, you saw me putting it in—”

“Towel?”

“Yes.”

“Phone charger?”

“… Shit.”

Ding.

The officer steps out with you on the sixth floor as you thank him, and bid a quick goodbye once he reassures you to call if you need anything or, of course, if anything happens. India turns to face you next.

“He’s this way,” you nod down the hall, and she leads. “It’s right at the end. The one with the wreath.”

The doors of the lift close audibly; you don’t want to think about the last time you’d been walking down this corridor and heard that sound from behind you.

India moves aside holding Chowder’s crate by the handle, and the shopping bag full of his supplies as you step up to the welcome mat with your things. Harry swings open the door to his apartment after the second knock, immediately taking the suitcase out of your grip and the duffel from off of your shoulder.

“Oh, Harry, you don’t have to—”

“I got it.”

India elbows you in the ribs as Harry turns to carry your bags to the nursery, and when you look behind at her, her eyebrows are raised above an animated smirk.

“Don’t,” you whisper through gritted teeth. She raises a hand in defense before you hear Harry’s footsteps as he rounds the corner into the entryway where you and India are hovering.

“Harry.” He simply extends a hand out to your friend.

“Hi there, I’m India.”

“Pleasure.” Harry flashes her a warm smile. She nods her head appreciatively as they shake hands—at you, however, instead of Harry and your cheeks ignite.

“Okay, well great. That’s settled then. Shall we—um… Indy?” You cut in, then turn to her, nodding to the door once with I’m going to kill you in your eyes.

“Lovely to meet you, Harry!”

“Cheers, dear. You as well.” Harry’s attention returns to you for a moment. “I’ll be just…” He gestures vaguely to the kitchen. You nod, stepping out into the hall with India. Chowder meows from the crate in her arms and she almost drops him.

“What,” you hiss, “was that?” She ignores your tone, then says your name like it’s a plea.

“Call me if you need absolutely anything, or text me—no matter what time it is. I’ll drop everything and come straight to you.”

“I’m sleeping two floors below where I usually do, I’m not dying.”

“I know, I know… How’s dinner tomorrow night? On me, yeah?”

“Definitely.” You wish you could squeeze her in another tight hug, but Chowder’s crate impedes you. “Thank you.”

“Love you, babe.”

“Love you back.” She looks unsatisfied. “It’s going to be fine, I promise. Text me where we’re eating on Sunday, okay?” You begin to walk backward into Harry’s apartment and blow her a kiss.

“I will… Bye!”

“Please don’t kill my cat!”

You lean on the door frame, watching India’s silhouette shrink as she heads back down the hall to the lift with Chowder. You sigh and close the door, but as you turn around, your hand rushes to your chest in a gasp; Harry is standing just behind you, rubbing his face.

“So I’ve just rung Annie while you were upstairs… ” He steps aside to give you a clear path to the hallway.

“Oh?”

“I’m sorry—they’re just coming,” he rushes, sounding a little panicked as you step into the nursery, setting your phone and laptop atop the pile of your things. “They insisted ‘cause they’ve got a spare mattress, and I told them you needed a place to crash for a bit and also that you stayed here last night so… yeah, you don’t have to be here for that. When they come—Oh, and they probably have Sylvia, too, if that’s… ” Harry trails off.

“Wait, I’m sorry.” You close your eyes and shake your head. “Annie? Isn’t that—”

“Sylvia’s mum, yeah, and um… her fiancé, AJ.” Harry tilts his head down at you ever so slightly, as if to gauge your reaction.

“And they want to give… they—they have a spare mattress? But you already have a mattress.”

“That’s what I said!” Harry gestures at himself. It must have been a lively phone call.

“Oh, well that’s… awfully kind of them,” you begin, trying to keep up. “Would it be easier if I wasn’t—”

“No.” He’s clearly surprised at his own volume as he cuts you off; Harry literally leans back, hesitating. “I mean… Stay. They’d love to meet you. They’re like, my little family unit and you’re…” Harry’s eyes flit back to yours and hang on. “You’re obviously gonna to be staying here a bit, and they drop by all the time so I jus’ don’t wanna overwhelm you, is all.”

Suddenly, it’s your turn struggling to look at him. “Well, I—”

“H, open the door! This thing is heavy!” a voice bellows from the hallway. Harry’s eyes shut momentarily.

“Coming!” he calls, already jogging out to the front.

You stand there, in the doorway to Sylvia’s room, half stunned at the pace with which this is all unfolding. Taking another deep breath, you poke your head through the door. Moments later, an explosion of family disrupts what had before been so peaceful; a child’s prolonged, high-pitched scream rips through the apartment, followed by a long, labored groan from Harry as Sylvia barrels into his arms and he crouches down to lift her.

“How’s Daddy’s girl?” he greets. Sylvia simply continues screaming and tries to bend over backward out of his arms.

“Hi, Harry.” A striking, short woman with dark glasses and shoulder-length, jet-black hair waltzes in, carrying a large dish of food wrapped in tin foil, seemingly unphased by any of this. Harry shifts Sylvia to one arm, bending over to greet her in a side hug and quick kiss to the cheek.

“Hi, love.”

What appears to be a twin sized mattress with twig legs follows in suit, grunting softly. “Still heavy.”

“Right, sorry.” Harry hands Sylvia off to whom you assume is Annie as he hurries to take the mattress, revealing a second, much taller woman with sunglasses atop her blonde head of hair. She’s wearing red lipstick and suede black pumps. Neither of them look much older than you or Harry.

“There we go,” the blonde woman sighs. “I need a cigarette.”

Harry almost takes out a light fixture in shuffling over to where you stand in the hall, hauling the makeshift bed with him. You press yourself up against the wall as he offers a quick, “S’cuse me,” then passes you to the nursery. The two women look at you as simultaneous smiles light their faces.

“Hi!”

“Hello!”

Sylvia bursts out in a laugh, waving her hands at you and interrupting the other two women from all talking at once.

“Sorry, she’s a little excitable,” the dark-haired woman apologizes, extending a hand as you approach the three of them. You notice that she’s the one wearing the ring. “I’m Annie.”

“It’s great to meet you, Harry has spoken so highly of both of you.” You turn to the other woman after introducing yourself to the two of them.

“AJ.” She quirks a corner of her lip up. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Thank you so much for the mattress, ” you begin, wringing your hands. “A lot of people have done so much to help me in the past few days… It’s really meant a lot.” AJ tilts her head to look at you with what seems like a more meaningful gaze, and Annie takes a step forward to rest a hand on your forearm.

“Harry hasn’t gone into a terrible amount of detail but… we’re so awfully sorry for what’s happened to you.” Annie rubs a thumb gently on your arm, in the crook of your elbow, and the strange familiarity of the gesture undoes something in you. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through, and with your family so far away—I just… we heard about what was going on, and that was it. We had to help.”

You nod and suddenly have trouble swallowing. There’s just something different about talking about this with women.

“Harry’s air mattress,” AJ chips in, sardonic, “belongs in an incinerator.”

“Hey!” His voice comes muted from the open door of the nursery behind you. Sylvia sucks her thumb in her mother’s arms.

Now that you see the both of them together up close, you realize how wrong you were in thinking that Sylvia only took after her father. Annie’s features are evident in her daughter’s big, brown, half-hazel eyes, her nose, and the long angles of her cheeks. She’s a perfect mix of them both.

“Well,” Annie starts, raising her eyebrows at everyone, “we’re obviously feeding you. So.”

“No you’re not!” You cover your mouth with your hands in gratitude.

“We are!” She smiles, leaning over to set Sylvia down, who weaves through everyone’s legs to the nursery.

“And relax, it’s already cooked so there’s no use turning it down,” AJ pulls you in for a side hug, which you were grossly unprepared for.

“Thank… you.” In your bewilderment, it’s all you can manage to squeeze out as Annie removes the tin foil from a full pan’s helping of chicken and vegetables.

“Isn’t this supposed to be tomorrow’s roast? The Sunday roast?” Harry’s voice comes behind you as he makes his way into the kitchen with Sylvia on his hip. He frowns, poking his head over Annie’s shoulder as she preheats the oven.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replies in feigned oblivion. They lock eyes. Something tender passes between them; part of you feels like you should look away.

“Annie… ” Harry says, softer now. “You didn’t have to do all this.” She ignores him, setting the timer on the oven as AJ slides a small mountain of tupperware in the fridge. The kettle starts to scream; you hadn’t realized someone had started tea. You’re not sure what to do besides stand by the sink and stare.

AJ rushes over to fill four steaming mugs, apportioning different amounts of cream and honey into each. She then turns to the few stray dishes in the sink, beginning to wash.

“AJ, stop tha—”

“Harry, relax would you?” She whips his leg with a dry dish towel and he retreats.

“Why is there a big girl bed in my room?” Sylvia pipes up from Harry’s arms. He looks across the kitchen at you, and then down to her.

“Well see, bug, Daddy’s got a friend who’s gonna stay here for a little while.” Harry points at you and twists so she has a better view. You wave your fingers at her, and Harry asks Sylvia if she can say your name, but she simply buries her face into his sweater.

“Like a slumber party?”

“Um—” Harry falters, but maintains speaking to her in the same lilt. “Sort of, but not quite.”

“Is it a grown-up slumber party?”

AJ chokes on her tea as she and Annie make eyes at each other. Harry’s ears go pink and he pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Honey, it’s like when Auntie Kristin comes over to Mummy and Mum’s to stay on holiday,” Annie salvages. Harry’s shoulders visibly relax. Sylvia tugs at the collar of Harry’s sweater.

“How long?” she begs. Your heart falls.

“‘M not sure, angel.” Harry moves some hair from her face as she pouts, then kisses her forehead. “Not forever.”

“This’ll be good for you, Harry. You need more friends.” Annie pinches Harry’s side as she bypasses him to grab her tea from the counter before turning to you with a lighthearted smirk. “You can reintroduce him to London nightlife, can’t you?”

You shrug to play along, pursing your lips against a smile. “I mean… ”

“Harry doesn’t go out much,” Annie’s comedic whisper fills the room as she carries your tea over to you. Harry frowns playfully over his shoulder, attempting to smack her; she narrowly dodges.

“Neither do you!” he retorts.

“Yeah, just the one time,” AJ deadpans, pointing between them and then nodding to Sylvia.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry breathes before they break into laughter that they’re all doing quite a poor job of resisting. You can’t help but join in. Sylvia’s head swings from parent to parent, smiling in oblivious delight.

“Alright, alright,” Annie wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Just leave the roast in there until you’re ready to eat. We should get going soon.”

“Have you got sheets that fit the bed?” Harry asks, bouncing Sylvia on his hip.

“Right!” Annie’s eyes go wide. She turns to AJ, “Darling, you mind popping down to the car park to get those?”

“Since I already hauled up the mattress, am I allowed to play the gender card?” AJ throws eyes at Harry.

“Hands are full,” he replies cheerfully, holding one of Sylvia’s arms up to wave.

“Fine,” She relents, snatching the car keys from Annie’s back pocket.

“Thank you!” Annie calls after her, but when AJ simply waves a hand behind her head as she trudges to the door, Annie goes on. “Promise I’ll make it worth your while later!”

AJ begins to walk faster.

Harry shoots Annie a jokingly scandalized look from across the kitchen with a hand covering his gaping mouth; she squints at him and rolls her eyes. He’s tutting his tongue at her, even as he passes their child from his arms to hers before turning on his heel. Harry breezes through the kitchen before you hear the bathroom door lock shut and now it’s just Sylvia, her mother, and you alone together.

“I love Harry but he’s a man and he doesn’t know anything.” You turn toward the sound of Annie’s voice. You shouldn’t laugh, but you do. “We live ten minutes away, if you need anything at all—anything, I mean it, please call us. Mine and AJ’s mobile numbers are both on the fridge.”

“Thank you, Annie.”

She hesitates, playing absently with the tag of her tea bag before closing the distance between you two in the kitchen, nodding to the living room couch.

“Let’s sit.”

You have a seat on the couch, but Annie bounces Sylvia in her lap on a small leather armchair on the other side of the coffee table. Her eyes are warm; you see a flash of that tenderness that had passed between her and Harry.

“He is a good person.” Annie’s voice is so low, it’s almost a whisper. “Probably one of the best people I know… You’re in good hands, I promise.”

There isn’t a chance for you to respond as the sound of the faucet running in the bathroom interrupts the first stirrings of a smile on your lips. Both of your heads turn as Harry renters the living room, his eyes flitting between yours and Annie’s with an off look on his face.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Course not, babe. We’re just waiting for AJ with the sheets,” Annie replies, distracted by the small child in her lap leaning forward, outstretching her short, chubby arms toward Harry. She lifts Sylvia up to her dad and he takes her in his arms, planting a dozen kisses on her cheek before crashing on the couch, so close beside you that your knees brush like they did at the police station. Sylvia goes for Harry’s glasses a few times but he dodges with the skill of someone who’s used to that.

“Miss me?” AJ bursts through the door with a folded bundle of checkered sheets nearly covering her face. Her path to the nursery is noisy in her heels. Annie smiles fondly as her fiancé returns; AJ perches on the armrest of the leather chair, half sitting, then wraps an arm around Annie’s shoulders. You are acutely aware of the warmth of Harry’s leg against yours, suddenly too nervous to shift and potentially draw attention to it.

Though you try hard not to, you can practically see the silent conversation happening between the three other adults in the room; if you had to guess, it’s probably about you. You categorically refuse to look at Harry, so you’re left with AJ’s nearly imperceptible eyebrow-raising, and a curl of Annie’s lip that seems to be a question and a confirmation all at once. The three of them are a little… too quiet.

“Well we should be off then,” she says, drawing her hands together in a half-clap. “Someone needs a bath tonight.” Sylvia locks her arms around Harry’s neck as he begins to rub her back.

“C’mon now, angel,” he murmurs, glancing over his daughter’s head to look at you with a vaguely resigned expression. “Gonna see you tomorrow, aren’t I? Gotta be good for your mums.”

Harry fixes Sylvia’s wobbling lower lip with a stern look. “Hey, now. What’s this about? S’not any different from Mummy’s normal turn with you, right? You know you’ve got too much love pumpkin, we gotta share ya.”

Sylvia mumbles something too soft to make out; Harry ducks his head close. “Tell me.”

You don’t catch all the words, except, “stars.”

His face crumples a bit. “Oh honey, of course you’ll still have your bedtime stars. They’re not going anywhere. Nobody’s gonna take your stars.”

“And that sounds like the beginning of a meltdown,” Annie says, standing quickly and pulling Sylvia up from Harry’s lap. “Best be on our way before she tests all our eardrums.” Sylvia momentarily seems like she might reach back for him, but then she looks at you as though by accident, and shrinks back into her mother’s arms. Shame knots in your stomach as the two women head for the door.

Sylvia peeks over Annie’s shoulder, her cheeks and nose a shade rosier than usual. AJ slings her purse over her arm with the car keys in hand as you busy yourself clearing the empty mugs of tea in some small attempt to give them privacy.

“Come ‘round about six, yeah?” Annie calls as AJ waves at you and disappears first out the door. Harry is sliding Sylvia’s arm through the second sleeve of her coat.

“Sounds good.” He plants an audible kiss to his daughter’s forehead before tugging her tiny knit hat more securely over her curls. “Love you, bug.”

Harry’s hand falls to Annie’s waist as she touches his jaw to pull him in for a quick peck at the corner of his mouth. “Call us if you need anything.” She turns back to you. “You too. Our numbers are—”

“On the fridge,” you finish in a small smile, waving. “Thank you, Annie.” Harry shuts the door behind them and the flat falls silent for the first time in what feels like ages. You hear him laugh once before he turns to you.

“Sorry about that.”

“No.” It’s your turn to be emphatic. “Harry, I should be the one apologizing. Sylvia’s so upset, I feel awful.”

Harry looks from you to the door and back again, shaking his head as he moves towards the kitchen. “Oh no, don’t worry about that. She was mostly tired, is all. Happens all the time.” You watch in silence as he begins to rifle through the cabinets. “I’m sure I left it in here somewhere—Aha!”  

He holds an empty mason jar aloft before grabbing a sharpie and the magnetic pad of sticky notes from the fridge door. Harry scrawls quickly, the cap of the pen between his teeth, before sticking a note on the glass and holding it up for you to read the big, block letters.

APOLOGIES.

Sunday, 6th January 2019. 8:22 PM …………………………………………

“You’re being awfully quiet.”

“Yeah sorry,” you mumble. Beneath the glass of your table is a tableau of small figurines; a long boat, a small house, tiny figures wearing rice hats. Glancing at the empty table next to you, you see the scene is different, populated with similar figures and objects. This is your favorite Vietnamese restaurant; how had you never noticed before? “Food’s taking forever.”

India looks at you carefully over the rim of her beer. “Babe, just try and enjoy yourself, yeah? We got a table in the back.” She lowers her voice and says gently, “He’s not here.”

You nod half-heartedly, watching her scoot her chair closer to the table as a familiar young waiter passes, holding a steaming bowl of pho. “I know, I know. I can’t help it. I swear I’m going crazy, like, I feel like I see him everywhere but I know it’s not him, I just… ”

“I get it.” India had insisted that you take the inside seat so that you could see the door. Tucked behind the stretch of wall that leads downstairs to the toilet, you’re also unseen from the glass window facing the street. “You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten. We got your favorites.”

“I guess.”

She watches you fiddle with the paper sleeve of your chopsticks. “Babe, it’s not too late to come and stay at my flat—”

“Indy.”

“I can talk to my flatmates and my sofa is more comfortable than it—”

“Harry already set up a mattress for me.” That stops India’s wheedling in its tracks.

“You serious? Like a proper mattress?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s really sweet.”

“I know, it’s actually really comfortable. I slept on it last night.” You lean your elbows on the table and cover your face with your hands. “He’s almost too kind—his whole family is—it makes me feel bad… He’s acting like I’m not inconveniencing him at all when like, I obviously am.”

“Wait.” India’s jaw drops. “You met his whole family yesterday?”

“Well, not technically his whole family. Just his daughter’s birth mother and her fiancé. They were the nicest people. They just acted like everything was normal and it… I don’t know.” You shrug. “It hasn’t felt like that in a while.”

“Maybe, you’re not inconveniencing him that much, I dunno.” Your favorite older waiter, who always sneaks you extra rice, appears at India’s side. He drops off seafood curry, spicy sweet and sour soup, and a plate of morning glory. Despite your uncomfortable headspace, all the food makes your stomach growl.

“Fish and rice coming,” he says, and you smile in thanks.

“Try to give him the benefit of the doubt, yeah?” India continues when the man disappears. “How’s that going by the way?”

“It’s… ” You pick at a piece of okra from the soup bowl. “Yeah, it’s fine, it feels a bit like camping. I keep getting on the lift and automatically pressing the eighth floor and then remembering but it’s honestly nice not having to figure out a new tube schedule or running path or, like, place to park your car or whatever.”

“I meant, how is it going with Harry?”

The okra is too hot, but you keep chewing anyway. You know what she meant. “To be honest, we haven’t seen much of each other since the police station. I’ve been super busy with archives and work stuff and Harry’s been spending a lot of time with his daughter.”

India’s eyes light up. “That’s adorable!”

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s sad. She, like, has to stay at her mom’s an extra week instead of with him.”

“Didn’t he suggest that though? He was the one who told the officer that you should—”

“Well, he probably felt obligated since—” Your best friend cuts you off firmly with your own name.

“Harry is a grown man. He has agency. There are different choices he could have made, and if it came down to it, there are other places you could have stayed. He decided to ask you to stay with him and that’s that.” India leans back, dropping her napkin onto the table as if to make her point.

You just look at her, chewing. “You’re going to make one hell of an attorney when we graduate.”

“Fucking right I am.” She winks. The waiter reappears with the fish and two bowls of rice. “So what are you two doing about, like… meals? Do you both go grocery shopping?”

“I stopped by the shops today to pick up a few things. I don’t want Harry to think I’m using his apartment as like, a bed and breakfast or something. He’s cooked for me so far when we’re both home though—or he always fixes me a plate anyway.”

“Have you like, offered him money?”

“Yes! He won’t hear it.” You know you shouldn’t talk with your mouth half full, but India is long past caring. “It’s crazy. I think he just thinks I’m some broke uni student or whatever—and I mean, he’s not wrong… I think when this is all over I’m going to leave him a thank you card and a bottle of wine or something.”

She fans herself with her hand, pretending to swoon. “Such a gentleman.”

“I know. It kills me.”

The conversation lulls for several minutes as you both eat, alternating spoonfuls of curry with the tart vegetables inside the soup.  “Do you think he likes you?”

You pretend to be focused on ladling broth without spilling. “Definitely not. Well, maybe. I don’t know.” When you glance up, India’s expression is dubious at best. “I don’t know! We don’t see each other enough. Like, this morning I was out on a run before he even woke up. I think… yeah I think I’m going to try to spend as much time out of his way as possible, actually.”

“Has he—have either of you brought up… New Years?”

“No.” The thought makes you wince. “I… I actually have to tell you something.”

“Oh my god, spill.”

You brace yourself. “We slept together.”

“I knew it!” Heads swivel all around the restaurant; the host gives you both a look from behind the podium.

“Keep your voice down!” you hiss. “We didn’t have sex I just slept in his bed, it was on the first night after that guy came back a second time to knock on Harry’s door at like one o’clock in the morning and I was freaked out so we just… kind of, y’know.”

“Who initiated it?”

“Me! Of course it was me. Harry wouldn’t… ” You sigh, shaking your head. “Nothing else happened.”

“Did it make you feel better?” she asks gently.

“Yes…” You don’t know why it’s so hard to admit, but you feel a rush of that same weight immediately lifting like it had two nights ago. “It did. I felt so, so much better.”

India’s switch from gentle understanding to exasperation is like whiplash. “Then what is the bloody spare mattress for?”

You give her a sidelong look. “I’m thinking it was like a one-time thing, babe.”

“Do you want it to be a one-time thing?” she presses.

You fiddle with the last piece of squid in the stone curry bowl. “I don’t know.”

“Well have you even talked about it?”

You shake your head. “Yeah we… tend to avoid all those subjects.” India snorts; you narrow your eyes at her. “What?”

“This is so gonna blow up in your face.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you reply, sounding defensive even to yourself.

“That is bollocks and you know it. Are you seriously going to pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

Something inside you snaps a little. “Well what would you do if you were me?”

“If I were you,” India says, infuriatingly patient, “I’d be more honest with my best friend about how I felt.”

Your chopsticks fall to the glass tabletop with a clatter. “I’m not trying to be bashful or like… clutch my pearls at what you’re saying, India… I want to be excited about him. But think about the circumstances.” You sigh and lean your forehead in your hands. You’ve suddenly lost your appetite, so you go on.

“I just… I feel like any chance that Harry and I may or may not have had to be something after New Years… It’s gone now because of this horrible, ugly, humiliating thing and there’s nothing either of us can do about it now and it can’t go back to the way it was and it can’t go forward and like, I can tell he feels bad and awkward about it, too—I can just tell it’s on his mind, you know?”

Your best friend is quiet for a long time until you look back up at her. “Okay first of all, I’m not going to tell you that your feelings are invalid because they’re not, but surely you know that none of this is your fault, right? You’re not purposefully like, flinging yourself at Harry’s feet because he’s your ominous Mr. Big and he makes six figures.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, ease up on the Carrie Bradshaw references, please.”

India points her chopsticks like a weapon. “Never. But you hear me, don’t you? You shouldn’t be embarrassed about a situation that’s literally out of your control. You don’t have to put up this wall—” she gestures to where you sit— “Maybe it is a little bit awkward, but you shouldn’t pretend that you weren’t interested in him—or that he wasn’t interested in you. It takes two people to kiss in a lift, you know.”

“I love how you’re trying to make it sound as if I was not one of those people.”

India just waves away your sarcasm. “That was five days ago. You’ve fancied each other for a year. Those kinds of things can’t just disappear overnight. And I’m not saying you should, like, try to put the moves on him while you’re staying together,” she says, then pauses to tilt her head. “Although… ”

“India.”

“Alright, fine. All I’m saying is you can’t just act like it never happened.”

Silence settles over the table as you circle the rim of your beer glass with the tip of your finger. You both know she’s right.

“Well,” India says at last. “I don’t know about you but I’m getting stuffed and I reckon this’ll make for an excellent breakfast tomorrow.” She gets your waiter’s attention and asks for the remaining food to be packed up. “I’ve got a case brief to procrastinate, a couple Great British Bake Off reruns saved on the telly, and a very grumpy cat to spoil with treats waiting back at my flat, if you’d like to keep me company.”

“Oh my god,” you moan. “You’re going to make Chowder fat.”

“I absolutely am.”

Monday, 7th January 2019. 5:37 PM …………………………………………

Just when you finally think you’ve deciphered the surname of a person who died over a century ago, your phone vibrates on the desk so loud that you can hear it through your headphones. You gasp, dropping your magnifying glass on the worn yellow page of a book four times your age before picking it up again with a grimace. You glance over your shoulder to check if anyone in the library had seen your blunder, and when you look back to the name handwritten in Old English Cursive, you’ve completely lost whatever you thought it said before. You curse under your breath before reaching for your cell phone. Upon seeing the name of the sender, your mood immediately lifts.

Harry Styles. 5:37 PM.

You mentioned you usually wrap up work stuff around this time… I imagine you get off at the Clapham North tube stop, yeah?

You. 5:38 PM.

That’s right.

Harry Styles. 5:38 PM.

I’m just off of work and I’m here now. Shall I wait a little while and we can walk home together?

You. 5:38 PM.

No no, I’ll just meet you back at the flat. I’m going to try to be productive a little while longer.

You. 5:39 PM.

Thanks though.

Harry Styles. 5:40 PM.

No problem, see you at home.

It takes you a minute to wipe the ecstatic smile from your face before you can return to the archives. By the time your phone lights up again about twenty minutes later, you’ve lost interest completely.

Harry. 6:01 PM.

Stopping by the shops. Any suggestions for dinner?

You. 6:03 PM.

Fish tacos.

Harry. 6:04 PM.

Cheers. x

With that, you sigh, gently set a ribbon in the spine of your book to keep your place before closing it with a soft thud and a cloud of dust. It’s a brief walk back to your advisor’s office; the law department is in Bentham House, which is a five-minute walk from UCL’s main library. Today you make it in four. You leave the archives on her desk and lock them up with a spare key. The walk from there to Euston station is even shorter, but you keep a whistle clenched in your fist since you’re alone and the sun has set.

The tube is crowded as usual. You scan the crowd and check the faces of passengers in the reflection of the windows, but there’s no sign of the blue-eyed man. The eight-minute walk home is spent on high alert; you have it down to a science. You’re eased by the streetlights overhead and the steady stream of people bustling past you on the sidewalk, but you cannot quell the urge to keep your eyes peeled until the very moment you’re sliding Harry’s spare key into the deadbolt.

You open the door to the sound of Creedence Clearwater Revival and the smell of grilled mahi-mahi, slipping out of your jacket and locking the door behind you. The music playing from the stereo grows softer and a moment later Harry calls your name.

“Hi! It’s me,” you respond.

You make your way over to the kitchen and hop up to the counter in your usual spot. Harry is bobbing his head along to the music with a dishrag over his shoulder, still wearing his suit trousers but the top couple buttons on his dress shirt are undone and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He shoots you a quick smile before turning the music back up.

“You know this one?” He nods to the stereo.

“Of course.”

Harry whistles, drawing it out. “You’re good.”

“No,” you admit. “I think I’m just getting lucky. Bad Moon Rising is about all I know by these guys.”

“How was your day?” Harry nudges the fish one more time in the skillet before sidestepping over to a cutting board on the countertop, busying himself with a few fresh vegetables.

“It was good. I got a lot done.” You hesitate for a moment, then jump down from your perch and rinse your fingertips under the faucet before finding a spot to stand by his side. Placing your hands on top of each of his, you take over the knife, tomato, and cabbage. “Am I chopping these?” You look over at Harry for direction; the corners of his lips press up against his dimples as he returns to the stove.

“Uh—yeah that’s great. Thanks.”

“How was yours?”

“Same as always—”

“Did you get those today?” You don’t mean to cut him off. Harry looks up from the skillet to follow your gaze to the vase of white tulips by the sink. The freshly cut stems are still dripping onto the unfurled wrap of newspaper.

“Yeah, I mean.” He shrugs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Had a few extra quid on me at the shops… Do you like them?”

“Yeah they’re nice…” you trail off, pausing in your chopping to peer over your shoulder at the living room. The Legos have disappeared into a basket, the rocking horse has been pushed to the wall beside the bead maze, and there is no Christmas tree in sight. You hadn’t noticed on the way in. “You’ve been busy.” Harry laughs once, noncommittally; now that you’re standing closer, you can tell he has shaved, as well.

“I figure if there’s nobody around to make a mess for a little while, I may as well spruce the place up a bit.” The sound of your knife ceases again as you’re struck with a sudden pang of guilt. Harry looks over at you in a double-take from the stove. “No, it’s nice!” he rushes. “I can’t remember the last time I had the flat to m’self for so long. I hardly know what to do with all the free time.”

“You don’t really have it to yourself, though, do you?” It comes out a bit under your breath.

“I’m happy to have you. And it’s not like Sylvia’s locked up in a dungeon somewhere—” you laugh abruptly and he points the spatula at you— “Don’t tell Annie I said that. I didn’t mean it.”

“Of course not.”

“Point is,” he continues, smiling gently, “She’s a ten-minute walk away—seven minutes if you’re sober and it isn’t pouring rain.” You bite back a smile in spite of yourself, your heart beginning to race. He’s talking about New Years. “I’m stopping by tomorrow. Please don’t feel bad. It’s actually kind of relaxing.” You offer no reply so the two of you continue cooking to the tune of a new song.

“Can you hear me calling out your name… You know that I’m falling and I don’t know what to say… I’ll speak a little louder, I’ll even shout,” Harry sings along. “You know that I’m proud and I can’t get the words out… ”

“What now?” you ask, half a shredded cabbage and two freshly sliced tomatoes at your fingertips.

He pauses in seasoning the fish to nod at a mixing bowl on the counter. “Add it to that then squeeze a bit of lime over the top. Do you like spicy food?” You nod. “Perfect. There’s some chili and cayenne in the spice drawer—add as much as you like.” You pour in the vegetables and try two different drawers with no luck, met with Harry’s audible snickering.

“Warm… ” he starts as you move your hand along the cupboards. “Cold… Colder… Freezing, love.” You crack a smile and throw your hands up in feigned exasperation. Harry sidesteps over to you before pulling out a lazy susan cabinet hidden in the corner and setting both the spices on the counter in one hand; he’s fighting a laugh and shaking his head as you add a little to the creamy mix.

“Thanks.”

“S’alright.”

You carry the sullied chopping board and knife to the sink and fill yourself a glass of water, fiddling with the end of the blind. Harry’s eyes are drawn to your hand as you tug down to cover the window an extra inch.

“Food’s about ready.” He plates the tortillas and blackened mahi for both of you before pouring over the chipotle sauce and vegetables. “What do you fancy to drink?”

“I’m all set.” You raise your water glass, resting a hand on the back of one of the dining chairs still left in the kitchen. “Are we eating in here again?”

“I think that’s best, yeah. It’s probably fine to pull some of the blinds down tomorrow.” Harry hands you your plate before cracking open a bottle of Stella. “You like guacamole?” He takes a swig, peering into the fridge.

“What kind of a question is that?” you shoot back. Harry laughs once, covering his mouth with his wrist, then pops the lid off the plastic tub with his thumb and walks over to tap some guac onto your plate and his.

“Oh—don’t wait for me…” he scolds. “You and your manners.”

“I don’t mind. You made dinner.”

“We made dinner.”

“I sliced a tomato.” Harry takes a seat across from you and your knees almost bump. “Are you finally going to let me take the dishes tonight?” He pauses a moment before responding through a roguish smile.

“If you promise to help pull me up from my chair.”

You point your index finger at him with the hand holding your water, your eyes narrow and stern. “Tread lightly.”

Harry simply raises his Stella and clinks it with your glass. You turn your attention back to the food and moan into the first bite of your taco. He kinks an eyebrow.

“It’s okay?”

“Better than.” Your mouth is full so you cover it with your fingertips before getting lost in a conversation about London, the BBC, art, your families, and childhood while Fleetwood Mac and Elton John play faintly in the background. He is coy, curious, and calm—invested in what you’re saying. As you sit across from each other, some part of you wonders if he gets lonely on the weeks he doesn’t have Sylvia.

Before you know it, your plate is clean. You stand, set your dishes in the sink, and reach behind you without looking, nudging Harry’s shoulder with wiggling fingers as you run the water, feeling the ceramic of his plate in your fingertips a moment later. Tonight, he disappears into his bedroom and lets you wash the dishes in peace before reappearing in a pair of plain black sweatpants and a matching tee shirt.

“Thank you.” His voice comes softly from behind you.

“Of course.” You look over your shoulder from the sink to see that Harry is leaning against the counter with a leg resting on one of the dining chairs, arms crossed, and eyes distant. He clears his throat and gets straight into it.

“You see that guy at all today?” You turn back to the dishes before shaking your head. They’re all clean so you grab a towel and begin to dry. Harry yawns behind you.

“What time is it?” you ask over your shoulder.

“Little after nine.” He sniffles. “Would you like some tea?”

“Are you having some?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Harry mimics. You exhale a laugh.

“Yes, I would like some,” you confirm. He switches the stereo off, then paces over from the stovetop to stand beside you, filling the kettle under the tap.

“You still want to sleep in Sylvia’s room?” Harry’s voice is soft again; you’re certain he’d deliberately come closer to ask that question and not call it from across the room. You pause in your drying and allow too much time to lapse before answering.

“What do you think?”

“Where do I think you should sleep?” Harry raises a hand to his chest, retrieving two mugs from the cabinet, “Or where do I think you want to sleep?”

“The first.” You set a dry plate down and pick a knife up from the wet pile of cutlery.

“I think it’s completely up to you.” Harry opens his mouth again, but closes it and waits for you to respond.

“I’ll take the nursery.” You tilt your head to seem unaffected as you dry the blade.

“Alright,” Harry replies evenly. You’d been testing the waters to see if he’d call your bluff and you would be lying if you said you weren’t a little disappointed. The kettle begins to steam before you speak again. You swallow dryly.

“You didn’t really answer the question.”

“Sorry?”

“Where… where do you want me to sleep?” you push. Harry looks away from you to pour two even mugs in concentration.

“Well, you want to take the nursery.” Harry pours in your dash of cream. Fleetingly, you think that’s all you’re going to get out of him. “What I want—” Your heart jumps. “Where I want you to sleep doesn’t matter.”

You remember your desire from Saturday at the police station, to reclaim your time. On top of that desire, you want time better spent, and it’s staring you in the face right now, daring you to lean in.

Be brave.

“What if I wanted you to tell me anyway?” You’re running out of things to dry. Harry leans a hand against the edge of the counter and sets the kettle back down on the stovetop, his eyes landing somewhere vaguely in the space between you two.

“I think… I might want for you to sleep in the same place you did… y’know, the first night. So that’s… Yeah. That’s how I feel… about that.” You take care to refold the dishrag and smooth it over before hanging it back around the neck of the faucet.

“Let’s do that then.”

You take a minute at the sink with nothing to busy your hands before turning your head to Harry, unable to look him square in the eyes. He takes a deep breath in, walking slowly toward you, although you notice it’s because he’s trying not to spill your tea. Your pulse is skyrocketing as Harry comes to a halt close enough for you to smell the lingering detergent on his shirt. He looms there to set your mug on the counter beside you, then turns to make his way wordlessly to the bedroom. You let out an uneven breath once he’s out of sight, leaning into the counter.

You down your entire cup of tea in the kitchen alone as Harry takes the first turn in the bathroom; you hear him shower and brush his teeth through the door before he slips into his room. You’re quick in the bathroom, the minty tang of Harry’s toothpaste washing away the lingering taste of tacos and tea. The suitcase of your things in Sylvia’s room awaits you, and you slip into a tee shirt and some cotton shorts.

The lights are out in Harry’s bedroom when you creep in, shutting the door softly behind you. In the moonlight, you can see that his hair is wet; the smell of his shampoo wafts over on your walk to the bed. For the second time, you tuck yourself in as far away from him as possible on the other side of the mattress with your backs turned to each other. You close your eyes, but when sleep doesn’t come for twenty minutes, you flip onto your back and sigh at the ceiling.

A moment later, you hear the duvet shifting beside you as Harry rolls onto his back as well. He turns his head to look at you in the dark, but you keep your eyes trained forward. His hands are resting together on his stomach, but the one closest to you falls to the mattress, inching across the empty space between you on the bed. His breathing is steady. Your eyes flutter shut in focus; you know that Harry would treat you the same in the morning regardless of whether you ignored or accepted the gesture.

Your fingertips ghost over his for the length of a breath before you give in. You remain on your back, but gently take his hand and cradle it close to your face on the pillow—the tip of your nose grazes Harry’s knuckles, and you do not dare open your eyes. It’s quiet and still until morning.

Tuesday, 8th January 2019. 9:51 PM …………………………………………

“Whatcha watchin’?”

Harry is toeing out of his boots when you look over at the door; you’d been so engrossed in the film that you hadn’t even heard him come in. He left you to your own devices for most of the evening, claiming someone very small was going to be very cross if he didn’t pop over to her mum’s for storytime. Now several hours later, Harry rubs his palms together to warm his hands as you smile in welcome.

“Les Choristes,” you reply, reaching forward on the coffee table and pausing your laptop. “The Chorus. For my French class. Kettle’s hot, if you want some tea.”

Harry’s eyes light up. “You’re a saint. S’freezing out tonight.”

He moseys to the kitchen to pour himself a mug before walking over, blowing at the steam. You play the movie again and lay still as Harry perches on the armrest of the couch to watch with you.

“Did you take French in school?” you venture quietly.

“Oui.”

“Do you understand any of this?”

“No… je suis allé au cinéma avec mes copains et ma famille is about all I can remember.”

“Your accent still sounds good,” you comment. Harry’s chuckle echoes in his mug before you hear him take a sip. Neither of you say anything for a scene or two.

“I’ve got to send some emails for the gallery. Mind if I bring my laptop out and join you?”

“Not at all,” you say around a yawn. Harry gets up to round the corner into the hallway, then hesitates.

“You’re feeling alright about the blinds n’ all?” You look up to the covered windows of his living room before meeting his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good.” You tuck a bit of hair behind your ear. “Thank you.” Harry nods once before disappearing. He joins you on the couch a minute later in a vintage Kiss shirt and black sweatpants, a pink macbook under his arm. You tuck your feet in a little so he can comfortably fit.

“How was Sylvia?” you ask. He smiles immediately.

“Hilarious, as usual. Annie and AJ say hello.”

“That’s nice of them. And I’m glad you were able to see her… ” You worry a corner of the pillow between your fingertips. “Harry, I’m sorry again about—”

“Don’t even start.” He points a ring-clad finger at you. “This is hardly the first time she’s stayed longer at either of our places because of work trips ‘n the like. She barely even misses me.” Harry looks over the screen of his laptop and smiles absently, as though he’s revisiting a memory. “I walk through the door and she’s all, ‘Daddy, what are you doing here so early?’ Like… Cheers, pumpkin, happy to see you, too.” You laugh at his squeaky impression of his daughter.

“I’m sure she was.”

He types quietly beside you for most of the movie as you muffle a few more yawns, sinking deeper and deeper into the couch cushions. At one point, you startle awake, unaware that you’d been drifting asleep. A drop of drool has dried at the corner of your mouth. You squint and look around. Harry is still at the end of the couch by your feet with his computer, but he appears to be focusing intently on a screen of text. White light flashes on the lenses of his glasses as he scrolls down the page. Your toes, clad in thick wool socks, are tucked beneath his thigh and one of his hands rests atop your ankles. You blink a few times before dropping your head back to the pillow and refocusing on Les Choristes before your eyelids begin to feel heavy again.

When you wake next, the flat is dark. Your laptop’s been shut on the coffee table and Harry has disappeared; the throw he’d given you on your first night here slides from around your shoulders as you sit up, blinking. Your neck aches a little from the awkward angle. Your phone tells you it’s past one—using its flashlight and your working memory of the flat’s layout, you manage to creep to the bathroom and brush your teeth. You half-heartedly wash your face, hoping the cool water won’t keep you from being able to fall back asleep.

The shape of Harry asleep on his side of the bed is almost familiar now. You drop the throw in a puddle at your feet as you slide on hands and knees across the mattress. He’s pulled the duvet almost all the way around him, and just when you think you may have to pick that second blanket off of the floor, he stirs.

“Whas’it?” Harry barely sounds conscious. You see half his face in the shadows, twisting back towards you.

“It’s me,” you whisper. “It’s just me.”

He relinquishes his grip on the duvet so you can pull some gently over for yourself. You’re expecting Harry to simply roll over and go back to sleep. Instead, when you turn your back to him, two arms snake around your waist and drag you to the center of the bed. Harry’s nose digs into the back of your neck; he sighs an exhale over the top of your spine. His arms are locked so tight around you that you have no choice but to lean your back into the curve of his chest.

You blink at the opposite wall. This is happening. You’ve nearly drifted off when Harry shifts again. His hand slips beneath the hem of your loose tee shirt, landing warm on your stomach. His thumb strokes once, twice over the hollow between your ribs.

He’s asleep. You can tell.

You, on the other hand, lay awake for a long time.

Wednesday, 9th January 2019. 7:25 AM …………………………………………

There is no prolonged, drowsy lull where the sunlight across your cheek lures you into the day. One moment your dream is in front of you, and the next there is Harry’s ceiling.

His limbs are tangled up with yours and your chests are pressed together, the way they had been when you had awoken that first morning here, heavy and warm. Pink, clammy marks brand his skin in places where his body had been pressed for long enough into you. Harry’s face is buried in your neck again and you feel his back rise and fall beneath your palms. The duvet is in a heap at the end of the bed, and the blanket from the living room is still pooled on the floor. You lift your head to check the small, bright face of his alarm clock.

7:25 AM

You sigh and nestle back into the pillow in bliss, a whole five minutes before either of you need to get up for lectures or work. Harry shifts in sleep to hold you tighter. Your leg is hooked around his back again and you’re beginning to lose the feeling in your toes, so you slide your knee an inch down his waist and your heart kicks into gear with dread upon realizing that Harry has a pronounced erection beneath his boxers and you can feel it digging into… just about where it would need to go.

Your eyes flutter shut as you lay motionless. A breath hitches in his throat so faintly that if you were any further apart, or if there were any other source of noise in his bedroom you would have missed it… and sure enough, a moment later Harry grinds his hips against you once, weakly in slumber, before nestling his nose against your throat. If the man didn’t have half of his body weight pinning you down, you would almost feel you were invading his privacy… But since you’re still half asleep, you give your mind the license to imagine what sex with Harry might be like.

You can picture how his face would look twisting in concentration as he watched you writhe below him. You can suddenly feel the pant of his breath, and the dampness of his parted lips against your neck. You can practically hear the sound of his strangled exhale as he first slid up into you, eventually hiking your knee up his waist to push himself deeper, and deeper inside… It’s Harry. He would treat you well.

You make the mistake of cracking an eye and tilting your head to peek down. You have absolutely no business in noticing, but Harry’s length almost reaches up to his belly button, so hard it arches slightly to one side. It somehow looks strong. A splotch of dampness darkens the fabric of his boxers covering the head. That thing has made a baby. Your head falls back on the pillow as your lips part and eyes close again.

Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it.

Ever so carefully, you tug the duvet back up the bed, up to his shoulders and yours, but the moment you do so successfully, the alarm sounds. Harry jolts on top of you, taking a long breath in. He rolls off, groggy, switching off the alarm and grabbing his glasses from the nightstand in the same motion.

You watch him begin to yawn and then freeze, literally cutting himself off with a baffled frown. Harry props himself up on his elbows. His arm slides beneath the covers and you notice the duvet shift around his lap a little; his face relaxes, almost in exasperation, as his eyes immediately shut and his head falls back on the pillow.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groans beside you. You almost laugh.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, s’just I’m… ” Harry rubs his eyes beneath his glasses, sleep coating his throat. “I ache a little. That’s all.”

“Oh.” You’re unsure of what to say. “Did you not sleep well?”

“Think I slept a little too well.”

His eyes search yours from behind the frames. He’s facing the light of morning; his eyes are like a clear pool of rainwater, but the green rings of his irises are shrinking against the black of his pupils. It doesn’t make sense for that to be happening in the brightness, but your heart races in remembering some part of him probably still wants you, just like some part of you now wants him.

You’re in bed together. There’s a person laying across from you and you both want each other and it dawns on you that at this point, physically, you’re both ready to go.

“I’m going to get started on breakfast,” you rush, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed as Harry starts to rise, as well. You look over your shoulder at him from the door. “Are you gonna come?”

Harry laughs once, dryly, and mutters something under his breath.

“You’re… What was that?” you ask. He’s sat upright on the mattress with one foot on the ground and one corner of the duvet bunched up in his lap. He hesitates, not quite meeting your eyes.

“Um, yeah—just give us a sec. I’m gonna change, you can throw the kettle on.”

“Okay.” You show yourself out of his bedroom and have to cover a silent scream with your hand before jogging to the kitchen, busying yourself with the kettle and breakfast.

By now, you are very comfortable with the setup of Harry’s kitchen, flitting from drawer to cupboard, setting out silverware and two plates. As you hear the shower begin to run and the bathroom door shut, you sink the teabags, pop four slices of bread in the toaster, and start the water for a few soft boiled eggs. Harry joins you a few minutes later when you’re almost finished with your plate of breakfast at the counter; your mouth is full so you nod at his plate without looking behind you.

Harry brushes by, wedging a piece of toast between his teeth and then immediately taking a sip from his tea as though he’s in a hurry. You turn to face him and stop chewing. He’s wearing the sweatpants he slept in, but he’s shirtless with the glimmer of water on parts of him that cave inward—his arms, navel, pecs, collar, and neck. His lips and the center of his chest are flushed an identical shade of pink; sparrows, vines, and a large butterfly tattoo that you’ve never seen before adorn his chest. Textured strands of hair which usually fall around his face are groomed back with the water, darker than you’ve ever seen before, and the shadow of his stubble is beginning to reappear. You still haven’t started chewing again.

“Cheers, love,” Harry says around a mouthful, abandoning his toast and eggs in a rush back to the bedroom. You swallow wrong on your next bite and have to cough a few times.

You’re uninterrupted brushing your teeth and washing your face. Your suitcase lays open where you’d left it in Sylvia’s room, and you manage to find your favorite jeans, blouse, and sweater combination after some rifling. You dot your lips with the shade of lipstick you don’t usually wear to lectures, spritz some perfume on the insides of your wrists and neck, and head out to grab your school bag. Harry is in the kitchen in a full-out ornate, silk red suit, leaning on the counter with his legs crossed finishing his breakfast. He fixes his posture upon seeing you, tosses the dregs of his breakfast, gulps the last of his tea, and crosses over to the entryway with you as you both shrug into your winter coats. Harry starts to say something.

“What was that?” You look over your shoulder at him.

“I said your collar is just a bit… ” He gestures to the back of your neck.

You frown and reach the spot where he had pointed, but it feels alright to you. “Did I fix it?”

“No—”

“Can you just… ” You hold your hair out of the way and back up as Harry takes a step forward to you. His fingertips are cool on your neck as he flattens the fabric on your blouse.

You turn back around. “Thanks.”

He gives you a quick smile. “Ready?”

You nod.

Leaving at the same time was something you and Harry had been doing for a year; now, waiting for each other at his front door had become a small, unimportant ritual over the past three weekdays you’ve spent in each other’s company. You wait side by side in the sixth-floor hallway for the lift in silence before the doors part with a ding.

“Good morning.” The emerald-briefcase man glances up at Harry, unaffected. His eyebrows raise and mustache twitches in surprise upon a second look, over at you.

“Good morning!”

You and Harry step in beside each other. It’s odd to think about the social etiquette of a lift. You’re expected to stand beside someone who came on with you if you know them, but not if you don’t… and if you know someone personally as you walk onto the lift, you might chat but don’t usually stand beside them if you got on at different floors… You’d never been in a grouping like that, so to speak, with anyone in this building beside India. And now you’re sort of… with Harry.

“Good morning, Charles,” Harry replies, a bit forcefully neutral.

You pretend not to see Charles giving eyes to Harry in the reflection of the lift doors. At one point, Harry nods politely at him over the top of your head with an oblivious smile as though to discreetly address the change, and you remember that on New Year’s Harry had drunkenly admitted to asking Charles if he knew your name.

The lift dings at the lobby and Charles nods his bowler hat at the both of you. “Have a lovely day,” he bids you, elated, before exiting. The top of Harry’s cheeks are pink and you hear him breathe, “Oh my god,” so quietly at your side that you’re not sure if you were meant to hear it.

“I’ve actually got India’s car again today, so I’m… ” you trail off, gesturing in the direction of the doors to the garage stairwell as you and Harry step off of the lift. You could have stayed on to ride all the way down, but you’d rather avoid being trapped alone in the dead end of the garage with no security cameras if you can help it.

“Oh,” he hesitates. “Shall I walk you?”

“No, no, that’s not—I’m fine. I’ll see you back at home tonight.”

“Right,” Harry nods, eyeing the lobby doors. “See you later, then.”

You start instinctively going in for a hug and Harry naturally reciprocates before you stop yourself, frazzled, shaking your head in reminding yourself that right now, all you are to him is a hideaway until your apartment is safe again. That kind of relationship doesn’t warrant such warm goodbyes; it’s not like the two of you ever shared parting hugs before.

“Sorry—”

“That’s—” Harry chuckles, confused, but you’ve already turned away from him with cheeks aflame, shouldering your way into the stairwell.

Thursday, 10th January 2019. 9:48 PM …………………………………………

You wake up to the sound of the front door shutting, a thirty-page case brief slipping off your chest. A red pen lays sweaty in your hand and as you reach to unstick the hair from your cheek, you almost stab yourself in the eye with it.

“You’ve got to stop falling asleep on tha’ couch,” Harry chuckles at you from the entryway with an unopened bottle of red wine in hand, having a bit more difficulty than usual stepping out of his shoes. His suit is charcoal black and entirely covered in sparkles.

“You’re dressed up,” you muse.

“That work thing I texted you about ran late… Had t’ help clean up.”

“Did you now?” Harry nods, a bit delayed. “There’s baked mac in the oven if you’re—” Harry cuts you off with a near obscene groan.

“Fucking incredible.” He’s trying not to look at you and trying not to smile all at once.

You raise your eyebrows at him as he stumbles to the kitchen. The wine bottle lands with a heavy clank against the counter as he bends down to the oven, rubbing his hands together eagerly. You laugh at him under your breath and turn your attention back to your case brief.

“How’s your day?” he calls to you from the kitchen around a mouthful. You finish skimming the paragraph you were on before responding, but do not look up.

“Uh… good. Nothing exciting. You?”

“It was good, yeah.” You turn the page before hearing his voice again. “Saw a woman across from me in the tube today wearin’ a birthday crown with glitter… Gonna be Sylvia’s birthday soon—and mine. Were Aquariuses. Aquari? Wha’s the plural of Aquarius?” You can hear Harry shovel in another bite. “Do you believe in astrology?”

“I don’t… know,” you laugh, looking up with a finger on the text to keep your place. “A lot of my friends are into it.”

He’s eating with a long wooden spoon, poking his tongue out to chase after a breadcrumb on the side of his mouth. His eyes are glassy and slightly hooded. You snort a laugh and give in, tossing your case brief and pen on the coffee table before walking to the kitchen with your hands on your hips, then hop up to your usual perch. Harry leans on the counter across from you with his legs crossed, holding the glass container of baked mac you left for him aloft. He sighs, closing his eyes and swallowing before he speaks again.

“I can’t stand when the gallery does big, posh events.”

“Why not?” You quirk an eyebrow at him, crossing your legs.

“‘Cause I hate gettin’ a sitter and I hate getting home late and I’m shit at kissin’ arse and I can’t start conversations.” You laugh and walk over to fill Harry a glass of water, handing it to him with a napkin before returning to your seat on the countertop. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “M’ I being embarrassing?”

“No,” you laugh, eyeing the bottle he’d brought home beside him on the counter. “I see you’re really sticking to your New Year’s resolution, though.” Harry follows your stare, a beat late.

“Yeah… There was loads extra. Dunno if you’re a wine drinker,” he says around another bite, narrowing his eyes at you accusingly. “Red or white?”

“Red.”

“No shit. S’ Côtes du Rhône,” He nods to the bottle. “Usually above my pay grade. Fancy a glass?” He’s setting the baked mac down and dusting off his hands before you get a chance to respond. You watch him gulp down about half his glass of water and wipe his face clean with the napkin, a bit uncoordinated.

The contents of the utensil drawer noisily bang around Harry’s hand before he fishes out a corkscrew. You bite your lip against a smile as he rips off the capsule with his teeth and then struggles with the bottle opener, scrunching his nose. There’s a rubbery pop, and then a familiar glugging sound as he fills two stemless wine glasses. Harry smirks at you before handing one over.

“I’m sure this is extra credit in your French class or summat.”

“I don’t quite think it works like that, but thank you.”

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

The two of you do not break eye contact as you take your first sips. It’s stronger than you’d been expecting. You don’t know the first thing about French wine, but you can tell from the packaging of the bottle it’s expensive.

“When is your birthday?” you ask after an abbreviated pause.

“Mine’s the first of February. Sylvia’s is the fourth.”

“Wow, do you celebrate them together?”

“I mean there’s not been a terribly long track record for it, love, but we have the last two years, yeah… Hope she still wants to do that when she’s older. She’s growing like a fuckin’ weed. I know it’s what everyone says is gonna happen but s’true.”

“What does she want this year?”

“A bloody dog, what else.” You laugh as he takes another sip of wine. “Me n’ Annie have been trying to negotiate around that one.”

“I imagine that’s what I wanted, too, when I was her age.”

“Yeah… sorry, we don’t have to talk about her.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to talk about her?” You frown at him in genuine concern.

“Cause you always start to apologize about stayin’ here for no reason.”

“That’s not true—I just, y’know… see how much she loves you and it makes me feel bad.” You take a long sip of wine.

“She asked about you, you know.” Harry smiles at you over the rim of his glass. “Asked if Daddy’s friend was havin’ a nice time in her room… She also wanted to make sure I was keepin’ an eye on her stars since she’s convinced you’re gonna nick ‘em.”

“Well,” you say slowly, holding back a laugh. “You can report to Sylvia that her stars are safe and sound.” You almost drop your gaze from Harry’s but hang on at the last moment. “And that I’m having a really nice time, all things considered.”

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

Harry tilts his head back to finish off his glass. You hold yours out to him wordlessly, already starting to feel a bit warm. He grabs the bottle and tops both of you off.

“Here’s to havin’ a nice time, all things considered… ” Harry raises his glass and you return the gesture.

“And to sort-of friends,” you add before both of you drink. He grins up at you again with wine-red lips before lengthening the toast.

“Here’s to comin’ home drunk to baked mac and cheese.”

“Here’s to graduating from your god awful air mattress.” Harry tosses his head back and laughs once.

“Here’s to Charles thinking he’s witnessed us on a walk of shame.” Harry shakes his head, smiling at the kitchen floor. “Christ, he’s such a gossip.”

“Maybe that should just stay between us,” you chuckle.

“I’ve heard that before,” Harry murmurs.

You’re struck by déjà vu. It had only been a handful of nights ago that the two of you had danced around a goodnight. When he speaks again, you can’t decide if he’s annoyed or amused.

“Why’d you say it? In the lift on New Year’s… d’you regret it?”

“No,” you hiccup, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to.”

“I wanna kiss you most of the time.” Harry frowns, pausing to shake his head. “Shouldn’t ‘ave said that—”

“Does that include now?”

“What?” His eyes snap back to yours.

The words had simply fallen out of your mouth like you’d dropped them by accident; the shock written on Harry’s face probably rivals yours. Despite all the ways this could be considered a bad idea, you slowly set down your glass and uncross your legs.

“Do you want to kiss me right now?”

He blinks, almost in slow motion. “Yes.”

Your feet hit the kitchen floor. You’re taking two wobbly steps forward before you can think, but Harry has already pushed off the counter to meet you halfway. His hands find either side of your face and he kisses you opposite to how he had that first time on New Year’s—so hard, and so sure that you’re pushed back the distance you’d crossed to him. The weight of his body is pressing your lower back up against the countertop where you’d just been sitting.

Is this happening? This is happening.

Harry’s lips taste like Côtes du Rhône but you swear what he’s doing to you is making you more drunk. You tilt your head the other way to kiss him; his mouth opens to let you in a bit more. You nip at his lower lip; his tongue brushes against yours. The rhythm and urgency of the kiss gradually increases as you fall into a frenzy together. You’re so carried away that your teeth clack together by accident.

The sound of your mouths moving as one is obscene and enrapturing as it fills the kitchen. Your fingers curl into his hair; it’s softer than you had imagined. Without breaking your kiss, Harry wraps his hands around your waist and squeezes once before lifting you back up on the countertop, having little discretion for being gentle about it. You arch into him and his hands are on the backs of your knees, yanking you into his chest. You’d slide off the edge if not for the way his body pins you in place. He props a hand against the cabinet behind you in a way that sort of cradles the back of your head so you don’t bang it against the wooden cover.

You lock your legs at the ankles behind Harry’s back, wrapping your fingers around his wrist to slip his hand underneath the fabric of your shirt. You’re not wearing a bra. He’s touching high enough on your ribs for him to know that. But all Harry does is try to pull you closer to him by pressing his palm into your back and it’s almost a little bit frustrating.

“We need t’stop,” Harry pants, breaking your kiss. “Or I dunno if I’m gonna be able.” You’re also chasing your breath rather raggedly, but you nod in agreement.

“You’re right. It’s getting late.” Harry strokes the side of your face with his thumb and you almost lean in to kiss him again. You have to shake your head and focus. “We should be getting to bed.”

“Yeah.” Harry hesitates, dropping his hands to your knees. “Are you gonna sleep in my bed?”

“I mean… I don’t have to—”

“No I’d like you to—s’just… We have to be good.” Harry flexes his jaw and swallows roughly. You’re not sure if the reminder is for you or him. He leans his forehead against yours the way he had after your first kiss on New Years. “Okay?”

“Of course,” you breathe.

Harry makes a faint sound in the back of his throat and tilts his head to brush his lips along your cheekbone before ghosting across your ear. Your eyes close as the tip of his nose grazes your jaw, the warmth of his breath making the small hairs on your skin stand up. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss, and then another, and then another into the slope of your neck.

“I need a cold shower,” he sighs against your collar. Your abrupt, wine-induced giggle quickly slips out of your control.

“What?” Harry bursts, exaggerated through his own laughter. “I’m trying to be good, didn’t you jus’ hear me?” You still can’t stop. “I’m leavin’ you here.”

He throws his hands up in the air, shaking his head with a barely contained smile as he stalks off to his bedroom. Just before the door shuts behind him, you hear Harry’s voice again from the end of the hallway.

“Don’t be long.”

Friday, 11th January 2019. 7:21 PM …………………………………………

There’s a tremendous amount of dexterity required to turn the key in the lock and open Harry’s front door while balancing two boxes of archives in your arms. It’s a full load today and you realize too late you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. Your phone begins to vibrate inside your bag and you use the weight of the boxes to push the door open, nearly falling forward when it swings open to reveal Harry with a hand on the doorknob in the entryway.

“Christ, sorry love—” He races to take the boxes from your hands. You shoot him a grateful smile, struggling to take off your scarf and dig through your bag at the same time. You manage to answer just before the call probably would’ve gone to voicemail.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Officer Warren calling from the Metropolitan Police at Lavender Hill Station.”

The blood drains from your face as your scarf and handbag both slide from your grip with an audible thump against the hardwood. Harry is setting down the boxes beside the chest cabinet, but his head jerks up at the sound.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” you blurt. “Yes, I’m here. Is there… Is there news?” Harry hesitates. You palpably see the thought cross his mind to give you privacy the way he always does when you take personal phone calls, but you reach for his wrist before he gets the chance to step away.

“Yes, I have an update. It’s good news.” You’re still clutching the phone to your ear in a death grip, and you can hardly process anything after the words, we found him. Harry’s eyes are frantically searching your face.

“He’s in holding. We ran his fingerprints and were able to identify him as the man in the security footage seized from the car park of your building. You’ll have to come into the station in order to formally identify him, but that can wait till morning. Are you alright with that?”

You nod before remembering Officer Warren can’t see you. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“You can take a breath now, sweetheart… It’s over.”

It’s over.

“Thank you so much.” You can barely speak. Before hanging up, you confirm a time for tomorrow morning and your cheeks are wet when you cup your hands to your mouth to cover an ecstatic smile.

“What’s happened?” Harry asks.

“They caught him,” you choke out. Your words and a wild laugh of relief echo in your palms. Harry gives you a gaping smile; his glasses raise on the apples of his cheeks. “The police found him, Harry. It’s over. I—”

You’re off your feet, spinning in his arms before you can finish. You’re still crying and laughing when Harry puts you down. He smooths his hand over your hair as you press your cheek against his chest. “Told you, didn’t I?” he soothes. “Everything’s alright. You don’t have to hide anymore.”

“I need to call my parents,” you say, pulling back to dab at your eyes with your sleeve, giving him a teary smile. “God, I honestly can’t believe it.”

“Go on then.” Harry brushes past you to the front door, shrugging into his winter coat. “I’m gonna nip down to the off-license. This calls for some celebratory booze. And I’m gonna ring Annie… I’ll be like ten minutes, yeah?”

You just nod, a little too overcome to move; you’re still standing there as he disappears out the door. After gathering your bearings, you curl up into a ball on Harry’s couch and your mom picks up after the first ring. Your entire family is crying of relief as you share the news, and you eventually have to get up and pace the living room with a hand laying flat on the top of your head. You’re unable to stop repeating, I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it.

You’re still on the phone walking in laps around Harry’s apartment, but turn to the front door when you hear the jingle of keys from the hallway outside. Harry appears with a tall, brown paper bag under his arm, shaking dappled droplets of rain from his hair, and wiping his glasses on the sleeve of his jacket. The lucid green of his irises contrasts with the rosy color in his cheeks and nose as he grins at you again, wide at first, but then the smile melts until it only graces his eyes. Your feet have stopped moving; Harry watches you closely from where he stands; he’s also stopped scuffing his feet on the welcome mat.

“Um… love you guys.” It comes out softer than you had intended. “I—I actually have to call you back.”

One of your siblings is saying something on the other line, but you’ve already pulled the phone from your ear and ended the call as the final warble of someone’s goodbye is drowned in the silence of Harry’s apartment. He is utterly still, reading you.

You pivot in place, your feet carrying you to him before you give yourself the chance to reconsider. It’s almost as if your miniature revelation had sparked something in Harry because suddenly he’s moving toward you, too. The leather chair stands in your path but you narrowly dodge it; Harry finds the nearest flat surface to stand the bottle of wine. You’re practically scrambling toward each other, and meet halfway in the living room.

He wraps his arms around you completely and you’re on your toes with fistfuls of his collar, but your mouths meet first, almost in a crash. Harry kisses you like you’re running out of time—like it’s the last important thing he’ll ever do. The irony is that this is the first moment that the two of you, in fact, have all the time in the world. You don’t think it’s physically possible to get close enough to him. His face is still chilled from the rain, but his lips are warm against yours. The contrast makes you tingle and you realize that this is the first completely sober kiss you’ve shared.

He gently tugs your lip in his teeth; your nose nudges his glasses. He curses into your mouth and in the next breath, Harry reaches up between you and yanks the frames from his face. He tosses them in the general direction of the coffee table, where they clatter and fall to the floor and you laugh against his lips before you can help it.

Harry takes the reprieve to slide both hands down to your hips. His thumbs dig into the fleshy part of your waist as he walks you backward to pin you against the wall, ducking his head down. You lean back to catch your breath, but Harry is undeterred. Your pulse jumps as he works his way down your jaw to nip at your neck in a trail, and it’s exhilarating to feel him really kiss you somewhere that isn’t your lips. You tilt your chin up to encourage him, but you’re surprised when Harry presses his mouth into the skin just above your breast, over your racing heart, just once, like he’s introducing himself. Before you can help it, you’re carried away by the thought of his tongue and teeth grazing that same spot.

“Let me make you dinner,” he says into your collarbone. “Please.”

“You’re seriously thinking about dinner?” Under normal circumstances, you’d be embarrassed at how breathy you sound, but it’s a miracle you can even string a sentence together at this point. Harry’s laugh raises goosebumps over your skin.

“Seems like the safest thing to be thinkin’ about right now, love.”

“We don’t have any food,” you point out, still trying to collect yourself.

“Takeaway, then.” Harry gives you a quick peck, his smile lifting up higher on one side. “Curry, pizza… Whatever you want.”

“You know that Korean place? Off Northcote Road?” Harry nods. “They don’t deliver but we can… We can walk over. Pick up.”

“Perfect.”

Harry leans his forehead into yours, gently pushing your head back against the wall and you simply stand there for a minute, stroking his back over the jacket he still hasn’t taken off.

“I can’t believe I can just—” You laugh once, giddy— “go anywhere I want, when I want, without having to think ten steps ahead.” He pulls back to look at you, reaching up to brush the hair out of your eyes.

“S’ the way it should be,” he says simply. “You’ve been really tough.”

Harry leaves you where you’re standing, abruptly rounding the corner into the kitchen. You hear the blind on the window above the sink rise. More footsteps. Harry reappears in the living room, making his way to the massive windows along the wall facing the street, pulling up the blinds on each by the cord before going around to flip on every light switch in the whole apartment.

You approach the living room windows, taking your time. The glass fogs between your fingertips as you press your palms flat against the cool panes. The spectrum of lights that illuminate London at night is profoundly beautiful; an entire galaxy twinkles just outside. You will never take it for granted again.

Friday, 11th January 2019. 8:30 PM …………………………………………

You lean back in your chair to rest your knee on Harry’s tiny wicker dining table, taking only your flute of champagne with you. He’s resting his elbows on the edge as he crumples a paper napkin and smiles at you, fishing something from his teeth with his tongue.

“I’m stuffed,” you sigh.

“So am I… Good recommendation. Don’t think I’ve had this place before.”

“Yeah, it’s one of my top ten in London. The grapes don’t hurt either.” You swirl your drink in the air before taking a sip.

“Would you like some more?” he asks, already reaching for the bottle.

“Please… Thank you for getting dinner, Harry.” He frowns as he tops you off.

“Of course. We’re celebrating.” A drop escapes over the neck of the bottle as he’s pulling back, and he catches it with his thumb before sucking the tip of his finger.

His jawline and the sound of his thumb parting with his lips is a little too enticing; you sit up and start stacking empty takeout boxes to distract yourself, and Harry holds the mouth of the plastic takeout bag open for you to drop the waste in. You scoot the dining chairs in and follow Harry to the kitchen to wet a dish rag as he tosses the garbage in the bin. Van Morrison’s Brand New Day is playing softly from the stereo and you cannot fight your smile when you hear Harry turn the volume up as you wipe down the table. After hanging the rag back around the faucet with care, you spot Harry on the couch in the living room, leaning his elbow on the armrest, watching you with a cheek in his hand.

“Tea?” you call over your shoulder.

“M’ alright for now, love. Thanks.”

You take your flute to join him with a cushion of distance between you, and place the bottle of champagne on the coffee table. He shifts to face you at the other end of the couch, resting his arm along the top of the backrest. You mirror him but tuck your legs beneath you. It’s quiet as the two of you listen to the final minutes of the song play out, periodically sipping your drinks.

You know you’re going to have to go pick up Chowder and head back upstairs to your apartment at some point but this is so effortless, and light. It’s like you’ve been doing this with him forever.

“Thank you so much, Harry. For everything you did for me this week… All of this.” You shake your head slowly, staring forward but at nothing in particular. “I’m indebted to you.”

“S’ always strange to hear you say that,” he muses.

“Strange how?”

“Cause you’re making it sound as though… spending time with you is, like—” Harry laughs once, less than amused. He’s shaking his head now, too. “Nevermind.” He takes a drink from his glass. Your heart flutters a little in your chest.

Ever so slowly, you graze your knuckles against Harry’s on the flat surface of the backrest. He doesn’t turn to look at you but he straightens his arm and twists his wrist a little to take your hand in his. You notice the dimples sink into his cheeks.

“Harry?”

“Hm?”

“What would you have done after New Year’s if none of this had happened?” He’s quiet long enough for you to assume he isn’t going to answer your question at all.

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot,” he says finally. His voice is sober and taut.

“And?” you prompt. Harry breaks from his trance to look at you earnestly.

“M’not sure.”

“Do you think anything would have changed?”

“Like, do I think we would’ve gone back to just seeing each other in the lift every morning?” You nod. There’s another long trough of silence before Harry speaks again. “After what happened that night, it just sorta meant that I couldn’t drag my feet anymore.”

In the soft glow of the kitchen light, you can see that Harry’s cheeks are tainted in a slight blush. But then again, yours are warm, too.

“Drag your feet about what?” you push.

He discreetly rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Please say it.”

Harry looks at you for a long, long while before raising his drink to his lips, hesitating, and then resting the glass back in his lap.

“I knew I couldn’t drag my feet anymore about asking you out.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, looking to the floor. You could compare the feeling in your chest to a firework show.

“Were you planning to before that?”

Harry huffs a laugh. “I can recall several instances alone in the lift with you, where I came very close to just saying outright, ‘could I take you to dinner sometime?’”

“What stopped you?” you rush. Harry’s eyebrows knit in a perplexed frown.

“We were like… on the way to work most of the time. Or, I guess, lectures or whatever for you. We’d barely exchanged two words—I didn’t even know your name… ” Another small laugh. “And you wanna know something really bad? I haven’t been on a proper date since Sylvia was born. Came close once. But Annie was busy and I couldn’t find a sitter.”

“Oh.” Although it makes sense—being a young, single parent certainly fills a schedule—for some reason that throws you for a loop. Harry starts playing with the tips of your fingers before speaking up again.

“S’a lot, you know? All this.” Harry nods vaguely at all the evidence of family in his apartment. “I’m kind of a package deal from the get go and I didn’t want to overwhelm you with all that. Even Annie and AJ are just… ” He exhales sharply. “Love ‘em to bits, but they can be a bit much. And Sylvia means everything to me. S’not like I can hide her. Nor would I try to. That’s a lot from some guy you ride the lift with.”

You’re lost for words, but it’s not because you don’t know how to feel. The constant racing of your heart is real. The sweat on your palms as Harry holds your hand right now is real. The warm, relentless tugging sensation in your chest that you get whenever you’re around each other is very, very real. Here on the couch, the longing sinks its hooks deeper into you with every word out of his mouth. Harry starts to stroke the back of your hand with his thumb before carrying on.

“I’ve enjoyed having you ‘round this week, like… an irresponsible amount.” Harry licks his lips, still not meeting your eyes. “But I get the sense that maybe… you might feel the same.” He speaks slowly like his words are ellipses dripping from a sink: five words, then two, then two, then three.

Working up the nerve to say what you need to is making you dizzy. You haven’t felt this kind of heightened apprehension since Harry had traced a finger along your cheek to move your hair in preparation to kiss you for the first time—that feather light, momentary, hopeful flicker of a kiss, before he really went in for it.

“Maybe now we can spend time with each other because we want to, and not because some part of you feels like you’re responsible for me. Would you like that?”

Harry leans over to take your champagne glass and set it with his on the coffee table, sliding to that cushion in between the two of you.

“Yes, I would.” The last word gets swallowed up by your kiss. Harry’s mouth is only on yours for a few seconds before he pulls away and the two of you get a chance to really look at each other.

“We don’t have to rush into anything, if you don’t want to. We can finally take our time.” The word we and what you mean by it is addicting.

Usually it’s easy for you to distinguish your emotional connection with Harry from your physical desire for him; up until now, you’ve compartmentalized the two. But for the first time, you feel the bond and the craving knotting together. Static warmth begins to pool at the floor of your stomach and your mind’s eye flashes forward to several different plausible endings to tonight. Your lips part slightly and your eyelids flutter. Can Harry feel this, too?

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I want us to do this right.”

Us.

You lean forward and press your lips against his again before you can help it, easing his mouth open in the cadence of the kiss and grazing your tongue over his. Harry’s lips are shiny and hang partly open when you pull away, like he wasn’t quite finished yet. His pupils have dilated and his eyes are fixated on you.

“I feel like we’ve been doing this whole thing out of order,” you say, already sinking back to lay horizontally across the couch. You watch the wheels turn in his head as he figures out what you’re doing before he gradually starts to follow your movement. He reaches behind him to grab a pillow and tuck it behind your head, aligning himself to lay on top of you.

“If that’s true… ” Harry spreads your legs to situate himself between them. His breathing is shallow. “Then what comes next?”

“I don’t know. Tell me what you want.”

“Well seeing as we’ve already fucked up the order,” he plants a soft, chaste kiss on your cheek, “we may as well continue our streak.”

You place your hands on the sides of Harry’s face immediately and bring your mouths together, breathless before you start. Harry’s lips are slick and warm around yours. You feel the rim of his glasses bumping against the bridge of your nose again but you don’t mind. After a minute, you feel his hand slip beneath your shirt, his thumb grazing the base of your breast.

“Can I touch you?”

You’re too breathless to answer with words so you lay your hand on top of his, and push Harry up the extra inch to cup your breast. He abruptly sinks down to lick, and kiss, and drag his teeth all across your chest. You don’t need to check how wet you are, you don’t even need to shift where you lay; you can feel the state of your underwear already, simply as a result of what Harry is doing to you.

You arch your back and lift your arms above your head and he takes the hint, tugging your shirt off and throwing it behind him without looking. Harry’s hands explore your body up and down, front to back, squeezing the bits of you he particularly seems to like—your backside, the curve of your hips, the plump part of your thighs—as if to say, you’re beautiful here, and here, and here. He visits each of your nipples with his mouth, adorning them with kisses and encircling them with his tongue; it’s a sensation you’re not used to and it makes you feel very serious, very quickly.

You can feel how much he wants you, too, now that you’re pressed up against each other like this. Harry rubs his groin between your thighs once, slowly, like he’s trying to be a gentleman for you. But then he does it again. And again. With a soft groan, he caves and starts to pick up a steady rhythm, rocking his hips on yours until he’s hard enough for the pressure of it to hurt where you’re already sensitive. His tongue dances with yours in a way that draws something so carnal out of you that your hands are forcing the buckle of his belt apart before you realize what you’re doing. He breaks the kiss.

“Bed,” he says, clipped.

Harry rolls off of you to stand, and you begin to swing your legs from off of the couch, but you’re scooped up into his arms before your feet even grace the floor. He carries you straight to his bedroom and you gasp as he hoists you once in the hallway to get a better grip, then sits you at the end of his bed with your knees hanging over the edge.

You begin to lay back and Harry puts both hands on your shoulders to gently encourage that. He busies himself with the zipper of your jeans and you lift your hips off the bed as he tugs them down your thighs, one by one with care. The cuffs get caught around your heels and Harry laughs faintly while jostling them to free you. He stands between your legs at the edge of the bed, looking down at you. Your knee trembles straight as Harry lifts one of your legs by the ankle, closing his eyes briefly and nipping gently at the soft inside of your knee, while stroking up and down your other thigh.

Harry then moves to hold both ankles in the same hand so that your legs are stood straight up in the air, and with a tug, he lifts your rear up off the bed. You feel his fingertips slowly curl just inside of the back hem of your underwear, but it’s enough to get a hook and pull them up and off your legs. His every movement is premeditated, attentive, and gradual. It’s almost too much for you. You blink to look away for a moment and when you turn to face him again, Harry is still looking directly into your eyes. He drops the fist of your underwear to the floor, wrapping his wrists around your ankles to rest them on each of his shoulders.

He’s stopped moving briefly, so you lift your head for a better look at him. Harry is shaking his head softly; he sighs to himself.

“You’re gorgeous. You just are,” he says simply. His eyes are even; it’s one of the most steadfast statements you’ve ever heard him say. “Like, so much I can’t believe it sometimes.”

You sit up slowly on your elbows, your head suddenly spinning; you haven’t forgotten that he’s staring down at you stark naked with your ankles on either side of his face. You open your mouth to thank him; you can’t.

“I… ”

“You comfortable?” Harry nods once at you. Tongue-tied still, you simply bob your head a few times in confirmation. “Good because you’re gonna stay like that for a while.”

You try to swallow but your throat has gone dry. You aren’t sure what he means by that, but you could make an educated guess.

With his belt buckle still undone and clinking, Harry runs his fingertips up the backs of your legs, sinking to his knees until all you can see is the green of his eyes peering up at you from over the horizon of your stomach. The anticipation is making this borderline intolerable; you’re starting to get uncomfortable because it’s almost too pleasant. Harry’s hands cup your backside before he finally leans in.

For a while, he simply kisses you there in that similar, sort of intense way that he had been kissing you on the mouth earlier, and it’s an ongoing struggle to reel in the string of profanities on the tip of your tongue. You’re sensitive to every tilt of his head, flick of his tongue, and scratch of his stubble down to the minutia. Harry has many physical attributes that you’ve privately admired, but you never so appreciated the tip of his nose until it rubbed over and over your clit while his tongue dips in and out of you. The feeling of his exhale between your thighs sends shivers down your spine; it’s as if he doesn’t want to come up for a proper breath, even though he’s kept at it for quite some time.

You make the mistake of looking down and his eyes are closed, shadows dancing across his jaw and the hollow of his cheek as his head moves devotedly between your legs. The best view you get of him is when his lips are puckered pink and shiny around your clit, sucking on you in gentle pulses; right when it gets to be a bit much, he eases off and licks you in thick stripes with the flat of his tongue.

Harry peers up at you for a moment—his eyes are curious, vigilant, yet somehow unfazed behind the frames of his glasses. He squeezes the back of your thigh once with his hand as though to check on you, before leaning forward to nip just below your belly button. One, then two of his fingers are moving inside of you. It’s now pointless to try and keep yourself from making a sound. Your body clenches around his knuckles and Harry curses against your stomach, so softly it sounds almost irreverent.

“Come here,” you say, pulling him up by his shoulder. You slide back up to the pillows and he crawls up to you on the bed. The sight of Harry wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as his cheeks glisten in the light ignites something deep inside you; there will be other nights for him to coax you all the way up, but you’d felt the firm grind of his hips on the couch, and it’s all you can think about right now.

He starts to tug his shirt over his head, but the collar catches on his glasses and they dangle from one of his ears.

“Smooth,” you observe.

“Yes thank you,” Harry chuckles, shaking his head at himself. He quickly sets the frames aside on the nightstand before pulling you in for a kiss.

Harry tastes like you; his face is silky and damp from his chin up to his nose. For a minute you lay there like that, kissing on his bed but he falters as your hand slips from cupping his jaw to traveling down his chest. You take your time tracing your fingertips along his abdomen and the inside of his thighs before beginning to massage him through his pants; by then, Harry has stopped kissing you completely, a low groan escaping the back of his throat.

You start to reach for his zip, but he takes over for you, yanking the button of his jeans through the hole and hastily pulling the zipper apart; you fumble a little rising to your knees to help shimmy them off. He doesn’t say anything, but you distinctly catch Harry hesitate for a beat before tugging down his briefs, kind of dodging your eyes. His length slaps heavily against his stomach, flushed in a color identical to the high points of his cheeks. You begin to leave a trail of kisses from his neck to his belly button.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle and uncertain but it startles you from above. You stop immediately. Harry is sitting up, shaking his head softly. “C’mere, love. I just want you.” He helps pull you up the bed again before rolling you on your back, positioning himself between your legs.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Good.” You nod. “Better than good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Harry leaves one last peck on your cheek before leaning over to his bedside table and digging around in one of the drawers, returning with a box of condoms in hand. He pulls one out and holds the small foil square at arm’s length, struggling to read the back. You have to press your lips into a tight line to keep yourself from laughing. Harry pauses, narrowing his eyes at you and pretending not to smile.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Yes you are.”

You cover your mouth with your hands and shake your head. “No I’m not.”

Harry leans down, tearing your hands away from your mouth and pressing his lips against yours until your muscles relax, your hands sliding to the back of his head. He pulls back.

“Just want to double check that these are in date but now I can’t see without my bloody glasses.”

“Give it to me.” You hold out your hand and examine the back before slipping into more laughter. “They’re fine.”

After the condom is on, you kiss him again, gently tugging his bottom lip between your teeth.

“Do you still want to?” he murmurs.

“Please.”

Harry shifts his weight between his knees a few times and you feel the head of his penis nudge where you want him most. Your heart is racing. Harry’s parted lips are hovering above yours as he pushes his hips forward. You squeeze your eyes shut and audibly strain against a gasp at the feeling of him inside of you… You two aren’t exactly a proportionate fit.

Harry finds a rhythm that works for the both of you once you’ve visibly adjusted to the initial discomfort, and picks up the pace even more once the soft noises you’re making begin to fill his bedroom. You prop yourself up with one arm and wrap the other around Harry’s shoulders, touching your foreheads together again. He stifles a quiet groan when you arch your back. You lay back with a shudder and reach down to touch yourself. It’s almost too easy to finish after all the work Harry had put in at the end of the bed earlier, it doesn’t feel fair. His mouth is suddenly on your neck as he bites down into the soft where your throat meets your collar, as though he wants to hold you still while he fucks you.

You’re trying your hardest on your own to bare your teeth against the near frantic sounds bubbling up in your throat as you reach your high. His hand slides to the back of your knee to spread your legs a bit wider and you suddenly feel him even deeper in your hips. Almost involuntarily, your hands snake around to press into Harry’s lower back in an effort to keep him exactly where he is; he slows the rhythm a little to let you ride it out. In the low light, you see him peering down at you in curiosity. You graze your hand down the side of his face and he turns his head to kiss your palm as you come down.

“Get on your back,” you breathe. Harry doesn’t need to be told twice.

You straddle him before grinding down on his lap to work yourself up a little before actually sinking down around him. He sighs at the exact moment you do, and you alternate between riding him in fast bursts and slow dips. Harry’s face tends to relax when you go slow; he watches you with almost mellow eyes and his hands are limp on your waist. When you pick up the pace, his face twists, his head writhes on the pillow, and his fingernails leave marks on your skin. The ends of his hair are damp and tapered as they stick to his forehead in perspiration; his cheeks are rosy. Suddenly, Harry is reaching out, his hand fumbling blindly against the nightstand; you slow to a stop.

“Everything okay?” you ask, breathless.

“Yeah, yeah,” he reassures you. “Keep going, please.”

“What do you need?”

“Just… ” Harry lays back on the pillow, unfolding his glasses to push them on his face. “I wanna be able to see you.”

“Oh… okay.” You wouldn’t have thought that under these circumstances, your heart could beat even faster. You carry on with a bit more confidence.

Harry’s hands stay glued to your waist and every so often, he guides the way he wants you to move, but eventually, he places his palm flat against your stomach. His thumb reaches to rub soft circles around your clit. You’re gasping for breath; your arm shoots out to grasp the headboard for balance as he thrusts upward into you from the bed, and it’s enough to inspire your second orgasm. You can feel your climax in your stomach, hands, and toes, and Harry leans up to muffle your choked pleas firmly with his mouth, only kissing you more softly as you come down before he sinks back to the bed.

“Getting there,” he says, winded.

Exhausted, you lean in close enough to ride him with your mouth hovering just above his, and pick up the pace. Less than a minute later, Harry lifts his head off the pillow slightly and you know he’s cumming when his furrowed brow and the slight snarl on his lips relax completely, along with every other muscle in his face. He opens his mouth soundlessly for a moment and you watch the vein in his neck protrude. After bucking his hips upward into you a few times, Harry lets out a quiet, guttural, prolonged, “Oh,” before dropping his head back on the pillow. Your bodies lose steam together until you’re both completely still, trying to catch your breath. You brace your hands on the headboard so you don’t fall forward on top of him, feeling suddenly boneless.

“You’re alright?” Harry pants. All you can do is nod. He wraps an arm all the way around your waist as he gently rolls you onto your back, pulling out with one last kiss.

“Gonna deal with this,” he says, rolling the condom off. You just nod, content to watch him step through the doorway with absolutely no mind for his nudity. Sweat is starting to cool on your skin and your brain is still restarting after everything you and Harry just did.

He shuts the bedroom door quietly behind him upon his return, making his way over to sit on your side of the bed with a glass of water in hand. You push yourself into a proper sitting position and it’s quiet for a minute as the two of you take each other in. It’s generally easy to figure out when Harry’s about to smile; his dimples sink into his cheeks first, and for some reason that small tell always chisels at your composure until you can’t help but mirror his expression.

“Can I have some of that?” you ask. He raises the glass to his lips and keeps drinking until it’s almost gone, smiling against the brim. “I’m exhausted, let me have some!”

Harry relents with a chuckle, leaning it to kiss you with a droplet of water at the corner of his mouth as he passes you the drink. It ends up being a longer kiss than you’d expected; you have to pull away so as to not lose your breath, then gulp down the rest of the water. You sink back into the pillow and straighten your leg in Harry’s lap with a deep breath as he strokes your bare ankle with his thumb.

“Come lay with me.” You pat the mattress beside you, placing the empty glass on the bedside table.

Harry crawls up the bed, settling into your side with his head on your chest and an arm draped over your waist, the way you wake up together sometimes. He hums softly before speaking.

“You smell good.”

You scoff. “That cannot be true.”

Harry’s breath tickles the dewy skin of your breast when he laughs. “You do… You always smell good. I’ve always liked the perfume you wear.” A few moments pass; he chuckles before continuing. “Your heart just started beating faster.”

“Alright,” you interject, shoving him off you so quickly that you catch the end of his power-drunk little smirk. “That’s enough of that.”

You roll to the side and prop your head up with a bent elbow. Harry simply turns his head to look at you while laying on his back.

“Please stay.”

“No, I’ll probably hop in a cab. It’s a long commute home, so—” Harry cuts you off by smacking your bare thigh with the back of his free hand. You have to bite your lip against a laugh, then reach up to comb a few rogue curls out of his face.

“I’ll stay.”

The ghost of a smile is playing at his lips and he’s got a strange, half eager, half vulnerable look in his eye—like he might crack a joke or he might tell you he’s falling in love with you.

“So could I take you out to dinner sometime?”

UNDER THE SAME ROOF

Part Four: Tough as Nails

Sunday, 13th January 2019. 10:05 AM ……………………………………………

“Nice place,” Harry calls to you from the kitchen. You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you right now.

Your place is essentially a two hundred square foot studio with a loveseat, wall desk, kitchenette, and a bare, open archway that leads to a room scarcely large enough to fit your queen bed. You have no full bath, no real living room, and no hallway; the apartment kind of just starts right when you walk in.

“Thanks,” you deadpan, hoisting your suitcase onto your bed before doubling back to the kitchen area. “It’s just a shame all my plants are dead now.”

You hear the sound of the fridge door shutting as you walk up to Harry, and catch him peeking up at the art hung on your walls. He’d insisted on bringing up a few containers of food and helping you with your bags, but it had sounded like an excuse to you.

You’re certain you’ve never had someone so tall in your apartment before; perhaps it’s just that your ceilings are lower than his, but Harry absolutely dwarfs his surroundings. The corner of his mouth quirks up against his dimple as you go in for the strap of your duffle bag around his shoulder. After tossing the last of your belongings from your week at Harry’s onto the bed, you look back over your shoulder to follow the sound of his voice.

“I like that painting.” He nods to the massive canvas above your bookcase. His arms are crossed as he leans back against your kitchen sink with his head tilted.

“India made it.”

“She’s talented,” he comments, taking in the ornate petals, twisting branches, and shapeless streams of color. You walk over to where Harry is standing and lean a hip on the countertop, reaching out to stroke his arm.

“Thanks for helping me carry everything, and for the leftovers.” He turns to look at you. “You really didn’t have to do all that.”

“I know,” he shrugs. “Wanted to…you excited for Brighton?”

“Oh yes,” you nod. “I finally told my advisor everything yesterday and emailed all my professors. So I’m taking a few days off of work, and I have the materials from the lectures I’ll be missing… I’m amazed I got such a quick response on a weekend.” Your voice grows soft. “They were all very understanding.”

“I’m sure they were.” Harry tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and you straighten his glasses for him.

“What about you? Are you excited to get Sylvia again?” The memory of a smile on Harry’s lips immediately grows more noticeable.

“Yeah.”

“And do you have her for two weeks now? Or… ”

“Nah,” Harry shakes his head. “I offered but I think Annie wants to save her weeks up for later, like a bloody punch card… Think I’m probably gonna have to take her for quite a while when they go on their honeymoon eventually.”

“When do you need to head out to pick her up?”

Harry glances at the time on his phone before stuffing it back into his pocket and pulling you into his chest. “Little over an hour,” he murmurs before you smile against each other’s mouths in a sleepy kiss.

Harry rolls so that his back is against the counter, taking you with him, and his arms snake around your waist as you stand between his knees. You stay like that for a minute, kissing in your kitchen with a ray of sunlight warming the backs of your legs, until you feel Harry’s fingers slip into your hair and tug gently. You open your mouth more in the kiss and his tongue slides across yours in the same motion that he bites your lower lip. You press your chest against Harry’s, grabbing a fist of his collar, and your skin tingles at the feeling of big, cold hands beneath the fabric of your shirt.

Your heart starts to beat faster as Harry’s hands travel south to cup your backside before giving it a squeeze, and the warmth of his body against you sends a familiar dull ache between your thighs. You slow the rhythm of the kiss to a stop before pulling away, breathless, glancing down to where his groin presses into your hips.

Your eyebrows raise. “Again?”

“Can you blame me?”

You take a step backward after a beat, struck with an idea, and tug Harry across your apartment by his arm; he almost trips over your tiny dining table on the way. He bends down to kiss you again, but you place both hands on his chest and push him onto the loveseat where he peers up at you with a chuckle. If you thought Harry’s size made him seem out of place before, he’s making your furniture look like it belongs in a dollhouse now. You stand before him and take a shaky breath before speaking.

“I just—I want to feel something that isn’t… ” You shrug a little helplessly, waving a hand at the walls of your home. “I want to feel good here, again.”

Harry’s coy, anticipatory smirk gradually softens to a gentle pair of eyes that look up at you with patience and understanding. He nods, and it instills this validating, warm sort of dignity inside you… but now it’s too quiet. Your cheeks warm, and you repress an anxious smile as Harry reaches forward suddenly, hooking his fingertips around the back of your knee to yank you on the loveseat with him. You laugh in your fall, but shift to straddle his lap.

“I think,” he breathes against your neck, giving you kiss after kiss after kiss, “I can help with that.”

Tuesday, 15th January 2019. 11:48 PM ……………………………………………

The wind bites at your face as you bolt out of the cab without shutting the door behind you, careening down the sidewalk. A wild laugh rips through your chest. The pavement is harsh beneath your bare feet but you stretch your arms out like an airplane with a shoe in each hand because you’re safe and nothing hurts and if you have any responsibilities right now, you can’t recall a single one of them. India is calling your name from behind, telling you to slow down through her own giggling, but your smile only grows.

“You’ve passed it, babe!” she yells. “It’s this one!”

You whirl around; India is down the block, frantically pointing to a colorful triple decker tucked into the line of identical houses, and you scrunch your nose in trying to remember the photographs from the Airbnb website. Was it that one?

“You sure?” you yell back to her.

“Positive.” India nods, exaggerated, before doubling over with laughter. You sprint back to her and stumble up the steps of the front porch together, losing it over absolutely nothing. She fumbles with the keys; neither of you are very coordinated at the moment.

“Hurry, India,” you hop from foot to foot to stay warm, wearing nothing but an enormous sherpa jacket with your mini dress to shield you from the cold. “Gotta pee, gotta pee, gotta pee!”

The front door swings open and the two of you both try to shove past each other around peals of laughter, taking the stairs by two in a scramble to reach the bathroom first. You know that you should try to be quieter for the neighbors, but the chances of that are fading by the minute.

You reach the toilet before her, but you’re pretty sure India had let you win. She bangs on the door the entire time you’re in there either way.

“I’m gonna piss myself!” she threatens from the hall.

No part of you wants to wait and see if she’s bluffing, so you quickly finish washing your hands before unlocking the door. Your best friend would have plowed right through you to the toilet, had you not zipped past her first, snatching your purse from the hallway floor on your way to the bedroom.

The muted floral of the duvet bears a slight resemblance to the one from the Bates Motel, but since it doesn’t seem to have any suspicious stains, you pounce onto the mattress, fishing your cell phone out of your bag. You’ll get the spins sooner rather than later if you don’t sit upright, so you crawl sluggishly up the bed until you’re propped up against the headboard, scrolling through your list of contacts until you find the one you’d been searching for. Your ears are still icy from the chilled night air as you press your cell phone against your cheek, smiling a bit wickedly as it rings. You nestle into the soft lining of your jacket and it occurs to you too late that you have no idea what time it is.

“Hi.” Somehow Harry is laughing already as he answers.

“Hi… it’s me.” You hiccup.

“I know, love.”

“What’s so funny?” you demand. He’s still laughing.

“You.”

“You’re only saying that because I’m drunk.”

“S’ absolutely why I said that.”

You smile, then shift your position to collapse on the pillows, leaning a cold cheek against your hand. “I jus’ wanted to hear your voice.”

Harry’s laugh is much softer now; you hear his breath through the phone in the long pause before he speaks. “You’re sweet. How’s Brighton?”

“Good… Kinda cold.”

“S’ what you get for going to the beach on holiday in January.”

You roll to the side and hug an arm around your waist. “Shhh… ”

“What did you get up to today then?”

“We went to the pier, and the Lanes. Hit the shops. I bought a dress and some earrings, and… yeah. We had dinner at the Salt Room.”

“Oh yeah? What’d you have?” You can hear the smile around his words.

“Surf and turf.”

“Sounds good.”

“Mhm. Now we jus’ got back from the Black Dove after doing some celebrating.” You hiccup. “Have you ever been there?”

Harry laughs once. “I have actually… How much did you celebrate?”

“Like, several rounds.” You ignore any lingering embarrassment over your slurred words in favor of letting yourself indulge in the slow, rounded melody of Harry’s voice.

“Excellent… M’ really glad to hear you’ve been able to enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“You deserve it.”

“Yeah,” you agree, sighing against the pillow and smiling to nobody. “How was your day?”

“Very good. Sylvia and I FaceTimed with my mum for a while after dinner. We made mini pizzas from scratch—it was a fuckin’ mess. Then watched Sesame Street. I sang a little to put her to bed… Now you’ve caught me going over a few exhibition proposals for the gallery, I’m afraid.”

“Sorry, I’m definitely distracting you.”

Harry pauses. “S’not any different than usual.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Definitely not.” You allow for too much time to pass, listening to each other breathe through the phone. He speaks up again when you don’t. “Still there?”

“I miss you,” you hum, almost inaudibly. Even though you’re several negronis in and you haven’t seen each other for a few days, you still can’t parse if the admission was warranted.

“Miss you too.” His voice is soft. You haven’t been indoors long enough to justify feeling this warm all over.

“Where are you right now?” you ask after a beat.

“In the living room. On the couch.”

“With a cuppa?”

Harry snorts. “Obviously.”

“What are you wearing?” You almost cut him off, surprising yourself. Another brief lull ensues, and just when you’re convinced that you’d taken it too far, Harry chuckles on the other end of the line.

“I’m, um… I’ve got a tee shirt on, joggers,” he muses, but after a silence just long enough for you to notice, he adds a hint more seriously, “black briefs.”

Your lips part incrementally in the same moment that your eyes flutter closed. He speaks up again after another pause, though his voice has dropped a decibel.

“What are you wearing?” The tone Harry is using grounds you. You feel yourself sober up a little as you think on his question, glancing down to your bare legs.

“A lot less than you.”

Harry’s clipped sigh is audible through the phone. You wonder if his eyes are closed as well, and if he’s getting carried away thinking about you the same way you are about him.

“Friday night was nice,” you comment.

“It was… Thinking about it right now, actually.”

“So am I,” you admit.

“When can I see you again?”

“When I get back.”

“When’s that?” His voice is taut, as though he’s overcompensating his frustration with an effort to sound polite.

“This Saturday, so…” You count on your fingers. “Four days from now.”

Harry breathes a dry, poignant laugh. “S’ ages.”

“I know. I’m not feeling very patient… ” You bite your lip, leaning on the intoxicated side of your brain for courage. “I might have to take care of myself later.”

You had slept with him once; did you have the license to say something like that? Would you have to text him tomorrow morning to apologize for your loose lips? Harry’s voice interrupts your spiral into worry.

“I’ve sort of started taking care of myself right now, love.” You swallow roughly as you struggle to process this information.

Harry is touching himself thinking about you.

You can practically see him alone on the couch in his living room, laptop tossed to the side, one hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweatpants moving slowly, the other holding his phone to his ear, cheeks rosy and eyes hooded behind his glasses. Are you about to have phone sex? Are you about to have drunk phone sex? Is that what’s happening right now?

“Is it nice?” you ask. Harry hums in confirmation.

“You should keep talking,” he murmurs.

“I wish I could… ” you trail off.

“Tell me.”

“I wish—”

“Who are you talking to?”

Your head whips around at the sound of India’s voice. She’s crouching in the doorway, rifling through her suitcase with a bag of toiletries and some pajamas in hand. Instead of responding, you just prop yourself up on the bed and try not to look too much like you’ve been caught red-handed. She looks up at you after a beat of silence… You really should have answered her—gin tends to make you wear your heart on your sleeve. Her eyebrows slowly raise.

“Who you talking to?” India repeats in an utterly different lilt.

You hiccup. “Nobody.”

Your best friend hurtles into motion, bounding across the room. You squeal and leap from the bed to run from her and your smiles are equally wide. India probably knows that wrestling your phone from your hand while you’ve both had a lot to drink is a bad idea, so she settles for grabbing the first pillow within reach and slinging it at your head. You duck—but only just—then hear your name, tinny and faint through your phone, and remember that Harry is still on the line.

“Hi,” you gasp, into your cell. “Sorry.”

“Should I call back later?”

“No no, s’fine. I should probably be getting to bed anyway… ” you reply, dodging another blow from the pillow. “But um—” You wave frantically at India for a moment of respite. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“No problem,” he laughs. “Already looking forward to it.”

“Me too. Night Harry,” you say around a giggle. India is still making eyes at you.

“Goodnight love.”

Saturday, 26th January 2019. 7:00 PM ……………………………………………

“Just a sec!” you call, springing up from your vanity in response to the knock at your door. After adjusting the hem of your sweater, you glance at the small face of the slim, golden watch hung around your wrist. He’s right on the hour. With a hand on the doorknob, you rub your lips together to even out their shiny coat of red one last time and twist a stray piece of hair back into your updo before pulling the door open, and when you do, the world seems to stop for a beat.

Your eyes travel from Harry’s polished black boots to his navy checked trousers, up the length of his dark overcoat that hangs open, and get stuck on the way that the buttons of his white dress shirt catch the light. You skim over the small bunch of snapdragons he’s clutching before finally meeting his gaze, but when he looks down at you with the beginning of a smile, your Hello gets caught on your tongue. You told yourself you weren’t going to choke, but for a minute you stand there in your doorway in silence, both politely trying to conceal that you’re beaming at each other.

“Hi,” he says finally, taking you in as if for the very first time.

“Hi.”

“These are for you.” Harry holds out the pale blush flowers wrapped in brown paper. You brace the weight of the door with one hand to take them.

“Oh thank you! That’s so thoughtful.” He begins to lean in for your cheek so you lay your hand on his shoulder just as it occurs to you to invite him inside. “Come on—”

An orange blur streaks past your feet; Harry’s eyes go wide as he pulls back, attempting to block the doorway, but Chowder has already seen the gap of freedom between his legs.

“Chowder!” You press the flowers back into Harry’s arms, squeezing past him before sprinting down the hall to wrangle your cat.

“I’m sorry,” you say as you return, a little breathlessly. “He does this all the time.” Inside, Harry closes the door behind you and Chowder leaps from your arms back to the floor, scampering to your bedroom. “The flowers are lovely. I’m, um… I’m about ready to go—give me a minute to find a vase.”

Do you even own a vase?

“Sure,” he chuckles. “No rush.”

You ransack your kitchen for anything that might do the trick and find a pitcher covered in flamingos wearing sunglasses; it’s only ever been used for blended margaritas but it’s all you have. So you unabashedly fill it with water, unwrap the flowers, and angle the makeshift centerpiece nicely on your tiny dining table.

“I love them,” you affirm, smiling at him over your shoulder. Harry waits for you by the front door with his hands in his pockets, only softly chuckling at the spectacle. Your cheeks warm.

“Okay, let me just… ” you trail off, zipping back to your bedroom to pin your second earring in.

You don’t usually wear the kind that dangles, but this is a special occasion. Since you’re out of Harry’s sight, you take the opportunity to give yourself a once-over on your tiptoes in the small mirror of your vanity. You’d gone with black jeans, a simple grey, woolen turtleneck, and of course, your signature popping red lip. After spritzing some perfume on your wrists and neck, you slip into your boots, the heels clicking on the floor as you round the corner to meet him. Immediately your chest aches with fondness at the sight of Harry waiting for you by the coat hooks, holding your big winter jacket by the shoulders with sunken dimples and a smile that reaches higher on one side.

He finishes helping you into your second sleeve and you turn around to face him. He straightens out the collar of your coat before dropping his hands at his sides.

“You look beautiful,” he says, for once, not smiling. Your lips purse to the side to conceal your delight.

“Thank you… You look fantastic, Harry.” He’s already pulling you in for a side hug and the peck that he missed greeting you with earlier. He’s shaved, and his skin feels smooth against yours. You place your hand gingerly on his jaw as he seals the kiss to your cheek.

“Thanks,” he whispers by your ear, a little playfully, before kissing you again in the same spot. “Ready to go?” He raises his eyebrows at you, stepping away to place a hand on the doorknob. “Where’s the cat?”

You huff a laugh. “We should be fine. He only makes a break for it if someone knocks first.”

Harry holds the door for you as you wrap a scarf around your neck. “After you.”

The usual mundanity of your walk to the tube station has vanished with Harry at your side. Your breath puffs out into the cold when you breathe, the wind nips at your cheeks, and you both have to hike your shoulders up a little to stay warm. The two of you share a small laugh upon stealing a glance over at each other tucked into your scarves. It’s refreshing to spend time with him somewhere besides the lift or his apartment—Harry had become so anchored to those places in your memory. Some part of you expected him to look different, somehow, but perhaps it’s you that’s different now. You’re finally free to admire him openly the way you want to, and you could certainly get used to that feeling.

The journey on the tube to Warwick Avenue Station is half an hour but you’re secretly hoping it’s packed so that you and Harry have an excuse to stand close together. This rationale is strangely familiar to you; you can recall silently rejoicing on days of the past when the lift was busy enough for the two of you to brush arms…

Harry had chosen the restaurant and you’d heard of it, but never been yourself. In fact, you’d only been to the Little Venice neighborhood by Regents Canal once or twice in all the years you’ve lived here. India had informed you that the restaurant was built into a charming, narrow ferryboat, and during dinner, it actually floats along through the Maida Hill tunnel, past Regents Park to Primrose Hill and Camden before returning to the starting point in the Paddington Arm of the canal.

As you approach, you find yourself taking a small breath in upon seeing it for yourself—the vessel is painted a glossy, electric blue with orange and cream old-fashioned serif writing on the side: ABOARD THE PRINCE REGENT. Circular brass boat windows dot the exterior. On the starboard side facing the street, the slatted light of a cinema sign hoists the words, CANAL ST. LONDON SHELL CO into the air… It’s straight out of a Wes Anderson film, you swear. Harry smiles down at you over his shoulder; you quickly close your gaping mouth.

“Does this work for you?”

“I’m going to eat so much that I sink the boat and everyone with it,” you reply.

“S’a good way to go… Here, watch your step.” Harry takes your hand as you hop from the concrete onto the Prince Regent, helping to steady you on the moving floor below.

“Hello! Welcome aboard,” the hostess greets.

“Hi.” Harry nods, glancing at you. “We have a reservation for two under Styles.” Your heart skips a beat at those words, and you have to look away to suppress your smile.

The hostess runs a fingertip down her clipboard before crossing out one of the names on the list. “For our eight o’clock dinner cruise?”

“Yeah.”

“Right this way.”

You’re led to a small, wooden table for two tucked into a corner of the dining room by the window, passing a comprehensive wine bar on your way. From the upper deck, you can see straight down to the Paddington Basin. The open deck on the bow of the ship is decorated with charming string lights and a long boxwood garland. You’ll have to go check it out at some point tonight, but frost gathers visibly around the edges of the windows of the Prince Regent and it makes you thankful to be indoors for now.

There’s still ten minutes to spare before the cruise is meant to start, but it appears that you and Harry were some of the last passengers to arrive. He helps you shrug out of your jacket from behind as the warmth of the cabin seeps into your cheeks. A moment passes as the two of you settle into your seats, exchanging a somewhat ladened look. There is a cautious lift to the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” Harry begins, once both of you have been still for a minute. “This is… new.”

“It’s nice. I don’t know that I’d say that it’s new though.”

“How’d you mean?”

“I think… ” You play with a corner of your napkin. “I guess, to me, this doesn’t really feel that much like a first date.” There’s a faint crease between Harry’s brows when you look up at him. “It feels like we’ve done this before.”

“Ah,” he nods. “We’ve shared a few meals, I s’pose that’s fair… ” Harry pauses to push his glasses up his nose, frowning at the tablecloth. “Would you have wanted to do this differently?”

“No, no,” you start to reach across the table for his hand but think better of it. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Harry gives you one of his slow, dimpled smiles, then simply angles his menu over to you, leaning in so you both can read. “Shall we have red or white tonight, love?”

The Moscato you decide upon is from Lombardy, Italy. You agree that it’ll pair nicely with the cheese, apricots, and crackers coming now, and the oysters and tilapia coming later, as if either of you knows the first thing about wine pairing. Since it’s a special occasion, Harry suggests splashing out and buying a bottle for the evening, and you happily oblige; your waiter brings over a sleek cooler for the table, and pours two generous glasses. You toast to first dates that don’t feel like first dates, and almost startle out of your chair when the boat rocks into motion and the Prince Regent begins to steadily float down the canal.

The light of the candle flickers between you, illuminating Harry’s face in gold as you pass under the Maida Hill tunnel and the room grows dim. You float through Lisson grove during appetizers, and he points out the London Zoo across from Primrose Hill; it’s one of Sylvia’s favorite spots. You mention how special you find it that he’s so close with his daughter, and how your relationship with your own father had been turbulent throughout your life. You learn that Harry’s stepfather, Robin, passed away last year. Harry wishes Sylvia could have gotten to know her grandad a bit more, especially since Harry started having children so young, there should have been more of a window for that. You’d never thought of parenthood like that before and your heart is both warmed and a little broken.

Harry asks about your grandparents and suddenly you’re lost in a conversation about your hometown, high school, and family. With Harry’s rapid fire of questions, you can’t even remember the last time you talked so much about yourself. It makes you wonder if he’d been holding back before. His focus is on you the entire time you’re speaking, almost intensely so, and it locks you into your train of thought for a little while.

But with an empty stomach and a glass and a half of Moscato in your system, you’re beginning to sense a slight buzz coming on. Harry’s eyes flash to your mouth every now and then, lingering there longer and longer every time you speak. He’s now wearing a delicate smirk, and you suspect he’s beginning to notice the effects of the wine as well. Feeling bold, you cross your legs so that the top of your foot grazes the inside of Harry’s calf beneath the table, and keep it there. He licks his lips once, his gaze darting to the window as the smile on his face spreads slowly.

Fortunately, the seafood is exquisite, so the discussion lulls over the first few minutes of dinner. You both want to try each other’s food, so you fix Harry a portion of your fish on his bread plate, but he opts for feeding you a bite of his seafood linguini directly, cupping a hand beneath his fork as not to spill. He’s wearing that same focused expression you recognize from when he’d pinned the poppy on your jacket, so concentrated on the task at hand that he’s almost detached. As you’re chewing, a smile spreads across your face with the swipe of his thumb across your chin where a droplet of sauce had fallen. Harry’s brow relaxes, a faint flush gracing the high points of his cheeks when you give him a sidelong look, as though he’d been caught.

Too soon, the Prince Regent is turning around at Camden Market and doubling back to Little Venice where you’d started. After deciding to skip dessert together, Harry glances over your shoulder and asks if you’d like to take your glasses of wine out to the small deck at the front of the boat; you nod quickly, sliding into your coat.

“Warm enough?” Harry asks softly as you step through the door he’s held open for you.

You smile at the floor of the deck, taking too long of a pause before answering with a negative shake of your head. He exhales a laugh and wraps an arm around your shoulders to pull you into his chest, and the two of you lean against the railing watching people on the shore while they watch you. You float along several streets, cuddled just like that before Harry clears his throat the way he does before he’s going to say something. When you look at him, his eyes change a little as he frowns toward the water below; he opens his mouth, but refrains from speaking for a beat.

“How’re you feeling about the trial and everything?”

You stay tucked in his arms and say nothing until Harry finally meets your eyes. “That’s not for a long, long time. The man is in custody—that’s all that matters… The custodial sentence for stalking is over a year. I have a lot of evidence in my favor. And after the court date, I’ll never have to see his face again.”

You believe your words, but you can tell Harry is more skeptical; you give him a smile that you hope is convincing, and eventually he sighs, scrunching his nose. A laugh bubbles up from your stomach. “What’s that face for?”

Harry shrugs. “Just wish you didn’t have to go through all that.”

“I feel that way too sometimes, but the prospect of holding him accountable… the thought that I could help protect the women after me who he would have done this to is far too important. You know? And besides, if things hadn’t happened exactly the way they did, maybe we wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t that be kind of a shame?”

“I s’pose.”

You stare intently at one of the buttons on his jacket until you’re ready to speak. “I’m having a really nice time, Harry.”

“So am I.”

As you rest your head on his chest, Harry lifts his hand to stroke over the hair at the nape of your neck. You laugh once.

“Is this how you imagined our first date would go? When you wanted to ask me out on the lift, back when you didn’t know my name?”

“Definitely not.” The smile around his words is audible. “I dunno. I feel like… when we made fish tacos. That was our first date. In hindsight that felt a bit, like, not just a casual dinner to me.”

“You even got me into bed afterwards,” you remind him. Harry snorts. You feel him shaking his head above you as you nestle into him a bit more to keep warm. “I think maybe even when you cooked for me that first night—the beans on toast—felt a bit like a date, if you can believe it… You made me completely forget what was going on, like, why I was there in the first place.” Harry is quiet so you backpedal a little. “I don’t know, that’s probably wrong to say. I guess I could have just felt like that because I was with you.”

“How do you mean?”

The boat rocks below you and Harry’s hold on you tightens for an instant. “Well, I don’t know, Harry. I guess I had thought about you, too, y’know before everything that happened with the police, and staying at yours… ”

“Thought about me how?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Please say it.”

You sigh a laugh. You’d said those words when the tables had been turned on this exact conversation. “I, um… I guess my impression of you from just seeing each other in the lift everyday… You seemed like a very kind and respectful person and you—y’know… You’re obviously very handsome. I mean, that part didn’t take me long to notice.”

Harry hums, but then keeps quiet for a long while. You smirk against the soft fabric of his shirt before speaking again. “Your heart just started beating faster.”

“Hey…” he scolds. You lift your head from his chest, peeking up. He’s smiling down at you, but his eyes are narrow. “You don’t get to use my own tricks against me.”

Your lips are parted suddenly. Harry’s eyes are asking if he can kiss you so you close yours, and feel his mouth landing warm on yours moments later. Your hand snakes around to the back of his head and you tug the hair just below his crown. A few times, you think he’s going to pull back, but Harry just keeps moving his lips with yours. It’s nice; the two of you are really beginning to learn how the other likes to be kissed, and every time you do this, you notice it’s gotten better and better.

The cool, familiar feeling of his glasses bump the tip of your nose and it’s safe to say you’re getting a little carried away. You press your body up against his and open up a little to let his tongue breeze over yours. The sound of chatter and the door to the deck opening startles the two of you apart. Harry clears his throat, adjusting his glasses and nodding over the top of your head to the people who’d just come out to the deck. You resume your position from before, tucking your head into Harry’s chest, and he fixes the collar of your coat more securely on your shoulders.

“I, um… ” Harry begins. You look up at him. “Sorry, do you mind if I make a quick phone call? Sylvia’s at Annie’s with a sitter, but she and AJ are out at a show so I don’t think either of them can ring home. Just want to check in.”

“Of course… I’ll wait for you inside, okay?”

“Yeah, cheers.”

Back at your table, you flag down your waitress to ask for the bill and she smiles at you cordially to tell you that it’s already been taken care of. You crane around in your chair to shake your head at Harry, squinting at him through the window. He’s facing away from you with his cell pressed against his cheek, unable to see you scorning him with your eyes.

He returns once the boat has come to a halt at the Paddington Basin, just as the host is announcing that they’re docking, and that everyone should be free to exit in a couple of minutes. Harry waves away your concern when you scold him for covering the check, reasoning that you’re a student whereas he has a full-time job.

You thank the host and your server again on your way out, and Harry breathes a small, almost chastising laugh beside you. “Always so polite.”

On the walk to the tube station, he looks over at you and offers his elbow, keeping his hands in his pockets. You hook your hand around the bend of his arm, but after a minute, slide it down into his overcoat. Harry is smiling as you try to maneuver around each other, figuring out the best way for your fingers to fit together. You stay beside one another like that, holding hands in his pocket the entire tube ride back to North Clapham, and even in the quiet walk back to your building. He doesn’t break the clasp of your fingers until you’re stood beside each other in the lift alone as Harry reaches to press the eighth-floor button. You frown at him.

“What are you doing?”

He mirrors your perplexed frown. “Walking you home, of course.”

You burst out in a laugh, rolling your eyes. “Oh my god. No you are not.” But after a moment’s hesitation, you bite your lip, then walk over to determinedly push the sixth-floor button on the keypad. “Why don’t you, um… why don’t you walk me to yours instead?”

It’s silent between you.

Glancing up to the mirrored doors of the lift, you find that Harry is meeting your stare in the reflection already, intent, and perhaps even a bit captured. He scans your body in a once over that gives the impression he wasn’t trying to be subtle about it. Your heartbeat picks up in your chest all of the sudden; you can feel your pulse thumping in the side of your neck as heat graces your cheeks. Harry’s eyes look exactly the same as they had peering up at you curiously from between your thighs all those nights ago. You remember how his mouth had felt against you that night, and you have to press your knees together discreetly as the possibility of feeling that way again very soon crosses your mind. As if on command, Harry’s tongue pokes out to lick his lips, watching you still. You tear your eyes away as the lift dings on his floor.

The walk down the hallway is quiet and charged. He’s walking faster than usual—you are walking faster than usual. Harry doesn’t fuss around sliding his key in the lock but you’re not even completely through the door by the time you’re hooking an arm around Harry’s neck and bringing your lips together, almost in a plea. And it’s like he’d been expecting it, meeting you with just as much force, his palm slapping flat on the wall to steady you both. A low groan escapes the back of his throat as he kisses you, forcing the jacket off your shoulders. You feel the hard wood of the front door on your back as Harry pushes you up against it, deepening the kiss with his hand fumbling by the side of your head before you hear the deadbolt and chain guard lock.

Your hands are everywhere—twisting in his hair, pulling him close by the fabric of his shirt, pressing into his lower back, cupping his backside, then back up to his hair again. For all the touching you’re doing, Harry is on his best behavior in comparison, his hands anchored firmly on your hips. You push the wooly fabric of his overcoat off his shoulders; he releases you to shrug it off completely before reaching up to tug off your scarf. Once your neck is bare, his lips are on your throat, licking and nipping along your skin; the feeling sends a fluttery warmth between your legs. Harry kicks off his shoes, so you do the same.

With your eyes shut and hands cradling the back of Harry’s head as he makes his way down your neck, you’re trying to breathe quietly but it’s proving to be incredibly difficult. His mouth is making obscene sounds against your skin, and his hands slide up your waist as he lifts the hem of your sweater. Harry sinks down to his knees. Your heart is beating so fast that you can hear it in your ears. He licks in a long strip from the waistline of your jeans up to your belly button before leaving a long, wet, lightly suctioned kiss just below your navel. Your knees tremble at the feeling of his thumbs stroking in tender circles over your hip bones.

You inhale a small gasp as he bites the spot he had kissed moments ago—soft enough to demonstrate that he’s trying to be gentle with you, but hard enough for you to wonder if the bite was for your pleasure or for his indulgence. He stays there, peppering dozens of kisses and—you could swear—inhaling the scent of your skin.

It’s the part of your stomach where a baby bump would hypothetically appear. It’s a very carnal, natural, and almost animal part of your body for him to devote so much attention to, especially as someone who already has a child, and who knows what it would take for you to carry one. His affinity for this particular spot makes you wonder what’s going through his mind. Nobody you’ve ever been intimate with has ever focused so much on the area, but then again, you’ve never been with someone who’s a parent. Harry rises to a stand, and you lift your arms as he pulls your sweater over your head, tossing it behind him without looking.

“Can I?” Harry asks, a bit winded. His hands are poised behind your back at the clasp of your bra. You nod resolutely and the fabric has hit the floor before you have the chance to inhale, leaving you bare in front of him.

It takes effort not to look away or cover yourself up. Harry had seen you naked before, but you had been laying down. Now, suddenly, you’re all too aware of the imperfect size and shape of your breasts against gravity. All Harry does is lean in, cradling your jaw with one hand while the other wraps around your back to pull you into his chest. This kiss is softer—more affecting and slow, almost as if more thought had been put into it. It elicits an emotion from you, rather than lust alone. Goosebumps kiss your bare skin. Harry pulls back to smile down at you, relinquishing his hold on your waist. He laughs faintly as he raises his arms above his head, too, as if to give you a cue. It’s paradoxical; he looks like such an adult towering above you in his glasses and dark, fancy trousers, but it’s such a tender and lighthearted pose to see him adopt with his soft eyes and dimples sunk in.

You cannot help but laugh, too, as you unbutton his shirt and tug it over his head. He hasn’t pulled it off of his arms completely by the time you’re smiling against each other’s mouths. Harry’s shoulders are warm and smooth under your palms, and for some reason, the knowledge that you both are equally stripped down to your pants standing in his doorway settles your nerves about the way your body looks naked in front of him.

You jolt a little as your feet lift up off the ground. Harry’s arms are wrapped all the way around you, and he’s carrying you to his bedroom again with his mouth against yours, leaving a pile of miscellaneous articles of clothing by the entryway. You lock your legs behind him and he has to pause for respite in the hall as you tug his lower lip between your teeth, earning a muted groan. Harry suddenly cuts his path to the bedroom short to roll you against the wall, easing your mouth open with his as your tongues to dance together.

The kiss breaks but he hardly moves away as the two of you catch your breath, his parted lips brushing yours occasionally. Harry turns away to rest his forehead on the wall as though he’s given up; a moment later you feel his hips press between your thighs with more intention. His next exhale is strangled by your ear. Even through your jeans, you’re able to feel Harry, hard as stone against you. Once more, he rocks forward to relieve the ache. You hear Harry’s knee knock against the wall as he adjusts his stance to get closer to you.

“You would feel so good like this,” he murmurs.

The back of your head hits the wall with a soft thud, your eyes fluttering closed. A single word escapes your lips in a breath. “Please.”

Harry steps back and you find your balance on the floor again. He goes for the zip of your jeans at the same time you reach for the buttons of his trousers and it’s difficult not to notice that the fabric is bulging on one side significantly more than the other. It’s about ten degrees warmer where your hands are hovering compared to the rest of Harry’s body; your fingers tremble a little.

All at once you feel Harry’s fingers hook around the hem of your underwear, drawing them down along with your pants. You notice the warmth of the fabric on your skin and then the cool, tender absence of it. He kneels down on one knee to peel your jeans down your legs, taking each of your feet in hand to shimmy the cuffs off carefully until you’re stark naked in his hallway. The wall is freezing against your bare back. Harry holds one of your ankles aloft, watching you from the floor. The effort he’s putting in to keep his eyes trained on your face is nearly palpable.

He leans in until the tip of his nose grazes over your pubic bone, and the feeling of his exhale between your thighs makes your toes curl. You study Harry’s movements as he licks one long strip up your center, sucking on your clit for a moment before leaving it with a singular kiss. He rises to a stand, finding your lips again.

You kiss him back but the ache between your legs is insatiable; something else has to happen after what he just did and you’re starving for more. Harry wraps an arm around your waist and you’re hoisted up to the wall again. You hike your knees up to his sides and cross your legs behind him at the ankle, placing your hands on his shoulders for support as his mouth moves against yours. With his free hand, Harry pulls his erection out of his briefs and rubs the head all along where you want him most. You break from the kiss and inhale sharply at the feeling, arching your back into him. It’s evident that he isn’t going to be able to hold out much longer either.

“Are you on birth control?” Harry’s voice comes steady and low.

“Yes.” You nod, brushing a piece of hair from his face. “I am.”

“S’ it alright if we do it like this?”

“Of course.”

“You sure?”

“Harry, please just—”

You choke on your words because Harry is inside of you. His fingers dig into your skin and his movements are somewhat restricted at first, but when he leans his forehead against your temple, you can feel the difference in the way his body moves as he lets himself get more and more carried away. You don’t remember him starting out at such a fast pace the last time. You could cum if he kept this up much longer.

“Oh my god.” Harry’s voice wavers. Your hand shoots out to grip the door frame and the sound of your back hitting the wall clouds your mind. “You feel incredible.” He swallows. “Fuck… I need to slow down.”

Harry curbs the movement of his body significantly, and it’s breathy and quiet for a few moments as you’re suspended against the wall in the dark. Out of the blue, you feel the first stirrings of an orgasm pool at the floor of your stomach. The slower pace is more sensual; he’s able to reach deeper and there’s time to really focus on the feeling and size of him inside of you. Harry clears his throat before he is able to speak.

“Shall we go to the bed?”

“I’m about to cum,” you breathe. Harry makes a low noise in the back of his throat.

“Cum.” His lips are on your neck. “Cum right here on me.”

A string of profanities escapes your lips as Harry pushes himself as deep as he’ll go. Your hips arch forward in search of resistance and your body rolls against his as you reach your high. Your fingernails claw audibly at the wood of the door frame, and you’re trying not to bend your body in a way that would make it difficult for him to keep holding you but it’s challenging, too, to remain still. It might be the loudest orgasm you’ve had around Harry and as you come down, you cannot help yourself from breathing his name a few times.

“That’s it… ” Harry’s voice is hardly above a whisper—excruciatingly soothing as his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. “That’s it.”

You wrap an arm around Harry’s shoulders to help hold yourself up, and rest your other hand on the side of his face, stroking his jaw with your thumb as you catch your breath. His eyelids flutter at your touch from behind the frames of his glasses as you take each other in; his cheeks and forehead are pink and dewy, and his hair is slightly disheveled on the top. His arms tremble slightly under your weight, and for a moment he almost looks vulnerable. Harry slows the rhythm of his hips rolling into your body even more, and as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you’re overcome with a wave of emotion.

He’s holding you about where you had been when the police were on the phone with your parents just a few weeks ago. He had comforted you, and told you that none of it was your fault. He had held you until you stopped crying, rubbing your back without shushing you or telling you to stop. He had fed you, let you wash, clothed you, and kept you close in his arms throughout the night. And now you’re here with him, naked and completely at his mercy in an unplanned moment of intimacy. It’s the first time you feel yourself maybe begin to fall in love with him, and it’s a little much for you right now.

You shake your head to focus, dropping your legs to the floor and slipping from Harry’s arms and into his bedroom. When he follows after you through the door, you’re perched on his side of the bed. Harry walks over in the dark, pulling the chord of his lamp and you see his face illuminated for the first time in a while.

“Alright?” His eyes search yours as he finds a seat next you on the bed. You simply nod because you’re not sure if you want to admit what you just felt, and bring his lips to yours again with a hand on either side of his face.

The two of you roll on the bed in your kiss until you’re on top and Harry’s head rests on his pillow. Goosebumps rise on your skin again as his hands travel up and down your thighs. You prop yourself up with one hand and gradually reach the other down between his thighs; his face relaxes and lips part when you start to pump steadily. You swallow before speaking.

“I want you again.”

Harry squeezes your thigh. “I never stopped.”

With one last kiss, you sink down around Harry and begin to move your hips in waves above him, starting out at a faster pace like he had in the hallway.

“Fuck… Christ.” Harry’s voice is almost suffocated, his brow furrowed and eyes shut tight.

The headboard is thrumming back against the wall so you clasp your fingers behind it and slow the rhythm of your hips. Harry moans faintly below you, tossing his head to one side. With your free arm, you lift Harry’s hand to cup your breast, taking him as deep as you can. You hear the blankets at the end of the bed shifting as Harry’s legs bend and strain behind you.

“You’re—Oh god. Don’t stop.”

Leaning in so that your chest is hovering just above his, you feel the sudden sting of his hand landing hard on your rear with a smack that fills his bedroom. You sit up straighter, a little surprised, and Harry follows, propping himself up with his free arm. His hand comes down again in the same spot, though he squeezes you afterward this time, guiding the movements of your hips by gripping your backside harshly. Harry’s breathing is labored. After a few minutes of this, his jaw is tight, and eyes are closed. He isn’t going to last much longer, you can tell.

“Let me go on top.” His voice is low and husky; you’re both a bit short of breath. “I want to finish on you.” Your lips part around a shaky exhale and you think you could cum again at simply the thought of him wanting that. Harry’s eyes snap open when you don’t respond right away. “Can I?”

You just nod, pulling off his lap to lay on your back. The sound of Harry’s length slapping against his stomach never fails to entice you; it’s now a deep shade of pink glistening against his stomach. He situates himself between your legs, reaching down to guide himself back inside and his thrusts become haphazard and uneven before long. Harry’s jaw goes slack. His glasses are sliding down his nose and it almost looks endearing.

Suddenly, he’s inhaling sharply and pulling out. You feel the head of Harry’s penis pressing into just below your navel, the exact spot he had devoted so much attention to while you were pressed up against the front door earlier. His mouth gapes soundlessly for a moment before he lets loose the same endless, choked, “Oh” he had last time. The vein in his neck swells and suddenly you feel a thick, hot substance tickling your skin. You glance down at the robust, white ribbons spurting all across your stomach and spilling over Harry’s fingertips. Once, twice… four times… six times? You keep thinking it’s going to stop and then it doesn’t, and well… if there’s one thing Harry could do, it was cum.

After a minute, he wipes his hand on your skin, smearing what’s left on his fingertips all across your breasts as he catches his breath on top of you in a plank. He stiffly rolls off, collapsing beside you on his back with a hand on his stomach. The two of you lay in the post-sex stillness of the world saying nothing, but after a minute, Harry hoists himself up off the bed, disappearing into the bathroom. You can’t move, so you’re thankful when he emerges again with two damp washcloths. He spreads your legs, situating himself between them before cleaning up the mess on your stomach and chest. After setting the first washcloth aside, Harry uses the other one to gently clean between your thighs in a way that feels altruistic, and somehow oddly noninvasive. It’s as if taking care of other people is a bone in this man’s body.

You lean up to kiss him, pressing a quick “thank you” against his lips.

“S’ alright. Would you like something to wear?”

“I mean… I’m also fine like this.”

“That is more than okay.” He disappears into the hallway again with the dirty washcloths just before you hear the sound of the washing machine start, reappearing a moment later to come and lay by your side. “I think you look sweet in my things, but you don’t look bad like this either.”

Harry sighs and drapes a heavy arm across your waist, pressing his chest into your side. His body is clammy and warm and there’s a slight resistance on his skin when you start to trace your fingertips along his spine. An appreciative hum rumbles in the back of Harry’s throat, and a moment later he’s folding his glasses in his hand to nestle into the slope of your neck. You turn your head slightly and plant a quick kiss at the top of his forehead, surprised to find how good his hair smells as you enjoy the very concentrated version of his natural scent.

“Does that feel good?” you ask against his skin. Harry’s nose tickles your neck when he nods in response. “Do you like having your back rubbed?”

“Mmm.”

It’s quiet between you for a minute but eventually you turn your head to the side, the rounded tortoiseshell frames in Harry’s hand catching your eye. You take them from his limp hold, and try them on.

“Wow. You are blind.”

“Don’t make fun.” Harry lifts his head to look at you and snorts. “You look ridiculous.”

There’s a book on his nightstand so you pick it up and inspect the cover. Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. You notice that a lot of the pages are dog-eared, but the words on the one that you randomly flip to are completely out of focus.

“Love this book…” Harry comments, then reaches up to take it from you, sifting through a few pages. “Have you read it before?” You shake your head so he goes on. “You should borrow it. Last time I picked it up I was actually thinking you’d really like it.”

“Really? What makes you say that?”

“Well you’ve always got a different book on the lift. And s’ just really meditative and vivid and interesting, like, easy to get hooked on. Plus Tokyo in the sixties is kinda neat to read about… ” He’s engrossed in a chapter, so he doesn’t notice that you’re a little taken back by the idea of Harry thinking about you while you’re not around, noticing things that remind him of you, and remembering things that he thinks you would like. He chuckles and plucks his glasses off your face before putting them on himself. “Can I read you this one bit?”

You nod quickly. Harry clears his throat.

“I really like you, Midori. A lot.”

“How much is a lot?”

“Like a spring bear,” I said.

“A spring bear?” Midori looked up again. “What’s that all about? A spring bear.”

“You’re walking through a field all by yourself one day in spring, and this sweet little bear cub with velvet fur and shiny little eyes comes walking along. And he says to you, ‘Hi, there, little lady. Want to tumble with me?’ So you and the bear cub spend the whole day in each other’s arms, tumbling down this clover-covered hill. Nice, huh?”

“Yeah. Really nice.”

“That’s how much I like you.”

There’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there when he had started reading. You want to make a joke and ask Harry if he likes you like a spring bear but the words are trapped on your tongue and you think better of it. He turns his head to meet your gaze and hands the book back to you.

“Take it.”

“Thank you… I’ll have to tell you what I think when I finish it.”

Harry’s eyes light up and he’s taking his glasses off again to lean in, pressing the words, “please do,” against your lips.

Saturday, 9th February 2019. 3:22 PM ……………………………………………

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to Sylvia and Harry… Happy birthday to you!”

The flash of a camera illuminates Sylvia’s face as her cheeks puff out in front of her block candle, shaped like the number three, until the flame goes out in a whoosh. You cheer along with the parents and children alike, huddled in Annie and AJ’s dining room. Harry is sat at the end of the table in a cone hat with his daughter in his lap, holding her sides as she leans over to blow on the lingering trail of smoke. He pulls her into his chest before peppering kisses all over her forehead and cheek as she squirms from his hold.

Annie tries to snap a few more photos as AJ hurries to collect the cake, knife, and server, disappearing into the kitchen before returning a minute later wielding several plates with a slice on each. Someone turns the stereo on again once the cake and ice cream is passed out. There’s only three other little ones here besides Sylvia and one of them is Poppy, the daughter of the woman named Bridget who lives on the first floor and watches over Sylvia while Harry is at work. The other two are children of family friends.

Someone is bouncing an infant on their hip. There’s blue frosting and sprinkles all over Sylvia’s face and arms up to her elbows. One of the children starts to cry. The whole scene is another interesting little peek into parenthood for you.

Harry catches your eyes from across the room with a smile, and a vaguely resigned eye roll which you return with a wink. You hadn’t seen much of him this afternoon; he’d been too busy entertaining the guests and the children, tidying up the mess of leftover wrapping paper, orchestrating pin the tail on the donkey, and recovering from when Sylvia whacked him in the groin with the piñata stick by accident. All of the moms—and admittedly one of the dads—are practically salivating over him and you’ve have to stifle your laughter all afternoon because of it.

AJ appears at your side with a light hand on your shoulder as you’re watching Harry pass Sylvia off to Annie before slipping off to the kitchen. “Would you like a piece?”

“Sure,” you chuckle, taking the plate from her before raking your fork through the frosting. You’d gotten a corner slice with most of Big Bird’s stocky orange leg. “It’s very festive.”

“Isn’t it?” AJ takes a bite from her own plate, covering her mouth before speaking again. “Sesame Street seems to be her latest obsession, but it’s outlasted rocketships and firetrucks so I guess we’ll see… ” she trails off before elbowing your side gently. “A few of the adults are sticking around after bedtime for some drinks and I’m sure Harry would love it if you joined. I’ve just made a fresh batch of sangria.”

“Ooh… I’d love to.”

“Perfect.” The two of you eat beside each other awhile, watching the party from the corner of the room.

You lick the sugar off your lips, hesitating for a moment before venturing onto a topic you’ve been meaning to bring up. “I’ll admit, I was a little anxious for Harry to tell you and Annie that he and I have been, um… sort of seeing each other, I guess.” AJ gives you an inquisitive look over your slices of cake, so you go on with a shrug. “I mean, I was kind of a captive in his apartment for a week in crisis and now we’re like… dating. It’s a little odd.”

AJ begins to laugh, so hard that she has to squeeze her eyes shut and bring a hand to her chest, and you can’t help but crack a smile yourself. “I’m serious!” you defend.

“Oh,” she sighs, eventually. “We’ve known about you long before any of that happened.”

Your head jerks back a little in disbelief. “What?”

AJ nods slowly, the incredulous look on her face probably rivaling yours. “He texted us on New Year’s Eve to tell us he’d kissed you in the lift.” Your eyes widen as she speaks around another bite. “You think Annie and I haven’t been hearing about the beautiful young woman who rides the lift with him since last year?”

“You’re kidding me!” It comes out as a harsh whisper.

“I’m not.” She shakes her head. “He told us when you sewed the loose eye back on her toy. He told us when you said Sylvia was beautiful… For a while he couldn’t figure you out. It was sweet. I reckon Annie picked up on the fact that Harry fancied you before he even did.”

“Oh my god,” you breathe. At that moment, Harry reappears from the kitchen, glancing over at you. You’re shaking your head at him but he’s simply smiling in oblivion.

His lips move silently around the word “alright?” You give him a thumbs up before slipping into laughter again with AJ, and Harry’s expression morphs into one of suspicion. He sidesteps to Annie, placing a hand on her shoulder. Sylvia swats her father away as he pinches her cheek, doting her with his eyes.

“And just so you know… ” AJ turns to you with a fading smile, gesturing between Sylvia and you, “there are exactly two people in the world I have ever seen him look at like that.”

Saturday, 6th April 2019. 11:27 AM ……………………………………………

You apply one last coat of lipstick as the lift doors part on the sixth floor, stepping out with a wicker basket and checked blanket swinging on one arm. You’re hoping that an April picnic in London wasn’t too ambitious of a plan—it had rained all week but the sun started to break yesterday and it’s been temperate and warm out ever since.

Harry had suggested the outing today, as well as breakfast last weekend. He’s been trying to come up with creative ways to get Sylvia used to the idea that you’re going to be a more regular figure in her life. You don’t mind one bit; it’s nice to spend time with his daughter, and though she’s barely breathed a word to you in the two months you’ve been seeing Harry, part of you appreciates that it’s clearly important to him that the two of you get to know each other. Plus, it’s nice to be able to see him while he has Sylvia—you’d grown so used to being with him only on the weeks he has his apartment to himself. It was beginning to make you feel guilty that he felt he needed to compartmentalize his time with each of you.

You knock a couple times and straighten out your dress in the interim before he answers.

“Hi, love.” Harry swings the front door open, pulling you in for a kiss. You wouldn’t have minded if his lips had lingered on yours for a moment or two longer than they do, but the sound of crying echoes from the bathroom as you step into his entryway.

“Hi… ” A sustained wail followed by a short trail of sobs rings in your ears as you set down the picnic basket and blanket by the chest table.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, leading you through the hallway while you’re still unbuttoning your jacket. “Can’t get her to stop.”

Harry shoulders through the door to the bathroom, kneeling before the toilet and the puffy-eyed, slobbery toddler sitting on top of it. Half of Sylvia’s bob is clamped up on top of her head with a barrett and the other half hangs in tangles. She clutches Jojo the kangaroo tightly to her chest as tears stream down her round, ruddy cheeks, and she begins to weep again.

“Oh,” you croon through a soft, pitiful laugh. “What’s the matter here?”

“Nothing, s’just—I can’t… ” Harry trails off. You watch from the doorway as he tries to tame Sylvia’s dense mess of curls with a familiar sparkly brush about three sizes too small for his hands, a scrunchie suddenly between his teeth. “Her hair’s too thick. We—we’re almost ready to go.”

“I want Mummy,” Sylvia pleads, her words broken up by choked little sobs.

You notice Harry’s laptop propped open on the bathroom floor by the tub. He glances over his shoulder at it periodically, squinting through his glasses. YouTube is pulled up on the browser—a tutorial on how to french braid is playing with the subtitles on, and you’re suddenly struggling to conceal an endeared smile. Harry’s face goes blank at an especially complicated step.

“Underhand twist?” he mutters under his breath, leaning over to rewind the video with one hand clasped around a messy ponytail at the side of Sylvia’s head. He clears his throat before peeking at you over his shoulder. “Uh… you’re welcome to go wait on the couch, I’m sure we’ll only be a few more minutes—sorry about all this.”

“No, no it’s fine—I um… ” You take an uncertain step forward, crouching down beside Harry with a hand on his back. “Can… can I just… ”

Harry lets you take the brush from his grip when you place your hand gingerly on top of his. He stands quickly to let you take his place as you immediately let Sylvia’s hair down from the barrette, dampen the brush beneath the faucet, and gently begin to untangle her hair, combing your fingers through it when you’re satisfied. Sylvia has stopped crying, though she’s making soft little whimpering noises, her big brown eyes looking up at you a bit skeptical every now and again.

You take the untouched pack of bobby pins from her lap and wedge a couple between your lips for later and in under ten minutes, you’re looping a tiny plastic hair tie around a few of her curls pinched between your fingertips.

“That should do it… ” you breathe, helping to balance Sylvia as she stands up on the toilet and spins around to face the wall mirror. Her hair is skilfully wound into two symmetrical french braids; they bounce as she turns her head from side to side, sucking her thumb as she inspects your handiwork. After a while she blinks up at your reflection.

“Is that what you wanted, sweet pea?” You make your voice light, leaning over to ask her at eye-level. Sylvia simply bobs her head at you, but she begins to smile around her thumb. “Perfect.”

The sound of a quiet breath into a laugh draws your attention back to Harry. He’s still looming in the doorway, resting a shoulder against the wall with his arms folded across his chest and you have to do a double take when his gaze meets yours in the reflection. It feels oddly like the lift.

The warmth and emotion behind Harry’s eyes is irrefutable, almost smothering, but part of you wonders what had brought it on. It’s more and more often that you find yourself wondering what’s going through his mind as you catch him watching you interact with his daughter; in those moments, his eyes are always quiet and curious and fond—a little too intense at times.

You blink a few times to refocus on Sylvia in the mirror before hoisting her up in your arms. “Looks great… You look ready to play!”

Sylvia nods again, and when you begin to hand her to Harry, he’s stuffing his hands in his pockets, pushing up off the wall and turning away from you to head for the front door without a word. After slipping into his jacket and gathering the picnic basket and blanket you’d brought, he holds the door open for you and lets you carry his daughter all the way to the lift. You catch him staring at you again in the reflection of the doors so you elbow his side discreetly.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” you ask under your breath.

Harry exhales a laugh. “No reason.” He lifts a hand to the back of your head, brushing soft circles into the nape of your neck with his thumb. You freeze instantly.

Up until now, you’ve picked up on Harry’s very strict no-touching policy when Sylvia is present—he barely even hugs you goodbye if she’s around. Objectively, it doesn’t seem like the small gesture should be that big of a milestone, but it certainly feels like one.

You look at him in the mirror and try to ask what are you doing? with your eyes, but his smile only deepens in response until it reaches his dimples. Harry gently squeezes the back of your neck before letting his arm fall to his side as you reach the ground floor. You stoop down to let Sylvia run a few yards ahead, and to your surprise, he slips his hand in yours, where it stays for the entire walk to the park.

Friday, 17th May 2019. 4:31 PM ……………………………………………

You roll your shoulders back and let your hair loose from the tight knot atop your head as you emerge from the lecture hall—you’ve just written your first midterm of the season. It’s arguably your most rigorous course at the moment, so you’re glad to have it out of the way. Your hand flits to your eyes to block the light of day as you fish your phone from your bag to text India that you finished early, but a frown settles on your brow. You have three missed calls from Harry.

“Hi, love.” He picks up on the first ring; you pinch your phone between your shoulder and cheek as you dig around for your Oyster card.

“Hey, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, s’alright.” Harry’s words are rushed, overlapping each other even more than usual. “I was actually wondering if you could—wait! Your exam. How’d it go?”

You melt into a small smile. “I feel good about it. I revised more than I needed to, honestly.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. We’ll have to celebrate later.”

Your eyes flash to the ground in your walk to Euston station as your cheeks warm just a hint. “I hope so.”

“I was actually wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”

“Yeah, what do you need?”

“M’ in a bit of a pinch at the gallery and I need to stay later than I expected to wrap some things up here and um… I won’t be home for at least another hour, so I can’t pick up Sylvia from Bridget’s on time—and Bridget, like, cannot stay past five today because her son’s in a school performance or summat. Annie and AJ also can’t get out of work—I tried them already. So, do you think… I mean, Sylvia knows you and she just needs someone to entertain her for a little while ‘til I’m off. Shouldn’t be long.”

“Oh.” Your heartbeat accelerates at the request for some reason.

“Are… are you—do you mind?”

“No of course not! Does, um… Does Bridget know I exist?”

Harry laughs once. “I’ve mentioned somethin’ like you, yeah. I’ll ring her now and let her know you’re coming instead.”

“Okay, sure. Do I have to pay her? Or… ”

“No, no, you don’t have to worry about that. We do a monthly invoice. Just bring Sylvia upstairs and give her, like, four Maltesers—tell her Daddy’s gonna be home soon. I’ll speak with her on the phone if she likes.”

You nod. “Okay, I can do that.”

“You mean it? You don’t mind?”

“Of course I don’t mind.”

Harry makes some sort of strangled noise of rejoice and relief all at once; you chuckle on your end of the phone. “Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver… I owe you one. ”

“You know, I’m gonna hold you to that… ” You hope the suggestive lilt of your voice conveys how exactly you’d like Harry to repay you.

Harry’s voice is lower and a little husky when he speaks again, after a pause. “M’ at work, love.”

“I’ll see you tonight,” you bid through a laugh.

“See you.”

On the tube, your knee bounces all the way to the Clapham North stop; the prospect of watching over Sylvia exhilarates you unexpectedly. In your head, you go over how you’ll greet her. You fondly call her smile to memory and imagine her shuffling up to you for a shy hug. Spending alone time with Harry’s daughter was never a fantasy you’d spent much time dwelling on, but now that the opportunity lays before you, you’re overcome with an anxious hope that it goes well.

You hurry to catch the walk lights on every street corner, trotting through traffic and pedestrians before making a beeline through the lobby doors over to the lift. Your phone buzzes from inside of your jacket.

Harry Styles. 4:59 PM.

Bridget’s flat is 1A, just knock lightly in case anyone’s still napping. Thanks again. x

You. 4:59 PM.

Will do.

Bridget’s flat is easy enough to find on the first floor, and you can tell from where you stand in the hallway that there’s certainly no napping going on inside. The sound of children’s laughter seeps through the door and your first knock goes unanswered for a minute. You try again and hear footsteps.

“Hello!” You’re greeted by a tall woman with long red hair and freckles as she reaches out for a handshake. You introduce yourself but she seems to already know who you are. “I’m Bridget. Lovely to meet you… Harry’s mentioned he was seeing someone, but it’s nice to finally see you in person!”

“I’ve heard wonderful things about you, too.” A smile spreads naturally on your face as she shakes your hand with vigor.

“Come in, please! I’m just on my way out, actually, I’ve got to run to make my son’s play. I would stay longer but he’s the lead so I can’t miss the opening number.”

“Of course, that’s very exciting.” Children’s laughter and the patter of tiny footsteps echo throughout the flat as you step into the entryway.

“The children are around here somewhere. I’m not sure if Harry’s told you but I have a daughter about Sylvia’s age and I watch them while he and my husband are at work.”

“That works out nicely.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Bridget grins at you, shrugging into her trench coat. “Poppy! Sylvia! Come and get your things, darlings, we haven’t got all day.”

“Daddy!” You recognize Sylvia’s voice as two little girls come speeding around the corner. She skids to a stop at the sight of you; her face falls and you try not to take it personally.

You recognize Poppy from Sylvia’s birthday party, and she seems unphased by the presence of a stranger in her doorway. She is a tiny thing with platinum blonde hair and stormy grey eyes. It doesn’t occur to you that you’ve never seen Sylvia in a dress until you’re looking at another toddler stood beside her in a green checkered one. Harry’s child, on the other hand, looks a little less put together; dirt is smudged by her hairline and across one of her rosy round cheeks, and the knees of her tights are charcoal black. Bridget helps Poppy into a Nordic sweater before turning to face Sylvia.

“Sylvia, darling,” she starts gently. “Do you remember how I told you that Daddy’s friend was going to pick you up, but that he was going to meet you at home later?” Sylvia’s curls bounce as she nods. Her big, hazel brown eyes flash you up and down, a bit removed.

“Hi, Sylvia.” You wave your fingers at her, and notice the dimples sink into her cheeks the way Harry’s do when he’s fighting laughter. She smiles, twisting her big toe into the ground. It’s small, but it’s a victory.

“Her wellies and knapsack are there.” Bridget nods to a familiar backpack with the initials, S.S. on the straps, along with a pair of green frog rain boots by the door, covered in mud.

You crouch down to collect them and feel the tiniest ounce of pressure on your shoulder. In surprise, you turn your head to find that Sylvia has walked over and is holding onto you for balance with a foot nonchalantly in the air. You’re quick to tuck her feet into the frog boots before helping her into the world’s smallest puffer jacket, then hesitate; you frown, gingerly taking Sylvia’s hands in yours and flipping them over. Even when spread flat, her fingertips don’t quite reach to the edges of your palm. Her teeny fingernails have black beneath them, and her warm, golden skin is covered in a sheen of dust.

“Sorry about that.” You glance over to the sound of Bridget’s voice as you rise to a stand. “We made a trip to the zoo today. Sylvia tends to get a little adventurous.”

“I see,” you chuckle.

“Well, I’m afraid we must be off, now.” Bridget is brushing past you to the door with Poppy on her hip. You move out of her way and grab Sylvia’s backpack off the floor before heading down the hall with everyone. Poppy makes faces at Sylvia and the pair laugh in secret as you all wait for the lift.

“I hope your son does well tonight,” you comment.

“Thank you! I’m sure he’ll be fine… he’s a ham, a bit like this one.” Bridget nods down to Sylvia with warmth in her smile as you all pile on after the ding.

The lift stops at the ground floor and you say your goodbyes as Poppy and Bridget step out into the lobby. It’s suddenly very quiet between you and Sylvia as the doors slide shut. You press the sixth-floor button, then jump a little when you feel a tiny hand wrap around your index finger, glancing to the reflection of the lift doors to find that Sylvia is clinging on to you mid-yawn, completely unaffected. Warmth floods your chest as you smile tightly and try to remain collected.

Sylvia holds your hand all the way to the door of Harry’s flat. The two of you still haven’t exchanged a word besides hi. Harry had never asked you to return his spare key after your week together, and you’ve sort of made it a habit of keeping it on your person. It’s difficult wiggling it into the deadbolt and twisting the doorknob with one hand but you desperately don’t want to let go of Sylvia.

Inside, she kicks off her boots and blinks up at you. You swallow, dropping your school bag on the chest table, then quickly jog over to the nursery to hang up Sylvia’s backpack, gasping as you pivot to head back to the entryway—she had followed right behind you and you almost trip over her outside of her room. You laugh with a hand to your chest before kneeling to meet her at eye level.

“Sylvia, do you want something to eat?”

She smiles at her feet, crossing her arms and twisting her body before nodding her head. You rise and walk a little slower to the kitchen with Sylvia at your heels. The Maltesers are kept on the top shelf of the goodies cabinet; you nab the box and pour four into your hand as instructed. She’s recently graduated from using a high chair, so you hand her the treat in a small, plastic dinosaur-shaped bowl, thinking she’d lead you to the dining table. Instead, she pops the first malt ball into her mouth right away, seemingly content with sitting on the kitchen floor. You join her and don’t question it.

Sylvia scoots backward on the tiles to the cabinet opposite you with her legs criss crossed. You mirror her position, leaning back against the fridge. She stares at you in fascination, crunching softly.

Her mouth moves like his. The apples of her cheeks push up against her eyes in the corners like his. Her chin and cheeks carry her expressions like his do. It’s an eerie sort of déjà vu, sitting across from her, eating a meal in the kitchen without a table. You feel like you know her a little better simply because you’ve grown familiar with many of her father’s expressive tells, which she shares. Harry is a man of few words but he wears his heart on his sleeve; you feel like Sylvia is similar to him in that regard.

You hoist yourself up to your feet and fill a sippy cup with water, placing it lightly on the floor next to her. She sets aside the empty dinosaur bowl and drinks from the bottle with both hands. When that’s gone too, she belches softly and wipes her mouth with her sleeve. The two of you sit in silence… This isn’t exactly going as well as you’d anticipated.

“Do you want to speak to Daddy? On the phone?” you offer. “He’s coming home soon, I promise.”

She looks to be contemplating this for a moment, but eventually shakes her head.

“Okay… ” you begin cautiously, eyeing the streak of dried mud on her forehead. “Would you like to take a bath?”

Sylvia’s eyes twinkle as a grin spreads across her face. She nods, and relief washes over you. You cannot help but mirror her smile as you lead her to the bathroom, perching on the rim of the tub and rolling up your sleeves to run the faucet. All of Sylvia’s toys have returned to their rightful place in the shower, and you take a moment while the water is rising to shoot a quick text to Harry.

You. 5:21 PM.

Got her. She’s filthy so I’m running a bath.

Harry Styles. 5:22 PM.

Christ, of course she is… Thanks.

Harry Styles. 5:25 PM.

Can’t wait to “owe” you later. x

The message sends a chill down your spine. It’s suspiciously quiet behind you, and you turn around to find Sylvia with her arms raised straight above her head, watching you with a confused frown.

“Right, of course.” You turn to face her, shaking your head at yourself as you help her out of her shirt. After you triple check to make sure the temperature is just right, Sylvia hops in with a splash when she’s ready and flashes you a characteristically mischievous smile.

She immediately goes for the water wheel and starts talking to herself, lining the ducks on the rim of the tub in groups. From what you gather, the ducks all take turns riding in the plastic boat over to the water wheel to play. Each duck family has two moms and one dad. For a minute you lean your cheek in your hand with an elbow resting over the edge of the tub as you let her play, but after a while, when you notice that the dirt on her forehead hasn’t budged, you fix your posture and gently pull her toward you.

“Come here, sweetheart, let’s get you clean.”

You use a big, plastic cup to pour water over her as you sponge at the mud on her face. One by one, you scrub her tiny fingernails with soap until they’re spotless, which takes longer than you would have imagined. Sylvia tilts her head back and squeezes her eyes shut tightly as you soak her dark curls, then pump some baby shampoo into your hand.

It’s maternal and intimate and strangely healing to take care of a child like this. How many years has it been since you babysat for that couple down the block from where you grew up? You can’t remember. But this… tenderly smoothing your hands over this little girl’s hair—being actually, personally invested in making sure she’s clean and safe and happy—feels eons away from getting paid to read a few bedtime stories to kids whose names have slipped your memory by now.

There’s a lot you would do for Harry, but there’s a lot you would do for his daughter, too.

Your hands freeze in place on top of her head as the sound of your name in Sylvia’s mouth stuns you. Up until this point, you frankly weren’t sure if she could say it. You look down at her; her eyes are curious and gazing up at you.

“How come you and Daddy spend so much time together?”

The air leaves your lungs. After a brief pause, you will your fingertips to keep moving in circles on her head. “Your Daddy and I… are friends” you begin steadily. “Kind of like Bert and Ernie.”

“Oh you’re in love?” she asks. Again, remarkably blunt and unaffected.

“No, no, no, honey. Um… ”

Perhaps Bert and Ernie weren’t the best anecdote to explain a platonic relationship to a toddler with gay parents. You fill the cup again and pour water over her hair while untangling her curls with your fingers. She leans back into your hand.

“Daddy and I care about each other… and spending time together makes us both very happy.”

It’s quiet for a long, long while as you listen to the small waves slosh against the walls of the tub. You haven’t settled on what you’d said to her. There’s something more. And even though she’s three, and she isn’t going to remember, you will remember, and you know suddenly that you have to get the words out.

“And I want you to know, Sylvia, that you’re also special and important to me. I care about you very, very much.”

She says nothing more on the subject and neither do you.

“The water’s getting a bit chilly. How about we hop out and play some music in the kitchen while we wait for Daddy? Would you like that?”

“Okay.” Sylvia all but leaps over your shoulder out of the tub, bringing a tidal wave of water with her. You’re half afraid she’ll slip but she lands on the bathmat with agility and waits for you by the towels. You sit on the toilet to help dry her off before blanketing her in the soft yellow terry cloth of her bathrobe.

“Quack, quack.” You wink at her, adjusting the big orange bill above her head and earning a giggle that doubles her over.

Just as you’re about to stand, Sylvia leans toward you with her arms outstretched. You’re confused for a moment and briefly think she might want you to lift her, but instead, she hooks her arms around your neck for a hug.

“Oh, thank you,” you say around a laugh, rubbing her back over the soft towel. Her hair is still wet and presses a damp spot into the shoulder of your shirt.

She drops her arms and quickly turns away from you to the door, turning the handle on her tiptoes and slipping into the hallway on her own. You hear her scream, “Daddy!” followed by the sound of quick, tiny footsteps.

You frown, checking to confirm that you had no new messages on your phone before stepping out into the hall. Sure enough, Harry is there in the kitchen with Sylvia scooped up in his arms, wearing a plaid red and white suit, and soft white dress shirt. Produce, a packet of rice, and a slow cooker are laid out on the counter, but the stereo isn’t turned on.

“Hi.” You smile at him but it comes out like a question.

“Hi.” His voice is quiet and something is off about the way he’s looking at you, yielding and wistful and unbelievably fond. You can feel the confusion painted on your face.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Haven’t been here long.” Harry shifts Sylvia to his other hip, smiling at you softly. “Didn’t wanna interrupt bath time.”

“Ah. How was work?” You lean against a wall in the hallway.

“It was good, yeah,” he says. His eyes take you in, almost timidly from behind his glasses, and his voice maintains a strange air of sentimentality… Whatever it was, you could ask him about it some other time.

“Well I should get going.” You rub your eyes in a half stretch. “I’m exhausted after today.”

Harry’s shoulders visibly drop. “I can’t interest you in dinner?”

“I’m alright, thanks,” you smile, heading for the entryway to sling your school bag around your shoulder. “I need to clean out the fridge and go to bed on the early side tonight.”

“Alright. Thank you again for today… I still get to owe you later, yeah?” Harry quirks an eyebrow; you laugh once.

“Always,” you call over your shoulder with your hand on the doorknob.

“Say bye bye, Sylvia!” His voice immediately switches to the high tone he uses only with her.

“Bye bye!” Sylvia waves at you.

“Bye!” you respond, ecstatic that this is the first time she hasn’t been too shy to actually say something when Harry had asked her to.

In the lift, the doors don’t even get the chance to ding on the eighth floor before your phone vibrates with an incoming text from Harry.

Harry Styles. 6:11 PM.

So which one of us is Bert?

Saturday, 27th July 2019. 11:31 AM ……………………………………………

Mom. 11:31 AM.

We’re on the far left, right at the front… You should be able to see us as you’re exiting the stage. Dad is going to try to get a few pictures, so smile at us if you can!

You slip your phone back into the pocket of your dress but your hands are clammy so you wipe them down the front of your robe for the umpteenth time. There are about ten students in caps and gowns separating you from the stage, and the lapse of time between the applause as each name is read off seems to be getting shorter and shorter. It’s impossible to see your parents or Harry in the crowd from where you stand in line, even in heels. You count six more students ahead of you now. Applause. Five more. Applause. Four… Three… Two…

The Dean of the department is calling out your name before you’re prepared to hear it. You know the applause that follows isn’t any different from the applause following anyone else’s name, but to you it’s everlasting. There isn’t a band to play Pomp and Circumstance to guide your march up onto the stage, but your feet feel light as air as you approach the podium to shake hands with the Headmaster and Dean, then take the scroll with your name on it. You’re doing your best to savor these few moments but the ceremony seems to be happening so fast, and before you know it, it’s the next student’s turn to come up and collect their degree.

A little lightheaded, you head for the stairs, and it’s as though the weight of the past one thousand and ninety-five days lifts from off your shoulders. All of the sleepless nights in the library spent cramming for exams with India snoring in a book at your side, all the evenings out pub-hopping with your friends and the subsequent lectures you’d sat through hungover… Watching the sunrise through the window of a chippie shop with India after your first music festival, adopting Chowder, losing your virginity, breaking a few hearts and having yours broken, fighting for yourself and standing up to the blue-eyed man… all the hard lessons and tears and moments of growth and connection. It feels as though you’re closing a chapter of your life with the rest of your years ahead of you, uncharted and waiting.

Your vision is blurring and you’re so caught up in your thoughts that you almost forget to look for your parents and smile for pictures. After taking a second to compose yourself and push through a shaky breath, you scan the crowd. From up on the platform, it doesn’t take you long to spot your parents and Harry, beaming up at you from their seats. The three of them clap for much longer than what would have been socially appropriate. Somewhere off in the distance, India’s unmistakable screech fills the auditorium. Your mom is crying, your dad cups his hands around his mouth and whistles, but it’s Harry who you lock eyes with.

He smiles up at you wide enough to show his teeth and sink his dimples, clapping so hard that it jostles the bundle of lilies clutched in his arms. You know you should probably have a look around and appreciate the full spectacle of the crowd cheering for you, but the two of you can’t seem to take your eyes off each other.

Harry licks his lips. He’s shaking his head softly at you in either fondness, or disbelief, or both. And then, from where he’s sitting, and in an instant that seems to crystallize the entire world, his lips move unequivocally around the words you’ve felt more times than you could count for as long as you’ve been together, but haven’t breathed to each other until now.

“I love you so much.”

You stop in your tracks on the stage, nearly dropping your scroll. Harry’s eyes widen incrementally behind his glasses and his hands slow to a stop, as though he’d let the words slip by accident.

I love you too, I love you too, I love you too… You want to scream it back to him but at this point, you can’t even manage a whisper. You want to jump off the stage and run to Harry, and you want to kiss him until you can’t breathe, and you want to say nothing but those three words to each other for the rest of the day. But your feet are cemented to the spot and people in the crowd are beginning to stare at you instead of the person behind you shaking the Dean’s hand. Harry begins to laugh.

“Go… go!” He waves with his hands, motioning for you to get a move on. You shake your head to focus and quickly descend the stairs, nearly tripping over your robe.

It’s mind-boggling; you’d just accomplished your life’s greatest achievement and all you want is to be alone with Harry, though it isn’t until nightfall that you finally find the chance to tell him how you feel. After the Skype call with your siblings, then dinner and champagne with your parents, and the opening of congratulatory cards, you’re finally back at Harry’s apartment with his mouth against yours, and your dress in a heap on his bedroom floor.

He is heavy on top of you, down to his trousers, and kissing you in a way that almost feels greedy, unsatiated, and clawing for more. Without parting from his lips, you reach back to unclasp your bra, tossing it to the side along with your tights; Harry hums against your mouth in a soft groan, running his hands over your bare chest. He grinds his hips down on you in the way you’ve grown used to by now—slow at first, as though he’s trying to contain himself, before falling into a more selfish rhythm that almost feels subconscious, and involuntary. You put a hand on Harry’s shoulder to push him off of you.

“I think,” he begins between kisses as you’re rolling on top of him, “this is the longest it’s ever taken you to get me undressed.”

You smile against his lips. “It’s usually not very difficult.”

You sit up and situate your knees on either side of his chest; he drops his head back on the pillow, reaching up to graze your chin with the pad of his thumb before dropping his hand to his stomach. “You’ve had quite a bit of practice.”

You smile at each other slowly, as though both of you are trying to pace the expression, or hide it. It distinctly reminds you of the way you used to look at each other in the reflection of the lift doors before he knew your name, sort of coy and curious and guarded.

The suggestion that the person before you had ever been a stranger is unfathomable. Had there really been a time when the two of you said nothing besides good morning to each other? When he’d hesitated before kissing you? When his hand had trembled as it reached for yours? All of that seems light years away tonight, rolling around in the decadence of this kiss on Harry’s bed, relishing in the taste of his lips, and his scent, and the feeling of his body, warm and smooth beneath yours. He takes your hand and lifts it to his mouth with a kiss.

“Thank you for inviting me today,” he murmurs against your knuckles, running the tip of his nose over the ridges between your fingers. You notice that he hasn’t been able to hold your gaze for long tonight; something unspoken passes between you two every time your eyes meet, and you’re both simply waiting to see who is going to bring it up first.

“Thanks for coming. I know you don’t always care for formal events like that.”

Harry shrugs up to his ears. “Don’t think I would mind them if you were always there.”

You scrunch your nose and breathe through a laugh. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Harry pushes his glasses up, still sort of looking off to the side.

It’s silent between you for a minute until you flatten your hand on his cheek, stroking the mild stubble along his jaw. “I love my necklace, Harry. It’s perfect.”

He reaches up to admire the small, silver H dangling from a delicate chain around your neck between his fingertips. “It suits you.” His voice is barely audible, and suddenly his gaze drifts over your shoulder to some middle distance.

“M’ glad you like the necklace. I like it, too… And um… ” Harry’s words come slowly; you’re viscerally able to see him parsing them through a concentrated frown.

“The necklace is really special to me. I always look forward to getting off work so I can go and spend time with the necklace… And I love hearing what the necklace thinks of politics, and music, and whatever book she’s reading… and I love talking to the necklace about my day.” You’re smiling uncontrollably down at Harry, so you have to cover your mouth with the back of your hand. He’s able, it seems, to look you in the eyes now.

“I love cooking breakfast for the necklace, and like, seein’ the necklace first thing when I wake up,” he goes on. “Nobody makes me laugh like the necklace… My daughter adores the necklace. The necklace makes me feel confident… and reassured, and heard. And the necklace is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—I, like, cannot wrap my head around it sometimes.”

Your fingers begin to tremble by your mouth a little so you rest your hands on Harry’s butterfly tattoo and discreetly try to compose yourself. You swallow as your heart hammers in your chest, but eventually you work up the nerve to speak.

“Are you in love with the necklace?”

Harry’s eyes change behind his glasses in a way you haven’t really seen before.

“I’m completely in love with the necklace.”

He pushes himself up with one arm and wraps the other around your waist, pulling you into his chest, then leans his forehead against yours. The next kiss you share is measured, and indulgent. It ignites something deep in your stomach in a way that feels almost as intimate as the kiss you’d shared on New Year’s Eve… Like you’ve never touched each other before. Like you weren’t sure if he was going to lean in or not. Like a million tiny invisible threads are pulling you close to him.

You exchange a look with Harry, and it’s almost as though an entire conversation takes place between you two. He flips you over on the bed, quickly unbuckling his belt and slipping out of his trousers before tugging your underwear down your body. And then Harry is making love to you, slow and breathy and deep in the soft yellow glow of his lamp… whispering I love yous against each other’s lips, and necks, and chests, sealing the words with kisses until the sun rises through his bedroom window.

Saturday, 10th August 2019. 5:23 PM ……………………………………………

“Honey, honey, honey… Who could be sweeter than you?” Harry sings. “Honey, honey, honey… Bittersweet, but what can I do?”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Sylvia sit so still as Harry strums his guitar along with the words. He’s sitting up on the couch. You’re sitting on the living room floor with his daughter, absently toying with a Viewmaster left strewn on the ground with her Legos, when suddenly she’s crawling over to you on her belly.

“Lord, it’s good to talk to you… Even sweeter than wine.”

Sylvia rests her head in your lap, sucking her thumb. Her dark curls spread out over your thigh and you play with her hair until her eyes flutter closed. Harry smiles gradually, but continues singing and just when you’re sure she’s fallen asleep, Sylvia’s eyes flash open as the song comes to a close.

“More!” she begs.

Harry laughs once, leaning in close to Sylvia as he sets his guitar to the side. It’s bizarre; they look so much like each other, it’s like he’s having a stare-down with himself. “Mummy’s going to be here soon and somebody’s getting a little drowsy.” He’s using the voice he only ever uses with her, soft and enunciated and slow.

“No, I’m not!” Sylvia shakes her head in your lap. “One more, one more, one more… ” She looks up at him with wide, earnest, pleading eyes.

Harry raises his eyebrows at her. “Can’t hear you.”

Sylvia sits up and takes her thumb out of her mouth. “One more, please?”

“One more.” Harry meets his daughter with a hardened, knowing stare. “But if Mummy arrives before the song’s over we’ve got to stop. Kapische?”

“Kapische!”

Harry begins to play the opening notes of the song you’ve come to learn he wrote for his daughter. It’s her very favorite in his repertoire, and the first time you’d heard it was about this time a year ago in the lift, when Sylvia had been belting out the words… Though it was the end of a long, hot summer’s day, and you’d only vaguely caught the melody in those seconds before the lift had reached your floor, the lyrics had stuck with you for weeks because of how beautiful and sentimental they felt.

“Sweet creature,” Harry begins. “Had another talk about where it’s going wrong, but we’re still young… We don’t know where we’re going but we know where we belong.”

The song is Harry’s ode to parenthood—all of the moments of learning and bonding, all the victories and milestones, but also all of the challenges, and times of strife. It’s addressed to Annie in some parts and Sylvia in others, but overall, Harry had written it to capture the general feeling of being a new father all on his own. That’s how he had explained it to you, anyway… You’ve heard the song so many times through the nursery wall whenever Harry would slip away to tuck Sylvia in that you could recognize those first few notes anywhere.

“When I run out of road, you bring me home… You’ll bring me home,” Harry sings, slowing his fingers on the strings in the final verses of the song.

The room feels serene in the extended silence that follows before a knock on the front door interrupts it. Harry is rising to his feet and you begin to tidy the living room as Sylvia scurries off to the nursery to fetch her tiny backpack of things.

“Hi, love.” You can audibly hear the kiss that Harry plants on Annie’s cheek in the entryway.

“Hi, Harry. How are you?” Annie greets before peeking over his shoulder and smiling at you, calling your name with a little more enthusiasm.

“Hi, Annie!” You wave.

“Mummy!” Sylvia comes running around the corner of the hallway, wearing her backpack and clutching Jojo to her chest.

“Hi, munchkin! I missed you!” Annie waves down at Sylvia clinging to one of her legs.

Harry crouches down to scoop Sylvia up in his arms, standing with a groan. “C’mere, bug. Give Daddy a kiss goodbye—Hey!” Harry frowns, taking the small, plush kangaroo from her before holding it aloft between them. “What’s this fo’? Thought you left Jojo with Daddy on the weeks you’re at Mummy’s so he doesn’t get lonely.”

Although Harry pouts theatrically at his daughter, you can tell by the tone of his voice that he’d genuinely been caught a little off guard.

Sylvia perks up in his arms. “Daddy doesn’t need Jojo anymore since Daddy has someone else to keep him company.” She points at you across the flat, meeting your eyes for an instant before looking back to her father. Your heart stops beating in your chest as Sylvia says your name once with a small shrug.

Harry’s jaw drops wide open around a smile, and you and Annie are both struggling to conceal your laughter over Sylvia so casually, yet unintentionally burning her father.

“Can’t argue with that logic,” Annie chuckles.

“I guess not,” Harry mutters. He’s shaking his head at Annie through a smile, feigning that his pride is a little bruised as he passes Sylvia to her.

“Are you two coming round for Sunday roast?” Annie asks in the doorway, bouncing Sylvia on her hip. Harry looks over his shoulder at you inquisitively; you nod quickly, closing the lid on Sylvia’s Lego bin.

Harry turns back to face Annie. “Yeah, just text me what you want us to bring, love… See you both soon,” he bids, leaning on the doorframe.

“Cheers!” you hear Annie call from down the hall.

“Bye bye, Daddy!”

Harry is still laughing faintly to himself as he shuts the door behind them. He turns to face you with his hands on his hips.

“Drop it.” He nods to the rubber toy in your hand as he approaches; you let the giraffe fall to the floor with a squeak and rise to your feet as Harry wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on top of your head. You nestle into his chest and his sweater is warm and scratchy against your cheek.

“And then there were two,” he sighs, tugging up the hem of your blouse to rest his hands bare on your back.

“And then there were two,” you echo, turning your head to size up the tower of dirty plates in the sink, and the massive speckled pot left on the stovetop from dinner. “We should get started on the dishes.”

“Mmm,” Harry mumbles into your hair. “Let’s leave them.”

You exhale into a small laugh, biting your lip as his hands travel up your waist, dangerously close to your breasts. “We need to clean up.”

“Says who?” Harry kisses your temple once before turning to press his lips in the same spot on the other side. “Why not make it an even bigger mess?”

“Harry… ” you breathe. He dips his head down a little and his mouth is on your neck.

The hum of his voice tickles on your skin between kisses. “Did you know that you’re my favorite mess to make?”

Harry’s hands slide down to the waistband of your skirt; he’s fussing with the elastic a little. A breathy laugh escapes your lips, and you grab his wrists to stop him by the time he’s got his thumbs hooked just inside your underwear.

“Just…” you trail off, placing his hands back at his side, shaking your head before stepping around him. You pull your skirt back up as you shuffle over to the kitchen.

“I’m… sorry.” Harry follows behind you, scratching his head. “Have I done something?”

“No, no,” you reassure. “I’m just… ” You gesture vaguely to the living room, looking for the right words. “Nevermind.”

“What’s the matter?” Harry crosses his arms. His brow creases in concern, but you simply turn toward the sink and begin to busy yourself with the dishes. The only sound in the room is the water running from the faucet, but eventually Harry grabs a dishrag and finds a place beside you at the counter.

“You can tell me anything. You know that.”

“I know.” You nod, but avoid his eyes as you pass him a few spoons to dry. “I’m not upset or anything.”

“You sure? You’ve been kinda quiet the past few times with Sylvia.”

“Really?” You make a soft, apologetic sound in the back of your throat. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing, I promise.”

Harry stops drying suddenly as his hands fall limply to the countertop. “So there is something.”

“Well… ” your voice is softer and less certain as you scrub the inside of a bowl a little too thoroughly. “It’s not… I’m not—”

“Do you want to take things slower with her?” Harry asks, his voice suddenly somber and a little apprehensive. You turn to face him; his eyes are already searching yours. “It was when she called you ‘mum’ by accident last week, wasn’t it? Did that scare you? Am I… Are we rushing it?”

You shut the faucet off immediately, and reach for one of his hands. “No, no, no. Of course not, Harry… I love getting to know Sylvia.” You shake your head at him slowly. “It’s nothing serious like that.”

“Alright… ” Harry’s shoulders relax a little, but you can tell he’s still unsatisfied. “Wish you would tell me but… m’ not gonna bug you about it.”

You switch the faucet back on and resume washing until the sink is almost completely empty, save for a few wine glasses and sippy cups. Your heart is racing again; you’ve been trying to find the right words, gathering the courage to speak for as long as it takes to dry two plates and a set of cutlery.

“I don’t want you to worry that I’m upset with you, Harry.” Your voice is soft.

“Alright… You gonna tell me what’s been on your mind, then?”

You shrug. “Sorry, I guess I hadn’t realized I was being so quiet recently… It’s honestly nothing—just kind of embarrassing.” This hooks him, now.

“Embarrassing?” Harry scoffs. “What on earth do you have to be embarrassed around me for? I’m, like, the most embarrassing person on the planet.” You turn to face him. Harry’s perplexed frown seems to have relaxed into a smile.

“Well I don’t know!” You shrug, defending yourself a little mindlessly as warmth touches your cheeks. “To me it’s embarrassing, yeah.”

This time, Harry reaches over you and shuts the faucet off, smacking you in the arm with the dishrag. He leans a hip on the counter to face you, doing a terrible job of trying not to chuckle through his words.

“Out with it.”

“Well… ” Your voice is hesitant, probing. “I’ve always felt it a little but lately I’ve been noticing it more and more often and—”

“Noticing what?”

“Whenever I watch you play with Sylvia… or sing songs to her on your guitar, or hold her ‘till she falls asleep in your arms, I get all… ” You wave your hands over the sink, trying not to stumble through what you want to say. “It makes me—”

“What? Sentimental?” Harry finishes, squinting down at you in confusion.

“No.” You meet his eyes finally. “It makes me want you.”

“Want me? Like… you mean—”

“Yeah.” You nod in confirmation. “Like want you, want you.”

Harry is quiet for a minute, but his eyes gradually soften. “Why were you embarrassed about that?”

“I don’t know!” You raise your hands, defensive again, and accidentally spray a few suds across Harry’s sweater. “It seems a little corrupt, doesn’t it?”

Harry laughs, reaching up to cup your jaw. There’s no use protesting as he pulls you in to kiss the top of your forehead. “Course not. S’ completely natural… Like, I can’t believe that’s what you were feelin’ bad about.”

You cross your arms, pulling away from him. “You don’t think it’s a little odd that the sight of you with small children makes me want to rip your clothes off when we’re alone later?”

Harry’s hand drops from your cheek to your shoulder, where he squeezes once. “Love, I literally remember learning about this for my psych Bachelor’s.” A wicked smile flashes on Harry’s lips before he’s pressing the back of his hand into your forehead to teasingly take your temperature. “Don’t think you need to go and see a doctor.”

You shove his hand away and feel the blood rush to your face, then turn to the sink again to finish off the last few dishes.

“Baby… ” Harry pleads, moving to stand directly behind you and resting his hands on your waist. You continue rigorously scrubbing a spatula when you feel Harry’s lips graze your neck, but your hands freeze when he murmurs something against your skin.

“I feel the same way about you, y’know.”

You swallow dryly as Harry travels down to your shoulder in kisses; it’s hard to focus on the task at hand when the sound of his mouth on your throat fills the entire kitchen. Your pulse picks up a little.

“Do you?” you ask. Goosebumps rise on your skin as he pushes your hair out of the way to kiss the other side of your neck, nipping once at your earlobe. His hands drop to cup your backside beneath your skirt, lifting the hem up your thighs.

“Mhm,” Harry hums matter-of-factly without parting from the spot on your shoulder he’s sucking. His hands are still warm and damp from the dishes as he squeezes you. You tense as you feel his fingertips graze the hem of your underwear.

“In what way?”

You don’t mean for your words to come out so softly, but your throat has run completely dry. Harry pushes his hips against you from behind, pressing you into the sink. You feel him lean his forehead on the back of your head then nestle against you a little. His breath tickles your neck as he sighs before peering over your shoulder and pressing a kiss into your cheek.

“I’m gonna try to put this gently,” he starts. “Cause I don’t want to alarm you, but deep down, watching you play with my daughter makes me want to practice making another one with you.” Your eyes close as your lips part around a small, soundless inhale before Harry goes on. He’s tugging your underwear down beneath your skirt until you feel them fall to your ankles. “And practice, and practice, and practice, and practice, and practice.”

Harry presses his groin into you again, a little rougher than the first time, and you clutch the edge of the sink for support, glancing back at him over your shoulder. Your legs quiver a little as Harry nudges your thighs apart with his knee. His breath is shaky and low by your ear and he wastes no time sliding a hand beneath your skirt and rubbing your clit in gentle circles from behind.

Your mouth gapes wider but you don’t make a sound as your grip on the sink tightens. It’s almost frustrating how quickly he could get you close, now that he’s learned how to touch you. He’s tracing his fingertips over your center time and time again and right when you’re about to ask him to get on with it, he dips two fingers inside of you, knuckle deep.

You suppress a gasp; you’re not used to him reaching so deep using his hands alone, but he’s coming at it from a different angle this time. You’re not sure if you could finish from this, but he’s certainly pushing you to the edge.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

“Feel good?” he asks from behind you. You nod stiffly and he begins to move faster in and out of you.

“I’m close.”

Harry’s breath hitches behind you and he’s pulling out all too soon. Your heart falls a little until you hear the zip of his jeans. Harry shifts his weight, stepping closer to you until his erection presses into your backside. You can feel him stroking himself, growing harder and harder against you.

“Bend over.” His voice is rushed and low; it isn’t a question. You rise to your tiptoes, lean over the sink as far as you can, and feel Harry push himself into you from behind.

There’s always something so irresistible about unplanned intimacy with him. Right now, you don’t want a torturous, drawn out marathon; you want quick, messy, and rough, and that’s exactly what he’s giving you. You inch your legs closer together. Harry groans, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Do that again.” His voice is strained. You arch your back for him and suddenly hear Harry’s knee knocking the wood cabinet below as he begins to push into you with more force.

You watch in curiosity as his arm reaches over you to the faucet. Harry switches it on and the water begins to flow; he adjusts the temperature, then pulls the head from its removable neck, aiming the stream into the sink… Needless to say, you’re utterly perplexed at this point.

There are a number of buttons on the head of the faucet, indicating all the different settings, and Harry switches through a few before landing on one in particular. Then, in a whirlwind, he turns the sink up to the maximum water pressure, yanks the head of the faucet to its full extension, and shoves it under your skirt.

The stream of water hits your clit with incredible pressure and all of the sudden, you’re crying out at an unprecedented volume. He has done this to you before with a removable shower head, but never in his kitchen when you’re both fully dressed, spilling all over the tile.

“I’m going to cum,” you breathe, reaching behind you blindly before grabbing hold of his bicep.

“Cum.”

Harry is moving the faucet head like a vibrator so that the water hits you in short bursts. Your orgasm flows through your body in waves and lasts longer than you’d been expecting. Harry’s fingertips dig into your skin, half out of lust, and half trying to keep you both from slipping in the puddle on the floor.

Once the noises you’re making cease significantly, Harry reaches over you to drop the faucet head back in the sink and it shatters something that sounds like it’s made of glass. You reach up and limply shut the water off and Harry is moving slower inside of you.

“You feel so fucking good,” He breathes against your neck, more than a little winded.

Half delirious, you push him off of you weakly, then lift yourself up to the nearest countertop, spreading your legs and nodding once to beckon him over. You hadn’t been able to see Harry when he was behind you, so it takes you a moment to adjust to the dripping, rosy-cheeked, messy-haired man approaching you. He’d somehow soaked the entire front of his shirt and a few strands of his hair.

Harry makes his way over to stand between your thighs and pulls you into his chest by the backs of your knees. His mouth is warm and tugging and sleek when he kisses you, but he breaks the kiss suddenly as his hand lands loud on the countertop to balance himself; he’d almost slipped in the water.

“Floor.” Harry’s voice is clipped.

He helps you down from the counter and you lay back against the cool tile, paying no mind to how the water dampens the back of your skirt and blouse. Harry crawls on top of you as you lock your legs behind him at the ankles. He uses one arm to prop himself up and the other to cradle the back of your head while his mouth moves against yours.

You can feel Harry’s erection nudging between your thighs, heavy and slick and stiff. It’s incredibly distracting so you press your palms into his lower back until he gets the message and pushes himself inside of you again.

You turn your head to the side and watch the reflection of both of you in the glass of the oven door. You notice the hollow of Harry’s cheek as he kisses down your neck with his eyes closed. You have to look away because you can hardly bear the rapture of watching his silhouette move against your own in scooping motions; under and up, under and up. He’s fucking you in a way that draws something so carnal and maternal out of you that your mind wanders back to his words earlier, about how in the darkest corners of Harry’s imagination, he’s ventured to thinking about making a sibling for his daughter with you.

“Cum inside me.” The winded plea leaps from your throat before you realize what you’re asking of him. The request hangs pinned in the air between you, however, you realize after a moment’s meditation that you’re not just caught up in the moment.

He’s never done it before, or even brought it up—and you can absolutely understand why—but some part of you really, really wants him to… If you think about it too hard you’ll probably change your mind and stop; the last thing you want to do is stop.

Harry begins to say your name, hesitating above you but you interrupt him.

“I’m on a birth control pill, Harry, that’s more effective statistically than getting your tubes tied,” you breathe. “Cum inside me.”

Harry’s jaw flexes and he has to halt the movements of his body. He sighs and leans in to press his forehead against your temple once before he starts moving again, heavy, slow, and deep this time.

He still hasn’t addressed what you’d said. You know it’s a safe bet. He knows it is… Regardless, you don’t want to push him.

The kitchen falls silent as Harry moves above you. He takes your hand and interlaces your fingers with his above your head, and his grip is so tight that it’s almost uncomfortable. Keeping this more mellowed rhythm, Harry starts to drive himself into you with more force. Your mouth falls open and you try not to inhale each time his hips smack against your backside with an audible thwack.

Harry sighs once more, and lets his lips loiter by your ear.

“You want me to cum inside you?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Cause that’s like… you know that’s like, a very difficult offer to refuse.”

“Then don’t.”

Harry lets go of your hand in favor of wrapping an arm around your back, bringing his lips to yours again. You hook an arm around his neck. His fingertips dig harshly into the flesh of your hips until his thrusts become frenzied and uneven.

He swears against your lips before cutting himself off with a groan. “I’m sorry. S’ gonna be a lot. Last chance to change your mind… like, very last chance.”

“Finish.”

As though the statement had sent him over the edge, Harry’s mouth gapes slightly, his face twisting. Instead of pulling out, he pushes his hips forward, burying himself inside of you as deep as he’ll go and a moment later, his whole body tenses on top of you. He breathes a series of stifled curses against your neck, but eventually he slows his movements before collapsing on top of you entirely.

The only sound in the entire apartment comes from the two of you chasing your breath. Harry stays inside of you for a while as you lay in the small lake on the kitchen floor. You comb your fingers through his hair and after a minute, he lifts off of you to lay by your side, tucking himself back into his jeans. He begins to laugh then shakes his head, draping his forearm over his eyes.

“Swore to myself I’d never do that.”

“Do you regret it?” you ask gently.

Harry drops his hands to his chest. His cheeks are still flushed and he’s still covered in dewdrops of perspiration, but he’s staring up at the ceiling in a way that feels sobering, and thoughtful. He cracks a smile, snorting once before turning his head toward you.

“Like… not even a little bit.”

“That’s good to hear,” you laugh.

Harry rolls over to prop himself up with an elbow, surveying the kitchen before looking over at you with a smirk. “Now what’s that you were saying earlier about needing to clean up?”

Sunday, 20th October 2019. 1:05 AM ……………………………………………

“Do you have the room key?” you ask Harry, using his arm for balance as you slip out of your second shoe.

He nods with a chuckle. “Yeah… why are we whispering?”

“Because I don’t want to wake up Sylvia!”

“M’ sure she can’t hear us from out here, love… which room number is it again?”

“Um… ” You close your eyes to think for a minute as you make your way down the hall, then point to the last door by the emergency exit. “Isn’t it that one?”

“Right, thanks.”

You follow as Harry leads you to the door, then knocks softly with an ear pressed up against the wood. Nobody answers, so he uses the card key to crack it open and call a soft, “Hello?”

“Hi!” Bridget whispers the greeting, appearing suddenly to open the door the rest of the way.

Harry smiles at Bridget with a nod, peeking over her shoulder into the hotel room. “How’d everything go here? Alright?”

“Everything was perfect. Sylvia was quite knackered after the ceremony, so she went down easily after a few bedtime stories.”

Harry breathes a laugh. “Good.”

“How was the after party?” Bridget beams at the both of you, clasping her hands.

Harry shakes his head. “Incredible.”

“It was so much fun!” you add. “The champagne was delicious and the music choices were such a throwback, and Harry played a song on his guitar for Annie and AJ as a surprise.”

“Oh that’s lovely isn’t it?” Bridget reaches out to give your arm a squeeze. “Well the ceremony itself was so beautiful. When Annie and AJ were exchanging vows, I just… There wasn’t a dry eye in the room, was there?” Her eyes go wide as she shakes her head slowly at you. “I can’t say I’m surprised that the celebrations afterward were just as spectacular.”

“And thanks so much for taking the kids early,” Harry says with an earnest sort of frown.

“No problem at all. Someone’s got to…” Bridget lifts her sleeve to check the time on her wristwatch. “It’s late, we should all be getting to bed.”

“Course,” Harry nods. “Just wanted to check in… You need anything, Bridget? You alright ‘til the morning?”

“That’s very kind of you, Harry. I’m perfectly fine here… ” She offers one last warm smile, looking between Harry and you before taking a step back to close the door. “Goodnight!”

“Night, Bridget.”

“Night!” You wave over your shoulder as Harry offers his elbow to you for the walk back to your room. He laughs faintly at your side before leaning in to whisper in your ear.

“Alright… now which room number are we again?”

Luckily, your memory generally serves much better than Harry’s so the two of you make it back to your hotel room in one piece. He fixes a batch of tea for both of you at the kitchenette, but neither of you bothers changing out of your wedding apparel before collapsing on the bed over the blankets in each other’s arms.

The faint sound of crickets comes from the wooded area just beyond the hotel grounds. You’d never been to Nottingham before, but the charming ceremony this afternoon in a tiny stone chapel was certainly not a bad way to experience it for the first time. You peer through the window and stare at the moon like a bright, silver little button in the night sky… Your feet are killing you and your head is throbbing from drinking too early in the day, but the sight of the moon and the sound of the crickets and the boy you love dozing off with his face buried in your neck is the perfect ending to this day.

Harry shifts away from you on the bed with a sigh, pulling you from your reverie. He’s laying with an arm draped around your waist and you’d been absently rubbing his back, but as you turn to look at him, his eyes are pensive, almost severe. He stares at you a long time before speaking.

“Annie… wants another.”

“Annie wants…” You squint at him. “Wait, what?”

“Annie wants to have another baby.”

“Oh.” The word hangs in the air for a beat before Harry continues.

“Yeah… I don’t know if she’s like, sentimental from the wedding, or if Sylvia’s getting older made her antsy to grow a family… I think part of it is that she doesn’t want there to be, like, a huge age gap between Sylvia and potential siblings. She and I, um… talked about it a little bit.”

You perk up a little, piecing it all together. “Oh, when you guys did coffee last week?” Harry simply nods, but you can’t help feeling like you’re missing something. “Well… that’s wonderful!”

Harry blinks down at the bed, his brows knitting together. He swallows once before looking back up at you. “She asked if I’m willing to be the father again.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…” Harry worries the duvet between his fingertips as he speaks. “I mean, AJ has a cousin who I think is willing to do it, too, but… Annie was sayin’ it’d be nice if, um, if her kids had the same father.”

You’re at an absolute loss for words, so you’re thankful when Harry carries on.

“She said it was completely my decision, and that she was going to have another either way. Not now, like, now now… but she sounded pretty serious about wanting to get pregnant again sooner rather than later.”

“That’s… big. What do you think you’re gonna do?”

“S’ kinda what I wanted your advice on.”

Your hand flies to your chest. “My advice?”

Harry shrugs. “You know me better than almost anyone. And you’re really, like, thoughtful and perceptive, I jus’ wanted to know what you think… No wrong answers.”

Another long stretch of silence follows, but this time Harry waits for you to break it. You shift on your side to face him and sit up a little before answering. “Wow, Harry… I just… That decision has to be completely up to you. It’s just too big. You have to decide on your own.”

“Well, what if I agreed to do it?”

You nod slowly, looking over his shoulder to mull this over. “In total honesty, Harry, I can see happy endings either way.”

Harry rolls onto his back, resting his hands on his stomach. His eyes are a little colder, though. “Hm.”

“What?” You nudge his side. He doesn’t respond. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Harry, what’s wrong? What did I say?”

“Nothing, it’s just… I dunno. I thought maybe you’d have a stronger opinion about it. Haven’t been able to make up my mind, so.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, maybe…” Harry shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Your voice comes softly. “It sounds like you do.” He looks away from you a moment before returning to your gaze. You gesture at him before asking, “Well how do you feel about it?”

Harry clears his throat. “I don’t know if I want to have, like, a bunch of kids with one family, and then a whole other… I always pictured myself havin’ a normal life, like, meeting somebody and falling in love and getting married and having babies—the whole lot, right? Like, I assumed that would happen for me eventually just like anybody else. But that all changed when Sylvia came along, and I was happy with my life, like, I was fine with that… I kinda figured that Sylvia and Annie, and now, I guess, AJ were the one chance at makin’ a family I was gonna get, which was, like, amazing because I love them. And I don’t think… ”

Harry pauses, avoiding your eyes still. A deep shade of pink blooms on his ears and the high points of his cheeks, and you get the sense that maybe what he’s about to say had been rehearsed a few times.

“I don’t think I would be… considering turning down Annie’s offer as seriously as I am if you weren’t in the picture. ‘Cause if I have a bunch of kids with Annie, and if there’s… a chance that someday I could have a family with someone else… well, that’s just a lot of bloody kids innit?”

You bark a laugh in spite of yourself and Harry looks at you, perhaps a little startled. “So… what are you saying?” you ask.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is like, if Annie asked me something like this a year ago, I think I’d have a hard time thinking of a reason not to do it.”

“And that’s because… you see yourself having kids with someone else down the line?”

“Well maybe now I do, yeah.”

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. It’s your turn now to dodge his eyes as you respond. “Can you see us ever having kids if we end up together?”

“I mean… ” Harry begins delicately. He almost doesn’t even need to finish his sentence in the endless pause that follows; the way he’s tip-toeing around the answer as though he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings makes your heart sink in your chest. “And I say this as someone who is actually familiar with the grit, and sacrifice, and discipline it takes to raise a child, but absolutely, yes… Like, very, very easily I see us having kids. If we end up together.”

The air leaves your lungs. “Really?”

Harry pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’ve got a daughter to think of. I’m going to need to move soon, to like, a house probably. Gonna be thirty in the blink of an eye, love… Overwhelming you is the last thing I want to do, but thinking about the future is like, all I’m wired to do at this point in my life…” Harry scrunches his nose at you. “S’ that make me sound old fashioned?”

“No, it makes you sound like you became a father at twenty-two.”

He sighs, shifting on the bed to cuddle back into your side. You turn over to let him spoon you, though you’re still processing everything he’d just admitted. You’re caught by surprise as Harry slips a hand beneath the hem of your dress, landing warm on the soft part of your stomach just beneath your navel. Your pulse goes erratic and you kind of hope he can’t feel it snuggled up so close to you.

“You know,” he begins, “there was a lot I missed out on during Annie’s pregnancy with Sylvia. S’not like it was anyone’s fault, but it was just the way it worked out, I guess, since we never really had feelings for each other.”

“What do you mean missed out on?”

“Like, I dunno, I guess it would have been nice to kiss her belly, and talk to Sylvia through it. I did that a little, obviously, but like not as much as I would have wanted… And to see her belly grow a little bit everyday… to fall asleep holding the baby bump. Even just, to like, touch it as much as I wanted. It was always a little awkward at first when we didn’t really know each other, you know?” You turn your head to the side to listen to him more closely before he goes on.

“There were a lot of firsts I experienced on my own with Sylvia and I always thought it would have been nice to celebrate those with someone else, too. Like, I taught her how to walk, for example. She took her first steps in my flat. The first time I got her to nurse from a bottle, the first time she had a tooth growing in, the first time she used the training potty on her own… I was alone with her for all of that. Isn’t that kind of a shame?”

“It doesn’t have to be a shame… Maybe it even makes those moments more special, you know?”

Harry sighs. “I dunno.”

“Well, babe… If you help Annie have another baby, a lot of that might not change, you know?”

“I know.” You feel Harry nod behind you before beginning to trace his fingertips up and down your arm. “Do you think you’ll ever want babies? Like… not necessarily with me, but just in general?”

“I suppose so, yeah. Maybe not for a long time, but it’s not something I’d rule out,” you muse. And suddenly it’s a little too quiet. You squint up at the ceiling before elbowing Harry. “Are you smiling right now?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. You roll your eyes, but he nestles a little closer into your neck. “We would make a few nice ones,” he murmurs.

You bite your lip against the biggest smile. “Do you think?”

“Mhm… Sunday morning… smell of pancakes… patter of tiny feet—”

“Remind me again who is antsy to grow a family?”

You hear the zip of your dress parting behind you as Harry kisses and nips at your neck. “Certainly wouldn’t mind putting a few babies in your belly.”

You’re turning to face him, already going in for the top few buttons of his dress shirt. “Well, we’re probably going to need some practice before we’re ready.”

Harry places his hand at the back of your head to kiss you, smiling against your mouth as he climbs on top of you. “I happen to love practicing making babies with you.”

Tuesday, 26th January 2021. 8:05 PM ……………………………………………

“What’ll it be, my love?” Harry teases, popping a chip into his mouth as he elbows your side.

You squint up at the menu; the fluorescent light is harsh on your eyes. “Oh boy…” you respond, half to Harry and half to the older man behind the register. “I think I’ll have the same.” You nod at Harry’s cone with a smile. “Number two, please.”

It’d been Harry’s idea to stop into a chippie on your walk home from the National Gallery. You’re dying to get out of your heels and let down your hair, but you’d never turn down potatoes in any form if you could help it. Harry leans against the glass case by the counter, already putting a dent in his food while you pay. Chips in hand, the two of you stroll out to the street again, side by side.

“Cheers.” He angles his cone toward you and you tap yours against it.

“Cheers,” you laugh around a massive bite. Harry laughs at you, then stuffs about four chips into his mouth before leaning in for a kiss while you walk.

“I wub wub.” He says, tilting his head up to keep the food from falling out.

You frown up at him, covering your mouth to chew. “Wha?”

“Mmf—” Harry squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing in a way that looks painful. He licks his lips. “I said I love you.”

You shake your head at him. “I love you, too.”

“How are you not bloody freezing?” He wraps an arm around you, rubbing up and down your shoulder.

“I dunno.” You shrug, but then smile up at Harry, a bit teasingly. “You know, you could have gotten me a nice warm jacket, though… Second-anniversary gifts are supposed to be cotton. Last year was paper… next year it’ll be—”

“Leather, right?” Harry raises his eyebrows at you and you give him a sidelong look. He glances around before leaning in close to your ear. “Now that could be fun.”

“Easy, tiger,” you warn, pointing a chip at him like a weapon.

“Thanks for coming with me tonight… I know the gala didn’t exactly land on a convenient day for us.”

“Are you kidding?” you ask around another bite, nudging his side. “You just got a massive promotion… I think I’ll survive postponing one dinner.”

Harry laughs once without humor. “S’ definitely not what the gala tonight was about, darling.”

“Sure… so the ten-minute toast that the head curator dedicated to you… that had nothing to do with it?”

“Nope.” Harry gives you a tight smile, popping his lips around the word. “We’re celebrating the new exhibit.”

“That you helped organize.”

Harry rolls his eyes, tossing a few more chips into his mouth. “You’re a relentless little thing.”

“So what are we actually going to do for our anniversary?”

Harry chews, narrowing his eyes to contemplate. “Was thinkin’ we could do a weekend away. Wouldn’t that be nice? Explore a new place together… ”

You nod and flash him a pensive, upside down smile. “Not a bad idea… Annie and AJ are still okay to take Sylvia for the weekend, right?”

Harry nods. “Definitely… Christ, I can’t believe she’s turning five.” His face crumples a little, his eyes somewhere between pointedly heartbroken and unbelievably loving.

“I know,” you add, unable to keep from grimacing, yourself. “She’s not allowed to get any bigger… God, I still remember when she could barely talk… She’d just make noises, bouncing in her little BabyBjörn on your chest.”

Harry’s head snaps up to look at you. “S’ right! We weren’t even together then, were we?” You both frown at the ground, piecing it together. “Yeah, no, we weren’t” Harry taps your arm with the back of his hand, swallowing another bite. “Cause she would’ve been… two? Wait, three? No—”

“No, because I was at her third birthday party, remember?”

“Oh fuck, that’s right,” Harry laughs. “No, yeah. You’re right.”

“Yeah, I remember because that was the day AJ told me all about how you were obsessed with me just from riding the lift together in the mornings—”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” he cuts you off. You laugh, bumping Harry’s hip with yours a few times until he’s chuckling along with you. “That all feels like forever ago,” he mumbles.

Your gaze drops to the ground as you get swept up in a trail of memories from that year of your life. “Yeah,” you agree, but the sound of a car honking in the street drowns out the word.

Harry clears his throat. “Do you remember staying in my flat that week because of that man?” You feel a frown crease your brow, and you nod solemnly without meeting his eyes. “What a fucking insane way for us to get together, though.”

You laugh once, shaking your head. “You really can’t make these things up.”

“I still can’t believe that happened sometimes… Like, you were tough as nails. Still are. I remember being really impressed by you fo’ that.”

A smile spreads across your face, but you decide not to comment. You toss your empty cone of chips into a nearby bin and nod to Harry’s. “You done with those?”

Harry stops chewing mid-bite to roll his eyes and reluctantly hand you the dregs of his cone.

“Thank you!”

He dusts off his fingers before pinching your hip, then reaches into the breast pocket of his suit as you turn onto your street. You place a hand on the railing as both of you trot up the steps to the building. The keys jingle in Harry’s hand as he jimmies them into the deadbolt; it takes a minute of frowning for him to finally unlock the front door.

“Sorry, love. M’ still getting used to it.”

He holds the door open for you to step through, then locks it behind you both. Immediately, you trip over a box in the entryway, gasping in the dark. Harry flicks on a nearby light switch.

“Alright?” he laughs.

“Yeah, just… God. We need to finish unpacking before we go away this weekend.” You shake your head, then bend down to shove the box off to the side, examining one of the cardboard flaps at the top. “Of course this one’s yours.”

“Wha’s that supposed to mean?” Harry barks behind you in a laugh.

“Mine are all upstairs, out of the way!” you giggle, jabbing your index finger at the ceiling. Suddenly Chowder bursts onto the scene, running for the front door with a faint meow.

“Too slow, old man.” Harry crouches down to scoop up your cat in his arms like a baby before leaving a few kisses on his forehead. The voice Harry uses with Chowder is eerily close to the voice he used with Sylvia when she was younger. “No escaping today.”

You laugh a little woefully everytime Harry uses that nickname with Chowder. He is getting old; his whiskers had turned white last year, the stripes on his face are beginning to lighten from their deep orange hue, and his middle is the plumpest it’s ever been. As your cat leaps to the floor, you rise and take his place in Harry’s arms. He pulls you into his chest with a sigh and you wrap your arms around his waist beneath his jacket.

“I love you.” You break the silence, shaking your head softly. “I love our life.”

“So do I.” Harry plants a kiss on the top of your head, and his words are muffled by your hair.

The two of you stay like that, holding one another in your entryway, taking in your tiny little townhouse, hardly any larger than a shoebox. It’s a sea of brown boxes, packaging peanuts, and paint samples pinned to the wall at this point, but the space belongs to you both.

So long as you have each other, you couldn’t care less if the soil in the back garden is essentially concrete. You’ll pick furniture and plants and sheets you both like, and fill the rooms with art that you chose together… You’ll hang photographs of you both that haven’t even been taken yet, where you’ll be standing in places you haven’t yet traveled. Your stockings will hang together by the fire at the holidays. You’ll cook together, read together for hours with his head in your lap, dance to Harry’s stereo in the kitchen together, perhaps even help raise Sylvia together.

But for tonight, you slip into one of Harry’s big tee shirts as he brews up two piping cups of tea, and the two of you fall asleep in each other’s arms on a brand new mattress in a barren bedroom. Your new life together under the same roof will be ready and waiting for you in the morning.

THE SHAMROCK SOCIAL CLUB

Part One: Nobody Fucks With a Snake

Somehow you land a consultation with Harry Styles, one of the most renowned tattoo artists on the west coast. He agrees to design your very first tattoo and ink it on you himself, but over the course of your sessions together, mischief ensues…

No photos, videos, smoking, children or crybabies.

That’s what the sign on the door had read on your way in. You had scoffed at the sight of it, specifically at the final imperative, for who in their right mind would come to a place of this caliber with this kind of price tag and dare to complain? But as you’re sat in the waiting room with clammy hands and your bottom lip raw from the way you’ve been gnawing at it all afternoon, you’re beginning to have second thoughts… Are you a crybaby? You have zero frame of reference, but you’ll find out soon, at any rate.

A Joan Jett song is booming from a stereo somewhere in the parlor around the unmistakable buzz of tattoo guns. Your knee bounces as you sift through the laminated pages of the binder in your lap. The clear plastic page covers are buoyant; they crinkle beneath your fingertips as you examine every odd design in the book: a roaring tiger, a rain cloud in a bell jar, a three-dimensional heart with legs wearing knee-high fishnets and kitten heels… None of them particularly stand out to you. You came in knowing what you wanted—there’s no reason for you to be examining this catalog so closely, but you’d rather have something to keep your hands and mind occupied for the time being.

A quick glance at your watch tells you that you’ve still got ten minutes to spare, so you fish your phone out of your bag and check your email, refreshing the page once, twice, just in case your appointment had been rescheduled. It wouldn’t be the first time. It wouldn’t be the second time either, truthfully. Your consultation has been bumped no less than four times in the past two and a half years, but you wouldn’t dream of making a fuss over it, not at a place like this. Not when there’s an obvious hierarchy to the clientele and you exist comfortably at the bottom of that food chain.

After all, you are not a crybaby.

You make a conscious effort to keep your knee still and send a few deep breaths to the pit of your stomach. The phone at the receptionist’s desk rings. You jump, listening closely as the woman’s voice comes from over the counter.

“Alright, thanks! I’ll let her know.” The wheels of her chair roll on the hardwood as she rises, beaming at you from across the waiting area, but the sound of your name in her mouth startles you still. “Harry’s ready for you. He’ll be down any minute.”

You straighten in your seat. “Great, thank you.”

Footfalls echo from a staircase somewhere in the studio and for whatever reason, your heart kicks into gear. You wipe your palms down your jeans to dry them one last time before spying a worn pair of chelsea boots rounding the corner. Your eyes travel up the fitted black jeans and burgundy short-sleeve, collared button-down all the way to the man’s face. He’s not smiling necessarily but his eyes are vaguely warm. The leather sofa sighs as you stand.

“Hello,” he greets, offering his hand to shake. “You must be—”

You cut him off with your own name, then scold yourself internally; it’s uncharacteristic of you to be so on edge. “It’s nice to meet you,” you recover with a tight smile.

“Pleasure’s mine. I’m Harry.” You earn a slight raise to one corner of his mouth in return. The English accent catches you a bit by surprise.

Harry is about a head taller than you up close. His eyes are emerald but not strikingly so—the kind of green you have to lean in to notice—and his lips are arched like a bow. The shape of his nose is defined and the slightest touch aquiline; it suits him. Kempt, wavy brown hair compliments his features. His jaw is strong and carries much of the shape of his face, handsome on the borderline of distracting—a flagrant, cutting kind of handsome. His eyes flash you up and down for a millisecond as well, and your heart is suddenly in your throat.

Now, you weren’t hoping for Mr. Mahoney himself, but the man before you is younger than you would’ve expected. It occurs to you that you didn’t know what any of the tattoo artists of the Shamrock Social Club looked like until this very moment. Granted, you recognize the eagle, rose, mermaid, and anchor covering Harry’s forearms from snapshots of him hunched over a client, needle in hand, clad in latex gloves. However, the shop’s Instagram page typically only ever posted photos of the finished body artwork, never the faces of the tattooists, and you didn’t follow any of their individual accounts.

You weren’t necessarily a massive tattoo fanatic, so you hadn’t specified an artist at the shop that you would prefer to see for your consultation today—you frankly didn’t know enough about tattoos to delve too deeply into any of their backgrounds or specialties, and considering how long you’ve waited for this day, you’d be willing to meet with just about anyone. As you stand here, you’re coming to regret not having done your research ahead of time, half wishing you’d have worn a different blouse and spritzed some perfume on your wrists before leaving your apartment.

Something unspoken passes between the two of you, something more than just a handshake; you could swear that Harry holds on for longer than he needs to but then again, you could have been imagining it.

He clears his throat, dropping your gaze. “My office is upstairs, have you got everything you need?” You hoist the strap of your bag up to your shoulder and manage a small nod. “Brilliant. Follow me.”

You trail behind him up the narrow wooden staircase, stepping around a pool table and two Harley Davidson bikes leaning against the wall on your way. As you ascend the steps together, you cannot help but notice all of the framed photographs, article clippings, and sketches dotting the walls, but Harry isn’t really giving you time to appreciate the spectacle.

“This is me.” He glances over his shoulder at you from the top of the stairs, holding the first door in the corridor open and gesturing for you to go ahead.

You crane your neck to take in the shoebox of an office as you step inside. Vinyl records and band posters litter the walls: Def Leppard, Led Zeppelin, The Cars, The Doors, The Grateful Dead. A large window faces the street. You and Harry have the room to yourselves even though this is clearly a shared office space—there are two desks—but as he steps in through the threshold behind you, he settles in at the one closer to the door.

Harry’s desk is large and modern, devoid of any decor apart from a sleek brass paperweight, an adjustable lamp, a folded pair of tortoiseshell clubmasters, and an old-fashioned set of keys that make you wonder if he drives a vintage car. He leans across the desk, pulling out the chair on the opposite side for you.

“Have a seat,” he instructs with a nod, straightforward and almost slightly removed as he shuffles a few papers around.

You do as you’re told but it all feels oddly reminiscent of awaiting punishment in a principal’s office. You tilt your head to read the spine of the book laying face down on his desk, but you’re only able to catch the name Bukowski before he hastily shoves it into a drawer, shooting you somewhat of a loaded glance. You quickly avert your eyes, wringing your hands in your lap.

He clears his throat. “Typically with new potential clients, we start out with a few intake questions if that’s alright with you?”

You scoot forward a couple inches in your chair. “Of course.”

“Right.” Harry licks his finger, reaching into a file cabinet before spreading out some official-looking forms on the desk space in front of him. You notice the thick, intricate rings adorning almost all of his fingers—the largest of which are the initials, HS in golden block letters. He clicks his pen, reading off the page. “What kind of body art are you interested in getting?”

“A tattoo.”

Harry breathes a laugh, shaking his head to himself subtly. “Greyscale, color, large, small…?” he trails off.

Your cheeks warm. “Oh—yeah, sorry. I want a snake. Well, more specifically a viper. In a few different colors and, um… pretty large-scale. Around two inches wide, and I want it to wrap around my leg twice from my knee up to my hip.”

Harry nods slowly with a thoughtful hum as he jots something down on the paper. You wonder if you’d impressed him, although it’s unlikely seeing as he’s hardly even spared you a glance for the duration of this conversation. “When did you first decide you wanted that?”

“A little over two years ago now.”

“Does it sort of fit in with the theme of the rest of your body work?”

You’re thrown for a loop, but decide to choose your words carefully. “I—um… not exactly, no.”

“Have you got a sketch of what you want already?”

You shake your head. “I was kind of hoping one of you would design it from scratch.”

Harry’s eyes change as he continues writing; he seems pleased. “Nice,” he murmurs. “Was there a specific style you were hoping for like traditional, watercolor, realism, Japanese?”

You quickly reply, “traditional” with the feigned confidence of a person who knows the difference between any of those.

Harry pauses for a moment to squint at some middle distance, then begins to sketch the hood of a rattlesnake in the margin of the paper before going on. “How many pieces have you got in total, then?”

You hesitate. “Like… you mean, currently?”

Harry’s pen stops. He looks up slowly in a perplexed frown, like he actually had to think about it for a second. “Uh… yes. Currently.”

“Well, technically zero.”

Harry’s eyes search yours; the crease between his brows hasn’t budged. “You’re—wait, you haven’t…” He shakes his head, momentarily closing his eyes. “A giant snake is gonna be your first tattoo?”

“Um… yeah.”

The word stays pinned to the air between you as you blink at each other. His eyes narrow. “Can I see some ID?”

You hastily rummage through your bag, passing him the small card from your wallet without a word. Harry plucks it out of your hand with his index and middle fingers, but his eyes linger on yours a bit skeptically before he scrutinizes your ID. After a minute, he tosses it back to you across the desk but hardly seems satisfied.

Harry shifts in his chair, glancing at the door. “You, um… you do know this isn’t like, your run of the mill tattoo parlor, don’t you?”

You nod quickly. “Of course.”

“We’re some of the most respected like… in the world. Mark has been ranked the best tattoo artist in the U.S. for like a decade straight.”

“I—I know.” You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and catch Harry’s eyes flickering to follow your hand.

“Do you um…” He waves vaguely in your direction. “Do you by any chance like, know someone who works here?”

You purse your lips to the side, wracking your brain, but after a minute, shake your head in defeat.

Harry takes a deep breath in, setting the papers aside delicately. He leans forward on the desk and his features soften, conciliatory. “We usually refer potential clients out if they’ve never gotten a tattoo before unless there’s like special circumstances or if it’s something really small… it says so on our website.”

You viscerally feel your heart sink in your chest. “Oh…”

“There’s loads of incredible shops in this city,” he adds. “I can give a number of personal recommendations if you’d like.”

“I have the money,” you reason, but you can hear the plea laced in your own voice.

Harry flexes his jaw, solemn. “S’ about more than that, I’m afraid.”

“I have five grand saved up and I’m willing to invest all of it in this.”

“That’s…” Harry leans back in his chair, shaking his head softly. “That’s way too much for something like this anyway. I mean it’s literally like a safety precaution—for the scale you want, we’d usually only offer five-hour sessions at a time to complete it. But for you, I mean, that’ll make you ill. Your body’s not used to the ink… Even if you had a small one already, I’d probably still have to turn you down.”

“Couldn’t we go slow at first?”

Harry runs a hand over his stubble. “I mean…”

“I’ve been on the waiting list since twenty-seventeen.”

“I’m sorry.” His mouth forms a tight line. “I wish I could do more for you.”

You take a deep breath. “Well could we… could we just finish the interview anyway? To humor me?”

You swallow hard against the sudden lump in your windpipe, dodging his eyes. You’re flustered, stunned at the loss you feel after all this waiting, all this saving up and rescheduling and anticipation, and it’s even harder to process in front of someone you’ve only just met. Quietly, Harry gathers the small stack of papers and flips to the page you were on; he probably just feels sorry for you at this point.

He licks his lips. “What would you like this tattoo to say about you?”

You pause a moment to consider. “That I’m brave.”

“What’s the inspiration behind why you want this tattoo?” He isn’t even taking notes on your answers anymore. Your eyes flit to the edge of Harry’s desk and your jaw tightens for a moment as you gather your thoughts.

Briefly, you consider making up some story about how snakes are your favorite animal, or how you’ve always thought they were beautiful. But what do you have to lose? This is a person you’re never going to see again and there’s something liberating in that. You look up, steadfast, and lock eyes with Harry.

“A few years ago, something awful happened to me—someone did something awful to me, rather. And it was ugly and violating and humiliating, and for a long time afterward I was really rattled. I didn’t feel very connected with my body. I didn’t feel that I had ownership over it. I mean, for a long, long time, I felt like… like this person I trusted had stolen a piece of me without my permission. And I lived with that for a while and um, went through some stuff trying to feel like myself again but then I had the idea for this tattoo and something inside of me just… clicked, I guess.”

You’re a bit taken by Harry’s clear, level gaze. Any trace of sympathy or disinterest that you’d sensed from him earlier has vanished completely as he listens carefully to your every word. So intent, so zeroed in on you, and not the least bit patronizing. It’s almost intimidating. You go on.

“I knew I wanted the tattoo to be a statement, like I wanted it to send a message, but I spent months doing research and thinking about what I should get and I think I kind of came to the snake because they’re fierce and they fight back, you know? Nobody fucks with a snake. And they can shed their skin, so snakes also symbolize rebirth and transformation and like healing… For me, and I mean, wrapped around my thigh… I kind of want it to be like a protector, in a way?” You study Harry’s face. His eyes flutter a little and he nods once, minutely.

“And I know this is my first tattoo and I know you probably have clients on the waiting list who are much more appealing candidates because they’re way more important than someone like me, and I know I don’t have any connections which doesn’t exactly help my case but… Shamrock Social is the best of the best and this tattoo is far too meaningful to me to just go to any old studio for it.”

Harry’s eyes drop to his hands, folded on his desk. He is deadly quiet across from you and it’s probably because you’re right. There are no two ways about it; he works at one of the most highly sought-after tattoo shops on the planet. He knows that. You know it. After a brief pause, you soldier on.

“I don’t know if having a big, beautiful snake on my leg will fix everything, honestly.” You shrug with a soft, humorless laugh. “And I don’t know if it’ll make sure nobody ever fucks with me.” Harry smiles faintly. You hadn’t realized he had dimples. “But what I do know is that doing this for myself, and proving to myself that I can,will at least—”

You cut yourself off before your voice begins to run higher, huffing a small, sort of breathless laugh at yourself. Harry meets you with a calm, hearkening gaze and you’re reminded of that indiscernible moment of quiet, mutual curiosity that had passed between the two of you when you shook hands. You dig your fingernails into your palms and breathe carefully until you’re able to speak again. Harry waits for you without a word and when you’re ready, you look hard into his eyes.

“What I do know is that if I go through with this, I might actually feel like my body belongs to me again, completely, for the first time in like… longer than I care to admit.”

Silence.

Harry stares out the window behind your head for a long, long while before speaking. In the interim, you become more aware of the flecks of dust caught in the sunlight, the muted hum of traffic outside, and the faint bass of the song playing from the stereo downstairs. Finally, he tugs a fistful of hair on the top of his head, glancing at the door before meeting your eyes.

“I can’t… I can’t promise you anything, but we’ve got a couple apprentices right now—Mitch is one of them. He’s really good. I can maybe set you up with him.” In spite of the good news he’s delivering, Harry’s voice is less kind than it had been, almost stern. “Maybe.”

Your eyes grow wide. A breath hovers in your lungs as your lips part, but you close them quickly and nod. “I understand.”

“And I’ll have a chat with Mark—all new clients have to be approved by him. I can’t just like… take on anyone for a tattoo of this scale on my own. At least not under these circumstances. None of us could do that except for him.”

Your mind is spinning trying to keep up. “Okay…”

“And if—if my boss is on board with this, you might need to think about downsizing that snake a considerable amount and saying goodbye to some of the colors you wanted.”

This piece of information is a little harder for you to digest, but you swallow your pride and give Harry a firm nod. “I can do that. I can compromise.”

“You should know Mark is like… very strict about these things, ink poisoning and the like. Everybody reacts to their first experience under the gun differently, physically and emotionally, and it’s definitely not for everyone—you may find that you hate it but if one of our artists agrees to work with you, you cannot back out.”

“I won’t. I swear.”

“In the five years I’ve been here, we’ve only had a client withdraw like twice. That’s how selective we are. Do you understand?”

“I’m a safe bet, I promise you.”

“Cause when you’re four hours into a session and the pain is so excruciating that you’re sweating through your clothes and trying to keep your lunch down…” he trails off. “What I’m trying to say is that big, complex pieces like what you’re asking for aren’t for the faint of heart—I mean, your knee and your hip? That’s gonna hurt more than a sleeve… We’ve got the shop’s reputation to think of and we take that very seriously… I take that very seriously.” Harry’s eyes are hard; they emphasize the unsubtle warning in his voice. “Alright?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you—that’s… thank you.”

Harry presses his lips together again, nodding at you once before his eyes dart elsewhere. “Like I said,” he begins, rising to his feet. “Can’t make any promises.”

“I know, but still. I appreciate it.”

You stand as well, and he gestures for you to exit into the hallway first. “C’mon, I’ll show you out.”

You head downstairs together, through the parlor, and back to the waiting area in the front. The receptionist offers a warm smile, but you can’t say the same of Harry as you turn to face him one last time—probably for good.

“We’ve got your contact information?” he asks.

“Yes, my email and phone number. I filled out the forms when I signed in.”

“I’ll call—uh.” He reaches back to rub the nape of his neck. “Expect a call back sometime at the end of next week. Someone will be in touch by then.”

“Okay.” The word comes out a tad more eager than would have been ideal, but you offer your hand to shake and Harry takes it firmly. “Thank you, again.”

He covers the clasp with his free hand as the two of you shake, but does not acknowledge your thanks. “Lovely to meet you,” he replies with more of a professional air. He says your name, too, and the sound of it coming from his mouth undoes something inside of you.

“You too, Harry.”

You turn to exit, peering back over your shoulder with your hand on the knob. Harry is watching you carefully with both hands in his pockets, leaning on the receptionist’s desk. You offer a smile, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. He nods once, and you disappear into the street.

……………………………………………

-You used to be a much better liar, Sam.

-Leave him alone, Miss Ilse. You’re bad luck to him.

-Play it once, Sam… for old time’s sake.

-I don’t know what you mean, Miss Ilse.

-Play it, Sam.

Casablanca is streaming on your laptop with the subtitles on, propped open on the lid of the toilet as you soak in the bath. Your head is craned around to watch it from where you lay and the angle is slightly uncomfortable on your neck, but the warmth of the water is absolutely marvelous; you let it engulf you.

You blow over your fingernails to dry them, careful not to submerge their fresh coat of red by accident as you sink deeper into the water. After a while, goosebumps rise on your skin so you use your foot to turn on the faucet and add a touch of hot water.

Your tub is tiny—tacky, salmon pink, and made of acrylic—and you never take baths, but you thought you’d treat yourself to some quality me-time after the trainwreck of a day you’ve had. You’d stepped in fresh gum this morning, dropped fifty dollars on gas this afternoon, and to top it all off, you’d come close to breaking down in front of a ridiculously hot stranger at a consultation for a tattoo that you’ve dreamed about getting for years but would probably never become a reality. You sigh and turn the volume of your computer up a few clicks.

-Let’s see, the last time we met—

-Was La Belle Aurore.

-How nice you remembered… But of course, that was the day the Germans marched into Paris.

Out of nowhere, your phone rings atop the discarded pile of your clothes, startling you half to death. You lean over the side of the tub, squinting. It’s a Pasadena area code, 424, but you don’t recognize the rest of the number so you let it ring to voicemail and continue watching the movie.

-I remember every detail. The Germans wore grey; you wore blue.

-Yes, I put that dress away. When the Germans march out, I’ll wear it again.

A minute later, your cell starts to ring again. You frown down at the bright little screen; it’s the same number calling from before. Grudgingly, you dry your hand on a nearby towel and pause Casablanca.

It takes dexterity to carefully maneuver the phone to your ear without disturbing your wet nails, dodging the baby hairs escaping the loose bun on top of your head.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” a man’s voice responds, asking for you by name.

“This is she… May I ask who’s calling?”

“It’s Harry from Shamrock.”

Your mouth moves silently around the word, “shit!” and the bathwater sloshes audibly as you sit up. “Uh… Hi. I wasn’t expecting, um… How are you?”

Mere hours had passed since your consultation together. What on earth could he want from you? Had you forgotten something at the studio? You don’t remember missing anything once you’d left.

“I’m alright,” he replies evenly. “You?”

“I’m good, uh. It’s… it hasn’t been very long.” You laugh a little breathlessly, then shake your head to refocus. “Is there an update?”

You hear Harry’s sigh on the other end of the phone, drawn out, staticky, and faint. “Yeah,” he replies, ever apathetic. Your heart is hammering in your chest.

“And…?” you prompt.

Harry allows a silence prolonged enough for you to realize that you’re holding your breath and when he finally speaks, it’s almost like he’s reluctant. “And I’m gonna design your tattoo from scratch and ink it on you myself.”

Alone in your bathroom, your mouth gapes, cartoonish. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

You blink at the tiles on your wall, dumbfounded. “Mitch didn’t want to do it?”

“Dunno. Didn’t ask him.”

You tuck your knees into your chest and press your hand to your face to cover an elated smile. “Harry, I… I can’t begin to tell you how much—”

“I’ll see you in my office on Monday. We need to go over a few procedural things health and safety-wise before we can get started. I’m gonna tell you how to take care of the tattoo while it’s healing and stuff. Four PM sharp, just like today.”

“Four PM is perfect. And thank you so m—”

“There’s ample paperwork you need to sign. Bring your calendar because we also have to work out the dates and times for each of your sessions. I imagine it’ll take about six in total, but we may be able to get it done in less depending on the detail and shading you want. We’ll draft up a sketch together so I can give you a quote for the price. Wear something loose, and comfortable. Got all that?”

You nod determinedly to nobody. “Right, yes, sure—um, wait… What about the tattoo I want? Do you think you can do it, even with the size and the colors and everything?”

“Yes. Exactly how you wanted it.”

You inhale a small gasp before you can help yourself but you’re too ecstatic right now to be embarrassed. “Really? You mean we’re not gonna have to alter my idea at all? Like… not even a little bit?”

A beat passes. Harry breathes a quiet laugh. “Nobody fucks with a snake.”

You hug your knees to your chest as your eyes fall shut. You’re beaming so hard that your cheeks are sore. A brief silence ensues and you wonder if Harry is smiling, too, on his end of the phone.

You don’t have the words to thank him. You don’t have the language to parse together how touched you are that he stuck his neck out for you. It takes effort to silence the voice in your head telling you that you don’t deserve this good fortune.

You do deserve this.

You deserve to feel like your body is yours and you can do whatever the fuck you want with it, including getting a gorgeous, intricate, one-of-a-kind serpent inked into your skin forever.

“Harry, thank you,” you rush. You’re hoping to get him off the phone because you’re about to get choked up again and you sort of don’t want him to hear that. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“‘Til then,” he bids, then hangs up the phone.

You stare at the wall of the bathroom and laugh, giddy, into your palm, blinking as hot tears tickle your cheeks and fall down your chin and jaw. Laughing, crying, delirious… At long last, you’re getting your viper and she’s going to be perfect and she’s going to be yours.

A few minutes and many sniffles later, you splash your face with water, pump a dollop of soap into your hands, and begin shaving your legs. As you drag the razor along your skin with care and gaze down at your thigh, it dawns on you that this is one of the last days it will ever be a blank canvas.

……………………………………………

The Shamrock Social Club is much less intimidating the second time around. The bell above the door rings, and you have more of a sense of belonging; you no longer feel like you have to earn your place here as you return the receptionist’s welcoming smile.

“Hello!” she calls.

You push your sunglasses from your face to rest on top of your head. “Hi, how are you?”

“I’m well, thanks. How can I help you?” She has a sweet, subtle southern twang you hadn’t picked up on before.

“I’m here for my four PM.”

The receptionist turns to the monitor as you lean over the counter. “Which artist are you meeting with?”

“Harry.”

“Last name?” she asks. You verify all your information as she squints at the screen. “Ah, here you are! You’re a few minutes early so I think Harry may still be with a client. You can take a seat while you wait, I’m sure he’ll be wrapping up soon.”

“Okay, thanks very much.”

Instead, you opt to poke around and take a closer look at some of the article clippings and photographs that decorate the waiting area since you have some time to kill.

Mark Mahoney: Meet the High Priest of Hollywood Tattoo Artists,Hollywood Reporter; Famed Tattoo Artist Mark Mahoney Going Strong on Sunset Boulevard, Inked Magazine; Mahoney, Founding Father of Black and Grey Needlework, Started out Illegally Tattooing Bike Gangs, Business Insider. Photographs of Mr. Mahoney stood side by side with Sid Vicious, Johnny Thunders, Tupac Shakur and The Notorious B.I.G. hang next to framed, handwritten notes from the celebrity patrons themselves.

There’s a row of plaques too long to count that borders the ceiling: Best Tattoo Los Angeles Times 2016, 2017, 2018… each is embellished with five golden stars. You find yourself following them like a trail of crumbs all the way to the saloon doors leading to the parlor where Nirvana and the ever-present hum of tattoo guns can be heard. Suddenly, the teakwood doors swing open around a young woman carrying a large cardboard box. She’s dressed in all black with ink covering almost every inch of her skin, and you watch as she stoops down to set the package on the floor, propping one of the doors to the parlor open before disappearing up the narrow staircase across the way. You turn back to the now open gates of the parlor and take a few tentative steps forward, craning your neck to peer inside. There look to be about four artists at work, but only one of them you recognize.

Harry is hunched over a woman’s bare shoulder, his face mere inches away from where the needlepoint drags slowly across her skin. One of his hands, clad in latex gloves, lays flat on her back with his fingers outstretched as though to add tension to the area, and the other is poised around the gun like a pencil. Occasionally, you notice him cautiously chewing a piece of gum. Every move, every breath is precise, premeditated, obsessive, like nothing in the world exists around him. There’s something so enrapturing about watching him in this state with his art form, cradling this moment in time with the utmost attention and care.

The sound of someone descending the stairs comes from behind you as the young woman with all the tattoos returns, stepping past you to hoist the package back into her arms. The saloon doors fall closed, pulling you from your reverie. It takes a moment or two of blinking to come back down to earth and return to your exploration of the waiting area. A glass, casemented bulletin board entitled “Meet the Artists” catches your eye so you mosey over and find Harry’s name easily right beneath Mark Mahoney himself. A myriad of polaroids, illustrations, and press reviews decorate Harry’s corner, but your eyes are drawn to one excerpt in particular:

    The Los Angeles Times

    Tattoo Artists Worth Waiting For

While Los Angeles is a popular travel destination known for its golden beaches, gorgeous weather, fine dining, and celebrity elite, in the last few decades people have been flocking to the City of Angels from around the globe for what can only be described as “tattoo tourism.” L.A. is home to some of the finest tattoo artists in the United States and the tattoo scene in California has always been prominent, but the following artists have bodies of work that are sure to beautify your personal temple.

    Harry Styles

    The Shamrock Social Club

As his surname would suggest, Styles has a remarkable gift for composition and design. What he lacks in age and a lifetime of expertise, he makes up for in his sheer natural aptitude for aesthetics and a steady hand; Styles’ work truly speaks for itself. In 2018, Skin Deep Magazine described him as one of the most recognized tattoo artists on the west coast, having earned his stripes following a three-year apprenticeship underneath Mark Mahoney at The Shamrock Social Club in Beverly Hills where he now works as one of the studio’s top designers and artists.

    With the title of Most Up-and-Coming Tattoo Artist in last month’s edition of Urban Ink and a following of 1.2 million on Instagram under his belt, Styles’ pencil-fine needlework has attracted celebrity clientele such as Drake, David Beckham, Lady Gaga, Frank Ocean, Cara Delevingne, Jourdan Dunn, Liam Gallagher, and more. While many of his contemporaries in the field limit themselves to a certain specialty, Styles is a jack of all trades, inking in both black and color—with subjects ranging from scenery to animals and portrait tattoos. At the ripe age of twenty-five, The Guardian has dubbed him “one of the most in-demand tattooists in Hollywood.”

To say you’re taken aback would be an understatement. You read the biography three times before it really starts to sink in that you’re going to be working with one of the most talented tattoo artists to date; Harry has been featured in The Atlantic, referenced in i-D Magazine, boasts a three-page spread in HOUSEINK, and an interview on Silver Tongue Podcast. He’s not exactly a household name outside of the Golden State, and certainly not outside the realm of body art, but it’s still pretty remarkable. You have no idea how much time passes as you stand there with a furrowed brow, studying his credentials closely through the glass.

“Ready?”

“Ah, Jesus!” Your hand flies to your chest as you whirl around to face Harry, stood directly behind you. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were…” you trail off, shaking your head. “I’m ready, yeah.”

You feel a little sheepish as he’d caught you blatantly ogling one photograph in particular—a portrait of him perched on the stoop of an old, run-down jerk chicken stand, clad in a plain white tee, ripped black jeans, and aviators with a red bandana tied around his neck.

Unfortunately for you, he looks just as dashing today, standing before you in a black button-down, dark tartan trousers, and a few of his signature rings. Harry smirks down at you, definitely milking it a little, then nods over his shoulder to the staircase, pivoting on his heel. You trail behind all the way up to his office, subtly pressing both hands to your face to cool your cheeks.

“Did you remember to bring your calendar?” he asks, gesturing for you to have a seat in the chair facing his desk as he fetches a small stack of paperwork from his file cabinet.

“Yes,” you reply quickly. “And my checkbook.”

“Good. We’ll get all that sorted, but for now let’s start by going over a few procedural things. Then after that, I’ll draft a sketch to get a sense of how long it’ll take to complete, as well as determine the cost. That sound alright?”

“Works for me.”

“Right,” he begins, dropping a manila folder on the desk in front of you. “I’ve put together a sort of beginner’s field guide for you in terms of taking care of your tattoo while it’s healing.” Harry leans across the desk and licks his thumb before flipping it open for you, tapping each of the items with his pen as he goes through them all one by one. “You’ve got your body art safety pamphlet, infection control manual, The Top Ten Mistakes People Make When Getting Their First Tattoo, and How to Prevent Fading and Ink Damage Long Term.”

It’s difficult not to feel overwhelmed by the arsenal of information including a brochure, small paperback booklet, and several articles he’s clearly printed off the internet and stapled. Bright sticky note tabs stick out from a number of the pages and highlighted segments decorate almost every document. You glance up from the folder as Harry places something else before you—a plastic bag filled with supplies of some sort.

He reaches in, holding the first item aloft. “Petroleum jelly. Or I guess, you lot call it aquaphor.” He lifts the small tube of vaseline as though to emphasize the motion, setting it down before reaching back into the bag. “Antibacterial spray. Bandages. Oil-free sun cream. Sulfate-free moisturizer.” He places everything before you in a row on the desk. “Dressing for the wound,” he adds, raising his eyebrows as though to check if you’re paying attention. You nod quickly, but the fact that his hand is large enough to effortlessly grasp three full rolls of gauze is a little distracting. “And, I mean…” His voice grows a touch lower. “This is personally what I use.”

Harry hands you a small container of something called Amazonian Saviour Multi-Purpose Balm from The Body Shop. “You’re gonna spray your leg with the antibacterial twice a day and then apply the moisturizer immediately afterward, but don’t put on another bandage. Wash the whole area with soap and warm water once in the morning and once before bed and you’ve got to gently pat it dry with a towel—do not rub it. You got that?”

You nod once. “No rubbing.”

“Let it air-dry for up to an hour… I’ll wrap you up after each of our sessions but keep applying the petroleum jelly after you clean it yourself to keep it moist. Don’t go out and spend money on gauze—you’re going to go through a lot of it but we’ve got plenty here for you. Wear loose clothing over the area, and no swimming or, um… bathing. At all. Not until we’re done with the whole tattoo, and even then you’ve still got to wait six weeks for it to heal… Scabbing will happen, don’t pick at it. Any redness or swelling usually goes away in a week post-session. Try not to take painkillers before our appointments if you can help it, it’s best to ice it after.”

You study each of the products on the desk in an effort to commit the instructions to memory. “Okay, I think I got it.”

“Even if you didn’t, it’s all in there.” Harry nods to your folder. “Do you have any questions?”

“No, thank you, you’ve been pretty thorough… I’m sure you don’t have to go over all this very often with clients,” you joke lightly. “I really appreciate it.”

Harry mumbles a quick “don’t mention it” as he begins putting all the supplies back in the bag; you hurry to help him until the desk is clear again. “Here, you can just…” he trails off, offering it to you by the handles.

“Thanks.”

“Now if you flip to the next page in your folder,” he continues, “you’ll find the release forms and consent to tattoo procedure.”

“Okay,” you hum, skimming the packets.

“Sign here.” Harry reaches across the desk, turning to each page from memory and tapping all the lines that he’s clearly marked with an X. He’s signed the papers already on the TATTOO ARTIST line, and it’s strange seeing your scrappy little signature beside a large, regal Harry E. Styles. “Initials here… and here. Print your name here. And then date and sign again.”

Harry takes the forms when you’re done, tearing off the carbon receipt pages to keep for his own records. “The last thing we need to go over together before we can really get started is the client medical history form—you don’t have a copy of this one. It’s not too, um… it’s not all that in-depth, we just need to get a general sense of your background in case there’s anything that could be a safety concern in the future.”

“Sure.”

He clicks his pen. “Are you diabetic?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Any allergies?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Have you ever tested positive for hepatitis or HIV?”

“No.”

“On any blood thinners?”

“No.”

“Any chance you could be pregnant?”

“Um, no.”

“Do you have psoriasis?”

“No.”

“Wonderful,” Harry says under his breath, drawing a straight line down the paper to tick all of the boxes at once. He dates and initials the sheet, filing it away along with his copies of the consent forms. “Would you mind standing for me?”

You rise, tugging the hem of your jean shorts to keep them from riding up. Harry switches on the lamp clamped to the side of his desk, angling it in your direction.

He walks over to stand in front of you and sets your chair further off to the side, looking down at you with both hands on his hips. “Which leg are we doin’ then?”

You glance down at your feet. “Um… left.”

The two of you meet eyes as Harry gestures down to it. “May I?”

You nod and he kneels down beside you, rubbing his hands together to warm them. Your heart beats a little faster when his fingertips graze your skin. He’s professional about it all and he doesn’t linger a moment longer than he needs to, but still, you don’t think you’ve ever been more aware of each inch of your body that Harry passes over with a featherlight touch.

“Turn please,” he murmurs.

You carefully pivot to face the other direction and Harry runs the pads of his thumbs down the back of your thigh, so lightly it almost tickles.

“What’s this?” He asks. You glance down at him over your shoulder as he frowns at your leg.

“Oh,” you laugh. “That’s just from when my cousin pushed me off the bunk bed when we were litt—”

“It’s scar tissue,” he cuts in. Harry pushes himself up by his thighs, standing over you again. “You’ll need to get that checked out by a dermatologist before our first session.”

“Oh… okay. Sorry, I can do that.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I, um…” You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

“Alright… Well bring me a doctor’s note if you don’t mind.”

You swallow. “I will.”

With that, Harry returns to his side of the desk, falling into his seat. “Now, shall we draft a mockup?”

You nod, your leg still tingling from the memory of his fingertips. “Please.”

He sets out a large roll of stencil paper, a measuring tape, and a few fine tip colored pens from his desk before pulling a sketchbook from his bag with a bit more care; your eyes are drawn to the worn leather of the binding as he flips through the offwhite, dog-eared pages. “I did some brainstorming over the weekend and, um… these are a few of the concepts I came up with. I think traditional or Japanese style would look best but it’s obviously up to you.” Harry slides the notebook across the desk and angles it toward you. “I’m not sure if you fancy any of these but I wanted us to have something to work off of.”

Your lips part. Two full pages are filled with intricate, hand-drawn textures for the scales, vibrant color palettes, and half a dozen varying outlines for the serpent’s head. Some are hyper-realistic with seamless, pencil thin lines and others are more abstract with fauna and symbols hidden in the snakeskin. You flatten your hand out on the page, carefully tracing your fingertips over the delicate indentations where Harry had pushed his pen into the paper too hard.

“Wow,” you breathe, leaning in. “These are incredible… I only get to choose one?”

Harry doesn’t necessarily crack a smile when you peer up at him, but one corner of his mouth quirks up into something subtle. He leans over the desk on crossed arms, tilting his head to examine the sketches from your point of view.

“How did you learn to draw them so well?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Had to look up a few pictures for reference… I’ve actually never done a snake for anyone before.”

You hum, absently reaching for the corner of the page. Abruptly, Harry unfolds his arms as his hand lands on the notebook with a loud smack; his fingers are outspread, keeping you from flipping through any more of his sketchbook. It’s probably the least collected display of behavior you’ve ever witnessed from him. He looks up at you, guarded, but unyielding. His hand is still splayed out on the page and your fingertips are still pinching the corner.

Your eyebrows raise as you let go and finally he relents, tucking his arm back into his chest. Briefly, you consider apologizing but Harry is dodging your eyes and you think it’s probably best to move on and forget this blunder as soon as possible.

He clears his throat. “Any of them strike your fancy?”

“Um…” You blink down at the paper, still sort of recovering. “This one.” You tap his sketch of a python’s head, angular like a diamond.

“I kind of liked that one, too.” Harry purses his lips. “S’ not really a viper, though.”

“I know, but it’s the one my eyes were drawn to first. And I like it with these colors… and this body.” You point to a few of his palettes and outlines and Harry’s eyes flicker across the page to follow along.

“So… something more like an illustration with a bold outline? You don’t want it to look like, realistic?”

You shake your head. “No, I kind of don’t want it to imitate life too closely, actually. I think the artistry and interpretation add a lot, you know? I like that element.”

“Fair enough,” he sighs, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves before rolling them up to his elbows. “You want the snake’s head on your hip and its tail on your knee, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Wrapped around your leg twice, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“How’d you feel about fangs?”

“Like, on the snake?” you ask. He nods. Your gaze drifts to the side for a beat, considering. “No. I don’t want her to look like she’s about to attack, I want her to look like she’s just sort of… watching.”

Harry’s mouth twists, like he might be suppressing a smile; the dimples around his mouth sink in slightly as he reaches for the stencil paper.

“So it’s a lady snake?” he asks, tearing off a large enough piece to cover nearly his entire working space.

“Yes,” you laugh. “Definitely.”

“Had a feeling somehow.”

You watch as he adjusts the lamp, then bites the cap off one of his pens. Harry’s brows pull together; he tilts his head before dragging the felt tip of the pen in one long, oscillating stroke through the length of the paper, then reaches for the measuring tape set aside on his desk, laying it perpendicular to the new wavy line on the page.

“Two inches?” he asks. His consonants are a bit soft because he’s still pinching the cap of the pen between his teeth.

“Sorry?”

“How wide across do you want it?” he clarifies without looking up.

“Oh, right. Two inches is good.” Harry makes a small X on the paper beside the two-inch mark on the measuring tape, but you reach out to stop him. “Wait!”

Harry lifts his head slowly, pulling the cap from his mouth. He blinks at you, unamused. “Yes?”

“If it’s a little more or less than two inches, that’s fine. Just do whatever you think would look best. Same goes for the pattern of the scales and the shape of the head and everything… I can help guide some of those decisions obviously, but I’d kind of prefer it if you had more of the creative license. I mean, I trust you and um, I’m not really…” You shrug. “I’m not that artistic.”

The crease between Harry’s brows is softer than it had been; he stares at you for a beat before returning to his drawing, then continues making a few more marks on the paper. For a minute you think he isn’t going to respond at all.

“Two inches will be fine,” he murmurs, connecting all the dots to complete the outline of the snake’s body. “And don’t stop me like that when it’s time for the real thing.”

For the next half hour, you watch closely as Harry charts out the beginnings of your tattoo. Every so often he asks for your input on the shading and design, but time and time again, you defer to his judgment and gradually, an elaborate, ornate python starts to materialize between you two. The snake’s face in profile is shaped almost like an arrowhead and its eyes are rounded and glassy; the slit-like pupil is somehow vigilant and unthreatening, just as you’d envisioned. Harry crafts each scale in swift, calculated brushes. He surprises you by adding a loop in the design such that the snake’s tail overlaps itself; you exhale a laugh and Harry looks up at you suddenly like he’d forgotten you were there.

He hunches over the desk as he sketches, his face at times only inches from the paper. Each long stroke of his pen is timed with a breath and you wonder if he even realizes it. Endless stretches of silence are followed by moments of respite when he leans back in his chair, shakes out his hand, and sighs. Occasionally his lower lip is caught between his teeth as his brows are knit in concentration, but often you catch him licking his lips as they slowly part, his eyes serene. You recognize the same obsession you’d noticed earlier today as Harry tattooed that woman’s shoulder in the parlor and your heart flutters with the realization that soon he’ll be drawing this on your actual body.

“Okay.” His voice pulls you from your stupor. “She’s done. What do we think?”

Harry cracks his knuckles, leaning back in his chair to give you a better view of the finished artwork.

“Oh, Harry.” His name falls from your mouth in a whisper as you lean in. “It’s absolutely perfect.”

You’re blown away by the sheer anatomy of it all, the lush textures and the minutiae in each detail—how the snake’s skin folds so delicately with every bend of its body, crumpling slightly in every crevice and curve. Harry’s training as a tattoo artist is extensive, but this is the kind of talent that simply cannot be learned. A part of you is envious. What must it be like to look at a blank sheet of stencil paper and see your next magnum opus?

“Do you like it?” he asks. You nod, gleaming down at the snake. “Is there anything you want to add? Or change?”

“No.” You respond so quickly that you almost interrupt him. “Nothing at all.”

“And the size is okay?”

“The size is perfect… I love everything about it. I can’t believe how beautiful you made her.”

He breathes a laugh and you glance up from the drawing to find that lo, Harry is watching you with the ghost of a smile. Your own smile grows wider and Harry’s eyelids flutter a little bit as his contented expression fades. And in the midst of all the curt responses, professionalism, and clunky interruptions, something unmistakable, and distinctly tender passes between the two of you. The spark is fleeting, however. Suddenly Harry drops your gaze, rising from the desk. You watch in curiosity as he carefully rolls up the stencil paper and makes for the hallway.

“I’m gonna make a few copies of this,” he calls over his shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay. I’ll just…” you trail off. As soon as Harry is out of sight, your eyes drift back to his leather bound notebook, lying open an arm’s length away from you.

What exactly is on the next page that he didn’t want you to see?

Your hand moves forward an inch on the desk, but you can’t bring yourself to take a peek in the minute that Harry is gone before you hear footsteps approaching. You fix your posture as he re-enters his office carrying the original mockup and some kind of dropper bottle; he sets the items on his desk.

Harry nods at you, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. “Stand up again please.” You rise from your chair as he makes his way over, sinking to his knees beside you. “I’m gonna transfer the stencil to your leg so we can figure out the right placement. If… you’re alright with that?”

“Yeah, sure, of course.” Your heartbeat begins to accelerate. “Should I, um… take these off?” you ask, pinching the fabric of your shorts. “How are you gonna get up to my hip?”

Harry shakes his head, glancing up at you from below. “We don’t have to. I was thinkin’ I’d put the snake’s head a little lower down, just to give you a general idea of what the whole thing is gonna look like when we’re through.” His voice is even and calm. You study his face for any trace of ambivalence, but there seems to be none. “Whatever makes you most comfortable. I can, um—” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “I can give you some privacy if you’d like.”

For whatever reason, his composure and willingness to take your lead floods your face with warmth. You swallow dryly. “No, actually this is good. I’ll leave them on for now, thanks.”

“That’s perfectly fine.” Harry squeezes a generous amount of the serum in his hands from the dropper bottle, spreading it out on the gloves. He looks up at you again. “May I?”

You nod, shifting your weight in an effort to offer him your left leg. “Of course.”

Harry’s hands are cold through the thin latex as he lightly begins massaging the ointment onto your leg. It’s clear like oil, but not as heavy—some sort of moisturizer, perhaps. He begins at your knee and works his way up with as much attention and care as you’ve yet seen from him, and he doesn’t venture anywhere near the uppermost part of your thigh until you roll your shorts up a little to give him access.

You’re a little embarrassed; it feels really, really good. Harry caresses your leg with both hands and makes small circles with his thumbs to rub in the moisture—again, not lingering, nor gratuitous. He pulls off the gloves in a wad, tossing them in the trash before reaching for the stencil. You hold your breath as he aligns the image with your thigh.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs before carefully pressing the paper into your skin.

The sound of crinkling fills the room as Harry wraps the outline around your leg. Once it’s in place, he hooks his hand around the soft back of your knee and lifts your foot up off the ground to more firmly smooth over the design with his free hand. He stares off to the side as he holds the stencil against you, probably out of courtesy. Then, after the longest minute of your life, he begins to peel it away by one of the corners.

Harry’s breath fans out over your leg as he blows on the purple outline of the snake; goosebumps rise instantly on your skin. He takes you by the knee again, gently turning your leg to inspect the design from every angle.

He rises to his feet, nodding to the full length mirror leaning against the opposite wall. “Go take a look.”

You tread lightly across the room, careful not to smudge the ink as you walk, then peek at your reflection. “Oh… my god.”

Your leg glistens in the sunlight as you slowly turn around and around to study the snake from every possible point of view. She’s gorgeous—absolutely everything you could have asked for and more. It’s one thing to have seen the two-dimensional mockup lying flat on his desk, but as you study the python coiled around your thigh, you could swear the design itself is moving, like some sort of optical illusion. Harry had somehow breathed life into this creature—this masterpiece born in his mind’s eye. He’d brought fluidity and motion to that which was still. He’d brought warmth to that which was cold-blooded, and had somehow found this wise, gentle spirit in the eyes of a predator.

It’s surreal—you struggle to believe that something you’ve wanted for so long is finally within reach. At that moment, you catch Harry’s eyes in the mirror unexpectedly. He’s leaning against the edge of his desk with his arms crossed and hands tucked into his armpits.

He smiles at you slowly. “It’s fucking sick.”

You have to bite your lip against the small laugh that bubbles up in your throat as you turn to face him. And before you give yourself the chance to think twice, you’re rushing over.

Harry’s eyes widen as you approach; he quickly shifts his weight to stand, stumbling back a step as you wrap your arms around his middle. “Oh—and we’re hugging. Okay.”

“Thank you so, so, so much.” Your cheek presses into his chest; the charmeuse of his shirt is smooth against your skin. “It’s exactly what I wanted, but better.”

“That’s… alright.” Harry gives you a few tentative pats on the back and your arms fall to your sides as you pull away from him. You can’t help but notice that the high points of his cheeks are a shade rosier than they had been. He scratches his head. “I’m not much of a hugger.”

“Oh… sorry. Well, I appreciate you designing my tattoo and agreeing to work with me and everything—I didn’t really get a chance to tell you that over the phone.”

“It was nothing,” he deflects, dropping your eyes before returning to his seat.

“‘Cause like, you could’ve turned me away but you didn’t, and you didn’t even refer me to an apprentice, so I guess I just want you to know how much that—”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been thanked so much just for doing my job,” Harry interrupts with a dry, at-you not with-you sort of laugh.

It stings a little; getting on his nerves seems like the only thing you’re capable of doing at this point. But at the same time, you don’t think you’ve ever met someone so averse to gratitude.

“Let’s, um…” he continues. “Let’s talk about appointments and pricing. Here, sit, please.” He gestures to your chair.

“Okay, sure.” The words come out softer than you’d intended as you slink into your seat.

Harry pulls a laptop from his bag as you set your planner and checkbook out on the desk. “So my guess is that it’s gonna be roughly twenty hours to complete the whole thing with shading and we have to break it up and start slow.”

“Right.”

“I reckon two hours for your first two sessions will be a good baseline, and then we can gradually increase the length of your appointments from there. Alright?”

“Sounds good.”

“So if we do that…” He squints at the screen of his computer, half talking to himself. “And then do three hours each for the next two sessions… that brings us to ten hours. At which point you’d probably be ready for a longer session time, closer to what’s standard… so I guess that’s five hours each for our final two appointments then, isn’t it?” Harry looks up at you suddenly. “And all of these have to be like two weeks apart to allow for healing… give or take. This is a pretty large piece so it can be a bit sooner than that as long as we’re not overworking one specific area. Does that sound alright?”

You nod. “You know better than I do.”

“Okay we’re gonna do that then,” he murmurs, beginning to type. “Six sessions, increasing in length over time.”

The two of you spend the next fifteen or so minutes working out the specific dates and times for each appointment. Harry’s schedule is difficult to work around, but you suppose that’s to be expected of “one of the most in-demand tattooists in Hollywood.” Shamrock’s hours are one PM to one AM most days of the week, so all of your appointments fall sometime in the afternoon, apart from the very last one, which is two months from now on a Sunday evening. Harry closes his laptop as you tuck your phone and planner back into your bag, meeting him with a quick smile.

Harry folds his hands on the desk. “My hourly rate is one hundred and twenty-five dollars. Does that work for you?”

You nod. “Absolutely… but are you sure that’s enough? Aren’t tattoos with color more expensive?”

Harry shrugs. “Barely, but it’s fine. I’m offering you my standard rate. You can tip if you want but I’m not gonna charge you more than twenty-five hundred for this.”

“Okay, um… thank you—I mean, sorry.” You shake your head. “Should I pay now or after each session?”

“Whatever you prefer. I’ll have an invoice processed for you before our first session… You’ll give the money to Ellen downstairs at reception though, not me. She handles all the payments.”

“Alright… well that’s settled then, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Harry fetches a small stack of business cards bound with a rubber band from a drawer before handing you one. “That’s my work email and personal cell phone number. If you need to miss an appointment—first of all, don’t—but if an emergency comes up, the best way to reach me is by text. Or just call downstairs.”

“Got it.”

“I think that pretty much covers everything for today. Have you got everything you need?”

You loop your arm through the strap of your purse, tucking your manila folder under your arm and taking your bag of supplies by its plastic handles. “I believe so.”

“Brilliant.” Harry stands as you do, nodding to the door. “After you.”

He walks you all the way to the front desk as he had after your first consultation, and you wonder if you should shake his hand this time—you’re certainly not going to part ways with a warm embrace. But thankfully your hands are full, and Harry’s are in his pockets when you turn to face him.

“I’ll see you next week,” he says. “Don’t forget to wear something—”

“Loose and comfortable,” you finish with a smile.

He smirks, much to your surprise. “Loose and comfortable… And eat something light for breakfast.”

“Will do. Alright, thanks again… ‘Till next time!” you bid, pushing through the door.

“Cheers.”

It’s a short walk to the Metro stop around the corner, but a long wait for the next bus to come in, so you skim a few of the articles Harry had printed out for you about preventing infections to pass the time. You rifle around in the bag of supplies to take a closer look at some of the bandages and solvents, doing your best to remember all the instructions he’d gone over. What you aren’t expecting to find, however, is the crumpled receipt at the bottom of the bag with “HARRY EDWARD STYLES” printed below the CARDHOLDER line.

You frown at the small piece of paper, flattening it with your thumb. It couldn’t be… had he bought all of this for you himself? Would this be included in his hourly rate? It really ought to be. When Harry walked you through all the guidelines, at the time you’d sort of just assumed that a tattoo parlor would have all of these items lying around. Before you get the chance to fully process all the ways in which his gesture simultaneously baffles you and pulls at the strings of your heart, the Metro is pulling in. You hastily shove the receipt in your bag along with the supplies and hurry to find a seat on the bus, careful not to disturb the faint purple outline of the python on your leg.

……………………………………………

The whirr of the fan in the corner of your bedroom provides a pleasant background noise to fall asleep to, but it’s never quite loud enough to drown out the 405 in the distance. You turn on your side, twisting the cool cotton of your sheets between your legs, and stare out the window; it’s one of those hot, sticky summer nights when you can’t decide if it makes more sense to crack it open for the breeze or it keep it closed to trap the air conditioning inside. Unfortunately, your apartment doesn’t have AC and there’s no breeze tonight, so you’re left sweating through a camisole as your hair clings to your temples in perspiration.

The horizon of the city twinkles over the top of your neighbor’s roof; it’s always so much more beautiful at night without all the smog. You watch as moths fly in the yellow light of the billboard in the street below, but when sleep doesn’t come for another fifteen minutes, you heave a sigh and roll over in search of a drier, cooler place on the mattress. Your hand fumbles blindly on the nightstand before you unplug your phone, squinting down at the lock screen.

1:21 AM.

A groan rumbles in your throat as your head falls back on the pillow in defeat. You have to be up for work in less than six hours time, but what’s killing you isn’t the heat—it’s the fact that your first tattoo session with Harry is tomorrow and now you’re going to be sleep deprived and excessively nervous. You’ve been trying to keep your worries at bay ever since your meeting with him last week when he’d sketched the design for your tattoo, but in truth there was a lot to be anxious about: the physical pain, the nausea, the prospect of getting undressed in front of Harry… after all, you haven’t really discussed which end of the snake he’ll be starting from.

As your mind wanders, you absently pull up Instagram on your phone. The Shamrock Social Club’s official page is in your recent views, but you follow the thread of your curiosity and type “Harry Styles” into the search bar instead, chewing your lip. Most of the accounts that pop up are variations of his name, but only the first one has a blue check mark beside the handle.

idrawshapesonpeople

Harry Styles • followed by johnmayer +9

“Holy shit,” you breathe, tapping on his profile. He has over a million followers, including the likes of trumanblack, blonded, tchalamet, alexachung, champagnepapi, _glen_luchford, and more, but Harry himself only follows just over one hundred accounts. That article clipping you’d found on the Meet The Artists board back at the shop had mentioned his Instagram following, but seeing it for yourself is still a bit jarring… You roll your eyes, then fight a smile at the cartesian, I ink, therefore I am. written in his bio.

Harry’s profile picture is a polaroid of him standing in front of a black backdrop, wearing a vintage Journey t shirt and a large pair of round, white sunglasses that make his eyes look buggy. His mouth hangs open with his tongue on full display. Alone in the dark of your room, you laugh faintly at the dichotomy between the goofy person in this photograph and the stoic, no-nonsense Harry Styles that you’d come to know.

He doesn’t seem to post very often, and his feed is largely a portfolio; the majority of his pictures capture the finished tattoos of his clientele, but there’s the odd group photo mixed in as well as scenery from his travels. After scrolling down some, you learn that he’s been to Tokyo, London, Milan, and all over Jamaica in recent years. It’s difficult to learn much about Harry from his page, however, as most of his posts don’t have captions and if they do, they’re cryptic and brief.

You find yourself in the “tagged” section of his profile; a few of the celebrities he’s worked on have posted photos of the gorgeous intricate tattoos he’s freehanded on them—Harry is even featured in a few. You inhale a small gasp at a snapshot of him hip to hip with Lady Gaga as he points to her and she shows off the fresh trumpet tattoo on her bicep. He has a picture stood back to back with Liam Gallagher, crossing his arms and staring straight-faced at the camera.

Wide awake now, you pull up your web browser to search for anything else you can find on him, combing the internet for interviews, biographies, awards, and by two o’clock in the morning you’re deep in the rabbit hole. The critically self-aware voice in your head warns you that what you’re doing is invasive and wrong—as though there is some way Harry might find out that you’re doing all this in-depth research on him in the small morning hours, but you reason to yourself that this is innocent enough; he’s your personal tattoo artist. You’re allowed a little curiosity.

But when you stumble upon a thirty-five minute podcast interview with him, what you can’t seem to excuse is the way your heart races as soon as the slow, rounded lull of Harry’s voice plays through your earbuds.

He’s surprisingly articulate, and takes his time saying what he needs to; ten minutes into the audio, you find yourself frowning at your ceiling, deep in thought as Harry discusses how tattoos can be political, and smiling to nobody when he quips with the interviewer. He’s more reflective, observant, and much wittier than you would have guessed, but after a while, the soothing cadence of his voice holds your attention more so than the things he’s saying. His accent is so peculiar—definitely English, but not quite posh. Like a warm, slanted, lackadaisical English. You wonder if everything else he does with his mouth is slow, besides smiling and talking.

Before long, your head begins to feel heavy on the pillow. And as sleep comes to kiss your eyes, you slip too easily into dreams of a snake, a needle, and a boy.

THE SHAMROCK SOCIAL CLUB

Part Two: Bad Aim

You pull your keys out of the ignition and the silence that follows the engine dying is nearly palpable. For a minute, you let yourself sit there with the sun warming your lap as you grip the steering wheel and stare out your windshield at the SHAMROCK TATTOO PARKING ONLY sign just ahead. But eventually, you lace your hands behind your neck and let go of a long sigh.

“What am I doing?” you breathe, shaking your head to yourself.

You aren’t sure how you expected to feel before your first tattoo session with Harry, but you at least hoped that the nerves would have subsided by now. The leather of the driver’s seat is warm and sticks to your bare thighs; you study them, unmarked and completely natural. This is the very last time your legs will ever look this way. If you want to turn back and call the whole thing off, now is your final opportunity.

But you’ve waited too long, and worked too hard saving up for this tattoo; it would be remiss to let your anxiety eclipse everything you’ve done to earn it. You have come so far. Fear and shame have taken so much from your life already—they aren’t about to take this, too.

Your body is yours. It’s yours, it’s yours, it’s yours. You owe this to yourself. So with shaky hands and your heart in your throat, you grab your bag from the passenger seat and march into the Shamrock Social Club with all the confidence you can scrap together.

“Right on time!” calls the receptionist as soon as you walk through the door.

“Hello!”

She mirrors your smile. “Ready for your first appointment?”

“As ready as I’m ever gonna be.”

“Glad to hear it. I have an invoice for you if you’d like to take care of that now—do you think you’ll pay in full or after each session?”

You hum. “Well, what works best for you guys?”

“Either one’s just fine!”

“Okay, then in that case I think I’ll just pay for it by session?”

“Of course! Would you prefer to pay now or once y’all are done?”

“Now’s fine,” you reply, already fishing your wallet out of your bag.

“Great, so that comes out to…” She punches a few numbers into a calculator on the desk. “Two hundred and fifty-seven dollars and fifty cents for today’s session.”

“Okay! And before I forget, how does tipping work?”

“Oh, you’ll just leave everything with me, including the tip. Fifteen to twenty percent is considered customary but obviously it’s up to you.”

You count the bills under your breath, then hand them to her over the counter. “Here, that’s everything.”

“Thank you!” She begins to double check the amount, then hesitates before glancing up at you. “That’s an awfully generous tip.”

You shrug. “He’s like, definitely undercharging me to begin with, so.”

“Well either way, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it!” She tucks your money into an envelope, sealing it and jotting the date and a small H.S. on the flap before locking it in the till. “You’re on the early side again, but I think Harry is just setting up for you in the parlor.” She nods to the saloon doors. “He ain’t with a client, so you’re welcome to just go on back. He’ll be expecting you.”

“Great, thanks!” you call over your shoulder, heading straight for the resounding buzz of tattoo guns.

The doors swing closed behind you as you survey the small studio. All of the treatment chairs are hydraulic, padded under smooth black leather, and flat like tables. Each of them is occupied save for one.

Harry is facing away from you, tidying up the workstation beside the only empty chair and bobbing his head to Biggie Smalls as you approach. He glances over his shoulder and his eyes scan you up and down for a tenth of a second; your stomach does a little flip.

“Hi,” you greet.

“Hi.” He nods at you. “Have you got a doctor’s note?”

It requires an embarrassing amount of searching through your bag before you retrieve the small piece of paper. Harry doesn’t turn around completely before taking it from you with his free hand. He unfolds the letter with a flick of his wrist, holding it up to his face to read as he chews a piece of gum. It’s all slightly reminiscent of the time he carded you during your initial interview, but after a minute, Harry gives you a loaded sort of look over the top of the paper, then gestures to the empty table with the hand holding the note.

A small smile takes your features as you hop up onto the table, swinging your legs.

“Have you had something to eat today?” he asks, still facing away from you.

“Yup.”

“Good. Taken any painkillers?”

“Just a couple Vicodin, but I washed them down with my morning glass of absinthe, so…” Harry slowly looks over his shoulder at you, deadpan. You clear your throat. “N-no, I haven’t taken any painkillers.”

He turns back around. “We’re doing the tail today, so I’m gonna start at your knee and work my way up.” Your shoulders visibly relax as you let out a quiet exhale. “That sound alright?”

“Yeah definitely,” you reply a little too quickly.

“Most people will do the whole outline in black first and then go back to add the color later on, but I prefer to fill it in as I go, so that’s what we’re gonna do.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I’ve got the sketch here.” He grabs the scroll of stencil paper from his work station, unraveling it for you to see. “You’re sure there isn’t anything you’d like to change before we begin?”

You stare at the snake for a long time in consideration, then remember how incredible the outline had looked on your leg in the crisp sunlight shining through the window of Harry’s office. You shake your head. “No. That’s exactly what I want.”

“Brilliant.”

Harry takes a minute to cut a large chunk of the snake’s tail out of the stencil, and your stomach clenches with the realization that it’s what he’ll be inking on you today. He’s pulling on his second latex glove, wiggling his fingers as he turns around to face you with a clean washcloth draped over his shoulder. You shift a little as he moves to stand over you with the same bottle of lubricant he’d used last week to transfer the design to your skin.

“Here, lay back fo’ me.” He gestures to the table. The thin layer of paper beneath you crinkles as you swing your legs around, then settle down on the padded headrest. “May I?”

You pick your head up; Harry is perched on the edge of the table, pointing at your thigh. “Of course,” you assure, pulling the hem of your skirt a few inches up your leg. “How high up do you need to go?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with.” You jolt a little as you feel him begin to rub down your leg with an antiseptic wipe.

“Okay, just do whatever you need to do then, I guess.” You lay your head back down. “Do you need me to take anything off?”

“Shouldn’t be necessary today,” he replies evenly, squeezing some of the serum into his hands.

It takes effort to maintain an even, passive expression as you thank your lucky stars that you won’t be disrobing in front of Harry yet. He gingerly rubs the ointment into your thigh just like the last time, then tosses his gloves into the bin once he’s done. “Hold still,” he instructs, carefully aligning the image with your knee.

Harry presses the stencil into your skin before wrapping both hands around your thigh and smoothing it over. The moisture is chilling but the warmth of his touch radiates through the paper. Again, his gaze drifts to the side as though out of courtesy while you both wait for the outline to set. You gnaw on your lip and begin counting the seconds by Mississippi in your head but only make it to ten before Harry delicately peels the stencil away, crumpling it as he blows on your leg. He takes the washcloth from off his shoulder, wiping away the excess oil.

“Look alright?” he asks.

You push yourself up to your elbows, then twist your left leg back and forth to inspect the purple outline; the tip of the snake’s tail begins just above your kneecap, then coils around the outside of your leg to the back of your thigh, almost completely encircling your leg around to the other side before it cuts off.

You nod determinedly, the excitement beginning to set in. “Better than.”

Harry returns to his workstation, setting a few ink bottles aside and disassembling the tattoo gun before wiping it down and putting it back together. He changes the needle, screwing it into the stainless steel grip, then attaches a long tubelike chord wrapped in clear plastic to the end of the machine. You can’t take your eyes away; something about the dexterous way with which he goes through every step of preparing the needle captivates you, like he has his own unique method of doing it.

He sinks down to his rolling stool, walking it over to you as he slips into a new pair of gloves. “You’re ready?”

You nod against the headrest. “Yeah.”

Harry adjusts the height of his seat, then leans over the table, placing an elbow in between your legs. He hooks his hand around the back of your knee; his forearm is firm and warm, and you can feel it pressing into the inside of your shin.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you push yourself up from the table, leaning over to get a glimpse of the action as you tuck your hair behind your ear. Harry is pressing his thumb into the side of your knee so that your skin is taut for the needle, the tattoo gun poised an inch from your leg in his other hand, but your shadow obscures the area as you hover over him. Gradually, he lifts his head, meeting you with a somewhat admonishing gaze. His eyes are hard; they ask can I help you?

Sheepishly, you pull your lips in between your teeth and slink back down to the chair. “Sorry.”

“I’ve got good aim. I promise,” he replies. “Try to relax.” The tattoo gun comes to life like an angry hornet and you make two tight fists.

This is it. For over two years you’ve been preparing for the exact still frame of your life that you’re currently living in. It’s surreal that this is really happening and you can never go back. You’re starting a new chapter—turning a new leaf. Your body will never be the same after this day for as long as you live and this restless, visceral energy feels oddly like losing your virginity.

Your pulse throbs in the side of your neck as you stare up at the ceiling. The needle hasn’t even touched your skin yet but you can feel the tremors of the gun through Harry’s hand resting atop your leg.

“Could you…” The words all but leap from your mouth. Haltingly, you try again. “Could you, like… count?”

The buzzing stops abruptly. You can feel Harry staring at you but your eyes stay trained on the overhead lights. “Count?” he asks, incredulous.

“Yeah. You know, like count to three?”

To his credit, if Harry is exasperated with you then he’s doing a good job of hiding it. “This isn’t exactly a flu shot.”

“It’s silly, I know” you go on. “I just wanna know when to like… expect it.”

In your peripheral vision, you catch a few of the other patrons exchanging sidelong glances from where they lay in their chairs. A beat passes before you hear Harry’s voice again.

“One,” he begins. The tattoo gun switches on again with an intense, cutting reverberation.

“Two…” Your eyes squeeze shut.

“Three.”

Your grit your teeth at the first sting—in surprise, however, rather than agony. Because this… this isn’t so bad actually. At first, the pain is warm and tingly. It grows hot, hot, hotter until it’s almost uncomfortable, and the sensation is somehow heavy; there’s a distinct, dense sort of gravity to the entire area above your knee and you’re having a difficult time deciding if it’s real or imagined. You feel Harry begin to drag the needle over your skin and it feels like a deep, pulling pressure. Prick after individual prick, you wish you weren’t able to feel every single time the needle perforates your skin but you can, with excruciating clarity.  

By the thirty minute mark, your eyes are watering at the corners as you grasp onto the edge of the table, your fingernails puncturing the paper.

The gun stops suddenly. “Shall I raise the backrest for you a little?” Harry asks. “It might help your circulation.”

“Um…” You blink up at the ceiling. Your voice is wavering a little, you can hear it. “Whatever works best for you.”

“It makes no difference to me. We’re gonna be here a while longer. Do you have a preference?”

Still, you refuse to look at him. “I don’t mind laying down all the way like this if I have to, I guess.”

“But would you prefer to sit up a bit?” he presses. You allow a pause and Harry goes on in the wake of your silence. “C’mere, let me get this for you.”

He rises from his stool, reaching over you to pull the lever of the treatment chair, inclining you up a few inches. For a moment, his chest is mere inches from your face and the proximity makes your heart flutter; you can hear the strain of his breath as he lifts you, and smell his cologne and the minty tang of his gum so up close. He leans back a little and catches your eyes.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, swallowing. “Yeah, that’s much better actually. Thanks, sorry.”

Harry shakes his head. “Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know. I need to stop saying it so much, sorr—I mean, um… thanks,” you trail off, praying he’ll save you from stumbling over your own apologies.

Harry’s eyes linger on yours before he clears his throat and looks elsewhere. “That’s alright. Are you comfortable?” You simply nod. His voice drops an octave before he speaks again. “Do you want to stop?”

You shake your head, resolute. “No.”

“We can stop for today if you want. There’s no shame in it.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

“Would you like to take a break?”

“No, we can keep going.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” You hesitate, wringing your hands in your lap. “Um… thanks.”

“S’alright. Let me know.” Finally, Harry returns to his stool.

For the next hour and a half, you make every effort to focus on your surroundings and tune out of your body; you’re sure you’ll have the health and safety infographic on the wall across from you ingrained in your memory forever. Periodically, Harry asks you to adjust your position slightly but for the most part, he is able to work around you lying still and by the second hour, the sensation has turned into a raw, white, searing ache that’s so overwhelming you can almost see it behind your eyelids.

Harry was right to have warned you about tattooing over bone; every time he goes anywhere near your kneecap, the pain is so excruciating and heinous that your stomach drops as your instincts tell you that something must be terribly wrong. With every brief respite that Harry takes to change the ink bottle and switch colors, you brace yourself for the imminent sting wherever he’s going to put the needle next and before long, you start to lose all semblance for how much time has passed since you’ve been here. The slick sheen of sweat on your palms makes it hard to grasp onto the metal railing of the chair as you try to focus on the Jimi Hendrix song booming from the stereo.

No reason to get excited

The thief he kindly spoke

There are many here among us

Who feel that life is but a joke

You count the songs as they pass, one after another, after another. Sweat is beginning to break out on your temples and your breathing is getting shallow. You’re concentrating on the rise and fall of your belly but it’s proving to be useless as you sense some indigestion coming on, like your body is literally going into shock. You resist the urge to check the analog clock on the wall because you know that it’ll do nothing but make the time go by even slower, but you must be nearing the end of the session by now. You really should have thought to bring a book or a crossword puzzle to keep your mind occupied. Every so often, Harry wipes away something trickling down your leg with the washcloth and logically you know that most of it is excess ink, but your brain is telling you it’s all blood.

Eventually, you find yourself going completely limp. Harry has made his way from your kneecap, around your leg to the back of your thigh and you’re exhausted, somehow, as your cheek presses into the paper covering the headrest, clammy. The pain doesn’t feel sharp anymore; the sensation has faded into a dull soreness as he tows the needle across your skin. Your flesh feels numb by the end, which is maybe worse. On any other day, you’d allow yourself to get a little carried away in the even, controlled cadence of Harry’s breath fanning out over your thigh but right now you feel detached, lightheaded, and embarrassed at how poorly you’re coping.

By the time you hear Harry’s voice next, it’s becoming a challenge to keep your eyes open. “That should do it for today.”

You nod against the paper, humming faintly, but you’re so happy the session is over with, you could cry. He says your name and though the sound of it is distant and subdued, it snaps you out of your trance a little. A small “okay” is all you can muster.

You sense him standing over you. “Um… I’m gonna clean you up a bit now. Are you alright?”

You push yourself up from the table feebly but your elbow is shaking slightly under your own weight. “Never better,” you assure him with as much faux enthusiasm as possible.

“I’m fresh out of wrap so I’m gonna go get some from my office. Don’t move.” Harry makes his way out of the parlor and you collapse back to the table as soon as he’s out of sight.

“No chance of that,” you sigh to yourself.

Your lips stretch into a weak smile as you peer down at your leg. You lift it, trembling, and admire the multitude of colors and intricate detail of the scales; streams of crimson, gold, and royal blue twist together, dancing like ribbons in the light. Again, there’s this element of motion and fluidity in the design, even with only a glimpse of the tail. It’s difficult not to fall a little in love with your python already. She’s practically luminescent. Perhaps you should give her a name.

Once Harry is pushing through the saloon doors again, you’re feeling slightly less disoriented although your mouth is still completely parched. “This is Saniderm,” he begins. “It’s what we use when the tattoo is still fresh, but you’re gonna wanna leave it for like three hours before taking it off.” He slides over to you on his stool again with a roll of some sort of clear adhesive in tow. “This may sting a little.”

You huff one solitary, humorless laugh. “Try me.”

Much to your surprise, you hear him snort into a faint chuckle. You crack an eye open, peeking down at him. Harry is badly concealing a smile with his dimples sunken deeply into his cheeks as he squeezes a bit of ointment onto a fresh cloth. You close your eyes again, but press your lips together against a smile of your own, flooded with a sudden rush of pride.

The wound is incredibly sensitive. It still feels about a million degrees, throbbing with the beat of your heart as he dabs your leg with the cloth. You wince, beginning to feel a little nauseous again as Harry cleans the area, covers it with the clear dressing, and wraps up your thigh with strenuous caution.

He stands over you with his hands on his hips, sizing up his work. “You’re all set.”

You force a smile, ignoring the faint ringing in your ears. “Great.”

Harry hesitates, staring down at you with concern etched into his brow. “Sure you’re alright? You look a little…” he trails off, motioning to his face.

As if on command, bile rises in your throat. And in that moment, you get this horrible, sinking dread from somewhere that feels outside of your body that something really, really bad is about to happen if you don’t excuse yourself immediately.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” you assure him, swinging your legs over the edge of the table and hopping to the floor. “I’m good. Actually think I’m just gonna go… get some… um, water—”

Harry’s eyes widen as he rushes toward you. “Woah, woah, woah!”

The last thing you remember before the room goes dark is making it about three strides toward the exit, and feeling a large set of arms wrap around you as you plunge headlong to the floor.

……………………………………………

The faint call of chickadees gradually grows louder as the lingering scent of day-old cigarette smoke reaches your nose. Your tongue feels dry as you open and close your mouth a few times, spitting out a few pieces of your hair. The breeze is bracing and cool against your skin and sunlight lands bright and warm on your face; you squeeze your eyes shut and shrink away from it, but your nose digs into a warm chest as you turn your head.

Your eyes snap open and your entire body jolts as you begin to register that you’re being cradled in someone’s arms. “Oh my god.”

“Relax. You were out for like forty-five seconds.” Harry’s voice is nearby, measured and deep. You can feel his chest vibrating against your shoulder as he speaks.

“Shit, sorry.” You shake your head. “I can stand.”

He descends the last few steps of the porch leading to a small patio at the back of the tattoo shop, then carefully sets you down to sit on the edge of a picnic table with an ashtray in the center.

Your face is hot and you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “How long were you just standing there with me?”

You nod to the porch and Harry throws a glance over his shoulder at it. “Well, I was comin’ down the stairs but stopped when you started to come to… Looked a bit like you could use some air.” He smirks down at you softly, scratching his head. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” you mumble. Your feet suddenly become very fascinating to you. “God, I can never go back inside there again.”

“Don’t worry about that, nobody cares. Most of the people inside got a good laugh out of it, anyway.”

You bury your face in your hands. “Jesus.”

“It’s fine, just take it easy for a bit then come back in when you’re ready… Here.” You look up just in time to catch the bottle of water he’d tossed over. “Are you going to puke?”

“No.”

Harry puts his hands in his pockets, motioning to the small plot of shrubs behind you with his elbow. “Aim for the bushes.”

“I am not going to puke.”

“Right… aim for the bushes.” You open your mouth to protest but he starts again before you have the chance. “I’ll be inside. Come in whenever you’re ready… You did good today.”

You shoot him a sidelong look. “No, I did not.”

Harry purses his lips to the side with a smile you can tell he’s trying to suppress. He shakes his head. “No, you didn’t. But it sounded like somethin’ you maybe needed to hear right now.”

You look off to the side as you shake your head, fighting laughter at yourself, at him, at this whole situation. “Great.”

“Sure you’re alright?” he chuckles.

“Positive.”

“I’ll be inside.” He turns on his heel, trotting back up the stairs.

You tilt your head to the sky as soon as Harry is out of sight. “You idiot,” you whisper through a groan. “You had to go and pass out. In front of everyone. Perfect… Just what you need.”

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths—after all, you’re still feeling a bit queasy—but suddenly, a frown takes your features. You look down at your shirt, pinching a bit of the sleeve and bringing it up to your nose with a tentative inhale.

It smells like Harry—his skin, his cologne, his hair. You’ve been smelling this all day beside him, but something about having the scent on your person makes your cheeks sting in warmth. You take a moment to quickly survey the patio before letting yourself indulge in a few more whiffs of the fabric. It’s such an addicting scent, like pollen or a sort of well-rounded musk—exactly how you would imagine a person as attractive as Harry to smell. You wonder if perhaps Harry’s shirt smells of you.

You hop down to the concrete and take a minute to make certain you’re steady and able to stand on your own. After a minute of pacing around the patio, you down half of the bottle of water Harry had brought for you in one go, then show yourself back inside. As soon as you step foot through the door, a slow clap breaks out among the tattoo artists and their respective clients; you look up abruptly at the sound. A dozen delighted faces gleam back at you as you make your way through the studio, and suddenly your cheeks and ears feel hotter than your leg had felt under the gun not long ago. Someone lets out a “woohoo!”

You nod, hanging your head through barely-contained laughter. Before you reach the swinging doors, you spare a glance over your shoulder at Harry, who is watching you closely as he cleans the tattoo gun. You shake your head ever so slightly at him. His smug grin grows even wider as he chews a piece of gum; his cheeks dimple as he struggles to conceal his delight.

Even the receptionist is clapping as you turn the corner to the waiting area. You roll your eyes and raise your hands in feigned exasperation.

“Sorry,” she laughs. “Harry told us to.”

You shake your head. “Of course he did.”

“How did it go, you know… otherwise?” she asks.

You hesitate. “I just really hope I’m tougher next time. I don’t know what I was expecting but I…” you trail off with a small, defeated laugh. “Yeah, I don’t know. Sorry.”

She smiles with a sympathetic tilt to her head. “It’s always easier the second time around. Watch, you’re gonna be a pro at it before you even know it.”

“Guess we’ll see…” you sigh, backing up to the front doors. “Take care! Thanks again!”

“See you next time!” she calls from behind as you make for the parking lot around back.

A shiver runs through you as you walk to your car. It’s difficult to find a comfortable position on the hot leather seat with your bandage—thank god you hadn’t chosen to do the snake on your right leg; it would have been so much more difficult to use the pedals; that thought hadn’t even occurred to you before now. Regardless, you crank the AC and head for home, but do not make it very far.

As you cruise down Sunset Boulevard, you stop at the first red light across from The Roxy theater before swinging the driver’s side door open in a panic, leaning over into the street, and promptly emptying your stomach onto the pavement below.

……………………………………………

A breath hitches in your throat as you stiffly roll your shoulders out. Finding a comfortable position on your couch with several throw pillows bolstering one of your legs and a leaky ice pack slipping off your knee is practically impossible, especially after several hours of lying still. Your second tattoo session with Harry this afternoon was even more of a blunder than the first one last week, so you’re trying to alleviate the leftover uneasiness by sticking your nose in a book. However, even reading is proving to be difficult as your limbs go numb every fifteen minutes.

You startle a little as the front door slams shut, slipping your bookmark into How to Set a Fire and Why as you crane your neck to see over the edge of the couch.

“Honey, I’m home!” calls a familiar voice from the entryway.

You drop your head to the pillow again, rolling your eyes above a smile. “I’m in here!”

You can hear AJ kicking out of her shoes, and the subsequent sound of her work bag hitting the floor. She marches into the living room with both hands on her hips and takes one look at you before falling to the cushion by your side and pulling your legs into her lap. “How are you reading? Why’s it so dark in here?”

“I got back a few hours ago when it was still light out and haven’t felt motivated to get up since I laid down.”

She nods solemnly. “That’s a mood.”

“Yeah. My leg is killing me so I’m trying to like, keep it elevated.”

“I see… How’d the second tattoo session go?”

You shake your head, staring up at the ceiling. “Like, worse than the first.”

“Oh fuck, dude. That’s like… a high bar to clear.”

“I know.”

“Did you puke this time?” AJ coughs into her hand through poorly-contained laughter.

Your eyes narrow as you lift your head off the pillow and point a finger at her. “Tread lightly. And no, I didn’t. Oddly enough, the first appointment hurt way worse. Or at least, I think it did—it’s been a little over a week so I could be remembering it wrong.”

“Well, yeah it probably hurt a lot worse. He went over your knee last time right?”

You nod. “Mhm.”

“When I got my tiger it hurt so bad when the needle went over my ribcage, I thought I was gonna cry.”

“I remember that.”

“What’s all this for?” she asks, eyeing the bulky ice pack wrapped precariously around your thigh.

“The guy doing my tattoo said icing it afterwards works better to numb it than taking a bunch of painkillers.”

“Do you think it’s helping?”

You bark a laugh. “I’ll let you know.”

AJ scrunches her nose. “I’m sorry. If you want, I think we have something a little stronger in the kitchen…”

You consider this for a moment, raising an eyebrow. “Red or white?”

“Pink,” she laughs. “We still have that week-old bottle of twelve-dollar Rosé from the package store.”

Your mouth twists into a grimace. “Hard pass, it doesn’t hurt that bad. And besides, it’ll be worth it in the end, I just need to stop being such a wimp.”

Your name falls from AJ’s mouth with pointed emphasis. “You’re getting a ginormous python tattoo—I can’t think of anything less wimpy than that.”

“I guess.”

She pokes your hip. “Did anyone say anything about what happened last time?”

You clear your throat, hoping to sort of dance around the subject. “I got some funny looks when I walked in, yeah.”

AJ bursts out in a laugh and you cave, joining in. “Did the hot British tattoo guy bring it up?” she asks.

You drape your arm across your face and bury your nose into your elbow. “Uh, he made a comment.”

AJ gasps. “Oh my god… What did he say?”

“Nothing crazy, he just asked if I was alright to stand up when we were done but you could tell he was like, definitely making fun of me a little.”

“That’s kinda cute.”

You gesture vaguely in her direction. “I mean it would have been, except for the fact that that was like, literally the only thing he said to me the entire time!”

Her eyebrows knit. “Wait, what? He didn’t speak to you for the whole two hours?”

“No!” You prop yourself up on your elbows. “I got a hello when I showed up, and a cheers before I left. He checked on me while we were doing the tattoo a few times but that’s it.”

“Oh yikes, that’s so awkward.”

“No like AJ, you don’t even know the half of it. All the other tattoo artists were like chatting with their clients or at least making small talk but he probably said ten words to me the entire time… so I’m convinced he thinks I’m super annoying or something.”

“Maybe he just gets really into his work.”

You shrug. “Yeah that’s definitely part of it, but it doesn’t explain why he has such a stick up his ass when he’s not tattooing me.”

“How do you mean?” she asks, carefully shifting out from beneath your legs before rising from the couch.

“He doesn’t volunteer conversation, he’s suffocatingly professional despite the fact that we’re like not that far apart in age… whenever I thank him for anything, he straight up doesn’t acknowledge it at all.”

“Do you know when his birthday is?”

You roll your eyes. “AJ, please don’t do his birth chart.”

“I’m gonna do it anyway, I just won’t tell you. Plus, anyone can be rude no matter what their sign is,” she calls over her shoulder on her way to the kitchen before adding a bit more softly, “except for Virgos, obviously.”

“It’s not that he’s rude necessarily, he’s just not… overly warm. He doesn’t really care to hold people’s hands and he seems to be like, very unperturbed by most things.”

You squint as AJ switches on a few lights around your apartment. “You’ve put some thought into this,” she chuckles.

“I know, I know. I always overthink things.”

She turns to look at you over her shoulder as she rifles through a few cupboards. “He sounds stoic to me. It’s probably just his personality, you know? Like, still waters run deep, and all that.”

You sigh. “I honestly have no clue.”

“I bet he’s an Aries,” she starts up again. “Or a Capricorn.”

“Someone needs to take the internet away from you—”

“With a Cancer moon. He got you all that medicine stuff to take care of the tattoo and made you a whole folder of information, he has to have a soft side.”

“Enough!” you laugh, pulling the hair tie from the bun on top of your head and slinging it across the apartment at her.

She narrowly dodges before shooting you a smile, pointing a baguette from the pantry at you. “Have you eaten?”

You shake your head. “Nah.”

“Will you have some bruschetta with me or are you just going to barf it up in Hollywood somewhere?” she asks, tearing off a piece of bread.

“You know what? I’m never telling you anything ever again… You’re so lucky I can’t get up from this couch right now or else I’d kick your ass.”

She smirks, popping some crust into her mouth. “I’m terrified.”

As you return to your novel, sounds of AJ singing to herself, chopping heirloom tomatoes, and preparing the mozzarella come from the kitchen.

“Wanna watch something tonight?” you yell to her. “I think NBC is showing Fresh Prince reruns until like two AM.” You lower your book, motionless as you wait for her reply; the faint melody of your roommate’s singing has ceased and you can no longer hear the knife against the cutting board. You frown in the sudden silence. “AJ?”

“Who…” Her voice tapers off. “Who is… I’d raws—wait, no. I draw shapes on people?”

You sit up on the couch and turn around to face her so quickly that you almost give yourself whiplash. “Where did you see that?”

“I draw shapes on people has requested to follow you,” she repeats around a mouthful of bread. AJ is frowning down at something on the counter as she chews, but looks up to meet your gaze from across the apartment. She raises your phone so you’re able to see the sole notification on your lockscreen. “Sorry,” she apologizes, shaking her head. “I saw the screen light up and thought it was mine.”

“Holy shit,” you curse, practically flipping off of the couch. Your book falls to the side as your ice pack lands on the floor in a pool of its own condensation.

“Be careful!” AJ warns as you dash across the living room, snatching your phone out of her hands.

Instagram 8m ago

@idrawshapesonpeople has requested to follow you.

slide to view

You set your phone back down on the countertop to cover your gaping mouth with both hands and back away slowly.

AJ’s eyes widen. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Oh my god.” Your words echo against your palms. “Oh my god!”

“What?”

“AJ!” A wild laugh bursts from your chest as you point to your phone on the counter. “That’s the hot British tattoo guy! That’s my tattoo artist!”

Slowly, her mouth falls open too. “Oh my god. He did not just…”

“But he did!”

“Dude! He likes you!”

You wave your hands, shaking your head. “Stop, stop, stop. Let’s not go there.”

AJ says your name like it proves her point. “Come on… That’s why he’s been acting so aloof! I hadn’t even considered that possibility—I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised, like…” She gestures in your direction. “Look at you, he’s not blind. Also, I’m sorry but I draw shapes on people? I hate him.”

You stare blankly at her, blinking. “I’m like actually going into shock… This is the man I fainted in front of.”

“He probably found it endearing.”

You cross your arms and turn away to pace a few laps around the kitchen. “Stop.”

“I’m serious!” she persists. “Well, are you gonna accept it or what?”

You gnaw your lip. “Should I?”

“Of course!” She practically interrupts you.

“Well, what if he sees my latest post?”

“It’s cute—he’ll think it’s funny I bet.”

After a long, charged silence, you sigh, leaning back against the island in your kitchen and covering your eyes with both hands. “Do it for me. I can’t.”

AJ’s lips curl up into a smirk as she tosses another piece of bread into her mouth. “What were you saying earlier about wanting to be less of a wimp?”

“Please just do it. I can’t take any criticism right now, even if it’s loving.”

“Fine, fine,” she mutters, reluctant. You peek through your fingers as she picks up your phone, typing in the passcode. “Okay. It’s done. Do you wanna follow him back?”

Your eyes narrow as you smile at her. “Do it.”

“Wow.” She nods slowly, eyebrows raising. “I’m loving this side of you. Okay… you’re officially following each other.”

A small, nervous sound comes from the back of your throat. “I cannot believe that just happened.”

“So can we like, stalk his profile now, or?”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already,” you shoot back. “But sure.”

“Holy shit!” AJ gapes down at your phone. “He has one point three million followers.”

You make eyes at her from across the kitchen. “I know.”

“Harry Styles…” AJ shakes her head. “There’s no way that’s his real name.”

“I think it is,” you laugh.

“Wild. Was he like, a pornstar before his career as a tattoo artist?”

You sigh. “God, I wish.”

“He has a picture with Lady Gaga… What the fuck? Can I follow him, too?” she chuckles. “And does he usually follow the people he tattoos if they’re, like not Lady Gaga?”

You purse your lips. “You know, that’s actually a good question. I have no idea. Can you check? He usually tags his clients in the pictures he posts of their finished tattoos.”

“I mean, why not, right?” AJ replies as you approach. You perch on the countertop behind her and rest your chin on her shoulder to watch as she taps through Harry’s profile, navigating through the Instagram accounts of his former clientele. “No for the first one… He’s not following this person either… No, no… Nope.” AJ shakes her head, laughing to herself. “This man is in love with you.”

“This is absurd.”

“I mean, not really,” she reasons. “You’re gorgeous and crazy smart and hilarious and I love you, at least. I don’t see why Harry wouldn’t be able to see all that, too.”

You quickly shake your head, hopping down from the counter. “You know what? No. This is so stupid—we’re reading way too much into it. A follow doesn’t have to mean anything.”