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The thing Harry hadn't anticipated was that losing someone didn't always look dramatic. Sometimes it looked like everything continuing exactly as normal. That was somehow worse because from the outside, nothing had changed.

Tour prep was running smoothly. The Amsterdam residency was on schedule. Production meetings were happening on time. Transport was organised. Wardrobe was organised. Security briefings were organised. Every hotel room for the crew was booked correctly. Every credential was accounted for. The machine was running perfectly. And she was the reason why.

The trouble was, Harry had spent so many years relying on her that he hadn't realised how much of their relationship existed in the spaces between the work. It wasn't the schedules he missed. It wasn't the emails. It wasn't the logistics. It was everything else.

The way she'd wander into a room and immediately know if he was overwhelmed before he'd worked it out himself. The way she'd tell him when an idea was stupid without anyone getting offended. The way she'd laugh at him when he deserved it. The way she'd somehow become the person he looked for first after every show, every interview, every stupid little moment that happened throughout the day. Now all of that was gone.

She still spoke to him. That was almost the problem. Because she wasn't angry anymore. Anger almost would have been easier because anger still meant he had access. This was something else. She was polite. Professional. Competent. Careful. Pleasantly unreachable. Every interaction was reduced to exactly what was required.

"Your car leaves at eight."

"The venue moved soundcheck forward."

"You've got an interview in twenty."

"Jeff needs your approval on the visuals."

Never rude. Never cold. Never anything he could reasonably complain about. And yet Harry found himself standing in rooms after she'd left them feeling strangely abandoned. Like he'd arrived somewhere two minutes too late. Like he'd missed a conversation he desperately wanted to be part of.

Sometimes he'd deliberately try extending interactions. Nothing obvious. Just stupid little things.

"How was dinner?"

"Did you ever call your sister back?"

"How'd the interview go?"

And every time she'd answer politely. Every time she'd smile. Every time she'd somehow end the conversation within thirty seconds and move on. It was like trying to hold water in his hands. And the worst part? She wasn't doing it to punish him. If she had been, maybe he could've argued. Maybe he could've fought. Instead, he had the horrible suspicion that this was simply what happened when somebody stopped trusting you with themselves.

The assistant interviews had become their own version of hell. Mostly because Jeff hated everyone. Every candidate was somehow wrong. Too inexperienced. Too nervous. Too corporate. Too eager. Too passive. Too disorganised. Too organised. At one point she'd genuinely started wondering whether Jeff was inventing reasons. The latest rejection had happened in a hotel conference room overlooking one of Amsterdam's canals.

The candidate had actually seemed good. Calm. Professional. Experienced. Exactly the sort of person she'd hire herself. The second they'd left, Jeff had rubbed both hands down his face. "No."

She stared. "What do you mean no?"

Jeff pointed toward the closed door. "No."

"That's not feedback."

"It's enough feedback."

"Jeff."

"He doesn't fit."

"What?"

"Whatever."

"Why?"

Jeff groaned. "I don't know."

"You absolutely know."

"I just know."

She leaned back in her chair. "Are you trying to keep me?"

Jeff immediately looked offended. "No."

The speed of the answer made her suspicious. "Jeff."

"I'm serious."

"Then what is it?"

He sighed heavily. Then looked out the window. Finally he said quietly, "You're making me realise how hard your job actually is. Or how much better you are than everyone else."

That caught her off guard because Jeff wasn't usually sentimental.

"You know Harry better than anyone." She looked away. Immediately. "You anticipate problems before they happen."

"That's called experience."

"No," Jeff said. "That's called you."

Silence settled between them. And she hated how much those words affected her. Because they touched something she hadn't been letting herself think about. The awful and humiliating truth. The truth she'd buried underneath all the heartbreak.

She didn't actually want to leave. Not really. That was the worst part. Because everyone kept acting like her resignation was some brave decision. Some empowered choice. As though she'd dramatically stood up for herself and walked away. When really? She'd been cornered. What exactly were her alternatives? Stay? Watch him build a future with someone else? Plan his engagement dinners? Schedule his holidays? Listen to him talk about wedding venues? Smile through it? Pretend she was okay? She couldn't do it. But that didn't mean she wanted to leave.

This had been her favourite job. These people had become her family. She was good at it, really fucking good at it. And some nights, lying awake in an unfamiliar hotel room, she found herself getting angry all over again. Because why was she the one losing everything? Harry still had the career. The friends. The team. The future. And she was the one quietly packing up her life. It felt profoundly unfair.

The day before opening night arrived far too quickly. Amsterdam buzzed outside the arena. Some fans camping out early. Inside, everyone was operating at maximum stress, which suited her perfectly.

Busy meant distracted. Distracted meant less thinking. Less thinking meant fewer opportunities to remember that Jade Monroe existed somewhere in the building.

Because yes. She'd been avoiding her, okay? Shamelessly. Professionally. Masterfully. Not enough to raise suspicion but just enough to keep distance. If Jade was expected at catering, she'd suddenly need to check lighting. If Jade was backstage, she'd mysteriously have production notes to review elsewhere. It was ridiculous. Juvenile. She knew it was completely beneath her and yet she'd managed three entire days without a proper interaction.

Unfortunately, she wasn't nearly as successful at avoiding thoughts. Those showed up whenever they wanted. She was halfway through reviewing transport schedules when Jeff appeared out of nowhere.

"Problem."

She didn't even look up. "What kind?"

"The bad kind."

That got her attention. He handed her his phone. She scanned the screen. Then closed her eyes. A major credentialing error. Two trucks. Three countries. Missing paperwork. The sort of logistical nightmare capable of derailing half a production day.

Jeff looked grim. "What do we do?"

She stared for exactly three seconds. Then reached for her phone. "Give me twenty minutes."

Nineteen minutes later it was solved. Three calls. Two emails. One favour from someone she'd worked with three tours ago. Done.

Jeff watched the final confirmation arrive and then looked at her. "I hate how good you are at this."

She smiled slightly. "That's because you usually only see the disasters."

For the first time all day, she found herself with nothing immediately demanding her attention. A rare occurrence. The arena was mostly empty except for crew and rehearsal staff. Music echoed through the cavernous space. And without really thinking about it, she wandered down toward the front of the stage.

Harry was rehearsing. The full lighting rig was running. Screens and stage illuminated. The scale of it all still managed to impress her. He moved through the space like he'd been built for it. Like every nerve in his body suddenly knew exactly where it belonged. And despite everything. Despite all of it. She still felt proud, that was the infuriating thing. She still wanted him to succeed and wanted the shows to be incredible. Still wanted fans to walk out talking about how amazing he was. That made everything harder. Because it would've been so much easier if she hated him.

The song ended. Harry laughed at something one of the band members said. Then hopped down from the stage. Sweaty. Slightly breathless and happy. And before she could talk herself out of it, she walked over.

Professional. Simple. Nothing more.

"How are you feeling?"

He looked surprised she'd initiated the conversation. "Uh. Good, I think."

She nodded. "Everything feeling alright?"

"Yeah." Another pause. Already awkward. Mostly from him. Never from her anymore.

"We'll probably wrap in about an hour," she said. "Then head back to the hotel."

He nodded. "Right."

A few months ago they would've filled ten minutes without trying. Now they stood there like strangers.

"So..." Harry said. Then stopped because he clearly didn't know where he was going.

She waited. Patiently. Professional. "Do you need anything before I head back?" she asked.

And there it was again. That distance. Like she'd already begun removing herself from his life piece by piece. Harry looked at her for a long moment. Long enough that she started wondering whether he'd heard the question.

Finally he said, "No."

His voice came out quieter than he'd intended.

She nodded once. "Okay." Then she smiled. Small. Polite. The same smile she'd been giving him for weeks. And somehow it hurt more than the screaming ever had. "Good rehearsal," she said.

Then turned and started walking away. Leaving Harry standing beside the stage. Watching her disappear back into the machinery of the tour. And realising, with a sinking feeling he still hadn't fully learned how to name, that he missed her most when she was standing right in front of him.

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The strange thing was that Amsterdam was exactly the sort of city Harry should have been enjoying. That thought kept occurring to him throughout the afternoon. The canals. The narrow streets. The late summer light reflecting off the water. The fact that, for the first time in weeks, there wasn't an immediate rehearsal to run to or a production meeting waiting around the corner. The day before opening night was always strange. Months of preparation suddenly gave way to a few hours of stillness, and nobody quite knew what to do with themselves.

Especially Harry because stillness had never really been his friend. He and Jade had spent most of the afternoon wandering without much of a plan. Stopping in little shops. Grabbing coffee. Taking pictures of things neither of them would probably look at again. It should have felt nice. And it did, mostly. That was the problem. Mostly.

Jade was funny. Easy to be around. Smart in a way that constantly surprised him. She had a habit of making observations about people that were so accurate they bordered on frightening. She challenged him. Made him think. Made him feel grounded in ways he hadn't always felt before. So why did he feel like there was a stone sitting in the middle of his chest?

The answer annoyed him because he already knew it. Or at least he was starting to. The realisation had been arriving slowly over the past few weeks, like water wearing away rock. Not all at once. Just little moments. Little absences. Little losses.

The thing was, he missed her. And the more he thought about it, the more complicated that statement became. Because he didn't miss her in the way everyone would assume, or maybe he did. He wasn't entirely sure anymore.

He missed talking to her. Missed the ease. Missed the fact that she used to fill every spare corner of his life without him ever consciously noticing. Now every interaction felt measured. Professional. Like she was talking through glass. And for the first time in years, Harry was realising just how much he'd relied on her. Not because she was his assistant. Because she was her.

"Harry." He blinked. Looked up. Jade was staring at him, amused. "You didn't hear a word I just said."

"What?"

She laughed. A proper laugh. "Oh my God, you actually didn't."

"No, I did."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"What did I say?"

Harry opened his mouth. Then immediately closed it again.

Jade pointed accusingly. "See?"

He rubbed a hand across his face. "Sorry."

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

"That's a lie."

They continued walking along the canal. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Jade bumped her shoulder lightly against his. "You nervous about tomorrow?"

That was probably the easiest answer. And maybe part of the truth. "Yeah."

She nodded. "I figured. First show."

"First show."

He looked out across the water. People drifted past on bicycles. Tourists sat outside cafes. The city felt entirely unconcerned with his personal crises. Lucky fucking city.

"You'll be amazing tomorrow."

Harry smiled faintly. "Thanks."

"You always are."

He looked over at her. She smiled back. And for a second he felt guilty because she was standing right here. And his mind was somewhere else. With someone else.

Jade studied him for another second. Then asked quietly, "Everything okay?"

The question landed differently because it wasn't really about the show anymore. Harry hesitated just long enough for Had to notice.

"Harry."

"I'm fine."

Another lie. A softer one. But a lie all the same.

Jade slipped her hand into his. "You're allowed to be stressed."

"I'm aware."

"Just making sure." A small smile, then she squeezed his hand. And they kept walking.

Dinner was scheduled for seven. Nothing formal. Just a pre-show gathering. The crew crew of the band and management. A few production people. The kind of dinner that happened before every major tour leg. A little celebration to get out that nervous energy. A reminder that they'd all somehow survived another impossible production schedule.

By the time Harry and Jade arrived, most people were already there. The restaurant buzzed with conversation. Laughter. The clink of glasses. The familiar chaos of tour people finally sitting still for five minutes. Harry greeted people automatically with hugs, handshakes, jokes. The usual. But his eyes were already searching before he'd even consciously realised it. Scanning the room. Looking for... her. And then he saw the empty seat near the end of the table.

His stomach did something strange. Because obviously she should be here. Why wouldn't she be here? This was her crew too. Her people.

Harry found himself glancing toward the restaurant entrance. Once. Then twice. Then a third time.

Nobody else seemed concerned. Drinks arrived and menus appeared, and there was still no sign of her. Eventually Jeff slid into the seat beside him already looking tired. Harry barely waited ten seconds. "Where is she?"

Jeff immediately looked amused. "Took you less than a minute."

Harry ignored that. "Seriously."

Jeff reached for a glass of water. "There was a problem."

Of course there was. There was always a problem.

"What kind?"

Jeff laughed. "The kind that makes me grateful she exists."

"She'll be here?"

"Maybe."

Harry looked over. Jeff was still drinking his water. He seemed completely casual. Too casual.

"You don't think she will."

Jeff set the glass down. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "Honestly? No." Jeff sighed. "There was some transport issue with one of the support teams."

"Is it fixed?"

"Probably."

"Then why isn't she here?"

Jeff gave him a look. The kind of look that made Harry instantly regret asking. Because he already knew. The transport issue wasn't the reason, it was simply the excuse. The acceptable answer. The convenient answer. The professional answer. The real answer sat underneath it.

She didn't want to be here. Not really. Not if she didn't have to be. Not if she had a choice.

There had once been a time when she would've been the first person through the door. The loudest laugh at the table. The one teasing the band or stealing food off people's plates. The one rolling her eyes whenever Harry got too much attention.

Now? Given the choice... She'd rather stay somewhere else. Away from him. Away from whatever seeing him and Jade together might feel like. And suddenly the empty chair became impossible not to look at.

People kept talking around him. Someone told a story about rehearsal and then the band started arguing about a setlist change.

The evening carried on exactly as it was supposed to and yet Harry found himself glancing toward the door anyway, every few minutes without meaning to, without thinking. The seat remained empty and somewhere deep down, beneath the frustration and confusion and guilt he'd been carrying for weeks, another feeling finally started taking shape. It wasn't jealousy or regret. It wasn't even heartbreak. It was something worse, consequence. Because for the first time since all of this started, he wasn't looking at what he'd lost, he was looking at a choice she was actively making. A choice to be somewhere else, a choice to stop showing up for him unless she absolutely had to.

And sitting there surrounded by people, with Jade beside him and opening night less than twenty-four hours away, Harry found himself staring at an empty chair and understanding something he'd been avoiding for weeks. She wasn't pulling away, she was already gone and he just hadn't caught up to it yet.

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The knock came at half past eleven. It wasn't loud but persistent, three knocks followed by three more. She stared at the hotel room door from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed, creaming her legs. For a moment she genuinely considered pretending she wasn't there because she already knew who it was. Nobody else knocked like they expected to be let in, nobody else would be standing outside her room this late.

She closed her eyes briefly, sighed and then stood. Immediately hating herself for standing. The walk to the door felt longer than it should have and when she opened it, there he was. Hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie, hair a mess, looking strangely uncertain.

For a split second neither of them spoke and then Harry finally cleared his throat. "Sorry."

Her stomach dropped. Not because of the apology but because he knew this wasn't going to be good.

"What do you need?"

He glanced down the corridor and then back at her. "I need help with tomorrow."

Her brain immediately switched gears from personal to professional. "What happened?"

"The schedule."

"The schedule?"

"Yeah."

She frowned. "What about it?"

"I just wanted to run through—"

"Harry."

His mouth closed because she knew him, and she knew that wasn't why he was here. Not even remotely.

She folded her arms. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Then why are you here?"

Another long silence as Harry looked away toward the carpet, toward the wall. Anywhere but her.

She knew and the exhaustion that followed was almost physical. "Harry..."

He looked back up. "I don't need help with the schedule."

"No shit." The words came out sharper than she'd intended but she was tired, so fucking tired.

Harry rubbed a hand across his face and then quietly said, "I need you to talk to me."

She actually laughed because it wasn't funny, it was unbelievable. "What?"

"I need—"

"No, I heard you. Harry," she said carefully, "what is going on?"

His jaw tightened. "You weren't there."

Ah, the dinner. She looked away briefly and then back at him. "Harry."

"You weren't there." His voice cracked slightly. "We always do a tour dinner."

She closed her eyes. "Harry, please."

"We always do one."

"I know."

"And your chair was empty." The words landed strangely because they sounded so absurd compared to everything else. "Your chair was empty," he repeated. "And I kept looking at it."

She stared at him and then shook her head. "No." Her voice dropped low, more exhausted than angry. "We are not doing this."

"We are."

"Harry."

"We are!"

The force behind it surprised both of them. For a moment silence filled the hallway and then she straightened, like she suddenly remembered who she was, who she had been before all of this. And when she spoke again her voice was cold and controlled. "You better fix your fucking tone."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

"No, I—"

"You better check who you're speaking to because you will not be standing outside my hotel room yelling at me."

"I'm not yelling—"

"You are."

"I just want to talk."

"And I don't."

The silence that followed was brutal because neither of them moved and neither of them backed down. She pointed toward the elevator. "Go."

Harry laughed once, disbelieving. "No."

Her eyes narrowed. "No?"

"That's right. No." He stepped forward slightly. "I want to talk."

Her jaw clenched. "I don't care."

"You can't keep doing this."

Something dangerous flickered across her face. "What?"

"You can't leave."

And immediately Harry knew he'd said the wrong thing. The very second the words left his mouth her entire expression changed.

"Oh." The single syllable was devastating. "That's what this is?"

"No."

"'You can't leave'?"

"That's not what I meant."

"No, go on." Her voice was getting quieter now which made everything feel worse. "Explain."

"I meant... you're my assistant."

There it was. The mistake. And it was like the final thread holding something together had finally given way.

"Oh." She laughed, a tiny laugh. "So that's what we're doing."

"That's not what I meant! You know what I meant."

"No, Harry." Now her voice was shaking. "Actually I don't."

She stepped back into the room, running both hands through her hair and laughing again. The sound was horrible because it was completely humourless. "First you push me into talking about your engagement when I specifically told you I didn't want to."

"Because—"

"No." She pointed at him. "No. You're going to listen."

And for the first time since he'd arrived, Harry shut up. Because something was happening, the dam was finally breaking. Everything she'd swallowed and buried. Everything she's tried to survive quietly... it was all coming up now. And neither of them could stop it.

"You pushed me." Her voice shook violently. "I told you I didn't want to talk about it and then you pushed and pushed and pushed because you need something from me." Tears were gathering in her eyes. "You wanted reassurance and understanding. You wanted me to tell you it was okay."

"I didn't—"

"You did!" The words cracked through the room. "You absolutely fucking did." She took a breath and then another but none of them seemed to help. "And then I gave it to you. I gave you everything."

The tears finally started falling and Harry felt sick. She was right.

"I poured my fucking heart out." The words were spilling now, faster, harder. "I stood there and told you exactly how much you'd hurt me and somehow nothing happened. Nothing blew up. The earth didn't split open. The sky didn't fall. You got stay engaged and everybody moved on. Tour kept happening." She wiped furiously at her face but it didn't make a difference as more tears replaced them.

"And now you're standing here." Her voice cracked. "And now somehow this is about you."

The silence afterward was awful. Harry felt every word like a punch, but some selfish, broken part of him was still thinking, at least she's talking to me.

At least that was something. And that realisation alone made him feel disgusting.

"That's not fair."

The second he said it he regretted it because her expression changed completely and she laughed, a full laugh this time. Completely incredulous.

"Oh my God! Not fair?"

Harry immediately knew he should stop talking but he didn't, he couldn't. "You're leaving." And that was the selfish thing he'd been circling for weeks.

Her face twisted with disbelief. The words came out almost as a whisper, "oh my God." Then louder. "OH MY GOD! What is wrong with you?"

Harry froze. "What?"

"No seriously." She pointed at him, her voice breaking apart. "What is wrong with you? You've turned this into some forbidden romance and it's not."

She was crying openly now. There was no restraint, no dignity left. There was just pure devastation.

"It's not some tragic fucking love story. It's a betrayal. You're a fucking coward."

Harry physically flinched. She saw it but she didn't stop. "Do you know what the worst part is?" Her voice dropped lower and she mocked the exact cadence and tone of how he'd said it. "'When you know, you know.'"

Weeks ago.

And suddenly Harry heard himself. Really heard himself.

"'When you know, you know,'" she repeated, laughing through tears. "'When you know, you know.' Fuck you."

The room went completely silent. She shook her head, over and over, like she couldn't believe he was real. "You completely minimised everything we ever had."

Harry couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

"It wasn't casual for me." The words came out broken and raw. "I know that's humiliating to admit." A laugh, a sob, something in between. "But it wasn't. You had to know that."

Harry looked away because he had known. Somewhere deep down, he'd known.

"You can't be that delusional." The tears were streaming now while she shook her head. "I don't know what you want from me anymore. You took everything."

And suddenly the room felt impossibly still because she wasn't yelling anymore.

"You got the beautiful fiancée. You got the career. You got everyone's support and love and congratulations." She took in a shaky breath and exhaled. "You even still got me, who keeps your entire life running."

She laughed weakly, standing there completely shattered. The tears wouldn't stop, nothing would stop. "And what did I get? What did I get, Harry?" Her voice finally broke completely, sobbing. "I got humiliation. I got... displacement. I got this fucking pit in my stomach that won't go away." She pressed a hand against her chest like it physically hurt.

"I feel like somebody ripped my heart out." Harry closed his eyes. "Then put it back just so they could rip it out again every fucking morning when I wake up. And then I get unemployment." The laugh that followed was horrific. It wasn't even remotely funny. "And I lose you. I lose the person I thought was my friend." Her shoulders shook. "My best friend."

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this ashamed. And then the feeling got worse.

"I'm paying for your consequences."

The words settled over the room, over both of them. Harry understood enough. Enough to see it, the scale and destruction. The selfishness, the cowardice, the way he'd kept taking and taking and taking because it was easier than making a choice. And how she'd been left carrying every consequence. Alone.

She wiped her face. Once, twice, three times, desperately trying to pull herself back together. She looked at him, completely exhausted, and quietly said, "I'd like you to leave."

Harry didn't move. She swallowed and then whispered, "Please."

The word nearly destroyed him because she'd spent weeks angry. Weeks hurt, weeks fighting. And now she was just... begging.

"Please, Harry." Her voice cracked again. "I am begging you. Just give me one thing." Another tear. "I need you to leave."

And for the first time since he'd arrived, he listened. He nodded once, turned and walked out. The hotel room door closed behind him with a soft click, and he was left freezing in the corridor. He stood there for a second, or maybe ten and then started walking toward the elevator.

When he finally reached his room he stopped outside his door, hand hovered over the handle. Inside, Jade was waiting. His fiancée, his future. Everything he'd convinced himself he wanted. And for the first time since all of this started, Harry truly understood the magnitude of what he'd destroyed to get there.

Not because he'd chosen Jade or because he's fallen in love, but because somewhere along the way he'd convinced himself that the things he didn't choose would simply stay where he'd left them.

Waiting. Available. Unchanged.

And now they weren't and she was gone. Not physically, not yet, but emotionally. And standing alone in the hotel hallway, hand resting uselessly against the door, Harry finally understood that some losses don't happen all at once. Sometimes they happen slowly, one choice at time until eventually you're standing in front of the life you built and all you can think about is the person who isn't in it anymore.

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Harry slept for maybe two hours. They weren't consecutive hours, instead, two scattered, useless hours spent drifting in and out of consciousness while staring at the hotel ceiling and replaying every single thing she'd said to him.

The show was tonight. The first show. Amsterdam.

The thing he'd spent months building toward, the thing he'd spent weeks rehearsing, the thing he should have been thinking about. Instead all he could hear were the words I'm paying for your consequences. Over and over, like a song stuck in his head. It was like a sentence his brain had decided he deserved to listen to on repeat.

By five in the morning he'd given up entirely and carefully left the bed, pulling on running clothes. He ignored the fact that his body felt exhausted and the fact that his chest felt tight in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with his fitness level. And then he was running.

At first he told himself it was about clearing his head but by the ninth kilometre he realise that was bullshit, and by the fourteenth he realised he was actively trying to punish himself.

Every time his lungs started burning and his legs got heavier and his body started protesting, it felt deserved. Good. A consequence.

Amsterdam was quiet at this hour. The canals reflected the pale morning sky, shop owners were beginning to unlock doors. They were normal people living normal lives, and Harry felt like he'd accidentally become somebody he didn't recognise. Thoughts started arriving suddenly and refused to leave.

Who the fuck am I?

Because seriously... who was he? What kind of man got engaged while sleeping with someone else? What kind of man expected the woman he'd hurt to congratulate him? What kind of man heard somebody say you've broken me and somehow still spent weeks wondering why she was pulling away?

His feet pounded against pavement. Harder, faster. His breathing becoming ragged. Harder, faster.

He thought about her standing in that hotel room and about the way she'd been crying so hard she could barely get words out. She'd physically struggled to breathe, and he had to just stand there and take it. She stood there looking completely destroyed while he stood in front of her somehow still thinking they could have a conversation that would make him feel better.

The shame hit so hard he almost stopped running entirely.

The awful thing was she was right. Not about some of it, about all of it. Every single thing, every single fucking word. The realisation presented itself, bright and ugly and impossible to ignore. He'd spent weeks thinking the problem was that she'd misunderstood him, thinking the problem was just a little communication. That the timing was the problem. And now he was beginning to understand that the problem was actually him. Entirely him.

Dickhead.

Because somewhere along the line he'd convinced himself that because he cared about people, he couldn't possibly be hurting them. As if good intentions erased consequences and the affection he gave her erased the dishonesty. That saying I didn't mean to somehow changed what he'd done.

He slowed slightly as his stomach twisted, just to speed up again, because slowing down meant thinking and thinking meant hearing her voice.

You got the beautiful fiancée. You got the career. You got everyone's support. You even still got me.

How had he heard that and not immediately fallen through the floor? How had he stood there while she listed everything she'd lost? Because she was right, again. She lost him, not just romantically, but as a best friend. That's two losses in one and somehow he'd spent weeks focusing on the fact that she was leaving instead of the reason she was leaving.

The reason being:

Him.

It wasn't because of financial or geographical circumstances. It wasn't because she found a new job or had a family emergency. It was him. His choices and cowardice. His inability to decide what he wanted before dragging two people through it.

He stopped running and slammed his hands on his knees, breathing hard while sweat dripped onto the pavement. And for one genuinely terrifying second he wondered whether he was having some kind of breakdown, panic attack or an identity crisis. Maybe all three.

Every version of himself he'd carried around in his head suddenly felt incompatible with reality. The Harry who cared about people, who valued honesty, who always tried to do the right thing. Those things couldn't possibly coexist with the reality of what he'd done, not without some serious mental gymnastics. And he was suddenly too tired to keep performing them.

"Fucking idiot."

The words came out loud, to nobody but himself. To whatever higher power was apparently watching this disaster unfold. "Need a fucking lobotomy."

By the time he got back to the hotel he looked awful. After a twenty kilometre run he was sweaty and exhausted, but this was different, he was emotionally hollowed out.

He bypassed the elevator entirely, taking the stairs and walking straight toward Mitch's floor. He didn't text or call, just showed up, because if he went back to his room he'd have to think and if he thought any more he was genuinely worried he might lose his mind.

The door opened after the second knock. For a moment neither say sad anything and then Mitch's eyebrows slowly climbed upward. "...you look terrible."

"Yeah."

"Morning to you too."

Harry looked past him to see Sarah gathering things near the door. The kids were putting shoes on, breakfast plans... normal life. Something about it made his chest hurt.

Their oldest spotted him immediately. "Uncle Harry!"

Harry managed a smile. "Hey, mate."

The younger one waved enthusiastically and for a moment everything felt absurdly normal and then Mitch looked at him properly, and whatever he saw immediately wiped the amusement from his face.

"Hey. What's going on?"

Harry swallowed. "I need to talk to you."

Mitch nodded instantly. Didn't ask questions or joke, just nodded. Sarah looked between them once and reached the same conclusion just by looking at him. "Alright." She kissed Mitch's cheek and then squeezed Harry's shoulder as she passed. "Hi, H."

"Hi."

"Text me when you're done."

"Will do."

And then she ushered the kids out and the door clicked shut behind them. Mitch sat down on the edge of the bed while Harry remained standing, pacing back and forth. He was breathing unevenly and Match just watched patiently, waiting. After enough silence had passed, he eventually said, "This usually works better when you tell me what's wrong."

Harry laughed once but the sound was horrible, dragging both hands down his face until he finally looked at his friend. "I need you not to talk until I'm finished."

Mitch nodded. "Alright."

"And this can't leave this room."

Another nod. "You got it."

"I cheated on Jade."

The silence immediately felt heavy and it didn't help Harry that he told Mitch to not talk. Although he felt that might have been a better option then having to watch every emotion flash across his face anyway.

Confusion. Shock. Disbelief. Concern. Then nothing.

Harry kept talking and once he started he couldn't stop. Everything came out. Everything.

How it started. The hooking up. The late nights. The feelings. The blurred lines. The engagement. The finding out. The fight. The resignation. The hotel room. The crying. The breakdown.

Every ugly detail and selfish decision got brought into the room. Every justification he'd told himself at the time and the excuse that now sounded pathetic the second it left his mouth. The words all poured out, messy and unorganised. Desperate. And Mitch sat there listening, not interrupting once until eventually Harry reached the ending the room finally fell silent. A silence so complete Harry could hear his own pulse.

Mitch stared at him for a long time, taking his hat off to run through his hair, placing it back on his head. Then finally, "Harry."

His stomach dropped because Mitch almost never used his full name, not even when he was serious. "Harry. You didn't." It wasn't even a question, just disbelief. "You actually didn't."

Harry closed his eyes. "Yeah."

Mitch leaned back slowly like he needed physical distance from what he'd just heard. "Fuck." Neither spoke and then again, "Fuck."

Mitch rubbed both hands over his face and looked at the ceiling before looking back at Harry, like maybe he'd somehow become a different person overnight. "What were you thinking?"

Harry's laugh came out broken and humourless. "That's the problem."

"No seriously." Mitch leaned forward. "What were you thinking?"

"I don't know."

"No." Mitch shook his head. "You had to be thinking something."

"I wasn't."

Mitch stared at him, completely baffled. "My friend... my friend who I've known nearly ten years. Did this?"

Harry looked away, he couldn't meet his eyes. Mitch sat back, still processing, still trying to reconcile the person he knew with the story he'd just heard.

Eventually Harry spoke again, quietly. "What do I do?"

Mitch immediately laughed in disbelief. "What do you do?"

"Yeah."

Mitch looked at him like he'd grown another head. "What do you mean what do you do?"

"I need advice."

"Advice?"

Harry's jaw clenched. "Mitch."

"No." Now Mitch was shaking his head. "You seriously fucked up."

The bluntness hurt because Harry knew he'd earned it.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Do you really?"

The room went silent. Because honestly? Until yesterday maybe he hadn't, not fully. Mitch saw the hesitation immediately and let out a deep sigh. The sigh of a man discovering his friend is somehow far dumber than previously believed.

"I think you leave it alone."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"I think you leave her alone. I think you screwed up... and I don't think you can fix it."

Harry didn't want to hear it, in fact he hated hearing it because some part of him had still been looking for a solution. A conversation, a grand gesture, something, anything. Mitch wasn't offering one.

"It might just be done."

The room felt very small, very quiet and very real.

"I get that you care about her." Mitch paused before adding, "Actually. I'm not sure..."

Harry looked up sharply. "What?"

Mitch shrugged. "I don't know what you feel. Because honestly, mate?" Even I'm disappointed."

Mitch wasn't dramatic. He could let things go really easy and never seemed affected by anything. He wasn't judgemental or prone to speeches. So if Mitch was disappointed... fuck, that one hurt.

"Have you told Jade?"

The question hit like a truck and Harry immediately answered.

"What? No. Of course not."

Mitch stared and then frowned. "Why'd you say that like that?"

"What?"

"'Of course not.'" Mitch leaned forward. "That doesn't sound like you. You've always been honest." The irony was brutal. "You've always hated lying and now I'm sitting here finding out you've played two incredible women."

Harry felt physically sick. Mitch shook his head slowly, almost sadly.

"You don't deserve either of them right now. I don't know what to say."

Harry swallowed hard. Mitch stood and walked toward the door, stopping to turn back and look at him. "I don't think you're a bad person."

The relief lasted maybe half a second before Mitch kept speaking. "But right now? I don't know, man. I don't know who the fuck you've been these last few months. You can't fix this." He paused for a second before continuing. "I don't blame her for tearing you apart last night. Wish I was dramatic enough to do the same." He smiled weakly before the situation wiped it immediately.

"Bro. That's not you. and I hope you've learned something because this version of you?" Mitch gestured vaguely. "This man?" He shook his head. "Not a fan."

And then he left, just like that. Breakfast with his family, real life, normal life. Leaving Harry alone in his hotel room, standing in silence.

The first show of the tour only hours away and all he could think about was how the worst thing about hurting somebody isn't the moment you do it, it's when you finally understand exactly what you've done and that you're never going to look at you the same way again.

──────────────

The thing about tour was that there was never really a place to be alone. There were places that were quieter than others, certainly. Places where people were less likely to bother you. Places where the noise of hundreds of moving parts became a dull hum instead of a deafening roar. But true solitude was almost impossible when you were travelling with a production that could fill an arena.

Which was precisely why she had claimed the abandoned dressing room three corridors away from the main backstage area the second she'd found it that morning. Nobody wanted it or needed it. The lighting was terrible, one of the mirrors didn't work, and there was a persistent buzzing noise coming from somewhere inside the wall. Perfect.

It had become her office for the day. Her sanctuary and her hiding place. She sat cross-legged in a chair that was slightly too low for the table, laptop open, phone balanced precariously beside a stack of schedules, transport manifests, flight confirmations and venue notes spread around her like evidence from a criminal investigation.

Outside, the arena pulsed with energy. Inside, she felt absolutely nothing. Or maybe that wasn't true, maybe she felt too much. The problem was that everything inside her seemed to be fighting for space at once.

She hadn't slept. After Harry left her hotel room she'd spent hours staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of the conversation and immediately hating herself for every word she'd said despite knowing every word had been true. There was something uniquely humiliating about grief once it had been witnessed. The crying was one thing, the begging was another, but the worst part was knowing Harry had finally seen it. Seen the extent of the damage and what she'd become. And somehow that made her feel exposed in a way she couldn't quite explain.

So she'd worked instead because work was predictable and made sense. People missed flights, equipment got delayed, schedules changed, problems appeared and problems got solved. Much different to emotions, people and Harry.

A burst of laughter echoed from somewhere down the corridor, then cheering, someone shouting something she couldn't make out. The sound travelled through the walls.

Family. Friends. Crew. Everyone gathering before the first show, excited and celebrating about the coming months of tour. And sitting alone in the dressing room, staring at a spreadsheet she'd already checked three times, she found herself feeling strangely disconnected from all of it.

Usually she loved this part, opening night always felt electric. Usually she'd be running around backstage with a ridiculous amount of adrenaline in her system, laughing with crew members, checking things that didn't need checking simply because she was too excited to sit still. Today it felt different. Today it felt like she was watching somebody else's life.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She didn't bother looking up. "Come in."

The door opened and Jeff appeared. One glance at his face told her exactly why he was there. "No."

Jeff sighed immediately. "I haven't even said anything."

"You don't need to."

"You should come."

She kept typing. "Can't."

"Can."

"Won't."

Jeff folded his arms. "Everyone's there."

"That's lovely."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Silence settled between them for a moment. Eventually she looked up and Jeff's expression softened slightly, because despite her best efforts she knew she looked rough. Dark circles, no makeup, hair hastily tied back. The general appearance of somebody who'd lost a fight against sleep and lost badly.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

The question lingered. She considered lying for a second but then she finally settled for, "I'm tired."

Jeff looked unconvinced but didn't push. "Come by for ten minutes."

"I have work."

"You always have work."

"Exactly."

He sighed again and then rubbed a hand across his face.

"Promise me you'll actually come watch the show."

That finally earned a small smile. "I'll be in the suite."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Jeff pointed at her. "I'm holding you to that." Then he left her alone.

Eventually the sounds outside began changing as the hours passed, the pre-show chaos started settling into something more focused. People stopped wandering, conversations shortened and the nervous energy sharped because show time was getting close.

She packed up reluctantly, stacking papers into neat piles, shutting down her laptop, gathering cables and chargers and notes with the muscle memory of someone who'd done this hundreds of times before.

For a brief moment she allowed herself to imagine the next few hours. The show, the crowd, the lights, and Harry stepping onto that stage. Despite everything that had happened between them, despite how angry she still was and how hurt she still felt and how badly she wished none of this had ever happened, she found herself hoping the same thing she'd always hoped. That he'd be brilliant.

That he would remember why he loved it, that the fans would lose their minds and that he'd walk offstage smiling because some things apparently survived heartbreak. Hope.

She swung her bag over her shoulder and stepped into the corridor. Most people had already headed toward the audience so the backstage area felt oddly quiet now, like the calm before a storm.

She was halfway down the hall when she spotted Jeff standing outside Harry's dressing room. Knocking firmly and looking concerned. "H?" Nothing. Then he knocked again. "Harry?"

She slowed automatically and Jeff glanced over. "Oh thank God."

Something in his voice immediately set off alarm bells. Her stomach naturally tightened. "What's happened?"

Jeff looked back at the closed door. "I don't know. He seemed anxious earlier."

"Pre-show nerves?"

"That's what I thought." Jeff knocked again. "H. We've got ten minutes, mate." Nothing. The silence behind the door suddenly felt wrong. Jeff ran a hand through his hair. "He locked it."

For a second she considered continuing down the corridor and letting somebody else deal with this, anybody else. Then she thought about Harry and the conversation last night. Thought about the way he'd looked when he'd left. Thought about what today meant to him.

And before she could stop herself she sighed deeply, stepping forward. "Move."

As Jeff immediately got out of the way she knocked softly, once. "Harry." Nothing. "Harry, it's me."

There was nothing but silence while she closed her eyes. "Can you unlock the door so I can come in? Please?"

The pause felt endless and then, a click. She looked over her shoulder to Jeff, "I've got it."

Jeff hesitated. "You sure?"

No. But she nodded anyway. "Get everyone where they need to be."

The concern remained on his face for another second and then he finally walked away, leaving her alone with Harry. The second she stepped inside she knew something was wrong. It wasn't nerves, or normal nerves, the room looked like a tornado has passed through. Clothes everywhere, water bottles tipped over, a chair was knocked sideways, and Harry...

Harry looked awful. He was pacing back and forth across the room, hands in his hair, breathing too fast, with his eyes wide and unfocused. The second he saw her he started talking. Nothing was coherent.

"The show's going to be shit."

"What?"

"The dancing." He pointed vaguely. "The transitions. The stage. You."

That one caught her off guard. "What?"

"I don't know." He laughed, the sound cracked in the middle. "Everything's wrong." His breathing hitched. "I don't know what's wrong with me. They're going to hate it."

"No they aren't."

"The show's a mess. The lighting cue in act two—"

"Works."

"The stage lift—"

"Works."

"The band—"

"Works."

He dragged both hands down his face. "I am losing my fucking mind."

And there was the real reason. It wasn't the show or production and stage, it was him.

She stepped forward carefully. "Harry."

His breathing was getting worse. Faster, shallower. "I can't— I can't think."

"Look at me. Harry." Louder now. "Look at me."

Finally his eyes found hers and immediately she saw the panic. Raw, unfiltered. The kind that makes no sense while it's happening and perfect sense afterwards.

"Okay." Her voice softened, instinct taking over. "Just breathe."

His chest was rising too quickly and so she stepped closer, ignoring every instinct telling her not to.

"Come on." She took a slow breath, deliberately, to show him. "With me."

He tried, failed, and tried again. She stayed exactly where she was, patient and steady.

Again. And again. And again. Until eventually the panic began loosening its grip, his shoulders started to drop slightly and the room felt less like it was spinning. His breathing finally slowed and for a few moments neither of them spoke, the silence feeling fragile.

Then unexpectedly he started crying. It was filled with exhaustion, relief, and like everything was finally catching up with him. And before she could think better of it, before she could remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea, before she could stop herself—

She hugged him.

The second she did it she regretted it. Not because it felt wrong but because it felt right, and that was infinitely worse. For one horrible moment it felt like coming home, like muscle memory. Like every version of their relationship before everything exploded. His forehead dropped onto her shoulder and her eyes squeezed shut immediately.

This was a mistake, a massive mistake, but she couldn't bring herself to move. Not when he was shaking and looked this lost. Eventually she pulled back slightly and quietly said, "H."

He looked at her. Eyes red, face blotchy and completely wrecked. And somehow she still smiled. "You're going to do so well out there."

He laughed weakly. "I don't know."

"Yes you do." She tilted her head. "The stage is your home. You know that." He looked away while she continued. "Those people out there?" They showed up for you. Not just your family, your fans. They've been waiting for you. And if we're being honest, you've been waiting for them too."

Something softened in his expression.

"You love this." The words were quiet and certain. "You always have and you're going to be great. Which is really annoying, actually."

A weak laugh unexpectantly escaped him. Wet and broken and accompanied by a very unfortunate amount of snot.

"There we go."

He rolled his eyes. "Fuck off."

"See?" She pointed. "Better already." She stepped back fully this time, her professional armour sliding carefully back into place. "Right."

She grabbed a tissue box and threw it at him. "Let's get you looking presentable. Then we'll walk you to stage."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I'm going to freshen up."

"Please do."

He disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut. And only then did she allow herself a long breath, one hand pressed briefly against her chest, steadying herself, because that hug had cost her more than she'd ever admit.

A few minutes later she opened the dressing room door, Jeff waiting nearby, pacing now. The second he saw her, he stopped. "Well?"

She nodded. "We're good."

Relief washed across his face instantly. "He alright?"

She glanced back toward the closed bathroom door and then back at Jeff. Something in her expression must have said more than words ever could because Jeff's face softened immediately. Understanding as if he suddenly saw the cost of it, the emotional labour and the exhaustion.

The fact that no matter what had happened between them, she'd still walked into that room and put him back together because that was who she was. And because somewhere along the line she'd loved him enough that she probably always would, even when she wish she didn't.

"Ten minutes?" Jeff asked quietly.

She nodded. "Ten minutes."

And together they waited for Harry to come out and become himself again.

──────────────

The suite was already half-full by the time she slipped inside. Not crowded exactly, but busy enough that nobody paid much attention to her arrival, which was precisely how she preferred it. The entire arena was vibrating with anticipation now, the sort of energy that only existed a few minutes before a show began, when thousands of people were collectively waiting for the same thing and the air itself seemed to hum with it.

She paused briefly near the entrance and immediately spotted Jade. It felt like her eyes were drawn there against her will.

Jade was sitting beside Anne, leaning toward her as they spoke, both of them smiling at something that had clearly happened before she'd arrived. Anne's hand was resting lightly on Jade's arm, comfortable and affectionate in that way Anne was with people she liked, and something deep in her chest gave a sharp, unpleasant twist before she could stop it. Jealousy.

How embarrassing after everything. After all the anger and devastation and heartbreak and humiliation, after the screaming and crying and dramatic declarations and hotel room breakdowns, apparently she'd graduated into an entirely new phase of grief. Wonderful.

She smiled politely in Jade's direction when their eyes briefly met, with a quick nod of professional acknowledgment, then immediately crossed the suite and selected what was quite possibly the furthest available seat from where Jade and Anne were sitting. It wasn't childish, at least that's what she told herself.

As she settled into the chair, she found herself watching Anne out of the corner of her eye. That woman. Honestly, it was difficult not to love Anne. She was warm and kind and endlessly welcoming in a way that never felt performative. She remembered birthdays and checked in when people were struggling. Treated crew members exactly the same way she treated celebrities and somehow managed to make everyone feel seen. Which was why the jealousy felt particularly ridiculous. Because she wasn't jealous of Jade having Harry, not entirely. Right now she was mostly jealous that Jade had somehow inherited Anne too.

The most wonderful woman on the planet had apparently crossed enemy lines. Traitor. Though to be fair, there was one very strict rule she maintained at all times. Never be mean about Anne, ever. She was exempt from all resentment.

The lights dropped and the crow erupted. And suddenly all thoughts disappeared beneath a wall of screaming. The show had begun and for the first few songs she genuinely managed to lose herself in it.

The giant screens illuminated the arena in flashes of colour and movement. Fans screamed every lyric. The opening run of songs landed perfectly. Every transition worked. Every cue hit exactly when it was supposed to. And Harry...

Harry was annoyingly, infuriatingly good.She hated how much comfort she found in that. Because after everything that had happened, after all the crying and confusion and emotional destruction, she would've loved for there to be some cosmic balancing of scales. Some evidence that actions had consequences. Instead, he walked onto that stage looking like he'd been born there. His voice was clear, his timing was perfect, his confidence seemed effortless and the audience hung on every word. The bastard, of course he was incredible, because apparently life wasn't content with breaking her heart. It also needed to remind her exactly why she'd fallen for him in the first place.

Still, even while she watched, even while she sang along quietly beneath her breath without meaning to, her attention kept drifting elsewhere. Specifically to Anne and Jade. They were dancing happily, the way people dance when they're genuinely enjoying themselves and not worried about looking cool. Anne grabbed Jade's hand during one song and spun her around, Jade bursting out laughing. A few songs later they were swaying together, then hugging, then laughing again.

And every time she caught sight of it, something sharp twisted inside her chest. Not because they were doing anything wrong, that was the annoying part. Nobody was doing anything wrong. Jade wasn't cruel and Anne wasn't choosing sides. There was nowhere to put the resentment because nobody was trying to hurt her. So it just sat there, festering, like an itch she couldn't scratch.

At one point Jade picked up a glass of wine from the side table and for a brief, deeply immature second she found herself imagining knocking it straight out of her hand. Not violently, of course, just enough to make a point and cause a scene. Enough to make herself feel something other than this.

The thought lasted all of two seconds before she rolled her eyes at herself. She couldn't even be bothered anymore. The anger had been easier because at least the anger gave you somewhere to stand. Jealousy just made you feel pathetic.

She was watching Harry move across the stage during one of the slower songs when she became aware of somebody standing behind her. She turned and immediately found herself face-to-face with Anne, who was smiling.

"Oh no."

Anne laughed. "What?"

"That look."

"What look?"

"The one where you've already decided something."

Anne placed a hand dramatically against her chest. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Liar."

That only made Anne grin wider. "You've been avoiding me."

The accusation was delivered so casually that it almost caught her off guard. "I have not. I've been busy."

"You've been avoiding me."

She pointed toward the stage. "There's a show happening."

Anne folded her arms. "And?"

"And I am watching it."

Anne narrowed her eyes slightly and then leaned closer. "Is it because of my dance moves?"

The absurdity of the question hit her immediately and a laugh escaped before she could stop it. A real one. The first one all week.

"So it is my dancing."

"No, honestly," she said, still laughing. "You just looked like you were enjoying yourself."

Anne's expression softened slightly. "And you weren't?"

That landed a little closer to the truth than she'd expected and she looked back toward the stage. "I'm watching. And working."

Anne immediately gave her a look. The maternal one, the one that said she wasn't buying a word of this. Unfortunately, Anne had known her long enough to recognise deflection when she heard it. Still, mercifully, she didn't push and instead she simple opened her arms. And before she could protest, she was being pulled into a hug, an Anne hug. The kind that made everything hurt a little bit more because it reminded you what being cared for felt like.

"Oh, come here."

"I'm fine."

"Liar. You're terrible at lying."

She laughed weakly and Anne simply held her tighter, swaying them slightly to the music. Forcing her to sway.

"Anne."

"No."

"People can see us."

"I don't care."

The music continued around them. Fans screaming, Harry singing, the entire arena glowing, and for a brief moment she let herself just exist there. Then she gently extracted herself before she accidentally started crying in front of one of the nicest women alive.

A few songs later she slipped back into the suite itself to grab water. She crossed toward the refreshments table and reached for a bottle, freezing, because another hand reached for it at exactly the same moment. She immediately pulled back.

"Sorry."

"Oh!" She looked up and found herself staring directly at Jade, up close for the first time. Really up close. And that was unfortunate because Jade was beautiful. The kind of beauty that became more noticeable the longer you looked at someone. Warm eyes, easy smile. The sort of presence that made people feel comfortable which honestly felt rude at this point.

Could she not have been at least slightly awful? Just a little? As a treat?

"Sorry," Jade repeated.

"No, you're okay."

A brief silence settled between them and then Jade smiled brightly, saying, "Hi."

"Hi."

For a second neither moved and Jade laughed softly. "I've actually been looking forward to meeting you."

The words caught her completely off guard. "What?"

"Harry talks about you all the time."

Ah, the sentence she'd been dreading. Somehow it still hurt because all she could think was not enough, apparently. But instead she smiled politely, the professional smile she'd perfected over the years. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I feel like I already know you." Jade laughed again.

A strange ache settled somewhere beneath her ribs. She reached for a bottle of water, twisting the cap slowly to buy herself a second.

"It's funny."

"What?"

"It feels like Harry's been hiding you."

The comment landed exactly where she intended it to. Playful enough, harmless enough, true enough.

Jade laughed. "Oh, he's terrible for that."

You have no idea.

The thought appeared instantly. Uninvited and mean. She pushed it away.

Jade glanced back toward the stage. "It's an amazing show."

"Yeah."

"He worked really hard on it."

"We should probably get back out there."

"It was nice meeting you." God, Jade was so genuine, which somehow made it worse.

She forced herself to smile. "You too. Jade." Then she turned before the conversation could become anything else. Before she had to spend another second thinking about the fact that this woman had done absolutely nothing wrong.

Back in her seat she focused on the stage or at least she tried to. Harry was halfway through another song. The audience was losing their minds, everything was working exactly as it should have been, the show was brilliant, and all she could think about was Jade.

She was lovely. Kind. Beautiful. Normal. And suddenly jealousy felt far more dangerous than anger had ever been. Jealousy just sat there quietly and whispered ugly things.

Like how she knew every lyric without thinking or which songs Harry secretly worried about. She knew which bridge he'd rewritten five times in a hotel room because he hated the original version. she'd lived inside this music long before anyone else heard it. Not Jade.

Beside Anne, Jade smiled and swayed and clapped along and clearly enjoyed herself but every now and then she missed a lyric, or looked around to see what everyone else was doing. Or smiled through a moment she didn't fully understand.

And the jealousy loved that because it whispered, I know him better than you.

It was a horrible and unfair thought. She sank lower into her seat, annoyed with herself. Annoyed with Harry and the entire situation, because she'd thought she was still in her anger phase. And honestly that would've been preferable.

──────────────

A few days after opening night, she had found another hiding place. Tour had a funny way of creating temporary homes out of forgotten spaces. Every arena had them if you looked hard enough; abandoned production offices, unused dressing rooms, storage areas that had somehow escaped being claimed by lighting or wardrobe. Places where the noise softened enough for you to hear yourself think.

This one sat above the loading dock, tucked behind a maze of corridors and stairwells that nobody used unless they were actively trying to disappear. Which, admittedly, she was.

The room itself wasn't much to look at. A folding table. Three mismatched chairs. A vending machine that hummed loudly enough to be irritating but not loudly enough to force her elsewhere. Through a narrow window she could see trucks being loaded and unloaded below, crew members moving in practiced patterns as another show slowly assembled itself.

Her laptop was open, three different spreadsheets stared back at her. A coffee sat beside her, long abandoned and mostly cold, and despite appearances, she hadn't actually done any work for nearly twenty minutes. Instead she'd been staring at the same flight manifest while thinking about everything except flight manifests.

The knock at the half-open door was so light she almost missed it. She looked up automatically to see Mitch, and she immediately knew based on the look on his face. It was the same look people got when they accidentally learned something they wished they hadn't. A mixture of sympathy and discomfort.

For a second neither of them spoke, then she sighed softly and leaned back in her chair. "He told you."

Mitch shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah. And I want to be very clear that I'm not getting involved."

Despite everything, despite the exhaustion and the lingering sadness that seemed to follow her around these days like a second shadow, a small laugh escaped her. She didn't believe him, one bit.

"Right."

"I'm serious."

She raised an eyebrow and he raised one back, the standoff lasted approximately three second before both of them cracked.

"You're terrible at staying out of things."

"I'm actually excellent at it."

"No. You're not."

He pointed at her accusingly. "I haven't done anything."

"You came looking for me."

"That doesn't count."

"Fine," he said quickly, finding a seat opposite her and leaning forward slightly, "I genuinely mean it. Listen, he's my mate. You're my mate. He's made a complete mess of this and, to be completely honest with you, I don't want any part of it."

She smiled faintly. He continued.

"I'm not joking either. Sarah told me if I got involved she'd kill me."

That earned a bigger laugh. "Did she really?"

"Word for word."

"Poor you."

"I've got two children and a mortgage. I pick my battles."

The smile lingered for a second before fading. And just like that, the room settled back into something quieter. Mitch watched her carefully, just waiting.

It occurred to her suddenly that this might be the first conversation she'd had in weeks that wasn't about logistics. Or Harry. Or the engagement. Or replacing her. Because everyone seemed so focused on the event itself that nobody had really stopped to ask about the aftermath. Nobody had asked how she was carrying it because nobody knew.

Eventually Mitch spoke. "How are you actually doing?"

The question was so simple that it almost caught her off guard and for a moment she considered giving the usual answer, the greatest hits. Instead she found herself staring down at the coffee cup in front of her.

"I don't know." The words came out quietly and Mitch nodded, allowing her to continue. "I think the weirdest part is that everyone keeps acting like I'm doing this amazing brave thing."

She laughed softly. "They keep saying congratulations."

Mitch frowned. "Congratulations?"

"On leaving."

Another laugh, short and disbelieving. "They think I'm taking some incredible career opportunity." She picked at the cardboard sleeve around her coffee. "They think I'm taking a break or that I've decided to move on."

The smile she gave him this time was heartbreaking because it wasn't really a smile. "I'm not. I don't want to leave."

For the first time since she'd spoken, her voice cracked. Mitch didn't interrupt or rush to fill the silence, so she kept going, because once she started, it was surprisingly difficult to stop.

"I have a life here." Her eyes drifted toward the window, the trucks. "These people are my family and... I'm good at this. I love this job." The words came out stronger now, more certain but more frustrated. "And that's the part that nobody seems to understand."

She looked back at him, eyes bright, not quite crying. Not yet.

"Everyone keeps talking about it like I'm making this empowering choice."

The word itself sounded ridiculous, like something pulled from a self-help book.

"It's not empowering." The tears finally arrived then. The sort that appeared when you'd been holding yourself together for far too long. "It sucks."

Mitch's expression softened immediately after seeing the tears, but he still didn't interrupt, and she was grateful for that.

"I didn't win some self-respect award." A tear slipped down her cheek and she wiped it away, almost annoyed by it. "I felt like my life exploded. So now everybody's acting like I'm brave because I'm leaving. I'm not brave." Her voice grew quieter. "I just didn't know how to stay."

The room fell silent and for a long moment Mitch simply sat there, giving her the dignity of being heard. Eventually he leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath. He nodded once, as though he'd reached a decision. "Okay."

She blinked. "Okay?"

"Tomorrow. You, me, Sarah, and my annoying children."

"Mitch."

"A park."

"No."

"Some bikes."

"Mitch."

"A completely unreasonable amount of snacks."

She laughed despite herself and he pointed triumphantly. "What was it? Did I reel you in with snacks? Or was it the bikes?"

"I'm not riding a bike."

"You absolutely are."

"I haven't ridden a bike in years."

"Perfect. You'll fit right in with my children then."

"Mitch."

"And before you say no, let me remind you that my children once spent forty-five minutes arguing over whether ducks have jobs."

She snorted, actually snorted, and Mitch looked delighted.

"You need this."

"I don't know if this is the 'this' I need."

"You need it." Mitch stood and smoothed down his jeans, pointed at her. "Ten o'clock."

"I'm not agreeing."

"Ten o'clock."

"I haven't said yes or no yet."

"You'll be there."

She rolled her eyes but she was smiling now. A real one. And as Mitch walked toward the door, she found herself wiping away the last of the tears that had escaped without permission, because for the first time in weeks, somebody had asked how she was doing and actually waited for the answer.

──────────────

The following morning, she seriously considered not going. Not in a locking-herself-in-her-room, turning-off-her-phone sort of way. Just in the quiet, exhausted way that heartbreak seemed to infect every decision these days, turning even the simplest plans into something that required effort.

By nine-thirty she was sitting on the edge of her hotel bed staring at a pair of trainers she'd already put on and taken off twice. By nine-forty she was trying to convince herself that Mitch would understand if she cancelled. By nine-fifty she was in the hotel elevator. And by ten o'clock sharp she was stepping into the lobby.

The second she appeared, a small voice shrieked. "YOU CAME!"

Before she could react, a tiny body launched itself at her legs. She looked down to find Mitch's eldest wrapped around her knees like an enthusiastic octopus.

"Oh."

The child looked genuinely relieved. "I thought you weren't gonna come."

Something inside her chest softened immediately. "And who told you that?."

The little girl gasped dramatically. "Daddy. He said you can be flakey but I don't know what that means."

"Well, that's rude."

"We can ride bikes together!" the little girl announced. "Daddy says you're not very good."

Across the lobby, Mitch nearly choked on his coffee. "Stop calling me out."

Sarah appeared beside them carrying the younger child, who immediately waved. "Hi."

"Hi."

"You're tall."

"Thank you?"

The little boy seemed satisfied by that answer and Sarah shook her head fondly. "Okay. Before anyone rides a bike or starts insulting anybody's athletic ability, we're getting pastries."

The eldest pumped a fist into the air. "PASTRIES."

"Inside voice."

"pastries...", she whispered slowly.

"That's somehow worse."

The little girl grinned. And just like that, they were off.

The morning unfolded with the sort of gentle chaos that only seemed possible when young children were involved.

Pastries were selected. One chocolate croissant was rejected because it looked "too chocolatey," which she hadn't previously realised was possible. The younger child became briefly convinced that orange juice was spicy. At one point both children spent nearly ten minutes debating whether birds had birthdays. Not whether they celebrated birthdays, whether they had them at all.

"Of course they have birthdays," she said eventually.

The eldest frowned. "How do you know?"

"Because everyone has birthdays."

The child considered this seriously. "What about worms?"

And just like that she found herself involved in a conversation about worm birthdays while Sarah tried desperately not to laugh into her coffee.

By the time they eventually reached the park, she realised something strange had happened. She hadn't thought about Harry for almost an hour. An entire hour. Surprising.Because for weeks every thought had somehow circled back to him eventually. Every conversation. Every decision. Every moment alone. And now she'd spent an hour discussing pastries and worms, which honestly felt healthier.

The bikes came next and unfortunately Mitch had been right. She was terrible, not disastrously, just a bit rusty. The sort of rusty that made children look at you with mild concern.

The eldest watched her wobble slightly before offering, "It's okay."

"Oh good."

"My grandad falls off his bike too."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She looked over at Sarah and she immediately turned away to hide her laughter.

The morning sun reflected off the water as they rode slowly through the park paths, the children zig-zagging unpredictably in front of them while Mitch repeatedly shouted things like "WE STAY ON THE PATH" and "THAT ISN'T EVEN A BIKE LANE."

Nobody listened. Least of all the children. The younger one became fascinated by ducks which led to another conversation, this time concerning employment.

"Ducks don't have jobs."

"Why not?"

"Because they're ducks."

"But what if they want jobs?"

"Mate, I don't know."

The little boy frowned. "I think ducks would like jobs."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"What jobs?" A very long pause. Then, "Police."

She nearly rode into a hedge laughing.

At lunch they sat on a blanket beneath a tree while the children demolished sandwiches with great enthusiasm. Sarah hander her a drink. "You look better."

The comment caught her off guard. She looked up. "What?"

"You do." Sarah smiled softly. "Less haunted."

"Wow."

"I'm serious."

"I wasn't aware I looked haunted. Or that one could look haunted."

"You did."

The honesty made her laugh. But later, when nobody was looking, she found herself thinking about it. Less haunted... maybe. Because sitting here, surrounded by people who cared about her without expecting anything from her, she was beginning to remember something she'd forgotten. The world was bigger than this heartbreak. The grief had become so consuming that she'd accidentally started measuring her entire future against one person. Against one mistake. Against one relationship.

And sitting beneath a tree while a three-year-old proudly showed her a leaf that looked absolutely identical to every other leaf in existence, she found herself realising something that felt both obvious and revolutionary. Her life wasn't over. It was different, sure. Painful. But not over.

Later that afternoon, after ice creams and scraped knees and another argument about whether ducks could become police officers if they worked hard enough, they sat near the canal watching the children chase pigeons. The younger one had somehow acquired a flower. Nobody knew where from, or why, but he handed it to her fror no reason whatsoever. Just because.

She looked down at the tiny crushed flower resting in her hand. Then over at Sarah, then Mitch, and then the children. The sunlight reflected off the water while people laughed somewhere nearby. A bicycle bell rang in the distance.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt something that wasn't anger, jealousy or heartbreak. It was hope. It was small, fragile and still finding its feet, but it was hope all the same.

Not hope that Harry would choose her or that everything would somehow go back to normal. Just hope that one day she might wake up and this wouldn't hurt quite so much. That one day she'd stop measuring every future version of herself against a past version of them. That one day she'd become somebody who talked about this period of her life instead of somebody still trapped inside it.

And somehow, sitting beside a family she adored while two children attempted to negotiate a peace treaty between pigeons and ducks, it felt like enough.

──────────────

The following afternoon, the stadium was still waking up around her. That was always her favourite time of day in a venue. Before the crowds arrived. Before the noise. Before thousands of people turned an empty building into something alive.

There was a strange calm to those hours, when crew members moved quietly through corridors carrying coffees and clipboards, when production notes were still being adjusted and catering was only just beginning to fill with people.

The arena felt less like a machine then.

She sat in her usual spot, tucked away inside the abandoned dressing room she'd unofficially claimed over the last week. Her laptop was open in front of her, though she wasn't really working. A schedule sat on the screen, a spreadsheet beneath it and a half-finished coffee beside her.

Mostly she was just enjoying the quiet. Or trying to.

The day with Mitch, Sarah, and the children lingered pleasantly in the back of her mind. Every now and then she found herself remembering one of the bizarre conversations she'd had with them and smiling despite herself. The younger one had become convinced ducks should be allowed jobs. The older one had spent twenty minutes interrogating her about whether astronauts celebrated birthdays in space.

It had been ridiculous, but wonderful and normal. And for the first time in a long time she'd caught a glimpse of something she'd almost forgotten existed. A future. Not some grand reinvention of herself, just a future that didn't begin and end with Harry. The thought settled warmly somewhere in her chest.

Then came a knock at the door. "Come in."

The door opened, she looked up, and found Harry standing there. For a moment neither of them spoke, his eyes moving around the room slowly, taking in the scene. Finally he spoke.

"So this is the famous hiding spot."

The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. "What famous hiding spot?"

"The one nobody could find you in."

A small smile appeared briefly. Gone almost immediately. "Well... you're here."

"I am."

The words settled between them. Neither uncomfortable nor easy. Harry stepped further into the room. Not enough to feel intrusive, but enough that she knew he wasn't planning on leaving immediately.

Which would have worried her a few weeks ago, back when every conversation between them felt like stepping onto a minefield.

Today felt different.

She closed her laptop slowly. "What can I do for you?"

The question was professional and automatic. A question she'd asked him a thousand times before.

Something shifted across his face at that. He seemed to realise something. The entire time... every conversation, every argument, every confrontation. He had been asking her for things. Understanding. Reassurance. Comfort. Forgiveness. Conversation. Permission to feel better. Permission to move forward.

And standing here now, looking at her sitting behind that folding table with a coffee growing cold beside her and a life she was still trying to piece back together, he understood with startling clarity that he had spent months taking and taking and taking from someone who had already given him more than she should have.

He swallowed and then said quietly, "I told Jade."

Everything inside her stopped. The room seemed to shrink, the sounds outside faded and even the humming vending machine disappeared. For a second she wasn't entirely sure she'd heard him correctly.

Harry looked down briefly before continuing. "I told her." His voice remained steady because he'd rehearsed this. Not the speech, but the honesty of his decision. The consequences. "I should've done it sooner."

The words came without hesitation and without excuses.

"I don't know what's going to happen." A small breath escaped him. "And honestly, I don't think that's really the point anymore."

She remained perfectly still, listening. Harry nodded slightly to himself.

"She deserved to know."

The simplicity of it made her chest ache because it was such an obvious truth. Such an infuriatingly obvious truth and yet it had taken all of this to get there.

"And..." he paused briefly. "You deserved for me to tell her."

For the first time since entering the room, he looked directly at her. Not as his assistant, or someone he needed something from, just as her.

"And it should've happened long before I asked her to marry me."

Neither of them looked away. Eventually Harry let out a breath, the kind that sounded as though he'd been carrying it around for weeks. Maybe months.

"You were right."

Something flickered across her expression. Harry continued before she could respond. He wanted to finish, to do this properly. The way he should've done so many things properly.

"You were right the whole time." His gaze drifted briefly toward the floor and then back to her. "About all of it." A small laugh escaped him btu it was humourless. "I think I spent so much time convincing myself I wasn't a bad person that I never stopped to think whether I was doing bad things."

There was no self-pity in his honesty, no request for reassurance. It was just the truth. The kind she'd been begging him to face from the very beginning. And somehow that mattered more than an apology ever could Because apologies were easy, recognition wasn't. Recognition required looking directly at the damage and accepting ownership of it.

Harry shifted slightly, almost awkwardly and then gave a small nod. "I just wanted you to know." His voice softened. "You don't need to say anything."

He wasn't waiting for forgiveness or absolution. Wasn't waiting for her to make him feel better. He'd come here to tell the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. It was like a knot finally loosening after being pulled impossibly tight. Harry glanced toward the door and then back at her one last time.

"Anyway."

The word sounded inadequate but maybe there weren't better words. He offered a small nod and then turned and walked toward the door.

He turned the handle and opened the door, and for a brief second she thought that would be it. That this would be the final version of them. Not together but not enemies. Just two people standing in the aftermath of something neither of them could change.

Then, just before the door closed, she heard herself speak. The words leaving her before she'd fully thought them through, almost lost beneath the noise of the corridor.

"Thank you."

Harry froze, one hand still resting on the door. His shoulders tightened briefly and for a second she thought he might turn around, thought he might say something. Anything. But he didn't.

Instead he stood there motionless, letting out a slow breath that sounded suspiciously like relief. Then he nodded once and stepped out into the corridor, the door closed softly behind him. Leaving her alone in the room once more.

The silence that followed felt different somehow. Not because everything was fixed and because she wasn't still hurt. There was just a sense that for the first time since all of this began, nobody was pretending anymore. The truth was finally sitting where it belonged, out in the open.

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

With a defeated sigh you join the line and pull out your phone to kill the time with some empty scrolling, but a notification pops up on your screen right when you open TikTok.

HARRY: where are uuuuu???

Y/N: in line, u?

HARRY: front of the line, come join us!!

Chewing on your bottom lip you take a look at the line ahead of you. Normally you hate those who cut the line and join their friends, but you only have about forty minutes before your next class, so you’re kind of in a rush. Taking a deep breath you step out of the line and start walking ahead. 

As you near the front you immediately spot him. 

Harry has been your best friend since sixth grade when he transferred to your school and he was sat next to you. On his first day you spotted the stack of Pokemon cards in his bag, which you pointed out excitedly. His ears turned bright red and he tried to make you believe it wasn’t his, but then you told him you collected them as well and if he wanted to you could exchange cards. And boom, just like that you became the best of friends. 

Even though in high school it started to become pretty obvious that the two of you would lean into different crowds, Harry started playing hockey on a more serious level, so he became a popular athlete in school while you decided to explore your love for art and everything related. He spent most of his time in practice on the ice and you were a frequent in the art room painting or drawing or in the library reading books about art history. 

But despite the diversion, you still remained friends. Not once did you feel like he felt embarrassed to hang out with someone who wasn’t as popular as he was, he invited you to every party, every outing and always made sure to spend time with you even when you both were busy with your studies. Now you’re college juniors, Harry is an Econ major and captain of the hockey team, a damn good one even despite the doubts whether a junior could take up on the role and you’re a Fine Arts major with the intention of starting your masters in Studio Art soon, but you’re still the best of friends, even though neither of you collects Pokemon cards anymore. 

As you walk up to him and his teammates at the front of the line you get a few dirty stares thrown at you from girls, but you try your best to ignore. It’s been like that since forever, plenty of girls have shown their jealousy over how close you are with Harry, girls who wanted his attention, but ended up not even making an impression on him, though it was never like that between you and him. 

“Hey,” you tap on his shoulder lightly. His head whips around and a goofy smile stretches across his face as he sees you. 

“Honey Lemon!” he beams, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing you to his side as he pulls you next to him in line. The nickname will never stop being silly, he is the only one calling you that. He started using it after he found out Big Hero 6 was your favorite animated movie and Honey Lemon was your favorite character in it.

“She is kinda like you, silly and sweet,” he told you and then just started calling Honey Lemon after that. 

“Want to share a cinnamon roll with me?” he asks, eyeing today’s menu.

“Sure,” you nod, smiling. 

You all get your food and then take one of the last open tables. The rowdy hockey players always draw attention when there are more than three of them at the same place and sitting with them often makes you feel like you shouldn’t be sharing a table with them, but they all have been pretty welcoming towards you. 

“Y/N, you still don’t need a naked model for any of your classes?” Niall, one of the left wingers on the team asks, wiggling his eyebrows at you. 

“Still no. But if you’re so keen on showing yourself, I’m sure some of the girls would love to have you for a private session,” you chuckle, shaking your head. 

“Stop being a manwhore, Niall,” Harry grunts into his sandwich. 

“I just want to share my beauty with everyone, is that a crime?” he scoffs dramatically. 

“Everything you do is a crime,” Mitch, the goalie says, making everyone laugh at the table. 

“Y’all are just jealous!” Niall waves his hands around grinning. 

Harry just shakes his head at his friend as he finishes his sandwich, pulling the cinnamon roll closer so he can cut it in half. 

“So are you coming on Friday?”

You furrow your eyebrows, taking another bite of your greek salad.

“What’s on Friday?” 

“Told you we are having a party before the season starts. Well, Niall wanted to have a party before all our weekends are occupied by games for a while,” he adds with a huffed laugh. 

“Ah yeah. Right. Do I need to be there though?” you ask with a cautious smile. It’s not that you’re against parties, you go to them, quite often, but sometimes you feel very out of place and your anxiety tends to kick in whenever you notice that Harry is keeping an eye on you, staying by your side instead of doing his own thing. It kinda feels like he needs to babysit you. 

“Of course,” he nods confidently. “I want you there, so you need to be there.”

“Alright,” you sigh in defeat. “Can I bring Samira?” you ask, referring to your roommate. 

“Sure. Do you want me to pick you guys up?”

“We are capable of taking that twenty minute walk on our own,” you chuckle, bumping a shoulder against his. 

While you finish your part of the cinnamon roll you listen to the boys bickering about something that happened at practice in the morning, they always find something to argue about. Leaning back in your seat you just casually run your eyes over the students around when your gaze meets an icy blue pair. 

Wynter Harris has the ability to make you feel like you’re about to drop dead just by her gaze. If you have the chance you would rather avoid her at any cost, especially since she started looking at you like you’re the devil herself. That correlated with Harry hooking up with her about a year ago and then not wanting to date her, which apparently hurt her ego pretty badly. You have an inkling feeling that she thinks you and Harry have something going on and that’s why he dumped her. Which is just absolutely ridiculous to you. 

Well, you can’t deny that Harry is awfully handsome, he is tall and fit and he’s been collecting tattoos for a few years now, giving him a badboyish charm. Additionally to that he is the kindest and funniest person you know, falling for him would be the easiest thing on Earth in your opinion, but you never let that happen to you. If the societal differences weren’t enough, you’re nothing like the girls Harry was associated with throughout the years. Unlike the pretty, cheerleaders and puck bunnies he has hooked up with over the years you carry quite some extra weight, you don’t go around flaunting your thick thighs and soft lower belly, you like to hide your body in baggy, oversized clothes, though your full boobs are definitely considered an asset. As long as you can keep them tamed of course, because once your bra is off, they sag a few levels lower on your abdomen. 

Your body has been one of your biggest insecurities probably since you were a teenager and gained those stubborn extra pounds you haven’t been able to get rid of ever since. And guys Harry, the star athletes simply don’t go after girls like you, so you spared yourself the heartbreak and talked some sense into yourself before a crush could even spark inside you. 

“Want some more?” Harry’s question pulls you out of your thoughts as you tear your gaze away from Wynter. He is offering you the last bite of his part of the cinnamon roll, the middle of it which is the absolute best, but your appetite has disappeared.

“No, I’m good,” you shake your head. “I gotta head to my next class, I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

Standing from your seat you grab your bag and swing it over your shoulder before taking my tray. Harry assesses you with a curious look, but you brush it off with a quick smile before waving goodbye to him and the boys. 

You will not let Wynter’s death glare send you down a spiral, you tell yourself as you exit the cafeteria and head over to your next class. 

***

“Be honest, do I look like a racoon?”

Samira turns to you from her mirror, referring to her eye makeup, that turned out just a tad bit too smokey. 

“Um, maybe a little bit. Wipe some off on the lid,” you suggest and she nods, turning back to her mirror. 

It’s Friday evening, you’re getting ready for the party Harry said he needed you to go to. Luckily, Samira didn’t need much convincing about attending, she broke up with her boyfriend of two years in the summer and she’s been living her best single life since then, taking any opportunities to mess around at parties. 

“Do you have your eyes on someone for tonight?” you ask, smirking as you step over to your dresser, trying to figure out what to wear. 

“There is this cute guy I have microeconomics together with this semester, would be nice if he was there,” Sami says with a little dance that makes you chuckle. “Are you gonna be glued to your boy’s side again?”

“Hey! I’m not glued to his side and he is not my boy,” you defend yourself, ignoring a funky feeling deep in your gut as you pull out a black top. 

“Girl, keep telling yourself that, but he is your boy and you’re his girl,” she scoffs.

Samira has been convinced since the day you met in freshman year that you and Harry are in love with each other, even though you’ve told her millions of times that you’re just friends, nothing more. She doesn’t believe it. 

“Whatever,” you mutter. “Though I swear if we were anything, Wynter Harris would probably murder me in my dreams,” you huff out a laugh. 

“She’s just jealous,” Sami shrugs, standing from her spot. She turns her face to you with a questioning look, referring to her makeup, to which you give her a nod. “That girl is so obsessed with Styles, it’s kinda scary,” she adds with an eye-roll. “Wear that with those light-washed jeans,” she says, pointing at the top you chose for tonight.

“But those are so tight,” you frown.

“Yeah, and your ass looks great in them. Wear it!”

You’re hesitant, but give in, feeling kind of out of your comfort zone, but also excited about your outfit. It’s definitely not one of your baggy fits, but you don’t let yourself dwell on the way your tummy is showing or how your backrolls make an appearance if the fabric of your shirt sticks to you. 

By the time you’re done getting ready, Samira is already halfway out the door.

“You look hot, by the way,” she says, adjusting her hoop earrings in the mirror.

“I look… normal,” you reply, tugging lightly at the hem of your top for the tenth time.

“Just take the fucking compliment!” she groans, but you know she’s just joking. 

“Fine, thank you! You look hot too.”

“Now let’s get our hot asses going!” She cheers, pulling you towards the hallway. 

The party is exactly as you expected. Loud, crowded, warm and full of alcohol, so just like an average party. 

Samira hooks her arm with yours as you make your way into the kitchen to get yourselves a drink. She is quick to mix up something sweet for the two of you and bumping your cups together you take a long chug. That’s when Harry appears, his eyes landing on you instantly.

“There is my Honey Lemon!” he throws his hands up, like he hasn’t seen you earlier that day when you had coffee together. “Already drinking, very well,” he grins, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he pulls you into a bear hug. 

His masculine scent instantly fills your nostrils, mixing a bit of his own smell, which you can’t quite deter, but you could pick out of a million anytime. 

You laugh against his shoulder before he lets go of you, though lets one of his arms around your shoulders. 

“Sami, good to see you,” he nods at your roommate.

“You too, Styles. Ready for the season?” she asks. Samira is actually a big hockey fan, she has two older brothers and they both played hockey growing up. 

“Never been more ready,” he grins confidently, giving your shoulder a squeeze. 

A moment later more of his teammates flood into the kitchen, carrying pizza boxes, so chaos takes over the room as everyone tries to get a slice.

“You hungry?” Harry asks, leaning closer to your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

“I’m good,” you shake your head. His arm falls from around your shoulder as he fetches two slices for himself. 

“Hey, I think I just saw Eli,” Samira says to you, craning her neck to peek into the living room. You give her a puzzled look. “The guy from microeconomics. Would you hate me if I left you for a bit?” she asks with doe eyes.

“I’ve got her, don’t worry,” Harry answers for you with his mouth full of food. 

“It’s not like I need babysitting,” you give him a look, before turning back to Sami. “Go, I’ll be fine.”

“Text me if you need me or want to leave,” she says, giving you a quick hug before disappearing. 

“You sure you don’t want some?” Harry asks, holding up the slice in his hand when he catches you eyeing the pizzas on the kitchen island. Truth is you’d love to have some, but you’ve been trying to cut back on fast food. 

“No, I wouldn’t eat a whole slice,” you shake your head and then Harry holds his slice out to you.

“Take a bite, I know you want a taste,” he grins and he looks so goofy with his greasy lips and slightly hazy eyes from the drinks he has probably had, you can’t help but chuckle at him before accepting his offer and taking a bite. 

“Mm, it’s so good,” you moan as the cheese melts on your tongue. 

Harry lets out a soft laugh at your reaction, shaking his head, but he doesn’t say anything else. 

Once most of the pizza is gone Niall demands a round of shots and you are no exception, though Harry switches glasses with you, since he got one with less vodka in it, then he also pours you some juice in a cup.

“I know you hate the taste of vodka,” he smiles at you.

“Thanks,” you smile back. 

After the round of vodka Niall convinces you to have another one with him and that’s enough to make you feel tipsy. Soon, you all move to the backyard where the beerpong tables are set up and most of the boys decide to join the game. Harry asks if you want to play, but you’d rather just stay on the side and he stays with you. There are quite some people around, making it a bit crowded so you’re kind of pressed against Harry, but somehow you end up standing in front of him, with his arms around your shoulders, pulling you against his hard chest. It’s not the first time he holds you like this, but for some reason, you’re awfully aware of just how much he envelops you with his body. 

Then at one point a girl comes up beside the two of you.

“Harry! Hi! Haven’t seen you in ages!” The blondie taps a hand on his bicep, smiling up at him with flirty eyes. 

“Hi Charlotte,” he nods with a polite smile, but his gaze quickly falls back to the game, though that doesn’t bother Charlotte.

“Remember how you promised to do a round of shots with me at that sorority party?”

She is blinking up at him innocently, pushing her chest out in a pretty obvious way, while she hasn’t even acknowledged your existence. Suddenly, your stomach twists. 

“Uh, yeah, I remember,” Harry chuckles softly. His arms loosen around you, but he keeps his hands on your shoulders. 

“Maybe we can do that now,” Charlotte suggests. You turn to face Harry.

“Go on, I’ll just keep watching the game,” you smile up at him.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates for another second before nodding. Charlotte claps happily and as soon as Harry’s hands fall from your shoulder she is holding onto him, tugging him inside. You watch them disappear in the crowd with your teeth sunk into your bottom lip. 

Fuck, why do you feel like throwing up suddenly? Maybe you had too much to drink. Not enough to make you feel sick though, so why are you feeling like shit?

You stick around for a little longer, moments go by, Harry doesn’t return and the game starts to bore you, so you decide to have a quick bathroom break. Pushing your way through the people inside you’re heading to the bathroom downstairs, but when you see the line you decide to use Harry’s bathroom upstairs. 

There are noticeably less people as you walk up the stairs, half the hockey team lives in this big renovated townhouse and Harry’s room is the last one in the hallway, so you just keep walking past the doors, but then stop in your tracks when you spot him.

And not just him, Charlotte is with him. 

They are standing in front of Harry’s room, she has her arms around his neck, breasts pressed against his chest as she is seductively saying something leaning close to his ear. Harry stands straight, one hand on her hip, the other one in his pocket. It doesn’t seem like he is very into the situation, but he is definitely not against it. 

Your stomach drops when Charlotte presses a kiss to his neck and you turn around before you could witness her pull him into his room. 

You practically sprint down the stairs, the need to use the bathroom long forgotten. Your chest is burning and it feels like you’re carrying a rock inside it. You don’t stop until you’re outside, rounding the house and plastering your back against the wall in the dark where no one can see you. 

What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you reacting like you just saw your worst nightmare? It was just Harry being seduced by a girl, nothing new, it’s not the first time he hooks up with someone at a party, though he doesn’t do it as often as one would expect him to.

And you have never actually seen him do this. 

You know about most of his little adventures by him telling you about them, but you never actually witnessed any of them happening, while you sat in first row now with him and Charlotte and it triggered something inside you. Something you’ve been very adamant to deny. But now it’s crashing down on you all of a sudden.

You feel this way because you actually do have a crush on Harry.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, burying your face in your hands. This is bad. This is so bad on so many levels.

You can’t be into your best friend, because that’s all he should be. Your best friend. It’s what he sees you as for sure, so your end can’t change. He would never look at you more than just a friend, you are nowhere near his league.

Star athletes and popular guys like him are not into girls like you. Girls who blend into the crowd, girls who are not thin like models and girls who lack any confidence. It’s just not how things go, no matter how long you’ve known each other. 

You press your palms harder against your face like you can physically push the thought back in. It doesn’t work though, of course it doesn’t work. 

“No,” you whisper to yourself, shaking your head. “No, no, no.”

You refuse to sink into this, you’ve been suppressing it all along for a very good reason and you won’t let this wreck you right now. 

You take a deep breath, then another and another one before forcing yourself to move away from the wall and walk back inside. You plan on finding Samira, hoping she might be up to hang out some with you some or maybe head home, but the first person you run into is Harry. 

“Hey,” he says carefully. “I’ve been looking for you.”

You blink at him, suddenly the sight of him feels like a stab into your chest. But at least he is not in his room all over Charlotte right now. 

“I was just getting air,” you say quickly, forcing a smile onto your face, that probably doesn’t look too convincing, because Harry narrows his eyes at you. 

“You alright?”

“Yeah!” you nod. “’m fine,” you reassure him, softer this time. “Just… a bit overwhelmed.”

That’s when you spot Samira across the room, talking to two girls, no boy near.

“I’ll go hang out with Sami for a bit,” you nod towards your roommate. Harry follows your gaze, then looks back at you and the worry is obvious in his eyes, but he doesn’t question you. 

“Okay. See you later?”

“Sure,” you nod with a smile, swallowing the ball in your throat. 

“And if you’re leaving let me know.”

“I will,” you nod again and then walk past him, afraid that if you keep looking at him you might break. 

You join Sami and the two girls she knows from her statistics class from last semester, though you completely zone out of their conversation. Sami notices your behavior, but you just brush it off and excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, this time actually. 

Luckily the line has shortened for the one downstairs, so you don’t have to use Harry’s. While you’re in you keep thinking about how you need to get your head straight. You can’t let this get out of hands or you might ruin your friendship with him, which is simply not an option. 

When you step out of the bathroom you’re so deep in thoughts that you run right into someone. A very tall and muscular someone. 

“Shit, sorry,” you mumble, stepping back, while the stranger’s hands come to your arms steadying you.

“Are you up by the beerpong table?” his deep voice chuckles and you blink up at him.

“What?”

“Just thought you might be next in the game, that’s why you’re in such a hurry.”

His words finally process in your mind and you shake your head with an airy chuckle.

“No, sorry, I was just… thinking about something.”

“Hey, do I know you?” he asks, his hands falling from your arms. At his words you look up at him too and he looks familiar as well, but it doesn’t click at first. Then his eyes light up, but there’s a bit of mischief in them. “Ah, you’re… Y…?” “Y/N,” you help him out and that’s when you realize who he is. 

Mason Thorne was on the hockey team up until the end of last year. The guy was a great player, but even greater trouble, he was doing some pretty hard partying and ended up trashing the entrance of the building where the dean’s office is. It was a huge scandal, not his first either. It happened when their coach finally told Harry that from this fall he’ll be captain since their previous one was a senior, finishing up his studies. Because of his future position Coach Bernard asked Harry’s thoughts on Mason too. He said he was a liability, cares way too much about parties and it affects his performance as well, so Harry advised to kick him out. 

It wasn’t his decision though, but at last that’s what Coach Bernard ended up doing. As far as you know Mason understood the decision and he’s been holding back on the partying lately even though he is not getting back on the team.

“Yes, you’re friends with Harry, right?” he smiles and you have to admit he is charming. 

But not as charming as Harry.

“Yep,” you nod with a tight-lipped smile. Mason’s gaze runs down your body, which has you feeling uncomfortable for a second. 

“Haven’t seen you in a while. Would you want to catch up over a drink maybe?” he asks with a flirty smile and at first you almost turn him down. 

But then you think about it for a moment. This is exactly what you need, someone to take your mind off of this whole Harry thing, some flirting, some ego-boosting and judging from Mason’s look that’s exactly what he is offering you right now.

“Sure,” you nod at last. “Why not?”

***

Usually after parties the boys like to go out for dinner in a chinese place close to campus, so you’re not surprised when Harry invites you and Samira out as well. 

You’ve made a promise to yourself to carry on with everything as normal, so you accept. 

When the two of you arrive the boys are already there, looking tired and hungover, but as rowdy as usual. 

“Hello Honey Lemon,” Harry greets you when you take the seat beside him.”

“Hi,” you smile, ignoring the twist in your stomach. 

The nice old Chinese lady comes and takes your orders and then the conversation around the table carries on as you wait for the food. Harry leans in closer, so only you can hear him. 

“Saw you talking to Mason Thorne last night.”

You’re actually surprised, not just that he noticed you talking to Mason, but that he is now bringing it up. 

“Yeah, we kinda caught up a bit,” you shrug, hoping to sound casual, though your nerves are definitely on edge. Harry hums, but doesn’t say anything. “Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” he says, too fast. Then, after a pause: “Just… be careful around him, yeah?”

You blink with a frown.

“Careful?”

Harry exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “He’s just not—” he stops himself, rephrasing. “He’s not exactly the best guy to be around.”

“Because of him being kicked out of the team? He’s been actually cutting back on the partying since then.”

“I know, but he had weird things going on when he was still on the team,” he shrugs, grabbing his water and taking a sip. You are not liking this conversation, defense rises in your gut.

“Since when do you care who I talk to at parties?” you ask, crunching your nose. 

“No need to get all worked up, just thought I might tell you,” he shrugs again. “I know you’re capable of deciding who is worthy of your time,” he adds and that part softens you a little. 

Your heart aches, because it’s him who is actually the most worthy of your time, but knowing that it’s not gonna happen, you need to force yourself to move on and right now Mason is your best chance for that.

“I am,” you nod, but it’s more like an assurance to yourself, rather than him. Talking to Mason was kind of fun last night, he has a sharp tongue and flirted quite a lot with you, even asked for your number at the end of the night and he has already texted you. 

And now as you sit beside Harry you make the decision to do everything you can to forget about your feelings for him. Starting with giving a chance to someone who isn’t him.

***

You and Mason agreed to meet up for a coffee on Tuesday. You’ve been texting since the party and it felt like a logical step to spend some time together in person as well. 

He is already there at the café when you arrive, greets you with a short hug and you can’t not notice how his hand slips lower on your back, towards your butt, but it’s still barely appropriate, so you decide to let it slide. You both order and then sit at one of the tables. 

There’s a confidence in him that feels… easy. Different from Harry’s, but still familiar in a way you don’t fully want to analyze.

“So you’re a Fine Arts major, huh? The next da Vinci?”

You let out a chuckle, though you kind of hate it when people assume that just because you study art you also want to be a painter. While you do enjoy creating art, it’s so much more than just that. 

“We’ll see. But I’m kind of more into the history of art these days and curation.”

“That’s a fancy word,” he smirks, taking a sip of his coffee. 

The conversation flows easily, though you kind of stay on the surface level. It’s pleasant, but not memorable so far. 

Mason is telling you about the internship he is planning to start next summer when the door of the small café opens and an all too familiar figure steps inside. 

Harry walks in wearing a black hoodie, his hair slightly messy, like maybe he just rolled out of bed. His eyes scan the room just casually, but then he spots you and Mason. His expression is unreadable as he stops for a moment and then heads over to you, making you curse internally. His appearance is the last thing you needed right now. 

“Hey guys, what a nice surprise,” he nods, stopping by your table. 

“Hey man,” Mason nods back as you drop him a smile too. Harry looks at him and Mason stares back and suddenly the air around you feels different, but you can’t put your finger on it. 

“Are you guys on a date or something?” Harry asks in a weird tone. 

“Just having a chat,” Mason answers. 

“Right,” Harry nods once, slowly. “Didn’t realize you two knew each other that well already.”

Something about the way he says that well makes your brows knit. This whole conversation feels off. 

“Getting there,” Mason smiles at you, which you return, but it’s not genuine. 

Harry shifts his weight slightly, gaze flicking briefly to Mason’s coffee, then back to him, like he has something to say, but keeps to himself. 

“Want to study together later, Honey Lemon?” he then asks you. 

“Uh, sure. I’ll text you.”

Then Harry nods and lingers for another beat before mumbling his goodbye and walking back to the counter to order.

“Honey Lemon?” Mason asks with an amused look. 

“It’s just a silly nickname he gave me a long time ago,” you wave your hand dismissively. 

“So you guys are like… something?”

“We’re friends,” you answer instantly. “We’ve been friends for a long time, but that’s all.”

“Friends who give each other cute nicknames.” Mason nods into his coffee, he doesn’t sound upset, his tone is more teasing, mixed with something you can’t quite read. 

“Just friends,” you repeat and it’s a reminder to you as well, not just an answer for Mason. 

Your gaze flickers up to Harry’s figure by the counter just as he puts the lid on his cup. He looks at you too, your eyes meeting for a heartbeat before you turn away. From the corner of your eyes you see him walk out and something shifts in your chest, but you ignore it and turn your attention back to Mason. 

There is no use of dwelling on your useless feelings for Harry when you have a cute guy right in front of you, right?

Right. 

***

You were hoping Harry would forget about the study session he suggested, but you’re out of luck. About an hour after you part ways with Mason he texts you. 

HARRY: u home yet?

Y/N: yep

The three dots appear immediately after you sent your reply.

HARRY: meet me in the library in 20?

You hesitate for a second, but then agree. 

He is waiting outside the building when you get there, greeting you with a soft smile. The sight of him sends a shiver down your spine and for a second you wonder how you got here just in a few days, that even just looking at him has your body twisting and bending.

“Hi there,” he says as you reach him. It’s a little windy and you forgot to tie your hair back, so a few strands are dancing right in your face. Harry reaches up and tugs them behind your ears with an easy move, but as his fingers brush against the side of your face you almost let out a tortured moan.

Now you regret agreeing to meet him. 

“Hi. Let’s get going,” you suggest and the two of you walk inside. 

You find a nice spot near the windows and settle across from each other, covering the tabletop with your textbooks and notebooks. You have barely started studying ten minutes ago when he drops his pen and looks at you.

“So you and Mason?”

Right into the middle of it.

“What about us?”

“Is it… like, serious?” He leans back, eyeing you with a hard expression. 

“We’re just talking,” you shrug and that’s the truth. Nothing happened between the two of you, though Mason has been definitely hinting that he would love to change that. 

Harry nods shortly and then you both return to your books, but not even two minutes later he looks up again. 

“I just don’t get it.”

“What?” you sigh.

“You,” he simply says. “I mean, why him?”

Your jaw tightens a little. “Why is that even your business?”

“It’s not,” he admits quickly. “You’re right, but… we’re best friends, so it is kind of a bit of my business.”

“Yeah, but you don’t hear me questioning you about your hook ups, so why am I being interrogated?”

Your words come out a little sharper than you intended them and you see how they stun him. For a second you feel bad for biting back at him like that. 

“I just care about you,” he then says. “And I want to make sure you’re good.”

Your whole body relaxes at that, that heavy weight in your chest softens, because that’s exactly the Harry you love so much. The one who always shows up. Always checks in. Always makes space for you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I’m good. Don’t worry about me,” you tell him this time softer.

“I will always worry about my Honey Lemon,” he says and something grips your heart. 

You’re actually close to crying, so you shake your head with an airy chuckle and turn your attention back to your reading. 

“Study, Styles. Worry about your grades.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, making you laugh as you both go back to your books, though you stare at the same line for what feels like eternity before you finally manage to recover from the conversation you just had. 

Your heart already feels like breaking and that’s exactly what you wanted to avoid. So in the heat of your emotions you grab your phone from the table and text Mason, asking if he wants to meet up again. He is quick to reply.

MASON: always up to see u gorgeous ;)

You like his message and put your phone back, ignoring the way Harry is staring at you from the other side of the table. 

***

At the end of October there is always a Fall Festival on campus that you love so much. The central quad is transformed into something straight out of a movie. String lights are hung between trees, food trucks line the walkways, student organizations set up booths, live music plays from a temporary stage and there are carnival games scattered around. You always get excited to wander around and see everything and that’s exactly what you were planning this year too with Samira, but the moment she enters your shared room that afternoon, just an hour before you were supposed to go and explore the festival you know something is up.

“Spill it out,” you sigh, shoulders sagging.

“Okay, don’t hate me, but… Eli asked me out to go to the festival with him.”

“Oh. Oh…” It takes you a second to realize what that means. 

“But I told him I promised you to go with and I don’t want to bail on you so what would you say if Eli joined us too?” she asks, flashing a wide, hopeful smile at you.

“Sami, I don’t want to be your third wheel,” you moan.

“You won’t! Just think of it as a hangout!”

“But it’s not,” you roll your eyes. “Just… go with him. I’ll ask someone else.”

“What about Mason?” she suggests. 

“He is out of town for the weekend, but I’ll just text Holly and see if she is up to it,” you say with a soft smile, though you already know Holly, who you had Visual Culture class two semesters ago and remained friends with will be going with her own boyfriend, but Sami doesn’t need to know that. Your mood for the festival was killed so you’ll just probably stay home and binge watch another trashy dating reality show. 

“Okay, but if Holly is not available please just come with us. I don’t want you to miss out on the festival, I know how much you love it,” Sami tells you, pointing a stern finger at you.

“I will,” you nod, knowing well you won’t.

Soon Samira leaves to meet up with Eli and you pretend like you’re getting ready to head out too, but as soon as she is out the door you put your sweats back on and crash onto your bed. However your chilling session cuts short when a text pops up on your phone from Harry.

HARRY: where are u?

Y/N: home

HARRY: ?? why??

Y/N: bc I live here?

HARRY: smartass, what about the festival?

Y/N: not in the mood

HARRY: absolutely not, get dressed, I’ll pick u up in 10

You stare at the message for a bit, debating whether it’s worth fighting him, but you soon realize Harry is one stubborn asshole and will literally pound on your door until you go with him, so it’s better if you just gave up. 

You step out of your dorm building right when Harry arrives. He is wearing his hockey jacket over a thick hoodie and dark jeans, looking his usual handsome self that has you sighing silently as you approach him. 

“Aw, did you turn into GoGo today?” he grins at you, referring to the moodier character from Big Hero 6. “What do I need to do to get Honey Lemon back?”

“Maybe not annoy me to death?” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he winks and gives you a quick bear hug before tugging you towards the festival. 

The festival is already packed when you arrive. Students crowd the walkways, laughter and music filling the air. The scent of caramel apples, popcorn and cinnamon hangs in the chilly evening breeze. 

"Okay," Harry announces, rubbing his hands together. "First mission." 

"What mission?" 

"Get Honey Lemon to stop looking like someone ran over her goldfish." 

“I never had a goldfish.”

“I know, but this is exactly how you’d look if you had and someone ran over it.”

“How do you even run over a fish?” you frown. Harry sighs, shaking his head.

“The situation is worse than I thought. Come on, I’ll win you something at the games, that will cheer you up.”

You have no time to protest, he takes your hand and pulls you over to the carnival games. He decides he has the best shot with that ridiculous ring tossing game, saying that his aim is perfect thanks to hockey.

Well, he definitely overestimated his abilities when it comes to rigged carnival games. You watch him spend over twenty bucks before he finally wins the smallest prize, an ugly looking pumpkin plushie. 

“What is this?” you chuckle, holding the little guy up. 

“A pumpkin!” he cheerfully announces.

“It’s hideous,” you shake your head, assessing how one of his eyes is way higher than his other. 

“Hey, don’t insult him!” he gasps dramatically, making you laugh.

“He kinda looks possessed.”

“Possessed by the spirit of fall fun!”

“You’re weird,” you shake your head laughing as you tuck the ugly pumpkin into your bag. 

“Yeah, but you love me,” he grins.

Yes, you think to yourself. You really do.

You wander around the festival, get some cookies you share and play some more games. Soon you totally forget how you didn’t even want to come in the first place. It also helps that hanging out with Harry feels just like before, he is being his goofy, fun self you always loved so much and you somehow leave your torturous thoughts from the past few weeks behind as well, allowing yourself to enjoy the time spent with your best friend. 

Because that’s what he is and that’s what you’re reminded of. No matter what, Harry is truly your best friend. 

Standing in line for some hot chocolate a particularly cold breeze rushes past you, making you regret not bringing a jacket, you really thought a sweater would be enough, but now that the sun has gone down it’s definitely getting chillier. 

“Are you cold?” he asks, noticing how you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself. 

“No.”

“Liar,” he hisses, already shrugging his jacket off. 

“Harry, no,” you protest, but he just drapes it over your shoulders.

“Don’t be a pain in the ass, Honey Lemon. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Oh, so it’s okay for you to catch a cold?” you narrow your eyes at him. 

“I’m not cold,” he shrugs. “Besides, I’m used to it. Remember? Hockey is played on ice, in a pretty cold place,” he grins at you. God, he is so insufferable. 

“Yes, but you’re moving on the ice, your body’s temperature is a lot higher.”

“I’m gonna get it higher now with a hot chocolate,” he simply nods towards the booth where you’re up next. 

With a sigh you let it go and slip your arms into his jacket. Now you’re wrapped in warmth and his scent.

Of course, the evening can’t end without the two of you going for a ride on the ferris wheel. It’s pretty small, but it definitely has a vibe that just goes perfectly with the festival. 

The line moves quite fast so you take your seat soon and start the ride. 

“Are you feeling better?” Harry asks, bumping his shoulder against yours. 

“Yes,” you admit truthfully.

“And want to tell me why you were so mopey?”

Chewing on your bottom lip you just shrug as you stare ahead. What would you even tell him? That recently you realized you have feelings for him and since it’s surely a lost cause you’ve been trying to get over it, but it sucks? Yeah, you’re not sharing that with him. 

“Are we good?” he then asks and his question surprises you.

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs, but you know there’s more behind it. “I just feel like things between us have been kinda different between us, but I want to make sure we’re good.”

Great, now you feel guilty for making him feel like something is wrong, when the only thing wrong is whatever is going on in your head. It’s not his fault that you’re a mess because of your feelings, he did nothing wrong and you’d hate it if he blamed himself. 

“Of course we’re good,” you smile at him softly. “I’ve just been in a… funk lately, I guess” you chuckle awkwardly. “But it’s all good.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you with that?” he asks and you know he means it. 

Harry would do anything for you, that’s why it all pains you even more. You were so blind, you should have known from the start that falling for such a great guy is inevitable. 

“Just be yourself,” you manage to tell him, swallowing down the ball in your throat, hoping he doesn’t notice the hurt behind your eyes. 

“I’m always myself when I’m with you,” he tips his head slightly with the tiniest smile on his lips. “You’re my favorite person, Honey Lemon. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you nod. “And you’re mine.”

You stare at each other for another beat and for a second something feels different. The way he is looking at you, there’s something in it you haven’t noticed before and it’s quick to put a pin into your heart and pop a thought into your mind.

What if Samira was right? What if… there’s more between the two of you? 

All the touches, the hugs, the laughs, the endless time spent together, what if those mean more to him as well?

By the time you get off the ferris wheel your head is spinning and your heart is pounding in your chest, especially when his hand brushes against yours and he hooks your pinkies together. It’s the tiniest of touch, but it ignites fireworks in your tummy. 

You barely notice where you're walking as Harry guides you through the crowd toward another row of booths. You’ve seen practically everything around the festival, but you definitely don’t want the evening to end just yet. 

“Can we drop by the restrooms?” you ask and Harry nods, instantly changing your direction towards the science building that was left open so the restrooms could be used while the festival is open. 

Walking on the pavement Harry’s pinky lets go of yours and you feel the disappointment right away, but before you could wallow in it he drapes his arm around your shoulder, pulling you against his side. 

“I’ll wait for you here,” he smiles, stopping in front of the building and you rush inside, eager to get back to him as fast as possible. 

You’re washing your hand already when the last stall on the row opens and you spot Wynter walking out. Her gaze catches yours in the mirror instantly and you quickly look back down, hoping she’ll just ignore your existence. 

But you’re out of luck. 

“You know, I have to give you credits for your bravery.”

At first you’re not even sure she is talking to you, because you have no idea what she meant by that, but when you look up you see that she is looking straight at you with her usual icy stare.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re pretty brave for still hanging out with Harry.”

“And why is that?” you ask, knowing well you shouldn’t be interacting with her, but she got you curious. 

“The two of you are just so different, he is popular, liked by everyone, one of the best looking guys around campus, while you’re…”

She doesn’t continue, but the runover she gives you with her eyes speaks for her. 

You’re not popular, nobody really notices you if Harry isn’t around and you don’t have the looks either. You’re the polar opposite of what he is.

You clench your jaw, feeling all your darkest thoughts flooding your mind suddenly. Wynter’s smile turns almost evil.

“I mean if I were you I would take even a morsel of whatever he is willing to give me, so I don’t blame you. But I think you’re brave for sticking around even when you clearly don’t belong in his circle.”

You want to curse her out, tell her she knows nothing about you or Harry, but you feel like if you opened your mouth you’d start crying. And Wynter probably knows that too, because pride is plastered all over her face as she simply walks past you and exits the restroom. 

You stay frozen at the sink, fingers still damp, staring at your reflection like it belongs to someone else. Her words are on repeat in your mind, clawing at your chest more and more every time. 

You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs as you lean onto the sink. Now you feel stupid for letting yourself think even for a minute that there could be more between you and Harry, because Wynter might be a total bitch, but suddenly her words. You really are different and there’s absolutely no way Harry would ever even consider you when it comes to dating when he could have any girl on campus. Cheerleaders, dancers, girls who model in their freetime, that’s the kind of girls he should be with, not you. 

Walking out of the building Harry is still right there, scrolling on his phone, but when he sees you he smiles and slips it back into his pocket. Then he sees your face and worry etches onto his expression. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m gonna head home, I’m not feeling too good.”

“Why? What’s the matter?” he keeps searching for your eyes, but you can’t look into his for longer than just a second. 

“I think that corndog didn’t like the ferris wheel,” you lie, hoping he won’t question you.

“Ow. Okay, let me walk you home.”

You want to protest, but you know that would be suspicious, so you just nod. The walk back to your dorm is quiet, Harry asks a few times if you want to stop for a bit, but you just really want to get back to your room, be alone and probably cry yourself to sleep. 

Somehow you hold it together long enough. In front of the building you slip his jacket off and hand it back.

“Thanks for… everything,” you smile at him faintly.

“You sure I can’t do anything for you? I can stay with you, make sure you’re okay.”

“No need. I just really want to lie down, that’s all.”

he is not pleased by your answer, but he nods and doesn’t protest.

“Okay. Call me if you need anything.”

“Will do. Thank you Harry,” you smile, then turn around and walk back inside. 

Tears are rolling down your cheeks by the time you get to your room. Samira is not back, so you can peacefully sob until you’re too tired to carry on. So you take a shower and cocoon yourself in bed, allowing yourself to sink into the sadness for one last night, because now it’s crystal clear for you that you need to get over Harry. 

There is no need lusting for something that will never happen and the sooner you move on the better. 

***

By the end of the weekend after the festival you’re actively trying to get your shit together. It’s tough, but you have no choice and there are two things you start doing. 

One, you start to lean towards Mason more. He returns to campus and the two of you go out for dinner on Monday and when he walks you home from class on Tuesday you even let him kiss you. There are no fireworks, but it’s surely a pleasant kiss, so you tell yourself to just stay open. 

On the other hand, you start to put some distance between you and Harry, knowing that’s what you need to make it easier on you, even if it kills you to avoid your best friend. You know he is worried, he tells you through texts, but you just try to brush it all off, hoping he won’t come after you and call you out on your bullshitting. 

Friday evening the basketball team is throwing a party following their winning match earlier that day and Mason asks you to go with him, like as a date and you agree.

You also know Harry will be there since he is friends with some of the boys on the basketball team, but you’re trying not to worry ahead, you’ll just stick to Mason’s side and everything will be fine. 

Unfortunately, you don’t go too long without running into the hockey boys. 

“Y/N!” Niall grins brightly upon seeing you. “Haven’t seen you in fucking ages!”

“Sorry, I’ve been kinda busy,” you let out a nervous chuckle. Behind Niall you spot Harry who is already staring at you with an unreadable expression, but you can tell he is not happy. 

“Too busy to meet your best friend?” Harry bites out. 

“You know how this stage goes, Styles,” Mason inserts himself into the conversation, draping an arm around your shoulders, though the move feels strange from him. “We’re busy getting to know each other.”

“Yeah, I know how it is,” Harry replies and there’s something dark in his eyes as he stares back at Mason. 

“Okay, why don’t we all take a shot?” you suggest, eager to break the awkward vibes.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Niall cheers and gets to work. 

After the shots Mason asks if you want to go see what’s going on by the pool and you nod, but Harry’s hand on your wrist stops you.

“Hey, can we maybe talk tonight?”

“Uh, sure,” you nod, gently pulling your hand back. Not because he is gripping you tight, but because the warmth of his touch is making you shiver. 

“Meet me upstairs in half an hour?”

“Okay,” you nod and then go after Mason. 

While you hang out by the pool area with Mason and a few other people your thoughts are stuck on Harry. The way he looked at you and his begging eyes when he asked you to talk. It’s not becoming very clear that avoiding him is not only hard for you but for him as well. 

You tell Mason you’re going to pee when you head inside, but instead of finding a bathroom you take the stairs up. You’ve only been here once, so you’re not too familiar with the house, but as soon as you reach the hallway upstairs you spot Harry at the end sitting on a sofa under the window.

“You came,” he says quietly as you sit next to him.

“I said I would.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been avoiding me all week, I wasn’t sure…”

Guilt gnaws at your stomach, your first instinct is to apologize, but you hold it back. 

“What did you want to talk about?” you ask. 

“Well, that’s exactly what I wanted to bring up. You’ve been actively avoiding me and I wanna know why.”

You stare down at your hands in your lap, fumbling with the fabric of your jeans, you really have no idea what to tell him. 

“I really don’t like where this is going, Y/N,” he sighs.

“What do you mean? I’ve just been busy and–”

“Please don’t bullshit me,” he frowns, holding his hands up to stop you from rambling on. “I need you to answer my next question honestly, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Is Mason telling you to avoid me? Is it because of him?”

You can’t help the puzzled look on your face.

“What? Why would he do that?”

“Because I have a feeling that he is doing all of this to mess with me and get back for getting kicked out of the team.”

It takes a few moments for his words to settle, but when they do, anger starts rising in your gut.

“Oh, so you think Mason is using me to mess with you?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. He is… not who you think he is.”

“And you know him so well, right?” you scoff.

“No, but I know him enough. I know that he has ulterior motives with you.”

That tips you over. You jump to your feet, taking a step back, needing some distance between the two of you, but this time it’s because you’re close to strangling him. 

“Fuck you,” you spat, surprising him with your sudden outburst. “Really, you think a good-looking guy like Mason couldn’t be interested in me without having some secret motives connected to you? Is that what you think?”

His eyes widen as he realizes that’s how you interpreted his words. He stands up and tries to get closer to you, but as soon as he moves, you take another step back, so he stops, not wanting to drive you away.

“That’s not what I mean, Y/N.”

“But I think that’s kind of actually what you meant, Harry. Maybe not directly, but deep down you actually had the thought.”

“Why would I think that? That’s insane, I just want to protect you from whatever Mason has planned, because I’m sure it won’t end well.”

“I don’t need your protection, okay? I’m more than capable of choosing who I want to spend my time with and right now you’re at the very bottom of that list.”

Turning around you start marching away from him, but he is quick to catch up. He grabs your wrist, tries to pull you back, but you shake his hand off.

“Y/N, wait, let’s talk about this,” he pleads, but you’re seeing red and talking is the last thing you want to do right now.

“No. I mean it. I don’t want to see you right now and if we’re actually friends please respect that.”

If you weren’t this angry you’d actually be pretty proud of standing your ground. Harry senses the determination in you as well, so hesitantly, but he steps back and lets you walk away. 

The music is loud downstairs, but your pulse is actually drumming louder in your ears as you push your way downstairs and then head back outside. You don’t see Mason by the pool so you start looking for him. As you’re just about to go back inside you hear his voice coming from beside the house from the dark. 

Walking closer you still don’t see him, but hear him talking to someone and soon you realize the other voice belongs to Wynter. The blood freezes in your veins as you plaster yourself against the wall and listen to their conversation. 

“How long are you gonna toy with her?” Wynter asks with a giggle. “Don’t drag it too long.”

Mason scoffs. “Relax. I’ve got it handled.” 

“I don’t doubt that, but we don’t want another scandal out of it,” Wynter purrs. 

“I know what I’m doing. I have her wrapped around my fingers.”

Your stomach drops and nausea starts to take over you, but you keep listening. 

“I think Harry is really spiraling over this,” Mason adds with a proud chuckle. “You should have seen his face tonight when he saw her with me.”

“I really don’t understand what he likes so much about her,” Wynter scoffs and now tears are threatening to spill from your eyes. “He could literally have anyone and he is still spending all his time with her.”

“You mean he could have you,” Mason corrects her and they both laugh. “Yeah, he is seething over her spending time with me.”

“But you’re not actually liking her, right?” Wynter asks.

“Fuck no,” Mason laughs. “She is kinda annoying sometimes and definitely not my type. I don’t even know how she could believe that I’m into her.”

That’s the final knife in your chest. With red eyes and wet cheeks you step out from behind the wall and let them know that you heard them. They look actually surprised about getting busted, but neither of them says anything. Instead, they even look smug, as if they are trying to send a message: Yes, we did that, what are you gonna do about it?

“I hope you’ll both have fun in hell together,” you simply say, then turn around and walk away. 

You’re done. Absolutely done with everything and everyone. Tears stream down your cheeks as you push your way through the house with the intention of leaving, but right when you’re about to reach the front door Harry stops you.

“Y/N I’m so sorry for– Hey, are you crying because of what I said?” he asks panicking, following you out the door, because you’re not stopping. 

“Just leave me alone,” you sob, trying to turn away from him, but he jumps in front of you on the front porch and finally stops you, gently grabbing you by your shoulders. 

“Fuck Y/N if it’s because of me I–”

“It’s not, okay?” you snap at him. “But congratulations, you were fucking right!” You let out a bitter laugh before shrugging his hands off and actually running away from him.

You don’t stop until you reach the end of the street and you managed to shock him enough that he doesn’t come after you. With trembling hands you call yourself an Uber and go back to your dorm with the intention of never ever leaving your room again. 

It’s kind of a blur, the ride back, the way the driver asked if you’re alright, but you could only sob as an answer. When you barge into your room Samira is shocked at your current state and tries to ask what happened, but you can’t even talk.

She hugs you close as you lie on your bed and lets you cry it all out until you finally calm down enough to tell her what happened. The fight with Harry, the conversation you overheard between Mason and Wynter and then literally running away.

“I’m so sorry, Girly. Mason is a fucking ass, do you know his email address?”

You give her a puzzled look.

“Yes?”

“Good, I’m gonna sign him up for every annoying ass newsletter and embarrassing website.”

That makes you laugh. Then Sami grabs her secret stash of gummy bears and the two of you decide to watch an awful move to take your mind off of what happened tonight. 

About twenty minutes into the movie Sami gets a text.

“Hey, I know Harry is like Voldemort in this room now, but you might want to check this out.”

She pauses the movie and hands you over her phone, a text thread open with one of her classmates.

MONICA: OMG Sami!!! Harry Styles literally just punched Mason Thorne in the face and threatened him!!

MONICA: Update, Tony said he heard Harry say that he will break more than just Mason’s nose if he as much as looks at Y/N again, this is WILDDD

“Holy shit,” you breathe out, eyes going wide as you reread the messages. 

“That’s like something straight out of a movie,” Sami gasps and right when she is about to ask Monica for more details, there’s a knock on the door. 

“Y/N? Can we please talk?” Harry’s voice is soft and pained and it makes your stomach twist. 

Samira stands from the bed and gives you a questioning look, asking whether she should open the door or let him camp outside. You nod. 

She throws the door open and there he is, in the same clothes you saw him earlier at the party, but his expression is full of worry and pain and so much more. 

“Um, I’m gonna spend the night at Eli’s, you two have a lot to talk about,” Sami smiles awkwardly, quickly throws her necessities into her bag and then scurries out of the room. Harry is still standing at the door.

“Can I come in?” he asks and you can only nod again. Sitting on your bed you watch him walk in, he softly closes the door and then walks closer, stopping a few feet away from you, like he is trying to give you space. 

“Is it true that you punched Mason in the face?” you ask quietly, staring at him with wide eyes. Harry licks his lips and nods, kind of ashamed.

“Not my proudest moment, but when he told me that he used you to piss me off I just… lost my mind.” He shakes his head with a sad chuckle. “I’m so sorry, Y/N, I didn’t want my prediction to be true, you didn’t deserve any of it.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I do, I feel like it was my job to protect you and I did a pretty shitty job at that.”

You stand from the bed and step closer, though leave a bit of space between the two of you. Then your eyes spot the bruise on his knuckles and you gasp, reaching for it.

“Shit, this looks bad,” you say, assessing the dark patches on his hand.

“It’s alright, I’ve had it worse on the ice,” he shrugs, but then hisses when you gently run a finger over his bruised knuckles.

“Sit down, I have some ice.”

He obeys, taking a seat on the edge of your bed as you step over to the mini freezer and grab some ice, put it into a towel and then return to Harry. You take his hand into your lap and carefully put the ice over, making him hiss again. 

Silence wraps around you as you just sit there with his hand on your lap, holding the ice against his knuckles, you have so many thoughts racing in your head, but he is the first one to speak up.

“I have a confession to make.”

“Uh-oh, come clean, Styles,” you smile at him faintly, making him chuckle, before seriousness takes over his expression again as he keeps his gaze glued to his hand in your lap. 

“I only wanted to threaten him at first, but then he said that I’m this mad about what he did because I’m in love with you and I’ll never be brave enough to tell you.”

Nausea takes over you again, but you muster up everything in you to keep yourself together. 

“I bet that upset you,” you whisper, avoiding looking at him. Of course that pissed him off, because probably the thought of him being in love with you is so ridiculous to him that he–

“It did, because it’s true.”

You completely freeze. Did you just hear him right? Because it sounded like he just said that he is in love with you. 

Slowly and very carefully you look up at him and the way he is staring at you is something you’ve never seen from him. 

“Well, I mean the part that I’ll never be brave enough to tell you is not true now, because I’m literally telling you now,” he rambles with a nervous chuckle while you’re still in shock. He clears his throat and pulls back his hand before he continues to speak. “Y/N, I was protective over you when it came to Mason because he really is an asshole, but also because I was so fucking jealous, it’s insane,” he admits. “I hated seeing you handing your heart over to someone who I knew was not worthy of it and I wanted to be the one receiving it. And maybe I’m ruining our friendship right now, but I just can’t do this any longer, I can’t pretend like I haven’t been in love with you since… probably I was sixteen.”

You’re convinced you’ve died and this is an alternate universe. It can’t be happening, Harry surely hasn’t just admitted to being in love with you for years. You stare back at him with a complete loss of words.

“I know it’s kind of a lot, but I would love to hear your thoughts, Y/N,” he lets out another nervous chuckle.

“I only dated Mason because I was trying to get over my feelings for you,” you confess suddenly, the words rolling off your tongue surprisingly easily. You watch Harry’s expression change from anxious to stunned before you continue. “I realized that I have feelings for you not long ago, but I think I’ve been just ignoring them for a long time, because I never thought you’d see me as more than just a friend. But… I do love you too, Harry.”

It’s like something in the universe shifted as you said it out loud, you feel lighter, but an excited buzz has started to spring in your chest as well as you stare at each other, stunned, unable to speak as the words hang in the air between the two of you. 

Then slowly, a relieved smile tugs on his lips that you can’t help but mirror and suddenly you feel giddy in the head, like you’re a kid who just admitted to having a crush on a boy, even though it’s a lot more than that. 

Harry reaches out, takes the ice from your hand and puts it to the desk before turning back to you. You swallow hard when his hand cups your cheek first, his thumb gently caressing it before his palm slips to the back of your head and he pulls you closer until there’s only an inch between your lips.

“I’m about to kiss you, Y/N,” he murmurs. “So if you’d rather stay just friends, now is the time to stop me.”

No words come out of your mouth, not that you want to stop him. Instead, you dart your tongue out and lick your lips, the tip of your tongue brushing against his lips and that’s when he snaps. 

He kisses you eagerly at first, opening your mouth for him right away, tongues clashing, but then he turns it down a little, changing it into something exploratory, but the hunger is still right there. Your mind is blank, all you can think of and feel is Harry, his lips moving perfectly in sync with yours, one of his hands on the back of your head, fisting your hair, the other one holding your jaw as he keeps angling you so he could get even more of you. 

You both keep pushing against each other and before you realize you’re straddling his lap, breasts pressing against his hard chest as you don’t even try to hold your moans back once his erection rubs against your core through your pants and his jeans. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes out, his mouth kissing its way down your neck, biting and licking and sucking, most likely leaving marks on your skin. One hand comes to your lower back, slipping under your shirt as he teases your heated skin with his fingers before his palm moves down and gives your ass a firm grab. Your fingers sink into his shoulders, but he is still wearing his hoodie and it’s just too many layers. 

As if he could read your mind, he leans back just enough to tug his hoodie off and throws it aside before his lips return to devouring yours. It’s all heat and lust and need for each other, Harry’s scent fills your nostrils and it’s maddening how skilled he is claiming your mouth. 

But then his hands find the hem of your t-shirt and he starts to peel it up and your mind steps on the break. You pull back, head dizzy from the bruising kisses you’ve been getting, but you can’t ignore how your anxiety just spiked in seconds.

“What’s wrong?” he breathes out, his hands settling on your thighs. You’re both still clothed, but you’ve seen him shirtless. He is all muscles and smooth skin with tattoos, the perfect athlete body, but he hasn’t seen you without a shirt on and suddenly you’re very aware that he is about to see every inch of you.

“Sorry,” you shake your head, trying to get your thoughts straight. “I just…”

“Hey,” he softly says, one hand coming up to cradle your face and you instantly lean into his touch. “We don’t have to do anything. I’m more than okay with just kissing you and falling asleep.”

“But I want to do more, I just… I’m not exactly like the girls you usually hook up with,” you mumble, embarrassment burning your cheeks. 

A very insecure part of you was expecting him to laugh and agree, but Harry stays serious as his eyes scan over your face, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“Yeah, but you’re the one I want and have always wanted. I know I haven’t seen you without clothes on, but I have a great imagination,” he adds with a cheeky smirk. “I’ve fantasized about you countless times, Y/N, and I assure you it was fucking amazing every time.”

“But those weren’t real,” you manage to say, though his words definitely sent a shiver down your spine. 

You feel awful for being so hung up on it, he might not have seen you naked, but he surely saw enough of you to know what to expect and judging from his erection that’s still straining against his jeans he must be enjoying your body so far. 

But still.

That evil little voice in the back of your mind just wouldn’t shut up, telling you that you’re going to be a disappointment to him. 

Harry takes a deep breath as he keeps staring at you and you’re kind of expecting him to get irritated by your behavior, but that doesn’t happen.

“Do you have a scarf?” he asks suddenly, completely throwing you off.

“Um, I do. Why?”

“Can you give it to me? I have an idea.”

Still lost, but you climb off him and step over to your dresser, pull out a soft pink scarf and hand it over to him, sitting beside him on the bed this time. 

He rolls up the scarf and then brings it to his face, covering his eyes with it before tying it behind his head. 

“What are you doing?” you ask with an awkward chuckle as Harry is now sitting on your bed, blindfolded. 

“I’m going to give you all the control,” he announces. “I will stay blindfolded for as long as you want me and you get to control where I’m touching you too. You decide how far we go and how much I get from you. Just know that I’m more than eager to have it all, but I’ll be a good boy for you,” he grins cheekily and you stare at him in disbelief.

Your first instinct is to tell him to quit playing, but then you actually consider his idea. He can’t see you, he can’t see your body and all the insecurities you want to hide from him and he said you decide where he can touch you, so you can keep him away from crucial parts of your body. 

This is actually a genius idea. 

“Okay,” you breathe out eventually.

“Okay,” he repeats after you, nodding. 

Your heart is pounding against your chest and your hands are trembling when you reach for the hem of your shirt and pull it up and off your body. 

“Take off your shirt,” you tell him and he obeys without hesitation. His shirt comes right off, revealing his chest that’s just begging for your hands to be explored and you decide not to deny anything from yourself. 

Climbing over to him you settle back in his lap and true to his word, Harry keeps his hands off you, so you take them and a little hesitantly but put them on your thighs. He exhales sharply, his fingers digging into you and he moves his hands just a tad bit, rubbing his palms over your thighs, but they don’t go anywhere else. 

Your hands however are having a field trip on his chest, fingers digging into his pecks, nails dragging down them, mapping every inch of his smooth skin. When you press a palm over his chest you feel just how wildly his heart is thumping against his ribs and you can’t help but smile that you’re making him feel this way. 

Leaning in you kiss him again, but it’s slower now, you take your time tasting and exploring him, it’s so much more sensual, you keep moaning into each other’s mouth. You get so lost in it that you start rolling your hips, looking for friction between your legs over his erection that’s still neatly hidden in his jeans. Eager to feel his hand somewhere else too you give him more access by moving his hands to your butt which he quickly celebrates with another firm grab that makes you press up against him even more. 

“Fuck, I want you so bad,” he moans when your lips move down his neck, sucking on the sensitive skin under his ear. 

When you need more of him you pull back and stand, just so you can take your pants off, the lack of your closeness pulling a grunt from Harry, but he just sits there obediently, just how he promised. For a second you almost tell him to get rid of his jeans, but then you decide to do it yourself.

Your hands more to his crotch and he hisses shortly when he realizes you’re unbuttoning them. To help you he lifts his hips up so you can easily tug them down and get rid of them, leaving him in only his briefs while you’re in your underwear too. 

Anxiety starts to spike inside you, but you push it down and move back to straddle his lap. Taking his hands he draws in an excited breath, waiting where they might end up and that’s when you decide to just go all out. 

It’s Harry, your best friend and the most wonderful man you’ve ever known. He told you he loved you and he wants you, he wants all of you, so then why are you hiding from him? 

You put his hands back next to him on the mattress and even though you sense his disappointment, you ignore it as you unclasp your bra and throw it behind before taking a deep breath and reaching up to pull the scarf off his eyes. 

And just like that, he is looking at you, completely naked on the top, only wearing your panties as you sit on his lap, breathing rapidly as if you’re doing a workout, it’s almost embarrassing, but the way Harry’s eyes scan over your body makes you forget everything. Pure hunger and lust coats his vision and you can tell he is fighting himself to keep his word. 

“You can touch me,” you tell him. “Anywhere.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes searching yours and you nod. 

Then his hands move to your thighs first, this time his palms meeting your naked skin, then they slip up your waist and just as you’re about to worry that he can feel the rolls and all the extra softness the most obscene moan slips out of his mouth once his hands palm your breasts. 

“Fuck, look at you, Honey Lemon. You are everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

If you weren’t so damn turned on maybe you would have cried at his words, but right now you just want to feel him everywhere.

“Want to hear a confession?” he grins against your lips, pecking them a few times. 

“Sure,” you nod, raking your fingers through his hair that earns you a satisfied groan.

“Remember that short yellow dress you used to wear in the summer around sophomore year in high school?”

“I think so,” you nod, not sure where he is going with all this when you’re almost entirely naked on his lap.

“You in that dress was my go-to fantasy for a long time, well, it was me taking it off you, to be precise.”

Now that surprises you, for a second you look at him with a stunned expression. You specifically remember how self-conscious you were when you had that dress on, because it was showing your arms and legs. Well it seems like that’s exactly what gave your best friend some pretty dirty thoughts. 

“I think I still have that dress,” you suddenly say and the widest grin stretches across his face.

“Let me know when you find it.”

That makes you chuckle before you go back to kissing him. His confession was great at easing the rest of your nerves, because when Harry wraps an arm around you and pushes you onto the mattress, rolling on top of you the tiny evil voice is gone from your mind, it’s all pleasure and want for Harry and you’re ready to enjoy this to the fullest. 

Your kisses grow needier and a bit sloppier as one of his hands start to venture down your body, palming your breasts, playing with your nipples before dipping lower, it sweeps over your tummy before moving to your clothed sex. Your panties are drenched at this point and he sighs contently when he runs two of his fingers over the damp fabric while you shudder under him. 

He keeps kissing you as his hand dips under the elastic and this time his two fingers slide right between your wet folds, pulling a moan from you. Harry grins, kissing your lips once more before his lips move down until his face is at your chest. 

He starts circling your clit right when he sucks your right nipple into his mouth and you almost see stars. 

“Harry,” you cry out, tugging on his hair as he keeps sucking and biting the sensitive bud while his fingers work at a perfect pace on your clit. 

“Does that feel good, baby?” he hums and moves over to your other nipple. You can’t answer, but the way your hips buckle against him is enough to let him know he is doing amazing. 

Then he slips two fingers inside and curls them, making you gasp as you claw at his shoulders. Lifting his head he flashes you a cheeky smirk before he starts pumping his fingers in and out, his lips returning to your breasts, licking and biting, leaving marks on you. 

He gets you to the verge of an orgasm quite fast, but then pulls his hands out of your panties, a dissatisfied groan slipping out between your lips. Harry chuckles softly as he sits back on his heels and pulls your panties down your legs, finally getting you entirely naked in front of him. 

For a split second you feel self-conscious about your body, but as soon as you see the way he looks at you, like you’re a goddess, your confidence spikes as you open your knees wide so he can see all of you. 

“What do you want, baby?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the elastic of his briefs, but not tugging them down just yet. 

“You.”

“Only me?”

“Only you.”

With a sharp exhale he gets on his knees and quickly gets rid of his last clothing item, his erection finally completely naked in front of your hungry eyes. He climbs up your body, his hips coming between your legs and as soon as you can reach you wrap your hands around his length. 

“Fuck,” he trembles under your touch and when you run your thumb over the tip, smearing some of the precum his head falls against your collarbone with a growl. “I could come just by you holding my dick.”

At that you can’t help but laugh. You love the effect you have on him and love how vocal he is about it. 

“Condom is in the nightstand drawer,” you murmur into his ear, giving him a few lazy pumps. He is quick to reach to the side and grab a packet that he tears open with his teeth and then you take the condom, rolling it onto his length.

He pulls back a little, just enough so he can grab the base of his cock and then line up at your entrance, the head already slipping inside. He looks deep into your eyes as he slides in to the hilt, both of you letting out a long, airy moan. 

“You okay?” he softly asks, planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Yes,” you nod eagerly, but then a wandering though crosses your mind, it’s quick, but Harry knows you too well, he catches it right away.

“What is it?” he asks, not moving. 

“Just… It’s not weird, right?”

“What are we talking about exactly?” he exhales shakily with a soft chuckle. 

“That we’ve known each other for so long and now we are having sex.”

He takes a few breaths, thinking about your words before answering and for a second you feel thankful that even when he is literally inside you he takes the time to talk you through your mini freak-out, because that’s probably what’s happening with you.

“It’s not weird,” he shakes his head, eyes meeting yours again. “I’ve loved you since we were teenagers and I love you now.”

He said he loved you right before he kissed you, but hearing it again just completely melts you. You take his face between your hands and pulls him down for a long, loving kiss.

“I love you too.”

He smiles and then finally starts moving. In and out, at first slowly, but he picks up his pace quite fast and it’s absolute heaven. Sex has never felt like this before, but you haven’t had it with someone you loved as much as you love Harry either. 

He falls into a steady rhythm, but often tries to change the angle his hips snap against yours or drawing his thrusts longer, then going faster, but anything he does just pushes you closer to the edge. And all along, Harry keeps praising you.

“You feel so fucking good, baby.”

“This is all I’ve ever wanted, fuck.”

“Taking my cock so well, I fucking love you, Y/N.”

It doesn’t take long for you to finally reach your high. Clawing at his back you gasp and arch against him as pleasure washes over you in waves and Harry follows you right behind. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, moaning and grunting as his thrusts get sharper and out of rhythm until he stops. 

You have no idea how much time passes with just Harry lying on top of you, still inside you, it might be an eternity or just five minutes, but you’re so gone nothing exists outside of Harry’s sweaty body pressing into yours and the delicious ache that’s already forming in your thighs. 

Then Harry finally gathers himself and stands from the bed. You watch him get rid of the condom and then he kneels beside you on the floor, eyes sparkling from happiness, but you have a guess you’re sporting the same look. 

“Let’s have a quick shower and then get some sleep. We have a lot to sleep off.”

“Mm, can’t move,” you moan dramatically. Harry chuckles and smacks a kiss to your lips before simply picking you up from the bed in bridal style and then head over to your tiny bathroom. He carries you so easily, like you’re just something lightweight. 

When your feet are back on the floor in the bathroom you turn to him, arms around his neck, that’s when you notice something in his eyes. 

“What’s on your mind?” you softly ask, smoothing out the line between his eyebrows with your thumb. 

“I know we just had these confessions and some mind-blowing sex, but I want to make it clear, that I want you. Like, I want you as my girlfriend, no sharing, no testing the waters, just you and me.”

You can’t help but smile, because after all your insecurities, now you see a bit of it in him, even though he has no reason to doubt what you are. 

“Just you and me. We’re official,” you tell him and he lets out a relieved breath, his hands dancing up and down your sides. 

“My Honey Lemon is finally mine,” he smirks down at you, lips inching closer until they meet yours, sealing it all with a kiss. 

It’s slow, the way waking up is when you’re not alarmed by anything, just easing back into consciousness. He shifts slightly, his arm tightening around you for just a second, and then he presses a kiss to your temple, his lips warm and soft, still mostly asleep.

“Morning,” he mumbles into your hair. His voice is rough with sleep in a way that does something deeply unfair to you.

You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”

He’s quiet for a moment, still not entirely there, his breathing slow and even against your hair.

Then, without lifting his head, “Did you sleep okay?”

“Really well actually.”

A small sound of satisfaction. Like that matters to him. Like he was wondering.

You lie there for another comfortable minute before you shift slightly and he takes that as a cue, lifting his head, blinking at you in the morning light with an expression that is completely unguarded in the way faces only are before people have had time to arrange themselves.

“Shower?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say. “But you go first.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to run the hot water out,” you say.

Something in his expression shifts like he might argue, then he considers it, and nods slowly. “Fair point.”

He rolls back the covers and gets up, unhurried, and you watch him run a hand through his hair and stretch before he moves toward the bathroom. Then he stops at the edge of the bed and looks back at you.

He leans down and presses another kiss to your temple, gentle, still slow with sleep.

Then he pulls back, pauses, and says quietly, “Not enough.”

And then he kisses you properly, warm and soft and unhurried, his hand resting against the side of your face, and you reach up without thinking and kiss him back.

He pulls back after a moment and looks at you.

“Okay,” he says quietly. Like that settles something for him. 

Then he disappears into the bathroom and you lie back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling with the kind of smile you can’t do anything about.

You stay exactly where you are after he disappears into the bathroom. His pillow. His duvet. The morning light coming through the curtain in long warm strips across the bed. You pull the covers up a little higher and just lie there, looking at the ceiling, listening to the shower start up.

Then you hear it.

Humming first, low and unhurried, barely audible over the sound of the water. Then words, just fragments, not performing anything, just a person singing to themselves in the shower the way everyone does when they think no one can hear. Except you can hear. You’re lying in his bed and you can hear him and it is doing something to your chest that you are completely unprepared for.

This is a normal thing, you think. People sing in the shower. This is not a significant event.

But it is, a little. It is, because it’s him, and because he doesn’t know you can hear, and because there is something about the private version of a person that gets you every time. The unperformed version. The one that hums over running water on a Saturday morning without thinking about it.

Your heart feels very full. 

You reach for your phone on the nightstand.

You: cami

You: CAMI

You: are you awake i need you to be awake

The three dots appear almost immediately.

Cami: I have been awake since 7am waiting for this text. talk.

You smile and sink deeper into the pillow.

You: okay so. I stayed. I didn’t get nervous and run away. 

Cami: I KNOW you stayed I could feel it spiritually. details. now.

You: we just slept cami. literally just slept.

Cami: and?

You: and his arm was around me the whole night apparently. and when he woke up he kissed my temple before he even said a word.

You stare at what you just typed and feel slightly insane.

Cami: I’m going to need a moment.

Cami: okay I’m back. continue.

You: he’s in the shower right now.

You: I can hear him singing.

You pause. Then type:

You: cami he’s just singing to himself over the water like it’s nothing and I am lying in his bed and I genuinely don’t know what to do with myself.

The dots appear and disappear a few times like she’s rewriting her response.

Cami: okay I need you to understand that you have to hold it together.

You: I AM holding it together. I’m texting you.

Cami: that’s the opposite of holding it together babe.

You laugh quietly into the duvet.

Cami: so what’s the plan for today

You: he mentioned a farmers market this morning. and maybe the beach after.

Cami: he’s taking you to a farmers market.

You: yes.

Cami: in LA.

You: yes.

Cami: that is the most romantic thing I have ever heard and I once watched a man propose on a rooftop in Venice.

You: it’s not romantic it’s just breakfast.

Cami: it’s absolutely romantic and you know it. you’re smiling right now aren’t you.

You say nothing. Which is its own answer.

Cami: I knew it. okay listen. have the best day. eat something good. let him be nice to you. and for the love of god text me everything tonight.

You: obviously.

Cami: also just so you know. I told you so.

You: I know.

Cami: I just wanted to say it out loud.

You: noted. goodbye cami.

Cami: 🫶🏼

You lock your phone and set it back on the nightstand and lie there for a moment, listening. He’s still singing, something slow, and you close your eyes and let yourself just exist in it for a second. The warmth of the bed and the sound of him through the wall.

Don’t make it a thing, you tell yourself.

But it already is, a little.

The shower cuts off and you set your phone face down on the nightstand and try to look like a person who has simply been lying here calmly, doing nothing, thinking about nothing in particular.

The bathroom door opens.

He comes out with a towel around his waist and another in his hands that he’s using to dry his hair, rubbing it back and forth absentmindedly, completely unbothered, like he hasn’t just walked out looking like that.

You look at him.

You can’t not.

The tattoos first, because there are a lot of them and they catch the light in a way that makes it hard to look anywhere else. Your eyes trace them without permission, the ones on his arms, his chest, the butterfly, the laurels, all of it familiar from photos but entirely different in person, in his bedroom, in the morning. Then the line of his stomach, the soft definition there, and that little trail of hair that disappears beneath the towel and you snap your eyes back up to his face immediately.

He is so pretty, you think. This is genuinely unfair.

He drops the towel from his hair and runs a hand through it, pushing it back, and glances toward the bathroom door.

“It’s all yours,” he says. “Left a clean towel out for you.”

You nod.

You get up from the bed and cross the room toward the bathroom, pulling his hoodie down over your shorts, feeling his gaze without quite meeting it. You’re almost at the door, fingertips just reaching the frame, when he speaks.

“Don’t act like I don’t know you were staring.”

You stop.

The heat that moves up the back of your neck is immediate and complete. You turn around and open your mouth and absolutely nothing comes out. Not a single word. Not a defense, not a deflection, not even a convincing noise. Just your mouth opening and closing while your face does something you have no control over whatsoever.

He looks at you with this expression, not a full smile, just the corners of his mouth pulled up, one eyebrow slightly raised, the face of someone who has made their point and is very comfortable letting it land.

He doesn’t say another word.

He doesn’t need to.

You turn back around and walk into the bathroom and close the door behind you and stand there for a moment staring at your own reflection, pink cheeked and completely unable to do anything about it.

Outside you hear him laugh quietly to himself.

You take your time in the shower, partly because the water pressure is still exceptional and partly because you need a few minutes to collect yourself after whatever just happened in that bedroom doorway.

You wash your hair with his shampoo again. You are not sorry about it.

When you come out he’s already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed scrolling through his phone, wearing a simple white t-shirt and light wash jeans and looking completely effortless in that way that should be illegal before coffee. He glances up when you appear in the doorway with your towel, your hair damp, your bag of clothes in your hand.

You packed for a trip to LA. Not for a sleepover.

You look down at the options you’re holding. A going out top. Another going out top. A third going out top because Camille packed your bag with her and she had opinions.

“I don’t really have anything casual,” you say, mostly to yourself.

He gets up without a word and disappears into his wardrobe for a moment, coming back with a faded grey crewneck and setting it on the bed in front of you.

“That works,” he says simply, and goes back to his phone.

You look at the crewneck. Then at him. Then back at the crewneck.

It absolutely works.

You get dressed quickly, his crewneck over your going out shorts, which is not a perfect outfit but is somehow exactly right, and you pull your damp hair up and look at yourself in the mirror above his dresser.

“Ready?” he says from behind you.

You meet his eyes in the mirror. “Ready.”

The farmers market is ten minutes from his house, tucked into a wide open lot lined with white tents and wooden stalls, already busy even at this hour. The morning is warm and bright, that specific LA warmth that sits on your skin like something gentle rather than the aggressive heat you were expecting, and everything smells like fruit and fresh bread and something floral you can’t quite place.

He parks the Range Rover and comes around to your side and you fall into step beside each other without discussing it, close enough that your arms brush as you walk through the entrance.

Nobody looks twice at him, which surprises you, until you realize this is probably exactly why he comes here. A hat pulled low. Sunglasses. A neighborhood full of people who have learned not to stare.

“Coffee first,” he says, steering you gently left with a hand at your back.

“Obviously coffee first.”

The coffee stall has a line but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. You stand together in the easy quiet of two people who have run out of the need to fill silence, watching the market move around you. A woman arranging bunches of lavender. A kid eating a strawberry twice the size of his fist. An old man playing guitar near the entrance, soft and unhurried.

“I like it here,” you say, without really meaning to say it out loud.

He looks at you. “Yeah?”

“It’s very calm.”

“That’s why I come.” He looks back at the market. “Reminds me that most things are actually fine.”

You look at him for a second, at the easy way he said it, and place it away somewhere quiet in your mind.

The line moves. You get your coffees. He pays before you can argue and hands yours over and you wrap both hands around it and take the first sip and it is, predictably, exceptional.

“Good?” he asks.

“Really good.”

He nods like he knew.

You walk deeper into the market together, moving slowly, stopping when something catches your eye. He buys peaches from a stall run by a woman who clearly knows him, who asks how he’s been without making anything of who he is, and he answers her properly, not in the clipped polite way of someone trying to move on but like he actually wants to answer. You stand slightly back and watch him and think about what he said in the kitchen, weeks ago over text, about people who’ve known him long enough that he doesn’t have to explain anything.

You think you understand it better now, standing here.

He comes back with a small paper bag and holds it open toward you. “Try one.”

You take a peach and bite into it and it is so good, so immediately and completely good, that you make a sound before you can stop yourself.

He laughs.

“Stop,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You laughed.”

“Because you made a noise.”

“It’s a very good peach.”

“I know,” he says, satisfied, and steers you gently toward the next stall.

You drift through the market slowly, stopping at a honey stall where he spends three full minutes reading labels with the same focus he probably gives everything, and a bread stand where the samples are good enough that you circle back twice. He notices the second time and says nothing, just hands you another piece, which you appreciate.

Then you see the vintage booth.

It’s tucked between a plant stall and a candle vendor, a little crowded and slightly chaotic, fabric draped over wooden racks in no particular order, a handwritten chalkboard sign that says worn with love leaning against the front table. You slow down without meaning to.

“Give me a second,” you say.

“Take your time.”

You start flipping through the rack nearest to you, the familiar meditative pleasure of it, the rustle of fabric, the small thrill of not knowing what you’ll find. There are blouses and wide leg trousers and a leather jacket that you hold up and consider seriously before putting back. He wanders in behind you, hands in his pockets, looking around with mild curiosity.

You’re working your way through a second rack when you hear him say, “Hey.”

You look up.

He’s holding a dress.

It’s simple but it’s beautiful. A deep, warm burgundy, midi length, with a low back and thin straps and the kind of drape that means it was made well. The kind of dress that looks effortless and isn’t.

He’s looking at it, then at you, then back at it, with the quiet certainty of someone who has made a decision.

“This one,” he says.

You cross over and take it from him, holding it up properly. It’s even better up close. The fabric is soft and the color is deep and you can already tell it would fit like it was meant to.

“It’s really pretty,” you admit.

“It’s very pretty,” he says. “I’m getting it for you.”

You look at him. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“I don’t even have anywhere to wear something like this. I don’t have any events that warrant a dress that cute.”

He looks at you for a moment with that expression he gets sometimes, the one that’s considering something before he says it.

“Dinner tomorrow night,” he says simply. “Come to dinner with me. I’ll take you somewhere good.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

“Another favorite spot.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “You trusted me on the sushi.”

“That’s true.”

“So trust me on this.”

You look at the dress in your hands. Then at him. The morning light is warm on his face and he’s looking at you like it’s already decided, like he just needed to say it out loud, and something in your chest does that slow complicated turn it keeps doing around him.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay.” He takes the dress from you gently and turns toward the woman running the stall before you can say anything else.

You watch him pay without making a production of it, the way he does everything, and the woman wraps the dress carefully in tissue paper and hands it back in a small paper bag and he takes it and holds it out to you and you loop it over your wrist and fall back into step beside him as you drift back out into the market.

“You didn’t even ask the price,” you say.

“Didn’t need to.”

“That is a very easy thing to say.”

He glances over at you, something warm in it. “Are you arguing with a free dress?”

You press your lips together. “No.”

“Good.”

You walk a little further and you can feel the shape of tomorrow already sitting there between you, easy and unhurried, another night in his city, another table in another room where it’s just the two of you.

You look down at the little paper bag swinging from your wrist and smile.

You spend another hour winding through the market, finishing your coffees, stopping at a stall selling handmade ceramics that you spend too long at and he waits patiently without once checking his phone. You buy a small bowl, cream colored with an uneven rim, the kind of thing that looks like it was made by someone’s hands and not a machine. He watches you wrap it carefully in your tote bag and doesn’t say anything but looks quietly pleased that you found something.

The morning does that thing where it stretches without you meaning to let it. One more stall. One more sample. One more slow loop back through a section you already covered because the light is nice and neither of you is in a hurry.

A couple of people stop him along the way.

The first is a man about his age, broad shouldered, who spots him near the juice stall and breaks into a wide grin and says his name like it’s a good thing. Harry stops immediately, no hesitation, no visible flicker of inconvenience, and they talk for a few minutes while you drift slightly to the side and study a display of dried flower wreaths with great dedication. You’re not trying to disappear. You just don’t want to hover. When you glance back over Harry is laughing at something, easy and genuine, and then he catches your eye and tilts his head slightly, pulling you back in.

“This is a friend,” he says, which is not an introduction exactly but feels like an offering, and the man nods at you warmly and doesn’t ask questions and you like him immediately for that.

The second time is a woman with a small child on her hip who recognizes him near the exit and stops with the particular look of someone trying to decide if they’re being polite or intrusive. Harry makes the decision easy. He smiles and stops and crouches slightly to say something to the kid, who stares at him with the profound seriousness of a toddler encountering a stranger, and the woman laughs and thanks him and moves on.

You watch him stand back up and brush off his jeans and he catches you looking.

“What,” he says.

“Nothing,” you say. “You’re good with people.”

He considers that. “I just try to be a person.”

You think about that the rest of the way to the car.

By the time you climb back into the Range Rover your feet are warm from the pavement and your eyes are doing that heavy pleasant thing that comes from fresh air and a morning spent moving slowly. You set your tote bag between your feet and lean back against the headrest and exhale.

He gets in beside you and starts the engine and lets it idle for a second.

“Beach?” he says.

You consider the beach. The sand and the effort of it and the walking and the sun.

“What about your couch,” you say. “Your very large and comfortable looking couch. And a movie.”

He turns to look at you.

Then he laughs, low and genuine, and puts the car in reverse.

“Sounds like a plan.”

You settle back into your seat, satisfied. The market disappears behind you as he pulls out onto the street and the city opens up again, wide and warm and golden in the late morning light.

He drives the way he does everything, easy and unhurried, one hand on the wheel. A few minutes pass in comfortable quiet and then he speaks, his voice taking on that looser quality it gets when he’s not saying anything in particular, just talking.

“We used to go to this market near my mum’s house,” he says. “Every Saturday. She had this whole system. Specific stalls in a specific order, same route every time, and if you deviated from it she’d look at you like you’d suggested something genuinely offensive.”

You smile without turning your head. “Did you ever deviate?”

“Once. I was maybe eight. Wanted to stop at the sweet stall first instead of last.” He shakes his head. “Never again.”

You laugh. “She sounds terrifying.”

“She’s five foot three,” he says. “And the least terrifying person alive. That’s what makes it worse somehow.”

You turn to look at him then, at the soft smile on his face, the way he looks when he talks about home. Unguarded in a specific way that’s different from any other version of unguarded you’ve seen from him.

His hand moves from the gearshift and settles on your knee, easy, like it belongs there, warm through the fabric of your shorts.

He keeps talking, something about his sister getting banned from the sweet stall for reasons he won’t fully explain, and you let the words wash over you, watching the city drift past the window, his hand warm on your knee and the little paper bag with the burgundy dress at your feet, and you think about tomorrow night and the way he said it, like it was already decided, like of course, there was never any question.

You close your eyes for just a second and let yourself have it.

All of it.

He pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine and neither of you moves immediately, the comfortable inertia of a morning well spent settling over the car. The street is quiet. The house sits warm and unhurried in the midday light.

Inside he drops his keys on the table by the door and disappears into the kitchen while you kick off your shoes and drift into the living room, sinking into the couch with the particular relief of someone whose feet have earned it. You hear the fridge open. The soft knock of cupboard doors. The quiet domestic sounds of someone who knows where everything is.

He appears a few minutes later with a bowl of cut fruit, some crackers and cheese, two glasses of water, all of it arranged without fuss on the coffee table like this is just something he does. You tuck your legs up and reach for a cracker and he drops down beside you, close, his arm finding the back of the couch behind you.

“You pick,” he says, nodding at the television.

“That’s a lot of trust.”

“I’ll survive.”

You find something easy, a film neither of you has seen, the kind that’s good enough to have on without demanding too much attention. He reaches over and dims the lights with a remote you didn’t notice, and the room goes warm and low and the city outside goes quiet.

You eat slowly. The fruit is cold and sweet. The cheese is good. There’s a comfortable looseness to it, the two of you passing things back and forth without asking, commenting on the film occasionally, laughing at the same moments without looking at each other to check.

At some point the food is mostly gone and you stop reaching for it and just settle back into the couch properly. He shifts at the same time, his arm coming down from the back of the couch to rest around your shoulders, and you lean into it without overthinking it, your head finding that space between his shoulder and his chest like it already knows the way.

On screen someone says something dramatic. Neither of you reacts.

His thumb moves slowly back and forth against your shoulder. Absent and warm, the way people touch when they’re not thinking about it, when it’s just instinct. You focus on the film. You try to follow the plot. You are only partially successful because his thumb keeps moving and the room is very warm and he smells like his shower and you are very aware of all of it in a way you’re trying to be subtle about.

Twenty minutes pass like that. Easy and soft. His hand eventually migrates from your shoulder to your hair, fingers moving through it slowly from the nape of your neck upward, and you feel your eyes go heavy in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with sleep.

You shift slightly without meaning to, turning just a fraction toward him, and his hand stills for just a second before it keeps moving, slower now, more deliberate.

Something in the room changes.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just a degree or two, the temperature of it, the quality of the quiet between you.

His fingers trace down from your hair to the side of your neck, featherlight, and you feel it everywhere. You keep your eyes on the screen. Your heart is doing something completely unreasonable.

“You’re not watching the movie,” he says.

His voice is low. Closer than you were expecting.

“Neither are you,” you say.

A beat.

“No,” he agrees. “I’m not.”

You turn your head to look at him and find him already looking at you, which you knew, which is exactly why you took so long to turn. His eyes move over your face in that unhurried way he has, taking his time with it, and the look lingers a beat past casual, a beat past friendly, a beat past anything that can be reasonably filed under just comfortable on the couch.

You don’t look away.

Neither does he.

His hand is still resting at the side of your neck, his thumb tracing a slow line along your jaw, barely there, and your breath has gone slightly uneven in a way you hope isn’t obvious and strongly suspect is.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” you whisper.

You look at him for a second, at the quiet certainty of him, at the way he’s looking at you like there’s nowhere else he’s considering looking, and something in your chest just gives.

You close the small distance between you and kiss him.

It starts soft. Just a press of lips, warm and simple. His hand curves around your jaw and he kisses you back slowly, unhurried, taking his time with it the way he takes his time with everything. Your hand finds the front of his shirt and you feel him exhale against your mouth, slow and steady.

He pulls back just slightly. Not far. Just enough to look at you.

Then he kisses you again and this one has more behind it, intention building quietly underneath the softness of it, his hand sliding from your jaw to your waist, pulling you closer. You go, easy, shifting toward him on the couch, and the film keeps playing on the television and neither of you hears a single word of it.

His hand is warm through the fabric of the crewneck, moving slowly, and he kisses along your jaw and down the side of your neck and you tip your head back and stare at the ceiling for a second and think, distantly, that you are absolutely done for.

He finds his way back to your mouth. The kiss deepens, unhurried but unmistakable now, and his hands slide to your waist and he draws you closer still and you pull back just enough to look at him, both of you breathing slightly uneven, the afternoon light warm and low across the room.

He looks at you steadily. Patient. Waiting.

“Hi,” you say this time.

Something in his face softens. Then he lifts you gently onto his lap so you’re facing him, his hands settled warm on your waist, and you look down at him in the quiet of the afternoon and he reaches up and pushes your hair back from your face with both hands, just holding it there, looking at you like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it.

“You sure?” he says quietly.

“I’m sure,” you tell him.

That’s all he needs.

He leans up and kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding slowly under the hem of the crewneck and warm against your skin, and you reach down and pull it off over your head yourself because you have run completely out of patience and the afternoon light is soft and warm and the couch is very comfortable and he is looking at you like that.

He exhales slowly, looking at you, and something in his expression goes very quiet and very serious and very warm all at once.

Then his hands move. 

He is still looking at you like you are something he cannot quite believe he gets to see up close, his hands warm and steady where they rest on your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles against your bare skin now that the crewneck is gone.

You lean down and kiss him again, deeper this time, your fingers threading into his hair. 

He makes a low sound against your mouth, half sigh, half encouragement, and his hands slide up your back, tracing the line of your spine with reverent care. When his fingers reach the clasp of your bra, he pauses, checking in with a look. You nod, barely pulling back enough to breathe the word.

“Yes.”

He undoes it with gentle fingers, letting the straps slip down your arms. You shrug it off and toss it aside, and his gaze follows the movement before returning to your face, then lower, drinking you in like he is memorizing every detail. His hands follow, warm palms cupping you, thumbs brushing over sensitive skin until your breath catches. You arch into his touch, and he leans up to kiss the hollow of your throat, then lower, slow and unhurried, like there is nothing else in the world he would rather be doing.

Your hands move to the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it upward. He helps you pull it over his head, his hair falling messily afterward, and then it is your turn to look, really look, at the ink across his chest, the way his muscles shift under your palms as you run your hands down his torso. He is warm, solid, real in a way that makes your heart stutter. You lean in and press a kiss to the butterfly tattoo, then another just below it, and he exhales sharply, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.

He shifts beneath you, guiding you both so you are lying back against the cushions, him hovering over you with careful balance. His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, eyes meeting yours again in silent question. You lift your hips in answer, and he slides them down your legs along with your underwear, his touch lingering on your thighs, the backs of your knees, like he wants to touch every inch of you he can reach.

You reach for his jeans next, undoing the button and zipper with fingers that are not quite steady. He helps you push them down, kicking them off the end of the couch along with his boxers, and then there is nothing between you at all, just skin and warmth and the quiet hitch of breath in the sunlit room.

He settles between your legs, the weight of him grounding and perfect, and kisses you like he is pouring everything into it: the slow drag of his mouth, the way his hand traces down your side, over your hip, then between you. His fingers find you already slick and wanting, stroking with patient, knowing touches that have you gasping into his mouth, hips rolling up to meet him. He murmurs your name against your lips, soft, almost reverent, and you feel it everywhere.

When you reach down to wrap your hand around him, he groans quietly, forehead resting against yours. You stroke him slowly, matching the rhythm of his fingers, learning the way he likes to be touched by the way his breath stutters and his grip tightens on your hip. The tension builds between you like a slow wave, warm and inevitable.

“Please,” you whisper, and that is all it takes.

He shifts, positioning himself at your entrance, and pushes in slowly, inch by careful inch, until he is fully seated inside you. The stretch is perfect, the fullness of him making you both still for a moment, breathing each other in. His eyes stay on yours the whole time, dark and soft and full of something that feels bigger than this afternoon, bigger than the couch, bigger than words.

He starts to move, deep and unhurried rolls of his hips that press you deeper into the cushions. You wrap your legs around him, heels digging into the small of his back, and meet him thrust for thrust. Every movement draws quiet sounds from both of you, his low murmurs of your name, your soft gasps against his shoulder. His hand slides between you again, fingers circling where you need it most, and the pleasure builds in waves, steady and overwhelming.

You come first, clenching around him with a broken moan, your fingers digging into his back as the feeling crashes through you, warm and bright and all-consuming. He follows moments later, burying his face in your neck as he spills inside you, hips stuttering with the force of it.

For a long while afterward, neither of you moves. He stays buried in you, both of you catching your breath, his weight a comforting blanket. He presses soft kisses along your collarbone, your jaw, your temple, whispering something too quiet for you to fully catch but that feels like praise, like wonder.

Eventually he shifts, slipping out of you gently and pulling you close against his chest. The movie is still playing in the background, forgotten long ago. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your bare back, and you press your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

You stay like that for a long time.

His fingers keep moving on your back, slow and absent, and your cheek is pressed against his chest and you can hear his heartbeat, steady and even, gradually returning to its normal pace. The movie on the television has moved on to something else entirely. Neither of you acknowledges it.

The afternoon light has shifted, coming through the windows at a different angle now, warmer and lower, the kind of light that means time has passed without you noticing.

You trace a lazy line along one of his tattoos with your fingertip, following the shape of it without thinking about it, and he watches your hand move with half closed eyes.

You lift your head and look at him. His hair is thoroughly messed, pushed in every direction, and he looks completely unbothered by this, which tracks. There’s a softness to his face in the aftermath of everything that makes him look younger somehow. More like a person and less like anything else.

“What time is it,” you ask.

He glances past you toward the window. “Late afternoon. Maybe four.”

You drop your head back down onto his chest. “We’ve been on this couch for a while.”

“We have.”

“The movie is definitely over.”

“Most definitely.”

Neither of you moves.

His hand finds your hair again, fingers moving through it gently, and you close your eyes and let yourself exist in the warmth of him for another minute. The house is very quiet. Outside a car passes and then the street goes still again.

“Are you hungry?” he asks eventually.

You consider it. “A little.”

“I can make something.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

You lift your head again and look at him properly, at the easy certainty of that, at the way he says things like that so simply, like wanting to take care of you is just a fact he’s stating rather than something that requires fanfare.

“Okay,” you say.

He presses a kiss to your forehead before he shifts, reaching for his t-shirt from somewhere in the cushions, handing you the crewneck without being asked. You pull it back on and he stands and stretches and runs a hand through his hair like that’s going to do anything useful, and you tuck your legs up and watch him disappear toward the kitchen.

You hear the fridge open. The low sound of him moving around in there, unhurried, at home in the most literal sense.

You look at the ceiling.

You think about the farmers market this morning and the dress in the paper bag by the door and the way he said dinner tomorrow night like it was already obvious. You think about his hand on your knee in the car and his voice telling a story about his mum and a sweet stall and the way he laughed about it.

You think about all of it and the word that keeps surfacing, quietly and persistently, is easy.

This is easy.

Not simple, exactly. Not uncomplicated in the larger sense. But easy in the moment, in the day, in the specific texture of being around him, which is not something you were expecting and is maybe the thing that gets you the most.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

You already know who it is.

Cami: it has been seven hours since your last update. I am filing a missing persons report.

You: I’m alive.

Cami: and??

You: and we went to the farmers market and he bought me a dress and we came home and watched a movie.

Cami: a movie.

You: a movie.

Cami: that’s all you’re giving me.

You: that’s all you’re getting.

Cami: I hate you so much.

Cami: wait he BOUGHT you a dress??

You: a really pretty one. burgundy. we’re going to dinner tomorrow night.

The dots appear and disappear three times.

Cami: I need you to understand that I am sitting alone in my apartment eating leftover pad thai and you are living my roman empire.

You: I’m sorry.

Cami: no you’re not.

You smile at your phone.

You: not even a little bit.

Cami: good. you shouldn’t be. I’m so happy for you babe. genuinely.

Cami: also the dress sounds stunning. send a photo tomorrow before dinner.

You: obviously.

Cami: 🫶🏼 now go enjoy your evening and stop texting me.

You lock your phone and set it face down on the coffee table just as Harry comes back from the kitchen, a dish towel over his shoulder, leaning against the doorframe.

“Pasta okay?”

You look at him. Messed hair. Bare feet. Dish towel. The afternoon light coming through the window behind him.

“Pasta is perfect,” you say.

He disappears back into the kitchen and you hear the sound of water running and something going on the stove and you pull the crewneck down over your knees and sink deeper into the couch.

Outside the light is going golden.

Tomorrow there is a burgundy dress and a dinner and a whole other night in his city.

You should’ve expected it, honestly. Thinking he’d stay. Letting yourself believe that maybe there was actually something between you beyond lingering looks and late-night conversations in empty hallways.

You felt stupid.

Waking up to Jack’s side of the bed—your bed—cold and untouched, with no note, no text, nothing to indicate he’d even been there after you’d finally fallen asleep.

Your stomach dropped so hard it made you nauseous.

For a few seconds, you just stared at the empty space beside you, blanket wrinkled where he’d been hours earlier. The faint smell of his cologne still clung to the sheets, stubborn and cruel. Your chest ached so suddenly your eyes burned.

Rolling onto your back, you looked up at the ceiling and swallowed hard.

You should’ve seen this coming.

You should’ve known better than to read into it.

Jack was kind. Attentive. Easy to fall for if you weren’t careful. And you hadn’t been careful at all.

A shaky breath left you as you dragged a hand over your face. God, this was humiliating.

You’d spent so long wanting him that somewhere along the line, your brain had started turning every small thing into something bigger. The lingering touches. The way his voice softened around you. The looks that lasted just a second too long.

And last night—

Last night had felt real.

Not rushed. Not careless. He’d touched you like you mattered. Like he wanted to memorize you. Afterwards, he’d stayed tangled up with you beneath the blankets, warm and half-asleep, his hand resting lazily against your waist while the early morning light spilled across your apartment.

You’d let yourself think maybe this meant something.

Maybe that had been your mistake.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you finally forced yourself to sit up. The apartment felt too quiet now, almost painfully so. Your eyes flicked toward the bedroom doorway half-expecting him to appear somehow, apologetic and disheveled, explaining that he’d just gone to grab coffee or something equally stupid.

But the apartment stayed silent.

Of course it did.

You pushed yourself out of bed and grabbed some comfortable clothes before heading to the bathroom. The floor felt cold beneath your feet. Everything did.

The shower steamed quickly, fogging the mirror while you stood beneath the hot water longer than necessary, trying not to think about him.

It didn’t work.

Your mind replayed everything anyway.

The way he’d looked at you across the room for weeks now. The hesitant flirting. The tension that had built so slowly it almost felt inevitable. The way he’d kissed you last night—careful at first, like he was giving you the chance to stop him.

You’d liked Jack for God knows how long. Longer than you wanted to admit.

And stupidly, selfishly, you thought maybe he felt the same.

You thought last night had been some kind of turning point at the very least. That maybe things would be different now.

He’d been everything you imagined. Gentle when you needed him to be, teasing when he noticed you getting nervous, warm in a way that made you feel safe enough to forget yourself for a while.

Which honestly just made this hurt worse.

Maybe it was for the best that he wasn’t there.

Because if he had stayed only to tell you it didn’t mean anything, you weren’t sure you could’ve handled hearing it out loud.

As you stepped out of the shower, warm steam curling around the bathroom, you reached automatically for the towel hanging nearby and wrapped it tightly around yourself. The fabric clung damply to your skin while you stood there for a moment, staring at your blurred reflection in the mirror.

God, you looked exhausted.

Maybe it was a good thing you had today off.

At least this way, you didn’t have to walk into work pretending everything was fine. You didn’t have to deal with knowing looks or questions or the possibility of running into Jack before you’d figured out how to act normal again.

The thought alone made your stomach twist.

You could stay home. Hide for a day. Nurse your wounded ego in private.

Because really, what had you expected?

That he’d stay the morning? Make coffee? Kiss your forehead before leaving? Maybe linger awkwardly in your kitchen while the two of you tried to navigate whatever this was supposed to become?

The more you thought about it, the more embarrassed you felt for ever imagining it in the first place.

Jack hadn’t promised you anything.

That was the worst part.

He hadn’t lied. Hadn’t manipulated you. He’d just…left.

And somehow that hurt more.

You wiped a hand across the fogged mirror before looking away again almost immediately. Your chest still felt heavy, weighed down by the kind of disappointment you couldn’t even fully justify.

Because technically, nothing bad had happened.

Two adults slept together. That was it.

Except it hadn’t felt casual to you.

That was the problem.

Drying off slowly, you tried to focus on anything other than the memory of him in your bed. The warmth of his hand against your waist. His tired voice sometime in the middle of the night asking if you were okay. The way he’d looked at you like you were something fragile and precious all at once.

Your throat tightened.

You needed to stop replaying it before you drove yourself insane.

Today would be easy. Quiet. You’d clean the apartment, maybe order takeout, maybe sleep half the afternoon away. Anything to keep your mind occupied long enough for the ache in your chest to dull into something manageable.

You could get over one stupid night.

You had to.

* * *

Jack couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat.

It sat there heavily as he drove, fingers tightening against the steering wheel every time his mind drifted back to the night before—which was constantly.

Your smile.

Your laugh.

The way you’d looked at him like you actually wanted him there.

And then the memory that followed immediately after: slipping out of your apartment while you slept peacefully in bed behind him, too much of a coward to stay long enough to face the morning after.

Jack Abbott wasn’t going to sit there and pretend he hadn’t enjoyed himself.

He did.

God, he did.

He was with you.

That alone had felt dangerous enough.

But sometime during the night, after the adrenaline and want had settled into something quieter, something softer, panic started creeping in beneath his ribs. Slow at first. Then all at once.

The intimacy. The closeness. The domesticity of it all.

Your head resting against his chest. Your sleepy voice mumbling his name. The way you’d curled closer to him in your sleep like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It started to suffocate him.

Not because he didn’t want it.

Because he wanted it too much.

Jack liked you—a lot more than he should’ve allowed himself to. And that was exactly the problem.

There were too many things stacked against this from the beginning. The age difference. His leg. The baggage he carried around everywhere no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

And then there was the biggest thing of all.

His wife.

Even now, years later, the word still hollowed something out inside him.

When he lost her, it felt like losing entire pieces of himself alongside her. She’d been sick for so long that grief had settled into their home before death ever officially arrived. By the end, everything smelled like hospitals and medication and exhaustion.

He remembered sitting beside her hospital bed late one night, her hand frail and cool in his while machines hummed softly around them.

“You can’t hide behind me forever,” she’d said quietly.

Jack’s throat tightened painfully at the memory.

Her eyes had been glassy with exhaustion, but she’d still managed that stubborn little smile he used to love so much.

“You will find someone else,” she told him. “You will be happy. You will live. Do you hear me?”

He remembered shaking his head immediately. Like the idea itself offended him.

But she’d squeezed his hand with surprising strength.

“Jack.”

He’d tried.

He really had.

He went through the motions after she died. Learned how to exist again. Learned how to go to work and laugh at jokes and survive holidays and come home to an empty house without feeling like he was drowning every second of the day.

But moving on?

That part felt impossible.

Because every time he started wanting something again—wanting someone—guilt wrapped around his throat like a hand.

And with you, it was worse.

You made him feel calm in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Less exhausted. Less haunted. You made him feel like himself again, or at least a version of himself he thought had died alongside her.

That terrified him more than anything.

So he ran.

Like a coward.

Jack grimaced, dragging a hand down his face as he stopped at a red light. He could already picture your reaction when you woke up. Confusion first. Then hurt.

Maybe embarrassment.

The thought made his chest ache.

You probably thought he regretted it.

Maybe part of him did—not because of you, never because of you—but because now there was no pretending this was harmless anymore.

He’d crossed a line emotionally long before last night. Sleeping with you had only made it impossible to ignore.

Jack would understand if you hated him after this. If you decided you wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

He left without a word. Without an explanation. Without even giving you the chance to wake up beside him.

Who does that to someone they care about?

The answer came immediately.

Someone selfish.

Jack let out a humorless laugh under his breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind his eyes.

Maybe being alone was just something he deserved.

* * *

By the time Jack’s shift rolled around, he still felt like shit.

Barely slept. Barely ate. Spent most of the morning replaying every stupid decision he’d made in the last twelve hours until his head hurt.

And somehow, walking into the hospital made it worse.

Because there was a very real chance he’d see you.

“You look awful,” Robby stated casually as he fell into step beside him toward the locker room.

Jack snorted dryly, shrugging his bag higher onto his shoulder. “How nice of you.”

“I’m serious,” Robby said, glancing over at him. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it too.”

Robby let out a quiet hum before smirking slightly. “What’s gotten you all pissed off? Didn’t you go home with Honey last night?”

Jack’s throat tightened instantly at the nickname.

You.

The memory hit him hard and fast—your laugh at the bar, your hand brushing his arm, the way you’d smiled against his mouth later that night like you couldn’t quite believe this was happening either.

His chest twisted painfully.

“Nothing happened,” Jack lied.

The words came too easily. Too practiced.

Robby shot him a look that practically screamed bullshit.

Jack avoided it, jaw tightening as he pushed through the locker room doors. He could already feel irritation prickling beneath his skin, sharp and restless. Mostly at himself.

“Really?” Robby followed after him, unconvinced. “Because at the bar, you guys were practically all over each other.”

Jack said nothing, yanking open his locker harder than necessary.

“Not to mention all the flirting before that,” Robby continued. “I mean, everyone’s been noticing it for—”

“Can we just drop this?” Jack snapped.

The harshness in his voice cut through the room immediately.

Robby blinked, caught off guard.

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose, already regretting it, but the guilt and anxiety clawing around inside him had left him with almost no patience for this conversation.

For any conversation, honestly.

Robby studied him for a second longer, expression shifting from teasing to something more cautious.

“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Jesus.”

Jack dragged a hand down his face and looked away, shoulders tense. He could feel Robby still standing there beside him, probably trying to figure out what the hell had happened between last night and now.

Jack wished he knew too.

Because last night had been good. More than good.

It had felt easy being with you. Natural in a way that scared the hell out of him. Somewhere between your apartment and waking up beside you this morning, something inside him had started spiraling.

And now he was here, exhausted and miserable and completely unraveling.

“Look,” Robby said after a moment, voice quieter now. “Whatever happened…you should probably talk to her.”

Jack’s stomach dropped.

He busied himself changing into his scrubs just to avoid reacting.

“Yeah,” he muttered eventually, though the word sounded hollow even to him.

Because he should.

But he had no idea what he’d even say.

* * *

You were sprawled across your couch by the time evening settled in, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table alongside crumpled napkins and a glass of water you kept forgetting to drink.

The apartment was dim except for the television casting flickering light across the room.

You’d spent most of the day trying not to think.

It hadn’t worked.

Every distraction eventually circled back to Jack somehow. Folding laundry reminded you of him leaving his shirt on your bedroom floor. Making coffee reminded you that he hadn’t stayed long enough for morning coffee in the first place. Even the silence in your apartment felt wrong now, too big and empty after having him there the night before.

It was pathetic, honestly.

One night.

That was all it took to completely throw you off balance.

You flipped absently through channels, not really watching anything. Some sitcom laugh track filled the apartment for a few seconds before you changed it again with a grimace.

Nothing held your attention long enough.

Your chest still felt bruised.

When your phone buzzed loudly beside you, you startled slightly before grabbing it off the couch cushion. Trinity’s name lit up across the screen.

You let out a dramatic groan before answering.

“Hello?” you muttered, already exhausted.

“You sound like shit.”

Of course it was Trinity.

You closed your eyes briefly, sinking further into the couch. Her shift would be ending around now, which explained the call. Apparently your misery had become detectable through the phone.

“What do you want?” you sighed. “It’s late.”

“It’s seven.”

You groaned louder this time, dragging a hand over your face.

“Fine, whatever,” you mumbled. “What?”

“Just checking in on you.”

“Oh, I’m doing great,” you replied flatly, stabbing your takeout with more force than necessary. “Absolutely fantastic.”

Trinity hummed knowingly on the other end of the line.

“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I can tell.”

You shoved food into your mouth mostly to avoid talking.

For a second, neither of you said anything. The quiet stretched just long enough to make your stomach tighten uneasily.

Then—

“Look,” Trinity started carefully, “I saw Abbot come in.”

Your grip tightened around the fork immediately.

“He looked awful.”

Something in your chest twisted painfully at that, equal parts concern and anger.

You hated that you still cared.

“Did something happen?” she asked gently.

You stared blankly at the muted television.

A couple on-screen laughed at some joke you couldn’t hear.

“I don’t really want to talk about him,” you said quietly.

Trinity paused.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “That bad?”

You let out a humorless laugh under your breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

The embarrassing part was that technically nothing catastrophic had even happened. No screaming fight. No betrayal. No cruel words exchanged.

Jack just left.

And somehow that hurt enough to hollow you out anyway.

“I overheard him talking to Robby earlier,” Trinity continued cautiously. “He told him nothing happened between you guys.”

Everything in you went still.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.

You stared down at your untouched food, throat tightening painfully as heat rushed to your face.

He said that?

For a second, you genuinely thought you might be sick.

“Is that true?” Trinity asked carefully.

The silence on your end probably answered for her.

You swallowed hard, trying to force your expression back into something neutral even though she couldn’t see you.

“Yeah,” you stammered finally, your voice sounding thinner than you intended. “Nothing happened.”

The lie scraped against your throat.

Trinity immediately caught it.

“Okay, no,” she said firmly. “I know that voice.”

You pressed your lips together hard enough for it to ache.

“Look, if he did something—”

“He didn’t,” you interrupted quickly. Too quickly. “I promise. I’m fine, okay?”

Fine.

Right.

You were currently sitting alone in your apartment trying not to cry over a man who apparently told people nothing happened between you after spending the night in your bed.

Fine wasn’t exactly the word for it.

Trinity went quiet for a moment.

When she spoke again, her voice softened.

“I’m coming over.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Trin—”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m not in the mood,” you said quickly, sitting upright now. “Please don’t.”

“Huckleberry will survive one night without me.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly at the mention of Dennis.

It disappeared just as quickly.

“Trinity,” you sighed tiredly. “I really just want to be alone right now.”

“No,” she replied bluntly. “You think you do.”

You dropped your head back against the couch cushion with a frustrated groan.

“I’m coming into work tomorrow,” you muttered weakly, like that somehow fixed things.

“So am I.”

“I mean it,” you said, exhaustion bleeding into your voice now. “Can you just leave me alone?”

The question came out quieter than you intended.

Smaller.

And that seemed to hit Trinity immediately.

Her tone gentled again.

“You’re in the middle of a crisis,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Your throat tightened so painfully you couldn’t respond.

Because that was the worst part, wasn’t it?

You felt ridiculous for hurting this much.

Nothing had happened.

Except everything had.

* * *

You didn’t even bother trying to look presentable by the time Trinity showed up.

There didn’t seem to be a point.

You were still wearing one of your oldest oversized shirts, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath your eyes. The takeout containers were still scattered across the coffee table exactly where you’d left them, the television still playing quietly in the background more for noise than entertainment.

The knock at the door came sooner than you expected.

You opened it slowly, immediately spotting the duffel bag slung over Trinity’s shoulder and the look on her face.

A mixture of concern and irritation.

Your stomach twisted.

“You’re fine my ass,” she said the second she stepped inside.

You rolled your eyes weakly, stepping aside so she could enter.

Trinity brushed past you into the dining area like she owned the place, dropping the duffel bag heavily onto the table before unzipping it with purpose.

“What’d he do anyway?”

You lingered awkwardly a few feet behind her, arms folding tightly across yourself. You still felt strangely numb from the phone call earlier. Numb from the entire day, honestly. Like your body had just decided to shut parts of itself down to keep from fully processing the embarrassment of all this.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled.

Even saying the words made heat crawl up your neck.

“You’ll think it’s stupid.”

Trinity stopped rummaging through the bag long enough to shoot you a dry look over her shoulder.

“It’s not stupid if it upset you this much.”

Your eyes dropped immediately.

That somehow made it worse.

Because you were upset. Mortifyingly upset. More upset than you had any right to be after one night together.

But it wasn’t really just one night, was it?

It was weeks—months—of tension and hope and carefully buried feelings finally bubbling over into something real. Or at least you thought it was real.

That was the humiliating part.

You’d let yourself believe it meant something more to him too.

Trinity turned back to the bag and started unloading supplies onto the table.

Two large bottles of alcohol.

A bag of chips.

More snacks.

You blinked. “Jesus.”

“I came prepared.”

Despite everything clawing at your chest, a weak laugh almost escaped you.

Almost.

You leaned heavily against the doorway instead, exhaustion settling deep into your bones.

“Abbot and I hooked up,” you admitted finally.

The words came out flat. Hollow.

Trinity froze mid-motion.

A heavy silence filled the room as she slowly turned to look at you properly.

“…Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked carefully after a moment. “You’ve been thirsting over him for how long now?”

Normally, the comment would’ve embarrassed you enough to protest.

Now it just hurt.

You swallowed hard, staring somewhere over her shoulder instead of meeting her eyes.

“He left before I woke up, Trinity,” you said quietly.

The room felt painfully still.

“And you told me he’s going around saying nothing happened.”

Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.

You hated yourself for it immediately.

Trinity’s expression hardened almost instantly.

“Oh.”

You looked away quickly, jaw tightening as emotion surged hot and ugly in your chest again.

The worst part was how badly you wanted there to be some explanation. Some reasonable excuse for why he left like that.

An emergency call.

Panic.

Regret.

Anything.

Because the alternative—the possibility that last night genuinely meant more to you than it did to him—felt unbearable.

Trinity nodded slowly, crossing her arms.

“So he’s a dick.”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because even now, even after the humiliation and hurt and confusion, some pathetic part of you still wanted to defend him.

Jack had been kind to you. Gentle. Careful with you in ways that didn’t feel fake.

People didn’t look at someone like that if they felt nothing…right?

Your chest tightened painfully.

Unless you imagined all of it.

Trinity stepped closer, her voice firmer this time.

“He’s a dick,” she repeated. “I don’t care what his reason was. You don’t do that to someone.”

You rubbed tiredly at your face.

“I don’t know if I want to be mad at him,” you admitted softly, “or myself.”

And there it was.

The awful truth sitting underneath all the hurt.

You missed him already.

Trinity’s expression softened immediately.

“Oh, Honey.”

The sympathy in her voice nearly undid you.

“I’ll help you get over him,” she said gently after a moment.

You let out a weak laugh. “That might take a while.”

“Not tonight,” she continued, ignoring that. “Tonight we’re drinking.”

She grabbed one of the bottles and held it up slightly.

“Tomorrow we can spiral. Only a little, though.”

Another reluctant laugh escaped you, watery around the edges.

“And once you’re in a good place,” Trinity added, finally smiling a little, “you’ll go guy hunting.”

You snorted quietly, shaking your head.

“That sounds horrific.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

Trinity nudged your shoulder lightly as she passed.

“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got time.”

Something in your chest ached again at the casual warmth of it.

Because right now, with Jack pulling away and your pride lying in pieces somewhere beneath the weight of the last twenty-four hours, Trinity showing up anyway felt dangerously close to enough to make you cry.

* * *

By the time morning rolled around and your alarm started blaring from somewhere beneath the couch cushions, you were immediately aware of the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes.

You groaned quietly, squinting against the weak morning light filtering through the apartment windows.

Right.

You and Trinity had apparently decided that splitting an entire bottle of whiskey on a work night was a reasonable coping mechanism.

In your defense, it had briefly worked.

Somewhere between drunkenly ranting about emotionally unavailable men and Trinity threatening to fight Jack in the hospital parking lot, the ache in your chest had dulled enough for you to breathe again.

Unfortunately, now you just felt emotionally devastated and hungover.

Fantastic.

You fumbled for your phone, finally silencing the alarm before letting your head fall back against the couch cushion with a miserable sigh.

At least you weren’t sick.

You’d dealt with enough brutal hangovers in college to know this could’ve been much worse. Still, the headache pulsing through your skull and the sluggish heaviness dragging at your limbs told you pretty clearly that you weren’t exactly going to be operating at full capacity today.

Which was unfortunate considering you had to spend the next twelve hours pretending your life wasn’t actively imploding.

Fuck.

You slowly pushed yourself upright, wincing immediately at the stiffness in your neck from sleeping on the couch. The television was off now, but the aftermath of last night remained scattered across the coffee table—empty glasses, crumpled snack wrappers, half-open takeout containers.

The apartment smelled faintly like alcohol and regret.

Honestly fitting.

A quiet groan pulled your attention downward.

Trinity was sprawled out on the floor beside the couch, somehow still asleep despite your alarm going off for nearly a full minute. One of your couch cushions was shoved beneath her head at an awkward angle, and your throw blanket barely covered half her body.

You stared at her for a second.

“…You look dead.”

She responded with an incoherent mumble.

You nudged her lightly with your foot.

“We’re gonna be late for work,” you muttered, your own voice rough with sleep.

Trinity made a wounded noise into the cushion.

You scrubbed both hands over your face before grimacing immediately at the taste in your mouth.

Jesus.

Your expression twisted in disgust.

“I think my breath just violated several human rights.”

That finally got Trinity to crack an eye open.

“You’re so dramatic in the morning,” she mumbled.

“And you smell like whiskey.”

“So do you.”

Fair.

You sighed heavily, glancing toward the hallway. The thought of going into work today made your stomach twist unpleasantly.

Because Jack would be there.

The reality settled heavily over you again, chasing away the remaining haze of sleep almost instantly.

You’d have to see him.

Pretend things were normal.

Pretend hearing that he told people “nothing happened” hadn’t quietly shattered something inside you.

Your chest tightened.

God, this was going to suck.

“Did you bring a change of clothes?” you asked, forcing your thoughts elsewhere.

Trinity hummed vaguely in response, still half-buried in the floor.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you said, shuffling toward the bathroom with all the grace of a dying Victorian woman. Every part of your body felt sluggish and heavy, like sleep and alcohol still clung stubbornly to your skin.

“If you’re not ready when I’m done,” you added tiredly, “I’m leaving without you.”

Trinity slowly lifted her head from the cushion, squinting at you with narrowed, deeply offended eyes.

“You’re cruel,” she muttered.

You snorted weakly.

“No,” you corrected. “We’re stupid for drinking that much when we both had work the next day.”

“Worth it,” she grumbled immediately.

You paused in the hallway, glancing back at her.

And despite everything—the headache, the exhaustion, the dread already coiling in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jack—you felt something small in your chest loosen.

Because you hadn’t been alone last night.

Trinity noticed your expression soften slightly and pointed at you accusingly.

“Don’t get emotional,” she warned. “I’m too hungover to comfort you right now.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Small. Tired. Fragile.

But real.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Trinity mumbled, finally dragging herself upright with the energy of someone being forced out of a grave.

You shook your head faintly before disappearing into the bathroom.

The second the door shut behind you, though, your smile faded.

And there it was again.

That ache.

The one sitting quietly beneath everything else. Beneath the hangover and exhaustion and forced laughter.

Jack.

You leaned heavily against the sink for a moment, staring at your reflection.

Then, quietly—

“You need to get it together.”

Because in less than an hour, you’d have to look him in the eye like he hadn’t hurt you at all.

Trinity had been quick to kick you out of your own bathroom the second you finished getting ready.

“You’ve used up your allotted hot water privileges,” she’d informed you through the door while you were still brushing your teeth.

Now, dressed in clean scrubs and feeling only marginally more human, you leaned against the kitchen counter sipping weak coffee while waiting for her to finish.

The shower had helped a little.

At the very least, you no longer looked like you’d crawled out from the wreckage of an emotional catastrophe.

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean you felt much better.

Your body still carried the sluggish heaviness of too little sleep and too much alcohol, and somewhere beneath the lingering hangover sat the dull, constant ache of having to face Jack today.

Twelve hours.

Twelve whole hours of pretending you were fine.

You could do that.

Probably.

Hopefully.

The bathroom door finally opened, releasing a cloud of steam before Trinity sauntered out adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie.

“You look less tragic now,” she announced.

“Thank you,” you deadpanned.

“You still look tragic,” she added after a beat. “Just…slightly moisturized.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag from beside the couch.

The walk to the bus stop was quiet at first. Morning air bit lightly against your skin while the city slowly woke around you, traffic humming in the distance. Your stomach twisted tighter the closer it got to shift change.

You kept thinking about walking through those hospital doors.

About seeing him.

About not knowing how he’d look at you after all this.

Would he act normal?

Awkward?

Distant?

Would he avoid you entirely?

The uncertainty was eating you alive.

“You sure you don’t want me fighting Abbot?” Trinity asked suddenly beside you, pulling her hair into a ponytail as the two of you stopped near the curb. “Because I’m not above a good fight.”

A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“Don’t waste your time,” you said, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Besides, I’m trying to hype myself up for my man-hunting phase.”

Trinity let out a dramatic sigh.

“Well, that makes one of us.”

You glanced sideways at her.

“Oh?”

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, expression flattening.

“Garcia still icing you out?” you guessed.

Trinity scoffed softly.

“She’s more of a fuck-and-have-ramen-after kind of gal.”

The attempt at casualness didn’t quite land.

You caught the slight tightness in her voice immediately.

“She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want anything beyond casual.”

Something uncomfortable settled in your stomach at that.

At least Garcia told her.

At least Trinity wasn’t left waking up alone wondering whether any of it meant something at all.

Guilt bubbled low and sour in your chest almost instantly.

Not toward Trinity.

Toward yourself.

Because part of you still felt ridiculous for being this hurt over Jack. Like maybe you were overreacting. Maybe you’d built the whole thing up too much in your head.

But then you remembered him looking at you so softly the night before.

Remembered the warmth of his hand against your skin. The way he’d stayed tangled up with you afterward instead of leaving immediately.

And then you remembered waking up alone.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Is there anyone else you’re interested in?” you asked quietly, mostly to keep yourself from spiraling further.

Trinity shrugged.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

You hummed softly in acknowledgment just as the bus pulled up to the curb with a hiss of brakes.

The doors folded open.

You followed Trinity inside, both of you moving sluggishly from exhaustion as you found seats near the back. The bus smelled faintly like coffee and damp jackets, morning commuters staring blankly ahead in silence.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You rested your head lightly against the cool window, watching the city blur past outside while anxiety churned steadily beneath your ribs.

The closer you got to work, the worse it became.

You hated this.

Hated that one person suddenly had this much power over your mood. Hated that the thought of seeing Jack again made your stomach knot with equal parts longing and dread.

Beside you, Trinity glanced over quietly.

“It’s probably for the best we’re on day shift,” she said after a moment.

You frowned faintly. “Why?”

“There’s more options on day shift anyway.”

You snorted softly, immediately understanding what she meant.

“Right,” you muttered. “The man-hunting thing.”

“Exactly.”

You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging weakly at your mouth before fading almost instantly.

“If you say so.”

Because right now, the idea of looking at anyone that wasn’t Jack somehow felt impossible.

And that was probably the most pathetic part of all.

* * *

Once you arrived at the Pitt, you felt yourself tense almost immediately.

It was instinctive. Unconscious.

The second those familiar hospital doors slid open and the sharp scent of antiseptic hit your nose, your body seemed to remember before your mind fully caught up.

Jack would be here.

Morning handovers. Patient updates. Shift overlap.

There was no avoiding him.

Your stomach twisted painfully as you adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, forcing yourself to keep walking beside Trinity.

You just had to act normal.

That was the goal.

Be professional. Be mature. Don’t let him see that he’d gotten under your skin this badly.

You could survive twelve hours.

Probably.

The emergency department buzzed around you the moment you stepped fully onto the floor. Phones ringing. Monitors beeping. Stretchers rolling past. Nurses moving quickly between stations while doctors rattled off orders over exhausted conversations.

Normally the chaos would stress you out.

Today, it almost felt comforting.

Familiar.

Grounding.

The Pitt had a way of swallowing personal problems whole if you let it. There was always another patient, another emergency, another crisis demanding your attention before you could spend too long drowning in your own thoughts.

You needed that today.

Needed something louder than your own heartbreak.

You followed Trinity deeper into the department, trying to focus on the movement around you instead of the nervous pounding in your chest.

Then you heard his voice.

Low. Rough with exhaustion.

Your entire body reacted before you even saw him.

You looked up automatically just as Jack exited one of the trauma rooms with Shen close behind him, the two of them discussing something quietly.

He looked terrible.

Dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes, exhaustion weighing heavily across his features. His shoulders seemed tighter than usual, posture rigid in that way people got when they were running purely on caffeine and stubbornness.

Like he was holding himself together with tape and string.

Your chest ached immediately.

Which honestly just annoyed you at this point.

Because really? After everything, your heart still fluttered the second you saw him?

Pathetic.

Jack glanced up mid-conversation.

For one brief, terrible second, your eyes met.

And there it was.

That awful pull.

Something in his expression shifted instantly the moment he saw you. Like surprise mixed with guilt mixed with something softer he couldn’t quite hide in time.

Your stomach flipped painfully.

You looked away so fast it almost made your neck hurt.

Before he could notice how affected you still were.

Before you could start hoping he’d stop you.

Say something.

Anything.

Beside him, Shen continued talking, oblivious, but Jack had stopped hearing almost every word coming out of his mouth.

Because you were here.

And you wouldn’t look at him.

The realization landed heavily in his chest.

He watched you turn away immediately after spotting him, watched your shoulders tense subtly as you kept walking beside Trinity like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t spent the last twelve hours replaying your face in his head over and over again.

Guilt twisted viciously beneath his ribs.

Of course you were avoiding him.

What else did he expect after what he did?

Jack swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to look away before he did something stupid like follow after you.

Because the expression on your face just now—

You looked hurt.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Hurt.

And somehow that felt worse.

“Abbot?”

Shen’s voice snapped him back into the present.

Jack blinked once, dragging a hand tiredly down his face.

“Sorry,” he muttered roughly. “What were you saying?”

Meanwhile, you forced yourself to keep moving.

Professional.

Normal.

Fine.

You could do this.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Dana called from the nurses’ station, dry amusement lacing her voice the second she spotted you approaching.

Beside you, Trinity snorted.

“Hey, Dana.”

You tried for a smile despite the way your pulse still hammered unevenly beneath your skin.

“Hope you had a nice day off, Honey,” Dana added casually, though the knowing glint in her eyes made heat immediately creep up your neck.

You wondered briefly if everyone at this hospital could smell emotional disaster on people.

“No different than any other day,” you said carefully.

The lie felt brittle.

Dana hummed softly, clearly unconvinced, but mercifully didn’t push.

She turned back toward the chart in front of her.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, grateful for the escape.

But even as you started settling into work mode, pulling yourself into the rhythm of the department, you could still feel it.

Jack’s presence somewhere behind you.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

And despite every effort not to, some awful part of you was still painfully aware of him.

——

Not uncomfortable because you dislike it. Uncomfortable because you do. And will never admit that.

“You always smell nice,” he says casually.

You keep your eyes on the wire in your hands. “Battery pack’s loose.”

“That wasn’t related to what I said.”

You took a deep breath as your eyes shut instinctively for just a moment.

“I know.”

“Hm.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and if you lowered your gaze you knew you’d be staring right at a deep dimple and a cheeky twitch of his chin.

You clip the pack onto the back of his pants, fingers brushing the warm fabric of his shirt and leaving just as quick as they got there.

“All set,” you call, slapping your palms to your sides lightly as you back further away from his body.

And then he’s looking at you. In that way he always does before he goes on stage. A rudely passionate look of teasing that will leave you dizzy for the next 2 hours. He knows it, too. It’s why he does it.

“What?”

He doesn’t answer you for a minute. Just stares at you a bit longer. Over your jaw. The curve of your neck, exposed by your loose pony. All with a grin of his own deepening and his eyes squinting just a tinge.

And then he snaps back into casualness like nothing was on his mind at all.

“Nothing,” he shrugs, standing from his chair, “see you after the show.”

You nod.

“See you.”

He turns toward the door, shoulders brushing past one of the stylists waiting near the hallway, and for a second you think that’s it. Because it usually is.

You fix what you need to fix. You set him up. You say goodbye. And then he’s on stage and you have a brief intermission of peace before he’s back in front of you at the end of the night.

But then he glances back.

Just briefly, but enough for your stomach to tighten in that stupid familiar way that you worry will someday get you fired.

The hallway outside the green room still buzzes with movement and things you half understand. Stage managers calling cues, security talking into headsets, other crew members rushing past with last minute equipment. Harry looks entirely unbothered by any of it. Calm, even, like he has all the time in the world.

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up.

“Good luck.”

The words slip out softer than you intended. More personal, too. Less like a colleague hoping for the best and more like someone who cares too much about the other. Immediately, you regret them.

Because Harry stops dead in the doorway. And then slowly turns back toward you like if he's worried that it was someone else who said it. The grin spreading across his face is instant.

God.

That unbearably smug expression that only gets worse the second he realizes he’s gotten something genuine out of you. Then his smile widens even further, dimples pressing deep into his cheeks and eyes crinkling kindly.

“Thanks, y/n.”

Far too satisfied with himself.

A laugh slips quietly out of him as he starts backing into the hallway again, still looking directly at you with that same sly expression stretched across his face. Like he’s just won something.

Someone calls his name farther down the corridor.

So he finally tears his eyes off you, spinning around smoothly and continuing toward stage with an annoyingly confident bounce in his step.

Entirely too pleased with himself over two stupid words.

And even worse? You’re smiling a little before you can stop yourself.

It is endearing—his crush. It’s also incredibly obvious. The last few months of your life have been filled with flirts and teases and smirks that have your heart on the brink of exploding right there in your chest.

Champagne problems, right?

But it really was starting to become a problem. You were a professional. Apart of this industry for longer than you can count. And you were not about to start things up with your boss and destroy the reputation you’ve built for yourself for years. No matter how sexy his gaze got or how desperate his words became.

So you spend the entirety of his show in his open dressing room backstage, lounging upon a green velvet chair and scrolling mindlessly through your screen. You were grateful you had the night off tonight apart from backstage aid.

Baking recipes. Funny clips of animals. A new way to wear your hair. Skin care brands random people are trying to sell you.

Anything to get your mind off of him.

But it’s hard when his voice is echoing around the arena simultaneously. Whining through the microphone and screaming melodies that flow through him as if there’s no effort needed at all.

It was a sick routine you’ve been stuck in. Every show. Set him up, do your duties, listen to him against your will backstage or in the audio booth if that was your assignment, and then dissemble him before he goes home. You’ve been stuck with him every minute of all your days for the entire tour. Which would usually be great news; if he wasn’t nagging at you for a drop of attention too.

But you would stay professional. Calm. You knew you would.

So when the show ended and you both ended up back in his green room, you took a deep breath and prepared yourself to exercise your best rejection tactics.

The show leaves him glowing every time. Not literally, obviously, but close enough. So extra preparation was more than necessary. Especially considering there were about 6 other colleagues back here awaiting for his arrival as well.

By the time Harry pushes through the green room door, the adrenaline is still clinging to him—cheeks pink from exertion, curls damp at the edges, chest rising heavier beneath the half unbuttoned shirt clung lightly to his skin. The roar of the crowd still echoes faintly through the arena halls outside while people trail in after him offering congratulations, water bottles, notes about tomorrow’s schedule.

And somehow, within five seconds of entering the room, his eyes find you.

Of course they do. And you’re not totally sure if you want to die right there or enjoy it with a smile.

You’re crouched near the coffee table reorganizing equipment cases from the stage reset, pretending not to notice.

“You stayed,” he says immediately.

You don’t look up from the tangled wire in your hands. “I work here.”

“Mhm.” You can hear the grin in his voice already. “Still very professional as always.”

You ignore that completely.

Harry drops onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, legs spread comfortably while someone hands him a towel. He thanks them absently, attention never really leaving you.

“You work in the sound booth tonight?”

“Had the night off. Was just back here tonight.”

“Mm. Maybe that’s why it smells so nice back here.”

You finally glance up briefly. “Need something?”

His mouth twitches. There’s always this look he gets when you refuse to react properly to him. Half amused, half fascinated. Like he genuinely cannot understand how you keep resisting him after months of this.

“Need?” he repeats lazily. “No. Like hearing your voice, though.”

You bite down your smile as hard as you can. Fighting to stay within the boundaries of a work place and not further alarm your other colleagues around you.

You go back to untangling the cable immediately. “Sounds serious.”

“It is serious.”

“Thought you were exhausted.” You dead pan, looking over at him sprawled on the couch from your position on the floor.

“I was. Then you spoke to me.”

A nearby stylist snorts quietly before pretending not to listen. Your jaw tightens slightly.

Because that’s another thing Harry loves. Saying things in front of other people just to watch you try to stay composed. It was fucked up. And it was constant. Like, all the time.

You stand, carrying the equipment case toward the table near him. The second you step close enough, Harry tilts his head back against the couch cushion to look up at you.

Way too pretty after a two hour show.

Honestly rude.

It was all post-show warmth and lazy satisfaction. Sweat still clung faintly to his skin beneath the dim lights of the green room, curls damp and pushed messily away from his forehead where he’d run his hands through them a dozen times already. His cheeks were flushed pink from the stage heat, lips slightly parted while he caught his breath, and those marbled green eyes stayed fixed on you with a softness that felt entirely too intimate for a room still full of people.

And then he smiled. Slow at first. Sleepy almost. Until the corner of his mouth pulled higher and that deep dimple pressed into his cheek.

“You’re staring.”

And shit, you were.

You snap your gaze away quickly and trot across the room to gather the box for his in-ears with a shake of your head. “Wasn’t.”

“Was.”

You look back at him sharply, “Wasn’t.”

“Was too,” and his smile tells you all you need to know. This is fun for him. A game of sorts.

You just huff, opening the box in front of him and silently gesturing for him to put his monitors inside so you can, you know, get the fuck out of here.

He complies. Placing his in-ears in the box gently and staring up at you with a cocked grin while he does it. You kept your gaze down. Focused on the box and the work in front of you.

Once the box is closed and back on the audio cart, you grab your purse and take out your pony tail.

And also try to ignore the burning gaze that’s been following your every move while you do so.

“Alright, I’m heading out for the n—”

“I like your hair down like that. Looks nice.”

You stare at him like he cannot be serious right now.

“Thank you,” you say, clearing your throat and gripping tighter against the strap of your purse. “I’m heading out for the night.”

He grins. “Ok. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight,” you nod, pattering out of the room as quick as you can.

“Goodnight.”

-

“Good morning!”

Someone was in a fantastic mood this morning.

You, were not.

“Morning,” you mumble, wobbling past him as you rub your eyes carelessly.

The venue halls were painfully bright at eight in the morning. Fluorescent lights reflected harshly off concrete floors, cases rolled loudly through corridors, and somewhere nearby someone was already doing mic checks loud enough to make your headache worse.

You were exhausted.

Not normal tired. Not fixable with coffee tired. Bone deep, eyes burning, don’t talk to me tired.

The kind that sat heavily behind your ribs after months on tour and too little sleep and too many late nights spent tearing down equipment after shows.

You threw your headset crooked over your hair while you leaned against one of the equipment tables at monitor world, staring blankly into the cup of coffee in your hands like it was useless. It kind of was.

And he was already trotting back behind you to continue to bother you.

Harry leaned against the edge of the table across from you, completely uninvited and entirely too comfortable there. His eyes moved slowly over your face, taking in the dark circles under your eyes and your obvious irritation with visible amusement.

“You look tired.”

You look back up at him plainly.

“Insightful.”

“You sleep at all?”

“A little.”

“Mhm.” His grin deepened knowingly. “You’re doing that thing where you answer questions like you hate me.”

“I do hate you right now.”

He could’ve laughed at your face right there.

“No, you don’t.”

You took another sip of coffee just to avoid responding. Harry stared at you over the rim of his own cup. Completely entertained, like this was his morning news and he needed to tune in.

“Y/n, the sound booth needs you in 5.”

You wince, shutting your eyes briefly before calling out an okay and shrugging off your purse.

“Bye y/n,” Harry smiles, tilting his head playfully like your exhaustion is only here for his entertainment.

“Bye Harry.”

You barely saw him for the rest of the day after that.

Every time you turned around, someone needed something. A frequency issue during rehearsals, a missing pack during load in, comms crackling endlessly in your ear while production schedules shifted by the minute.

By the afternoon, you were too busy to think about him much at all, which was probably a good thing considering the smile he’d walked away wearing that morning.

The show passed in a blur from the booth. You stood behind the glowing soundboards with your headset pressed tighter against one ear while the arena shook around you, lights flashing across thousands of screaming fans.

From back there, Harry looked different. Bigger somehow. Untouchable. All confidence and movement and effortless charm under the stage lights. Still, more than once, your stomach tightened when you caught his gaze flick briefly toward the booth like he was checking for you without meaning to.

Now the show was over, and you stood backstage in the green room with tired shoulders and aching feet while crew members rushed around tearing equipment down around you. The adrenaline of the concert had faded, leaving only exhaustion behind.

You leaned against the wall quietly, absentmindedly twisting your headset cord around your fingers while waiting for the post show chaos to settle.

Voices echoed down the hallway before the door even opened. You recognized Harry’s immediately, warm and animated in that post show way he always got, still riding the adrenaline high from stage.

But there was another voice with him this time.

A woman’s laugh floated down the corridor a second later, light and airy. Your stomach tightened instinctively before you could stop it. You didn’t want it to. But it happened.

Then the green room door swung open.

Harry walked in first, still glowing from the show, hair damp around his forehead and sleeves shoved messily to his elbows. Beside him was a brunette woman you vaguely recognized from the VIP tent earlier, pretty in an effortless kind of way, light eyes bright as she looked up at him while he talked.

And she was laughing. Like, a lot. At everything.

Harry said something you didn’t even catch properly while shrugging off his jacket, and she laughed immediately, hand brushing his arm like he’d said the funniest thing she’d ever heard in her life.

You looked back down at the audio sheet in your hands before your expression could betray you.

Absolutely ridiculous.

People laughed at Harry constantly. He was charming. Funny. Famous. None of this was unusual. You’d fallen victim to it more times than you’d like to mention too. It really wasn’t anything you weren’t used to, especially working so close to him.

Still, every time her laugh floated across the room again, your eyes flicked over before you could stop them.

And every single time, Harry caught you doing it.

Of course he did.

You could feel it almost instantly, the subtle shift in his attention whenever your gaze landed on them together. Like he became hyperaware of you the second you started pretending not to look.

Annoying.

You crouched beside the audio cart near the wall, reorganizing cables that were already organized just to keep your hands busy. It was sad, but you were this close to breaking something and you’d rather it be equipment instead of someone’s face.

Across the room, the brunette laughed again at something mildly amusing at best.

No offense to Harry.

Your eyes rolled automatically before you could stop them. And when you glanced up, Harry was already looking at you. His mouth twitched instantly, like he’d officially decided everything you were feeling now. His assumptions have been proven correct.

“Y/n,” Harry called casually from the couch area, too close to the mystery women for comfort.

Your response came flat without looking up. “What?”

“Did you switch comm packs after the encore?”

A stupid question.

“Mhm.”

“That one’s mine or Glen’s?”

“Yours.”

It came out colder than you meant it to, but it was honestly a stupid question and you were growing more and more irritated with every passing second.

You heard the tiny pause afterward, like Harry was reveling in this moment and couldn’t believe it was real.

“Thanks,” he said slowly, amusement already slipping into his voice.

You only hummed in response.

The brunette looked between the two of you curiously before turning back toward Harry when he said something quietly to her.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, she laughed again.

Good God.

Your jaw tightened slightly without meaning too, stuck between the frustration of these fucking wires layered between the echoing laughs of a spunky brunette.

“You alright over there?” Harry asked after a minute.

You clipped another cable into place. “Fine.”

“You seem grumpy.” He called, the second time he’s said the word today.

“I’m tired.”

“Mhm.” That sound alone irritated you.

You glanced up briefly to find him leaning back against the couch cushions now, one arm stretched along the back while he watched you with obvious interest. Like he was enjoying this. Actually enjoying it.

“Could you grab us two waters?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked at him once, like you couldn’t beleive this was a real question. Then looked toward the fully stocked fridge less than six feet from where he sat.

“There are plenty of other people here,” you said evenly. “I’m busy.”

Silence.

The brunette shifted awkwardly beside him while Harry stared at you for half a second. And then, a grin spread slowly across his face. Deep dimples. Bright eyes. Entirely too entertained.

Your stomach dropped immediately.

Because he knew.

“Oh my God,” he murmured softly, almost to himself.

You narrowed your eyes instantly, standing straight up against the cart now with your hands leveling you, “What?”

But Harry was already standing and looking much too pleased with himself.

“I’ll get them myself,” he said lightly to the brunette before starting across the room.

Toward you.

You immediately looked back down at the cables in your hands like they suddenly required your full concentration. Unfortunately, Harry didn’t stop until he was directly beside the audio cart. Close enough that you could smell the lingering mix of cologne and stage sweat still clinging to him after the show.

“You’re jealous,” he said quietly.

You scoffed immediately, “I’m not.”

“Y/n.” His voice was warm with amusement. “You practically rolled your eyes to the back of your skull every time she laughed.”

You dropped what you were working on and pulled closer to his face, “She laughed at things that weren’t funny.”

Harry bit back a grin.

“There she is.”

“Harry, what?” You weren’t in the mood for this. Not now. Not ever, really. And you had shit to take care of.

“You got mean.”

“I’m usually mean to you?”

“No,” His eyes dragged slowly over your face, “Usually you’re pretending not to like me. Tonight you looked like you wanted to kill somebody.”

Heat crawled violently up your neck before you could stop it, his words genuinely shocking you past your normal point of surprise. He was always bold with you. But this was honest. Too honest.

“I do not care who you bring backstage.”

You barely even believed yourself when those words fell out of you.

“Mhm.”

“I don’t.”

“You told me to get my own water,” he continues to whisper, trying to hide the conversation from the women on the couch. Who, by the way, has clearly been growing more antsy for his return with every passing second.

“There was a fridge right there,” you say like it’s an obvious reason for your denial.

“You’ve gotten me water before.”

You opened your mouth immediately, then stopped. Harry’s grin widened in triumph.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” he laughed softly.

You don’t know why you started to feel genuinely angry, but you did. Maybe it was the way he was speaking, almost patronizing, like he had you all figured out before you had the chance to yourself.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that he was starting to pull the truth out of you which you’ve been so desperately avoiding.

“You are so full of yourself,” you said, and it came out more honest than you intended. Harsh, even.

“And you,” he said, stepping just slightly closer, “are jealous. And too fucking scared to ever admit it.”

Like your comment before didn’t phase him at all.

You just stare at him with heavy breaths, your face and neck heating up before you could stop them. You were furious over his attitude. His confidence. The way he spoke like he was the smartest person in the room and the way he was looking at you like he knew you’d fold soon.

“Enjoy your night. I hope your dick enjoys her as much as your head enjoys this bullshit.”

Way too mean. Absolutely past the point of professional boundaries.

You knew it the second you said it, and so did he. His face was genuinely shocked, like you’ve officially surprised him for the first time in his life. He didn’t seem angry, necessarily. Just…you don’t even know. Just shocked.

And silent.

You shoved through the backstage hallway doors before he could say another word to you.

The sound room was blissfully empty when you stormed inside, the muffled crowds from the arena now distant through thick walls while rows of glowing consoles blinked quietly in the dark.

Good. Because if another person looked at you right now, you might actually lose your mind.

You dropped a headset onto the table harder than necessary and immediately started yanking cords loose from the side rack with sharp, irritated movements. Stupid. This whole thing was so unbelievably stupid.

Your chest still burned from the look on his face back there, smug and amused while that girl sat beside him laughing at every breath he took. Like he enjoyed watching you unravel. Like this had all just been a game to him for months.

A cable slipped from your hands and smacked loudly against the table, echoing throughout the empty area.

“Careful,” Harry’s voice came from the doorway. “Those are expensive.”