In spite of the sadness still looming in the room, Harry smiled fondly when he saw her cute sock clad feet outside on the balcony, slightly wet from the bits of snow left there. He sat up to see her with his blanket hanging bunched up over her shoulders and head craned upward at the stars. Stumbling through the darkness, he made his way to her side, right where he belonged.

Shivering, Harry gently reached out to grab her hand from behind. His fingers entwined with hers underneath the blanket and he immediately felt warmer. She looked at him and finally, he could see her pretty face in the moonlight, still stained with enough dried tears to make his heart break all over again. Harry felt a crushing heaviness on his chest as he moved to unravel the blanket and wrap it tighter around her, hugging her from behind to keep her warm. His heart raced as she leaned back into him, enveloping them both in a cocoon of love.

“Hi angel,” the words fell off his lips. He felt her sigh as she relaxed against him, resting the back of her head on his chest.

Despite being pressed against each other, the weight of her emotions hung between them. The air was thick with her sadness. Harry felt the cold wind chill his skin and instinctively hugged her tighter, desperate to share his warmth with her.

“I can’t sleep,” she replied after a few moments of comfortable silence, her sweet voice making his heart swell.

“Can I make you some tea?”

When she nodded, Harry gave her one more squeeze and pressed a delicate kiss on her cold temple before forcing himself to let go. He wanted nothing more than to hold her and rock her and let her cry and sob against him, but he’d come to learn that she sometimes preferred to be alone with her thoughts, with her emotions. He knew that she appreciated his loving embraces, but it was a delicate balance.

As he walked back inside, he heard her sock clad feet padding behind him. He paused and turned back to her as she hurried to catch up with him. She grabbed his hand with her own chilled fingers and looked up at him, eyes wide and glazed with unshed tears.

“Can I come with?” she asked softly, voice gentle and raspy. 

Harry was certain he felt his chest actually, physically grow as the clinginess in her voice bypassed his ears and went straight to his heart. He squeezed her hand and gave her the most tender smile he could manage in response, determined to show her how much he adored her with his expression.

Harry rolled up his long sleeves to prepare the kettle while his girl watched him from her seat atop the counter, freeing his hands from his sweater paws. Like a moth to a lamp, he moved toward her and settled in front of her. It was dark in the kitchen—the only light coming from the flame underneath the kettle and the moonlight streaming in through the window. Still, he could make out every lovely detail of her face while she was caged in his arms.

He watched her move her hands from her lap to wrap around his neck, gently tugging him closer until his hips were between her legs and their faces were only inches apart. Thoughts of her sadness and his own insecurities dissipated as he struggled to keep his hands on the counter and off her delightfully bare thighs. He met her eyes with his own, appreciating the way her eyelashes fell against her skin when she blinked, how her nose was still a little red from the cold, how her hair framed her face and body, how her lips look delectable and smooth and soft…

Suddenly, he couldn’t help himself.

When he leaned in to her gently, the lightest pressure of lips on lips made his heart soar and body shiver, this time with pleasure instead of cold. She gasped lightly in surprise, pausing for only a moment before pulling him in more firmly. He melted into her hands as she rubbed at the curls on back of his neck and kissed him tenderly. Inhibitions long gone, Harry’s hands moved to her thighs on their own accord. The motion sent waves of heat through the both of them as he felt her skin against his undraped fingers, her lips against his. Lost in the euphoric feeling of her, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her impossibly closer, both of them craving more.

A shrill whistle interrupted their embrace, forcing Harry to pull away from her. He let the kettle whine for a moment as they basked in the pleasure, holding each other nose to nose and laughing softly. The mellifluous sound of her laughter mixed with his own allowed a tinge of happiness to steep between them in the dark kitchen. Harry licked his lips to savor the taste of her as he pulled away to finish the tea. He felt her eyes on him as he worked, neither bothering to fight the smiles off their faces.

Harry grabbed two steaming mugs in one hand and entwined the other with his girl’s, leading her off the counter and to the sitting room. He motioned for her to sit on the loveseat while he lit the fireplace, slowly baking the room in a warm orange glow. He found the blanket she’d discarded on the kitchen floor and brought it to the couch to wrap around both of them as she settled into his side. She sat sideways on his lap, head in his neck and both hands holding her mug, aromatic steam occupying the space between them.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the soft vibrations of her voice tickling his throat.

“Of course, angel,” Harry replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she said, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Thanks to you.”

“I’d do anything for you,” Harry hummed, meaning every word.

And in spite of their imperfect world, he didn’t think he’d ever been happier than he was then—his girl snuggled into his side in the middle of the night, both of them sipping tea and blanketed in the warmth of each other’s unconditional love.

thank you again olivia for making boyfriendathon happen (and for just being super lovely) <3

A questioning ‘what’ barely passes your lips once you spot the miniature lilac colored baseball glove on a shelf. Next, a laugh falls from your lips and he echoes it with his own adorable concoction. 

“Hard t’ believe yer hand was eva that tiny, love.”

“I know, it’s funny that my dad kept it around.”

“I would if I were him, ‘s bloody adorable,” he notes, picking up the battered leather mitt with a content smile. “Ah, lookie here. Up fer a game o’ catch, love? Bet I could whoop yer ass.”

“Harry, you can’t beat somebody in catch!” you protest, the cool liquid gracing your lips, providing you a few seconds of relief from the summer heat. 

“We’ll just see ‘bout that, now won’t we?” he teases with a wiggle of his eyebrows. A tan, leather baseball glove hits you square in the chest, landing in your arms while he slips on a darker twin of it. “C’mon, I wanna see how girly of a throw ya got.”

“Oh, shut up. You have no idea what’s coming for you. You’re dating a former softball player here.”

“Am I now? Ya don’t seem that intimidatin’ t’ me, miss,” Harry laughs softly, the billowy cotton of his red Hawaiian themed shirt catching the wind once your feet find the grass. “Dunno how anythin’ can be intimidatin’ afta meetin’ yer bleedin’ father, tho’. Bloody hell,” he remarks, shaking his head. 

“It really wasn’t that bad, Harry,” you correct him, placing your tall can beside his dark glass bottle. 

“It was. Didn’t know he’d be so fookin’ hard on me, askin’ all o’ those questions. He never even smiled at me once, babe,” he scoffs, sliding the glove onto his large hand and messing around with it until it’s comfortable enough. 

“Yes, he did.”

“No, he didn’t. Or I didn’t see it. Dunno why he was so cold t’ me. Ya’ve always had such good things t’ say ‘bout growin’ up with him . . ,” he exhales, tossing the ancient brown and red baseball into the mitt. His short curls dance around atop his head as he crosses the large backyard, the very same one you played kickball in, where you hit home run balls into the woods, set cartwheel records in, and still have the pieces of wood set into the ground marking the bases. 

“He’s quiet, Harry, that’s all. You just have to find something in common with him, and then you’ll hit it off. I promise you, he liked you.”

“Don’t believe ya there, he was givin' me tha evil eye tha whole time durin’ dinna, even tho’ I was fakin’ likin’ his burgers. They were dry as hell,” he grumbles, soon coming to a stop a good way across the grassy area. Messing with his light-washed denim shorts, he checks his phone before letting it fall back into one of its pockets. “Reckon ‘s cuz yer his li’l girl, loads mo’ protective o’ you cuzz’a that.” 

“Keep going, I’m not a sissy.”

“Oh, so I should go long, ‘s that right? Dunno if ya can make it t’ me if I go back any farther,” he winks, the dimples set into his cheeks all the way from here, you notice.

“Would you hush? I pitched all throughout high school, I can make your hand hurt from catching it, if you keep running your mouth,” you argue. 

“Oooooo, she’s gettin’ feisty now,” he chuckles, raising his voice to carry across the clipped green grass, tall trees framing the yard. He pats his taut fist into the palm of the glove, the baseball snug in his large hand. Why, of course it is, Mr. Huge Hands.

Seconds later, the ball soars through the air and banks to the left, but with a jump, you catch it just in time. 

“What the hell was that?” you laugh, holding up your hands. 

“Erm, ‘m warmin’ up? Y’know, gotta get the old righty back in ‘s place,” he insists, stretching his dominant arm this way and that, ever so dramatically. 

“Whatever. You’re full of shit, Harry,” you call back, adding extra volume to your voice. His bottom lip escapes to between his teeth while his head goes from side to side. You surprise him with your throw and he misses it, pulling a loud laugh from your lips. “Not so confident, are we now?”

“Shuddup! Ya were a bloody softball player, ya got advantage ova me, ‘s not fair.”

“Don’t you start whining now! You’re the one who wanted to play catch with a five time-.”

“Ya ya, we get tha point, babe. Yer a bloody star when it comes t’ softball. I know, I know. Wish I coulda seen ya play, woulda been fun. Ya should join a summer league, they sound like a hoot,” he comments, locating the ball at last back in the woods and landing it in your glove. 

“And I played with my brother all of the time, and he was M.V.P two years in a row on his high school baseball team.”

“Good fer him, maybe he should be out here playin’ with you, instead,” Harry says when your throw to him sails over his head. “God, can ya control that arm o’ yers fer once?”

“Sorry!” you laugh, knowing that he doesn’t believe it for a second. 

“Sure ya are.” 

The ball arrives in your mitt with a pleasing whap! and your hand settles over it. Brushing your fingers along the coarse stitches, the shocks of green grass stains on the leather welcome you back to your childhood, tossing around this very same ball with your older brother and father. The nostalgia brings your hand to your pocket, and your fingers soon tap the screen of your phone. 

“C’mon, slow poke! What’re ya waitin’ fer? ‘Fraid ‘ll beat ya afta all?” Harry quips from across the yard, nearing you to retrieve his beer that he sips from. With a pleased ‘ahhhh,’ he sets it down on the gray cinder blocks of the nearby fire pit after walking back, placing enough space between him and it so he doesn’t run into it. 

Sliding your phone back into your pocket, music soon pours from the large bluetooth speaker in between you against the garage. 

“‘s this just fantasy? Caught inn’a landslide, no escape from realityyyyyy. Open yer eyes, look up t’ tha skies, and seeeeee,” Harry sings loudly, pumping his arms down at his sides and closing his eyes adamantly. “‘m just a poor boy, I need no sympathy. Because ‘m easy come, easy go, li’l high, li’l low.” 

“Any way the wind blows, doesn’t really matter to meeeeee,” you sing back, savoring the large smile painting his face as he catches your throw with ease. 

“Toooo meeee,” he sings back. “Mamaaaaaa just killed a man, put a gun against his head. Pulled my trigger, now’s he dead. Mamaaaaa, life had just begunnnn. But now ‘ve gone and thrown it all awayyyyy,” he sings to the baby blue skies dotted with clouds, adamantly strumming an invisible guitar. He echoes your laugh that flies between the two of you, joining the robins and starlings flitting between the trees. “Knew I picked a good one, she’s got a good arm and a bloody good taste in music. Ya betta play Take On Me next, or all bets are off.”

“Oh, you know that I will. It feels like an eighties night, playing catch in the backyard during the summer. It’s just like when I was little,” you note aloud, jogging to the right to catch his next throw until it falls into your glove. 

“‘Bout tha same fer me, just with footy, think this ‘s how ‘d like t’ spend my summers still . . I loved it so much, playin’ in tha backyard listenin’ t’ tha radio, and think my kids would too,” he says casually, sparking a blush in your cheeks at the mention of him as a father. Oh, what you would do to be able to see him playing catch with a little dark-haired boy or girl who calls him ‘Daddy.’ 

Fuck me, you think hastily. 

Quickly, your shared favorite part of the song comes and he imitates the guitar shredding while you repeatedly toss the ball into your mitt, watching him. 

“But eva since I watched Wayne’s World as a kid, I can’t avoid bangin’ my head when it gets t’ this part,” Harry chuckles, tossing a pop fly towards the overhang of tree branches. “I love tha trees here, ya know, ‘ve neva seen so many.” 

“Me too, I love that part in the movie, and I love them too. It’s crazy to think how long they’ve been around to get this big. Some of them were as tall as I am now when I was little.”

“Huh,” he hums curiously, shooting into the air to grab a high one you tried to trick him with. Your eyes can’t help but wander to his dark fern tattoos that peek out when his shirt rises. “Ya think I should keep it still, or get rid o’ it?” Harry poses to you, puckering his lips at you with a mischievous grin. 

“You almost remind me of Freddie Mercury with that ‘stache,” you say, the laugh growing from somewhere deep inside of you. He shrugs his shoulders and tosses a fast one back to you, hitting your glove square in the center with a heavy slap! 

“Dunno why ya think that’s such a good joke, ‘s a damn compliment, if ya ask me.” 

“Uh oh, are we getting a big head over there because you’ve caught my last three throws?” you joke, watching the ball soar high into the air amongst the green covering of the trees. 

“Hey, be easy on me,” he pouts, his words disagreeing with his actions that send a hot fastball into your palm. 

“Why? You’re never easy on me when we play Mario Kart or Cribbage.” 

“Hey! You don’t have a bleedin’ nearly professional career in any o’ those!” he protests and then curses when your curveball nicks the tip of his glove. 

“So, and neither do you, and you’re still aggressive as fuck when we play them! Huh, what’s your excuse, Harry?” 

“Galileo!” he calls out. 

“Galileo!” you echo, and the rest follow suit between the two of you as the song plays. 

“‘m just a poor boyyyyy, nobody loves me,” he sings loudly, causing you to cough on your drink that you take a swig from. 

“Keep telling yourself that,” you shoot back, setting down the wet can as he approaches you. 

“But I am,” he whines, pushing out his bottom lip that you flick with your finger. 

“Watch it!” 

“Or what?” you counter, savoring the annoyed expression that soon fills his features. There’s just something about pushing his buttons that gets you going, even though you know that you shouldn’t do it. 

“Or else I won’t bloody learn tha rest o’ Blackbird on guitar fer you,” he retorts playfully, taking a long pull from his bottle. 

Now, it’s your turn to shout ‘hey!’ until he scoops you into his arms, your surprised shriek piercing the sky. 

“You better finish learning it! But, I think that I like Freddie better.”

“How? Paul ‘s far betta. ‘ll always love Queen, and The Beatles don’t have anythin’ on Bohemian Rhapsody, but Paul ‘s tha betta musician. Trust me, I should know,” he disagrees, pecking your temple before pulling away and tossing the ball into your waiting glove. 

“But, Freddie had a four octave range.”

“And? So does Paul,” Harry shrugs, raising his left arm in the air to snag your fastpitch that he almost loses. “Paul McCartney ‘s tha superior musician, just trust me on this.” 

“Paul McCartney has nothing on Freddie Mercury,” a voice pipes up, turning the both of your heads to the right where you find your dad stepping out of the garage with a weathered black baseball glove snug upon his right hand. 

You swear that you could hear Harry’s apprehensive gulp from all of the way over here, and when you look, you find his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“But Paul was betta on guitar, bass, and drums,” Harry argues, nervously tossing the ball into his glove repeatedly. 

Your dad closes the door behind him softly, and steps out on the grass, adjusting his glasses. Surprise is absent from your range of emotions when your dad shrugs his shoulders, but you’re sure that it coats Harry’s insides in the next few moments. 

“You’re right there, I like somebody who can stand up for their argument,” he comments, nodding a head towards Harry who out of the corner of your eye is smiling, just the slightest. “I think I might like this one,” he says to you, holding out his glove towards Harry, with his lips curling into his cheeks. 

The smile on your boyfriend’s face almost matches that of your father’s, but he’s got nothing on the grin plastered across Harry’s face because of your next words.