#commitment lost

"Ariana," Hannah whines loudly. Ariana giggles at her friend's inebriated state, helping Hannah tug her skirt down her thighs so she isn't flashing the entirety of the club once they step out from the bathroom—the bathroom that was currently being banged on by another slew of drunk girls.

"One second!" Ariana yells over the loud music and Hannah's uncontrollable giggles. "Hannah, go wash up, I need to dance. I love this song!" She is rushing to smudge her lipstick into more blended lines around her cupid's bow, putting her free hand up in the air and shuffling around the sticky tile of the bathroom, singing along to a rap song she could barely hear over the blinding bass.

By the time they are stumbling out of the bright bathroom and back into the dark, multicolored dance floor, the girls waiting are about ready to kill them. With drunken apologies flying from Ariana's mouth and Hannah trudging behind with her body parts flailing around messily to the beat of the song, they seem like a giant mess. "Need to find Niall and friends," Hannah has to yell over the music. "I wanna order food! They have food here, right?"

Ariana shrugs as she peeks at her friend over her shoulder, pulling the top of her black, strapless dress up. A baby pink bow sat right at her cleavage, the same color creating a lacy hem on the short dress—so short, if Ariana moves wrong she'll be wearing a strapless top and a lacy red thong as an outfit.

Finding their friends at a booth, Ariana stumbles over to them and presses the palms of her hands against the table to stabilize herself. "We're back!" She sings happily, though frowns when she notices her seat across from the birthday boy is occupied by a figure who wasn't there when they left.

Her eyes follow up from his low-waisted, tight dress pants—they are a color other than black, but in the lighting, she can't figure out what color—to his black silk dress shirt that is unbuttoned almost halfway down his chest and exposing dark ink across his hard muscles. When she gets to his face, she swears she must be way drunker than she thinks. He's gorgeous.

He has hard-set features—straight eyebrows, raspberry lips drawn in an intimidating line, and bright eyes that seem to catch every detail of his surroundings. "Hi, I'm Ariana," she greets happily, holding out her hand for him to shake; a bit too formal for their setting, but she thinks it is a good idea for such a strict-looking, gorgeous man.

He cracks a smile at her gesture, though takes her small hand in his rough, calloused one until he envelops it in a warm sensation that makes her giddy. "Harry—I work with Niall," he nods to his friend, who grins happily and very drunkenly at the mention of his name.

"Cool! You work at the autobody shop?" Ariana's doe brown eyes widen in surprise, her long chestnut-colored hair straightened to perfection with wisps of bangs falling over her smokey-eyed expression. Her hair is flat and shimmering in the light, her black eyeshadow so perfectly dark it makes her look like she is straight out of a 'bad girl gone wild!' magazine from two decades ago.

He can't think straight with her looking at him, her eyes hooded and pulling him in like a siren—does she know her effect?

"Yeah," his large ring-covered hand grips a lowball glass as she smiles at him. Her eyes are intense like she is soaking in every word he's saying.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, it's weird I don't see you around more." She laughs gently, her nose scrunching up at her words. Her words are slightly slurred from the alcohol coursing through her veins, her eyes glazed over as she looks up at the beautiful man. "Niall, your coworker is so cool!" She squeals, bouncing over to her best friend with wide eyes.

Niall, possibly more drunk than Ariana (she isn't sure how that was possible, but it's his birthday—who is she to judge!) starts laughing. "He thinks you're crazy," Niall giggles, pointing at Harry. Ariana scoffs loudly, shaking her head vigorously and taking the bright-colored drink from in front of him for a sip. "You think she's crazy, right?"

Harry shrugs, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp; he probably got the memo that he has to be much more wasted to find the humor in their sentences. "Niall, I love this song!" Hannah interrupts, tugging on his black t-shirt with pleading eyes. "We have to dance, it's so good."

Ariana raises her eyebrows; years of Hannah pining over her friend finally wore off at this moment. Niall quickly hops up to follow her, Hannah disappearing into a sea of dancing bodies and leaving Ariana alone with the quiet, brooding man. He already has another drink in his hand, a waiter just leaving with an empty tray as Ariana decides to sit across from him and not follow the lovebirds on their dancing quest.

He turns back to her, his eyes hazy as they sweep over her figure. She blinks at him with wide eyes, her head spinning and blurring her surroundings. The colored lights from the strobes above her are creating streaks in her vision as she focuses all her attention on Harry's eyes, which seem to be glinting dangerously. "You think he's gonna seal the deal tonight?" Harry gestures to where Niall and Hannah are gyrating on the dance floor, her head thrown back and his hands all over her stomach and chest.

"No doubt," Ariana laughs. "I've been third wheeling for years." She rolls her eyes, her fingers drawing a circle around the rim of the glass she had abandoned before venturing to the bathroom with Hannah. "I mean, they're halfway there," she giggles, turning to Harry with bright eyes, her hair floating back into place after twisting her head a few times.

His eyes drink up her appearance like he is dying of thirst, his expression dark and carefree of his bluntness. "He's fuckin' wild, though, huh?" Harry laughs gently, looking over to where Niall has his head thrown back, a liquor bottle being poured into his mouth by a group of unfamiliar people. Ariana bubbles out a laugh in Niall's direction with a shake of her head.

"Oh mon Dieu," Ariana giggles, turning back to Harry, who seems to perk up at the different language that spews out of her drunken mouth.

The liquor seems to relax his tense muscles a bit, his fingers tapping along to the beat on the tabletop. "You know French?" He seems surprised. Though his speech is slurred and the blood running through his veins feels thicker than honey, he knows just by the utterance of a common French saying falling from her temptress-slicken lips he is in much deeper than he thought.

Ariana seems to enjoy this change of conversation. "I'm from France! It's a little village a bit from Paris, so I grew up with lots of French." She is practically bursting at the seams to spill more information from her childhood.

Harry raises his eyebrows. "Was it your native language?" He downs the rest of his drink as he awaits her response, the lights of the club flashing behind her now becoming a welcome addition to the little nook they created rather than a hindrance.

"Yes, I love speaking French. Sometimes I don't have the right English words and I feel so stupid," she rolls her eyes in annoyance at the upsetting quirk of her personality. Harry tilts his head patiently, his eyes roaming her tanned face as the words for his next sentence form on his tongue.

"Well, I speak French. And I don't think you're stupid in English, either."

Ariana feels stunned for a moment. Everyone thought she was dumb. Even when Hannah first met Ariana, she admitted she had thought Ariana was a bit slower than others due to her quiet and uncertain speech, or the mispronunciation of common words. Ariana mainly keeps the bilingual argument to herself, though. It feels like a cop-out—she's been learning two languages since she was born, so why is she so abhorrent in both?

But wait... did Harry say he speaks French?

"Tu parles français?" [You speak French?] Ariana gasps in surprise. "Oh mon dieu, je t'aime!" [Oh my God, I love you!] Harry cracks a smile at her overreaction, shaking his head to rid his cheeks of the apple hue beginning to spread.

"Juste ce qu'il faut pour m'en sortir, c'est ma deuxième langue." [Just what I need to get by, it's my second language.] He explains feverishly, gesturing with his fingers to emphasize how horrible he is at the language; though Ariana is barely listening as she hops down from the tall seat across from Harry and onto her platform heels as she rushes to sit on the booth beside him, tilting her head up to stare into his glossy eyes with hearts in hers.

She grabs his forearm with both of her manicured hands, squeezing the heavily tattooed skin playfully as she beams from ear to ear. "I can understand you perfectly. I'm so happy I met someone who reminds me of home!" She squeals. "Are you from France? You can't be, right? You have that British accent," she is speaking so fast that Harry can barely get a word in as he struggles to keep up with her slurred babbling.

His arm feels like it is being held between two burning pokers that are leaving red hot welts most deliciously. He craves the smoldering heat from her soft fingertips, wondering if she'd leave a wake of soft, fluttering burns if her hands traveled further up his bicep.

He is staring intensely at the little tattoos that litter the hand sitting atop his heavily inked arm—hers are much more delicate, almost performing as permanent rings and garnishes to her blemish-less figure. She is utterly beautiful.

"I'm from London, but I learned French young. My mother thought it was important to raise bilingual children," he explains candidly. "English comes naturally to me, but I'll happily switch to French for you. Though I'm sure you're just as intelligent in both."

Ariana's heart pounds so hard against her chest that it seems to scare the butterflies in her stomach down further south. "Well, let me ask something in French then. But the deal is you have to promise to agree to it," she pouts in faux seriousness as she holds her pinky finger between them, her face just inches away from his. She swears if she concentrates hard enough, she's able to feel the vibration of his heartbeat against her body.

"I haven't heard what the question is yet, jolie fille." [pretty girl] He rolls his eyes, but the nickname has her swooning. Why hasn't Niall introduced her to him sooner? He is everything she is looking for, but the French alone should have nudged Niall along with its invisible string binding the two of them together.

"Promets juste," [Just promise] she insists, jabbing his chest with her pinky finger. He relents at her jabbing with a half-hearted raise of his finger to interlock them. She grins happily at his compliance before leaning even closer to him. Close enough for the sandalwood of his cologne to flood through her nostrils and the floral symphonies of her perfume to cascade down his throat that tastes like the freshest water. "Danseras-tu avec moi?" [Will you dance with me?]

Harry tilts her chin up so she isn't hiding from his intense gaze. "I heard Parisians know how to party," he hums. Ariana immediately flushes a darkened red, shuffling carefully so her heels touch the ground of the sticky bar. Her hand slips into his in a reassurance he won't lose her in the crowd of people, squeezing it tightly as she struggles to push her way through the masses.

Harry notices her difficulty and leans down to talk just loud enough in her ear. "Let me lead, you're too delicate." He explains, his calloused, grease-stained hand tugging her back into his body as he struggles to slither around her and gain the lead.

Ariana pouts momentarily, her inflated ego becoming overstuffed with the last cocktail she drank. One stern look from Harry shut her up, though, warning her not to test him on something so minuscule. So she grumpily trudges behind him, using his large body as a forcefield against flailing limbs and handsy men.

He stops in a spacious spot amidst all the club-goers, turning to face her once more. He seems excited, though that expression was masked behind a faux disinterested demeanor. "Do I get that dance now?" Ariana is yelling over the loud bass—this spot is no place to have a conversation, the sentiment proving its point with the grinding and gyrating happening no more than three feet away from her.

Harry doesn't respond in words, only in a tug to her hips. A similar tug pulls at the nerve endings in her body, shooting off ripples of nervous excitement in her belly. This is not how she thought her night would go, but she is most definitely not one to judge at the turn of events.

They fall into a rhythm quickly, her hands dragging down his collared shirt, his fingers gripping the sides of her mini dress tightly as they sway their hips in unison. A heavy Latino beat pounds against the back of her head as she unabashedly sings along, her chin tilted towards Harry's face to see his look of amusement.

His hands never fall below the hem of her panties sitting at her hip, though she knows with how tight he is gripping her he can feel the lace outline through the flimsy fabric of her mini dress. He seemed to control himself much better than the boys she had danced with other nights—those boys would now have pushed their junk against her back or tummy in a not-so-subtle suggestion to follow them somewhere more private. Harry, though, is much more civil.

It is clear their intentions with their hooded, lustful gazes and the way her hands climb up to his neck to play with the small curls sitting at the nape. The fire in her belly burns hotter and hotter the longer they dance, she is sure he can feel the heat coming off her skin. She needs him badly, and based on the slight drop in his jaw and the more noticeable pants he was sucking in, he needs her just as much.

"Harry," she calls over the music. "Embrasse-moi!" [Kiss me!]

She thanks Hannah for forcing her to wear the tallest heels she owns tonight, making the distance between their lips much shorter. It takes him a moment to process her loud, brazen French message, but as soon as it clicks in his inebriated mind, he lunges forward.

They are no longer swaying to the music. Instead, their lips are locked and eyes are closed, his hands sliding to her ribs, then to her stomach, then back to her hips in a soothing, gentle motion as their mouths clashed dangerously. She is holding his shoulders like a lifeline, the sweaty fabric of his halfway unbuttoned dress shirt bundled in between her manicured fingers as she kisses him as passionately as she can.

The moment sent shivers down her spine, her brain barely able to process what she had accomplished before she was yanked backward.

She gasps loudly, her hands desperately grabbing at Harry's forearms as he struggles to catch her. A loud, piercing voice interrupts the moment, not leaving Ariana questioning who pulled her away from Harry for long.

"I wanna go home! I'm tired!" Hannah whines just as Harry tugs her back into his warm, hard chest. A chest she wants to lay her head on, attached to a man she wants to kiss for hours.

And just like that, a wet blanket is thrown atop the most magical, glittering moment of the distant past and (most likely) future.

"Hannah, you startled me," Ariana laughs nervously, looking up at Harry with an apologetic glance. He just shrugs nonchalantly, as if he wasn't bothered by the interruption or the mention of her leaving. "Did something happen?"

"No! I just wanna go!" Ariana knows the mood Hannah has fallen into. The 'if I'm not having fun, no one is' mood immediately shuts down any further plans. She sometimes feels like a mother to her drunk friend, wanting to scream, I want to have fun, too! But never does. She simply wipes the beads of spilled drink from her friend's small shirt and flashes a fake smile.

"We can go, I'll follow you," Ariana speaks as gently as she can while maintaining her stern demeanor, the motherly facade fading when she turns back to Harry. "Je suis désolé, est-ce que je te verrai bientôt?" [I'm sorry, will I see you soon?] She sounds desperate as she asks a question she already knows the answer to. No, I will not see you soon. Probably never, is the answer she knows is on the tip of his tongue.

"Bien sûr," he replies simply. "Of course," he then repeats in English. "I'll be searching for you, Ariana." He flashes a cheeky grin at her, though she notices he isn't following her out of the crowd of people—instead diving deeper towards the crowded bar.

A salty twang of hurt smashes against her heart. Maybe he'd find another girl tonight, a girl whose friend doesn't interrupt their steamy makeout, a girl he'd remember much more prominently than her.

—

"God, I don't like that boy. He seems sketchy," Hannah is already teetering on the line of flat-out drunk while they get ready to hit another club the next weekend. "Like, he just appears out of nowhere. Niall never talks about work—he definitely would've mentioned someone that hot to us."

Ariana stifles an eye roll as she paints on a silvery chrome across her cheekbones, sipping a poorly mixed drink out of a cheap, gray plastic cup with melted edges from the dishwasher. "He was nice. And he spoke French, it was so nice to speak to someone in French." Ariana is practically swooning all over again at the topic of her brief lover. A man who probably has forgotten her by now, but has been swimming around the front of her mind all week.

"I can find you someone way less sketchy who speaks French, I promise." Hannah turns to look at Ariana over her shoulder, one eye closed with eyeshadow painted messily on the lid. Her eyebrows are raised, waiting for a nod of confirmation from Ariana. She gives the reassurance reluctantly, biting her tongue.

I don't want another one, I want him, she wants to argue. Though, she knows arguing with Hannah would just lead her in circles. So, she keeps her mouth shut. She stays quiet and malleable, always listening and observing. She swears if someone were to look in her mind, they would see an overflowing basket of sentences and phrases never uttered—books of words she can't get out of her mouth.

Ariana returns to her drink and straightening her long hair, humming along to the loud music playing from the speaker sitting between the both of them. They are in Ariana's tiny one bedroom apartment, Hannah in front of the mirror with her legs crossed and Ariana at her vanity. The walls hang frames of old, feminist newspaper articles from her hometown and her bedding is the softest hue of beige with plants hanging from every shelf.

She loves her apartment despite Hannah's complaint about the size and the location. It is all Ariana can afford at the moment, balancing a full-time education at a New York City school and a part-time job as a commissioned artist. Hannah never knew financial hardship, something Ariana is equal parts grateful and peeved over. Hannah pays for their drinks, drags her to fancy restaurants, and buys her expensive gifts; but Hannah also demeans her simple living.

Hannah is the first friend Ariana made in middle school when Ariana moved across the country with half an English vocabulary and no family. In some ways, Ariana owes her life to Hannah. She picked Ariana up, dusted her off, and pushed her to be successful in America. That is all Ariana could have wished for, right?

The rest of the time is quiet. Ariana hums along to the songs playing in the background as she puckers her lips to get the perfect shade of rouge blended, finding peace in the silence of her mind at this moment.

She knows the topic of matchmaking with Hannah isn't over, and is sure her friend won't let up until she is on a date with a wealthy, overbearing man Hannah is family friends with. Ariana knows the sentiment is kind, but she has her eyes set on Harry—she knows that it is a dumb, childish crush that will never amount to anything, but she can't stop thinking about him.

She can't remember the last time she had such feelings towards another person, so this has to mean something.

—

"Hannah, I can't find my ID, give me a second—" Ariana fought back Hannah's hand, which was currently tugging her into the club while the bouncer was holding her back.

"I'll meet you inside, then," Hannah, who is tipsy and a bit angry tonight, drops their hands in annoyance at the minor inconvenience and disappears through the dark entrance. Perfect, Ariana thinks angrily. It is just like Hannah to leave her alone at the edge of a sleazy club surrounded by preying men.

It takes her a few moments to find her wallet which holds her ID due to her blurred vision and clumsy hands, getting frustrated at her lack of orientation.

"Need help?"

The voice is familiar and booming, her chin shooting up and towards the direction of the noise. Just as she suspects, it is Harry. Harry, who she has been dreaming of all week. Harry, who she drunkenly made out with before being dragged off. Harry, who speaks French and speaks of her so highly.

"Oh my gosh, hi, Harry," she gushes happily, abandoning her search to look up into the same eyes she got lost in last weekend at this very club. This can't be a coincidence, right? "I can't find my wallet, but I know it's in here. Stupide, I know," she laughs softly, tucking the long wave of hair behind her ear.

"Let me have a go. Not stupide, this bag is a maze." Harry peers inside her messy purse—there are at least three lip glosses, five receipts, an inhaler she never needs nor used, and stray pieces of gum. He takes it from her, finding it much quicker than Ariana could before handing both her belongings back to her.

"Lifesaver," she jokes, handing the bouncer her ID with Harry following suit. He seems more than displeased at the hold up in the line, glaring at her over the piece of plastic begrudgingly.

"Cover pay is twenty for her, ten for you," he nods at Ariana like she is an afterthought.

"Twenty? What the hell, man?" Harry scoffs loudly. Ariana's heart drops—she only has a ten, and half the time they don't even ask for a cover pay. She'd have to go home, right? Or, at least to another club. But that left Hannah alone, and she knows she can't do that despite how mad she is at her friend.

Before she knew it, Harry was shoving bills in the man's face and pushing her through the door of the club, just forcefully enough to show the bouncer his displeasure. "Hey, you can't pay for me—" she protests, a frown on her lips as she looks behind her at Harry.

"Shh, who gives a fuck?" Harry interrupts. "Where's your friend? You shouldn't come here alone, that's dangerous." He slides the strap of her bag over her shoulder carefully, making sure the contents won't spill out with her mindless flailing and crowds of grabby people.

Ariana rolls her eyes at the mention of Hannah. "She's somewhere around here," Ariana says nonchalantly. "Are you here alone?" She turns to look up at Harry, who appears to be sober. His pupils aren't dilated, his eyes are hard and set on her figure with an air of concern.

"No, that'd be sad. I'm here with some friends from the shop," Harry laughs. "Let's find Hannah, then we can find my friends, yeah?" He proposes, gesturing to her to follow him through the large, hot crowds of people.

Some nights when she gets drunk, she becomes overstimulated and annoyed at everything. She'd tear at her hair if a specific wisp kept falling in her face or find something wrong in every mixed drink she sipped. She'd spend a half hour in the dingy bathroom smudging her makeup because she hated her appearance, and found Hannah's voice to be annoying.

She is hoping tonight won't be one of those nights, but when she sees Hannah hanging off a disinterested Niall at a booth, she is already peeved. "Um, what if we get a drink first?" Ariana suggests, stopping short and forcing Harry to turn around and look at her, or else he'd lose her amidst the dancing bodies.

"Sounds good," he hums. "But you already seem kinda out of it—"

"I need more!" Ariana interrupts hastily, grabbing his hand and leading him towards the bar. She knows she isn't going to enjoy tonight's festivities, so why not get through it being completely shitfaced? It seems much better than slugging through Hannah's annoying voice and flirty attitude with her only other friend sober.

Harry doesn't seem to stop her. He lets her lead him to the bar as she loudly yells for a vodka cran, tapping her fingers against the table with Harry's hard chest protectively behind her. "Are you getting anything?" She asks, craning her neck behind her. Harry shakes his head, looking around the bar curiously as if to avoid eye contact with her. She furrows her brow but doesn't call him out on the action.

Harry's eyes wander the loud area. He sees a plethora of young couples buried in each other's gazes as they sway along to the music that is much less fitting to their circumstances. The beat is pounding against his skull, his hand resting protectively on Ariana's shoulder as she leans across the dark, marbled bar top waiting for her drink.

Her long hair is pushed over her shoulder to show her tanned, toned back in her backless top. It is a dark red with a plunging tight neckline that fans out in lacy ripples like a teddy. It seems to be some sort of lingerie, with see-through mesh and a mauve hue that compliments her olive skin.

There are three delicate, gold necklaces sitting on her décolletage, glimmering in the fluorescent lights of the club with dark wash, low-rise jeans sitting upon her waist and exposing another small set of tattoos on her hip bone. She seems too pristine for such an environment, especially when she turns to face him with her chestnut-doe eyes and bright, red-lipped smile.

He's almost to matching her with a darker red (though not as rich of color as her beautiful garment) dress shirt and black dress pants, his hair a curly mop atop his head with his sleeves rolled up and buttons undone. His eyes are hard and bright, surveying the nightlife with wariness.

When Ariana turns around to face him with two drinks, he raises his eyebrows.

"Got you water! Is that okay?" She asks, her usually wide and curious gaze seemingly dazed from the liquor in her system, though she never loses her bubbly touch.

"Perfect, thank you," he smiles at her, taking both glasses from her hands and nodding for her to follow him through the crowd of people.

She latches onto him by slipping a manicured finger through his belt loop, practically jogging to keep up with his long strides until they reach the quieter portion of the club where their friends are talking and laughing.

"Hey! My two favorite people!" Niall greets happily. Ariana can see Hannah's grin fading at the appearance of Harry, not even bothering to say hello. She can't help but feel a stab of disgust—why does Hannah have to be so picky about her friends? There were countless times Ariana had to drop friends because of Hannah's attitude around them. There were also countless times when Ariana wondered if Hannah's friendship was worth it.

But every time, Ariana reminds herself of the young, frail, French-speaking girl who stepped into a bustling American middle school with no friends and no American education. And every time, Ariana reminds herself of Hannah, who was there for her. She owes a lot to Hannah, she can't just walk away.

Harry got swept away with his coworkers, barely glancing at her during his lively conversations. Ariana found herself sitting alone, sipping on a drink that was too sweet while Hannah danced the night away with some strangers she got to buy her drinks. She feels like a babysitter, knowing she isn't able to have fun like Hannah without her getting out of hand and needing assistance.

She also knows she had one too many vodka crans, and the world is beginning to spin and her judgment is beginning to fade. So when an unhappy Hannah marches over to the table Ariana is saving for them, the liquid courage coursing through Ariana's veins is enough for a confrontation.

"Why aren't you dancing with us?" Hannah asks hand on her hip and shoulder jutted out.

"Because we always do what you wanna do. I just wanted to go out to eat tonight," Ariana sounded defeated and pathetic; she knows as soon as the sentence slipped from her mouth, it will have Hannah rolling her eyes and scoffing loudly.

This reaction is mainly because Ariana never stood up to Hannah. She is her quiet wingwoman, backing everything she says with silent support.

"Well, I wanted to go to the club! And you look like a miserable fucking puppy in the corner while I'm having fun," Hannah throws her arms up in dismay, and Ariana backs up a bit. She doesn't want to argue with Hannah, she doesn't want to argue with anyone. Especially because she never found the right words to say in English. Her comebacks are usually slow and childish, making her feel worse about herself.

"I feel like I'm just here to enhance your life, Hannah. Sometimes, maybe, you should compromise—"

"Since when do you hate my life? I pay for yours!" Hannah yells, and Ariana sees red. Ariana never asks for money, never asks for free drinks or free tickets to museums. Ariana could live without Hannah's money, but now she sees clearly. Hannah paid for her things, played with her like a doll, and discarded her when she was done.

"You chienne!" [You bitch!] Ariana yells, feeling hands on her shoulders as she stands up from someone behind her, Niall rushing to intervene. "Je pensais que tu étais mon ami, pas une pute manipulatrice." [I thought you were my friend, not a manipulative whore.] Ariana spits, knowing Hannah could never understand the venom of her words, but at that moment she can't bother translating. It is probably better—she knows she will regret such evil words in the morning.

Hannah starts to laugh. "Remember when I picked you up from the dirt in middle school? Yeah? You sound just as stupid now as you did then."

Tears prick Ariana's eyes as she slumps into the unknown person's chest. She knows exactly who it is, though, when a French voice whispers in her ear, telling her "Let's go" and "Take my jacket".

It is Harry, his eyes not on hers but on Niall's as they speak fast and quietly; she can't understand them over the loud ringing in her ears and Hannah's taunting laugh. They fought before, but nothing like this. Not where Hannah called her stupid or gave her the cold treatment she usually gives ex-boyfriends.

"I thought she was my friend," Ariana pouts with a watery voice as Harry tries to talk to her about their next steps. She isn't listening—she is hysterical and had too much to drink and felt like fainting. She feels like shit, and she knows tomorrow morning she'll be the one apologizing to Hannah, begging for their friendship back.

"—I'm gonna drive you home and Niall's gonna deal with Hannah—" is all she caught from his explanation as she looks over his shoulder to where Niall has Hannah propped up with an arm around her waist. It makes her angry; how come Hannah gets Niall? They are all supposed to be friends, but somehow she is always the odd one out. Wherever she is, she is always the odd one out.

"Ariana, écouter," [Ariana, listen] Harry hisses, snapping Ariana back into reality. "I'm taking you home, okay? Please take my coat, you look freezing." He nudges the suit jacket she didn't notice he was wearing until now—he must've been holding it.

She drapes it over her shoulders silently, feeling like a naughty child being disciplined as he leads her through the club, his back tense and his finger hooked in hers like he is trying to have as little contact with her as possible. "Je suis désolé," [I'm sorry] she murmurs as they wait for the valet to pull the car around, the coat wrapped around her cold body as tightly as possible.

Harry's eyes soften as he looks down at her. "No you're not," he cracks a smile. "She deserved it. And calling her a manipulative whore? Genius,"

Ariana's muscles pull into a smile. His smile is contagious. "She didn't have to call me stupid, though. Seemed a bit unnecessary," Ariana inches closer to his warmth just as his sleek, black Mercedes pulls up. Of course, he drives a C-Class with the windows professionally tinted. Of course. She forgot he has a niche interest in cars, just like Niall.

"Need help getting in?" Harry raises his eyebrows, looking down at her red heels that match her top and the height of the car she will have to climb into.

She scoffs at his suggestion. "No," she says confidently, sauntering up to the car and using the handrest as leverage. Harry is hovering behind her, much to her annoyance. She can do it on her own.

As she grips the handle and tries lurching herself forward, she realizes she might have been a bit overzealous. Her world is spinning, her legs turning to jelly. Luckily, Harry is right behind to catch and help her into the car, his hands burning holes in the fabric of her denim as he lifts her from her hips.

When she is tucked safely in, seat belt clipped and suit jacket draped over her like a blanket, he closes the door and makes his way to the other side. He is quiet as he gets in and starts the car, not wanting to disturb her as she stares dully out the window. Her eyes are open, that much he can tell. And he knows she is thinking hard by the way her hands are curling into the fabric of his jacket and picking at her nails.

"Qu'est-ce qui préoccupe votre esprit?" [What's on your mind?]

Ariana's head snaps over to him. "You don't have to speak in French for me." She starts quietly. "I'm not dumb,"

Harry's hand grips the steering wheel tighter. It hurts him to know she is so upset by Hannah's petty comment—she is misunderstanding him. He speaks French because he knows she likes French. He speaks quietly because he knows she likes serenity. He takes her side because he knows no one sticks up for her.

"I know you're not dumb," Harry says simply. "But if you wanna talk, I'm here." He doesn't want to push her.

Ariana peers over at him. She has plugged in directions to her apartment on the large screen while he is getting her settled, and now the map is warning him of a stop light ahead. He slows—he hopes to hit every red light in New York City just to spend a few extra moments with her.

"I really like romance novels," she says randomly. "And ice cream. And I love when strangers give you a weird quirk in their head when they notice your accent, or when the TV plays that one commercial where the foster children come back twenty years later to visit their foster parents."

Harry cracks a grin. "I love that commercial, too," he agrees.

"And I love painting. It's just my side job though, I'm studying journalism." She explains, knowing she is babbling complete nonsense and Harry probably isn't listening. "Do you love cars?" She is trying to relate.

He nods. "I love fixing cars and when my hands get all greasy. Sometimes it's a little tiring, though. I wish I didn't have to work such long hours, especially in the winter when the shop's freezing." He explains, eyes trained solely on the road ahead of him.

"That makes sense, Niall always complains that his back hurts." She laughs gently. "And your hands are, like, permanently calloused. I think it feels nice," she takes the hand that was lying on the center console, pushing his fingers outward to trace the years of calluses on his palm and fingers.

Harry snorts. "I've tried every lotion that has ever existed. They're permanently cracked and dry and gross," he groans.

"They're not gross!" Ariana protests childishly. "I like that you have scabbed knuckles and strong arms. Makes people not wanna mess with you. Or with me when I'm with you," she is trying to say he makes her feel safe, but she knows now that was premature. She knows this conversation is premature; Harry doesn't care what she loves, and Harry is being courteous in offering her a ride home after a blowout argument with her shitty friend.

"Well fuck, might as well throw out my lotions, then." He jokes, curling his fingers to catch her tiny hand in his. He locks her soft, ring-covered hand in his, warming up her fingers with the warmth of his rough, huge hand. "But—"

He is interrupted by one of Ariana's confessions.

"I also really like dates. With you," she blurts out, the alcohol coursing through her veins bold enough to spit out what she has been thinking of all week.

Just then, the navigation system chirps that their destination has approached and Harry's car slows down to a stall.

"I think you might be a little drunk, Ari," he reasons, finally able to meet her eyes.

Ariana deflates a bit. "I think so too," she relents. "But I'll see you around?"

Harry nods quietly. "Te vois bientôt, amour," he hums. [See you soon, love]

—

Ariana sighs as she stares out the window of the fast-moving subway. In her lap sits two containers. They are both filled with pasta and marinara—something she cooked up earlier that day.

It is a thank you to Niall and Harry; she knows she shouldn't push her relationship with Harry after last night, but she owes him something. He took care of her, he wiped away her tears, he held her hand, he distracted her from her crumbling friendship.

Even if he doesn't want her.

The doors open at the stop of the repair shop they both work at, a gust of freezing wind whipping through the car and forcing her to wrap her tan, long trench coat tighter around her body. Her hair is tucked into her olive green scarf, though the free wisps of chestnut waves fly around her face.

She holds the containers tight to her body, hoping the heat from her belly will keep the pasta warm as she climbs the stairs of the subway, her sneakers squeaking against the concrete. Luckily, the autobody shop is only across the street from the subway stop she uses that gets off near her college campus so her fingers don't turn frosty on the short, quick, awkward walk-jog she does to the warmth of the dirty, greasy shop.

"Ari! What a cool surprise!" Niall's voice rings out in the echoey, concrete covered building. He jumps up from the workbench, dropping an oil-covered rag to jog over to her.

Her face breaks out in a grin—he isn't angry at her from last night. "Hi, Niall," she greets, letting him scoop her up in a tight, bone-crushing hug. "Oh my God, okay, that's good." She pats his shoulder awkwardly, his laugh becoming infectious as he pulls away.

"Did you make Ariana's famous pasta for us?" He gasps, finally laying eyes on the containers now crushed into her jacket from his hug.

Ariana scans the large, open room for Harry as she stutters through the sentence. "Um, actually, this one is—" she stops short when she sees Harry laughing, open-mouthed and happily, at something a beautiful girl with long, blonde hair said. She is sitting just below him, her knees curled to her chest, her hand resting on his knee as he works on a giant red truck.

Her heart drops. "Can we eat it in the break room?" She asks, her eyes snapping back to Niall's.

She feels so stupid, like most days. Of course, Harry has girls hanging off him at all times. Of course, he'd refuse a date if he had a lineup of desperate girls waiting for just a piece of him. He is young, successful, and handsome—not the recipe for a good long-term relationship.

Maybe it is the Parisian in her, but she craves a relationship. She craves a movie night with cuddles and popcorn and no expectations, she craves fancy dates with good food, she craves peeing with the bathroom door open so she can watch their favorite TV show with no interruptions. It is something she never experienced before, something she wants so badly but never has.

Hannah used to make jokes about how horrible her love life was. How nothing more than a one-night stand ever came out of dates or parties. At first, Ariana laughed it off. She's young, she doesn't need to worry about that yet! But now, now Ariana feels like she's missing something.

She follows Niall into the break room, sitting at an empty table with one of her best friends. "Have you spoken to Hannah?" He asks, opening the container and stabbing at a piece of penne with a plastic fork.

Ariana shakes her head. "I know I should, but I just need some space." She sighs, pushing tomatoes around the meal that was supposed to be Harry's. "Maybe later," Ariana frowns, resting her hand on her jaw and slumping over slightly.

Niall leans forward. "Harry's just like that, Ari. He has such horrible communication skills, don't worry about it." He must have noticed Ariana's longing gaze over in his direction, where Harry seemed to not notice her presence.

She sighs. "I should've known, right? That he was like this?" She asks, her lower lip beginning to wobble despite her stoic, strong demeanor.

"I didn't get to warn you," Niall frowns. "And you're so fuckin' awesome and you love so hard, I should've told you he was a player. I'm sorry,"

Ariana shrugs. "It's fine, just a drunk makeout." She demeans her feelings, shoving her heart back down her throat.

"How do you say I'm sorry in French?" Niall asks, his eyes distant as he chews thoughtfully. And there they are, Niall and Ariana—light-hearted best friends who could spend hours talking about absolutely nothing with no deep conversations or heart-heavy discussions that left her feeling drained. Niall, who knew when to stop prying.

"Je suis désolé,"

"Well, Ari, je suis désolé,"

By the end of the book, when the main characters get a happy sappy ever after, she shuts the book and lies on her bed, staring at the ceiling until the hours turn into a whole night. She calls it her version of Rest and Relaxation, but she knows it is probably a psychological problem she needs to evaluate much deeper.

But recently, the cloud of melancholy has grown so much it envelops her. She trudges to work, trudges to classes, hands in assignments late, and stares numbly out her old window to the beautiful view of the city. It doesn't seem to have the same spark as it did before; like she finally sees what every depressed, corporate New Yorker sees.

Today, on a particularly cold and rainy Sunday, she is on her old couch, curled up with a blanket as she cries. What she is crying for, she doesn't know.

She could be mourning the loss of Hannah, who hasn't returned any of her text messages since the event over a week ago. She could be upset by the unexpected absence of Harry—after all, she thought men like him enjoyed a good chase. She could be homesick, despite not traveling back to France for almost two years.

She can't figure out what has her so down until she finally understands. Everything. Everything has her upset and overwhelmed.

Knowing she has to wake up each morning with her heart full of unrequited love, aching heavily in her chest and weighing her down. Knowing she cares too deeply for the man across from her on the subway who seems to live there, his arms crossed as he tries (and fails) to get comfortable for a fitful bout of sleep. Knowing she has never felt the same amount of love she gives to others. No one ever thinks about how her day must have been as they lay awake at night, no one picks up a magazine off the stand at a convenience store simply because it reminds them of her.

But complaining about being too caring doesn't feel right. So she doesn't tell Niall, despite his prodding at her upset resting face at brunch the morning before.

"Ari," he pokes her with his fork. "You know you can tell me anything. I won't tell Hannah or Harry or anyone. It can just sit in my brain like a hen sitting on an egg."

Ariana remembers she shakes her head and laughs, then. "Your brain works in mysterious ways, Ni," she deflects his previous comment.

She could've told Niall her woes; in fact, she's unsure why she didn't. He wouldn't have judged her, she knew that. She's spent a fair amount of nights crying in Hannah and Niall's arms after getting ghosted by a man she swore was different—or the time her family canceled her flight home, explaining they needed the money to focus on the kids. The kids were the children her parents had together after she moved across the country.

Nevertheless, it has come to her attention that she is too emotional. From now on, she dedicates one woeful day to just herself, and the other six are complete with cheery smiles and bright eyes.

A loud, unwelcome knock on her apartment door, though, disrupts her misery.

It is sharp and short, though it repeats itself when she doesn't get up promptly. She curses to herself, blinking tears from her eyes and scrubbing her red cheeks as she makes her way to the front door.

Whipping it open blindly, she is met with sleek, black boots. Her head snaps up in confusion, her eyebrows furrowing when she sees who is at her front door, her hair slightly drooping and wet from the rain, white dress shirt sticking to a tattoo-clad figure.

"Sorry for no notice. Just figured I haven't seen you in a while and you weren't at BAR last night."

BAR, conveniently named, happens to be the club she keeps bumping into him at. BAR is the place she rightfully avoids now, knowing Hannah is probably occupying a table.

"So you... came to my house?" Ariana squints up at him, noticing his eyes already searching hers. His brows begin to furrow as she guesses he realizes she's been crying. "Well, I'm alive. Thanks for the wellness check, Harry." She figures a harsh bite of humor will hopefully stop Harry from whatever pity-filled question he would ask in regards to her crying. She leans against her door frame, suddenly aware of how little she is wearing.

Her sleep shorts consisted of women's boxers—a heather gray cotton fabric that could barely be classified as shorts, and her hoodie had the neckline cut off, exposing her braless shoulder. Her hair is woven into a thick braid that falls down her back, her bare face beginning to swell from the hours of drowning in her misery.

"Barely, it looks like," he cracks a smile. "Mind if I come in? I brought party favors," he holds up a bottle of red wine she hadn't noticed he was holding until now, the glass clinking against his heavy rings.

Ariana tilts her head, intrigued. "Why?"

Harry rocks back and forth on his feet. "Because a pretty girl like you shouldn't be upset on God's rest day. It's supposed to be a day of recharging," he explains, scratching the back of his head. It appears Harry has a very dry sense of humor; the kind where she can't tell if he is making a joke or being dead serious.

Ariana knows she shouldn't invite him in. She knows their priorities are different, knows she will read into every word he says and fully believe it. And Harry, well, is a flirt. A massive, beautiful flirt who probably has used that line on many women before her, and will on many women after her.

But she steps aside. "Only because red wine's my favorite," she justifies.

A half hour later, she is sitting across from him at her shitty dinner table, pouring both of them a third glass of wine while babbling about nothing of importance. When did you move to New York? Do you like it here?

"Why'd you come here? I'm sure you have better things to be doing on a Sunday," Ariana crosses her arms, challenging him. Her vision starts to blur and there seem to be two Harry's if she squints just enough, but the buzz of the wine seems to calm her emotions perfectly. Perfectly enough to begin questioning the odd, mysterious man in front of her.

Harry only matches her stature, leaning back in the rickety wooden chair. "Why were you crying? I'm sure you have better things to be doing on a Sunday," he provokes.

Ariana's fingers tighten on her wine glass. Her breath catches in her throat.

"Parce que, Harry, I think I've won the lottery of shittiest luck." She answers vaguely. "And I think I'm prettiest after I cry. It's my way of relaxing,"

Harry can't help the smile that floats over his face. He wouldn't have even noticed the change of expression if it wasn't for the ache his muscles felt; he doesn't smile genuinely often. It is an odd reaction to such a miserable confession, but it is her confession. She told him something that wasn't common knowledge. That is, after all, what he was trying to get her to do all night—tell him something she wants to say, not pleasantries or boring, overused questions.

"I will say you look beautiful bare-faced. Brings out your eyes," he compliments. "How many more wine do we have?" He stutters through the question after downing the last of his glass and shakily putting it down on the table.

"Many?" Ariana begins to laugh at his horrid grammar.

Harry simply grumbles, waving off his mistake with incoherent mumblings. "I think I have a rosé somewhere—"

"The piss of wines," Harry interrupts boldly, staring at her with a deadpan look.

Ariana gasps dramatically at his statement. "How dare you! It's pink!" She narrows her eyes. "Rosé is joyful. Do you hate joy, Harry?"

Harry scoffs. "Yes, I'm the Big Bad Wolf. I hate joy and also rosé. And this fucking chair—I mean, give my tailbone a break." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, making Ariana giggle softly.

Maybe it is the fact Harry seems to have bought a forty-proof bottle of wine, or the fact she hasn't eaten all day, or the fact she just downed her third glass in a half hour, or the fact they finished the bottle, but Ariana is drunk.

"Well, let's move to the couch, Mr. Big Bad Wolf." She hops up, skipping over to tug on his arm annoyingly so he'd follow her to the overstuffed, very soft couch she bought from a thrift store two years ago.

-

Somehow, she ends up in his arms. His bicep is hooked over her neck loosely, her chin pressed against the muscle and her head resting in his armpit as she lays in one direction and he lays perpendicular to her, trapping her against him. It's not like she wasn't expecting it—their conversations felt like extended foreplay with how much sexual tension sizzled between them—but she was delightfully surprised at how gentle and slow he was being. How caring he is, for talking to her without trying to use her.

She looks up at him, craning her neck to see his bloodshot eyes. "Wanna know a secret?" Ariana asks, her smile disappearing and the playful tone falling off her words beginning to slow.

"Toujours," [Always] Harry replies.

"I've never been in a relationship. But they seem fun, I think I'd have fun in a relationship." Ariana speaks the last bit to herself, furrowing her brow at the indication she might be oversharing with a man she had promised not to get involved with. It slips out before her brain can stop the message, but it sounds pathetic to be telling a man who she just met how lonely she is.

Harry, with the hand that was tucked behind his head as he lounges on the couch, brings it up to brush the stray, feathery bangs of her chestnut hair away from her face delicately. "That's funny," he says after a minute.

Ariana scoffs, sitting up and turning to face him. "Why? Am I not meant for one?" She sounds hurt like the wine had stripped all of her comebacks and left her defenseless against Harry's wrath.

Harry shakes his head, the bottle of rosé he swore he wouldn't drink sitting tucked under his other armpit, almost empty. "You're meant for one. I'm pretty sure any guy in the entirety of New York would kill for a chance with you. I just think it's funny you want one so badly," he explains, never getting up from his lounging spot even if she was now towering over him.

Ariana squints, disregarding his compliments. "What do you have against relationships, Harry? It's cuddling and talking and sharing families and getting a cat—"

"If you think that's what a relationship is, I hate to break your bubble, but it's ninety percent arguing and ten percent crying." He interrupts. "I'm just not a relationship person. I can't handle... being dependent and constantly worrying about them and getting attached." He looks away from her, his hands squeezing the neck of the bottle as they fall into silence for a few moments. "But if you want a relationship, Ari, I'll help you find the best relationship out there."

She climbs closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder now and melting her body into his side. "We're very different people, Harry," she sighs into his neck, the sound reverberating off the walls of Harry's brain as he holds onto her tighter. "Why have a heart if you won't use it?" The question is vague. She wants to say, humans are supposed to love, but that sounds corny. She wants to convince Harry that relationships should hurt and that sitting in the numb feeling of loneliness created by none other than yourself is much worse than a few tears and rocky weeks with someone you love.

Harry looks down at her—she knows he wants her to meet his gaze, but she can't. She's hurt, hurt someone could feel this way about something so magical. "I think you know that answer," his voice is low like they were sharing a secret.

Her breath hitches. Harry Styles is scared.

She finally looks up at him. "We don't have to use our hearts, then. I'm willing to settle," his hand slides to her hips, the tension in the room filling her ears with fluid and making everything hard to hear. She chews on her lip; she wants to taste his, even if she knows nothing will ever come of it. And she knows he wants that too, with the predatory looks he's been giving her all night, the soft touches that turned into pure electricity.

Harry squeezes the plushy part of the skin sitting over her hip bone. "You're too sweet for this, Ariana,"

"No, I'm not, and you can't hurt me, Harry. We're so different, and I want this. Especially because you're..." she trails off, her eyes flicking to his lips as their heads draw closer together. She doesn't feel herself moving, she simply is. Or is Harry getting closer? She can't tell, but she doesn't care.

He smirks. "Finish the sentence," she shakes her head stubbornly. "Finish the sentence or I'll make you finish the sentence."

Ariana's heart drops and her cheeks flush, heat filling her belly as the leg thrown over his tightened against his. "Especially because you're a sculpture that should be in the Louvre. You're so handsome it almost hurts to look at you, and that's not my type. I like ugly guys," she cracks a joke, trying to ease the rocky ocean water settling between her thighs.

Harry pushed her gently onto her back as he opened her legs to climb inside. "Ariana, you're a putain d'ange [fucking angel]. You're just so you, I've never met anyone like you." He is mumbling, and she knows the sentence isn't meant for her, even though it is addressed to her. He is speaking quietly, eyes roaming her body like one would drink in a beautiful piece of art.

She reaches her head up to kiss him; she's never wanted something so bad. Her mouth feels chapped, her body on fire and the only cure is Harry's soft, wine-sodden lips on hers. But he moves back ever so slightly. "Let me show you?"

It comes out as a question, and Harry isn't sure why he said it. Let me show you the good parts of a relationship, is his full sentence. Let me show you what those other boys can't.

Ariana nods eagerly, though pauses. "I don't want to... do everything," she frowns, bracing herself for an explosion. It usually came from one-night stands who realized they wouldn't get lucky. "I'm sorry," she adds quickly.

Harry frowns. "Don't apologize. I could go home right now and still be over the fucking moon." His hand drops from her hip, a smile cracking onto her face almost like he is reassuring her it's okay to speak up for what she wants. He backs up a bit, thinking Ariana is a bit overwhelmed by how close they are.

But she just puts his hand back, shaking her head. "I wanna do some things," she shows him a teasing grin. "With you, specifically. Obviously,"

Harry laughs, cutting himself off by dipping down to kiss her. Their lips move feverishly, their mouths tasting of wine. It is sloppy and quick, forcing Ariana to arch her back into him, her hips involuntarily rutting against his.

After a few minutes of heavy, hot kissing, she figures something out: Harry isn't going to make the first move. He took her wariness as a sign and stayed in her comfort zone. His hands are on her hips, cemented in place, his lips never straying far from hers. So she squeezes her leg around him tighter, half-heartedly grinding against him. No real pleasure comes from that action; it is more of a way to initiate Harry, but he understands.

He grips her hip hard, forcing her against the couch as he starts to grind against the sweet spot in between her thighs. She gasps at the action, her hands going straight to his hair and tugging on the curls as he drops his mouth open and backs up slightly to look at her. When they glimpse at each other, they both unravel the slightest bit more.

His eyes are bloodshot and pleading, hers submissive and filled with want. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyebrows furrowed. He has to look away; it is like looking at the sun. She is so, so beautiful.

"Please let me taste you,"

His voice is raspy and broken, his lips wet with their saliva as he rutted against her for the minimal release it gives the tension tight in his belly.

Ariana nods. "I've never—no one's ever," she stumbles over her words.

Harry shakes his head in disbelief. "You fucked pussies, Ari. Let me show you," the phrase fell from his lips again, almost unwarranted. Let me show you real pleasure. Let me show you how you're supposed to be treated.

Ariana starts to giggle, the sound bouncing around his ribs. "I know. It's a little embarrassing to admit—" She cuts herself off with a high-pitched gasp once she feels his fingers pluck at the hem of her shorts, his eyes trained on hers.

"Is this okay?" He is itching to rip them off, itching to see her tiny cotton boxers in tatters on the floor, a reminder for her once he left of how good he made her feel. How responsive she is. How he notices every goosebump on her skin, every hitch in her breath.

She nods.

When he pulls her boxers down, her hand flies to the one resting on her hip. She laces their fingers together, nervous about how literally naked she is in front of him. He simply let her take his hand, not phased by her nerves.

"Si beau," [So beautiful] he mutters, eyes trained on the apex of her thighs, mouth watering. "You're so beautiful, Ariana." He then raises his eyes to hers, like he wants her to believe it.

She turns red. He simply repeats the sentence.

And then he dives between her thighs, ravishing her. Her head is thrown back, her fingers squeezing his. She tries to lock her legs around his head, the nudging of his tongue becoming overwhelming, but Harry simply pushes them back open with his elbows, eyes closed as he eats her out like he is starving.

She is whining and gasping, a coil in her belly appearing. "Harry, I can't—no one else has ever made me—please, H, ne t'arrête pas." [don't stop] She is babbling, her eyes shutting hard as he digs into her deeper.

When she releases, she swears she touched a star. Her eyes roll back, her fingers grip his hair so tight she is afraid she is hurting him, her legs tensing. He just moans into her, lapping all of her up until she is shaking from oversensitivity and pushing him away.

Only then does he climb up her body, kissing her with her release on his tongue, much gentler than he was before. Only then does he rub circles on her outer thigh, shushing her with soothing French nonsense.

"See? Now you'll never go back to those boys. You've graduated from my masterclass, mademoiselle." [missy] He teases, pushing her hair from her face.

Ariana rolls her eyes, pushing herself to sit up. "I think my legs are jelly," she frowns, trying to lean over and grab her boxers, but failing.

Harry retrieves them for her, even sliding them up her legs and over her stomach. "You really are beautiful, Ari. I didn't just say that in the heat of the moment,"

Her stomach flips. But you don't want a relationship, she reminds herself. You're just a flirt. But flirt or not, she can't get enough of him.

"Well, I really do think you should be in the Louvre," she smiles when he leans down to give her another kiss.

—

Ariana nudges at her eggs, stealthily checking her phone. 10:18 AM. She has an hour and twelve minutes until her class starts, but she knows Hannah will drink up her time greedily.

"—But Kian kept telling me my hair looked brown, and it was pissing me off! Like, as the best-rated hair stylist in the upper west side, he should know not to insult an ashy blonde like that." Hannah rants, throwing her arms up in annoyance as her barely touched avocado toast sits diagonal to her cappuccino.

They decided to talk things out.

Well, Ariana decided to. After Harry left last night (only after Ariana made him promise to get an Uber and collect his car the next morning), she decided to text Hannah. She knows Harry won't be long-term, she knows it will end up in flames, so she needs something constant. Even if the constant is Hannah's complaining and Ariana's internal eye rolls.

Now they are back to normal. "I don't think he was trying to be rude, though," Ariana counters, her mind wandering as she refutes Hannah's statement.

Maybe she should lie, and say her class starts early. Maybe she should cuss Hannah out in French again—it seemed to work the first time. Or maybe, the most likely option, she should sit in silence, trying to parcel out her relationships with dissatisfaction lingering in her mind. Dissatisfaction that she clings onto Hannah, or pretends to be loose and spontaneous with Harry.

Just be malleable, she reminds herself. People like being close to their reflections.

—

The texting started Monday afternoon.

Then fell into Tuesday, which led into Wednesday.

Then, they upgraded to calls.

"I think I'm free tonight. Just come over," Ariana surprises herself with how lenient she is being, inviting Harry over on a weeknight.

"I'll bring pizza. I'm ravenous after fixing cars all day," she can hear his douchey smile.

Ariana gulps. "Sounds good,"

"À bientôt," [See you soon]

Turns out, it was soon.

She is in ratty jeans and a hoodie from painting in her bedroom, her hair tied back messily and her face freshly washed when she answers the door. A smile climbs onto her lips as she invites Harry inside, his sneakers squeaking against the old wooden floor as he steps in.

"It's fucking freezing in here," are his first words to her.

"I have fuzzy blankets," she offers, though turns into his chest when he decides to surprise her with a one-handed greeting hug, the other hovering over her back while balancing a box of pizza.

She returns it with a delighted grin stretched across her cheeks, her head tilted up to meet his eyes. They sparkle like even his irises are excited to see her.

Following her to the living room, he opens the box on the coffee table and leans back on the overstuffed sofa, kicking off his shoes and running a hand through his curls tiredly. "How was your day, amour?" He asks, his head falling back into a beige throw pillow.

Ariana perches herself beside him, leaning over to grab a slice of pizza. Olive—somehow he chose the perfect topping for her without asking or discussing this beforehand. He just seems to know.

"Alright. I'm pretty behind on a few essays, but I hit writer's block." She shrugs, pushing a stray piece of hair that fell from the loose ponytail behind her ear. "Fix any cars today?" She has a teasing lilt in her voice.

Harry smiles. "I did. Can I read one of your papers?" He peers at her laptop, which is haphazardly thrown onto one of the cushions. "Is it gonna be, like, a manifesto of your dark fantasies? Do you write erotica? Holy fuck, is it with a centaur and a mermaid? You freak!" He gasps, speaking so quickly there is no point in Ariana interjecting.

She simply rolls her eyes, smacking his shoulder playfully. "You'd love that, wouldn't you?" Her eyes crinkle in laughter as he nods excessively. "No, it's pretty boring. I don't think you want to read my review of the Titanic. The book, obviously,"

Harry scoffs. "On the contrary. If the writer's this hot, I'd read anything,"

She rolls her eyes once more but picks up her laptop. He moves closer to her, their thighs pressed together. She ignores the fluttering in her belly and his breath on her neck as she types in her password. He is so close, he must know what he's doing. He is touching her, and any touch from Harry lights her up like Central Park during Christmas time.

Then, horror strikes.

Pulled up on her screen in large font is the introduction to a dating profile website.

"Oh my God, Ari! You're on Tinder? You little minx!" Harry gasps dramatically, prying the laptop from her hands before she can snatch it away.

Her cheeks turn red, her hands reaching for the computer in an attempt to snap it shut before he digs deeper. It's not like she has filled anything out yet—she is admittedly horrible at all things related to finding photos of herself or hyping herself up. "I was just thinking of joining. I know dating apps are mostly for hookups, and—"

"—and you have me for that," Harry interrupts, finishing her sentence. "So you actually wanna find a date, yeah? I can help," he looks over at her, smirking knowingly. He knows he has her flustered and a puddle at his feet, but he can't help it. He loves watching the pretty blush bloom over her face and her eyes widen in surprise at his bluntness.

They were opposites, which Harry knew. But if anything, it made him more attracted to her. He wanted to see how far she'd let him push her, the side of her she never let anyone see. He scratched at the surface, but he needed more. He was thirsty.

She nods pliantly. "C'mere. Are your photos linked to your computer? I wanna choose them for you," he rests the laptop on his thighs, letting Ariana tuck herself into his side, eyes trained on the screen curiously.

He clicks upload pictures and expands the screen, perusing through her camera roll. Most photos are of cats she found littering the streets or excerpts from books she found endearing or heart-wrenching. There are a few drunken selfies of her and Hannah and some photos she forced Niall to take for her as well. "Why not that one?" She frowns, and Harry stops scrolling.

It is a picture of her and Hannah grinning widely outside the club they were waiting to get into, Ariana's mini dress high up her thighs, her head resting on Hannah's shoulder with one foot on the brick wall behind her.

"Is that the night I met you?" He asks, noticing the same black dress with a pink bow, the same stick-straight hairstyle with smokey eyeliner. She nods absently, looking up at him for his approval. "You're so pretty. This can be, like, the fourth picture, though. You don't want Hannah in a lot of them 'cause you guys look like sisters and guys have weird fetishes about sisters."

Ariana narrows her eyes. "Ew, Harry! Maybe this is a mistake," she groans, slumping into his body. She is exhausted from her day, the pizza sitting untouched in her hand beginning to wilt downwards.

"Well, obviously no guy on a dating app is good enough for you, but it's good practice. Plus, you're gonna get a million likes because you're probably the hottest person on this app and I'm gonna get jealous as fuck." Harry says honestly, not even looking up from the laptop at his brazen, confident comment.

She blushes hard. "Jealous?" She asks, furrowing her brow. Jealousy would infer they have any sort of romantic relationship, and it's clear Harry doesn't want that.

"You're a catch, Ari. You know that, right?" He finally rips his gaze away from the screen just to stare at her with the same intensity. She almost wishes he was still distracted, because she is sure if her face burns any redder she'll be in danger of catching on fire. "If I didn't think marriage was hellfire I'd propose."

Yeah, she thinks, her heart beating rapidly at his confession, this is going to sting.

She nods slowly. He returns back to perusing her albums, and they sit in comfortable silence as he does so, highlighting a few pictures, and sneaking a few bites of her slice of pizza.

Until he immediately freezes, and Ariana looks away from her phone she picks up just a moment before responding to Niall and Hannah. She peeks at the screen, immediately burying her face in Harry's shoulder when she sees what is pulled up.

It is a photo she took a month prior, natural light streaming through her bedroom windows in the crest of the morning sun. In the top corner, her lips are parted to show just a fraction of her teeth, and her back is arched.

The main focus of the photo, however, is her deep red, puffy mesh panties. The hem bunches lettuce-style, and the mesh is just see-through enough to see her milky skin in a rose-tinted haze. The white cotton tank she is wearing just barely covers her breasts, with the straps falling down her shoulders, her nipples peeking through the thin, almost transparent material. Her legs are bent at the knees, slightly parted to show a wet patch forming at the apex of her thighs.

"I forgot I took that," is all she managed to say when the silence became awkward.

"Are you real?" He answers, turning to look at her. "Because I swear I had a dream that looked exactly like you. I mean, you're fucking perfect. And you're so sweet and your heart is so fucking pure, you actually can't be real. It wouldn't be fair,"

He's gushing, words tumbling from his lips before his brain processes them. "And you kiss like an angel, I haven't been able to stop thinking about your lips. And your tattoos are just—"

Ariana lurches forward, capturing his babbling mouth in hers. Immediately, he pushes the computer away and brings her into his lap, his hands tugging at her belt loops before sliding up her sweatshirt to warm her back.

When she pulls away, she is out of breath. The kiss is short and wild, but Harry doesn't seem to mind.

"Is that how I'm supposed to kiss my Tinder date?" She asks through fluttered eyelids and a lip bite. For once, she left him speechless with red cheeks and wide, blinking eyes. She feels so accomplished, her chest puffing in pride as she cements her words with the hem of her sweatshirt hiking up her belly to show a fraction of tanned skin.

He frowns. "No. That type is just for me," he finally responds.

She laughs, light and airy. She isn't familiar with this Ariana; the Ariana that moves without worry and kisses with no forewarning. The Ariana whose skirts are too short and lipstick too bold. This is the Ariana Harry draws out of her—maybe it is smart to be friends with benefits. That way, she wouldn't lose him to a fight or a tear-filled breakup. That way, they'd stay happy and platonic (or, as platonic as you could get with that mouth of his).

This Ariana also spoke up. "That was my friendly kiss," she teases.

Harry blows out a long breath. "I can't even imagine the Tinder date kiss then." He blinks away the shock from his eyes before grabbing her hips and flipping her so her back is against his chest. She sinks into his arms, pulling the computer into her lap as they look at more photos.

It feels a bit backward, sitting in one man's arms while creating a dating profile to meet other men, but she doesn't care. She will enjoy her time with Harry now, in case she won't feel this way ever again.

"Why'd you leave France?"

The question is out of the blue. Ariana just finished filling out her nationality and hometown, and Harry seems to be intrigued.

She shrugs, though won't look back to meet his gaze. "Better opportunities in America," she says simply, and doesn't elaborate.

"But you were so young," he presses for more detail, his hands squeezing her hips in a silent urge to meet his eyes. She won't.

"My parents kinda shipped me away through a school program. And then I stopped coming home for summers and started living with Hannah once my mom got pregnant. The move was slow, I don't know for sure when I started calling New York home." Ariana says vaguely.

It falls silent for another few beats, but more words are piling up on Ariana's tongue, and Harry's smooth fingers rubbing against the bare skin of her hip are coaxing them out of her.

"Well, actually I do know," her voice wavers. "I wanted to go to France for Christmas break, but my parents told me they couldn't afford my ticket home. Or my schooling. Or my boarding. They said they had two new children and needed to supply their real kids with money. With my money," she feels tears prick her eyes, but pushes them down.

When she is certain none would fall, she turns to face Harry, once more abandoning their quest to make a dating profile.

"I kinda knew then I wasn't welcome anymore. They told me I could come home, but I'd have to stay in a hotel because they refurbished my room with nursery stuff. I decided not to go home, and they mailed the rest of my belongings a week later. I didn't have any money, so Hannah spotted me for a bit.

"And that's why I'm still friends with her, even though she treats me shitty and is not at all the same girl that held my hand in middle school." She finishes. She knows she doesn't have to explain anything to Harry and their relationship consists of light-hearted conversation and casual make-out sessions, but she wants to.

She hasn't ever admitted Hannah has changed before, or really that her family replaced her with two chaotic younger siblings she has only met a handful of times. But he makes her feel seen and heard, even if he never speaks—so she allows herself to slip up just this once.

Harry wraps his arms around her, slowly at first, until he engulfs her in his lean arms, muscles flexing around her body. "You're the coolest girl ever," he hums into her ear. She decided that was the best compliment Harry could dish out, and simply thanked him quietly as she let him hold her. "And Hannah doesn't deserve to be friends with such a cool girl." He pulls back, his hands sliding to her thighs.

It is just then that her eyes flicker to his lips and his gaze glosses over that Harry's phone rings.

It is loud and piercing, startling Ariana off him. It is probably good not to be so close to Harry anyway—the familiar sandalwood scent of his cologne begins to have Ariana's belly fluttering at the mere thought of it.

"Niall, I'm with Ariana. I don't think she wants her house smelling like weed—no, there's pizza here! I'm not abandoning pizza to sit in the snow with you—fuck you, weirdo," Harry pulls the phone away from his ear to turn to Ariana. "Can Niall come over? He says he's not bringing a joint but I don't believe him,"

Ariana's laugh bubbles gleefully from her throat, a nod surfacing. "He can smoke here, I don't care," she then adds.

~

"Can we all share a blanket? I wanna feel like the grandparents in that Willy Wonka movie," Niall asks, tugging the blanket that was wrapped around Ariana's body undone.

She is lounging between her (new) two favorite people as they pass a joint over her head, taking hits and laughing at dumb comments the other made. "We're not all gonna fit," Ariana points out as both the boys struggle to pull each end of the forest green throw over their bodies.

"Just sit closer to me. I don't bite," Harry teases, eyes glinting mischievously.

Ariana scoffs. "I can't sit closer to you, I'll be on your lap." She points out, and Harry hums knowingly.

"If the shoe fits..." he winces for her slap before it comes.

The bickering is interrupted by Niall, who is now reaching for Ariana's phone that sitting on the coffee table under a layer of pizza grease. He is cursing, trying to guess her password. "Niall! What are you doing?" Her tone is almost motherly, causing Harry to snort from behind her.

"Why are you getting messages for Nahir saying 'I want to taste you'? Oh my God, Ryan said he wants your babies!"

"Harry!" She feels like she is chastising children. "Did you hack my dating profile?"

Harry frowns, the air of playfulness gone and replaced with annoyance. "I thought I chose good guys. Why are they so creepy? I'm sorry, Ari, I told you you're too good for dating apps." He snatches the phone from Niall, scrolling through likes and explicit messages.

Ariana, though, is now red-faced and embarrassed. "Why do guys only think about one thing?" She groans, dropping back onto the sofa. Her hands are folded against her stomach, and she avoids eye contact with either of them. It's a rhetorical question, and she won't be able to listen to not everyone thinks that Ari, you just need to find your person.

Instead, Harry puts his hand on her knee, which is pulled up to her chest. Niall holds her hand in his. "'Cause we're assholes," Niall is focused on the screen, though his thumb is rubbing soothing circles against the top of her hand. "And you're kind of a princess. Or something. Like the badass kind, though, that has a lot of cool hats."

Ariana turns to Harry quizzically, almost as if saying what the fuck is he talking about?

Harry just shrugs. Who knows? His eyes reply.

"Thanks, Niall. You know how I feel about a good fedora,"