#ifthen

"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,"