#toujours

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,"