Did you get your taste back?

They met at a mutual friend’s house. Casual night. Music low, people drinking wine out of mismatched glasses, shoes kicked off at the door. She was curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, half-listening to a story someone was telling, when she heard the door open and that unmistakable voice carry through the hallway.

“Sorry I’m late. Got caught up.”

That was all he said. But heads turned. People smiled. One girl laughed in that too-excited-to-be-casual way.

He didn’t look famous. Not in that overdone, trying-too-hard way. Just a little tired, like he’d come from something long and wanted to be somewhere quiet. He wore a loose cream button-down and dark trousers. Nothing dramatic. But when he stepped into the room, it felt like he brought the energy down to a hush without saying a word.

Their eyes met quickly, in that casual accidental way. She looked up just as he was glancing around. He smiled. Just for a second. And then someone was pulling him into conversation.

She looked back down at her drink and told herself not to care.

“Do you know him?” her friend whispered beside her, nudging her leg.

She shook her head. “No. Why would I?”

Her friend grinned. “You will.”

She did. Later that night, after most people had cleared out, she wandered into the kitchen for water and found him there, barefoot and leaning against the counter, eating the last bite of someone’s forgotten piece of cake.

He looked up when she walked in.

“Caught me,” he said through a smile, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bit desperate, I know.”

She opened a cabinet, searching for a glass. “It’s not desperate. It’s sugar.”

He laughed softly. “You always this nonjudgmental with cake thieves?”

She found a cup and filled it. “Depends on the thief.”

Something shifted then. The kind of pause that felt aware. Like they’d both stopped mid-thought.

“I’m Harry,” he said.

“I know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ah. That kind of meeting.”

She set the cup down and shrugged. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask for a selfie or recite your discography.”

“Shame. That was my one party trick,” he teased.

And it should have ended there. A brief chat. Polite and forgettable. But she didn’t leave. And he didn’t pretend to be tired. Instead, they talked. About stupid things at first. Cake. People at the party. The weird playlist someone had queued. Then about music. Tour life. What it meant to feel lonely in rooms full of people.

She told him she was studying creative writing and bartending to get by. He asked what she wrote. She said, “Fiction, mostly,” and he said, “That makes sense,” and didn’t explain what he meant, and she liked that.

It was two in the morning when he finally checked his phone.

“I should probably head out,” he said, but he didn’t move.

“Probably,” she agreed.

Neither of them said goodbye.

He had gotten her number from a mutual friend and texted her the next day. Said something dumb like cake’s not as good when you’re not around to make fun of me for it.

And she smiled way too hard for someone who barely knew him.

It wasn’t just that they became close.

It was the way it built slowly, in pieces that didn’t look like much from the outside. The kind of friendship that crept in quietly and then refused to leave.

It started with walks. He liked the air. She liked the silence between them. Sometimes they’d talk for hours. Sometimes they didn’t say much at all. She liked that about him. That he didn’t feel the need to fill every moment.

One night, a few weeks after they met, they passed a little used bookstore that was still open. He pulled her inside without asking. Bought a poetry collection she mentioned she liked, then forgot he’d bought it and left it in her bag. She kept it on her nightstand. Still did.

He showed up at her door when she was sick. Not just a text asking if she was okay. An actual knock. Arms full of lemon tea, cold medicine, and a Tupperware container with soup he admitted he didn’t make himself. She let him in, pale and sniffling, and he spent the whole day sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor reading to her in a low, warm voice that scratched a little at the edges.

She fell asleep to it. When she woke up, he was asleep too, curled up beside her bed like he belonged there.

They watched movies together every Sunday he was free. That was his idea. Groceries, dinner, and two movies, no matter what city they were in. Sometimes it was over FaceTime. Sometimes he’d fly in unexpectedly. Once she looked up from stirring pasta to find him in her doorway, suitcase still in hand.

He brought her flowers when they fought. Usually something ridiculous, like sunflowers the size of her head or a tiny bouquet from the corner store wrapped in napkins. He’d say, “Can we not be stupid anymore?” and she’d nod like she hadn’t cried the night before.

He told her she was one of the only people who made him feel like himself.

She told him he made her feel seen.

And they never touched that truth directly. They never called it love. Never said the word want.

But they kept finding each other in small, undeniable ways.

When he went on tour, she flew out for a few dates. Always told people it was just for fun. He put her name on the list without asking. She stood side stage, always just out of the light, and watched him become something bigger than anyone could touch.

After the shows, he would find her. Sometimes sweaty and breathless, sometimes quiet and unsure. And she would say things like, “You were brilliant,” and he would say, “Only because you were there.”

Once, after a long stretch apart, he hugged her in the middle of an airport terminal and held her like he didn’t want to let go. She buried her face in his neck and pretended her eyes weren’t burning.

Neither of them ever crossed the line.

But they sat on top of it.

Sometimes she’d wake up thinking about the way his hand felt on her knee during long car rides. Or how his voice sounded just before he fell asleep, half whispering into the phone.

Sometimes he would look at her for too long when she laughed.

And both of them held it in. Tucked it behind careful smiles and late night calls and safe conversations.

Always almost something.

Everything between them had lived in soft moments and borrowed time, but the night of the event shifted the air, like all that quiet closeness had finally reached its edge.

The invite had come through three days earlier.

A muted notification in a group chat she barely checked anymore. The usual mix of industry people she befriend through Harry over the years. A few stylists, two photographers, a publicist who always used too many emojis. Someone had dropped a flyer for a gallery event and said it would be chill. Low pressure. A soft launch for an artist friend. Wine, art, good lighting.

She’d scrolled right past it. Saved it. Forgot about it.

Harry was the one who brought it back up.

He texted her mid-afternoon on a slow Wednesday. harry: have you seen the invite for thursday

She sat with the message for a moment, then typed back. y/n: yeah wasn’t sure if i was going

There was a small pause. Then, harry: i was thinking about it might be nice only if youre going though

She rolled her eyes but smiled. y/n: so im your deciding factor now

harry: obviously i dont want to make awkward small talk with strangers alone

harry: you could come with me

That made her fingers hesitate for just a second. Then: y/n: yeah we can meet outside

harry: perfect ill text you before i leave

The night of the event, she took longer than usual to get ready. She changed outfits twice. Sat on the edge of her bed in silence for almost ten minutes. At one point she reapplied her lip gloss and tied her hair up just to untie it again.

At 7:32, her phone lit up.

harry: on my way you ready

y/n: almost give me five

harry: you always say that

y/n: and you always wait

harry: course i do

She stepped out into the cold evening air with her coat draped over one arm. When she reached the gallery, Harry was already there. Leaning against the brick just outside the entrance, scrolling something on his phone, wearing a black coat and loose curls tucked behind one ear. He looked up as she approached.

“There she is,” he said.

“Sorry. Took a second to find parking.”

“You look good.”

“So do you.”

He opened the door for her. She stepped inside.

They didn’t walk in holding hands, but they walked in close. Their shoulders brushed once, and neither of them pulled away.

Some time had passed and the gallery was full now. Not packed, but buzzing.

The energy had shifted since they arrived. Conversations layered over each other like background noise in a film. Glasses clinked gently between fingers. The soft beat of ambient music hummed through the space. Someone near the back laughed too loudly, and a small ripple of polite curiosity passed through the room.

Y/N stood close to Harry, their shoulders nearly touching as they talked with a group gathered around a tall piece of mixed media work. She recognized a few faces from other events. People she had spoken to in dressing rooms and backstage lounges. Others she only knew through stories Harry had told in passing. The circle ebbed and flowed as people drifted in and out. Small talk about the exhibit turned into jokes about press appearances and whose plus ones had already wandered off for free drinks.

Y/N glanced at Harry now and then, always just a second too long. He looked good tonight. Relaxed. Sharp in black. His sleeves were rolled just past his wrists, the edge of a tattoo peeking out when he lifted his glass. When he laughed at something someone said, his hand landed briefly on the back of her arm. Warm. Familiar. Thoughtless.

She could still feel it after he let go.

Her friend, Addy, slid into the group beside her, holding a fresh drink. She leaned toward Y/N and said quietly, “You two always look like you’re about to disappear into a corner together.”

Y/N laughed under her breath. “We really don’t.”

Addy raised her brows. “You really do.”

Before Y/N could respond, she felt the shift.

Someone new stepped into the circle. A presence that changed the balance of the room. She turned just as a woman moved up beside Harry. Tall. Polished. Effortlessly beautiful in a way that felt practiced but natural. She wore a loose silk blouse tucked into soft denim, hair falling in easy waves over her shoulders.

“Hey,” the woman said softly as she leaned in. Her arm slid around Harry’s waist like it had done so before.

Harry’s smile widened when he saw her. “You made it.”

“Traffic was awful,” she replied. “Almost didn’t come.”

“I’m glad you did.”

The exchange only lasted seconds, but it settled heavy in Y/N’s chest.

Harry turned toward the group, his hand still resting at the woman’s back. His eyes found Y/N immediately.

“Y/N,” he said, “this is Natalie.”

There it was. The name. Clean and simple and suddenly impossible to ignore.

Natalie extended her hand with an easy smile. “Hi. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Y/N took her hand automatically. Her own smile stayed steady. “Nice to meet you.”

Harry gestured lightly between them. “We’ve been seeing each other a little. Nothing serious. Just hanging out.”

Y/N nodded once. The room felt warmer. Not uncomfortable. Just close.

“You said you didn’t want to come alone,” she said quietly. Not accusing. Just confused.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “I didn’t.”

The answer lingered between them. She did not ask the question that followed. If he did not want to come alone and she was standing right here, what did that make this?

Natalie was pulled into another conversation a moment later. Her fingers brushed Harry’s wrist as she stepped away.

Y/N smiled like nothing had shifted. “I’m going to grab another drink.”

She did not wait for him to answer.

She found Addy again near the far wall, standing in front of a large canvas washed in shades of gray and black. The title placard read Grasp. Y/N did not really look at it.

“Hey,” she said, stepping closer.

Addy glanced over. “What’s going on with your face.”

“My face.”

“You have that smiling but not actually fine look.”

Y/N let out a small laugh. “I’m fine.”

Addy did not buy it.

“Just a weird night,” Y/N added, softer.

Addy’s eyes flicked across the room, then back. “Weird because he brought you and introduced you to the girl he’s casually seeing like that was normal.”

Y/N took a slow breath. “I don’t think he knew she’d actually come.”

Addy tilted her head. “And does that make it better.”

“I don’t know,” Y/N said. “Not really.”

Addy took a sip of her drink. Her voice dropped lower. “So are you pretending it doesn’t hurt because it doesn’t, or because you wish it did.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away.

Across the room, Harry was still standing in the same spot. His drink was in one hand. The other was tucked into the front of his jacket. He wasn’t talking now. He wasn’t smiling either.

Her gaze lingered.

“I think,” she said quietly, “I stopped being able to tell the difference a while ago.”

Addy leaned her shoulder gently into Y/N’s. “Maybe he did too.”

Y/N didn’t look away from him.

She wasn’t ready to leave. But she wasn’t sure she could stay either.

Y/N stayed where she was longer than she needed to. Just enough to appear calm. She laughed softly at something Addy said, nodded along to a conversation she wasn’t really listening to, and took a sip of her drink even though it had gone warm. She wasn’t ready to move, but she could feel something inside her already beginning to retreat.

She glanced toward the front entrance. Then back to Harry.

He was still in the same spot. Still talking. Still relaxed in a way that made her stomach twist.

She turned to Addy. “I think I’m gonna head out.”

Addy raised a brow. “Already?”

“I’m not feeling great. Stomach’s off.”

Addy studied her face for a long moment. Her expression didn’t shift. She didn’t argue. She just nodded once and stepped forward to hug her.

“Text me when you get home,” she said, her voice quiet.

“I will.”

Y/N forced a small smile and gave her one last squeeze before stepping away. She took her time walking across the gallery. Her heels made soft clicks against the concrete floor. The sound seemed too loud in her ears.

Harry turned just before she reached him. Like he felt her coming.

His expression changed the second he saw her. “You leaving?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I think I’m gonna head out.”

“Everything okay?”

She gave a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah. I just feel a little off. Like I’m coming down with something.”

He stepped in a little closer. His voice lowered. “Do you want me to walk you out?”

“No,” she said quickly, before catching herself. “It’s okay. I’ll call an Uber.”

“Y/N.” His tone had changed now. More serious. “I can come with you. At least wait with you outside.”

“I’m fine.”

His eyes searched her face like he didn’t believe her. “Let me come out. Just for a minute.”

She hesitated. Her throat tightened. Then she shook her head.

“You should stay.”

The words tasted like regret. Like the start of something she couldn’t take back.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but she stepped back before he could. Just enough space to end the conversation.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” she said gently.

Then she turned and walked away before he could offer another word.

Outside, the air hit her hard. Colder than she expected. It pressed into her chest and burned down her throat as she inhaled. She didn’t stop walking until she reached the opposite side of the street. Her fingers moved automatically as she unlocked her phone and opened the rideshare app.

Seven minutes.

She let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the brick wall, her arms folded loosely across her chest. The street was mostly quiet. A few other people passed by on the sidewalk, voices low, coats pulled tight against the chill.

She wasn’t going to look. That was the plan. Just wait for the car. Keep her eyes forward. Let the night end without adding more weight to it.

But her gaze drifted anyway.

Across the street, the gallery’s large windows spilled soft yellow light onto the sidewalk. The glass reflected streaks of city neon, but inside was still clear enough to see.

Harry was still there.

She could make out the silhouette of his profile, the slow turn of his head as he leaned in to listen to someone speak. His stance was easy, posture relaxed, one hand still holding a half-full glass. He was smiling again.

She watched as the woman stepped back into frame.

She didn’t catch what was said, but she saw the shift. The way his eyes crinkled a little. The way her fingers reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, just for something to do. She leaned into him, close enough that there was no space between their hands anymore.

Y/N’s breath caught.

The woman laughed at something he said. Then lifted her hand, slow and familiar, and brushed her thumb across his jaw.

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away.

Then came the kiss.

Soft. Easy. A lean-in. Nothing dramatic. Just a small, natural press of mouths that told her more than anything else could have.

It wasn’t a beginning. It was a continuation.

He had kissed her before.

Y/N looked down at her shoes. The pavement blurred slightly beneath her.

She blinked fast, jaw tight.

The kiss didn’t last long. When they pulled apart, the woman smiled again, eyes crinkled. She said something else and rested her forehead against Harry’s chest. His hand came up and settled gently at her back.

Y/N didn’t realize how hard she was holding her phone until her fingers started to ache.

She made herself look away.

Her car was one minute away.

She took a step closer to the curb, arms still folded. She didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not over this.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything. Reminded herself that he had said casually. That he had introduced her without hesitation. That he had chosen what version of the night he wanted.

Still, it hurt.

Headlights turned the corner. Her phone buzzed.

Driver arrived.

She climbed into the back seat without glancing over her shoulder. Gave the address to the driver, voice even. Settled into the cold silence as the city lights passed through the window.

She looked down once.

Harry’s name was on her screen.

One new message.

She locked it without reading.

Not yet.

The apartment is dark when she gets home.

She toes her shoes off by the door and leaves them there. Her coat slides from her shoulders and lands over the back of the chair. The silence is louder than the gallery ever was. No music. No voices. Just the low hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic outside her window.

She stands there for a moment with her keys still in her hand.

Then she exhales and finally lets herself move.

She walks into the kitchen, pours a glass of water she barely drinks, and leans her hip against the counter. Her phone is still in her hand. She has not looked at it since the car pulled away.

She tells herself she can handle it now.

She unlocks the screen.

The message waits exactly where she left it.

She opens it.

Harry: did you get home safe

That is all it says.

No apology. No explanation. No mention of the woman. Just concern. Familiar. Gentle. The kind of message he has sent her a hundred times before. The kind that used to make her smile without thinking.

Her chest tightens.

She reads it again. Then once more. Like maybe the words will rearrange themselves into something else.

They do not.

She locks her phone and sets it face down on the counter.

Not because she is angry. Not because she does not care.

Because she cares too much.

She carries the glass of water into her bedroom and sets it on the nightstand untouched. She sits on the edge of the bed, then lies back without turning on the lamp. The ceiling above her disappears into shadow.

She stares at it anyway.

This is the part she has been avoiding.

She presses her lips together and lets the truth settle without arguing with it.

She loves him.

Not in the vague way she has been calling it for months. Not the easy affection. Not the comfort or familiarity or chemistry she has tried to keep it labeled as.

She loves him in the way that hurts now.

In the way that made her walk away instead of ask questions. In the way that made her watch through a window like she had already lost something.

Her throat tightens as the realization lands fully. There is no panic this time. Just clarity.

She knows exactly when it happened.

The memory comes without her asking for it.

It was a Tuesday. Ordinary. Almost boring.

She had been sitting on the floor of his living room with her back against the couch, folding laundry that was not hers. He was in the kitchen humming quietly to himself, wearing one of those soft sweaters he always reached for when he was home. The windows were open. Late afternoon light spilled across the rug.

She remembers the sound of him setting a mug down. The clink of ceramic. The way he leaned against the counter and asked if she wanted tea without looking at her.

She had said yes.

He brought it over and handed it to her carefully, fingers warm where they brushed hers. Then he sat down on the floor beside her without thinking twice. Close enough that their knees touched. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him through denim.

They folded in silence for a while.

At some point she laughed at something stupid on her phone and showed him the screen. He leaned in, shoulder pressing against hers, head tilted so their temples touched. He smelled like clean laundry and whatever soap he kept buying in bulk.

She remembers thinking this is easy.

Not exciting. Not dramatic.

Easy.

He had rested his head against hers just for a second longer than necessary. She had closed her eyes without realizing she was doing it.

That was it.

That was the moment.

Not a kiss. Not a confession. Just the quiet understanding that this was where she wanted to be. That this was the person she wanted to come home to. That she could picture a thousand ordinary nights like this and never get tired of them.

She had never said it out loud.

She opens her eyes now in the dark bedroom and swallows hard.

She turns her head toward the nightstand where her phone rests face down. She does not reach for it.

Not yet.

She needs to sit with this first.

With the truth. With the ache. With the fact that loving him does not mean he belongs to her.

She rolls onto her side and pulls the blanket up around her shoulders. Her eyes sting but she does not cry. Not yet.

Tomorrow she might answer him.

Tonight she lets herself feel it.

She does not respond.

Not that night. Not the next morning when she wakes up groggy and reaches for her phone out of habit. Not when she sees his name still sitting there, unchanged, patient.

She reads it once more before locking her screen again.

She tells herself she just needs a day.

A day turns into two. Two turns into almost a week.

Harry sends nothing else at first. No follow up. No jokes. No casual check ins like he usually does. The absence feels deliberate, like he is trying not to crowd her. Like he is giving her space because that is what she asked for without saying it.

It makes her chest ache worse.

By day four she almost texts him something easy. something normal. a photo of her coffee. a stupid thought. anything to put things back where they belong.

She does not.

By day six she is jumpy. Every buzz of her phone makes her heart kick hard against her ribs. Every time it is not him she feels both relieved and disappointed.

On the seventh day her phone lights up while she is standing in line at the grocery store.

She knows it is him before she even looks.

She steps out of line and leans against a cold pillar near the windows. Takes a breath. Then unlocks her screen.

harry: hey

She closes her eyes for a second.

Then another message comes through.

harry: i might be overthinking but did i do something wrong

Her stomach drops.

She reads it again. Slower this time. There is no accusation in it. No defensiveness. Just him. Reaching. Careful.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard. She types three different responses and deletes all of them.

She does not want to start anything.

She wants it to stay easy. She wants to rewind to the part where he leaned against her on the couch and asked if she wanted tea. Where everything felt safe and unspoken and intact.

Another message appears.

harry: if i did im sorry

That one almost breaks her.

She exhales slowly and finally types back.

y/n: you didnt do anything wrong

There is a pause. Long enough that she imagines him staring at his phone the way she has been staring at hers all week.

Then:

harry: okay

Another pause.

harry: i just miss you

Her throat tightens. She swallows.

y/n: i know

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

harry: would you meet me

She hesitates.

harry: maybe at the park

Her heart thumps hard.

harry: our bench

That does it.

She can picture it instantly. The worn wood. The way the slats curve slightly from years of use. The tree that throws shade over it in the afternoons. The spot where they have sat through coffee dates that were not dates. Long talks. Comfortable silences. Shared snacks. Legs brushing without comment.

She types before she can talk herself out of it.

y/n: yeah

Almost immediately:

harry: thank you

y/n: when

harry: tomorrow

y/n: okay

She locks her phone and presses it to her chest for a second longer than necessary.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes and Y/N feels worse.

Not sick worse. Not tired worse.

The kind of worse that settles deep in her chest and makes everything feel too sharp. The kind that makes brushing her teeth feel like a chore. The kind that reminds her she cannot keep pretending this is nothing.

She lies in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling. Her phone rests on the nightstand. Face down. She knows he is awake already. He always is.

Eventually she reaches for it.

y/n: what time

She sends it before she can talk herself out of it.

The reply comes almost immediately.

harry: two if thats okay

Her stomach flips.

y/n: yeah

She showers. Changes outfits twice. Settles on something simple that still feels like her. She does not try too hard. She notices her hands shaking when she applies mascara and forces herself to slow down.

The park looks exactly the same as it always does. The gravel path crunching under her shoes. The trees heavy with leaves. The bench tucked just far enough from the main walkway to feel private.

Their bench.

She sees him first.

He is already there, sitting with his hands folded loosely in his lap, shoulders slightly hunched like he is bracing himself. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. A soft shirt that clings to him just enough to make her chest ache.

He looks beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that feels unfair when you are trying to keep your heart intact.

She watches him for a second longer than she should. The way his foot taps against the ground. The way he checks his phone and then looks up again, hopeful.

Then she steps closer.

He looks up and relief washes over his face instantly. His shoulders drop. His mouth curves into a small smile that does not quite reach his eyes.

“There you are,” he says softly.

“Hey.”

She sits beside him. Close but not touching. The space between them feels louder than the park around them.

He turns toward her. Studies her face the way he always does when he thinks something is wrong. His hand moves without thinking, settling gently on her knee. Warm. Familiar. Too much.

“Are you feeling better,” he asks.

She nods too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He watches her for a beat longer.

Then he exhales.

“Quit it.”

She blinks. “Quit what.”

“That,” he says gently. “You’re doing that thing.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You weren’t sick,” he says quietly.

Her chest tightens. “Harry.”

“You don’t just disappear on me,” he continues. “Not without a reason.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“Why would it be a thing.”

She laughs softly, but it sounds wrong even to her. “Because everything becomes a thing if you look at it too closely.”

“You didn’t text me back for a week,” he says. Not accusing. Just honest.

“I know.”

His hand stays on her leg. His thumb presses lightly, grounding.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks.

“No,” she says quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But something happened.”

She looks straight ahead at the path. “I didn’t want to ruin this.”

His voice softens. “You wouldn’t ruin anything by telling me the truth.”

She swallows.

“I didn’t feel sick,” Y/N says. “I felt hurt.”

He goes quiet.

“I never meant to blindside you,” he says finally.

“I know,” she replies. “That’s the worst part.”

His thumb brushes against her knee once. Slow. Gentle.

“Talk to me,” he says.

Y/N turns toward him slowly.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically.

Just enough that he feels it.

“What is this?” she asks.

Her voice is quiet. Steady in a way that surprises even her.

He blinks. “What.”

She gestures between them. Not exaggerated. Just a small movement of her hand, like she is outlining something invisible.

“This,” she says again. “Us.”

He exhales and looks down at his hands. “What do you mean.”

She swallows. Her heart is pounding now, loud enough that she is sure he can hear it.

“I mean,” she says carefully, “what is this between us. What do you think this is.”

He does not answer right away.

That is what does it.

She watches him search for words. Watches the way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers flex against his thigh like he is grounding himself. He looks conflicted. Thoughtful. Careful.

Careful hurts more than confusion would.

“How do you see me,” she asks, softer now. “Really. Am I just your friend? Am I something more?”

He stays quiet.

Too quiet.

Her chest tightens and something sharp breaks through the calm she has been holding onto.

“Because I don’t know how to do this anymore,” she says, her voice starting to tremble despite her best efforts. “I don’t know how to keep pretending this is nothing when it doesn’t feel like nothing.”

He finally looks up at her then. His eyes are wide. Concerned.

“Y/N,” he starts.

“No,” she says quickly. “Let me finish.”

She presses her lips together, fighting the burn behind her eyes.

“I tell myself I’m fine when you date,” she says. “I tell myself it’s easy and normal and that I’m happy for you. And I mean it. I want to mean it.”

Her breath catches.

“But then something like the other night happens. And I realize I don’t know where I fit. I don’t know what I am to you.”

He shifts closer instinctively. “You’re my best friend.”

The words land heavy.

She nods slowly. Too slowly.

“I know,” she says. “And that should be enough. I keep telling myself that should be enough.”

Her voice cracks.

“But it isn’t. Not for me.”

He goes still.

She laughs softly, a shaky sound that surprises her. “I didn’t plan to say this. I really didn’t. I was just trying to survive the conversation without crying.”

She wipes under her eye with the heel of her hand, frustrated.

“I love you,” she says suddenly. The words spill out like she has been holding them back with both hands. “And I hate that I do. And I hate that it took me watching you kiss someone else through a window to finally admit it to myself.”

His breath stutters.

She keeps going because if she stops she will lose her nerve completely.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” she says quickly. “I’m not asking you to choose me or change anything. I just needed you to know why I pulled away. Why it hurt.”

Tears finally slip free. She does not bother wiping them this time.

“I just needed to know if I’m imagining this,” she whispers. “If this has ever been more to you than convenience and comfort.”

The silence stretches.

Her chest feels hollow now. Exposed.

She looks away first.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t want to make it heavy. I just… cracked.”

She lets out a shaky breath and stares at the ground.

“I’ll be fine,” she adds, trying to convince herself as much as him. “I always am.”

She does not look at him when she says it.

She is too afraid of what she might see if she does.

He curses under his breath.

Soft. Frustrated. More at himself than at her.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks.

The question hangs between them, heavier than anything else he has said.

Y/N’s chest tightens. Her hands curl into the fabric of her skirt. She had not come here with a script. She had not come here knowing the answer to that question. All she knows is that everything feels too loud now.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I just needed you to say something.”

He exhales sharply and leans forward, elbows on his knees. One hand comes up to rub over his face slowly, like he is trying to wake himself up from a bad dream. When he drops it again, he looks tired in a way she has not seen before.

“This is hard,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

He shakes his head, eyes fixed on the ground. “You can’t just drop that on me and expect me to magically know what to do with it.”

“I wasn’t expecting magic,” she says, stress creeping into her voice despite her effort to keep it calm. “I was just expecting honesty.”

He nods slowly, like he is bracing himself.

“Okay,” he says. “Honesty.”

He rubs his hands together once, restless. When he looks back at her, his expression is open but conflicted.

“Having you around is easy,” he says. “It always has been.”

Her stomach twists, even before he finishes.

“You make things feel normal for me,” he continues. “When everything else feels loud and strange and like I’m playing a part, you’re just… you. I don’t have to be anything special with you.”

She listens carefully. Tries to hold onto each word without filling in the gaps herself.

“You’re home to me,” he says softly. “In a way I don’t really know how to explain.”

Her throat tightens. Her heart lifts for half a second before crashing back down.

“But,” he adds quietly.

There it is.

“But I don’t know how to turn that into something else,” he says. “I don’t know how to cross that line without being terrified of losing you.”

Y/N swallows hard.

“So you keep me right here,” she says. “Close enough to touch. Far enough to never choose.”

He flinches. “That’s not fair.”

“It feels fair from where I’m sitting,” she replies, her voice shaking now. “You get me. You get my time and my care and my love without having to risk anything.”

“That’s not what I want,” he says quickly.

“But it’s what’s happening,” she says. “And I don’t think you even realize it.”

He leans back against the bench, staring up at the sky like he might find an answer written there. His jaw tightens.

“I care about you,” he says. “Deeply.”

“I know.”

“And I hate the idea of hurting you,” he adds. “I hate that I already have.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “Caring isn’t the same as choosing.”

He looks at her then. Really looks at her.

“I’m scared,” he admits. “Scared that if we try and it doesn’t work, I lose the one place where I feel like myself.”

Her eyes burn.

“I don’t get to be your safe place if it’s costing me myself,” she says quietly.

The words surprise them both.

He goes still.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says again, softer this time.

She nods. “I know.”

They sit there in the aftermath of it all. The park sounds drifting back in. Laughter somewhere down the path. A dog barking. Life continuing like nothing monumental just cracked open on that bench.

Y/N presses her lips together and wipes at her cheek.

“I think,” she says slowly, “I’ve been hoping you’d say something that made this hurt less.”

He exhales. “I’m sorry I can’t.”

She looks at him then. Really looks at him.

“I don’t think you’re doing this on purpose,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean I can stay exactly where I am.”

His chest rises sharply. “What does that mean.”

She swallows.

“It means I need to stop pretending this is enough,” she says. “Even if that scares both of us.”

He swallows hard.

“What are you saying,” he asks.

Y/N keeps her eyes on the ground. The gravel looks suddenly fascinating. Anything is easier than looking at his face right now.

“I’m saying I can’t keep doing this exactly the same way,” she says. “I can’t keep showing up like nothing’s changed when it has. For me.”

His shoulders tense. “So what. You want space.”

The word lands heavier than he means it to.

She winces. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then don’t,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

She finally looks at him. His jaw is tight. His eyes are searching her face like he is already afraid of the answer.

“I don’t know how to stay without breaking my own heart,” she says quietly. “And I don’t know how to leave without breaking yours. That’s the problem.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh but is not one. “That’s a shit choice.”

“Yeah,” she says. “It is.”

They sit there for a moment. The bench creaks softly when he shifts. A couple walks past them, fingers laced together, laughing about something trivial. Y/N watches them disappear down the path and feels something hollow open in her chest.

“I don’t want you to disappear,” he says. “I don’t want to wake up one day and realize you’re just… gone.”

“I’m not trying to punish you,” she replies. “I’m trying to protect myself.”

He nods slowly, like he understands even if he does not like it.

“So what does that look like,” he asks.

She hesitates. This is the part she has not thought through. The part that feels terrifyingly real now that it is happening.

“It looks like me not being the person you lean on for everything,” she says. “It looks like me not pretending it doesn’t sting when you date someone else. It looks like me needing a little distance.”

The word distance makes his chest rise sharply.

“How much,” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Enough to breathe again.”

He rubs his hands together, restless. “And what if I don’t want that.”

Her voice is soft but steady. “Wanting me close is not the same as choosing me.”

That lands.

He looks at her like he wants to argue, but nothing comes. His mouth opens and closes once before he exhales.

“I never meant to use you,” he says. “I swear.”

“I know,” she says. “That’s why this hurts instead of making me angry.”

He looks at her then. Really looks at her. Like he is seeing the cost for the first time.

“I care about you more than anyone,” he says.

She nods. “I know. But care isn’t the thing I’m missing.”

Silence stretches between them again. It feels different now. Heavier. Final in a way that makes her chest ache.

“I wish I could be different,” he says quietly.

She presses her lips together. “I wish that too.”

He turns slightly toward her, knees angled in her direction like habit. His hand lifts, hovering between them, like he wants to touch her but knows better now. After a second, he lets it fall back to his side.

“I don’t want to be the reason you hurt,” he says.

“Then don’t ask me to stay exactly where I am,” she replies.

He nods once. Slow. Reluctant.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll give you space.”

The word feels too big. Too final.

Her chest tightens anyway.

“Thank you,” she says, even though it feels wrong to say it.

They sit there a few seconds longer. Neither of them moving. Neither of them ready to be the first one to stand.

Finally, she pushes herself up from the bench. Her legs feel shaky. She adjusts her bag on her shoulder.

“I should go,” she says.

He looks up at her. “Can I hug you.”

The question alone nearly undoes her.

She hesitates. Then nods.

He stands and steps into her carefully, like he is afraid of breaking something fragile. His arms wrap around her, warm and familiar, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. She presses her face into his shoulder and breathes him in one last time.

He holds her like he means it. Like he always has.

When they pull apart, he keeps his hands on her arms for a second longer than necessary.

“I’m here,” he says quietly. “If you need me.”

She forces a small smile. “I know.”

She turns and walks away before she can change her mind.

She does not look back.

“Do we know each other?” He hummed inquisitively, not-so-subtly leaning into you, the shaded swallows etched into his skin practically begging to be let out from the deep cut of his tank. 

With a smile you shook your head no, figuring that would be easier than trying to find words in the midst of your heartbeat pounding in your throat.

“Oh…” He was blushing, probably from the liquor in his glass, with that same smirk dug into the corner of his lips.

That smirk. Definitely wreck me.

He asked where you were from next, which turned out to be merely a ten minute walk from his home’s doorstep. You asked him if he was enjoying Rome, and he asked you the same in return. And when he paused, his pink lips pressing together and then tilting to the side, you couldn’t help but wonder what he was about to ask you next.

But that’s when someone approached him from behind. Then another. And another until he got pulled away to the opposite side of the room. Then to the stage. Then through the backdoor and out of your world completely. A world you had once believed to be small, but was in fact the opposite when you never saw each other again.

Until today.

Alessandro’s very first Valentino runway show at Paris Fashion Week had brought out a crowd, everyone eager to support his debut. In the weeks prior, you had heard rumblings here and there about a possible appearance from his infamous long time close friend. But you brushed the gossip and your high hopes away.

The world was far too big.

Until it wasn’t.

You could feel his energy when he walked in the room, the same magnetic draw you had felt five years before. Every single gaze noticed the burnt orange sweater with the delicate blue ruffle around his neck and wrists that fit him like art. He was effortlessly gorgeous, grown in a way only life and time passing could explain. Not a single camera, phone or eye in the room was focused on anything else. 

But you, in the midst of your anxious, elevated pulse and your gradually rising body heat, caught something not many others did… the eager shuffle of his feet and the forward slump of his shoulders had you certain he didn’t want any of the attention to begin with, assuming if he could be wearing an invisibility cloak he would.

And suddenly, all at once, it was you who wished you could flex invisibility when you realized every one of his steps was bringing him closer to where you were standing. And closer. And so close that he nearly walked straight into you before his lowered head snapped up to stop himself.

He paused, biting his lip for a moment before his mouth parted.

“It’s you…”

And then he breathed your name, assuring you he was not mistaking you for someone else.

Heat flooded to your cheeks and your fingertips went numb, certain you now knew what a heart attack felt like. 

“Uh— It’s.. me!” You blurted, chaotic flailing of your hands out to your sides, and then immediately wishing you could stuff the embarrassing response straight back where it came from. 

But his grin grew into a genuine toothy smile and his arms lifted as he closed the gap between your bodies in a gentle hug. 

You were immediately flustered. He was… so warm, and soft… and… his torso solid as a rock while pressed against yours. You stepped back quickly, hoping he couldn’t feel the thundering drum of your heart. But you didn’t get far when his hand lingered on your waistline.

“How’re you? You look well.” His eyes were shaded by brown sunglasses, which helped soothe the intensity of his eye contact. At least that's what you begged yourself to believe.

“Thank you.” You weren’t sure if you were shouting or whispering. “You look… phenomenal as well. I mean! I don’t— you do. Just you…”

Your cheeks were on fire, his amused giggle that slipped through his parted lips only fanning the flame.

“Thank you.” He paused, his adam’s apple visibly bobbing in his throat. “Um, you know, I’ve always regretted not being able to talk to you more at that last thing.”

Were you even breathing anymore? Were those stars floating around his head normal? You couldn’t be sure.

“Wh— oh!” You blurted with a nervous laugh. “Why’s that?”

He shrugged then, a coy dimple dipping so deep into his cheek. But he left it at that and moved on.

“Do you still live in Highgate?”

He remembered.

You nodded. He remembered.

He shifted his weight on his feet, one loafer to the next and his hand finally left your waist, feeling a chill run through your body when it did.

“Um, how long are you in Paris?” You mustered up the courage to ask and then begged the universe that his answer wouldn’t be only till tonight.

“Till Wednesday.” He swallowed again, his tongue poking out to quickly wet his lips. “You?”

You knew your smile was going to give you away. 

“Wednesday…”

But then he matched your smile with a breathtaking one of his own.

“We should—“

Harry. Hey Harry. Harry!

The chorus of requests harshly interrupted and your bubble popped. You watched him step away, politely answering one person. And then another.  And another. History was about to repeat itself until…

He quickly spun on his heel, turning back in your direction, his movement so fast your head went dizzy. And when he pressed his lips to your ear, his lips grazing against your most sensitive skin, shivers tumbled down your back and settled deep, deep in your belly.

“I, uh, don’t have my phone,” he breathed.

Your brow furrowed in confusion when he slowly leaned back.

“Sorry?” You tilted your head in response.

“My— my friend has my phone.” He leaned back into you while also pointing to a man with short black hair standing off to the side of the crowd. “Can I, um, can you give him your number?”

Somehow your brows managed to furrow deeper.

“No—shit…“ He huffed a laugh and just like that his mouth was at your ear again. “It’s for me, to be clear, so I can call you. If that’s… okay?”

When he stepped back it was you who was grinning, grateful for the change in fate this time around.

“Yeah, um yes! It’s okay.”

And then he was whisked off, just like five years prior. But this time… 

With a glance over his shoulder, his gaze found yours again, watching as you stepped toward his person holding a phone in their hand. And there it was again, just like before, radiating from across the room. That soft, havoc wrecking smirk looking your way.