Fault Lines [H.S]

s i x - second drafts & soft disasters

By the time they finally sat down to write the toast, the house had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that settles only when everyone's gone to bed—or at least stopped pretending not to listen in from the next room.

Harry was already on the floor, cross-legged, surrounded by notebook pages, wine corks, and one singular pen that worked when it felt like it. The carpet smelled faintly of citrus, like someone had tried to clean up spilled prosecco and then gave up halfway.

Then she appeared.

Barefoot. Wearing an oversized band tee and tiny black shorts that were doing irreversible things to his heart rate. Her hair was loose this time—half-curled, half-tangled like she'd just climbed out of bed and hadn't decided whether she regretted coming here yet.

She was holding three bottles of white and two mismatched mugs.

"We're not drinking out of flutes," she announced, flopping down beside him. "That's how people write divorce speeches."

Harry chuckled, leaning back on one elbow.

"And this isn't one?"

"Depends how the toast goes."

He reached for the mug she offered, and their fingers brushed. It was the lightest touch, but his whole body lit up like she'd struck a match on his spine.

"Cheers," she said.

"To... literary trauma and emotional chaos?"

"To the foreplay of collaboration," she replied, deadpan.

He almost choked on his wine.

"Jesus, Lottie."

She sipped, unaffected.

"You're the one who got turned on in the garden."

"You're never letting that go, are you?"

"I will when you stop thinking about it every time I cross my legs."

She did—deliberately—then smiled innocently when he groaned and looked away.

They sipped in companionable silence for a moment.

"You good?" she asked, finally.

He glanced sideways. "Define 'good.'"

She rolled her eyes. "Define 'hard.'"

He pressed a hand over his face.

"Okay, wow. You're actually trying to kill me."

"Not at all. Just trying to keep you on your toes."

"It's not my toes you're affecting."

"Gross."

They both burst out laughing.

It was real. Bright. So full of something old and familiar that it knocked the breath out of him for a second.

"We are," he said between chuckles, "the worst choice to write a sentimental wedding speech."

"Debatable," she said. "We do have the trauma for it."

"And the delivery."

"And the audience."

They clinked mugs again.

Somehow, after that, the actual writing part felt easier.

They started at the top, scribbling down lines and half-thoughts. Jokes about Ed's inability to text back in less than four business days. A line about Rachel's terrifying ability to manifest free tables at overbooked restaurants.