Infinity||H.S.

The Storm

What the fuck.

I shower quickly, cleaning my skin vigorously, in an attempt to erase from memory the sensation of his hands on me. I can't believe it. I can't believe my mind plays these jokes to me when I'm not conscious.

Today is my last day here, tomorrow I'll be flying to New York, putting as much distance as possible between Harry and me.

It's been three days since my "accident", I recorded the episode of Masterchef yesterday, and everything went according to plan, although my hand is still bandaged.

Harry didn't leave me alone for a second, checking up on me every five minutes. Even when he was at the studio, he was kept texting me and calling me if I didn't pick up in a few minutes.

All his attentions were making me feel strange. And not a good kind of strange, given the tricks my mind was throwing me.

Thomas spoke to his mother and told her to back off and leave the decisions to us. According to him, his mother thought she'd done something nice, helped. But in my heart, I knew that she just wanted to get everything under control and let Manhattan's élite know that her only son, the bachelor wanted by many, was getting married. Unfortunately for her, not with the girl she was hoping for.

She even sent me an email - she never once in two years she spoke to me over the phone, she sent emails or at most texts like I was one of her employees - telling me how sorry she was for not letting me know about the article and the invitation, adding that she was looking forward to seeing me for my appointment at Kleinfeld, and she already had a couple of ideas about the dress.

Her idea a wedding dress is something pompous, big, full of brilliants... Not exactly my kind.

Putting on a pair of legging and a long tank top above my sport bra I make my way out of the bedroom and downstairs, putting my hair in a messy bun as I enter the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee.

I drink it slowly, watching the clear sky from the big windows and sigh, trying to take as much time as possible before I have to enter Harry's gym and face him.

I shouldn't feel so frustrated because of the dream. I should take it for what it is: my subconscious playing tricks on me. I wish I could say it was a memory my mind decided to bring back, but it wasn't. It was all a product of my imagination.

My only time with Harry had been intense, yes, but for most of the time, we had both remained silent, speaking only through our eyes, too scared that words would ruin the moment, bringing us back to reality, with all its consequences.

Letting out a sigh as I put my mug in the sink and walk down the corridors, reaching the gym.
The room is soundproof therefore I only hear the music playing when I open the door and step inside.

He is in a corner of the room, throwing punches against a very muscular man, his personal trainer, Ben.

They don't hear me walk inside, too caught up in their training. Harry wears a pair of black shorts and a grey jersey, hair held back by a cable tie. I stand there for a second watching him as he repeats his combination. Left hook, right hook, left uppercut, right uppercut.