It's You [H.S.]

6.1 | Back to you

She takes a deep breath, grateful as always for the restorative properties of the English countryside - all the more so after such a frantic trip to smoggy LA and the stale cabin air of that long flight home.

It feels crisper than she remembered.  Autumn drawing in quickly now, it's a clear night with the stars out in all their majesty. She takes in the contrast of the bright almost-full moon against the inky blackness and hopes it's a good omen for the next couple of days - the British weather usually predictable only in its unpredictability.

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She taps in the code and slips through the heavy iron side gate, tiptoeing her way over the wide expanse of the gravel drive, keen to avoid its tell-tale crunch announcing her arrival.

Weaving a path around all the cars, she keeps close to the stone wall of the house, careful to avoid tripping the security flood lights.

She spots Harry's sleek brand new black Range Rover in the far corner of the drive, noticing it's parked right alongside Ollie's identical car and smirks at the divine symmetry. She feels a ripple of excitement at proof of him being so near. Just a few more minutes and she'll be back in his arms.

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Under the dim light of the stone porch she digs for her parents' keys in her roomy tote, then quickly steps through the heavy oak front door.

It's dark in the hall, little light seeping in from the kitchen to the back or from the living and dining rooms to either side. She pauses to check for any noise, but the house seems surprisingly quiet, given all the cars.

Stepping around towering crates of wine and spirits, she makes her way cautiously up the stairs, mindful of the notoriously creaky third and sixth steps.

At the top, she inclines her head towards the faint murmur from the den at the very far end of the landing, but heads in the other direction, to her bedroom, just in case he's turned in for the night already.

As she peers around the door frame, her big squishy bed looks oh so inviting, but not quite irresistible - he's not in it. But she feels warm and fuzzy at seeing he'd brought her bags from home. His alongside hers, but open on the floor. He's definitely here.

After Jamaica, she'd had a week in London before being called back to LA unexpectedly for meetings with Phoebe, the production team and Netflix.

Beating her back to London, he'd arrived home from Jamaica to find her waiting bags, hastily packed for the wedding a couple of weeks early - a gloomy reminder of their unanticipated extra time apart.

She's so comfortable with him that the thought of him in amongst all her stuff, settled in her childhood bedroom, taking on her big rowdy family without her, doesn't fill her with any apprehension; just a sense of contentment and an eagerness to get back to him.

So with renewed energy, she unwraps her scarf and drapes her buttery soft black leather jacket on the end of her bed post. Toeing off her black suede fringed Saint Laurent ankle boots, she flexes her toes into the plush carpet. Lithe in black leggings and a cropped sweatshirt, she reaches up in a delicious full-body stretch, popping her neck to either side.

Hearing a muffled cheer, she checks the time again - 11.53pm - before skipping down the hall with a spring in her step.

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The heckling and hollering intensifies as she nears the door to the den; the soundproofing their Dad installed as rowdy teens only capable of masking so much. Cracking it open, she pokes her head through and takes in the sight before her.

It's noisy; music pulsing from the speakers overhead, the huge TV glowing but muted. It's chaotic; beer bottles and wine glasses scattered on the coffee table. It's warm; more people crammed in than she expected. The oversized sectional sofa seems small under so many broad-shouldered bodies.  All eyes are trained on the ping pong table in the far corner, and the small crowd gathered around it.