// eyes like sinking ships on water so inviting //
// i almost jump in //
gold rush -Taylor Swift
Harry's POV
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Holy shit.
I watch as Phoebe walks towards the door of her apartment complex. She isn't stumbling around like she was when we left the bar, instead, she's booking it towards the entrance.
Holy fuck.
She's been on my mind all week long. A framed picture I don't want to take out of the gallery. A reoccurring dream. Flitting around in my brain, her pretty sky eyes cloudless and branded into the back of my mind.
I feel absolutely insane thinking about her so much. But it's like she's tattooed herself deeper than my inked skin, straight into my bloodstream.
I'm not oblivious to how I feel about her. If anything, that's something I'm unwaveringly confident in. She's stunning and I want to figure her out; like a puzzle I need to solve.
I had told Tate the whole story. That I met this piece of artwork at the gas station and then I saw her again and we went out to Peking. That she's gorgeous and a dancer and I feel pulled towards her and that I sound like an absolute lunatic whenever I think about her.
Tate, being the best friend he is, told me to get dressed because we were going to go out to figure this shit out. Barry's is our go-to bar - there's usually a good crowd there, and they have a good reputation in the city. We met up after he got off of work, driving separately in case he found someone to take home. I knew I would be too enthralled by the thought of Phoebe to hook up with anyone.
The two of us sat and talked and sipped while we tried to get my head straight. He told me, with a grin on his face, that I sounded like a damn hopeless romantic when I talked about her. It was a compliment. It was him saying I should try to explore this thing with Phoebe. I was becoming a sap already, and he knew I was falling for her.
We chatted for a while, until he got a little restless and needed to blow off some steam. Tate is the most thoughtful person I know, but he can't sit still for too long. He'll gladly listen and give advice, but if the conversation starts to drag out, he needs a break to move around. I let him, because I know he needs it, and because it gives me time to quell my spiraling tornado of thoughts.
Tate and I met about six years back, when he came into the vet's office I was interning at with a puppy he had found wandering the streets. She was a little scrawny German Shepherd and her fur was all matted down. We went through all of the protocols with her, gave her a bath, and, while the doctors were checking on her health, I went to talk to Tate. He was messed up over this little puppy; pacing the room nonstop messed up.
Nobody claimed the dog, which we expected, considering she screamed 'stray' when he first brought her in. So, I called Tate a few days later and asked him if he wanted her. He started driving to the office before we were even off the phone. From there, we built up a friendship the more times he came in to get Maisie checked on and up-to-date with vaccines and medications.
And now, he's my best friend, even when he leaves me to go dance with the girl I can't stop thinking about.
I know I sound crazy. I know I do. But I can't get Phoebe out of my head. I want to understand her. I want to dig into her and find all of the diamonds hidden inside. She's an intoxicating siren woman. It's like gravity pulling me to her.
I guess Tate heard her song, too, because the next thing I knew, they were dancing together. I had only been looking at her for a few seconds before she noticed me. I could tell from the stool I sat on that she was sloshed. Completely and totally wasted. But she looked marvelous. I would put that snapshot right in the front of my wallet in a heartbeat.
Her hair was pulled back and the curve of her neck dipped right into her collarbones. I wanted to attach my lips to it. She looked free. An entirely different person than I met at Dino's - without a single care in the world. She was a floating balloon, drifting higher and higher into the clouds. The smoke from a blown-out candle, billowing around the room.
And then she opened her eyes.
Her ice acting like fire, melting my composure. My mind whizzed around so fast I thought, for sure, we were on a rocket ship to Mars. My mouth went dry, and I tried to lick my lips to bring back some moisture, but nothing worked. I smiled at her. She looked pretty so carefree. So open. So real. I couldn't have stopped the smile even if I wanted to.
One second she was dancing with Tate, and the next she was fumbling her way in my direction, shoving past poor groups of people dancing around. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She left Tate like roadkill, and I couldn't even glance up at my best friend to see how he reacted.
I knew Phoebe was drunk – I could tell she had a lot to drink by how she was dancing and how she was currently stumbling towards me. But holy shit, Phoebe was drunk.
I can't lie, though, her being so excited to see me lit a fire in my stomach. A little twinge of narcissism, I guess. It was nice to know that the thoughts were reciprocated, at least a little bit. If I was plastered I would act the same way seeing her. I'd be laid out flat on my ass the moment she walked in the goddamn room.
Hell, she asked me to say, "kitty cat" and I almost did right then and there. I would've gotten down on my knees and chanted it if she had asked me to. She's just so captivating.
I have to admit, seeing her so far gone with no one watching her made me a little nervous. And maybe my subconscious was just trying to play superhero again, but I wanted to make sure she got home safe. I wanted to protect her. Not that she couldn't handle herself, but, god, she was plastered. I was, and am, so consumed by her.
She got in my car without a fight, which I was thankful for. And I was even more thankful that she didn't ride her bike to the bar. I didn't even want to imagine her trying to bike to her apartment when she couldn't even walk in a straight line.
I thought she was going to puke in my car. In fact, I'm surprised she didn't. I was about to reach back and grab the sick bucket off the floor of my backseat, but then she dozed off, light, incoherent murmurs escaping her lips. It made me smile; that she felt safe enough around me to fall asleep a little. Like a little kitten, all snuggled up in my front seat, dozed and purring.
As I drove to her apartment, the area just kept getting worse and worse. I understand why she was so quick to brush me off the other night when I offered to take her home. Even as a white man, I was getting wary of the surroundings. I don't even want to imagine how somebody who looks different than me would feel.
But, then again, maybe that's why Phoebe didn't want me to see where she lives. Because she knew I'd be fearful of the area. She thought I'd pity her or try to play God and get her out of here or something like that. Instead, as I pulled into her parking lot, all I was really thinking about was how I could keep her sleeping peacefully in my car.
I turned towards her, her legs slightly curled up onto the seat, and cheek pressed into her shoulder, and ran my hand across her thigh to wake her up. Touching her felt electric, even through the pant leg of her jeans. Sparks of electricity bouncing between us. Miniscule lightning bug kisses. Jellyfish stings.
And then, I kissed her hand.
I don't know what went through my mind. She's a goddamn siren. Her hand was in mine, and it just felt natural. It was like it wasn't even my hand that was bringing hers to my lips. It just happened before I could even think about what I was doing.
Her hands are so soft and dainty, and they were warm and slightly sweaty from her drunkenness and letting go felt like releasing a caged bird.
I toss my head back against the headrest of my seat.
I am so fucked.
Phoebe gets inside the complex and I can only assume, into her apartment, safely, and I think my mind is even more jumbled than before Tate and I went out.
Tate.
I need to call him.
I glance down to shift gears and head home, but my eyes catch something small and black sitting in the shadow of the floor mat. Reaching across the seat, I pull up a purse – Phoebe's purse. Of course she left her purse in my car. Of course she did.
My car door squeals as I open it up, Phoebe's purse in hand. Approaching the apartment complex, it dawns on me that I have no clue which apartment could be hers.
I hope she has some cheesy doormat or something.
I enter the building and walk up a few steps, glancing helplessly around the floor. None of the doormats feel like Phoebe. All bright and colorful and loud. Turning my head, my sights land on a mat-less apartment door.
My knuckles rap against the wood and I lean against the side of the doorframe. I can hear mumbling inside the room and my heart stops for a second, scared that this isn't her door. But, my fears are quelled when the door flies open and deep, deep brown hair blows with the gust of air. She's already stripped out of her shoes and is shuffling back and forth between socked feet.
In the light, I can tell that her makeup is a little smeared, like she was rubbing at her eyes. It's worn off a little where her laugh lines had appeared earlier and, if I focus hard enough, I can picture her carefree smile all over again.
"What the hell do you-" she starts, angrily. But when she notices it's me, her face softens and the corners of her lips turn up a little, "Harry?"
All I can spit out is a quiet, "you forgot this" while I hand over the purse.
She takes it from me with a small smile. I think the amount of alcohol she drank may be taking its toll on her because she looks a little uncomfortable, holding her hand over top of her stomach.
"Oh, thank you. Look, I'm, uh, I'm sorry... about all of this." She motions around her, to the apartment building.
Her hesitation makes me jump in quickly, "Don't be. Like I said out there, I'm happy to help."
We stand there for a few seconds in silence, her staring at my chest, me staring at her face.
"Well, I guess I'll be heading out."
"Do you want to-"
We spoke at the same time, and clipped our mouths shut at the same time. And, then of course, had that awkward, "you go," "no, you go" moment.
"You said you were going to head out, so I'll just see you...sometime." She rubs her thumbs over the tips of her fingers.
Her words make my head feel a little dizzy. I don't want to see her some undefined "sometime." I want to know when I'll see her next. I need to know.
"No, you were going to ask a question, go ahead."
Please invite me in, please invite me in, please invite me in.
She glances up at me, fumbling for the words to speak, "I was just going to ask if you wanted to come in for a bit." Score. "I want to sober up a little more before I go to bed, so I'm gonna be up. But don't let me stop you from going home, I know it's late."
Silly girl.
It's just barely past midnight now. She acts like we weren't out until 3 am earlier in the week.
Her thumbs are still violently rubbing back and forth against her fingertips, and I have to hold back from reaching out to grab onto her hands to stop the action.
"I'd love to keep you company."
Phoebe does a double take at my lips as I speak before she flickers her eyes back down to my chest. She invites me in, stepping backwards and holding the door open. As I step inside her apartment, Phoebe turns to lock and deadbolt the door, and hooks up one of those security lock things, too.
"I really like your place."
It's not a lie, though her scoff tells me that she thinks it is. The space is small, but it feels warm and lived in. There's a little kitchen off to the right, and the left opens into the living room. Her walls are all pretty bare, the only decorations having to do with dancing – cheesy quotes and ballet shoes and posters of women I've never heard of before. Her couch sits against the wall, covered in a cute old floral pattern, with little rips and tears near the legs as if cat had used it as a scratching post.
I watch as water droplets drip into a plastic tub in the center of the room from a small hole in the ceiling, but I know better than to point it out. Besides, it doesn't really matter why it exists, and brining attention to it will just make Phoebe feel bad.
"Yeah, right, thanks. It's a shithole, I know." Her eyes roll with the thank you, a habit that doesn't surprise me in the slightest.
"No, I mean it! It's very warm and cozy." I try to reassure her.
Further proof that somewhere inside, she's probably pure, unfiltered sunshine.
She gives me a small smile and turns towards the kitchen. Moments later, she returns with two glasses of water and invites me to sit down. I take a seat on one side of the couch while Phoebe criss-crosses on the floor.
"Hey, no, I'll sit somewhere else, you don't have to sit on the floor." I start to stand up, but she reaches out and puts her hand onto my knee to motion me back down.
Lightning bolts. Fire. Electricity. Lit matches.
"I like sitting on the floor." Her voice is smooth, soft. Comfortable. So different than it was at Barry's. Not different in a bad way, she just sounds warm. I sit back down.
We stay in her living room for a while chatting back and forth about favorite movies and music and nothing, her curled up on the floor, and me on the couch, as she drinks the water to flush the alcohol out of her system. She's by no means sober, but she's not too drunk that she can't think straight anymore. I pull more out of her in ten minutes than I did all night at Peking Chef.
Phoebe has a soft spot for Disney movies, namely The Aristocats and Peter Pan.
"I used to jump off the end of my bed, pretending I could fly like him. I'd just end up with my ass on the floor, though." she had laughed out, the glass in her hand clinking lightly against her teeth due to the fact she was about to take a sip.
She told me that rom coms are "a big no" because they're too predictable and cheesy and unrealistic. But it sounded like something she had to force herself to say. She loves all the old classic 80's movies – Ferris Bueller, and Pretty In Pink, and The Breakfast Club, and "literally anything Patrick Swayze is in."
Can't blame her, there.
Once music came up, I shot off like a rocket, talking about Fleetwood Mac, and Billy Joel, and Elton John, and Michael Jackson, and The Eagles, and anyone else I could think of. Phoebe chimed in here and there. I'd say that her music taste is great, but I like everything, so I'm not sure if I'm a reasonable judge.
She asked me question after question and I was happy to oblige – favorite color, favorite animal, best childhood memory, how Tate and I met, if I had any animals, my dream career, my parents' names, my parents' middle names, my middle name, if I could eat dinner with one celebrity dead or alive who would it be, how did I end up in San Francisco, my dream pet, did I play an instrument, favorite food, favorite drink, favorite dessert, favorite person in the whole world.
Blue, or pink. Monkeys. Going to an Elton John concert when I was little. Vet's office. No. Veterinarian. Diana and David. Rose and Edward. Edward. Stevie Nicks. Dad got a job here. A polar bear, or a kangaroo. Guitar and piano. Mom's shepherd's pie. Whiskey. Mom's empire biscuits. Mom.
I reciprocated the favorite color question – yellow – but then she started sprouting them out in double time and I didn't get the chance to ask any others. So, I just let her continue her interrogation because she had a lazy smile and a concentrated look on her face that furrowed a little wrinkle between her eyebrows every time I spoke my answers.
She had visibly loosened up by the time she got up to refill her water for the first time, looking much more comfortable. When she sat back down, she leaned her back against the other side of the couch, and when she turns her head, I can feel her breath through the jeans on my legs. Whenever she laughs at something I say, she reaches out to lightly touch my shin or my knee or even the top of my shoe and I have to choke out a breath each time.
Phoebe comes back after filling up her glass for the third time, and I swear my heart stops beating when she sits on the couch next to me. It's quiet for a minute and I glance around the room, breathing as deeply as possible in the hopes that lavender and honey will embed themselves into my lungs.
My gaze lands on a calendar on the wall near the kitchen. She's circled one day about a million times with a bright green pen. I'm about to ask about it when Phoebe speaks up.
"I think I'll be good to go once I finish this glass, do you think?" she breaks the silence, and when I turn my eyes to hers, she nods towards the water on the coffee table.
I notice the way my heart sinks, knowing the rest of my time tonight is limited, "Definitely. Wouldn't want you to drown in your sleep."
She laughs lightly, her fingers coming out to trace across my bicep. My stomach clenches, molten lava rolling through my veins like a tidal wave.
Now I'm the one who's going to drown.
Phoebe fiddles with the rolled-up sleeve of my shirt, a sleepy smile on her face. It's almost impossible to look away, but I force myself to, otherwise I'll end up swirling in her London fog.
"Hey, Harry? Can I ask you a question?" I hum in response.
"When you came into Dino's the first time... Why did you need blueberries so badly?"
I groan, rubbing my palm down my face. I knew this was coming.
"Yeah, I guess that was kind of crazy, wasn't it?"
She laughs, nodding her head lazily, and my heart stutters.
I take a deep breath, sighing, "It was kind of a crazy night in general. I just didn't want to disappoint anyone, that's all, so I really wanted to find some."
Her head falls to rest against my shoulder, and her third glass of water remains untouched in front of us, "That's so vague. I thought you were just obsessed with blueberries or something."
I huff out a laugh, "Yeah, I was just kind of frazzled. Crazy day at work. And then Tate was shitfaced and wouldn't stop texting me about wanting some. The bastard would probably have gotten in the car to find some himself if I didn't go." A lie. The words feel like poison on my tongue, searing toxic holes into my taste buds.
She nods against me, but it feels like she's nuzzling her head into me.
I don't necessarily mean to mutter, "And then I saw you and couldn't think straight," but it slips out anyway. It's not that I was trying to hide my attraction to her, but I also wasn't trying to announce it, either.
Phoebe freezes. I freeze. Two ice sculptures on fire.
Her proximity is intoxicating and heady and I can feel it deep in my stomach. Like rolling hills and valleys, or lava lamps. Warm and nostalgic, with pins and needle sparks of energy.
I wonder if it feels the same for her.
Slowly, very slowly, Phoebe lifts her head off of my shoulder, looking deep into my eyes. Blue swimming pools. Iridescent bubbles floating against the summer sky. There's a look in them that I can't read. A look carefully guarded with lock and key, just like the rest of Phoebe Mitchell.
The only noise in the room is the light sound of our breathing, accented by the drip, drip, drip into the plastic bucket. She parts her lips like she's going to speak, but closes them right back up. If I hold my breath long enough, I can almost hear each little blink of her tired eyes. The fluttering sound of her pretty eyelashes wisping against each other.
She's so close that I can feel each exhale on my chin. Close enough that I can't focus on her entire face; only snapshot features in focus at one time. It's only her endless sky eyes. Only the little button of her nose. The soft curve of her jaw that sharpens back near her ears. Her pretty, pretty, rosy mouth.
Just her bottom lip, plump and smooth and endless pink, with a little sheen from her tongue running across it. Rose petals and rose water and rosewood and roses. Begging to be pecked, sucked on, nibbled. That lip, imprinted in my brain.
All at once, and with no time to think, she presses herself into me, lips perfectly slotting between mine in an instant. She all but falls against me, her hands flat against my chest. My brain doesn't register what's happening until she's already pulling away.
"I-I'm sorry. Sorry. I don't know what I was-"
My hand reaches out and cradles her jaw, pulling it back into me. Gently, I fold my lips into hers, resting her bottom lip in between mine. I hold her still against me for a moment, but I can't resist the urge to suck her lip into my mouth. As I do, Phoebe grips onto my shoulders like I'm a life raft and she just jumped off of the Titanic.
She moves her lips against mine gently, gracefully. As if her every movement is dance. Long lines and soft spins; smooth, luscious, alluring.
She pulls away with a gasp, eyes closed, and forehead resting against mine. Her breath against my lips is shaky. Her hands loosen their grip on my shoulders and they're shaky, too.
My heart is pounding against my chest like a jackhammer. I want to pull her back in and kiss her all over again, but she's tense. Like every last one of her walls just turned into skyscrapers.
"Phoebe, are you-?" I start, hushed.
"I'm sorry. I, uh, I think I need to go to bed. I- I'm sorry." Her voice trembles and my stomach sinks.
When she opens her eyes and pulls back, she refuses to look at me. She just gets up off of the couch and paces once, twice, across the living room. Her gaze meets mine for exactly four seconds as she takes a big inhale, a pleading look inside of them. She exhales.
I nod, standing up, "Okay, that's okay. I'll just head out."
Wordlessly, I head towards her door, undoing all of the locks, and pulling it open. Phoebe apologized another two or three times as I made my way out.
"Don't apologize, everything's okay. Get some sleep. I'll see you around, yeah?" I say, as I lean against the doorframe. It's like so much and nothing at all has happened since I stood in this exact position almost two hours ago.
Phoebe nods, her movements a little frantic and flustered. I try to give her a reassuring smile, but she doesn't match it. Stepping back, I start to pull the door closed behind me.
Quietly, moments before I hear the click of the doorknob, she whispers a small "text me when you get home safe."
The wooden door shuts between us and, slowly, I hear the locks being secured and light, rapid tapping of fingertips against the wall.
God, I need to call Tate.
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I loved this chapter, Harry's POV comes so naturally to write and I absolutely adore his brain.
Let me know what you think! :)
Thank you for reading, voting, commenting, sharing, etc. All of my love. Stay Gold. ♡
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.