And To All A Good Night [h.s. one shots]

Have We Met? by ThousandYearsOfHope

Have We Met?

The very notion of New Year's Eve always seemed so cliché to me. The expectations of it, the anticipation, and the busyness. Placing all your worth on the start of a new year when a drunken evening in a room with people you don't know is hardly an indication of what you'll achieve in 12 months or who you'll be by the end of it.

Saying goodbye to something and hello to another immediately after, as if that completely eradicates everything you've been through until that evening. All that pain you're desperate to shake away, all that exhaustion and all that sadness; gone. Poof. Vanished. Like magic, I suppose.

You call out the countdown, you raise your glasses in the air, and you kiss someone to your right, and suddenly, everything is better again. The ticking of a clock marking life before and after.

But then you wake up the next day, probably enduring a crushing hangover that makes you promise you won't drink again any time soon, and you begin to realise how utterly wrong you were, and how arbitrary it was to believe such a thing. It all comes back to you in that moment; everything you thought you'd waved goodbye to with an air of finality, only to be hit in the face with it as your head pounds and you want to vomit.

Booze blues. One of the worst parts of a hangover. Especially when it's cold and you wake up alone and you know no one will answer your texts if you send any. Wallowing in sadness and silence and realising that you can't run from your problems or how they make you feel because life isn't that easy, and it was never supposed to be that easy for a person like you.

Maybe you draw yourself a bath, equipped with bubbles and candles, you tell yourself that an afternoon of pampering will help you feel better, but the minute you're in the water it starts scorching your skin and you start questioning the decision you've made. Then when you decide to get out, the cold clings to the moisture of your skin and you end up feeling even worse than you did before. So, instead, you wrap yourself up in a dressing gown, pour a glass of wine even if you can still taste the sick you brought up after waking, and you curl up on the sofa while flicking through boring holiday specials on the telly.

That's how the new year begins. That's what defines the year you'll end up having.

Perhaps I'm a pessimist. A lot of people have told me I am, but I never used to be. I don't like looking so negatively at things people should celebrate, but I also know that this is what happens when you decide to be rational and reject the outdated belief that every slate can be wiped clean with the touch of a stranger's lips on the final night of the year.

Besides, why would I want to kiss a random person while we're stuffed into a tightly packed room? It only leads to awkward small talk, wanderings hands that I constantly have to move away from my arse, and ultimately hiding in a corner when he tries to convince me that I should go back to their place. Hardly an ideal way to spend the evening. No, I'd rather hold onto the final ounces of self-respect that I have and avoid it altogether.

I've done the whole dating thing. A few one night stands in between with mediocre sex and faked orgasms. Kissing people I'll never see again in a dimly lit club or bar. Holding hands with someone that sweats too much. Nodding along to conversations that could send me to sleep. Convincing myself that their personalities will grow on me. Agreeing to a second or third date but never responding to their texts again.

Really, I've tried it all.

At first, I dipped my toes in with trepidation, questioning if I was even ready to put myself out there after suffering perhaps the worst heartbreak of my life. Then I got comfortable, and that's when it went downhill.

The issue with men is that they only want one thing. Validation. They want a girl to laugh at their jokes, and blush at their compliments, and hold their hands, and accept that he'll pay the bill, and kiss his cheek, and let him into their flat, and lay back and think of England while he convinces himself he's a champion between the sheets but realistically would come last in the race because he overestimated himself. They want someone to make them feel like a Rockstar, without ever really trying to reciprocate it for their partner.

I went on a date with a man named Colin, which in itself should have been a red flag because who named their child Colin after the seventies? We went to a bar in central London, one he chose because his colleagues had told him they did good cocktails. It was a Friday night, I had to get ready in a work bathroom and face the stares of security when I walked out the building in a red dress and stilettos because I definitely didn't enter in them. And, obviously, the place was rammed. He hadn't booked a table. We had to queue for twenty minutes. The heavens opened up. By the time we got in I looked like a drowned rat. And when we finally sat down with drinks, he proceeded to talk about how great he was at his job and how everyone in his friends group loved him without even taking a moment to ask what I thought about him.

See, Colin wanted someone to fluff his ego. Some arm candy, maybe, a good fuck if he was lucky. He wanted a woman to smile at everything he said and only chime in if it backed up something he stated.

Of course, I didn't want to play that game.

Colin worked in a bank. Immediate turn off. I told him I worked for a not-for-profit. He sneered at this, said everyone should make a profit. I'm not sure he knew what I meant. I clarified, it's a charity, Colin, they're not supposed to make profits for themselves. He rolled his eyes because he hated being spoken down to. He laughed it off and proceeded to tell me how much he made that year. He asked what my salary was, and I refused to answer. He assumed it was because it was much smaller compared to his. I assured him it wasn't. We make the same amount, Colin. He didn't like that and thought I was lying because charities hardly pay that. I told him I worked for one of the biggest in the country leading on their communications team.

After an hour of back and forth, he had the audacity to ask if I wanted to come back to his for a nightcap. Now, I did say yes, and I did then proceed to let him fuck me, but I had a rough night and just wanted to let off some steam. It wasn't horrendous, but it wasn't getting a five-star review. He told me not to fall in love with him. You don't need to worry about that, Colin.

I unmatched him on the dating app and blocked his number.

I saw him in that same bar a few weeks later, relaying the same conversation with a woman much thinner than me and with hair more voluminous than mine, who seemed to enjoy nodding along to what he was saying. I suppose I felt happy that he found someone to give him what he wanted but sat opposite me was another man that had no intention to give me what I wanted.

I slept with that guy too. It was a bit better. But he had a very weird orgasm face that hindered me from reaching my own and I couldn't bear to stay in bed with him after that, so I immediately called a cab and stood outside in the freezing cold to avoid looking at him anymore.

For a long time, I'd convinced myself that the reason I hated dating so much, the reason I could never find that spark all the great novelists speak of, was because I wasn't ready for it. After my last relationship, I had allowed myself a decent amount of time to mourn it. The typical nights filled with an endless supply of Pinot Grigio and tubs of Ben & Jerry's, listening to my friends tell me that I'll see a light at the end of the tunnel and that this was just a learning curb.

Then, I decided to move on and fall in love again, but something didn't feel right.

And it took me a while to realise that it wasn't because my heart wasn't at the point it needed to be to completely give itself to someone else. It was because it still belonged to him, Max, my ex. It's tragic. Slightly embarrassing. Perhaps even pathetic. After seven months, I'm still caught up on him.

It was obvious to everyone, I think. Whenever I told them about the endless failed evenings with the men they tried to set me up with, they'd look at me with pity and I always assumed it was because they thought maybe I wouldn't find someone else to feel comfortable sharing my life with. I now know it was because they could tell I hadn't moved on and I wasn't allowing myself to.

For the most part, Max was an angel. He has a smile that could light up a whole room and blind you. The kind that makes you smile until your cheeks ache. The type of smile that kids have when their parents give them a shiny new toy or their favourite cake after being good. He made me feel like that, like I deserved him, like I worked for him. A prize for me, wrapped in a perfect ribbon. He felt like a shiny glazed cherry atop the highest mountain of fresh ice-cream, and I devoured every spoonful.

He'd hold my hand as we walked down the street or through a room or even to the car. He'd always hug me whenever I came home or went to work. He'd do that thing that you always hear about in books, when the dreamy love interest tucks a strand of hair behind the protagonist's ear, letting his hand linger for a while as his eyes searched my face, and slowly he'd move forward and kiss me. A kiss that felt as magical as the first, every single time. New and fresh and exciting, like I'd never felt lips so soft before even though I'd probably kissed them moments before.

Max worked with kids. Another reason to love him. He's so good with them. I'd always picture him with his own, and I'd hope that I'd be the one to give them to him. A mini me and mini him running around the home we built together. That's how special it was. He had me dreaming about families from the moment I met him.

I was 21, new to the city for work, and he was 25, working at a school down the road from my flat. It started off with the occasional smile as we passed each other in the mornings. Sometimes a 'good morning'. Then a 'hello'. Then a 'how are you?' Then a 'how was your weekend?' Then a 'want to hang out?'

Steppingstones that we never fell from, walking across them like a well-choreographed routine that only we knew the moves to. At first, we tiptoed across the path with caution, slow and steady, somewhat scared. Eventually, we were running, barely stopping to notice if we were going the right direction.

We kissed on the second date. We had sex on the sixth. We said I love you after two months. He said he was seeing someone else after 5 years. We said goodbye the next day. I stood on the doorstep begging him to return, to work it out, to ignore the other woman. He said he didn't love me anymore. He was gone.

I'm not sure what lead to that moment. There wasn't a fight. We didn't grow apart. Nothing changed in our relationship. We had our routine; I liked our routine. Working and coming home to warm meals and holding each other all night and saying we loved each other surrounded by the moon and then the sun.

A fairytale, maybe. Something you dream of when you're a kid because it's all they ever tell you about in the movies you watch or the stories you read. True love and happily ever after, handed to me when I'd only just entered adulthood. Until, suddenly, that was ripped from me. I realised that it was all fiction, that stories weren't supposed to be taken literally, that they're supposed to be a break from the cruel realities of life.

After some astute social media stalking, I found out who he was seeing. A co-worker called Poppy. Sweet, short, dark hair and a big smile. She was an English teacher. They became friends after they chaperoned a school trip to a local museum. On the days he said he'd been working late to grade the kids' tests; he was actually at hers. They had photos together. They looked happy. He moved in with her the day he left ours. The lease was in both our names, but only mine mattered when he walked out.

And yesterday, they announced they were engaged.

I was doing my daily scroll of their accounts, telling myself that I wasn't making things worse for myself because I was just intrigued to see how they were doing considering how easily he changed his mind about me. Maybe one day I'd go online and find out that he realised he still loved me and was ready to plead for my hand in marriage.

I'd be sat at my desk, drinking my tea and responding to emails, and then I'd hear my name. I'd look up, and he'd be there, out of breath and dishevelled from running through the streets, and he'd have a box in his hand. He'd get down on one knee in front of everyone and proclaim his undying love for me, how much of a mistake he'd made, how desperate he is to spend his life with me because he can't imagine living without our love.

And I'd say yes. Every time, in every scenario, I'd say yes. Because I still loved him. I'd always love him.

But that wasn't going to happen. I clicked onto her profile, and the first picture on her feed was that of her hand and a shiny diamond ring, announcing I said yes. She beat me to it, I thought at first, barely even registering what it meant. Then, after a few seconds of staring at the screen, it hit me.

I was on my sofa, eating Christmas leftovers my mum insisted I bring back with me after spending Christmas with her and Dad, watching Sleepless in Seattle. And then my whole world seemed to spiral and twist every which way until I ran to the toilet to be sick.

That is why I am a pessimist. That is why I don't believe my problems can be solved with a New Year's kiss. That is why I am still here at this ridiculous party with people I can hardly stand.

Hannah told me about it last week. One her colleague is hosting in a fancy apartment in Kensington, with the best views of London from the balcony. She said the booze would be expensive and in plenty, and that even a DJ would be there to help the guests bring in the new year. The idea of it turned me off completely, much rather wanting to sit at home on my own with a bottle of wine and a cuddle with my cat. But then I found out my ex-boyfriend, the love of my life, was going to marry someone that wasn't me, and somehow, I find myself asking for the address and putting together an outfit I'd never normally wear.

And that's how I found myself loathing every person in this obnoxiously large flat on the final night of the year, glaring at those that have found someone to cling to for the evening and those that are in high spirits. Sure, it's embarrassing for me to be stood in a corner on my own, quietly seething about other people being happy when inside all I want to do is scream, but I hardly know anyone here, and I'm not in the mood to make friends with people I'll likely never see again.

Hannah, the only person I know here, left my side the minute she spotted some work friends, coming back over every now and again to make sure that I was alright, but I've been on my own for the most part. Granted, the constant supply of champagne is making it easier, and there have been a few handsome men that have caught my eye and attempted conversation. They always seem to find someone more interesting, though, which only fuels the loneliness I've been feeling for a while now.

It's an odd feeling, I think. You find yourself longing for company, longing for someone to not only see you but hear you and understand you. All the while, the very thought of opening up to someone seems like the tallest mountain in the world, and if you attempt to climb it, you'll only end up slipping and tumbling back down to the bottom with broken bones and a broken mind. Sometimes it's easier to build up walls that no one can scale, even if it does make you feel worse. At least only I can be blamed for this isolation. No one else holds the puppet strings and manipulates my movements, forcing me away from the crowds.

No, it's my decision. I only have myself to blame, and I'm okay with that, because I know that it's a problem I can fix. If someone else is the cause of it, then I'll never know how to change things, because it will be on their terms.

That's what I'm telling myself anyway.

I've had one too many glasses of alcohol and seem to be the only person eating the food spread, but I'm happy with that. A hearty meal and something to quench my thirst. There are pros to this evening, despite the multitude of cons. The music is semi-decent, though I'd like for it to be turned down a bit because I worry the neighbours will complain, the atmosphere is exciting, and did I mention there's so much champagne?

I find myself tapping my foot in the corner of the kitchen, watching the couples group together and tell tales of their year and what they're up to in the next. Sometimes I smile, but I'm not sure if I actually mean it, and other times I'm aware of my solemn expression because they catch me staring and tell their partners to walk away. It must be nice feeling happy and loved and cared for.

I need to stop feeling sorry for myself.

But just as I reach for another champagne flute, that same tightness in my chest hits, and I begin panicking all over again. Because across the room, hands linked together while they laugh and joke and talk to someone else, are Max and his fiancé. The girl that I wish I could be, the girl I always thought I'd be, the girl I was never actually meant to be. And it hurts, so much more than I thought it would.

A hand punching into my chest, gripping my heart and squeezing it tight enough to destroy it. The life sucked out of me with each exhale I fight to reclaim. Choking on my blood, crimson staining my skin.

It seems dramatic, but when I see him it's like every memory, I had with him flashes before my eyes in a continuous loop, a movie I don't want to watch, and it chips away at my mind with each second. I see him and I see his smile and I see his hand holding hers. God, I remember holding his hand. I remember walks in the park and to the tube station, I remember mindlessly milling about the shops during the holidays, I remember brushing our teeth in the same mirror, and still, through every scenario, that was my hand to hold. Mine to never let go of. But he pulled away from me and found another home for it. One he seems to enjoy more than mine.

He looks down at her and I see that same glint in his eye that used to be reserved for me. A subtle sparkle, a happiness inconceivable to those that have never felt love like ours. Yet, he stands before me, and he's managed to feel it with someone that isn't me, as if ours never existed.

Should I be mad? I probably should have kicked and screamed and berated him for all he did after he left me so abruptly. I should have forced him to apologise and make up for the pain he was about to put me through in the months that followed our breakup. But I didn't. I didn't do any of those things because I was too busy hoping he'd take me back.

Then, his eyes meet mine across the room, and all the sounds that silenced around me become unbearably loud once more. The music thumps through the floorboards and shake my feet, the chatter increases in volume to battle with the songs, and the laughter remains as pretentious as ever. He looks at me, squinting, as if he can't even recognise me, and slowly, he makes his way over to me.

This is the part where I should run. Find my nearest exit, hide behind the taller folks, and dip before he can see. That doesn't happen, though. My feet are glued to their spot, eyes wide with shock and mouth dry with parted lips. Each step he takes feels like an earthquake underneath me, and like a scared child I don't seek safety, I let the danger hit me.

He's getting closer. The impact is going to knock me from my feet. He's smiling at me, like he's glad to see an old friend. He's letting his eyes take in my body and my hair and all the things I've changed about myself over the months we've been apart.

He's almost in front of me. I need a drink. I thought I just had one in my hand. My glass is empty. I need something else to hold onto.

He's right here. Staring down at me, putting his hands on my elbows, grinning.

"What are you doing here?" he asks in gleeful cheer. As if he didn't leave me for another woman earlier this year. As if he didn't break my heart.

I look at him. I notice how he's changed too, something the photos haven't done much justice with. He's grown out some stubble, something I always wished for when we were together because he had such a youthful look to him. His hair is shorter, maybe even darker. He's tanned, and I know it's from the holiday to Thailand they took together last month. And inside his wrist is a small tattoo with the flower his fiancé is named after. A poppy.

What a kick to the teeth.

It takes me a moment to find the appropriate words, and when I do, they barely feel like enough. There's so much I've been wanting to say to him. Nothing seems to suffice. "Hannah brought me along," I say. Short. Snappy. Let's make this conversation quick.

He nods, looking around the room to spot my friend but fails. I haven't seen her in an hour. "I assumed you'd stay in this year," he states, like he has the right to recite my habits. "What changed?"

Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that you broke my heart and I've been a mess since then. I found out you were engaged and wanted to leave the house instead of spiralling in my loneliness but like a joke the universe decided to conjure you up.

I can't say that, despite how much I want to. I don't really want to upset him with an outburst, either, not when he seems so happy this evening. "Wanted a change of scenery," I respond with a shrug of my shoulders. "She also promised big things for this party, so I didn't want to miss out." It felt like I had to add that.

Max breathes out a laugh, looking around once more. He's checking to see if I have any other companions. This is horrendous. I hate that I'm still blushing under his gaze when it focuses on mine again. "How have you been?"

A loaded question, one I'm sure he doesn't want the honest answer to. I can't tell him about the endless crying, the meaningless fucks and the prodding of my body every time I look in a mirror and compare myself to the woman he left me for. I can't let him know that I've checked his social media profiles every day since we split in hopes that there would be a change in his relationship status. I can't tell him that I moved out of the house we shared with the hopes of starting a family to a small one bed flat near a train station that shakes every time one goes over the bridge.

Maybe he'd like to hear that I've been thriving. That I've found inner peace since we parted and am happier to be on my own. That I understand why he left and why he moved on and why I wasn't good enough for him. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to give him that, though. It feels like a constant cycle of sadness and worthlessness every time I think about him and what could have been.

So, I won't give him either of those answers. I'll give him all I can manage. "Fine, yeah. Tired as always because of work but I like keeping myself busy."

He smiles at this. "Yeah, I heard through the grapevine that you moved up in the team? You're leading it now, aren't you?"

I nod to him, my cheeks heating up once more. "I am."

He touches my arm. It burns. Fire in his hands. I'm a wax to melt. "That's brilliant news, really. I always knew you could do it."

He had hopes and dreams for me too. Things he wanted for us, for me. A notion he still believes in, even though we're not together. I wish he would stop stroking my arm. "Thanks," I offer, shrugging my arm as I look for a waiter with some more champagne. I am in desperate need of another drink. My body is craving just one drop. "How have you been keeping?"

The question encourages him to look over to his fiancé. "Really good, thanks."

I was hoping he'd elaborate, just so he'd admit how wonderful his life has been while I've been trying to fix what he broke. But I guess I'll have to pry it out of him, instead. "Hannah said she saw that you guys are engaged," I say. A lie. She doesn't even know. I think she muted him on everything. "Congratulations."

He looks slightly taken aback by this, clearly not expecting me to bring up the relationship, but as the words settle, he nods. "We are. Didn't anticipate it to happen so soon but when you know you know, I suppose."

That part hurt. It stung like a thousand stings from a hive of bees. Or scorpions. Or hornets. Maybe all of them. Attacking me when I'm already weak because they know I'm easy prey. Five years together, and he never felt like he knew with me. Five years of I love you, five years of promises, five years of forever. Until one day, it ended. One day, he decided that one thing he did know, was that he couldn't be with me.

My throat constricts slightly as I try to breathe, lips darting out to lick the dryness that's formed in the duration of this conversation. I really need some alcohol. I need a whole bottle. A bathtub full of it. I want to swim in alcohol. Drown me in the bubbles, I beg. "When are you planning on having the big day?"

He sighs, scratching behind his head. "God, I haven't even thought about it but the minute I got down on one knee she was saying next Christmas, maybe New Year's Eve, actually."

Of course.

Smiling, I nod along and mumble something along the lines of ah right when in my head all I can hear is the screams I want to let out into the night. "Will be nice to ring in another year married," I muse. Maybe there's some bitterness behind my tone. Maybe I want him to feel the same sting he bestowed upon me. Because I will not be experiencing a marriage in the new year. I am alone, I am sad, I am hurting; and it's all his fault.

And then he asks the dreaded question. One I hadn't thought of an answer to because I didn't even consider him finding the audacity to ask it. He looks down at me, tapping my arm once more. "What about you? Anyone special in your life?"

No. You're the reason I can't fall in love with anyone else. You broke me. You tore me to shreds. You left me like a faulty toy on the side of the pavement because you decided you didn't want to play with me anymore. And I still can't seem to stop loving you.

I'm aware it's quiet between us. I'm aware that I'm staring at him and not saying anything. I'm aware that he's feeling how awkward it is.

I'm aware that there is now a hand on my back and a glass of champagne being offered to me.

Much to my delight, a knight in shining armour has appeared. Someone I don't know, and in any other circumstance I'd grimace at the sudden touch of their hand and how close their lips were to mine as he placed a delicate and hasty kiss to my cheek. But I allow it all. I'm not sure why.

"Babe, there you are! I've been looking for you for twenty minutes, it's so busy here," the man says to me.

I allow myself a moment to take in his appearance. He's tall, obnoxiously so, with greater height given the slight heel to his boots. Long brown curls that perfectly cascade down either side of his face and fall just past his collar bones. Clean shaven but I can detect the shadow on facial hair above his perfectly pink lips. Eyes green, almost dark in this light but when they catch the twinkle of the Christmas tree in the corner, I realise they're much lighter, almost grey. He wears black jeans, incredibly skin-tight that I wonder if he's uncomfortable, a satin blue shirt, and a black blazer. I can't stop my eyes wondering to his exposed chest as a silver crucifix hangs on a chain between two inked designs that I can't quite make out.

Christ, he's attractive. Crafted by the Gods level of attractive. And he's pretending to be my boyfriend because he must have noticed how much of a train wreck I am.

I clear my throat, letting my own hand move round his back so we remain tightly locked together. "Sorry, decided to hide in the corner for a moment. Is this for me?" I ask, noticing the champagne still being held out to me.

He nods, letting our fingers brush against each other's as he navigates it to my hand. "Just knew you'd have finished that one by the time I found you again," he laughs, and I find myself joining him to simply fill the awkwardness. He turns his attention to Max, raising his eyebrow. "Who's this?"

I smile, looking between the two men. It's piqued Max's interest seeing me with another man, that much is clear. "Uh, this is Max. We used to date," I say, not wanting to indulge in the details.

But he laughs again, more genuine this time. "Christ, it's always awkward meeting the ex, isn't it?"

You have no idea.

Max nods. His expression doesn't reveal much. I hope he's jealous. "I was just asking her if she was seeing anyone else, actually. Showed up right on time mate, like the universe knew you were needed."

Another laugh. This one isn't genuine. The man's hand tightens on my hip. "Never too far from her," he assures, tugging me closer to place a kiss to my hair. It's a foreign feeling after being without it for so long. I find myself enjoying it.

I smile up at him, hoping my eyes say enough thanks. They also ask questions. Have me met? Who are you? What's your name? Why are you helping me? Of course, he can't answer any of them yet, and it's not like we have a telepathic connection, but part of me feels calm as he reciprocates it. It's nice that he's helping, at least.

Max shuffles on his feet in front of us, clearing his throat after we've been staring at one another for too long. "Well, it was lovely seeing you again. I'm really glad you're doing well. Maybe we should meet up in the new year, have a catch up. It's been too long."

The nerve of this man. The cheek to suggest seeing me, to say that he wants what's best for me after treating me so abysmally in the breakup, barely giving me time to process what was happening before he packed up his stuff and never spoke to me again. "I'll have to check my schedule. Text me if you still have my number," I add, before watching him walk back to Poppy.

They kiss, he holds her close, and he acts as if I never existed. I wish I could forget him, too. I wish I could scrub myself clean of him. To erase my memories, his touch, his scent – all of it. Gone forever so I can move on.

My shoulders drop the moment he's gone, downing the champagne that was handed to me. The man keeps his hand on my back, eyes watching me as I process what I've just endured. Without a word, he hands me his glass, allowing me a second to finish that too.

"When did you break up?" he asks.

I laugh. "Months ago. Enough time for me to not feel this dreadful over being in the same room as him, but here I am, downing champagne and allowing someone to stand in as a boyfriend to convince the man I still love that I am actually okay and not a shell of the woman I used to be because he took everything good about me with him."

Too much information. I'll scare him away. I should probably leave, anyway. But it would look weird if this man stayed and I left. I'm stuck here. Trapped. Locked in for the night. Might go and bang my head against a wall.

He calls a waiter over, finally creating some distance between us and grabbing two more glasses of champagne. One after the other, handed to me with no complaints or objections. "Tough breakup, then?"

That's an understatement. The alcohol and panic have destroyed any walls I had, meaning I have no qualms about telling a stranger all my life problems. "That woman he's with," I say, watching as he turns to get a look. "They got engaged yesterday. He left me for her after being in a secret affair for longer than I care to admit."

He nods, biting his lip. "You need more champagne, I think."

I huff. "More like hard fucking tequila."

"Well, the host is too pretentious to stock anything other than these £2,000 bottles of bubbly, so it's this or nothing."

I almost choke on the final drop of my beverage. "Two grand?" I question. "It doesn't even taste that nice!"

He covers his mouth as he laughs at this, noticing other guests turn to me when my voice raises higher than anticipated. "I do have this, though," he admits, pushing his hand into his blazer pockets and revealing a silver-plated flask. "Rum."

I reach for it before he even offers it, almost moaning as the subtle burn erupts in my throat. Trickling down and creating tiny fires in its path until they all join together in my stomach. "You're my hero."

"I try my best." He takes it back from me and has a swig too before hiding it away again. "Who did you come here with then if you're not with him?"

I sigh and lean back against the wall I was hiding by before, appreciating the way it holds me up and stops me from falling as a result of the alcohol I've consumed this evening. My eyes wander around the room in a desperate attempt to find my friend. It takes a few moments to finally spot her surrounded by a group of expensive looking men, all suited in the finest materials and letting their eyes move between each other's, as if to say I'll easily get in her bed tonight. If only they knew that she doesn't swing that way, that she'd much rather be with the girlfriends they've definitely kept waiting at home.

I point to her with a smile. "The woman that's charming the crowd over there. She's a friend. I let her convince me that I wouldn't hate every second of the evening."

He raises his brows with a parted mouth. "You mean to tell me you're not having the time of your life in this room full of entitled corporates that think they're better than everyone in the streets below?" he asks, holding a hand over his chest in feigned offence.

I laugh, and I'm certain it's not because of the bubbles in my drink but the way his voice sounds after a few drops of them too. "Well, when you put it like that..." He joins in on my glee, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Who did you let rope you in?"

He scans the crowd too. "My brother – that rather dashing fellow that's also chatting up your friend." He points to the tallest man in the group. Shorter hair, slightly darker in colour and not as curled. Smart, dressed in what appears to be a tailored suit, leaning rather close to Hannah.

"So, you're not one of the, how did you put it, entitled corporates that think they're better than everyone?" I counter.

He shakes his head, letting it hang low for a moment before placing a hand on the wall near me. A hand that I can't help but look at, noticing the tattoos that litter his arm leading from it. "Afraid not. My plans were cancelled last minute, and I figured I'd join him for the free booze and the entertainment of watching men flirt with women that don't particularly care for them. Does that ruin your night even more?"

I stand up straighter. "Alas, no amount of champagne or twinkling lights could get me to enjoy New Year's Eve, so you're off the hook, stranger. But thank you for being my knight in shining armour, there. I almost ran away. I'm still thinking of running away."

His brows drop for a moment until he moves away and crosses his arms over his chest. "You don't like New Year's Eve?" I shake my head with pouted lips. "Why's that?"

With a sigh, I mimic his stance. "There are too many expectations for it, and it always fails to meet them."

He bites his lip and I find myself thinking about how much I enjoy the sight. "Maybe you dream too big for it, then. That's easily remedied," he answers smugly.

I huff, beginning to make my way towards the food table once more. Canapés that I can barely make out, all in tiny portions that don't actually provide any sustenance for the guests. Counter that with the copious amounts of alcohol in this room, then the host is likely to have a court of jesters leaving their apartment come midday tomorrow when the party finally ends. I go for the most appealing looking one, identifying some beetroot and nuts.

He reaches across for a sweeter one, sighing as he takes a bite. But he waits for me to counter his point and leans against the table next to me.

"I don't like the ceremony of it, either." He tilts his head in confusion. "The notion that when the clock strikes twelve, everything bad from the year before will magically disappear, but that will only happen if you get paralytically drunk and count down with a crowd and wear those silly glasses with the year on, oh and don't get me started on the kissing."

His hands lightly grip my shoulders, turning my body to face his. "What's wrong with kissing?"

He seems deeply concerned, and I hate that I have to explain myself to a stranger. A particularly attractive one that just had to save me from an awkward encounter with an ex that I'm still hopelessly in love with. "Nothing." He smiles. "There is nothing wrong with kissing, I like kissing very much, ok?" He's grinning now. "I just don't want to place the success of my evening on kissing someone I either don't know or don't like very much."

"So, you don't do one-night stands or dating?" he cheekily asks, following me to another part of the room that's less crowded.

If only you knew, I think to myself. I sigh, turning to face him. "I never said that." Across the room, I notice the balcony is largely empty, some milling in and out but most choosing to stay inside with the buzz of the party. My feet lead me towards it, taking another flute of champagne on the way. His footsteps sound behind me, even over the music, most likely because they're all I can focus on.

The cold air hits my cheeks first, feeling like a harsh slap to the face. They sting in the winds, my hands immediately hugging around my body as I notice my breath in front of me. Instinctively, the man shrugs his blazer off and offers to me, but I turn it down. "That's cliché," I quip, and he shakes his head.

From here you can see it all. The sights and scenes, every part of London that people associate with the skyline. Lights shining in the darkness and fireworks already being set off on the other side of the river. You can hear the excitement of the pedestrians below, couples and groups walking the streets or moving in and out of bars and clubs, all preparing for the end of one year and the start of the next. I wish I knew how to enjoy a night like tonight. I wish I wasn't such a pessimist.

His voice becomes lower with his next words as his body leans against the railing, eyes wandering over the city. "When was the last time you slept with someone?" I immediately hit his arm, earning a laugh. "Sorry! You're just very uptight."

"Wow, what a nice compliment," I deadpan.

His head tilts. "You're a woman that hates festivities. You can't blame me for thinking that."

He's got a point. "True. But that's an invasive question."

His mouth widens and he holds his hands out in shock. "You're not a virgin, are you?"

Another hit to his arm. "You just met my ex-boyfriend!" I retort, but I find myself joining in with his laughing. I go quiet after a few seconds, though, allowing the weight of his questioning to settle. "I have sex. I have lots of sex. I just don't enjoy it when it doesn't mean anything anymore. And I think that's because I began using it as a tool or a method to move on, to convince myself that fucking someone else would stitch me back together, but it hasn't. If anything, sex just seemed to cement how utterly alone I am."

There's some sorrow behind his eyes, maybe pity, and it causes me to close in on myself. If I could, I'd contort myself into a screwed-up piece of paper and ask to be thrown off the edge of this building, out into the great expanse of the city so he can never find me again. Opening up to people you know is hard enough, but when you do it to strangers and they give you the same look you dread because it encompasses everything you feel about yourself, it somehow feels worse. They don't know you; they have nothing to counter the impression you just gave them. All they have are your words. Your painfully embarrassing words that reveal far too much after you've locked yourself away in a fortress for so long.

His eyes move over my face, taking in the small details of it. Perhaps the creases near my eyes and the small mole on my cheek. The deep-set bags and the broken pieces of hair framing my face. The thick layer of makeup and the parts of my skin that peek through after being suffocated for too long.

I hate how he's looking at me. Like I need a hug. I'm not fond of hugging people either.

I turn away from him with a sigh, playing with my hair and standing up straighter to look at the skyline. "Sorry, that was too much," I say, but I'm only met with silence. "You can leave if you want. I'm sure I've just made an absolute tit of myself."

He shakes his head, reaching into his blazer pocket for his flask and handing it to me. I take it with no protests, drinking a few sips before handing it back to him. "Did he make you feel like that?" he asks after a few beats of silence.

I sigh, leaning against the small fence that shields us from falling a great height. "Max?" He nods. "Yeah. I mean, maybe it was always there, but he didn't really help."

He takes a few sips from his flask. "That sucks. I'm sorry he did that."

I shake my head with a laugh. "The last thing I need is your pity. It does suck, but I need to get over it."

He turns around so his back rests against the edge, head moving so he looks down at me. "And how do you think you'll do that? You said sex doesn't help, so what's the next step?"

I mill over the question. I'd never thought of how I would do it after I ruled out dating. Instead, I came to the conclusion that I was still hung up on a man that didn't want me, and I let it consume me. Alone in my flat, watching the trains pass by my window and wishing there was another noise in the room other than my breathing and the shitty TV that was aired at night. "Fuck knows. I never used to be this way; negative and grumpy and draining the life out of everyone in the same room as me."

He huffs. "Interesting."

I move my body to mimic his stance. "Why's that?"

"Just seems like a shame, that's all." I raise my eyebrows in question. "I just mean, that guy in there, you said he took all the good parts of you with him. Meanwhile, he attends these fancy parties with a woman he used to ignore you, and he gets to smile and feel happy and free, because he stole it from you. It doesn't seem fair, especially when you don't know how you'll ever get those good parts back."

Tell me about it. "Life isn't fair, I suppose."

He turns to me, blocking my view of the party. I'm grateful, because all I could focus on was Max and Poppy dancing in the centre of the room. "You want to know what I think?"

"Even if I say no I suspect you'll tell me anyway."

A smile, one that makes cute little dimples appear at the sides of his mouth. "I don't believe that he took those things with him. I think they're just hidden somewhere because you didn't want to believe that they could exist in a world without him."

I'm the one smiling now. "Are you a therapist?" I joke, but part of me thinks he'd be an excellent one. I can tell he's a good listener, and he likes to make others feel at ease, supported. That's a good quality to have. Most men I've encountered in this city do not possess it.

He shakes his head, some of his hair trailing behind him in the wind. "No, but I would like to help."

Sternly, my arms cross my chest. "I'm not going to sleep with you." His eyes go wide. "I'm sure you're going to say that you're better than any of the idiots I've been with in the past few months, but I have ruled sex out." His hands move to shake in front of me. "Now, you are a very attractive man, and those hands have already made me blush, but this is my answer. No."

He stops at that, raising his eyebrows with a smug grin. "You think I'm attractive?"

"Oh, shut up!"

He holds his hands up in defence, stepping back so I can't strike his arm again. "Fine, sorry. I wasn't going to suggest you sleep with me. I was going to suggest that you change your beliefs and start to look for joy in the things that you associate with him."

"And what's your plan for that?"

He smiles, leaning over the edge. "What did you used to do on New Year's Eve with him?" he questions. I'm not sure how to respond at first. "Come on, anything!"

I shake my head, looking into a far corner as I think. Memories replaying in my head that I often think about and pine over, that familiar ache in my chest forming as my heart remembers a man it can't have. "Fireworks. We'd always go and see fireworks."

"Nice, what else?"

"Ice skating. We'd go to the one at Somerset House because it's near the Thames firework display."

"Keep going."

"Hot chocolate in a bar with lots of cream and marshmallows until we have moustaches, followed by a bottle of wine in the park as we watched other displays across the city. And we'd go home hand in hand, smiling and kissing and knowing we were about to have the best sex of our lives and barely remember it, but it didn't matter because it meant we made it to another year."

"New Year's kiss?" he asks.

Every year. On the banks of the Thames or in a quiet park or on a street we didn't know the name of. We always had a kiss at midnight. "Yeah."

The stranger nods, handing me his flask and waiting for me to finish the contents before taking my hand in his and leading me back inside. I follow without stopping him, but once we make it to the hallway with our coats, I finally pull away from his grasp. "What are you doing?"

He sifts through the racks, fingers ghosting over the expensive fabrics before landing on a long black coat. Nothing too eye catching about it, but when I watch him hang it on his body, I can't help but let my eyes move up his figure. He catches me in the act as he moves his hair out from the back of it. "We're going to create some new memories."

My hands fall to my side. "No."

"Why not?"

There's a wealth of reasons. I can think of ten. "First of all, I don't even know your name."

He smiles. "It's Harry."

Harry. That's a nice name. It suits him. Something quite charming, matching his boisterous nature. "I still don't know anything about you."

He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm from Cheshire. I have another sibling. She's younger than me and much smarter but I'll never give her the satisfaction of hearing that. I'm a photographer with my own gallery. I have been single for a year and a half. I also like sex, but I will not try to sleep with you because I respect your boundaries. I have a cat. I would like a dog. My favourite colour is blue, almost similar to the shade of your eyes. I'm a vegetarian, but when I'm drunk, I forget that. I've always wanted to go to Japan, but no one will go with me. And most importantly, I find myself enjoying your company and I want to make sure the feeling is mutual."

A lot of information, some I don't even catch as I try to process the piece that came before. He's the stark opposite of the other men in this party. Cultured, but not obnoxious. Happy, but not forced. Carefree, but within reason. He's a tonic, I think. The perfect mixer to a strong spirit. Something to level a person out. But there's one thing I find myself focusing on. "You own a gallery?"

I used to want to be a photographer, but Mum wouldn't let me study it in uni, instead making me choose a more practical course.

He nods with an innocent grin. "I do. Would you like to see it? We can add it to the list?"

"What list?"

"The list of New Year's Eve activities you did with your ex."

"We're not doing those."

"Why not?"

"Because!" The back and forth is giving me a headache. He's persistent. Too persistent. And he's looking at me like he's about to continue. "They're romantic things. Something couples do."

He laughs at this, turning to the coats to look for mine. He doesn't even know what I was wearing when I arrived. "Well, I am your designated boyfriend for the night."

I find myself laughing too. "You're being impulsive, Harry." I like the way his name sounds coming from my lips.

I think he does too, his eyes lighting up as I say it. "And a night like tonight is the best time to be impulsive." He steps closer to me, taking my hands in his own. "Look, we may never see each other again. It's just one night. One night of reclaiming the good. One night of reclaiming the happiness. One night of making new memories. I'm not asking for your hand in marriage, I'm asking to change your mind about this night and find a reason to feel the joy of it again."

A tempting proposition.

Something I should say yes to.

Something I want to say yes to.

Something I will say yes to.

Because up until know, I've been drifting along the ocean waiting for a wave to take me out. I accepted that I had been changed because of Max, and not for the better. I had been changed because I no longer believed in happiness or love. With his departure went any hope I had, and I've done nothing to fight the tsunami that's been building out of the corner of my eyes. A tidal wave far greater than what I wished for, one that terrifies me because maybe there really is no turning back once I drown in it.

But I want to kick my legs. I don't know how yet, but I'm trying. I'm willing to keep trying. To not get dragged below the shores. To fight. To reclaim.

It almost seems silly, what he's proposing. Running around the city with a stranger and taking part in romantic gestures. Maybe it is. Childish, too.

The problem is, I can't seem to stop the budding anticipation and excitement that grows with each second that passes as I look at him. In his eyes is a promise of a future. In mine is a promise to find it.

I look down at our hands. He has a cross tattooed into one of them. I wonder if he's religious. Maybe he'll end up taking me to church and asking God to guide me. I'll try anything at this point.

I sigh, slowly nodding my head. "Okay."

He grins at me. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Amazing! It's the red coat, isn't it?" he asks, spotting it in a far corner.

"How did you know that?"

His cheeks flush slightly as he helps me push my arms through the sleeves. "I saw you come in."

Has he been watching me all night?

Once my coat is done up and my scarf is wrapped around my neck, he holds his hand out to me, leading us towards the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of champagne to hide in his coat. Then, we're walking to the door once more, leaving behind all the people we can't much stand in a party we didn't really want to attend.

He stops us, turning to me in thought. "Quick question before we do this. What's your name?" he asks.

I look up at him with a smile. Perhaps he should have another task for tonight. A prize to reach for. "I'll tell you if your plan works."

"Alright, then. Let's go, grumpy."

And then we're out the door.

*

It's more awkward than I thought it would be, strolling through London with a man I don't know. We make idle chatter as the minutes pass, but none of it leads anywhere exciting. Harry asks me mindless things like if I have siblings, do I like Thai food, who's my favourite Beatle, and I answer them all. In turn, he responds to every question I pose to him, usually with a joke or teasing comment, still figuring out the line between banter and offence.

But I like it. I like his company and the efforts he's going to to make a lonely woman feel a little less broken on a day like today. To ensure that maybe my year doesn't have to be as bleak as I believe it will be. To help me move on from a man that doesn't love me.

Though I don't know him, he's made me smile, and I've meant every single one of them. Something so small, and yet it means the world to me. Holding something other than a frown on my face because I like the idea of believing that there's a reason to feel something other than dread.

Now, I'm not sure I agree that his plan will work, but it's a nice way to spend the evening instead of wallowing in self-pity while my ex and his fiancé show everyone how in love they are. When Max walked into that party, it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. And not in a swept off your feet kind of way, or a time stilling because of happy disbelief kind of way. It was entirely down to shock, then fear, then that subtle beating in my chest that hurts more than I'm used to.

I didn't think I'd have to see him so soon. I naively assumed that out of all places, that party wouldn't be somewhere he'd step foot into. When we were together, we routinely made fun of people like that. The sort that makes it their mission to show everyone just how privileged they are and making sure those surrounding them feel inferior because of it. Yet, there he was, smiling with friends I'd never met, because he rarely let me see the side of his life outside of the bubble we created around ourselves.

I suppose it gave me a moment to really question everything I thought about our relationship. How it was always just us. We rarely hung out with others, and when we did it was usually people I knew. On the odd occasion that we mingled with his friends, it was a small circle. Anyone outside of it I never really met other than passing. And at the time I loved it. I loved the security of his company and knowing that there was a fortress we'd built together because we didn't need anyone else inside it.

It's embarrassing to consider it now. He walked into that party proudly with a woman he'd been with for only a fraction of the time he'd been with me. He smiled and joked and laughed and introduced her, while I stood in a corner still wishing that could be me. I hate that I was so blind to the odd intricacies of our relationship. The tiny threads that I never dared to tug on in case the whole piece fell apart. If I did, I probably wouldn't have endured the façade for so long.

Maybe I wouldn't feel this way either.

That's why Harry is here, though. He's promised that I'll stop going over every touch and kiss and word that Max left me with, so I can replace the memories with ones that don't hurt so much. Ones that matter. It's not that he's trying to fill the Max shaped hole in my life, but rather give me a steppingstone towards finding a way to fill it myself.

I hope we don't fall off the path, though.

He hasn't told me where he's taking me first. Every time I've tried asking, he avoids the question or promises he'll ignore me for the rest of the night. I teased him for the latter, because the entire point of this evening is making me the centre of attention. He smiled at that, a charming boyish grin that made me feel all warm and fuzzy, because I liked that I could make someone react that way.

He's been smiling a lot at the things I say. At first, I wondered if it was because he was amused by the tragic story I'd relayed to him, but I'm not sure anymore. I think he's enjoying himself. I hope he is. I seem to have hijacked his plans for the evening and he doesn't even know my name. No one has ever been so kind as to do something like that for me before. I won't deny how wonderful it feels.

We left the apartment and turned left, towards Hyde Park Corner. It's been far too chilly for such a strenuous walk, and every time I hold my coat closer to me, he offers his own as an extra layer, but I always refuse. I won't allow him to catch a chill on my behalf. He also offered to carry me when my feet started hurting in my boots, and while the thought of being so close to his chest made me question my response, I still denied it.

After some time, his footsteps seem to slow, and he looks both ways before taking my hand and leading me across the street. He lets go too soon for my liking, though.

We continue down a side street before stopping at a small café on the corner of a road, tucked away behind the bustle of central London. I notice the sign saying it's closed, but it doesn't stop him from lightly tapping on the door, smiling at me while we wait. A few seconds pass, and a small looking man appears from the back, switching one of the overhanging lights on in the seating area.

He wastes no time in unlocking the door, immediately engulfing Harry in a tight hug. "Amico mio!" he calls out. I detect an accent, and judging by the pronunciation, I'm assuming he's Italian.

Harry takes the man's face in his hands and places a wet kiss to his forehead. "Ludovico!"

The pair hug once more, before the man notices me. He takes a few steps forward, letting his hands gently hold onto my arms before turning to Harry. "And who is this?" he asks. "Making her wait outside in the cold? Come, come, let's warm you up."

He ushers me inside his small café, insisting on taking my coat and hanging it by a rack near the door. Harry watches the exchange, waiting for his friend to approach before he responds. "This is my new friend, Ludo."

Ludo raises his eyebrow at me. "Friend, hey? Is that what they're calling it these days?"

My cheeks warm under his scrutiny. "Just friends," I insist, and he laughs.

Harry walks round and pulls out a seat for me, waiting until I'm comfortable to speak again. "Emphasis on new, too," he adds. "We met at a party this evening and decided to have a little adventure to brighten our spirits."

Ludo nods, walking behind the counter and turning a machine on. "And your adventure involves harassing me at – " he pauses to check his watch – "8:45pm?" Harry nods. "What will you be having then?"

"Two of your best hot chocolates, please. Extra cream for the lady."

I watch as he takes the seat on the other side of the small table. It's not too big in here, rather quaint and cosy. Small fairy lights hang around the walls and some cascade down over the counter, illuminating the equipment in a subtle glow. Across the interior are dozens of pictures hung, most of Italian landmarks, others of individuals that I assume relate to Ludovico given his presence in a few. Even Harry appears in one, the image seated on a cabinet in the far corner. He stands in a crowd of older women, one squishing his cheeks and another clinging to his arm. Like a family, I think to myself.

Only four other tables are surrounding us, all with candles and a single rose poking out of a small vase. Harry notices me looking at our own, pulling a lighter out to ignite the wick on the candle in the centre. It adds shadows to his face that only seeks to define his features, ones I've been studying since he first approached me tonight. A sharp jawline, circles under his eyes that aren't too deep set, a nose that seems slightly larger at the tip and spreads out when he smiles or laughs or even speaks.

"He makes the best hot chocolates in London," he tells me. "Proper Italian ones. Thick chocolate and cream – it's heavenly."

I nod to him, playing with my hands under the table. "And why are we here?"

"You told me you'd have hot chocolates on New Year's Eve, so that's our first stop of the evening."

I wonder where our next one will be. I like the anticipation of it, not knowing how it will end but being sure enough that it will be worth it regardless.

The man brings our drinks over to us a few moments later, pulling a chair up to join our conversation. He's got a few grey hairs through his dark brunette locks, all gelled back so it's out of his face. Some wrinkles rest on his forehead, but he doesn't seem too old. Maybe in his fifties, I'd guess. "Why?" A simple question. Harry's brows knit together in confusion, my own expression mirroring. "Why am I the first stop on this adventure?"

Harry nods, taking a sip of the beverage. He looks over to me with a thick white line of cream situated over his top lip. His tongue pokes out to lick it away, eyes still trained on my own. "My friend doesn't like New Year's Eve, so I thought I'd show her how to enjoy herself."

"What's your name, Miss?"

I shake my head. "I'm not at liberty to say. Harry isn't allowed to hear it unless his plan works."

The man laughs, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "She's playing with you. I like her!"

Harry joins his glee, watching as I take a sip of my own hot chocolate. It's sweet, almost sickly, but melts down my throat in a gooey perfection. He was right, it is the best. "I'm well aware, Ludo. But it's fair, because I didn't give her much of a choice when I dragged her out of the party."

"Oh, please, I was looking for a reason to leave, anyway," I retort.

He holds his hands up in defence. "I had to convince you before you said yes, grumpy. Hardly a willing subject."

Ludo hits him around the head before either one of us can register it. "Do not call the lady names, it's unbecoming!" Harry tries to swat him away while I let the laughter sound around us, my stomach aching as it tumbles out. Ludo turns his attention back to me after some stern words to Harry, ignoring the remarks our friend makes. "Why do you not enjoy the holiday?"

There's that loaded question again. One I didn't think I'd even have to explain to Harry, one I never intended to answer, regardless of who asked it. But the man has kind eyes, ones full of equal parts interest and concern, and somehow, I don't much mind about opening up to another stranger.

I look down at my hands as they're being warmed by the mug, sighing as I ponder my response. It's not easy admitting what happened and why I've become so bitter since. It seems a cliché to even vocalise the truth, because it only complies to the stereotype of a jilted woman at the hands of her lover. "I came out of a relationship earlier this year with a man I thought I'd spend my life with, and New Year's Eve was always a special night for us. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to enjoy an evening that's since been tainted with memories of a life that was never supposed to be mine."

He nods, scratching at his chin while leaning back in his seat. "Young love often feels the most painful, isn't that true, Harry?"

Harry lifts his mug. "I'll cheers to that."

"When I was a child, I convinced myself I loved a girl in my village who didn't even know my name. Her name was Juliana, and she was the most beautiful person I had ever laid my eyes upon," he begins, leaning on the table between us. "She had this wonderfully dark black hair that was so shiny you could almost see your reflection in it. And her cheeks were so rosy, I often called her rosa. I grew up watching her walk from her house to the bus stop and back every day, longing for a moment to speak with her."

"And did you?" I ask.

He smiles. "There was a rainstorm one day, one of the worst my region had ever seen. She insisted on still going to school, and I watched her from my window. It took only a second for me to decide that I would find her and give her my umbrella so she would never have to feel the cold of the rain again. It felt like I was defying the elements in the name of love. I looked to the sky and said no more!"

"My little feet splashed through the puddles and within minutes I was stood in front of her, holding an umbrella out without a word. She looked at me like I was the strangest creature she'd ever seen, and then, by some miracle, the rain stopped. There was no need for my umbrella, no need for me."

I take another sip of my drink, feeling Harry's eyes glued to my body as I lean closer to Ludo for the details. My cheeks blush under his gaze, and I'm too scared to reciprocate it. So, instead, I just listen in blissful ignorance. "What happened?"

Ludovico closes his eyes. "She said, 'thank you, Vico,' and I swore my heart almost burst out of my chest. It gave me the confidence I needed to speak, and once I started, we couldn't stop. We spoke for so long, the rain started again, and we had to huddle under my small umbrella, not realising that her bus had already come and gone, and we'd been stood in the cold for hours. She told me that she'd noticed me too and liked the way I would sing with my mother as we made dinner every evening, so she joined our meal that night until it became a weekly tradition."

He sighs, shaking his head with the memory. "We fell in love so easily, so quickly. She said it first then I couldn't stop telling her. I was going to propose to her before I left for culinary school so she could come with me to the big city, and we could start our forever together. But forever is an awfully long time, Miss. Juliana thought in days not years, and when I told her the life I dreamed of having with her, she panicked and denied me."

"That's so horrible," I vocalise. "Did she even really love you?"

He smiles again, looking over to Harry. "She did, but for some people love has its limits. When you're young, you convince yourself there are none, that you are invincible. But love isn't a shield or a protector; it is just as susceptible to the trials and tribulations of life that we all must face. The power of it is down to the person that yields the ability to love, and whether they are willing to fight for it, or to give up on it. Sometimes love isn't worth fighting for. But when it is – oh, it is glorious. Everything is brighter and louder and warmer. Like a piece of you has been found, one you didn't know was missing. It completes you."

"What happened?" I continue.

He stands to his feet, pushing the chair in and grabbing a cloth from the counter to begin cleaning our table. A small crease sits between his brows. I wonder if the memories of it still hurt today. I wonder if the pain ever really leaves or if we just get used to living with it. "I spent my years searching for something that cannot be found. Love chooses you; you do not choose it. I would wallow and weep and question everything about us. I cursed the stars and begged the sky for more rain. Until one day, when I least expected it, the sun peaked through the clouds and lead me to the woman I now call my wife."

"Simonetta," Harry breathes out.

Ludo nods. "My Simonetta. Perfect in every way, even when she nags me to not make so much of a mess or to turn the television down. My purpose was identified, and she felt the same. We got married in a small church in her village," he tells me, walking over to a frame by the till before handing it to me.

The two of them stand in a happy embrace, smiling so wide their faces must have ached from the joy. She wears a lace white gown, and he's dressed in a traditional black and white suit. On the frame are the words Inaspettato engraved into it.

Harry clears his throat. "It means unexpected."

Ludo cheers, taking the frame back and placing a small kiss to his finger, dotting it over her face. "Love does not have a timeline, and it's true that you cannot expect to find it on your own terms. It just happens when it feels like it."

He's telling me that I will find that feeling again, that not all hope is lost. One day I'll find someone that makes me feel like I'm touching the sky. Someone that makes me beg the sky for sun as he did. Someone that takes my hand and makes me forget any fear I once had. Perhaps he's right, perhaps I should believe him. It's just hard to accept it when your heart still yearns for another. When the ache that formed the day they left only grows stronger the longer you are apart.

The memories of Max follow me wherever I go, and I know that he is free of them. I remember every detail of our time together, and I pray that maybe we'll have just one more day in the fantasy I seem to have formed for myself. But what if that stops me from finding the person I could spend longer than a day with? Someone that the rain stops for.

I sigh, finishing my drink. "How is a person supposed to open themselves up to love when they stop believing in it?"

He smiles, letting his hand reach forward and delicately hold my cheek. "There is a common misconception that grief closes the heart. It locks it up and throws away the key. I believe the opposite, though. I think that grief leaves a person open to the possibility of love without them even knowing, because it's in those moments it needs it most. You may think you'll never move on from this man, but your heart is waiting for the hole to be sewn up by the person that was supposed to occupy it."

It is the flash of a camera that pulls my attention away from the conversion. Something so quick I barely noticed until Ludo is pulling away and scolding Harry. But when I look over to my companion, I notice a small camera in his hands and a grin stretched wide across his face. The dimples I thought about earlier are prominent, and somehow, they stop me from feeling mad about the moment he just ruined.

He looks to me again, raising the camera. Another picture taken, just of me this time. The flash hits my eyes in the same way staring at the sun for too long does; stinging and causing my vision to become slightly blurred for a few minutes. But before it neutralises, I feel his hand on my chin, while his finger drags across the skin above my lip.

We lock eyes. His pupils enlarge. I'm sure mine do too. The touch lingers. I almost wish he would let his fingers dance across every inch of my skin. The nerves in my body feel charged and the hairs stand up in the spots they previously laid. But he pulls away, bringing his finger to his lips.

"You had a moustache," he says, barely above a whisper.

If he'd kept his hand there a second longer I'm sure I would have folded into him completely. I would have forgotten that we weren't alone.

We're not alone.

Ludo stands at the table, mischievously smiling in front of us. "Just friends, hey?"

I lean back in my chair with a laugh, biting my lip as my cheeks remain hot to touch. "How long have you been married?" I change the subject.

He nods, taking our empty mugs away. "25 years."

"That's a commitment," I breathe out, almost wishing I had Harry's flask with me to dissolve the tension in the room.

"And worth every second," he answers. "It's a melody I never wish to end. My song hadn't started until I met my Simonetta. Now it's as clear as the day I laid my eyes upon her."

In this moment, Ludo gets an idea. His hand raises to ask us to wait for a moment, and suddenly he disappears into a back room, leaving Harry and I alone again. Somehow, it feels altered from when we walked the streets just half an hour or so before. Like something has shifted between us, just from the small exchange where he held my face a little too long and I stared at his lips a little too long.

We simply watch each other, eyes studying every inch of the other's face, in complete and total silence. I'm not sure if I want him to say anything, because I seem to be enjoying to quiet exchange between our eyes. Sometimes it's easier to use them to say things we're terrified to admit.

For instance, I'm staring at his eyes and his lips because I want to kiss them. Not in a romantic, let's fall in love, kind of way, but more of a, you're very attractive and what you just did has sent me into a frenzy, kind of way. But I'm not sure this evening is meant for such thoughts. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

Ludovico emerges from the kitchen holding a small radio. He places it on our table, toggling the device for a few minutes, muttering something about finding the perfect song. Harry offers to play it on his phone, but Ludo swats his hand away in promise that he knows the station. "There's a song they play every night."

Harry scoffs. "And why is that?"

"Because I paid them to for my Simonetta. She listens every evening before bed."

After a few more tries, he settles on one. The static masks the first few notes and words, but it begins to settle once some seconds pass.

Ludo stands back, holding his hands in the air and swaying his small hips. And suddenly, he's singing.

Volare oh

Cantare oh

Nel blu dipinto di blu

Felice di stare lassù

He moves towards me, lifting me from my seat and letting our hands take stance to dance across the room. I have no choice, but I'm not opposed to it, laughing with him as he continues to sing into the silence that had previously settled. We sway back and forth to the rhythm of the tune, Ludo twirling me around every now and again with a cheer.

The next verse sounds, and Harry joins in with the singing, standing to our side and clapping in time.

Ma tutti i sogni nell'alba svaniscon perché

Quando tramonta la luna li porta con sé

Ludo breaks away from me, taking Harry's hands to sing with him.

Mia io continuo a sognare negli occhi tuoi belli

Che sono blu come un cielo trapunto de stelle

Once they reach another chorus, they're both pulling me in and holding me in their circle. Warmth on their faces that is felt in the air around us, dancing to an old and static radio where the words are barely audible between the singing of my companions. Moving from one step to another as we spin in our circle and continue dancing together. A happy moment, one I'm not sure I'd ever forget, as I stand here with two strangers that seem to have painted a smile on my face that can't be easily washed away with a damp cloth.

And it becomes clear to me that Harry's plan is working, because now I have a new memory. One that hasn't necessarily replaced one I already had. Yearly visits to a bar near the house that I shared with another to drink hot chocolate before the year ended. No, it seems better now. Enhanced by the prospect of hope and joy and, dare I say it, love.

We sing and dance in this small room, surrounded by twinkling lights that reminds me of stars, and somehow the very thing that brought me here is but a distant memory, almost a part of my imagination. Because all I can focus on is the way my chest puffs with each word in a language I can't speak, holding hands with an old Italian man and dancing with a stranger I met mere hours ago.

Ludo ushers me towards Harry for the final part of the song, holding one of the candles in the air to light around us. We don't stop to think about the way one of his hands clings to my own, or the way my other palm lightly moves up his chest to rest on his shoulder, or the way his remains on my lower back with his thumb drawing small circles into the fabric that shields my skin.

He looks down at me with a small smirk on his face, and we sing the lines together.

Nel blu degli ochhi tuoi blu

Felice di stare quaggiù

He stops to laugh at my pronunciation, letting his head rest on my shoulder and pulling me closer. And as the final words of the song conclude, he whispers them into my ear, his breath warm and moist on my skin.

Con te.

We don't pull away when another song begins. We don't stop looking between our eyes or our lips. We don't even hear Ludo when he begins cheering.

Just Harry and I, dancing closely under the artificial lights of the sky hanging above us in this small café. I didn't anticipate this memory. I'm not sure I want to forget it. I like that it's here. I like that he's here.

But Ludo's voice finally enters my ears again, and I begin to pull away with a sigh.

"Ecellente!"

I turn to him with a smile, pulling away from Harry to hug his friend. "Thank you, Ludovico. You've put the biggest smile on my face."

"And it is a beautiful smile at that, dear girl."

"What does it mean? Volare?" I ask, taking the candle from him and blowing it out.

His arm wraps around Harry, willing him to answer instead. A subtle blush sits on his cheeks, and I can't help wondering if I'm the cause of it. "To fly."

"There is always a way to leave the shadows behind," Ludo says, tapping Harry's shoulder. "Now, where are you two off to next?"

Harry makes his way over to the coat rack, once again helping me into mine. His hands linger a little longer than they should on my arms, but when he pulls away, I find myself missing the feeling of them holding me. He shrugs his own on before turning to Ludo. "Ice skating."

I smile, but don't speak, instead letting my expression tell him that I'm happy with his choice. He nods and mirrors it, letting his teeth show and shaking his head when I catch on to his excitement. Silent exchanges. I think we're getting good at them. Sometimes words don't seem sufficient.

Ludo walks forward and takes my hands in his own, bringing them to his lips to kiss them lightly. "Well, my dear, it was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again."

"I'll make sure of it."

Harry hugs his friend once more, ushering us towards the exit before Ludo is calling to us. He smiles, eyes squinting like he can barely see us through his happiness. "Remember what I said. Love chooses us. Both of you."

He turns away after a few moments, humming a tune to himself as Harry and I exchange a look and proceed to exit the building. He checks his phone before holding his arm out for me. I loop my hand through it and pull him close as we begin to walk down the street towards a station.

It's quiet on the journey, no longer than a five-minute walk, but my cheeks ache with the smile that rests on my lips, somehow growing with each second that passes. Harry remains the same, looking over to me every now and then, until we're standing on a tube, still close to avoid the other from falling, and simply watching each other.

"It begins with D," I say into our quiet exchange.

His eyebrows raise in confusion. "What does?"

"My name. It begins with D."

Delightedly, he beams down at me, pulling my body closer as the train nears the next station. "My plan is working, then."

I look up to him, resting my chin on his chest. His cheeky are rosy from the cold. I wonder if they're chilled to the touch, too. "Perhaps. You've still got some work to do, though."

He shrugs his shoulders. For a moment I think he's going to kiss me. "That's all the motivation I need."

We spend the rest of the journey humming to the same tune we danced to. The same song we wished we could dance to again.

*

Ice skating didn't go to plan. Harry had no idea how to do it, hanging onto the wall or me whenever I found a space in the crowd to move about in, almost dragging me down with him four or five times. He didn't realise that I would be better than him at it after years of visiting this same rink, and whenever I move away from him, he begs for me to return.

It's funny, though, and I like the way he clings to my hand so we can never part.

We're surrounded by couples, something that I assumed would feel awkward given our circumstances, but somehow, it doesn't faze me. I don't feel uncomfortable or unnerved, I'm not finding myself watching every loved-up person or wishing it was me, and I'm certainly having more fun than I thought I would tonight.

For the past few weeks, I've dreaded the thought of New Year's Eve. I've battled every single thought that has taken me back to a relationship that doesn't exist anymore, that hasn't existed in a long time, and every time I felt deflated. Exhausted under the burden of my heart and whom it chooses to love, aching over the very fact that I was not enough for them. I'd lay on my sofa and sometimes I'd cry. But other times, I'd become so overwhelmed by the loneliness I was feeling that I almost became numb to it. I almost forgot why I felt this way because it seemed to have lasted forever.

Yet, here I am, smiling and joking and not feeling an ounce of the humiliation I've come accustomed to over these months. I haven't cried or longed for Max. I haven't even considered what he's been up to since we arrived at Somerset House. Instead, my attention has been entirely placed on Harry and his attempts to make me feel better.

I hope this isn't the last time we see each other. I'd like to have a friend like him. Someone that listens. Someone that cares. Someone that is hellbent on making others feel like they matter.

Though it's only been a couple of hours, I know he's a good person. He's told me about his family and his friends and how much they mean to him, and not in a generic way that is only said to make sure he doesn't come across as a selfish psychopath. No, he tells me about his life, and I believe every word of it. His eyes become brighter when he tells me about his parents, and his hands are much more animated as he details happy memories with his friends. He tells me about his hopes and his dreams, things he fears but he's determined to control. And I want to know every detail of it.

It paints a picture that is unlike the image of the man that stands before me with his long hair and tattooed skin. It's warm and bright and comforting. Reds and pinks and oranges, splashed across a canvas like a sunset in the summer.

Red sky at night, shepherd's delight.

The harbinger of good things. A promise that tomorrow will be better.

Once he's had enough in the rink, we find our belongings in a locker and head to our next activity. Drinking in a park while we watch other fireworks across the city before the main event on the Thames. I take charge of this one, leading us to Inner Temple Gardens, not far from the banks of the river.

It's close enough to the display for later but secluded from the crowds emerging towards Southbank and Embankment. Quiet, but still with the buzz of the city nearby. There aren't any streetlights near us, so most of the area is cloaked in shadows. A few of those lining the river can be seen through the gaps in the trees surrounding the garden. Otherwise, we're in darkness.

Harry pulls his phone out and puts his torch on as he begins opening the champagne. When the cork flies off into the distance and some of the liquid spills out, he pulls the bottle to his mouth and drinks what flows until the bubbles calm down and he passes it to me. We sit quietly at first, just passing the bottle between us and commenting on the fireworks that litter the sky around us.

But eventually, I feel ready to ask him questions he's already posed to me. "Who was she?"

A few beats of silence, and then a sigh. He knows what I'm referring to. "She was a model that I was photographing for one of my early projects."

The woman that broke his heart.

"How long were you together?"

Another sigh. He lays back against the grass. "A few years. Four."

"Painful break-up?"

He laughs. "You could say that." He asks for the bottle and takes a few sips before placing it down next to us. "It took us a while to say the L word, and when I did, she didn't say it back. I wasn't fazed by that because I knew she'd say it when she was ready. But she never did. It never came."

Unrequited love. Perhaps the worst kind. Falling for someone that will never feel the same about you and knowing it will always be that way.

"Why didn't she?"

His hands move to rest behind his head. "You know, for the longest time I would have said I don't know. And maybe there's a part of me that still hasn't got a clue, but I think it's because I just don't want to admit that I wasn't enough for her."

I shake my head, reaching to take one of his hands and give it a squeeze. "Don't say that."

He laughs again. "It's not a bad thing. It's true. I wasn't what she wanted, and she tried to settle for so long but in the end even I could see that I wasn't the person she needed to be with."

"Who ended it? Cause right now it sounds like you did, and I think she should have at least done you the courtesy of being honest about her feelings," I ask, stern in my tone. I'm not sure why I feel protective all of a sudden. The thought of him being hurt by someone so careless with his feelings after he spends endless amounts of time nurturing others, it just doesn't seem fair.

He shakes his head, squeezing my hand back. "I ended it, and you're right, she should have done it, but I didn't want to make her suffer any longer."

"Being with you wouldn't have made her suffer, Harry," I announce.

He smiles. "You don't even know me."

"But I do. You're kind, so kind it makes my heart beat a little faster than usual because I'm not used to it. And you're down to earth, you don't let the frivolities of life sway you because all you care about is those around you and their feelings. You have this desire to make everything fun and memorable and like a picture in a photo album. Permanent and special."

He sits up, resting on his elbows. "We met maybe four hours ago, and you already have me figured out, huh?" he jokes, shuffling closer to me.

I let go of his hand, resting mine in the grass between us. "You're an open book, that's all."

He lets his fingers lightly stroke mine, waiting to see if I'll pull away. When I don't, they stay resting over my own in the grass. "No, I think you're paying attention. I think you like my company more than you'd care to admit. And I think you're enjoying yourself."

I look down at our hands, my breathing becoming heavier. "What makes you think that?"

"Because you're still here, and you haven't pushed me away, and you smile every time I look at you." I look away as the blush enters my cheeks. It's true. I haven't been able to stop smiling in his presence, especially since he hasn't stopped looking at me all night.

"Maybe I'm just a smiley person?" I counter.

He laughs, leaning slightly closer. Our faces are only inches apart. I can't stop looking at his lips. He keeps gazing at mine. "You were stood in a strop at the party. You're not a smiley person."

I don't say anything in response. I keep close. I look at his lips. I look at his eyes. I look at his lips once more. I think he's moving closer. I want him to move closer. Maybe I'm moving closer.

His breath is warm when it reaches my own. Lips so close I can almost feel them. A ghost lingering around me, like I know what they feel like already. I wish I knew.

My entire body jumps as a fire work explodes in the sky above us, showering it in purples and greens while others follow in its stead. I pull back with a sigh, letting my head lean back to watch the spectacle. Some of the crowds by the river cheer as they wait for the main event later on, and through the trees I spot a few couples stop to take in the sight too.

I take the moment to lay back in the grass next to him, wishing there were stars to look at once the fireworks stop. In our silence I hear others go off, but they're too far away for me to see.

"I hate that he hurt you so much," Harry says beside me after a few beats of silence. It's unexpected. He hadn't expressed such feelings at the party when I told him about Max.

I breathe deeply. "So do I." Some more fireworks erupt above us. Red this time. "I haven't really spoken about it much since it happened. My friends know the details, but actually saying how I feel out loud is terrifying."

He turns on his side to face me, but I keep my stare to the sky. "You can tell me. I won't judge."

"I know you won't, it's just not easy. I get so anxious about it, almost like I don't want people to think negatively of him as result of my feelings. So, I keep it to myself, and I try to compartmentalise or ignore, until some evenings it all becomes too much, and I find myself curled up on the floor convincing myself I'm dying because I can't seem to catch my breath," I admit. I've never told anyone about my panic attacks. Not even my mum. I wasn't sure why they started at first, but over the months I've come to realise that being in my own company all the time only adds to the overwhelming fear I have about being alone.

Every day, I wake up, I go to work, I come home, and I sleep. An endless cycle where only I exist. There aren't many people in the office I enjoy being around, so I lock myself away in a back room at lunch or go on a walk by myself. In the evenings I don't ask friends to come round because I'm convinced, they'll always say no, even if I really need someone with me. I never text first, I never make plans, I never call; I don't want to be a burden.

I suppose that's how I've always felt. Like an irritant, something you're desperate to get rid of but it keeps coming back. If I tell people how I feel, then my problems become theirs, and that doesn't seem fair.

"I do that too."

I turn to face him now.

"I sometimes get scared to tell people when I'm sad or angry or hurting that I bottle it up until the glass shatters and suddenly I'm dealing with not only the memories I tried to hide but the new wounds they've created."

Somehow, I knew he'd understand. I can't explain it, but I didn't tell him all of that with the fear that he'd feel like I'm a burden too.

Some more fireworks light the sky above us. Blue. "Tell me why you do that," he asks.

I don't feel like I can say no. I don't really want to either.

I roll onto my back and keep my hands crossed over my chest. "Max would do this thing where whenever I vocalised what was on my mind, he made me feel like it was a problem I'd created. The tiniest thing; didn't matter the reason. It would always be my fault, even when it wasn't. It started with small things at first, like when I missed the bus, he'd say I didn't walk fast enough. And then I'd start being open about my feelings beyond that. I'd tell him that I'm feeling anxious, and he'd say I'm overthinking and overreacting. And I'm not sure why, but I believed him."

Harry shifts beside me, laying on his back too. His hand rests between us, and part of me wants to hold it. "How comes you still love him so much, then?"

I've never been honest with myself about this answer. I've never really been honest with myself about any of it. Not the taunting, the blaming, the distance. I ignored it because my heart longed to be with him. Because I loved him so much that I couldn't fathom not loving him.

I suppose telling a stranger isn't the worst thing in the world. "I didn't want to be alone, so I held onto all the good in between, and when he left, it felt like that was all I could do. I had to keep my grasp on the good because I had none of my own."

His smile. His laugh. His dedication. His passion. His hugs. His touch. His whispered words. Memories I've refused to get rid of because of all the happiness they hold in the backdrop of the loss I felt when he disappeared.

"When he left me for Poppy, it felt like everything he said was true. That it was my fault. That I had caused it. He never explained it to me, and I wish he did, because maybe I would have moved on by now. Maybe hearing him say that he didn't love me would have been enough for me to at least ignore that I love him. I never had closure or a reason to give up when he never explained his choices. I was left there, broken, barely hanging on by a thread, but all I knew was the love I had for him."

I sigh, letting my hand fall between us. My skin grazes against his, delicate and gentle, but enough to feel like his touch had been carved into me. "I still love him, because if I don't, then I have to admit that maybe he wasn't worth it, maybe I settled for a man that wasn't supposed to be mine, maybe I allowed myself to get hurt over and over again because I felt like that was the only love I deserved."

"Maybe, I did set myself up for failure."

As if sensing my desires, Harry slowly lets his hand rest over my own. He waits a few moments to see if I'll pull away, then he lets our fingers interlock together. "I think he saw someone that was already hurting, and he convinced them he was the only one that could save them."

"You know, I went to that party tonight because I saw he'd proposed, and I felt like I had to find someone to convince me that I wasn't all those things I thought about myself. I needed to find someone that didn't make me feel so alone. I watched them from across the room as they laughed with friends, and I felt like being sick. But then you showed up," I admit.

"Then I showed up," he breathes out, gripping my hand even tighter in his own.

"You showed up and for the first time since he left me, maybe even during our relationship, I didn't feel alone. And I know you only jumped in to stop me from facing more humiliation, and for some strange reason you've decided to stay just a little longer, but I appreciate it. So, thank you, I guess."

He shuffles his body closer, almost comically, and lets our shoulders touch, our hands now resting on our legs. "Hey, I saw a pretty girl walk into the party and found an excuse to talk to her," he teases.

"Oh, shut up."

He laughs beside me, letting his thumb draw patterns into my skin, ones I wish were permanent so I could always remember this feeling. "I'm actually being serious. I saw that red coat first, then your eyes, and I don't know, I just had to come and talk to you. But then that guy beat me to it, and I almost walked away until I saw how uncomfortable you were."

I turn my head slightly to find him already staring at me. "So, you did have an agenda!"

"Maybe I did," he says with a smirk. I nudge his side before he continues talking. "But I didn't stick around because of it. I meant what I said at the party, I want you to find the good he stole, to create memories that aren't missing those pieces. That's more important to me than getting laid."

"I knew you wanted to sleep with me!"

He groans beside me, his head moving to nestle into my neck. My breath hitches in my throat as he gets comfortable. "I'm being serious, okay? I wanted to help. I hated seeing you so broken. I just wanted to try and make things better in time for the New Year, so it felt like you had a chance. And I know you don't believe the symbolism of that bullshit, but I do. I like the idea of letting go of the past before starting something new."

Part of me is aching for the feel of his lips on my skin. Just a small kiss. A tiny mark left behind to remind me of this evening, tattooed into my skin, my mind, my heart. A promise and an oath. I want to look in the mirror tomorrow and see my neck and trace my fingers over where his lips danced so dangerously close.

Part of me also wishes he'll show up tomorrow and we can continue with whatever is happening here. A knock on my door that signifies a new chapter for me, just as he intended. The new year bringing a new philosophy. After an evening of playful conversation and innocent flirting, having my thoughts pace back and forth over the prospect of not having a moment like this again. A moment that isn't filled with dread or disdain for myself, or a pessimism about every intricate detail in my life.

Of course, that was what was promised to me. He made it clear that he would change my mind tonight about the festive season and help me find a way out of the shackles of my past. And while I won't admit it just yet, because I like this little game we're playing, he's already succeeded.

I let my head shift ever so slightly, so it rests on top of his own, enjoying the warmth of his breath on my neck, and I smile. "It's not bullshit." He hums against my skin, the small vibration erupting through my entire body like I've been struck by lightning in a storm. Rolls of thunder hang over us, but I don't find myself cowering away. "I just didn't want to believe that things could be better, but I want to now, and I'm happy that it's you that's helping to clear the fog."

I can feel his smile. So wide, dopey almost, like a tired boy. Something so innocent but endearing. I'm enchanted by every aspect of this man, and I wish I'd known him a little longer, because maybe I wouldn't have fallen into such a deep abyss if he shone his light a little earlier.

He lifts his head slightly just as I move mine away, and we face each other. Our noses brush. My eyes want to close, but I can't stop looking into his. "That was very poetic, grumpy," he whispers. His eyes move to my lips. I really want him to kiss me. I haven't wanted anyone to kiss me this much in so long, I almost forgot what the feeling was like. It's like I need a kiss from Harry as much as I need oxygen to breathe.

I look at his lips too, tracing over their edges with my eyes and wishing I could feel them too. "I'm not a poet. I'm just a woman," I quote, earning a breaming grin from Harry.

"Little Women, very nice," he says, edging closer as he speaks. "Who's your favourite March sister?"

I move closer, too. "Honestly? Beth." He seems surprised by my answer. "She's the kindest, the gentlest, the most caring. The type of person I want to be and the type of people I want to surround myself with."

He smiles at this, though I'm not sure he ever stopped. "I assumed you'd say Jo. You're headstrong like her, and sometimes stubborn."

"It's my turn to remind you that you barely know me."

He lets his eyes move to my lips again, up and down my face like he's unsure where to focus, but I'm also dealing with the same battle. "I've been paying attention all night, actually," he answers, so seriously his voice becomes deeper in the subtlest way. Thick but smooth, like the perfect caramel sauce. I could eat him all up. "When you get nervous your hands play with the loose threads on your scarf," he begins, and sure enough, my free hand, the one that isn't still tightly clasped with his own, is pulling at the material. I drop it in an instant. "You blush whenever I say something nice. When you take a sip of a drink, your tongue always sticks out to touch the rim of the glass or bottle first, almost like you're trying to steady it. You keep pulling your dress down even though it's not budging any higher, probably because you'd never normally wear it."

I sigh, turning my head to face the sky again, but his other hand immediately takes my chin and makes me face him again. Burning fingers on my delicate skin. "Those are just quirks you've noticed over the few hours. That doesn't mean you know me, Harry."

He shakes his head, letting his thumb lightly drag along my jaw line. "They're the most important things about a person. Those quirks reveal your feelings better than words ever could." It feels like he's inching my face closer to his own. A steady breath dancing across my lips; I'm not sure if it's his or mine.

"What am I feeling then?" I ask, voice quiet though no one is around to disturb us.

Our noses brush once more, this time intentional on his end as he holds my face in place. "You want to kiss me," he announces matter-of-factly, no hesitation in his tone as his eyes meet mine again.

I suck in a sharp breath. "Do I?"

He nods, leaning closer. I'm not sure I know how to breathe anymore. "Yeah. Can I tell you a secret?" I nod this time. "I want to kiss you too. Have been dreaming of it all night."

I wait for a few moments, eyes glued to his own while his lips delicately brush against mine, barely enough to satiate my needs. "Then do it."

Another firework sounds above us, and I jump away again. A couple walks through the park, barely noticing us as they stumble past some bushes and try to not fall in. The women laugh loudly and taunt one another but end up embracing each other in a heated kiss.

I take it as my queue to create some distance between Harry and I and sit up in the grass. His sigh is loud beside me, hands moving to his hair as I drop his grasp and reach for the champagne still seated comfortably next to us. Some dew drops from the grass have stuck to the glass, wetting my hands so I almost drop it before the liquid trickles down my throat, but once I get my grip again, the bubbles fizz through me until they pop. Popping like the moment between us that could have ended in a way we both want, but probably shouldn't explore. Not just yet anyway. It's silly to ruin the evening with a lustful exchange when the very premise was the opposite of that.

I hold the bottle out to him after a few beats of silence between us, watching the couple run through the gates at the other end of the park. He takes it from me and mumbles a thanks but remains laid in the grass.

"What's next on the agenda?" I ask. I already know the answer, but I want to hear his voice again.

He shuffles in the grass and bends his knees so his feet can lay flat on the ground. "Fireworks." Quiet for a few seconds. "Midnight kiss."

I'm glad he can't see the heat on my cheeks in the dark. He'd tease me, and maybe kiss me right here, but I seem to like the idea of waiting until midnight. Perhaps that will help his plan truly succeed, when I kiss him because I can't imagine not kissing him and not because I'm trying to forget someone from my past, someone that never deserved to kiss me like that in the first place.

I also like the idea of it being during such a spectacle. Fireworks shooting from the London Eye and across the river, illuminating our faces in bright technicolour. Kind of like a kiss in the rain but under the explosion of noise and colour instead. Sparks flying all around us and not just because we're smiling at each other or innocently holding hands or saying sweet things. Literally and metaphorically, I suppose. I think kissing him will feel like it does in romance books and movies, because he seems like the ideal archetype of the knight in shining armour with a heart of gold. I'm not opposed to any of it, either.

"What time is it?"

He pulls out his phone. "11:00pm. We've got an hour."

I sigh. "Should we head down there now and get a good spot?"

He's quiet again. I turn to him, his fingers pinching at his lips while his eyes remain tightly shut. His brows knit together in thought, and then he's looking at me once more. "Actually, there's somewhere I want to take you to first."

I raise my eyebrows. "But the plan?"

He sits up next to me before standing to his feet and brushing some grass from his legs and backside. "It won't take long. It's nearby." He holds a hand out to me, but I don't take it at first. "I promise we won't miss the fireworks. It'll take half an hour, tops. It's in Covent Garden."

Maybe a five-minute walk from where we are, ten if we're slow. It's all the reassurance I need. My hand finds its place in his, our fingers locking together as if the spaces between them were made for each other, and he pulls me up until my other hand is placed firmly against his chest. We stare at each other again, eyes as deep as they were when we almost kissed, before I'm stepping back and picking up my bag.

"Lead the way."

*

Harry doesn't tell me where we're going, but he doesn't hold my hand this time, even if I desperately want him too. At one point I reach out for it, but it only takes a few seconds for my hand to fall by my side as I reject the idea. It's not that it's awkward, it's just the memory of how close our lips were that seems to be distracting the both of us and creating distance I'm not sure even he wants.

The minutes tick by and I swear I can hear the hand of the clock moving around, counting down the moments until we're alone again. He was right. I do want to kiss him. So bad that my hands shake whenever he's close to touching me again. It feels like a weight sits on my chest as I anticipate the moment our lips touch, even if it's just a peck to mark the occasion of a new year. Like only he can remove the boulder that crushes me.

It doesn't take long to get to our destination, though.

Outside, the windows are covered by thick curtains, but on the glass some designs have been painted. Doodles that I'm not sure I can read just yet, but maybe he'll let me know once we're inside.

He digs into his coat pocket and pulls out a key moments later. I watch as he struggles to see the lock in the dark, the shadows his body creates under a harsh light hanging above us blocking his vision. I can't help but laugh as he misses it, taking the key myself and opening it first try. He shakes his head at me, stepping in behind me as I hold the door open.

Only when he turns the bright studio lights on do I realise where we are.

On every wall is a photograph. All in black and white, some blurred, depicting people in every stage of life. Young and old, everyone in between, their faces contort into happiness and sadness, excitement and exhaustion. Some are in groups, others are alone, but they also seem entirely personal when I look at every single one. Like the subjects are staring at me, though their eyes are never quite clear enough to guarantee where they're looking, and I can read every thought on their minds.

People living, surviving, growing, and aching. They smile and laugh and cry and stare at nothing – but it's all so honest. Images that tell a story about the complexities of human emotion, and how fleeting each moment can be. Grinning in one shot before curling into a ball in the next. It's painful, in a way, because everything is so familiar to me. It's as if he's stepped inside my mind and photographed every feeling that I've endured this year.

He watches me from the door, allowing me some space to walk closer to the images and study them more closely. I hear his camera click a few times, but I don't bother chastising him about it, entirely to focused on the pictures in front of me. My eyes trace across their expressions like memories I've written down, a journal I've never let anyone see before but somehow, he's found every page and turned it into something others can look upon.

In the centre of the room sits a sculpture, something that conveys as much as the images surrounding it. A figure bending to the will of the human experience, aching for the touch of another but cowering when a hand comes near. Sadness on a face that isn't really there, like they're invisible or numb, all while looking like the very reflection I see when I look in the mirror.

It's beautiful.

"Harry, did you take all of these?" I ask, slowly dragging my feet from one photograph to another.

He snaps another picture of me. "Yeah." I hear his footsteps near. "Do you like them?"

I turn to him in surprise. I almost want to cry. "They're incredible."

It's his turn to blush, hand reaching to scratch the back of his neck as he looks at the ground. "Scouts honour?"

I laugh at him and hold three fingers in the air. "Scouts honour." My feet lead me towards one in the corner. It's of a woman, close to her face while she seems to be trying to turn away. I detect tears in her eyes through the blur and despair so deeply etched into her features. "I feel like I'm going to be sick," I announce, and he immediately takes me in his arms. I shake my head with a laugh. "No, it's because of the photos. They're just – well, they hurt. It feels like I'm watching myself through them."

He sighs in relief and lets me go but still keeps close. "That's the point of them," he answers nonchalantly. "It's supposed to feel like a kick in the gut because they're universal. A tear that cuts as deep as a smile, felt within the same breath."

"What inspired it?"

He steps backwards, leaning against the sculpture. "A breakup."

"That cursed word."

He smiles and crosses his arm over his chest. I didn't notice he'd taken his coat off when we arrived, his arms now bare of the blazer too. I can see more of his tattoos now, revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. "Well, it started with a breakup. Going through the motions, almost like the five stages of grief, and then I realised how as humans we compartmentalise our emotions into defining moments, as if they're only allowed out at certain points in our lives. But the truth is, they're always there and always lingering and sometimes life is cruel to people that try so hard to be brave. Sometimes they smile because they mean it, but they also cry because they mean it. The complexities of getting by."

I turn my attention back to the crying woman in front of us. "That's beautiful."

"Thank you."

"How long did you work on this?"

He walks towards another photo, one of a man. "A year and a half."

The timeline adds up. "She really did a number on you, didn't she?" I ask, referring to the woman he told me about that broke his heart. The one that didn't love him back. It seems utterly impossible to not fall in love with Harry. I'm sure if I spent more time with him, I'd fall under that spell he's been casting over me this evening. It scares me how easily I'd admit that, too, because I haven't considered it possible for months.

Days passing by where I thought I'd always be tethered to Max, but within a few hours I've become attached to another. It's not that I expect this to lead anywhere, that wasn't the point of this evening, it's that the possibility now seems clearer than it did before, and I want to hold onto that as tight as I can. Sure, I may wake up tomorrow and the adrenaline will have worn off and I'll go back to feeling sorry for myself, but at least for the few hours I've been in Harry's company, I've forgotten that feeling of sorrow.

I've forgotten the loneliness.

He sighs with a nod. "It was a similar situation where I felt like I was to blame, and so I couldn't find a logical reason to not love her. So, I held in all this self-loathing, and I let it consume me until I had no self-esteem left. Worthless and invisible, that's how I felt for a long time."

I decide to be brave with my next question, because I'm hoping the answer is no. It's hypocritical of me to want that given how we met, but I can't shake the feeling. I need him to say no. "Do you still love her?"

He's quiet for some time. The time ticking past us, my throat dries in anticipation. Inside I'm screaming, hoping he isn't, hoping he doesn't have someone else waiting for him beyond these four walls. He takes a deep breath and looks up at me. "I don't know."

It hurts more than I'd care to admit, but what did I expect? "Why's that?"

I watch as he walks closer to me, halting where the tips of our shoes touch. "I don't think that feeling ever goes away. It hasn't for you, despite how dreadful he was to you, and even if we find someone that treats us the way we should have been, even if I find someone to love me back, we'll always remember what it was like to love someone else. Because when you're in love it's the most powerful thing in the world, and nothing compares to it. It hurts and it burns you but sometimes it's bloody wonderful too, and we try to hold onto that joy even in times of distress because it's what made it worth it."

I smile at him. "And you say I'm the poet."

He smiles back. "I think hurt people have the ability to craft words into something beautiful, and that's why those that caused the pain can be so cruel, because they're bitter about the art they could never make."

I cross my arms over my chest. "Well, you're certainly better than me at creating art. I'm not sure my drunken renditions of Celine Dion when I'm alone on a Friday night count as such."

He laughs at this, letting his foot tap against my own in a playful kick. "Maybe it sounds good?" he teases.

I shake my head. "My neighbours would disagree."

As some hair falls over my eyes, he wastes no time in moving it out the way, barely thinking before his hand touches my skin once more. It sucks the air from my lungs until they're dry and begging for that which he breathes. It lingers for a while, eyes searching every inch of my face.

"What's your name?" he asks.

I swallow deeply. "We haven't finished checking the list yet."

If I tell him my name, it means we're closer to the end. I don't want this to end. I want to savour every second.

He sighs and drops his head onto my shoulder. "Can we not skip that?"

I shake my head. "No. Not right now. I don't want to skip any of it."

He looks up at me when I say this, the subtle hint of hope in his eyes. His eyes move over to the clock on the wall, signalling 15 minutes until midnight. "We should go then."

I grab his hand when he starts to walk away. "We can watch the fireworks from in here. I don't need to be on the river for them. They're the same every year."

He looks panicked for a second. "No, we're supposed to be following traditions."

I let my hand move to his chest. "Visiting a gallery wasn't a tradition."

He smiles at this. The hope seems to be growing. "I wanted to give you a new one, so they weren't all centred around him. A new chapter for a new year."

My hands move up his chest, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt that hangs open. "Watching the display from here can be a new tradition too, then."

Another quiet moment where our eyes wander the expanse of each other's lips, following every curve and line so they're etched into the skin behind our eyelids, forever there when we sleep. A memory, a dream, a wish; his lips will be there whenever I drift into a slumber and concoct tales of a happier life. One where he kisses me, and he doesn't stop. One where I kiss him, and I don't stop. Joined together, connecting like pieces of a puzzle.

His hands find my face again, delicately cupping my cheeks. "Does that mean I can only see you once a year?"

"That depends on the next thirteen minutes."

"Alright, then."

He steps backwards, holding his hand out for me with a grin. I take a hold of it with no questions, finding myself being led towards one of the back rooms. We pass the dark room, which I ask to see but he says there isn't time before the fireworks, but maybe after if I still want to stay, and then we stop in front of a cupboard. He pulls out some blankets and pillows, handing them to me before heading back to the studio space.

We lay them out neatly on the floor, two cushions at the top for our heads and some others dotted around us. He pulls back the curtain to the window and tells me to make myself comfortable. Once he's down, he joins me on the floor, our legs crossed and bodies facing one another.

Neither one of us say anything at first, and I find myself wishing for my scarf so I can play with the thread again. Under his gaze, I feel like the bubbles in the champagne we drank earlier. Rising and popping every few seconds until I'm all worn out.

And then he speaks. Soft and slow, putting all my nerves at ease. "What are your resolutions for next year?"

Not the question I expected, but I'm hardly surprised that he's looking to the future when it's so uncertain where tonight will lead. "Cry less," I start, earning a laugh. "Stop sleeping with guys I don't really like. Start finding the joy in things again. Read more books. Travel to more places. Take more photos." His eyebrows raise at this. "I used to like photography when I was younger. I've still got all my cameras in my flat, but I haven't used them in a while. Let's just say you inspired me."

"I'm honoured." I can feel his eyes still intensely trained on me, even when I look away to face the window in anticipation of the fireworks. "Do you often sleep with guys you don't like?"

My cheeks heat up in an instant, and I know he can sense it. "I used to. Haven't in a while. We spoke about this at the party. It just doesn't feel good when it doesn't mean anything."

He nods, my eyes meeting his own again. "And what about guys you do like?"

"I haven't liked one in a long time."

But I do like you, I want to admit. I like you so much that it feels like I've known you for far longer than a few hours. Like we always knew each other without ever really meeting. And it's not about sex, even if I am aching to see how it would feel with someone like him, it's about how safe I am, how cared for I am, how important I am. This whole evening, he's been gallivanting around London with a stranger that was too sad to enjoy a party. Perhaps it was enough for me to start rebuilding the foundations that were ripped from underneath me all those months ago.

One smile from Harry and I became putty in his hands.

It's terrifying, in a way, how easy it happened. Just one hour in his company and I didn't want to leave it. After two I tried to stop thinking about the end of it. By the third I was so wrapped up in his presence that everything else seemed to fade away. On the fourth I knew he was different, and not in the cliché way that you'd hear spoken about in romcoms, but just because he made me feel things I wasn't sure I'd ever experience before. And now we're in the fifth, and I'm following crumbs that hopefully lead to a tomorrow with him, a week with him, whatever grants us more time beyond this evening.

A new year.

I'll turn the page and maybe he won't be there. Maybe he was just another one of the steppingstones I always seem to be walking along. But I'd like him to be more than that. A path that always leads to another adventure or tradition or something that makes me feel anything other than disdain for myself.

I don't want him to fix me or fill a hole in my heart. I just have this inexplicable urge to know him better than I already do. To say something more than hello or goodbye, because it feels like we've crossed that boundary in our short time together, and when he holds a door open it's not so I can cross on to a chapter of my book that doesn't include him.

How strange. Something I didn't think possible mere hours ago, somehow all I can think about as it dangles in front of me.

I like him. I really like him. It feels like I've been missing him until tonight. I had to meet him, and we had to go on this little journey, for us to realise that maybe life isn't as bleak as we've convinced ourselves it can be.

He reaches out for my hands. "What happens when you do like someone?" he continues.

I watch as he turns one of my hands to rest in his palm and a finger begins tracing the lines on it. "I let them talk to me at a party. We joke about things that usually make us sad. They convince me to follow them around the city with the agenda of making me smile once more. We dance to Italian songs and get drunk in a park. And he takes me to his special place where his shoulders finally relax for the first time all evening and he speaks in a soft voice to me, because we both know that this isn't the usual type of friendship that's formed from a spur of the moment conversation."

He takes in my words, the smile on his face growing with each passing second as if there are strings being pulled at either side of his mouth. I like seeing him smile. "Good to know." He checks the clock again. "Three minutes."

"What about your resolutions?"

He lets his eyes focus on my hand and the lines he traces. "Make more friends. Continue making others happy when I can. Try and make myself happy, too. Start a new project. Find out the name of the pretty girl sat opposite me that I've been waiting to kiss at midnight all night."

Another blush. He called me pretty again. I feel like a schoolgirl. A silly little girl that tosses her hair over her shoulder whenever the popular boy decides to talk to her. "Start guessing. I told you it starts with D."

His eyes light up. "Deanna." I shake my head. "Dana." Another shake. "Donna."

"Do I look like a Donna?" I ask.

He shrugs his shoulders. "You could be a Dierdre." I playfully hit his arm, and he takes my hands in his again. "Dakota."

"No."

"Danielle. Daniella?"

"Both wrong."

"Daphne, Daisy, Demi?"

"Nope."

"Jesus, are you sure it starts with a D?" he teases.

"You'll find out in a minute and a half," I tell him with a smirk. I become quiet for a moment, though, thinking about everything that will change in the next two minutes. "I hope you like it."

His mouth parts slightly, shock on his features and his hands stiffening over my own. "I'm not sure it's possible to dislike anything about you."

I scoff at this. "Just wait, there's always something."

He scoots closer, a hand moving to my cheek. "So, you think we'll see each other again then?"

I smile. "That depends. You said that New Year's Eve was about saying goodbye to everything that came before the next."

He laughs with a shake of his head, playful in its movements. "Well, if I made the rule then I can change them. I don't want to be left behind."

I check the clock. 45 seconds. I can hear the countdown from the river. Crowds have gathered in the streets. The adrenaline of our final moments before the crescendo builds. It latches onto every part of my body. My nerves, my blood, my heart, my hair – every inch of me dictated by the fact that he'll be kissing me in a moment.

I wonder what it will feel like. Soft or hard, rushed or slow. I hope he's gentle. I hope he's not selfish. I used to think a kiss could say the words we were too afraid to speak, almost like a kiss can inject your thoughts and feelings into the other person, so they understand you completely. Just as potent as the venom of a snake, and sometimes an antidote doesn't exist.

I'd told myself I'd want a cure for every kiss I have after Max, but right now, the thought of recovering from whatever hold Harry has on me doesn't seem fair. He seems to have planted enough roots into my very being, just by talking and listening and promising to return the good I once lost. And now those leaves grow across my skin, covering my entire body in remnants of himself.

30 seconds. "Are you nervous?" he asks.

I nod. "I'm always nervous."

"Do I make you nervous?"

"You do. But in a good way."

"Define good."

I sigh and look up at him. "Good because I like the nerves."

His thumb strokes my cheek. "I'm nervous too."

"Why?" I ask. How could he ever be nervous around me?

He laughs. "How could I not be nervous around you?"

20 seconds. He starts counting down with them. I join in too. Whispered numbers, our faces already leaning closer. My heart beats so fast it almost hurts. Banging against my chest like it's just as desperate for more air as I am.

"I'm excited," he adds.

Our faces are much closer now. "So am I."

"I think I know you're name."

"Tell me."

"I want to wait."

Ten. I can feel his breath on my lips.

Nine. I'm looking in his eyes.

Eight. My hand is on his chest.

Seven. His other hand is moving up my neck to my cheek.

Six. I'm looking at his lips now.

Five. He's counting again.

Four. He licks his lips.

Three. His eyes close.

Two. He sighs.

One. I smile.

Happy New Year. The technicolour I dreamed of. Light caresses and a hallow breath. Cheers all around, but silence in between us. His hands on my cheeks, mine gripping his shirt. He smells sweet, like a vanilla cupcake. I can taste the champagne on his lips, too. Grapes.

Still at first, becoming accustomed to the feeling, then moving slowly. Cautious and scared, like one wrong motion will destroy the whole thing. Gentle, just like I wanted. Careful and kind. Everything I've come to enjoy about him.

We move onto our knees and pull one another closer. His hands stay on my cheeks, mine move under his arms and around his back. I don't want him to let go. I don't want to say goodbye to him like I am my past year.

The fireworks illuminate the sky outside, showering us in rainbows of colour. So bright I pull away to see the spectacle. Reds, greens, blues, purples, oranges, yellows – so much wonder and colour and beauty. An explosion of all that's good, a celebration of better days.

He kisses my cheek, then the side of my mouth, turning my head to face him again. Another kiss, this time urgent and lustful. He stops once I can't breathe anymore. "What's your name? he whispers.

I look into his eyes, his pupils enlarged but irises still so bright in the light. "Diana."

He smiles at me, leaning forward to attach our lips once more. Kissing like our lives depend on it. Running a marathon but stopping the sprint before we get ahead of ourselves and run too far ahead. We stop again. "Oh, Diana, Diana, Diana... It's nice to meet you."

I smile against his lips, breathing in the sugar of his scent. "Have we met before?"

He pulls back with a shake to his head before resting it against my own. Panting breaths, eyes heavy with desire. "I'd remember meeting you in every scenario, Diana."

"Keep saying my name."

"Diana." A kiss. "Diana." Another. "Diana." His face is being lit up like a Christmas tree by the display that decorates the sky. It's hard to keep my eyes shut, because the image before me is the most captivating piece of art I could ever hope to see. "Diana, Diana, Diana – oh Diana!" loudly proclaimed as his lips move across my face, my eyes, my neck.

I laugh, I smile, I hold him close. I think about everything that led to this moment. A sad girl stood in the corner alone at a party she didn't want to go to, and a guy that thought she was cute. Someone that jumped in at the right moment, and somehow completely turned my life around in just a few hours. My rose-coloured boy, handing me his glasses, so all I can see is the joy I've been missing out on for too long. Like a switch was flipped, and suddenly the shadows turned to light.

And by God, there is so much light in the sky.

A burst of colour so extraordinary I almost believe it to be a dream. Not just the fireworks or the streetlights that illuminate us through the window, but the subtle feeling of hope. A hope that maybe he was right, maybe life will not always feel so unbearably difficult, maybe there really can be a branch to climb up to.

Harry took these memories, moments that meant so much with me that had been dulled down into grey, and he splashed paint across the canvas until I no longer associated them with grief.

Maybe grief really does open up your heart more than it closes it, because for the longest time, even before the day my life changed, I've been longing for more. The feeling of being wanted, of being needed, just as much as I want or need others. Appreciated and valued and cared for, and not because they want something from me like a performer that prances across the stage for their entertainment, but because they want what's best for me.

He doesn't really know me, but he wants what's best for me. That may be the first time that's ever happened to me, and I'd be a fool to let it go. That pessimism, perhaps it will remain, but I'm willing to fight its control and take over once again.

I'm ready to dream.

His lips move across my neck as I notice a group walking past, pulling away with a laboured breath between my grin. "Close the curtain," I say.

He turns to it, then back to me with wide eyes. "You're sure?" I nod. "Really?" Another nod, followed by a laugh. "You said you're not sleeping with anyone at the moment?"

I kiss his cheek, shaking my head. "I said I don't sleep with guys I don't like."

I watch his cheeks redden, the same way mine have all night, though I'm sure mine are the same right now. Flushed from kissing, from what it will lead to, from wanting this all evening. "You like me?" he asks with trepidation.

"I do. Which is a very strange feeling for me."

He leans forward for another kiss, ignoring the window that could reveal everything to the outside world, before abruptly pulling away. "Wait, I don't want you to think I've been planning this, or that you have to sleep with me because I was nice to you. I respect boundaries and if you never want to see me again that's fine. I mean it's not because, honestly, I like you too, and if I can't see you after tonight, I'm not sure what I'll do with myself, but I really, really don't want to push you away or make you feel inferior –"

I bring my finger to his lips to hush him. "Harry? Shut up. Close that curtain. And kiss me."

He nods silently as I move my hand. "Just a kiss?" There's the cheeky banter I've come to enjoy about our exchanges.

"It will be if you don't hurry up."

He moves in a flash. Curtain closed, lights dimmed ever so slightly so there is but a subtle glow over me, his body reaching for mine once more. Lips rushing in their endeavours, refusing to stop for air but never slowing.

My hands move to his hair, gripping at his roots. Silky, soft, mesmerising. Getting to explore the parts of him I've only been able to gaze upon tonight, knowing that I'm doing this because I really want to and not because my pain is guiding me.

As if hearing my thoughts, he pulls back again, just as I'm about to lay back on the blankets. "Wait, I'm not taking advantage of you, am I? Because you were sad earlier and now, we're doing this?"

I throw my head back with a groan. "You were literally saying in the park that you wanted to kiss me, and here I am, asking for you to fuck me."

His eyes go wide. "I'm sorry, now I'm distracted by hearing you say that and it's all I can think about."

"Then do something about it," I order, finally falling to the floor, my fingers trailing up the exposed skin of his chest. But he doesn't move, he just watches me, licking his lips while his eyes move down my body. "Harry, when was the last time you had sex?"

He opens his mouth to answer but waits a few seconds to ponder the question. "A while ago." I raise my eyebrows. "Like, seven months?" I smile at him. He covers his face in embarrassment.

I sit up a little and take his hands from face, holding them in my own. "I wasn't asking to tease you, Harry. You seemed nervous, that's all. It's fine. We don't have to do anything if you don't want to, either. I'm happy to just sit here with you for the rest of the evening."

He scoffs at this. "Are you kidding me? Of course, I want to do something. Sorry, I just – God, you're so beautiful, and it's a little overwhelming."

I can't remember the last time someone that wasn't a family member called me beautiful. It takes my breath for a moment. It's odd seeing him this anxious after holding such confidence around me all night. So many instances throughout these hours where he's led the way, taken chances with me, tried to kiss me, and now he's sweating because I overwhelm him. I wish he realised how mutual the feeling was.

"You're not the only one that's overwhelmed, Harry," I tell him, placing a gentle kiss to his knuckles. "You're the first person I've been sure of in a really long time, and it's terrifying because I've been wrong about people in the past, but I'm so desperate to be right about you."

He mimics my actions and kisses my knuckles back. "You are. I promise." He takes my face in his hands, kissing me lightly. "Diana," he breathes out, like saying my name both hurts and heals him. "I'll shut up now."

He keeps his promise. He kisses me, harder than the last, more desperate with the hope of what it will lead to. Fighting against our urge to rip each other's clothes us in an instant so we can prolong it.

I cling to him as he lowers me back down as if he is the only thing that can steady me in a world so dizzying. All it took was one taste of Harry to know I'd never have enough. One kiss and I craved a thousand more. Because it was gentle but urgent, kind but feverish, and I couldn't help the way it intoxicated my entire being. I feel them everywhere, but it still doesn't seem to suffice.

It feels like every flower is blossoming inside of me, every sun pushing through the clouds, every star combusting before another is born. I could get addicted to this feeling, to him. I could search high and low for a feeling like this, but nothing would compare to this moment and the way his lips so perfectly fit with my own or the way his hands delicately move up and down my body or the way he whispers my name in between panting breathes.

It's a good thing I'm laying down, because if I were standing, I'd certainly fall, and I'm not sure he'd be able to catch me because his whole body seems to be shaking as much as mine. We're shaking so much, treating this moment as if it's the first time either of us has been kissed or touched or held. I suppose it is in some ways because it's the first time it's happening with someone that wants me the same way I want them – feelings and all.

My hands begin unbuttoning his shirt, the silky fabric calming me slightly as my brain tries to focus on anything other than how warm he is and how good he smells. The light sweetness of the champagne and hot chocolate coming through; the only sugar rush I need. He lets it fall from his body, throwing it to the side and exposing his body for me. I pull back and begin admiring the art in front of me. Tattoos etched into his chest, his sternum, his hips, his arms. Stories I want to ask about, but also pictures I want to kiss and feel. I'm not sure where to start, and as he moves his hair from his face he laughs lightly.

I start with the butterfly on his stomach, dark in colour and rich in detail, my finger moving along the wings and up his chest to the sparrows that sit on his collar bones. My lips press light kisses over them, almost mistaking the beating of his heart to the flapping of their wings in the silence of our exchange. And he sighs, a sigh so wonderful, a sigh that tells me he likes the feeling of my lips on his skin, so I pepper them across those on his arm.

A ship, a book, some words. So many kisses. His hand interlocks with my own when I look up at him and finish my journey, leaning forward to kiss his chest once more. He smiles warmly, lighting hundreds of tiny fires across my skin. "Would it be corny to say you're beautiful too?" I joke.

He shakes his head. "Praise me all you like, Diana."

A rush of adrenaline whenever he says my name. "Well, you are. Very beautiful."

Instead of answering, he kisses me, letting it linger longer than the last as his breath comes through his nostrils and tickles my face. I let my free hand move down his chest, delicately dancing along the leaves. He sighs again. I'm growing to love that sound. They drag along his trousers until he pulls away. "If you do that I'm going to finish before we've even begun," he boldly informs me.

"That's very flattering," I tease.

He shakes his head and kisses me again. "Shut up."

It's his turn to start undressing me, hands fumbling with my dress and tugging it over my head as I giggle beneath him. He takes a moment to just look at my face before he takes in the sight of my half naked body, letting his fingers play with my hair. And then he finally gazes down, seeing my black underwear that I wore for no one in particular, but grateful he's the one that gets to see it. I wish I had a way to record the sound he makes as he looks at me. Eyes uncertain where to look, moving from one curve to the other.

No one has ever looked at me like that before.

It made me believe him when he said I'm beautiful.

He moves down my body, pulling my boots off and then gently gripping the hem of my tights. I give him a small nod as he asks for reassurance once more, and then he's dragging the material down my legs, so slow it almost hurts. An ache in my chest and my head and my legs so desperate to feel him once more. Once they're finally off, he throws them to the side with our other clothes, before crawling over me and attaching our lips.

Then, he's placing them everywhere. A trail of them down my body like he's drawing a map that leads to treasure. Delicate, soft, sweet. I think to myself, I really am in trouble now, because the more he kisses me the more I want. And then he's between my legs, looking over to me while he rests on his knees.

His hands tremble slightly as they take my underwear, waiting for another nod from me. I give him the response he wants, almost too enthusiastically, and then his movements slow even more.

Leisurely pulling the material from my body, kissing my thighs with each inch he covers on his route, sighing again when he sees what he's revealed. Perfectly ready for him, eager. Completely exposed, he works his way back up my body, letting a hand rest on my hip as he kisses my lips again.

He looks down at me with mischief. "Can I touch you?" he asks.

"Please."

A light stroke of his finger against my nerves, my hips shifting. He does it again, and I open my mouth in shock. And again. I can't breathe steadily. Again. He leans down to take my bottom lip in his mouth, sucking on it harshly. Again. I'm digging my nails into his arms. Again. God, this feels good.

After some time, he removes his hand, much to my dismay, only to bring it to his mouth and suck on his fingers. I sigh the same way he's been during this whole exchange. He moans against his hand. "Perfect. Just for me, right?" I nod. "Volare, oh, contare, oh," he begins singing.

I huff out a choppy breath. "Please don't prolong this any longer, Harry."

He smiles. Of course, he smiles. "You don't like my singing?" he teases.

I shake my head. "It's wonderful, but right now I want your fingers to – oh my god." I don't finish my sentence. He interrupts me as he inserts a finger into my opening, gently pushing through my walls with the lubrication of his spit and my arousal.

He reaches the spongey tissue at the end that makes my insides curl up, lightly massaging it with bent fingers. "Alright now?" he asks.

I nod. "Perfect."

The finger moves out, and then back in, slowly creating a rhythm while his thumb attaches to my nerves once more. Harry leans on his elbow and watches me; every reaction I have, he wants to see. The pleasure, the ecstasy, the sheer joy. In complete awe of what he does to me. How he makes me feel.

I hold him tightly as my head rolls back and my eyes screw shut, but I still feel his gaze on me. Burning holes into my skin before he leans forward to heal them with a kiss. My legs bend as I try to move beneath him, but his free hand moves to hold me down by placing a hand flat on my stomach.

I feel him shift above me and open my eyes to see him moving down my body and readjusting himself between my legs once more. He looks up at me with a smirk. His thumb is pulled away. I really wish it was still there. But his head dips down, and suddenly I forget the feeling of it compared to his tongue.

Wet, warm, soft. I wasn't sure a tongue could feel so much like home until I felt his on me. Gentle in its movements but still leaving me to call his name into the night. My eyes remain open even when I want them to close, and I watch him between my legs. I feel his sighs and breaths and moans – I feel it all. Heightened to a degree that only reverberates through my entire body, quite like a speaker that plays music too loud. Vibrating even after the sound has erupted.

The colours of the fireworks are still visible through the sheets covering the glass panes that line his studio, and I watch as they explode in the sky and add colourful shadows across his back and my torso. "So beautiful," I whisper.

My hands move to his hair and massage his scalp while he draws patterns against me. Circles and curls and strokes and flicks. Testing every option and tallying up what makes me react best. What makes me breath faster or scream louder.

His finger doesn't stop either, still pushing in and out of me while I feel my body tensing. He adds another without warning, and I have to bite on my hand to calm myself. I push his head further down, somehow desperate for him to never leave the crevice so I can feel this sensation forever. Bubbling away like the champagne we drank. Waiting for it to pop.

"Right there," I tell him, and he speeds up the movement of his fingers, touching the spot I asked him to every time.

If I hadn't sobered up before, I certainly will now. Everything is both clear and sharp but also becoming a haze with each passing second. Like I can't seem to get a grip on my reality, but when I do it's a burst of brightness.

He pulls away for a moment, smiling down at me. "You're everything," he breathes out. "Everything, everything, everything." And then he's back between my legs, letting his mouth speak in another language that doesn't involve words.

I know I'm close. I know it won't last much longer. But I'm so obsessed with this memory we're creating. Every touch is delicate but defined by unwavering desire. In this moment I feel entirely at his disposal. It's as if my limbs are numb and will only wake up for him, my mind ignoring any inhibition if it means his voice will cut through and continue making me feel this good.

The bubbles in the glass are rising. He can tell too. His movements are faster. He's moaning louder. I can see his hips grind against the floor. Am I making him feel this good without even touching him?

Just a few more strokes of that perfect tongue. Just a few more thrusts of those perfect fingers. Just a few more hums of that perfect throat.

Pop.

Clouds of rain pouring down on me, drenching me, freezing me, holding me so I can no longer move. I feel the sensation I knew he'd give me. Like a buzzing across my whole body. Nerves tensing. Muscles contracting. Hairs standing up.

Technicolour.

So perfectly vivid until the colours calm into a pastel hue. Floating and flying and freely weaving my way through the sky.

I see him again, his face hovering over mine, eyes searching every inch of my face. He's smiling; I am too. His hands are caressing my skin. So gentle. "You feeling alright, grumpy?"

I can't help but laugh. Joking after he's given me an orgasm like that. "Really good, funnily enough."

A kiss. Heavy.

My hands waste no time in unbuttoning his trousers and he doesn't object this time. He sighs. That sigh. We both work to remove them from his body, 'til he's only in his boxers, and I'm only in my bra. Our hands move at the same time to remove the final barriers between us, and once he's finally exposed to me, I look at him the same way he did me.

Studying his face first, then his body, then what was revealed. Every crevice and curve and corner. Savouring every moment with him, because I'm still unsure when the next will be.

We kiss again. Desperate and sloppy, my arms wrapping around his back to push our chests together and roll him over. Once I'm on top, I can feel him pressed against me more clearly. He moans into my mouth as I shift my hips.

My hand wanders down his torso, meeting his length. Another sigh as I lightly take a hold of it and let my fingers run across the veins. I sit up and watch my movement, moving my hair from one side of my face to the other. "If I had my camera I'd take a picture," he says.

"Maybe next time," I answer.

He grins. "So, there's going to be a next time?"

My thumb moves across his tip. "I'd like there to be."

He hisses a sharp breath at the feeling. "I knew you liked me," he teases, silencing again when I touch him in the same spot before bringing my thumb to my lips.

"Can you go back to being overwhelmed by my beauty? It was cuter than this smug act you've got going on," I say as I let my hand move up and down his length.

He laughs, letting his head fall back on the cushion beneath him, eyes looking up at the ceiling as the colours of the fireworks still manage to illuminate it through the thin curtains. "I'm still very overwhelmed," he states matter-of-factly.

I stop for a moment, looking over to him, his chest rising and falling rapidly but skin glowing in thick perspiration. Hair hanging loosely over his forehead and around his cheeks, muscles tensing every few seconds. His lips are parted, and his nostrils are flared. I could study him for a lifetime, I think.

There's something quite beautiful about sex. The way you allow your body to open up to another, not just physically but emotionally. You have to feel a sense of comfort to expose yourself like this to another person, and when you see them lying underneath you, completely at your mercy and begging for more, it's dizzying.

I'm not sure I've had sex with someone like this before. Intimate, but innocent. Different to sex in a relationship or a one-night stand or even losing my virginity. There is something so pure about this moment with Harry that makes me want to keep experiencing it for as long as he'll want me. Moving from a stranger to this. How odd it is when time moves this quickly without either person realising.

He smiles at me, resting on his elbow to meet me halfway as I lean down, and our lips touch once more. Soft. His hand cups my cheek and his fingers play with my hair. "Very overwhelmed."

I move down his body, placing delicate pecks over his skin. The butterfly on his stomach gets the most attention, then the ferns, and then I'm journeying back to where my hand once was, my tongue dragging across him until his hips are bucking for me.

I continue like this for some time, bobbing up and down while his hands pull at my hair. Every breath and sigh and twitch of his body has my mind reeling. Receiving is wonderful, but seeing the impact of your body on someone else's? Nothing compares.

I like the way he tries to silence his moans, the way his eyes squeeze shut and his stomach muscles tense. Tiny details that are so revealing in moments like this, things I focus on much more with Harry than I have anyone else.

I wonder if he's bubbling like champagne too.

Feeling the condensation on his skin like that on a bottle, trailing down his neck until I can wipe it away. The fizz of the beverage making his tummy feel unsettled, but in a good way, because it makes you feel lighter in your head and your limbs don't feel so heavy either.

But he stops me abruptly, pulling me up to his mouth and kissing me once more. "I need to feel you again, Diana. I won't last much longer, and I need to know what you feel like." It's like he's begging. The greatest compliment.

I nod to him as his hands wrap around my back and move me to lay down, his lips still fervently on my own.

"Wait –" He stops again. "I don't have a condom. Shit. Of course, I don't have a condom right now. The universe is playing a cruel trick on me."

I laugh at him, letting my hand rest on his cheek. "Harry, I take contraception. You don't need to worry about knocking me up."

His cheeks flush. "Okay, okay." He's silent for a few seconds. "I'm clean, I promise."

Another laugh. "You've already told me you haven't had sex in months. Last time I did was a while ago too, and I got tested anyway. We're good. I want this. I want you. I need to feel you too."

A sigh of relief sounds above me. "I hope you don't think I was insinuating that you weren't."

"Harry?" he nods. "Shut up and fuck me already."

His mouth hangs open a little, but it's brief when he's bending down and kissing me once more, this time more hungrily than before. Hands roaming every inch of my body, like he's not sure how much there is and if I'm even real.

The sound of distant firework displays still sound outside, the main one on the river since finished, but I barely notice the loud bangs and cheers as his breathing fills my ears, his lips kissing the crook of my neck. A sound so calming and intoxicating at the same time. It almost reminds me of the ocean. Waves that sway in the breeze of a spring day, grounding a person when the world seems to be too much for them, in a way that becomes obsessive as they start to depend on that feeling they get when they stare out at the water.

Part of me wants to record it so I can use it as my own soundscape when I struggle with sleeping.

I can feel his hand fumbling with himself, gasping as he makes contact with my nerves once more. He looks down at me, holding my gaze and resting his forehead against my own. This is it. It feels like the real goodbye to the year I endured before. The real celebration and welcoming of a new life.

I've spent these months sleeping with whatever man decided to look at me in a busy bar or swiped right on an app. I let them touch me and use me and say whatever they wanted to me, because I convinced myself that these things would heal me. But they never did, and maybe they never will. Tonight, however, has opened up my eyes to things I refused to believe.

That even in pain there can be moments of joy. That as your heart aches you can still laugh. That experiencing the worst of someone doesn't mean you have to remove yourself from the possibility of experiencing the best of another.

And right now, as I lay here with Harry in his small studio, surrounded by images of people allowing themselves to feel every stage of grief and love and loss and happiness – nothing has ever felt so sure. Like pieces of a puzzle are finally slotting together, revealing the composition once and for all.

We look at each other, caution and anticipation etched across our faces, and I know I've made the right decision.

Slowly, he finds his way inside of me, his breath hitching in his throat the deeper he goes, and then we still. Adjusting, waiting, preparing.

"Are you ok?" he whispers, and I nod.

"More than ok."

And just like that, we melt into each other. Bodies saying all the things our minds can't articulate, hands caressing and nurturing while our hips meet with each thrust and moan.

He's gentle with me at first, going slow and taking his time. Every time he finds my sensitive spot, it feels like euphoria, clenching myself around him so he never leaves me in want of this feeling again. And he complies, meeting it again and again and again, all while whispering sweet nothings into my ear and calling me every compliment under the sun.

My hands cling onto his shoulders, his own at either side of my head, and we never look away from each other. He moves with such ease, sounds emitting from his throat the deeper he gets, and I can only watch in awe as he comes undone.

Spent, out of breath, so eager for more.

I wrap my legs around his back as he picks up his pace, holding him even closer as he's able to reach a new angle. He grunts and moans and pants, and I know I'm reacting in the same way, feeling his length glide through me like liquid gold being poured onto my skin while his eyes drink me up like I'm liquor. Burning but shimmering through me and causing a shaky brain for him. God, it's everything I could have wished for.

He lifts one of my legs and drags his hand along my thigh before moving my foot to rest over his shoulder. I can't hold in the scream that erupts from my throat when he thrusts harder. He looks pleased though, grinning as he bites his lip, ending with another sloppy kiss. One after the other, like we can't seem to have enough.

"Harry," I breathe out, but I'm not sure where I wanted it to lead. I suppose I just wanted his name dripping from my tongue again, a sweet juice that he licks up every time with a smile.

Every time he sighs, I can feel it in my veins, pumping through my blood straight to my heart and my brain. His skin is on fire and his lips burn against mine; I wish I knew if it was because of the heat in the room or the exchange of our bodies, offered up to one another. So much sweat dripping from his hair and melding with my own, a salty reminder of just how perfect he feels wrapped up in me.

There are no rational thoughts in my mind at this moment. Perhaps there haven't been all night after letting this stranger convince me to join him on what seemed like four continuous dates. But with each second that passed, each destination we visited, I found myself letting go of sanity and caution and rationality – three things that seemed to have held me back for so long in an effort to protect my heart, when it was craving to be touched from the start.

And he has. With his words and his kind eyes and his smile, he's touched my heart and warmed it after it froze up. I didn't think that was possible. But here he is, letting his body rock into my own, and nothing feels in the slightest bit comparable to this moment.

He was wrong. He is everything. Not me.

Him with his optimism and hope. A child-like belief that things will get better because we have the power to make them better. That maybe every bad thing we endure is just a blip in the timeline that leads to happiness.

One of his hands moves between us, touching my nerves as his thrusts become sloppy. "Diana, god, you're killing me. Absolutely murdering me with how wonderful you feel. Bringing me back to life before you ruin me again."

I can barely breathe, let alone form a sentence anymore. But there is so much I want to say. So, I just pull him down to my mouth, letting our lips speak in a language we both understand, until I can feel those bubbles in my stomach again, and he's begging for them to pop.

I shift underneath him and move to his rhythm. He sighs again. My favourite sound.

Within minutes I'm rising to the top of the bottle and popping once more. Again and again, a feeling that doesn't seem to end. Electrifying my body until I'm wide awake but feeling so completely lost in myself when I fail to focus on the room around me. I hear his pants and his eventual finish, the warmth erupting inside of me, but it's all so abstract compared to the curl of my toes that sends me into a realm I'm not accustomed to.

Sheer pleasure. Unadulterated pleasure. Complete pleasure.

Coursing through my body like molten lava. He stills above me before crashing down and laying across my body, only our laboured breathing filling the thick air around us. And in this moment, I think I'm at my happiest.

The minutes after sex where both of you are too tired to move or say anything as the euphoria still rushes through you. Elation and obsession.

My fingers draw circles into his shoulder blade, his run through my matted hair. Silent, but communicating. He dots kisses across my collarbone and neck every now and again, only to mumble words I'm unable to understand in between.

When we're both ready to face each other again, my jaw aches with a smile that is mirrored on his lips.

"How are you feeling?" he asks in a gentle tone.

I sigh. "A little less grumpy."

"I'm pleased to hear it," he says, kissing my lips.

We grow quiet again. It's not uncomfortable or awkward, just peaceful. I didn't think the post-sex atmosphere could ever feel like this again, but I could get used to this feeling.

I spend those moments remembering how we met hours ago, and how we ended up here. The promise of a friendship, a companion to hold my hand on a night that I needed it most, ending with something beyond what either of us anticipated.

Reckless, perhaps, but worth it in every lifetime.

Even in moments of absolute doubt, he made me sure. Sure of myself and my prospects, sure of my mind and my heart. Stood in that corner, moping about a man he came to learn was never the kindest to me, he only saw the best. We spoke of rebounds and failures, and he never once judged or found an excuse to run. If anything, it encouraged him to stay.

The first person that decided to.

Eyes like headlights in a storm, guiding me to safety.

How lucky I've been to meet him tonight. How wonderful it is to feel complete.

He looks at me in silence, moving my hair from my face. "Can I be your fake boyfriend for a little longer, Diana?"

I smile, sure of my answer echoing through my mind before he even kissed me tonight.

There's no fear. There's no loneliness. There's no pain.

Only hope.

"If it means I get to meet you again, my answer will always be yes, Harry." 

About the author: Hello there besties! I'm Celine, I'm 24 and I'm based in sunny London. I've been writing for as long as I can remember, starting fan fiction at the age of 11. Since then, I've dipped into different fandoms and communities, but Harry fics are the place I feel most at home. My works include Legendary and its sequel Legacy, Pretty Boy, Haze, Dark Corners (Damiano David one shot collection) and Thou Shalt Not Fall, so check them out if you haven't already!