"I thought I'd have to pull out all of the stops to persuade you."
I turned to glance at Harry as we walked, catching him grinning over at me with that familiar glint in his eye. I pressed my lips together, playfully raising my eyebrows at him.
"What, did you have a speech prepared?"
"Maybe," he countered with equal wit, raking a hand through his hair.
"I could always change my mind," I teased, deliberately slowing my pace to create some distance between us. I was only joking, but I noticed how he slowed his own pace an equal amount to keep in line with me. Whenever I saw Harry walking around, bustling about backstage or hurrying from place to place, he walked with a speed far quicker than my own, whether he was alone, or trailed by Stella, or Ally - he would walk far ahead; something I could likely credit to his long legs, but even before I'd slowed down to poke fun at him, he matched my pace instead of leaving me behind.
"Mm," he hummed, with the roll of his eyes, but the grin on his lips told me he was still humouring me, as he nodded his head towards the bar that we now only stood feet away from to prompt me forward. A little of his confidence appeared to have returned, where it had seemed to be lacking, today. I liked seeing him more relaxed, even he still appeared to have moments of uncertainty - like how he seemed to raise his hand towards my own in trying to coax me to keep walking, before he quickly dropped it back to his side. I ignored the gesture.
He asked me what I wanted to drink, as we approached the bar - empty, and desolate, with it being the middle of the night, now. I decided on wine, which earned a tiny, unexplained smile from Harry, before he ordered it.
"I'll have a tequila, please. Neat," he said, placing his card down on the counter, nonchalantly. I grimaced, as he caught my eye.
"You're gross," I wrinkled my nose at the idea of drinking a glass of pure tequila. I could handle whiskey, at times, but the idea of sipping on a glass of neat tequila made me shudder.
He sent me a puzzled frown, "Ice dilutes it," he said, as if it were obvious, thinking I was grimacing at the absence of ice, rather than the drink itself.
"I've never known anybody who chooses to drink straight tequila," I said, honestly. Granted, nobody at university could afford to do anything of the sort.
He raised an eyebrow, "If I recall, I poured you more than one tequila shot last week," he pointed out, as he lifted his card to the reader. He glanced at me, as if predicting that I would attempt to interject and prevent him from paying, before merely raising his index finger to his lips in a gentle motion to shush me, before I could argue.
"That doesn't count," I returned, taking my glass of wine and thanking him for it. "I don't exactly nurse it."
He took a sip, letting his eyes close in a dramatic display. "Mm," he pretended to groan at the taste of the drink, jokingly throwing his head back. "Beautiful," he announced to me, opening his eyes again. He offered the glass to me.
"No," I wrinkled my nose again.
"What?" he laughed, continuing to hold the glass out to me. "Didn't take you for a wimp, Iz."
My lips parted in mock offence, before I snatched the glass from his grip, taking a sip at his request. He watched me, his eyes set on my face in a knowing anticipation, as I brought the glass back down from my lips and held it back out to him. I attempted to keep my face straight, but I couldn't hide the expression of disgust that was aching to cross it.
"Oh, good girl," he goaded, his eyebrows teasingly raised, his chin tilting upwards as his lips twisted into a smirk that would've sent a shudder down my spine if I wasn't attempting to chase the taste of tequila from my mouth with my glass of wine. I pushed him away from me by his shoulder, as he took the glass back from me with a laugh.
The bartender spoke, suddenly, resurfacing from the other side of the room where I supposed he'd wandered after pouring our drinks, reminding me that Harry and I were not the only two people in the room. "There's a seating area outside on the balcony, if you two wanted some privacy."
Harry looked at me, cautiously, as if the bartender's proclamation had reminded him of the very same thing that it had reminded me. "Not for privacy," he said quickly, to me, as the bartender went back to whatever he'd been doing. "Just somewhere to sit..?" he almost asked, looking at me, still, making it clear he just wanted to chat; no need for privacy, or alone time. All good. No need.
I only nodded, heading towards the stairs at the far end of the room, where the bartender had pointed, and I could sense Harry trailing behind me as I took my first step up them. Harry waited until I was a few steps up, before I heard the tap of his shoes against the stairs behind me. At the top, was a singular door, unmarked. I glanced back at him, but he only sent me a small shrug, and so I reached out and pushed the door open. He outstretched his arm over my head, holding the door open for me to step through. A slight breeze hit my bare arms, but it was far from cold; a beautiful, warmly lit balcony, adorned with very expensive-looking furniture. A number of couches spanned across the large space, with a wooden gazebo of sorts covering the area, whilst a number of plants and baskets of flowers hung from each corner. I couldn't believe this was so hidden away; and given Harry's similar expression of awe, neither could he.
I walked to where the edge of the balcony was, laying my free hand on top of the bannister rail, there. I peered out over the skyline ahead of me, my eyes widening at the sight. It was pitch black, and the streets directly below us were rather desolated, but the skyline was still illuminated with lights from buildings, and the bustle of traffic from further ahead. It was near enough silent, and I could make out the glow of the stars in the sky from where I stood. It was beautiful up here.
I suddenly remembered Harry behind me, having grown momentarily lost in the sight before me. I turned around, to see he hadn't followed me further into the setup of the balcony; instead, he'd lingered by the sofa that was positioned by the entrance to the space, and his eyes appeared to have been on me, rather than the view, ahead of us. I felt my cheeks heat as he didn't even bother to shift his eyes from me as I turned around, his gaze holding such intensity that it could've pierced straight through me. I wondered if he knew how he looked, really - he stood there with his shirt near enough entirely unbuttoned, his blazer hugging the broadness of his shoulders so magnificently, his hair so effortlessly, but somehow so perfectly tousled, framing his face, so beautifully illuminated by the warm hue of the balcony lighting.
Somehow, my legs remembered how to function, carrying me over to one of the sofas, right by the edge of the balcony. I took a seat on it, and only a moment passed before I felt it dip beside me, announcing his presence without me having to look to confirm it.
Everything about our situation was causing my mind to do somersaults, my own head practically screaming at me. It was as if each time I thought I'd reached some kind of conclusion regarding our complications, I was hit with yet another. Harry wasn't exactly pining after me, but the intensity of his eyes grew harder and harder to push from my mind, the longer that I stayed before them. If I was seeking to avoid my feelings, rather than confront them, our situation wasn't exactly optimal; seated, with Harry, sharing a drink and peering over a very beautiful skyline. I wondered if he had the same reservations that I did, here - I supposed he couldn't have, because he couldn't have been thinking the same way that I was. This was clearly an innocent gesture to him, as I was aching for it to be, for me.
I watched him sip his tequila as he admired the skyline ahead, just as I had done moments ago, whilst his face didn't budge even an inch at the bitterness of the liquor. My mind flickered back to his demeanour earlier on today, and how uncertain, or even jarred, he'd appeared; how he'd dodged sitting beside me, or even exchanging the simplest of words, but now sat beside me with the sole intention of socialising. I didn't understand him; I didn't understand what he wanted, or what he was thinking - all I knew, was that it certainly was nothing to do with me. There was no way that I was even a factor in Harry's thinking, or Harry's turmoil, or Harry's moods - that simply couldn't be it. Harry must have had other things going on; I needed to get that through my head. I needed to get it through my head that Harry had been very clear - there was nothing more here. And that was ideal; that was exactly how it ought to be. But I couldn't stop myself from mulling over him; from pining over each of his movements, and every word he said to me, or the way he looked when I was in his company.
Harry and I were from different worlds; completely, and undoubtedly. I knew that, and I was sure he did, too. I knew how things needed to be; I knew how I wanted them to be. But somehow, with every moment that passed, Harry managed to flip my world, and everything I knew and believed, completely on its head.
"Are you from London?" Harry's voice broke through the growing intensity of my thoughts. I blinked, seeking to zone back into where we actually were. I knew he knew I lived in London, now, but he was asking to know more.
I shook my head, "No. A bit further South," I said, not exactly keen to disclose too many details, the topic being one that I didn't exactly frequent in conversation. I wasn't sure what I'd expected; having a drink one on one had to involve conversation, and Harry had pointed out, himself, earlier on that he didn't know much about me. But I still felt a strong reluctance to divulge too much, even though he somehow made it so easy to talk. "I just moved to London for school."
"Do you think you'll stay there?" he asked, bringing his glass to his lips again, "when you finish university, I mean."
"Yes," I replied, firmly. That was the plan, at least, it always had been. That was why I was working so hard, partially; why I juggled a near enough full-time job alongside my studying - I needed to cement a position in the city, so that I could stay there and build a proper life for myself, away from my past. "Where do you actually live?" I asked him, hoping to shift the attention away from me, but also because I was truly interested. I felt my cheeks flush a little as I spoke my next sentence, "I know you have a place in London, but you can't be there very much."
"I live in that house in London," he said, and I could've sworn I caught the twitch of his lips at his statement, making it clear he had the very same thought that I did. I'd seen 'that' house; I'd spent an evening inside of it. He continued, "I've spent a lot of time in America, and I try and spend time with my family, further North, when I have the chance - but, London is where I guess I actually live. I have a place in LA, but I don't think it's quite the same."
I watched him as he spoke, unable to stop myself in relishing in the way he did. I'd never have thought it was so easy to grow lost in how somebody spoke, so simply; to become completely and utterly enveloped in something as trivial as the way somebody's lips moved to form the words that they spoke, or how their eyes flickered from me to space ahead of them, or narrowed slightly in deep thought. I'd never, ever thought I'd noticed the furrow of somebody's eyebrow, or the flex of their jaw, or the scrunch of their nose - but I did. I undoubtedly did; I noticed it all, when he was in front of me. I even noticed how his fingers seemed to yearn to move at all times, tapping mindlessly against his glass or smoothing gently over his own thighs, like he was aching to touch something.
"Did you move to London when you left school?" I asked, remembering how he'd told me about leaving school at the age of sixteen.
"Not to that exact place, but, yes. I lived in a flat, before. I bought that house maybe three years ago," he told me. I still couldn't quite wrap my head around how different our lives were - how could he be the very same age as I was, in his early twenties, and be talking about the properties he'd owned, whilst Grace and I only just managed to scrape rent on our student accommodation each month?
We fell into a brief silence, but, somehow, it wasn't uncomfortable at all. I felt oddly at ease, even with the plethora of thoughts relentlessly racing through my mind, and with the countless dichotomies that continued to trouble me. I couldn't help how Grace's previous words played in the back of my mind - that feeling; the ones of ease, or even resembling something even better, might, unfortunately, have something to do with him specifically. I swallowed, pushing the thought away.
"What is your favourite place in the world?" I asked him, my voice sounding before my mind could quite keep up. Harry was so experienced; so well-travelled, and educated - you could hear it, just in the way that he spoke and carried himself, as well as the fact I knew he'd been touring for many years of his life. He had to have seen more than most; I, for one, had never even left England before last week, and it fascinated me to sit across from somebody who lived a life that was so opposite to my own.
A gentle smile pulled on his lips, "Italy."
"I've never been."
He leant back into the sofa, "I'm not quite sure how to describe it. It's just that one place that I find myself going back to, and it isn't for work. I just love it - the people, the culture, the city, and the countryside. All of it," he trailed off, and I caught myself growing rather lost in the way he spoke about it, as he almost appeared to picture the things he mentioned as his words formed.
"Did you used to go when you were younger?" I asked. I didn't mention his family, in fear he may ask me about mine, as he had before.
He shook his head, "No. We didn't really do holidays growing up - when I'm not touring, I always just go by myself," he paused for a second, before he looked over at me, "You'd love Italy."
I furrowed my eyebrows, "How do you know?"
"I don't know," he took another sip of his drink, "I just really think you would." My chest warmed at his statement. I was aching to know more about why he thought that; why he thought I was worthy of loving somewhere that he, too, loved. I tried to coax the racing of my mind, once more, but with each word he spoke, it only grew more difficult.
"What's yours?" he asked, suddenly, eyeing me in a way that made my heart flutter, "your favourite place in the world?'
I tore my eyes from where they'd been locked on his own in an attempt to focus, before I hummed in a moment of contemplation, "I don't think I've found it yet," I said, honestly. "I haven't really been anywhere."
He shrugged, "I don't really think you have to. Sometimes it's just what you're doing... who you're with..." he trailed off, our eyes meeting again, before he cleared his throat, and he turned back to face the skyline ahead of us. "I forget how much I love being cramped in a bus for hours in the states until I'm actually doing it, with people I enjoy being around."
"So, what comes first?" I teased, "Italy, or a bus?"
"Oh, definitely the bus," a breathy laugh left his lips as he sent me a playful narrowing of his eyes, and I laughed. He raked a hand through his hair, and I tried to refrain from examining his side-profile much more as he turned his head again, but I couldn't really help it - his jaw looked so sharp from this angle, the line there only intensifying when he'd take a sip of his drink, or purse his lips. In our distance, only a foot or so apart, I could see the curve of his eyelashes as he gazed ahead of him, and each time he turned to look at me, they'd frame the green of his eyes so elegantly.
"What happens after this tour, for you?" I asked, curious, "like.. what do you do, day-to-day, if you're not working?" I knew it would be far easier for me to keep my knowledge of Harry to a minimum, but I couldn't help but speak to him this way. I silently cursed the ease with which our conversation flowed.
Harry blew out a breath, "That's a good question - one I don't really have an answer to," he paused, tapping his fingers against his glass, "I have a couple of dates in Australia after this leg finishes. And then.. more music, and do it all over again."
My eyes widened, "Another tour? So soon? I thought it was some kind of tradition for artists to go on long breaks between albums and tours."
Harry laughed - a short, not entirely humorous laugh. "I guess. I just think, why quit whilst I'm ahead? My career is going well at the moment, there isn't any reason for me to stop."
"Isn't it too much?"
"I'm okay. I love doing this - it evens out," he shrugged, and I tilted my head as if attempting to look at him, closer. It felt like there was more to what he was saying, even if he was being truthful. Part of me wondered if his odd behaviour this morning had simply been tiredness. I wasn't sure how long he'd been on tour for, prior to me joining him, but the amount he did - with performances, media, travelling, would be enough to exhaust anybody, even if he was in a privileged enough position to enjoy what he did.
"Do you already have another album ready, then?" I frowned. Harry and Mitch, sometimes joined by Pauli, were often disappearing for a 'writing session', or to 'work on music', and though I wasn't sure specifically what that entailed, I didn't realise that this work had been for an album to come out so soon, especially when only days ago he'd told me that the writing he was doing hadn't 'necessarily' been for an album.
He shook his head, "No. But I'm writing a lot at the moment, and songs seem to be coming together faster than usual. Not loads of songs, but the ones I've managed to write, I'm writing them quickly. So, if it stays that way, then I could more or less put another album straight out as soon as I'm done here."
"Songs like the one you performed the other night?" I asked, watching as his eyes flickered to mine. We hadn't quite addressed that yet - it hadn't even grazed the topic of conversation since I'd heard it; largely because of Harry's sudden shift in demeanour for the past day. I knew there was nothing to address, but my subconscious inklings regarding the song were undoubtedly fuelled by the way his face twisted into a surprised expression at my words. It was like he'd forgotten I was in the room to hear it, or that he'd come over to whisper in my ear before he started the performance, making it impossible for my attention to be drawn to anything else.
He didn't say anything for a moment, simply studying my face as if trying to predict my own thoughts, before he nodded. "That one came together quite fast, yeah," he paused, as if contemplating what to say. "I don't know if I'll keep it." I remembered how Sarah and Elin had mentioned how he'd quickly soured on the idea of keeping the song in his setlist.
I asked him what had been nagging me, in the back of my head, from the second I'd sought to justify my feelings surrounding his performance, "Do you usually write songs and perform them as you go?"
He shook his head again, "But I feel like I could make a habit of it, this time around."
I glanced over at him as he tore his eyes from me to face the landscape ahead of us, again. A tiny smile appeared to ghost over his lips, before he drew his lip back between his teeth, stifling it.
I brought my glass of wine to my lips, taking my first proper sip in a while; I'd been so caught up in paying attention to Harry that I'd almost forgotten to do anything else.
"What about you?" he asked, eyeing his glass. "What's it like for you, day-to-day?"
My breath hitched in my throat. Personal. I ran my hand over my arm in a gentle attempt to muster up a response, and I watched as Harry's eyes followed the movement.
I blew out a breath, "Nothing exciting. It's honestly just Uni, and then work, and then Uni. Sometimes Grace can drag me out to socialise, or sometimes I'll go to Johnny's place. But there isn't much else."
"Johnny's..." he trailed off, as if in brief thought, "the bar?"
I nodded. "I used to work there, part-time. Now Johnny's more like family."
Harry nodded, as if taking in my words, before he continued. "What will you do, after tour? Back to London?"
"I suppose so."
"So you're not joining us again?" Harry almost pouted, although I knew he already knew the nature of my contract, here, and I wondered if he was doing so deliberately. I laughed.
"Is that an invitation?" I joked. I didn't even consider the fact he might be teetering on being serious. Not an option.
"Might be," he shrugged, a boyish grin on his lips. I ignored the jolt in my chest at his expression.
"How did you get into photography?" he asked, now, changing the subject. I got it - nothing I'd ever told him ever equated to how I'd ended up working here, as a photographer; and that was likely because everything that had ever happened in my life, instead, pointed me away from that. It was only a simple question, but I somehow felt under attack. I bit my lip.
"I don't know, really," I said, my tone wavering a little. "I was kind of just always drawn to it. Grace and I would mess around with cameras when we were kids." I knew he'd known of Grace, now, with our prior conversations, as well as his sneaky browse of her social media.
His face softened a little, "How long have you two been friends?"
I pressed my lips together. "Our whole lives.." I paused, a tiny smile playing on my lips as I recalled the extent of our friendship, "we went to school together. She only lived a couple of roads away."
"And you moved away together?" he asked, and I only nodded, not really trusting myself to speak. Harry watched me, as if trying to break through the answers I was giving him and unveil something more; it was like he knew I was withholding, even when I didn't mean for him to. I took another sip of my wine, trying to shake the feeling that he could see right through me.
"I bet you were an annoying child," he said, suddenly, lifting the conversation from the depth it was beginning to reach, and I gasped. It was like he could see that I was floundering, and he knew just how to fix it.
"That is literally the most ironic thing to ever come from your mouth," I shot back, earning an equal gasp from him, which caused me to laugh.
"What on earth do you mean by that?" He clutched his chest in mock offence.
"You're annoying now. You must've been even worse, then," I said, matter-of-factly, earning a scoff from him.
"I was a brilliant child," he nudged my foot with his own, causing my stomach to lurch, but he quickly drew back as if his stomach had done the same. He coughed. "My mum has zero complaints."
"Mhm, I bet," I mocked him, watching how his jokingly offended demeanour only intensified.
"Tell me what you were like," he said, suddenly, his tone softening a little. The expression on his face was just full of reassurance - he was the type of person I felt like you'd be able to take comfort in, just with a mere glance.
The tone of the conversation had shifted again - it didn't feel entirely heavy, but it had lost the humour from seconds prior. Harry really wanted to know about me.
I hesitated for a moment, letting his eyes bore into mine. He just had that face; those eyes, like nothing I'd ever seen - it was like you could tell him anything, and it would all be okay. It was like I could scrap every reservation I'd ever had, as long as he kept looking at me that way, as long as he kept listening with the dedication that he did. I'd never known that feeling, before.
"I used to read, all the time," I said, peering off at the skyline ahead of us. "It was basically all I did," I paused, biting back a tiny smile as I hugged my knees to my chest, "or, when I was little, my sister snuck home this little DVD player, and I just adored it. We only managed to get two discs for it, but we didn't care."
"What were they?" Harry asked, gently, watching me as a smile of his own played upon his lips.
"She had her favourite, I can't remember what it was," I stared forward for a moment, unable to fully stifle the somewhat wistful smile on my lips. It was like it hadn't even clicked in my mind that I was telling him far more than I ever planned to say. "I loved Matilda."
"Why?" he asked, softly. I caught his eye for a moment, in sudden fear that I'd grown too lost in conversation; that I'd said too much. I was tempted to close my mouth, there and then. I'd told him I had a sister - only Grace, and Johnny knew that. My heart began to race. The look on his face - the way his eyes refused to shift away from me, his expression filled with something I couldn't identify - and the way it made me feel, was enough to petrify me. I wondered if everybody who'd ever been able to sit with him, like this, to talk with him, like this, felt that way. I wondered if that was just Harry - maybe it wasn't specific to my feelings, or our encounters. Maybe.
I needed to stop talking. This was increasingly dangerous - I needed to stop. I couldn't give him any more power over me than he already had; what was to stop him from taking these pieces of information that I gave him, and throwing them back in my face? What was to make him any different from anybody else I'd ever dared to trust? Why was I telling him this?
"All she had was herself," I said, quietly, my mouth moving, again, before my mind could catch up, "and she was okay with it. Nobody quite understood her, or valued her, but it all turned out okay for her in the end..." I paused, trailing off. I cleared my throat, trying to lift my tone from its solemnity. "My sister and I would plug in these really rubbish earphones she'd borrow from her friend, and we'd just share them, and watch it on repeat, for hours. It would end and we'd just restart it." I stopped, feeling my stomach turn. Why did you tell him that? I'd said far, far too much. I didn't quite dare to look at him again, not yet.
We sat there for a moment, his eyes burning into me as I looked down at my glass. I'd barely said anything, but it felt as if the best thing that could happen right now, would be for the floor to open up and swallow me. I felt exposed; overly vulnerable - I wasn't sure when the last time was that I'd told anybody so much, of something so deeply personal. I didn't know if anybody else actually knew that, and I didn't know why I'd let him be the first.
"You don't talk about your family much," Harry spoke, his voice gentle. It was as if he knew he was entering dangerous territory, and feared rebuttal of some kind if he pushed too far. I swallowed, still not meeting his eye.
"It's never really come up," I said, taking a large sip of my wine. I knew Harry wouldn't be convinced, but I hoped he would know to just leave it, there.
"Mm," was all he hummed in response, but he didn't press me any further. I noticed how his demeanour had almost entirely shifted to one of great care and softness; it was slightly unfamiliar, on this scale, but I liked how warm it was making me feel inside, even despite the way my head was beginning to pound.
I wasn't sure how much longer we sat there - not really. It felt like hours, but somehow, only minutes, at the same time. The darkness had begun to fade from the sky, and a gentle light began to cast over the balcony, signalling that it was more or less, morning.
Harry had insisted on walking me back to my hotel room; I didn't exactly protest. The comfort from his presence beside me was beginning to become rather undeniable, and I couldn't bring myself to turn down additional moments with him.
He even left the elevator by my side, insisting on accompanying me the entire way down the hall. He'd grown rather quiet since exiting the balcony, and I wondered if he, too, was thinking I'd said too much.
I was doing nothing but insulting and punishing myself for all the things I shouldn't have said, as we approached my hotel room door. I pulled out my key card, turning away from Harry momentarily to open the door.
"You wanted to know what happened today," his voice sounded gently from behind me. I lifted my head, turning to face him again. I peered up at him, curiously, maintaining my silence in case I would somehow manage to put him off saying any more. I turned my head slightly to the side, partially in confusion at his sudden statement, but also hoping to beckon his words further. He took a small step toward me. The space between us was minimal, with the door only inches behind me. I felt my breath hitch in my throat.
"I've been struggling a lot with what I want lately," he said, his eyes burning into my own. I tried to force my gaze away from his lips as they moved to form his sentences. "I've been torturing myself, trying to do the right thing.." he paused, and with all the times he'd looked at me before, each time with such enchantment, this time was unmatched. "I've always done that, Iz. I always try and do the right thing; the practical thing. I've always done what's right, even when it wasn't what I wanted.." he trailed off, and I could feel my stomach turning. I knew that feeling.
I was aching for him to say what he wanted to say, even when I didn't know what it would be.
I had to basically force my body back against the door, so to resist the urge to lean closer, into him. I could smell the faint scent of his cologne; the richness, the luxury of it, mixed with the mint from the gum he was chewing. I didn't remember when I'd last been this close to him, but it was like my body hadn't spent a second not yearning to feel this proximity, again. His hair, having grown slightly dishevelled by now, was practically begging for me to rake my fingers through it. I kept my hands as tightly as I could, pinned to my sides, but with each shift of his gaze, I was undeniably desperate to touch him.
"I try to do what everyone wants me to do," he said, his voice achingly low, "I do what I'm told; I do what's best for my career; I do what's right to sell records, and to stay relevant, and to protect my image. I do what's right to protect the livelihoods of everyone who relies on me," he shook his head, pressing his lips together as he looked down at the floor for a brief second before looking back to me. It was as if he'd reached some kind of breaking point; his words, though soft, and low in volume, were so frank, and firm, as if he'd been dying to say them. I only watched, speechless, in anticipation of his next words. His voice shrank to a volume that would be unintelligible outside of our close proximity, his eyes almost pleading with my own. "I do what's right to protect myself," he said, barely a whisper. I ached to reach out and run my fingers over the creases forming upon his skin at the furrowing of his brows; to smooth them over and rid him of the tension that caused them.
This felt like some kind of finale to his behaviour today; the constant contemplation I'd caught crossing his features at any given moment of silence today, appeared to have come to this. Was it stress, then? Maybe I'd been right - it was the pressure of trying to maintain this image; this lifestyle; this career - it was proving to be a lot, on him.
I watched him, watching me; his eyes fell from my own, to my lips, and I could feel myself unintentionally bring my lip between my teeth. It was so quiet, I figured he must've been able to hear my heart beating, with how it felt it was about to thump out of my chest. His face was only inches away from my own, our eyes now burning into one another's. I was sure I'd never wanted to kiss somebody so much in my life.
But I also felt sick to my stomach. The fact that even after outlining specific boundaries we needed to maintain between us, I hadn't spent a day where I didn't yearn to feel his lips on my own, again, or his hands on my skin. I had been aching for more of him from the second I'd been deprived, but I couldn't have him. I couldn't.
Half of me was screaming to back away; to create the safe distance that we had deeply failed to maintain these past days - but the other half, the louder half, was begging me to do what I wanted; to stop denying myself what I'd been wanting since I first lay eyes on him in Johnny's bar. No, no, no.
I didn't dare believe he might be feeling the very same pull to me, that I was feeling to him. No. That was an added complication. If Harry wasn't interested in giving me the time of day, it would be far easier to convince myself that these weird feelings I had for him were futile, and misplaced. I needed him to want nothing to do with me. And I'd thought he had; when he'd told me we'd made a severe mistake, and that we needed to put what had happened between us, behind us, I'd believed he hadn't wanted anything more. Because why would he? Why would somebody like Harry want somebody like me? Why would someone so intelligent, so talented, so kind, so considerate, so genuine - so good - want somebody like me? He couldn't. He didn't.
Harry's lips were practically begging to press against mine - there was mere inches between us; with the tiniest tilt of my head, I could've done exactly what I'd been pretending I didn't want to do.
I wasn't sure what was happening, but it was certainly all a misunderstanding. We would not work - whatever this is; it wouldn't work. Things with me did not work. I wasn't able to commit to anything, or anybody - I wasn't capable. And this time, it would be different - this wasn't us meeting and sleeping together, or making the mistake of sleeping together again. If we kissed, here, now, this would change everything. This would mean far more.
I'd failed my last relationship; that was me. I hadn't done enough; I hadn't acted the way I should, and I ruined it - but that was with somebody for whom I didn't even have a fraction of the feelings that I could no longer deny I had for Harry.
I'd never wanted to feel like I might be worse off without somebody; that if I couldn't have somebody, I'd be negatively impacted. I never wanted that. I never wanted to fall head-first, or just let myself go; I never, ever wanted to be that vulnerable. I never wanted somebody to have that power over me; to be able to hurt me. I was tired of hurting. I couldn't put myself in a position to be hurt again. And I hated what he was doing to me. I hated that for the first time, Harry was ruining the ease of that. For years, it had been easy not to let anybody in; it was easy to keep my distance, and to protect myself. But each time he looked at me; each time he touched me, or said my name - all I wanted to do was give in to him.
He looked at me, his expression tentative, and I wondered if he could read me, at all, here. I wondered if he could tell there was a relentless, ongoing battle in my head at that moment; a thousand different voices, telling me a thousand different things. I knew he wouldn't know the details - but Harry had a way. Harry had one of those faces; but it was like one I'd never seen before - he had one of those rare smiles, with a quality of eternal reassurance. It was like he understood you the way you wanted to be understood, and that terrified me. Because I wasn't sure if I did want to be understood in the way he seemed to be capable of understanding.
"Iz," he whispered, now, his palm raising to rest upon the door, above my head, his eyes continually flickering to my lips. In that moment, he wanted me, like I wanted him - for the first time, I could believe that.
And the way he was looking at me made me want to push everything from my mind and kiss him. But I couldn't do it to myself. I needed to protect myself. I couldn't let down the walls I'd built. Not even for those eyes; not even for that face; not even for him.
I blew out the gentlest of breaths, and let my eyes fall over his face a final time; really taking in the sight before me. The gentle curve of his lips; the soft, glaze of his eyes as they watched mine. The smooth skin of his cheeks, sculpted by the sharp definition of his face. His eyebrows, gently furrowed, as they often were - always capturing his expressions when I felt he often didn't intend them to.
I closed my eyes for a second, a shaky breath escaping my lips.
My father had once told me that I was the most unlikeable; the most unloveable person he'd ever known. I remembered it so clearly, because it was one of the last things he ever said to me. He'd told me that I appeared so intelligent; so put-together, and presentable, but upon getting to know me, he saw me as nothing but detestable. I remember how my eyes had widened, when he'd told me that. I remembered how I was almost surprised at how calculated the statement was - it wasn't in an angry haze, or a violent episode. He'd thought about it. He'd sat in his hospital bed, his face pale in colour, hooked up to far too many tubes for me to count; and he'd told me he felt bad for me. It was almost ironic; that somebody on the verge of death could feel bad for me, with my entire life ahead of me. But it wasn't real sympathy, or understanding. It was power; it was control - it was one last try to keep his hold on me.
"It's sad, Bels," he'd croaked, as I gripped tightly onto the arms of the squeaky chair I sat on beside his bed. "I just don't see you with a family... I don't see you doing well for yourself; not with the person you are, or the life you're capable of leading," He'd always wanted us to believe that weren't enough; for anybody. That made it easier to get to me; to my sister; even to my mother. And he'd succeeded - and he would continue to, even in death - even in his final moments, he made sure to break me down, just as he had my entire life. He'd grabbed my arm, squeezing it in the very same way he always would, when hissing into my ear, or shouting in my face - only his touch was weaker, now - he couldn't bruise my skin anymore. "You'll never be anything, little Bels. Not if you don't listen to what I've told you. I want you to remember that."
I think, perhaps subconsciously, or unintentionally - I'd accepted his words as gospel - I'd carried them right through the remainder of my childhood, and my teenage years, right to where I was, now. I'd never deserve to do well, or to have a family of my own; I'd never be liked, truly, or get to feel what unconditional love was. Because my entire life, anything resembling love that I'd received, was highly conditional. For my father, I had to fall in line; obey, without a word of protest - and even when I did, it was insufficient. For my mother, I had to be whatever she wanted me to be; and even when I was, it wasn't satisfactory. For Calvin, I had to open up in a way I was incapable of, and when I couldn't, I 'failed' him. Affection was earned; love, respect, and basic regard were begged for. Because I had a habit of being rather insufferable, as I was told. And I would never do better than that.
"I'm tired," I said, gently, watching his face fall. I had an urge I'd never had before; to lean forward, and press my lips to the lines forming on his forehead from his gentle frown; to bring my own hand to his face and touch him, as I was aching to. But I needed to be stronger than that. I couldn't let him, or anyone else break me. Never again.
His hand shifted back to his side, and he sent me the faintest of nods. "You get some sleep, then," he said, taking a step back from me. As much as I'd been wishing for distance this entire time, the moment I had it, I wanted to pull him back, closer to me.
I nodded, quickly, grabbing my key card from where I'd shoved it back into my pocket. I feared if I stayed a second longer in his presence, I may cave. His eyes didn't meet my own now, but he stayed where he was, as I opened my hotel room door in a haze. I turned back over my shoulder, scared to look at him, properly.
"Goodnight, Harry," I said, barely recognising the words as they left my mouth.
"Goodnight," he returned, his voice laced with something I couldn't quite determine, but I didn't dare hang around to analyse it. I stepped inside my hotel room, pushing the door shut behind me with a click.
What just happened? My heart was practically thumping out of my chest - my mind practically begging for anything else to be true - for the case not to be that we had almost done the very thing I'd been certain would never happen.
I leant back against the door blowing out a deep exhale that I hadn't realised I'd been holding. My whole body was shaking, and I hadn't realised it until now. It had truly taken every ounce of not only physical, but emotional strength to walk away from him, just now; to walk away from what I so desperately wanted. I wanted him. But I didn't want all that I feared would come with it.
And he wouldn't want what came with me. I was unloveable; I was unsalvageable. I didn't deserve somebody like Harry, and that was assuming he even wanted anything to do with me. And not only that, but I wasn't sure I would survive the heartbreak I could already tell he was capable of inflicting on me. If I was feeling such a pull to him, having known this man for a mere couple of weeks; having enforced an explicit distance - I feared what he could do to me if I truly let him in; if I truly let myself go, and went for it. I couldn't put myself in his hands.
When I finally dared to turn around; to peer through the peephole of my hotel room door; I was surprised to see he was still there. With a look that I couldn't distinguish in his eyes, he stared at the door, as if contemplating knocking, or saying something else. It had been several minutes, and he hadn't budged. Sure, he hadn't actually instigated anything, but that felt scarily close - and I'd finally done it; I'd pushed him away; I'd blocked him out, and prevented what I feared happening - I'd created the distance, finally. But he'd stayed.
That hadn't happened before.