Harry walks backwards into his house through the threshold of his front door, both of his hands holding yours gently as he shuffles you to his turntable. You giggle and shake your head when you see him leaf through his vinyl collection to pull out a Journey record, "Harry, I am the opposite of in the mood for sporty synths, shrill vocals and cock guitar."
He throws his head back in laughter and puts the needle on the record anyway, punching his fist into the air at the first few cheesy keys of Separate Ways. The enormous and blindingly bright smile on his face is infectious as he grabs your hands and pulls you close, weaving your fingers together and pushing your arms into the air above your head as he serenades you.
You know that he's exaggerating his mood to boost yours but the effort doesn't get lost on you; it only takes one verse before you're singing along with him, backing away and pointing to him sarcastically with your mouth curled into a sardonic smile. He's bordering on internal and external happiness, his dimple sinking into his cheek as you both shout the chorus together, the lyrics sinking into your heart and drilling a tiny hole there to allow your pain to seep through.
He grasps your fingertips and tugs you close as the song draws to an end, pressing your cheek against his shoulder as he pets his fingers through your hair, "I'm really sorry, pretty. I'm mostly sorry that there are men in this world that you try to trust but they just hurt you."
You're tearing up again and Harry can hear you sniffle but he just continues to pet your hair and hold you close to his chest. It's not so much the fact that you had one bad date, but several throughout the years, and you haven't felt intimate with another person in ages.
It's been so long that you're starting to wonder if you even remember what it feels like and if you're possibly setting your standards too high. If you keep up this charade of pickiness, you'll end up alone with a gay best friend for the rest of eternity and that does not sound conducive to a clean bill of mental health.
Harry's voice crackles through your silent train of self-pity, "223."
Your eyes drag up to his face and you try to understand what he's saying but you can't decode it, "I don't get it. What's 223?"
His hands cup your cheeks as he closes his eyes and presses his lips to your forehead, "mmm." He lets them rest idly for a moment before he pulls his plush mouth away, "your special code. If you ever need to page me from an unknown number. I'll always return it, okay?" You nod and realize that Harry has just boosted you past his emergency system to a priority classification and your heart feels heavy and tight at the regard.
"Can I give you some comfortable clothes?" He steps back and scans your skin-tight, long sleeved dress and stilettos, "I mean I'd also cuddle you in that, but-" He laughs when you smack his arm and mumble that you'd like to please borrow something to sleep in.
He collects a pair of boxer briefs and an incredibly worn and threadbare Prince t-shirt, passing them to you in a bundle through the threshold of the bathroom door. You hold the shirt up in front of your face before raising an eyebrow at him. His mouth pulls into a smile, "I'm not getting it back, am I?"
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you toss the clothes onto the seat of the closed toilet, "I'm starting to think you kinda like it." He reaches forward to tap the adopted pearl necklace that's draped around your neck, smiling to himself and remaining quiet and thoughtful for a moment as he appreciates your presence.
His eyes sear yours, "it makes me feel closer to you." His sight drops down to your dress, "are you wearing the set we picked out together?"
Your skin is on fire under his scrutiny and his suggestive language. You swallow a lump and nod, his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip and he doesn't feel turned on per se but he's extremely curious, "can I see?" He leans his shoulder against the doorframe of the bathroom and his eyes remain locked on your figure under the soft pink lighting of his bathroom.
Your hands feel clammy, "are... are you asking me to strip?"
His tummy boils a little bit and he crosses his arms over his chest to reel in the sensation, "I guess so. You can say no if you want. I just wanna remember what it looks like. You looked so beautiful in it."
It seems impossible to you that Harry could possibly be this straight forward, innocent and seemingly unaffected by your half naked body. Normally this level of directness would turn you off and spike your anxiety, but with Harry it feels natural and it may or may not be because you know it won't lead to anything further. It's almost as if you're disrobing to your underwear in front of a girlfriend - which isn't something you normally do either, but it feels equally as safe.
"I have a question first," your fingers are toying with the hem of your dress at the skirt, hinting at the promise of a reveal. He nods and you lick your lips before rolling them together, "what did you say to the person who answered the phone in the café?"
He watches your fingers drag the fabric inch by inch up your thigh, "I told her to look for the prettiest girl in the room with the biggest loser." You laugh and swing your foot at him half-heartedly but he's distracted as he continues to work his gum and wait for you to take your dress off.
Your heartbeat finally starts to pick up in the wake of silence between the two of you; Harry is studying you as if he were waiting for a curtain to drop, his breaths meeting the air in quiet pants. It almost feels like a test, whether or not that test is for you or Harry still feels unsure. He takes a step forward, "actually, can I do it?"
Your hands drop to your sides, "you want to take my dress off and then look at me in lingerie?"
He shrugs and nods, "is that weird?" The warm smell of his cinnamon gum takes you back to the first time you rode in his car after you ran into one another at the grocery store when he was still dating your roommate. When he was still an enigma and a mystery to you but then you realize, he still kind of is.
You're wondering if Harry can hear your heart beating, "I don't know actually... just do it, it's okay with me." The pads of his fingers drag across the tops of your thighs before they hook into the bottom of your dress, his stomach is dancing with swarms of butterflies but he has to know. He has to understand his feelings for you and if they are more than platonic and if he's open to revealing a part of himself that he didn't even know was possible to exist.
He can hear his breath moving in and out of his skull through his nose and echoing in his ears as he pulls your dress up and over your head, not knowing where to look as your entire body is revealed to him in less than five seconds. The vision that was frozen in his mind for the entirety of last week is broadcasted before him once again and more gorgeous than he remembered, your chest heaving with steady breaths and goosebumps blossoming down your arms.
His dilated gaze lands on your chest and your nipples pushing against the delicate fabric of your bra. His cock is fattening in his pants again and the attraction feels apparent but he's insanely nervous and unsure of how to handle himself in this uncharted territory. He's curious as to what your nipples look like and what your tits would feel like in his palms and when it's glaringly obvious that he's been staring far beyond a timeframe that is acceptable, he takes a step backwards.
He can't remember a time in his life when he's felt this unglued, callow and terrified all at once. He takes another step back and his shoulder bangs against the doorframe as he trips over his own feet. His eyes flick to yours in embarrassment, "sorry - you're so pretty, uh... that looks really good on you. Just like I remembered - well, better actually. Um? I'll wait for you... take your time."
He pulls the door shut as he stumbles out of the bathroom and races into his bedroom, falling into his sheets and trying to calm his palpitating heart as he designs mental shapes from the cracks and imperfections in his ceiling. He flicks the button on his pants open with one swipe of his fingers and nudges his hand inside, rubbing his palm over his rigid length and whimpering at how sensitive he is.
He rips his hand away and tangles his fingers into his hair, pulling roughly at his scalp before dropping his face into his palms as he tries to will his cock and his nervous system back to equilibrium. Images flash behind his eyelids and he's awestruck by your structure and your brevity, the lenity of your skin and the way it decorates your curves, bubblegum pink straps of lace and cotton resting easily on every dip and cut of your salacious body.
You're sexy and beautiful but most importantly you're his Ace, his intoxicating, heady and brilliant Ace. The packaged combination of your face and your hair and your body and your wit and your humor has his head spinning with desire and need, commotion and distraction. His daydream is screeched to a halt by the sound of the bathroom door opening; you slink into his bedroom in his underwear and old t-shirt, the fabric molding against your tits and the collar hanging loosely around your neck.
You're not sure what to think of Harry's reaction aside from the obvious knowledge of him being so taken aback that he had to fall out of the bathroom to get away from you. You're aware of his sensitive mindset and his probable disorientation and the night has been too daunting and you're too exhausted to entertain the notion of coddling another confused man.
You step in between his legs, taking note of his unbuttoned pants and ferocious hair before you stroke your fingers into his curls, "knock knock."
He allows his eyes to drift shut, a smile seeping onto his face, "who's there?" His hands drag up the back of your thighs and navigate around your ass to land on the small of your back.
You scratch your nails against his scalp, "Europe."
He hums, "Europe who?"
You giggle before you can release the punch line, "no, you're a poo."
He scrunches his features into an exasperated and harrowing grin before pinching his fingers into your waist and lifting you off the ground by your hips. You squeal when you're tossed against his mattress like a pile of clean laundry, bouncing into his sheets as he climbs after you and collapses on top of your pliant body.
His fingers dig into your ribs in a vicious tickle, a snarl ripping from his throat when he tucks his mouth into the crook of your neck and pretends to bite there. You're shrieking with laughter and pushing on his shoulders and arms in an attempt to throw his weight off of you, but he's too strong and too determined to punish you for your shitty joke.
He stops his torture all at once before locking his gaze on yours, his eyes and mouth light and easy as he tip toes his fingers down your stomach and your leg to attach under your knee, "don't you ever... ever... say that fucking joke to me ever again."
You scream for him not to probe into your most ticklish spot, your legs kicking wildly as you try to get his hands away from you but he shifts his weight to pin his hips against yours, effectively sinking you into the mattress before he bores into the tender spot behind your kneecap.
Tears pinch from your eyes as you beg him to stop between cries of laughter, a moment of clarity pushing through as you remember a sneaky tactic to win the battle. You take a breath to calm your diaphragm before shouting, "moist! Moist, moist, moist!" and Harry gags and heaves gravely before rolling off of you and laying stock still, his tongue hanging out of his mouth and his eyes closed for dramatic effect.
Your giggling dies down slowly as you wipe tears from your eyes, "did I kill you?" He nods but doesn't change the expression on his face, "okay, well. It's your turn to strip. Time to cuddle, handsome."
He rolls from the bed, peeling his shirt and pants off like a bolt of lightning before kicking them away and diving back into his cushy sheets. The bed bounces and rocks your body as he makes his way over to you, laying on his side and tucking his palms under his cheek so that you're face to face and resembling one another.
"Thank you again for saving me-" He shushes you and slides his hand out from under his cheek to meet in the small space between your restful bodies. Your palm smooths across the sheets and lands on top of his, watching as you weave your fingers together before settling your sight back on his face.
Harry scoots closer to you and lands with your faces just inches apart, his warm breath still soaked with the scent of cinnamon from his discarded gum. Your gazes flick back and forth between one another's eyes and lips, a heavy and edgy silence settling between the two of you as his tongue darts out to dampen his bottom lip, leaving a luscious glaze on his pink skin.
Harry hasn't kissed a girl in a full decade, since he was still figuring out his sexuality and fooling around with both men and women in his younger teenage years. He's never gotten further than groping a girl underneath her shirt before he had decided that it wasn't right for him, that he preferred the presence and essence of men, their structure and their capabilities sexually.
If he had met you during his bouts of exploration, he may have grown up with a very different understanding of his sexuality. Or perhaps you've met at just the right time, brought to him as a gift to reopen and rediscover himself. Or better yet, maybe you're the only woman that will ever spark his interests in that way.
Either way, Harry wants to seal his lips to yours and feel your tongue, he wants to cup your breasts and push his hands into your panties, he wants to hear you moan as you tell him what to do and what you like. He wants your succulent mouth wrapped around the head of his cock and he wants to bury himself deep inside of you - to feel what it's like to passionately fuck a woman, to passionately fuck you. His Ace.
Shaky breaths are meeting in the gap between your mouths and when you flip over onto your other side, Harry pinches his eyes closed and silently curses at his missed opportunity. He's still rashly ruffled with immaturity, wariness and inexperience, unsure of how to even begin the pursuit of a woman; especially a woman that he considers his dearest friend.
He tosses his arm across your stomach and slides you close against his chest, pulling the covers over your joined form. He presses his mouth against the back of your neck and mumbles, "relax, pretty." He feels your shoulders melt and your bodies beginning to mold together as you both settle into the sheets and comfort and warmth of one another.
Your core tightens when he moans deeply in the back of his throat at how hearty and pleasant you feel in his arms. The smell of your shampoo is in constant flux to his nose and he moans again at how encased and enraptured he is, "Ace, you feel amazing." You hum in response and your legs tangle together, his knees locking into the sweet spot just under your thighs and then you're both still.
The sounds of your breathing and the rising and falling of your chests meld and fuse until there's no separation between your bodies and just as your mind draws blank and drifts into a black hole, the rumble of Harry's voice leaves his chest, "I love you."
You whisper it back and his heart kicks and swells before it settles again and you're both floating through the expanse of the universe, the stars hovering close but still unreachable and the earth below you like a giant, living and swirling marble.