The First // A Harry Styles au

She.

In the heart of the northern English countryside, nestled in a deep valley without a name, lies a small lake that barely a soul knows to exist. The nearest town is five miles west towards the coast, and the nearest city is almost a hundred mile drive northeast. It's unlikely that if you're not looking for the lake that you'll ever find it, and it's probably best kept that way.

On the north end of the water is a small picnic area with a few benches that are touched maybe once a year by the same family who know of the area by relatives, but no other ever visits. It's an idealistic haven for those who don't want to be known, or seen, or spoken to.

At the very southern tip of the lake sit two houses side by side, both facing the lake with their gardens facing south. In the centre of two properties at the shore of the water is a small wooden pier with a single moor and a row boat secured to it.

The house on the right has been occupied by the same man for five years, and he rarely ever leaves. His property is well kept - his two-storey, three up and two down clad in white painted wood with a sturdy brick foundation to ensure the brisk and sharp winds don't blow it away during the harsh winters. His front porch stretches the width of the house but extends no further than two meters, fenced in varnished oak.

Inside, the interior portrays a quaint cottage worthy of any retired couple. The kitchen comes with a token aga as well as a conventional stove, the work surfaces a deep matte black with cherry wood finishes and round brass handles. A beechwood breakfast table sits in the window with two mismatched chairs - one a sturdy, tall-backed rosewood with a complex design carved into the back, and the other painted white with only a simple single cross on the backrest, and a kitsch-pattern cushion tied to the seat.

The living room homes an untouched magnolia Lawson-style loveseat, and a well-used navy blue club-style armchair, all facing a large TV situated on a black stand. The mantlepiece is original and traditional grey slate, but the inside fireplace has been replaced for a slightly more modern log burner. The entire ground floor is fitted with stone flooring, which has been covered by a vast array of rugs of all different shapes, sizes and colours.

Upstairs, the bedroom is small but adequate - with a king bed against the east wall made of iron and painted black, and the bedsheets are always only white. His bedside table, drawers and wardrobe are all made of the same varnished fir. He has one picture on his bedside table, along with an alarm clock and his current read, opened and turned face down.

He uses the second bedroom as an office. A desk sits in the front window facing the lake, piled with things that he uses on a daily basis but also that he hasn't touched for years. There's a laptop buried somewhere amongst his writings, but he usually prefers to write on paper since he favours tradition over convenience.

The garden is kept neat and simple - a perfectly square patch of land ruled by a niche white picket fence, and lined on the inside all the way around by a bed of flowers which vary in type, colour and size. The lawn is always trimmed in the spring and the summer, but can get neglected in the autumn and winter since he can't stand the cold.

His occupation is... vague. He writes music, he writes poetry, he writes fiction, and when he's feeling really creative, he'll paint. He only really paints when he dreams of her, though. Music and poetry are his favourite, and they're usually what make him his living.

The house on the left hasn't been lived in since he moved in all those five years ago. It's been on the market since his has, both being owned by two friendly neighbours who decided to up sticks and move somewhere else. He often wonders why anyone would want to leave here. It's been to auction multiple times and never sold - considered too much of an inconvenience in location with the lack of... well, anything in the vicinity.

The makeup of the house is exactly the same as his, only mirrored. It's still in its original slate condition but is growing tired with the lack of use it has. He sometimes breaks in to wander around for inspiration, but it's so worn down all it really brings is dark thoughts. The porch is collapsed and the garden is just weeds. He often considers buying it himself and doing it up, but the thought of reselling it afterwards to anyone makes him irate. He likes being alone.

He runs the same routine every day. He wakes up around eight, jumps straight in the shower, dresses, eats his breakfast at the table in the window and reads the news on his phone, all the while deciding what he wants to do with himself that day. He spends no more than ten minutes in the bathroom every morning - drying his growing dark curls with his towel, cleans his teeth, and moisturises his beard. He's not long been able to grow a beard, but it's suddenly come in thick and full.

Once he knows what he's doing, he'll sit at his desk, or on the front porch or in the garden if the weather is pleasant enough, and he'll write or paint right on through to lunchtime. He'll eat something easy, and then he'll carry on until he's done.

He's meticulous with his work - he doesn't start one thing before he's finished another. Only unless he's struggling and thinks he should start again. He keeps everything tidy apart from his office. Every room in his house is spotless when he isn't in it, apart from that one second bedroom which often feels musty and just old. He doesn't know why, but he likes it that way - like it's his secret.

On his days off he takes the row boat out and drifts into the centre of the lake. He likes lying on his back. He often takes a guitar with him, because in the quiet of his little valley with nothing and no one else around him, no noise but that of the soft rippling water and maybe the odd breeze, a tune will come to his head, and if he's lucky it'll develop into a song. He likes the lack of nostalgia. Nothing about where he lives could ever really bring a painful reminder of anything, because the only memories he has of living here, are just the memories of himself and being alone. And he likes it that way.

Nothing is ever that easy, though.

In those quiet moments where he drifts between reality and sleep - walking that mildly unbalanced line that he could so easily fall one way or the other -, he'll feel her.

When he kips in his boat on those beautiful days, her hand will graze up the inside of his thigh. When he lies in the grass behind his house, on his front and with nose in his book, he'll feel her presence without a want - she'll sit like a mirror before him, her eyes wandering the features of his face and the concentration in the creases of his skin, yet when he drops his book down she vanishes. When he wakes in the morning she's lying on his other side, only the moment he gets out of bed she's not there anymore. But when he returns later she'll often be waiting for him. She joins him in the shower most mornings, she joins him for dinner most evenings, but she is never ever present.

He could draw her from memory - a memory that never actually took place. He has drawn her from memory, though. And painted her and seen her multiple times. Yet outside his head she ceases to exist.

The shape of her body, the colour of her skin, of her hair, of her eyes; he knows it all. He knows the sound of her voice, her tone, her accent, her laugh. He knows what she's like when she walks, or skips, or runs, or dances. He knows the individual creases in her face when she's elated - a contrast to those when she's angry or upset. He knows every slight imperfection of her perfect skin, every scale of her lips, every individual coloured fleck in her eyes. Yet he doesn't know who she is.

He just knows her as... her.

She.

She has a tendency to appear at inconvenient times, though she's never unwelcome. Not to him. There have been times when he's roared, because her appearances can often be timed poorly, but the moment he lashes, she vanishes. She is, after all, inexistant.

She is not his first love. Part of him wonders if she could ever really be a love of his at all, and yet she comes first. She is always the first.

She's the comfort he needs on his low days. She's the giver of pleasure on his desperate days. She's the image that vanishes when he needs his space. She knows him without knowing him. She is good and she is good for him, without being good for him at all.

He knows he's not mad. He checked he's not mad. After a few appearances from her he visited a doctor to make sure he wasn't losing the plot. Apparently isolating yourself makes these things happen. She is a way of curing his loneliness while continuing to be lonely. It's a coping mechanism for his losses.

Every couple of weeks or so, when he needs food or otherwise, he'll make that five mile drive to the nearest town, and visit the same supermarket he always does - the one with the old lady cashier who is completely tone deaf but loves to talk. She is his one familiar. Well, the cashier and the doctor.

She's already talking when he starts unloading his trolley onto the conveyor. It does bring a smile to his face that she can just find things to talk about so constantly. Maybe she's like him - she's lonely and saves all the things she wants to say for when she's at work. Good for her, he thinks.

"I hear they finally sold that house by you, young man." She starts, scanning his first few items and rolling them to the end. "Must be such a relief for you not having to be on your own all the time at the bottom of that lake."

He frowns at her, pulling his trolley to the end of the till. "Sorry?"

"That house has been sold!" She repeats, looking to him at a pause in her swift scanning. "You're finally gonna get a neighbour!"

He's never packed his shopping bags so quickly in all his life. He barely said another word to the old woman, paying what he owed, shovelling his shopping into the boot of his car, and sped back to his home as fast as he could.

He didn't even bother parking it properly. He just skidded to a halt in front of the vacant house on the left and hurled himself out of his car. The 'for sale' sign that had snapped in half some time ago has been replaced, with a humongous 'sold at auction' sticker stuck over the top.

~

Sure enough, no more than a month later as spring transitions into summer and the weather warms, everything begins to change.

One sunny Sunday lunchtime, while he's on the porch reading his book, something interrupts the usual quiet. It's out of the ordinary, it's loud - like a hundred bouncy balls have been trapped inside a spinning washing machine. He lowers his book, gaze holding a slight glower as he watches the treeline where the only road in and out disappears.

An old red Ford Ranger chugs its way along the drive, pulling up just in front of the house on the left and finally shutting off its noise. He doesn't hang around to watch anyone get out, instead quickly making his way inside before he has to initiate a conversation.

Over the next few days he simply observes. He doesn't actively follow them through glimpses in his windows, but he does watch when something catches his eye.

He learns that they're a couple, or at least there's two people there - a woman and a man. The first thing they fix up is the garden. It seems like the last priority to him, but it was getting awfully overgrown. He keeps out of his own for that reason, because he'd like to be able to keep to himself for as long as possible.

He goes out on the lake more often, keeping away from their noise and their laughter. He's not complaining that they're happy but he likes his peace. He can find that better in the middle of his own personal breadth of water.

Within a week the woman has turned the back garden into something more beautiful than even his own - a landscaped and neat square, lined around the edge with mid-height ligustrum hedging, and then again in the middle of the garden in an almost lollipop kind of shape, but lower to the ground at around calf height. In the middle of the circle is a white-painted fence under a trellis archway, decorated in ivy and climbing rose plants that bloom pink.

Meanwhile, her partner has been working on the front porch - bringing it back to a usable standard. He fixes the wood fence panels and the porch flooring, finishing it in a durable grey paint that blends in with the colour of the slate building.

For a couple of days he doesn't see the couple next door - both confining themselves to the inside of their new abode. He feels like he can possibly start going back to normal again - pretending that he is indeed on his own.

He realises one night, since the distraction of his new neighbours' arrival, he hasn't felt her. Since the day this couple pulled up in their old '91 Ford Ranger, he hasn't felt the presence of his anomaly. He misses her, even if she was never really there to begin with. On his way to bed he stops by his office to look over his old paintings. They're still there, each perfect but with their own detailed imperfections. There's one of her silhouette - he hides it often because for some reason the shape of her body does something to him. He pulls it out from behind a larger canvas and runs his finger over the paint strokes, eyes closing in the hopes she materialises again in the fabric of his mind.

She doesn't.

With a deep swallow he stands from his crouched position and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. He strips out of his clothes and dumps them in the laundry basket, before crawling under his duvet with a heavy grunt when he settles on his back. He wraps his hand around his hard length, feeling hot in his own palm. He closes his eyes again, thoughts begging for her manifestation to help him succumb to slumber like she has done successfully so many times before.

He helps himself along, a little aggravated with it but wondering rather optimistically that that might encourage her, because often she only appears when she thinks he doesn't want her. And yet he's still left painfully alone.

He growls through gritted teeth as he gives up, and slowly rises to a sitting position. "Where are you?!"

~

From his usual armchair he hears a knock on the front door. He stares at it for a moment through the open living room doorway, torn as to whether he should answer it or not. He's managed two weeks without having to talk to them, and considering the proximity he's been in with them, definitely considers it an achievement to have done so for this long.

With a vague and petty mutter under his breath he stands, moving through the room to the door. He shifts his jaw some before he actually answers, hoping not to look like the miserable git he really is on first impressions. After a deep breath he opens the door with a slight swing, plastering his best effort at a small smile.

It's the man that waits on his porch. He's about the same height and wears a stained blue boiler suit. His face is dirty with plaster and paint, and his features look oddly familiar for some strange reason.

He doesn't let the thought linger too long. "Hello."

"Hi, I'm so sorry to bother you. You seem like a busy bloke."

He clears his throat, voice a little gravelly from lack of use. He notices the way the stranger's gaze drops down his figure; scrutinising. He probably looks a little dishevelled - he hasn't paid too much attention to his appearance in recent years. His beard is getting longer and more rugged, and the same can certainly be said for his dark curls. He wears unironed beige linen trousers, and a black short-sleeve oversize shirt. He could pass for homeless if his lips were dry and his skin was rough, he supposes.

"No, you're fine." He assures the stranger, but his tone is definitely awkward. "How can I help?"

The other man smiles. "Kinda strange request... don't suppose you've got any step ladders?"

"Sure I do." He nods once. "Give me two minutes - I'll go find 'em."

"Thank you."

True to his word, he returns no more than two minutes later with his old step ladders he's had buried in the depths of his office since the day he finished the refurbishment. The new neighbour takes them with thanks, and leaves without bothering him any further. It doesn't go unappreciated.

The next morning he returns the step ladders, again passing on his gratitude.

"Um, I hate to be cheeky," the neighbour starts, rubbing the back of his neck as he stares at the floor, "I'm actually going back home tomorrow and it'll just be my sister here on her own. She keeps to herself a lot anyway, but could you just... keep an eye out?"

"Er," he looks to the ground awkwardly.

"Don't even have to knock on the door, just check for her every few days to make sure she's alright."

He swallows thickly, fighting with himself for a moment. He should say 'yes', because it's the right thing to do. "Yeah, yeah I'll keep an eye on her."

"Thank you."

"If um, if she needs anything she can always knock on my door."

The man on the porch nods once, smiling widely. "Thank you, I appreciate that."

As the neighbour's brother leaves again, he watches from his doorway for a brief time before finally retreating back inside.

He hears nothing for a few days, only seeing them leave together in the car with a single suitcase, before she returns an hour later on her own. He sees her from his back bedroom window most mornings. She reads in the garden for an hour, but she never sits on the bench. Instead she wanders anti-clockwise around the circular path at a regular and steady pace, head buried in her reading until her hour is up and she heads back inside.

From this far he can't see her face, but he does suppose her to be beautiful.

He shakes himself of any thought that pushes his neighbour beyond the realm of just being his neighbour, remaining with that mindset before he gets himself in a dangerous position. Instead, he concentrates on where his wraith might be, and maybe even a way to bring her back.

For a few days he tries to concentrate on his painting, summoning her that way even though it does very little to help. He tries writing her, he even tries talking to her, and yet she still never appears.

He's getting beside himself. Why now, when he absolutely needs her most, has she decided to disappear? What does he have to do to bring her back?

He recycles and repeats these questions still at breakfast after a restless night's sleep. He's grumbling to himself about her now, as if she's a real entity with real feelings and a mind of her own, and not something he made up in his own head to cure his own despondency.

A movement outside puts a halt to his pity thoughts. He glances out the window to see the neighbour hesitating at the bottom of her porch steps. She turns as if to walk back inside, and then completely u-turns again and marches around the front to walk straight up his front path. He panics, leaping from his seat and dragging his plate and mug from off the table, as if she doesn't already know he's inside. Where is he going to hide? He doesn't have a basement and his back garden is basically wide open. She could just walk around the side of the cottage to find him. He didn't think this through. His offer to help if she needed it was the polite thing to do but also the scary thing.

He squeezes his eyes shut with his sudden stress, dragging his hand over his face. The door knocks with three gentle wraps, and his eyes dart towards the door. He swallows the lump in his throat and pushes away from the kitchen counter as if he's going to answer straight away. He pauses for just a moment, clenching his fists in the middle of his kitchen.

"Come on you fucking idiot."

With another shake of his head he makes for the door, whipping it open probably too quickly just like he had done with her brother.

"Hi." She greets almost immediately, and a little breathlessly, like she'd ran here from the other end of the lake and not just walked from next door.

His eyes widen as an unwelcoming and sickening feeling takes over his entire body. How is it possible? How is it that the girl who's been living in his daydreams has just turned up on his front door. And it's unmistakably her - he'd know. From the distinction in her silhouette to the colour of her eyes and the tones in her hair. He's painted her figure enough and dreamt of the taste of her lips enough to know that the pretty girl on his front porch is the one he's been missing for over two weeks.

But back to that feeling in his stomach. It's currently bubbling in the very pit of him and is about to erupt through his oesophagus and out of his mouth.

Absolutely no time passes between him registering her face and then doing a runner.

She watches in horror as he turns quickly on his heels and sprints directly up the stairs, three at a time. She doesn't know what to do - whether to follow him up and check he's alright or turn around and just go back to the house. She can hear it from where she stands when he wretches, but she doesn't know that he only narrowly makes it to the toilet. She also doesn't see it when he hesitates yet again in his bathroom as he wipes his mouth and tips half a bottle of mouthwash down his throat after a good long gargle.

She hears the toilet flush and the tap run, all followed by the sound of complete silence while he hides in the bathroom doorway. He's really good at hesitating, it turns out.

His heart stammers when he hears her voice again.

"Are you okay?"

He can't keep her waiting any longer, he looks like an arsehole. He shuffles back down the stairs, still feeling a little delicate with it. He braces himself this time before he sees her, taking a deep breath as he descends to the ground again.

"Sorry," he mumbles, rubbing his fingers into the back of his skull, "not been feeling well past couple of days."

It's a smoother lie than he'd normally tell but he's not sure if he's managed to convince her.

"Are you alright?" She asks again, her eyes deeply studying his paled skin.

"I'll be fine." He insists, shaking his head with a light brush of his hand. He grips the door to hold himself steady. "Did you need something?"

"Um," she stutters, "I just needed help with something, but if you're not well it can wait..."

"What is it?"

She laughs breathily, looking to her feet as she stresses her finger over her brow. "I told my brother I'd be alright putting the doors back on on my own, but... it er, turns out that's a two person job."

He can't help his smile at her sheepish behaviour all of a sudden, but he wrinkles his mouth and rubs his nose to hide it. "If you just give me a bit, I'll come over?"

She looks up again, eyes wide like they were a moment earlier. "Really?"

"Yeah." He nods once. "I'll be over a minute."

"Thank you!" She gushes with a wide smile - the one he's seen a hundred times in his daydreams but never in reality. It's a hundred times better in reality.

After she all but skips back to the other house, he heads upstairs to change into something more appropriate for DIY - a pair of old straight leg washed out jeans that are a bit loose on the hips. He puts a belt on to save embarrassment, and then an old t-shirt he's not worried about spoiling.

In his oldest pair of converse and with a fresh overload of deodorant (it is hot after all), he heads to the house next door.

The front door is wide open, the radio playing loudly from the kitchen windowsill on the left. It looks like they started in there first after the garden and the porch, now kitted out in white cabinets with sleek black surfaces.

She's in the living room, sizing up the door propped up against the wall with her hands on her hips. Now he's calmed down he can look at her properly, but subtly, obviously. She's in a pair of dungaree shorts with one of the clasps loose so that the front folds over, and underneath she wears a black v-neck vest. She's covered in a few cuts and bruises from her haphazard solo attempt at DIY, but she's got this determined look in her eyes that seems distinctly familiar to him.

He lightly knocks since she doesn't seem to have noticed his arrival, and she meets his gaze with an innocent smile.

"You're a real life saver, you know." She hums, dropping her arms to her sides.

He winces lightly with a light shake of his head. "M'not... just never been good at saying 'no'."

"Do you want a drink? Got tea or water."

"Just water, if that's alright?"

"Sure." She grins, wandering through to the kitchen.

After she's taken two pint glasses from the lacking drainer on the kitchen side and filled them up with tap water, the two quickly get to work screwing the new doors back onto their hinges. The first one is hard - like the guinea pig out of all of them. It's a bit awkward and a bit fiddly, but once they figure it out it's a breeze. There are five doors in total - one for each room.

He notices the distinct lack of... anything throughout the house. He thinks she must be waiting to properly furnish when the difficult bits are done, because at present the only possessions she seems to have are a suitcase full of clothes, a few books, and then a blow-up double mattress with a sleeping bag and a single pillow on it.

She walks him through what she wants to do with the rest of it - keeping it clean and simple decor-wise. The walls have been painted a crisp white, and the two upstairs bedrooms will be fitted with a hard-wearing black carpet. Downstairs she'll keep the original slate floors as well as the fireplace in the living room, and he hasn't realised but the windows and the front and back doors have already been replaced with double glazing. Even his house doesn't have double glazing.

He tries not to hang around too long, leaving once she's tried to convince him to stay for dinner for the third time. It might seem rude but she's literally the person he's been dreaming about for a long time, and he never thought she'd actually be real, especially not after all those sessions with the doctor. Having dinner with her on the first day might be hedging his bets just a little too much.

Over the next few days he doesn't shy away from her so much, but he also still tries to keep a fair distance. One morning they talk a little over the fence of their gardens, the next afternoon he takes her up on an offer of a cup of tea, and the day after that she catches him on his way back from town.

"Didn't think you went further than the middle of the lake." She teases.

"No, not usually." He laughs, an awkward sound as he scratches the back of his neck. "Only when I have to."

"Find anything exciting?"

He certainly isn't going to tell her that he's bought a beard trimmer, only because he worries that he'll let it slip that he bought it because he worries of what she might think of him if he lets it grow any more. It's started to get a little unruly - the hairs on his upper lip keep getting in his mouth.

"No, nothing exciting. Just some shopping for the week."

She watches him for a moment, as he stands with his two shopping bags looking uncomfortable for some reason. He shifts one bag into his other hand so he can dig a set of keys out of his pocket.

There's something about this odd man that she can't help but be drawn to. Even though his eyes look constantly tired, and he seems skittish around her sometimes, his gaze holds a warmth she feels like she's seen somewhere else before. But she doesn't know just where. He's a little rough around the edges but she has a distinct feeling that somewhere underneath that beard and unkempt curls is a beautiful man. The size of his tattooed arm has been enough to evoke some frankly dangerous thoughts.

"You know," she clears her throat, voice suddenly dry, "I realise that almost a week later I don't actually know your name."

"Oh, it's er, it's Harry."

"Harry," she repeats with a smile, as if now that she's said it, it'll stick, "you look like a Harry."

"Is... is that a good thing?"

"I don't know." Her head cocks to the side, lips pursed as she studies his face further. "I'd say so. Yeah."

He laughs, looking towards the floor; bashful. "Alright, I er-,"

"My name is Jane." She adds before he runs off again. "If... y'know, if you ever need to use it for something." She shrugs, twisting her body away.

He repeats the name with a slow nod. It's a bittersweet feeling, after simply having known her as 'She' since long before they'd even met, he now has her name. And it's not that there's anything wrong with her name, in fact it suits her rather well. But the anonymity that came with her before has vanished and been replaced with a concrete being that lives and breathes and speaks to him in this world where for so long he spent talking at her image.

Though a beautiful name for a very beautiful girl, it comes with a melancholy he wishes he could replace.

That afternoon, while she plays music loudly again through the radio from the kitchen window, he unties the row boat from the mooring point and drifts along the lake with his guitar. She is more his inspiration now than she ever has been before.

The day he does choose to tame his beard is a weird one. He made a pretty good job of it, he'd say. He definitely looks less like he's never seen a barber and more like a man with his life together. He knows very little about what it is to be a businessman, but they all seem to have stubbles nowadays. If he ever had occasion to wear a suit again he thinks he'd look bloody damn good.

He eats his breakfast on the porch that morning, only a slice of toast and his usual morning coffee. He likes watching the lake at this time of the morning. He thinks if he's quick he could grab his easel and a blank canvas while the water is still calm, but he worries that may invite too many questions. He's never been very good at landscape art, anyway. He's always been better with abstractions - like vague areas of her body.

She appears then, from her house and in running attire. He doesn't think he's ever seen her run for exercise before but he supposes there's no reason she shouldn't start now. He half expects her to just go, but she doesn't. Instead she walks from her house to his, a bright smile on her face.

"Morning," she greets breezily, leaning her body against one of the supporting wooden beams.

"Hi," he returns with a smile that isn't half as big.

"Thought it was a good day to finally start doing some exercise. The air feels clearer, don't you think?"

He hadn't really thought about it, but she's right. "Yeah, I suppose it does."

"The path-," she points to the gravel that stems from the mooring pier and curves around the edge of the lake, "it goes all the way 'round, right?"

He follows her point and nods slowly. "Yeah, all the way 'round."

"Brilliant." She grins, patting herself down as she stands normally again. "You've trimmed your beard."

His brows raise at her comment.

She'd noticed it the moment she stood still at the top of his porch steps. Suddenly his very full and very pink lips had become very obvious. As had the sheer strength of his sharp jaw, and the definition of his Cupid's bow. He suddenly looked half a decade younger, all from taking the weight out of his thick facial hair. His nose looks bigger. She wonders if his hair is soft, both facial and that on his head. She wonders what it would feel like to push her hands through it. She wonders would it tickle if she were to kiss him, or if he were to kiss the inside of her thigh, would it tickle then?

"I have, yeah." He replies calmly, which is a contrast to the absolute ruin of his insides.

Her eyes watch his hand as he smoothly runs it over his jaw and mouth, down to his chin. She also notices how nice his hands are, not missing the little cross tattooed between his thumb and forefinger.

"It suits you, a stubble. You've got a really handsome face." She tells him earnestly. "I'll see you later."

And with that, she takes off running.

For the first time in what feels like months, he manages to get himself off with nothing more than those few words and the repeat of her voice speaking his name.

~

He spends more time on the lake over the next few days than he ever has any other summer he's lived here. He writes more, he paints more, and he plays more than he has ever before, all because the literal girl of his dreams has moved in next door, and she is nothing below the highest level of perfection.

He is certain she thinks him to be a little on the weird side of things, which he supposes isn't entirely wrong. But that's what happens when you're trying to be careful. He's only distancing himself because he doesn't want to overwhelm her. He likes her - of course he does. But flattery aside he has no idea how she really feels. A compliment about his face could mean nothing.

She's making it awfully difficult, though. He's sure he remembers her brother saying that she keeps to herself, and yet any time she notices him she skips over to start up a conversation. He's going to have to start getting up early and disappearing on the boat before she can distract him.

Late that Monday evening, just as he's about to make the climb to bed, there's a knock on his door. It can only be her, which instantly worries him, but he doesn't hesitate to answer like he normally would. She wouldn't be coming around at this time if it wasn't important.

When he opens the door she's standing on his porch in a rather interesting outfit. She's got flip-flops on her feet, a pair of white shorts covering her legs, a familiar black vest top, which she's clearly foregone a bra underneath, and a long thin cardigan over the top. Her arms are folded across her chest, and her whole demeanour just screams apprehension.

"You're going to think I'm absolutely insane." She speaks tightly the moment he's opened the door.

He doubts it. "Am I?"

"So the men were here today - you might've seen them - to start doing the carpet upstairs. And they were moving my stuff around a lot to put all the little grips in the corner down, you know - the little spikes?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, they've gone and stuck a hole in my fucking air bed so it won't blow back up."

"Ah..." he clears his throat. "You want to stay here for the night?"

"I mean, I really do hate to ask 'cause I pester you enough-,"

"I don't have a second bedroom, really, but my sofa is-,"

"Your sofa will be perfect, as long as it's alright with you? If I'm putting you out in any way just say and I'll go straight back home and sleep on the floor."

He breathes a laugh and shakes his head, opening the door wider. "M'not gonna let you sleep on the floor when I have a sofa."

"Thank you, Harry." She sighs, pitiful at herself. "I really appreciate it."

"It's fine," he nods her in, "make yourself comfortable and I'll find a blanket and a spare pillow for you."

He closes the door behind her, letting her wander around his ground floor while he heads upstairs. He finds a quilted blanket his mum made a long time ago that he's buried in the bottom drawer of his dresser. He chooses that over the scratchy knitted one she'd made as a moving-in present in the hopes it'll keep his house guest cool but comfortable. He knows he doesn't have a spare pillow, so he takes one off of his bed and changes the cover to a clean one.

She's standing in front of the fireplace when he comes back, admiring his collection of trinkets sitting on the top. He rests the folded blanket and the pillow on the top of the sofa arm, and she turns to face him with another grateful smile.

"Thank you again, Harry."

He smiles lightly. "It's my pleasure."

"I love the way you've decorated the house." She comments, taking a few slow steps towards him. "Everything is a little mismatched but it really works."

"Thank you." He swallows. "Did it like this when I bought it five years ago, never really felt the need to change it."

"You shouldn't change it. I think it's perfect."

"Thank you." He repeats, quieter.

She smiles at him again, before turning back to the fireplace. "Who is the girl in all these photos? She's very pretty."

He follows her gaze, and a strike of guilt courses through him. He rarely thinks of her now and it's terrible. He should think of her more often, which is why he keeps her pictures everywhere - on the mantle, on his bedside table, in his office. He has them as a reminder, and yet he's spent more of his time living here thinking of the girl next door.

"She's my fiancée. Was my fiancée."

Her head darts around to him again, eyes wide like that first day, and possibly even upset. "Was?"

He clears his throat, nervously rubbing his palm against his thigh. "I bought the house as a gift to her. Spent weeks fixing it up, like you are now. They were both for sale at the same time but I was convinced this one had the bigger garden. Made it up the way I thought she'd like it - she was always a bit quirky like that. Everything had to be colourful and nothing needed to match - not even her socks."

"Did..." the neighbour catches herself for a moment, getting eager in her curiosity. "What happened? If you don't mind me asking."

He looks at the floor as he speaks, hand rubbing at the back of his neck now. "She er, she died three months after we moved in. Got in a car accident on her way home from work one Friday."

"Harry, I'm so sorry." She moves towards him again, but doesn't attempt to even rest her hand on his.

"S'fine." He shakes his head, meeting her soft gaze. "Was a long time ago, I've had a lot of time to process it. Um, do you need anything else before I head to bed? Drink or shower or anything?"

She shakes her head. "No, you've already done too much for me, but thank you."

"Alright." He nods once. "I'm just upstairs if you need me and I'll um, keep m'door open just in case."

"Okay, thank you." Her eyes are glued to him as he turns and wanders back towards the door. "Night, Harry."

He glances back to her with a gentle smile. "Night love."

The next morning when he wakes, he pauses on the shower just to check she's okay, but he finds his sofa empty, and the blanket he'd given her folded and left at the bottom of the stairs with the pillow on top.

He's a little disappointed, and he takes that with him to the shower to clean. He decides that after he's dressed and eaten, he's going to wander around to the house on the left to make sure she's okay. When he gets there the door is open as usual, and the radio in the kitchen is playing loudly as it always does. He hasn't failed to notice the other truck parked at the front behind her Ford, so at least he knows she had a good reason for just leaving.

He knocks the front doorway and calls her name, not seeing her in either the kitchen or the living room. He hears chatter upstairs, followed by a few pattered footsteps, and then she appears at the top of the stairs with a beaming smile.

"Hi!"

He watches as she hurries down, hair wet from a recent shower and back in her dungaree shorts and a turquoise t-shirt with a little pocket stitched on the left breast.

"Are you okay?" She asks once she reaches the bottom step.

"Yeah, I just..." he limply points over his shoulder, "wanted to make sure you're alright 'cause I didn't hear you leave."

She gasps, hand clapped over her mouth as her other rests against his upper arm. His eyes dart to the hand on his arm, and that entire area suddenly feels more awake than the rest of his body.

"I'm so sorry! I don't normally just leave but I'd been nuisance enough and the guys were coming back early to finish the carpet. I did peek into your room to say 'bye' but you were still snoring so I just left 'cause I didn't want to wake you. Sorry if I scared you."

"No, no... that's fine. As long as you're alright."

"Oh, I'm just fine. In fact, best night's sleep I've had since I've been here."

"That's..." he laughs once, "that's alright then."

He spends the next three days in a painful, despairing and endless cycle, swapping between lying in his boat with a pen in his hand, and lying in his bed with his dick in his hand. There is no in between.

~

Some days later, when he's bringing the boat back from the lake, he spots her standing at the bottom of her porch steps facing him, or the water anyway. He can tell she wears a dress - one of those pretty and long ones that sways around her feet, all in different colours and made of a thin material to keep her cool.

As he pulls up she walks towards him, bare arms folded across her middle and tucked under her breasts. The straps on the dress are thin and the neck is low. If he had felt cool before, he certainly doesn't now. If he was wearing a top he'd be sweating through it.

He jumps out of the boat and onto the pier - swiftly tying the rope to the moor so the vessel won't drift off over night.

"Are you alright?" He asks as he stands straight again, looking to wear she waits at the end of the wooden pier with an even expression.

Her eyes scan his face and then his chest, not even attempting to be subtle with it. He notices the way she chews the inside of her cheek, and then swallows when she meets his gaze again. He only has his journal with him, and his only item of clothing is a pair of denim shorts that cut off just above his knees. He doesn't even wear shoes.

"You're not wearing a shirt."

He looks down at himself as if he wasn't aware. "No."

Her eyes drop to his bare feet. "Or shoes."

"No..."

She clears her throat. "Er, the boiler is being replaced today and I won't get a new one fitted until tomorrow."

He blinks once. "Okay..."

"I'm sure I irritate you enough, but um... can I pop over later to have a quick shower?"

"Yeah, if you need to. I don't mind."

"Great, thank you." She turns around, walking back towards her house as he walks towards his.

"D'you know around what time?"

"Oh, er," she glances at the slim watch on her wrist, "maybe in an hour?"

"Okay."

So, around an hour later she knocks on his door. He's just stepped out of the shower himself. He probably should've waited but it's exceptionally hot today and he felt a little sticky, so he'd taken another quick one in the hopes he'd finish before she turned up.

"Come in!" He calls from the top of the stairs, a towel wrapped around his waist.

He scurries across the landing to shut the door to his office, because the last thing he needs her to see is what a mess it's in. He rubs his hair dry, though it still drips over his shoulders as he peers down to see her waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

"Come up." He encourages her with a limp smile.

"Oh," she mumbles, and makes her way up the stairs.

He shows her into the bathroom, still only with a towel wrapped around his lower half.

"Sorry, just got out myself."

"That's okay." She hums a soft noise. "Your house after all."

"So, it's one of the pulley ones - turn the tap on and pull this knob-thing up to get it to come out the shower head."

"Sure."

"I don't have a thing for the head either so you just have to," he gestures to himself, "hold it up. Sorry."

She giggles. "I'm sure I can manage."

He laughs too, just one quiet and breathy laugh. "Okay, good. Let me..." he turns around, desperately gripping his towel closed at the front, "get y'a towel. Do you need one or two?"

"Just one, can wash my hair tomorrow. Thank you."

"'Kay."

Once he's dug a towel out of the cupboard, leaves it on the top of the toilet for her, and then leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

One thing that plagues him is that he never hears the lock slide on the bathroom door. He's not sure whether it's force of habit, or whether she really has that much faith in him. Whether she actually feels safe enough in his house to keep the bathroom door unlocked while she showers.

He thinks this over and over as he sits on the side of his bed and stares out the window at the lake and the steep fells that surround it on all sides. For the first time in a while, he's not really seeing the view from his bedroom window, and rather the girl stood in his shower.

He hates that he already knows of her body - knows every detail of it from the texture of her hair to the shape of each individual toe on her feet. He despises that it wouldn't be a surprise to him at all if he were to walk in there and see her, and nothing about her features would come as a surprise. Not that he would, because he's not an invalid.

He has no idea how long he sits there for, pining over a body he may never have, but he does know that it comes as a great surprise when he hears the water shut off. He keeps his gaze forward, teeth gritted as his stomach sinks painfully. He glances to the photograph on his bedside table, guilt-ridden because he never felt this way about his fiancée. He knew he loved her, he proposed and bought her a house and gave her the life she always wanted, all for it to last three months. He was happy with her, but he can never ever remember being this utterly and hopelessly besotted with her.

Not like he is with the girl in his bathroom.

When he hears the door open he looks forward again to the view, but he still can't find it in him to move. Why has he sat in a towel for so long when he should've been getting dressed and doing something productive? It's the evening but he still could have read or watched the telly. Just something to get him away from his head.

He registers every individual creak on the landing where she moves, though she seems to be moving rather slowly.

With movement from the corner of his eye he turns his head to the doorway. She stands there wrapped in his soft cotton towel, a few loose straggles of her hair damp with water. She seems pensive; awkward. He's not sure if she'll take another step closer or dart from the house. It could go either way.

His heart hammers loudly in his chest when she slowly licks her dried lips, like she's about to speak, but he could never fabricate in his mind what she's about to come out with.

"Do you think I'm attractive, Harry?"

His throat dries up.

Her voice is so innocent, but it shakes with her nerves. The way she clings to her towel at the close, her thumb rubbing over the label in the corner.

She suddenly starts to move, slowly with a seductive yet shy swish of her hips. As she moves the towel drops, leaving her naked and bare in the middle of his bedroom.

"I do." He admits, though his voice is dry and cracking.

She stands before him, sunset behind her giving her silhouette a supernatural glow, like she's not really here anymore and rather just a figment of his imagination. Like it's four weeks ago and this never happened.

Her skin is more perfect than his simple mind could ever really imagine. It transcends and overtakes everything he's ever drawn or written about it, because nothing could ever truly do her justice with the way she has presented herself before him. Nothing will ever be as primitive as the real her.

"Would you touch me?" She asks, eyes glued to him and the way he studies her skin.

He meets her gaze with a harsh swallow. "If you wanted me to."

"Do you want to?"

"More than anything else in the world."

She takes a step forward, standing with her legs either side of his. His hands delicately take hold of her waist, and she feels his deep intake of breath when she presses her lips to his.

His imagination, though vivid, does not and could never do the taste and the feel of her lips justice. It has never and will never begin to live up to the way her abhorrently soft skin feels against his calloused fingertips. He did well to keep his erection at bay when she appeared in the doorway in just a towel, but his resilience diminished the moment she dropped her cover and bared herself to him.

Her hand unfolds his towel around his hips, and wraps around his hot, hard length. She answers all of his prayers with the way her tongue manoeuvres it's way around the inside of his mouth. She relinquishes every quarrel and every misery with the skill of her hand, and she cures his every heartache just by simply giving herself to him this way.

"Touch me, Harry." She begs into his plump lips.

So he does. He glides his hand between her legs, finger soaking in her arousal and working around her hole and her clit until she shakes. And then he sits back, into the middle of his bed and takes her with him. And she gladly follows, and while she sits comfortably against his hips he pleasures her with one hand and cradles her with the other.

She keeps her hand moving around his length, too. Her attention seems divided but he couldn't care less. If her attention is divided it means he's doing a good job at making her feel good, because her mouth is, after all, still with his.

And then she wraps her free hand around the wrist of the hand between her legs and pulls it away. He watches her eyes widen at the wetness covering his index and middle fingers, only to further widen when he slips them into his mouth and licks them clean. He can feel warmth radiating from every cell in her skin and it makes him feel alive in every imaginable way. What only makes him hotter is when she takes his hand again and wraps her mouth around those two very same fingers.

"Jesus Christ," his words are breathy and fast.

When she pulls his fingers from her lips, she guides his hand to her breast and places it there. Nothing about her behaviour is different to that of the girl he used to dream about, and he doesn't know if that's worrying or incredible. At the moment it's both.

"I want to feel you." She admits, voice still uneven.

"You can do whatever you want to me." His response is immediate; concrete. "Do whatever the bloody hell you want to, I'm yours."

"Really?"

He blows a baffled breath of air between his lips, nodding furiously. "Really."

A coy smile plays at the corner of her lips, and where she has her hand still holding his stiff cock, she eases her centre around him until she's sinking, and then until he bottoms out.

Illicit moans and tight hisses fill the room. He doesn't know where to put his hands, and she doesn't know how anyone could make her feel this full. Her head descends into chaos, mind to mush as her hips slowly grind over his length. His lips beg at her chest, ghosting over every available inch of her sweating skin. Her hands get lost in his damp, thick hair, and her sense of self slowly dissolves into the air.

She rolls and grinds on him while he thrusts into her, like they've practiced this act a million times before. They know each other and how the other works in inexplicable and unimaginable ways. Their pace builds together, as do their cries and their ecstasy. Everything is coming along all at the same time because they simply have this ability to work with each other until they are absolutely finished.

They repeat this, over and over and over again until they're watching one another fall apart, harsh cries of nothing but absolute salacious pleasure filling the room around them. And then they collapse - she falls into his arms with her head nestled against his chest. They feel one another's heartbeats thumping in perfect synchronisation, and share whispers of adoration between loving kisses and gentle touches.

"It's so strange," she whispers later on, still not having moved since they came together, "I feel like I've known you my entire life."

Her chin rests on his chest, their legs wrapped around each other's while his hands rest on her back, rubbing in soothing patterns over her skin. Night has fallen and the room is dark, but they see one another as clear as they see the moon outside the back window.

"I feel exactly the same." He assures her, stroking her cheek lightly with the back of his hand. "Thought it the day you showed up on my porch."

"Thought you hated me for a while."

"Never."

Her eyes drift closed, her smile content as she lays her head to the side. "You really think I'm attractive?"

He inhales a long breath, and her head rises with the expansion of his chest. "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met."

She lifts her head again, those eyes he could never forget piercing right through to his soul. Her smile isn't obvious but it's there. She presses her lips to his skin. "Thank you."

~

The next morning she wakes early, and he stirs with her. She'd love to stay with him all day, but there are things at her house that need to be done. He moans at her when she tries to leave, clinging her body to his until she's laughing so hard that she can't breathe.

"I have jobs to do." She insists through her laughter, and kisses her way up his chest. "Have a lie-in, and come and see me later."

"Sounds really suggestive."

"Can be if you want it to be."

He groans loudly, stretching out underneath her and then lifting up to leave a kiss to her lips. "You've got yourself a deal."

"Good." She kisses him back.

He watches her dress to leave with an unfamiliar fondness in his eyes, settling his hands behind his head. She dresses in the same dress she'd been wearing yesterday, though she'll change that when she gets home for something more appropriate. She knows his eyes never leave her as she changes, and the playful side of her debates making a little show of it, but it's so early and the last thing she wants is to embarrass herself.

He lays there the whole time, only his legs covered by his quilt but even then they're still visible through a tangled mess. She thinks he looks like something out of a dream she might have - like he's too perfect to be real. How is it that a man that looks like he does exists in real life?

When she leaves she gives him a kiss on the lips. She wonders on her way out what he keeps behind the closed door of the second bedroom, and why he keeps that specific door closed when all the other rooms are always open and airy. She doesn't linger on the thought, though. It's not any of her business.

Later on that afternoon, after he's showered and eaten, he heads over to the house on the left to find her. She's in the second bedroom painting in her dungarees and a red t-shirt with a logo on the front. She's covered the new carpet in a dust sheet, and she perches on her knees as she paints just above the skirting board.

She promises she's almost done, so he lies on his back in a patch of sun like a cat does in the winter. He lies with his hands behind his head and his leg bent at the knees, listening to the radio which she's moved and plugged into the corner of the room.

"I'm going to have a shower." She hums when she's finished, leaning over him to press a kiss to his lips.

"No," he whines with a pout, sitting up quickly and wrapping an arm around her back to trap her underneath him, "don't."

She laughs loudly as he pins her down against the floor, surprised by his sudden athleticism and need to have her so close. "Harry, I'm covered in paint."

He shakes his head. "Don't care."

And he really doesn't. They get into it right there on the bedroom floor. He kisses his way around her paint-splattered body, carefully removing her clothes one-by-one as he goes. Anything that gets in his way of her skin is promptly removed until he's satisfied, and by satisfied he means having her naked in the dead centre of the room. His kisses roam her bare skin from her face to her neck, her collar to her throat, her chest to her breasts, and her navel to her very core. His stubble does tickle as she had wondered a few days ago, but that solved mystery is completely drowned out by his mouth against her hot core.

He spreads her legs widely, his palms flat to her thighs while he tastes her in the best way, hearing trained on the gorgeous noises that float out of her mouth.

Once she's helped him out of his linens and his boxers, he takes her right there. And it's just as perfect as the night before, with even more desire and even more emotion. He's swallowed by her and he can't explain why, but he doesn't care - he's just glad to finally have a physical form of this woman he's been dreaming about nearly every day for almost four years. And there's nothing better than watching her completely lose herself and come undone.

"Maybe now we can take a bath together instead." He smirks, nose pressed into her cheek as he kisses along her jaw.

"Maybe." She breathes heavily, still trying to catch her breath.

He rolls sideways to sit up, his hand smoothing up and down the inside of her thigh. He frowns delicately when he notices that she still only has a blow up bed in the bigger bedroom with a sleeping bag. He hadn't failed to notice the lack of furniture downstairs either. It bothers him in a way.

"Are you ever going to furnish this house or are you waiting to take a massive day-trip to the nearest Ikea?"

She sits up, hands smoothing along his bare and broad back as she presses a kiss to his shoulder. "Why would I furnish it?"

His eyes meet hers over his shoulder, and she seems strangely calm. "Because you live here now?"

She laughs again, the sound patronising in a way but he's not sure if it was meant to be that way. She stands and collects her clothes, but runs her hands through his hair one more time. "I don't live here."

"What do you mean 'you don't live here'? You've been renovating the place for a month because you bought it."

"Yeah," she hovers in the doorway, looking back to him with a blank expression, "I bought it to renovate and then sell on for a prophet. I've wanted to do a project like this for a while and they were selling this place so cheap it was almost a no-brainer. I'm not moving here, Harry. I have a life and a job away from here. Once I finish here I'm going back home."

"How can you be out here for so long, then?"

"I'm a teacher!" She says as if the answer is obvious, still oblivious to his feelings. "Summer holidays and all that, got six weeks to kill! I spend my entire year with kids - this place gave me the perfect escape for a summer break. And yes, you are included in that."

He doesn't know what to say. He's been so wrapped up thinking it was so perfect now - the girl he dreams about showing up on his doorstep and buying the house next door. He woke up the happiest he has done for years this morning, all because she was in his arms and teasing him, and being exactly how he imagined her to be, if not better. He never considered that this might not actually be a life she wants for herself. And it isn't - it's a hobby, a way to pass the time while she has a six week holiday. It was just too perfect - too good to be true.

He doesn't voice his upset, because he doesn't want to ruin it and because he's selfish that way. He doesn't know how she'll leave it, but at the end of it he'll be the one in ruin. As long as it's not her that's in pieces, it won't matter.

Because he doesn't say anything, he spends the next few days suffering in silence. She doesn't notice, because he hides it well, and they carry on in their bliss - or rather her bliss and his turmoil - like she's not going to disappear within the next two weeks and sell her beautiful house onto some unworthy arsehole. He knows he's preempting the result but he can't help being bitter. She made this house what it is - a beautiful and characterful property that will only ever be worthy of her and her beauty, and someone is going to come along and spoil it. And irritate him in the process.

He tries to make the most of her while he can because of this. She joins him on the boat on a couple of occasions - one day even taking a picnic across to the park on the north side of the lake. Another day they have a barbecue together in his garden. He sings to her because she claims his voice to be a marvel, and he writes for her, and she stays with him as reward, because that's all he wants. He just wants her.

One afternoon he sits in her garden and draws her under the white arboured bench decorated in ivy and roses. That's one of his favourite moments, because she barely says a word and still manages to exude her personality in the colour of her dress and the pose she sits in and the expression on her face.

He knows he's in love, and he knows he can't do anything about it. So he suffers, and he suffers, and then he suffers some more. It's all he's ever known - suffering -, so why should it be any different now he's freely willing to admit his feelings? He takes what he can. He holds her at night and makes love to her in the day, and that's in more ways that just the obvious. He enjoys her the way a flower enjoys the sun. He thrives with her, because he loves her.

~

He'd only gone to make a cup of tea. However many days it had been after she said she wouldn't be staying and this wasn't her home, he'd only woken up with her in his arms again. She'd only said she was going to use the bathroom, and so he'd promised a cup of tea.

"Harry, what are these?"

He'd heard her ask the question on his way back upstairs, and her voice was lost from somewhere on his first floor. She definitely wasn't in the bathroom because her words didn't bounce off his clean white tiles like they normally would.

His mistake is looking into his own bedroom first, the bed still empty the way they'd left it and no sign of her in the rest of the small space. That only left one more room.

She's holding up the one he always hides - the one of the distinct figure of her body, but he can't see her face yet as she still faces away from him. She doesn't move for a while, her eyes glued to the image before her, and around her.

"You weren't supposed to see these." He admits, abandoning the tea to his overflowing desk.

"Are you serious?"

Her gaze when she looks at him is unkind, and unwelcoming. He's never seen it before - not in his dreams or his daydreams or even in the four weeks that she's been here in reality. It's the opposite of what he's always imagined her to be. She's angry, and he has absolutely no right to tell her she shouldn't be, because how is she ever going to be able to understand where they came from?

"They're all of me. Every single last one of them."

She drops his favourite so quickly it makes him wince, and then begins pulling newer paintings forward to look at older ones, frantically moving around the room like an enthusiast in a record shop. Except she's furious rather than excited and not afraid of damaging a thing.

"How in the hell, Harry, can they all be of me when I've barely known you three weeks? How is that possible?"

"I don't-,"

"You don't know?" She challenges, voice seething with spite and it claws at his chest like a panther. "Bullshit you don't know. Did you get to painting me the first day I turned up? Were you stalking me before that, were you at the auction?"

He shakes his head, but the look of dread on his face is not removed. "No, of course not."

"Then how?!" She screams loudly, hysterical with the flick of a switch as anger burns in her throat and tears fill her eyes. She points to his favourite - the one dropped carelessly to the floor. "This one is dated two years ago! How is that fucking possible?!"

He reaches for her, moving towards her in a desperate plea as he wraps his hand around hers. "Please calm down and just listen to me-,"

"Don't fucking touch me, Harry!"

She rips her hand from his grasp. Without looking at him, she leaves the room and storms across the landing down the stairs. He calls after her, following her right out the door with desperate begs for her to stop. She has to stop.

"Please will you just listen to me, I can explain but you need to g-,"

She stops her walking suddenly, and rounds on him with an even more sinister look than before. "I don't need to give you anything. I don't want an explanation, I just want you to leave me the fuck alone. Don't call me, don't knock on my door, and don't you dare fucking paint me."

He pleads her name one last time, but all it does is provoke a middle finger over her shoulder. He watches in utter despair as she disappears inside the house with a strong slam of the front door. He curses expletives under his breath as he marches back to his own house. He rubs a hand down his face after shutting the door with a little too much force.

He lets his frustration boil as he paces back and forth in front of his staircase, repeatedly rubbing his palms flat up and down his face as he tries his damned hardest not to boil over. He heads back upstairs to the room with all the problems in it, and it's only a matter of seconds before his self-worth gets tossed out the window.

He fails.

Mugs of tea are knocked across the room and smashed into the walls. His desk is shoved furiously with his papers and his livelihoods strewn in all different directions. And his paintings? The works based around the most beautiful and complex yet important woman he's ever known, are all individually ripped and torn until every single one of them is unrecognisable, using the back of his office chair as an aide to the demise of his work. And the chair is next - hurled into the back wall and splintered into a hundred different pieces.

He's never getting this room or his work back, and he doesn't want it.

He collapses to the floor, breaking down like his state of mind has just done, piece by individual fucking piece. His cries are loud and angry - full of anguish he hasn't felt since the day he lost his first love. His blurred vision cloaks that he's got chips of porcelain in his feet and splinters in his hands. His agony at his heartbreak completely overrules any physical pain from his outburst, numbing the rest of his body besides that from his stressed heart.

He has no idea how his behaviour is affecting her. No idea that she can hear him from the confines of her empty lot. The way she cowers in the corner of the newly painted second bedroom just to hear him trash his home at the sake of her upset. Tears of her own fall as she listens to the wreck he's becoming, and that this is only the start. Equally they have no idea of the effect they create on the other, but all she knows is that he terrifies her and she can't be here anymore.

~

She left.

He couldn't possibly tell you when, too wrapped up in his own pitiful lonerism and wrenching heartbreak to notice, but she left. She ripped his heart from his chest, watched it pulse in her hand like a bald guinea pig, and then she crushed it in her grip, dropped it to the ground and ordered a stampede on it, and finally tossed it off the end of the small pier and into the bottom of the lake to drown.

And then she left. Got in her car with her air bed and her suitcase and drove away without a care in the world.

He spent that whole day in his office, crying until he passed out, woke up to see the state of the room and then started crying again, and then he cried some more, and then a bit more again, and then passed out.

The next day he'd crawled his way to the bathroom, hauling himself onto the edge of his bathtub and wiped a cold flannel over his face, and then sat there pulling shards of broken mugs from his feet and splinters out of his hands. Then he'd soaked them in water and disinfected them with antibacterial wipes from a first-aid kit he keeps under his sink. After that he'd forced himself to eat something because he'd barely eaten for two days, and then proceeded to drown in a bottle of whiskey.

He wasn't sure how many days had passed by the time he decided to stop moping, but it was around the time the office had started to smell with stale tea. Cleaning everything out took a day in itself, but seeing the state he'd managed to get the room in, it seemed like there was no other way around it. He decided to paint it fresh, so with the windows opened he wiped the walls down and mopped the old wooden floorboards until they came up shiny and new. And then he painted over the dark yet slightly faded rust colour he'd originally painted it, in a warm sunflower yellow on three walls apart from the back one. Instead, he chose that entire wall to be a blank canvas, and so painted it white.

Three days later, when he's finally feeling back to his normal self and the fresh paint has dried, he starts his next piece. He stands in the window, looking out over the lake. It's always been his favourite view and for some reason he just never felt like he could do it justice. Maybe this blank space will give him room enough to try.

He uses his boat tied to the moor on the pier as his centerpiece, the image that sits in the very middle of the wall. He draws a curved line along the middle either side of the illustration, separating the water and the sky, and then he paints above and below the line in two different shades of base blue.

Leaving it to dry overnight, he spends the next day filling in the wood of the pier and the boat. The detail is immense but if he doesn't do it he won't be satisfied, and it's not like he has anything better to do with his time. The day after that he starts on the finer details of the sky, working from left to right all day until it resembles that of an early morning dawn. And the day after that he works on the lake water.

A total of four days later he's finished, but when he takes a step back to look at it, he doesn't feel satisfied. Why is he never satisfied?

"It's missing something."

He yelps at the sound of her voice, turning around to see her standing in the window so that her features are hidden by the light. It reminds him of that night they first slept together.

"What are..."

"It's not her." She huffs, and he hates how much he's missed that sound. "I'm the original one."

He clears his throat, standing to the side a little. "Why did you come back?"

"Because you need me, apparently."

She takes a step closer, out of the window so that he can see her face properly. It's definitely her, and she's still just as beautiful. Her hand strokes over his face, and he shivers as if she were really there.

"You trimmed your beard. I told you to do that months ago."

"Yeah, well... finally got too long."

"Your moustache got in your mouth, huh?"

He looks away. "Yeah."

She laughs, a gorgeous sound he's also missed. She pulls his eyes back to hers, and his entire body freezes when she presses her lips to his. "Why are you being so weird?"

"Because you're... you haven't been here." He wriggles out of her hold, turning back to the wall.

"You didn't need me. You had the real deal." She taunts cruelly. "Didn't really think you could have her forever, did you?"

"Can you just go if you're just gonna be nasty? You're not helping."

She sighs, standing beside him with her arms folded. "Fine. Your mural is missing something. It's beautiful but it's vacant, and it needs a bit more you in it."

"Needs a bit more..." He trails off, eyes scanning the wall frantically. And then he gasps. He turns back to her with the intention of a kiss, but she's gone already. "Fuck sake."

"You can give me that kiss later," she appears in the doorway again, and she smirks at him, "sort your stencils out first."

So he does. He finds a font that won't look too garish but also won't disappear amongst the artwork, and then makes a stencil for each word. He sizes them up multiple times to make sure he's satisfied, and then he leaves it for the day.

The following morning he wakes early and positions his stencil, painting over them in black spray paint and then leaving them to dry for an hour or two while he takes his lunch. He takes the stencils off the wall, then takes a step back to assess it.

He feels her sneak around his arm, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. He looks to her timidly, still not used to her presence even after last night.

"He takes a boat out," she starts reading the words in the top left corner of the wall, and then drops her gaze to the lower right-hand corner, "imagines just sailing away."

His heart jumps when she looks up to him, and her smile makes him feel ill.

"What do you think?"

"Think it's perfect." She hums, and pecks the top of his arm. "Congratulations, my work here is done."

"You're going again?"

"For now... but you know I can't stay away too long."

She reappears later that evening.

~

There's a loud noise coming from the garden next door. It wakes him instantly, and he sits up with a jolt, glancing towards the back window.

The new neighbours had moved in two days ago, and he'd not seen much of them. He immediately knew he didn't like them, though. He doesn't think they're a couple - at least not from what he can tell. There is a woman and a man, but the woman only visits in the day and she always disappears again in the evening.

It's been two months. Autumn is already here, and it rains almost every day. It looks like today is that one exception. She is still around - in fact she appears most days to entertain him in the usual ways.

Her arms wrap around his shoulders in that moment and her lips pull on his earlobe. "Come back to bed."

"M'still in bed." He retorts, keeping his gaze on the window.

"You know what I mean."

He ignores her, throwing the covers back and leaping from the bed to run to the window. "No, no, no, no, no." He groans.

Pulling on his jeans from yesterday, he runs down to the garden to start shouting at the neighbour. "Hey! Hey!"

They're digging up her garden. Her beautiful, pristine and well-kept garden. The first thing she did to make that house perfect and they're already tearing it up. He hates it.

The neighbour turns off the chainsaw in his hands and yanks off his headphones, walking towards the fence with a dark pull between his brow. He's probably not much than three inches taller, but he is most certainly wider, in all directions.

"Can I help you?"

He points at the chainsaw in his hands. "What are you doing with that?"

The neighbour narrows his eyes, never actually looking at the machinery he holds. "Getting rid a'that poxy thing." He points at the arbour.

"No you're not." He refuses with incessant shakes of his head.

"I am."

"Not with a fuckin' chainsaw you're not."

"Well how else am I gonna bloody get rid of it?" He asks with a dark glare through unfriendly gritted teeth.

"I'll have it." He says quickly. "Just don't chop it up."

The neighbour scoffs. "Poxy bench for a poxy bloke. S'pose it saves me wasting fuel on it. I'll bring it over later."

He nods quickly. "Thank you."

Without paying the neighbour another glance, he hurries back inside and shuts the door. He ignores her when she starts following him around and asking questions as to why he's suddenly become so antsy again. The bastard next door is going to completely destroy everything she's built and he won't have it.

He's spent two months pretending he's fine and everything is normal, but if everything was normal there wouldn't be someone destroying the house on the left, because it would be empty. If everything was normal he wouldn't feel like he was about to burst into tears at the idea of having to find her. The real her.

~

He pulls into the car park of the primary school just as the bell rings to announce the end of the school day. When steps out of the car and locks it behind him he nervously pats his sweating palms against the front of his jeans. At the reception desk he asks for her classroom, and follows the receptionist's directions through the school to find her.

He finds her easily, standing behind her desk in her classroom at the front as she collects a pile of exercise books. She wears a skinny-fit black suit and a white chiffon blouse. Her hair is neater than he's used to but she still makes him feel giddy the moment he sees her. It's not the same story when she sees him, though.

"You shouldn't be here, Harry." She says with a withdrawn expression, hooking a satchel over her shoulder.

"I know, but you didn't give me a choice."

"Well, you should've thought about that before you lied to me."

"I didn't lie to you, you wouldn't let me explain." He insists.

He hovers in the classroom doorway while she stands a meter away from him. Her expression is hard but her books look heavy and that concerns him.

"You said you needed to think about your answer, but I think an answer that needs to be thought on in the first place isn't worth listening to."

"That's..." he lowers his head with a sigh, "fair enough. But I'm begging you to let me give you one. You deserve one."

She studies him in great detail as he stands before her with his desperate plea. He looks defeated. He looks more ill than he had done when she first saw him, and she doesn't like that. That upsets her, but it doesn't change that he hurt her too.

"I will let you explain because I do want to know."

"Thank you-,"

"However," she cuts him off, "it's Friday, I'm knackered, and I just want to go home. So I'd rather do it tomorrow."

"Okay." He nods once with his swallow.

They arrange a time and a meeting place, before she heads home and he finds a hotel to spend the night. It's a restless night for both of them but an optimism remains in him that everything can at least be put out in the open tomorrow. He hopes.

The next morning he wakes early and decides to go for a run before he heads to meet her. It takes the stress out of him, or at least he thinks it does - like he's sweating his worries out of his body. The shower he takes when he gets back is hot and long to keep the tension out.

His efforts are well-meant but wasted, because the moment he arrives at the coffee shop and sees her again he's in ruin. She wears dark blue jeans and a baggy cream cable knit jumper with a pair of black Old Skool Vans.

He stands quickly as she approaches the table, rubbing his hands on his jeans again. "Hi."

She inhales a deep breath, and when she speaks it seems like it takes the biggest effort to. "Hi."

"Can I get y'a drink? Haven't bought one yet."

"Er, tea please."

He nods, gesturing for her to sit, and then joins the queue to buy their drinks. He returns no more than five minutes later with her tea and a coffee for himself.

"How did you find me?" She asks once he's settled back down.

"I er," he clears his throat, covering his mouth, "people in small towns have no morals."

"How did you find me, Harry?" She repeats, a hard edge to her voice.

"I bribed the estate agent you sold the house through."

She produces a noise that's something between a scoff, a laugh and a tut. "Great."

"I know, m'not proud of it. Just got desperate. The new owner started tearing up that garden you made so nice and I hated it."

"You really don't understand, do you? I made it up like a show home, I never had the intention of living in it. I literally just wanted a project for the summer and it was never going to be anything more than that."

"That's... that's fine. But you said things to me that really messed with my head, like that you felt like you'd known me your whole life. And then that afternoon in the bedroom upstairs I felt like an idiot, 'cause you just wanted me for a few weeks while you did a house up. Just... wish I'd have known sooner."

"It was a turn of phrase. And I don't really think you're in a position to make me feel guilty."

"No, I'm not." He agrees, struggling to look at her. "You're right - I'm sorry."

She sighs heavily, sinking further into her chair. She drinks from her mug for a moment, sorting her parched mouth. He does the same but with much less conviction. The silence between them is far from comfortable but he's sure that's not going to disappear any time soon.

"Tell me about these paintings, then." She encourages, running her tongue over her teeth as she sets her tea on the table.

He clears his throat again. "Right, er... You're gonna think I'm absolutely bat shit crazy, but every word that is about to come out of my mouth is the God honest truth."

She doesn't say anything so he carries on.

"I've been living in that house for nearly six years now. I barely ever leave it, as you know - in fact this is the furthest I've been for a long, long time. About a year after my fiancée died I started having these dreams about this girl. I'd never seen her before, but she was so vivid. I could see every detail of her - flaws in her skin, shape of her hips, outline of her hands. Everything.

"After a while she started creeping into daydreams as well. Like, she'd be at the empty seat at my breakfast table, or she'd sit on the edge of my desk when I was working, or come sit in the boat with me when I went out on the lake. I ignored it for a while but then she started talking, and it was getting kinda weird."

He swallows thickly, taking a sip of his coffee again to wet his mouth. "I went to a doctor 'cause I was a bit freaked out. He said it was just like a coping mechanism. She'll come and go as and when I want or need her. Thought it was a bit weird 'cause surely if I was gonna be dreaming about anyone it'd be the woman who was gonna be my wife. But apparently not.

"So I just sort of learned to accept it. She's there a lot at night, when I'm in bed. She talks to me when I'm sad. She gives advice when she thinks I need it. I started painting her because I wanted to take her out of my head and have something of her that was more permanent. She disappears sometimes and I don't see her for days, maybe even weeks. I used the paintings as a way to remind me that she's not real but she is there in my head.

"I've done the same thing nearly every day for four years. And that house on the left had been empty for all of it. Until you bought it.

"I was gonna hide away and hope to never have to talk to you so I could keep my life the same and not have any trouble, but your brother knocked on my door and then you did a few days later. And you're her, and I don't know how to explain it but you are her."

"Is that why you threw up?" She asks, voice softer than it had been the last time she spoke, but not as soft as normal.

"Yeah," he laughs, "God I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. I've been dreaming about this girl I've never seen in the real world for years, and then she turns up on my doorstep like some fucking cruel joke.

"And I mean it when I tell you I can't explain it. I have no idea how the universe works so I cannot for the life of me begin to even comprehend why my mind conjured up an image of you before I'd even met you, but it did."

He looks from left to right nervously and leans forward, lowering his voice. "I'd seen your body naked long before we... you know. I have every inch of your figure ingrained in me, because I've been seeing it for over four years. And it would probably be less weird if I had been stalking you for years, but I wouldn't even know where to start to stalk someone and get away with it."

She swallows, swapping her crossed legs as she adjusts herself in her seat. He can see she's thinking it through, processing everything. And he lets her. He doesn't talk while she thinks, he simply drinks his coffee and waits until she's ready.

"I heard you that night." She mumbles, putting her empty cup down. "After I left, after we argued, I heard you... getting upset."

He lets out a breath that sounds almost disgusted. "I'm sorry. I was... devastated. I lost my patience, I was angry at myself 'cause I somehow managed to fuck something up that quickly."

"What happened?"

"I trashed the room. Everything in it - I destroyed it."

"All the paintings?"

"Yeah, all of 'em."

She exhales harshly, her head rolling forward into her hands. "Harry, you didn't have to do that."

"No, I did. I did because I love you. It might sound ridiculous because you've known me four months, but I've known you four years. When you left she came back. And she'll stay with me as long as you're not there, but I don't want that. I don't want to live my life alone with an imaginary version of you. I just want you."

"Harry-,"

"You can tell me you don't want to, and I'll do nothing but accept it. And I'll go back home and I'll live next door to this... arsehole who doesn't know a nice garden when he sees one and I'll suffer."

"Harry," she repeats, but there's a warm laugh with it because his last sentence tickled her.

"No, I'm serious. But you know now that if you're not with me, that fabrication of you will be with me instead, and she's just as convincing as you are. I've told you before I'm not good at saying 'no', and she's not very good at listening to it, either."

"Neither am I." She admits quietly.

"Well, there you go." He hums a laugh, patting his hands to his thighs.

She pauses for a moment, but it's obvious she wants to say something, but just has no idea how to say it. But as always he waits her out because it's not like she's deciding what to have for dinner - it's an important decision.

"Your story is completely ridiculous," she starts, and then wets her lips, "but for some weird reason I believe you. Probably because you literally couldn't make that shit up unless you were really insane. And I don't think you're insane."

He smiles at that.

"I can't tell you that I love you and I know you won't expect me to, and I appreciate that. I can tell you that the few weeks I spent around you were amazing and I would do it all again in a heartbeat, minus the last day. I think you're an amazing man with a gorgeous house with a beautiful view, and impossibly, an even more beautiful face. You've got a good heart and a kind soul, and I think you pretend to be miserable to hide the fact that you're actually just shy and afraid of losing something again."

He's surprised when she takes his hand, but he doesn't stop her and he doesn't touch her, either.

"I don't want you to lose me, either. Especially not to a slightly warped version of me, because it's like downgrading."

"Are you jealous of her?"

She laughs - two loud barks. "Maybe I am, she gets to see you naked more than I do."

"There's an easy resolve for that."

"Well, you say easy..." she mutters, grimacing lightly, "Harry this is such a huge decision for me. My whole life is here. I didn't expect to meet someone who'd impact my life so much in the space of a month. But it would be a lie if I said you didn't. So I'm just asking you to give me some time."

He breathes a long sigh, leaning forward to press his lips to her hand. "Yes, of course, as long as you need. Even if it's 'no', I just want to know you've really thought about it."

"I promise I will really think about it."

"Thank you."

Before the two go their separate ways, they share a long embrace as they stand in the coffee shop car park by his car. Just before she leaves she pecks a kiss to his cheek, and then one to the very corner of his mouth.

"I'll be in touch."

~

He doesn't swim in the lake too often. It's always just a bit too cold for him and he ends up near freezing. But some days, on very odd, rare days, the sun will be high enough and hot enough, and the cold lake is just the perfect way to cool down. Today is one of those days.

It had been her idea - she just knows these things. And she was right. The moment he'd stepped outside it felt like getting off a plane somewhere in the Middle East, but as soon as he'd waded into the water his temperature balance had restored.

"I told you it was a good idea." She says matter-of-factly.

"You were right." He admits, lifting his feet off the bottom of the lake bed to float on the surface.

"What'd you put these shorts on for?" She asks, and her hand sneaks up the inside of the waterproof material.

He slaps her hand away. "To make it harder for you to get to that."

He hears her scoff. "Boring."

He smiles but ignores her. He listens for a while as he floats. It's not completely silent - there are a few large birds making a lot of noise somewhere in the treeline, and he never saw them but he thinks there might be a family over at the picnic area making the most of it while the weather is good enough on this Easter weekend.

It's been six months and he's heard nothing since he visited her. He's being patient though, and he'll wait another six months, and six more after that if he has to. He wants her to make the right decision for her, because that's all he can really ask for. Her anomaly's presence is a fine substitute for now, and until she's ready.

The version that stays with him in the meantime is incredibly understanding and it often annoys him, but in a strange kind of way. He's not annoyed because she's irritating, he's annoyed because she just knows, and she understands, and she cares. She's the one that always tells him that one day she'll come back to him, because some days he doesn't believe she will. She's the trooper behind him that keeps him going, and he'll never forget that.

"How long have you been floating now?" She asks, interrupting the quiet again.

"I dunno, few minutes maybe. You've been with me the entire time, surely you know."

"Are you sure?"

He frowns. "No."

Her giggle wouldn't be so unusual if a ripple didn't come with it, or rather the noise of a ripple. "You're going to look like a Squashie sweet if you're not careful."

"How rude."

A moment of silence follows, and he wonders why she hasn't retorted the way she normally would. She's usually quite quick with her wit but maybe she's disappeared again.

"You think you're talking to her, don't you?"

His eyes fly open, and he brings his legs back down under the water to look towards the pier. She's there, in all her perfect glory - sitting at the end of the tiny boating pier with her feet dangling in the water. And she's not wet and she wears normal clothes and her car is parked right out the front of his house.

"You're here?"

She smiles with a genuine nod, eyes bright and sparkling under the beaming sun. She looks as radiant as ever and he can't believe it. "I'm here. So tell the other me to get lost."

"Holy shit!"

She moves backwards up the pier as he lifts himself up and out, water thickly cascading down his body and crashing back to the pool below. He shamelessly crawls over her, his eyes scanning her entire front.

"Harry, you're all wet." She cackles, pushing against his torso while she lies on her back.

"I couldn't give a flying fuck." He catches her wrists and pins them down beside her. She's real, and she's really here and he's elated. "You came back."

"I said I'd give you an answer and doing it in person seemed like the right thing to do."

He pauses. "Are you staying?"

"Yeah." Her smile is the best yet, and the one he absolutely has to kiss to be sealed in his memory with the rest of her. "Well, I'm here for two weeks and then I have to go home and finish the school year, but once it's over I'll be back. For good."

He shakes his head in disbelief. "Doesn't matter, I can wait a bit longer. But if you think you're seeing anything other than me and my bed for the next two weeks then you're sorely mistaken."

"That is absolutely fine by me."

After a long reunion on the pier, he helps her take her belongings inside and then to settle down. While he makes a start on dinner she takes the opportunity to re-familiarise herself with his house, but notes that barely anything has changed besides that her bench now sits in the corner of his garden, and the room that caused all the problems has been redecorated.

She likes the mural. It seems like something that might have preoccupied him for some good time, whether it was after their argument or after his visit. The point is it's clearly brought him some piece of mind. The process of it would've been relaxing and having it there at all just brings an instant peace, even to her. She spends some good time in that room, admiring the view and the painting. She hesitates to touch it, but she likes the way all the individual strokes feel under her fingertips. She traces the words with her index, and wonders if it's a poem or a song, or in a story he's written. She wonders the context of it but vows to never pry. If he wants to tell her one day, he will.

He finds her in there at one point, and he stands leaning against the doorframe just observing her observing his work. He likes the feeling in his chest at the image of seeing her in his house again, and seeming just utterly content and far from being on-edge like she had been so many times before. He never interrupts her, though. He watches her for some time and she never notices, and then he disappears again to wait for her.

"What will you do, find a new school?" He asks once they sit down for dinner.

"Yeah, I already applied to a few places nearby so I should hear from them soon."

"Very organised of you." He comments with a smile. "Knew I loved y'for a reason."

"Well, that's one of the reasons that helped me make up my mind. No one else has ever bribed an estate agent for my details to tell me they love me. And I've certainly never fallen so quickly for anyone the way I have for you. Definitely haven't ever just up sticks and moved either, so I must love you too."

He stops in his eating to look at her with wide eyes, slowly putting his fork down and swallowing before he speaks. "You do?"

She laughs once, taking a long sip of her wine. "Must do. There is no way I'd ever just uproot my life for someone if I wasn't in love with them."

"I like that you're saying it in a way that says you definitely love me but somehow you can't believe it."

"I love you."

"There we go." He nods, and resumes his eating. She throws her napkin at him across the table. "I prefer underwear but this works too."

"Shut up!"

He grins cheekily, passing the napkin back to her. They finish their dinner and their wine on the porch, and then they head to bed for a long night of making up.

Even when she goes back to finish her school year at home, he doesn't get a single visit from his wraith. But he remembers her, and he remembers what she did for him. He supposes she doesn't appear because he no longer needs her, and as she always said, she only comes when he really needs her.

She's permanent in his life now in more ways than she ever was before. She's a physical being who cares for him the way he needs, just as he cares for her, and neither of them have a single doubt that that will ever change.