Incandescent | H.S

Part Thirty-Five: Healing, Hometowns & Hushing

Waves of your anxiety rippled into the currents of your relationship. Ever since the party and encounter with Alex last week, your mind was in an odd state of shock. You had managed to suppress your fear of what happened pretty much after the fact.

But seeing him again and how he acted so appallingly retracted your healing and so your trauma from the night was on the forefront of your brain.

Harry had been a delightful aura of guidance to help wade you through the ocean of torment. Like a little lifeboat, he rescued you from your thoughts constantly. He'd been gentle and understanding and patient.

He was immensely proud that you kept open and honest with him about how you were dealing with it, and you had no intention of hiding anything from him, especially when he proved to be so therapeutic.

He sent you sunflowers, loving text messages, and called you on the days you were both too busy to see each other. He was in L.A for a couple of days and you missed him and his warmth dearly.

Your friend Matt had called you, needing answers of your aggression towards your ex, and was shocked when you told him what had happened that night. He retracted any and all communication with Alex and felt so guilty he'd unknowingly put you in such a position to be near him again at his engagement party.

It didn't help that your workload grew exceedingly more and more hectic. Your brand spread through the industry like wildfire and you had new events to plan with new clients every day. A lot of them were small business owners trying to establish themselves in the scene, and a lot were high-end clients whom you'd never thought you'd have the pleasure of working with.

There was one client, in particular, you'd been trying to land for months. She was a 66-year-old artist whom you were obsessed with. Her work had driven you into this profession and her art was soft and unparalleled. And so every day you proved to your agent that you were the one to help the elderly artist with her newest addition to her repertoire.

When Harry texted you and told you he'd arrived from L.A a day early, you were elated. He informed you he was at his house waiting for you, that he needed to give you lots of kisses to make up for all the ones he wasn't able to give you while he was gone.

You wrapped up your workday and headed to his house, punching in the code to the gate once you arrived and parking your car next to his. You let yourself in with the key he'd gifted you, remembering when he told you to use it whenever you needed, whether he was there or halfway across the world.

In addition to the familiar warm and cocooning scent of his home, was the mouthwatering smell of cooking herbs and spices, the crackle of oil, and bangs of pots and pans emitting a cosy setting. You meandered into the kitchen, Harry's voice protruding the space of the open space as he sang along to music playing.

As if Sam Cooke's voice wasn't heavenly enough, Harry's along with it was a melody that felt as divine and moony as a warm bath on an autumnal evening. Or the way a cup of honey-infused tea was therapeutic. Or lying in a grass field with the sky so blue above you, the clouds depicting shapes that teased your imagination.

Harry stood at the stove, stirring the well-seasoned contents of a pot with a dish towel thrown over a shoulder. He swayed to the music, taking a dollop of his concoction and tasting it with raised brows and an impressed hum.

"Hey, mister." You greeted softly as you approached him.

His smile was extraordinary, beaming so brightly it melted you into a cherry-shaded bayou. You were a pond of admiration for him, with sunflower-shaped lily pads and rising sea levels as your love for him grew with every passing second.