UNPLANNED

Part 11

It was hard to settle into a new space, just like always. The cups were in a cabinet that wasn't right above the sink, the silverware wasn't across from the fridge. It didn't make sense, but he moved around the kitchen with ease and he could definitely, absolutely tell something was up.

He pressed a button on the blender, looked up at you when the shrill noise broke through the living room. It was almost a test, it seemed. Could you ignore his gaze burning into your face, or would you break and make eye contact, ask him what he wanted?

When the blender shut off, you clicked away from the email and closed your computer, sliding it away from you on the counter before reaching for a glass of water beside you.

"Is something up?" He asked, a hand on his hip as if it'd taken everything in him to wait this long to ask.

"What?"

"You're quiet."

"I was checking my work emails. I have a big meeting tomorrow with some other people from marketing and a pitch to the sales team."

"I mean with us."

"Oh."

It'd been four days. Four times you went to sleep in your own room–one that wasn't really yours but had a lot of your things in it. Four awkward exchanges when you'd inevitably go upstairs before him, brush your teeth and wash your face, let the door click shut and pretend that you didn't feel out of place.

Four nights of staring at the ceiling and wondering what he'd said to her on the phone.

"Do I have to ask it again?"

"No," you shot him a look, mildly irritated by the tone in his voice, as if you owed him an answer. "I'm just–I don't know–getting used to living in your house."

He paused for a second, spoke in a sigh. "You seemed so excited the other day," the tension broke when a tinge of melancholy came through his words. He left the blender on the counter and took a few steps closer to you. "Do you think it wasn't a good idea?"

You swallowed, unsure. It was nice to have him around, someone else responsible for what was now the size of a grapefruit. His presence was more reassuring than Lexi's I don't know why you're sweating through every t-shirt you own stare. So maybe he wasn't the problem, maybe it was the guilt.

"I just don't want you to think you have to do all of this."

"I don't," he shook his head. "I swear."

"You don't ever think it's all weird?"

He let out a laugh, pursed his lips and then sat in a stool beside you at the island, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, s'pretty fucking weird, but–I dunno, seems right, too."

His words broke through some of the fear that had lodged itself in your chest, tangled between your ribs. He reached a hand over to yours, took it in his, and pulled it towards his mouth. "You know, Nike," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of it. "If you want, you can sleep in my bed."

"I'm your roommate," you shot back at him, a smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth–you ignored the nickname altogether. "Don't you think that's crossing a line?"

Not that it hadn't been done already. Any type of line between you and Harry felt too blurry and too thin–a mysterious separation that both of you continued to creep up to, pull away from, and then do it all over again.

He hummed, another kiss to your hand. "Sounds like the start of a porno," he laughed, threw in a wiggle of his eyebrows for comedic relief. "S'a fine line between roommates and people who share a bed."