Trick of the Light

Part VII

February 2019

If Harry had imagined it once, he'd imagined it a thousand times. But like so many dreams, the reality is never quite the same as the fantasy.

Their first kiss was huddled close in the dim garage, beneath tiny lights that had been strung about like some kind of confused mistletoe. Lia streaked in clay and very pregnant; Harry shivering in clothes damp from the winter drizzle and dumbstruck, wondering if he was seconds away from waking up.

Because only in his dreams had this been allowed to happen. Only there was he allowed to touch her, and taste her, and that part - that was better than anything he ever could have imagined.

It was abrupt, and achingly overdue, and it was perfect. It was something that had been out of reach for so long...something that for so long didn't seem meant to be.

Ophelia was, after all, the one that got away. Wasn't she? Destined to be a casualty of timing and circumstances and too little too late. Harry had come to terms with that. Hadn't he?

He was suddenly, gut-wrenchingly unsure of anything. Was it Lia who'd finally closed the last bit of distance between them? He wasn't certain of that either until he felt the sudden loss of her warmth, and then...

"I'm sorry," she whispered, wide-eyed as her hand flew to her mouth. "I'm sorry, I didn't - I shouldn't have-"

"No!" His voice was rough as his gaze darted wildly down to her lips and back to her stricken eyes. "Please, Ophelia. Can you - can I..."

Lia swallowed visibly, lower lip wobbling as she slowly pulled her hand away from her mouth and pressed it to his cheek.

Harry let out a shaky exhale at the sensation of her fingers against his unshaven skin, cautiously exploring the sharp curve of his jaw. And when he moved to cup her face in his palms she tensed for just a moment before leaning in to meet him again.

It was tentative, at first, the exploration of mouths and lips and hands. Lia was afraid she might lose herself completely; her fingers curled in the soft cotton of his sweatshirt just over the place his heart thundered in his chest, the vibration grounding her.

And when his tongue eased over the seam of her lower lip, gently but insistently seeking permission, she surrendered. Molding with him, melting into him, meeting his fervor with an equally intense hunger.

It was tender but all-consuming; he drank her in like his life depended on it. At that moment, it did. Time ceased to exist for them just then, as they became newly, desperately reacquainted.

While it was Harry who eventually broke the kiss, he hardly went far; forehead pressed to hers, thumbs stroking the apples of her cheeks, heart racing beneath her palm. He couldn't bear to put any distance between them for fear she might slip away again. So instead he watched, mesmerized, as her tongue ran along her lower lip. Her eyes drifted closed, pulling a wounded sound from deep in his chest.

It was the only thing Lia heard over the pounding of her own pulse in her ears, and it weakened any resolve she had left. She clung to him with the jarring realization that she didn't ever want to let him go.

They clung to one another for a minute, or ten, in some surreal in between. There was a before, and an after, now, but for just a little while they could simply exist.

"You're shaking," Lia whispered, pulling back a bit as her glassy eyes scanned his face in concern.

He chuckled softly, noticing only then that he was indeed trembling like a leaf. He suspected some of it was adrenaline because he was so warm all over he felt like he might combust, but the damp February drizzle that had seeped through his sweatshirt seemed to be catching up to him.