Brief Encounters

Timeline 1 (Part 23): Harry

Harry's Point of View

The stadium roared as the British soccer team scored again, the cheers vibrating through the air like a living, breathing thing. I clapped along, putting on a show of enthusiasm, but my heart wasn't in it—not for the game, at least.

I was here with William and Jeanna, seated in the private box with the perfect view of the pitch. William's voice thundered as he shouted the scorer's name, his excitement raw and unfiltered. Beside him, Jeanna was glowing, her laughter and applause ringing out like music against the noise of the crowd. And me? I clapped, but only to keep up the charade. My focus was on her.

Jeanna.

I shouldn't have been looking at her like this, shouldn't have been feeling like this. It was wrong. A betrayal of everything I held dear—my brother, our bond, my own sense of loyalty. But it didn't matter how many times I told myself to stop, to let it go. She was magnetic, pulling me in with a force I couldn't fight.

It wasn't just her beauty, though God knew she was stunning. It was the way she made people feel seen, the way she carried herself with grace but still laughed with abandon, like the weight of the world wasn't something she'd let crush her spirit. She was the kind of person who made chaos feel calm.

The kind of person I'd imagined myself with—if she weren't already William's.

"Did you see that? Unbelievable play!" William's voice broke through my haze, his grin so wide it could've split his face.

"Yeah, unreal," I lied, forcing a smile. My eyes flicked to Jeanna again, catching her in mid-laugh, her hands clasped in excitement. She turned slightly, and for a moment, our gazes met. She smiled at me—soft, warm, completely unintentional—and my chest tightened.

I couldn't do this.

"I'm grabbing a hotdog," I blurted, standing up a little too quickly.

Jeanna turned, her expression curious but kind. "Wait, I'll come with you."

Her words sent my pulse racing, but I managed a casual shrug. "Sure. Let's go."

The walk to the concession stand felt like a lifetime, each step stretching into eternity. The noise of the stadium faded into the background, replaced by the rhythm of her footsteps beside mine. It should've been nothing—a friendly walk, two people grabbing snacks—but every glance, every shared smile felt like a spark.

"So," I began awkwardly, "enjoying the game?"

She laughed, her eyes lighting up in that way that made the world seem brighter. "Yeah, it's been fun! William's really into it, huh?"

I chuckled, relaxing a little. "Always has been. You should've seen him during school matches—completely unhinged. Lost his voice almost every time."

Her laughter bubbled up, soft and melodic, and I couldn't help but grin. For a moment, it felt easy, like the weight of everything—William, the crown, my guilt—didn't exist. It was just us, sharing a laugh under the bright lights of the stadium.

When we got our hotdogs, she teased me for piling on too many toppings, and I retaliated with a mock-serious explanation of how ketchup distribution was an art form. She laughed again, her head tilting back, and I swore the world slowed down. Just for her.

By the time we returned to the box, William was on his feet again, yelling something at the referee. I slid into my seat, trying to focus on my food and not the way Jeanna's shoulder brushed mine as she sat down.

She caught me glancing at her and smiled, a quick, fleeting thing that felt like it was just for me. My heart flipped in my chest, and I cursed myself for letting it.

This was William's girl. His world.

And I had no business feeling this way.

The car ride back was quiet. William, predictably, had fallen asleep, his head lolling against the window. Jeanna sat beside him, glancing between his sleeping face and the night sky outside, her expression soft.

I caught myself watching her reflection in the window again, the glow of the streetlights painting her features in a way that felt almost ethereal. She looked over suddenly, catching my eye.

"Does he always crash like this after a match?" she asked, her voice low enough not to wake him.

I smiled, leaning back. "When he lets himself unwind, yeah. He doesn't really know how to do things halfway."

She smiled too, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "That sounds like him. All in, all the time."

There was something in the way she said it—an affection that was pure, undeniable. My chest ached at the sound of it, the realization of just how much she cared for him. How much they belonged to each other.

"You're good for him," I said softly, surprising myself. "You make him better. More... human."

Her eyes met mine, wide and searching. For a second, it felt like she might say something, but she just smiled, small and sincere. "Thanks, Harry."

And that was it. The moment passed, and she turned back to the window, her gaze lost in the London streets.

I leaned my head back, staring at the ceiling of the car, willing my heart to settle. Whatever this was, whatever I felt—it had to stay locked away. She wasn't mine to feel this way about.

She never would be.