Inclination

Digging, Ditto, Dolly Parton

Harry is perched on his knees, bent over a mound of dirt and plants with thick, unattractive gardening gloves covering his slender fingers. He's rooting around in the soil and collecting roots and tubers, shaking off any excess earth before dropping them into a growing collection in a maroon, matte bucket.

You approach quietly and tap the toe of your foot against the exposed waistband of his scarlet red Calvin Klein briefs. He spins his head to face you before shielding the sun from his eyes; one eye is squinted shut and his mouth is supple, plush and more appealing than you had remembered and his teeth peek out when he speaks, "hi! You're early - I'm almost done. Wanna help?"

You kneel down beside him and hand him a to-go cappuccino from his favorite coffee shop just blocks from his house, "you somehow make those awful granny gloves look attractive." His face brightens and rivals the sunshine beating down on your backs, his smile warmer than the rays sinking into your skin.

He pulls his gloves off and your acquired iridescent moonstone ring catches the light and strikes your attention as it rests casually below the knuckle on his pinky. He sits down in the grass to collect the cup from your hands and take a sip, groaning out an appreciative thank you as he studies your figure.

Your eyes are set on the gardening work laid out around you, "whatcha doin', Mr. McGregor?"

He laughs and wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead before sucking another long sip from his coffee cup, "if I'm Mr. McGregor, then you're Peter Rabbit."

You gasp and slap his shoulder lightly, "rude! Peter Rabbit does not know how to follow instructions and he's a very naughty bunny." Harry raises an eyebrow at you in a silent gesture to claim that you've just proved his point and you're pouting and flopping down in the grass on your bottom, "you're right. As always."

Harry addresses your previous question, "I'm doing end-of-the-season gardening before the first frost. Collecting bulbs, cutting back my roses, cleaning up debris." He pulls the lid off of his coffee to dip his tongue into the cup and gather a dollop of foam into his mouth. You watch his movements carefully; his attractive, pearly square teeth, his full, glossy, watermelon-colored lips and the way his dimple jumps to make an appearance whenever he so much as tics his face.

"That's hot," you roll your lips into your mouth and your heart claps at your unwanted outburst.

Harry looks at you with his face twisted in confusion until he bursts out laughing, "that's an odd way to address gardening, but okay," and you're grateful that he didn't catch your allusion.

Harry takes his final sip of coffee before tucking the lid into the empty cup and setting it aside. He reaches into his back pocket for a toothpick and pops it into his mouth, sucking on the sharp end before nestling it between his canine and molar, "the smell and taste of coffee makes me crave a cigarette so badly. I would always have one with a cup."

You smile briefly and Harry can sense a bit of pity in your eyes, "how long have you gone without one?"

He tugs the toothpick out of his mouth, "thirty seven days, but who's counting?" You giggle at his darkly acerbic tonality as he lifts his arms into the air, palms up with a bitter shrug before twisting the toothpick back between his irresistible lips.

You climb to your feet and brush dirt and grass from your knees and hamstrings, "you're doing great, Harry. If you point me in the direction of a shabby t-shirt, I'll help you trim these rose bushes."

He scratches the back of his neck and points to his front door, "bedroom, closet, second dresser drawer. Take your pick."

You nod and bend over to grab his spent coffee cup but he grabs your wrist, "don't. I'll get it-"