Blurred Lines // h.s.

Blurred Lines

The shoot had gone late, so he was running late. When you'd said he could come over at six — that you'd be back from the gym and all cleaned up — he knew he should have suggested seven at the very earliest. Between the traffic to Brooklyn and the traffic out, he was fucked, but he'd been in town for nearly a week and hadn't seen you once. If there was anything that made him look forward to coming here, it was you. Six was too early, but he'd do anything to spend a few more hours with you before he had to jet off, literally. And then the shoot had run late, which was why he was still scrubbing his face to try to get the black off his eyes, but all that seemed to do was make him look like Gemma after she and her first boyfriend split.

Good enough. It would have to do. His hair was still crunchy from spray and other products, but most of the makeup was gone and probably, hopefully, wouldn't even be all that noticeable anyway. What he wouldn't give to be able to use the damn subway to beat the traffic, but he clambered into the back of the town car all the same and his leg bounced the whole way over the bridge. He'd already asked the driver to take him to a new address instead — he'd pay the same, he swore — and when he pulled up in front of your building, he said goodnight in a way that made it clear he wasn't coming down again.

You buzzed him in nearly instantly, and when he got to your floor, your door was propped open with a book.

"Pretty sure this isn't what I wanted you to do with this," he said, holding the door open while bending to pick it up.

"Pretty sure I can do whatever I—"

He stood to his full height, butterflies bursting in his stomach at the first sight of you he was getting in nearly a month and a half. You had on a t-shirt and pajama shorts and your eyes were sparkling, but when he started to smile, you laughed and gave him a look that had the tips of his ears burning.

"Are you...?"

"What?" Harry huffed, locking the door and throwing the chain on.

Eyebrows high on your forehead and mouth quirked, you shook your head. "Nothing, it's just... I just...."

"What?"

"You've got—" You gestured around your eyes and he pursed his lips, face hot.

"Still?"

You nodded.

"S'funny," he said. "Took it off, so—"

"With what? A blade of grass?"

You laughed and he had the distinct feeling this was the least cool he'd ever felt in front of someone he fancied.

"Whatever they gave me," he said. "I had a shoot."

"I figured," you said. "Though I wouldn't hate it if you told me you were trying this out."

You wouldn't?

He tucked that piece of information away. Later....

"Your eyes are red," you said.

"Scrubbed," he said. "Really did try to get it all...."

You held your hands out and he stared.

"Come," you said softly. You wiggled your fingers. "I wanna show you."

He set the book on the table just inside your flat before taking your hands and you pulled him into the bathroom. You tapped the light on and he winced from the brightness but chortled immediately upon catching sight of himself.

"Well," he said, blinking furiously as his eyes adjusted. "Yeah. Guess I didn't get much of it, did I?"

Under the harsh fluorescents, he could see exactly how bad off he was. His eyes were red, and the black looked like he'd run a sharpie around but had gotten lazy and hadn't bothered finishing the job to wash it off. His hair was another mess entirely, but that at least wasn't new.