Incandescent | H.S

Part Three: Velvet Couches & Veering Words

"Didn't peg you for a Smiths fan." He quipped with his signature smirk accompanied by a single raised brow.

"No? Then tell me, what kind of girl did you peg me for?" Your words had an aura of divine flirtatiousness that wasn't lost to him, in fact, it wrapped around him like a warm pink blanket, smelling sweet and sultry, enticing him to play along with teasing flicks.

His statement was bold but also venturing, intrigued to see where the mood lies and more importantly, where you're willing to let it go. His brave words could make you snap back or they'll delight you and you'll play along. He will know where you stand regardless. "Mmm... a girl who likes music she can fuck to."

"Mmm, true. Although sometimes I find the acoustics by themselves are better."

"Fuck."

"Exactly that."

"May I suggest a change in music? Something to deepen the mood."

This game you were both playing into was quickly becoming real, smirks replaced with hooded eyelids and parted lips, deep breathes emitted and mixing into the air, swirling with the steamy words that still hung heavy with their presence. The tips of his fingers danced along your cheek so faintly and the touch felt like the softness of the velvet booth you both were sat in earlier in the night.

"You're the expert." You snapped out of your daze as his fingers left your skin, burning fingertips against your cheek, thrumming heartbeats against your chest. This couldn't happen. Not now, not drunk, not before stating your business in this friendship.

You had been friends with Harry for a couple of months now, and even though you were both severely busy and rarely in the same country most of the time, you made it work. It was through facetime and phone calls that kept your connection alive. He was constantly proving to you that he was a great addition to your life and he felt the same way about you. You'd send each other little deliveries while you were away, you had his L.A address and sent him some of his favourite sweets that were hard to find anywhere except that one store in Hampstead Heath you frequented. If he knew you were having a late night at work, he'd make sure he got a food delivery straight to your door that arrived as soon as you got home.

He'd send you pictures of what he was doing, all of them lacking any context but you were grateful to be a part of his life and it was nice that he was thinking of you and showed it. Sometimes he'd send you a selfie from whatever location he'd discovered as he new writing spot that day.

When he arrived back in London, you had met him at a really fancy bar in Soho that was members only. He'd given the reception your name and you were treated like royalty. You had sat snuggled up together in a secluded booth on a velvet couch and caught each other up on your lives. He'd been in L.A and then Italy for a few weeks and you'd been dotting around a few locations in Europe for a row of events at various art museums. He had his arm around the back of the seat, his body turned to face you as he sipped on his espresso martini, chiming into your monologue with the appropriate reactions but he was quiet for the most part, happy to see you, happy to be around you.

He kept your cocktail glass full and the banter was continuous, flowing, and entertaining and you were drunk enough to bury your head into his chest and hug him tightly and berate him for leaving you so long and he vowed he'd never go away again without you. You both soon found yourself in a black cab, giggly and extremely drunk as you tumbled out of the car and into his home. You decided to continue the drinking, he whipped out a bottle of expensive rum and threw together a cocktail for you both. You now found yourselves dancing in his lounge and seeing who could make the other laugh harder. It took a turn when you chose a record to play; The Smiths.