three inches — three (Patreon)

Author's note: Chapter three is here, my loves. Soft tension, little almosts, and lots of feelings. I hope you love it!

word count: 11k

By the fourth Saturday you had stopped pretending you did not know what time he usually arrived.

That did not mean you were waiting.

Waiting was a word with entirely too much softness in it. It suggested hope. Some embarrassing little part of you arranging itself around the possibility of him. You were not doing that. You were simply aware that Harry tended to appear sometime just after four. That was the exact hour the afternoon dragged into evening and the air inside Calder Books grew uncomfortably hot. The radiator was either completely useless or violently committed.

You were aware that he had stopped wearing the sunglasses.

You were aware that he bought coffee from the place next door now. He always arrived with the milk separate because he had told you the second week that he did not want to commit a crime against your preferences before knowing them properly.

He read what you gave him even when he did not like it. He always returned the following Saturday with opinions he tried to make sound casual but had clearly been arranging in his head for days.

He never asked for special treatment. He never lingered in the shop if it became too busy and people began to look too much. Sometimes he disappeared into the poetry section until the heavy attention passed. Sometimes he left early with a quiet smile and a book he had not intended to buy. Sometimes he just stood near the front table and helped you turn covers outward without being asked. He did it as if aligning paperbacks could offer him some small piece of control his actual life did not.

You were aware of all of that.

But you were not waiting.

“You are waiting,” Priya said softly.

You looked up from the wooden returns trolley and shoved a hardcover into an empty gap on the shelf. “I am shelving.”

“You have shelved that exact same copy of Middlemarch three times.”

“It keeps ending up in the wrong place.”

“You put it there.”

“I am correcting myself,” you replied smoothly. “It is called personal growth.”

Priya dragged a stool closer and leaned against the counter with a massive grin she had absolutely no intention of hiding. She was wearing a purple jumper with sleeves much too long for her hands. She looked far too delighted for someone who had just spent the entire morning arguing with a customer about whether true crime counted as a Christmas gift if the actual murder had happened in spring.

“He comes at four fifteen usually,” she observed.

“I have not noticed.”

“You checked the clock at four thirteen.”

“I have a life entirely outside of men.”

“You checked it again at four fourteen.”

“I also have a very strong relationship with time.”

Priya rested her chin on her crossed arms. “You wore the nice jumper.”

You looked down at your own chest. “This is not the nice jumper.”

“It is not the bad one.”

“The bar is incredibly low.”

“And you put your hair up and then took it right back down again.”

“Because the clip was pulling.”

“And you cleaned the till drawer.”

You grabbed another paperback from the trolley and pressed it firmly against your chest. “That thing contains bacterial diseases completely unknown to modern science.”

“And you put the poetry table near the front.”

“Mr. Calder asked me to.”

“Mr Calder firmly thinks poetry should be hidden in dark corners so people can discover it exactly like shame.”

You opened your mouth to argue and then closed it again because that was unfortunately entirely true. You simply stared at her while your fingers tightened around the edge of the book.

Priya let her grin widen even further.

“You are deeply annoying,” you said.

“I am very observant,” Priya countered, tapping her temple with one oversized sleeve.

You dropped the paperback back onto the trolley. “You are nineteen.”

“That does not actually affect my eyesight.”

“It affects your sense of drama.” You pushed the wooden cart forward a few inches just to give your hands something to do.

Priya tilted her head and watched you. “All sense is drama if you are paying attention.”

You just stared at her for a long moment. “Did you steal that from a film?”

“I made it up.” She smiled brightly like she had just won a prize.

You picked up the book again. “Never say it out loud again.”

Priya laughed. She looked deeply pleased with herself as she finally pushed off the counter and drifted away to help a woman near the cookery section. The customer had been staring at the exact same recipe book for ten minutes like she was absolutely terrified of it.

You turned back to the returns trolley. You picked up Middlemarch again entirely out of spite.

It had been nearly a full month since Harry first walked into the shop wearing those stupid indoor sunglasses. It was a collection of quiet conversations you were absolutely unwilling to admit you remembered with perfect clarity. It was barely a blip in the grand scheme of a normal life.

Still he had somehow become a permanent fixture in the shop.

You noticed it in the mornings before he arrived. Priya always hummed way too much. Mr Calder always found a reason to linger near the till and casually ask whether the musician fellow had been reading his purchases. Then came the terrible hour between three and four where you became irritable for absolutely no logical reason.

Finally the bell over the door would ring. A draft of freezing outside air would sweep through the room. And then that ridiculous and entirely unwilling little lift would happen in your chest the second he appeared. He always carried coffee like a peace offering. He always smiled like Calder Books was the one place he had been trying to reach all week long.

That was the absolute most dangerous part of all this.

Not the fame.

Not the fact that he was handsome. Though God knew that specific detail was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

It was the simple fact that he kept coming back.

Famous people did not do that. They appeared. They caused a brief and beautiful scene. Then they vanished back into whatever world they actually belonged to. They did not return to the exact same drafty bookshop four Saturdays in a row. They did not remember that you took your coffee with a little milk and no sugar. They did not ask whether the delayed naval biography had finally arrived for Mr Collins. They did not tease Priya about her terrible displays. They certainly did not learn that Mr Calder kept a hidden bottle of whisky beneath the gift wrap for literary emergencies.

Harry did all of it.

That meant he was either much more careful than you wanted him to be or much more lonely than you knew how to handle.

The bell over the door rang at exactly four seventeen.

You completely hated Priya for being right.

You did not look up immediately. You still had principles even if they were currently very weak. You grabbed three paperbacks from the trolley and turned your back toward the door. You kept your face carefully arranged into something perfectly neutral.

“Afternoon,” Harry called out over the quiet hum of the radiator.

You looked over your shoulder and forced an expression of mild surprise.

He stood just inside the entrance. He was buried in a heavy wool coat with his cheeks flushed bright pink from the bitter cold. His hair was pushed back messily from his forehead. No sunglasses. No beanie this time. A thin scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck. He held two coffees in his left hand. In his right hand he held a book. It had so many colourful sticky notes jutting out from the top pages that it looked like a terrified bird.

Your eyes dropped straight to the book before you could stop yourself.

Harry noticed the exact second you looked.

His mouth curved into a terribly smug smile as he tapped the cover with his thumb. “I did homework.”

You abandoned the paperbacks on the nearest shelf and fully turned to face him. “You annotated?”

“I had feelings.” He let the book drop slightly to his side and looked entirely too proud of himself.

“About the book or the actual homework?”

Harry shifted the two coffees to his other hand. “Both.”

You crossed your arms defensively. “That is incredibly unfortunate for everyone involved.”

He crossed the narrow shop toward you. He stepped carefully around an elderly woman reading in the armchair near the poetry section. When he finally reached the counter he held out one of the paper cups.

“Americano,” he announced, setting it gently near your elbow. “Milk separate. Zero poison.”

You accepted the cup and wrapped both hands tightly around the warm cardboard. “You are getting efficient.”

Harry leaned his hip casually against the edge of the till. “I aspire to be useful.”

“That is a highly dangerous ambition.” You took a small sip.

“So I have heard.” His eyes tracked the movement of the cup before lifting back up to meet yours.

The coffee was scalding hot against your fingers. For one brief second the deep cold ache in your hands actually eased. It had already been an exhausting day. It was full of fussy customers and a massive shipment error and the lingering stress of your Friday office job following you into the weekend. You had woken up that morning with the distinct and unpleasant sensation that your entire life was being held together entirely by pencil marks and unpaid invoices and caffeine.

Harry’s gaze moved slowly over your face.

It was not obvious. It was not rude. But it carried enough quiet attention that you felt the sudden weight of it.

“You all right?” he asked.

You looked down at the heavy stack of paperbacks in your arms. “Yes.”

He simply waited.

You completely hated that too. You hated the way he never rushed to fill the silence whenever he suspected you were lying. Most people talked to let you escape an uncomfortable moment. Harry did not trap you exactly. He simply stood there patient enough that the lie became heavy and awkward in your mouth.

“I am tired,” you finally amended.

His expression softened instantly. “Long week?”

“Every single week is long.” You shifted the books higher against your chest. “Time is highly aggressive.”

“That sounds like something you would put on a staff recommendation card.”

“I absolutely might. For a particularly bleak memoir.”

He looked deeply amused but the concern did not leave his eyes. “Bad day at the publisher?”

You absolutely should not have been touched that he remembered that detail. You had only told him about your job because he asked. You told him because he seemed genuinely interested and because he listened in a way that made even your petty complaints about cover copy sound like part of some larger human struggle. That did not actually mean anything. People remembered things. It was not remotely romantic to remember basic employment facts.

Still when he said the publisher instead of just asking about work something tight in your chest softened.

“Bad Friday,” you clarified. “It has unfortunately bled straight into Saturday.”

He leaned one broad shoulder against the wooden shelf beside you. “What happened?”

You looked around the quiet shop. A young couple was browsing the travel section. Priya was helping an older man at the till. Mr Calder was currently in the back office allegedly doing accounts but probably reading reviews of his favourite crime novels and sighing loudly at the state of modern suspense. Absolutely no one needed you for the next thirty seconds.

You pulled a book from your stack and slid it smoothly onto the shelf. “I made a mistake on a proof.”

Harry’s face remained perfectly gentle. “What kind of mistake?”

“The kind that made my boss look at me like she was very disappointed to learn I possessed human hands.”

“That bad?”

“It was a dedication page.” You reached for another book. “I missed a name. The author’s sister. Apparently the sister is dead.”

Harry winced visibly.

“Yes.”

“That is certainly not ideal.”

“That is one very polite way to put it.” You tucked the next paperback into place and adjusted the spine so it sat perfectly even with the others. “It was fixed before printing. It is fine. No actual permanent damage done. But my boss did the calm voice.”

“The calm voice?”

“The one women use in professional offices when they are absolutely furious but do not want to give anyone the satisfaction of becoming a story.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “Terrifying.”

“Deeply.”

“And are you in actual trouble?”

“No. She said these things happen.” You picked up the third book. “Which is much worse.”

“Why?”

“Because I would much rather be publicly executed than kindly told to learn from a mistake.”

He laughed softly. “That feels slightly dramatic.”

“I work in publishing.” You shoved the book onto the shelf. “Everything is dramatic if phrased correctly.”

“That is completely true.”

You reached to slide the last book from your stack onto the shelf and then realised you had just filed it under the wrong author. You quickly snatched it back out. Harry saw.

He did not say a single word.

That was infinitely worse than if he had teased you.

“I am very competent usually,” you said defensively.

“I believe you.”

“You said that entirely too quickly.”

“I really do.”

The simple truth of it caught you completely off guard.

You stopped moving and looked at him.

Harry was not smiling now. He was not teasing. His green eyes were completely steady on yours. There was something so intensely unembarrassed in his belief that you had to look away before it could do any real damage.

You turned back to the shelf. “You barely even know me.”

“I know enough.”

“No you only know Saturdays me.” You flipped the book over in your hands. “Saturdays me is charming under pressure and occasionally good at alphabetising.”

“You have shelved that exact one wrong twice now.”

You shot him a very sharp look.

His mouth twitched. “Sorry.”

“You are absolutely not.”

“No.”

“You are actively enjoying my professional decline.”

“Just a little.”

“You are a terrible person.”

“I brought coffee.” He lifted his own cup slightly.

“That is the literal only thing protecting you.”

He laughed. The warm sound settled somewhere low in your chest before you could stop it.

You carried the empty stack back toward the trolley. Harry followed closely with his heavily annotated book. Priya looked over from the till and mouthed something you intentionally chose not to read. You shot her the exact kind of glare that had once made a junior intern cry in the office kitchen. Priya only widened her grin.

Harry placed his book on the counter with massive ceremony.

“All right,” he announced. “I desperately need to discuss this.”

You looked down at the colourful sticky notes jutting from the pages. There had to be at least twenty of them. Some yellow. Some blue. One bright pink.

You leaned across the counter to get a better look at the colourful tabs. “You used a colour system?”

Harry rested his hand flat on the cover. “I strongly attempted one.”

“And?” You tilted your head.

“It collapsed emotionally.” He looked down at the book with a completely straight face.

You crossed your arms over your chest. “How exactly does a colour system collapse emotionally?”

“I started with blue for things I liked and yellow for things I had questions about and pink for things that deeply annoyed me.” He pointed to the specific tabs as he listed them off.

“That seems perfectly reasonable.” You took a slow sip of your coffee.

“Then I started actively liking things that annoyed me.” He flicked one of the bright pink tabs with his index finger.

“A very common literary problem.”

“And questioning things I previously liked.”

“Personal growth.” You nodded solemnly.

Harry sighed heavily. “And then there was one section where I felt so personally attacked I used a wrinkled receipt because I did not have another colour available.”

You just stared at him.

He opened the book to show you. There between the pages near the very middle was a folded café receipt sticking out like a white flag of surrender.

You pressed your lips tightly together.

Harry’s eyes brightened. “You are laughing.”

You quickly hid your mouth behind the rim of your paper cup. “I am absolutely not.”

“You definitely are.” He leaned a fraction closer across the wooden counter to catch your eye.

You lowered the coffee and forced your expression into a mask of pure academic seriousness. “I am professionally appreciating your unique method.”

“My method has layers.” He proudly patted the front cover of the annotated novel.

“Your method has severe office supply issues.” You pointed directly at the crumpled café receipt sticking out from the middle pages.

He laughed and leaned heavily over the book to flip to the first tab. “I need to know whether the narrator is intentionally meant to be unbearable.”

“Do you want my honest answer or the polite bookseller answer?”

“Honest.”

“She is unbearable because she is brutally honest about unbearable things.”

Harry looked down at the printed page. “That is highly annoying.”

“It often is.”

“She keeps making completely terrible choices.”

“She is lonely.”

“That does not actually excuse it.”

“No,” you said reaching slowly for your coffee. “But it explains exactly why the bad choices start to look like doors.”

Harry’s finger stilled completely on the page.

You took a slow sip before you could say anything else revealing.

When you finally looked back up he was watching you in that specific way again. He looked as if you had just handed him something fragile without meaning to and he was trying to decide exactly how carefully to hold it.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head slowly. “Nothing.”

“Harry.”

“I was just thinking that you talk about fictional people like you actually know them.”

“I spend a massive amount of time with them.”

“More than real people?”

“Fictional people are frequently less disappointing.”

His smile tilted. “That is incredibly bleak.”

“It is highly efficient.”

“Do you really think that?”

“Some days.”

“And today?”

You looked down at the hot coffee he had brought you. You looked toward the front window where London moved in pale winter light. You looked back at him.

Today a man who should have been completely impossible had returned to a tiny bookshop with annotated fiction and your exact coffee order.

Today was complicated.

“I think real people require far more editing,” you finally said.

Harry laughed but the sound came out much softer than before. “That might actually be true.”

You spent nearly an entire hour talking about the book.

Harry did not glaze over.

He leaned casually against the counter with his sleeves pushed back and his thumb resting between two pages. He asked questions that were sometimes clever and sometimes ridiculous and sometimes so painfully direct you had to pause before answering.

He did not always agree with you. That was good. You genuinely liked that. He argued that one specific scene near the end was deeply manipulative. You argued it was emotionally earned. He insisted it was both. You told him that was probably exactly why it worked.

Every so often a customer came up to pay and the conversation paused. Harry stepped politely aside. You rang up books and ordered a dense collection for Mr Collins and calmly told a woman that no you unfortunately could not remember the title of every single book with a red cover. You wrapped a birthday gift in paper that tore twice before finally cooperating. Each time you turned back to the counter Harry was still standing there waiting patiently with his finger tucked safely into the page to hold his place.

He was not impatient.

He was not bored.

He was just there.

That fact should not have mattered nearly as much as it did.

At half past five Mr Calder emerged from the back room. He was wearing his usual cardigan with holes at both elbows and the deeply troubled expression of a man who had just lost a private war with a stubborn invoice.

“Y/N,” he barked before stopping dead when he saw Harry.

Harry straightened at once and looked polite in a way that made you bite the inside of your cheek to hide a smile. “Hello.”

Mr Calder stared at him for three entirely silent seconds.

Then he looked directly at you. “Is this the musician fellow?”

Behind Harry Priya made a loud choking noise.

You set your coffee down very carefully. “Yes.”

Mr Calder nodded once as if confirming a furniture delivery. “Good. You read the poetry?”

Harry looked momentarily completely wrong-footed. “I did yes.”

“And?”

“I liked it.”

“All of it?”

“Most of it.”

Mr Calder grunted loudly. “Honest enough.”

Harry looked over to you as if desperately seeking help.

You gave him absolutely none.

Mr Calder stepped closer and picked up the heavily annotated novel from the counter Fto deeply inspect the coloured tabs. “You mark books?”

“Not usually,” Harry answered cautiously.

“Why not?”

“I suppose I always worry about ruining them.”

Mr Calder looked completely and personally offended. “Unread books are the only ones ruined. Marking is simply evidence of a life passing through.”

Harry’s entire face changed.

You saw it happen and looked away much too late.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I think I am finally learning that.”

Mr Calder remained entirely immune to emotional resonance. He shoved the book back across the counter and turned his attention straight to you. “Philosophy shelf still dusty?”

You took a deep breath. “Spiritually yes.”

“Literally?”

“Also yes.”

He sighed. “Moral decay.”

“I know.”

Then he disappeared straight back into the office.

Harry stared after him.

“I like him,” he finally said.

“Everyone does for the very first month.”

“He is terrifying,” Harry whispered as the office door clicked shut.

“He has earned it,” you replied calmly.

Harry leaned a fraction closer. “Does he actually know who I am?”

“Yes.” You took a slow sip of your coffee.

“And he completely does not care?”

“He only cares that you read the poetry.” You lowered the cup and met his gaze.

Harry smiled down at the colourful sticky notes jutting from his book. “Fair.”

You watched him for one second too long. “You genuinely liked that.”

He glanced back up. “What?”

“That he cared about the book and not you.” You gestured toward the heavily annotated novel.

Harry did not answer right away.

The shop moved around you both soft and ordinary. Priya spoke to a customer near the till. Someone laughed loudly in the travel section. Rain had started falling again outside tapping lightly against the front windows as the afternoon slowly dimmed. Harry slid one long finger along the jagged edge of a pink sticky note keeping his eyes entirely lowered.

“Yes,” he finally admitted. “I did.”

There were a dozen things you could have said right then. Something light. Something teasing. Something to move the conversation far away from the strange ache in his voice. Instead because you were utterly tired and the long day had completely worn through your better defences you asked the absolute worst thing possible.

“Is that why you keep coming back?” you asked quietly.

He snapped his head up.

It was entirely too late to take the words back.

The heavy question sat between the two of you naked and deeply inconvenient.

Harry’s expression did not turn flirtatious. That would have been completely manageable. He did not grin or dodge or make a predictable joke about your coffee being absolutely irresistible. He only looked at you with the kind of intense quiet that made the rest of the crowded shop feel suddenly miles away.

“Partly,” he said softly.

Your fingers tightened painfully around your warm cardboard cup.

“Partly?” you echoed.

His mouth moved faintly into a small and crooked smile. “You really do not make things easy do you?”

“I work in literary discomfort.” You shifted your weight defensively from one foot to the other.

“Right.” He nodded slowly.

“And mandatory customer honesty.”

“I thought that was not an actual service.” He tilted his head slightly.

“It is explicitly reserved for recurring problems.” You tapped your fingernail nervously against the wooden counter.

He smiled fully then but the heavy softness stayed completely anchored in his eyes. “I genuinely like it here.”

“You said that before.” You swallowed hard.

“I fully meant it before.” He took a very small step closer to the counter.

“Because people finally leave you alone.” You looked down at your coffee.

“Because people finally leave me alone,” he agreed softly. He waited for you to look back up before finishing his thought. “And because you absolutely do not.”

That sentence did not arrive loudly. It completely did not need to. It entered your chest quietly and immediately took up entirely too much space.

You just stared at him.

Harry actually looked nervous.

That was the exact part that completely undid you.

Not the words themselves though they were certainly bad enough. It was the small and sudden uncertainty right after them. He seemed suddenly hyper aware that he had just placed something fragile directly at your feet. He clearly had absolutely no idea whether you would step carefully around it or finally pick it up.

You absolutely should have stepped right around it.

Instead you loosened your grip on the cardboard cup. Your voice came out much quieter than you ever intended.

“I leave you alone.”

“No you really do not.” His crooked smile returned though it was barely there. “You constantly correct me. You judge my private book opinions. You make me pay full retail price. You explicitly tell me when I am being vague.”

You lifted your chin. “That is basic customer service.”

“It absolutely is not.”

“It genuinely should be.”

“Maybe.” He looked back down at the heavily annotated book in his hand. “But it is not what people usually do.”

Your heart hurt in a very specific way you absolutely did not trust.

Fame you were slowly learning was not only being constantly adored. It was being handled. Managed. Softened around. It meant being laughed at entirely too loudly or simply never challenged at all. People became painfully careful near him even when they actively pretended not to be. They always wanted something. Or they feared wanting something. Or they were terrified of becoming a public story. You completely understood it because you had felt the sharp edge of it too. Even now and even after four full Saturdays some stubborn part of your mind still occasionally reminded you exactly who he was.

But that voice was getting much quieter.

That was highly dangerous too.

Before you could offer an answer the bell over the glass door rang loudly. Three people rushed inside laughing and vigorously shaking heavy rain from their umbrellas. The fragile moment completely broke apart. Harry stepped back at once. You turned toward the till with a suffocating mix of relief and regret moving through your chest in equal measure.

The rest of the long shift passed in fractured pieces.

Harry stayed but the shop grew steadily busier. He quickly retreated to the dusty poetry shelf when a group of university students recognised him too obviously. You watched him from the front counter. He stood completely still beneath the flickering wall lamp with his book open in one hand and his head bent low. He seemed perfectly calm but you were beginning to intimately know the difference between actual calm and practised stillness. Twice he looked up toward the rainy window. Once he looked directly at you.

You looked away first.

At closing time Priya left with Mr Calder. They both squeezed under the exact same large umbrella because Mr Calder firmly believed owning more than one umbrella actively encouraged personal weakness. Priya glanced back through the wet glass before they disappeared down the dark street. She raised her eyebrows in a highly specific way that promised an annoying text message later. You completely pretended not to see her.

Harry was still inside.

“You do not actually have to stay while I close,” you said as you turned the metal key to lock the till drawer.

Harry leaned against the edge of the front table. “I know.”

“You say that a lot.” You pulled the key free and dropped it into your pocket.

“I mean it sometimes.”

“And other times?”

“I am just hoping you will let me stay anyway.”

You stopped moving and looked up.

He was standing near the front display table with both hands buried deep in his coat pockets. His dark curls were falling forward slightly from where he had pushed them back entirely too many times. Outside the heavy rain blurred the streetlights into long yellow streaks. The small shop smelled strongly of damp wool and old paper and the expensive coffee neither of you had actually finished.

You absolutely should have asked him to leave.

Instead you pointed toward the heavy box resting near the front display. “You can carry that box to the back room if you are violently determined to be useful.”

His entire face lit up.

It was completely ridiculous how pleased he looked to be officially assigned manual labour.

You crossed your arms. “Careful. It is extremely heavy.”

“I am strong.” He rolled his shoulders back.

“You say that exactly like a man who has never actually carried hardbacks.”

“I have carried many heavy things.”

“Stadium expectations?”

He laughed out loud as he lifted the cardboard box. “Among others.”

It was definitely too heavy. You could easily tell because his expression changed for half a second before he smoothly recovered. His sharp jaw tightened just slightly. You raised a single eyebrow.

“Fine?” you asked smoothly.

“Completely.” He adjusted his grip.

“Regretting the unearned confidence?”

“Never.”

“That is exactly how backs get injured.”

He stubbornly carried it toward the back room anyway. You followed closely behind him and turned off the small reading lamps as you went. The back room was much more of a cupboard than an actual room. It was crammed full of extra stock and cleaning supplies and old posters and the mysterious ceiling leak Mr Calder heavily insisted was not a leak despite the plastic bucket sitting directly beneath it. Harry set the box down with far more care than his bruised pride required.

“There,” he announced softly.

“Truly heroic.”

“I thought so.”

“You may eventually receive a commemorative bookmark.”

He looked around the cramped and dusty room with deep amusement. “Is this where books go to be completely forgotten?”

“This is where books patiently wait to be loved by someone specific enough.”

“That is a much nicer answer.”

“I am sometimes nice.” You leaned against the doorframe.

“I had my suspicions.”

You smiled despite yourself and turned to leave. But Harry did not move out of the way quickly enough in the very narrow space. For one breathless second you were both entirely too close. Not touching. Not trapped. Just close enough that you noticed the fresh rain on his wool coat again. You felt the radiating warmth of him in the tiny freezing room. You caught the faint scent of his expensive cologne hiding perfectly beneath the smell of paper dust. His green eyes dropped straight to your mouth for the smallest and most devastating fraction of a second.

Your breath completely caught in your throat.

Harry stepped back immediately.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

You shook your head much too quickly. “It is fine.”

“It is a very small room.” He cleared his throat.

“Yes.”

“Very small.”

“Famously.”

He let out a quiet and shaky laugh but neither of you looked remotely amused.

You moved past him first. You were incredibly careful not to brush against his coat though somehow actively avoiding the contact made the total absence of it feel much louder. Back out in the main shop you turned off the final lamp near the poetry section leaving only the bright front light on. Harry followed much more slowly.

The rain had worsened.

Of course it had.

You looked out the front window and sighed heavily.

Harry came to stand right beside you keeping a very careful physical distance now. “Do you have an umbrella?”

“Yes.” You began buttoning your coat.

“Is it the tiny one with the broken metal rib?”

You turned your head to glare at him. “How do you know about my umbrella?”

“You actively fought with it last week.”

“I did not fight with it.”

“You loudly called it a traitor.”

“It completely betrayed me.”

“So yes.” He smirked.

You looked back at the relentless rain. It was coming down hard in silver slanted sheets under the glowing streetlights. People hurried past the glass with their collars turned up and their own umbrellas bending violently in the heavy wind. The dark pavement shone black and dangerously slick.

“I will be totally fine,” you said firmly.

“I can walk you to the tube.”

“No.”

“That was very quick.”

“I explicitly told you last time.” You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck.

“I remember.”

“Then why bother asking?”

“Because it is currently raining like the actual end of days and your tiny umbrella has severe moral failings.”

You bit the inside of your cheek extremely hard because he was genuinely funny and that was becoming a very real problem.

“I am not interested in becoming blurry internet evidence of your sudden chivalry.”

“I am not trying to be photographed with you,” he said softly. “I am just trying to stop you from drowning.”

“Very noble.”

“I have my moments.”

“You also have strangers who follow you.”

His face completely sobered.

The humour left his face gently. It did not vanish like a slammed door. It faded slowly like a dimming light.

“I know,” he said quietly.

You desperately wished he would stop saying things exactly like that. Not because the words were wrong. Because they simply carried way too much weight. I know. I am fully aware of the massive problem I bring into quiet rooms. I know it is completely unfair. I know there is absolutely no way to make my complicated life touch yours without leaving heavy marks.

You looked away and stared out the dark window.

Harry spoke very carefully. “I can leave first.”

You shook your head. “That is not what I meant.”

“I know.” He shifted his weight. “But I can.”

The offer was incredibly quiet and completely immediate. It bothered you far more than a loud argument ever would have. You did not actually want him to leave. That was the real issue. Plain and entirely inconvenient. You did not want him to walk out into the freezing rain just so you could feel sensible. You did not want to be careful enough to miss the moment entirely.

You rubbed your thumb repeatedly along the rough canvas strap of your tote bag. “You can walk me to the corner.”

Harry snapped his eyes right back to yours.

“The corner,” you repeated firmly. “Not the tube. Not my flat. Not into a tabloid scandal.”

“The corner,” he agreed softly.

“And you will not make it weird.” You pointed a strict finger at him.

“I will try very hard.”

“That is not comforting.”

He took a slow step toward the door. “I will make it a normal amount of weird.”

“There is no normal amount.”

“With us I suspect there might be.”

You just looked at him.

He looked right back.

Us.

He had said it so lightly. Almost completely carelessly. But the heavy word stayed hovering in the air anyway.

You pulled your thick coat on and buttoned it up. The two of you stepped out into the bitter rain together.

The freezing cold hit first. Then came the sound. Heavy rain hammering on umbrellas. Water rushing in the street gutters. Tyres splashing loudly through deep puddles and drops tapping against metal shop signs. Harry snapped his umbrella open above you both before you had even fully wrestled yours from your canvas bag. It was massive enough to easily cover the space between you. It was black and incredibly sturdy and completely unlike your own useless folded thing.

“I said the corner,” you reminded him as you stepped out from the awning.

“I heard.”

“You are already taking liberties with umbrella coverage.”

“I thought this was efficient.” He held the handle steady against the driving wind.

“It is presumptuous.”

He glanced down at you. “Would you like to use the traitor?”

You looked out at the torrential rain and then back at him. He smiled.

You stepped closer under his umbrella with a heavy sigh. “This means absolutely nothing.”

“Of course.”

“I am only choosing dryness.”

“A practical woman.”

“Deeply.”

You started walking.

At first neither of you spoke a single word. The warm shop window glowed behind you as you moved down the wet pavement. Your dark reflections briefly caught in the glass before the rain completely swallowed them. Harry held the heavy umbrella high enough for you both. His arm stayed incredibly close to yours but strictly did not touch. He walked very slowly. He matched your exact pace without making it feel obvious. That was exactly the kind of thing you immediately noticed and desperately did not want to notice. The quiet physical adjustments. The small and constant courtesies. The easy way he always made room.

The corner was not very far.

It was entirely too close actually.

You reached it before you had found a single thing to say.

Harry stopped directly beneath the glowing streetlamp. The heavy rain blurred the sharp edges of his face. The yellow light caught on the wet curls clinging near his temple. It flashed against the silver rings on his hand as he shifted the weight of the umbrella.

“Well,” you said into the cold air.

“Well.” He looked down at you.

“Thank you for the four minute escort.”

“Anytime.”

You crossed your arms defensively over your chest. “That sounded entirely too available.”

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

He looked down at his boots smiling faintly. “I will work on that.”

You absolutely should have said goodbye right then.

Instead you looked across the flooded street toward the bus stop. A miserable cluster of people stood tightly hunched under their umbrellas. Then you looked toward the glowing tube entrance a bit farther down. Everything looked wet and crowded and entirely unappealing. The sudden thought of going home to your freezing flat and eating something utterly inadequate over the kitchen sink and reading dense manuscripts until your eyes physically hurt filled you with a strange and very sharp loneliness.

Harry seemed to instantly sense the hesitation.

Or maybe he just deeply hoped for it.

“There is a café around the corner,” he said carefully. “It stays open late.”

You looked back up at him.

“I am not asking as a celebrity,” he added quickly. “Or as a man with a suspicious umbrella.”

“Suspicious?”

“It is very large.”

“It is.”

He tightened his grip on the handle. “I am asking as someone who still has thoughts about the middle of that book and absolutely no one else to annoy with them.”

Your mouth twitched betraying you completely.

Harry watched it happen with incredibly dangerous hope.

“It is absolutely not a date,” you said pulling your coat tighter around yourself.

He nodded at once as he stepped onto the wet pavement. “Not a date.”

“It is a strict continuation of customer service.” You kept your eyes firmly straight ahead.

“Absolutely.” He kept his pace perfectly matched to yours.

“After hours customer service.” You carefully side stepped a large puddle.

“Which sounds highly illegal.” He stepped closer under the umbrella to block the bitter wind.

“Probably is.” You tucked your chin deep into your warm scarf.

“I will pay heavily in pastry.” He glanced down at you.

“You already did.” You tightened your grip on your canvas tote.

“Then I am officially in debt.” He smiled out at the dark street.

The freezing rain came down harder. Heavy drops bounced wildly off the slick pavement right around your shoes.

You just looked at him standing there under the black umbrella. He was famous and completely ridiculous and painfully careful. There were so many massive reasons to say no. Sensible reasons. Adult reasons. Reasons with very clean lines and bright caution signs. You could easily list them all if you needed to. His massive life was nothing at all like yours. His sudden attention could not possibly be simple. You had already seen curious people watching him through wet glass windows. You absolutely knew better than to imagine yourself completely immune to the heavy consequences of being near someone the entire world constantly wanted to touch.

But he had actually read the book.

He had perfectly remembered your coffee.

He had looked genuinely relieved when Mr Calder cared far more about poetry than fame.

And you were suddenly completely exhausted of being careful in a quiet life that had never really rewarded you for it.

“Thirty minutes,” you finally said looking up at him.

Harry let his smile arrive very slowly. He looked like he was trying hard not to let it become entirely too much. “Thirty minutes.”

“And if the café is full we part ways exactly like adults.” You pointed a stern finger at his chest.

“Exactly like adults.” He nodded solemnly.

“Do you actually know how to do that?” You crossed your arms defensively.

“No,” he said softly looking down at his heavy boots. “But I am highly willing to learn.”

You laughed completely despite yourself.

The corner café was small and incredibly narrow. The front windows were completely fogged with white steam. It sat quietly on a side street you very rarely used. It was tucked neatly beneath a dark flat with wooden flower boxes full of dead winter stems. The warm inside smelled intensely of dark coffee and melted butter and wet wool. A few quiet people sat scattered at tiny tables. Most of them were hunched over glowing laptops or talking very softly in pairs. Absolutely nobody looked up for more than a second when you and Harry entered. That was perhaps the absolute most romantic thing that could have ever happened.

Harry stopped near the entrance to shake the heavy rain from his umbrella.

You immediately chose the tiny table in the far back corner. You were absolutely not reckless enough to pretend basic privacy did not matter. Harry completely noticed. He did not make a single comment. He only followed closely behind you and sat directly opposite. He folded himself into the small wooden chair with the slightly awkward grace of a very tall man trying desperately not to take up too much space.

A tired waitress came over to the table. You quickly ordered tea because coffee at that late hour would have sent your nervous system into complete litigation. Harry ordered tea too. He glanced across the small table at you the exact second the waitress walked away.

“What?” you asked narrowing your eyes.

“I completely panicked again.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“You do not actually drink tea?” You leaned forward slightly.

“I do.” He gestured vaguely toward the counter.

“Then why panic?”

“There were entirely too many options.” He pointed at the handwritten chalkboard menu.

“You literally perform in front of thousands of screaming people.” You stared at him in pure disbelief.

“That is entirely different.” He shifted comfortably in his chair.

“Different how?” You tilted your head.

“I know exactly what to do with a microphone.” He offered a highly defensive shrug.

“And not chamomile?” You raised one sceptical eyebrow.

He laughed and leaned comfortably back in his wooden chair. “Exactly.”

You smiled straight down at the scarred tabletop.

This was a massive mistake.

Not because it actually felt bad. Because it absolutely did not. It felt far too easy. You were sitting directly across from him in the warm back corner of a late night café while heavy rain softened the glass windows and the entire world simply forgot to interrupt. The bookshop had strict rules. Customer and professional bookseller. A solid wooden counter firmly between you. Priya lingering nearby. Mr Calder hiding in the back. The loud bell over the door constantly reminding you that people eventually came and went. Here those safe rules completely blurred. Here Harry was not buying a single thing from you. Here you had actively agreed to stay.

Only thirty minutes.

You quickly checked the glowing time on your phone and slapped it facedown on the table.

Harry noticed that small movement too. “Do you actually have somewhere to be?”

“Yes.” You slipped your hands safely into your lap.

“Where?” He tilted his head.

“Home.” You held his gaze perfectly steady.

“Urgent?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Always.” You offered a completely deadpan look. “My dirty laundry deeply misses me.”

“Does it?” He leaned closer across the small table.

“It has severe attachment issues.” You picked nervously at a scratch on the wooden table.

“Sounds incredibly serious.” He rested his chin on his hand.

“It is.” You nodded solemnly.

The hot tea arrived in wildly mismatched cups with a small ceramic pot placed right between you. Harry reached out for the handle and then suddenly paused. “Do I pour?”

“You may attempt it.” You gestured vaguely toward the pot.

“Very high stakes.” He hovered his hand cautiously over the ceramic lid.

“Extremely.” You leaned back in your chair to give him room.

He poured the hot liquid incredibly carefully. He somehow managed not to spill a single drop and looked entirely too proud of himself when he slid the full cup across the table to you.

“Congratulations,” you said taking it safely by the handle. “You have successfully completed tea.”

“I feel profoundly changed.” He tapped the table in victory.

“You absolutely should.”

He added a splash of milk to his own cup and then poured in entirely too much sugar. You judged him completely silently until he caught your exact expression.

“What?” He dropped the empty sugar packet onto the table.

“Nothing.” You quickly looked away.

“That is exclusively my answer.” He pointed a sugar coated spoon directly at you.

“I am temporarily borrowing it.” You offered a completely innocent smile.

“You are actively judging my sugar.” He stirred his cup with completely unnecessary force.

“I would absolutely never.” You took a tiny sip of your perfectly bitter tea.

“You absolutely would.” He tapped the silver spoon against the rim of his cup.

“I am simply concerned your tea has officially become a dessert.” You placed your cup gently back onto the saucer.

“I like sweet things.” He took a deliberately long drink.

“Clearly.” You rolled your eyes toward the ceiling.

His green eyes lifted very slowly to meet yours.

The simple sentence had not been remotely flirtatious until the heavy silence immediately after it made it so.

You looked straight down at your chipped cup.

Harry did not push it. He did that again. He only smiled faintly and went back to stirring his tea. The small metal spoon clinked softly against the cheap china.

For a long while you just talked about the annotated book because it was infinitely safer. He argued about the unbearable narrator. You fiercely defended her. He laughingly accused you of siding with difficult women only because you were one. You told him difficult women were usually only women who had been inconvenienced by total idiots for entirely too long. He accepted this profound truth with the exact solemnity it deserved.

Then the quiet conversation slowly moved. It drifted the way conversations sometimes did when absolutely no one was steering them carefully enough.

He asked what specific kind of books you actually wanted to edit one day.

The direct question completely surprised you.

Not because no one had ever asked you that before. It surprised you because Harry asked it as though the actual answer mattered far beyond basic politeness. He leaned forward slightly and wrapped both of his large hands around his cup. He simply waited. The warm café light fell beautifully across his face and completely softened the deep tiredness you had noticed earlier around his eyes. Without the constant movement of the bookshop around you he looked much more exposed somehow. He looked entirely like the quiet man hiding beneath all the public noise.

You looked down into your dark tea. “Good ones.”

He laughed. “That is incredibly vague.”

“I learned from an absolute master.” You offered a small shrug.

“Fair.” He smiled broadly. “More specific please.”

You heavily considered giving him a deflective joke. Something easy about books with proper punctuation or dense novels where absolutely nobody described the sky as bruised. But he just waited patiently and the raw truth rose up in your throat before you could properly soften it.

“I want to publish books that make people feel slightly less strange,” you said quietly as you traced the rim of your cup.

Harry’s entire expression shifted.

You kept your eyes glued to the ceramic cup because saying this out loud while looking directly at him felt like entirely too much. “Not better necessarily. Not perfectly fixed. I do not actually think books fix people. But sometimes you read a specific sentence and think oh. Someone else has actually been here too. Someone else finally knew exactly how to say it. I really like that.”

The ambient café noise seemed to completely soften around you. Rain ticked gently against the thick glass window. Somewhere near the front entrance a man laughed very quietly into his phone.

Harry did not speak for a very long moment.

When you finally gathered the courage to look up you found his face had gone completely still.

“What?” you asked feeling suddenly and deeply embarrassed. “Too earnest?”

“No.” He shook his head slowly.

“You look like I have deeply alarmed you.” You pulled your hands safely back into your lap.

“No,” he said again much softer. “That was just a very good answer.”

Your cheeks instantly warmed. “Do not sound so surprised.”

“I am completely not.” He rested his chin on his folded hands.

“You are a little bit.” You accused him softly.

“I am just deeply impressed.” He let his thumb slowly brush the side of his cup. “Entirely different thing.”

You looked quickly away but not before you saw the very small and genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You pushed your empty teacup an inch forward. “What about you?”

Harry blinked in mild surprise. “Me?”

”What do you actually want to make?” You rested your elbows on the table.

He leaned back slightly in his small wooden chair. “Music usually.”

“Funny.” You gave him a perfectly flat look.

“I genuinely thought so”. He offered a completely unapologetic smile.

“You know exactly what I mean”. You tapped your fingernail against the table.

Harry looked directly down into his tea. For the very first time that evening the incredibly easy rhythm between you shifted into something much more careful. He stirred the dark liquid even though the massive amount of sugar had long since dissolved.

“do not actually know,” he finally said.

You simply sat back and waited for the rest of it.

He looked up and then straight back down again. “That sounds completely awful does it not? Like I should have a very grand and polished answer ready”.

“You absolutely do not need one.” You softened your voice.

“People always expect one.” He gripped the edge of the table.

“I am not people.”

His green eyes snapped right back to yours.

The words had left your mouth entirely too simply but they completely changed the air in the tiny cafe anyway. Harry looked at you as if you had just reached straight across the table and touched the bare skin of his hand.

“No” he whispered. “You absolutely are not”

Your heart immediately started beating far too hard.

You quickly wrapped your trembling fingers back around the warm cup. “So?”

“So” He breathed out a long sigh while searching for the words. “ I think I want to make things that actually feel true. Whatever that even means. I have spent a massive amount of time being impressive or at least actively trying to be. Sometimes I really miss not having to be”.

The raw honesty was not polished at all. That made the confession infinitely worse.

“You do not have to be impressive all the time,” you told him softly.

Harry smiled faintly. “You say that exactly like it is simple.”

“It is simple.” You held his gaze. “It is just not easy”.

He looked at you for a very long moment. “That sounds exactly like one of your handwritten staff cards.”

“It can be yours for twelve ninety nine.” You offered a small shrug.

“Everything costs twelve ninety nine with you.” He laughed quietly.

“I deeply believe in consistency”

He smiled broadly but the incredibly serious thing stayed anchored right between you.

You suddenly wondered what his actual life felt like when absolutely no one was watching. Then you immediately wondered if there was even such a thing anymore. Perhaps that was the real reason he kept coming back to the shop. Not because no one saw him there but because you simply saw him differently. Not better. Not more purely. You were absolutely not that naive. But less usefully maybe. Less like he was simply meant to become a story you could eventually tell someone else.

Harry’s gaze dropped to your canvas tote bag sitting on the empty chair beside you. The green fabric had slumped completely open. It fully revealed the thick corner of a manuscript and a packet of mint gum and two red pens and your terribly broken umbrella. It also revealed the familiar poetry collection you had permanently borrowed from the shop because you were still deeply annoyed you had sold the original secondhand copy to him.

He smiled at the mess. “That bag is holding on for dear life.”

“Do not actively insult her.” You reached over and pulled the canvas edges together. “She has been through a lot”.

“She?” He raised a highly amused eyebrow.

“Obviously.” You patted the top of the bag.

“What is her name then?” He leaned forward again.

“She does not have a name.” You sat back up.

“Seems incredibly cruel.”

“She possesses quiet dignity without one.”

“She has a massive coffee stain.” He pointed directly at the bottom corner.

“Many highly dignified women do.” You lifted your chin.

Harry laughed a real and bright sound that filled the corner. “Why do you carry so much everywhere?”

“Because I am a woman with heavy responsibilities.”

“That manuscript looks brutally heavy.” He gestured toward the exposed pages.

“It is.”

“Is it actually good?”

You glanced down at the printed pages. “No.”

“Then why bother carrying it?” He tilted his head.

“Because it is my professional job to know exactly why it is not good.” You smoothed your hand over the table.

“That sounds entirely painful.”

“It is sometimes deeply satisfying.”

“You just enjoy judging things.” He offered a knowing smirk.

“I purely enjoy understanding exactly why they fail.”

His teasing smile completely softened. “That is slightly less mean.”

“I am far less mean than I appear.” You defended yourself quietly.

“I know.” He held your gaze.

“You keep saying that.” Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Because I actually do.” He did not look away.

You held his intense gaze for one second entirely too long before panic set in. You quickly snapped your attention down to your phone sitting on the table.

Thirty minutes had somehow magically become forty seven.

“Oh,” you said as you grabbed the phone.

Harry followed your sudden movement. “I have kept you.”

“You absolutely have.” You pushed your chair back.

“I am so sorry.” He looked genuinely guilty.

“You do not have to sound completely tragic.” You stood up and pulled your coat straight. “I stayed entirely willingly.”

His face brightened just a tiny bit. “Did you?”

“Do not make me instantly regret saying that out loud.” You slung the heavy tote bag over your shoulder.

“I will try very hard.” He stood up slowly from his own chair.

You adjusted the heavy canvas strap and Harry reached out for it completely automatically.

You instantly pulled the bag out of his reach.

He froze with his hand still suspended in the empty air between you.

Then he lowered his hand. He looked entirely sheepish. “Sorry.”

You softened completely despite yourself. “It is all right.”

“I was not actually trying to be weird.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I know.” You adjusted the heavy strap on your shoulder.

“It just looks very heavy.” He pointed a single finger at the canvas bag.

“It is.”

“I can clearly carry it.” He took a small step forward.

“You absolutely cannot carry my bag.” You took a deliberate step back.

“Why not?” He tilted his head.

“Because then I will have to officially explain to myself why I allowed Harry Styles to carry a heavy tote full of mediocre manuscripts through London.” You clutched the bag tighter to your side. “And I do not have that kind of emotional stamina tonight.”

He smiled very slowly. “You just said my full name.”

“Did I?” You blinked up at him.

“You definitely did.”

“It must have been a severe medical episode.” You pushed your wooden chair back and stood up.

“Probably.” He stood up right alongside you.

At the small front counter he paid before you could even open your mouth to argue. That obviously made you argue anyway. You just kept it completely quiet because the young waitress looked incredibly tired.

“It was my idea,” he said pulling his dark wallet from his pocket.

“It was absolutely not a date.” You glared at the side of his head.

“I did not say it was.” He tapped his card against the machine.

“You are paying exactly like it was.”

“I am paying like someone who interrupted your evening and officially owes you for tea.” He slipped the card safely back into his coat pocket.

“That is suspiciously close to actual date logic.” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“Is it?” He turned to look down at you.

“Yes.”

“Then you can pay next time.”

You stopped completely dead in your tracks.

Harry immediately stopped too.

Next time.

He had not said it loudly. He had not even seemed fully aware of the words until your face completely changed. Then he looked briefly and beautifully nervous.

The tired waitress handed him the crumpled receipt and actively pretended not to listen to a single word.

You tucked your heavy tote higher on your shoulder. “Next time?”

“If there is one.” He shoved the receipt into his pocket and waited.

You could have easily escaped into a deflective joke. You very nearly did.

Instead you walked straight toward the door and pushed it open. “Maybe.”

Behind you Harry let out a quiet laugh that followed you out into the dark like a sudden wave of warmth.

Outside the freezing rain had finally softened to a heavy mist. The dark street shone beautifully beneath the yellow streetlights. The damp air smelled strongly of wet stone and roasted coffee. Harry opened his black umbrella anyway. He held it directly between you with a silent question in his green eyes rather than an arrogant assumption.

You stepped smoothly beneath it.

Neither of you commented on that fact at all.

The walk to the tube station was incredibly short. This time you let him come all the way to the very end.

It was not remotely sensible. You knew that. You also knew that the wet street was relatively quiet. The heavy rain had thinned. Harry walked right beside you without touching you. He did not make a ridiculous spectacle of protectiveness. He did not do anything other than simply being there. His quiet presence felt both completely impossible and oddly easy. You did not know what to do with that fact at all.

At the glowing tube entrance people moved quickly past in their damp coats and winter impatience. You stopped carefully beneath the concrete awning. Harry lowered the large umbrella and gave it a small shake.

“Well,” you said staring out at the mist.

“You always say that when you want to leave but do not know how.” He leaned against the metal railing.

You looked directly at him. “I absolutely do not do that.”

“You definitely do.”

“You know me very well now do you?” You raised a highly sceptical eyebrow.

“No,” he said softly. There was that terrifying and careful honesty again. “But I would really like to.”

The loud noise of the busy street seemed to instantly thin out into nothing.

You looked straight down at your boots because looking at his face felt far too dangerous. A single drop of rain had landed perfectly on the leather toe of one boot. Your thick canvas strap cut painfully into your shoulder. Your mobile phone sat in your pocket feeling heavy with the demands of the ordinary world. The tube entrance glowed brightly right behind you. It was entirely ready to swallow you back into perfect sense.

Harry shifted his weight slightly. When you finally looked back up he seemed nervous.

Actually genuinely nervous.

Not performative. Not flirtatiously pretending. His mouth opened and then immediately closed. He pushed one large hand violently through his damp curls. It was a frustration so deeply human it nearly completely ruined you on the spot.

“I was genuinely going to ask for your number in a very casual way,” he admitted quietly.

Your traitorous heart lifted incredibly bright in your chest.

“And?” You clutched your bag tighter.

“And I have officially discovered I am absolutely not casual about it.” He dropped his hand back to his side.

You just stared at him.

Then because the only alternative was letting that massive sentence hit you directly in the chest you spoke up. “That is highly unfortunate.”

His laugh came out completely relieved and a little bit shaky. “A bit.”

“You have officially known me for exactly four Saturdays.” You pointed a stern finger at him.

“I know.”

“You buy heavy books from me.”

“Yes.” He nodded.

“And hot coffee.”

“Yes.”

“And extremely expensive almond air.”

“That was literally one time.” He smiled.

“This is absolutely not a firm foundation.” You shook your head.

“No?” He took a very small step closer.

“No.”

“What would be?” He looked down at you.

You looked at him for a very long moment.

The famous answer would have been completely impossible. Total privacy. Absolute normalcy. A clear way to exist peacefully beside him without being completely consumed by the deafening noise constantly around him. But this was absolutely not the time for the famous answer. You were not there yet. He was still just a quiet man standing under a concrete awning. He was asking for your phone number with his heart entirely too visible on his face.

So you gave him the completely ordinary answer.

“Reading the actual books I recommend.” You held his gaze perfectly steady.

His smile broke wide open.

“I can easily do that.” He nodded.

“And not texting me random song lyrics.” You warned him softly.

“I was absolutely not planning to.”

“You look exactly like a man who might.” You narrowed your eyes.

“What does that actually mean?” He laughed.

“You know exactly what it means.”

“I do actually.” He ducked his head slightly.

“If you send me a single song lyric I will immediately block you.” You pointed directly at his chest.

“What about a book quote?”

“Infinitely worse.”

“A picture of my highly annotated receipt?”

“Deeply concerning.”

“Coffee order?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Acceptable.” You allowed a tiny smile.

He laughed warmly and then immediately handed you his unlocked phone.

For one full second you only looked down at it.

This was a massive threshold. You intimately knew it in that strange and quiet way people sometimes know when a very small action is not small at all. Taking his phone would not magically mean everything. It would not make any grand promises. It would not instantly make you a complete fool. But it would explicitly move him right out of the safe bookshop and directly into the rest of your actual life. You were not entirely sure you were completely ready for exactly how much you wanted that.

Harry did not rush you at all.

That was exactly what finally made you take it.

You quickly typed in your number. You saved your contact simply as Y/N because absolutely anything else felt entirely too bold. When you finally handed it back his warm fingers brushed directly against yours. This time neither of you pretended not to notice the contact.

He looked straight down at the glowing screen.

Then he looked right back at you.

“I will text you when I get home,” he said quietly.

You raised a single eyebrow. “You are meant to wait a dignified amount of time.”

“What exactly is dignified?” He slipped the phone securely into his coat pocket.

“Longer than ten actual minutes.”

“I do not like my chances at all.” He offered a small shrug.

“At dignity?”

“At waiting.”

Your entire stomach warmed completely.

You pointed a thumb toward the concrete stairs right behind you. “Goodbye Harry.”

He smiled. It was incredibly soft and deeply pleased and still just a little bit nervous. “Goodbye Y/N.”

You turned around very quickly before you could do something incredibly foolish like smile back at him for entirely too long.

The loud tube station swallowed you up in warm air and the smell of stale metal. You quickly tapped your card through the barrier. You descended the steep stairs and quietly joined the small tired crowd waiting on the underground platform. The train was currently delayed. Naturally. London absolutely loved to humble people right at the exact moments of highest emotional significance. You stood there with your heavy canvas tote resting at your feet and your coat feeling damp at the shoulders. You just stared into the pitch dark tunnel and tried incredibly hard not to feel like something massive had just officially begun.

Your mobile phone buzzed loudly in your pocket right before the train arrived.

You squeezed your eyes completely shut.

Unknown number.

This is not a song lyric.

A second message arrived immediately before you could even stop yourself from smiling.

It is also not casual.

You pressed your lips tightly together but it was completely useless. The wide smile came anyway. It was completely ridiculous and deeply private and absolutely impossible to control.

Across the platform a tired woman glanced at you and then immediately looked away again.

You looked back down at the glowing screen. You stared at the words he had sent entirely too soon with absolutely no dignity at all.

Then your thumbs moved and you typed back.

You lasted exactly six minutes.

His reply popped up almost instantly.

I panicked.

You laughed quietly entirely under your breath.

The loud train rushed violently into the station. The sudden wind pushed heavily at your damp coat and messy hair. You stepped forward with the rest of the crowd. Your own reflection flashed brightly in the dark train glass for a split second right as the metal doors opened. You looked damp and completely tired. You were holding a canvas tote bag that was far too heavy and a mobile phone that suddenly felt incredibly dangerous.

Right before you put the phone away another message appeared.

Worth it.

You just stared at the glowing words until the warning doors began to beep loudly.

Then you stepped onto the train smiling exactly like a complete idiot. You hated yourself only a tiny little bit for it.