Rara @rara1dtpwk - Tumblr Blog

Jul 12

He said we could be friends

Summary: When Y/N and Harry broke up, he promised to stay friends. Then he vanished. Three years later, he’s back, turning her life upside down again. Between old grudges, impulsive kisses, and lingering touches, Y/N wonders if she ever really moved on.

Word count: 10k

Warnings: mention of mental health issues (depression), angst, smut

A/N: Okay! This is an emotional one, full of nostalgia and longing and lots of angst. I started it two years ago (omg) and came back to it recently. Y/N is a med student here, in the first couple years of school (excuse any inconsistencies pls)

MASTERLIST

***

He said we could be friends. I think about that promise often.

The breakup was as amicable as it could be. We talked in circles until there was nothing left to say, until the truth was staring us in the face: something wasn’t working. It’s never easy walking away from someone you still love, especially after convincing yourself for so long that love could carry you through anything, that love would be enough. It feels naive now, but back then, it looked like hope.

That was three years ago. He said we could be friends. And I never saw him again. Until today.

“Y/N?”

I wish I could say that I didn’t recognize his voice, that I’d forgotten what he sounds like. But I recognized it instantly. Like an old song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every word to.

I turn around to find him standing next to the avocados, wearing a white button-up with the top two buttons undone, his swallow tattoos peeking out. Black pants and scuffed Vans. His hair is longer than I remember but not by much. Nothing like the first year of our relationship, when it fell past his shoulders. I still remember the day he chopped it all off.

“Harry,” I say calmly, even though my heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

“Hey, it’s… nice to see you again.” He steps forward tentatively, shoving his hands into his pockets. “How’ve you been?”

“Good.” I realize how tightly I’m clutching the bag of tomatoes in my hands, and I consciously loosen my grip. “How about you?”

“I’ve been alright.”

“I heard you moved back to London,” I blurt out, unable to stop myself.

He looks down. “Yeah. But I’m here for a few weeks, visiting a friend.” He pauses, clears his throat, and looks back up at me. “So, what’ve you been up to—”

“Excuse me.” A woman tries to pass by Harry with her shopping cart, glaring at him for blocking the aisle.

“Oh, sorry.” He quickly steps aside and refocuses his attention on me. “Maybe we could grab a coffee at the spot next door—”

“I actually have to go. But it was good seeing you again.” I force a smile.

“Oh. Yeah. Good seeing you, too.”

Before he can say anything else, I make a beeline for the exit. It’s only when I’m two feet from the door that I realize I still have the tomatoes I haven’t paid for. I drop them in the nearest shopping cart, feeling only slightly guilty about it, and bolt.

***

For months after the breakup, I wondered what I’d do if I ran into him. I imagined myself falling apart in his arms, confessing how much I missed him and that I love him and that I’m sorry. I knew the breakup wasn’t anyone’s fault, but I still felt guilty for the hurt I’d caused him.

After a year of imagining these emotional reunions that never came, it became clear that I probably wouldn’t see him again. Then I heard he’d moved back to London, and I finally accepted that he was likely gone for good. By that point, my guilt had been displaced by a low-level resentment. He had essentially ghosted me, and I had to find out from someone else that he’d left the country. His decision to cut me off so coldly and abruptly, like severing a necrotized limb, made sense and didn’t at the same time. I understood, yet I was bitter. But I was moving on, too.

A couple months ago marked three years since the breakup. I only realized while lying in bed that night how little I had thought about him that day. He had become a distant memory. It was no wonder that seeing him at the store this morning was so disorienting. It had taken so long to get him out of my goddamn mind, to move on. And then he just materialized out of nowhere, reminding me that I can never fully let go.

I try to forget about the encounter by busying myself with chores when I get home, but it’s hard. My mind keeps drifting back to him, picturing his deep green eyes and wondering which friend he was visiting. We had a lot of mutual friends from college. Could it be one of them?

It’s not until I open my anatomy textbook to prepare for tomorrow’s lecture that I’m able to put the thoughts to rest. Later that evening, I check my friends’ group chat and see that they’re meeting up at Jacki’s tonight. Normally, I would embody the stereotype of the miserable med student by staying in, head buried in my textbooks, but I could use a drink or two tonight.

***

Jacki’s is a board game bar in the middle of town. It opened in my last year of undergrad and quickly became a staple for my friend group. After graduation, everyone got swept up in the whirlwind of new careers and grad school, so we stopped going for a while. We’ve only started going back recently.

It’s busier than usual for a Wednesday night. I head straight to the back. The front of the bar is usually packed with younger people more interested in getting hammered than playing games.

I hear Niall’s laughter before I see him.

“Hey, Y/N’s here!” Leah calls out when she spots me. Next to her is Mateo, her fiance. They started dating after graduation, which was a shock to us all, considering how much they’d despised each other in uni. I attended their engagement party earlier this year.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally emerged from her cave,” Niall teases.

“And I already regret it,” I reply with a sarcastic grin.

“You won’t be saying that once we get some shots in ya.”

I’m distracted by a familiar figure at the table. His back is to me, but as he turns around, his eyes settle on mine.

“Oh, yeah, um, Harry’s here,” says Niall.

“I can see that,” I reply sharply before taking a seat next to Niall. A full shot glass sits in front of him. Without asking, I grab it and knock it back in one go.

“Wh— Hey! Get your own!” Niall protests.

I set the glass down with finality.

“So! What’ve I missed?”

***

I’ve never understood why my friends are so obsessed with drunk Monopoly, especially with the vast selection of board games available at this bar. I have a hunch they’re actually just addicted to arguing. Like a proper dysfunctional family.

Niall is now accusing Leah of stealing money from the bank. Mateo, of course, has to defend his future wife’s honour. I catch Harry’s eye in the midst of the chaos, and he shoots me an amused grin. I’ve been trying my best to avoid eye contact with him without making it obvious, but now I smile back briefly before looking away. I pretend I don’t notice his gaze linger on me for an extra few seconds.

He leaves to go use the restroom a while later.

Leah leans over. “For what it’s worth, we would’ve told you he was coming if we knew you’d be here, but you hardly come out with us anymore.”

“It’s all good,” I say, trying to play it cool. “By the way, do you know where he’s staying?”

Leah and Mateo silently turn to Niall, who coughs awkwardly.

I raise my brows. “He’s staying with you?”

“I was going to tell you, I swear—”

“It’s fine, Niall.”

“Really?”

“No, but I’ll get over it.”

They return to the game as Harry makes his way back to the table. He shifts his chair closer to me this time before sitting down and offering me the plate of fries at the end of the table.

“May I interest you in some fries?” he asks.

I grab one. “Thanks.”

He sets the plate down and eyes me tentatively. “You hate that I’m here.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t need to. I’ve never seen someone sprint out of a supermarket as fast as you did this morning. How far did you get before realizing you were shoplifting tomatoes?”

“I made it to the door before I dropped them in some old lady’s cart.”

He chuckles.

“But seriously,” I add, “I don’t mind that you’re here.”

“You don’t mind? Okay. That’s one step up from ‘I wish you’d fuck off.’”

“It’s not exactly a huge step.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” he says with a shrug.

I try to suppress a grin.

I prepare to head home about an hour later, much to my friends’ dismay. That’s one of the downsides of being in med school while your friends are all established in their careers already—they have a lot more time and energy to stay out late and get drunk than you.

I make it only a few steps out into the pleasant September air when I hear my name. Turning around, I find Harry exiting the bar.

“Can I walk with you?” he asks.

“Are you sure you want to miss drunk Monopoly?”

“I think I’ll survive.”

I laugh. He falls into step beside me as we head in the direction of my apartment. We walk for quite a while without uttering a single word, but the silence feels natural. Like when we’d lie on the couch together, my feet in his lap, each of us buried in our own books or phones, not needing to fill the quiet.

“So, Dr. Y/L/N, I’ve got a question for you,” he says when we’re halfway to my apartment. It’s started drizzling since we left the bar, tiny raindrops kissing the pavement.

“Not a doctor yet,” I reply, smiling. He used to call me “doctor” all the time, his tone always threaded with a mix of teasing and encouragement. I would sometimes correct him, like I did now, but it always left me feeling warm and reassured that he believed in my ability to achieve this endeavour more than I did.

“You’re basically there,” he brushes it off like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Fine. What’s your question?”

His hands slip into his pockets, lips twitching up into a playful grin. “You see, I’ve got this mole on my left butt cheek. I’ve had it since I was a wee child—”

“Shut up.” I whack his arm.

He laughs, the familiar sound instantly putting me at ease. “Congrats on getting into med school, by the way. How’s that been going?”

“It’s been…” I search for the right words to sum up the late nights and the impostor syndrome and the deep feeling of fulfillment that my work brings me. “Challenging but rewarding.”

“You were never one to back down from a challenge.”

I notice the way he says it, like it’s something he has always known about me, and there’s that warm feeling in my chest again. I hesitate before asking, “How was London?”

“London was…” He shrugs, his gaze dropping as he kicks a pebble in his path. “You know. London.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “Oh, don’t be so mysterious. What have you been up to these past few years?”

He looks upward, his eyes tracing the cloudy night sky. “Let’s see. I backpacked through Europe with a couple mates, took some freelance writing gigs while I was traveling, built up some experience. Got back to London and landed a job at a publishing company.”

I can sense there’s more he’s not saying, but I don’t press him.

“Do you like it? The job?” I ask.

“Yeah, for now. I’d like to publish my own work someday. That’s still a work in progress. But for now, I’m content with it.”

When we reach my building, I stop and turn to face him. “Well, this is me.”

“That was a short walk.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking away with an expression I can’t quite place. Like he’s searching for something to say, some way to prolong the moment. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he wants me to invite him inside.

“I suppose I’ll head back then,” he says, his voice trailing off.

“Or you could stay,” I blurt out. “I mean, until the rain stops.” The “rain” is barely a mist, more of a damp kiss on the skin, but it’s easier than admitting I want him to stay.

“Are you sure? If you need to study, I don’t want to intrude—”

“I’m sure.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of us moves. Then he smiles, his shoulders relaxing.

“Alright then. Lead the way.”

***

When we enter my apartment, I can sense Harry taking in how different everything looks. I moved out of the apartment we shared shortly after he disappeared. I couldn’t stay, of course. There were too many little reminders of him—everything from the books he left behind on the bookshelf to the scent of his shampoo that seemed to linger in the bathroom no matter how many times I cleaned the damn thing.

I go to the kitchen and fill a glass of water, the faucet hissing in the silence. Behind me, Harry pulls off his hoodie and drapes it over the arm of the couch to dry.

“You finally got rid of that sofa with the weird stains,” he says, eyeing the smaller one that replaced it.

“I had to part ways with it after the fabric started ripping every time I sat down.”

He chuckles.

I set down my empty glass next to the sink. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Just some water.” He enters the kitchen. I expect him to look in the cupboard for a clean glass, but to my surprise, he grabs mine off the counter and fills it under the tap before chugging it down. He finishes the glass with a satisfied sigh, a subtle smirk on his face as he catches my reaction.

Our proximity makes my pulse race. I take a small step back, my mind racing to find something to say.

“You got a new tattoo.” I point to his right bicep, my fingertip just barely grazing his skin.

He looks down at it. “Yeah. A few, actually.”

That launches a whole conversation about all the new tattoos he got and where he got them. It turns out most of them were from his backpacking trip after the breakup. Some people cope by getting blackout drunk. Others ink their skin. I coped by distracting myself with other men. It worked about as well as you’d expect.

I’m on the couch now with my feet tucked under me, while he sits on my faded floral rug. We broke out my stash of cheap wine, and I start to feel like I’m catching up with an old friend. I almost forget about our history until he says, “I was really happy when Niall told me you’re in med school. I know how hard you worked to get here. How’d it feel when you got in?”

“Surreal. It didn’t even sink in until my first day of class.” I remember the day I found out. I screamed in my room, then called everyone I knew. Everyone except the one person I wanted to tell most.

“I wish you’d called,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to. I mean, you disappeared without even telling me.” I can’t hide the betrayal in my voice.

He rubs the back of his neck, not meeting my gaze. “You broke up with me, Y/N.”

I frown. “It was a mutual decision. And you said we could be friends. Why say that if you didn’t mean it?”

“I did mean it. At the time.”

“Then what changed?”

He shrugs, pulling at a loose thread on the rug. “I didn’t know how to be around you after. I thought I could do it, but I couldn’t.”

“So, instead of telling me that, you ran away. Just ghosted without a word. I had to find out from Niall.” I can feel myself getting heated and I don’t know how to stop.

His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“You still ran.”

“No,” he states firmly. “I left. There’s a difference. And you were the one who walked away first.”

I shake my head. “Bullshit. It was mutual. We both agreed it wasn’t working—”

“I agreed because I loved you. That doesn’t make it mutual,” he snaps, his words coming out sharper than I expected. “I would’ve done anything to make it work. I thought if I just tried harder, if I could just be better, I could fix it. And then you decided to give up.”

I scoff. “You think I just gave up?”

He doesn’t answer, which feels equivalent to twisting the knife.

“I was fucking drowning, Harry. I was getting rejected from every med program. My family took every chance to remind me what a fucking failure I was. I could barely get out of bed some days! And the worst part was seeing how much it was affecting you. Our relationship was barely surviving. I was barely surviving.” My voice catches in my throat. I didn’t even realize tears had welled up in my eyes until now. Embarrassed and angry, I try to blink them away. “Is that why you’re here? To accuse me of giving up on us?”

“No,” he says immediately.

“Then why’d you come back, Harry?”

He lets out a short, humourless laugh. “You know what? I don’t even know.” He stands abruptly, grabs his hoodie, and heads for the door.

“Oh, sure. Run away again. You’re so good at that.”

“Fuck off, Y/N.”

The door slams behind him.

***

You were the one who walked away first.

The words echo in my head, timed cruelly with the slap of my shoes against the pavement. It’s colder than usual. The morning air stings my cheekbones and the tip of my nose but does nothing to dull the ache in my chest.

You decided to give up.

I crank my music higher and push myself harder, lungs and thighs burning with effort, as if I can outrun the sound of his voice in my own head. I don’t stop until Niall’s building comes into view, my body forcing me to slow down. I bend forward, hands braced on my knees, and catch my breath before pulling out my phone to text Niall.

Me: Here!

Niall: Be there in a sec

Niall: Harry’s joining us btw hope that’s ok

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, resisting the urge to turn around and sprint back home.

Me: The more the merrier

They appear a minute later, crossing the parking lot together. Niall is talking animatedly, while Harry walks beside him with his head down, shoulders slightly hunched, not making eye contact with me. My eyes flick briefly to his legs and the absurdly short running shorts that leave little to the imagination.

“Morning, slackers,” I tease, forcing lightness into my tone.

Niall makes a face at me.

We start running, me setting the pace. Usually, these runs with Niall turn into gossip sessions within minutes, but today the air feels tense, heavier. To me, at least. Niall easily launches into a story about something ridiculous a coworker said. Frankly, I’m grateful for the distraction.

As we approach a fork in the trail, I gravitate towards the familiar path.

“Wait,” says Harry.

I slow and turn back.

“We should go the other way,” he says, nodding toward the narrower path. “The view’s nice. I went down there yesterday.”

I glance at Niall, then back at Harry. “That trail is pretty rough. We don’t usually go that way.”

“We don’t have to run it. We could walk, see the view, turn back. It’s not far,” he suggests. “Could be a nice break.”

I raise an eyebrow. “We’ve been running for ten minutes. You need a break already?”

He blinks, clearly not expecting the jab. “Fine. We can run it, then.”

“Fine. Let’s race, actually.”

“Uh, I don’t think that’s a good—” Niall starts.

“What’s the prize?” Harry cuts in.

“Loser buys the winner lunch.” The words come out more flirtatious than I intended. I catch the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Deal,” he says.

“Oi, don’t do anything stupid!” Niall shouts as we take off.

The trail is steep and uneven, tree roots twisting through the ground, creating perfect traps to trip over. I focus on my footing, my breath, and Harry’s footsteps up ahead. Soon enough, I overtake him, triumphant laughter bubbling up from inside me.

“Ah! Fuck!”

I hear a painful thud. Stopping in my tracks, I turn to find Harry on the ground, a pained expression on his face.

“Shit.” I drop down next to him, catching my breath. “Are you okay?”

He rolls onto his side, then sits up, gaze dropping to his knee.

“Oh, fuck.” His eyes widen.

“Let me see.” I lean over to assess the damage. His knee is split open, blood seeping through the torn skin. When I look back up at Harry, his face has gone pale.

Oh.

“Harry, lie down.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are still fixated on the blood oozing from his knee, his breathing shallow and uneven. I grip his shoulders and gently guide him onto his back.

“Hey, you’re okay. Just breathe. Look at me.”

His eyes finally meet mine. He nods, pulling in a shaky breath.

“What the hell happened?!” Niall calls as he jogs up.

“He fell,” I reply.

Niall sees the injury now. “Oof, that looks bad.”

“Give me your sweatshirt,” I tell him.

“My sweatshirt?”

“Please.” I hold out my hand.

He takes it off, revealing an undershirt, and tosses it to me.

“Can you make sure he doesn’t pass out? He’s scared of blood.”

“He is?” Niall immediately kneels by Harry’s head and starts talking to distract him from the bloody mess.

I’m not surprised Niall doesn’t know about Harry’s phobia. It’s something he was always insecure about. I suspected it early in our relationship when he would get squeamish every time I spoke in depth about medical topics. My suspicions were confirmed when I cut myself while chopping vegetables one day, and he nearly passed out at the sight of my blood dripping down the side of the counter.

I press Niall’s sweatshirt against Harry’s knee. He winces.

“Sorry,” I murmur, keeping steady pressure until the bleeding is under control. Then I wrap the sweatshirt around his knee as securely as I can and help him up with Niall’s help.

“I can walk,” Harry insists, hobbling forward on his own.

“Let us help you,” I say, sliding his arm over my shoulders. Niall takes the other side.

“I’m sorry I ruined your run,” Harry says quietly.

“Hush,” I say. “The race was my dumb idea.”

“I would say I told you so, but…” Niall trails off.

I shoot him a glare.

***

Back at Niall’s apartment, Harry sits on the edge of the bed while I clean the wound properly and wrap it with gauze.

“I really am sorry,” he says, again.

“If you apologize one more time, I’m taping the gauze over your mouth.”

He lets out a weak laugh. “I’m just embarrassed.”

“About falling?”

“And nearly passing out.”

“A lot of people are scared of blood,” I say gently. “You’re not special.”

“Good thing you’re the one in med school.”

I smirk. “Yeah.”

“I still owe you lunch.”

I shrug. “We didn’t even finish the race.”

“You were going to beat me anyway.”

I don’t argue.

After wrapping the wound, I say, “I can stick around for a bit. Just to make sure it doesn’t bleed through.”

“Are you sure? You’ve probably got a packed schedule.”

I check my phone. It’s 8 AM. “I have lab at noon. I just need to go home and shower and then I’ll be back.”

Niall drops me off at my place on his way to work. I grab my things, shower quickly, then drive back. Harry lets me in.

“Have you eaten?” I ask.

“I was about to make something.”

“I’ll do it.”

He hesitates. I head to the kitchen before he can protest. After assessing the ingredients in the fridge, I decide to throw together some breakfast burritos. He thanks me when I hand him a plate.

We sit on opposite ends of the couch while we eat.

“Niall’s birthday is coming up,” says Harry.

I nod. “Saturday.”

“I thought I’d cook and host a birthday dinner.”

“Good idea. Niall loves your food.” So do I. “Need help?”

“It’d be nice to have a sous chef.”

I smile. “Sure.”

After breakfast, I work on my laptop while Harry works on his. When my legs get stiff, I extend them in front of me. Harry mirrors me a moment later. My foot brushes his leg. I leave it there. He glances at me. Neither of us says anything.

I start packing up as it gets close to noon. I redress his wound before leaving.

“Thanks, Dr. Y/L/N. I appreciate the help.”

We grin at each other. There’s a moment where I realize I don’t want to leave. A familiar pull threatens to keep me there with him. But I say goodbye, head out, and spend the rest of the day wondering if he felt it, too.

***

Harry loves feeding people. Back in college, he would host cookouts for all our friends. It was a sweet gesture. Everyone appreciated getting a break from ramen noodles every now and then.

I would help out, chopping vegetables, following instructions like a good sous chef. I could see it gave him a deep sense of satisfaction to cook for other people. And I can see now, as he preps food for Niall’s birthday dinner, that none of that has changed.

Leah and Mateo took the birthday boy out on the town and said they’d be back in time for dinner, so Harry and I have the kitchen all to ourselves until then. We slip into our old rhythm. I peel an onion and pass him the garlic before he even reaches for it. I chop the vegetables; he manages the stove. Soon, we’re effortlessly weaving around each other in the tiny kitchen.

I secretly reminisce about all the times we cooked together. A specific Friendsgiving dinner comes to mind. We were hosting at our apartment and barely finished cooking on time because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I remember trying to mash the potatoes while he kept coming up behind me to plant kisses down my neck. We nearly burnt the stuffing because we were too busy making out against the fridge. My lips twitch at the memory, at how badly we wanted each other back then.

A hand on my elbow pulls me back to the present. “Sorry, need a pan,” Harry says, nodding at the cupboard I’m blocking.

I move aside for him, the sensation of his touch still lingering on my skin. I catch his side profile as he stands back up with the pan, using his other hand to push back the curls that have fallen into his eyes.

“Do you still make your banana bread?” I ask. It had quickly become my comfort food when he would make it every time I’d had a bad day or a stressful week.

“Been a while.” He pauses, looks at me. “I can make it for you.”

For you.

I shake my head. “You don’t have to. I was just curious.”

He reaches for the fruit bowl, grabbing a couple of overripe bananas.

“Harry.”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” He starts gathering flour for the bread before I can protest any further.

I watch as he combines several ingredients in a bowl without measuring anything and shake my head in awe.

“I still can’t believe you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Throw things in without measuring.”

He shrugs. “It’s never failed me.”

“I know. It’s infuriating.”

“Hey, you’re good at everything. You’ve got to let me have this one thing.”

I scoff. “I am not good at everything.”

I wasn’t good at keeping you in my life.

“You are. Annoyingly so.” He smirks.

I feel heat creep up my neck. I grab a knife and start chopping tomatoes, needing something to do with my hands.

Later, we’re both standing at the stove, stirring different pots of food, when his phone rings on the counter.

“Can you grab that?” he asks.

I hand over his phone, catching a glimpse of the caller ID.

“Hi, Mum.” He tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder and keeps working.

I’m standing close enough to make out his mom’s responses, though I zone out as they exchange mundane life updates. My ears perk back up when I hear my name.

“How’s Y/N?” his mom asks.

“Good.”

“Have you been spending time together?”

“Mhm.” His curt replies aren’t enough to stop his mom from prying.

“Do you think it’s in the cards?”

“Do I think what’s in the cards?”

“Oh, you know. You and Y/N?”

I try not to outwardly react to any of this so he doesn’t think I’m eavesdropping, but my heart races at his mom’s questions.

He sighs. “I don’t know, Mum.”

“Do you still think the two of you were incompatible?”

“Something like that, yeah.” He turns away briefly, reaching for something on the counter.

I don’t catch his mom’s response.

“Well, that’s part of it,” he says, stirring the pot too aggressively. “Look, Mum, it’s complicated. I don’t really want to get into it.”

“I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to upset you,” his mom says.

“I’m not upset. Just in the middle of something. It’s Niall’s birthday.”

“Oh! Tell him I said happy birthday.”

“I will. Alright now, love you. Call you later.”

“Love you, darling. Bye.”

Harry puts his phone away. Neither of us speaks after that, the light atmosphere from earlier being replaced by an awkward silence. It seems to go on forever until our friends arrive about twenty minutes later. We had invited a few more of Niall’s friends, so with Leah and Mateo, there are seven of us altogether.

Dinner is ready, and everyone digs in. We decide to eat in the living room since Niall’s dining area only seats four people. Harry and I sit on opposite sides of the room from each other. I’m not sure if it was a deliberate choice on either of our parts or if it just happened that way. Our gazes meet every now and then. He’s always the first to look away.

In another world, I’d be sitting next to him, or on the floor at his feet, or in his lap. His hands would find me without thinking, caressing my hip or my shoulder or the back of my neck. I’d steal bites off his plate; he’d pretend not to notice. We’d share amused glances and wine glasses and we’d be happy.

I feel that same magnetic pull towards him the entire night. I don’t give into it. Until he gets up and leaves the room and doesn’t come back for a while. I get curious about what he’s up to and can longer pay attention to whatever conversation is happening in the room.

I get up and collect some dirty dishes, pretending I’m just going to the kitchen to put them away. Instead of rejoining the group, I head over to Harry’s bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, revealing him lying on the bed with an arm over his face. I quietly enter the room, unsure if he’s asleep. Then he moves his arm away from his face to see who just walked in.

I join him on the bed, lying down next to him. We both stare at the ceiling in silence. I’m the first to break it.

“You told your mom we’re incompatible?” I ask, recalling the conversation I overheard on the phone.

“It was easier.”

“Than what?”

“Than explaining that I couldn’t make you want me anymore.” He says it so plainly, without emotion, yet there’s something deeply melancholic in his voice.

“Harry.”

“What? There’s no need to sugarcoat it. I can face the truth.”

“But that’s not the truth.”

“Is it not? You weren’t into me anymore. It’s okay to say that.” It sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than me.

I turn on my side to face him. He continues staring at the ceiling.

“I was depressed, Harry. I couldn’t even enjoy a good meal, let alone sex. It had nothing to do with you. You kept thinking it did, but it didn’t.”

“It was hard to think anything else when I couldn’t make you feel good no matter what I did. I didn’t even know how to touch you anymore.”

“I know,” I reply quietly. “That’s why I ended it. I could see how hard you were trying and how much it was hurting you.”

“It was all I could think about. What could I do more? Why am I not enough? Why?” He whispers the last word, yet it rings louder than the rest, like the unknown was what killed him the most.

“I was drowning, and it took me way too long to realize I was pulling you under with me. I’m sorry.” I let the apology hang in the air for a while before adding for good measure, “You were never the problem. I was.”

He finally looks at me, brows slightly furrowed. “You weren’t.”

“I was,” I insist, my voice hardly above a whisper.

He studies my face for a long moment. His gaze shifts to my lips. He hesitates, then kisses me. I’m taken by surprise, not only by the kiss but the intensity of it, like he had been restraining himself for too long. I kiss him back. Our tongues just barely graze each other when he pulls away.

“Fuck,” he says, running a hand over his face. He sits up and swings his legs off the bed, his back to me.

“Harry—” I push up on one elbow.

“I can’t. I can’t do this again.” He leaves the room before I can say another word.

***

Me: Can we talk?

I text Harry in class the next day. I haven’t been able to focus on anything all day. My mind keeps replaying the kiss and his reaction afterwards. We avoided each other for the rest of the night, and I went home when I couldn’t bear it anymore. I hate that it’s been this way since the day he came back. The awkwardness, the passive aggressive jabs, the resentment mixed in with longing and nostalgia. It’s all too much.

Me: Please?

I text him again hours later, knowing that he probably saw the first message and contemplated ignoring it. He replies minutes after my desperate double text.

Harry: Okay

Me: Meet me at the trail at 6:30?

I watch him type for what feels like ages, the sound of my professor’s voice fading into nothing but a distant hum.

Harry: As long as we get to see the view

I smile, relieved at the light-hearted response.

The sun is close to the horizon when I make my way up the trail to meet Harry. He’s already there, lounging on a bench and watching the sunset.

“So, this is the view you were willing to sacrifice your dignity for?” I ask as I approach him, referencing the day he fell on the trail.

He clutches his chest and winces. “Ouch.”

I laugh and take a seat next to him.

“You were adamant about beating me that day,” he says.

My smile fades a bit, as I recall the fire burning in me that day. “I was angry.”

“I know.”

We watch the sunset quietly for a while.

I’m still thinking about how to say what I want to say when Harry speaks, “I’m sorry about what I said that night. About you giving up on us. That wasn’t fair.”

“I get why you thought I’d given up.”

He looks at me.

“If I was in your place, I probably would’ve believed it, too. And yeah, maybe I could’ve tried harder—”

He shakes his head before I can continue. “You weren’t well, Y/N. Saying you should’ve tried harder is like telling someone with a broken leg to just get up and walk.”

I don’t know why—maybe it’s the breathtaking sunset or the compassion in his words or three years of internalized guilt coming out at once—but my eyes well with tears. He notices before I can blink them away and reaches over to squeeze my hand.

“And I’m sorry I disappeared. I thought if I stayed away long enough, it’d hurt less.” He pauses. “Spoiler alert: it didn’t.”

I laugh while wiping away a tear. Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I tell him, “I hate that you felt like you weren’t good enough.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Another wave of tears hits me. This time, I let them fall. He pulls me into a hug, and I hold onto him for dear life, my tears staining his hoodie.

I’ve spent three years telling myself that it wasn’t my fault, that I was drowning, that I would’ve shown anyone else the same compassion I couldn’t show myself. None of it ever stuck. I needed to hear it from him.

***

Harry spends most of the next week at my apartment. When he isn’t there, I’m at Niall’s. Somewhere between my neuroanatomy flashcards and his work meetings, we’ve slipped into something that resembles a life together. I study while he replies to work emails from the other end of the couch. We cook, run errands, go on runs, and stay up late talking over cheap wine whenever I don’t have an early class the next day. It’s dangerously easy to pretend we never broke up.

I almost grab his hand on a casual stroll in the park.

He slips up and calls me “baby” when asking me to pass the salt.

I fall asleep on the couch while studying one evening, and he carries me to bed.

I’m not surprised when I overhear Niall asking him about us while they’re playing a video game.

“If someone told me three years ago that you and Y/N would be back together, I would’ve told them to fuck right off.”

“Who said we’re back together?”

Niall just laughs.

“We’ve just been spending more time together.”

“Sure.” Niall pauses. “What’s the plan then? Don’t you fly home in, like, a week?”

“Yeah…”

“You don’t have a plan, do you?”

Harry doesn’t respond.

“You need to talk about it with her, you know. You can’t just disappear again. I don’t think she’d recover this time.”

“I know, Niall. I’m not just going to leave.”

“Okay. Good. You idiot.”

I hear a thump that sounds like Niall whacking Harry’s arm.

“Ow!”

***

That Friday, Harry and I get home from a morning run. I grab a cold water bottle from the fridge and toss it to him. I’m checking to see if I have enough berries to make two smoothies when I hear a soft sigh of frustration. I shut the fridge and turn around to find Harry glaring down at his phone. I try to ignore the voice in my head that comments on how hot he looks standing there in those little shorts, flushed and sweaty from our run, brows furrowed in thought.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Just a delightful message from my boss. I’ve spent the past month working on this project, and now he wants to toss out the whole thing.” He sets his phone on the counter and gulps down some water.

“What? Why?”

He shrugs. “He does this shit all the time. Everyone at work thinks he hates me.”

“What could you have done to make him hate you?”

He averts his gaze, coughing into his fist as he leans against the counter. “Dated his daughter?”

My jaw drops. “Harry.”

“I know, I know. It was stupid.”

“You messy, messy boy.”

“I was… going through a phase.”

I quirk a brow. “A phase. So, it wasn’t just the boss’s daughter then?”

A teasing smirk emerges on his face. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, actually.” I cross my arms and lean against the fridge. “Tell me more about this phase.”

He thinks for a moment. “Not much to tell. I dated around a bit. It never went anywhere.” A wry smile tugs at his lips. “Or maybe I never stuck around long enough for it to.”

Before I can pry further, he says, “Your turn.”

“What?”

“I’m sure you’ve got some stories from the past few years. Maybe not as bad as dating the boss’s daughter. But others?”

“I have nothing to share. My love life has been a perfectly boring wasteland.”

“I can’t imagine that.”

“Why not? ‘Med student too busy to date’ is a tale as old as time.”

He stares at me with a soft grin.

I blink. “What?”

“You’re cute when you lie.”

I shove him in the chest. He grabs my wrist. It’s all too familiar. I’d shove him playfully all the time when he would annoy me. He’d grab my wrist, yank me closer. We’d kiss. Now he lets go as soon as he realizes what he’s doing, but I don’t step back. I move closer, fist my fingers in his shirt, and pull him into a kiss.

Old habits die hard.

At first, he doesn’t kiss back.

“Y/N…” His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm on my lips.

I kiss him again. This time, he gives in. Satisfaction and longing course through me. I deepen the kiss. His large hands grip my waist and push me back against the fridge. I slide one hand up the front of his shirt while we continue making out, his abdominal muscles flexing against my palm with each hurried breath. His fingers linger at the waistband of my shorts. They stop there. When they don’t move, I cover his hand with mine and guide it lower.

He freezes, then gently removes both of my hands from him and takes a step back. It feels like a chasm just opened up between us. I stare at him, puzzled and suddenly a bit self-conscious.

“I want this,” he reassures me. “I want you. I just— I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“Fuck it up how?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

The apprehension in his voice and his face makes my chest ache. He’s afraid of disappointing me. He’s already expecting that he’ll disappoint me. Did loving me teach him to fear intimacy? Is that why he never “stuck around long enough” with these other people he dated?

“Harry, I’m in a much different headspace than I was back then,” I state with years of therapy to back up my claim.

“I know. But what if I’m not?”

I may have overcome my depression, but that doesn’t mean he overcame the wounds of the inadequacy he felt back then.

“Then we’ll take it slow,” I tell him. “We don’t have to do anything right now. Maybe tonight we can just… share a bed?”

He laughs a little. “Just sleep?”

“Just sleep.”

“You’re serious?”

“Very.”

There’s still uncertainty in his eyes, but there’s hope, too. I gently take his hand, lacing my fingers through his.

***

I wake up to sunlight pouring through the blinds I forgot to close and a weight on my chest. I glance down to find Harry’s head resting directly on my breasts. He’s snoring softly. With half his bodyweight on me, I’m effectively pinned to the bed. I try to contain my amusement, not wanting to wake him.

We’ve been sleeping together for the past few nights. Just sleeping. Though I swear I felt him grinding against me in his sleep the other night. I didn’t comment on it the next day. When I told him we would take it slow, I meant it.

He stirs eventually, mumbling something incoherent. Then he lifts his head from my chest and squints up towards my face.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I laugh.

“What?”

“Are my tits really that comfortable?”

“Yes. They are,” he replies completely seriously. He rolls over onto the bed, rubbing his eyes. “What’s on the schedule today, boss?”

“Class, lab, more class… And then happy hour tonight with people in my program.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“We try to have some of that when we can. Do you want to come?”

He considers it. “Sure. Why not?”

As I expected, Harry has no trouble mingling with my classmates. They seem to like him. I’ve been introducing him to everyone as an old friend from college. They don’t need to know our complicated history nor do I feel like explaining it to them, quite frankly. Harry doesn’t seem to care.

We’ve been chatting with my classmate Bella for the last ten minutes. I’ve been checked out of program drama recently because my own life has been dramatic enough. Luckily, I can always count on Bella to catch me up on the lore.

“Is Nate back from his sister’s wedding?” I ask.

“Yeah. His girlfriend’s here, too.”

I lift my brows. “Oh.”

“What?” says Harry, catching my reaction.

Bella and I exchange glances.

“Let’s just say Nate’s girlfriend isn’t Y/N’s biggest fan.”

“We hooked up once,” I say flatly. “Before they were even together. She needs to get over it.”

“Once?” Bella snorts. “More like three times.” She looks at Harry with that devilish grin she gets when she’s about to drop some juicy gossip. “Y/N hooked up with half the guys in our class in first year.”

“Bella!” I widen my eyes at her, heat rising up my neck.

“What? He hasn’t heard about your hoe era?” She cackles and tosses back her tequila.

My face burns. “I’m getting another drink.”

I turn on my heel and walk away in spite of my reluctance to leave her alone with him. God knows what else she’s going to expose about me. Maybe it’s my own fault for introducing him as a friend. If she knew we were much more than that, it might have stopped her from spilling my whole sexual history to him. Or not.

I attempt to drown my mortification with a couple shots and some pretzel bites. Harry and I don’t reconvene until later that night. I’m just tipsy enough to be able to face him but not nearly enough to forget our previous interaction. My cheeks start tingling with heat again as he approaches me, black shirt tucked loosely into his jeans, an easy grin on his face. He reaches towards the corner of my mouth and wipes off a bit of cheese sauce before licking it off his thumb.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out.

“For what?”

“Bella. I forgot what a blabbermouth she is. That was so embarrassing.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I know how that sounded.”

“You were single, Y/N.”

“I was a mess.”

“Hey, if I’m allowed to have a messy phase, so are you.”

Fair.

We decide to head home, as most people are doing the same. Harry drives us back to my apartment. I’ve sobered up by then. We crawl into bed. I rest my head on his shoulder. His arm wraps around my body, pulling me into his side. We stay like that for a while.

“I met Nate,” he suddenly says.

“Oh?” I look at him.

“Quite the charmer. Nicer than I’d expected.”

“What did you expect?”

He shrugs. “An arrogant arsehole. A movie villain of sorts.”

I chuckle. “Were you disappointed?”

“Maybe a little.”

“You know it never meant anything with him.”

“I know…” Then he smiles faintly. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be jealous.”

He slowly traces a finger along my jaw, then my bottom lip. My heart slams against my ribs. I part my lips slightly. His finger pauses between them. I wrap my lips around it and suck lightly. He rests a second finger there, and I do the same thing with it. He exhales deeply, gaze focused on my mouth.

Removing his fingers, he replaces them with his lips. I let him take the lead this time, not wanting to push him anywhere he’s not ready to go. He pulls my body on top of his own. His erection presses against me, and I can’t help but grind my hips into him, feeling his cock pulse between us. He groans into my mouth and slides his hands into my shorts, gripping my backside through my panties and holding me flush against him. I can feel the frantic thumping of his heart against my chest so clearly, it almost feels like my own.

“Fuck.” He rests his forehead against mine. For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to stop. But instead, he just flips us over and kisses me all over again. I can tell that he’s trying to be in the moment and not in his head.

He takes off my shirt, kissing down my neck and my chest. One hand palms my breast while his lips wrap around my other nipple. I run my hands through his hair while he does that. He slides a hand down my stomach and into my shorts, touching me through my panties. I rock my hips into his hand. He pushes the fabric aside and runs a finger through my wetness. I shiver under his touch. He slips two fingers inside me effortlessly.

“That feel okay?” he checks.

“Phenomenal,” I sigh out.

He laughs softly, his warm breath tickling my skin.

He pumps his fingers in and out of me, his palm massaging my clit at the same time. He watches me moan and squirm under him. When he inserts another finger, my mouth drops wide open. He grabs my jaw with his other hand and covers my mouth with his again.

“Harry, I want you,” I breathe against his mouth. “So bad.”

His lips curve against mine. “Yeah? Where do you want me, pretty girl?”

There he is.

“Inside me.”

“I am inside you, baby.” He curves his fingers up to prove his point.

A whine leaves my mouth. “Your cock.”

“Want my cock inside you?”

I nod, biting down on my bottom lip. My face is on fire just like the rest of my body.

“Inside where? Your mouth?”

“No. Yes. I mean—” He pumps his fingers faster. “A—anywhere,” I finally answer.

He grins, and I feel giddy like I answered correctly.

He makes me come, and I dig my nails into the back of his neck as the orgasm cascades through me. He starts taking off his clothes then, while I remove the rest of mine. All I can think about is his cock and where I’ll be taking it first. My question is answered when he turns me over onto my stomach. His hardness rests against my ass. Tenderly, he moves my hair to the side and kisses the back of my neck.

“God, I missed you so much,” he says into my ear, the words coming out strained and heavy. “Thought about you every day. Wondered if you were with someone else. If you were happy. If you missed me.”

“I missed you all the time,” I say, my throat constricting with emotion.

He kisses the base of my neck and eases his cock into me. I gasp. He mutters some curses under his breath. I have one hand resting up by my face, and he places his own hand over it, interlacing our fingers tightly before moving inside me.

“Missed your cock,” I admit boldly.

He pauses mid-thrust. “What’s that?”

I know he heard me. “I said I missed your cock.”

He chuckles and grinds his hips into me, making me moan. “So filthy. Going to make me come just from saying things like that.”

He starts moving again, his thrusts getting deeper and faster, and I know he’s close. Our intertwined hands on the bed are the only thing in my field of vision. I close my eyes, knowing that this memory will forever be etched in my brain—us making love for the first time after three years of painful yearning.

“You fuck me so good,” I say, knowing it’ll push him even closer to the edge.

“Oh yeah?” He pants, fucking me harder and faster.

“Mhm. The best. The best I’ve ever had.”

I start to lose coherence of my thoughts now, my words turning into a jumble of moans and pleas and whimpers. He slides his free hand under my neck, wrapping his fingers around the front of it. I’m engulfed in bliss, approaching my second orgasm of the night.

“Come for me, baby,” he says. “Come around this cock. That’s it.”

It ripples through my body harder than the last one. I moan his name over and over while he comes too, my pussy milking it out of him with every pulsating spasm.

He collapses on top of me, burying his face in my hair, as his breathing gradually slows. I’m smiling, content to be sandwiched between him and the bed. He rolls off of me and disappears into the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth.

After cleaning up, we’re back to cuddling on the bed, my head on his chest and his arm loosely wrapped around my middle. I trace the tattoos on his torso with my finger, trying not to think about the limited time we have left together.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving in a couple days,” I say quietly.

“I know. It went by so fast.” He strokes my hair.

“I’m glad you came back.”

“Me too.”

“Mind if I sneak into your luggage?”

“I would very much like that.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “But you’ve got important things to do here.”

“Nothing’s more important than you.”

I feel his chest rumble with laughter at my corny line and the saccharine way I delivered it. I giggle.

But then my mind drifts to what happens after he leaves. Surely, after everything, we won’t just go back to our separate lives, miles away, not speaking to each other. Right?

“I’ve been looking for jobs,” he says.

“What?”

“Like, jobs here in town. So I can quit the other one.”

I quickly lift my head to meet his eyes. “Wait, you’re moving back here?”

“Do you want me to?” He studies my reaction.

“Of course I do.” I search for any sign of amusement in his face. “Wait, are you serious?”

“So serious.”

“But what about your mom? And your sister?”

He shrugs. “They’ll understand.”

“But you’re okay with being so far from them?”

“Yeah. I want to be close to you.”

“So do I, but I just want to make sure you’ve thought this through. I don’t want you to feel like you have to move for me. We could do long distance if we have to and—”

“Y/N.” He cups my cheek, green eyes searching mine. “I’ve thought about it plenty, trust me. I want to do this. I want to be here with you.”

I don’t know what to say. I just stare at him. This man who left, who came back, who’s been planning a whole future around me.

“These past few weeks,” he continues, “are the happiest I’ve been in ages.”

My throat tightens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then, before I can stop it, the words spill out. “I love you.”

His face breaks into a grin. “I love you, too.”

***

I park my car by the curb. Harry walks around to the trunk to get his bags. I meet him behind the car. We stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us ready to say goodbye.

“I’ll call you as soon as I reach London,” he says instead.

“Do you have to go?” I realize I sound like a whiny child, but I can’t help myself. I feel like I only just got him back. Him leaving now, even though I know it’s not forever, presses against some old wound deep in my soul.

“Baby.” He takes my hands. “We talked about this. It’s only for a short while. Just until I secure a job here and tie up some loose ends there. And then I’m on the first flight back. I promise.” He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles.

“Do you need my help? I can go to these places in person, tell them how amazing and hardworking and dedicated you are and how I’d hire you immediately if I were them.”

A small, amused smile spreads across his face. “Somehow I don’t think they’ll accept my girlfriend as a reference. But thank you, baby.”

My heart flips at the word ‘girlfriend’. We haven’t explicitly discussed labels, so it pleasantly surprises me.

He pulls me into a tight hug. “It’s not goodbye.”

“It’s not goodbye,” I repeat.

We exchange four I love you’s and twice as many kisses before finally parting. He waves at me one last time before disappearing through the doors. I stand there for a long moment, watching the space where he was.

He said we could be friends. That was a promise he couldn’t keep.

This one, I think he will.

It’s not goodbye.

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