“Would you-” you stop yourself, your voice sounding warped with nerves and uncertainty. It feels like a sign that you’re taking a misstep, but you make yourself plow forward. “Would you like to go to this with me?”
“To what?” he asks innocently, not even turning to face you, placing a freshly rolled cookie ball on the baking tray. You’d almost buy it, how he wears his nonchalance like a second skin, if it weren’t for the fact the oven hasn’t been on this whole time.
“A dinner party at Peter’s.” Harry pauses, mid cookie roll, spinning on his heels so he can see you, to make sure you’re not playing some kind of trick on him. You hold up the invitation between your middle and fore finger to emphasize your point. “Do you want to come with me?” you ask again, enunciating each word delicately.
The dough softens between Harry’s warm hands, melting into his palms, as he continues to monitor you, waiting for the slip up, for the deception to be revealed. But, nothing happens. Realizing that you’re serious, Harry breaks out into one of his cheeky smirks. “Are you asking me on a date?”
His question distracts you from the greenery, glancing over your shoulder to stare quizzically at him. “Did you want to?” you ask trepidatiously, trying to read his body language to find the scheme, the ruse he must be playing.
Instead of answering, he rifles through your brand-new ornaments, fondly smiling at one shaped like Scooby-Doo in a Santa hat. “The HOA has invited everyone to participate in a cookie swap for the local food banks. Most people will probably make gingerbread cookies, so I was thinking about doing something else, maybe those jammy thumbprint cookies. What do you think, angel?”
These past two months you’ve learned to not trust your partner when he refused to directly answer a question. When you asked why he forgot his glasses, he pretended like he didn’t know what you were talking about. When you inquired about how his relationship with his boss was going, he’d suddenly remember a joke his coworker, Caleb, had shared that was so funny he had to relay it immediately. So when he dodges your question about the holidays, your nerves immediately prickle with concern.
“That’s fine, Sam, but were you expecting us to… celebrate?” You add in a little laugh at the end, to highlight how silly, how inane the idea is.
He shrugs, his dimples pinching into his cheeks as his smile morphs into a cheeky smirk. “It’s just going to be hard to return your present, is all.”
A/N: thank you for your patience. Chapter releases tomorrow
Which all lead to today: the payroll mishap, the scrutiny of the Board, the stagnation of your real career coupled with the imminent collapse of your fake one, and the continuous mystery of where the fuck your husband was, had all finally coagulated into the shit stew you were boiling inside of. You were so frustrated with everything and everyone, all you were looking forward to was spending the night in with some takeout pizza, an ungodly amount of wine, and some trashy reality tv.
All those plans flew out the window as soon as you pulled up to your house and saw a black BMW already in the driveway.
If you weren't as physically and mentally exhausted as you were, you'd be more upset. Of course, of all days he could show up, your tardy husband would show up on the one day you're desperate to rip your perfect wife mask off and take a break.
You park next to his car before pressing your forehead into the steering wheel, breathing deeply to calm yourself while letting the voice in your head scream herself hoarse. Somehow, you were going to have to meet your husband for the first time and convince him that you were a powerful spy who was to be taken seriously, except you'd had a bad day (week… month, actually) and you could really use a night to recoup. An admission of weakness like that was what you had learned to hide at your job. Sharing vulnerability was exposing how to exploit someone. Your husband may be your partner, but he had been the object of your ire for so long that you had crafted him into the villain.
Stuffing your belongings into your purse, you make yourself presentable enough for a first impression and gather up the last of your wavering strength. The walk up to your front door feels as if you’re walking through tar from how much the day weighs you down.
When you open the door, the last thing you're expecting is to smell the savory tang of basil and tomato cooking on the stove. You follow the scent and the soft wailing guitar of a Fleetwood Mac song into the kitchen. There, with his back to you, was a tall brunette man, shaking his hips to the music as he stirred some sauce on the stovetop. His t-shirt exposes his tan, lean arms that are graffiti-ed with tattoos of all sorts, mermaids and playing cards and names and a mess of other oddities. The curls atop his head shake loosely with each swish of his hips. When the oven timer starts to beep, he's quick to shut off the beeping before reaching into the oven. He pulls out two trays with a homemade pizza crust on each. It's when he turns to rest the bread on the island that he notices you. His mossy green eyes lock onto you like a missile to its target. The smile that overwhelms his face is infectious.
“Honey, you're home!” he greets, lightly chuckling at his adaptation of the usual greeting. “Just in time, too. How was your day, beautiful?” he asks as he rounds the kitchen island, stretching his hands out towards you. Your brain could just put together the concept of a hug when his arms encircled your shoulders, carefully squeezing you into him.
You couldn't remember the last time someone had shown you this level of affection genuinely. You've slept with targets, and had done all the seducing necessary to get there, but a warm embrace? Encased inside someone's arms and they're not attempting to overpower you? It was a foreign thing for you.
He smelled like a cafe, spicy cinnamon and mellow vanilla, with some deeper scent you couldn't quite place. It was all overwhelming, his intriguing smell, his smile that gave you ease, his strong arms that you wanted to collapse into. Wrapped up inside him, it was easier for your tired mind to forget you were supposed to be pretending.
a/n: hoping to publish this by the weekend. fingers crossed. thanks for your patience
“Sam, get out of the fireplace.”
“Do you think chimney sweeps still exist?” he asks, a childlike wonder laced in his voice.
You pull him out of the fireplace, careful to not bump his head on the stone despite the strong desire to do so. “I don't know. Now drink up.” Sam shakes his head, his rosy lips in a deep pout. “Sam, please, I promise it'll make you feel better.”
“I feel fine,” he argues, crossing his arms across his chest. You press the glass against his lips but he blows bubbles into the water, splashing it up into his face. Sam sputters for a breath and you roll your eyes, setting the glass down as gently as your rage-trembling hands allow.
The reality of the night is finally settling in. Peter Heathrow slipped right through your fingers because Sam interfered. Because Sam couldn't let you handle something on your own. He sabotaged your mission and for what?
Collapsing into the seat he abandoned, you drop your head into your hands, willing yourself not to cry. It's been years, and you're not ready to break the streak yet.
“Why?” you whisper.
“What's that, sweet pie?”
“Why did you take that drink?”
“He was trying to drug you,” Sam whines, slowly tumbling to the ground, stretching his arms high above his head.
“I know that.”
“I was trying to protect y-”
“I don't need your protection!” you scream. Normally, you'd have more control over your tone. That control has been slipping ever since you took this case and now it was unmanageable. At least Sam wouldn't remember this tomorrow. Your lapse in emotions was humiliating enough, you didn't need anyone else to recall it. “God, the one chance I'm given on this mission and you fucked me! You doubted me, you underestimated me, and now we're no closer to solving this fucking mission. Who the fuck knows what Peter's going to do now? He'll probably fire you and then we'll be even more fucked than we already are! Why would you take a drink you know is poisoned?!” You finally look at Sam, eager to keep yelling at him, to release the dam of frustration on him. All that disappears when you see the pained expression on his face.
Puppy dog eyes well with fat tears. His nose sniffles between quick breaths. Sam twirls the gold S ring that hours ago he had shown off excitedly, saying he was glad to have an excuse to wear it. Now, the ring absorbs his distress with each nervous twist.
“You're mean. You hate me but I was just trying to protect you,” Sam wails. He drops his head atop the coffee table, smushing his nose into the wood.
Regret stabs at your heart watching Sam’s breakdown. You’re taking advantage of his fragile state and you feel sick. It wasn’t any different to what you were doing to Peter, so why did your body twist up in these sour feelings?
“I don’t hate you, Sam,” you sigh, patting his shaking shoulder. “I just find you very frustrating to deal with.”
Especially now.
It’s quiet for a beat too long and you’re hopeful that he’s calming down when you hear his voice squeak. “Harry.”
