Main Masterlist / Word Count: 4.6k / Warnings: Is angst considered one? Is sadness? Excess fluff? / Song: Beside You by 5SOS, ofc
Premise: You had been his first fan, before anybody else, arguably. Perhaps, that had been what had made it hurt the worst when he had forgotten you, amongst so many other things. How could you ever tell him that, if you were given the chance?
Pairing: Harry x Reader
“He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged by dreams.”
- Unknown
You’d be lying to yourself if you said that it looked any different. Sure, the addition of the few cardboard boxes and elliptical could maybe chalk up to that. But, the lie fell away before it was even really thought when a memory was sparked by every item your eyes fell on. What was different about it was how it felt, and how it felt more than different, if there was even a word for that. You were rather sure that there were never words good enough for your feelings after everything that had happened over the years.
You hadn’t even been sure if you could make it this far. That started with the drive, the worst part being driving past his. You thought that nothing could trump that until you opened the door and the multitudes of memories came flying at you. Long ago, you had taken down the pictures tacked to cork boards and shown in frames, but somehow, they had reappeared. Thanks to your mum, you thought. It felt like knives in the back of your eyes when you saw them, reminded for the hundredth time of how much things had changed. You weren’t sure if the reminders would ever stop, seeing as how they had been coming for the last nine years. Although they had dwindled over time, according to your proximity and whereabouts, they still never ceased. They never stopped hurting, or stirred up ‘what if’s inside of you.
*
Tears streamed angrily down your cheeks as the cotton fabric of the curtains left your hands. You had checked maybe twice now, three if you were telling yourself the truth. The thing was, you hadn’t been doing a lot of that lately, but you had needed it right in that moment as his curtains remained still. Then, there were yours, yanked to the side in a blush pink crumple. The images stared back at you, making your head hurt more than it already did. You weren’t sure how that was even a possibility.
“You rang?” a voice nearly demands. “Hullo?” you still don’t know what to do or how to say it, until you do.
“I’m sorry.”
“Reckon it took ya long enough. Now, why’re you cryin’ over Maths? Don’t think it deserves that much attention, don’t you agree?” he replies, making the pages in front of you blur all the more when your bed dips from his weight. “God, remind me again why we’re takin’ Geometry t’gether when we could’ve done somethin’ easier?”
“I dunno. I thought it was your idea,” you answer sheepishly, finding his shoulder with your head.
“Beats me. Whatever helps me avoid mo’ Maths down tha road,” he suggests, and you find yourself humming along in agreement. His fingers calloused from trying to learn guitar are felt on your forearm. “What d’ya say we take a break from this t’ bake some cookies?”
“But I want to finish it now,” you protest, meeting his eyes for the first time. They’re green as ever, and softer than you predicted after the argument you had had last night.
“Ya, and yer not gonna get anythin’ done if yer upset. I think doin’ somethin’ fun, like bakin’ fer a bit will be jus’ tha trick. C’mon,” he almost cooed, shutting the textbook and then tugging on your hand. They had ended up burnt, but the both of you ignored it when you later ate them on your bed as he explained tangents, cosines, and the like.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” he answered with enough confidence in his voice that you thought maybe you’d ask for some. You thought to yourself, isn’t that what you had been doing all of this time? Regardless of how many times you had asked that question, the same answer never made you feel any better. You nodded, just like every other time, assuring him you believe him, but you didn’t. How could you?
“You really won’t forget me if you make it big on the show, Harry?”
“Truth or lie, bubs?”
“Don’t tell me,” you whisper.
“‘Course not, love. How could I forget me bestest friend in tha whole wide world, huh? ‘ve known you since we were in nappies, ya don’t f’get that kind o’ rubbish,” and then, you were laughing.
Every time you’d think of that memory, you’d chide yourself for how you’d left it at that. The way that you let him leave you, but more importantly, how he let himself leave you.
*
That was one of the last times things had been so normal, and the last of burning cookies in the oven. There weren’t any more food fights in your kitchen, splashing hot, sudsy water at the other, or snapping tea towels at the other’s bum. A few weeks after the burnt cookies, you’d found the last one at the bottom of the cookie jar, amazed that any were left after his greedy hands. With an emptiness in your chest, you dropped it in the trash bin hurriedly, and escaped to your bedroom. It hadn’t been the first time, and you hoped, somehow and in some way, it would be the last.
Without knowing it, you had started a bad habit of lying to yourself, right then and there. As you stood at the window, pinning the curtains to the side in your secret S.O.S message, you waited. It wasn’t nearly as long as a few days before when your legs had ached for being there so long, but you still waited, too long. He didn’t come or pull his curtains aside. Somewhere deep inside of you, you knew that he never would come to your rescue ever again.
*
You couldn’t remember the last time that you had came home since moving out that a visit hadn’t been marred by the memory of him. Then again, when you thought hard on it, you were sure that there had never been a time where it wasn’t. Even if it had been nine years since things had changed, your eyes still strayed to his window at every visit. Sometimes, you even thought you saw his outline behind his curtains, or in the near dark, on your bed waiting for you. He never was there waiting, and unbeknownst to him, you could never help it but be waiting. It was what you had done best, and worst, for the last near decade.
It was difficult for you to remember the last time you had been home, stretching your thoughts until you figured it was last Christmas. Another one where he left you waiting, seeming as if that was the thing he was best at himself. Leaving you waiting for a text from him, but regardless of the bittersweetness, they came. On Christmas. Your birthday. Random days. The day you graduated with all of your classmates and without him. Then, when you had graduated uni, unable to stop wishing that he had been there, just like he was supposed to at all of the big moments. Most of all, when your mums told him to text you and the other way around, which you think hurt you the worst.
*
The house was quiet after a busy day cooking with your mum for a Sunday lunch. It always had confused you how so much fuss and work could be made just for a meal that lasted shy of twenty minutes. Tick tocking, the clock above the tap was the only sound in the house later that night. A mild summer heat still clung in the air outside, but you had chosen to stay in. You tried not to register the traditional disappointment on your mother’s face when she had asked you to join her to go next door for dinner. After several times of obliging, sitting at his family’s table with memories splashed all around, you found it unbearable to do it ever again. Worst of all, it made you doubt yourself when you’d remember the way your eyes gravitated towards the door, wondering if he’d walk in. It happened every time, even if you knew he was on the other side of the world at the moment. You couldn’t do it again, not just that, but so many other things.
At the memory of fingerpainting on the sliding glass door, much to your mum’s horror at your mere ages of three, you retreated to your bedroom recalling how you had insisted it was his idea. You didn’t believe him when he pulled the same thing then, and certainly you didn’t now, when a Peter Pan like scene waited before your eyes.
Your blink was long and purposeful, but no matter how many times you repeated it, it failed to do its job. It was still there when you opened your eyes, leading you to have a hard time believing them. At first, you weren’t sure if you wanted to believe them. If you were going to lie to yourself, you’d tell them that you wished it was a mirage of sorts just like all of the other times. You wishfully thought that it’ll go away with a blink, but it doesn’t.
If you weren’t lying to yourself? You’d tell them that you should be a lot of things, including wanting it to be imagined, but you couldn’t change the fact that it was not. Deep inside of yourself, you knew like black and white that you wouldn’t ever want to change it. If you thought with your brain, that’d be another story. You should be mad, but you weren’t. For once, you hoped that the good feeling would outweigh all of the bad ones for just enough time so that you could have a good visit. You had wanted that, and so much more, for so many years, more than anything at all, that it could be like old times. That dream had yet to come true, and you had buried it long ago.
Swallowing against a dry throat, you decide with your hand that you’ve been ready for years for this to happen, and the light flickers to life at your fingertips.
“Y’know, ya shouldn’t just leave yer window open. A burglar or someone dodgy like that may very well take advantage o’ it. ‘s quite dangerous.”
Were you lying to yourself right now? No, you weren’t, and so you saw how he had changed. His chocolate curls were longer now, but still cropped around his ears. More rings claimed his fingers, and so did the ink all over his observable body. Self consciously, you wondered if the little train in his noggin was running on the same tracks.
“Reckon it’s also dangerous to just help yourselves into a girl’s window,” your reply sounds anything but firm like your words had implied, but you don’t. It’s a tie between whose lips begin to curl first, but secretly you hope it’s his, so that it means you’re closer to seeing those trademark dimples. “Harry,” it falls before you have the chance to reel it back in. In succession, your name drops from his pair. The ones you had always dreamt of, and according to your mums whenever they got the chance, you had kissed once or twice when the two of you were little. You couldn’t blame yourself, if you were telling the truth.
“Ya didn’t use t’ mind it,” he defends. Only now, do you allow your eyes to stray from that face you weren’t sure was real. Your prior wish is nudged at when you realize that he’s sitting in the same spot he always had been when you found him like this. Whether it was after school, when the moon was high in the sky, or after you’d ripped the curtains to the side, it was always the end of your bed where he sat.
You can’t help it, and you say something that you’ve been trying to for too long.
“Hare, that was almost ten years ago.”
It catches him off guard, just like the words had done in your mind, unspoken for so very long. On your one hand, you could count the number of times you had seen him since he walked on to that stage. Each one was less personal and more unfulfilling than the last, and you hoped undyingly with every fiber of your being that this time wouldn’t be. For once, you didn’t want him to disappoint you, but you couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t. If you tried and if you didn’t lie, you could think of one long ago, you could think of so many. You wanted this time to be different, and at the same time, you didn’t want him to be. No, you wanted him to be him. Your Harry.
“What do you want, twerp? Why are you breaking into my childhood bedroom at nine o’clock at night?” your questioning lips deal. No matter the itch you have, you can’t get your feet to move in his direction.
The fact couldn’t be more of a truth when you hear what he says, “Mum told me ‘bout yer engagement.” Without you knowing, your feet wander across the room and away from him. On your vanity, sits the gold band with diamonds of all sizes set into it. It was the very reason you had come home, but if you were being honest with yourself, it wasn’t the only one. No, that one was sitting behind you on your bed. The biggest one of all, for so very long. “‘m sorry.”
“What could you be sorry for?” your voice is still and rather quiet, but the feelings inside of you are the least bit that.
“Loads. That I didn’t congratulate you earlier, that I didn’t know ‘til now. You should’ve told me, ‘m really happy fer you. Congratulations t’ tha both o’ you, ‘d love t’ meet tha lucky man.”
All at once, words and emotions are flying at you, and you’re unable to make sense of them. First, you want to be mad. Then, you want to be sad. Is there a middle ground or a combination?, you wonder. “Well, you don’t need to worry about it, because I’m not getting married,” it had been the third time you had said a version of these words out loud. The bloke in question, of course, your mum, and now, Harry. You hadn’t thought that this was how it would be playing out.
“What?” hasty questions are riddled in his one breath. The images pass before your eyes until you tear them from the ring, but it doesn’t make them go away. Out of sight and out of mind didn’t really work for this one, you had found, or with this one over there, either. He had been in your mind more than he had ever been in your sight, you think. “Love, why not?”
“Well, Harry, marriage doesn’t really seem to be in the cards for me. I dunno why I ever thought it had,” you confess gently, as if you need to soften the blow for him, of all people. You weren’t sure if he deserved it anymore, even.
“What d’ya mean? That’s all you could jabber ‘bout when we were kids, and teenagers too. It was all ‘bout walkin’ down tha aisle and bein’ a mum . . havin’ four bloody kids, and no less. What were tha names, again? Avery, Margot, Henley, and . .”
“Jones,” your lips decide for you. “I’m surprised you could remember all of those.”
“‘s not hard when you’d already decided our kids’ names when we were only five, bubs,” he wheezes, a nostalgic happiness dripping off of his words, likened to honey. “You’d always insisted you’d marry me one day, and not let anybody else have me.”
The tears had come and went over the last few days, and once again, they had made their fateful return. Sometimes, you had wished that he could know how many multitudes you had shed because of him. For him. At others, if you thought with your heart, you knew that he shouldn’t know. He couldn’t.
“I remember it being the other way around. You said I’d be your wife one day, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
“A truth or a lie, love?” the saying brings your actions to a halt, making your eyes freeze on the bottle of contact solution just within reach.
“Truth.”
“I was sad t’ hear you’d broken yer promise t’ me when Mum had told me you’d gotten engaged,” this time, you’re not sure if his words are imaginary or actual. The feelings bubbling inside of you, demanding to be felt and then spoken, feel quite like the latter.
It was never ‘my mum’ between the two of you, because growing up it was as if the both of you had had two mums and a dad, or for Harry, two. Since the day he went away, she had never stopped being your mum either, and she reminded you with every card and text checking up on you. Sometimes, you’d wished she would just stop, but you didn’t know how to do that. You feared not knowing how to accept that if she had even agreed, if asked. She had spent countless times stroking your hair when you found your way onto her sofa, another sob on your lips from missing her son.
“‘s it shitty o’ me t’ say ‘m tha least bit relieved?” his next words come, and you can hear the sheepish tone in them.
“No, join the club.”
“Did he cheat on you? ‘Cuz if he did, I swear t’ high heavens that I-,” you stop him when his words become unnecessary, but after the ‘stop’ you utter, your lips falter.
How do you tell him that he’s the reason? The very one that led you to end the engagement with a man that was everything you had wanted and more, and yet, he wasn’t. Because, he wasn’t the man who stands behind you now. The exact one who at one time in your lives would walk around your gardens in nappies with you and nothing else. The boy you took baths with as a child, took naps with fighting over who got the Mickey Mouse blankey and the next day who got the Scooby Doo one. Try as you might, you couldn’t find a way or a time to tell your fiancée any of that, in all of the years you had been together, or even just the other day when he wrapped the ring back in your hand with wet eyes.
If you were even able to tell Harry that, how could you ever bring yourself to tell him what you’ve been holding inside of you for all of these years? You had tried again and again to forgive him for what he had done, but each time it had failed sooner than the last. What was to say that even if he was there in front of you, that one more try would work? How could you tell your lifelong best friend who wasn’t really your best friend anymore, who hadn’t been almost longer than he had, that you had never stopped loving him, but never stopped hating him for leaving you?
“No, he didn’t cheat on me. He was perfect . . but not for me.”
“‘m really sorry ‘bout that, love. Mum had good things t’ say ‘bout him afta meetin’ him and I trusted her.”
“Harry, like you ever approved of my boyfriends when we were in school,” you argue with a smile, not realizing you’re facing him until well, you are. His lips are smiling at you until they’re not, and it’s the furthest thing from your own, too. “You never liked any of them, and always were mean to them.”
“I rememba. Only gave ‘em a hard time ‘cuz there wasn’t one who treated you good enough, like you’d deserved,” if he sees the wetness collecting on your cheeks, he doesn’t mention it. His lips don’t, but his eyes do all of the talking, and more.
“Why are you saying all of this now, Harry?” it had been years in the making and there was no stopping it now. You couldn’t lie to myself anymore. No, not with the tears in your voice could you mask another one fed to his ears.
“Truth . . or lie?”
“I’m done playing games with you, Harry! We’re bloody twenty five years old, we’re supposed to always tell the truth. You promised all those years ago that you wouldn’t lie to me, and you did just that, Harry! How could you?” you feel the words swell inside of you, and you’re past trying to figure out how to get them to stop. He stares back at you with a face devoid of any inkling of understanding, telling you what you had always known, despite the lies you’d told yourself. “You left me, Harry! You forgot about me! Y-You went on that tv show and I didn’t exist anymore. How could you do that to me? We were the bestest of friends, ever since we were babies! I cheered you on, Harry. I was your biggest fan before anybody else, listening to your made up songs on guitar before we even started school. We wrote our own songs and we had our own band, The Brunette Bunch, with you on guitar and me on the keyboard . . I always knew you were a rockstar, because you were my favorite person in the entire world, Hare. But, you were there one day, and then you were gone. My best friend never came back after that . . I couldn’t count the hundreds of times that I’d hate myself for wishing that you’d never went on that show.”
“You were never very good at sharing me from tha start,” his words are sugar, perhaps the spice, and everything nice. So many still wait inside of you, left unsaid.
“I couldn’t do it, Hare. I couldn’t marry him, because of it.”
“Bubs, you left him ‘cuz o’ me?” his astonishment is vivid in your eyes and his, as well.
“You never did do that great in Lit, trying to make out what the books were trying to say,” your attempt is measly at a laugh, but amongst the glassiness in his eyes, you see an echo of it. “Twenty years later and I still can’t help but want nobody else to marry you.”
The dimples are home again and they make the same word resound inside of you, too. His steps are quiet but they speak volumes in your skull, and in your chest.
“Seems it was yest’day ‘d find you scribblin’ ‘Mrs. Harry Styles’ over and over in yer Comp journal, ‘stead o’ practicin’ cursive.”
“Oh, I was practicing my cursive still, just the important stuff,” this time, it’s the closest thing to a real laugh you've shared in days. It’s been years and more since the last time you’d heard one spill from his own, until now.
“Sure,” he titters. The soft padding of his Vans on the carpeted floor stops, but your heart tells you that it never will. There had been a lot of never’s that took up rent in your heart for too long now, but another one seemed to be turning to dust in front of your eyes. “Could never tell you how sorry I am fer leavin’ you behind, love. Never could, but I never fo’got you. Ev’ry time I called home I asked Mum how you were and what you were doin.’ At first, I couldn’t take the truth, and Mum didn’t want me t’ know, but I told her t.’ Y’know how she’d hug you ev’ry time you saw her? That was from me, told her t’ give you a hug from me ev’ry time I called, ‘cuz I hated that I couldn’t give you one . . I know ‘s no excuse and that it wasn’t anythin’ compared t’ yers, but it hurt too much afta awhile t’ see you when I came home. I wanted things t’ be the same again, but I couldn’t, knowin’ I was to leave again. But, y’know what, I never stopped. I asked Mum each and every call ‘bout you and made sure she told me ev’rythin.’ Saw photos o’ you graduate school without me, uni too, yer fiancée, passin’ yer driver’s test, movin’ t’ London, and at last, I got t’ send her one o’ when you came t’ that concert o’ ours a few back and saw me backstage. I never fo’got you, or stopped worryin’ ‘bout you, knowin’ how bad ‘d fucked things up. Just didn’t know tha first thing t’ do or say t’ fix ‘em.”
If you were dreaming all of this, you realized, you hoped that you wouldn’t wake up for a while still. You needed this to be real for just a bit more, maybe longer. Definitely, more.
“Truth or lie, Hare?” is all that your lips can utter at this point. You think that you made the right call when his lips sing with a laugh.
“Truth. Always, bubs.”
“Can I give you that kiss I’ve been sitting on for a good ten years, now?” it had been so long since your lips had curled with happiness because of him. Within moments, it feels like mere minutes since the days with your heads resting on each other’s shoulders with textbooks and Red Vines in your laps. Not much further, walking home with scraped knees reading Dr. Seuss to each other, either.
But, when his lips touch yours, it could feel like a million miles away, too. For the first time amongst your own lies and truths, you’re telling yourself the truth when you think that you’re glad that you’re here. Cradled against his chest and with his arm around your waist, you’re at last happy where you are, because it’s finally with him beside you again.
“Can I have a truth, bubs?”
“Sure, Hare. What is it?” you yawn, your forehead nudging against the sandpaper feel of his face. Quickly, you’d realized there were so many things you had to learn about him. You couldn’t be more excited to annoy his ears with questions.
“How set are you on that ‘never gettin’ married’ thing?”
With warmed cheeks and heart, at last, just the same, your smiling lips deal an answer you’ve held for too long.
“I’m still set on not letting anybody else marry you, if that tells you anything.”
In that moment, it had been the easiest it’d ever been to let yourself tell the truth. He’d changed and so had you, but he still smelled the same and felt the same and he was your same Harry, and your heart did too. It greeted him again as his lips did the same to your own, giggles shared underneath the covers like you’d been doing for years with him beside you.
Blurb Synopsis: It was your first summer working at a sleep away camp, and you were feeling a little homesick yourself. That all disappeared when you met the counselor of your sister group, Harry, who is in charge of the all-boys cabin, Campfire. Your all-girls cabin, Butterflies, came to love Campfire and their counselor, and very quickly, so did you. You were afraid you had come to like him a little too much, more than friends typically do.
Genre: Camp Counselor!Harry, friends to lovers, fluffy, some nostalgic vibes, and romance.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 6.3k words
Pairing: Harry x Reader
Music Inspo: Fireflies by Owl City I guess (click to listen)
*
You had been coming here for a good while now, already having memorized the placement of Ursa Major and Minor in the night sky. You found your way down the trail, past the sandy beach, and to the rickety wooden dock every night after lights out. The flashlight clicks off in your hand, but once you reach the pavilion you hardly need it anymore, the last licks of the bonfire lighting up the beach. A loon sings nearby on the lake, waves lapping at the shore, plastic shovels, and a few socks certainly hidden amongst the sand.
The twist-off cap opens with a pleased sigh, and the refreshing cold beer is welcomed by your lips. Exhaling, your eyes float towards the pitch-black sky and search for Orion whose tall figure has escaped you for the last few nights. These nightly stargazing trips have become a comfort for you, your new home suddenly being a camp of youngsters, and your bedroom consisting of a tiny cabin that leaks when it rains and lacks air conditioning.
You had just finally been starting to adjust to life as a summer camp counselor, and there was one significant reason for that. His name was Harry, well, is. He’s the counselor for the all-boy cabin, Campfire, and has been your sister group for your all-girl cabin, Butterflies.
Due to this, the both of you had been seeing a lot of each other as your cabins interacted often. Nearing the end of the first week of camp, and now anytime one of your kids asked to play with Campfire, you jumped at the opportunity. Although it mostly was due to seeing Harry, who had quickly become your favorite coworker, it was undeniable that your kids got along so well.
That was another thing, he was so good with his kids, and yours. There were a few girls in your 8s cabin who did a bad job of hiding their crushes on him, always hanging all over him. With no fail, every day during your shared swimming time in the lake, they were begging Harry again and again. Whether it was to throw them in the water, hoist them up onto his shoulders, or to build a sandcastle with him - they couldn’t get enough of him. After spending only four days with him, you couldn’t blame them, because neither could you.
It almost shocked you how quickly you had come to know him, and became fast friends. After running into each other on the main trail on your way to breakfast the first day, you found him waiting by the large red pine near your cabin every morning since. He even had begun to save his sausages for you, and you always gave your banana muffin to him.
Today, your groups had spent the entire day together, and so did you and Harry. The kids especially enjoyed your time on the paddleboards this afternoon, but you weren’t too sure about Harry pushing you off into the water every time you got the courage to stand up on it. The laughs continued throughout your hike in the woods that Harry claims he didn’t get your cabins lost on, but you knew better than to believe him when he began to nervously knead at his bottom lip with his fingers. Face painting may have been your favorite activity from today, despite the nervousness that tickled your body when his face was inches away from yours. He painted the most darling butterfly on your cheek, and he bragged about the banana you left on his for the rest of the day.
The beer dribbles off of your bottom lip, gracing your skin flushed from the heat still sitting in the night air, and from thinking about him. Harry. Everybody loved him, even the other camp counselors, and especially some of the fellow female ones. You couldn’t help but notice how Porcupines and their counselor, Erica, had taken a liking to Harry. They seemed to be friends from last summer, but this was your first summer working here at the camp, and that fact alone intimidated you. It made you tell a white lie when Harry asked if you wanted to play board games with his group, or if he should hang out with Porcupines who live in your cabin neighborhood.
Only after a week of knowing him, with four of those being camp days, and the others being staff training days, there was little he couldn’t do to dazzle you. Every night, there was a huge camp-wide bonfire. Not everybody joined, only those who wanted to, but ever since you claimed the upright log right of Harry on the first night, it had become your spot. He continued to amaze you night after consecutive night with his guitar playing, from Take Me Home, Country Roads to Wagon Wheel and of course, Wonderwall. More than once, you had felt his eyes on yours and found just that when you looked over at him, him soon winking with smiling lips.
Oh, those lips and all of the dreams you had about them.
The lake water lapping at your feet hanging off of the dock does little to cool you down on this early June night, but after the train of thought that’s taken off, there’s little you can do to cool down. To make matters worse, your skin spreads with electricity when you hear a twig snap nearby. You don’t even have the time to ask who’s there, because the milky moonlight lights up features of a familiar somebody.
“Care if I join ya?” they rasp, nodding to the section of dock to your left. Shaking your head ‘no,’ the wooden boards rattle and squeak with their heavy footsteps. “Y’know ‘ve seen ya sneak out, but neva knew where ya went, and now lookie here. I found ya.”
“Congrats, you finally won a game of hide-and-seek,” you joke, the dark glass wet against your shaky fingers as you hold out the beer to him.
“Oh, shuddup. Ya don’t know how hard it ‘s bein’ tall when tha kids ask me t’ play hide-and-seek. ‘s not like I can hide behind a tree as easily as they bloody can,” he giggles, and clinks the neck of his beer bottle against yours. “Cheers t’ a great almost first week o’ camp, and here’s t’ many mo’.”
“Cheers,” you echo, the frosty beer doing little to move the knot that appeared in your throat the second he stepped onto the beach in front of you.
Yes, here’s to many more weeks of camp with him- with Harry.
*
Your stargazing nights dipping your toes in the water continued every night without fail. And night after night, Harry showed up with two bottles of beer. Sometimes, he beat you and you found him waiting for you. Other nights, you were early and brought wine coolers instead. Nonetheless, it became another camp tradition of yours, and neither of you broke it.
That was until you broke your two and a half week streak one night, and not because you were sick or had a legitimate reason. No, your reason did feel legitimate, and it stung every time your subconscious drudged it back up. That didn’t mean you could tell Harry though, and you had a good reason for that too. A good reason was something he seemed to be missing, you thought, and you wished that you knew why.
*
Earlier that day, rain had been forecast for most of the afternoon, but instead of refreshing showers for the kids to dance in, a muggy heat had settled in the air. You couldn’t say that you weren’t complaining, because well, you were and Harry got an earful of it. He didn’t complain though, and lastly, yours ceased once your shared swimming time arrived. Lucky for you, your leadership staff had moved things around for your group to swim again later, after lunch. Seeing Harry in his short royal blue swim trunks not once but twice was rewarding enough, and so was when he stuck you on his shoulders, pulling laughs from all of the kids’ smiling lips.
The incessant heat drilled at your sun kissed skin later that night when you had had enough of your humid cabin, settling on the first of the wooden steps. Your attention was drawn over to a nearby staff cabin when you heard voices and laughter, but you dismissed it as you decided to take a cool shower in the bathhouse up the hill.
The voices grew louder amongst the cover of trees surrounding you, and as you hiked up the hill, you realized you were nearing their source. Almost immediately, you pick up on one of the voices, recognizing it seamlessly. You take a step forward at the inviting sound, but your foot stops in midair when you finally recognize the second voice. If that wasn’t enough to repel you, the appearance of them both outside a shaded cabin does it for you.
There he stands with only inches in between the two of them. Harry, and fricken Erica, of all people. You’re not sure what’s going on, but quickly, you realize that you stepped in on something you shouldn’t have. You turn around hastily and begin to walk away, but you freeze in place when the voices plummet into silence. Looking over your shoulder, your suspicions are confirmed when a pang jolts through your body at the sight of his lips upon hers. Your limbs are unstuck now and moving fast and away from that tragic sight. You don’t stop walking until you reach the bathhouse and hear the loud bang! of the door slamming behind you. Thank God you find that you have the girl’s side all to yourself a few moments later, and only once you’re under the cold spray of the shower, do you let the tears fly.
*
You didn’t know what to do with the rest of your night once you swore off showing up to the dock under the stars that night to meet him. Instead, you took advantage of the spotty Wi-Fi to catch up on YouTube videos, but it did little to distract you from what was going on deep down inside of you.
The next day wasn’t much better as it was still sweltering hot outside, and it was awkward trying to avoid Harry and his cabin, even though you and your kids had all become fast friends by now. Once you reached dinner, the worst of the day was over, and yet you wondered how’d you be able to do it all over again and ignore him. Even today, you weren’t able to fully ignore him. Your cabin was scheduled to bike earlier that afternoon before it got too hot, and in order to go biking, you had to have two staff with for safety reasons. You exchanged as few words as possible with him before and after the bike ride, but he still tried to crack jokes over your walkie talkies during the ride, seeing that the two of you were on a special channel, per the rules. It was obvious that he knew something was up, because neither of you had missed a night on the dock under the stars together, and last night you had done just that.
It was difficult at first, sitting in your cabin last night once the clock struck ten o’clock. You had begun to squirm and a hot itchy feeling came over your body, filling you with guilt, but quickly it subsided and was replaced by something else when you remembered seeing his lips on hers. Fucking Erica, what did he even see in her? you had poured over at least a dozen times since then. She was always yelling at her cabin when you passed her, and when she wasn’t, she was on her phone and ignoring her kids. You were surprised that one of them hadn’t gotten hurt badly yet, seeing as she never paid attention to them, and it drove you nuts how Harry could have feelings for somebody like that. He adored his kids and yours, making you wonder all the more why things had to be this way.
Your kids had complained all day, asking to play with Campfire, to hike to The Point with them or to do the low ropes course with them. Relent you did not, and only once besides the biking did they interact, and that was later in the day when it was time for cabin cleaning and so your cabins played together outside while you and Harry did the big cleaning jobs.
Regardless of how good of a job you had done at avoiding him today, you still felt his eyes on yours in the pavilion at lunch and dinner, and especially during swim time when you hung back on the beach. You just didn’t know how to talk to him normally again after seeing what you did, and you already knew the tragic effects it had caused for your friendship, and not just that, but anything more that you had wanted.
*
Yesterday had seemed like a piece of cake compared to now, sitting in your cabin as the short hand neared the nine and the long hand neared the six. You had thought about sneaking over to your friend, Molly’s cabin, for the night but you passed up the idea after remembering she had started dating another counselor recently, and was probably somewhere with them. Quickly, what was starting to become one of the best summers was now turning into a dream turned nightmare. It all slowly drifted away when you finally succumbed to the exhaustion building up from your long day spent in the sun.
*
When you awoke next, it was already quarter to ten pm, and you weren’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. No, you quickly wished it was the next morning or anytime later than well, now. It was still too soon, and as you slipped on sandals to use the bathroom, the guilt found its way back to you. The only thing going for you was that you had avoided any run ins with him, or for that matter, anybody, on your way to the bath house to use the bathroom. This is why I shouldn’t down wine coolers when I’m sad, you tsked within your thoughts as the flashlight led you back down the path to your cabin.
Cursing yourself for not turning on the fan before you fell asleep, you let the screen door of your cabin slap against the doorframe once you return. During your disaster of a day, you had also left clothes laying around, the beginning of what would surely become a colossal mess.
“Y’know, yer not s’posed t’ eat in here, you’ll attract bears and racoons,” a voice drawls from across the room. A jolt rockets through your body at the fright, only to end in a groan. “‘s true, I swear it. One o’ me coworkers last summer had a raccoon in their cabin ‘cuz they didn’t heed tha warnings.”
“Sure,” you respond, picking up an empty Doritos bag that you toss in the bin, ignoring his eyes that you feel hot on your back. “What are you doing in my cabin, Harry? You do realize that you’re breaking a rule, right? ‘No counselors of opposite sex in another counselor’s cabin after lights out,’” you recite aloud, continuing to pick up more of the evidence from your prior night spent wallowing in your tears and choice of junk food. Well, last two nights, for that matter.
“Bears seem much mo’ harmful than a simple visit from yer friend, I reckon.”
Friend, you say? you think silently to yourself before you can stop, accompanied by a scoff that falls from your lips for him to hear.
“If ya wanna know, ya’ve been ignorin’ me all day long. Ya wouldn’t answer yer texts, so I had t’ go t’ some dire straights and pay ya a visit. So, why’re ya ignorin’ me, darlin’? Did I do sumthin’ wrong?” Harry ponders aloud, moving from his previous perch on the cloth chair in the corner to your bed now.
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” you insist, picking up a pink Laffy Taffy wrapper to add to the handful of others.
“Yes ya were, even tha kids in our cabins noticed. Mo’ importantly, ya stood me up fer our nightly visits on tha dock, not jus’ last night but t’night as well. Figured there must be an important reason ya skipped, looks like t’night ya fell asleep, but why’d ya miss last night?”
With your back to him, you try to swallow past the lump that’s appeared in your throat, but it’s next to impossible. The opportunity arises, and you take it and run. In reality, you tie the full garbage bag into a knot and enter the humid night once again. You can hear his heavy footsteps behind you.
“‘m not done talkin’ t’ you!” Harry exclaims, the door slamming behind him as you walk down the trail blindly, knowing that the nearest dumpster is only ahead a few paces.
“Shouldn’t you be hanging out with your girlfriend? Seeing that’s how all of the counselors here spend lights out time,” you retort, the bravery growing within you as the crickets sound from the tall grass around you.
“What girlfriend? I don’t have one.”
“Oh, so then why were you sucking face with Erica? That kind of thing implies a relationship, you know,” you spit in return, at last finding the dumpster in the near dark, and pitching the garbage bag into it. “Let’s see how good you really are at hide and seek,” you tease after hearing the plop! of the garbage bag falling into the dumpster.
“I already found you t’day when we played,” he groans, but you can hear his footsteps following yours.
Your name flies from his lips but quickly, his voice becomes far away as you dash down the trail. He calls for you, but he’s already lost you and within moments, you see the flickering light above the very cabin you’re looking for.
His voice tickles at your ears as you slip in past the door, pressing it closed so it doesn’t make a sound. It doesn’t really look like how you had expected. Remnants of a clean, organized cabin remain amongst the clothes, shoes, and books strewn across the floor. A Fleetwood Mac poster dons a wall, leaving the others lonely in the small room. A blue quilt is tugged halfway up the bed with random shirts littering the striped sheets. Amongst them sits his Macbook covered with stickers, an open Marvel comic, and a journal thrown to the side, open to a page covered in messy handwriting.
The squeaking of the door opening sounds behind you, accompanied by heavy footsteps and labored breathing. Taking a page from his book, you plop down onto the bed and are soon enamored by the vinyl stickers on his laptop. The knot appears again in your throat as you trace the designs on the stickers, letting them grow hazy through the tears filling your eyes.
“Me cabin isn’t a very good hidin’ spot, darlin’,” Harry murmurs from behind you, but you could care less, knowing that this is where you wanted to end up all along.
“You probably don’t know this, but I’ve wanted to be friends with you since the very first day I met you. You had this contagious happiness to you that seemed to spread to anybody you met. No matter who it was or what kind of mood they were in, they always left you with a smile on their face,” you begin, toying with the unraveling edge of a sticker showing a Fender Telecaster guitar. “You can always make me smile, and I appreciate that so much, but I saw you and Erica kiss and I . . I can’t pretend that it didn’t tear me apart, Harry.”
“Darlin’, I told ya, ‘m not datin’ her. I did last summer, fer maybe two bloody weeks.”
“Then why-,” you begin, until he cuts you off prematurely.
“She kissed me, not tha otha way ‘round, ‘m tellin’ ya tha truth,” he nearly promises aloud, words hurried and adamant from over your shoulder.
You begin to nod your head until your ears prick up at the sound of one of your manager’s shouting from the trail a warning about being in your own cabins past lights out. Not wasting another second there crying on his bed, you scurry away without another word to Harry, even though you were filled to the brim with them. His face consumed with worry and questions was burned into your mind for the rest of the night.
It was the very last thing you saw until you fell asleep.
*
You were unsure of how to feel the next day, a Friday, and you found that it was all the more harder today to avoid him. First, your groups had art time together in the Art building, and then before you could stop it, your cabins began to play together at the nearby volleyball net when you and Harry were each cleaning up after board game time in your own cabins. It was hard to stay mad at Harry, you swiftly learned, due to him really laying on the charm and fun during volleyball with the kids. You thought it would be a good idea to avoid getting in the lake again later that day, but once again, he just couldn’t stay away.
“Not gonna swim today, are we?” he asks, brushing away sand from your towel that you occupy before he sits down next to you.
You suffice an answer with a quick shake of your head, grateful for the minimal cover of your dark sunglasses, hoping that they hide at least some of your secrets.
“Ah, so yer still ignorin’ me, ‘s that right?” he hums, the weight easily heard in his words. No matter what you do, you don’t look at him, but as the seconds tick by, it becomes all the harder.
You can hear the little drip drop of the lake water pooling off of his body, probably from the lip of his mustard yellow swim trunks scattered with cartoon pineapples. Despite the anger, your insides scream at you to finally look over at him, and the entirety of his wet body. You somehow resist, keeping your eyes forward at your kids dipping in and out of the waves. When you remember the revolting sight of him kissing her, it becomes far easier to distract yourself by counting the heads of your kids for the third time in ten minutes.
“Harry, did you convince her to come and swim?” one of Harry’s boys from Campfire asks from the shallow end.
“No,” he groans, just at your side, and when the boy asks ‘why’, he doesn’t hold back, “How am I s’posed t’ know? Ask her, she won’t tell me anyways. She’s all crabby t’day,” he retorts, getting up and brushing the sand from his legs before stalking off to sit on the dock. He sinks down onto the wooden planks almost in the very same spot that he would every night you’d find him waiting there under the glow of the moon and the stars.
The sight of him making one of the tanned lifeguards laugh is worsened by your reminiscent thoughts. Wishes course through your mind hastily and unwarranted, including why this has to be so hard.
*
Every time the cursed image would float into your subconscious once again, you would bat it away with your imaginary stick. Slowly, it began to work, and by the time dinner rolled around, you were warming up to him again, or so you thought. In your place in line, you scoped out the empty seat beside him at his table, but by the time you had gotten your food, it was filled, and with another attractive coworker from the Bat Cave cabin.
For the second night in a row, your place next to Harry at the campfire had been stolen away from you. This time, you hadn’t meant for it to happen, and that had only made the burn sting worse.
Instead of staying to listen to Harry lead singalongs with his Fender acoustic sat in his lap, and with the lifeguard from earlier fawning over him from your seat, you skipped your first ever nightly campfire. Comments from your kids from the last two days found their way back to you and only made you wish you were somewhere else all the more. It had grown annoying the number of times they had asked you why you wouldn’t let them play with Campfire cabin or ‘why you and Harry weren’t friends anymore.’ One incident from earlier that day at the beach had almost brought tears to your eyes, and thank God you had remembered your sunglasses today if it had succeeded.
You had finally let your eyes stray to Harry once he had forgotten about the cute lifeguard and dove back into the water, welcomed by his campers. One of your girls ran out of the lake, water dripping from every inch of her little body. She said hi to you and asked if she could sit by you, a question you didn’t have to think about. After wrapping her Moana towel around her, she fell onto Harry’s previous seat, and soon you felt her eyes hot on your cheek.
“Why aren’t you swimming?” she wonders aloud, pulling the towel around her front and hiding her bent legs underneath it.
“I forgot my suit.”
“Then just go and get it in your cabin,” she insists with a shrug of her shoulders, as if it’s obvious.
“I don’t want to swim today.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that?” she laughs, letting her shivering chin fall onto her bent knees. “But you always swim with us, and with Harry,” the little girl named Zoey says, the question heard in her voice. This time, it’s a question you can’t answer as easily as before. “It’s not as much fun without you swimming out there with us, even Harry says so.”
Again, you’re lost for words and you think she may be able to tell. You attempt to pass the time by counting your children again, but it takes longer when they’re dipping in and out of the water. Just when you think that you have most of them, you lose track once they start to move.
“I think Harry likes you,” Zoey declares aloud, and an amused scoff hums from your lips. Your insides battle for how much value to take from her words, both wondering what a kid could know and also aware of how smart and observant they actually are. “I think he’s super cute, but I’m not old enough to be his girlfriend. I’m only eight, so I think you should be his girlfriend. Do you like him?”
“I don’t know, I think he likes somebody else,” you answer with a contradicting laugh contrite with ironic sadness.
“I asked him and he said he doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Zoey remarks, turning her head to smile up at you proudly with one eye closed shut, squinting at you through the bright rays of the summer sun.
“Just what do you think you’re doing, Zoey?” you tease, turning your head to look at her, crossing your arms comically.
“I don’t know,” she giggles, her thick and dark eyelashes clumping together from the lake water. Your hand wanders to her tanned neck dotted with freckles, laughs singing from her lips once your fingers dance across the crook of her neck. “Fine, some of us in Butterflies and Campfire are trying to get you and Harry to be boyfriend and girlfriend. We call it ‘The Fireflies Mission’ - you know Fire from Campfire cabin and Flies from Butterflies cabin. But it’s Top Secret so you can’t tell anybody I told you,” she reveals, raising a finger to her lips.
A laugh peels from your lips until it ends abruptly, the words settling with you. The sentiment knits together within your mind and your heart comes to be involved, bringing forth the heavy warmth behind your eyes that threaten to spill onto your cheeks.
“You guys are sweet, but don’t bother,” you say, sufficing for an answer with a dismissing wave of your hand.
“No! You two would be so cute together, we all think so. We think Harry likes you, and don’t you think he’s cute? Come on, I bet you do,” she teases, bringing her revenge with pink chipped polished fingers crawling up your arm.
“I do not!”
“Yes, you do! That’s why you keep staring at him and his butt!” she insists, with a smirk missing a few teeth.
“Zoey, stop it!” you return, but your words quickly collapse into laughs that she echoes.
“If you don’t tell him, then I will!”
“Zo’, you don’t even know if I like him or not,” you approach sternly, but it’s wasted once a chuckle consumes your argument.
“You so do, you two are always flirting! Just ‘cause I’m a kid doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” she argues, fire behind her crystal blue eyes. Her blonde eyebrows wiggle along her freckled forehead, wet pigtails swinging above her shoulders. “So, are you gonna tell him or not?”
An answer escapes you, and when it does, she lets her towel fall away as she gets to her feet in a hot pink, one-piece swimsuit. Before you can stop her, her long legs dotted with bug bites, scrapes, and bruises sprint away from you.
“Harry!” she exclaims, glancing over her shoulder to you, sticking her tongue out at you.
“Zoey!”
“I’m not going to,” she calls back, turning around and pulling down the white goggles over her eyes. You’re forgotten and she returns to her friend, Cammie, who’s searching for shells underwater. “Harry, I wanna be thrown in too!” Zoey continues, pulling on Cammie’s arm to follow until she’s jumping on Harry’s back where he’s crouched in the water. You look away, attention stolen by your name spoken on the walkie talkies.
Little did you know, that within moments, Harry’s eyes were running over to you and all because of something a little birdy had said.
*
It was still light enough that you didn’t need your flashlight yet, the one each of you was given at the beginning of the summer, and the one that Harry had already lost little to your surprise. You could still hear his voice belting out Hey Jude at the campfire from down the trail, beginning the end consisting solely of na na’s. Slowly, the na na’s grew louder and louder, probably as Harry convinced more kids to join the terribly simple singalong, and one you had wished you were a part of. You wouldn’t want to do anything more, and yet, you knew why you couldn’t.
The reasons were shy and didn’t come to you when you asked, and with that realization, your feet begin to stray from your nightly walk to your cabin and to somewhere else. The blankets were far messier than before and now, CDs and more books joined their distraught mess. T-shirts scattered the floor and so did socks and bandanas, several that were familiar from donning his head of curls already this summer. All of the rules, both campwide and personal, flew through your head, and exited out through your other ear. You wished that so many other thoughts could do the same, but you felt yourself clinging to so many, and that you had begun to become okay with that.
“Told ya me cabin isn’t a good hidin’ place when yer tryna t’ hide from me.”
The voice surprises you, but not enough to bring you to turn around. You’d be lying to yourself if you said that you had hoped he wouldn’t have come. The one thing that does surprise you is the fact that what doesn’t come to you is any words that feel right, and as if they belong.
“I don’t wanna fight with ya anymo’, darlin’. Tha kids don’t like it and neitha do I. Bloody hell, look at me soundin’ like a proper dad, already,” Harry announces, the second half claimed by an awkward laugh marked by the silence you give to him. “I dunno how many times I gotta fookin’ say it, but ‘m not with Erica, or anybody else fer that matta. Ya’ve become me best friend ova tha last few weeks, and ‘m sorry that that kiss ruined that, but I wanna fix it. I don’t wanna lose me best friend ova some rubbish kiss, a kiss that I didn’t even want or initiate . . Anyways, ‘m goin’ back t’ tha bonfire. I told ‘em I was jus’ usin’ tha loo quick, but ‘ll be waitin’ at tha dock t’night, and I really hope ‘ll see ya there . . . butterfly.”
*
An owl cooed in the distance, joining the nightly song led by the crickets and the frogs. Somehow, the heat still lingered despite the absence of the sun, and the humidity left a stifling feeling in the air. It made you wonder why you remained here, miserable from the humid heat and mosquitoes that pestered at your skin. The fan you bought for its five different settings beckoned you to return the second your cabin door closed. Now, a ways down the trail, you almost wish you’d never left. With each step, that begins to shrink away as a nervousness overwhelms you, propelling your feet forward. A yawn lingers on your lips as the rocks and dead leaves crunch beneath your steps.
Curses fly from your lips when your eyes land on the empty dock painted with the moonlight. Your chest falls with a long sigh when you glance to your phone that reads 10:18 pm, almost an hour late. The emotions brew inside of you as you turn on your heel quickly, backtracking your steps.
“Didn’t think ya’d show,” a voice murmurs from the darkness, making you whip around to face the pavilion where it comes from.
“I fell asleep again, I’m sorry,” you confess with a heavy voice, laden with apologies and regret. Harry steps out of the shadows with his hands hidden in the pockets of his baby pink hoodie, only a few steps away and nearing you with every second. “Please believe me, I-.”
The explanation escapes your lips and also the air when he steps forward, lacing his fingers with yours.
“I believe ya . . butterfly, ‘s okay.”
“And Harry, I believe you too . . . when you said you didn’t kiss her. I’m sorry it took me so long to,” you admit, the overdue words diving into the air to grace his ears.
“Thank ya, darlin’. Now, I heard sumthin’ funny from a li’l birdy earlier t’day,” he smirks and it only grows higher when you take his other hand into yours. One corner of his mouth reaches higher up his cheek as confusion knits together within your mind. “A certain sumbody had sumthin’ interestin’ t’ tell me befo’ I threw her into tha water . . Sound familiar now?”
His growing grin fills your eyes as the puzzle pieces click together almost instantly.
“Zoey,” you grumble from behind gritted teeth as his giggle sings in your ears. “That little liar.”
“Reckon they’ve had it out fer us tha whole summer,” he smiles. “I told her that I bet I love her counselor mo’ than she does,” he confesses hesitantly, eyes flitting away from yours with a blush filling his cheeks.
“Harry,” you begin warmly, squeezing his hands in between your clammy pair.
“I only wanna do this if we’re gonna really give it a try, don’t wanna ruin our friendship or have tha kids pay tha price of it not goin’ well. So no mo’ ignorin’ me when things get tough,” Harry says, pointing his stern eyes at you, but you hardly notice because of the words he speaks. “No if’s, and’s, or but’s, got it?” he finishes, reciting his catch phrase he uses with the boys in his cabin.
“Got it,” you smile, feeling as if your lips couldn’t reach higher, but they do when his come to meet yours. They’re sweeter than you had imagined, and softer. The nostalgic smell of sunscreen clings to his skin, almost hidden by the strong scent of the bonfire you always smelled on him during your nights on the dock. The troubles from the last few days melt away upon his lips, and all traces escape when his arms come around you.
“How bad d’ya reckon they’ll freak when we tell ‘em?” he wonders aloud after breaking the kiss, pulling you against his warm chest.
“Wait, you think we should tell them?”
“Ya, we gotta, seein’ as their Fireflies Mission worked and ev’rythin’. We’ll just leave out tha part where we did all the hard work,” he snickers from above you, resting his chin on the top of your head.
“How’d you find out about their mission?” you giggle against his chest, the tassels to his hoodie digging into your cheek.
“Cuz they’re not very good at keepin’ secrets, just like they’re counselors,” Harry chuckles, pulling one from your mouth as well. “C’mon, let’s go. I think tha beers I brought might still be cold.”
A soft ‘okay’ leaves your lips to meet the air as he pulls on your hand to follow him, the first grains of sand tickling at your toes as you ruminate on how you haven’t felt this okay in quite a long time.
All thanks to your special little firefly, the best friend to your very own butterfly.
Premise: You had come to know Mr. Styles’ high school English classroom like the back of your hand during your time subbing for him. Over the course of the year, you found it unbearable not being able to meet this mysterious man.
-> Based loosely on the song, Green Eyes, by Coldplay
Blurb Synopsis: After finally meeting the mysterious Mr. Styles you subbed for, you take a job at the same school, right across the hall from him. You’re unsure how much longer you can hide your feelings for him as you’ve grown to become best friends.
Genre: Teacher Harry, fluff, romance, angst, and a little sad.
Warnings: None
Word Count: Nearly 8k words
Pairing: Harry x Reader
Music Inspo: Blackbird by The Beatles (click to listen)
*
Your desk was covered in Twix wrappers, multicolored gel pens, and empty cans of Coke. The new school year hadn’t even begun, and your desk already looked like a tornado had come by. Not to mention the fact that school started in almost three weeks and you hardly had any classroom books. You kept telling yourself it’s a high school English classroom, not a third-grade classroom. There’s a library down the hall for a reason, but the classroom barren of books drove you nuts. Your desk wasn’t shy to books though, as favorites of Harry had found a home on the dark wood.
Leaves of Grass.
Catcher in the Rye.
The Sun Also Rises.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Walking into your classroom on this sunny morning, the thought makes the smile on your face grow wider. Finally, you can say that you have your own classroom. The sight of the week-old books leaves the smile there on your lips. A laugh dances off of them at the sight of the Roald Dahl book, bringing you back to the memory when you found it there one morning.
You had asked Harry why he included it in the occasional stack of books he loaned to you. He said it’s required reading, because so few people know the movies are based on a book. You’re just wondering when he’s going to slip The Outsiders or Stuart Little under your door next.
The rows of ancient cream desks stare back at you, and you wonder just how you’re going to command a classroom in a few days. Well, seven of them to be exact. Then you try to remind yourself, for the twentieth time, that you’ve done this before. It won’t be so hard, then. Perhaps you’ll even have some past students, and that should help. Right?
You’ve barely gotten a few steps into your classroom, because of the thoughts muddling your mind. Sighing, you slip off your bag to leave on your chair. One that some days you don’t even sit in, because your legs are walking miles around your classroom, setting up. Thumbtacks are scattered across the expanse of your desk, reminding you of the unfinished walls. Before you can think about the posters sitting in the corner, a flash of pink catches your eye. Furrowing your brow, your eyes flit back to the flash of color.
It’s a hot pink Post-It note with messy handwriting in black ink.
Should I get us burgers or subs for the meeting we have today?
PS: You’re officially a teacher now with your own pad of Post-Its ;)
You’re sure that the insane happiness painting your face would look more at home on that of a teenager. Nonetheless, you can’t get rid of it, and you wouldn’t want to. This rings even more true when you see the note is stuck to a copy of Matilda. A warmth blossoms in your chest as you pick it up, running your thumb along the weathered edges. Ones you haven’t touched in ages, it seems. Within seconds you’re stepping into the hallway, thoughts knitting together in your mind. They’re from the love you have deep down for this story, a favorite book, and movie of yours as a child. The elation budding in your mind stops when you find his door closed, just as you had minutes ago. Unable to hide your disappointment, a pout tugs at your lips as you turn around.
“Ya gotta verdict already? Dat was quick,” a voice drawls from behind you. Your pout is a thing of the past, and a grin is making its way to replace it. Spinning around, your summery dress follows your twirling body.
A couple paces away, Harry stands at the top step of the staircase. His trademark brown leather backpack is slung over one shoulder. A black Fleetwood Mac t-shirt hugs his upper half, a black and blue flannel covering his arms. His old skool Vans echo down the hallway as he walks towards you.
“Well, I’ve already read it,” you inform him, observing his content smile turn into a confused one. “A couple of times actually. Once when I was 8, then some other times through the years.”
“Ah, so I got lucky and happened upon a lifetime favourite, have I?” he smirks, only a few steps away now.
“Mmmhmm,” you nod, your growing hair tickling your chin before you move it away. “When are you going to tell me what your favorite book is?”
“When ya finally guess it right,” he quips, stopping in front of you. A dimple falls into his left cheek as he shows off his sparkling teeth. Okay, sir, it is too early in the morning to be looking this attractive.
“I’m going to have to ask you to stop being so chipper when it’s only nine in the morning,” you tell him firmly, but it’s all for show. Poking his chest, your finger just hits pure muscle. Swoon.
“Then maybe wake up, already, birdy,” he chirps, the Raybans in his hair moving when his head goes from side to side. Chuckling, he grabs hold of your finger and tries to bite it, but you pull away in time. The mention of the recent pet name slows you down, but you haven’t gotten bitten yet. “Ya betta not fall asleep in today’s meetin’ like ya did last week.”
“I didn’t fall asleep, I was just resting my eyes!” you exclaim, throwing your hands into the air. His amused giggle greets your ears as he unclips his ring of keys from his blue jeans.
“Yes ya did, ya don’t getta lie t’ me, love,” he responds in between laughs, seemingly finding this more amusing than it really is.
“Oh, so John can fall asleep at meetings, but I can’t?” you ask, your voice raising with laughter and faux annoyance.
You watch Harry pluck his sunglasses from his head as you walk into his dark classroom. The streams of sunlight speckle desks and pictures donning his walls. As you flick on the light, the smell of oranges wafts over you again. The red bowl sat upon his desk filled with the citrus makes you feel at home, albeit his mere presence does that without fail.
“No, ya can’t. Sorry, love. I don’t make tha rules ‘round here.”
“Lame,” you sigh, paging through the book mindlessly as you fall into his new chair. He finally splurged and bought a comfy leather one that you steal every chance you can get.
“Want a Bit-O-Honey, honey?” Harry offers, pulling your eyes away from the familiar pictures. Grinning, you take the wrapped candy from his outstretched hand, trying to ignore the pet name. You find it hard to forget as you half look through the book and half watch him peel off his flannel. A sight, indeed.
“Wait, how’d you put this in my room if the door was locked? The other books you sneaked in when I stepped out,” you ask suddenly, working on the piece of hard candy in your mouth.
“I tol’ Marty tha janitor I forgot sumthin’ in yer room.”
You can hear the smirk in his voice even though his back is to you. A broad one at that. When he turns just the slightest to peek at you, you find crinkles around his glimmering eyes.
“Harry!” you scoff, your jaw falling to your chest, although not quite.
“Oh stop it, ya know ya like it.”
Groaning, you cross your arms over your chest in annoyance, but it doesn’t last very long.
“I don’t like all of these meetings,” you complain, throwing your head back onto the headrest. You flip to a page that makes you smile at the sight of cartoon Matilda.
“Get used t’ it, ‘s one o’ tha big differences between bein’ a sub an’ a salaried teacher. Shoulda just stayed a sub then,” he jokes, driving you to pick up a Bit-O-Honey and throw it at his head. Turning away from the things he’s unloading from his backpack, he whines. “Heeey! Watch dat arm o’ yers, ‘s a scary one. Maybe ya should be teachin’ gym class instead.”
“Sports are ew,” you reply, ducking when he throws it back at you. “Harry Styles, you stop it!” you manage in between giggles, finally closing the book.
“Oh ya, and what’re ya gonna do ‘bout it in t’ose heels, huh?” he teases, his hands leaving the pockets of his oversized backpack. “Ya gonna fly over t’ me, li’l birdy?”
Huffing, you set down the book on his neat desk. Placing his hands on his hips, he turns to you and sticks out his tongue.
“Oh, that’s it! You’re going to get it!” you threaten, standing from the chair as his laughter fills the room.
“‘m soooo scared, boohoo,” he teases with a fake sob, his fists mimicking wiping tears from his cheeks. Snickering, he returns to his backpack. “Go hang up yer posters in yer room and leave me be fer once.”
“You’re no fun,” you proclaim with a final whimper. Grabbing the book, you come up from behind him, softly hitting him with it on the shoulder.
“I warned you,” he retorts. Before you know it, he gently grabs your wrist and pulls you over to stand in front of him.
“Warned me about what?” you jest, a giggle wedging its way into your sentence as you drop the book onto a desk. You know that you’re getting on his nerves now. It’s the only time you’ve heard his teacher voice come out, but hey, you’re not complaining.
His thick eyebrows above those eyes raise, wrinkling his forehead tan from your days at the beach the last few months. Harry pushing you off a rope swing into the water, him bitching about doing all of the paddling during your canoe trip, not so accidentally drenching your back with water from his paddle, and head dunking competitions while swimming. The tan looks far better on him, you think, as you admire the sun-kissed freckles peppering his face.
“I told ya one time dat yer good at pushin’ me buttons, and here ya are doin’ it. I know I shoulda neva told ya dat,” he mutters, the curls atop his head dancing as his head rocks back and forth. The nervous laughter bubbling inside of you finds its escape, and you know that you’ve done it now. “But I guess ya jus’ don’t listen, do ya, bird?”
You can’t stop yourself, and there you are poking his dimple with your finger. This time, you squeal when it finds its way between his nibbling teeth. His name leaves your lips in a near shout which only grows worse as his fingers dance along your ribs.
“Stop, stop!” you cry out, but with no avail. His other arm comes around your middle to trap you with your back against a desk, despite your squirming. His other fingers dig into your sides before finding the soft flesh of your tummy.
“Stop bloody screamin’, yer gonna make e’rybody think ‘m murderin’ ya or sumthin’,” he titters. You almost give in at the sight of his crinkly eyes and the smile stretching across his face.
“And what if I don’t?”
“Then I might jus’ hafta find a way t’ shut ya up, my li’l bird,” he coos from above you, a brunette brow raising.
“Oh really?”
“Yes, really,” he hums, the tips of his fingers ghosting over your side now.
His bubblegum lips relax, falling into a knowing smirk. The laughs disappear from the both of you as his fingers still, resting on your side. The seconds tick by as your heart hammers in your chest, because his face is closer than it was a second ago. You gulp, suddenly finding the gold flecks in his eyes you didn’t know were there. Or the smattering of tiny freckles along his nose. That all becomes a thought of the past when his lips become the only thing you can think about as they near you. “Shall I?” Harry says in a breathy whisper, and you’re nodding even before his last syllable hits the air.
Your skin feels hot and prickly all over as your eyes fall closed, waiting for what happens next. The very thing you’ve dreamed of since that day you dropped the books in front of him. When he took off his shirt at the beach, revealing his toned chest covered in black tattoos. The charisma and kindness he carried at your very first meeting after you were hired, the beginning of you two being joined at the hip.
His lips are soft when he presses them against yours, and warm. He surrounds your lips with his slowly, as excitement rushes through you. A woodsy smell engulfs you when your nose brushes against his prickly cheek. His lips feel like velvet against yours with the slightest taste of Carmex chapstick. You’re sure he can feel the smile hiding on yours as his top lip fits between yours like a puzzle piece. His thin beard you’ve never seen him without tickles at your skin as your lips mold together. You can still feel the tingle on your lips after he’s pulled away. As well as the one that spreads across your body when those green eyes look into yours.
“See, I was right. It did get you t’ shuddup,” he mumbles, the blissed-out smirk on his face covering every inch of his skin. You’ve seen his nervous smiles and everything in between, but you’re certain you’ve never seen that smile before. Not that your face is any better, because right now it’s a competition between whose smile is bigger. It might just be a tie, and you wish there could be a tie-breaker.
“You should do that more often,” you smile, an uneasy laugh bringing an end to your risky words.
“I think ‘d be happy with dat.”
You try to tell yourself you’re glad his hands didn’t stray to your face, because he would’ve felt the heat of your tomato likened cheeks. There’s no use, because you want them there, but on your sides, as they are is better than nothing. It fills your stomach with multitudes of butterflies just to have your hands on each other.
His hands draw shapes into your back when you wrap him in a hug. The fresh smell of his citrus body wash fills your nose, your skin touching the fabric of his shirt.
“Ya gonna get all soft on me now, are ya?” he whispers above you, his cheek against the side of your head.
“Mmmhmm,” is all you can muster as you find yourself dragging the tips of your fingers along his side.
Raising your head to peek up at him, his eyes drop to you. “Good, I like ya dat way,” he murmurs, running his thumb along the roundness of your cheek. His tongue peeks out of his lips, held between his teeth. “Verdict?” he almost laughs, causing the butterflies inside of you to stir.
“I don’t know. I think I might need um, another sample,” you smirk, watching a corner of his mouth meet his cheek.
“Tha’s fair,” he agrees before dipping to plant another kiss to your lips. His lips are even more decadent a second time, and you quickly realize how addicting this could become. You realize it’s the only addiction you’d be okay with having as the tip of his nose caresses your cheek.
Your lips part with a soft smack, much too soon for your liking. “We should prolly get back t’ work,” Harry snickers, his breath against your face sweet from the caramel candy.
“Yeah,” you agree aloud, much to your dismay. “I’d give it an A, by the way.”
“Hmmm,” he thinks aloud, quirking his eyebrows in response.
“A long overdue one.”
“‘d say yer right there,” he echos, pinching your cheek between his fingers. Giggling, you pull away as your laughs mix with each other’s.
“Hey, Harry!” a voice calls, sounding far away.
You separate quickly, like two magnets repelling each other. It saddens you, but when a colleague steps into Harry’s classroom a moment later, you’re met with relief as you grab the book off the desk.
“Hi, Trent. Ya ready t’ see who falls asleep first in t’day’s meetin’?” he quips, stuffing his hands in his pockets, nonchalantly leaning against a desk.
“My money’s on John, for sure,” Trent jokes, pressing his red glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Oh hi, Y/N,” he says, greeting you. You wave with a small ‘hi’ as you stand at the edge of the classroom near the windows uneasily.
“I dunno, my money feels pretty good on her,” Harry teases, pointing a finger at you before winking.
“Whatever. I better go take my nap now that you reminded me,” you return, sauntering out of the room and into the hall.
Out of his presence, the butterflies take flight inside of you. A warmth fills your body all over when you reach the safety of your classroom. Closing the door, you fall against it with happiness jumping from the smile on your lips. Squealing with your hands held to your chest, you soon sigh at the thought of his lips. His lips soon being on yours again, and again, and again.
Exhaling, you step down from the chair and stare at your hard work. Nodding in approval, you straighten the skirt of your patterned mustard dress. The happy face of Anne Frank looks back at you from the enlarged poster of her autobiography. Dragging your feet over to your desk, you plop onto your brown spinny chair, ignoring your heels forgotten on the floor. You bask in the new ambiance of your classroom, feeling the pleasure from the new posters donning your walls.
The Diary of Anne Frank.
Ross from F.R.I.E.N.D.S saying ‘you’re means y-o-u a-r-e.’
The quote, ‘Never forget what you are, the rest of the world will not’ - Tyrion Lannister.
A funny grammar poster that makes you feel like an even bigger English nerd.
Frowning, the last poster in the corner sits there begging to be shown off, but you need help with it. After the events of earlier, you’re nervous to approach Harry. A sweet kind of nervousness, but nonetheless it’s there. Huffing, you grab the edge of the desk to pull you closer. Pressing play, the Queen song crawls from your laptop’s speakers, slowly filling the room. Clicking through your open windows, you finally find the unit plan you’ve been working on.
Voices carry down the hallway outside your door, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. Squinting, as if it will help your hearing, you then tilt your head to look out your half-opened door. Jackson from the nearby history wing walks by, laughing at something somebody said.
“Dis betta not be a bloody heavy desk, Jack,” somebody responds, amusement laced in their voice.
“Hey, I know that voice,” you softly whisper to yourself, your lips curling at its sound.
“You’re the one who agreed to help me! You can’t get out of helping me bring it in now, Harry!”
You hear the melodic sound of his laugh, perhaps one of your favorite sounds. The butterflies return when you let yourself think about getting to hear it as much as you’d like in these walls. 5 days a week for 9 months out of the year- well, something like that.
A couple seconds later, Harry zooms past your door saying, “Get t’ work!” in a mocking deep voice, winking.
“You!” you shout back, giggling to yourself with hot cheeks. You attempt to return your attention to the document open on your screen. It’s difficult, you find, because the thing consuming your mind is how nice Harry’s bum looked in those jeans.
*
Chatter pecks at your ears as you swivel in your chair, watching your new colleagues converse around the table. Your new boss laughs with somebody standing at the room’s front by the projector screen. Reaching forward, you pluck another carrot from your plate to nibble on nervously. Once again, you pull out your phone to busy yourself, only making you feel guiltier for not mingling. You’ve already said at least a ‘hi’ to everyone in this room already, and you have the rest of your career to get to know them, you tell yourself. Bouncing your leg, your eyes drift to the clock on the wall. Impatience spreads like a hot wave throughout your limbs, bringing your eyes yet again to the back door to the conference room. When is he going to get here, you guess fervently, counting down the minutes until the meeting starts.
A thud! surprises you when a white paper bag lands on the table in front of you.
“Hmm, I didn’t know ya were a jumpa,” a voice snickers, its owner soon coming into view in front of you. Harry. “Why ya lookin’ like a lost puppy, bird?” he coos, pushing out his bottom lip as he pulls out the chair to your right.
“I’m not,” you retort, continuing to scroll through Instagram, stopping when you see a picture of a Goldendoodle puppy.
“Yes, ya do. What, were ya wonderin’ what’d ya do if I didn’t show? Can’t have ya missin’ yer security blanket now,” he teases, poking you in the ribs with a glint in his eye.
“Stop,” you giggle, placing your phone face down on the table. Sitting up and eyeing the food, you pinch his thigh for good measure.
“Hey, watch those fingas, missy. They keep gettin’ ya into trouble lately,” he warns, tsking as his head goes from side to side. Opening the bag, he pulls out a familiar wrapped burger to hand to you.
“Thank you, I’ll pay you back.”
“Shhhh, ya can pay next time. Sound good?” Harry hums, flitting his eyes to you with an eyebrow raise.
You give him his answer with a nod before taking a bite of the cheeseburger. Your boss starts to tell everybody to find a seat so they can begin the meeting. Out of the corner of your eye, Harry sets a packet of fries in front of you. Shooting him a smile, he returns it as he feeds one between his happy lips. Chairs squeak and whine as they’re moved and sat in around the long table. Somebody nudges your foot, and to no surprise, you find it’s Harry. He holds out a covered paper cup, a red straw poking from the top. A ‘thank you’ is held in your smile and he just nods, slipping off his sunglasses to set down. Your attention is stolen by his fingers raking through his curls to put them back in place.
A thought pops into your head unwarranted, and consumes your attention as the principal speaks. I wonder if this means now I get to run my fingers through those curls, you ponder as you grab a fry. At the most inconvenient time possible, your mind starts to dig around. Doubts soon fill your thoughts, along with questions about what this will be with him. You try to push them away and lock them in a box, but they’ve done their job. Any smile left on your lips is gone now, and you continue to eat your burger quietly.
“Ya eat jus’ like a bird with t’ose li’l bites,” Harry whispers, scooting closer to the table to retrieve the packets of ketchup from the bag.
Turning to look at him, he holds a glowing smile in his eyes for you. His shoe knocks into yours and he leaves it sitting on top of yours. Take that, stupid brain, you announce to your thoughts as you affectionately bump your knee against Harry’s.
Reverting your thoughts to the towering figure speaking at the front of the room, a smile buds on your lips at the feeling of Harry rubbing his knee against yours.
*
Rubbing your hands across your eyes, you feel the breath leave you in a whoosh. Tapping the board with your electronic marker that’s a pen, highlighter, and an eraser in one, you drag it in zig zags. The scribbles on the board disappear in a flash. Suddenly, it falls from your hands when you feel a pair of arms surround your waist.
“Hiya, bird,” a voice says, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Their warm breath tickles the nape of your neck, and so does the collar of their shirt. Spinning around, you find Harry standing there, a pout forming on his face. The adorable Starry Night tie you bought for him hangs loosely over his cornflower blue button-down. “What, why won’t ya lemme hug you?”
“Harry, anybody could walk in,” you insist, prying his arms from your waist. Bending down, you pick up the pen and place it back in its holder with a click.
“All tha students are gone by now, babe. ‘s half past 3, and any dat are around are at practice. Tha last place they’d wanna be ‘s back t’ a classroom afta their first day o’ school,” he murmurs, wedging his way back into your good graces as he pulls you back into his arms. “I wanted t’ see how me birdy’s first day went. Sooooo, wha’s tha verdict?”
“It was good. A little overwhelming, though,” you hum in return, letting your head fall backward to fit against his cheek.
“It ‘s fer e’rybody, love, so don’t worry. It’ll get betta, jus’ hang in there. Tha first month ‘s nothin’, that’s tha honeymoon period befo’ e’rythin’ goes wild.” His lips brush against your cheek with every word, the feeling of his ticklish stubble something you’re not yet used to.
“Harry!” you scoff, turning your head to find his hairy cheeks creased with a devilish smile behind you.
“‘m kiddin’, well not really, but hey, ya got me t’ help ya through it all. Don’t fret, love,” he tries to assure you, brushing the back of his fingers along your side. “What was yer favourite part o’ yer day, hmm?”
“Seeing some familiar students from when I used to sub. It was nice to catch up with them and hear stories,” you reveal, looking down as you cover his hands settled on your tummy with your own.
“Mmm, that’s good. Familiar faces are always nice,” Harry mumbles, the point of his nose dragging along the expanse of your cheek. “Did I tell ya yet ya look really pretty in yer new dress?”
“Yes, you did. About three times, but thank you again.”
“Welcome, bird. I hope no teenage boys are crushin’ on ya now,” he jests, planting a loud kiss on your temple. The remnants of his minty piece of gum cover your face in a silent cloud as he laughs at his own joke.
“Yuck! Oh and like there aren’t dozens of girls fawning over you in your classes?” you chuckle, bringing a whine to his lips when you squirm in his arms. “Put that lip away.”
“Or what? Hmm, what’re ya gonna do ‘bout it? Ya can kiss it away like all tha girls in me classes wanna do, if ya want,” Harry smirks, wiggling his eyebrows at you once you turn around. Lifting a hand from his arm, it lifts to brush back the brown ringlets falling onto his forehead.
“You’re gross sometimes. It makes me wonder how I can kiss that potty mouth.”
“Well ya do, and ya sure seem t’ like it,” he winks, dramatically licking his lips with a loud slurp.
“Stop!” you exclaim, collapsing into laughter, your head returning to his chest. His hands clasp over your back, his thumb brushing your skin through the jade dress you wear. You’re grateful for your face hidden away in his chest for when you feel his lips pepper kisses from your temple to your neck. He leaves your skin tingling from his magical touch, and his growing curls leave a trail down your neck.
“I think dis year’s gonna be a good one,” he coos against your ear, letting his smooth nose brush against its lobe. “I got tha reason right here.”
“Can we do this though?” The words jump from your lips without a chance to catch them and shove them back in their safety.
“Do what, love? Kiss? ‘Course, ya jus’ take yer lips and my lips, and put ‘em togetha’ like dis,” he wisecracks, lifting your head to show you the humor painting his face. Puckering his flushed lips, he closes the space between you to press a peck to your waiting lips. Pulling away, he quirks an eyebrow at you in silent questioning.
“That’s not what I meant, Harry,” you continue, your words falling short of the thoughts buzzing around in your skull.
“Then what’d ya mean?”
“Can we, I don’t know . . ,” you begin, but you lose your footing. Leaving his arms regrettably, you almost lose your footing quite literally when he tries to hold on. A sound leaves his lips at your departure, but you try to ignore it. That’s easier said than done, you realize as you fight with yourself, wondering if you should say that word or not. “Date . . as colleagues?”
They they are, free to the wind. It feels like coming home and your heavy book bag leaving your shoulders, although this time it’s far less trivial. The similarity doesn’t ease your anxious mind as you stop in front of your desk, fingering at the note that greeted you this morning. A pink Post-It note smattered with his sometimes unreadable handwriting, resting on top of a box of novels he gifted to you for your classroom.
To my favorite teacher - I know you’ve been dreading this day for months, and looking forward to it, too. You’re going to do great. They’re going to love you. You’re not going to mess anything up. You got this, bird. Remember that. Take it easy on yourself. Remember, you have to take care of yourself, so then you can take care of them. You’ll learn from each other too. Just keep remembering pizza at the beach with me tonight to celebrate your first day.
Harry xoxooxoxoxo
“‘Course we can, as long as it doesn’t bleed into our work life. What d’ya mean?” Harry says, trying to inject lightheartedness into his words. You both can hear the failed effect they have, and they only make his words sound sadder.
“I don’t know, I don’t want to like, get in trouble, or something. I just started this job.”
“Oh,” is all he mumbles. Mumbled or not, you hear the finality in his one word. As well as all that it says with that single syllable.
Looking over your shoulder at him, you find the confirmation you needed knitting together his features. “Harry,” you say, turning the rest of your body to face him. He takes a step back, and now you know you’ve done it. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Then how’d ya mean it?” he retorts, coolness playing in his voice. He knows he’s done it, too. “Hmmm, bird? Ya only care ‘bout dat part o’ it - if we get caught and what people would think? Only wanna keep me a secret?” His words bite as he spits them into the air. They hit your face with a sting, but nothing compares to how he threw your nickname into the mud. The nickname you love, that happened all because of the first meal you shared together.
“Harry, don’t. You know that’s not what I meant- Y-you’re being ridiculous,” you press, stepping forward. It’s like one step forward and two steps back, because he continues to walk away from you. Quickly, your hands grow shaky as the feeling consumes the rest of your body.
“No, I know what ya meant. Or ‘s there mo’ ya want t’ say? Want t’ say dat ‘Oh, ‘s too risky, so maybe we shouldn’t do dis anymo’, even tho’ it makes us happy,’” Harry persists, his right hand lifting in question, before it falls with a slap to his thigh.
“We never even said what this was,” you try to say, but before you get any further, you know you’re just making it worse. You know that he’ll read into your words incorrectly and assume the worst, despite your true meaning. At the realization, your heart pounds harder in your chest. The look on his face like you just slapped him tells you all you need to know. “Harry, wait.”
“No, yer right. We neva said what dis was, but apparently ‘s nuthin’ worth labelin’ or takin’ risks fer,” he grumbles. His head falls with a spiteful smile, but when it lifts again something shatters in your chest. With wet eyes, he continues in a croaky voice, “Then why’d ya take tha job knowin’ I was mad ‘bout ya?”
Your lips wobble with his name dangling from them. When you try to walk over to him, you’re only two steps in when he holds a hand up. “No, don’t. ‘m glad ya told me early on. ‘m happy I didn’t already start fallin’ fer ya or anythin’. That’d be real shitty, wouldn’t it?” he wheezes, a strange smile tugging at his lips dealing failed sarcasm. Sniffling, a tear falls down his tanned skin and he brushes it away. With a shake of his head, he turns to walk out of the door. You know that you shouldn’t, but you let him, because you know you have to.
Collapsing at your desk, your head falls into your hands. Tears splash into your palms as your chest shakes, wondering just how you turned the best first day into the worst first day.
*
You know that a note won’t be there, but you continue to wish as your heels clack down the halls of lockers. You know that you’ll see his face no matter how hard you try to avoid him, and that it’ll hurt more than you thought it would. Although you prepared yourself, unlocking the door to your classroom and finding no notes from him hurts more than you suspected. The hurt only stings worse when you pass each other in the halls with your students trailing behind, eyes falling away instantly. The spark in the air is lost when he huffs, passing you on the way to the vending machine in the lounge, leaving as soon as he came. Although the hurt grew as the attacks came and went, nothing could prepare you for the absence of his notes that week. That was an eventuality you had dreaded thinking of since the day you found the first one, back in his classroom.
You tried at the very least, albeit an understatement. Notes dropped into his mailbox went unanswered, as well as texts and phone calls. Even the bag of Bit O Honeys failed at their messages of apology. A few times you thought about trudging into his classroom after the bell rang, and hashing it out. Each time you mustered just enough courage to do so, a staff meeting got in the way. Or, within 5 minutes of the bell, his door was locked and he was gone. Speaking of staff meetings, you suffered even worse at those. No longer was he your security blanket at your side, because he no longer saved you a seat. Slowly, the young and pretty visual arts teacher grew to get on your nerves as you watched her be a little too nice to him. He didn’t entertain her taunts and turn to you with a smirk to rub it in your face. No, he was a good guy, and you had to go and ruin it, or what was becoming of it.
He ignored you - at staff meetings, in the copy room, in the staff lounge, in the halls, when both of your classes were in the library - basically everywhere and anywhere. It was an understatement to say you suffered because of it. You had to buddy up with Jen, the poetry teacher. She took the brunt of your questions, whether technology-related or English related. You became fast friends, but unlike the easiness with Harry, you quickly felt you were a nuisance. That was something he never made you feel like, well, until now that is.
You made the mistake of getting your hopes up when you found a bag of Bit O Honeys in your mailbox one morning. That is until the white note on it told you in his writing to stop plugging his box with them. Instead, you tossed them on the counter in the staff lounge to share, never wanting to see those yellow and red wrappers again. Quickly, what you thought had become your dream job morphed into a nightmare. His face filled your thoughts day after day, and it especially distracted you when your mind chose the tear-stricken memory. It bled into your lectures and although it stung less when you saw him, without fail every day, it was messing with your mind. It didn’t help when you were beginning a unit on Romeo and Juliet and a student joked you could play Juliet and Mr. Styles could play Romeo, quite literally.
*
You had been staying after school every day to finish lesson plans, grade tests, reflect on teaching, and plan for the next day. The October chill that arrived this week only made you want to stay in your cozy classroom with the Autumn decorations you hung up. Soon, it would be Halloween and costumes would fill the halls. The thought pours memories into your mind, but a particular one sours the enjoyment for you. The memory of planning a matching costume with Harry. Jay and Daisy from The Great Gatbsy, like the English teacher nerds you are. Were.
Swallowing past the lump in your throat, you reach for your water bottle. A groan finds its way past your lips when you pick it up, only to find it's empty. Standing with it in your hands, you cross the room to your door. After a few steps into the hallway, your movements freeze at the sight of his open door. Biting back any hesitations, your hand shakes when it presses against the wood.
Something thrilling washes over you when you find his head bent over his desk. His left hand covered with varying rings props his head up as he marks the page with his favorite red pen. A Micron pen, but only you would know that. Pausing, he fiddles with the tan braces strapping his shoulders clad in a handsome white and gray checkered button-down. Words stick together inside of your mouth, and when you hear the click of your shoe, regret surges inside of you.
“I made a mistake,” you say, testing the waters, although you know they’re stormy. Clearing your throat, you hope the subsequent ones will come out louder and stronger, before he can stop you. Your galloping heart jumps when he lifts his head to look at you, a question painting his face. “I fucked up, and I could never say how sorry I am. I said the wrong things, and I didn’t mean them that way- that’s not the point . . . I miss you, Harry. You’re all I think about, even when I’m thinking of other things, or when I’m teaching. That’s how I know it’s bad, because even though it’s only been a month, it still hurts like it was yesterday,” your voice screeches to a halt. You take one step at a time as he watches you.
A curl tickles his bearded cheek, making you want to tuck it back into place, but you can’t. A crumb from a chip sits on his chin, making you want to brush it away, but you know you can’t. And neither can you whisk away the worry lines forming around his eyes.
“I need you, not just to help me figure out how to use a projector or what a conjunction is again. But I need to tell you about the good parts of my day, and even the bad parts. Because even though we haven’t talked for like a month, my mind still goes to you when something good happens, or even bad. Even my students tease that we should be together, so that says something,” you try your hand at joking, but he turns his attention back to his desk. “Harry, please. I’m sorry,” you plead with him, tears catching the last of your words.
“Sorry doesn’t jus’ make it all go away, bird,” he returns cooly. His head lifts ever so slightly, only to fall. As if he changed his mind a few seconds into a decision.
“I know, but I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll buy you Bit-O-Honeys for the rest of your life, grade your papers, check your mailbox, or buy the next meals for a month. Anything.” The apologies run off of your lips, but he doesn’t say anything, nor do his actions. An exhale whooshes over your pursed lips as your nails dig into your clenched palms. Defeat covers your body as you turn to leave.
“None o’ dat takes away what ya said,” he announces painfully, the new fabric of his chair squeaking with his movements.
“I know,” you say automatically, a battle waging its way inside of you of whether to look at him. As if his words laced with hurt didn’t already leave you breathless. “So tell me what I have to do.”
“I can’t do dat, bird. Ya should know,” he sighs, clucking his tongue in disbelief.
Your eyes fall shut and your jaw clenches in anger, but the sweet smell of oranges brings you back to the moment. “I’m sorry that I made it seem like it wasn’t worth being with you, because it was, and I realized that even more after . . what happened. I’m sorry that it didn’t seem like I was dedicated enough, but I want to be a- I want to show you that I can be, and I want to be that to you. I’m sorry that I care too much about what other people think, because I only care what you think. It’s ripped me apart lately knowing that you hate me, and how you can’t even be around me, and . . ,” your string of words breaks off, stolen away by your onset of tears. They rumble through your chest with tremors, and the embarrassment brings your hands to your face streaked with them.
The howling of the wind hugs the windows, masking any other sounds. If there were, you can’t hear them, but you do feel something. His fingers wrapping around yours, pulling your hands away from your face.
“Ya gonna stop now befo’ ya make me cry too?” he hums, one corner of his lips turned up ever so slightly. With raised eyebrows, they pose the question to you. Nodding fast with hiccups stealing your words, he kneads your hands between his own. “Are ya gonna shuddup or am I gonna hafta make you?” Harry softly laughs.
“You’re going to have to make me,” you return, stumbling over your sobbed words.
“Good, was hopin’ ya’d say dat.”
Smirking playfully, he steps forward to cup your face in his hands. The callused tips of his fingers make quick work of the tears staining your face, as well as his lips. “Don’t cry, and don’t ever say dat I hate you,” he coos in between pecks to your wet skin singing with his kisses. “Don’t want me pretty birdy t’ cry no mo’.”
“Your bird doesn’t want to cry and be sad, and miss you anymore,” you whimper, trying to hold it all in, but it comes pouring out.
“Baby bird,” he pouts sadly, his rose lips round and extended. His brow presses into a sad line as the same emotion carries his words. “Lemme make it all betta.”
Nodding, you hiccup again as you cover his hands with yours. His subsequent smile warms your insides cold and aching from the long days without him. His lips bring a respite when they touch yours, ending the harsh drought. Kissing him back, you revel in the feeling of his unkempt scratchy beard against your face. Just one more thing you missed. Severing the kiss, you mumble an ‘I’m sorry’ against his chapped lips.
“Shhh, ‘s okay, love. I know ya are,” he tells you before bringing his lips back against yours. They move together slowly, welcoming the return of the other.
Your mouth falls to envelope his bottom lip in between yours, his facial hair feathery against your mouth. Hungrily, you kiss him and savor his familiar taste and smell. Fingers drifting to his hair, they return home to his buttery curls. His lips pull away only to plant another kiss against your mouth. Too soon, he breaks the kiss with a breathy laugh against your lips.
“My goodness, lemme breathe, love.”
“Sorry . . I missed you.”
“Ya sure did, bird. Think I missed ya a li’l more, though,” Harry chuckles as your hands fall from his locks. His thumb steals the last hint of a tear from under your eye. The amusement creasing his features disappears swiftly. “‘m sorry too, y’know. I overreacted, and I shouldn’t have put meself over yer job. It wasn’t fair o’ me t’ do dat. D’ya think I can have those Bit-O-Honeys back, or were ya serious ‘bout buyin’ me a lifetime supply?”
Groaning, you playfully shove at his chest, only to have him wrap you up in his arms. “I guess I was serious.”
“Hmm, ya don’t sound too serious ‘bout it, bird. But that’s okay, I got all tha honey I need right here,” he replies, planting a kiss atop your head nuzzled into his neck, swaying you back and forth. Nodding, you finally let yourself relax for the first time in weeks at the greeting of his sweet smell. One that feels like home to you. “Wait, yer students said we should be togetha? That’s funny, cuz so did mine.”
Premise: Josie Stephens was having a hard enough time at her mere age of five, having to start Kindergarten and move to a new house. Little did she know that it all would get a lot worse that first night when a monster popped out from under her bed, changing her life forever.
Inspired by: One of my favorite movies as a kid, Little Monsters (1989) ---> “It tells the story of a boy who befriends a real-life ‘monster under the bed’ and discovers a secret world of monsters who sneak into children's bedrooms at night to pull pranks on them.” I had started this story back in 2016, and came back to it recently, falling back in love with the idea.
Genre: Monster!Harry, Halloween-y, fantasy, a little horror, fluff, angst?, friendship, young adult, and Asshole!Harry (lol).
Rating: T
Warnings: Some mild swearing only.
Status: First chapter coming October 3rd.
Schedule: I admittedly don’t have a posting schedule for this story, as it’s something fun I write when I have the time and it’s not my main writing priority, at the moment. . . Having said that, I’ll try for every week with it being Halloween month which I looooove, but we’ll have to see how writing goes AND how much people enjoy this story ;)
Read on Wattpad
Clickable Chapters: (will be updated as chapters are posted)
CHAPTER ONE -> Posted Oct. 3rd
Sneak Peek: A scuffle pricks my ears, and I look around, confused. First, to underneath my bed where it sounds like it had come from, but the sound is gone. My lips set into a frown as I turn and take another look, and when I’m facing my door, a loud ‘boo!’ almost scares me off of my feet. I jump back and feel myself start to fall, and luckily, my bed catches me.
CHAPTER TWO -> Posted Oct. 17th
Sneak Peek: “Don’ get so bent outta shape over it, ’m just yer monsta an’ I scare ya. Yer not s'posed t’ know me name, ’s jus’ how it ’s, I reckon. Tha’s all t’ it, really. Now, if I did me job an’ yer all scared outta yer socks an’ everythin’, ’ll be off. Got other li'l tots I gott’ scare besides yerself, y’know.”
CHAPTER THREE -> Posted October 25th
Sneak Peek: I don’t remember when he left, because I was too wrapped up in the tears flowing down my cheeks, and the fear leaking through them. He’s right, I am stupid for thinking that the monster who lives under my bed could ever be nice.
CHAPTER FOUR . . SO FAR, SO WE SHALL SEE
P.S. - Thanks to my pal, Case aka @berrynarrybanana, for helping to make this happen by giving me “the shove.” I couldn’t do this without your support and love ❤️
Read the first part, here, and the second part, here! :-)
Blurb Synopsis: With a few months of teaching under your belt, at times you find yourself struggling. Luckily, your boyfriend and teaching colleague, Harry, is there to help you by offering advice or a comforting kiss. Although you’ve only been dating for a few months, you find that there's something special about this man.
Genre: Teacher Harry, fluff, and romance.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 10.4k words, whoops
Pairing: Harry x Reader
Music Inspo: Happy Together by The Turtles (click to listen)
Your mind is muddled with thoughts. Remember to send this email today. Make sure to put this in so-and-so’s mailbox. Don’t forget to send that birthday card in the mail. Can’t misplace that sheet you have to make copies of tomorrow for an assignment. Enter those grades. Grade those tests, and those papers. They weren’t wrong, you think, when they said the work of a teacher never ends. As you sit at your desk, the world war two novel you’ve been trying to read lately stares back at you from the sidelines, adding another stick to your pile. A rather massive pile, at that. You knead your temple as the blinking cursor awaits your words on the lit screen. Words that you don’t have yet, and aren’t sure when you will. You’ve found it more and more difficult to send the hard emails home to parents, and even after three and a half months under your belt of teaching, it hasn’t gotten any easier.
“What’d I say ‘bout bitin’ yer nails?”
Breaking your stare off with your computer, your eyes jump to your door where you find Harry standing there.
Placing your chin in your propped hand, you sigh, “I’m sorry.”
“Here, ya look like ya need sumthin’ else t’ chew on,” he murmurs, taking a step into your classroom. Something leaves his hand to fly into the air, skidding to a stop in front of you on your desk. At the sight of the shiny gold wrapper marked by the words, Twix, you return to his eyes with a smile. “Now, wha’s got ya so nervous, bird?”
“I’m trying to write an email home, and not a happy one.”
“Ah, I hate havin’ t’ write t’ose meself, they’re neva easy. Can I help?” he inquires, taking slow steps into your classroom. When your laptop sounds with a chime!, the alert for a new email, your eyes leave his tall figure.
His question goes unanswered on accident with the appearance of the email loading before your eyes. The words start to trickle into your mind, and with their absorption, the heaviness felt in your heart grows.
“Hullo? Anybody home in there?” Harry laughs, his feet stopping in front of your desk. You don’t answer, and you barely see him lean to the side to look at you. “Hey, wha’s tha matta?” he questions, his tone suddenly changing. Gulping, no words come to you as the ones on your screen shoot icy fear into your veins. Your name falls from his mouth as he walks over to you, stopping behind you.
“I have to be observed,” you groan, your face falling into your hands. “Later this week,” you finish with a whimper, your shoulders sagging.
“Oh it’ll be okay, love. We all have it done once a year, ‘s only t’ benefit ya. ‘s fer feedback. Ya don’t gotta worry. Principal’s observation ‘s at tha end o’ tha year,” he tells you, his soothing voice turning irritating at the last part. You respond with a whine, but you find that you can’t remain upset with him when his arms come around you. “Ya’ll do great, bird. Don’t fret. I know things have been stressful lately fer ya, so try not t’ let it botha you.”
“But it does. I already feel like I’m not doing a good enough job, and then somebody has to observe me, ugh. I’m going to be so nervous that I’ll probably screw up even more,” you exhale, hiding away from your fears, but soon you feel your chair spin around. Tearing your hands away from your face, you open them to find Harry squatting in front of you.
The mere sight of the dimples in his cheeks and the glint in his eye eases the tension felt throughout your body. A second later, you’re unsure of that when your sight graces the ebony dress shirt rolled up his taut arms, and the mustard slacks hugging his thighs. Yeah, there are a whole lot of reasons to make you feel tense around this man, and on the other hand he makes you feel at ease. Talk about confusing, when one thing has both effects on you. Ugh.
“Yer too hard on yerself, birdy. Ya gotta stop it, I don’t like seein’ me girl feel so down,” he hums, his thumb painted in cracking hot pink nail polish tapping your nose. Even just the thought of how he’ll let you paint his nails the next time he comes over to your house makes you feel better. By now, he doesn’t even bat an eye when you ask him, and by the look of his battered nails, anticipation grows inside of you at the thought. “Now, why don’t ya try t’ forget ‘bout tha observation, and lemme help ya write tha email t’ tha parent? Then we can leave and ya can come ova t’ mine, and I can cook ya a nice dinna.”
His lips split into a smile in front of you, sparking one on your own. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re the best boyfriend in the world?”
“Hmmm, I dunno, maybe. I can’t recall, but I wouldn’t complain t’ hear dat a few more times,” Harry smiles, leaning forward to surround your lips with his. Yours curl into a smile as his fingers dance across your cheek and into your hair.
“Harry, the email,” you begin after breaking the kiss.
“Shh, lemme have a kiss first. ‘s been too long,” he almost laughs, pressing his lips back to yours.
“I saw you in sixth hour in the copier room and you got one then,” you interrupt, knowing that you’re getting on his nerves.
“Too long,” is all he says impatiently, replacing his lips on top of yours.
Relaxing, you move yours together with his and soon find your hands running along his cheeks prickly with facial hair. They run down the expanse of his warm neck, his tamed beard soon fading away. Pads of your fingers collide with the chain of his necklace hidden under his shirt, signaling you’re almost there. You let a grin slip, impeding the kiss, when you can feel his taut chest under his button up. Finally.
“Like what yer findin’?” he asks, laughing against your mouth.
“Mmmhmm,” you answer slyly, peeking open your eyes to find his on yours, mere inches away. “Maybe we should write dat email now. Don’t wantcha gettin’ too carried away now,” Harry hums pulling away, much to your disappointment. “No, yer not gonna get me with tha pout again, so dontcha try it now.” He wags a finger at you as his words play on his face. Feeling risky, you reach forward and bite at the tip of it, smelling the cinnamon lotion he has a bottle of on his desk.
“Ya betta watch it, bird!” Harry chuckles, the smile taking grasp of him now, as well as the laugh that sings to your ears.
“Or else what?” you reply, wiggling your eyebrows at him.
“Open yer email befo’ ya convince me with that adorable face o’ yers.”
You ignore him and continue to stare at him, happiness and longing showing in your eyes. You’re certain that he sees it too, you’re just not sure what he’s going to decide to do with it. His bottom lip comes between his teeth as his green eyes stare into yours, him standing only a step away from you. Although it’s the slightest movement, his hands starts to trail from the back of your chair.
“Birdy,” he begins with a warning, shaking his head at you, that song leaving his strawberry lips again. Suddenly, you wish he was wearing a tie today so you could grab a hold of it and pull him in by it, but alas he’s without one today. “Don’ test me.”
His words are hypocritical, meaning one thing as his face tells you another story entirely. Somehow, they have the opposite effect on you, egging you to go further with the teasing. You enjoy pushing his buttons, another thing that he knows far too well by now. Your fingers sitting limp on your legs itch to touch him, and roam his body. Those curls, his bearded cheeks, that muscular chest, or those thick arms. Maybe even all of him.
“We can have a good snog at me house tha sooner we get dis done,” Harry cautions, only worsening the pout forming on your lips. He reacts to it promptly, with that lip-biting returning, and his fist coming to his mouth. As if he has to refrain from saying, or doing, something.
“Why can’t I just have one more now? It won’t hurt,” you plead, letting your chin fall a tad, allowing you to look up at him through your lashes.
“‘m in real trouble with ya, aren’t I, birdy? Go’mme wrapped ‘round yer li’l finga like there’s no t’morrow, dontcha?” Harry teases, slowly leaning in, his arms bending at his wrists where they lay planted to your chair’s armrests.
“Yeah, just the way you like it,” you note aloud, the anticipation buzzing in your gut as he draws near.
“Yer right ‘bout dat, darlin’. Couldn’t say no t’ ya if I tried, thinkin’ that might ge’mme in trouble one o’ these days,” Harry finishes with a snicker before the taste of oranges meets your lips, and his beard is tickling your skin. Just the way you like it.
*
“Ravioli or pasta?” you hear float from the kitchen.
It’s a wonder you hear him as your thoughts are consumed by his bookshelves. Although you’ve been to his place several times now, you’re still enamored by trying to familiarize yourself with the items he chose to live with him.
The acoustic Taylor sitting in the corner on a stand. The Monet prints dotting his walls, along with those of The Stones, The Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, and Pink Floyd. The pink ukulele hung on his wall that he made you laugh with while playing a rendition of Somewhere Over The Rainbow the first time you came over. You swear that his blankets are the coziest and warmest. He also makes the best fires in the fireplace, even making s’mores for dessert the first time you came over, making quite the impression. The last time, you had devoured his record collection, flipping through it and playing the few that interested you at the time. You even like the silly napkins with sayings on them that he has in the kitchen. Now, you’ve returned to his book collection that seems to grow by a few each time you’re here.
“Why do you have Shel Silverstein here, but not at school?” you call out to him, feeling the change in texture of the book spines, the tip of your finger ghosting over them.
“‘Coz tha’s a copy from when I was li’l. Now, ya didn’t answer me question. Which d’ya want me t’ make, bird?” he replies gently, his deep voice carrying down the hall from the kitchen.
Once again, his words drift by unnoticed as you carefully remove a copy of a novel that catches your eye, The House on Mango Street. You’ve found it before on his shelves at school, and the cover has always enraptured you, but you’ve never found the time to pick it up. Turning it over, your eyes flit over the description on the back of the thin book.
“Hey, ‘m talkin’ t’ ya, birdy,” a voice murmurs, their words dancing across your neck with a tickle. “Tryin’ t’ figure out what t’ make us fer dinna.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just looking at this book. I’ve always meant to see what it’s about,” you comment, turning your head back ever so slightly, but you don’t need to do that to know he’s there. His arms have surrounded your waist and his beard tickles against your temple, lips soon dotting kisses along that space.
“‘s okay. Ah, so this ‘s where yer always runnin’ off t’ when ya come ova. Got meself a book worm fer a girlfriend, I like it. Findin’ anythin’ good? Ya know ya can borrow whateva ya want, love. I know ya’ll take good care o’ it,” Harry coos in between feathery pecks he plants down the side of your face. “‘s a good one too, bird. I teach it every year. Tha students enjoy it too. Ya might come t’ teach it too, I think, since we’re both teachin’ American Lit. this semester,” Harry comments, soon his nose making an appearance tickling your cheek. The words on the back of the book were beginning to blur before your eyes, but they’re forgotten altogether when his fingers brush against your belly, clasping together there.
“Thank you. I suppose I should read it already then.”
“Yeah, ‘m surprised ya haven’t already. Borrow it and take yer time with it, ya’ll enjoy it. ‘s a bit sad tho’ from what I rememba. Now, ravioli or pasta? Was thinkin’ a salad on tha side, marinated chicken, and sum berries,” he finishes, the safety his arms provide you with soon fleeting. Looking over your shoulder, he walks away and back to the kitchen, noting that he needs to get the pasta water boiling.
As your eyes trail to his bum round in his gray jogging shorts, a cheeky answer begs at your lips instead. He pipes up again with an inquisitive ‘well’ and your response falls from your lips, “Ravioli, please.”
He hums a confirmation from his new perch down the hall, the sounds of cupboards opening and things being jostled around soon following. The rest of the book’s summary passes your eyes before you set it down on the arm of the brown sofa, forgotten as soon as he had walked in. Passing Harry’s favorite reading chair in the corner accompanied by a tall lamp, you tiptoe through the narrow hallway marked by framed pictures on the walls. You hear his soft singing as you round the corner, happening upon his towering figure to your left, standing at the stove. Taking a page from his book, you slide across the wooden floor in your socks, quickly capturing him with your arms.
“Boo!” you whisper into his ear, feeling him jump in your arms.
“Don’t scare me like that, coulda burned me hand,” he warns, but when you chance a look at the pot of water below him, you find him to be a fibber.
“You don’t even have the gas on yet, silly,” you murmur in argument, dragging your nose along his freckled neck, paler from the winter months.
“So? ‘m tryin’ t’ cook here,” he argues, although terribly, because a giggle escapes his candy-like lips. Ones you very much would like to kiss right now, and perhaps taste, and nibble. Nodding into his shoulder, your hands unravel to explore the toned expanse of his stomach under his shirt. “Bird,” he says firmly, the cracking sound of the salt grinder following his words.
“I’m just helping you cook,” you explain feebly, brushing the pad of your thumb against his wispy happy trail. If you focus hard enough, you think you can remember from the times at the beach where his tattoos are, because they don’t feel any different to the rest of his skin. The fern leaves, the butterfly, and then the swallows below his collarbone.
“Yer pushin’ me buttons again. Ya know I don’ like it,” Harry grumbles, trapped within your grasp when he turns to grab the package of refrigerated ravioli from the counter.
“I’m sorry, can’t I just hug my boyfriend?” you whine, feeling your voice catch at that last word, even after two months.
“Don’t play that game with me, go read yer book or sumthin’. Catch up on sum gradin’, you’ll thank yerself later fer doin’ so, and me.”
“You’re no fun,” you whimper, hands stilling amongst his toned abdomen and soon returning to your body. Cheekily, you give in to your temptations and pinch his bum hastily, running off with a giggle.
“Birdy!” Harry calls after you, trying to hide the laugh in his voice, but you’re doing enough laughing for the both of you. You don’t hear the sound of his booming footsteps following you, and so you plop onto his sofa with a relieving sigh. “Remind me not t’ give ya more than two glasses o’ wine, ya get all weird afta two.”
“I do not!” you exclaim, pressing the power button on the remote for his tv.
“Ya do too! Grabbin’ me bum and gettin’ all handsy unda me shirt,” he contends with a scoff that dissolves into a titter. You respond with a ‘hmmph’ loud enough for him to hear as your head hits the velvet pillow at one end of the sofa, body splaying out to cover the rest.
“I’ll say it again, you’re no fun!”
“Oh, give it a rest!” is all Harry says disbelievingly, meanwhile you pout as you try to immerse yourself in an episode of The Simpsons.
It’s one of those Halloween specials, you’re not sure which one as there were several, even though Halloween was very nearly two months ago. Turning up the volume, you try to drown out the sound of pots banging together, and packages crinkling. You even attempt to mask the sound of his voice, the wine buzz securing you in your own little bubble, and a lonely one at that.
“Babeeee,” you finally hear, along with the soft padding of his slippers nearing you. “Don’ be a crab, y’know I don’ like bein’ botha’d when ‘m cookin’ sumthin’ hot. Don’ want t’ get eitha o’ us burnt. I’d do tha same if I had kids and they were ‘round,” he mumbles, his footsteps coming to a pause, and so does your heart at the sound of his words.
“Me li’l birdy,” Harry coos in a sing-song voice, the whine of the ancient wood floors marking his arrival. His calloused fingertips along your forehead and through your hair are difficult to ignore, as are his sweet lips smelling of Roscato against your skin. “Don’ be upset with me please, ya know I can’t handle it. Ya wanna come help me cook? You can chop up tha salad if ya’d like, well as long as yer hands are okay afta those glasses o’ wine.”
“Nah-ah,” you deny, rubbing your face with your hand, growing sleepy from the alcohol. “You don’t want my help, and I’m all dizzy.”
“I do want yer help, that’s why I asked. Hmm, dizzy, are you?” he queries, drawing your attention upwards to where he kneels beside the sofa, head hanging over yours. “Does this make ya dizzy too?” he grins upside down for you, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth. A smile hints at yours after the kiss ends, him raising an eyebrow.
You shake your head ‘no’ and he clucks his tongue, dipping in for another kiss, this one longer than the last. You’d choose to grow dizzy from his intoxicating lips over anything else, again and again. The bite of the alcohol follows the sweetness of the white wine he had poured you both glasses of, his still being nursed in the kitchen. The chill to his pillowy lips is shocking against your warm lips, but it’s forgotten when your fingers drift to his hair. You’ve only gotten a taste of his scrumptious top lip before he pulls away, having kissed you in an odd way, upside down.
“Ya still upset with me?” he breathes against your lips, rubbing his nose against yours ever so slightly, a smirk edging at his lips.
“I won’t be after one more kiss, and a cuddle,” you insist, testing your limits, but by now you’re fairly certain what you can get away with. Sometimes it surprises you how much, from stealing his favorite pen from his desk, grabbing his butt in the breakroom, knicking a sweater from his closet the last time you were over, or spamming him with texts of songs he wouldn’t ever listen to but he still does, for you.
“Alrighty then, c’mere, birdy,” he smiles before he melts against you in a kiss, once again.
Soon, he’s scooping his arms under your legs and settling you on his lap, sinking into the sofa. Your head finds a home below his collarbone, legs draped across his lap and your bum hanging off the side of it.
“I forgot ya get all tired on me afta alcohol. I gotta rememba t’ only dole it out when tha sun ‘s still up,” he giggles, the sound reverberating around in his broad chest under his Paul McCartney & Wings shirt. His fingers surround one of your hands, holding it to his chest as his other cups your waist where he holds you against him.
“Yeah,” you mumble softly, trying to focus on the tv show, but it’s a lost cause.
With his refreshing citrus smell enveloping you, the notes of the tangy orange he eats by sections every day clings to his skin somehow. Dreamily, you admire his neat beard for the hundredth time, smiling adoringly at the little patches he hates that don’t grow in all of the way. For some reason, you love them even more, wondering what his cheeks look like underneath all of the dark brunette hair.
The show is forgotten at the recesses of your mind, and instead, your attention revolves around Harry, much to your surprise. The rhythmic rising and falling of his chest. The scattering of ink covering both arms, top to bottom. The dark curly hair donning his chest if you nudge the collar of his shirt down far enough. Even the steady beating of his heart grabs your focus, leading you to the slight pause and wake of it at the corner of his neck. Perhaps your most favorite of all is a hard tie between watching the execution of his facial features, or playing with his hands. One he minds quite more than the other, but you think he’s starting to get used to it.
Your fingers that look puny in contrast to his run over the minuscule hairs peppered across his knuckles, yet another trait of his you adore. It’s rare there’s one you’ve found of his that you don’t enjoy immensely. They fall against his, feeling the lukewarm metal decorating his fingers, and he doesn’t even pause. Scooting your eyes away from his hands quickly, you try to forget the inviting veins bulging from his skin you so often like to get lost tracing. They flit now to the almost indiscernible dimples caving into his hairy cheeks, eyes gleaming as he titters at something on the tv. It all ends much too soon and you’re caught in the act, his gaze falling to yours.
“Whatcha lookin’ at me fer?” he wonders aloud, the space between his brow creasing. You resist rubbing it free, finding you don’t have the time to when his lips press a kiss to your nose. “Water’s boilin’, I should go start tha chicken. Ya can help if ya want, but ya don’t hafta, love. Don’ want ya cuttin’ those pretty li’l fingas o’ yers.”
A nod suffices for your imaginary words, and so does the curling of your lips that part, “I like you,” you mumble, eyes glued to him, much like a puppy dog.
“I like ya too, birdy. Quite arguably tha best thing that’s happened t’ me in a while, you are,” he rasps, voice dripping of honey at the arrival of his words. The look painting his face tells you that he knows it too, and you can taste the honey when he pecks you. “Like ya so much I can’t believe it sumtimes.”
*
You both knew within the first week of school that having your prep hour during the same time in fifth hour, although coincidental, was perhaps not a good idea. It was uncertain whether the demons of the world or the angels of it had arranged this, seeing as you soon distracted each other from getting much prep done for that day’s lessons, grading, what have it. The both of you got on each other’s nerves regarding it at times, him more so than you, but you’re rest assured you both were grateful for it.
Like today, you can’t stop jiggling your knee as you listen to Chopin while grading papers on the interpretable meanings of the scarlet A from The Scarlet Letter. Harry had gotten quickly upset with you yesterday when you had hogged too much of his prep hour with kissing and talking, noting that he had already been interrupted by another colleague. Today, you’re trying to give him his space to get his work done, but you find it exhausting staying away from him, much like you always do, and have to already. The temptation is even worse when he’s less than fifty steps away, and with those lips that should be downright illegal. His snap at you still stung, if only a little, and you can’t find your focus seeing that you’ve hardly seen him around today.
Sometimes you feel pathetic and he’ll joke that you are too, melting into a puddle like The Wicked Witch of the West from not having seen him enough. You know that you are, but the realization doesn’t make you feel any better. Neither do you when a second later, speak of the devil, you hear his voice outside your ajar door. It mingles with another, and this one mentions your name, you’re rather sure. Harry shushes the other person with a laugh, and when the voices have paused, you return your gaze to the marked-up paper you’re grading. Turning up the music on your desktop, you sigh as you start reading the sentence over again, for the third time.
*
Relief buds at the tips of your limbs as you gather your things from your desk around quarter to four, positive Harry’s after-school Poetry Club should be over by now. It’s stolen away as your fingers dangle on the handle of the door, his door closed with his nifty store-like sign turned to CLOSED. Sighing, your face creases into a messy line at the sight of it, your fingers soon composing a text to him that goes unanswered.
Looking both ways down the hall, when the coast is clear, your heels click across the hall to place you at his door. Again, it’s unlocked to allow the custodial staff to come and clean soon. Bingo! Blanketed in darkness, few streams of light make their way in past the new snow blanketing the campus grounds. You don’t need much light anyways, and after setting your things down on a desk, you settle in his chair. The squeaks are almost all the way out of it, you notice, as you pull on the chain to the vintage green lamp at the corner of his desk. A new addition. Albeit a few scattered pens and lists, it looks much the same since the last time you were in his classroom. You quickly find a pad of Post-Its, green this time, and a pen that’s a fun color. Licking your lips with an excited smile, the sadness of missing Harry is abated by getting the chance to sneak a note onto his desk, which you’ve found is far harder to do these days. You leave with a smirk donning your lips, and a few Bit-O-Honeys to tide you over until the next time.
Harry,
Do you have any plans this Saturday? I might know a certain girl who is planning on making homemade pizza, and who thought you might enjoy it. If you’d like to, I can let her know and pass your name along. I’ve heard she’s a rather good chef, just don’t get too many glasses of wine into her, or else she turns into a real fruit loop.
P.S. I wish there were words for how I feel about you, but being the English nerds we are, I think that gives you a little advantage to understand once I find those words. Have a great day, my love.
Your Birdy
xoxoxo
*
Huffing, you stab at the button again, but you still receive the same error message from the copying machine. Forgetting it, you log out before turning around, which wasn’t a great idea either, you find. A quiet squeal leaves your lips when you find Harry standing in front of you, grinning at his success from scaring you.
“A li’l jumpy this mornin’, are we?” he smirks, sliding his covered arms into the pockets of his gray slacks.
“Yeah, you could say that, and the copier hates me this week,” you return, walking past him and over to the shelf of supplies in containers.
“Oh, ya can use me code if that helps. Maybe it senses ya hate it,” he giggles, now behind you. Your nod suffices for a response as you drag your fingers through the sea of pens, searching for one color.
“Thanks, I appreciate it. Ugh, there’s never any red pens when I need one,” you sigh, annoyed.
“Ya know ya can take one from me stash anytime ya need,” he insists, humming a tune as he taps his foot. You mumble another small ‘thanks’ before moving onto another container.
“Hey, why ya bein’ all shy?” he inquires, his gentle fingers soon encircling your wrist, turning you to face him. Again, you wonder how he can look more handsome every day, even in a dorky gray pull over vest with a cream button up underneath.
“You said we can’t do PDA in school.”
“‘s tha copier room and nobody else ‘s here, bird. ‘s fine, y’know that by now,” he argues, pulling you into his arms easily, manipulating you like soft clay. Trying and failing to hide a frown, his brow knits together in confusion. “Why ya bein’ all weird, hmm? Gonna tell me?”
“You don’t let me come and bother you during our preps anymore. You got all mad at me,” you confess blearily, letting your head come to rest on his shoulder. Hastily, you remove it and leave his arms, sure somebody will walk in the door at the least convenient second.
A laugh sings from his lips as he follows you, winding an arm around your waist. His lips are soft against your cheek, the stubble framing it becoming normal to you by now, although a scratchy nuisance. Now, he’s made his way to stand in front of you, blocking you from the packs of Crayola markers you were eyeing up for a project.
“‘m sorry I got mad, okay? Jus’ had loads o’ stuff t’ get done, knew I shouldn’t have snapped at ya, tho.’ I regret it now . . . . Will ya forgive me?” he begs, sticking out his bottom lip, making him even more irresistible and delectable. Shiny curls fall over his forehead from his mousy hair that’s shorter on the sides after his recent cut.
After checking the door, you surprise his lips with an all-forgiving smooch, welcomed by the bitter taste of black coffee on his lips. Like always, it draws to an end far too soon, and this time by the tinny ringing of the first bell.
“Betta get goin’, bird. Don’ wanna be late,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. A short yelp escapes your lips when his hand squeezes your ass before he saunters off after another kiss.
“Harry,” you mutter, shaking your head, squeezing his hand briefly before you enter the halls together.
Although you’ve become accustomed to it, it still feels strange to slide on another mask once you step into the halls. Sometimes even the school. You feel them and you know they’re there, the stares from the students. The rumors buzzed around the beginning of the year about you and Harry, but with his help, they never got to you. Neither of you have ever confirmed anything to anybody, and luckily you haven’t had to so far, even amidst the continuing rumors.
Nonetheless, you still share with the other the stories of your students teasing the both of you about dating the other. You only fed the fire when you dressed up together for Halloween, or when your classes often combined together in the computer lab or library, or on the rare occasions, they have a large Jeopardy game or group project together. More often than you like to admit, you get carried away and entertain the freedom that would come with being able to say ‘yes’ to your students when they ask if you’re together. That would only call for one occasion, though. One that is quite far down the future road. As your eyes wander along Harry, a couple months in and you can’t deny that this isn’t just another boyfriend. No siree.
“What d’ya got on tha agenda t’day, love? Ya startin’ anythin’ befo’ break?” he asks you, pulling you from your reverie, probably for the best.
“No, we’re wrapping up the unit this week before testing next Monday on the last day. The Scarlet Letter, Frankenstein, Grammar Do’s and Don’ts, and the Transcendentalist Writers,” you explain, folding your hands together and letting them fall to the waist of your long wine-colored dress. Dark tights hug your legs, but the spotty heating inside of the school makes you miss the black cardigan sitting at your desk.
“Mmm, same here. ‘s a good day t’ do it, can’t really introduce anythin’ befo’ Christmas Break. They’ll all forget it by tha time they return in two weeks. We jus’ have a chapta left in most classes: Hemingway, To Kill A Mockingbird, Huck. Finn, and Robert Frost,” he comments, hands hidden away in his slacks. Often you’re grateful for it, the removal of the temptation for you. Then again, it tempts your eyes that like to dance across the tightness of his slacks, but you quickly avert them.
“That’s good, only three more school days counting today, and one more until my observation,” you huff, finding it arduous to keep the nerves surrounding the event at bay.
“You’ll do fine, love, I keep tellin’ ya that. Ya gotta believe me one o’ these times,” Harry coos, coming to a stop when you round the corner, your classrooms only a few steps away. To your surprise, his long fingers spread warmth across your skin with a pat to your arm, a rare one at that. “Have a good day, don’ let tha kids get t’ ya yet. Only a few days left. ‘ll talk t’ ya later.”
“Thanks, I hope you have a good day too,” you echo, containing the smile you send him halfheartedly, always careful about how you act towards each other around students. He winks at you quickly before turning away with that delightful smile playing around his lips, making you wonder how long again until you can kiss them.
*
His luscious curls make your fingers itch to touch them, but as you linger in your doorway watching him, you know that you’ll have to wait. After biding your time for a few seconds for the students to leave him after receiving help, with a mental shrug you decide you’ll wait. Soon, you find yourself in the office. Colleagues meander around the room, the secretary speaks on the phone, and a parent or two or waits for them. After a few smiles and greetings, you arrive at your mailbox. First, you pluck the bag of Bit-O-Honeys from your pocket, sticking them in his box with a note already taped to them. After fishing out the few papers sitting in there, your hand brushes against something on the bottom, but you don’t see anything when you look again. With a quirked brow, you stand on your tippy toes, spotting a lime green Post-It note stuck to the bottom piece of wood. A smile quickly consumes your face as you pluck it from there, sticking it to the first paper on top of your pile, not wanting to raise any kind of suspicion. You and Harry do your best to be extra careful, not wanting to give anybody a reason to pry, and by now you’re both positive nobody has any true reason to doubt your story.
Your heels dig into the sides of your feet after your long day, making you quicken your pace back to your classroom. The frown creasing your features is soon replaced with that grin from before when you turn into your classroom, finally taking a peek at the note.
Birdy-
You’re not very good at this whole Christmas list thing, are you? I’m still wondering what you’d like. Mind helping a silly old man out before the holiday rolls around? I hope your day is going swell. Don’t hesitate to come and say hi during prep, you know you’re always welcome. You’re the best kind of distraction, you’re just a little too good at it sometimes ;) You’re looking too gorgeous in that dress today, and so I’ll need you to stop by so I can give you a proper snog in private, pronto.
Harry xxxx
P.S. - Homemade pizza sounds lovely, I can’t wait. You spoil me (:
P.P.S - You have no idea how much you mean to me, bird xo
“Verdict on tha possibility o’ that snog?” somebody murmurs, their voice followed by the soft whoosh of your door closing. To no surprise, Harry leans against the door unable to hold back the happiness showing on his face.
“I think it’s a yes,” you answer slowly, placing the stack of things on your desk, but not moving an inch. You want to toy with him and make him work for it, but as always, you can’t resist him.
“How was yer day?” he mumbles once your arms come around his middle, brushing against the knit sweater vest. Sometimes he dresses like older colleagues and other days like his young age, but nonetheless you can’t help but think he’s the best dressed of any male teachers here at the school. He’s just too goddamn handsome that he can pull off anything.
“Good, we finished all of our readings in my classes. I get to be observed doing review tomorrow, so I hope the observer likes my Jeopardy games,” you comment, slipping your hands under the fabric, feeling the warmth projected from his body.
“‘m sure they will, love, ‘s a good idea ya came up with. I know it took loads o’ work doin’ four o’ ‘em fer tha four different classes ya have throughout tha day. What time ‘s yer observation, ya neva said?”
“It’s during my fourth hour, before lunch,” you answer, him humming a short reply. “You really think I look that nice in this dress? I thought I looked frumpy and too tall,” you question, pursing your lips as you take a look at your long plain dress.
“Yes, think ya look amazin’, bird. Couldn’t keep my eyes off o’ ya all day wheneva I saw ya. Yer gonna make me slip up one o’ these times, and make me blow our cover,” Harry snickers, stepping forward to sink his fingers into your hair, a thumb falling to address your cheek. A knowing smirk tempts your lips, and it only worsens when his tongue comes out to run over his. “Think ya know that already, tho’ - y’know what ya do t’ me, dontcha?”
You silently shake your head, but the smile makes an appearance, and your lie is free to the air. His breathy laugh mingles with it before he takes them away, scooping your top lip between his. His kisses fill you with a warm giddiness, one that leads your hands to leave his strong back, and wander down him. Juice from the orange he must have just eaten trickles onto your lips, meanwhile your fingers dip into his pants, just brushing the top of his clothed bum.
Harry breaks the kiss suddenly, but you’re already giggling. So far, all you receive is an eyebrow raise from him, but his toasty hands don’t leave your cheeks. His gleaming rose lips part, “What’d I say ‘bout those hands o’ yers? Lookie here, they’re gettin’ you in trouble ‘gain,” he tuts, your left cheek soon cold as he wags a finger at you.
“You never said I couldn’t, and your bum just looks so nice today- well, every day,” you counter, feeling cheeky. His eyes dart from yours as blush rises to his cheeks, pulling up the corners of his mouth along with it.
“Bird,” he giggles, eyes soon returning to yours. “I dunno what ‘m gonna do with you,” he coos gently, cupping your cheek once more with his long fingers, returning his lips to yours for a kiss. His smile is felt upon yours and you find out why when his tongue prods at your lips, begging for entrance. As your hand slides down to caress his bum, your lips part to let him in.
Day after day, you wonder just when it was that you let him into your heart, seeing how he’s made a home in there. You just hope he’ll never want to leave. More and more often lately, you keep thinking that you’d like him to stay there, perhaps for forever.
*
With chattering teeth and a frozen nose, you only start to warm up once you unlock the door to your room, grateful to get to spend the upcoming weekend inside your cozy home. Thoughts of the cute knit hats Harry wears and how he finds you adorable with your rosy cheeks and button nose pull your eyes to his door. Sighing, you unwrap your scarf, discovering he hasn’t came in yet this morning. Yet another thing to add to his list of acting odd lately at times. Even though you spoke to him through a few texts this morning, you long to hear his voice comfort you about your dreaded observation later today. Unbeknownst to you, he has this magical quality to him that never fails to calm you down, or to make things better. Yet another thing you love about him, you think with a smile, unloading your messenger bag of the materials you bring back and forth from school.
Once that’s all unpacked and you remember to turn on the lights, as well as the blinking Christmas lights strewn around your room, you get an idea. Pushing his door open, you pull on the gold metal chain of his lamp, your hands drifting to the green Post-Its. The pen slides from your fingers when somebody surprises you with a loud ‘boo!’
“Harry, stop,” you giggle, briefly glancing to the doorway to find him in his puffy black coat.
“Would ya look at that, I caught ya in tha act. It won’t be much o’ a surprise now,” he titters, softly closing the door behind himself, the hallways beginning to abate their previous silence.
Shrugging, you pick the pen back up and start to scribble down a note while you still have a few precious seconds left. Smirking, you release your lip you bite on to speak, “I got here before you today, that’s a point for me. I think we’re three-two now for this week,” you tease him, listening to the slushy scuffle of his leather boots along the floor.
“Ya, I hadda busy mornin’, had sumthin’ important t’ do. Can ya guess what it was?” he murmurs, appearing behind you suddenly, his cheek rubbing against yours softly. A long ‘sure’ falls from your lips, but it comes up short when you think about the sensation of his cheek against your face. It’s smooth and warm, and not hairy.
“Wait a minute,” you announce, pulling away from him and turning around in his chair to look at him. Seconds after your jaw dropped to your chest, your hand flies to your mouth at the sight of him freshly shaven. “Harry, your face!” For the first time, you finally get to see his dimples on full display, collapsing into his round smiling cheeks. A long giggle escapes them as he runs a hand over them.
“What d’ya think o’ me all clean shaven? Haven’t seen me without a beard, have ya, bird?” he inquires, raising an eyebrow as a cocky smirk creases his pink cheeks. Within seconds, you’re on your feet and feeling his satiny cheeks under your palms.
“They’re so smooth, I like them. You look so nice, well I liked you before with a beard too. You’re so handsome either way,” you croon, leaning in to kiss him, tasting the spearmint toothpaste he uses. Your lips wander to his cupid’s bow, the slope below his bottom lip, and across the expanses of his grinning cheeks.
“Stop,” he giggles, his hands finding a home on your waist, but he’s hard to believe as he leans into your lips. “Don’t think I look weird or less handsome without a beard, d’ya now?”
“No, you never could. Mmmm, I like kissing all over your cheeks,” you hum in between kisses, the musky smell of his shaving cream tickling at your nose.
Much to your disappointment, his face soon leaves the clutches of your kisses, him trailing to his desk. Although whining at his absence, you let him, and instead you admire his adorable cheeks. It takes everything inside of you to hold yourself back from pinching them and kissing them. Hints of denial and shock come over you again, unsure of what you’re seeing at times. Never in the last seven-ish months since you truly met Harry, have you seen him without his beard. It’s kind of startling, but you know that he has you wrapped around his finger as well, because it unmistakingly makes you love him even more. Sometimes you wonder how that’s possible, even if you’ve only been official for a few months.
“Why the change?” you wonder aloud, eyes glued to him as his scan over the note you didn’t get to finish. Lifting his glowing eyes to you, those greens stare back at you, and again you’re knocked off your feet by him.
“Why not,” he answers with a shrug of his shoulders, holding up the note. “Ya didn’t finish, y’know. Ya started t’ declare yer love fer me and all that jazz, and it ended in tha middle o’ a sentence. Not very proper fer an English teacher, y’know,” he pouts, dragging his feet over to you after his sarcastic words.
“Well, you didn’t let me finish,” you reply, surrounding his middle once he’s in reach.
“D’ya care t’?” he whispers against your mouth, his lips ghosting over yours. This man really does know what he’s doing.
“No thanks, I’m not a ‘put me on the spot’ type of gal.”
“Ah, you aren’t, are ya? Tha’s a new one,” he grins, laying kisses to your cold cheeks, spreading warmth in his trail.
“Maybe you could tell me something, though.”
“Hmm?” he hums, the feeling of his smooth skin rubbing against yours entirely new to you, but you think you could get used to it.
“Could you tell me that I’m worrying about my observation for nothing?”
His kisses come to an unnecessary end, but in the end you’re grateful to see his green eyes again, and all of the love they hold.
“Ya are worryin’ ‘bout it fer nuthin’, bird. Promise ya yer gonna do great, ‘m so proud o’ you and tha great teacher ya’ve become,” he coos above you, tapping his finger to your nose. The words settle inside of you and begin to sink in. “And ‘m not jus’ sayin’ that, hope ya know how much I mean it.”
*
You tried, and failed, to keep Harry’s words at the front of your mind throughout your day. When the worries would bubble up, you’d try to make them go away with his reassuring voice saying them. At times, it was strenuous, and quickly the idea of eating lunch after your observation seemed ridiculous. That word seemed to align with your day soon, seeing as the powerpoint for Jeopardy wouldn’t work at first, but you blamed the projector. Then as the minutes ticked by and brought you closer and closer to eleven o’clock, shakes started to radiate throughout your body. Your hands grew clammy and you wish it was over with before it even started.
Your students for British Literature soon shuffled in, dropping backpacks on the floor with groans, itching for Christmas Break to come as well. You can’t help but agree with them, reminding them of this once they’re all seated and the last bell has rung. Inside your chest, your heart feels like it’s trying to break free from its cage as you anticipate a random colleague walking through your door.
“Hello, everybody. We finished reading Frankenstein yesterday, and to prepare for our test on Monday, we’re going to do some review. I know you all have come to enjoy my Jeopardy games, so I made one for Frank and-,” your introduction to your class is cut off by a knock on your classroom door, making your heart jump inside your chest. “Excuse me, let me just get that first.” With a deep breath, you hurry to get the door, and that breath goes flying out the window when you see who’s on the other side. His name falls from your lips at the sight of him, a clipboard hugged to his chest.
“Hi, ‘m here t’ observe you fer tha duration o’ yer lesson,” Harry announces, a professionalism coming over his voice, yet a cheekiness is heard at the edge of it.
“You’re observing me?” you ask breathlessly, earning a proud nod from him. “O-okay.”
“Yer gonna do great, don’ worry ‘bout me. Jus’ ignore me sittin’ in tha back,” he whispers, his warm smile holding more words than the both of you know he can say right now. After a squeeze to your arm, he slips past you into the classroom, flared maroon pants billowing behind him. “Hullo, e’rybody. ‘m Mr. Styles from across tha hall, I also teach English here. Don’ mind me, ‘m jus’ observin’ yer lovely teacher fer a colleague review t’day. Carry on,” Harry says, addressing your class. Swallowing, the butterflies take a peek from their safety inside your chest, soon taking flight to rid you of your worries.
“As I was saying, I made a Jeopardy game for Frank that we’ll play to review for the test on Monday,” you continue, folding your hands together to sit below your waist. You smile when the class erupts in applause, and even more so when your eyes flit to Harry whose found an empty desk at the back of the room. His head of curls lifts from being bent over the clipboard he writes on, sending you an encouraging wink. “So let’s take attendance to see how many there are of all of you, and I’ll split you up into teams. Then we can get started,” you finish, feeling his eyes on you. Although the pressure is still there, you feel at home in his presence and you don’t even mess up once during your lesson.
Even if you had, you’re sure he could’ve fixed it with the winks, thumbs ups, and heart wrenching smiles he sends you from across the room.
*
“So how did you manage observing me when you had a class during fourth, too? And how’d I do by the way?” you begin, wandering into Harry’s open classroom, the hallways almost empty after the end of the school day. Stopping in your tracks, confusion washes over you when the seat at his desk is empty. It would seem likely he had only stepped out, but it only gets weirder when his long coat isn’t found draped over his chair. “Okay then,” you mumble, returning to your classroom with questions blooming inside of you.
Thoughts are recalled in your mind about how odd Harry’s acted on a few occasions lately, namely his unusual disappearances after school. It’s hard to ignore as you work on the last few questions for the test for sophomore American Lit. You’re trying to think of questions from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself, switching tracks after just focusing on Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self-Reliance. Although not news to you, you steal a glance across the hall at his classroom that still lays undisturbed, longing for his help with a good Whitman question. Soon, you find your phone in your hands, typing up a text to him asking him where he is, because you need his help. Before exiting your messages, the gray thought bubble appears with an ellipsis, indicating his typing. You wait for a response, but after close to a minute, you forget your phone on your desk nearby.
Giving up, your attention wanders to your staff email. You occupy your time answering a few parent emails, then some staff emails, and reading the important ones from the principal regarding Christmas Break. Your eyes grow far more tired at the sight of one from him about upcoming final exams in January, a time that seems far off from now. As a teacher now, you know that’s not true, and you always have to be ahead of the game. It’s yet another thing you want to rack Harry’s brain about, unsure of how to even create a final, and what to include on it. All you can think of is how much you despised final exams in high school and university, finding little worth in them. You know that you don’t want to be hard on your students, because a cumulative exam is difficult, and a regular exam already is as well. While your desktop plays Disney and Pixar piano instrumentals, your thoughts drift to the few teachers you had who made their final exam less intimidating. Whether it was a test on just the most recent unit you learned, the last book you read as a class, or something silly like throwing wadded up paper balls into the recycling from ten feet away.
Quickly, they’re disturbed by the twinkling of your cell phone, buzzing along your desk. A budding warmth trickles into your limbs when you see on it the goofy picture of Harry from a day at the beach last summer. New freckles covering his tanned skin, and all pink sunglasses donning his eyes.
“Hey, where’d you escape to?” you answer casually, dragging your mouse over to pause your music, coming across a song from the movie Up.
“Oh erm, had t’ run a quick errand. ‘m on me way back tho’, so what’re ya doin’?” Harry replies, clearing his throat which he never does, only when he’s nervous. You try to listen into his voice closer, but you don’t hear anything else besides that, so you try to push it away.
“Finishing up my Transcidentalism Writers test. I was wondering what would be a good question, in your opinion, from Whitman’s Song of Myself?” you pose to him, your other hand falling from your computer mouse to prop your chin up.
“Hmmm, tha’s a good question,” he titters, another sound echoing his words, but you can’t make out what it is in the background. “Ya could do a question ‘bout tha theme o’ tha poem, examples o’ figurative language, or ya could have a short response question where they summarize tha poem in their own thoughts, I s’pose. Ya could even- Shhh,” he finishes. He only makes you grow more and more curious as to what’s going on, and why you hear a whine in response.
“Who are you talking to?” you laugh, narrowing your eyes at the wall you stare at lazily while talking to him.
“Oh nobody, nobody. Do those erm questions help? Ya like ‘em, bird?” he responds hastily, brushing the strange occurrence away.
“Okay, whatever you say, and yeah they help. Thank you.”
“Welcome. ‘m almost t’ me classroom, so ‘ll see ya soon, kay?”
“Okay,” you tell him before he hangs up.
Yawning, you turn back to your computer and quickly write down those ideas in a Notepad document before you forget them. You’re in the middle of typing up the idea for a short response question when there’s a knock at your classroom door. Turning your head, you don’t see anybody at first, so you revert your attention back to your typing.
“Yeah, who’s there? Harry, is that you?” you reply, your fingers dancing along the keyboard swiftly.
“No, ‘s me,” Harry’s voice replies, but it’s distorted to sound different from his. It’s more high-pitched, very near to that of a child. Giggling, you look back over to your doorway to find a surprise. “Hi, ‘m a puppy. ‘m a Golden Retriever mix. I jus’ got adopted by me new daddy, Harry.”
“Oh my goodness!” you exclaim, hands flying to your mouth at the most adorable sight indeed. Held in Harry’s two hands, a tan Golden puppy is suspended in the air in your doorway. His tiny furry body squirms in your boyfriend’s hands, a short yip leaving his little mouth. “Harry!” you cry, rooted to your spot. Another exclamation leaves your lips when a yawn leaves the little puppy’s mouth, and then again when his long wagging tail enters your view.
“‘m only eight weeks and daddy jus’ go’mme, so I don’ have a name yet, but ‘s nice t’ meet you. Me daddy ‘s thinkin’ o’ namin’ me Gatsby afta his favourite book. Whoops, I wasn’t s’posed t’ tell ya that, daddy says ya were s’posed t’ guess that on yer own. Anyways, my daddy and I wanted t’ ask you if ya’ll be my new mummy? He was also wonderin’ if ya wanted t’ come an’ live with us, since daddy told me yer lease ‘s up soon. I dunno what dat ‘s, but what d’ya say? I know we’d have loads o’ fun togetha, and ‘m jus’ so darn cute!” Harry continues in his child-like voice, speaking for the new puppy. Tears soon blur your eyes, but you blink them away quickly so as to not lose sight of the irresistible puppy.
“Harry!” you cry, getting to your feet and dashing in your heels to the doorway, finding him bringing the puppy to his chest.
“Hi, birdy. I see ya’ve met me new puppy, or . . our new puppy,” he smirks before you, hitting you with another wave of emotions at his darling words. “Sorry, I didn’t tell ya ‘bout him sooner. This ‘s what’s been takin’ up all me time dis week, and it all happened so fast. Wanted t’ surprise ya, and I think ‘s safe t’ say I have,” he chuckles, removing a hand from around the puppy’s pink belly to wipe the tears from under your eyes.
“It’s okay. Oh my goodness, look at him,” you almost whine in that voice you use around babies, bringing your hands to his fluffy fur. He turns his head towards you and his tiny black nose wiggles as he sniffs at the air around you. “Hi, little guy. Can I be your new mummy, is that okay with you?”
“‘Course it ‘s, was kinda bettin’ on it. Knew ya’d be a good mummy . . . Wish I could bring him t’ school on Monday, but my sista said she’d take him fer tha day,” Harry coos, lifting your head with his voice. One of those big crinkly-eye smiles claims his face, disappearing from view when he presses a kiss to your lips. Your lips move with his, fingers getting lost in his hair, but it’s over quickly when you start to hear barking below you. “Heeeeey, ‘s okay, li’l guy. I can kiss mummy, if I want t’. What d’ya think, Gatbsy, hmmm? Mummy said she’d make us pizzas t’morrow. Already turnin’ out t’ be a good mummy, isn’t she now?”
Laughs coat the both of your lips as he lifts the puppy into the air for the both of you to look at. They echo throughout the room when Gatsby wiggles in his arms, moving his gangly legs wildly as if trying to swim through the air.
“Oh, Harry,” you sigh, encircling his middle with your arms. The puppy returns to his side, and his left arm wanders to around your shoulders. His lips are cold against your forehead when they press a smooch there. You can’t help but to laugh again when the puppy inches over to you, sniffing all over you, long arms dangling over Harry’s. He reaches your face and begins to lick kisses along your cheeks, soon crawling into your arms with Harry’s help.
“I think he likes his new mummy, I can’t blame him.”
“Oh I love him already,” you confess, losing your fingers in his long fur around his face, ears flopping all over the place. “And his daddy,” you blurt out, widening your wet eyes once the words escape your lips. Glancing over to Harry, somehow that smile has grown even larger, adorned by a fresh wash of pink along his cheeks.
“You love me?” he murmurs slowly, hand soft against your shoulder, pressing you to his chest. You pause, unsure of how to read his reaction, but the sudden doubt falls away. You’re nodding before the words come, and you already see the effect they have on him.
“Yeah, I know it’s only been a few months, but I do . . I love you, Harry,” you divulge, clutching the puppy to your chest who still spills kisses along your face and neck, licking up the tears that run down your cheeks.
“I think he’s gonna hafta contain himself and gimme a turn kissing his mum . . ‘coz I love ya too, birdy, so much,” Harry hums, the smile leaking into his voice. You can even taste it on your lips when his touch yours, massaging yours gently, the smooth feeling of his skin still a surprise to you.
“And, Harry?” you whisper, his eyes falling to yours, mumbling a question in response. “I’d love to move in with the two of you . . my boys,” you finally answer, watching the smile hike further up his cheeks. His delightful giggle surrounds you and soon a sweet yipping followed by puppy kisses to the both of your happy faces.
Synopsis: Blurb about Harry, your boyfriend, helping in your classroom.
Word Count: 3k words of pure fluff
Pairing: Harry x Reader
here i am tagging you as promised ;) @stylesonly
*
It was most definitely a Monday. They were pushing your buttons. They weren’t listening to you. You’re sure that their baskets full of Easter candy were to blame for that. Stations were a disaster - the malleable wax sticks were destroyed by the time the third group got to that table. A page from the new book of the day in the reading corner was ripped. The different colors of play dough at the red table were all mixed together. Your Monday morning with your 23 first graders was chaotic, and luckily almost over. Lunch couldn’t come soon enough, and then recess. You hope they’ll get rid of some of their sugar-crazed energy outside on the playground.
You had just finished wiping down the last table, having put it off to finish up a lesson for today. You were glad that nobody would know that wax sticks and play dough were smeared all over the red and blue tables twenty minutes ago. Tossing the last wipe into the garbage, you collapse onto the chair at your desk. You love your first graders, but sometimes they can give you a run for your money, being a second-year teacher and all. The first day back at school after a holiday is always worse. Don’t even bring up Christmas or Spring Break.
Creeeeeak.
Turning your head, you look to find the culprit of the noise. The craziness of the morning melts away when you watch Harry walk into your classroom.
You still can’t get over the sight - your wonderful boyfriend in your very own classroom. It’s something you’ve been dreaming of for years, the combination of your two favorite things.
“Heeey, why tha long face, love? Ruff mornin’?” he questions as he crosses the room.
Nodding, you push out your bottom lip and wait for him to react. His initial smile at seeing you grows to crease his cheeks with dimples. “‘m sorry, love. I hope sum lunch will fix that,” he proposes.
“I think so,” you respond with a small smile. He nods his head towards one of the tables. You drag the only two adult chairs over to the yellow table.
“What happened dis mornin’?” Harry questions, setting down a brown paper bag. The smells coming from it remind you of your grumbling stomach.
“I don’t know, I blame it on the Easter candy. They wouldn’t listen, they were misbehaving, they were wrecking things, and screaming. Oh my god, the volume is the worst. I mean, your friend is two steps away from you, so why are you yelling?” you groan through gritted teeth, sitting down next to him. With a huff, you cross your legs, smoothing down your floral dress that falls to your knees.
He giggles as he settles in his seat next to you, knee to knee. Pulling up the black fabric of his fitted slacks, he gets comfortable. “Go ‘head, ‘s soup an’ sandwiches,” he mumbles, nodding towards the bag with a folded over lip.
You thank him with a smile. Reaching for the bag, you look back at him. You’re unsure if you should watch him roll up the sleeves of his button-down, or eat. It’s hard to resist the handsome sight of his musician fingers maneuvering the striped white-and-black fabric.
“What?” he asks you when he catches you watching him.
“N-nothing, you’re just cute.”
“Careful there, love, ya can’t say dat kinda stuff ‘round tha kids,” he teases with a wink.
“I know, that’s why I’m getting it all out right now,” you quip as you hand him a sandwich. His face melts into a laugh while unwrapping the white paper. “You dirty li’l thing, you.”
Shrugging your shoulders, you take a bite of your food. He sets a covered paper bowl of soup in front of you. The light catches something on his striped button-down. Looking over, you notice the royal blue visit sticker. It brings a smile to your face seeing how neatly he tried to write his name for the kids to read.
“Okay, so think of it dis way - what was tha best part of tha mornin’? Like a part where sumthin’ funny ‘appened, or one of ‘em finally understood somethin’?” Harry asks, picking up a piece of cheese that fell from his sandwich.
With a nostalgic smile, you think after eating more of your sandwich. Its contents and creamy dressing melts in your mouth. You tell him, warming at the laugh that leaves his lips. You go back and forth telling each other about your mornings while eating your lunch. There’s the occasional sound of kids in the hallway, going to and from lunch or classes. But Harry left your door cracked as you sit at the table. One that looks especially tiny compared to him. Mid-morning sunlight streams in through the window, catching pictures on your walls. The rest of your lunch is like this, and soon you find yourself feeling better with him there.
“Thanks for the lunch, it was great,” you say, crumpling what’s left to throw in the paper bag. He mumbles a ‘welcome’ while stretching after sitting in that chair. Walking over to him, he smiles up at you. Bending down, you peck a kiss to his cherry lips.
Rubbing his arm, you tell him you’ll be right back, taking the bag with you to toss. You say hi to colleagues and students in the hall on your way to the bathroom. A few little girls talk around the sinks, smiling at each other before scurrying off. You look at yourself in the mirror, fixing your hair quickly before you leave. The sounds of voices carry down the hall, and you recognize a few of them at first. Your students call out your name and wave at you. You return the waves as they smile at you from their lockers.
Turning into your classroom, you find somebody’s turned on the light. Harry stands by the window on the opposite wall where your teacher’s chair is. He’s flipping through the book he chose to read to them today, a favorite from when he was a kid. You wonder sometimes if he enjoys volunteering in your classroom more than the students enjoy it. Then again, you’d be lying if you left out part of the enjoyment for yourself is getting to be a kid again.
“Hi, Mr. Harry!” somebody exclaims from behind you. You turn just in time to watch Lucy run over to him, blonde pigtails dancing.
“Hiya, Luce. How was yer lunch, love?” Harry responds with a bright smile. She wraps her arms around his middle and he bends down to hug her back at her height.
“It was good! I had spaghetti and oranges, and um what else,” she says, scratching her head while she thinks. You spot the tell-tale sign of spaghetti dotting her purple t-shirt. “Oh and cookies! I can’t believe I forgot those.”
“Ooo really? Those sound good! What kinda cookies were they?” Harry asks her, devoting his entire attention to Lucy. That’s one thing you love about him, whether it’s you or a student of yours, he pays all of his attention to that person.
You don’t catch what kind of cookies they were, because Oscar asks for help with tying his shoe. The rest of your students trickle in slowly from recess, pink cheeks adorning their faces from the spring afternoon.
“There you go, Oscar,” you say, standing up and helping him up as well. Turning around, the volume of the classroom has risen. You hear another student call out Harry’s name, or a variation of it.
The first day he came to volunteer in your classroom at the beginning of the school year, you told them to call him Mr. Styles. But over time, he by habit offered his first name. Sometimes it’s Mr. Styles, or just Harry, or Mr. Harry, as Lucy called him. He answers to any of them, it seems. It’s more than adorable.
Ten or so students have surrounded Harry where he sits on the green table by your chair. A grin plasters his face as he talks animatedly with one of the students. More smiles paint their faces, and soon you hear laughs from something he said. A few students get tickled, and you guess he made the joke about the tickle spider again. Soon, you hear more little yelps of surprise before giggles. As much as you’d love to keep watching, you know that you need to resume class. You do one last check of the hallway to look for stragglers before closing the door. Once you’ve counted everybody, which is hard due to them all moving around, you turn off the lights.
“Ooooo, spooky!” Harry moans like a ghost, causing a roar of laughter.
“Okay, boys and girls, what does turning off the lights mean?” you ask your class.
“To freeze!” they all answer in different volumes and at different times.
“Yes, it does. Thank you for freezing. Now, as you can see, Mr. Styles is back with us today to help for the afternoon. Mr. Styles is going to read to you a book that was his favorite when he was your age. Can you all please stop what you’re doing, clean up anything, and join him on the reading rug?” you instruct, turning the lights back on once you’re finished talking. When the room lights up again, they return to their movements.
It only takes a few minutes for them to collect themselves before finding a seat on the reading rug. You let him take the reins from there. He asks everybody how their morning was before showing the book to them. As you grab a stack of worksheets from your desk, you watch in awe as he tells them why he loves this book. A smile pinches your cheeks as you listen to his excited voice and the reactions of your students. Sitting at a table by the door, with a red pen in hand, you begin to correct the first worksheet. The end of Harry’s story fills your ears. It’s one he told you just last night, but you enjoy hearing it for a second time.
After making a note on the worksheet, you look up and find Harry sitting in your chair. He’s holding the book at the top of it so all of your students can see, reading the words loud and slow. After saying the last word, he moves the book slowly to show the first page to the entire class. You catch his eye and he sends a smile your way. You return it before watching him read the next page. His creativity comes through quickly in his sound effects and different voices for the characters. Shaking your head, you return to assessing your students’ work as Harry reads the story, even to you.
The rest of the school day was much better, thanks to Harry. Your students seem to behave better when he’s around. Many of them just adore him, and you knew it was surely mutual. Sometimes, you had a wild thought, thinking that maybe he should’ve been a teacher after all.
You’re especially glad to have him there when you have language arts in the afternoon. The kids are excited to show him their new skill. As you spell a new word at the smartboard, they clap with every letter. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the light in Harry’s smile as he watches them. Although a little girl named Norah was stuck to him like glue just moments before, he’s gone to help little Max whose pencil broke.
“Need help passin’ those out?” Harry asks, appearing at your side a few minutes later.
“That’d be great, thanks,” you reply, handing him the plastic bowls of scrabble tiles.
After passing out the bowls with Harry’s help, you instruct the students to spell the words from the board with the tiles. When you tell them that Harry can check their work if they raise their hand, their faces light up. Something warms inside of you as you observe him making his rounds. He gives thumbs up, rubs on the back, high fives, and fist bumps when they have it right. For those who had trouble, your adoration for him grows when he kneels at their level to help them. Once he makes his way over to Norah, the little curly redhead ropes him back in. You move on to the next page of words to spell with them, giggling under your breath at the sight. Harry finally breaks free from Norah’s grasp around his leg to help with the next round of words. You realized one of the first times he volunteered last year, that it makes you love him more to see how much your students love him. And how he so effortlessly returns their love.
The rest of the day goes by quickly. Harry was in his element when you read a chapter from the current classroom book, about a scene in the jungle. The students used maracas to make the noises in the story - snakes, waterfalls, rain, and more. The smile on his face was beaming all throughout the short lesson, as he loves watching them use the maracas. It’s to no surprise to you, seeing that he bought them for your class at the beginning of the school year. It was a day the whole class remembers, even you. He came in one day as a surprise with them, and may have made you cry tears of joy.
He especially enjoyed helping with art today, loving helping the students with their creations. You knew because he’s recounted before how happy it makes him to see their excitement to show him their finished work.
After you’ve given your last goodbye hug of the day, you walk back into your classroom. To your surprise, Harry’s began to hang up the sunflowers your students made. The lesson was to create a sunflower, like Van Gogh’s, out of dry pasta shapes of different colors. The students quite enjoyed it, and by this time, it was luck that they were all done drying.
“Oh thank you! Here, let me help,” you tell him, crossing the room over to him.
“No, ‘s okay, love. I got it. You jus’ clean up an’ do what ya need t’ finish up,” he replies, shooting you a smile.
You rub his back before walking away with a ‘thank you.’ You’re dying to thank him with a kiss and to wrap your arms around him from behind. But you know by now that students are bound to come back in, having forgotten something. A water bottle. A book. A sweatshirt. You name it.
“God, these sunflowas are so cute. I love tha idea, babe,” Harry coos, the smile in his voice clear as day.
“Thanks, I think they enjoyed making them,” you tell him, picking up the tub of cleaning wipes.
“Oh ‘m sure they did. It seems they love anythin’ havin’ t’ do with usin’ school glue,” he laughs. Nodding, your laugh soon follows his. “And they loved yer video ‘bout Van Gogh. Ya did a great job on dat by tha way.”
“Thank you, it was a lot of fun to make,” you thank him, dropping a wipe on each table. Returning to your desk, you turn on some music to listen to as you clean up.
“Norah’s really got it out for you,” you laugh.
“Oh god, I know. She’s bloody adorable. Makes me wanna have one o’ me own. I jus’ hope it’d be half as cute as her,” Harry recounts. The revelation catches you by surprise. Absent of words, you watch him hold an artwork to the wall before taping it down.
“Um yeah,” you say, swallowing. You move on to the next table and scrub the surface with the wipe. You can’t help his words dancing in your mind. “1st graders are pretty cute.”
“Yeah, they sure are. Tha kindergarteners are even cuter. I dunno why ya didn’ wanna teach that grade.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a little intimidating, and I guess it worked out that this was the position open at the time,” you reply, seeing his head of quiffed curls nod.
“Would ya wanna teach yer own kids, love? Like have ‘em in yer class?” he asks, his words stilling your movements once again.
You sigh with a nervous smile before picking up another new wipe. “Uh, I’m not sure. I think some teachers here have done that, but it depends on the situation. I mean, if it works best for the parent and their child. I think it would be fun, but I’d have to learn, you know, how to be just their teacher during school. That would be weird, I’d imagine, but for the best,” you tell him, your words slowly coming together.
“That makes sense, but I bet ya’d get tha hang of it fast. It’d prolly jus’ be weird fer tha first few weeks,” Harry comments. The sound of ripping tape follows his answer.
Once all 6 tables are gleaming from their cleaning, you move to the reading corner. Returning books to their correct baskets on the shelf, you sing along to the song ‘Dancing In The Moonlight’ with Harry. It brings a smile to your lips to hear his harmonizing.
“They sure are gettin’ good with those maracas, ya know,” he tells you, the pride beaming in his voice.
“I know, I’m quite impressed, too. Hey get this, we planned to do that today. They wanted to show you good they’re getting with them,” you return, looking over your shoulder at him. He does the same and you share a smile, but his is a little larger.
With the books put away and the artworks hanging up, Harry helps you clean up the last few things. He stacks the chairs on top of the tables, returns a few things to the closet, and he stacks the bean bag chairs in the reading corner. After a few thank yous and grabbing your stuff, you shut off the light and close the door.
Walking down the hall with Harry, he laces his fingers with yours. He says with a smirk in his voice, “Maybe we should have a few little kiddies of our own, love.”
