Legendary // H.S

23.

'Wind me up and watch me spin'

*

No man has ever cooked for me before. Not even Joe, and I was with him for years. Whenever he tried the meal would always inevitably burn or be left inedible. Instead, I was tasked with producing every meal in the relationship. Any other boyfriend I've had has also lacked the skill or care to make something nice for me.

Harry is unlike those men. Right now, he is slaving away over the stove, cooking something that looks to be delicious. It turns out he's quite the cook, taking his time with each step of the process so not to miss a single thing and ruin the masterpiece. I'm hypnotised by it, seeing him so concentrated and attached to the activity. I've always wondered what hobbies he has outside of thievery, but I never imagined the culinary arts.

He also has an impressive wine cellar below the kitchen. I paced up and down the shelves reading every label I could see, even though I know so little about wine. It was obvious how expensive some of the bottles are, though. I suppose I should be used to his wealth by now. All of it is stolen, so maybe that's why I struggle to comprehend it sometimes.

In the end, he chose the same bottle of red we had that one lunch time in the restaurant near my shop. I know he did it intentionally. Every action is so well thought out in his brain, it's like I can see the cogs turning when he makes a decision. The small smirk on his lips when I recognised the name was enough to tell me how satisfied he was that his plan had worked. It's a nice reminder of the calm before the storm. No one expected us to end up in this position then, but we'll have to make do. There's not really a way out of it now that we're stuck in such a mess.

The wine is just as good as I remember. Perhaps the only red that I've ever enjoyed. I watch Harry over the rim of the glass as he places some steaks in a pan, potatoes already boiled and baking in the oven, along with some asparagus and other greens in another pan. I opted for medium-rare for my meat. I can't stand when it's still so raw; you can practically hear the cow mooing. Medium is as much as I'll allow. Harry agreed, taking his time to brown each side as he bastes them with the butter and seasoning.

There's been some idle chit chat amongst us, but it's clear we're both avoiding the subject we both want to broach. Hugo Charles. I've no idea what Harry was up to today, he may not tell me considering how much he already keeps from me, but this was a matter that needed to be discussed. My life seems to be in his hands now. He must be stressed, he never expected to be lumbered with the protection of a random woman, but that doesn't mean I can be kept in the dark.

He clears his throat, ready to move on to the next meaningless subject. 'How did you sleep?' he questions, letting his gaze fall onto me for a moment while he stirs the dressing around the pan.

I must admit he's being very attentive, making sure I'm ok after what I've endured. 'Really well, actually.'

He just nods, the conversation ending again until we find something else to discuss. The radio is on in the background, some classical music playing through the speakers. Chopin. Sublime simplicity. That's how Dad used to describe his music. The only reason I know how to identify it. He always said that Chopin's music is so deeply personal, a realm of sentiments that others have tried but failed to replicate since. Hearing his music brings me comfort.

I sigh, watching as Harry checks the potatoes once more. 'When did you learn to cook?' I ask. In the back of my mind I hope that this simple question will reveal something about the man stood before me. What I discovered today was only the tip of the iceberg.

Harry smiles at this; it's small but noticeable, like he's recalling a memory. He wipes his hands on the towel rested near me, some oil splattered across them from the steaks, still sizzling perfectly in the pan. 'I used to cook for my sister. Little meals here and there. Never anything special but she always liked them,' he admits, a light laugh leaving his throat.