Honeylove [H.S.]

11 ☆

— 𓆤 —

"This better be good, Bambi."

My throat closes up. Every potential arrangement of words implanted into my head suddenly vanished because Harry actually picked up the phone. Out of everyone listed in my contacts, he's the last person I'd call to ask for help. And he fucking answered.

I didn't have his phone number until he reached out to me first about the next training session (which wasn't going to be a continuation of his seduction lecture, I later found; it was only a rehearsal of the circus show with everyone else). That day, Fletcher added me to the group chat that the dancers of the club are part of and I haven't gotten a chance to replace most of the numbers with names so it's not like I can call anybody else right now.

I assumed Harry plucked my number from someone at work or copied it from my resume because I didn't give it away to him directly. The message from a random set of numbers pinged when Ivy and I got back from the grocery store. I knew it was him almost instantly. It wasn't hard to guess.

Tomorrow 9 am. Don't be late or eat like shit for breakfast.

Harry?

Yes.

geez you sound like my mother. i'll be there at 8:59

9 is fine.

9:01 it is!

Wow. You even argue over text. How surprising.

wow. you do proper grammar and punctuation over text. how surprising.

are u a robot

I believe the correct grammar is, *Are you a robot?*

im going to block u

Good. See you tomorrow at 9.

He didn't show up to rehearsals today. The last time we saw each other was at yesterday's late-night practice that ended in— surprise— another argument (not as unsurprising as Harry's texting style). Neither of us has reached out since then, but I'm relieved I have a connection to him. Though, I did not plan this far ahead— I'm speechless. I don't know what to expect from this call or how much help he can provide when he's almost two hours from me. Nonetheless, I'm relieved he answered even if he sounds grumpy. I've never been happier to hear his grumpy voice.

"Hello? I can hear you breathing, Noa."

"H-hi. Hello."

"What's wrong?"

"Why are you assuming something is wrong?"

"Something has to be wrong if you willingly called me. So what is it?"

"Something has to be wrong if you willingly answered my call."

My forced nervous laugh breaks when a small whimper manages to crack through my throat. There are too many emotions surfacing. I couldn't hold onto all of them at once. It's why I hate to cry— once it starts to leak, it doesn't stop spilling.