PULSE [H.S]

057

"Souls tend to go back to who feels like home." — N.R. Hart

I don't know who Liam is.

"Why have I never met Liam?" I ask Harry as I sit on the counter, dangling my legs below me. Harry cooks up some pasta on the stove next to me, a hand towel draped over his shoulder.

Harry says, "He pretty much exists behind a screen."

"He does computer stuff?" I ask.

"Mhmm," he hums, "he's the tech guy. He doesn't really go out into the field unless he has to."

My mind automatically pictures a giant nerd that sits in a chair all day, with a wall of various surveillance screens in front of him. He probably types lines of code faster than I can read.

I question, "But he's friends with all of you?"

"Kinda," he says as he stirs the noodles. "He used to be around more, but now we hardly see him."

"Why not?"

Harry shrugs. "Not sure."

The food smells so good, and I love watching him cook. He always looks so focused, it's hot. The sauce smells heavenly, like it always does. I don't know what he puts in there.

I dip my finger in it and then bring my finger up to my mouth, tasting it. It's amazing. Harry glares at me, his eyes on my mouth.

I say, "What? It's good."

"I know, I made it," he says cockily, making me roll my eyes. He stirs the sauce, swatting my hand away as I try to get more. He says, "Keep your fingers out of my food."

I jump down from the counter, getting some dishes out for us for when the food is ready. I get us glasses of water, too, as the whole apartment starts smelling like marinara sauce.

I go back over to Harry, this time leaning against the counter instead of sitting on it. I say, "You want me here, right?"

He says, "What do you mean? Like in the apartment?"

"Yeah," I say, looking at him. We've never had a conversation about it, and I don't want him to feel like I am intruding on his space. I say, "Like, me living here."

He looks at me, taking his attention off of the food. His arms wrap around me, pulling me into him. He leans down, pecking my lips.

He says, "Of course I do. Why are you even asking that?"

"I don't know." I look up at him, saying, "We never really talked about it. I was here until it was safe enough for me to find a new place, but then I just sort of stayed. I want to make sure you're okay with that."

His hand cups my face as he rubs his thumb on my cheek, making me swoon. He says, "Do you want to live here with me?"

"Yes."

"Then this is your home, baby," he says. He kisses my forehead softly, and I smile into his chest.

This is my home. Harry is my home.

We eat our pasta, which is so good, but Harry doesn't make it very often. He says there's no protein in it, so it's not a balanced meal. And last time he tried to make meatballs, they burned because I was distracting him in the kitchen.

I try to wrap my head around the fact that I live here. It feels like home, too. I never had a home growing up. My mom moved us around a lot, always staying in new apartments or on friends couches. We lived in our car for a few months too, and we were in a shelter a few times.

Whenever my mom got clean and we got a place and settled down, we would lose it when she relapsed. She would always spend all of the money on drugs, leaving us starving and homeless. My home growing up was Rae.