Unlikely (H.S.)

six

~Harry~

I sank into the plush leather seat of the private jet, the roar of the Auckland crowd still echoing in my ears. The high from the performance had begun to fade, leaving me restless and jittery. I glanced out the window as the plane climbed into the sky, heading back to London.

Reaching for my phone, I opened Instagram, and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I remembered the way I'd accidentally watched Harper's story a few nights ago. I'd spent far too long scrolling through her posts, captivated by her effortless charm and the way she spoke about her passion for cooking. She hadn't reached out because of it, and part of me hoped she had noticed I watched it, but I'll never really know. I had sworn myself off of going online because of my error and I couldn't help but have a look as I sat in the quiet plane.

She had been laying low since the bar picture,  and since I had already slipped up and watched a story, I felt no shame in checking them now. Her latest story was a series of pictures from her day; her computer at work, I assumed, her kitchen, baking supplies sprawled across her kitchen island, and then a link to a new reel. I quickly switched to her profile and clicked on the upload. The staging and setup was immaculate— a sunlit kitchen, the sound of her laughter, and the rich aroma of something delicious. She was making a rustic pie, her hands expertly working the dough while she chatted with her audience. I couldn't help but grin as I watched, though part of me felt mortified that I'd become so invested in someone I barely knew. She was effortlessly charming, her enthusiasm for cooking and baking infectious.

In the final bit, she placed the pie on a windowsill to cool, her face bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "I can't wait for you guys to try this recipe," she said with a laugh. "Let me know if you give it a go!"

I felt a sharp pang of longing. I knew I shouldn't be doing this – constantly moving, living in a whirlwind of tours and events. Reaching out to a girl I barely knew seemed like a distraction I couldn't afford. But after the joke I made on stage last night about accidentally posting on your Instagram story, I felt an unexpected pull to connect with her, talk to her, know her. I had unexpectedly thrust her into the limelight, and even though I didn't know her, I wanted to know how she was doing, if she was coping, if others were treating her differently because of it.

Sighing, I decided to take the plunge. I opened the direct messages in my Instagram and typed out a quick message.

Harry: Hey Harper, it's Harry. Just wanted to say I love your videos. That pie looked amazing – might have to try making it myself one day. Maybe you could show me how to do it right sometime? -H

Don't fuck this up, Harry...

I hit send, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. The message was out there now, a tentative thread connecting me to someone who intrigued me more than I cared to admit. I leaned back in my seat, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest.

Hours ticked by. My thoughts wandered as I waited, my anticipation building. I kept picturing Harper's smile, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about her passion for cooking. My mind veered to more intimate thoughts – the curve of her lips, the swell of her breasts as she leaned over the counter, in her frilled eyelet blouse, her cute, short blonde hair, framing her face perfectly.

The more I thought about her, the more my imagination took over. I envisioned her standing close to me in my own kitchen, her body brushing against mine as we worked together. I could almost feel the warmth of her skin, the softness of her touch. My thoughts turned to kissing her, her lips pressed against mine, soft and inviting. I imagined pulling her closer, feeling the heat between us grow, the way her body would fit perfectly against mine. My fingers would trace down the sides of her body, slipping my hands around her to get a good squeeze of her scrumptious arse, and bringing my hands under her thighs as I hoisted her up onto the kitchen island. My hand fussing with her button of her jeans, so I could just have a tas—