Sanctuary [h.s.]

Chapter Seventeen (*)

"If you think I'm pretty, lay your hands on me

Know you can't stop thinkin' 'bout it

I know that you're shitty and you're bad for me

But I can't stop thinkin' 'bout it."

***

I went on a date with Jack today. I'm not even sure why I bothered. Maybe there's still a small part of me clinging to some illusion of normalcy, a part that whispers—no, nags—that what I'm doing with Harry is wrong. That voice, sharp and insistent, echoes my mother's. She would adore Jack. If she had her way, I'd have a ring on my finger by now, tied up in a neat little bow of suburban bliss. But that's not me. No matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, Jack and I are simply not cut from the same cloth. It just wouldn't work—not because there's anything fundamentally wrong with him. He has his quirks, sure, but at his core, he's a good guy. It just doesn't fit, like trying to wear someone else's skin.

And so, here I am, alone on a Saturday night, nursing a glass of sweet wine. Olivia, with her usual infectious excitement, confessed that she's seeing someone new. She practically glowed as she described him—tall, muscular, and so handsome she nearly drooled. Tonight, she's out with him on a date, and despite noticing my mood, she offered to stay in. I waved her off, insisting she go out and enjoy herself.

Then Harry called. His voice, velvet smooth, carried that familiar edge of desperation. He begged me to take a cab to his place. I didn't need much convincing.

So here we are again, Harry and I, using each other as a distraction, finding solace in the only way we know how, trying to drown out the noise of everything else.

Harry swung open the door, a bottle of liquor in hand and that familiar smirk playing on his lips—a clear sign that he was up to no good. But tonight, he did something different. He stepped outside, his polished shoes meeting the same pavement I was standing on. His hands found their way to my hips, pulling me against him with a possessive ease. "There's my little treat with her cheeks all flushed," he murmured, his voice a low, teasing purr. He tutted softly, as if in mock sympathy, while his eyes roamed over my face. Whether it was the wine I'd nearly polished off or the intoxicating nearness of him, my cheeks burned under his scrutiny. "You will come to my bed tonight, won't you?"

I grinned, raising an eyebrow as my hands settled on his arms, feeling the firm muscle beneath his shirt. "'Little treat'? Is that really the best you've got?" My eyes sparkled with amusement as they locked onto his, finding a bit of humour in his lustful words.

His smirk widened, and he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over my skin. "I've been thinking about our last night together ceaselessly," he confessed, his tone dripping with exaggerated drama. "I'll be in quite a spot of moral peril if you let me keep distracting myself dreaming instead of doing." He tilted his head, feigning a look of mock concern. "We can't have that, can we? It would be very dangerous."

I let out a playful sigh, glancing away as if in deep thought. "Hmm I don't know..."

"Ah, so you need a bit of enticing," he mused, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. "The accolades of life are nothing compared to the sound of my name, cried from your lips."

"You can do better than that," I challenged, a playful glint in my eyes.

His eyes twinkled with mischief as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart, as if preparing for a grand soliloquy. "I certainly can - it would be my pleasure. Let's see..." He paused, pretending to ponder before locking eyes with me again. "How about this: When I'm with you, I feel practically alive, yet I crave only to die again with you." He delivered the line with all the flair of a seasoned actor, his tone so dramatic it was almost Shakespearean.