Unlikely (H.S.)

twenty-nine*

~Harper~

The kiss that follows is slow, deep, and utterly intoxicating. My hands drift over his shoulders, feeling the steady strength beneath them, trailing over his tattoos that decorate his sculpted collarbones. Everytime I get his shirt off and study his tattoos, I feel like I pick a new favourite for a different reason. I lean down and trail my tongue over the swallow above his heart, leaving a path of my saliva down his chest. Rounding the butterfly, following the intricacies of the black ink, leading me to the ferns just above his pelvic bones.

The way the fern on his left side is drawn over a banner or something I can't quite–

This is a cover up...

What if it's covering an ex's name?

What if she was the love of his life?

What if they got matching tattoos?

Jesus Christ. I have to pull myself together.

As if Harry can sense my insecurities, he pulls me tighter, his grip is firm but gentle, each touch conveying everything he doesn't need to say. His fingers splay across my back, pulling me flush against him, and I let myself get lost in it, feeling every detail—the warmth, the connection, the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Everything about this moment feels like a revelation, like stepping into a secret, sacred part of him, and I don't want it to end.

Harry's hands slide down my back, firm and guiding, and he pulls back just enough to search my face, his gaze darkened with something deeper. There's a soft urgency in his eyes, and his hand slips into mine, tugging me up from the couch.

"Come with me," he murmurs, voice laced with intent, as he helps me up to my feet, leaving his shirt in a pile on the floor.

We make our way up the stairs, our steps quiet but filled with anticipation. As we enter his bedroom, I notice that it feels like the rest of the house—warm, personal, not overly designed but thoughtful in a way that feels natural to him.

I wonder if an ex helped decorate this...

Shit.

Fuck.

Harper, stop this.

He clearly wants you here..

Soft light filters through a window, casting shadows across the walls, adding to the sense of intimacy already building between us.

Before I can take in much more, his hands find my waist, drawing me close. His lips find mine again, but there's an intensity there now, an urgency that's unmistakable. He walks us back slowly toward the bed, his fingers roaming up and down my sides, and I feel my pulse quicken with each inch of closeness. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, he lets out a low chuckle, breaking our kiss just enough to study my face.

"Everything about you drives me mad, you know that?" he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, and there's something raw, almost vulnerable, in his words that sends a shiver through me.

"That's what I like to hear," I reply, breathlessly, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath my fingers, unaware of where my sudden confidence is coming from. "Because I'm not planning on going anywhere."

That seems to be all he needs to hear. Harry lowers me gently onto the bed, his movements slow and careful as though he must cherish every moment. He hovers above me, his eyes tracing every line of my face, his fingers brushing my hair back with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. I can feel the weight of his gaze, feel how much this means to him—and to me too. He dips his head slightly, brushing his lips against mine, a barely-there touch that makes my heart race. There's a quiet intensity in the way he kisses me, each taste, and I let myself fall deeper into him, matching his rhythm. Suddenly, he flips us over, as if echoing our position from downstairs. With me on top of him, his fingers trace up my spine, leaving tingling warmth in their wake, and as his mouth trails softly down to my neck, I tilt my head back, allowing him more access.