Unlikely (H.S.)

fifty-one

~Harper~

There's a certain kind of heat in Barcelona. Not the suffocating, sticky kind I'm used to. This heat wraps around you like silk—warm but gentle, coaxing rather than oppressive. It brings color to your skin, texture to your breath, and turns the whole city into a postcard come to life.

I'm half convinced I've stepped into a movie.

We walk hand in hand down Carrer de Ferran, our fingers loosely linked as the city buzzes and hums around us. Harry is in a white linen shirt—crinkled just so, sleeves pushed up his forearms—and a puffy black crossbody bag slung over his torso. His curls are a little wild from the breeze, his sunglasses perched on his nose, and he looks like the human embodiment of European summer. I, somehow, managed to pack the right dress. A white linen maxi, simple but flowing, with thin straps and an open back. I feel like I belong in a painting.

He keeps glancing at me when he thinks I'm not looking. And sometimes when I am looking, too.

We walk without much of a plan—though it becomes obvious quickly that he has a plan. Harry knows exactly where he's going, even down the alleys that look like they're just for deliveries or secrets. He knows which cafés will make the best coffee, which bakery will give us the freshest slice of coca, which corner store has the strongest smell of oranges and basil.

"You've done this before," I murmur as we walk through a shaded corridor that opens up into a quiet square, sunlight filtering down through the trees.

Harry glances sideways at me, a dimple forming. "Maybe once or twice."

"How many times have you been here?"

"Enough to know where not to order sangria."

I grin. "And how many times have you brought a girl with you?"

He stops walking, squints at me over his sunglasses. "Just one."

That earns him a soft nudge from me and a shake of my head, but my cheeks are warm.

He pulls his camera from his bag a few moments later. It's old and square and a little clunky-looking—clearly film. The sound it makes when he clicks the shutter is mechanical and satisfying. I pause on instinct when I hear it go off.

"Did you just take a picture of me?" I ask.

Harry doesn't answer right away. Just looks down at the back of the camera, even though I know it's film and there's nothing to see.

He finally glances up. "You looked like you belonged here."

I scoff, but it's not convincing. "Stop making me fall in love with you in public."

He grins wide. "You're in luck. I'm not done yet."

We make our way to a gallery he insists I'll love—something about a mix of classical and surrealist work, tucked inside a building that looks too small to contain anything special from the outside. But as soon as we step through the doors, the air shifts. It's cool inside, smelling faintly of plaster and old wood, and the light is dim, focused only on the art.

The first room is almost all sculpture—elegant torsos and imperfect busts. I pause in front of a fragmented face, its marble mouth curved into the ghost of a smile.

Harry stands a few feet behind me, camera raised again. I can hear the click before I even turn.

"Do I get to see these one day?" I ask quietly.

He lowers the camera but doesn't look at me right away. "Maybe. If you ask nicely."

I arch a brow. "What if I beg?"