Thirty-Six Hours Ago and One Rumor Later.... // h.s.

Thirty-six hours ago, there'd been sunshine. Thirty-six hours ago, Harry had been soaking up warmth with sunnies perched on his nose and the wide Californian sky stretching endlessly above him. Now, he could hardly see his garden through the thick London rain pouring down in buckets outside his window, and every now and then, he shivered despite his slouchy jumper. Even inside his house, the damp chill afflicted his bones — a harsh welcome back from his homeland.

In his very recent memory, the dark, gloomy weather would've left him climbing the walls and scheming his way back across the pond, but lately, it was London he'd been craving. England was home — his childhood, his mother, his sister, they were all there. Friends made home for him around the world, but this one had his name on it.

This one had you.

Harry glanced at his window when wind changed and the rain pelted the glass more directly, the fat drops frosting the panes. He'd yet to see you since he'd landed — you had uni and couldn't take off in the middle of the week, and he was trying to wrap some work up to be able to put it away for the weekend. You'd made a plan together for you to come in on the train, and he'd promised to pick you up — one simple pleasure he'd allow himself regardless of the risk of a feeding frenzy in public — but it was days until you'd be here, and he found himself wishing he'd booked a room somewhere near your university. You could've stayed with him, even. He'd have been an all too willing revisions partner, and he was sure you'd remember every detail you two discussed.

Eyes burning and scratching the back of his neck just underneath where his hair was gathered up, Harry turned back to his laptop, index fingers poised over the keys. Just a few more days. He'd made it this long, he could make it a little longer with the knowledge you were at least closer without having to struggle with a time difference. There was a film on that weekend he'd like to take you to, and he'd like to cook you dinner if you'd—

Ding-dong-ding-dong.

Hands still frozen mid-sentence above his laptop, Harry frowned, glancing sideways at his front door without turning his neck. Who knew he was back? Next to no one. His mother was home, Nick was on holiday, and he'd purposefully held off on telling anybody else he'd returned to keep the pool small in an effort to stave off the welcome back invitations to pop next door to the pub. Post? His mum sent him things sometimes if she thought he'd like them, but he'd seen the truck puttering along the road when he'd gone for a jog earlier.

The doorbell rang again and he stared, paranoia starting to itch his skin. The knock that followed had him all but flying to the door, heart racing, and he peeped through the hole to confirm his suspicions, already grinning when he twisted the lock.

"Where's your umbrella got to?"

The hood over your head offered at least some protection from the weather, but the rest of you was drenched. Rain was dripping off you just like his roof, and your blue jeans were a darker shade than he remembered those particular ones being. Your trainers looked soaked, and you were shaking like a leaf, teeth chattering, but your mouth was sullen when you wordlessly held out a rolled up newspaper.

"What's this?" he asked, unfurling it. Instantly, his stomach dropped so hard and fast it landed in China. There, on the front page, was a blurry, overexposed photo of a hulking man with a woman in a short dress. Her face was turned, but neither of you needed to see her face to know it wasn't you, and the name of the restaurant he'd been at thirty-six hours ago was more incriminating than even the headline.

Opening his door wider, Harry stepped back, jerking his head in invitation. For a moment, it looked like you were going to run, and his muscles tensed in preparation to sprint after you. To his relief, you strode past him instead, trainers squeaking on the hardwood floor.