Bloom

February

My break-time from studying usually consisted of naps, an episode of Parks and Recreation, or, on the weekend, laundry. And although Reading Week had started and I could be spending my weekend doing normal things instead of studying, nothing else was occupied my mind enough. Whatever else I chose to do, be it tagging along with Jillian on yet another Oxford Street adventure (seriously, I hated that fucking street, I don’t know how she could go there every weekend) or baking muffins at Matt and Silas’s, my mind wouldn’t stop running over the events at The Wishing Well.

However, since I’d spent the last four hours staring at the chapters that wouldn’t become relevant until at least three weeks from now, having finished everything that was due once Reading Week was over last night when I couldn’t sleep, I realized that I’d maybe gotten a little carried away. I was running on less than three hours of sleep in the last two days, and I was a champion sleeper.

So I’d switched to a mind-numbing task that I hoped would bore me enough that I’d get at least a half-hour nap in: sorting out the mass of clothes in the corner of my room, overflowing the laundry hamper, which I’d been ignoring for the last two weeks.

My fourth cup of coffee sat atop a stack of textbooks on the floor next to my bed, since the side table was covered my Physics assignment (the last time I’d handed in a problem set with coffee rings on it my TA had warned me that the next time I tried to give him something stained and “barely legible” he wouldn’t mark it). I grabbed it and sipped the lukewarm liquid inside, making a note to pop by Jillian’s for a refill soon.

Just to make the process last longer, because my brain was exhausted from the information overload I’d taken on in the last few days, I picked up one piece of clothing at a time and went over to my bed, making piles for each category — lights, darks, delicates. Most of my clothes were neutral colours, so sorting wasn’t that difficult, but I had quite a few tops that were worn to the point of translucence, so I had to be careful about keeping them with the delicates. I sipped my coffee and grimaced at the temperature every single time, but kept on drinking.

Caffeine helped my mind process things faster, but it also made me so restless that I couldn’t dwell on one idea for very long, so after getting through only a third of my mountain of dirty clothing I was bored to the point of exploding. The fact that I’d been getting coffee from her all day meant that Jillian was probably still in her room, so I checked the hall to make sure that nobody was walking around — putting on trousers just seemed like an unnecessary thing to do if no one was going to see me except for Jillian, who walked into my room when I was changing and had absolutely no concept of privacy — and hopped over to her room.

“Back already?” she asked, glancing up at me from her place in bed, laptop open on her lap and notes on some Greek philosopher scattered across the comforter.

I shrugged, sitting in her chair and crossing one leg over the other, swivelling around so I could operate her coffee maker. “Bored.”

“That’s your fifth cup,” she observed, eyebrows raised. “Can your system process that much coffee?”

“American,” I reminded her. “We live on coffee. Like you English people with your tea.”

“You know caffeine can be dangerous in large amounts, right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Jillian rolled her eyes, probably too preoccupied with her essay to care about me. I was surprised she was working at all, considering she usually left work to the last possible moment.

While the coffee brewed, I rolled over to the bed on Jillian’s chair. She watched me over the top of her laptop curiously; a look she’d been giving me a lot lately. It was like she was waiting for something; for me to do, or say, something.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you working,” I said, picking up a page of notes. The name at the top seemed familiar, but Jillian’s neat writing was distracting me and I was too busy thinking about how messy mine was compared to hers and how this wasn’t fair at all to actually read what was written.

“I want to get it out of the way so I can enjoy Reading Week,” she explained. “And at the rate you’re going, you’ll be ready for graduation by Monday.”

“Okay, that’s vastly overstating my abilities. I can’t tell the future, how am I supposed to know what assignments I’m going to have next year? Much less third year.”

“Funny, I didn’t know you’d completely forgotten the concept of sarcasm.”

“Must be the caffeine. I skip over some social cues when I’ve got too much energy.”

“Oh, I thought that was just you on a normal day,” she smirked.

“Hilarious,” I drawled, giving her a bland look. “See? Didn’t miss it that time.”

Jillian wasn’t impressed. “Are you going to stay here for very long? I’ve got work to do.”

I sighed and rolled back over to the desk, where my coffee cup was now full. I picked up my cup and saluted to Jillian, which she didn’t return, and checked the hallway once more before returning to my room.

Since my bed was no longer visible beneath the laundry, I grabbed my computer and settled on the maroon, high pile rug (my first purchase upon arriving in London, because my room was dull and boring and the rug was really soft) with my back against the bed frame. The stack of textbooks next to me still served as my coffee stand, and I could see the ring on the top from where I’d been putting my cup all day.

I logged into Matt’s Netflix account — everyone stole his, because his password was ridiculously easy to figure out and he had yet to realize we were all using his account and change it — and picked up where I’d last left off on Parks and Recreation.

But, only halfway through the episode, there was somebody at the door. I wondered absently as I set my laptop aside and clambered to my feet if it was Jillian, because I was already a little bit bored and thought she might want to go out.

I cracked open the door, peering at whoever was knocking so dramatically. It was Harry, looking completely out of sorts, his hair in a state of curly disarray and his flannel shirt almost completely unbuttoned, revealing the swallows on his chest and the top of the butterfly on his stomach. He did have a coat on, but it was open and probably providing no warmth whatsoever.

“Can I come in?” he asked in a rushed tone, glancing up and down the hallway. Hardly anyone was still here — as I’d discovered earlier — because of Reading Week, and I didn’t know why he was so worried about being seen.

“Yeah, just, um—“ I started, about to shut the door so I could put on a pair of sweatpants or shorts or something, just so I wouldn’t be standing there in a shirt and a pair of boy shorts. I wasn’t even wearing a bra, but that was a mere afterthought as Harry pushed open the door and strode inside. He turned on his heel and stared at me determinedly, hands on his hips.

At first I folded my arms over my chest, but that made my shirt ride up and rumple around my hips, no longer providing (albeit minimal) coverage of my lower half. So I dropped my arms, pulling at the hem of my shirt in hopes that it would cover more of my thighs.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that talking to you is absolutely pointless.”

“It isn’t,” I objected. “You just have really awful timing.”

“What about right now?” he asked, and I shrugged.

Harry took a step back, knocking into the stack of books and nearly causing the mug on top to topple and spill all over my nice rug, but he jumped out of the way and it teetered for a stressful second before staying in one place. I jumped into action, removing the mug and picking up my laptop, then placing both on my desk. Harry loitered next to the massive pile of laundry on the comforter, took off his coat and then seemed at a loss for where to put it, eventually deciding that the floor was a good a place as any.

A knot of uneasiness had settled in my stomach and wouldn’t be going away anytime soon, because now the only thing I could think about was the last time Harry had been in here when I was so minimally dressed.

When I turned back around, as ready as I would ever be for this conversation, Harry’s eyes were lingering on my thighs. I tugged at the hem of my shirt, but it made the collar stretch and slip off my shoulder. “Fucking—“ I started, quickly moving over to my dresser to get anything to put on my lower half so this whole thing wouldn’t be so awkward.

“Imogen,” Harry said.

I glanced over my shoulder, still rummaging through the drawer of bottoms for something that wasn’t covered in penguins or wildly inappropriate for the situation (like the leather pants I’d bought on sale last month and had yet to wear). Harry was biting hard on his lip, and his mouth was red and impossibly tempting, his pupils had dilated, the expression on his face one that had been stuck in my mind for months.

“I need you to tell me the truth,” he continued, his gaze burning. I’d fully turned around by now, and looking anywhere but at him was hopeless. I nodded, and for once I was glad that the caffeine in my system was making my ears buzz, because it was drowning out the possible outcomes of this situation flashing through my head. “Is what…this thing that’s happening with us…what do you think it’s about?”

It was a complicated question. My mind had changed several times over the last two weeks.

“At first,” I said, and Harry’s brows furrowed in concentration as he listened. “I thought that you liked Darcy. Because you never said any names the morning after your party, and I jumped to conclusions then ran off before you could explain. Then, at The Wishing Well, I was too drunk to understand what you were saying to me, and that time you were the impatient one who ran off. But now that I’ve thought about it, a lot, I think I know what you meant.”

I took a deep breath, staring back at Harry as steadily as I could.

“And do…you?”

“That depends,” I said carefully. Although I hadn’t thought of the words exactly, I’d known for a while now what I was feeling. Fix yourself first. “All that emotional stuff still kinda scares me. I’m not ready for a—a boyfriend.”

He bit his lip again, and I wasn’t sure if he was relieved or anxious or maybe a weird combination of both.

“Thank God,” he breathed.

Then he closed the space between us in a single stride, one hand going to the back of my head and the other cupping my hip, and caught my lips with his midway through my surprised gasp. My hands acted of their own accord, reaching up to grasp the disheveled collar of his flannel while our mouths moved against one another, but soon that wasn’t enough and I was pushing his shirt toward his shoulders until he finally caught on and tore his hands away from me, hastily undoing the last few buttons and tossing the shirt aside where it got lost somewhere in my laundry.

I ran my hands across his chest, over his collarbones, and hooked them behind his neck, my fingers in his tangled curls. Harry had moved away from my mouth and kissed his away down my throat, pausing below my ear where there would definitely be a mark later, while gradually directing us toward my desk. He grasped my hips, and I realized what was happening a second before he started to lift me off the ground.

“Wait,” I said, taking a second to catch my breath.

“What is it?” Harry asked. The lust in his eyes was clouded over with concern. “Did I hurt you?”

“What? No,” I said, confused. “I just don’t wanna sit on this. I have to hand it in next week.”

Harry laughed, his thumbs pressing harder into my hipbones. “Let’s go over to the bed then.”

“It’s got dirty laundry on it.”

“There isn’t a surface in this entire bloody room without something on it,” Harry informed me. “Better laundry than homework, yeah?”

I stepped out of his grasp, which involved a bit of a shimmy, and hurried over to my bed. The sorted piles didn’t really matter much now, and I heaped them all together and tossed it on top of the mountain by the hamper. “There. All clean.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head, and sauntered over. “Can I kiss you again now?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. He grinned, dimples on display, and cupped my cheeks, kissing me softly this time.

At first I couldn’t decide what to do with my hands, but then Harry moved a little closer and I could feel the warmth radiating off of his skin, drawing me toward him. I’d touched his skin before, traced the tattoos and memorized the curves and angles of his muscles, but that seemed so long ago. It was different now too, somehow, maybe because this wasn’t just the heat of the moment but something more, something we’d agreed was okay.

When my fingers skimmed over the sharp line of his hipbone, Harry swallowed and dropped his hands from my cheeks to dip them beneath my shirt, placing one palm flat on my back and pulling our bodies flush. “I did clear the bed for a reason, y’know,” I said, barely moving away to mumble the words against his mouth.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Gonna take this off first, okay?”

Harry was pushing up the hem of my shirt until it bunched around my ribs, and his fingers were stretched over my shoulder blades, impossibly long and faintly callused, the cool metal of his rings making me realize just how high my body temperature had risen. I felt myself nod, completely absorbed in staring at Harry’s mouth, and raised my arms so he could lift the shirt over my head.

Harry resumed where he’d left off earlier, his lips and teeth grazing my collarbones before continuing down, over the swell of my breasts to the lines inked into my left side, over my ribcage. “I like this,” he hummed, running his finger over the path he’d just made with his mouth. “You said it was a symbol. Something about taking control of your own life?”

The fact that he’d remembered the long-past conversation we’d had about my tattoo was surprising, if not a little heartwarming, but it wasn’t one I wanted to continue right now. “Yeah, probably a little more meaningful than that Packers logo you’ve got.”

I poked the ‘G’ on his inner bicep, grinning.

“Heeey,” Harry whined, still crouched in front of me. He frowned, and it was totally ridiculous that he was getting upset, so I decided to take control of the situation. I pulled him up and pressed my mouth hard against his, figuring this was the easiest and quickest solution.

And it worked, because he was unbuckling his belt a moment later, pulling off his painted-on jeans with expertise that could only come from practice. We fell onto the narrow bed, his hands grappling at my thighs, prompting me to wrap my legs around his hips. My fingers skimmed over his jaw and went up into his hair while he peppered kisses along my neck. Harry dragged his lips down, down, down, until his fingers were hooked around the elastic waistband of my boy shorts. He paused only to look up at me for confirmation, and soon the flimsy material had joined my ever-growing laundry pile.

Now, I’d been running on fumes for over forty-eight hours, and my body was probably not prepared for any of this, but at this point the hormones had taken over and I forgot all about the fact that I was seriously lacking sleep. Because from the second Harry’s mouth brushed the inside of my thigh my entire body lit on fire, and didn’t show any signs of cooling down even after he’d looked up from between my legs and smirked (although I took a second to hate him for that cocky expression, pun absolutely intended) and kissed his way back up to my lips.

“You have quite the vocabulary,” he said in a gravelly voice, while I caught my breath.

Once I’d recovered, I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m highly intelligent. It comes with the territory.”

Harry grinned, propped up on his elbows. His fringe tickled my forehead, and I reached up and pushed it back, simultaneously lifting my head to press a rather chaste kiss to his lips. “D’you need a minute?” Harry asked, when he pulled away. I knew he was sort of joking, but the comment still sparked my curiosity.

“You have been way more polite than I expected,” I said, and Harry raised his eyebrows. “Like, asking if I’m okay, all that stuff. You just seem like the type to assume that everything you’re doing is awesome, or whatever.”

“We’ve never done this before,” Harry said. “I want to make sure it’s good so that it’ll happen again.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You’re all right, then? I don’t have to pop out to take care of myself?”

“Have a little faith,” I retorted. Harry licked his lips, the smirk reappearing, and ducked his head to nip at the same spot he’d focused on earlier, which was a lot more sensitive now. It sort of made sense, when I thought about it, how Harry and I could snap between joking and teasing to something much hotter and heavier, because the abrupt changes in behaviour were something I’d just come to understand were a part of Harry’s character. I still had a hard time keeping up, but at least this was far more preferable than suddenly going from mildly flirting to being the bane of his existence.

We had to stop again for Harry to remove his boxer briefs and retrieve a condom from his wallet (which I just had to comment on, because really?) and then he switched back into gentleman mode. “You’re sure?”

“Dude, stop killing the vibe. Like, I appreciate it, but just fuck me already.”



It was only four in the afternoon, but I was drifting between sleep and wakefulness, thanks to my brain finally accepting the fact that it needed rest. Harry was stretched out on his side, his back against the wall, and he was drawing on my stomach in a very distracting manner.

“Quit it,” I mumbled, wearily pushing his hand away.

“Hmmm?”

“Don’t you have a meeting to go to?” I asked, opening one eye to peer at him. “Or whatever it is you do when you aren’t prancing around on a stage?”

“My evening is clear,” Harry replied with a smile.

I sighed, shutting my eyes once more. “Fabulous. I’m going to sleep.”

“Did I really make you this tired?”

“Don’t give yourself so much credit,” I snapped, gathering enough energy to whack him in the chest. “I haven’t slept in two days.”

“Why?”

Because I was doing everything in my power not to think about Harry. Funny how quickly things can change. Now I didn’t want to stop thinking about him; his mouth, his hands, his broad shoulders, even the adorable little love handles he had that I was probably never going to stop teasing him about.

“Dammit,” I muttered. I was getting great at playing off the intensity of my thoughts with nonchalance. “That was your fault too.”

“Mmmm,” Harry hummed, placing butterfly kisses along my shoulder. The hand that had been tracing patterns around my belly button flattened, and Harry slowly moved it down, as if he was waiting for me to stop him.

Which I did.

“If the fact that I’m falling asleep right now isn’t enough to convince you, then I’ll just say it: you have to wait. Let me nap for an hour at least, Jesus.”

“Fine,” Harry murmured. “You have an hour.”

“Fuck you. And don’t even think about telling me that I just did, because I know you were about to and it’s not funny.”



I woke up with one arm hanging off the edge of the bed, the other curled beneath my pillow. My legs were tangled with Harry’s, one of his slotted between mine. His hand was curved around my ribs, keeping me close enough to feel his heartbeat through my back. I reached a languid hand to the beside table and checked my phone for the time. It was almost eight. We’d been asleep for four hours.

“Harry,” I mumbled, gently prying his hand away so I could get up. He resisted for a moment but then groaned and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. I stumbled around in search of the shirt I’d been wearing earlier, eventually finding it under Harry’s jeans. After pulling it on, I sat on the edge of the bed and slowly ran my fingers through Harry’s hair, lightly scratching his scalp. “Harry.”

“Mmmm,” he moaned, sliding his hand over my leg. “Wasn’t supposed t’sleep.”

“It’s nearly eight,” I said.

Harry tilted his head, blinking at me sleepily. “In the morning?” he asked hoarsely. I shook my head and pointed out the window, where the sky was dark. He sat up, the comforter pooling around his hips. “I should probably go.”

I bit my lip, searching his face for the reason he’d decided to leave. “Okay.”

Harry clambered around me, pulling on his boxers and then his jeans. “Where’s my shirt?”

“Somewhere in there,” I replied, pointing to the laundry.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and started to dig through the pile. Once he’d found it and buttoned it (badly), Harry yanked on his socks and his boots, nearly falling over three times in the process. He weaved his way between the clothes and textbooks that littered the floor, picking up his jacket and shrugging it on. “See you later?”

“Uh,” I said, pushing my hair back as I stood up. “I guess?”

“You said you didn’t want a boyfriend,” Harry said, stepping toward me. “Boyfriends stay.”

“So this is how it’s gonna be?” I asked, eyebrows raised. I’d known, of course I’d known, because this was how Harry did things. But I’d ignored it because I wanted him too much. “I either get your friendship, where we hang out and actually talk to each other, or this.”

Harry sighed. “Imogen—“

I rubbed my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut. “You’ve always told me you didn’t mix things. Sorry, I just, I never really thought about what would happen when…”

“I didn’t either,” Harry admitted quietly. My eyes snapped open. “I told you, I’ve never done this before. Since the last girl I dated, I haven’t slept with anyone I actually like. But you…I tried not to let this happen, but we both know how that worked out. You got into my head.”

“You got into mine, too,” I whispered. Harry frowned. “But I don’t want this if it means we don’t get to be friends.”

His face fell, and he moved closer until our chests were almost touching. Harry was a few inches taller without shoes on, but the heels on his boots caused him to tower over me. “We can’t go back,” he said. “We tried to go back before and it was awful.”

“So…what then?”

“We don’t tell anyone. We go on as usual. Go for brunch and to whatever club Grim fancies that week, hang out at Matt’s. And if this happens again then it happens again. We keep it separate.”

“You think we can do that?” I asked. Earlier we’d been able to joke and then kiss the next minute, and it was fine. I could handle Harry, I wanted to be able to grab him and run my fingers through his hair like I’d been imagining for weeks without worrying that he’d freak out and run off. But our friends brought with them a whole new set of variables for me to consider.

Harry shrugged. “We can try.”

I studied his face for a moment, committing his hopeful expression to memory. “Do we have to shake hands or something? Is this gonna be like the agreement you had with Darcy?”

“This is nothing like that,” Harry said. “Her and I never wanted anything else from each other. You, on the other hand, I don’t think I could go a day without talking to.”

“But what about—“

Harry leaned down and kissed me, his hand lingering on my jaw. “We’ve been shit at sticking to our agreements. Let’s just let things happen, yeah?”

I didn’t like it. When we’d met, Harry’s black and white world was what made me so grateful to have him around. I liked order; I liked to know what was happening, because my brain didn’t fare so well when it didn’t have a structure to follow. But maybe I could work with whatever this was. There were things we agreed on, things we both wanted, and that would have to be enough.

“This is a terrible plan,” I mumbled, staring at the hollow of his throat and the necklace dangling from his neck.

“Don’t think about it. Thinking is bad,” Harry said. “Gotta go. I’ll text you.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

“Imogen.”

“Bye, Harry,” I rolled my eyes. He grinned, pecking me on the lips again, and then he was gone.

His advice was probably good. But thinking too much was what I did, and there was really no way I could stop it from happening without depriving myself of sleep and drinking a lot — be it caffeine or alcohol — and that wasn’t good for me either. So I would try. I would try listening to Harry, to look at this whole thing the way he did. Simply.