I don't know why, but showers might just be little miracles. Somehow, a long, hot one almost always guarantees that things feel a little better afterward. When Harry woke up, I asked if he could give me a lift home. My mom had texted that morning saying she was coming to see me—talk about mother's instinct—and, not wanting to discuss whatever it was that Jimmy and Harry had been talking about, I found it the perfect excuse to escape.

I know I should address it. Hiding behind excuses isn't the way to go, but I need a strategy first.

What really disappointed me, though, was that Harry politely declined my invitation to come over and meet my mom. I get that we just got together and that he isn't used to this kind of thing, but it still stung when he said he had a bar meeting at noon, followed by plans to meet Sylvia. He hadn't spoken to her properly in a while and said he'd really missed her.

I like Sylvia. She's direct, fun, and brutally honest—but really? He couldn't just meet her tomorrow? One more day wouldn't make that much of a difference.

"Stop overthinking. You're giving me a headache."

Ed startles me as he strolls into my room, dramatically diving onto my bed.

"Don't you ever knock?" I ask, realizing I've been brushing my hair for the past ten minutes without making any actual progress.

"I did, but you didn't answer," he says, grinning.

"I could've been naked."

"And I would mind why? I really don't see your point." His smirk is pure mischief.

"I bet your new bestie would mind." I chuckle. Harry and Ed have been getting along too well lately. Whenever we all hang out, they gang up against me and Chrys, and honestly, even before Harry and I were anything, they were already a dynamic duo.

"Could you be any more jealous that your boyfriend likes me better than you?" he teases, clearly enjoying himself.

"I know you shave in all the right places, even the most difficult-to-reach ones, Ed, but you don't have to brag about it."

"Yeah, well, he likes it that way. My naughty, dirty boy."

I groan because I know I just lost this round.

"So what's on your mind?" he asks, this time with genuine concern.

I hesitate, not really wanting to talk about it just yet, so I pivot, changing the subject—or at least, I think I do.

"Ella," he says, sighing as if he can see right through me. "I know Harry isn't exactly conventional boyfriend material like *moi"—he grins, pointing at himself—"but he seems really into you." I nod, letting him continue. "So don't overthink things. And even better, if something's bugging you, tell him."

His expression turns serious. "Guys are literal, Ella. We don't do hidden meanings, signs, or that psychic connection girls seem to expect. If you want something, say it. Otherwise, we have no idea what the hell is going on."

That's when it clicks. While he's trying to be a good friend and give me advice, he's also asking for some himself. That's why he came barging in here.

I set my hairbrush down and sit next to him. "Okay. What's wrong?"

He exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping. "I don't get what she wants, Ella," he admits, his voice laced with frustration. "She's so hot and cold with me."

I can hear the desperation creeping in.

"I don't know what to tell you, Ed. Maybe you should take your own advice and talk to her."

"I don't want to." He shakes his head. "I was hoping you would tell me. Isn't that what girls do? Talk about their feelings and shit? What do you even talk about for so long if not this stuff?"

"Why don't you want to talk to her?" I tilt my head, watching him closely.

He sighs, hesitating.

And then I see it.

The fear.

"I'm afraid I won't like the answers to my questions," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

My heart clenches.

"I'm afraid of what's gonna come out of that beautiful, plump mouth of hers," he adds, running a hand through his hair. "She's so out of my league, El. She's gorgeous. Her eyes alone wreck me. And listen to me—talking like a fucking girl." He groans. "Shit. I might have to go spit on the pavement and grab my balls in public a couple of times just to balance this out."

I laugh at that, shaking my head.

"If you're doing this with Chrys, you need to know if you're on the same page. Hiding from the conversation will do you more harm than good," I tell him gently.

Without a word, I open my arms, and he instantly leans into the hug.

"Maybe you should listen to your own advice, too," he mumbles, kissing my cheek before pulling away.

"Come on, I think your mom's here." He stands up, stretching. "You know I'm her favorite child."

"You are not her child!" I roll my eyes.

"That's what makes it worse for you," he smirks.

I shove him toward the door just as I hear my mom's voice in the living room, exchanging pleasantries with Chrys.

And then I smell it.

Food.

Homemade, delicious mom food.

My mother, in all her glory, stands there with a feast: homemade lasagna, chicken with vegetables, and a chocolate cheesecake.

God bless this woman.

"My beautiful, beautiful kids," my mom says, wrapping us in her familiar, comforting embrace. "I brought food. God knows how much junk you fill your bodies with." She sets everything on the kitchen table, her words carrying a mix of love and subtle disapproval.

"Come on, set the table, girls. Ed, sweetheart, can you give me a hand? I have some fruit and vegetables in the car, and fresh bread from the bakery in our neighborhood—your favorite, Ella."

Ed nods, grabbing the keys from my mom's hands as he makes his way to the door.

There's something about home-cooked meals that nothing can compare to. No one will ever replicate your mom's cooking, no matter how skilled they are.

"I took the liberty of texting Jimmy to come over for lunch. There's plenty for everyone," she announces, moving seamlessly into full-on mom mode, washing her hands, finding an apron, and organizing the kitchen like she owns it.

Living on my own is liberating, but that doesn't mean I don't miss my parents. They're good people—warm, supportive, and full of energy. Chrys and I set the table while Ed and my mom finish making the salad dressing, cutting the bread, and putting away groceries.

"Where's my gorgeous Leena?" Jimmy's voice booms from the corridor. He lets himself in with his spare key—of course—and, like a bloodhound following the scent of food, he's sitting next to me within seconds after kissing my mom's cheek.

"Always the charmer, Jimmy. How's your mom? I haven't seen her in so long," my mom says, barely pausing before she starts filling plates with food.

"She's good, Leena. You should visit sometime. She's been lonely now that my dad's gone." His voice is softer than usual, and I can tell it still stings.

I glance down at my food, my appetite dimming, but I know I can't eat this—not with my stomach the way it is. My ulcer will not survive this feast. I take a piece of bread and chew, planning my strategy. The last thing I want is for my mom to fuss.

And then—without a word—Jimmy reaches over, takes a massive portion of my lasagna, and slides it onto his plate.

I blink at him.

He glances at me, winks, and keeps eating like nothing happened.

I stifle a laugh and take a small bite of chicken, avoiding the vegetables. Again, when my mom isn't looking, Jimmy swipes more off my plate.

I love this idiot.

The meal carries on, and before long, everyone is stuffed and happy.

"So," my mom starts, wiping her hands. "Now that you're all fed, tell me your news while I do the dishes."

"Chrys, honey, can you make some coffee or tea? Jimmy, there's chocolate cheesecake. Want some?"

Jimmy grins. "Leena, you know all my weaknesses."

"Lovely. Then clear the table with Ed, and we can all sit down and enjoy it." She beams, knowing exactly what she's doing, and Jimmy just shakes his head with a smirk.

"DNA, my friend, DNA," he mutters, carrying dishes to the sink.

The rest of the afternoon is perfect. My mom, my friends, laughter, stories—everything just clicks. But as the hours slip by, something gnaws at me.

Harry still hasn't called. Not even a text.

It's already six o'clock.

My mom hugs everyone goodbye, but before she leaves, she stops in front of me, her eyes soft with concern.

"You know you can always talk to me, right?" she says gently.

"Mom, I'm fine," I assure her, but she interrupts.

"If—for some crazy reason—you don't want to tell me, you have them." She nods toward my friends. "I'm glad you have such a good group around you."

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.

"Talk soon, okay, baby?"

She leaves, and I try not to let my emotions get the best of me.

But by ten o'clock, as I'm getting ready for work, I still haven't heard from Harry.

And I refuse to text him first.

I mean, I was the one who ended up in the hospital. Shouldn't he be checking in on me? He was so protective, so warm, so there—and now, radio silence? Maybe I am reading too much into this. Maybe he's just busy. He had a meeting, then coffee with Sylvia, then his shift at the bar.

But still.

Work is uneventful. The usual: drunk customers hitting on me, Jimmy using cringe-worthy lines on girls who actually fall for them, Ed looking perpetually confused about Chrys, Chrys making a ridiculous amount of tips, and Anne throwing not-so-subtle lustful glances at Jimmy.

Same old, same old.

By the time my shift ends at four a.m., I check my phone.

Nothing.

And then—just as I'm walking to the parking lot with the guys—Ed mutters, "Fucking whipped," while typing something on his phone.

"Who are you talking about?" I ask absentmindedly.

"Harry." He pockets his phone. "He just texted me to see if you're okay."

I freeze.

"What?"

Ed yawns. "Yeah. Wanted to check in on you."

"Why would he text you and not me?"

Ed grins. "Told you he fancies me more." He wiggles his eyebrows and moves to kiss Chrys goodnight before hopping into Jimmy's car, where a very blonde girl is practically attached to him.

I try not to let it bother me.

I fail.

The drive home is unusually quiet. Chrys and I are both lost in our heads, dissecting our own thoughts.

When I get into bed, I finally cave and text Harry.

Hey. How was your night? Easy shift? xxx

I wait.

Nothing.

I tell myself not to obsess over it.

The meds kick in, my eyelids get heavy, and sleep finally pulls me under.

But morning comes too soon. It feels like I only slept for five minutes.

Ed texts:

Meet me at The Corner Café. First two lessons are canceled. Teachers are on strike.

I'm exhausted, but real coffee sounds like heaven, so Chrys and I agree to go.

And, of course, when we enter the café, the intoxicating scent of fresh coffee and pastries wraps around us. Chrys practically floats toward the counter, sniffing the air like one of those old-school cartoons.

It's hilarious.

The barista today is none other than Niall, who greets us with a massive grin—one that I'm convinced has healing properties.

"Hey, Ella. And friend," he says, clearly more comfortable around us now.

"Good morning, Niall."

"What can I get you?" he asks enthusiastically.

"Filter hazelnut, a drop of milk, and a plain croissant," Chrys orders, practically salivating.

"And I'll have a filter coffee, but not too strong, and some plain toast, please."

"Perfect." He scribbles down our order, then glances up. "I'll bring it over to Harry's table, right?"

My stomach drops.

Chrys goes rigid.

I stare at him.

"Harry's table?"

Niall nods. "Yeah, he's been here since morning."

I exchange a look with Chrys, my brain trying to process this information.

So Harry had time to come to The Corner Café.

But not to text me back.

"He's at the back, where we sat the other day," Niall tells me, his expression puzzled. "Gemma is coming with Natalie in a while, too."

"Oh, that's nice," I say flatly, though I barely register his words.

"I met Natalie yesterday," he continues, pausing for a moment as if replaying the memory. "We hit it off." His face lights up, and despite everything weighing me down, his happiness warms my heart.

"Really?" I ask, genuinely thrilled for them.

"Yeah... she says she wants to marry me," he titters, his cheeks flushing.

I laugh. "You move fast, Niall."

"She's incredible," he sighs, clearly smitten. I nod, feeling a brief but welcome flicker of joy for my friend.

Chrys nudges me, silently urging me to move toward where Harry is sitting. My feet feel heavy, though. My stomach clenches, a dull ache reminding me that stress is as much physical as it is emotional.

I fix my cap, take a deep breath, and finally approach.

Harry's back is to me—dark beanie, black shirt with a red pattern, dark jeans. He's in deep conversation with Ed and... Sylvia. The sight of her sends another pang through me, not because I dislike her, but because suddenly, I feel out of place.

"Good morning," Chrys says, startling them slightly as they all look up.

"Good morning," I echo, my voice detached as I slide into the seat next to Sylvia. I can already feel the acid building in my stomach, so I dig into my bag, searching for my meds.

Each of them greets me in turn, but I barely register it. Thank God for my sunglasses—they shield not only my eyes but also the emotions swirling within me. I don't want to look at him. I don't trust myself not to overreact. After all, it's not like he did something terrible—he just... ignored me for half a day while I was sick, refused to meet my mom, didn't reply to my text, and from the looks of it, hadn't even slept.

It's fine.

It's fine.

"Don't you guys have school?" His husky voice breaks the silence.

I stay quiet, unwilling to be the first to break this strange, unspoken tension.

"The professors are on strike from nine until eleven," Chrys answers, unfazed.

I don't even blink. My stomach burns, but I force myself to take a bite of my toast before swallowing a pill.

"Ella..." his voice is softer now, hesitant.

I adjust my sunglasses slightly and finally acknowledge him. It feels bizarre to be so guarded with someone who, just days ago, was tangled with me in bed, whispering how much he loved me. How did we get here?

"Harry," I say with a thin smile.

"How are you?" he asks, his gaze flicking to the pill packet clenched in my fingers. I hadn't even realized how tightly I was gripping it.

"I'm great," I reply evenly.

A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He looks exhausted, drained in a way that makes me wonder if he's as lost in his own thoughts as I am in mine.

"What about you?" I ask, my tone almost mocking.

His lips part, but instead of answering, he exhales and gestures toward the door.

"Can I see you outside for a minute?"

I arch a brow, but before I can respond, Niall appears with our drinks.

"Here are your coffees and your food," he says cheerfully, setting everything down.

"Thanks, Niall." I move to grab my wallet, but Harry beats me to it, handing Niall the money instead.

Chrys digs into her food without hesitation, and I know there's no avoiding this. With a sigh, I stand and follow him outside.

The morning air is crisp, and before I can get a word out, Harry hands me my coffee and then—without warning—pulls me to the side and crashes his lips against mine.

I gasp against him, caught between surprise and the sheer familiarity of him. His hands cup my cheeks, his head tilting to deepen the kiss, his lips soft yet desperate. His tongue flicks against my lips before his teeth graze them, coaxing them apart. Instinctively, I grant him entrance, the intensity of his kiss leaving me breathless.

But then—reality.

I place my hand against his chest and push back slightly.

His lips linger for a brief second before he pulls away just enough to remove my sunglasses. His eyes search mine, and whatever he sees makes him sigh heavily.

"I'm sorry I didn't call," he murmurs.

I say nothing. My silence is enough.

"I was busy all day, and then I had work... I didn't finish until six this morning," he continues, as if the explanation should make everything okay.

"Okay," I whisper, but deep down, I know it's more than that.

"Are we good?" he asks, resting one hand on my arm and the other at the base of my neck.

I tilt my head slightly. "I don't know. Are we?"

His gaze flickers, but he doesn't answer in the way I need him to.

"Of course we are, baby," he says instead, and before I can say anything else, he hugs me. Tight. Secure. Familiar.

And I hate that, despite everything, his heartbeat against my ear still feels like home.

But for the first time, instead of comfort...

It fills me with doubt.