"Hey, where are you going?" Harry asks, his fingers gently wrapping around my arm when he realizes I'm about to leave.

"I have class. Lesson starts in half an hour," I say, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. After our heated kiss outside, we both seem calmer. I haven't said much since we came back in, but I feel better. I know we need to talk about what I overheard, but now isn't the time or place.

"OK," he exhales, watching me closely.

"OK," I repeat, as he stands to hug me, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. But I release him too soon, and I know he notices.

I thank Niall, kiss Sylvia on the cheek, and head out, Chrys and Ed trailing behind me. I don't look back, even though I can feel Harry's gaze on me. The truth is, I'm confused. His kisses don't lie—he's here, he wants me. But something still feels off.

Class is interesting, thankfully. We're discussing Event Management and the effective use of media channels, and for once, I let my mind focus on something other than my own tangled emotions. Brenda is asking way too many questions—most of them already answered—but her need to show off prevents her from just shutting up and listening. Typical.

As I pack up my things, I check my phone. Three texts—two from Ed, one from Harry.

Ed: I need a butter knife. This is the most boring lesson ever. Slow, painful death via vein-cutting is better than this.

Ed: Before I die of boredom... do you think Chrys is really into me? Btw, when I die, my Xbox goes to Jimmy, and my Nirvana record goes to you. Chrys gets my ashes in a vase and should scatter them in the valley of... her breasts. Harry gets nothing. He's too handsome.

I chuckle, shaking my head. Then I open Harry's message.

Harry: Gone to bed. Early dinner at mine tonight. Be there at 6. Love you to the moon and back.

I smile at both messages and reply to Ed first.

Me: You are such a drama queen. As for your second text, you're asking the wrong person. Btw, if you die, I get everything. Jimmy sucks at FIFA, and he's a wuss at Call of Duty.

I want to be there for him, but since I'm friends with both him and Chrys, I need to be careful not to meddle too much. Switzerland is the best approach.

I hesitate before replying to Harry. His message is sweet—an olive branch—but something about it feels like an order rather than an invitation. Still, he's new to relationships. I need to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Me: See you at 6.

By 5:30, I'm ready to leave. I spritz some perfume behind my ears, on my wrists, and—taking a tip from Chrys—lightly on my hair. Driving through the city, I think about all the things Harry and I still need to experience as a couple: long beach walks, weekend getaways, lazy Sundays in bed watching terrible TV. We have all the time in the world to figure this out. For the first time in days, I feel happy again. I choose to be happy.

I ring the doorbell and smooth out my clothes, pushing aside all the doubts and overthinking. When Harry opens the door, my heart skips a beat.

Barefoot, wearing dark blue jeans and a white t-shirt, his hair tied up in a bun, his smile knocking the air right out of my lungs—God, he's unfair. The image reminds me of the first time I was here, unaware of what we would become.

"Hi," he greets, stepping aside to let me in.

"Hi."

I suddenly feel awkward, like I'm fifteen again, nerves making my usual confidence disappear.

"You look incredible," he murmurs, stepping forward to hug me, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. I smile widely, and he takes that as permission to kiss me again, lingering this time.

"You look great too," I manage, looking down as my cheeks heat up. It's then that I notice the dimmed lights, the candles, and soft music playing in the background.

"Is that... Barry White?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Do you approve?" he smirks, leading me to the dining table, which is set beautifully.

"My darling I..." I sing softly, swaying my hips. "Can't get enough of your love, babe."

He raises his brows, surprised, before grinning and pulling me into his arms. We sway to the music, singing along, laughing.

"You have a wonderful voice, I told you before?" he says.

"Thanks. You too," I tease. Who would've thought? Just another thing he's unfairly good at.

"Nah," he dismisses.

"Yes, you do," I insist, but he just chuckles shyly, disappearing into the kitchen. I take a seat and admire how much effort he put into this.

"I made plain pasta and grilled chicken," he announces, carrying the plates back. "I know you can't eat much yet."

"That's really thoughtful," I say, watching him set the food down.

"I also know you don't fancy going to restaurants, so I figured this was better."

"You didn't have to eat the same as me."

"Nonsense. I don't mind," he reassures me. "I didn't offer wine for the same reason, either."

"Thank you," I murmur, touched.

"Come on, before it gets cold," he urges, and we dig in.

The food is delicious. We chat about small things and big things—like the time I was singing so loudly in the car I didn't hear an ambulance behind me, and how Gemma got a job at the campus library. We talk about Ed and his family issues, and how Sylvia has apparently given Harry her blessing.

Then, the conversation shifts.

"So, how's uni? We haven't talked about it since your article," he asks, lacing his fingers together.

"Classes are ending soon, so I need to figure out my job situation," I say.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to go home for the summer. Chrys is going to France, so I'll need a full-time job to stay here... with you," I add hesitantly. "I was thinking about asking the club for more shifts."

He coughs and looks down.

"Yeah, maybe they will," he says, standing to take our plates to the sink. Something about his reaction seems... off. I follow him, offering to wash while he dries.

I get lost in my own thoughts as I scrub the dishes. I really need to make this work if I want to stay. Rent, food, bills—I can't afford to wing it.

Suddenly, Harry's arms wrap around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.

"I love you," he whispers.

"To the moon and back," he adds, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine.

I close my eyes, leaning into him.

"I'm new at this," he continues. "I don't always know what boyfriends are supposed to do, and I'm bound to screw up sometimes. But know that I never mean to. I'm sorry about yesterday."

I turn in his arms, looking up at him.

"OK," I say, knowing he means it.

There are no rules to this. People don't do what they're supposed to do—they just do what they feel. And right now, I feel like he's mine.

You said:

"Be yourself, Harry." I dry my hands on the towel he was holding and turn to face him, cupping his cheeks in my palms.

"Be yourself, just... don't forget I'm here too." My voice is soft, sincere.

He nods, leaning in to kiss me. His fingers trace the back of my neck, pulling me in, his lips never leaving mine.

"Stay the night, Ella," he murmurs, his hands moving from my neck to my waist, down to my hips, pulling me against him.

"You're working tonight, Harry," I manage to say between panting breaths, my mind already hazy from his touch.

"Be with me anyway. Sleep here. Johnny's at his girlfriend's—I'll be home as soon as my shift is over. I just want to lie next to you, hold you. I miss you so much." His lips return to my neck, his hands trailing down to my back, squeezing me softly.

"Just be with me. Love me." His voice is thick with need, and I can only nod in agreement, surrendering my body and soul to him.

When I open my eyes, the digital clock on Harry's bedside table reads 9:30. I'm lying naked in his bed, my cheek resting on his chest, his fingers gently stroking my back, occasionally playing with my hair.

He's staring blankly at the wall.

"I should go. It's time for you to get ready," I murmur, my fingers tracing circles on his arm.

"No. Don't go, El. I want you with me—now that I have you." He blurts it out like he's afraid I'll disappear the second I step away.

I chuckle softly. "You'll always have me, Harry."

"Then come with me to work." He turns to face me, his green eyes pleading. "I just want to spend more time together."

"You'll get sick of me," I tease.

"Never." His grin is boyish, warm. "Come on, your outfit is already great. You're coming with me."

There's no room for protest. He doesn't want to let me go—not tonight.

Between laughter and stolen kisses, we manage to shower and get dressed. Thankfully, I always carry extra panties in my bag, and I have my makeup pouch, so I make myself presentable. My lips are slightly swollen from all the kissing, but I don't care—I love it. I love him. His touch, his voice, the way he feels inside me, the way he moans my name, the way his face looks when he loses himself completely. I love him. To the moon and back.

He's holding my hand when we step inside the club. The music isn't on yet, but the place is buzzing—staff setting up, bottles clinking, fruit being sliced, glassware being arranged.

"Ella, my girl!" Sylvia's voice rings across the bar, drawing attention to us.

"Hey, Sylvia," I greet her, suddenly shy as she approaches.

"You look hot, girl!" she exclaims, moving in for a cheek kiss.

"Back off, Sylvia," Harry warns playfully.

Before I can react, he pulls me in for a kiss—one that isn't just a quick peck, but one that leaves my knees weak. I can already feel my lipstick transferring onto him, but before I can wipe it, he kisses me again.

"Possessive Neanderthal," Sylvia yells, rolling her eyes.

Harry just laughs at her, finally letting go of my hand. He gestures for me to sit at the bar, and I do, watching as he moves effortlessly behind it, getting everything in place. Soon, the club is ready—the music turns on, the neon lights reflect off the glossy counter, and outside, a long line of eager customers is waiting to get in.

A short, slightly plump guy approaches, holding an envelope that looks like the cash float.

"Who do we have here?" he asks, handing Harry the envelope.

"This is my girlfriend, Ella," Harry says proudly.

I smile at the guy, who Harry introduces as Mark, the club's manager.

"Ella works with Jimmy. She bartends too," Harry adds, wiping down the counter with a napkin and some disinfectant.

Mark raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "You're bartending?"

"Yeah, actually. Harry and Jimmy taught me."

"Would you be interested in a position here?" Mark asks.

Before I can react, I see Harry's entire body tense. He freezes, his hands motionless over the cocktail glass he was about to prep.

Something's off.

"Um... that sounds like a great opportunity," I say carefully, glancing at Harry. "But I don't think working in the same club as my boyfriend is the wisest idea."

Mark laughs. "That won't be a problem. Harry's quitting next week."

My stomach drops.

Harry stiffens even more, his face pale.

"Isn't that right, boy?" Mark nudges him. "You're too good for this joint now."

Harry says nothing.

"Focusing on your modelling career, signing with Gucci, moving to Florence... still wondering why you're even here, to be honest." Mark pats my back casually, oblivious to the bomb he just dropped.

It feels like the massive crystal chandelier hanging above us has just crashed down on my head.

Florence?

Gucci?

What the hell just happened?