"You fucking didn't..." Liz mutters, shaking her head in disbelief as I recount the events of the previous night. I nod, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"Wait till Sher or Monet hears about this. Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant," she sighs, slumping back in her chair, while I fixate on the pattern of the white tablecloth, too ashamed to meet her eyes.

"Tell me at least he made you come," she leans in, whispering conspiratorially.

"Liz, cut it out. I... I completely lost it. I don't know. I just couldn't do it," I admit, still unable to lift my gaze.

"And may I ask why not? There are literally millions of women who orgasm to his photos. Some probably just from the sound of his voice. And you—you had him, right there, naked, and you... left." Her hands flail in frustration, wide-eyed.

"I know," I whisper, shaking my head. "I feel awful."

"I feel awful and I wasn't even there," she groans, then grabs her mug—her obscure organic, soy-based, half-decaf something—and takes a dramatic sip.

"What are you going to do, Ashley? We still have the video shoot today." The million-dollar question lands like a weight in my stomach.

I just shake my head. I honestly have no idea what I'm going to do. The thought of facing him again, after being that exposed, that vulnerable, is too much. And how I left... just vanished like a coward...

"No. No, no, no—I'm not doing this alone," she snaps. "I haven't prepared your part. Ashley, the shoot is today. You can't seriously be thinking about backing out."

"Elizabeth..." I plead.

"No, Ashley! You need to step the fuck up and do your thing. We're here to work. Don't let your insecurities—or whatever is going on in that overthinking brain of yours—derail everything. You owe this project more than that. You owe yourself more than that."

Her voice is sharp, but she's right.

By the time I'm standing with the director, flipping through the script and going over last-minute notes, I feel only marginally more composed. And then I see him.

Harry walks in, dressed in black, cool and composed, as if last night didn't happen—but his eyes are locked on me. He doesn't hesitate. In a heartbeat, he strides toward me, takes my arm, and leads me outside before anyone can protest. The director is visibly stunned.

My body is following him but my brain is scrambling, buzzing with panic. Outside, the air hits me with a jolt of clarity and shame. I still can't look at him, not after last night—after how I gathered my clothes in the dark and ran, leaving him naked, aroused, and probably completely confused.

"Ashley," his voice is calm—too calm.

"I'm sorry," I blurt. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry." I keep repeating it, shaking my head, my voice cracking like an old record. "I—I didn't mean to—"

His eyes search mine. I can feel tears welling up as the full weight of what I've done hits me. It wasn't about him. It was never about him. It was the memories, the loss, the guilt... Jason. Being that close with someone new, letting them in that far—it felt like betrayal. I know it's irrational. I know Jason's gone. But knowing and feeling are two very different things.

Harry just watches me. He doesn't flinch or recoil. He doesn't accuse or demand. His hands gently move from my arm to my hair, brushing it back, tucking it behind my ear as he tilts his head.

"It's okay," he says softly. "It's okay, love. Don't worry. It's fine."

And just like that, he pulls me in.

His green eyes lock with mine, grounding me, making the whole world disappear. I lean in before I even realize I've moved. There's a split second of stillness—and then he kisses me.

His mouth is soft, warm, confident. His hands cradle my face like I'm something fragile and precious. The kiss deepens slowly, until it isn't soft at all—it's full and consuming and dizzying. His tongue brushes mine and I moan without even thinking. My chest tightens, my heart pounding like a rave track, and my fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, needing something to hold on to.

He pulls me closer. There's no space between us. No past. No baggage. Just lips, hands, heat.

And just like that, I forget. Everything. Jason. The shame. The fear. I forget the distance between us—emotional, physical, chronological. It's all gone. Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. That's what Harry is to me right now.

And I am drowning in him.

"A-hem?"

A voice breaks the spell. Harry's mouth is still pressed to mine when I pull back, breathless, dizzy.

"Sorry to interrupt," Liam says, standing a few feet away with a faint, knowing smile. "But they need you inside, Ash."

I blink, my cheeks flaming.

"What the fuck, Liam? Can't you see we're in the middle of something?" Harry mutters playfully, arms still around me.

"Better me than someone from production, right?" Liam smirks, then strolls away.

"Oh my God," I mumble, utterly mortified.

"Thank you, Liam," Harry calls after him sarcastically. "You can go now."

He turns back to me. I'm still catching my breath.

"Ashley... baby, please." His voice dips, softer than I've ever heard it. "Let's talk later. Just... don't run away again. Please."

His hands are on my shoulders now, steadying me, grounding me. He's waiting—holding his breath, watching me.

I nod.

It's small. It's barely anything. But it's honest.

His entire face lights up.

He takes my hand as if it's the most natural thing in the world, and we walk back in together. I feel Liz's eyes before I see them. She's grinning so wide she might burst. She elbows Niall, who does this exaggerated dramatic double-take that nearly sends me over the edge. These idiots...

And yet—oh my God. Niall is older than Harry. What the hell am I doing?

But then Harry squeezes my hand.

And I know exactly what I'm doing.

The shoot went beautifully.

Harry was effortlessly charming, helpful, and completely focused—yet his eyes stabbed into me more times than I could count. I kept reminding myself to breathe. But every glance from him chipped away at my composure.

And he felt it too. I saw it. The current between us, impossible to ignore, only grew stronger. By the time the director called it a wrap, I was barely holding it together.

I stepped forward to shake his hand, grateful the day was over, but Harry reached me first. He took my hand—his grip sure, unapologetic, like he didn't care who was watching.

And strangely, neither did I.

There is no shame in having fun. No shame in having feelings for someone, if no one else is being betrayed. I kept telling myself that. I kept repeating it like a mantra. Still, the battle inside me was dizzying—rationality versus fear, guilt versus longing.

He looked back over his shoulder for a moment, his hold on my hand tightening, fingers entwined so firmly they nearly hurt. It was as if he were making sure I wouldn't flee this time. That I wanted this. That I wanted him.

And I did.

Oh, I did.

Somewhere along the way, he'd awakened something in me—something I had buried so deep I thought it might be lost forever. Until him.

As soon as the elevator doors slid shut behind us, he turned to me. His gaze was sharp, determined. Hungry.

He looked like the hunter, but I was no unwilling prey.

"I can't stop thinking about you, Ashley," he murmured, both hands rising to my face, his thumbs brushing gently across my cheeks.

"Since the moment I laid eyes on you... I was hooked. I wanted to feel you, taste you, take you in completely. I—"

I kissed him.

I kissed him before he could finish, before I melted into a puddle at his feet. His words disarmed me. I wasn't used to being wanted like that, being seen like that. It scared me how much I wanted it back.

So I kissed him.

I needed him to know I felt it too—this pull, this craving—but I couldn't say it. Saying it would make it real, and I wasn't ready for real.

What I was ready for—finally—was to stop hiding behind grief. Behind widowhood. Behind the image of the untouchable professor who doesn't do mess, doesn't do complications. If I was going to be the cougar Liz so fondly joked about, then dammit, I'd own it. But it had to be on my terms.

"Harry..." I whispered, pulling back, slightly breathless.

"Yes?" he asked, eyes dark, lips parted.

"I'm not leaving tonight." I took a steadying breath. "But you have to be patient with me. This is all new. I need to—"

I never finished the sentence.

He pushed me gently against the elevator wall and kissed me like he was starving. His mouth devoured mine, biting, sucking, licking, until my legs felt weak beneath me. His tongue danced with mine, coaxing the breath right out of me.

When the doors slid open on his floor, we were both panting.

They say when your heart fights your brain, it's a brutal battle.

But what happens when your heart fights your heart?

It doesn't make sense, does it?

One part of me screamed to run—to protect him, to protect myself. To not let him in too far.

But the other part—the louder part—wanted to stay. Wanted to be seen. Touched. Wanted to feel again, for the first time in years.

And Harry... the way he looked at me. The way he made me feel like I was his whole world, just for a moment... I wanted that. I wanted him.

Once inside his suite, he turned to me, eyes full of fire and softness all at once.

"Stop overthinking, Ashley," he said, stepping closer, his hands finding my hips. "Just let me be with you. Let me show you how much I feel for you."

His voice was low, reverent. And his touch... electric. It sparked places in me I thought had long gone dark.

"You don't even know me," I whispered, already giving in.

He silenced me with a kiss.

"I know enough," he murmured against my lips.

"Please, Ashley," he whispered, forehead resting against mine. "Please... let me."

And I nodded.

I nodded because I wanted to surrender—to the moment, to the night, to him.

"Make me..." I breathed. "Harry, make me..."

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look me in the eye.

"Make you what, baby? Tell me what you want."

I didn't hesitate.

"Make me forget."