Stepping into my house, the warm breath of the heater greets me like an old friend, caressing my cheeks and melting away the chill that's settled into my bones. God, it feels good to be home. I'm exhausted—emotionally, physically, socially. Simon's relentless but polite advances drained me, the adrenaline from the debate is still lingering somewhere in my system, and the whirlwind of feelings I've been swallowing down all night are now boiling to the surface in the silence of my space.

I peel off my coat and scarf, letting them fall onto the hallway chair before heading straight to the bathroom. A long, hot shower is the only thing that can tame my overworked mind and soothe the knots in my shoulders. Steam wraps around me like a cocoon, and I stay under the water until my fingers wrinkle and my thoughts stop racing.

Soon after, I'm in my soft grey pyjamas, the fabric worn in all the right places. I head into the kitchen, drawn by the comforting thought of a warm drink. Tonight calls for mountain tea—the special one Elizabeth brought back from Greece. I save it for when I need a little extra something, a ritual for moments when I'm feeling fragile, nostalgic, or emotionally hungover. Tonight checks all the boxes.

As the kettle hums, then snaps, I already feel a faint headache forming behind my eyes. Too much alcohol—I'm not used to it. I massage my temples and breathe through the tension, promising myself to go easier on the drinks next time. A mental note scribbled in the hazy notebook of my mind.

I pour the steaming water into the mug and watch as the herbs begin to tint the liquid a pale green. Reaching for the honey, I stir slowly, thinking of how my life has come to resemble this cup of tea. Sometimes too bitter, sometimes too watered down, but every now and then—with just the right blend of sweetness—it's just right. It's been a long while since I got it right, though.

The kitchen clock reads just before 1 a.m. I should go to bed, but inertia has me by the ankles. Instead, I curl into my favourite armchair in the living room, pulling a soft blanket over my legs. I cradle the mug between my hands and let the warmth sink in.

I think about Anzette, wondering if I agreed on a pickup time with my mom. I'll call her early just in case. She's always up with the sunrise anyway, making coffee and reading the news like clockwork.

The tea is strong. Too strong—I left the bag in too long. I smile at myself, because somehow, even that feels metaphorical. Too much of something, and the balance tips. Still drinkable, though.

I let my eyes wander the room and land on the photo of Jason and me, taken during one of our last holidays together. He's grinning in his scuba gear, mid-laugh, and I'm pulling a ridiculous face, bikini-clad and alive with joy. We had fun. We had love. We had heat.

I'll never have that with Simon. He's safe, measured, convenient. He'd be a good companion, a good father figure for Anzette, and our schedules would sync effortlessly. It makes so much sense.

But Jason made me feel things. Real, messy, breathtaking things.

And Harry—God, why am I thinking about him again? I meant Jason. I swear I meant Jason.

Except my heart betrays me.

Harry, with his fire and his softness. With the way he sees through me and pulls me to the surface when I'd rather stay hidden. With the way he made me feel after years of numbness. It wasn't just sex, it was a reminder that I was still capable of feeling everything. Of wanting, deeply.

And then there's Rebecca. Beautiful, kind Rebecca. The kind of girl any mother would dream of for her son. Anne certainly thinks so. And who am I to argue with that? She's right.

I reach for the remote and flip on the TV, hoping to drown out my thoughts. Nothing good is on. I settle for a music channel and lean back, letting the static noise wrap around me. "You Oughta Know" by Alanis Morissette starts playing and I laugh out loud, remembering the impromptu performance Liz and I put on in L.A. God, we were ridiculous. And he loved every second of it.

Why does he live in my head like he owns the place?

I need to get him out of there. I need to get back to myself. No more Harry. No more wishful thinking. No more—

A knock at the door interrupts my spiral. At first, I think I imagined it, a ghost sound. But there it is again. Firmer this time.

I glance at my phone—no calls, no texts. If something were wrong with Anzette, my mom would've called.

Holding my breath, I cross to the door and peer through the peephole.

My heart stutters.

It's him.

Harry stands there in the dark, looking down, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are flushed from the cold. When he looks up, directly into the peephole, I feel like he sees me—sees everything.

And just like that, my tea turns cold, my thoughts louder, and everything I thought I'd buried rises back to the surface.

"Ashley, please open the door. I know you're there. I saw you looking through the peephole. Just one minute. I need to talk to you," his voice pleads through the wood, cracking just slightly at the end.

Instinctively, my arms wrap around my chest in a self-conscious hug. I'm in my pyjamas. Great.

"Could you wait just a second? I'm... I'm not exactly dressed for company. Are you alright? Is everything OK?" My questions tumble out without order, my brain rushing to catch up to the moment.

"I need to come in. Now. I'm freezing and—no, everything is not OK. Please," he replies, this time with an edge—more commanding than pleading.

I hesitate only a moment longer before unlocking the door. As I step aside to let him in, the cold rushes in behind him, clinging to my skin like frost. Goosebumps form instantly—not all of them from the chill.

He steps in, rubbing his hands together for warmth, snowflakes still melting in his hair.

"How did you..." I start, but he answers before I finish.

"Elizabeth," he says simply. Of course. She wouldn't have needed much convincing.

I nod, grateful I hadn't gotten too comfortable or taken off my bra. I gesture toward the living room, and he follows silently.

"What's wrong, Harry?" I ask again once we're inside. "Why are you here?" I fold my legs under me on the sofa, trying my best to appear casual, when every nerve in my body is on fire.

He exhales slowly, tension rolling off him in waves. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" My voice is softer than I intended. His discomfort stirs something protective in me.

He hesitates, eyes scanning the room—not out of curiosity, but as if he's searching for stability. They pause on a photo of Jason and me, and something flickers across his face. Respect, maybe. Or understanding. Or both.

"I'm sorry about my mom," he says finally, not meeting my gaze.

"Harry, she didn't do anything wrong," I say gently. "She was sweet, really. Just trying to get to know me."

He scoffs quietly, guilt twisting his features. "She was impossible. Nosy. Out of line."

"No," I insist. "She was just being... a mom. She cares about you. It's sweet."

"Is your daughter home?" he asks suddenly, looking toward the hallway.

"No, she's at my mom's. Sleepover," I reply. "I figured I'd be out late."

"Do you want tea? Or I could call you a taxi. Did you drive?" My words trip over themselves again, betraying my nerves.

"Yeah, I drove. And sure, tea sounds good," he murmurs, running a hand through his hair as I rise.

He follows me into the kitchen, silent except for the hum of the kettle as I fill it. I grab a mug and feel him come up behind me, close but not quite touching.

"You like to drink your tea in a mug with my face on it?" he teases, amusement laced in his voice.

"What?" I turn to see him pointing to Anzette's old mug, the one with a much younger Harry Styles plastered across it.

"It's Anzee's," I laugh, blushing. "You should see her room."

"I remember," he smirks. He picks up a teabag and inspects it. "Greek tea? Let me guess—Liz?"

"Of course," I smile. "She spoils me."

"You should listen to her more often," he says, suddenly serious. He takes the mug from my hand and places it down with a quiet clink.

"I don't want tea," he says. His tone is clipped. Deliberate.

I blink. "You don't?"

He shakes his head, eyes locking on mine. "No, Ashley. I'm not here to make small talk over herbal tea."

I lean back slightly, my hands bracing the edge of the counter. "Then why are you here?"

His voice drops low. "Because this is bullshit."

He moves in, his frustration visible now—coiled and raw.

"What are you doing with Peters, huh?" The question lands like a slap. I flinch.

"Excuse me?" My jaw tightens.

"He was all over you. And you let him," he accuses, pacing now.

"I didn't 'let' anyone do anything!" I snap. "And what about you and Rebecca, huh?"

"Come on, Ashley. It's been obvious since day one that he's into you. And tonight, you acted like... like you might be into him too."

"I am not into him!" I shout back.

He throws his hands up. "You could've fooled me! And then you bring up Rebecca like you have the right—"

"Were you jealous?" I interrupt, fire rising in my chest.

He stops. Looks at me. "Yeah. I was crazy jealous."

We both freeze in the quiet that follows.

"In fact," he steps closer, voice softer now, "if my mom hadn't been there, I probably would've made a damn fool of myself."

"Harry..." My voice falters. He's close now—too close—and yet not close enough.

"What are we doing?" I whisper, my hands finding his face before I even realize they've moved. My thumbs brush his jaw. I feel the tension in him—alive, trembling, aching to break free.

But he doesn't touch me.

He just looks at me like I'm the only thing anchoring him to this moment. And I can't breathe.

"I don't want you near him," he blurts, voice low but heated. "Or anyone else for that matter. I don't want anyone thinking they have a claim on you. I know you don't want me—at least that's what you keep saying—but I swear, when I saw him smirk at me as you led him to Liz's table, I went full caveman."

I sigh, my eyes drifting downward, then slowly rising to meet his again. His gaze pierces through me—those forest-green rubies, steady and unflinching. And honest. So heartbreakingly honest.

"What do you want from me, Harry?" My voice is a whisper, but it carries the weight of everything I've been holding in. My hands are still cupping his face, my thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone. I'm scared of the answer. Desperate for it. Craving it like air.

"I just want you," he breathes, stepping closer. "I want you to want me like I want you. I want you to ache when I'm not around. I want you to miss me, to think of me in the middle of the day when nothing's even happening. I want to live in your head the way you live in mine."

He pauses, swallowing hard, eyes searching mine. "And I want you to stop caring about what's against us—because I don't. I don't care about the rules or the whispers or the headlines. All I know is that I want you. I need you. I'm losing my mind without you."

My throat tightens, my chest rising and falling faster with every word he speaks.

"There is nothing going on between me and Rebecca. No Rebecca, no girl, no distraction even comes close to you, Ashley. You're not a girl. You're a woman. An amazing woman," he says with reverence. "And I've decided I won't settle for anything less."

A single tear escapes the corner of my eye, tracing a slow path down my cheek. He catches it with his thumb as his hands move to cradle my face, mirroring mine.

"I'm worthy of you," he says firmly. "And you're worthy of me. I can't go back to girls, Ashley. Not after you. Not after I've known how a woman feels... thinks... tastes."

I gasp softly at the last word, not from offense, but from the rush of heat it sends through me.

"I know I said I wouldn't chase you anymore," he adds with a rueful half-smile. "And that the ball was in your court. But, Ash..." He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. "...You're taking a fucking long time."

His eyes are glassy now, but his voice is steady. Honest. Completely open.

"Harry..." I whisper, voice trembling. That's all I can say. My heart is pounding so loudly I think he must hear it.

"Be with me," he pleads. "It's killing me, sitting in that classroom pretending we're nothing. When I know... we could've had everything. I know you feel it too. If you didn't..." his voice falters, "...you wouldn't—"

But he doesn't get to finish.

I pull him to me without warning, wrapping my arms around him and crashing my lips onto his. His breath hitches, surprised, but only for a second. Then he's kissing me back like he's been holding it in for months—because he has. It's all heat and hunger and pent-up emotion, mouths moving frantically, desperately, like we're afraid it might be our last chance. Or our only one.

I taste the truth of everything he just said, everything I never had the courage to admit.

And in that moment, there is no classroom, no rules, no future or past—just us. Right here. Right now.