The third show in New York City was just as electric as the first two had been. It felt like these crowds were somehow even louder than the others, and paired with the iconic nature of the venue, everything felt so amplified. All of that; paired with the new addition to the setlist, 'Complicated Freak'.
I knew the first time I'd get to see him perform it would feel so surreal. He'd written songs about me before, but since those, the dynamic between us had completely shifted. This time, I got to feel every little thing that I'd been secretly aching to feel the first two times I'd heard him perform songs relating to our relationship. Now, I got to actually live in the moment; I didn't have to yearn for him to close his mouth, in that I didn't want to confront how I felt for him. Though there was still so much unsaid between us; so much that I feared would fester; that I feared he was beginning to sense - it was no longer our feelings for one another that were masked.
I got to watch him prancing around, singing so joyfully, without hating myself for picking up on all of his intricate movements. I got to watch him perform, and yearn to kiss him without feeling guilty about it - I could kiss him the moment he was offstage in front of me; I got to go back to a hotel room that I shared with him, and spend the night beside him.
I supposed, this is what it was like to date a songwriter. A tantalisingly clever one, at that; one who knew just how to compose and perform a song with enough ambiguity that it was just a well-constructed song; but with enough detail that him and I both knew exactly what it related to. I remembered how he'd told me, once, that to write a song about somebody, there had to be a lot of feeling there. And, no doubt, there was.
We were dating, weren't we? I wasn't sure how to categorise it; somehow, even sharing a bed with him every night, and with the existing romantic dynamic between us, I still feared making an assumption. We'd said no labels, from the beginning, and though it felt like that was the best way to accommodate both of our hesitations, it did create a grey area. I supposed we were dating... though I'd have been lying to say I knew what to even associate with that.
I'd 'dated' people in the past, but nobody like Harry. I'd had relationships, but nothing like this one. Nobody had ever made me feel like he had, and so if I was to categorise those previous relationships as 'dating', or a 'boyfriend', too, then it felt sort of wrong to categorise him the same way, because he was nothing like them.
"Is Stella your most recent ex?"
I asked him the question, rather suddenly, as he was packing the last of his things into his duffel bag, that he'd been bringing from the hotel to the show. We were in his dressing room, less than an hour after the show had ended, and he'd already showered and changed, for us to go and meet up with the others and get some dinner.
Harry looked up at me, a briefly puzzled look on his features as he zipped up his bag. "Uh," he paused, pursing his lips as if actually considering it, "I guess so? I've been in PR relationships since then, but those obviously don't count."
I furrowed my eyebrows, "You guess so? You don't know?"
"I mean," he continued, "we dated for, like, three months, years ago. I don't know if I'd even call it 'dating', now."
"Why not?"
He scrunched his nose up, "I don't know. I just didn't feel for her the way you're supposed to feel when you're dating somebody."
My knees were brought to my chest as he placed his phone down on the table, beside his bag, and brought his eyes fully to me. I bit my lip, hesitating to ask my next question. "How are you supposed to feel?"
His eyes drew over me, for a moment, before he walked across the room to where I sat on the couch. He let out a quiet exhale, as he sat beside me, his eyes meeting my own, again. "It's kind of like this warm feeling, I don't know..." he said, then, a lazy sort of smile on his lips as he seemed to compose his next sentence in his head, "Iz, it's like - when I look at you, I don't even have words for it. That's what it's supposed to feel like." My heart was thumping as he spoke, watching the glassy look in his eyes as he stared at me, now, a grin pulling on his lips.
"Then I don't think I've ever dated anybody, until you," I said, honestly, speaking my thoughts aloud. "I've been with people, but - I don't know," I bit my lip. "I don't even know what it was."
"I've had things that I thought were relationships," he said, then, "I've had people lie, or mimic a connection to try and get something from me. But they weren't real, like you are." I felt that, too - it felt like whatever I'd had before, wasn't real; it would be disingenuous to categorise it as such, when I had something so, so real, right in front of me.
"So, I suppose I'd never dated anybody until you, either, then," Harry said, his knee nudging against my own.
"You were my first one-night stand," I said, suddenly. For whatever reason, I was blurting every thought that I was having, out, without even really meaning to keep talking. The glint grew more prominent in his eye, and his lips twisted into that beautiful smirk of his.
"I don't know if we can call it that, anymore," he pointed out, "because, one became two, and then two became three, and then we-"
"I mean, before everything else happened," I said, breathing out a short laugh at the irony.
"You were mine, too," he replied, then, causing me to raise my eyebrows.
"You're a liar," I huffed, tilting my head back against the couch for a moment.
He laughed softly, reaching for my knee with his hand, this time, "You were the first that counted," he corrected, and I playfully narrowed my eyes at him, forcing him to continue.
"When I was a teenager, I definitely did it a lot more. The past couple of years... I don't think I did, at all," he said, flickering his eyes away from me for a second as if checking the accuracy of his answer, "Not for ages... I got to this point where I didn't go out much at all. It was my career, or nothing." He glanced at me, to catch the playful narrow of my eyes. "You didn't know me before I met you, Iz. I was pretty uptight."
I gasped playfully, miming shock. He was right in that regard, but I'd definitely known him when he'd been denying his feelings for several weeks - I'd seen him uptight. "No way."
"Shut up," he mumbled, pinching at my leg and causing me to kick it outwards, only for him to grab it in his hand and bring it to his lap. "Iz, before you, I stuck religiously to every single rule I'd set for myself. I didn't date, I didn't hook up - none of it. You're the one who made me break every rule. The fact I left that bar with you so quickly; the fact I took you to my house -" he paused, shaking his head, "you changed everything."
"I can't say I'm sorry for that," I said, feeling my heart race as he hooked his arm around my leg where it was in his lap, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of my knee. It was quick, and chaste, but it was still enough to make my body tingle.
"I'd never want you to," he replied, tilting his own head back against the couch, now. "But I've never had anything, with anybody, like this. There's a reason why you scared me so much."
"Do I still scare you?"
"Sometimes," he returned, his hand tracing mindlessly over my leg. "I like it, though."
He was so willingly open with me, that it often left me at a loss for words. It was so reassuring to hear how he felt for me; and to hear that it matched exactly with how I felt for him, too, but it was also kind of terrifying. He seemed to encapsulate it all so well; that his perspective had shifted upon meeting me, just as mine had, upon meeting him. I supposed I'd broken every rule, as well, because he, too, had changed everything.
It felt demeaning of everything we had to even attempt to liken it to anything I'd had before. Because he was so much different; he was so much more. Harry was everything I could've ever wanted.
"You scare me, sometimes, too," I admitted, watching his head turn in my direction. "I thought I'd had it all figured out, until I met you."
"Mm?" he hummed, that lazy grin still prominent on his features.
I pursed my lips. I struggled with wording these things. "But," I paused, contemplating aloud, "I don't know how I thought that, because everything felt so wrong."
"Wrong, how?" he asked, gently.
Alarm bells were going off in my head, begging me to stop talking. Even with him; even with how safe he made me feel, this felt like I was entering a danger zone. It wasn't even solely my parents; it was everybody I'd ever sought approval and validation from, and never, ever received it.
"My last relationship," I said. Stop talking. "He, um," I toyed awkwardly with the hem of my dress. "He always told me there was something wrong with me. It was like, what you said about not feeling the way you're supposed to," I said, staring down at my hands. "I didn't realise that, until it was over, but," I chewed on my lip, "I didn't realise I wasn't supposed to be feeling how I did."
I could feel Harry's eyes on me, and it was only then that I finally found the strength to meet them. I felt so uneasy, but like I couldn't bring myself to stop, either. "You're the one who's made me realise it," I said, honestly, "being with you. I didn't know that I wasn't supposed to feel like," I paused, searching for the word, "a problem."
Harry's expression softened, his eyes searching my own. I felt for him, so much, that it almost hurt. And it was scary, yes, but I still never wanted to lose it. I wanted to be honest, as much as I could be; and there were limits, one hundred percent, and there were boundaries I wasn't sure I'd ever find the strength to cross. But the things that I could tell him, I wanted to. I wanted him to know, if I could somehow verbalise it, what he meant to me.
It was like he'd said; when I looked at him, I didn't have any words for it. The feelings he gave me were the best I'd ever known.
"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you," he said, then, his voice soft as he pressed his temple to the couch, enabling him to look at me, properly. I could feel that warmth, as he'd called it, filling my chest. "Come here."
I was sitting on his lap, straddling him, in a matter of seconds, his hands on the sides of my face. I was almost entranced; all I could do was watch, and listen, and feel, as he looked at me.
"Can we make a deal?" he asked, softly, the volume of his voice diligently low, as if he feared breaking the atmosphere we'd created between us. I tilted my chin, awaiting his continuation. "Don't ever be scared to talk to me like this," he urged, gently, drawing a line over my cheek, "I want to know all of the things that bother you. Please." I knew he was referencing everything I'd just said, but I couldn't help but feel that he was hinting at more. It felt like he knew that there was a whole can of worms that I hadn't dared to open; that there was a plethora of troubles and worries that occupied my head even at the best of times, that I lacked the strength to verbalise. I already knew, then, before he'd even finished his declaration, that my end of the deal was futile. Because I couldn't uphold it - there were things I couldn't say; I couldn't tell him, even if I thought that I wanted to. I couldn't break the cycle.
"And I won't let you forget what I see," he said, his gaze fixed onto my own as one of his hands fell to trace over my hip. "I'll never let you think that you're unimportant, or that you're a problem-"
"You already do that without trying," I said, my fingers resting at the nape of his neck. It was true.
"I didn't say it was a fair deal," he returned, "my part's easy, because it's all I'm ever thinking about. How kind, and how intelligent you are; how thoughtful you are. You're so generous, and you're so hardworking. You're diligent at the right times, and you pay such close attention to things that most people don't, because you care - you actually care," he paused, and I felt my breath hitch in my throat. I wasn't sure what on earth I could've done in a past life to deserve him, but it must've been something pretty virtuous. "You listen to people, even when they aren't deserving of it; even if it's the most trivial storytelling in the world, you pay attention like you wouldn't rather be anywhere else."
"Harry," I breathed, unable to form any other coherent words.
"And you're so brave," he said, then, causing my stomach to jolt, as it felt like, again, he was referencing everything I hadn't said. Let it go. Please, please, let it go.
There were times where it felt like, maybe, he'd understand. Like, if there was anybody I could confide in, it would be him. He'd listen, and he'd get it, and maybe - just maybe - it wouldn't be so bad. But I couldn't. I'd built all of these walls around me for a very particular reason, and even for him, I couldn't force them down. I couldn't talk about it; I couldn't face it, any of it. I wasn't brave, because I cowered away at any given opportunity to confront my trauma. I couldn't be 'diligent', because I never assessed my own situation adequately; I never confronted the impact my past had on me. Instead, I simply carried the baggage, and the damage, and hoped, somehow, that I'd get by. But I wasn't strong, or brave, like he thought I was; I'd lived my life disappointing everybody I knew, and being broken down by them, in return.
I wasn't sure how long we sat there; my body pressed to his own, with our arms wound around one another. It wasn't until Elin had called us both, urging us that we were late to meet them, that we were forced to break out of the little bubble that had formed around us. There was still so much that he didn't know, but I couldn't help but feel a level of pressure that had been alleviated from my shoulders.
"Aren't you tired?" I asked him, as we sat down in the back of the car, to head to the restaurant. We were supposed to go back to the hotel first, but we'd now have to skip that, for the sake of time. I'd felt a wave of exhaustion take over me since leaving the arena, and it felt as if it was likely due to the emotional turmoil of our conversation. One thing was certain; that the intensity of feelings I had for him, had never wavered. When I pictured crawling into bed, now, in my exhaustion, it was only if I was to be enveloped by his arms, there.
He shook his head, "I'm okay. Are you?" he asked, stroking a hand over my hair, as if he could sense my thoughts. I scrunched up my nose in contemplation, as he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. "We can skip it," he offered, quietly.
I tilted my head, "We shouldn't."
"But we can," he dragged out the sentence in a tempting offer, his fingertips lingering behind my ear. I leant into his palm, a tired sigh escaping my lips.
"It'll be fun," I pointed out, earnestly.
"Mm, but you know what's also fun?" he said, swiping his thumb over my jaw, "when it's just you and me, in our hotel room." His tone was innocent, but his sentence was undoubtedly laced. I closed my eyes for a second.
I knew what he was doing. He was brightening the mood after a positive, though certainly emotionally draining, conversation; he was being him.
"Please behave," I murmured, feeling his hand begin to trace teasingly over my thigh.
"You don't actually want me to," he returned, lowly, causing a smile to break out onto my lips. He had an unrivalled power to make me deeply contemplate every blissful feeling I had for him, with pure admiration and adoration, but to simultaneously drive me insane with pure, unadulterated desire for him. He knew he was right.
"We're going to dinner," I said, in an attempt to be firm, but we both knew that he'd be able to sway me in any direction that he desired.
"Okay," he shrugged, his hand reaching its highest point on my inner thigh, now. I took a sharp intake of breath, meeting his eye in a weak warning. That torturous, goading glint was in his eye as his lips twisted into a smirk. "We can have it your way."
"I think this is your way," I returned, unable to focus on anything other than his hand on me.
"My way always benefits you, too," he countered, easily, latching onto the hem of my dress as if he were about to hitch it upwards, only for me to push his hand away, almost out of desperation. His eyebrow raised, as if he was enjoying this as some sort of game, but he relented, drawing his hand back from me; but the damage was already done. I was already breathless.
"I like that you wore this," he said, his eyes scanning over the hem of my dress, as the car drew to a halt outside the restaurant. It was a casual, black, summer dress; it was comfortable enough that I could wear it for work, but also battle the heat of the US summer, whilst also appearing smart enough for the show. I wouldn't have expected it to become a tool at Harry's disposal. "This will be fun."
We made our way inside, to find the others already seated at the table, waiting for us. It was late to be having dinner, and I could only assume that the restaurant was making some kind of accommodation for the sake of Harry, as a guest. I couldn't even contemplate it much, though, as I could only focus on what Harry could be plotting.
We sat down beside one another in the spaces that had been left for us. The table was sort of rounded, at an angle, meaning the only people on our side of it, were me, and Harry, closest to being in the corner.
"We were just talking about how crazy the crowd was tonight," Sarah said, glancing at Mitch as she spoke. "We kept taking our in-ears out whenever we could - honestly, it was insane-" I didn't hear the remainder of her sentence, for I felt my chair move along the floor, without me initiating it. Harry had grabbed the edge of it, and dragged it along to close any sort of space between our seats.
"I won't bite you," he murmured against my ear, doing so with ease, due to the fact our chairs were basically pressed together, now. His shoulder was pressed against my own, his hand easily finding my thigh, now, and immediately causing my breath to hitch in my throat. "Not yet."
A shiver travelled along the length of my spine, as I brought my hand over his own, where it rested on my thigh. I halted any movement of it, that way, and I could try and focus on our friends.
A waiter came over and we ordered drinks - Harry opting only for water, whilst the rest of us chose to drink alcohol. I debated on drinking water, too, but Elin had selected a bottle of wine that I actually liked, and so, who was I to pass up on it?
"Izzy, do you have your camera on you?" Elin asked me, suddenly, and I shook my head.
"It's in Harry's bag," I told her, resisting the urge to squirm in my chair as Harry drew his fingertips over my inner thigh, against the grip of my hand. "I got a really cute few photos of you and H, earlier, though - I'll show you as soon as I sort through them." 'Cute' was far from how he was behaving, now.
"Oh, cool. I was gonna ask if I could try out taking a picture of you, for once," she said, a grin on her face as I frowned in confusion.
"Of me?"
"Well, of both of you," she said, nodding to Harry beside me, who still managed to remain fully engaged in the conversation whilst his hand was pushed underneath my skirt. A chill rocketed through my veins as his hand came dangerously close to falling directly between my legs, but he didn't follow through, yet. Elin continued, "I figured you probably don't have any of the two of you, since you're always taking them."
I tried not to wince. I hated being in front of the camera, but she was making a friendly offer. I thought I may have gotten out of it, in the absence of my camera, but Harry interjected.
"Great idea," he said, brightly, "you can just do it on my phone." He drew his hand back from me, giving me a singular moment of reprieve as he reached into his pocket, for his phone, before he handed it to Elin, and his hand immediately moved back to touch me; this time, even further between my legs. He still hadn't touched me where I was beginning to uncontrollably yearn for him to, but he was dangerously close to it.
Elin held up the phone to capture a photo of the two of us, and I felt Harry's body lean further into mine as she did so. His head pressed to my own, and I could sense his smile as Elin and Pauli fixated on the screen, taking the photos. Then, he turned to press a kiss to my cheek, only to properly draw his fingers over me, for the first time, setting my body on fire. I was smiling in the photo, undoubtedly, but my body was screaming at me.
"Perfect," she brought the phone down, handing it back to Harry. "That was fun, actually. I like your job, Izzy."
I wasn't sure how I'd done it so quickly, but I'd already finished my first glass of wine. Part of me wanted to somehow drag Harry away from this table before I exploded in desperation, but I knew that wasn't plausible. By the time our food had arrived, everybody, barring Harry, was at least tipsy. Elin, Sarah, and I, particularly, were seeming to drink far more than we'd planned, with one bottle of wine quickly turning into multiple - but I was enjoying myself as much as I ever had. I spent all day, everyday, with these people, it was a wonder that we didn't run out of things to discuss; but I never grew bored of their company. It was fun.
As I could feel myself growing more intoxicated, I noticed that Harry's hand had lowered its position on me, toward my knee, and he had halted his teasing. He was entirely sober, only taking a maximum of two sips of my wine, and sticking religiously to his water; we were on different wavelengths, and he was taking some initiative. It didn't stop me from leaning over to murmur in his ear.
"Do you not want me anymore?" I asked, causing him to turn his head to me in confusion. I knew that it wasn't the reality, but my increasingly drunken state hadn't known how else to address his lack of sexual instigation.
"You're crazy," he replied, instantly, his voice soft as his eyes flickered between mine, and my lips. His hand moved to the back of my head, edging me forward so that he could press a kiss to my temple. I pouted, relenting and leaning my head against his shoulder. It was yet another reminder that he was better than any other man I'd been unfortunate enough to know before him.
It felt very late by the time we all left the restaurant. The street around us, though blocked off by Harry's security, felt largely deserted. Harry's arm remained wound around me, steadying me, as we walked out to the car. I was drunker than I'd intended to be.
My head immediately tilted to meet his shoulder, in the back of the car, and his arm extended to drape over my legs. I wasn't sure when, if ever, in my life I'd gotten drunk to the point where I'd rely on somebody else to care for me, but it was almost instinctive to him. I didn't even have to question if he was going to support me, because he was doing it; all of it, without so much as a word of request.
"You're so good to me," I muttered against his neck, as the car pulled up outside the hotel. I was so lost in Harry, that I'd almost forgotten that the others were even there, laughing drunkenly in a conversation neither Harry nor I had been a part of.
I said my goodbyes to everyone, hugging Sarah and Elin for a ridiculously long period of time, considering I'd be seeing them in about eight hours. Mitch was sharing a look with Harry, though it wasn't one of ridicule, but rather a shared sort of endearment. Mitch had been drinking with us, but seemed to be in better shape than his partner; he seemed to be playing the same role for Sarah, as Harry was, for me.
Harry's arm wound around me from behind, his hand flattening against my hip to hold me up, against him, as he supported me into the elevator. I sighed, somewhat blissfully, as the doors closed, fully leaning into the strong frame of Harry behind me.
"Am I your girlfriend?" I asked him, suddenly, in the elevator, catching how his eyebrows raised in surprise at my question. I turned around to face him, leaning my body entirely against his own, only craning my neck back to peer up at him.
"If that's what you want to be," he replied, a gentle smile on his lips as he tucked my hair back out of my face.
"I don't think I'll be very good at it," I confessed, winding my arms around his torso as I hung off him, his eyes on my own as he gazed down at me.
"Well, that can be my problem," he said, smoothly, as I leaned my face towards his own in an attempt to beckon a kiss from him. He obliged, pecking my lips quickly, and again, when I kept my face there, in a silent request. I sighed, content, as the elevator drew open, and Harry manoeuvred us out, somehow allowing me to still cling to him.
"Come on," he encouraged, softly, his hands placed upon my hips to guide me forward, toward our room. He kissed the back of my head whenever I leaned back against him, continuing to urge me down the corridor.
Harry kept an arm wound around me as he opened the door to our room, kicking it open to enable him to hold me, still; not that I would've facilitated him letting go. We made it inside, and he locked it behind us, before I turned to face him.
I reached up to kiss him, and his hands immediately shifted back to my face, to enable him to kiss me back. Though, repeatedly, he'd draw his jaw back from my own to make the kisses shorter; to break them. He wasn't enabling me to deepen them, I realised, for the very same reason he'd halted his teasing on me at the dinner table; I was drunk, and he was not.
"Bed," he gently commanded, then, breaking our kiss for a final time, and bringing his hand down to pat it against my bum in an attempt to make me move. I huffed, dramatically turning away from him to head toward the bed.
"You're mean," I told him, hearing him only hum in response as I planted myself on the edge of the bed. He followed me over, kneeling down on the floor in front of the bed to remove my shoes. I groaned, "You're so sexy, this isn't fair." He only chuckled, placing my shoes to the side and standing up. He walked away for a moment, only to retrieve a t-shirt, before he returned.
"I need my dress off, first," I declared, purposefully, watching him raise his eyebrows in clear understanding of what I was trying to do. I tried to ignore how the room was spinning, feeling Harry reach for the hem of my skirt to pull my dress over my head, immediately stirring me again. I knew it was futile, because I knew he'd never do anything whilst I was in this state, but my drunken demeanour meant that I'd at least try.
He even unhooked my bra and removed it, but didn't so much as entertain the idea of escalating things as he pulled the t-shirt partially over my head, encouraging me to do the rest.
"Wait, do you need your makeup off?" he asked, and I nodded sleepily, my drunkness and my overall tiredness now beginning to combine. He reached for my hand, pulling me up from the bed, only for me to stop, to pull my underwear down my legs. His t-shirt covered enough of me that it didn't matter, but Harry shook his head in a light-hearted disapproval, as he led me to the bathroom.
"I can wash my face," I announced, then, reaching for my facewash and beginning to remove my makeup. Harry leaned back against the counter, watching me, with his arms by his side; one of them only extending out to me in the moments when I seemed to lose my balance. I even opted to brush my teeth, after washing my face, declaring to Harry, "Could a drunk person do this?", as I did so.
Harry pulled back the covers of the bed for me to lie down, before he pulled them back over me. My head nestled back, comfortably, against the pillow, with Harry leaning over me to adjust the covers around me.
"You're so cute," I couldn't help but whine up at him, as he pressed his lips to my forehead, once clearly satisfied with how he'd tucked me in, before sitting down on the bed, directly beside me. He pushed my hair out of my face, kissing my forehead again, before he finally kissed my lips, where I'd been desperate for him to. He reached for a bottle of water from beside the bed.
"Drink some of this," he told me, unscrewing the lid. I sat up slightly, to take a few sips of it, only because he'd said to, before he set it back down.
"Thank you, my baby," I most definitely slurred, as he smoothed his hand across the side of my face. A slightly amused smile was on his lips as he peered down at me, which caused me to mirror it subconsciously.
"You know," I said, stupidly, "if I'm your girlfriend, that makes you my boyfriend."
"That's how it works, yes."
"Hm," I sighed, leaning further back into the pillow, relishing in the feel of his hand on my skin. "I think you'll be good at it."
"I'll do my best, love," he returned, an angelic smile on his lips, as he somehow had the patience to entertain my drunken rambling. "Get some sleep," he said, then, gently squeezing my cheek.
"Are you not coming to bed with me?" I pouted.
"Of course I am," he said, stroking his hand over my hair. "I'm just sitting here until you fall asleep."
"You're so good," I rambled tiredly, "I'm so lucky."
"So am I," he replied, his voice gentle as his hand continued to stroke my hair. Even intoxicated, he was making my heart race a mile a minute. He kissed my forehead again, the warmth of his lips on my skin being the last thing I felt before I finally fell asleep.