Harry is laughing deliriously, absolutely giddy with the notion of all this hidden storage. His dimples pop on both cheeks, and his dick bounces in time with his laughter.
I shove the towel into his hands because I’ve been holding it out for at least two minutes now and he still hasn’t even acknowledged it. “You can cover yourself up, you know.”
Harry looks down at his body as though only just remembering he’s still naked. He raises a single brow and accepts the towel, but instead of wrapping it around himself, he simply holds it folded. “Didn’t expect you of all people to be prudish.”
“I’m not, it’s just . . . distracting. It’s very . . . bouncy,” I say, and Harry snorts. I turn the shower on for him and crank the heat down to a normal person’s tolerable temperature. “Right, this one here is the hot-cold, and this toggle here will change the setting on the head, and you can put the rainfall on here.”
He’s laughing again, the towel nowhere near his junk. “Holy shit, this is about to be the fanciest shower I’ve ever had.”
I hand him two bottles, one shampoo and the other bodywash. “Do you need any other products?”
Harry shakes his head, hangs the towel up on a hook, places the toiletries on the shelf, and steps under the stream. His hair bleeds from bright ginger intoa dark burnt orange, and water rushes over his face, spatters his shoulders, and sluices down his abdomen.
I realise two things. One, he’s just going to shower right in front of me, without waiting for me to leave, and two, I’m staring at him.
The TV is a welcome distraction while I wait for Harry to finish washing. It doesn’t quite drown out his off-key rendition of “It Feels Like Christmas,” though it helps a little. But when he starts squeak-singing about mittens, I have to smother my smile with a pillow. It smells of Lumière du Fantôme and stirs some very weird, very alien, and very discombobulating emotions in my gut.
He’d been in the bathroom for over fifteen minutes when the overwhelming urge to check on him, like he might have become lost, forces me off the bed.
The water switches off the second I step foot onto the black marble floor, and Harry steps out of the shower, dragging the towel down over his face, once again failing to cover his freckly penis.
“I need one of those in my flat. Oh my god, I’d never leave it,” he says, now pulling the towel over his head and spiking his hair up in random directions. Does he not feel the moisture on any other part of his body?
“Do you want some breakfast?” I ask. I’m not staring at the pools gathering around his feet. Or at the droplets of water that have landed outside the perimeter of the bath mat.
“Can I move in here?” he says instead of answering my question.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then. I’ll meet you in my kitchen after you get dressed. Do you remember the way?”
He shrugs. “I’ll find you.”
I hand him another towel, pointing to the mess on the floor. “Don’t slip over, okay? See you in a bit.”
When Harry finds me in the kitchen ten minutes later, I’m pacing. I’ve already laid out a variety of items on the counter along with cooking instruments, so I’m ready to go as soon as he tells me what he’d like.
It’s probably just that I’ve never had anyone besides Daisy stay over before, and I’ve never had to make breakfast for anyone besides Daisy and me. I’ve also never been in a situation where I’ve woken up with another guy and notimmediately wanted to escape. Maybe it has more to do with the fact that we never fucked rather than the peculiar Harry thoughts swirling in my head.
I’m just not used to this scenario. That’s all. It’s not like I’m having any physical cravings for Harry either. Nothing sexual, because there never are sexual thoughts, but like why . . . is he just there in my mind?
“Do you like eggs?” I ask as Harry slots himself right behind me. He’s used my shampoo and my shower gel, so why does it smell different on him? And why am I sucking in the scent as though I’m on a plummeting plane and the oxygen masks have dropped?
“Depends on how they’re cooked. Scrambled? Ew, fuck no. Too rubbery. But I do like them when the yellow is runny. Want me to help with anything?” He picks up my Le Creuset cast-iron skillet. “Jesus, fuck, that’s heavy.”
“Aren’t you a big strong rugby player?” I take the pan from him, and gently guide him to the stools next to the breakfast bar. “Sit. So, fried or poached?”
“Ooh, poached, if that’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s not. I prefer poached too.” In fact, I already had my water heating on the stove. “Do you like avocado? I was thinking about doing some kind of smashed avocado and eggs on toast.”
“Yes, love it.” Harry picks up his knife and inspects the stamping on the blade. “Is it true what they say about avocados and dicks?”
I drop an egg. It hits the edge of the counter, cracks, and spills its goop down the front of the cupboard. “What?”
“You’ve heard that before, right? Apparently, clean dick tastes like avocado.”
I straighten up from cleaning the mess to stare right into his eyes.
“Just wondered if it was true. I don’t know because I’ve never sucked a dick, and also I can’t taste that much.”
