Does he get it? Does he know that the moment he starts dating someone we’ll have to stop hanging out because I’ll try to sabotage everything? Destroy his chance of happiness? Just so he can stay miserable with me forever?
The second we step through the door to my place, Harry strips off his clothes like he always does. He’s kicking off his trainers and pulling off his wig on the stairs, and trying to tug his dress over his head on the landing. I don’t know if anyone is visiting this weekend, or even if my father is home, but before we’re in my bedroom, Harry is wearing nothing but smudged eyeliner and a jockstrap.
He loses the jockstrap over the threshold to my room and claws his way under my sheets.
I fetch us a glass of water each, and some paracetamol for the morning, and I plug both Harry’s phone and mine in to charge. Harry has changed his lock-screen picture from his twin niece and nephew to one of me and him. A candid shot taken a few months ago at Owen’s community match. Molly had been going around snapping pictures for the ’gram.
Harry and I are standing in the centre of the pitch. I can’t remember the exact moment this happened, but I have a feeling it was during the second-half warmup. Harry’s side is pressed against my front, and I’m planting a sloppy kiss on his temple. His face is screwed up like he hates it, but he’s laughing, ruining the faux disgust.
I want to open his phone and look through his photos from that day. I know his pin code—2809, the date of his very first match with the Cents main squad—but I’m too frightened of what I’ll find.
This is all my fault. I led him on—lead, actually, because I continue to do it.
I kiss him and tell him he’s beautiful, and we fall asleep pretzeled in each other’s limbs. I cook for him, and look after him when he’s drunk, and give him perfume, and let him use me as a glorified wank sock.
As though he’s heard me thinking about him, he moans. “Babygirl, what are you doing?” His words are muffled by my mattress. “Come to bed.”
“Just going to put some PJs on.”
Harry grunts in reply.
I need to stop doing all these things. The cuddles, the kisses, the gifts, the little moments that tear my heart open and then stitch the pieces back together stronger. The longer this goes on, the harder and more painful it’ll be when I have to give him up. I should end it all right now. Cut us both off. Set him free.
I won’t, though.
Because I’m a selfish asshole.
21
Thursday 25th December 2025
Lando
The house Harry grew up in is a super cute 1950s four-bedroomed end of terrace on an old council estate just outside Bath. Originally, there would have only been three bedrooms, but the place has been extended several times over the years to accommodate the family’s growth.
Harry had shared a bedroom with his older brother, Joshua, before they’d both moved out, but it’s only been a year since Harry got his own flat, so the room still exists as a time capsule to their youth. There are rugby posters on the walls—including one of Mathias Jones—and many, many trophies and medals line the Ikea Kallax unit that separates the twin single beds.
“They’re not all mine,” he tells me. “Some of those trophies are Josh’s.” His eyes flit over to the poster of Mathias. He huffs and simply looks away. I half expect him to get up and tear it down, but he doesn’t.
I lie back on his childhood bed, which appears to be made of lumps and springs. “How did you ever sleep on this thing?”
He tucks himself in next to me, trapping me against the wall. His breath tickles my cheek and neck, and he wraps his leg over both of mine. “Like this,” he says, and pretends to snore. It’s an eerily accurate representation of his actual snores. “I always knew one day I’d have a really hot boy in this bed with me.”
“Oi! No shagging before dinner,” one of Harry’s brothers says, entering the room.
I lift my head enough to see who it is whilst avoiding smashing my frontal lobe on the eaves of the slanted ceiling. It’s Casper, Harry’s youngest sibling. He’s just turned fifteen and is the spitting image of Harry, only blonde and already half a foot taller. He’s carrying a plate of what appears to be canapés.
“Is that cheese?” Harry says, sitting upright and deftly dodging the low ceiling. “Lando can’t eat cheese. He’s lac—”
“Yeah, yeah, he’s lactose intolerant. You’ve only told us about eighty times. This is vegan cheese. Mum bought it specially for your boyfriend’s sensitive little tum-tum.” Casper lowers the plate and flashes us the contents. Bruschettine topped with cream cheese and smoked salmon. “There’s one with real Philly downstairs if you’d prefer, but I just scranned a few on the way up and actually they’re not too bad. Can’t really tell the difference.”
Harry accepts the platter and shovels two into his mouth.
“Oi, you greedy bastard, leave some for your boyfriend.” Casper slaps a third canapé from Harry’s fingers, catches it in his other hand, and eats it.
Harry shoves the dish towards me. The next second his brother is in a headlock and Harry’s trying to claw the food out of his mouth. “Spit it out. That’s. My. Boyfriend’s. Nibbles.”
Casper obeys, but only because he’s now screaming with laughter and can’t keep his mouth closed.
