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“Oh bollocks!”
It’s the third time Sophie has tried to zip her dress, and the third time the little tab has escaped her fingers. The dress is one of her favourites, emerald satin that glides across her skin and leaves exactly the right amount to the imagination, but fastening it has always been a little finicky.
Maybe Parker can help, she decides, or even Eliot (though of course he’ll grumble for a minute or two), and abandons her room in search of either of them. She doesn’t expect Breanna to still be around—the con ran long and the girl spent the last half hour complaining incessantly about being late for some raid, whatever the hell that meant—, but the others hadn’t mentioned any plans. And yet, the building is eerily quiet, deserted but for the sounds she hears coming from Harry’s room. His door is slightly ajar and creaks open when she knocks on it. He is in the middle of buttoning up an expensive-looking shirt, the noise causing him to look up. She catches his eyes widening at the sight of her, and his reaction makes warmth pool low in her stomach.
“Don’t you look nice!” he comments. Something must be wrong with the air conditioning because there is no way the heat in her cheeks is a blush. She distracts herself by dipping her shoulder and showing him her predicament.
“I’m glad you’re still here, I need a hand.”
It’s far from the first time she has used those words to get his help with wardrobe difficulties, though until today, it’s only happened in the food truck during quick costume changes for cons.
“Yeah”, he explains, “with Friday night traffic, I would be late for dinner if I’d gone home to change.”
He quickly finishes buttoning up his shirt, then walks towards her and twirls his finger until she turns. She is usually fairly well informed about his dates, as he is with hers, because the shared experience of having to start dating again at their age has made them confide in each other, and despite her protests at the start, she now relies on his counsel more than she had expected to. With how busy they’ve been taking down this particular specimen of garbage, though, they haven’t had much time to talk lately, so this is the first she’s heard of his upcoming date, and vice versa.
As she leans her head forward to give him access to the zip, he asks: “So what does this guy you’re meeting tonight do?”
“He’s a painter.” She leaves out the trust fund he mentioned and the investment portfolio. Harry inhales a little too loudly, as though he’s about to make a snarky comment, but then thinks better of it, and yeah, alright, maybe it’s a bit of a cliché, but Douglas seemed like a breath of fresh air among all the bankers and managers the app has presented her with lately.
She asks Harry about his own date, only half listening as he talks about the primary school teacher he’s been texting for the past week and a half. From what Sophie hears, she sounds perfect for Harry, potentially the fresh start that he more than deserves. She knows she should be happy for him, but her own situation has her feeling anxious and uncomfortable instead, the kind of ache in her chest she has never felt before. It’s silly, she thinks, because this is far from her first first date, but those emotions have been there more and more since she started dating again. Not knowing why she’s feeling this way bothers her just as much as the feeling itself does.
Could it be because she and Nate never had a proper first date? But then why would the feeling of unease worsen with time? Besides, the comparison with Nate doesn’t feel right to her anyway. None of the men she’s gone on dates with can hold a candle to her husband, and maybe that is the problem: None of them ever stood a chance, every date somehow meaningless compared to what she had before, that kind of connection, of being known and loved so completely. She’s not trying to replicate her marriage, isn’t looking for the thrill of the chase anymore, having mostly outgrown her younger self’s need for adventure and intrigue, but what exactly she is looking for, she’s not sure either—a fresh start of her own, like Harry, but as to what that might look or feel like, she can’t even say.
---
Harry, meanwhile, unaware of the depth of Sophie’s struggles—though he thinks he spots subtle signs of distress in her that he isn’t sure how to ask about—, knows exactly why he feels uncomfortable.
First, there’s the emotional unease that comes with having gone on countless unsuccessful dates. He already suspects that this dinner tonight will feel just as rote as the ones before, but he promised Becky he would try, and if going on yet another useless date means she won’t be disappointed in him, he’ll take it. No, it’s not the best way of dealing with it, but for now, it’s all he’s got.
And then there’s the physical discomfort he is currently experiencing simply because the woman he cares about more than all of his dates combined is standing so very close. It gets even worse when she turns around and reaches for the ends of his tie that are slung around his neck, her breath warm on his chin while she expertly loops the fabric to make a knot. She’s so close it would take nothing at all to lean down and touch his lips to hers.
As much as he doesn’t want to be feeling this way, he can’t help but resent this painter of hers. It’s ridiculous and inappropriate for him to be jealous—they’re nothing to each other except friends and colleagues, he’s got no right to even think it, but he wishes more than anything she wasn’t going out with someone else. He wants her to stay, wants them both to cancel their dates and decide to give this thing between them a try, the thing that’s been building for a while that neither of them has been brave or reckless enough to acknowledge. Harry knows he could be reckless now, could put his hands on her hips and pull her towards him, could ask her not to go, could say ‘Let’s be brave together’—and knows with absolute certainty that he won’t do any of those things, no matter how badly he wants to.
“There you go.” Sophie steps back a bit to check her handiwork. “You don’t look half bad yourself”, she says with a smile, and the appreciation in her eyes makes his face feel very warm all of a sudden.
“Thank you”, he says around the lump in his throat, and even manages to wish her a good time before she turns around to leave.
---
There’s no need to drive back to the bar after her date, she could just as easily go straight home, but Sophie likes the ritual of the detour to fully shed Violet and become wholly herself again, a little like taking off a costume after a successful performance on stage.
That was the appeal at the start, anyway, the first few times she came back here following a nice dinner with a stranger. Now, there’s the added bonus of rounding off the evening with Harry by her side, sharing stories about their dates, laughing well into the night.
When she walks into the main room, he’s already sitting at the bar, tie undone, a bottle and two glasses in front of him, one full, one as yet empty. It’s a familiar sight these past few months, but tonight, there’s something different about him. Before she can begin to figure out what it is, Harry asks: “What was wrong with this one?”
The assumption makes her bristle, and she’s a little defensive when she replies.
“Nothing. What makes you think something was wrong?”
He shrugs. “You don’t look like someone who’s been having a good time.”
Well, she can’t exactly argue with that.
“I dunno. It just… didn’t feel right.”
There’s comfort to be found in the way he pours scotch into the other glass as she takes a seat next to him and places it in front of her just like he’s done it hundreds of times over the past few years.
“So not another catfish then?” he teases.
“That would at least have made him interesting.” The words are out of her mouth before she can think better of it, but it makes him laugh, which cheers her up a little.
“How about you?” she asks, and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t hoping for another ‘entire head of a fish’ story.
“Oh”, he says on a long breath, leaning back a bit on the bar stool, “I think it’s fair to say that that was my last first date ever.”
His words effectively pull the rug out from under her, leaving her feeling almost panicked. He’s found someone, and instead of being happy for him, she finds herself devastated, knows with a sickening sort of clarity what that ache inside her chest these past few months has been: jealousy, and hiding behind it, that four-letter word that suddenly scares her more than ever before.
This right here is her most meaningful relationship, one she had firmly categorised as a friendship in her mind and never allowed herself to think of as more, which is how she now finds herself completely blindsided by the depth of her feelings, that gradual change that she hadn’t seen coming at all, too busy though she was holding onto the idea they were only friends and colleagues. She knows herself much better than this, usually, can’t afford to be oblivious. At the same time, it’s not like she’s a stranger to denial—although her experience with it has only ever been from the other side of the glass, with Nate having been the oblivious one while she spent years waiting for him to get his act together.
And now, with that green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head, she realises she has missed her chance, a chance she hadn’t even known she wanted until it was too late.
Harry is the person who knows her, better than anyone else does, the person she trusts with her history, her secrets, her fears—not Douglas or Neal or Jon, men who don’t even know her name. The closeness is already there—the intimacy—, as is the friendship, the safety, the—dare she say it—love. All that’s missing from their relationship is the physical, and she hadn’t even needed that previously, but she knows it will never happen, not now that he’s met someone, and she can’t keep imposing on him for the rest, either, if there’s a girlfriend or—god forbid—a wife waiting for him at home. She can see her future clearly, sitting here alone while he’s at home with someone else, and she tries not to grimace, feeling nearly ill at the thought.
---
There’s something off about Sophie tonight, Harry thinks, her eyes almost a little wild. He wonders if something happened during her date that she’s not saying, and he doesn’t want to pry too much, but can’t stay silent, either.
“So no sparks for you then?” he fishes for information, and when she shakes her head, he tries not to look relieved. He truly does want her to find happiness, even if it’s with someone else. He’s just going to have to work a little harder at actually believing it.
Normally, she doesn’t shy away from providing details, and while it’s his dating mishaps that have provided most of their evening entertainment, hers, too, have made him laugh many a time. Tonight, though, she’s taciturn and withdrawn, which isn’t like her at all.
“It was fine”, she says with a shrug, then comments on Harry’s own date: “But I’m glad your evening was a resounding success.”
He huffs out a surprised laugh. A success?? When did he say that?
The date hadn’t been bad or anything, but even while he was still busy chewing the last forkful of his appetiser, he had found himself hoping his date wouldn’t order dessert—not because she was unpleasant, but because he was counting down the minutes until he’d be back here, sitting next to Sophie.
“It wasn’t”, he corrects her, “I’m just done.” Something shifts in her gaze as he continues, “I can’t keep doing this, it’s not what I want.”
He doesn’t say, ‘You’re what I want’, but the thought echoes inside his head so loudly that he worries she’ll hear it anyway.
When Sophie reaches for her glass, he thinks he sees her hand tremble, and wonders if she’s had too much to drink. She doesn’t even seem tipsy, though, much less drunk. Something is definitely going on, but if she doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to confide in him, he won’t push. Maybe she just needs some time to herself.
Hard as it is to leave her sitting here, he downs the rest of his drink and gets up from his chair. “Do you need help again with your zipper before I go?” he asks, both hoping she’ll say yes and that she won’t.
---
Sophie knows she should say no, should take a few days, or even just a few hours, to think about this revelation before she does something about it that she cannot take back, but now that she’s had it, everything suddenly makes so much sense—why none of her dates were successful, why she was never really sad about that, and why she enjoyed that hour and a half afterwards so much more than the dates themselves.
Everything is so clear to her now, and while she’s ready and willing to give someone else whatever time they need to work through things in their head, once she’s made a decision, she doesn’t like waiting, doesn’t like succumbing to doubt.
“If you wouldn’t mind”, she says, and gets up from the bar stool to walk up the stairs to her room, hoping he’ll follow. When he does, her heart starts beating faster. His steps behind her sound almost a little dangerous, which is silly, of course, because she knows nothing is going to happen that she doesn’t want to. It’s just the anticipation running pleasantly up and down her spine that makes this moment feel precarious, and she has always enjoyed this part most of all. Well, maybe not most of all, she thinks with a smirk he can’t see.
In her room, Sophie stops near her dresser and leans her head forward again. His fingers are careful against the nape of her neck, and he fumbles a little with the tiny hook, then oh-so slowly pulls the zip down to between her shoulder blades. It feels like a caress.
The top of her dress is gaping open in the back, but Harry remains where he is, not stepping back like she had expected him to. She wishes she could see his face, wishes she knew what he was thinking and feeling, but there’s a part of her that doesn’t want to turn around, that relishes in his proximity. Harry’s breath is hot on her neck, making her shiver, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to hold in a moan.
---
There are goosebumps all over Sophie’s skin and Harry sees her trembling, which is weird, because it’s been unseasonably warm outside and even with the AC, it’s not at all cold at HQ. He is distracted from speculating about what’s going on with her by how good she smells, something light and floral that he wants to find the source of. Her skin is so soft under his fingertips, and he can’t help but wonder what it would feel like against his lips.
Maybe this date, this particular guy, didn’t work out, but one of these days, someone will, he knows that, and then she’ll be gone. He can’t stand the thought, but he’s aware there’s nothing he can do about it, nothing he has the right to demand or even to want.
She reaches back to unclasp her necklace, still so close because neither of them has stepped back, and maybe that means something. He doesn’t even think about it before he says, “Let me” and raises his hands to her neck again. The clasp opens easily, the necklace slipping forward into her hands, but that’s not what he’s focused on, because she shivers again at his touch. Maybe that means something, too. Something wonderful and scary and so unlikely that he hadn’t dared believe it until now. He’s close enough that he can hear her breathing, fast and choppy in the silence of the room; close enough that he can count the freckles on her shoulders; close enough to—
Without allowing himself time to think, time to be uncertain, he leans forward and ghosts his lips over the back of her neck, drawing a sigh from her that doesn’t sound disapproving in the slightest. He lets himself linger when she doesn’t protest, nuzzling into her hair, and presses a soft kiss to the vertebra at her nape.
---
His lips on her skin send sparks like lightning across her body, and that, at last, seals it for her. She turns around and looks up at him, his eyes so dark they’re nearly black. She considers for a moment confessing that she’s glad he’s decided to stop dating, but she doesn’t want to have to explain why, not when there’s something else they could be doing.
“How set are you”, she asks instead, feeling light as air now, “on no more first dates?”
He frowns a little when he says, “Pretty firmly decided, why?”
“No exceptions?”, she grins, willing him to understand, but he still looks confused, so she leans upwards a bit and whispers, “Does that mean no more first kisses, either?”
It finally dawns on him what she’s getting at, and she’s seen him smile countless times, but never like this, with wonder and joy fighting for dominance.
“Oh, I mean, I guess I could be convinced of one last first kiss”, he says, and bravely raises his hand to the side of her face, his thumb soft against her cheekbone.
“Good”, whispers Sophie idly, hypnotised by the way Harry is looking at her and by the gentle tug of his fingers in her hair as he pulls her head forward while leaning in himself. The motion is slow, so slow, and as much as she wants him to pounce, as much as she wants to drag his mouth to hers, there’s something to be said for the anticipation. They’re breathing each other’s breath, lips whispering over lips but never quite touching, noses rubbing together—it’s not a competition to see who can hold out longer, though. They’re simply savouring the moment, and each other. You only get one last first kiss, after all.
Every fibre of her body starts screaming at her to finally close the last bit of distance between them, so she does, pressing her lips to his. Heat suffuses her almost immediately, and god, she’s missed this, missed kissing someone she—go ahead and say it—loves, someone who makes her feel safe and cherished. Harry is the one who deepens the kiss, pulling her closer into him, and Sophie allows herself to get lost in it, in him.
She hadn’t thought, before this moment, that kissing Harry would leave her breathless so quickly, but she’s apparently not alone in this because he drags his mouth from hers to suck in a lungful of air. She’s not alone in wanting to remain close, either, it seems, Harry’s reluctance to draw back palpable. His eyes are all pupil when he opens them, which makes it very difficult for her to not dive back in immediately.
“God, that”, he says, swallowing hard, “that was one hell of a last first kiss.”
She can feel the smirk pulling at her lips when she says, “Good thing we still have a last second kiss to look forward to, and a last third kiss, and—”
Sophie finds herself effectively cut off as Harry frames her face with his hands, tilts her head a little and captures her mouth again.
Somewhere between kisses four and seven, she loses count—not that it matters. She more than anyone knows nothing in life is certain, so when she starts tugging at Harry’s shirt, she vows to just enjoy all the firsts (and seconds and thirds) still to come.