"Keep telling yourself that."
Christian slaps me on the shoulder. "For what it's worth, I'm happy for you. Harper seems great. And watching you actually let people in is—" He stops. "It's good, man. Really good."
They leave with Lucia shortly after, and suddenly it's just Harper and me and the remnants of Thanksgiving dinner spread across my kitchen.
"That was—" Harper starts.
"A lot."
"I was going to say amazing." She starts loading plates into the dishwasher. "Your friends are great. Your grandmother is the most intimidating and delightful woman alive. And the book club—" She laughs. "I've never been interrogated so thoroughly while eating cannoli."
"They liked you."
"You think?"
"Nonna doesn't invite people to book club unless she likes them. Trust me."
Harper smiles, but there's something sad in it.
I should be happy. Should be relieved.
Instead, I'm watching Harper move around my kitchen, and wondering when the hell she's going to talk to me about what happened in the bathroom back at StreamEats.
I offered my help.
I told her I loved her.
I climbed over walls it took me years to build.
And she still hasn't responded.
She turns back to the dishes, retreating into herself again, and the distance between us feels instantly insurmountable.
We clean in silence for the next twenty minutes. Harper washing, me drying, both of us ignoring the chasm that grows every day that I receive no answers from her.
Finally, Harper sets down the last dish and turns to face me.
"I should probably head to bed. Early production meeting tomorrow to review the footage."
"It's barely eight."
"I'm exhausted. Today was…a lot."
She's running. I can see it.
And I should let her, should give us both space to process whatever just happened.
But I can't help it.
"The day's not over yet, is it?" I ask softly, reach for her and pulling her into me.
She lets me tug her into my arms, instantly making that sound—the one that drives me insane—and suddenly we're not cleaning anymore.
We're consuming each other against the kitchen counter, her hands in my hair, my hands everywhere else.
"Victor," she breathes. "We should?—"
"Should what?"
