Page 49 of The Sound Between Us

The quiet slide back into reality. Cold; ruthless. Familiar.

“Should I...” I start, not even sure how the words are forming. “Should I leave?”

She’s silent for a beat too long. I brace for rejection; for the sensible dismissal we both know is coming.

But then—she shifts. Presses her face into my shoulder; wraps one arm around my waist as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Just one night.” Voice cotton-soft.

I kiss the crown of her head, eyes fluttering shut. “Just one night.”

But it’s a lie. We both know it. One night won’t be enough; not when she’s the first person who’s made me feel Harry in years. Not when being with her feels like remembering lost pieces of myself.

Still—truth seeps in, slow and heavy.

I have to go back.

To LA. To the band. To the machine. To the press and the deadlines and the pop-star persona that chews through men and spits out merch.

Henry’s probably combusting. The label’s already drafting polite threats. And I’m meant to show up; be Harrison Carter. Smile for the cameras; make it all look easy.

And Seren?

She’s the girl who’s been broken open by fame. The one who knows exactly how this story ends, because she’s lived the cautionary tale in real time.

She’ll never walk willingly into the spotlight.

And I’d never ask her to.

So this—this one night—is all we get.

Still, she’s here. Warm; soft. Breathing slow against my chest. She belongs there.

And for a moment, I let myself pretend.

Pretend there’s a version of this where I stay; where we keep writing. Keep touching; keep waking up next to each other as though it’s no big deal.

A version where I never boarded that plane; where Harrison Carter doesn’t exist and Harry is enough.

It’s a fantasy. A cruel one; beautiful in the way all impossibilities are.

But I hold onto it anyway.

Just until morning. Just until she stirs and the dream crumbles; just until the world comes knocking.

Just one night.

The bed’s cold beside me.

For a second, I think I’ve dreamt her—Seren, bare-legged and blushing, whispering my name as though it meant everything. But her scent still lingers—wild honeysuckle and heartbreaking clean—and my hand reaches, idiotically, for a shape that’s already gone. It lands in empty sheets. Cold; unforgiving.

I sit up slowly, everything too bright and too loud. The gold of dawn has curdled into grey—London back to its usual indifference.

I find my jeans in a tangle by the bed and pull them on, pad barefoot out into the flat. My heart’s doing ridiculous things in my chest; hopeful, stupid things.

She’s in the kitchen.

Back to me, hair wild, jumper swallowing her whole. She looks small in the morning light; still. Too still. Her profile carved in ice.