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fishnets-fingers · 1 year

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Six Months - Part Twenty Three

Summary - Layla desperately needs a vacation and her Aunt and Uncle come to her rescue. So, at twenty two, she packs her bag and jets off to America. Harry took a break from education and is now a full fledged content creator on OnlyFans. At twenty, he makes more money than almost all of his friends. What ensues when these two meet and realise the windows in their rooms face each other? How will paper airplanes bring them closer together?

PAIRING - camboy!harry x indian!oc

a/n - happy happy birthday @0oolookitsme! this is such a special part and i hope it’s a good birthday surprise! thank you for loving the story and layla and harry as much as i do! as always, like and reblog. feed back is not only appreciated but much welcome. happy reading!

Word Count - 10.3 k

Warnings - so much fluff, a dash of angst, allusions to smut.

Masterpost (find previous parts here)

Harry’s comfortably buried under the pillow, the duvet snaked around his body, with one of his feet poking out the corner. Sleep always found him easy, but sleeping on Layla’s bed guarantees him a good night's sleep; something to do with the mattress toppers is what she chalked it up to when he’d told her but he thinks it has to do with the space being so inexplicably hers. He particularly melts into slumber with the way her scent cocoons around him, the way he has to roll over and nudge his feet between her perpetual ice cold ‘feetsies,’ the way he can watch the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way she softly snores after a particularly long day of being hunched over the canvas she was painting. All these things made his insides feel fizzy, like he was an agitated soda can waiting to explode with joy. So yes, snoozing in her bed resulted in a comfortable restful night’s sleep. But for some reason he feels like this was the longest time he’d slept in a while.

He feels a cold hand on his bicep, gently shaking him, and a soft groggy voice follows, “Harry?”

He manages a grunt, face scrunching as the icy fingers now grips his arm, shaking him incessantly.

“Babe, wake up.” Her voice is hoarse, like she hadn’t used it a lot.

“Yeah… I’m up,” he replies, voice deep from slumber.

He blinks to a sight he’s sure he’ll be going to commit to memory and play it back. Layla in one of her panties, his white Kiss T-shirt, mussed up hair falling down to her waist, smiling down on him with a steaming mug in her hand. Her face is puffy and blotchy - no doubt from sleeping on her stomach for a long time. Best wake up call, he thinks as images of being woken up by her wet kisses trailing down the slope of his neck flash in his mind. No, second best wake up call, he decides as the warmth rushes to his face.

“Good morning,” she beams at him, sitting down at the edge of the bed as her fingers move angst the prickly five o’clock shadow against his jaw.

“Morning, sweet girl.” He pushes himself upright using his arms, leaning forward to plant a kiss on her cheek. “What’s all this?” He asks.

“Your morning coffee,” she replies, bringing the mug in between the two. “And,” she tilts her head to the side and his gaze follows to find a bowl of oatmeal topped with berries and apple slices, scrambled eggs and a glass of water on a wooden table. “Breakfast in bed.”

“And what did I do to get my breakfast to come to me?” He grabs the ceramic mug from her, blowing on the dark liquid to cool it down.

“Nothing,” she shrugs. “Just felt like doing it.”

“How lucky am I?” He smiles, fluttering his eyelids dramatically.

Layla lets out a hearty giggle. “Don’t go thanking your lucky stars yet, earth boy. I still don’t know how to work the fancy coffee machine.”

“How can one fuck up black coffee?” He laughs, taking a sip from the mug, grimacing immediately. “Lails,” he coughs, “Did you add sugar in this?”

“What? Are you not supposed to?”

“No!” He exclaims, setting the mug aside on the bedside table.

“Well jeez! You like drinking that every morning? Dude, that tasted like ass before all that sugar.”

“Hey!” He pinches her sides playfully, making her swat his hands away.

“I’ll never understand coffee,” she shakes her head. “Maybe a sip of this would help,” she picks up the glass next to his oatmeal. “Uncle left tender coconut water in the fridge for the two of us. But know that if I made filter coffee right now, I would have knocked your socks off.”

“I don’t doubt it. Thanks for breakfast, by the way.”

“No problem. The breakfast was to just butter you up,” she admits with a coy smile.

“For?” He arches his brow.

“I’ll tell you later.” She says, getting up and making her way to the door. “But wash up and meet me downstairs. Aunty will be back from work soon and then we’re going to the salon with your mum.”

“What time is it?” He asks.

“Half past ten. We’re the only ones home.” She tells him.

“Can’t be…” He turns around to find his phone and figure out why his alarm didn’t go off.

“I turned your alarm off. It bloody woke me up at five in the morning,” she rolls her eyes. “You need a day off from running for your shoulder.”

“I didn’t run yesterday,” he defends himself.

“We still went on a walk.” She reminds him. “Plus, I’ve got a great lazy day planned for us.”

////

“I thought you guys were going to get facials done?” Harry asks, stepping into Layla’s bathroom. She had a makeshift spa set up with fluffy towels, a scented candle, and colourful tubs of skincare.

“We are,” she replies, coming up behind him with a brass cup on top of a white hand towel. “You and Uncle refused to come get facials with us-“

He moves out of her way, so she can set it on the counter. “I don’t think I need it. My skin looks good from just using your skincare. And Vasanth laughed when you sugg-“

“Don’t be fooled by that.” Layla interrupts. “He acts like salons are a scam. He refused to go get a facial before his wedding because he thought he was too cool. He bought those facial kits two days before his reception and begged me to give him a facial. I bet my ass he’s gonna come knocking on my door for a sheet mask at least tonight.” She cocks her head to the wooden stool she’d dragged from the master bathroom.

Harry sits down. “So, I’m getting a spa day because you think I might have certain inhibitions to walk into a salon?”

“Nope. I’m pampering you for the burn you suffered at the carnival yesterday,” she laughs.

“Oh please! We both know that shot was a fluke,” he argues.

“It wasn’t! I’ve got the skills,” she insists, sticking her tongue out at him.

“What skills?” He asks her exasperatedly, throwing his hands up.

“Hello! All the hours I put into Call of Duty. It must have rubbed off on me in real life.” She clasps her fingers together, sticking out her middle and index at him, bringing it to her eyes as she pretends to shoot him. Blowing out the tips of her fingers like one would a gun in old cowboy movies.

“You can’t be serious!” He rolls his eyes. “Baby, that’s so stupid.”

“Says the idiot who’s car now houses the giant stuffed bunny I won,” she arches her brow at him.

“Shut up,” he sticks his tongue out at her. “Those games are rigged, you know,” he adds, hoping to discount her win.

Despite her boyfriend's attempts to try and gloss over her victory, Layla finds herself smiling - the kind that makes her dimple dip into her cheek. “So what you’re saying is that you weren’t strong enough for the high striker?”

“No!” Harry replies quickly. “I won that fair and square! I am a man of wit and brawn!”

Layla laughs. “Whatever you say, Hercules,” she dismisses, leaning forward to press a kiss to his temple. “Alright, I have two facial kits. Do you want the fruit enzyme or the pearl one?”

Harry regards the boxes on the counter, like he knew the organic chemistry behind it. Prior to Layla all he did was moisturise and now he had managed to swipe all of her tubes and tubs that were nice smelling. His skin was a lot softer, the tingly red goopy masque that Layla pipettes onto his face every week got rid of all the blackheads on his nose. His forehead was a lot less angry, with the red zits only popping up occasionally but disappearing as fast as it came. So, he really didn’t think he needed any one of the boxes but it was appealing to kick back and let her dote on him. After all, she deemed it to be his lazy day. “The fruit one,” he answers.

“Did you just pick the colourful box?” Layla chuckles when he gives her a sheepish smile as she runs a comb through his hair to work the knots.“Can’t believe you cut your hair,” she complains, running her fingers through the shorter brown locks. When he’d turned up to her Aunt’s flower braiding ceremony with trimmed hair, it made her bottom lip visibly jut out in a pout.

“It was getting long and difficult to style.” It was. Harry’s hair coiled around the nape of his neck and it made him look shaggy. “You’re just whining ‘coz you don’t have a lot to grab onto when I’m eating you out,” he smiles up at her salaciously.

Warmth flushes across Layla’s chest, rising up to her cheeks and the tops of her ears. He really did have a filthy mouth. “It’s not just that,” she admits. “Your curls are gone,” she states. The short cut - especially after styling - made his hair look straight, almost like the stylist had a vengeance to get rid of them. There was still a dusting of curls left behind near his ears and it was incredibly cute when they peaked out of whatever beanie he was wearing. She can’t wait until they grow back and coil again and she was going to do everything in her power to make them sprout faster.

“What’s that?” Harry asks, as Layla reaches for the small brass bowl with a sap green liquid.

“Oil. Aunty’s hair and mine have been falling off in clumps lately, so we called grandmum and asked for her hair oil recipe. Is that okay? It’s ayurvedic.”

“Yeah. Was this your ploy all along? Trick me into growing my hair out faster?”

She chuckles. “No, actually. I was just giving you a head massage.”

“What have you got up your sleeve, Lails?”

“Nothing. Now just shut your eyes and prepare to relax.”

She gently scoops out the oil, mindful to not spill it on the floor, and works her blunt nails in small circles on his scalp. He moans quietly, and it makes her chuckle as she puts a shower cap on him. Step one: complete, she smiles.

Harry likes getting a facial, he decides. He has not got one before but he concludes that this is the best. His girlfriend’s soft touch as she lathers up his face with a cleanser, the soft bristles of the brush that paint his skin with a thick orange paste, and he got to lean back against her chest. All made a content sigh escape from him.

Their trip to the autumn carnival was a ball of fun. They got there after lunch and went around playing loads of games. Layla won the shooting game and ended up picking a humongous bunny plushie - one that the two could not tote around, resulting Harry to jog to the parking lot and throw it in the backseat of his car. Harry tried his luck at ring toss, skee ball, and bottle toss, only to lose every time. He pouted the whole time they walked around the fair, because he deemed it unfair that his girlfriend won and refused to give him the bunny as consolation. Layla pestered him to buy them a turkey leg, which she spat it out right after taking a sizable bite because it was ‘so fucking disgusting that even cavemen would choose to die to starvation than to eat a turkey leg.’ He ended up eating the whole thing, while she stuck to a corn cob. They ended up taking lots of pictures and even waited for an hour to get on the ferris wheel. When Harry leaned over to give her a kiss at the top, the structure creaked making their pod unsteady causing Layla to panic shove him back into his spot. He almost peed his pants laughing when Layla walked face first into her reflection - after proclaiming she had a penchant for this - while they were trying to find their way out of the mirror maze. She gave him the silent treatment and shot him dirty looks the rest of the evening until he’d bought her a cotton candy that was twice as big as her face. Layla learnt that toddlers had a better grasp of eating cotton candy compared to her boyfriend, whose mouth, nose and cheeks grew stickier and pinker with each passing minute. Just as they were about to leave she’d convinced him to try out the high striker. Even if Harry was reluctant to lose again, her sugary kiss convinced him to give it a shot and he did, using a little of his body weight and most of the gravitational pull to drop the hammer into the designated red pedal. The red light meter grew higher and higher, causing him to throw his hands up high in sweet victory, pulling his girlfriend in for a bone crushing hug - spinning her around - muttering how he had ‘science and muscle on his side,’ smearing all the sticky sugary pink treat onto her face. Layla picked out matching key chains as the prize - a clay polymer of two peas in a pod, a nod to his favourite vegetable. The key chain now held his car keys and Layla had slotted it into her house key fob.

He’s pulled back to the now, when he feels a warm washcloth wipe off the enzyme mask that was sitting on his face for twenty minutes. “There,” Layla says, stepping back. “Now, before we hop into the shower, I want you to rate this experience.” She steps back, leaning against the sink.

“Five out of five,” he answers earnestly, opening his eyes to watch her telltale evil grin spread across the entirety of her face. “Oh no,” he mutters.

“Oh yes!” She beams. Opening a drawer, pulling out a spool of white thread, “Since I’ve given you an ace of an experience, you’re gonna help me with threading my eyebrows by being my dummy.” Harry watches her pull out ten inches of thread, bite it, knot the end to make a loop as she winds one hand around to create tension in the middle.

“No! No no. You buttered me up for this?!? No way. Piss off,” he leans backwards and shoves her hands.

“Come on,” she whines. “I’ll just thread the extras. It’s not like I’m gonna shape it. I need to practise.”

“I’ve seen you thread your face before. What practice?” He grabs onto her hands - clutching them close to his chest, halting her advances.

“Yeah for my moustache and the hairs on my chin! Not my eyebrows! It’s so bushy. Come on, please.”

“You’re going to the salon. Get it done there.”

“I’m not trusting anyone to thread my eyebrows but the parlour Aunty back home. She’s the only one who gets it right. Anyone who’s not desi is not gonna touch my eyebrows. Let me just practice on you, so I can try and do mine. I tried to thread my eyebrows a few years ago and ended up pulling out the hair from the arch and I can’t afford to fuck up with the wedding festivities starting tomorrow,” she reasons.

“And I’m the guinea pig that could stand to lose a bloody eyebrow?”

“You won’t lose an eyebrow,” she chuckles. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“No way! Here I was thinking you wanted to pamper me but you were trying to get me all putty in your hands, so you can rip out the hairs of my brow.”

“Please,” she tries again, jutting her bottom lip out, blinking rapidly to get a film of tears over her eyes, voice honey smooth.

“No,” Harry says firmly, closing his eyes to not fall for her glassy doe eyed trick. Her loud sigh makes him open up just in time to see her bottom lip quiver. “Anything but my eyebrows, baby,” he concedes. Fuck she is persuasive.

“Fine,” she huffs out, wiggling her trapped hands. “Let me pluck out the three hairs that sprout from your mole at least,” she pokes the mole at the corner of his mouth.

“I do not have hair growi- Fuck off, dickhead.”

“You just said ‘anything but the eyebrows,’” she quotes, drawling out her voice to mimic his accent.

“What are you? A lawyer? Using my own words against me,” he shakes his head. “Fine, anything but threading. I’m game for anything but threading.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” he confirms.

“Then… Maybe take me to this seafood restaurant?” She proposes, looking into his eyes expectantly.

“Deal. I’ll take you on a date to this restaurant. That’s it?”

“That’s it. All I want is the Cioppino.”

“We’ll go next week and make a whole day out of it.” She claps, abandoning the thread. “Deal?” She stretches out her pinky.

“Deal! Can’t wait,” says as he loops his pinky with hers and brings it to his lips.

“We can make a whole day out of it.” She declares, walking over to the glass partition and turning on the rainfall shower head for hot water. “I bet I can call ahead and get us on those boats that take people to the sea to taste fresh oysters. We can laze around the beach for the rest of the day and I’ll make a reservation at Seabird in the evening.”

All of what she’s saying sounds very rehearsed, Harry’s eyebrows knit together and his eyes narrow. The place they were staying was landlocked; far far away from the nearest beach. “Lails, where’s Seabird?”

“In Wilmington,” she answers, with a giggle.

Wilmington, a two and a half hour drive from Apex. A journey that Harry would have made her drive. He’d been driving her around the bloody country, and it’s only fair that she drove him around too. Ever since she told him that she was licensed to drive around multiple countries, in Vermont, he’d told her that they were gonna tag team for longer road trips. Of course, he’d drive her to and fro in a heartbeat but with each passing instance he found himself enjoying the role of a passenger princess - shovelling snacks into their mouths, curating playlists for their journey, fondling her thighs and chuckling at the sheer unwavering concentration she mustered while driving. And it was the experience he would have got while driving to the restaurant if not for her cornering him into this deal.

“Hey you conned me! This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” He accuses, standing up straight with his hands on his hips. Although his gaze was accusatory, the smile that tugs the corner of his lips was one of pride by being outwitted by his girl.

“No backsies!” She lets out a gleeful laugh, stripping off her clothes beckoning him to follow.

////

“Hey, come on in,” Vasanth greets Anne and Harry, stepping aside to let him in. “Abi’s almost done getting ready. You guys need anything before we head over? Water?” It was still dark outside, with the first few rays breaking over the horizon.

“We’re good. Never got dressed this early for a wedding event in my life,” Anne chuckles, smoothing down the fabric of her floral shirt. “Does it always happen this early?”

“Yeah. The பந்தக்கால் முகூர்த்தம் (Pandakaal Muhurtham) usually takes place at dawn. We woke up at three in the morning to get the house set up for mine.”

Harry beelines towards the stairs in his aqua trousers and his white shirt mumbling about checking to see if Layla was ready.

“Harry.” Vasanth calls out. “Layla’s in the family room. She isn’t coming today.”

‘Why?” He asks, hand on the bannister as he steps down.

“She’s ill. Allergies,” he explains.

“Oh no. I didn’t know she was allergic to anything. Is she alright?” Anne enquires.

“Miss. Genius thought it would be a grand idea to get some persimmons from the tree in the backyard in the dead of the night-”

“She’s allergic to persimmons?” Harry asks.

“No. She’s allergic to the gypsy moth caterpillar. They’re pretty rampant in fall, which is why I zipped her up in my biggest jacket I could find everytime she stepped out of the house.” He points to the Tide jacket that was hung on the coat hook. “I think it fell on her when she was picking the fruit and she barged into our room wheezing and claiming that she was dizzy.”

“Oh dear. Let me go check up on her,” Anne says, giving her coat to Harry, marching towards the room.

Layla is on her side, hands tucked under her cheek, breathing stuttering as she intently watches a show on her laptop - that was whirring like it was going to launch into space - with AirPods in her ear. Her lower half was swaddled in a fuzzy red blanket and her camisole showed them the red welts all over her shoulder with small irregular bumps that decorated her skin.

“Sweetheart,” Anne coos, sitting on the coffee table.

Layla smiles up at her, tugging off her AirPods as she reaches over to hit the spacebar - pausing her show. “Good morning. You look really nice!”

“Thank you, Layla. How are you feeling? Do you have any trouble breathing now?” She inquires - caressing her hair - from the whistle sounds she makes when she inhales.

“Nope. Just itchy,” her eyes flit to her splotchy skin on her forearm; she can feel Harry’s gaze - who’s hovering behind her - bore into the back of her skull.

“Did you go to the emergency room?”

“No. I bought my meds with me. I took an antihistamine, applied calamide on my skin. Wheezing has gone down considerably and I have my inhalers right here if it flares up again.”

“You came prepared?” Anne chuckles.

“Yeah. It’ll clear up by the afternoon. That’s what usually happens; I used to get them of-”

“You’ve been super allergic to them your whole life and you still haven’t learnt your lesson,” Vasanth scolds her.

“What lesson?” She coughs out.

“Do not go near trees, especially when it gets dark. Everytime-”

“Vasanth,” Abi chides in, walking into the room with a green linen saree, smelling like the jasmine that she’s pinned in her braid. “She’s sick. Don’t scold her.”

‘But she-,” her husband starts.

“Yelling at her is not going to get her better.” She tells him. “Nice pants, Harry.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, smiling at her.

“Nandhini Aunty called. I think we’re running behind,” she informs them. “You’re gonna be alright alone, kutti?”

“Uh huh. You guys go have fun,” Layla shoos them away.

“Okay. Call if you need anything okay,” Vasanth reminds her, bending down to kiss her hair. Layla nods.

The party makes their way to the front door, shuffling on their coats when they hear her call out, “எனக்கு காலை உணவை கொண்டு வர மறக்காதே, சித்தப்பா! (Don’t forget to bring me back breakfast, Uncle!)”

“ உனக்கு எதுவும் இல்லை! (None for you!) You’ll only get food after you drink the Neem juice!”

“Yuck!” She grimaces in disgust, making them all laugh. “I’m not doing that!”

“We’ll see about that when I get back. Get some sleep!” Vasanth shouts back. He grips on the door handle about to shut it when he sees Harry hesitate at the threshold, toying with his socks. Abi and Anne have already made their way across the street. “Everything okay?”

“Um no. I think-,” he stammers, running his hand through his hair. “I’m gonna stay with her. You guys go ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Fair warning, her allergy meds knock her into a comatose state and the one time she couldn’t sleep because the house was noisy she picked a fight with my dad - who had the TV on - and bit him.”

“Really?” His eyebrows raise up.

“Yep. She turns into a rabid dog if she’s not left alone to sleep. She still threatens to bite me if I wake her up before the alarm. I think it’s best to leave her be. Don’t tell me I didn’t give you a heads up.”

“I think I can handle her,” he replies, cockily making Vasanth shrug before closing the door.

////

Forty five minutes. It only took forty five minutes for Harry to want to eat his own words. Handling her was something he’s not sure how to do anymore. His original plan was to lull her to sleep, so she was less likely to be cranky but he did not expect her to swing in the opposite direction. The minute Layla heard him walk back, she buried herself under the blankets - refusing to come out. She announced to him with firm conviction that she was not going to fall asleep until Vasanth, Anne, and Abi got home and filled her in on all the details that happened across the street. He’d tried everything with her: he was stern to which she responded back by blowing a blaring raspberry at him, she whined like a brat when he tried to slot himself on the couch, she managed to quickly swipe her AirPods and her laptop from the coffee table when he’d made his way to the kitchen to make her some chamomile tea, and most of all she dismissed him with one word answers when he proposed that he’ll drive her to a lake if she turns off her show and listen to him.

And that brings him to now, forty five minutes later with a child coffee cup in hand, hunched over the end of the couch on his knees, a loud sigh escaping his mouth when he sees that the upright figure of his girlfriend cocooned in the blanket. She is so bloody stubborn, he thinks wordlessly tugging on the corner of the fleece fabric. She quickly tucks it under her thigh, mumbling underneath her breath about wanting to watch Neeya Naana in peace.

“Layla,” he groans out, placing the mug on the table next to the thermometer. “What’s the debate topic this episode?” He asks. He’s watched an episode or two with her when they were vegging out on the couch. Layla had told him that the show helps break her bubble of privilege by giving her a glimpse into the opinions of the general public. And most of the time Harry sees her watching, eyes wide mumbling about how bloody backwards everyone is.

“Housemaids versus Employers. It’s not not even a debate anymore; they’re just yelling at each other and the moderator is trying to shut them up.”

“Can I watch with you?”

“No,” she responds after a few beats, with a shake of her head.

“Why not?”

“Go to Nandhini Aunty’s house, Harry.”

“I’m not gonna leave you! Baby, what’s wrong? I just want to take care of you. You were there when I was sick, why can’t I do the same?” He implores, gently placing a hand on her thigh, caressing the fleece of the blanket.

“It’s just allergies. It’ll go in a few hours-”

“Layla,” he cuts her off. “It doesn’t matter. Just let me under the blanket?” He pleads, giving a reassuring squeeze to her thigh.

Layla takes in a loud breath in. “I look hideous,” she admits quietly. “I have welts all over my skin. My face looks like a bumpy road. I don’t want you to look at me like this. You’ll laugh.”

Harry can’t help but laugh, making her pinch the skin on the back of his hand in response. “Ow!” He snatches his hand from her, rubbing over the spot. “I’m sorry. You’re being ridiculous, Lails. Do you really think I would laugh?”

“No,” she whispers. “What if you look at me now and just can’t get hard… like ever.”

“That’s preposterous. I get hard every time I think of you. Like sometimes I see you walk into my room with a smile on your face and boom - instant semi,” he admits, tugging the corner of the bed sheet, and slipping his hand in.

She giggles. “Your love boners,” she recalls, her hand clasping Harry’s that sneaks in, enjoying his warmth.

“Plus, I’ve sneezed on you - like a properly disgusting snotty sneeze and you’ve seen me pee! You still have sex with me,” he reminds her.

“That’s true! I’ve seen you pee like seven times now.”

“Just let me in, baby. I’ll close my eyes. Would that help?”

“No. I’m being silly again. Sorry.” She closes her laptop shut, and tugs her bed sheet off her with a big sigh, letting it pool on her lap.

Harry immediately helps her place her bulky old laptop on the ottoman along with her AirPods. She smiles down at him, and Harry can’t help cup her splotchy cheeks. She was warm, like she was running a slight temperature, her face was pink - with the calamide spread all over. Ruddy welts everywhere except for her nose and lips. The angry red bumps continued all over her neck, chest and down her arms. Her breaths were still accompanied by a faint whistle and all her hair was pulled into a messy bun, away from her skin.

“What on earth made you think that three in the bloody morning was a good time to eat persimmons?”

“I don’t know. I was thirsty and my water bottle wasn’t on the nightstand, so I came downstairs to get it from the kitchen and the tree caught my eye. I figured why not have a snack and you know I’ve never tasted persimmons before and Uncle had been holding me off from the tree until they got ripe.. So I figured why not?”

“And when did the fuzzy worm fall on you?”

“I picked three and there was a really big ripe fruit high up, so I set my phone’s flashlight down and jumped to get it and ended up knocking it from the branch. It fell on my face,” she frowns. “I thought nothing would happen since every time those fuckers triggered my allergies it was back home and they were native species but I guess all the fuzz of caterpillars don’t agree with me.”

He can’t help but let out a boyish giggle at the thought of her itty bitty frame jumping up and down in the dead of the night trying to get a fruit. “This is why you should stay away from worms. They’re absolutely vile.”

“Hey! Just because I’m allergic to one particular demonic worm does not mean you can hate all of them. They’re so cute and slimy when they crawl around.”

“Whatever. Make bad choices and love on worms and snails.” He shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “Freak.”

“Hey!”

“Did you enjoy the persimmon at least?”

“No! They were so disappointing! Not worth all this at all,” she explains, scratching down her collarbone.

“No itching,” Harry reminds her, prying her fingers away from her irritated skin.

“But it’s scratchy,” she complains.

“I know.” He coos, kissing her hand. “Come on, scoot over,” he tells her, stripping down to his underwear.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you a cuddle?”

“Go put on some trousers. Don’t want them coming home with you in your tighty whities.” She snorts out a laugh, pointing at his underpants.

“Nice to see that all your dickhead skills are intact despite your illness. He flips his middle finger to her, making her bark out a louder wheezy laugh.

“I just folded a pair of your shorts and hoodie in my closet.”

Harry quickly bounds up the staircase and slips on his olive green hoodie and his black running shorts. By the time he gets downstairs, Layla’s already shuffled to the end of the couch, looking up at him with big bleary eyes. He hastily settles on the cushions, pulling the blanket around them, slotting his legs between hers while bringing her close to his chest. That’s all it takes for Layla’s eyes to flutter close, reveling in the feeling of his fingers rub soothing circles on her scalp.

////

Abi wanders into Ganesan's kitchen to get a break from all the ruckus in the living room. She needed to get away from the ruckus. At first the conversation was flowing and easy between the guests as the women waited for their turn with the henna artist. She was sandwiched between the Ganesan’s dog and her husband, talking to the guests about their trips to India - about the new buildings erected and new hangout spots in Chennai as Jeans played in a muted volume. But as the women started trickling away, the conversation turned more mind-numbing, the TV switched to the sport channel that broadcasts cricket highlights from ten years ago, and somehow the conversation turned a corner to alligator hunting from the bride’s uncle from Florida. Vasanth mentioned that he and Layla ate some alligator on their trip to New Orleans and the people immediately went into all the gory detail of skinning the reptile and she did not want her breakfast to make its way up.

While the rest of the house was clean and meticulously decorated with fresh flowers and paper lanterns for the mehendi ceremony. But the kitchen was a mess. There were plastic bags everywhere, food containers out in the open, the sink was overflowing with glasses and dishes, a trail of food wrappers dotted its way from the pantry. The kitchen counter was transformed into a makeshift station with an ineffectual assembly line of Aunties making goodie bags for the guests to take home.

“Do you guys need any help?”

“Yes, kanna,” Nandhini smiles. “Can you put some chocolate in each bag?”

“Here, you go,” an older lady politely hands her a box of Ferraro Rochers, and Abi gets into action.

“How far along are you?” The older lady asks, her curly hair frames her face and the grey strands provide a stark contrast against her deep skin tone.

“Five and a half months. Baby is due in the first week of March.”

“Abi’s all set to get a promotion at work in the New Year,” Nandhini adds, patting her back.

“It’s nice that the women nowadays get to do it all,” an old grandmother adds, who wasn’t really contributing much but more so supervising the assembly line.

“Sometimes, I wonder how different my life would be like if I wasn’t made to discontinue college to get married,” the curly haired woman muses.

“Do you regret your life choices?” Another woman asks, who was standing across from them.

“I don’t regret my children or my husband but sometimes I wonder what life would have been like had I finished college. Maybe I too would be a working mother like Abi.”

“It’s not too late now, Aunty, you can sign up for some classes. There are some great certification courses online,” Abi tells her.

“Yeah but my brain is not brand new like it was before,” she chuckles, making the group laugh.

“I’m glad I stayed at home. I couldn’t not bring myself to leave my children in a creche,” Nandhini Aunty says.

“To each their own.” The grandmother gives the ladies a crinkly smile. “But it is nice that the young girls get a chance to establish themselves before marriage.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Nandhini says.

“What makes you say that?” Abi asks.

“I was reading this interview from a famous divorce lawyer back home and she credits the rising divorce rates to women being allowed to have their own careers and build lives before marrying. Think about it, say someone gets married at thirty. The young girl already has a fully developed belief system, she has a good savings put away, she starts spending how she wants and it’s very hard for them to compromise and bend to the life she is building with her husband.” Nandhini explains. “You know, because they will be set in their ways, it’s so much more likely for both of them to have massive egos and fights leading to a separation. Which is why I think women should get married soon.”

“Doesn’t that apply to men as they age too?” Abi asks.

“But boys are going to be boys. Can’t expect them to be mature. Which is why, Abi, I want you to talk to Layla about marriage - start seeding the idea, you know? I talked to your mother-in-law during the flower braiding ceremony and she was asking me if I knew of any good matches for Layla.”

“But she’s-” Abi starts.

“I think Layla and Ashwin would make a great pair. They are looking for brides for him. He’s in tech in San Francisco. He earns six figures. He’ll be able to handle her spunky personality. This is his mother,” Nandhini points to the curly haired woman she was conversing with.

Abi stares dumbfounded at the women in front of her cradling her baby bump, not knowing how to respond. Nandhini Aunty has backed her against a corner by having Ashwin’s mother also present in the conversation. She hates it. She hates Nandhini Aunty for being sneaky and crafting this exact moment. She hates that she essentially walked into this conversation. She also hates the fact that this is how the woman was raised and she’s trying to do a good thing - at least from her perspective.

“I’ve told her lots about Layla and from what she’s seen today, she likes her.” Nandhini continues. “Talk to your family about it and don’t let a good opportunity slip by.”

“I really appreciate it, Aunty, but we aren’t really looking for anyone at the moment. Plus, she’s seeing Har-”

“It’s a lapse in her judgement. She’s just seeking out new experiences. She is having fun now but what will happen when she gets more mature? She will want to settle down with someone similar - someone from her own culture. We should be the ones to guide her away from bad decisions,” Nandhini tells her, halting the conversation about Harry.

Abi chuckles. “Even if that is the case in the future, her number one goal right now is to get into a good PhD program. She’s only turning twenty three next month and she just started her first adult job this week. We're also starting to discuss the idea of marriage and hopefully find someone before it’s too late, you know how it is - good matches are hard to come by and I’m sure that’s why her grandmother is spreading around the word. Just not immediately,” she tells the women, shooting apologetic smiles at Ashwin’s mother, who nods along with the rest of the women.

“What program is Layla applying to?” Ashwin’s mother asks Abi. The conversation smoothly moves into the women’s children’s experiences with applying to grad schools until Anne informs Abi that she’s done and it’s her turn with the henna artist.

////

One of the best things about getting your mehendi done was the feeling of the sharp plastic cone tip tickling the palm of your hand for hours, depending on the design. Layla certainly didn’t make the henna artist's job easy by giving her a neatly folded A4 sheet with the sketch of the design she designed. But the artist beamed - when she unfolded the sheet of paper with an apologetic smile - as she was rubbing a few drops of eucalyptus oil on her palm to prep her skin. She has been sitting with the artist for an hour now, chatting with the henna artist about all the designs she had done on her clients so far. Anne and Abi were deep in conversation with their palm outstretched in front of a table fan, aiding in the drying process.

“Lails,” Harry calls out, wandering into the living room to where she’s sitting on a round cushion on the floor. The backdrop was one with netted pink and bright yellow netted fabric draped all over with colourful paper lanterns hanging from the fairy lights strung above.

“Hmm?” She turns around to find him sauntering next to her clad in his monotone ivory kurta set. It was criminal how good he looked with the plunging v neckline, that exposed the slight dusting of his chest hair with his swallows peeping through on either side and the chain that glimmered around his neck. Her eyes can’t help wander down to how the gathering at the bottom of his pants only accentuated his graceful legs. The pale skin only accentuated the tan of his skin, making his jade eyes and raven tattoos.

“Can I drop my camera with you? Vasanth and I are heading over to Raleigh in a couple of minutes.”

“Where are you two going?” She asks and Harry Harry has to resist the urge to pinch her cheeks. Her allergies had subsided last evening, but there were still patches of pink on her face. She opted to not wear makeup - other than lipgloss and bindi - to the event to help her skin breathe and soothe before she had to glam up for the sangeeth and the kalyanam (ceremony). It didn’t matter to Harry because he had never seen someone so radiant in her flowy mint green anarkali, jhumkas dangling from her ear, her bangles tinkling as she pushed her hair behind her shoulders. The same bangles that were tucked away in his pocket when she sat down with the henna artist.

“He didn’t say but we’re picking up Earl along the way too.” He kneels down next to her, finally getting a peak at the drawing on her palms that the artist was doing her final touches on. “Wait- are those…,” he tilts his head, trying to get a better view.

“Elephants. Lots and lots of elephants!” She exclaims in a toothy smile that carves out the dimple on her left cheek. “How awesome is this!?!”

“It’s so pretty!” He carefully lifts her forearm - the one that was finished - to inspect the intricate line work.

“Of course it’s pretty. Elephants tend to have that effect on people.”

“Especially you - wait, my phone’s buzzing,” he tells her, putting her hand down to rest on her knee before fishing it out of his pocket. “It’s Vasanth. I gotta go.”

“Itch my nose before you leave, please?”

He chuckles, going to scratch the tip of her nose. “Oh, and Abi,” he says, making her turn to face him.

“Vasanth told me to tell you that he has the cotton balls soaking in sugar water with lemon juice in the fridge for the three of you.” He waves to her and his mother and heads out.

“You’ve trained him well,” Layla laughs.

////

“Layla, wait up.” Ashwin calls out, jogging over to the Sathish’s driveway.

Layla, Abi, and Anne had bid their goodbyes to the wedding party at the Ganesan’s and had made their way across the road to their house. It was a chilly afternoon, especially with the frigid winds blowing up her gown. Indian wear – especially occasion wear - was not designed with colder temperatures in mind. All she wanted to do is head back to her room and turn on the portable space heater near her bed. “I’ll be a minute,” she tells Anne and Abi, as they go into the house through the opened garage.

“Hey, what’s up?” She asks, holding her arms up in front of her, cognizant to not smear the henna on her fancy clothing.

“I didn’t know you owned a camera,” he notes, gaze moving down to the camera that was hanging around her neck.

“It’s Harry’s,” she tells him. “Everything okay?”

“Yep yep. I have something for you and in hindsight I should have given it before you sat down for the mehendi,” he tells her, tugging his sweater.

“Yeah, I can’t really hold anything right now. Although, you can just put it there,” he points to the shelf in the garage, where Vasanth keeps his tools. “I can get it later when I’ve rubbed all of this off,” she nods to her hand.

“Okay,” he nods, patting his pocket to fish out the object.

“What is it?” She asks.

“Remember when we were talking about toys on our way to the jewelry store?”

She nods.

“I asked my cousin who was flying from Colombo to get these,” he tells her, opening his palm to reveal a small aluminium tube and a short plastic straw.

“Plastic bubbles!” She gasps. “They still make these?!?”

“Yup. I had forgotten all about them until you brought it up in the car.”

“Thank you so much, Ashwin. This is the sweetest. I would give you a hug if I could.”

He laughs. “Yeah, don’t fancy getting henna stains all over my clothes.” He walks over putting it on the shelf.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” She trails behind him.

“Yeah.”

“Do you, um - This is going to sound stupid. But, um, do you do this with everyone?”

“Sorry?”

“Get thoughtful gifts. Offer to take them places. Maybe you’re a wonderful person who’s kind and is just friendly but I’d just like to make sure that we’re on the same page. I’m sorry if this comes across as rude but I think what I’m asking - Well trying to ask, I’m doing such a shitty job of it is-”

“Yes.” He tells her quietly, feeling his heart thud in his ears, fingers busy picking out a phantom thread from his sweater. “I think I might have a crush on you.”

“Oh.” His confession stuns her. “Why?”

This makes Ashwin laugh. “What do you mean why?”

“No, I mean. We met ten days ago. You don’t know me.”

“I feel like I do know you, to a certain extent at least. It wasn’t like some instant crush or anything. Nandhini Aunty started talking about you to me after we first met and she er… she told me your family was looking for a groom and she was on my ass to get married. She was telling me how we would make a great couple and - you look disappointed,” he notes.

“I’m not. Just finish your story.”

“My mom was also looking for girls and you were pretty cool with basketball, golf, and video games… I liked you and Nandhini Aunty pushed me to talk to you and the more we interacted I thought ‘why not her,’ so under her instructions I started to woo you,” he admits, looking down at the floor. “The more she said that we would make a great couple, the more I believed.”

“Wooed me?” She chuckles. “Let me get this straight, you bought me stuff and are nice to me because your Aunty told you to?”

“No no. I mean I’m not gonna say it was all her. I wanted to, too. She just influenced my choices.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Layla shakes her head, blowing out a long breath. “Actually I do. If you really know me, you’d also know that I’m only twenty two and I’m not done studying. I don’t want to get married to you or to anyone. Would you wanna be ‘wooed’ at twenty two for a lifelong commitment? Plus, I’m dating someone. Harry. Did that get lost in translation or something?”

“Oh. You’re only twenty two.” Ashwin steps back. “I didn’t know you and Harry were a thing. I really didn’t, I swear. Nandhini Aunty told me you two were friends. I’m sorry. I do admit I was a bit jealous that you barely considered my invites to hang out in favour of him but I thought of him as your friend. If I had known he was your boyfriend, I wouldn’t have asked you out. I would never want to put anyone in such a position. I didn’t know you were not interested. From what I was told, it seemed like you were open to it. I really am sorry. I crossed so many boundaries. I just got sucked into the whole marriage spiel with the wedding and all.”

Layla stands quietly for a few minutes. Had she been that blind to not know that someone was expressing interest in her. Harry was weirdly right, she thinks. He wasn’t being jealous for no reason, he did pick up on Ashwin’s hints and she just thought it was him being irrational and upset because she was speaking to another man. Fuck. I owe him an apology. She feels terrible that Harry went through all that - unearthing insecurities - when she could have stopped it all. But a little part of her was glad it happened because she didn’t know the complexities of his relationship with his father and she felt a lot closer to him after that night.

“Did I lead you on?” She asks.

“No. I’m sorry about this whole thing. It’s just a giant misunderstanding.”

“It is. For the record, my interest is with the portals for PhD applications. They open in a few days-”

“Hey, I get it. You don’t have to explain anything. I’m sorry about all of this but for mostly, making you uncomfortable in any way-”

“You didn’t,” she let him know, with a smile. “Hey, besides I get it, Aunties try to talk us into a lot of shit.”

“Agreed. I do carry some blame in the mess here but I hope we can be friends. I would hate for you not to come over for the movie night because of this.”

“I’ll be there with Harry. Will Pooja be there?” Layla barely got to see Pooja today because she had to be there at the venue to oversee decorations with her father. Her lack of presence was a gaping hole for Layla today, who was looking forward to seeing her decked up in the brightest of yellow clothes.

“Of course. They are on their way home actually. She’s the last person and then the henna artists leave. She was the one who picked out Love Today.”

“I can’t wait to watch. I saw a sneak peak on YouTube and I had flashbacks to Amma (mum) yelling at me for constantly being on my phone.”

“I know right! Raadika is doing such a good job with her mother characters. See you two tonight.”

“See you.” She waves to him as she walks out of the garage. “Thank you for the plastic bubble!”

////

“You are surprisingly good at that,” Layla announces, with a mouthful of her lentil salad, watching him perfectly flick the pebble onto the body of water.

“Why is that surprising?” He questions, cocking his head to the side. The pebbles skips on the water four times, before sinking, leaving a path of concentric ripples in wake of an otherwise still sight.

“You’re so clumsy otherwise,” she shrugs, scraping the remaining contents of sprouted lentils onto her spoon for the final mouthful wishing she had access to raw mango like she did back home. That would have made her breakfast a million times better.

“Hey, I haven’t bumped into anything today,” he chuckles.

“Yet. It’s only seven in the morning. You’ve got lots of time,” she teases, making him spin around to face her with his hands on his hips.

Beautiful, wasn’t enough of a word to capture the sight in front of Layla. The distant silhouette of barren trees lined up on the hazy horizon in a stark contrast of dark. The sun was making its ascent up the distant woody lining, making the sky bleed a vibrant yellow. The yellow that was slowly growing over the dark violet of the night's residue. The pink rimmed clouds were now faintly disappearing as a brighter colour weaves its way into the expanse of the atmosphere. The water slowly stills again becoming an unobstructed reflection of the beauty of the cosmos. It’s almost like the water knew that it needed to capture the beauty it experienced every day and so, it became a mirror - telling the refracted light and photon of its allure. But that wasn’t it at all. What would have been another scenery of daybreak becomes something that is inexplicably Layla’s because of the boy standing at the edge of the shore. It’s almost empyrean in his black trousers - that had somehow ended up with a smudge of dried paint, a ringer t-shirt, and an unbuttoned Gucci cardigan. He’s looking down at her with a faux cross look that he can muster but his resplendent dimples always give him away.

He’s keeping his promise of driving her to Lake Jordan for a breakfast picnic in exchange for her complacency when her allergy flared up. And here they are two days later, Layla is sitting on a blanket in his solar system themed jumper and yoga pants with a thick comforter wrapped around her to protect herself from the cold. “Come sit with me,” she nods to the spot next to her by the scrunched up foil - the one that he abandoned leaving behind morsels of the bagel egg sandwich she threw together earlier.

He walks back over to her, slotting himself behind her, draping the comforter over his shoulders and cradling her against his chest, so she’s wrapped too. “It’s a bit nippy today,” he notes, resting his chin on top of her head.

“Hmm,” she sighs in contentment, leaning her head back against the slope of his shoulder.

“Are you having a good time?” He asks.

“Hmm.”

“Thank you for breakfast.”

“Hmm.”

“Your mehendi stains pretty dark. I love your design.”

“Hmm.”

“It makes your hands smell nice too. Not that I’m sniffing your hands or anything.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re not listening to me, are you?”

“Hmm.”

He smiles, tilting down to give her a kiss on the messy bun she’s pulled her hair up in. “I liked your outfit yesterday,” he tells her, rocking her from side to side. “Especially your hair. I didn’t get why you made such a big deal about my haircut but when I saw you with shoulder length hair I almost felt this pang in my chest. I love running my fingers through the length of your hair, it’s very calming. I mean it’s not like I can’t do it now but - anyway what I’m trying to say is that as much as I miss your old look. I love your new look just as much, if not more. It’s gonna take some getting use to. But it does make your cheeks super chubby.” He playfully pinches the apples of her flushed cheek.

When Layla went to the salon with Anne and Abi, she spontaneously decided to chop off her hair. She was getting tired of it. There was so much of it and it was all over her face and it was falling in clumps with the sudden change in weather. It made her nervous, in a lot of ways her hair was her security blanket, so instead of doing something drastic. She settled on getting two subtle layers with wispy bottleneck bangs. She immediately regretted the decision when she saw her hair on the floor of the salon. Several inches of her hair that ran all the way down to her waist, now sat right under her collarbone but the heart that Harry had replied with as a response to the picture she sent gave her a semblance of ease.

“Hmm.”

“What?” He chuckles. “Are you sleepy? Not very talkative.”

She doesn’t reply, instead she tilts her head up from the crook of his neck to gaze at the sharp line of his jaw, and the moles on his neck - right next to the vein that bulges out when he sings, lifts or cranes his head. She can’t help the dopey smile that spreads across her face at the sight of his double chin and the crease of his smile line and the craters of his dimples.

“Layla, you’re staring,” he points with a matching loopy grin. He looks down at her with heavy lidded eyes and notices her fingers clasping the tiny elephant pendant around her neck as she moves it side to side.

“I’m sure this is all romantic in your head,” he says, giving her a loving squeeze. “And it would have been the same for me too but all those slasher movies you made me watch has me thinking that you’re gonna stab me with a screwdriver any second now.”

She lets out a sweet peal of laughter, melting into his chest planting a wet peck on the side of his neck as his cheeks grow a tinge of pink at the admission. “I’m not thinking of murdering you, babe. Far from it actually. I was trying to string together a speech.”

“Speech? For what?”

“You. From the minute I got into the car. I’ve been trying to come up with something perfect but I’m nowhere done, so there’s no way for me to know if it’s all rambly-”

“Let’s hear it then.”

“What?’

“Let’s hear it. You’re not gonna know it’s perfect until you practice, so go on,” he encourages her.

“Okay.” She exhales slowly, the hand that was not fiddling her necklace, weaves itself on top of his hand. “It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. The more I think about it, the more befuddled it gets. I’m not supposed to be here. Like I’m not supposed to be here with you. I’m supposed to be in Singapore. I had the whole trip meticulously planned to the hour. I was going to visit all the places my grandparents went to when they lived in Singapore. They spent the first five years of their marriage there. Appa (Dad) was born there. I was going to put together a scrapbook or make a vlog showing them how much the city has changed since they left but… you know what happened. I ended up on a flight here a few months after. To this quiet suburb in small town USA that I didn’t know existed before my Aunt and Uncle started building their house.

“And I know you think it’s fate and the whole notion of being tied together into a coherent tapestry and it makes sense to you because you read poetry and watch sappy movies and love love. But I can’t fathom the idea of our initials written in the stars, and our atoms colliding because of prophecy - almost like this was meant to happen. Intricately calculated by time itself. It doesn’t make sense to think that the universe itself erupted in ultraviolet chaos when we first locked eyes, like a raging multicolor of sound and colour to symbolise something grandeur. So, I cannot wrap my head around the world rupturing and fragmenting for us.”

Harry’s quiet. His mind is running a mile a minute about the possibility of what direction this conversation was headed. Deep down he knows there’s nothing to worry because she’s burrowing in his embrace. But he takes in her words slowly processing the weight and intent behind each and everyone of them. Layla turns around to face him, sitting on her knees, looping her hands around his neck and pulling his forehead down to hers as his hands perch on the small of her back. They stay like that for a while basking in the stillness of the environment juxtaposed by the lively birdsong until she backs away to look into his eyes.

“But I do know this,” she continues, giving him a bashful smile that melts away the weight of the world from his bones. “I know the universe is expanding and the only sun that we know is one day going to collapse in itself. I know that we are all hurtling towards our impending doom with each passing second. I understand the brain. I can make sense of liking the feeling of my freshly shaved legs against the sheets, going back to watch Winnie the Pooh when things don’t work out, singing along obnoxiously to ABBA, or my fondness for snails and elephants. It’s a cocktail of endorphins - dopamine, oxytocin and serotonin. I know the grass isn’t waiting for my footsteps. I know flowers don’t bloom for me. I can make sense of a lot of things.

“And I know I was scared that saying it out loud will make it real and you’ve been very patient but I’m ready to be vulnerable for you, with you. I know that every time you go on tangents and talk about clouds, seashells, the weather, my fondness for you grows. I’ve been fond of you ever since I ran into you at the park and you talked to me about sea monkeys on the way home. I admire that you want to help the planet and how hard you worked on your college essay. I can always count on you to draw me a warm bath, tuck my hair behind my ears, look at me like I’m the prettiest in the room, to squeeze my fingers while crossing the road, bake me treats when I demand, and hold me close when I need you to. These things make sense to me. And even if I don’t understand a lot of how we came to be, I'm absolutely certain about the fact that I love you.”

Layla lets out a short sigh of relief, shoulders slumping down, heart slowing its thumps against her rib cage as she hunches over to get closer to him. “I fucking love you, Harry Edward Styles and that is one thing that the universe can be sure of.”

He’s still and Layla can’t make out anything as she searches his face. Maybe I broke him, she worries her bottom lip. A few moments pass by but waiting makes it seem like an eternity. She sniffles from the icy wind that blows over, watching his eyes glass over and the faintest twitch of his cheek.

“Har, say someth-”

A toothy smile breaks across his face, one that highlights his bunny teeth and carves out dimples on his cheek as his face flushes with colour. He pulls her close, hands coming to cup her warm cheeks as he mutters, “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK SO FAR!

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fishnets-fingers · 1 year

Text

Six Months - Part Twenty Four

PAIRING - camboy!harry x indian!oc

a/n - it’s the one with the wedding and the family celebrating diwali (maybe a tryst in the backseat of harry’s range rover). it’s almost the end of november in the story, which means it’s almost time for layla to bid farewell. thank you so much for reading and loving spy!harry. i’ll probably be writing another part very soon with the princess and the spy, so be on the lookout for that. reblog and like as always. have a wonderful weekend. happy reading!

Word Count - 10.6 k

Warnings - fluff, angst, smut (choking, spanking?)

Masterpost (find previous parts here)

“I have hot gossip,” Layla announces when she gets to the table they’ve been assigned to. The sangeeth has been a spectacle and was currently on a momentary pause as the bride and groom had gone to slip into their third outfits for the night. Three outfits changes for a single evening was too much, even by Layla’s standard of a big fat Indian wedding but she wasn’t complaining. Besides, the grander the wedding, the more fun it was for the guests because Tamil weddings barely have time for the bride and groom to take it all in.

The party didn’t stop with the absence of the bride and groom though. The DJ had invited people onto the dancefloor to give the performing family members a breather. Harry and Layla were the only two at the round table, which was decorated with a centerpiece with overgrown orchids and tealights, and the occupants had abandoned their seats to take part in the festivities. Anne and Earl were chatting away with people who lived on their street, whatever they were talking about seemed spirited from the way the two gesticulated and threw their heads back to laugh. She spares a glance towards Abi and Vasanth swaying on the dance floor to a slowed down version of Unnakul Naane. Vasanth had requested the DJ to pull up their special song, and proceeded to whisk his wife for a dance.

“Lay it on me,” Harry chuckles, turning his body towards her.

“I just heard from a very credible source, aka Dhruv and Ashwin, that the bride and groom are in the stairwell lighting up a blunt,” she tells him, bending down to shuffle the billowing fabric of her lehenga skirt in place once she’d sat down. “Invitation’s open to us too.”

“I wouldn’t risk getting high and walking into this room.” Harry had a point, the giant banquet hall of the hotel had been turned into a wonderful display of colours with the strobe lights and décor, scent with flowers and a concoction of perfumes, and sounds with high energy beats pounded the bass as members of the family danced and put on a show.

“Fair point.”

Ever since Layla professed her love for him - earlier that morning - by the lake, the two were detached from the festivities, preferring to sit back and revel in their feelings. Layla couldn’t tear her eyes away from Harry - in his muted blue grey suit and a mint green shirt that was the perfect amount of see through. She’d even go so far to bet that one else in the room was put together as him whilst also playing with colours. He’d styled his hair to look tousled and it drew more attention to his forest green eyes.

“You look really nice. Pretty even,” she whispers, running her palm down his thigh.

“I’ve been told,” he chuckles. He catches her hand before it could reach the apex of his thighs and brings it up to his lips, pressing chaste kisses to her knuckles. “Feeling me up every chance you get is a great reminder.”

She kisses the corner of his mouth, a quick peck, reaching up to wipe the berry stain of her lipstick from his skin. “Can’t help it,” she shrugs, with an exaggerated pout.

“You don’t look all that bad, baby,” he teases with a kiss to her temple, throwing an arm around her shoulder and pulling her against his side. He was captivated the minute he’d saw her in the foyer of the house, bending down to fasten her heels in her lehenga. It was grey and filled with motifs of deers, peacocks, and flowers with colourful thread. She’s left her hair down in loose waves and had parted her bangs in the middle. She’s opted to forgo jewellery other than her giant jimikis that she’d pinned in her hair behind her ear.

“If you want to get laid tonight, I’d suggest you work on your compliments, idiot. I’d take words like ravishing and enchanted,” she giggles.

“We both know that -”

“Layla,” Pooja interrupts. “I’m heading to the powder room, do you want to-’

“Yes.”

They both walk towards the restroom when an older man approaches the two of them, calling out Pooja’s name. He approaches the two of them engaging in chit chat, directing a warm smile at Layla when Pooja introduces her as a neighbour of her parents’. He talks about motherhood with his hands clasped behind his back, which only pushes his gut out more, making him look rotund.

“She’s quite chatty, no? Cooed the whole time I had her in my arms,” he tells Pooja.

“Oh yeah. Baby’s been doing that non stop these days. Almost like I gave birth to a pigeon,” she laughs.

“She’s real cute, ya. It’s a good thing she takes after her dad. We were all worried that she was going to end up a கருப்பு குட்டி (dark skinned baby - derogatory) like you.”

Layla’s jaw drops, watching the older man prattle about how she should add some saffron to her milk to help boost her own complexion. Pooja’s face falls but she doesn’t say anything, opting to look down at her shoes.

“Uncle,” Layla interrupts his monologue. “That’s incredibly rude, what you just did. You just insulted her at her own brother sangeeth, dampening her mood. It’s not okay to say whatever thought that pops into your head. Or did you not realise கறுப்பி (blackie) here also has feelings like you. How would you feel if I called you a bald fat man? I’m sure that even if her baby was dark skinned, they would have loved her just as much as they do now. And I think it’s high time you stopped talking like that to anyone.”

“Look, you’re being disrespectful! Apologise-” he starts before Pooja cuts him off.

“I don’t think she was very respectful with what she just said, Uncle. If anyone was being disrespectful here, it’s you. Now, if you could excuse us.” She turns her heel and walks inside the restroom with Layla following behind her after giving the man a dirty look.

“Can’t believe I just did that. Feels quite liberating. If I can only muster up the nerve to do that with some of my relatives.” Layla shakes off the pent up energy that was still left over from her confrontation. “Shit, I don’t know if I caused any trouble for you,” Layla tells her, pulling out a sheet of tissue and handing it over to Pooja.

“You didn’t. Thank you so much,” she says, with a sniffle. She dabs the tears away from the corner of her eye before they have a chance to stream down her face and ruin her makeup.

“It’s just a tissue,” Layla chuckles.

“No, for standing up for me. I can’t believe people calling me கறுப்பி (blackie) affects me even now as a thirty year old. I’ve been called that a lot growing up and I’ve convinced myself that I don’t care. Apparently, I still do.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what that does to your self esteem. I don’t get why people are so hung up on colour. We’re all brown, are we not?”

“True. Colourism fucking stinks.”

Layla agrees, digging out her lipstick from her sling bag. “You know when I was born my dad told me the first thing he did was let out a sigh of relief because I had a lighter skin. I still don’t get how that could be one’s first thought when they look at their child for the first time.”

“The first thought I had when my daughter was born was ‘not again’ because they’d asked me to push again to deliver my placenta.”

“Gross,” Layla laughs, holding up the berry coloured lipstick wand to her lips. “Don’t let people let you feel like you’re less than just because you have more melanin in your skin. If it’s any consolation, I think you’re very hot,” she feels a warmth spread across her cheeks.

“Oh yeah?” Pooja giggles, adjusting her nose ring.

“Have quite the crush on you,” Layla winks.

“Just the confidence booster I needed. Thanks, babe.”

The rest of the night goes by smoothly without any uninvited comments from strangers. Although Layla noticed the Uncle giving her disapproving nods from time to time, which she brushed off easily. Pooja, Ashwin and Dhruv came over and pulled Harry and Layla to the dancefloor and that’s how the rest of the night flew by - dancing to Ranjithame, Thaikelavi, and Thodakkam Mangalyam. Layla’s positive that all the dancing made her burn off all the parottas and okra fry she’d managed to scarf down from the buffet. Anne, Earl, Vasanth and Abi had all joined in for the cha cha slide and let out surprising laughs when Vasanth and Layla raps Ludacris’s part flawlessly when Yeah played.

It wasn’t long into the night that Abi, Vasanth, Anne and Earl decided to head home leaving Layla and Harry dancing along. Halfway through the dancing, Kadhal Sadugudu pours in through the speakers. The two blush thinking back to the time Harry had gone down on her for the first time as the familiar strums of the guitar reverberates through their heart strings.

Harry had ducked down to whisper, “Let’s get out of here,” against the shell of Layla’s ear and that’s how the two of them ended up in the emergency stairwell of the hotel, with Harry pressed up against the wall.

Layla is on her tippy toes, her hands ravenously tugging the locks at the back of his head while their tongues swirl around. Harry mewls when she gives him a hard pull, pulling her face even closer to his with the way his palms cradle her cheek.

“Fuck, need you,” she pants into his mouth as his lips make their jaw down her jaw to that special part in her neck.

“You’ve got me, Lails. Right here,” he murmurs with honesty, pointing out that she’s had him wrapped around her pinky and that he’s out here in the stairwell ravenously making out.

“Oh,” she whimpers, as he sucks on the spot near her jugular and she can’t help but rub on his clothed fattening prick to reciprocate the pleasure singing through her veins.

“Been handsy with me the whole day. That badly gone for me, yeah?” He smirks against the nape of her neck.

“Yeah. Been super horny all day, I must be ovulating or something.”

He laughs, the boyish one that makes him straighten up and throw his head back as his eyes disappear behind the crinkles in the corner and his dimples flaunt their full glory.

“What?” She asks, poking his side.

“Ovulating?” He shakes his head, wiping the tears from his eyes with a toothy grin. “You’re so lucky I’m willing to look past your ineptness at dirty talk because I love you. Now come on, let's get out of here.”

////

The windows of his Range Rover were fogging up despite the frigid temperature of the pouring rain outside. Harry had quickly zipped the two of them to the lookout spot in Chapel Hill. The minute he’d turn off the ignition their lips found each other again with a ravenous lust, as they both climbed to the back seat unceremoniously. They’d been whispering dirty promises and exchanging passionate kisses as For Emma, Forever Ago was crooning through the speakers.

He licks and nips on her chest as Layla fiddles with the small gold hoop in his ear. “I really like this. Makes you look like an arrogant prick,” she remarks as her chuckle cuts off into a surprised gasp when Harry suckles a mark on the plush of her breast.

“Never not insult me when we’re having sex, dickhead,” he laughs, booping her nose.

“It’s a rite of passage at this point. Like how you call me sweet girl.”

“I do not call you sweet girl only during sex,” he says with faux defensiveness, swooping her now shoulder length hair away from her neck.

“Ow!” Layla flinches with the tug at her earlobe, hands coming to detangle the hair that had knotted itself in her earring.

“Fuck. Sorry, baby. I didn’t-” Harry begins, his deft fingers help her get her hair out of the way before she rips some of it off.

“No, I should have taken them out the second I got in the car. Not very practical,” she remarks, taking off the giant jimikis and tossing them on the passenger seat. She sighs in relief when she massages her angry red lobes, shoulders sagging. “Now where were we,” she smirks, hands looping around his neck, nuzzling her nose against his.

It doesn’t take long until Layla’s lipstick is smeared all over Harry’s mouth with each heated kiss. Fading berry stained tattoos haphazardly trailed down his unbuttoned chest. They’d both managed to maneuver her poofy skirt and tossed it on the dashboard right next to his trousers and briefs. Layla pumped her fist around his throbbing dick in a tantalising pace that made him blurt out a bead of precum. “Love feeling you get hard in my hands,” she says, swirling the bead around his ruddy pink head as his chest heaves in wanton.

He grunts when the tips of her fingers tease his frenulum, wrapping his fist around her hair tugging it back as her boobs press right up against his face. “Sit on my face. Sit on my face, Lails,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with arousal.

“Later.” She tells him, searing an ardent kiss on his mouth, as desire voraciously spreads through her body. “Want to fuck you.”

“Yeah?” His fingers dance against her engorged clit, making her choke out a breath.

Even under the dim yellow light from the roof of the car, Layla could tell that his pupils were blown out in desire. She licks down the column of his throat as he dips two fingers inside of her. “So bad.” She moans when he gets knuckle deep, the cold metal of his rings tingling against the heat from her centre, scissoring them as he savours her warmth.

“Getting so wet for me,” he pants into his mouth as he speeds the ministrations of his digits, curling them up to coax her sweet spot. “Love you so much you know,” his hot breath washes against her ear and all she could do was give him a garbled moan as her fingernails sinks into his shoulders, using them as leverage when she moves her hips to aid him in sending her over the edge.

“Gonna come,” Layla warns.

“Want you to come around me, sweet girl.” He whispers, retracting his hand and licking her slick. He makes quick work with the condom rolling it down his length, and tugging himself for good measure.

Layla heedlessly peels off her blouse down her arms, climbing onto his lap. She sinks down on him, as Harry lines himself up, the sensation making the two cry out. Harry scrunches his eyes shut as her scorching hot walls squeeze around him. “Missed this,” he confesses, when she settles against his lap. They haven’t had sex since their fight and Harry wants to travel back and smack himself for acting like a proper knob and pulling his shoulder.

“Missed feeling you inside me too, Har.” She moans, she’s had him in her many times but the stretch when he slips in was delectable every single time. She raises herself up using her knees but he’s quick to hold her down.

“Gimme a couple of minutes. Haven’t done this for a hot minute and I’m trying hard not to nut.” She gives him her signature evil smile as she squeezes her muscles around him.

“Mother of fuck, baby,” he moans out loud, a hand curling on the headrest of the front seat. “Are you trying to end me?!?”

Layla laughs, and squeezes her pelvic muscles around his throbbing dick again enjoying the way his jaw drops with the way his breathing hitches. “Bet I can make you come with -” She yelps when Harry swats her bum.

“Did you just- Dude, you just spanked my ass!”

“Wanna come with you, dickhead,” he whines, hands tracing down her thighs before making their way up to palm the globes of her ass.

She presses a kiss on his lips, a gentle chaste one, as she traps his bottom lip with her teeth. She uses the muscles of her thigh to rock slowly, as he helps her along.

Licentious moans cut through the sound of heavy rain outside as Layla quickens her pace, despite the protest of the muscles in her inner thigh and calves - dancing around in her high heels for a whole night was catching up. She brushes it aside, using her knees to bounce on him to move them to the edge, as his mouth toys with her nipples, suckling them.

“Oh, Har,” she noisily groans, when he thrusts up making her jolt up.

Layla steadies herself by clinging on to his neck, as she moves her hips in circles, giving her clit the friction it craves. Harry’s lips crash with her, teeth clanging as his tongue greedily licks into her mouth. The heat from their core ravenously makes every cell in their body ablaze with desire.

He wordlessly brings his hand up to hers, where it was clutching his neck, and squeezes hers as a form of encouragement. “Choke me,” he pleads into her mouth.

She cautiously presses her hands to the sides of his neck to create more pressure and it makes him whimper. Her pace stutters as one of his hands slips down to rub harsh circles on her clitoral hood and that’s all it takes for her to pulsate around him.

“Say it,” he whispers as he pushes a few rouge strands of stands away from her sweaty face. They were both so close to tumbling over the edge, hearts pounding against their chest, sweat dripping down their backs, wet sound of skin slapping against each other as they move in tandem, stealing each other's moans as they tumble out of their mouths.

He didn’t need to clarify what he wanted her to say, she knew it and her hands migrates from his neck to cradle his face in her palm as her eyes flicked up to him. “I love you,” she says with sincerity, as she comes, quivering as the waves of her orgasm wash through her.

“I love you too, sweet girl.” He follows suit immediately after, from her words as her walls flutter around him, he thrusts up three times before burying his head in her chest as he spills into the condom. He could feel her heart pounding against his cheek, a heart that has now fully let him live inside. He knew they belonged in each other's heart, so it was easy for him to bare it to her, and now she did too. He softly kisses her chest, right over her heart, closing his eyes as they come down from their highs as the speakers in the strums of the guitar echo the last lines from Re:Stacks.

It’s the sound of unlocking and the lift way

Your love will be

Safe with me.

////

“This is a great sign,” Layla declares, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she stamps her coral cream blush onto her cheeks.

“How so?” Harry pokes his head out from her bathroom, turning off the noisy hair dryer. Beads of water trickle down his chest from the shower and her eyes follow their journey to where he has a white towel secured dangerously low around his hips.

“Corrections mean they are willing to print it in their journal.”

Anne and Harry had come over to Layla’s to get ready for the wedding. Anne needed help with draping her saree and Abi suggested that they get ready together, and Harry had just followed suit thinking he could hop in the shower to get a quickie in with Layla. But when he’d walked in, she was already sitting on the floor in her robe, doing her eyeshadow with her hair meticulously braided and pinned back.

“It seems like a lot to do with their deadline. We have to run the stats again,” he says, walking over to stand behind her, teasing his hair with his fingers and setting them in its place.

“They’ve given us a week. We just need to eliminate some outlier scores and run the t-test again. I don’t know why I didn’t catch on to the fact that the tests didn’t come out significant despite the difference with standard deviations,” she shakes her head, before dropping her brush and picking up an egg shaped sponge to blend out her blush.

“I was the one who ran those tests. I should have figured too,” he mumbles. They had woken up to an email from the publisher asking them to make a few corrections to the paper they had submitted.

“It happens to the best of us,” Layla shrugs.

“I have two shoots this week.” He grumbles.

“I’ll do it. If I focus, I can finish it in a day tops.” She spritzes her face with some setting spray, and fans her face with her hands.

“That’s not fair to you. We’re coauthors.”

“I'm not gonna take away your credit or something,” she chuckles, twisting back to look up at him.

“Do you not want me to do it with you?”

“I didn’t say that, Harry.”

“I feel like you did. You did this all the time in college, did you not? Work on group assignments yourself because Layla’s the smartest and professors worshipped the ground you walked on.”

“You’re turning this into a me problem,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I offered to help. You don’t get to do that. Check yourself.” She gets up brushing past him, picking up the saree that she’d laid on the bed.

“Just tell me that I’m not smart enough, so you’d rather do it yourself,” he tells her. “Come on, Layla. You know you do.”

“I never said that, I’m sorry you feel that way. But none of what I said was intended to make myself seem smarter than you. I just didn’t want you to stretch yourself thin. I know you have a job and I didn’t want you to feel like it was your fault to fix.”

Harry takes a shaky breath in, “Sorry, it really fucked with my head that most of the edits were the parts that I did. I’ve had a long break from academia and I’m terrified that I’ve fallen off the wagon and I can’t get back up again.”

“Come here,” she pats the spot on the bed and Harry sits. Layla drops her saree and settles next to him. “I’m terrified that I won’t be able to get back into the groove too and I only took a year long break. You can’t think like that. You still update yourself with new research, you read books - cut yourself some slack, you haven’t finished undergrad yet. There was no one I hated more than Kothari because Research Methodology was the one class I had to work my ass off. My professor held my hand through the entire journey of my first ever paper. You’ve done so much all on your own. So, I’d say you’re smarter than me-”

“But you helped me,” Harry cuts her off.

“I helped after you put in the hours to understand. You did a giant chunk of the heavy lifting. Don’t demean your work like that. This paper would not have existed if not for you, babe.” Layla squeezes his palm to provide reassurance.

Harry sighs but she continues. “It’s minor corrections and it’s a good thing. This is not a subpar journal where they publish anything that gets emailed to them. It’s one of the leading journals for behavioural science. Ecoanxiety is such a hot topic at the moment. We have an edge over other papers - we're looking at things from an earth science and mental health point of view. The fact that they gave us time to tweak stuff means they liked it enough to feature it in their next quarterly print.”

“You’re right. I just got too in my head…”

“That’s okay,” she tells him, leaning up to place a soft kiss on his cheek. “We’ll talk about it more when we get back.”

On cue, Vasanth pokes his head in the room after a sharp knock, looking at his niece and her boyfriend who were still in their clothes. “Kutti, why are you two not dressed? Aunty and Anne are almost done! You’re gonna make us late!”

“It’s a quarter to seven. Calm down, we have lots of time!”

“The ceremony starts at seven thirty, Layla! Get your ass up and put your clothes on,” he says, walking into the room, fully dressed holding one of his veshtis. “Go change in my room. Aunty is in there and will help, otherwise you’ll take forever.”

“Ugh! You need to chill. We’ve got forty five minutes-”

“No, we don’t! The drive to the venue takes twenty minutes-”

“Fine. I’ll go,” she grumbles, picking up the green silk fabric and walking out of the room.

Vasanth shakes his head mumbling to himself in Tamil. “Here,” he hands the gold fabric to Harry. “The straps have velcro on them, so it’s easy to wrap around.”

“Can you give me a hand, please?” Harry asks nervously, he watched a tutorial on YouTube but still was unsure on how the veshti was going to stay in place.

“Of course, Harry.” Vasanth locks the door as Harry heads to the bathroom to put on his boxers.

Harry wraps the cloth around his hips as Vasanth helps him tug and tuck it firmly into place. “There,” Vasanth says, stepping back to check if things look okay. “You can let go now, Harry.” He notes chuckling at the way Harry’s clutching their makeshift skirt to his body.

“Is it okay if I wear a belt?” Harry asks, eyes wide. “What if it comes undone?”

“Well it won’t unless you step on it but I think it’s better to be on the safe side. Mine did come undone once.”

“Really?”

“Yup. It was my first time wearing a veshti. It was at my cousin’s wedding and my Dad had helped.” He chuckles, shaking his head.

“No way! Did you step on it?” Harry asks, lopping a belt around his waist and shimmying it down to the gold border.

“Layla did. She just started walking - it wasn't so much walking, it was more waddling. I remember it so well,” heat floods his face from the embarrassing memory that was etched into his brain. “I was laughing with my cousins at the back of the room. She was calling for me, squirming from her mothers arms and reaching for me. Her mother put her down and everyone’s eyes were on her because it was the first time the extended family got to see her walk. She managed to toddle all the way across to my feet but tripped on the carpet and came tumbling down. She managed to grip onto my veshti bringing it down with her.”

“Shit,” Harry says, pursing his lips to hold his laughter back.

“You can laugh,” Vasanth says. “I’d managed to hold onto it before I flashed my underwear to everyone. No one cared though, they were busy tending to her crying. My cousins never let me live it down though. One even managed to film it.”

Vasanth noted that Harry skipped the matching gold silk shirt of his and had buttoned on a satin green shirt. Harry gave him a shy smile and told him that he’d wanted to match Layla. The master walk in closet was filled with giggles and the strong scent of hairspray for it being very early in the morning. When the boys walked in to hurry them along, Harry caught Layla pinning jasmine onto his mother’s hair. She was wearing the same outfit from Vasanth’s wedding - sans the heavy jewellery, it made Vasanth sigh wistfully thinking how quickly years flew by. Vasanth had hurried over to his wife, kneeling down to help her fix her saree pleats, and to help slip on her wedges. Abi had clipped on a nose ring on Layla that she pulled off in minutes, saying it made her feel like she was about to sneeze. Harry and Layla had even managed to sneak into her room and recreate the Gucci and Crocs pose - one of Layla sitting on his lap, Harry’s hands looped around her waist as Layla cradles his face smushing their noses together. By seven fifteen, everyone was ready and was herded into the car by Vasanth, they’d made their way to the venue.

////

The bright orange and yellow leaves had been replaced with barren branches. Everywhere Layla looked had small mountains of dried leaves piled in the corner of people’s yard. The days were becoming shorter and colder. The temperature in the evenings dipped down to a four and two and Layla was learning to adapt to it. There were patches in her face, where the skin felt stretched thin and started to hyperpigment, Abi had given her one of her heavy duty moisturisers to help curb it. Layla had been begrudgingly using the thick cream on her face, cursing her water like gel moisturisers for not being occlusive enough. The plunge of the temperature also came with Layla complaining that the heating was not enough for her at night. Instead of turning the thermostat high to warm up the whole house, Vasanth purchased a portable heater that she religiously plugged in, next to her bed, at night.

On the other hand Layla was delighted to drink soup almost everyday. She had access to many cuisines here than she did back home, so this particular afternoon, she had ordered a tub of Tarhana Çorbası and vegan shawarmas for Harry and Earl. Harry had popped in the For Emma, Forever Ago vinyl - he’d picked up earlier that day from the store - on the record player, and the croons of Creature Fear filled up the room.

“So, he made this album by himself in a cabin in the middle of nowhere?” Earl asks Harry.

“Uh huh, he got his heart broken and moved to his father's cabin in the middle of winter and wrote this to help himself heal,” Harry replies, spooning some soup into his mouth.

The two were in deep discussion for the past hour, and Layla was happy to sit back - wrapped in a fluffy throw - listening to the two talk animatedly about the arrangements, the use of stripped back production and how the scratches in the recording added a level of intimacy.

“That’s not entirely true,” Layla chirps in.

“So Emma is not his girlfriend?” Harry asks.

“I think she is but Justin Vernon said that it was more of a headspace. The pain one gets stuck in.” Layla picks up the oyster mushroom that had slipped out on the plate from her roll and pops it into her mouth.

“Interesting,” Earl says, reaching forward to grab a glass of water. “The lyrics are very vague. Hard to discern.”

“Layla has all sorts of theories. She was the one who introduced Bon Iver to me. She’ll ramble for hours.”

Layla laughs. “I only went on a deep dive for re:Stacks. It is such a sad song-”

“I don’t think it is. I think it’s a very hopeful one,” Harry cuts her off, cheeks staining a deep red as he remembers their moments of passion in the backseat of his car.

“I disagree. I think it’s of him finally making his peace with sadness and acknowledging that it will always be a part of him. But I can see how it could be hopeful as well.”

“Isn’t that hopeful, Layla. Coming to terms with distress?” Earl asks, scratching his brow.

Layla brows furrow when she notices Harry’s lips move downward in a frown but doesn’t linger on it, turning her attention to Earl.

“Again art is subjective and this is my two cents, but I don’t think sadness passes nor does grief. Speaking from experience, it’s like a tidal wave at first consuming every cell in your body. You get pulled in by the current and when you manage to break through to the surface and take a breath, everything is wonderful and then after sometime there’s another wave. And I think that’s how it is until one day the waves become weaker and you’re becoming better at paddling away. It doesn’t mean the waves aren’t there and it won’t pull you under if you stop paddling,” she explains.

“You can swim to an island. Just saying,” he shrugs. “Some people choose to be in the water, almost like they want to romanticise suffering.”

Are you implying that I do that? Is the question Layla wanted to ask but she holds back, settling on arching her eyebrow at him instead. “I suppose, but swimming takes up a lot of courage. Just food for thought. The island thing makes sense too.”

Earl clears his throat. “There’s no wrong answers in art. How far along are you with the edits on your paper?”

“We’re almost done. Just a few more hours,” Harry says.

The two tell him more about their paper, and Layla tells him that this is her first paper where the coauthor is not one of her professors. Earl lets Harry and Layla know that he’s proud of them and that he has a bottle of champagne in his fridge they’d open once it’s their paper gets published. The conversation turns to the wedding and Layla explains some of the traditions that happened in the ceremony for Earl, using Google to confirm certain things. When they’re done eating, Layla throws their takeout containers in the trash as Harry loads up the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher. Earl hands his wife’s cookbook to Layla and she quickly takes a snap of the Crawfish Étouffée recipe she wanted to try out for dinner. Harry runs to the loo before they head out to the post office as Layla heads over to the living room and slings her tote - one with the three paintings that she needed to ship - over her shoulder.

“Shopping?” Layla asks, handing over the green Gucci bag that he’d asked her to get from his office.

“Yes but not for me. It’s for Harry.”

“Cute,” she chuckles. “You already wormed his way into his heart with Gucci.”

“Harold,” Earl calls out, when he hears the flush in the bathroom.

Harry saunters into the kitchen island, looking at the two with expectant eyes. “Hmm?”

“I know I bought Layla tickets to Disney as a thank you for helping out, so I thought I’d treat you too.”

“You did. The trip to Disney World. I’m going too,” he shrugs, looking over to Layla wordlessly asking her what he had up his sleeve.

“Yeah but I still wanted to get you something. Here,” Earl hands the sage green bag over to him.

“Gucci? Uh… thank you. This must have been so expensive,” he says, looking into the bag.

“It’s not like I’m taking my money to the afterlife. Open it, will you,” Earl urges.

Harry pulls out the small box in the bag and undoes the white bow. His eyes bug out of his head when he pulls the lid off, and bites down on his bottom lip to keep himself composed.

“It’s a charm. I didn’t know what to get, so I’d settled on the one fruit you beeline to when you visit me,” Earl explains. “I’m not familiar with jewellery. Hell, I hadn’t bought one since my wife passed. But you pull them off so well and -” he’s interrupted by Harry’s snickering.

“Harry, stop laughing! You’re being very rude,” Layla says and Harry bursts out laughing, hand coming to clutch his peck as his green eyes disappear behind the crinkles, dimples stretching out as the two blocky front teeth make their full appearance.

He wordlessly pushes the box over to her and she sneaks a peak and starts giggling along with him. “Earl! It’s a-” she breaks out in a cough, which only seems to spur on their laughter. “That’s not a ban-” Harry howls, wiping down the tears that escape from his eyes.

Earl picks up the luxurious box that Layla had abandoned on the counter, and squints to get a better look at it. It was an oxidised silver charm, with a pop of yellow for the peel. It looked like an ordinary banana, he didn’t get why the two were on the hunched over his counter gleefully giggling.

“Glasses,” Layla manages to get out. “Please put them on,” she barks out.

He slides the pair that was hanging off the pocket of his shirt and pushes it up the bridge of his nose. The tiny charm comes into focus again, and this time he notices the subtle grove at the tip of the fruit, and it was something he hadn’t noticed while he was ordering from his computer screen because he didn’t have his glasses on. Instead of it being an innocent gift, it had turned out to be a phallic symbol. “Oh dear,” he mutters feeling the heat flood his face.

“It’s a penis,” Layla snickers.

“No. No. A banana penis!” Harry chakles.

“We can return it,” Earl says. “We could get something else. There was this ring-”

“No returns! I l want my banana penis!” Harry interrupts, taking the charm and sliding it on the chain with Layla’s help, adjusting it until the banana penis proudly hangs in front of the gold cross against his chest.

////

Despite a thick duvet covering the two of them, Layla had the air conditioner turned on in the home theatre room in fear that the PlayStation would overheat and explode. It wasn’t an irrational fear, but the whizzing of the fan got noticeably louder with each passing hour as she played. But the machine had quietened down when she’d turned on The Blair Witch Project. The DualShock no longer had a blue glow it did settling into nothing as it powered down after several minutes of inactivity.

Harry was splayed out on top of her, quietly snoring into the crook of her neck, nestling in between her breasts as one of his hands clutched the material of her ratty tshirt. He’d strolled into the home theatre room late afternoon in a hoodie and the tiniest shorts and flopped on top of her grumbling about taxes. She’d pulled up the movie on her console to help him unwind, only to find him out cold forty minutes in. She wonders if it’s due to exhaustion or if he was freaked out. Mitch had told her found footage horror gives Harry the ‘heebie jeebies,’ when they were watching Paranormal Activity on FaceTime - where he snoozed through the second half of the film. She wonders if it’s a way to get out of watching the movie; she rarely ever woke him up and he ended up blissfully unaware.

When the infamous scene with an up the snotty nostril shot of one filmmakers, her phone repeatedly buzzes. She squints at the display, eye slowly adjusting to the bright screen from the dull cast of the projector, to find that it was a group FaceTime request and it doesn’t take long for her thumb to swipe across the screen. Her friends’ face beams from the rectangular squares echoing a varied response of hellos.

“Wassup wassup?” Layla says quietly, reaching for her controller to pause the movie.

“Are you sleeping? We can barely see your face right now,” Heidi says.

“Why are you whispering?” Grace asks.

“Was watching a movie and someone’s fast asleep,” she replies, tapping the button to flip the camera to show them the brown locks of Harry’s crown. She flips it back to her face soon after, the free hand that’s not propping up her phone slithers inside the hem of his T-shirt to draw aimless teardrops down the skin of his back.

“She’s such a hypocrite,” Ramya shakes her head. “She’s such a snob about watching movies with us and her boyfriend gets to droll all on her when the movie’s playing.”

“I’m not a -”

“You are!” Susan cackled. “You kept shushing us every five minutes when we watched It at Sathyam.”

“You all were making jokes from the minute it started. It ruined my immersion,” she shrugs.

“You and your immersion. You ruined clowns and the circus for me, you fucker.” Heidi flips her off.

“Why did you come to the movie about a murdering clown then?”

“Shut up,” Heidi sticks her tongue out at her.

“I guess taking sexy pictures and posting them online is laborious,” Ramya comments at Harry snoozing away.

“Okay. That’s enough,” Layla’s eyes narrow.

“It was a joke! Not judging,” Ramya throws her hands up.

“He actually works hard, which is wild to me because I thought OnlyFans was the easiest thing to do. Like he works out everyday because he feels like he needs to because people are paying him to look a certain way, and then there’s the planning of the shoot and the editing. The editing takes forever,” Layla sighs. “He was telling me yesterday that there was this user who was being demanding with him, that it crossed a lot of boundaries.”

“Can’t he just block them?” Grace asks.

“It’s not that easy. This dude has been tipping him - quite generously - and been a subscriber for a while now, so if he did block him, he’d have to give back all the money he’d ever sent to him.”

“That fucking sucks! That’s the site’s policy? I assumed for it being one of the main platforms of adult entertainment, they’d have more stuff in place to protect the creators,” Susan sighs.

“Yeah. I read some of the messages and it’s scary but he’s dealing with it. This is not his first time, apparently.”

“How long does he see himself doing this?” Grace asks.

“I don’t know. He started it to not be financially dependent on his mum after the move. And education is fucking expensive here, unless you get a good scholarship - which I am sure he would. But he likes doing it, I think. His shoots are quite creative and I think he likes the idea of expressing himself…so I don’t know,” Layla shrugs.

“Did he manage to save up? Or..” Ramya trails off.

“Oh yeah. He’s managed to save up quite a bit. His closet has a good chunk of designer stuff - Gucci especially. He owns a two bedroom flat in London that he rents to his friends. He drives around in a fucking Range Rover. He gets me expensive things… He has an accountant and all. He had a meeting with him earlier this afternoon. I think they have to file taxes in two months, so he was talking about W2 or 1040 or something. He’s rich. Scrooge McDuck rich. Richer than all of us,” Layla whispers, emphasizing the last part. Right before he’d flopped on her - tired from his meeting - he'd told her that he’d got a great return from the IRS.

“Speak for yourself,” Heidi chuckles. “I just saved up all my money from Wollys and invested in three gold biscuits.”

“You never told us,” Grace says.

“Yeah and I live with you!” Susan accuses.

“Appa (Dad), sends me money every month anyway for everything. So I saved up all my Wollys money and asked Appa what’s the best way to freeze it because with each passing day I just wanted to spend it, so he’d bought gold biscuits.”

“Next time you decide to be all wise, let us know, so we’d make sound finance decisions too. I was just gonna put all the money the college is paying me in the bank,” Layla says.

“I managed to save two lakhs from my alary and I put it in a fixed deposit,” Ramya says.

“I haven’t even thought of how I am going to save,” Grace says. “And I get paid next week.”

“Next week?”

“Oh yeah, Susan, I get paid bimonthly.”

“How was your first week at your first proper job?” Layla inquires.

“Fun. Scary. Felt like a proper imposter the entire day. Especially the first day when my manager was showing me around and telling me about all the departments, I was like what the fuck am I doing here with all these smart people.” Grace replies, “Especially since I was the youngest. The clothes helped a bit. Thank you for that by the way.”

They had got on a call three weeks ago to help Grace decide on her best officey outfits, what to keep and what to return. Layla had been no help half asleep in the middle of the night telling her that she’ll look great as long as everything was black.

“Did anyone compliment your outfit?” Ramya asks.

“Nope. They all wear jeans and T-shirts. My manager was wearing ripped jeans when she was showing me around. I was told by my coworkers that it’s casual unless they have to be in a meeting with a third party. So I’m glad I only kept three outfits and returned the rest.

“But I’m still figuring out what I’m doing and the office culture and all that but with each passing day, I surprisingly handle it,” Grace tells them.

“Alright! That’s how you kick ass! Watch out New Zealand government, Grace is coming!” Heidi exclaims.

“Speaking of kicking ass at the workplace,” Susan says, “Ramya here looked so much like a teacher on her story yesterday!”

“Oh my god, yes! That kaajal bleeding down and smeared, and her hair in that unflattering bun,” Grace agrees.

“That bindi and her jhumkas. Everything was so perfect!” Heidi chimes.

“Yes, I’m so glad that you find my underpaid, overworked teacher at an NGO look hot,” Ramya says dryly. “Now stop flirting with me.”

“Don’t be like that! I need you to teach me a lesson, mommy,” Layla teases.

“You’ll be a good girl now, won’t you?” Ramya giggles.

“Yes. I. Will.” Layla says without missing a beat, making everyone crack up.

They ask Ramya what her plans are for her birthday and she tells them that she’s planning to take off from work that day to try and sleep in, go out for lunch with her parents and brother, and head to a slam poetry event she was performing at. When asked why she didn’t want a party, Ramya told them that she would most likely go to some afterparty thing at one of the performers houses - parties with those types of crowd were invariably filled with cigarettes, tetra packs of Old Monk Rum, plastic bottles of coke, and one person pulling out a guitar to sing along. Layla despised that crowd but she did go to one of those after parties once on Ramya’s insistence, only to book it home thirty minutes later - when her wheezing flared up from the incessant huff of tobacco smoke of the crowd - after her mother’s face lit up her phone screen and three texts from her father. She was eternally grateful for having the world's strictest parents that day. Meghna and Ramya had officially parted ways, Meghna didn’t want to get into a relationship with someone who didn’t want to be with just her and Ramya respected that. She had been dealing with the heartbreak better than what Layla and her friends anticipated. They’ve chalked it up to all those videos that Ramya had sent of them detailing the tantric sex escapades she’s been having with Krishna - who was tagging along with Ramya to the afterparty. Layla sniggered while watching them before agreeing with everyone that all of Ramya’s hippie dreams are materialising with her new girlfriend.

“Guys please tell Heidi to stop making friends with the men I bring home,” Susan exasperatedly groans.

“Excuse me?!? Fuck you! What do you expect me to do when there’s a man standing in his ஜெட்டி (boxers) in my kitchen early in the morning?” Heidi counters.

Layla sucks in her lips to keep herself from laughing at the two, but Ramya and Grace giggle.

“You need to stop Heidi,” Grace says, “It makes it harder to boot them to the curb.”

“I thought you didn't bring boys home. You usually go to theirs and slip out no?” Ramya asks.

“I did but this boy-”

“Okay! I’m gonna tell them!” Heidi cuts Susan off.

“Don’t you dare bitch!”

“She’s bonded with this boy,” Heidi whispers to her friends, like Susan wasn’t on the call and in the room right next to hers.

“I have not!” Susan vehemently shakes his head.

“You don’t bond with anyone!” Grace whisper screams. “How?”

“Because he-” Heidi stops bursting into a fit of laughter.

“What?” Layla, Ramya, and Grace all ask in unison.

“It’s nothing,” Susan insists.

“It’s not n-noth-nothing,” Heidi manages to sputter between bouts of giggles.

“Tell us!” Ramya insists.

Heidi takes her glasses off to wipe the tears that have streamed down her cheeks. “Last week-”

“You promised not to tell!” Susan says.

“Don’t listen to her. Tell us!” Layla urges Heidi.

“So, Susan was doing it with his guy last week and I get a call at like one in the morning-”

“I swear to God,” Susan groans, hurrying up from the bed, leaving her phone to flop over and have the camera point to the white popcorn ceiling. Three seconds later, they see Heidi’s door burst open to have Susan stomping over and Heidi’s camera frame shakes as a squabble breaks out in Tamil.

“They were fucking so hard and he managed to yank her earring and split her earlobe in two!” Heidi howls in laughter and Susan smacks her shoulder, cursing her.

“Aiyo! Christ!” Layla gasps.

“Fuck! Are you okay?” Grace asks concerned.

“How did it even happen?” Ramya implores.

“I made her promise not to tell,” Susan mumbles, falling onto Heidi’s mattress in defeat.

“Why not? It’s just us,” Ramya says.

“It’s embarrassing! People in the emergency room were laughing,” Heidi snorts.

Susan lifts her hair up and out of her face to show them her right ear lobe, which now had a white bandage taped over it. “It doesn’t hurt. Had to get my lobe sewed together though. The doctors said they’ll take out the stitches in a few days and I can wear earrings after it fully heals. It happened so fast. We were doing it hard and fast doggy style and I think he bent over to pull me up or to grab onto my hair - anyway and the next minute there was blood and he had my hoop in his hand. Safety tip from now, if you’re wearing big earrings, especially hoops, take them off before you have sex,” she mumbles sheepishly.

“I had to go to the emergency room and thank fuck for insurance but after I knew that she was okay, I laughed for like ten minutes, because I thought she was dying or something,” Heidi explains.

“I wish I did. It was mortifying,” Susan buries her face in her hands.

“Ever since then, the dude’s come over a lot since then and he's also Tamil and likes Vijay movies, so my friendship with him was instantaneous,” Heidi shrugs.

“A man with a fine taste,” Layla agrees. “I’m with Heidi on this one. Anyone who’s a fan of Vijay is an automatic friend.”

Susan rolls her eyes, when Grace beats her before she says something, “Is he feeling guilty? Is that why he’s coming around?”

“He is definitely guilty but we just sit and watch 80's Tamil movies together now.”

“Who knew that ripping Susan’s earlobe in half was all it took to ignite some type of feels,” Ramya chuckles. “What happened to that white British boy you were hooking up with from your class?”

“Oh, he’s been avoiding me like the plague because he insisted on anal and I told him it’s only fair that I get to do it to him before he does it to me,” Susan shrugs. “I think it’s a fair trade.”

“It totally is. Dudes should know what the experience is like. Jake has been trying to do anal with me for like three months now and I can just about tolerate the second biggest buttplug,” Grace says.

“And you don’t wanna?” Layla raises her brow.

“God no. I like giving up the reins when I’m having sex. Like the bed is the only place when I love being submissive.”

“I don’t think I’d survive being with someone who owns a penis,” Ramya grimaces. “I don’t know how you all do it.”

“What’s their obsession with putting it up your colon? Like is the one designated hole not enough for you?” Heidi rolls her eyes.

“I have no clue either. But I think Layla and I are on the right track with these Brits though,” Susan says.

“What track might that be?” Layla questions.

“Colonising the colonisers,” Susan’s eyes glint mischievously, and everyone bursts out laughing.

“Colonising the colonisers,” Layla repeats her pun, shaking her head as she snorts and guffaws. Harry startles awake from the way her body convulses beneath him.

“Wha’?” He blinks lazily, propping himself up to look around.

“I’m sorry, babe. Susan said something funny. I didn’t mean to wake you,” she softly says, cradling his face, cooing as she gets him back on her chest.

“Huh,” Harry lets out a small sound, eyes already drifting shut from the way Layla’s fingers move his hair away from his eyes, and the lazy scratches, from blunt nails of her other hand, down his back.

“It’s okay. Go back to sleep, Har. It’s alright.” She lulls him back, waiting for a few moments after his breathing evens out before picking up her phone to find her friends pouting.

“Who knew you could be so gentle,” Grace teases.

“Can you come put me to sleep like that?” Heidi chuckles.

“Okay. Okay. Shut up.” Layla rolls her eyes. “I’ve become a softie. Let’s move on.”

“How does it feel to have a buttplug in your bum?” Ramya asks Grace. “How do the logistics work?”

////

Deepavali in Chicago looked vastly different from Deepavali back home in India. If Layla was with her parents, then the entire house would be in shambles - cardboard boxes everywhere, piles of old books, newspapers, and clothes to give away. Her mother scrubbing every crevice of the house, her father up in the lofts demanding that Layla hold on to the step ladder so he could get down. Her grandmother vigorously sifting rice flour and prepping to make poli, achumuruku and thattu vadai to gift friends and family. Her grandfather calling her every three hours asking her what firecrackers she wants from the shops, even if it’s been years since she had the desire to light up a sparkler. Distant sounds of boom and a gleeful laugh of children echo from the street on the days leading up to the day, praying out to the gods to part the grey clouds for sunshine, so they can burst all the new crackers they’ve stashed away.

Layla had chalked up Deepavali at Apex to be more of the same with the neighbours and the throng of Indians her Uncle and Aunt were friends with; she'd even imagined lighting up a sparkler with Harry in the evening. Her notion of an almost homey celebration was dispelled the minute Vasanth had told her they were leaving for Chicago to celebrate with Senthil, his first cousin. They’d initially planned to pop over to Layla’s other Uncle’s after the New Years but that quickly fell through when her flights got preponed a week. So, they packed their bags and flew over to spend four days with Senthil.

His two bedroom flat was sparsely decorated, the grey walls had nothing lively bouncing from them to permeate guests with warmth. Layla tutted with disappointment when she walked into his bedroom to find him still sleeping on a blowup mattress.

“You’ve been here for ten months and you didn’t have time to buy a bed?” She’d asked him.

“I sleep in the hospital, kutti. You think I have time to come home, much less decorate it,” Senthil reminded her. He moved to the States for a three year foetal and neonatal surgery program at Leurie’s.

Being the youngest of the cousins, Senthil practically was closer to Layla’s age. So, when he’d taken Layla, Vasanth, and Abi to see the lit up trees at the zoo their first day of visiting, he begged Layla not to call him Uncle in front of his friends. But Layla being Layla came up to him as he was waving his friends off, “Can we head to the gift shop and get the giraffe soft toy, Uncle?” She tugged at the end of his coat sleeve, giving him and his friends her sweetest of smiles.

When his friends’ brows dipped, gazes moving to and fro from Layla to him, “I became an Uncle when I was seven,” he muttered sheepishly, readjusting the scarf around his neck.

When they’d left, he locked his arm around her neck, yanking her to him to twist her ear. “Happy now, குட்டிச்சாத்தான் (demon baby)? Come I’ll get you your toy,” he rolls his eyes, walking in the direction of the gift shop.

“I don’t care for one,” she giggled. “Just wanted your friends to know that you have a grown ass niece.” She shrieked, running towards Vasanth and Abi for cover when Senthil chased after.

Deepavali morning consisted in all of them bundling up heading to the Chicago Bean and bimbling around the neighbourhood, in the early hours. Grey clouds and sticky skin was replaced with biting frigid wind and pink noses. They started on making lunch - or a very late breakfast - getting on FaceTime calls with Layla’s mum and grandmother to guide them along in making the dishes, so they’d taste like they were cooked back home. This Deepavali was quieter, less about celebration but more of enjoying each other’s presence. Layla could not remember the last time she did that with the people back home. Layla was grateful that she wasn’t given the lecture of why paying respects to the Gods is vital from her parents and grandparents and disapproving of her atheism. As much as Chicago’s Deepavali was distinctive from the one’s she’d had back home, she finds herself missing the chaos and fanfare of Chennai.

“So you’re not going to be a clinician and practice?” Senthil asks, peeping at Layla’s laptop screen; she was filling out applications for schools.

“I didn’t enjoy my clinical or counselling internships. The fun ended right after I figured out the diagnosis. I’d much rather work behind the scenes, plus it’s not like I won’t get to use my psychotherapy skills in research, especially with participants.”

Vasanth turns around walking towards the two, with a ceramic bowl in hand. “Admissions have started ah?”

“Yeah. They have been for the past week. Already done applying to University of Boston and UMass. Thought I’d apply for Northwestern when I’m in Illinois.” She picks up the bowl from Vasanth, and starts mixing the hung curd, honey, and turmeric into a paste with the spoon.

“We’d be so close! Northwestern is like thirty minutes from here!” Senthil exclaims, adjusting the flimsy plastic shower cap on his head. “I could drop you off everyday.”

Layla laughs, noting the way Vasanth frowns at the corner of her eye. “Don’t go making plans yet. It’s a private uni and it depends on my stipend and fee waiver.”

“Yeah and you're heading back to India in two years, so she’d have to look for apartments smack in the middle of her doctorate when your fellowship is done,” Vasanth reminds him

“Or she can just stay here and find a flatmate,” Senthil tells him. “Four more applications to go. Deadline’s the first of December. Seems like you got this,” he pinches her cheeks, before grabbing the television remote.

When Abi keys into the apartment, with a plastic bag containing all the ingredients they need to make Mysore Pak, the sight in front of her cracks her up. She had all but popped over to Trader Joes for two hours and was mystified about the things that transpired in that short time span. Senthil had a transparent shower cap on and Abi could make out the slick paste of black hair dye underneath. Vasanth had his hair pushed back in one of her hairbands and had a thick goop of pastel yellow paste spread evenly on his face and neck. Layla’s hair was oiled, tied into a braid with her bangs clipped away and donned the same yellow mask on her face as her Uncle. Abi’s sure this is all her niece’s handiwork; she had a knack of making her Uncles bow down to her whims. The three were dancing in the middle of the living room rapping Madai Thirandhu from the noughties.

////

Harry refreshes his inbox again, maybe his MacBook was glitching. He rubs the sleep away from his drowsy eyes, making sure his brain wasn’t playing tricks on him. Maybe it was just a dream, the kind that starts out with rolling out of the bed with unruly hair, reaching over to his pen and journal from his nightstand, and being distracted by a chime from his laptop.

A notification pops up on the top right of his screen signaling that Layla had sent him an image, he clicks on the text instead opening up his iMessenger screen to a selfie of Layla standing underneath the Chicago bean. Her hair was up in a ponytail, bangs pushed to the side, her face being swallowed by a fuzzy red scarf as she winked at the camera.

Layla: happy deepavali from the bean!

Harry: Morning Morning! How’s the celebration coming along?

Layla: we’re just planning to eat until our stomachs are ready to pop. oh and senthil uncle says hi!

Senthil had swiped through Layla’s photos from her trip to Wilmington as she was animatedly talking about her much needed beach day. He found the picture of Harry making kissy faces at the camera on the oyster boat, and Layla immediately snatched the phone away as a knee jerk reaction. He’d laughed when she went teary eyed beseeching him to not tell anyone in India. Senthil was surprisingly cool with it, but it didn’t mean that Layla was spared from the lecture about relationships and responsibility.

Harry: Hello to Senthil Uncle! He’s the one who was in fourth grade when you were born right?

Layla: affirmative. miss you lots 🙁

Harry: We FaceTimed last night, remember?

His face floods a wash of pink recalling their desperate whines and lewd grunts as they helped each other relieve themselves. He went to bed with a dopey smile on his face when he’d pressed the red button wishing her happy dreams.

Layla: how could i forget… made me lose my bearings from 800 miles away 👀

Harry: And don’t you forget it!

Layla: i’m being shouted at… gtg. see you tomorrow morning! i bloody love you babe 😘

Harry: Love you too Lails!

He closes the program to be met with his inbox again. Letting out a heavy sigh, he opens the email again frowning when it doesn’t change. As eyes scan the words ‘Dear Mr. Styles,” his stomach churns knowing what's coming next but before he could read it again, he’s gunning it to the toilet slapping a hand over his mouth.

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