Page 94 of The Sound Between Us

“Of your compromised state? Absolutely.”

“Good. I like being compromised by you.”

The words hit me sideways, casual and loaded and dangerous. I fumble with the lock, suddenly clumsy myself.

“Just crash, Harry.”

The name slips out unfiltered. Familiar. Intimate.

He stops moving entirely. Not dramatically, just... stills. Something subtle shifts in the atmosphere. I can feel him looking at me, and when I glance up in the entryway light, it’s not Harrison Carter staring back. It’s the boy behind the myth. There’s something raw and startled in his eyes, hearing his own name crack a window in him and let the air in.

“Harry,” he repeats, testing the shape of it on his tongue.

“Yeah.”

“I like how you say it.”

That shift—from Harrison to Harry, from icon to person—hangs between us. I guide him through the house, my hand ghosting over his back, not quite touching but steadying. He’s different here. Less curated. The walls recognise him in a way the outside world never could.

In the bedroom, he collapses onto the bed fully clothed. Converse still laced, jeans twisted, hair absolute chaos. The bed is pristine white designer linens that probably cost more than my monthly rent. The boy in it is decidedly not pristine.

It breaks something in me, the contrast. This man who fills arenas, undone by a day of being real. Exhausted and boyish and so completely unguarded it feels intrusive to look at him.

I move toward the door, toward safety, toward the guest room where I can pretend my chest isn’t tight with wanting. But his hand finds my wrist before I can escape.

His fingers wrap around gently. Warm. Loose enough that I could step away if I wanted to. Tight enough that I don’t want to.

“Stay.”

It’s just one word, but it’s everything. Not a question. Not a demand. Just an offering. A quiet plea from someone who never lets anyone stay long enough to see the mess underneath the magazine covers.

The word hangs between us. My heart pounds against my ribs, every rational thought screaming caution—danger ahead, heartbreak imminent. But his voice isn’t polished this time. It’s not stage-ready or wrapped in charm. It’s raw. Unsure. Human.

“Harrison...”

“Harry,” he corrects softly. “When it’s just us, I’m Harry.”

The distinction hits me. Harrison belongs to the world. Harry belongs to this moment. To this room. To me.

I settle beside him anyway.

Not because it’s wise. Not because I’ve thought it through or weighed the consequences. But because whatever’s pulling me forward is stronger than self-preservation, stronger than every lesson I’ve learned about protecting myself from beautiful boys who could destroy me without even trying.

He doesn’t try to kiss me. Doesn’t reach for my hand or slide closer or murmur something soft to fill the dangerous silence. He just exhales, long and slow. His eyes drift closed, and he breathes in that deep, even way that only comes with real exhaustion. And trust.

That’s what hits me hardest. Not the closeness. Not the way his presence seems to take up all the oxygen in the room. The trust.

This is intimacy, I realise. Not grand gestures or cinematic declarations. Not breathless encounters on marble countertops. Just this—the quiet surrender of letting someone see you when the armour’s off and the cameras aren’t watching.

I lie there beside him, staring at his face as late afternoon light drifts lazily through the windows. Soft, golden, blurred around the edges. I catalogue what the cameras never catch. Tiny freckles dusted across his nose, faded now but probably prominent when he was a child running wild through Manchester streets. A scar on his chin, small and pale. A barely-there gap in his left eyebrow where the hair refuses to grow—some genetic imperfection a stylist probably spends a fortune trying to fill in with makeup.

His lips are parted slightly, breath even and unguarded. And I remember—too vividly—how they felt against mine in London. Not just the kiss, but the way he kissed me. Like I mattered. Like I was Seren, not a legacy or a surname or a media headline waiting to happen. Just me.

I’m falling for him.

The realisation hits sudden and shocking and completely undeniable. Not Harrison Carter, global pop icon with a marketing team behind his every breath. Not the curated version of a man with publicists managing his every decision. But Harry. The boy who writes songs about council estates and escape routes. Who cooks dinner with his sleeves rolled up and flour on his hands. Who collapses fully clothed when the music wrings him out completely.

This version of him—the one that exists when no one’s watching, when the stage lights are off and the performance ends—might be the most real thing I’ve ever seen. And he’s buried it so deep under years of packaging and expectation I wonder if he even knows it’s still there.