30 || Change Of Plans

                                    

                                          
I HEAR A FAINT rustling sound from outside the master bedroom.
I rub my eyes, twisting my body from the cotton sheets. I reach for my phone to check the time. Luckily, I still have three hours until my flight back to New York. I only slept four hours last night and could have done with several more.
I run my hand through my hair, letting out a quick sigh as I gather my wits about me. 
This is not at all what I was expecting – to see him here and have our reunion turn into something like this. But at the same time, I can't say that I regret it. I would replay that night over and over again if I could. I can't help but think about what it would be like to taste him more. 
But I have no idea where this leaves us now.
What the hell am I doing?
I walk to the bathroom to splash some water on my face – waking myself up with the ice cold rinse before I step through the door to meet him outside.
"Morning." He stands tall next to the counter at the kitchenette. His black sweats ride low against his hips. He wears an old white t-shirt that fits perfectly across his flawless silhouette. 
A hot cup of black coffee rests in his hand while our usual tea sits ready on the side. I can't hold back the easy smile that spreads across my face at the scene. Something about watching him like this in the morning has always been my favorite. Like an intimate painting that has been long lost to time. It feels like a secret – a privileged sight to see.
I walk toward him to grab the bitter tea sitting on the counter. A plate of croissants is placed next to us. The flaky, buttery texture calls my name and I grab one before sitting down in the cushioned chair – pulling my legs up from the floor to hold my knees close against me.
I find it hard not to watch him. Everything about him pulls me in like a trap.
"When do you have to leave?" His deep morning voice breaks through the silence.
"In a few hours." I answer, blowing on the hot tea. "What about you?"
"Same. I'm headed back to London for a week."
"Oh," I murmur, realizing that some part of me actually hoped he was flying back to New York.
"Come with me." He says quietly.
The sharp liquid I'm inhaling gets stuck in my throat. My eyes widen as I cough, thumping my hand against my chest. It takes me a moment before my lungs manage another breath. 
"What?"
His expression remains unchanged as he stands calmly across from me, at odds with the fact that I almost choked.
"Come to London with me." He states again – his tone firm and serious.
"Are you sober right now?"
"Yep."
"You're joking."
"Nope."
"Why? What?" I sputter, thrown off by his words and the direction of the conversation.
"I miss you."
I feel an instant heaviness in the air.
"Do you miss me too?" He prods.
"Yes, Harry." I let out a long breath. "Of course, but – "
"Then come with me." He interrupts, stepping forward until I have to look up into his eyes. His demeanor is confident and unconcerned.