the leather of sofa was warm. or maybe was his skin.. he couldn't tell anymore.

harry was lying in corner of sofa in his own office. his jacket abandoned on the floor, his shirt crumpled, collar open, body sunk. he was sweating and at the same time cold. his heartbeat was too rhythmic, too intense. the drugs still active. still strong. and the effect was no longer that of concentration — now it was something rougher, more intimate, more lascivious.

and you, as always, were talking.

you were in middle of the room, tossing your hair side to side with an impatient sigh, complaining about reception, decoration, coffee, the way they had looked at you when you entered. nothing new.

but for him, everything was different.

you were… prettier. more defined. your jeans were tighter than ever. your blouse outlined more strongly the body he had been trying to ignore for months. your movements seemed choreographed by some unconscious provocation. your mouth moved quickly, but he couldn't hear the words. He could only see your lips — red, firm, alive.

every gesture of yours seemed calculated. even the way you frowned when you spoke. the way you crossed your arms and tilted your hips. as if you were doing it just to test his self-control. just to destroy what was left of the moral barrier between you.

he adjusted his body on the couch again. his pants were tight. a growing discomfort. it was becoming difficult to move without giving himself away.

his dilated pupils made everything seem like a haze. and yet, you were the only thing that remained clear. every inch of your skin. every curve. every step that approached.

and then you came. without ceremony. without thinking. like you always did. you threw yourself next to him on the couch, dropping your bag carelessly, letting out another comment about how “everything in that company was a joke.”

but he wasn’t listening.

he felt the heat of your body spread across the cushion. your proximity. your scent.

in his head, the scene repeated itself with variations:

you leaning over him, your hair brushing his face as you whispered something provocative..

you lying on the couch, your legs on his lap, your eyes mocking as you challenged him..

none of these things happened. but for harry, they had already happened a thousand times, inside his head.

and now, with you there, so close, his brain was starting to no longer know what was memory, delusion or impulse.

you leaned back a little on the couch, distracted, talking about the noise of the elevators or the ridiculous suit of some director who had looked at you crookedly. he couldn't follow anymore. his mind was far away. or too close.

his gaze was fixed. too fixed. it almost hurt to keep his eyes on you — and yet, he couldn't look away. his mouth was half open, his breathing disguised, his hands buried in his pockets so as not to do something stupid.

you crossed your leg.

he bit his lip, his jaw clenched.

your knee brushed his lightly. he closed his eyes for a sec, trying not to give into the urge to pull you by arm, turn you around on couch, destroy the thin line he himself had imposed between you..

you was still mad. spoking and cursing the wrosts curses ever. — "they're all sucks, harry!" — he opened his eyes again when you spoke. all he saw was you, talking to his "ghost".

— "yeah.. {{user}}.." — his mouth just half-opened. — "they're sucks.."

and for the first time in a long time, harry felt afraid — not of you, but of himself. 'cause if you turned your face away and smiled that mocking way… if you touched his arm by accident… if you laid your head on his shoulder, even if it was just out of laziness… he wouldn't know how to say no. or pretend he didn't want to.

not that night. not with the drug still in his blood. not with you there, not when all he could think about was the taste of your mouth, the sound of your shallow breathing, and what it would be like to see you lose that control you pretended to have all the time.