Harry and you broke up a week ago, it's not like some ugly split with loud arguments and shattered glass, it's quite peaceful. Harry was never the type of guy twho knew how to build a real romantic relationship. He's good at establishing business contracts, forging mutual beneficial partnership with rich men whose trust funds are stacked higher than most people's lifetime earnings. When it came to love, or rather, to the person he was supposed to care about, the only thing he knows is to spoil them with money. A grand bouquet of roses on Valentine’s Day, a perfectly curated date night at New York’s most exclusive restaurant. When they went back to his fancy penthouse with a skyline view worth millions, maybe an intense night filled with touching, moaning, sweats and musks could help seal the day. Those were the only love languages he spoke.

And when you finally told him you couldn’t keep doing this anymore, a lyric popped up bitterly to his mind: Maybe we got lost in translation.

A week later, now here he is, sitting in his penthouse, alone, sipping his whiskey. You already moved your things out, his extravagant room strangely empty. He can’t stop thinking about those nights. The way your body fit against his, the curve of your back pressed against the counter, the soft sounds you made when he found your sweet spots. At least, your bodies spoke the same language. He looked at his watch, 19:38. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through his long list of contacts until he found your name. He wasn’t sure if his name still lived in your phone, but yours had always stayed in his. Hey, are you free tonight? He stared at the message for a moment, thumb hovering over send. Then, without overthinking it, he tapped the screen. Delivered.

He knew exactly what he was asking. Maybe he just hoped you'd want it too.