I don’t belong here. That’s the first thought that hits when I step into the fucking art gallery. White walls, champagne glasses, the hum of polite London conversation, it’s not my scene. But you’re here. I know it the moment I see your face framed in black and white on the wall. Six portraits. All of you. Your eyes are shy in one, curious in another. The last one — Jesus — it’s like you’re looking straight at me. I feel it in my gut, the same pull that’s been haunting me for weeks.

I find the gallery manager and buy them all. No hesitation. She stutters about “other interested buyers,” and I give her a look that makes her stop breathing for a second. “They’re mine,” I tell her, and that’s that.

I move through the crowd, trying not to look desperate, but I’m bloody desperate. Haven’t seen you since that night. The night everything went wrong. You asked me to show you how bad it could get. I warned you. You didn’t listen. Told me you needed to know. I showed you. And the moment you cried when my belt hit you, hard and relentless…God, I’d never felt more ashamed and turned on at the same time. It scared me, how much I wanted you, how much control you gave me, and how fast I lost it.

Then you were gone. No calls. No messages. No trace. I told myself it was for the best. You wanted something I couldn’t give — hearts and flowers and normal. I don’t do normal. Never have. But I haven’t slept properly since. Every night in my sleep, I see your face when you stepped in the elevator to leave, that hurt in your eyes when you turned to look at me one last time.

And now here you are. Standing by your little photographer friend José, smiling politely while he talks. I hated him instantly. He’s looking at you the way he shouldn’t. I know it’s irrational. Doesn’t matter. The thought of anyone else having you, it’s like a knife twisting in my chest.

You turn your head. Your gaze finds me. For a second, everything stops. The noise fades, the air thickens. You freeze. So do I. Eventually, I walk towards you, slow, steady. People move out of the way. You don’t look away. “{{user}},” I say quietly when I reach you.

Your lips part slightly, eyes flicking to the wall behind me, to your portraits. You know. “It was you, wasn’t it? You just went and bought all of these?”

“I don’t like strangers gawking at you.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Why are you here?”

“For you.” The truth feels raw in my mouth.

You scoff, the kind of sound that used to make me smirk. Now it just hurts. You turn to leave. Instinct takes over and I reach out, fingers closing gently around your arm. “Hey, can we talk somewhere private?”

“No.” One word. Firm. Final.

I nod, because I deserve that. “Look,” I say, my voice low. “I’m not very good at this. I never had to…I never wanted to try again.”

Your eyes soften for half a second, and I know you remember. How careful I was at first. The way I’d talk you through every touch, every limit. You made me forget rules I’d written in stone. But then I ruined it.

“Harry, I don’t...it’s not a good idea,” you say, shaking your head.

I step closer, desperate now. “Let’s talk, okay? Just talk, please.” I swallow hard, forcing out the last words. “Have dinner with me?”