You met Harry through Adore, the "lucky number seven" in his string of dating trials. That first night at the sushi restaurant felt suspiciously effortless. Dressed down and leaning in, you spent the evening debating ice cream flavors with such mock intensity that a follow-up date at a local scoop shop became an absolute necessity.

As the weeks blurred into months, you noticed something rare: Harry was a curator of the small things. Despite the million spinning plates he balanced for work and family, he always maintained a quiet, unbreakable space just for you. He didn't just listen, he acted. After every date, he’d offer a token of his attention, it was never about the price tag, it was about the proof of presence. It might be a specific song you’d hummed, a poem mentioned in passing, or a niche callback to a shared joke. It was deeply attractive, not because of the gesture, but because it proved Harry was truly, deeply paying attention.

Things changed when he didn't show up to a date. When you had waited for hours at a restaurant for him to never show up. Until you got a call about the hospital he was in after an accident on the way to the restaurant. In the wake of his car accident, Harry expected a sympathetic text or a somber phone call. He didn't expect you.

When you walked in, clutching his favorite chocolates, two bobbing "Get Well Soon" balloons, and a smile that seemed to soften the very air; the realization hit him: you weren't just a part of his life, you were his partner.

"You came," Harry whispered, his voice raspy beneath the oxygen mask.

"Of course."

You circled the bed, anchoring the balloons to the railing before leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. When you reached for his hand, he squeezed back with everything he had.

"I needed to see you," he confessed, his eyes searching yours. "I really did."