I woke up on the floor beside my bed, a sharp ache in the front of my head and behind my eyes, the light pouring in from the outside window making it hard for me to see anything besides white light. My insides were turning, my lower back was tense, and my mouth was impossibly dry. I was still wearing my dress from the night before, unzipped in the back as if I had started to try to do it myself but tired out halfway through, and my makeup was caked up in different spots but bare in some. I was a hungover mess for the first time in a long while.

As I tried to get to my feet the best I could with only partial vision and a weak stomach, the memories from the night before flooded into my mind. The shiny dresses. The candlelight. Harry's plump lips. The way they felt against mine, skilled and soft.

My hand pressed to my forehead to try to ease the tension trapped within it. I wanted to forget that I ever kissed him and wanted to slap myself in the face for ever letting it happen. I was so drunk, too drunk to really understand anything past how attractive he was and how much the mystery that he was made of excited me. I hadn't even considered that we were practically working together, that I couldn't form anything other than a business class friendship with him without it being weird, until it was far too late. I couldn't remember if he was drunk or not, but he had to have been to forget that he knew better.

I padded to the bathroom, splashing enough water on my face to wash away all the stray mascara littering my cheeks and eyelids. I looked in the mirror, disgusted by how tired and dead I looked. I had never been more thankful that I had Saturdays off, not even when I went to dinner with Harry that first time. I would never hear the end of it if I went into the office looking like this, deep set bags beneath my eyes and a dullness to my skin.

I peeled the off the day old dress, unhooked my bra, and slipped out of my underwear so I could take a quick shower to try to rid myself of the gross stickiness that covered my body, like I had sweat out all the champagne overnight. Right as I turned the knob to start the water, there was a knock on my door. I considered not answering it, letting the warm water from the tap hit my hand while I quickly weighed my options, but decided that getting company was such a rare thing that I might want to check to make sure it wasn't an emergency.

I grabbed my fluffy pink robe off its hook while looking at the clock above the bathroom mirror, learning that it was 10:22. I had overslept more than I had in years. I wished I didn't feel so gross so I could actually enjoy it.

My feet slapped against the floor as I made my way towards the door, looking through the peephole to see a postman, dressed in all navy blue, his hands behind his back like whatever he was delivering was a surprise.

I swung the door open to be met by wide eyes. He obviously hadn't expected to find me in a barely dressed, barely awake state but I waved it off, letting him know that I wasn't angry and that he hadn't really interrupted anything.

"Special delivery from Mr. Twist," he said, revealing a bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in yellow and green paper. At first, I didn't know who he was talking about, but then my mind wandered back to the night before and was able to pick up the memory of Jason calling Harry that, one of his many aliases I had learned. Boy, was that getting confusing.

"Thank you," I said, taking them from him before shutting the door so I could inspect them by myself. I was hoping that it wasn't Harry thinking that our kiss meant more than it had. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, didn't want it to turn into anything. He was supposed to be just another subject, someone I knew strictly under business conditions, a quiet acquaintanceship. Kissing him was technically the same thing as kissing Pollock, except Pollock wasn't nearly as charming or allusively handsome as Harry.

There was a note card shoved into the spaces between the stems and the long, yellow petals with Pen scribbled on it in heavy blue ink. I picked it out, looking at the messy loops of the letters, recognizing the handwriting from the note Harry had left on the champagne bottle the night before. I turned it over carefully, unsure if I wanted to know what it said.

This may be awkward and completely counteractive, but these are 'I'm sorry for kissing you' flowers. I hope that you're not too mad and that you still want to continue interviewing me. It's honestly kind of nice having someone ask me questions all the time and I'm glad that I chose you out of all people to do it. You're a good writer. I've read your columns. You're definitely better than that Pollock guy, probably a better kisser as well. (Sorry I just had to put that bit in there. Hope it doesn't take away from the message.)
-Harry Styles
(a.k.a. Mitch, Mr. Twist, and whatever else you know me as. I know the nicknames get confusing.)

No one had ever bought me flowers before, especially not apology flowers or flowers that validated my writing career. It was enough to make me want to kiss him again just to thank him, my thoughts and concerns about professionalism completely tossed out the window. Harry made no sense, a living breathing contradiction, so maybe that's why I couldn't make any damn sense of what I wanted to do with him. I wanted to call him, thank him, buy him some flowers to have mailed to his door before lunchtime.

I found a tall enough glass to fit the flowers in since I didn't have a vase, filling it with water and placing them delicately in there to sit on the kitchen counter, to welcome me and remind me that everything was fine, that someone out there other than myself thought I was better than Pollock, that I should never consider kissing Harry again.

Then, I found myself sitting in front of the phone with my aching head in my hands, trying to figure out what to say to him if I called to thank him. Should I pretend like nothing happened, mention the flowers, then hang up? Should I forgive him for something that I wasn't even mad over just to give him a weird sense of closure? Decidedly overthinking it, I let my fingers rotate the dial to form his number while patiently waiting for him to answer, hoping that he wasn't going to be as uncomfortable as I felt.

"Hello?" he answered, his voice raspier than usual with tiredness. I couldn't remember what time I got home the night before, but I figured it was probably late. He was more than likely just as tired as I was. I almost felt bad for calling.

"It's Penelope. Just wanted to thank you for the flowers," I said easily, realizing that all that time I spent worrying about what to say was useless because that worked just fine and it didn't take me hardly any time at all to find it within myself to say it.

"No need to thank me. It really was the least I could do," he said, his voice muffled and I didn't need to see him to know that his bottom lip was pressed between his fingers like it always was when we was thinking or when he was anything other than his usual cheery self.

"Technically, the least you could do would've been nothing at all," I corrected, knowing it would make him smile. He laughed, a light breathy sort of chuckle that proved me right. I kind of wished I didn't know him that well.

"I guess so. We're still on for another meeting, yeah?" he asked. I tried to think of when the next best time would be. I looked at the calendar tacked to my wall, the numbered boxes that I'd scribbled deadlines or headings for the paper on to messily. A week from that day was the office outing that I'd forgotten all about.

Ricci met us all at Friendly's, a cheap bar across the street from us, and bought a few rounds on everyone, apart from me because ladies weren't supposed to drink. He did this twice a year and I'd gone each time since I became employed because I found great humor in watching the same people who called me dumb every day make absolute fools of themselves. As I stared at the planned date, I decided that Harry would probably get quite the kick out of it too. So, I decided to invite him along. No one knew who he was and some of the guys typically brought friends or partners with them, so what would it hurt to bring along a plus one? It wasn't like anyone was paying for my drinks.

"Well, depends. Do you consider joining me at Friendly's next Saturday for a night out with all my coworkers a meeting?" I asked, teasingly.

"I'd love to. Maybe we'll see some of those losers fall on their asses," he said, laughing heartily into the phone. Great minds think alike.

"Just what I was thinking."

"Okay, I'll pick you up then. Is seven alright?"

"Perfect, actually," I assured him, his smile somehow traveling through the phone. I didn't understand how he could do that, grin audibly, but I accepted it.

"Okay, well I guess I'll see you then," he said, taking one last deep breath before hanging up. I slid the phone back onto its holder, sitting down on the couch and sinking into it. What a strange morning I'd had. I woke up feeling like there was a hole in my head, received flowers for the first time, and invited Harry to go to the bar with me to watch my colleagues drink themselves silly, all before I'd taken a shower or eaten a bite of breakfast or lunch.

Kissing Harry was wrong, unprofessional, and if anyone had put me on this case they would've swiftly taken me off, but the payout wasn't too bad. Maybe it was just a happy accident, something that needed to happen to piece everything together. I shook my head, realizing how silly I sounded, before getting up to finally get myself clean.

"We all have secrets, no matter how small. So, why should we expect the government to be any different? Of course they have things they're hiding from us. They're human. That's a given." -Styles, 1959