Bernalillo, NM
December 18

Harry winced as he pushed his long hair out of his face. His whole body hurt, especially his head, a deep thudding ache. He rested his hands on top of his head for several moments, his eyes closed against the blinding winter light. A wave of dizziness swept over him. Fuck. He probably had a concussion. Again.

"Um," a rugged voice interrupted his thoughts. He regarded the person in front of him; she looked like a trucker. Or a lumberjack. She wore a dark red and green flannel shirt over an old movie t-shirt, her jeans hung loosely from her narrow hips, and her dark curly hair was pulled into a sloppy ponytail at the base of her head. The faint blush on her warm brown cheeks was actually rather lovely. A cute lumberjack trucker. "Your arm..." Her deep voice trailed off again.

He looked down. The cuff of his gray sweater was torn and frayed, and blood was slowly seeping into the fabric. His jeans were in even worse shape. The right leg was nearly torn all the way off at the knee. And his leg under that was caked with quickly drying blood and bits of gravel. Harry peeled the sweater away from his body and off, tossing it to the ground in front of him. The cold air snuck in under his thin t-shirt, and though he could feel it stinging his skin, he didn't feel cold. In fact, he was sweating. "Thanks," he murmured as she dabbed at his forearm with a damp towel, wiping away the dirt and grit and blood.

She pasted a large swath of cotton gauze to his arm with thick tape, her dark rough fingers smoothing the tape gently to his tattooed skin. The woman shrugged. "Sure." Like it was no big deal. Like it was no big deal to help him. Like it was no big deal to pour water from her supply over his battered knee and calf.

But it was a big deal. Harry had witnessed people shoving each other out of the way, trampling one another under foot, killing others for a scrap of food. At the end of the world, humanity showed its true colors: a disturbing muddy mix of selfish indifference and opportunistic violence.

He was glad to see there was still some good left in the world.

"I have some extra jeans," she offered, sticking the last bandage on his leg. "And a jacket," she added standing up to face him.

Harry nodded, "thanks."

She reached past him into the cargo area of her SUV and dug around in a duffle bag, retrieving the clothes. "I can probably fix your bike." He snapped his gaze to her. That bike had been his father's. It meant more to him than his legs. She handed him the jeans, a Harvard sweatshirt, and a denim jacket, then rested her hands on her hips. "I just need to see a diagram."

"Uh," Harry didn't know what to say. So he said the only thing that came to mind. Again. "Thanks."

The woman walked away from him, back toward where his bike was laying on the ground. He watched her over his shoulder; he didn't really know why, but he couldn't break his gaze. She circled the motorcycle, tipping her head to one side, then the other, wisps of that curly dark hair falling in her face. Harry turned back, kicked his boots off his feet, and pulled his tight black jeans off his hips. At the knees, his left leg got held up. His skinny jeans were always a running joke in his family. How can you walk? Don't you want to have children someday? Muffin top! For the first time, he regretted his fashion choice. His body was so sore, he couldn't easily bend down to peel the jeans all the way off. He grunted and groaned, aching as he tried to free himself.

His heart stuttered as a dog sitting on the pavement in front of him bared its teeth and approached him.

"Hey!" He shouted, trying to retreat. The dog sank its teeth into the fabric and pulled. Harry scooted back up into the truck, cradling his injured and now-bare legs to his body. The dog dropped the torn jeans and sat down, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.

The woman returned to the back of the car and looked from Harry to the dog and back. "What happened?"

Harry shook his head. He shouldn't have done that. It felt like his brain was bouncing around inside his skull. "He attacked--"

She was shaking her head now, adamantly. "No. Low-key, it's a work dog. He doesn't attack people."

A work dog. Like in a mine? No, he looked more like a sled dog. Harry's mind felt so jumbled. He stared at the dog who barked happily at him. Had he attacked? Or had he helped Harry? "Low-key?" Harry said hazily. The dog barked again.

"Yeah," the woman said. "And I'm Marty."

"Harry." He uncurled his sore body and reached for her jeans. Marty's eyes darted down his bare legs.

"Do you need help?"

"No," he slid his socked feet into the baggy jeans, his hips protesting as he bent forward to pull them up. "Thanks." He pulled the sweatshirt on even though he was pouring sweat.

Marty shrugged again. "We can put your bike on the roof. I need parts." Was she crazy? That motorcycle weighed too much to lift onto the roof of her car. He just blinked at her. "Just...just sit here. I'll take care of it." Yeah. She was crazy.

He heard her rummaging around in the backseat of her car, then she was gone. He looked around him. Besides the water and first aid kit, she had dog food, cans of people food, and corn oil. So much corn oil. Why did anyone need this much cooking oil? She was fucking nuts.

He stood gingerly, moved to the side of the car, and watched as she pushed the bike closer. There was a wide strip of thin plastic leaning against the hood of the SUV. Harry widened his eyes as she rolled the bike right up the makeshift ramp, up the windshield and onto the roof. That plastic should have buckled under the weight of his bike. And she seemed to have no trouble maneuvering the huge machine, resting it gently back on its side. Marty was stronger than she looked, and she moved with a graceful self-assuredness that both surprised and intrigued him. She threw a canvas strap over the bike and hooked it into the open doors, then winched it tight. Harry circled to the front of the car as she hopped down.

"How..."

She grabbed the plastic and folded it into a cube just bigger than his hand. "Carbon-fiber reinforced polymer," she handed him the cube. It was surprisingly light. "Where are you headed?"

"Northern California. Bay Area."

"I'm going that direction, too. Have a seat," she pointed at the passenger seat. "I'll get your boots."

Harry climbed in, shivering now. His socks were wet and cold from the thin layer of snow coating the road. She returned moments later, handing him a smaller cube, which grew warm in his hands. "My socks," he said pathetically. Marty didn't hesitate. She reached down between his knees and peeled his wet socks off, took the cube from his hand and placed it under his bare feet, which became pleasantly warm. Then she was gone again, shifting things around, closing the back of the car, loading the dog into the backseat.

"Here," she handed him a bottle of water, a packet of Tylenol, and a pair of fuzzy rainbow socks that seemed totally out of character for this tough woman. Oh, right. Rainbow. Harry tried to lift his leg, to pull the socks onto his feet on his own. But God, it hurt so much. "I'll do it. Just shift toward me." Harry swung his legs out the open door, and for a second, it looked like Marty was smiling. Smirking. Laughing? But then her expression relaxed into the impassivity to which he had so quickly grown accustomed. She tugged the socks up his feet, her calloused fingertips grazing the hair on his legs and giving him goosebumps. "There," she patted his foot, then put the tiny warm cube back in his hand. "Fasten your safety belt."

And they were off, weaving down the clogged highway at a painfully slow pace. It took hours to get out of the Albuquerque area, which frustrated the hell out of him. Harry needed to get home. He had spoken to his mom a few days ago, and she seemed to be fine, but he hated the idea of her and Gemma being out there, in that big house, alone. He needed to get home.

As if God heard his thoughts, his wishes, the road before them opened up, the multitude of stopped cars pulled to one side or the other, and Marty picked up speed. Harry leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

The smell of hot food woke him some time later, and Harry was disoriented at first when his eyes finally fluttered open. And then the horrible memory of bodies falling over covered in vomit, convulsing and finally dying, flooded back into his mind. His mom! He sat up straight. They were parked on a residential street, under a sign that read "Welcome to Gallup." Marty was cooking canned something on a small single burner, like a camping stove, resting on a bus bench. Beside her, the dog was chewing on a bone on a patch of snow-free sidewalk, sheltered from the weather by a wide metal awning.

Harry pulled his boots on over the fuzzy socks, groaning to himself as he did. His head didn't hurt anymore, but man, the rest of his body was screaming at him. He climbed slowly out of the car.

"Are you feeling any better?" Marty asked.

"Somewhat. I was pretty out of it earlier. What's the dog's name again?"

"Loki. As in Thor."

Oh. That made more sense. He pointed at her, "And you're Marty."

There was that ghost of a smile again. "Artie," she corrected. "As in Artemisia. Are you hungry?" When he nodded, she handed him a plastic bowl of chili. They ate quickly, and in silence. When they were done, she wiped out the bowls with paper towels, lit those on fire, and packed everything back into the car. She passed Harry another dose of Tylenol. "Do your bandages need changing?"

He raised the sleeve of the sweatshirt. "Nope. Looks all right." She nodded and put the jeep in gear. "Thank you again, Artie."

She didn't answer. She just shook her head, her eyes focused on the road ahead. Harry winced as the jeep dipped over a low hill, his aching body jostled by the motion. "Perhaps we ought to get you something stronger than acetaminophen," Artie muttered, glancing at him. "You might have fractured your costae."

"My what?"

"Your ribs."

"Why don't you just say ribs?"

There was that faint trace of a smile again. Harry felt his pulse accelerate as he watched the muscles of her face contract and relax again as the smile vanished. "Sorry. I have the annoying habit of speaking science all the time."

"I don't find it annoying," Harry shrugged. Her lips twitched again, a little further this time. Almost crinkling the skin around her eyes. Almost. "So are you a doctor?"

"Yes. But not a medical doctor," she glanced over her shoulder as she moved the car to the right, as if there would be cars in the other lane to worry about. Harry opened his mouth to ask her where she was going, but he saw. He saw the blue capital H under the off ramp sign. And then he saw the hospital off to the right.

"It's going to be awful in there," he said quietly. Harry had seen enough corpses, too many. He didn't want to see anymore.

"We're not going there," she pulled onto a side street and slowed to a stop in front of a house.

She hopped out of the car and walked up to the front door, which was slightly ajar. Harry scrabbled out after her, whistling for Loki to follow. She pushed the door open further and glanced around before slipping inside. This girl was fucking nuts. Adorable. But nuts. He hobbled up the walkway and to the door. "What are we doing?"

"I have to urinate," she called from somewhere inside. Harry leaned against the wall by the front door. Seriously? She was so...matter of fact about everything. Like the world was so simple. Like it wasn't this complicated disaster of an apocalypse. Like nothing fazed her. But it sort of bugged him that the world falling apart around them didn't seem to bother her at all. He wondered if anything would break through that tough exterior. "You could check the kitchen for food, I guess," she added. He started to go in, but the smell. Oh god the smell. He pressed his cold hands to his face and hunched over, trying to hold back the vomit. She reappeared at his side moments later, her strong hands gripping his shoulders. "Okay, maybe we are going to the hospital."

Harry shook his head. "Nah. I'm all right." She was perfectly fine going into a house full of rotting bodies, and it made him feel like a wimp that he wasn't. Like, either he was a wimp or she really was completely unaffected by all of this.

"I'm pretty sure you have a concussion. Come on, you can wait in the car." She drove them over to the hospital and parked across the street. "I'll be right back."

"Take Loki."

The almost-smile was back, and Harry had the very strong urge to press his lips to hers, to feel the almost-smile soften and expand under the pressure of his mouth. Would that crack her hard exterior? "I'll be all right." She jogged across the street and disappeared into the gray building. Fucking nuts. And tougher than steel. Harry leaned his head back against the seat. Smiling.

He must have dozed off. His car door opened, startling him from his sleep. Artie placed another small bottle of water in his hands, along with two bottles of pills. He read the scrawled black handwriting. "What's ondans--"

"Ondansetron is for nausea. The other is Vicodin. Take both now."

He swallowed the tablets down as she circled the car. Then he pulled his iPhone out of his pocket to check the time. To check for messages. "Shit." The screen was black. Dead.

Artie held up a charging cable plugged in low on the dash as she slid into her seat. "We can also play music from it if you want," she offered, gesturing at the loose auxiliary cable.

He took the charger from her, their fingers grazing slightly, and again, his heart beat a little faster. "It's completely dead," he mumbled.

"It'll charge fast," her usually deep voice was breathy. Probably from running across the street.

"Good. I need to see if my mum messaged me." Artie shook her head, and goddammit if that fucking tease of a smile wasn't back on her face. And goddammit if it she wasn't lovelier every time. Jesus. What the hell? This woman was not his type at all. Harry was known to be seen around town with twenty-year-old models, whose bodies were long and shapely, whose faces were often caked with makeup, and whose minds were empty. Artie was stocky and muscular, dressed androgynously, and apparently was some sort of sciency genius without a trace of makeup. Just that trace of a smile, still lingering on her lips. "What?" Harry asked, amusement evident in his tone.

"One, she might have texted, but you won't get it. The servers will be down. No power. Two, mum?" He saw a hint of teeth in her hint of a smile this time.

"Two, she's British and one, that's disappointing to hear," her lips twitched, obviously amused by his numbered response. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," she shrugged and glanced his way, her eyes locking with his. Fuck. He looked away, his face flushing red. "I'm sorry." She rested her hand on his wrist for a moment, raising the hair. Raising other parts of his body. He felt like he was twelve years old again, unable to control his body. He shifted in his seat, hoping she wouldn't notice. "I'll get us as far as I can, as fast as I can tonight." Her eyes were on the road again.

Harry plugged his now functioning iPhone into her auxiliary jack and played his classic rock mix. She tapped her rough dark fingers on the steering wheel along with the beat, but they rode the next few hours in companionable quiet.

"Shit," she muttered. The sun had set and snow was flurrying through the dark sky. She slowed to a stop. "I'm sorry. It's too dangerous to keep going tonight."

"Shouldn't we find a hotel or something." She snorted a laugh, the closest he'd seen of a full smile. "Why are you always laughing at me?"

"One, the hotels all use magnetic, electronic keys now, and two, the smell."

"Two, good point," good god she was bordering on beautiful when she smiled, "and one, also a good point." Artie chuckled, shaking her head. "But we can't sleep here," he protested, "we'll freeze to death."

Artie pulled that warm cube from her pocket and held it up for him. "No. We won't." She got out of the car and went around back, fussing and bustling with the supplies. She returned with a bowl of cold spaghettios, which he ate gratefully. While Harry ate, Artie folded the backseat down and layered it with some strange blue material. Then she laid out a thick comforter. She let the dog out to pee and fed him quickly. "Out," she chirped to Harry, so he slid down from the passenger seat. She reached under the seat and released a latch that let her fold down the back of the front bench seat, creating a giant bed. "Okay. You can get back in."

Harry climbed up and took off his boots, setting them on the floor of the front seat. Artie handed him the thermal cube and closed his door. He lifted the comforter and scooted down onto the blue foam. It was unbelievably comfortable. Deceivingly comfortable. The material was so thin you would never imagine it would feel this good. Like laying on a cloud. Loki hopped up on the driver's side and curled himself in the far corner, and Artie followed in behind him, closing the door and discarding her boots on the floor beside Harry's.

Harry rolled over wordlessly, facing the windows, leaving a gap between him and Artie. He didn't want her to feel uncomfortable or anything. But she scooted up right behind him and ran her calloused hand up into his sweatshirt and onto his back. He looked at her over his shoulder, the light from the full moon reflecting off the falling snow in a hazy white gleam. Like living in a cloud.

Her lips twitched in that characteristic way. "I have to touch your skin or I won't get the heat from the thermal cube," she explained.

"What about Loki?" Harry rolled back toward her, and she pulled her hand away.

"I have two of them. The other one is strapped to his leg." Harry sat half way up and sure enough, there was a small cube held to the dog's leg by a thick blue band.

He held the cube up between them, "How does this thing even work?"

She took it between her two fingers. "It's activated by touch." As she explained the science behind it, using words Harry had never even heard before, her eyes lit up, reflecting the snowdrifts outside. He had no idea what she was saying. But he didn't care that he didn't understand. There was something so beautiful about this woman talking so passionately about something so small. Yet so profoundly significant. This tiny box of warmth was what would keep them alive tonight. "So, the blood conducts the heat the same way it conducts electricity. My skin absorbs the heat from yours and conducts it into mine."

Harry shivered against the cold, becoming so very unpleasantly aware that there was no skin to skin contact at the moment. "Does it matter where the skin connects?" She shook her head. He reached his long finger out and rested it on the tip of her nose, warmth flooding into his body as she crossed her eyes and smiled, a new smile, her lips still pressed closed, but the skin around her eyes crinkling. Was it the cube that warmed him? Or was it her? He truly didn't know in that moment.

"Here," she held the cube out to him. "If you tuck it up into your sleeve, it will stay connected all night."

He took it and slid it into the cuff, laying back down on his side, facing Artie, who was watching him with that faint smile. She reached her hand out and touched his nose. She touched his fucking nose. He licked her finger. She laughed and pulled it away. And he thought he might have just felt his heart stop.

But he could hear it pounding in his ears as he rolled back onto his other side, facing away from her. "Good night, Artemisia," he said, smiling.

She snuggled up behind him, sliding her hand under his clothes and onto his bare skin again. "Good night, Harold." He could hear the smile in her words. He could feel it in her touch.

He drifted off to sleep in the warmth of the car, the warmth of her arms. And for a minute there, he forgot about the end of the world.

Harry woke the next morning alone in the car, plenty warm thanks to the thermal cube, but the absence of Artie's touch left him feeling cold nonetheless. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Artie was at the side of the car, fiddling with something. He grabbed his boots and went outside.

She was pouring corn oil into her gas tank. Fucking nuts. "Artie."

"Harry," she said his name with that fucking almost smile.

"What's all this then?"

"The car runs on vegetable oil." Of course it did. He should have known. She's not fucking nuts. She's fucking brilliant. "I have to urinate again, so we'll have to pull off and find another house." And maybe a little nuts.

Harry chuckled and walked back to the passenger side of the car. He folded up the blanket and foam and returned the back of the seats to their full, upright, and locked positions. Loki barked at him, his tongue hanging out. Harry scratched his head and got out of the way for him to jump in. And then they were off.

They traveled on like this for three days, quiet almost smiles and upbeat driving music and warm nighttime spooning. They would stop periodically and enter houses, use the facilities and leave again, sometimes with an armful of canned goods or jugs of water. He hadn't gotten used to the horrifying smell, but he figured out how to get in and out before it overwhelmed him, while Artie just traipsed about like nothing was even wrong. Harry grew more fond of Artie and her quirks as the days passed, though, and each night he would pull her arm a little further around him as they slept.

The snow was thicker on the fourth day, somewhere in eastern Arizona, heavier on the road, but the sturdy old jeep maneuvered easily over the slush. Artie wove through stopped cars at the next exit, driving half on a curb at one point. She must really have to pee, he thought. So did he, come to think of it. Again, they pulled onto a side street and slowed to a stop. She seemed to pick the houses at random. She hopped out of the car and walked up the low front steps of an old clapboard style home, pushing the door open easily. Harry and Loki were right behind.

"It just doesn't seem right going into people's houses like this," Harry muttered as he stepped into the living room. At least this one didn't smell like death.

"Why not? It's not like they're using it." He could hear the stream of her pee. Goddammit. She didn't even close the door to the bathroom tight. He laughed to himself.

"Hello?" A faint, weak voice called. Harry rushed past the bathroom to the open bedroom door at the back. An elderly woman lay on the bed, looking around the room and reaching out one claw-like hand.

"Oh my god. Are you all right?"

"Oh!" She widened her eyes. "Yes. Yes, dear. I didn't think there was anyone left." She still held that hand aloft, so Harry took it.

"Hi," he smiled down at her. "I'm Harry."

"Josephine," the old woman rasped.

"Artie," Artie said from the doorway. "How long have you been alone here?"

"Oh, a few days, I suspect."

"Have you eaten?" Harry glanced at Artie. She always seemed so...well, matter of fact. But he could see something in her eyes, a compassion. Artie was going to take care of Josephine, as she had taken care of him. As she had taken care of Loki.

"I'm pretty well bed-bound, dear," Josephine cast her eyes around the room forlornly.

"Harry, why don't you heat up some soup," Artie said, moving into the room. "I'm going to help Josephine into the bathroom." He watched as Artie half-assisted, half-lifted her from the bed and guided her into the bathroom. There was a large stain on the bed. Harry hadn't even noticed the smell before. He just expected the stench of rotting flesh now, so a little piss and shit were insignificant by comparison. But not to Artie. Artie noticed. Artie was fully with the living. The dead didn't bother her, he realized, because she was focused on life. He pulled the soiled sheets from the bed and tossed them out the window. He flipped the mattress over and covered it with fresh sheets and blankets from the closet.

As he walked past the bathroom, he saw Artie, who had again failed to close the door, sitting naked behind Josephine in the tub, washing her hair tenderly and talking to her quietly. It was the most loving thing he'd ever seen.

And he thought he might have just felt his heart stop. He leaned against the wall and breathed deeply. Yes, this crazy woman had somehow stolen his heart. And all he wanted to do in that moment was cup her face in his hands and kiss her deeply.

But instead he searched the kitchen for food, finding chicken and stars soup in the cupboard. He clicked on the gas stove and heated three cans, adding water from a large jug on the counter. When he heard Artie and Josephine shuffle back to the bedroom, he went into the bathroom, his eyes scanning over the discarded pile of stained nightclothes on the floor. Harry rested his hands on the sink and looked at his reflection, his chin wobbling with emotion. Imagine laying in your own filth like that, unable to get up. He shook his head against the tears, took a deep breath, and carried on.

"Here we go," he said a few minutes later, resting a bowl of soup and a glass of water on the night table. He retrieved the other two bowls and stood in the doorway watching Artie feed Josephine. Dammit. He set one bowl down and slipped back out to the living room to eat. He couldn't fucking stand there crying in front of her, his tears dripping into his fucking noodle soup.

"Thanks," Artie said awhile later, resting her hand for just the briefest moment on his shoulder. "We should stay here tonight. We'll keep going tomorrow."

Harry nodded, staring into his empty bowl. "You're amazing." He finally looked up at her.

She shook her head, "I just do what needs to be done." She walked away again, out the front door with Loki at her side. He heard the car doors opening.

Harry set his bowl in the sink and made his way back to Josephine's room. "Hey, how are you feeling?" He sat beside her.

"Good, dear. I'm so grateful you two came along," she patted his hand weakly.

"As am I," he smiled at her. "So you don't mind us staying the night?"

"I'm delighted," her voice was as frail as her frame.

"And will you come with us tomorrow?"

"You don't want to be burdened with me," she made an effort to wave her hand, but only her fingers moved.

"You're not a burden," Artie said from the door, her tone soft but clipped. "You'll come."

Josephine chuckled, and from the look on her face, Harry thought she must have fallen in love with Artie, too. "She's one of a kind."

Harry smiled again, glancing at the now-empty doorway. "Yes, she is. Good night, Josephine," Harry kissed her hand and went to the living room, stretching out on the flowery sofa.

Artie stared at him from the hallway, just outside of the second bedroom. "What are you doing?"

"I'll sleep out here."

She frowned. How was it possible that he had fallen completely in love with this strange woman in less than a week? "You don't have to," she said finally.

As much as he wanted to be cuddled up with her tonight, he also felt like he needed some distance. Some space to figure out what the hell was happening here. But that confused, impatient expression on her face tugged at something deep within him. "Okay," he followed her into the small room. They slept close in the small bed, Harry as the big spoon for a change. He wanted to hold her. So he did, all night, his arm curved around her stomach and his hand tucked tight against the bed.

Aroooooo. Aroooooooroooooorooooo. Loki's high pitched howl woke them in the early haze of dawn. Aroooooooooo. Harry padded down the hall toward the sound. Loki sat beside Josephine's bed. Josephine was gone, her eyes staring widely at the ceiling. At nothing.

"Dammit." Artie muttered, turning away as quickly as she arrived.

Harry followed her outside. She was rummaging around in a shed. "Hey," he placed his hands on her shoulders, stopping her frantic motion.

"We have to bury her." Her face was streaked with tears.

Harry pulled her close, folding his arms around her back. "Okay," he kissed the side of her head. "Okay, we will."

She breathed out heavily, then stepped back, wiping her face, which had returned to its usual impassive expression. She pulled out a pickax and a spade from the shed, and they busied themselves with the work of breaking through the icy ground.

Harry carried Josephine out and set her in the low hole, and Artie covered her with the mound of dirt. They stood there in silence for a few moments, tears again sliding down Harry's face. "I need a shower," Artie said plainly, turning away.

"I need a drink," Harry muttered into the snow-filled breeze. He shivered and followed after her.

After Artie showered, Harry did too. He shaved away the faint scruff around his lips and jaw. It was always just a hint of a beard, a reddish blonde shadow of hair. Artie opened the door and stared at him in the mirror, her arms folded across her chest, her curls wet and loose on her shoulders. He turned, and she stepped closer, her hands finding his cock through the towel around his waist.

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Carpe diem," she shrugged as he grew hard in her grasp.

He bantered back, "Is that Latin for seize the cock?" Artie tipped her head back, her body shaking with silent laughter, and finally a full, real smile. He took advantage of that moment, and pulled her bottom lip between his. He was desperate for her, his hands pulling her body tight against him as his tongue swept into her mouth.

She tugged the towel free and gripped him firmly. He moaned into the kiss, and he could feel her smiling into it. He opened his eyes to see that smile, but it had already vanished. "Come on," she walked backwards, and he followed, kissing her again as soon as he was close enough. She ran her hands up his back and into his hair, raising goosebumps over his skin. He pulled at the t-shirt covering her torso, tossing it aside once it was over her head. She hadn't even put on underwear. He kissed her again, more forcefully, then stepped back to look at her. Really look at her.

"You're so lovel--"

"Yeah, yeah," she closed the gap and again grabbed his now fully erect cock, pressing her lips to his. "Just," she breathed against his ear, her fingers teasing the throbbing head, "I just don't want to think right now. Make me feel." Harry lifted her onto the bed and slid between her legs. He rocked his hips against hers, slowly at first, building until he felt her tighten and relax around him, and he groaned as he released into her.

He rested his body down against hers, sliding down so he could see her. There was that ghost of a smile, just a hint, just a whisper. "I want to know everything about you," he said, kissing the soft brown skin between her breasts, dotted with the faintest freckles. Her smile widened, deepened, no longer a whisper but a shout, and he felt like he could see into the depths of her soul.

"Like what?" She asked, the smile still dancing in her eyes.

"Where did you learn to do all this stuff?" He picked the thermal cube up off the side table and twisted it around in his long fingers.

She laughed, and he regretted taking his eyes off her to look at the damn cube. "I don't know," she shrugged, "I've always been able to do it."

Now he let out a low laugh, shaking his head, his long hair skimming over her skin. "I meant where did you go to university?"

"MIT," she smiled. A softer smile. A nostalgic smile. "You?"

"Stanford." She raised her eyebrows at him, and he was pleased that she was impressed. He wanted her to know that he was smart too, maybe not as smart as she was, definitely not as smart. But no fool either. He kissed her stomach, his hands smoothing over the low hill of flesh.

She breathed out a tiny laugh, as if his kisses tickled, asking, "What did you study?"

"English." She smirked at him. "What?" He asked, kissing her muscular thigh, running his fingers down her calves.

"Nothing," she shook her head. "What else do you want to know?"

"How old are you?" He moved back up, taking her nipple into his mouth.

She moaned, gripping his long hair with her rough hands. "Forty-four," she panted. "You?"

"Twenty-four." He kissed her neck, his right hand finding her left. "Ever married?" He breathed into her ear. She shook her head as he grazed her earlobe with his tongue. He raised himself up to see her face. "Why not?" She sort of shrugged and shook her head and frowned all at once. He kissed her, his lips sliding between hers gently, trying to rid her of that expression forever.

She rolled them over and pulled him to sit up. He folded one arm low around her waist, his other hand cupping her cheek and jaw as she lowered herself onto him. Oh. Again. "You are so absolutely lovely," he murmured, holding her still, relishing the feeling of her tight around him. He ran his hand down her neck and chest and looped it over his other arm as she began to move, rolling her hips down. "Breathtaking," he whispered into her neck.

She released her rough grip on his shoulder and touched his lip, his jaw, his chest, her eyes wide and earnest. "You're beautiful," she said, blushing. And smiling. A shy smile. Fuck.

She must have a thousand different shades of smiles. From that very faint shadowy hint of a smile to the bright bursting laugh. He wanted to see every shade in between.

~~~~~

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Next chapter is the last new POV and we will have many characters colliding as we go forward. 💖