Sara's POV:

I had just finished my previous appointment and was preparing for my next patient. Reaching over, I pressed the button on the stand beside my desk that connected directly to the receptionist's station.

"Lucy, please send my next patient in," I said.

A moment later, the door opened—but instead of a patient, Harry stepped inside.

He closed the door behind him and smiled as he crossed the room, settling comfortably onto the couch. My heart leapt. Of all the faces I expected to see, his was the last—and the most welcome. Heat rushed to my cheeks as a smile instantly spread across my face.

"Harry," I said, standing slightly. "What are you doing here?"

"Hello, love," he greeted warmly. "Well, Doctor, I'll admit I've been a bit emotional lately—mostly when it comes to a certain girl named Sara." He grinned. "I'm joking... mostly. Lucy mentioned your next appointment was canceled, so I thought I'd take advantage of the moment to tell you something."

I crossed my arms lightly, curious. "I'm listening."

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands folding together in a way that told me this mattered.

"I'm heading back to Britain for a bit," he said. "But before that, I'll be stopping in New York. And I'd really love it if you came with me."

My eyes widened. "You want me to go to New York... and Britain with you?"

"Yes," he replied simply. "And you'll get to see Jiselle and Lyndsey while we're there."

I didn't even hesitate. I stood and crossed the room before sitting beside him on the couch.

"Of course I'll go with you," I said, smiling.

His expression softened. He lifted his hand to my jaw, his thumb brushing gently against my skin before he leaned in and kissed me—slow, reassuring, full of promise.

***

The flight to New York passed in a blur of soft conversation and quiet moments. Traveling on a private jet with Harry felt surreal—intimate in a way I hadn't expected. When we finally landed, a car was waiting to take us into Manhattan.

The city buzzed with energy as we pulled up to our hotel on the Upper East Side. Harry checked us in effortlessly, collecting the key before we headed up to the thirty-sixth floor.

The room was stunning—modern, warm, and inviting. A king-sized bed sat perfectly centered beneath wide windows that revealed a breathtaking view of Manhattan's skyline.

I dropped my bag near the dresser and sighed. "That flight was brutal."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're tired already."

Before I could respond, he grabbed a pillow from the bed and tossed it at me.

My jaw dropped. "Did you just throw a pillow at me?"

He laughed and threw another.

That was all it took.

I scooped up a pillow from the floor and launched it back at him, and suddenly we were laughing and dodging, pillows flying in every direction. Harry stumbled back onto the bed, and I took the opportunity to hit him once more before he grabbed the pillow from my hands and pulled me down beside him.

We lay there, laughing breathlessly, the city glowing behind us.

He turned to me, his eyes soft. "Tu es parfait," he murmured.

I smiled, brushing my hair back. "I don't speak French."

"That's a shame," he said quietly. "It's a beautiful language. You have that in common."

I didn't realize until much later that he had called me perfect.

And lying there beside him, with New York beneath us and the world suddenly wide open, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I was exactly where I was meant to be.