He comes to your apartment
There’s a knock—soft, uncertain. When you open the door, Harry stands there, rain dampening the shoulders of his coat, eyes glittering with something between apology and longing. He holds a bottle by the neck, loosely, like he nearly turned back twice on the stairs.
“I didn’t want to be alone,” he says, voice low. Not a plea, not quite. More like a confession.
You step aside. He slips in quietly, gaze sweeping your place like it might disappear if he looks too hard. He sets the bottle down, lingers near the window.
“Your flat feels like someone actually lives in it,” he murmurs. “Mine’s just… echoes.”
He doesn’t look at you right away. When he finally does, it’s with all the bravado stripped back.
“I’ll go if you want,” he says. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”