54 | Latching (Part Two)

DOMINGO

11:52 PM

Reid Harlow

"I deserve a love unquestioned."

The second she turned away, realization struck me like a fucking truck.

My fingers hanging off the brass doorknob, the door creaked wide open and small gushes of wind and leaves dancing into the floor of the foyer. I couldn't speak—trying to process every fucking thing that just happened in the past two minutes—and everything feels still.

I hear footsteps shuffling behind me, alerting a newcomer, and I turn to my head to find Presley a couple of feet away from me. His expression fills with disbelief, almost as if he was watching the entire incident from afar, and he shakes his head once, a scoff exits his mouth.

"She was crying, Harlow." Presley spat, frustration rolling off his tongue so viciously. His anger multiplied at my inactivity to move, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "God, fuck, she's in love with you, came to you in tears, and all you can fucking do is stand there and ask her what?"

I deserve a love unquestioned.

I couldn't produce the words needed to defend myself and I wasn't fucking sure I wanted to. I didn't notice that she was crying, having looked beyond her, avoiding her gaze knowing that, with one shared look, I would've fallen to my knees and kissed her right then and there. No boundaries, crossing every fucking line.

I thought I was bad for her.

I deserve a love unquestioned.

The hesitation tampers with my footing and panic arise in my throat like a bile. My features boiling down into a fucking child, lost and having no clue on what to do next. I wasn't used to feeling this sense of dreading building in my chest at losing something—but I could feel each rib choking me on my decisions and air gasping at my throat at the idea that I did.

I'm losing her more than fucking ever.

I can hear the clock ticking in my ear like a deadly bomb waiting to detonate and the time running slim with each second I spent glue to the floor. I don't know why—but I couldn't fucking leave without one more word from Presley.

My foster brother closes his hands together, seeing the hesitation in my steps, and he looks at me with the most sharp, intense gaze in the world. "I know you have so many fucked up shit in your life, and I know you're an asshole with a heart of gold, but I can swear to you, if you let that girl leave right now—" he pauses, gesturing to the door, "you're going to regret for the rest of your life."

And I ran out that door.

━━━━━

LUNES

12:03 AM

Dahlia Gray

I couldn't breathe.

Sobs hitch to the back of my throat, performing a blockage to my lungs, and bluing at its desperation for clean, clear air. I'm trying so hard to catch my breath as I ran away from him—from Harlow, my problems, my father—but it seems as if the more I thought about the detrimental situation I'm in, with reality seeping into my skin with the consequences of my choices—the more my airway closes and suffocates me from my decisions, inside and out.

I thought in life, our true purpose were the choices we make and the decisions we choose, and the only consequences that call to our actions were if they were right or wrong.

I thought I made the right one when I decided to come to him.

It didn't matter if he was ignoring me without solid reason for the past two weeks, it didn't matter that it shattered my heart to pieces with each lingering day he chooses to stray away from me, and it didn't matter that he refuses to look me in the eyes as I stood with buckling knees and hiccups that surrounds my vocal cords just minutes ago.

I just wanted him.

The decision was mine, and I didn't reach far enough to consider what would've happened. I didn't even know what I was expecting—an open-armed welcome? A hug at the grace of my presence? Anything to satisfy the hunger of having Harlow's touch and comfort that shields me from the ugliness of the world?

I didn't get that. All I got was a cold what delivered in a state that shows me he views me as nothing more than an acquaintance—if anything, lower than that—and I meant nothing. Like these past couple of months meant nothing. Like we—whatever we were—meant nothing.

And the realization struck me harder than any slap my father could deliver. It aches into my weak heart to consider that I was never going to have that safe, reliable sense of comfort I'm coming to depend on Harlow for—and it hurts.

It hurts because I saw him as something more than my father, a happiness I couldn't fathom of having. I viewed him through a bright lens, trusted him to the last slips of my fingers, and thought of possibilities and futures with him. I considered him from every nook and corner, and I got back nothing. Not even a look.

I want to leave. I have to go. Nothing in this place is now worth carrying the weight of a thousand pinning needles into my spine, and nothing in this place beats the opportunities of surrendering myself to the possibility of living a life. I'm prepared to make my sacrifices as my choices weigh on me, and I'm prepared to fly across the country to release all the pain that follows from this town. Away from here, away from my father, away from him.

But I want him.

"Dahlia!" His scream rip through the neighborhood, filled with a rawness and desperation that catches my attention. For a fraction of a second, I consider halting in my tracks to listen to him, to let him explain himself and let myself fall back into the warmth of his arms.

But I couldn't.

I spent my entire life going back to abuse in hopes of changing the outcome that would inevitably come, and moving the man that refuses to move. I spent my entire living justifying his actions as if he considers mine. I apologize and apologize for everything he made me feel, invalidating myself as an extension for his living, not mine. I hated myself, for every tear I break, and I hated myself for every apology that slips from my lips to comfort the man that delivered the strike.

I forgive, forgive and forgive—and the choices sinks into my bones like glass shards.

I can't ever go back there.

Harlow shooed me away like a harmless beggar in the times I needed him most and it became transparent on who he sees me as. I can't do this to myself, I can't keep hurting like this.

I can only lose so much.

"Dahlia!" He screams once more, his voice drawing closer to me, forcing my feet to quicken my pace, hoping that I could lose him in the midst of my tracks. I knew I wasn't fast enough, I saw his speed through his game of birthday football, but I'm trying, and trying—until his fingers wrap around my wrist and catches me.

He spins me around, forcing me to abruptly stop in my track and catch his gaze, meeting the ocean eyes I was already lost in. His gaze studies mine, tracing my tear-stained face as his shoulders relax from their stiffened position and I'm struggling to free myself under his iron-fist grip.

My body bores with exhaustion that plagues into my bones, aching with every movement, and as I struggle to pull myself free from his hold, I feel myself giving in as my shoulder slouches inwards and I look up to him with trembling lips and tear-brimming eyes.

"Dahlia," he releases, like a breath of fresh air as his eyes search for mine. I'm struggling to hold in the sob threatening to spill from the back of my throat. "I need you to listen to me—"

"I—" I opened up to you, the words clutching at my throat, wrapped around me like vines. "You—" You said you'll be there for me.

"Dahlia," he cups my chin, trying to pacify the raging storm building in my chest and the tears spilling from my eyes like waterworks. "I—"

With one last power, I shove him away, escaping his grip and throwing my arms out. "I opened up to you!" I scream, the words burning my throat like throwing back shots of tequila and the desperation clings to my tongue like an aftertaste. "I needed you, Harlow, and I wanted you, and you shooed me away like I meant nothing!"

I can't believe I'm speaking so much without tumbling over my sentences, and I can't believe he's cutting himself down to listen. My father would've barked back and demanded the respect of an adult, the patriarch. He would've invalidated my emotions from every source of concerns and somehow twists it onto me for being the one as fault. His love was equivalent to his pride, and he only gives when he feels satisfied by my submission.

He wanted to break my spirit.

Maybe that's why I question if I deserve love—because of him.

And I never thought, in a million years, Harlow would be making me feel the same thing.

"You once told me I deserve love," the energy inside of me dimming, dissipating, my sobs turning into whimpers and I'm weakly wiping away the tears spilling from my lids. With a cracking voice, "you once said that to me."

My knees are buckling, my park bench a couple of feet away from me, but I had no energy to travel the additional couple of steps. I want to fall in anguish, right here, right now, as I was about to surrender myself to the gravity of my own weight, Harlow catches me mid-fall.

He wraps his arms around me tenuously, holding me up for support but allowing me the decision to slip away if I wanted to. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, his own voice cracking as I could feel the regret echoing through the hollows of his bones. "I fucked up."

I don't say anything, planting both arms by my side and allowing him to be my stand of support. My throat was burning from my screams, and I was too exhausted to push him away. "I fucked up."

His hand guides to the back of my head, holding me closely and burying himself into the crook of my neck. He inhales sharply, almost taking me in, and his chest vibrates chokingly, not wanting to lose anything.

"I'm not good enough for you," he mumbles softly, sniffing once more, which gave the affirmative that he's crying. "I thought I wasn't good enough for you."

There's a clear silence that commences over us, after his declaration, and he holds me in like he was missing my touch from all those days apart, memorizing every smell and curve of my body, like this would be our last.

My heart aches at the idea that this would be our last, the idea that I was perfectly fine with a couple of moments ago in the heat of my emotions, but as he's given me the chance to take it all back—it's hurting me as much as it's hurting him.

"I miss you so much," he cries into my shoulder, the slick wetness of his tears brazing my skin. "I miss you so fucking much, and it hurts me to be away from you, but I couldn't just—"

He sucks in a deep breath, not completing his sentence. I was tired of hearing half-thoughts and half-finish, that I slightly pulled away from him, taking his chin, and planting both hands on either side of his face.

"You have to tell me," I whisper softly, missing the warmth from holding him in this same position, moments before I had our first kiss. My thumb brushes with his dark brow, seeing his tear-stained eyes and the brightness of the hue of his blue eyes. "Now or never. It's either now or never."

I never push him to reveal anything he isn't comfortable with, as long as he's okay. Now, it's not the time to be holding back second thoughts. I need to know now; I need to know if I should slip into the hope of giving him another chance or should I leave us as we are now.

I can't go back and forth.

He stares back at me, pulling on his full lips and a dilemma foreshadows between his eyes at the decision he's about to make. His fingers trace up the bare of my arm, before wrapping a curl of my wild hair around them, and taking mediated breaths in between.

"I love you," he told, first and foremost, taking me back by surprise. The hesitation grips between his clenched jaw, the sharpening of his features at the words he spoke. He couldn't meet my gaze, finding the comfort of my hair played between his fingers, and training his eyes there. "I love you so fucking much."

I held my breath. My hands slipping from the sides of his face, falling to the crooks of his neck, cupped in a loose, almost delicate motion. He felt the shift in movement, and spared a half-second glance at me, before swallowing hard and training his eyes elsewhere.

"I have loved you since that day we sat in that supermarket and told our life stories. I have loved you since the day you danced in the snow, in mistletoe socks, and I have loved you since that day you stayed hours behind in the police station for me. I love you." He pauses, eyes steadied to ground, and his breathing swallowing. Almost as if he couldn't believe the words that came from him.

I don't leave. Not yet, not like I wanted to. I remain speechless in his declaration, taking in his words as if they're oxygen to my lungs, but the realization hasn't fully hit me. It feels hazy, like a hallucination of a reality, because here in turns: Harlow is in love with me.

Harlow swallows hard, pressing his lips together, but gradually becoming more confident as time passes and I remain rooted to the ground, as one hand is wrapped around the coils of my hair, and the other steadied around me.

He meets my gaze, tears clearing his vision, and he sucks in, "And I want you, Dahlia. More than fucking ever. I fucking need you in my life, but I'm so fucking afraid of becoming like your father, I don't want to be that person."

His voice cracks at the end, almost a swallow in pride, but he clenches down his jaw so hard, it almost looks like he was going to shatter it. "Please. I don't want to lose you."

I didn't realize my hands were subconsciously pulling away from him, falling off his shoulders, my touching leaving his. He did. And I think he took it as a sign of me wanting to leave, to turn away and forever every single thing we had together.

I settle back my touch on the curve of his neck, cupping him and pulling him closer. It was enough to say I'm here, I'm here right now.

It was enough to satisfy him, his gaze leveling with mine, and his eyes growing a bit brighter at this glow of hope.

I stare at him, waiting for him to continue, to understand every little thing that's been racing through his mind, and I whisper softly, "what person?"

He breaths heavily, "that person, that fucking asshole. The one that's selfish and only wants something for himself, not caring about how it could hurt others. Him."

And it took a moment before I realized who he was referencing to. Not a figurative person that stands as a metaphor; him—my father.

There was a pause in the air, a second for me to take in everything he meant, before he continued. "When you kissed me, I fucking panicked. I was always trying to pull back from crossing that line, so I could figure myself out while still having you in my life—but when you made the move, I just couldn't not kiss you back, but I couldn't ignore what was going to happen." He ends with a shaky breath, eyes attempting to remain steady with mine. "I didn't—I didn't want to lose you, but I didn't want you to be with someone like me. Someone who reminds you too much of your father. You deserve better."

"I was trying so fucking hard to think of solutions, of what this meant for us, because I knew I wanted you, and I knew you wanted me—but everything wasn't that easy. I had a choice: did I want to be selfish and hurt you, or do I keep my distance and figure this out for you."

It was a rhetorical question, because the answer wasn't cut-clean. I stare back at him, as he relieves a sigh, looking away and says: "I can be selfish for a lot of fucking things, Dahlia, but not with you." He reveals earnestly, voice dripping in absolute. He meets my gaze, soft eyes locked in a rigid certainty. "You before me, that's how it'll always go."

"Harlow..."

"No, I'm fucking sure of it. I don't ever want to be in a position where I remind you of your father, and  I don't ever want to be in a position where I could hurt you like he does—because Dahlia, if I hurt you like he did, I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

And he cuts himself short, sinking into the revaluation of this situation. Of how it came to be, of how I kissed him and he started to ignore me, of how he made me feel exactly like my father does.

It dawns on him, and the look on his face is heartbreaking. He pulls his lips together, closing his eyes tightly, and sucking in a deep, almost gasping breath.  "But I did," he chokes, his hands slipping away from me this time. "I did. I ignore you like your father does, and I hurt you like he did. The one thing I always wanted to fucking avoid, I did—and it fucking hit me the second you stepped off my porch."

Harlow takes a step back, almost wanting to lose my touch because he feels undeserving so—when I hold onto him harder. I pull and he pushes, but in times like these, I'm not going to lose. I refuse to.

"Hey," I whisper strongly, my hands cupped around the side of his neck, holding him in place. I refuse to let go. His fingers wrap around my arm, weakly attempting to pull away and slip back into the darkness, but I don't budge. "You can't do this. I want you. I still want you."

"Why?"

"Because you're my person," I emphasized, pointing to my chest. "And I know you messed up—really, really badly—and it really hurts when you were ignoring me, but you are not my father."

Harlow looks at me, straight in the eyes, and his features fill with utmost disbelief. "You're saying that because you're in love with me."

"I'm saying that because I know." I declare strongly, trying to penetrate this ideology he holds of himself. "You may have a lot of similarities to him, and you've reminded me of him several times—but I've never considered you as the same person. Not until now."

His expression cracks and his eyes soften, hands grabbing onto my arm for support. "Don't try to do this to make me feel better."

"I'm not," I state honestly, hating the doubt that seeps through his brain. "My dad and you are two completely different people. He doesn't care about my feelings or try to understand me. You do. He doesn't listen to me, or validate my emotions. You do. He doesn't apologize to me when he realizes he's wrong, or loves me unconditionally—you do."

"I know what love feels like when I'm with you," I breath, brown eyes boring into his, holding him to my truest form. "I know what I deserve."

And there's silence.

Pure, absolute silence.

Until Harlow finally breathes.

His chest heaves with signs of relief, and his blue eyes swells with the emotions he's been holding on. He breathes, and he looks elsewhere, trying to take in everything and reel into the reality that this isn't just a dream. It's real life, it's the truth, and despite what most has been told—the truth heals.

"Fuck," he lets out, pulling himself together, "fuck."

I can't help but let out a small little chuckle.

That pulls Harlow back to the ground, and he finally meets my gaze. Instead of dark, dimming blue eyes that met me in return, I'm seeing hope, happiness, a glow. "Dahlia," he says my name like a breath of oxygen, "I'm so fucking sorry. What could I do to make it up to you?"

And an idea pops up in my head, a first-played joke that makes me crack a small smile.

"If you kiss me, all will be forgiven."

And he grins back in return.

And then, he kisses me.

He kisses me like he's in love with me, and there's no one else in the world. An apology, a desperation, all wrapped up in one. Everything he failed to have, gives, and he guides to the back of my neck with comfort, holding me and pulling me in with a brief hesitation that he was going to break me.

I smile, wrapping both arms around his neck and tugging him closer, refusing to let go. Harlow cups his other hand on the side of my face, measuring each curve of my features, memorized under his touch. And he kisses harder.

When we pull apart, we're breathless with swollen lips and mended hearts. He presses his forehead against mine, our breaths fanning and mixing with each other, and he stares back at me.

"I'm sorry I didn't love you the way you wanted me to," he whispers a confession, guilt still pooling in him.

I cup the side of his face, "there's no right way to love someone," I told, "and I rather have yours than anyone else."

a/n: dedicated to the sweet, sweet, jen, jcnnidas, she made a edit on instagram of Dahlia & Harlow, and it made me so happy and overwhelmed with emotions, I had to publish a chapter in her honor. also, jen, from all of your listed projects on your carrd, i am really really excited to one day witness your great art. i hope you have fun, create and make lots and lots of amazing stories, and i hope you won't forget me when you're famous.

moving forward, with this chapter in mind: how do you feel about harlow and dahlia as a couple, as themselves, and the situation to progress? genuinely curious to how you plan to see this followthrough.

my thoughts: i always like their pairing as a couple because harlow replicates so many of dahlia's father's attributes. in study reports, and significant beliefs, girls tend to fall for guys like their father and while dahlia's father caused a decline in her self-esteem, mental health, and more; harlow is supposed to replicate that same person but in a positive, better man. while he did make a mistake, and it was a large one, it's up to you (as the audience) to see if what he was is forgivable. and if not, at least his decisions followed with actual logicistical reasoning. (and this will not be the last morally-grey character who makes bad decision of mine)

and lastly: i hope you follow me on twitter and witness the story that followed this weekend with a pretty big, relevant wattpad author.

sorry for the long author's note, bye!