Harry arrives in New York

JFK's arrivals area was packed with people holding signs and flowers and balloons, and Harry's eyes scanned the crowd with increasing desperation as he wheeled his suitcase through the automatic doors. His flight had been long and uncomfortable—he'd been too wired to sleep properly, spending most of the seven hours alternating between staring out the window and checking his phone for messages from Samantha. Now his body was running on pure adrenaline and terrible airplane coffee, and his hands were sweating as he searched for her face among the waiting crowd.

Then he saw her, and his breath caught in his chest.

Samantha stood near the back of the crowd, bouncing slightly on her toes as she craned her neck to see over the taller people in front of her. She was wearing jeans and a simple green sweater that made her eyes look even more vibrant, and her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail that swung when she moved. She looked exactly like he remembered and somehow completely different—more real, more solid, more there than the version of her he'd been carrying in his head for two months.

Her eyes found his across the crowd, and Harry watched her face light up with a smile that made his chest feel impossibly warm. She raised one hand in a small wave, and Harry started toward her, pulling his suitcase behind him. He'd made it approximately three steps when his carry-on bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a loud thud, spilling its contents—a book, his headphones, a packet of gum—across the terminal floor.

"Fuck," Harry muttered, his face flushing hot as he crouched to gather his scattered belongings. Several people stepped around him with annoyed looks, and he was acutely aware of Samantha watching him make a complete fool of himself within thirty seconds of arrival.

But then she was there, kneeling beside him, helping him shove items back into his bag with quick, efficient movements. "Smooth entrance, Mister," she said, and there was laughter in her voice but no mockery. "Very James Bond."

"I was going for more of a Hugh Grant in... well, any Hugh Grant film," Harry replied, accepting his headphones from her outstretched hand. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and that same electric sensation from Paris shot through him. Two months apart and his body still recognized her touch.

They stood simultaneously, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Samantha's hand came up to tuck hair behind her ear even though her ponytail meant there was no hair to tuck. Harry's free hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing at tension that wasn't really there. They were both visibly nervous, and the acknowledgment of that shared nervousness somehow made it easier.

"Hi," Samantha said finally.

"Hi," Harry replied. "You look—"

"Tired," Samantha interrupted. "I barely slept last night. I kept checking the flight tracker on my phone every five minutes."

"I was going to say beautiful," Harry said, "but tired works too."

Samantha's cheeks flushed pink, and she stepped forward to hug him. The embrace started stiff and awkward—Harry's arms coming around her shoulders at the wrong angle, Samantha's face pressed against his chest in a way that probably wasn't comfortable. But then they both adjusted, settling into the hug properly, and Harry felt his entire body relax into her familiar warmth.

She fit against him exactly the way she had in Paris. Her head tucked perfectly under his chin, her arms wrapped around his waist, her small frame aligning with his like it had been designed for that exact purpose. Harry closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her hair—that same vanilla perfume mixed with something that was just her. Two months of separation disappeared, and his body remembered what his brain had been trying to hold onto through texts and photos.

They separated after several seconds longer than appropriate for a public airport hug, both of them slightly breathless. Samantha's hand lingered on his arm, and Harry found his palm resting at the small of her back, neither of them quite ready to lose physical contact.

"Baggage claim?" Samantha suggested, her voice slightly rough.

"Right, yeah," Harry agreed. "Lead the way. You're the local here."

They walked through the terminal side by side, and Harry noticed how quickly they fell into step with each other. Their paces matched naturally, and when they had to weave through crowds, they moved in sync without discussing it. Harry's suitcase rolled between them, occasionally bumping against Samantha's leg, and each time it happened she'd glance at him with a small smile.

"How was the flight?" Samantha asked as they rode the escalator down to baggage claim.

"Long," Harry said. "I tried to sleep but my brain wouldn't shut up. Kept going over everything that could go wrong with customs or what if my luggage got lost or what if you'd changed your mind and weren't actually here—"

"I was doing the same thing," Samantha interrupted. "Catastrophizing every possible scenario. What if you got here and decided I looked different than you remembered? What if we ran out of things to talk about? What if the Paris thing really was just a fluke?"

Their shoulders bumped as they stepped off the escalator, and neither of them moved apart. Harry's hand found the small of her back again, a gentle touch to guide her through the crowd that probably wasn't necessary but felt natural anyway.

They made their way outside to where Samantha had called an Uber, their sides pressed together as they maneuvered Harry's luggage through the automatic doors. The October air was cool and crisp, and Harry inhaled deeply, trying to calm his racing heart. He was in America. He was with Samantha. This was actually happening.

The Uber arrived within minutes—a Honda sedan with a driver who barely glanced at them as they loaded Harry's bags into the trunk. They climbed into the backseat, and the limited space meant they had to sit close, their thighs pressing together from hip to knee. Harry was acutely aware of every point of contact—her warmth bleeding through both their jeans, the way she shifted slightly to get comfortable and ended up even closer.

"It's about a forty-five minute drive," Samantha said, her voice slightly higher than normal. "Depending on traffic. The apartment's in Queens, like I told you. Really quiet neighborhood, lots of families. There's a great coffee shop two blocks away and—"

She was rambling, Harry realized, nervous energy pouring out in a stream of information. He reached over and took her hand, squeezing gently, and she stopped mid-sentence.

"It's going to be fine," Harry said quietly.

"I know," Samantha replied. "I'm just—this is crazy, right? You quit your job. You moved to another country. We're about to live together and we've spent one day in person together."

"One really good day," Harry reminded her.

"One really good day," Samantha agreed. "And two months of constant texting."

"Which counts for something."

"Does it though?" Samantha asked, and there was genuine worry in her voice. "What if we get to the apartment and realize we've made a massive mistake?"

Harry's thumb stroked across her knuckles, and he felt her tension start to ease slightly. "Then we'll figure it out. Like you said, no pressure."

That made Samantha laugh, a real laugh that dissolved some of the anxiety in the car. "Right, no pressure at all."

The conversation shifted after that, becoming more natural as they fell back into the rhythm they'd established over text. Samantha asked about his farewell party in London, and Harry described his mates' reactions to his departure with self-deprecating humor that made her shake with laughter. She told him about her own friends' concerns—Zoe's explicit advice about living with a man, Tina's gentle warnings about moving too fast.

"Zoe sent me a care package," Samantha admitted. "It arrived yesterday. I'm pretty sure it's full of condoms and sex toys based on the weight and her cryptic text about being prepared."

Harry felt his face flush hot. "Christ. That's—"

"Mortifying?" Samantha supplied. "Yeah. But also kind of sweet in a completely inappropriate way."

Their knees knocked together as the car turned, and Harry became aware that his hand was still holding hers. Neither of them had let go since he'd first reached for her, and now their fingers were loosely interlaced, palms pressed together in a way that felt both innocent and impossibly intimate.

He turned to look at her, and found she was already looking at him. Her dark green eyes were soft and warm, and there was a small smile playing at her lips. The afternoon sun coming through the car window made her hair shine with auburn highlights, and Harry wanted to reach up and touch it, to see if it felt as soft as it looked.

"I'm really glad you're here," Samantha said quietly.

"Me too," Harry replied, and he meant it despite his exhaustion and nerves and the surreal quality of the entire situation.

The Uber driver took an exit off the highway, and Samantha pointed out the window. "Almost there. That's our neighborhood up ahead."