Harry's POV

Sometimes, I wake up at four in the morning and taste smoke in the back of my throat.
I swear to god, you're still burning somewhere inside me.

I bit down on the eraser of my pencil and stared at the piece of parchment in front of me, quite certain that everything I could have produced with my early morning creativity would somehow be geared towards her. It wasn't as if I had much else to write about, especially in the dungeon-like cell they contained me in. However, steel bars didn't necessarily mean imprisonment; more often than not I had nightmares about myself, and that proved to be more isolating and torturous than any jail the government could produce.

I tried my hand again, focusing on something—anything—else but her.

I think it's about five in the morning. It could be six. I am missing yo—

I was thinking about her again. I hastily thought of another way to change it.

I think it's about five in the morning. It could be six. I am missing yogurt.

Scratch.

I think it's about five in the morning. It could be six. I am missing Yo-Yos.

Nope.

I think it's about five in the morning. It could be six. I am missing yodeling.

Hopeless. I tossed the pencil onto the tiny metal desk in my cubicle and sighed, running my hand through my hair in desperation. When I was in elementary school, my third grade teacher used to tell me that tugging on my locks allowed for the intelligence to seep out from my brain to be put to good use—I now believe it was an excuse for her to drag me to the principal's office by the head when I didn't listen to her.

I was never the type to listen to people, now that I think about it. My mother had quite a hard time dealing with a child that could never sit still, and all of the teachers most likely groaned in annoyance when they saw my name on their attendance list for the year. In the fourth grade, my parents and I moved to Portland where the school counsellor suggested that my parents take me to the doctor's to see if I had ADHD, but I came back with a beaming smile and a letter that stated, "Gifted Student: Upgrade to Grade 7".

Turns out I was restless because I was too smart. It also turns out that I was still too smart for seventh grade. I was promptly promoted to ninth grade for good measure, and there I, a lowly nine year old, stayed—home schooled, of course. I was twelve years old when I finished high school, then went to university and studied all that I could. Literature was fun, chemistry and biology had me on the edge of my seat, and calculating algorithms in mathematics was more of a past-time. After I finished my Bachelor's degree in Applied Algorithms and a minor in Biochemistry, I stayed at home—alone, recluse and inept by the looks of it.

I think that's where my dad blamed himself for where I ended up; he'd often tell me that he named me Harold because it meant "heroic leader", and that he knew I would live up to the name. When he got the call from the police saying that I had been thrown in jail, I reckon he probably thanked them, hung up the phone, then proceeded on with his life pretending he didn't have a son at all. There was a time between adolescence and becoming a jailbird when my father used to say, "Harry, you're going to grow up to be a fine, young man", to which I would reply, "You're optimistic. It's nice."

A myriad of choppy life events came flooding back to me as I semi-narrated my life up until the point where a void had settled in quite comfortably. I had a handful of theories as to why that void existed:

One: I was a teenager when I got my degree. I was certain I was able to live my life and make up for lost time. I made friends. I partied. I drank—a lot. My memory probably wiped out once or twice.

Two: I don't remember much before I met her.

There wasn't much to say about her. Bria Evans was the one that I knew would be the person to wake up next to me for the rest of my life. She was artsy, cool, and had a facial expression that said 'don't talk to me—I'm pissed'. In fact, she was hostile when I first approached her while she was sitting across from me at the airport—needless to say, it was either very weird or very screwed up that she turned me on. As a lonely eighteen year old visiting his grandparents in the UK during the holidays, it was a little hard not to find her attractive.

"Is this seat taken?" I asked her. I had spotted her bright orange hair (damaged from all the bleach she used to get it to that colour) from down the hall, and was quite taken aback to see that she was even better looking up close.

"No," she replied in a thick, American accent, refusing to look at me and keeping her attention solely on the food magazine she held in her hands.

"Do you mind if I sit here then?"

"Yes," she sneered, still not paying any attention to my clear attempts at trying to break the ice. I gulped and nodded, then took the seat directly across from her. I was probably much too interested in her because I didn't want to acknowledge her disinterest in me. She left promptly after I sat down, then came back looking more annoyed than ever. She kneeled beside her bag and rummaged through it.

"Looking for something?" I started again, leaning towards her. She finally flicked her stare up and looked at me, but soon enough her daunting brown eyes darted back down.

"Coins. The magazine stand won't change my hundred dollar bill."

"Why?"

"They're idiots, that's why. What do they expect travellers to carry? My gran gave me the bill before I left—you know grans, right? God, and now they're going to give me a giant wad of cash and—" she explained before shutting up and resuming her search, clearly realizing that she was wasting her time talking to me. I nodded, knowing that my own grandmother gave me money before I left for the airport too.

"I have some spare, I think," I stated suddenly, digging into my pant pocket for whatever money I could find. She got up to protest, but I denied her the opportunity by holding out a palm of change—about fifty dollars worth in five dollar bills.

"I couldn't—"

"It's okay," I smiled, jutting my hand out further, "it's not every day you get rejected a seat by someone who's taking the same flight back to Portland with you."

She rolled her eyes, chuckling as she took the cash from my hand. "I'm sorry about that. Boyfriends can be a little hard to deal with sometimes, you know?"

"You okay?" I questioned, not at all interested in hearing about who she was dating.

"Well he's an ex now," she smirked, collecting all of her belongings—luggage included—and rising to her feet in front of me. "I'll come back with the change."

As she walked away, something churned in my stomach. Realization overtook me—she had taken her luggage. I sprang to my feet and chased after her.

She had taken my money—fifty dollars, give or take—and walked away as if I was stupid enough to fall for her petty crime. I wasn't going to let her get away with it.

"Hey!" I called, sprinting as fast as I could. "Hey, wait!"

She turned just as I stopped, and she leaped up at me and kissed me.

Kissed me.

Naturally, I kissed her back. It was quite romantic. Onlookers paused and clutched their hearts, thinking I was some hopeless romantic that had travelled thousands of miles to stop her from getting onto her flight. Her hands clasped my cheeks after slipping my money back into my pocket. My own palms found their way to the small of her back where they pulled her frame as close as she could possibly get to me. She smelled like strawberry gum and hair dye, and her lips were very soft. Somebody cheered from behind me.

"I'm Bria," she panted between hasty kisses.

"Harry," I replied just as breathlessly. "Thanks for trying to scam me."

"I do it to everyone," she whispered, then pulled a small box from her pocket and placed it in my hand. "Get down on one knee and open it."

I felt the velvety surface of the object she handed me. Shit.

I'm not sure what came over me, but, for the first time in a long time, I listened to someone.

I pretended to pull the red jewellery box from my pocket, knelt down on one knee and slowly opened it to reveal a massive diamond (or perhaps cubic zirconia) ring sitting between the little pillows. The crowd roared with excitement—some clapping, others whistling. Bria smiled and nodded her head yes before leaning down to hug me.

"Sell it," she whispered, and I obeyed. I lifted her up and twirled her in a circle, kissing her as dearly as I did our first kiss (which, I was aware, was merely a minute or two ago). After putting her down, she grinned a wide, pearly white smile and hugged me again. People came up to me and put bills in my pockets and congratulated me no matter how much I refused. Was this her whole plan? To get some meek, vulnerable teenage boy to succumb to her fancy scam?

We headed back to the gate hand in hand, and when we arrived at my seat she sat down beside me.

"You're quite good at this, Harry," she complimented as she stuck all of the money she had earned (or stolen—frankly I wasn't quite sure which it was) in her purse.

"I could say the same about you," I started carefully. "Why are you even conning people in an airport?"

"People are always willing to pay for a good show, regardless of where it takes place. It helps if it's something you'd see in a cheap romantic comedy," she stated plainly, as if it should've been obvious. "Why did you help me?"

"I...well...I don't know. You're a little intimidating, to be honest," I stammered. She laughed and rested her head on my shoulder. I realized that she hadn't let go of my hand since we took our seats.

"You know, I wasn't lying about being single."

"But technically you're lying to everybody else that you're getting married," I scoffed, "to me, might I add."

"It wouldn't suck," Bria reasoned. "You're kind of cute."

I learned a few things that day:

One: Bria was a year older than me. She lived in Portland, her favourite food was Vietnamese pho noodles, and she was originally a brunette.

Two: I fell in love for the first and last time.

Three: Crime pays. And it's fun.

I clenched my fists in order to stop thinking about her. Back in the jail cell I sat, scolding myself for remembering how we had met. I picked up my pencil once more.

I'm going to get out of here. I'm getting back to you.

***

©2014, Melissa Teo

Hope you guys enjoy! I'll be working on this fic in my spare time—Candice will be pitching in ideas every now and then, but for the timebeing, this is solely my work.

LOOSELY based on the first episode of White Collar (watch it on Netflix, it's really good), but after that all ideas are completely original.

Oh and if anybody likes the prologue enough to make a cover pLS DO omg