It was the sizzle that got her downstairs, honestly. When Elise woke up she was of two minds. One said, stay in this cozy room, do not, absolutely do not go down to that torture chamber downstairs where she had to be close to his sweet laugh and stupid dimples and, possibly naked, definitely sexy, body. And his hands.

She did not want to be close to his hands. Unless she was up close and naked with them.

When she woke up though, it was to the smell of cooking eggs, and something buttery and no doubt delicious. Her stomach made lots of noise. Elise realized they hadn't eaten last night, she'd had snacks with Harry before her massage, and then she'd needed a shower, for the oil. She'd hunkered down and read the book she'd downloaded a few days ago instead of chancing another face to face without body to body meeting. Her empty stomach had been the least of her concerns. When she woke up to go to the restroom at 3 am, the book had been on her chest. So she had not eaten since their bread and cheese feast at 3 the day before.

He was feeding her too well, she was used to 3 squares with her 5 a day.

Speaking of. Her stomach had already made the decision to tell her feet to go. She realized the bypass as her feet slapped the stairs.

"Ah! The siren song of food brought you out of the cave!" He looked very proud of himself. He grabbed a cup and he poured coffee for her wordlessly. "Milks in the fridge."

He was wearing a shirt at least. Though it was only a y vest, so the curve of his chest was apparent, and she could see the stupid butterfly through it. Elise had always thought that tattoo was one of his stupider ones, but she'd seen more of them up close now. It wasn't the stupidest, surely, and it was really sexy; it definitely gave her butterflies in her tummy. She almost liked it better through the sheer of the cotton, the peel a boo effect made her wonder if he was permanent or a figment of her imagination. Maybe this whole thing was a dream, then what she did was inconsequential. She could do anything, anyone.

"Yeah." Was all she could say after that thought. The word still had to overcome a dry tongue to make it out. She decided to avoid looking at him, so she chose the stool adjacent to him, with room for the Holy Ghost, instead of across, and began serving herself from the laid out plates.

"You ok?" He asked when both of their plates were nearly empty.

"Yeah," a vocabulary wonder was she. Elise chanced a glance at him. "Why do you ask?"

"You are just usually much chattier is all." He made that face. The one she had come to recognize, when he was coming up with something. "Usually can't get a word in, this morning was the most silent meal since I sneezed on you. Didn't realize how much I missed the quiet."

His smile.

She shrugged. What was she gonna say? Sorry I'm distracted. It's not me, it's you. I'm into you. Please have sex with me, or shag me baby, whatever British people said in movies.

"Is it getting to you?"

"What?" She found that word, mostly cuz she was terrified he was onto her. Was he a mind reader?

"The quarantine? Not being able to leave." Then he stopped a minute, the food nearly to his mouth for his next bite. "Being stuck with me."

"No!" She protested immediately, cuz kicked puppy was not a look on him. He kinda laughed at her over reaction and she began speaking again. "It's not you." Liar. "You're great." True. Lovely, handsome, driving me crazy. "but maybe the not being able to leave even a beautiful, well-stocked, hidey hole sucks." She shrugged. It did, she just hadn't given herself very much time to think on that, but it was a plausible enough reason for her being off. She knew she was off, quiet today, and hiding yesterday. But that had to do with major fear of rejection and the lack of control she was feeling about Harry.

Elise was feeling like too much more time and she would kiss him, right here in this kitchen. Risk it all and come what may.

She shook her head and was happy he was drinking to miss it. There was no way she was going to kiss him. First. At all, whatever. She could not go for it and then be stuck another week embarrassed out of her mind and have to hide in her room completely. If she could keep her cool she might be able to come out of this with Harry Styles for a friend. That was pretty cool.

"Well, we gotta make you happy then! Or distract you." He cradled his chin, and she turned to get some coffee, that would not relax her. Looking at his face with his beautiful hands by it. She had never noticed a man's hands before in her life, but him playing guitar had quickly led to a mental concert where he was playing her with those hands.  He was still talking. "What do you normally do when you need to relax?"

What did she do. "Hike." She shrugged at him, hiding most of her face with the mug. She could fee her heated cheeks. "Drive out to the desert and lay in the back of a truck to stargaze." Those were two coping mechanisms off the table.

"Well, those are not things London can offer. We can lay in my garden tonight, but it's 10 am, so- no stars.
Until night time." He came to stand by her, slouched so their shoulders touched. It was a gesture of comfort, and it was comforting, but her heart sped up a little and the tingle in her belly and lower was more pronounced. Friend or not, her body had decided he was more. It would have been smarter to move away; she stayed in place where she could smell him. "What about anything else, a home bound activity that chills you out?"

"Well, what do you do?" She looked up at him and quickly averted her eyes, focused on his jawline. His jaw was ridiculous, but she knew his eyes cut deeper even.

"Um, well I listen to a lot of music." He pinched his bottom lip, pensive. "I write, or like journal, if I can't find words, or put them together the way I like, I just write whatever." He screwed up his brow. "I'm actually pretty good at doing nothing." They laughed a little. He did seem chill and she wondered if being trapped in hotel rooms made being stuck inside your own doors seem like a vacation. Maybe he was a homebody or an introvert. And an introvert? That made his choice of job intriguing, she wanted to ask, but figured that was a double digit day question. "I exercise, but I'm thinking that's not your thing." She covered her face with her coffee, but she was smiling through her blush.

His teasing grin required reciprocity.

Even if she could not think too much about working out with him. Least not in the kitchen. She would
Think about it upstairs in her bedroom later. "Maybe it's your type of exercise I object to. Like I said, I hike, I ran in high school, and I like yoga."

"I like yoga too. We can do yoga together!" He was really excited. She needed an exit plan. Nope, no bending and focused heavy breathing together, thank you. The thought of him in downward dog had her tether's end slipping through her fingers.

"Baking!" She said with gusto. "I like to bake when I'm upset." And she did, mostly cakes. Once she tried bread and it was an underproved mess.

"Hmmm, that sounds delicious." He rubbed his tummy. She averted her eyes. "I can cook." He shrugged. Elise had seen evidence of that, just eaten it. He had fed her, like daily. He had his thinking face on. "Let's do a big Sunday Roast!"

"Is it Sunday?" She honestly had no idea.

Harry pulled out his phone. "Nah, it's apparently Thursday, but time means even less than it normally does now. And neither of us knew it wasn't Sunday; plausible deniability." He tapped his temple.

"Who are we making denials to?" She could feel her amusement filling up her cheeks like apples in a pie.

"Nobody, cuz it's just you and me kid." He shrugged then turned and jogged out of the kitchen.

"Where'd you go?" She laughed when he came back in.

"Thought we needed a little accompaniment." And he queued up Netflix; she read his search.

Did she tell him she'd seen every series of bake-off, at least twice?

"Or we could watch the family cook off. I love Nadija!"

"She's the best!" Elise agreed. "Now where is your baking stuff?"

His utensils were a little sparse, but he randomly had a kitchen aid mixer. Very deluxe.  They'd worked out a schedule for the mixer and watched nearly whole season when he decided it was time to heat the oil for Yorkshires. Her cake was cooling, and she was sitting on the counter watching him. It would be very easy for him to slot between her legs. This seemed like it could go sideways, or down hill very fast, but she figured they must be worth it. She still hadn't figured out why it was called a pudding. She thought pudding was just a generic British term for dessert. And also a kind of desert? And a bread product very tricky to make? She's gottem very American in her head just now. But at least she wasn't yearning. She must be on a 10 minute streak

"How long does the oil take?"

"I have a trick actually." Smug. Smug looked good on him. So did flour on his cheek. There went that streak.

"You do this enough to have tricks?" She hoped her cake turned out well, suddenly self conscious.

"I told you, I like to cook."

"Mmmm-hmmm." She didn't really have an answer. He was pretty perfect, bastard. She should have went home at the beginning of this. Exposed her roommate, to the rona neither of them seemed to have. Instead she exposed herself to him. And she was gonna be, sick, heartsick when their time was up.

"My trick does require that we suspend bake off for a while. That alright? Can I separate you from Mr. Hollywood?"

"Please! He has pretty eyes, but I think he'd be a dick to live with." She joked. "And I have enough crushes." Slipped out.

"Do you?" He asked but took pity on her and continued on. "Maybe he'd be to busy baking bread and filming and you'd just get to see him sometimes? Like just enough to remember you like him?" He clicked off the tv.

"Yeah, until you get stuck inside with him in quarantine and you find out you can't stand each other." She cocked her head when he turned on some music. She'd not heard the beat, style, or whatever before. It was like reggae, kinda, harder. She wasn't sure what exactly it was. "Do you think there will be more babies or divorces when we get out of this?"

"Oh, I hope babies. But I'm a romantic." He grinned and she honestly considered poking his dimple. They'd touched a little, but she'd never causally initiated, so she refrained. It seemed intimate. As was his stance.

He was extending his hand to her, head bowed a little, dimple popped.

"What?" She looked at his hand then his face.

He bowed. "It's my trick, this EP has the perfect amount of songs for the oil to heat. Dance with me? Pass the time!" He flicked his eyebrow and she found herself fitting her hand in his. In for a penny, in for a pound. But, god this made him so damn cute, and she'd already been going under. This wave of charm meant she was drowning in him. Why did he have to be so great, and have such big hands, and a broad, and not be into her?

He waltzed her a little.

"This feels like a weird dance to this type of music?" She filled the air, hoping distance between them. She was pretty firmly in his grasp. Her pulse was a little high for her taste in this position.

"It is!" He laughed. "I'm just loosening you up! I didn't know if you danced."

"I mean, not professionally." God, she was an abysmal flirt, but she gave a Gallic shrug and pretended this was just silly kitchen dancing, that she flirted naturally.

He chicken necked and tutted. "Well alright, Ginger Rogers, lets see your moves."

"You might be a million years old." She giggled but did the submarine, and the swim and the cabbage patch- not in that order, and he joined in.

It broke down slowly, became less a competition to be crowned ruler of silly, into real movement. The music picked up and Harry pulled her back into him, in less a waltz, and more a grind. Or was it a wine?He was solid, thick thighs and slim hips; a little vintage pudge back at his hips from lockdown and trips to the kitchen for bread. Her hand was just over one and it was a perfect handle, the old name for it playing in her mind. Love handle. He had a hold on her.

He was doing her head in. Her cake was just waiting to be frosted, and she assumed the oil must be at a piping hot temperature, it was so hot. There was no doubt her goose was cooked. If something didn't come of this, if he didn't kiss her soon, she could scream.

Elise looked up at Harry to find his eyes already there, waiting to catch her gaze. She's held there, green laser beam, until his look slips without permission down to her lips.

Her tongue slid out to wet her mouth. When he found her stare again, she realized it was going to happen. Harry would kiss her, in his kitchen, with dancehall music playing loudly in the background and his body on hers.

Elise let her eyes fall closed after a glance at his lips, where he had that same involuntary reaction she did, licked them like an envelope before they sealed themselves together. She could feel his breath on her face, and she tasted the gum he always was offering her. The barest pressure was there, like a premonition of the kiss to come.

The music stopped, and the change in volume was just as effective as a buzzer going off to signal the time.

"Sorry," Harry murmured and grazed his chest across her own, stealing her breath while he made his way to the oven.

And then, we'll they were busy. Him pouring batter and her frosting and decorating. It was that part of meal prep where all attention and hands were on deck to get everything to the table at the same time and proper temperature.

The meal was laid out on the table. Harry had given her cake pride of place, right in the middle of the table with its rich brown swirls of frosting. The roast was half carved and squared up to the gravy, steam wafting off them both. She'd watched him make it out of seitan and had been very dubious. Now, if it tasted like it smelled, she was a believer.

If she had any appetite. He'd aroused other hungers.
Elise was studiously ignoring them, and doing her best to keep her eyes off of his face. Especially eyes and lips.

So, her plate was piled high, and she hoped her position at the other end of the table would allow her cake to block his view. She was actually excited to try the Yorkshires, she'd never had one, and his looked fluffy and high.

Elise wouldn't say their conversation was stilted, they talked throughout the meal. About the meal, complements laid out like the dishes, and they'd been side by side for the washing up. It wasn't as easy as normal. Like floating on the proverbial breeze. Maybe people shot the breeze because it required aim. They were both aiming beyond their near kiss.

Through the rest of the time in the kitchen, his front never met hers again. And on the couch, as they watched friends on Netflix, him showing her the ones he loved particularly, season three was his jam, they didn't cuddle, they sat on opposite ends, only their feet intertwined.

Elise's stomach was in knots as she lay in bed. And lower down was still bound up with hope and frustration. She'd given him an opportunity. Every opportunity, when she said goodnight, she'd leaned down to him, and kissed his cheek, hesitated a moment, so just a shift from him would land hm exactly where they'd left off hours before. His aim had not improved, or had been off earlier.

His rejection, the light kiss on her cheek, felt like a arrow missing her heart. He didn't want her, she guessed.

And it was worse, because Elise couldn't want him anymore.

Domestic day

He teaches her to cook a dish- she makes her famous cake
Dancehall kitchen dance
Still no kiss