Harold believed that love was a fool’s game. He had played it and found himself Captain of losing teams. He switched and tried but losses seemed to love his company.
It had proven impossible to keep his heart in one piece. Harold would over time let it be. Eventually, it was fine—not entirely understandable but acceptable… Like the risks in every game.
But the dirt involved—there was plenty of it. And dirt stained. In this game, it stained the heart and mind—some stains are hell to rub off.
When he met Hanna, therefore, Harold understood that fate could have many ideas for them but love. Hanna, on the other hand, had not a whiff about Harold’s trophies of losses.
It was perhaps her simplicity, a rare rawness, her genuineness, or her gentle and polite touch. It was never about her looks or her body but even those were perfect. It was, therefore, perhaps everything about her—everything he did not see coming.
They leaned against each other, their warm breaths mingling and their skins acknowledging. Desire razed them alive and they let it. Their lips collided, brushed and they loved.