Page 32 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

kiss the rain

Harrison

London rain has a particular quality to it—not the dramatic downpour of movies, but a persistent, soaking drizzle that gets into your bones and stays there.

I’ve been standing on this doorstep for exactly thirty-seven seconds, which is thirty-six seconds longer than any rational person would wait before pressing the doorbell.

But rationality abandoned me somewhere over the Atlantic, along with my career, my dignity, and any remaining connection to the life I’ve been sleepwalking through for the past fourteen years.

My clothes are beyond salvaging. The jeans plaster to my legs. My old hoodie clings to my chest. Water drips from my hair onto the marble doorstep of a house that probably costs more than I’ll ever see again, now that I’ve nuked my career for the chance to stand here.

The door is painted black, with brass hardware that gleams even in the grey afternoon light.

Through the frosted glass, I can see movement.

Shapes passing back and forth, the warm glow of family life that I’ve never really experienced.

Laughter drifts through the walls, genuine and unguarded, and I wonder if I’m about to destroy something beautiful just by knocking .

But I press the bell anyway, because I’ve come too far to turn back now.

The buzzing echoes inside the house. Guilt crawls up my spine, but it’s nothing compared to the desperate need that’s been eating me alive since I watched her walk away from me in LA.

Footsteps approach, and my heart does something complicated against my ribs, part hope, part terror, part recognition of the moment when everything changes and can never go back.

The door opens, and there she is.

Seren.

Looking exactly herself—no makeup, hair slightly messed, wearing jeans and a jumper that’s probably older than her step-siblings. She’s beautiful in that understated way that makes magazine covers look desperate, and for a moment I forget how to form words.

Her dark eyes widen with shock, then something that might be fear, then something I don’t dare hope might be happiness.

“Seren.” Her name comes out, an exhale after holding my breath for months.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice is barely audible over the rain drumming against the pavement behind me.

“I couldn’t stay away.” The honesty tastes strange in my mouth after so many years of carefully crafted responses. “I tried. I got on a plane to Japan, performed the hits, smiled for the cameras. But I couldn’t... I can’t...”

Behind her, I can hear the sounds of family dinner, voices talking over each other, the clink of cutlery against plates, someone laughing at their own joke. It’s warm and chaotic and everything I’ve never had, and she’s part of it in a way I’ll never be.

But I have to try.

“I want to be a different man, Seren.” The words tumble out, desperate and unpolished. “The kind of man who doesn’t forget to change his locks. The kind of man who has something bigger than himself that grounds him.”

Her expression shifts, softens slightly, but she glances nervously over her shoulder. I realise there are probably neighbours watching, Ring doorbells recording, curtains twitching at windows. In an hour, this moment will be all over social media.

I don’t care.

“I can’t go on being Harrison Carter if he’s not the man who could be in love with you every day of your life.” My voice cracks on the word love. “I can’t wake up every day wishing I knew what you were thinking, knowing we’ll never get a chance to find out what this could be.”

The rain is getting heavier now, turning my declaration into something that probably looks more tragic than romantic. Water runs down my face, my hair plastering itself to my skull.

“I know I fucked up in LA. I know I let you walk away when I should have fought for you. But I can’t.

..” I take a shaky breath, tasting rain and desperation.

“I can’t pretend anymore. Can’t perform being happy when the only time I’ve felt real in years was sitting next to you at a piano, writing something true. ”

A pigeon lands on the railing beside me, cocking its head. Seren follows my gaze to the bird, then looks up at the row of pigeons perched on the roof opposite, all of them staring down at us with beady-eyed judgement.

“Stop,” she says, and my heart plummets into my expensive, waterlogged shoes. “You’re embarrassing the pigeons.”

The deflection hits. She’s joking. Deflecting.

This is over before it starts.

Of course it is.

I take a step back, shoulders dropping, already calculating how to extract myself with a shred of dignity.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”

She moves before I finish.

Fists my shirt.

Hauls me inside like she’s just remembered she needs me.

And then she’s kissing me.

No warning. No hesitation. Just mouth on mine—urgent, messy, real.

Nothing like LA.

That kiss was a question.

This one’s an answer.

Weeks of silence, doubt, and white-knuckled restraint collapse in the space between our lips. Her fingers twist in my hair. I hold her face like she’s breakable. Like I already broke her once.

She tastes like red wine and recklessness. Like possibility.

We’re making out in Damon Rogers’ hallway while three generations of oil paintings silently judge us, and for once, I couldn’t care less about optics.

When she finally pulls back, we’re both breathless.

She’s flushed. Hair a mess.

And she’s looking at me like maybe—just maybe—I’m still hers.

“Harry,” she whispers.

That name, from her mouth?

It lands like forgiveness.

“Yeah?” My voice is wrecked.

“You’ve gate-crashed family dinner.”

She’s smiling.

Fingers still tangled in my shirt.

“Should I leave?” I ask, though we both know the answer.

She doesn’t say anything. Just takes my hand and leads me down the hall.

The dining room’s quiet—too quiet.

Which means they heard everything.

Damon’s at the head of the table, trying not to laugh.

Kimba’s halfway to snorting into her wine.

Felix looks like he’s auditioning for a Wes Anderson film.

And Hailey… well. Hailey’s smile could slice through steel.

“Everyone, this is Harry,” Seren says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Not Harrison .

Not Harrison Carter .

Just Harry .

Kimba cracks first. A snort, then full-on laughter she tries to stifle behind a napkin.

“Did you get it on the Ring doorbell?” she wheezes.

Damon pulls out his phone, squinting. “Yep. Decent lighting, too. That’ll go viral in a heartbeat.”

“Dad.”

“What? Romantic declarations in the rain? We’re sitting on content gold.”

“Damon,” Kimba warns, still laughing. “Let the poor man eat before you sell his dignity.”

“Thank you,” I say, sliding into the empty seat beside Seren. Like it was waiting. “For this. For letting me crash whatever this was meant to be.”

“Well, Harry,” Damon says, passing me a plate stacked high with roast beef, “I hope you like traditional British cooking. Mrs. Martin thinks coriander is a foreign plot.”

From the kitchen doorway, a woman beams at me like I’ve done something heroic.

“Welcome, love. Anyone who makes our Seren smile like that’s family already.”

I glance at Seren.

She’s smiling—really smiling. Not the polite, public kind. The one I used to see in the quiet between shows.

It knocks the breath right out of me.

Felix, mouth full, waves his fork like a sceptre. “So, are we just going to ignore the fact that Harry here abandoned a sold-out world tour to confess his love in the rain?”

“Felix,” Seren warns.

“I mean—it’s very cinematic. Very reckless. Very… stupid, from a career perspective. But still.” He raises his glass. “Respect.”

“The tour was winding down anyway,” I say, maybe oversharing. “A few dates left. And it turns out love songs hit different when you finally know what love is—and then screw it up.”

Hailey leans forward, eyebrows hovering somewhere between suspicion and Botox.

“You left Elementary ? For her?”

The question lands with a thud.

“Yeah,” I say. “Some things are bigger than contracts.”

“Even Glastonbury?” Hailey asks, sharp as glass. “Because I heard?—”

“Hailey,” Damon says, a little too softly.

She ignores him. “We’ve been offered the headline slot. The final show. The end of Elementary .”

Everyone’s watching me now.

Even Felix puts down his fork.

“And?” he asks, voice quieter now. Like he already knows what I’m going to say.

“And I don’t know if I can get up there and pretend to be someone I’m not anymore,” I say, voice steady but low.

My eyes flick to Seren, who’s watching me with something I can’t quite name.

Not doubt. Not certainty. Something in between.

“Not when I’ve finally figured out who I actually want to be. ”

Silence settles like a blanket.

Outside, rain taps at the windows.

The muted hum of London drifts through the walls.

Then Kimba claps her hands together like we’ve hit the peak of a rom-com. Her whole face lights up. “Oh, I do love a good love story. Damon, remember when you gave up that tour to come back for me?”

“That was different,” Damon mutters. “It was just Europe. Not a bloody world tour.”

“But still romantic,” Kimba insists, shooting him a look that’s half fondness, half challenge. Then she turns that intensity on me. “You’re staying for pudding, aren’t you? Mrs. Martin’s made trifle.”

I glance around the table.

This loud, lovingly chaotic, certifiably unhinged family that Seren belongs to—who’ve just casually absorbed me into their orbit like it’s no big thing.

Damon and Kimba are still bickering about tour cancellations and declarations of love.

Felix is halfway through explaining to Hailey why grand gestures are an essential part of Western romantic mythology.

Mrs. Martin is gliding in and out with the energy of a woman who could run a small country if she wanted.

And Seren?—

She’s sitting beside me, close enough that her hand is almost touching mine.

She hasn’t pulled away.

She hasn’t shut me out.

She’s here .

“Yeah,” I say. “I’d love to stay for pudding.”

For the first time in years, I’m exactly where I want to be.

Even if my career is on fire.

Even if my team’s probably drawing up legal documents with my name in all caps.

Even if tomorrow’s headlines will crucify me.

Right now, I’m sitting at a dinner table, eating roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with people who actually see each other, flaws and all. People who fight and laugh and tease and pass you the salt like it means something.

This is what home feels like.

And when I look at Seren—really look at her, relaxed and soft around the edges, smiling in that unguarded way I thought I’d ruined—I know.

It was worth it.

All of it.

The tour. The career fallout. The mess.

Because this? This is real. This is mine.

For the first time since I was sixteen, I’m not performing.

I’m not Harrison Carter.

I’m just Harry.

And for once, that’s enough.