Chapter Text
Harry Wilson wasn't sure that he'd ever felt quite like this before.
His knuckles still throbbed from where they had connected with Ethan's face earlier that evening, but that was a minor inconvenience in the face of the overwhelming rush of victory and purpose that came from being a part of the greatest con he'd ever heard of.
For the first time in a long time, he felt…content.
"It's only the start, man," Hardison said, grinning.
Harry regarded the faces of his teammates one by one, the people who had quite literally stolen him from the wreckage of his old life and handed him something new. They hadn't flinched in the face of his past, hadn't turned away when it would have been much easier. Rather, they accepted him, taught him, allowing him to atone for his mistakes and earn his redemption.
It was never quite what he had imagined—he had pictured obeying the law rather than continuing to skirt around it—but it meant more to him than he could ever put into words. His heart swelled with affection at the same moment it sank with what he was about to say.
"Not for me," Harry said, shaking his head. "I think I'm done."
The words landed harder than he expected. He saw it in the confusion and disbelief painted across their faces, protests rising before he could soften the blow.
It hadn't been an easy decision. He'd turned it over again and again during those long months at RIZ, but Becky's call had settled something in him that refused to be ignored. He needed to be there for her. He needed to be the man he should have been all along.
His mother used to talk about seasons—how life moved in cycles. There were times of hardship and times of ease, times of growth and times of standing still. Beginnings coupled with endings. Friends who stayed. Friends who came into your life for a time, shaped you, changed you, then…moved on.
Harry never liked that idea much. But standing here now, he felt it with a quiet certainty.
This—this had been a season. And now it was coming to an end. He would treasure it always.
He tried not to let his conviction waver as they pushed back, arguing about how much progress he could continue to make. He answered them each in turn, earnestly thanking them and hoping they could hear what he wasn't quite able to say.
Finally, he turned to Sophie.
"Sophie…"
Words seemed to fall short, inadequate to express the extent of the debt he owed her. She had seen him at his worst and still took him under her wing, molded him into something better that he ever could have imagined himself to be. She had entrusted him with her family, her knowledge, her story. She had believed in him through it all.
How could he ever repay her in something as paltry as words?
"I'll walk you out," she said, a small smile curving her lips.
He nodded, grateful and apprehensive all at once.
"Sure about this?" she asked quietly as they made their way towards the front door.
He hesitated. Because if there was anyone who could make him cast aside his plans, anyone who could make him stay…
It was her.
He exhaled, deciding on the most honest answer.
"When we met, you were lost in grief," he began. "And I didn't know it then, but I was too. And you saw that. And you helped me."
She studied him as he spoke, her gaze steady and searching. He hoped she found the truth in his eyes, more than what he was speaking aloud.
"Well, you helped me too," she replied. "They are my family, but they're used to seeing me in a certain way. As Sophie Devereaux."
She smiled faintly. "You see me as I could be. I'm gonna miss that."
Harry felt himself teetering on the edge of a dangerous precipice. Her smile had that effect on him—warm and open, entirely herself.
He would miss her too, more than he was prepared to admit.
"Well," he said, forcing his tone to be light, nonchalant, "you know where to find me if you need me."
It was the closest he could come to saying it.
"I'll have Breanna track your phone," she tossed right back, easy and teasing.
He smiled. "Yeah, that would do it."
He was stalling. He knew it. He wasn't exactly sure what he was hoping for—her asking him not to go? A promise to come visit?— but his thoughts ground to a halt as she stepped closer.
Her hands rose to rest lightly on his arms, and then she was leaning in. Harry's heart pounded in his ears and, in a moment of panic, he turned his head at the very last second.
Sophie's lips met his.
They both stilled. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then her mouth softened against his, kissing him back, and oh.
His next thoughts were only of her, how he wanted to devour her over and over again, chase that little sigh in the back of her throat until it was the only sound he could hear. How she fit against him with a sort of perfect inevitability.
His hands traced the curve of her waist while hers ran up his arms to rest on his shoulders, her touch sending something electric down his spine.
Victory was sweet, but she tasted sweeter still.
Just as he moved to draw her closer, abandon the last threads of restraint and deepen the kiss, it ended.
Sophie broke away, pulling back like she'd been burned.
"Stop."
Harry froze, hands hovering where her waist had been, his mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened.
He'd never heard her sound like that before.
He stepped forward automatically, apology already forming, but whatever he had intended to say dissipated the moment he saw her properly.
Her eyes were wide, her breath uneven. A gorgeous flush still colored her cheeks, and for a moment, she looked as undone as he felt.
Then it all changed. He watched it happen in real time, the shift in her expression as something like regret overtook her features, leaving something fragile in its wake.
No. He had to fix this, had to do something.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, the words tumbling out, rougher than he meant them to be. "I didn't mean—I thought—"
He didn't even know what he'd thought. That she wanted this? That she'd chosen this?
"Go," she said softly.
The word felt heavy, final.
No, he couldn't go now. They just needed to talk, straighten it all out—
"Sophie—" he pleaded, searching her face.
The look in her eyes stopped him cold, glassy with unshed tears. That look would haunt him, stay with him long after this moment was over, long after she was gone.
"Please…" she whispered. "Just go."
Everything in him resisted, every instinct screaming at him to stay. He had to do something to erase the pain in her eyes, pain that he put there. How could he leave now when he had ruined everything?
But how could he stay when she had asked him to go? He respected her far too much to disregard her wishes, cared for her too far much to hurt her again.
Despair settled heavy and suffocating in his chest as regret swept away the remnants of the fleeting, impossible happiness he'd felt only moments ago.
"Okay," he said, his voice hollow.
Sophie watched him go, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if holding herself together.
Harry took one step back, then another, forcing himself to move before he changed his mind.
He hated that this was the last moment he had with her, the last version he would get to keep. He burned her into his memory despite it all—the shape of her silhouette, the sound of her voice, the ghost of her lips moving over his own.
She'd make a lovely story to tell someone someday.
He slipped out quietly, forcing himself to not look back.
The gate closing behind him echoed with a finality that lasted far longer than it should have, following him long after he had left it behind.