something easy || harlan

June 2003

It was certainly not the first time that Montserrat had invited someone over to her humble loft but that had never deterred her tendency to worry about what her guests might think about her or the home she resided in. It had taken her much effort to find a place she truly liked: a sufficient amount of natural light, something close to the store, with a decently sized kitchen, but once she had, Montserrat spent a significant amount of effort in decorating it to her liking.

Though she begrudgingly accepted her parent’s help in subsidizing the apartment in the end, the first few months trying to make ends meet on her income did not go as well as she expected, Montserrat knew that the best way to show her appreciation was to make it as much of her own as she could and work hard to eventually afford everything on her own without anyone’s help. Montserrat had always believed that one’s home was a good reflection of one’s personality and therefore wanted to make sure that her impromptu guest did not get the wrong idea about her should he spot something out of place.

Normally, Montserrat would have given herself a couple of days to tidy things up, possibly go as far as to make dinner or something appropriate for a guest of the Quidditch captain’s caliber. Nevertheless, Harlan’s message had come unexpectedly and though a little tired from the day’s work, the young witch could not help but feel intrigued by the timing of his message. The young woman had enjoyed meeting him immensely, and though her eagerness probably came across as a little desperate on her part, she looked forward to the thought of meeting him again. Joan would probably not approve of her intentions, though they were by no means ulterior, she was quite interested in reading Frankenstein by this Mary Shelley and was more than happy to celebrate career success with a friend or an acquaintance.

Montserrat bit her lip softly, a little winded from running across the street to the shops to pick up a few ingredients for something simple to prepared. It would have been easier had invited him over with more time to spare but there was simply no time for that now. In the end, the witch had settled on tapas, an assortment of small dishes that reminded her of home and in the words of her mother were the easiest and best way to keep the company happy. After everything had been prepared, Montserrat took a big breath, scanning the room one last time as she made a mental checklist of everything she had done in the last thirty or so minutes, thinking of any last minute things she might have to do before her guest arrived. And just like that, she heard a knock at her door.

“Coming!” she called out, Cosmos, her cat, perking up from his place on the couch before strolling over to the door, growling lowly as he did. “Now, now, be nice,” Montserrat said to him affectionately, leaning over to pick up the sizeable cat in her arms before opening the door, her face lighting up almost immediately with a dimpled smile.

“You’re right on time, please come in, make yourself at home, “she said, opening the door wide enough to allow her guest in. “I’ve set something out on the table if you’re feeling peckish, once Cosmos settles down I can get the glasses out and we can celebrate properly. I hope you didn’t have a hard time finding the loft? It’s a bit in the middle of nowhere, isn’t it?” she asked.

@Harlan Bellamy

Harlan retraced his steps from that first night when he'd walked Montserrat home after the train, after his match. It looked considerably different drenched in the early evening sundown, a new landscape, and the juxtaposition left him feeling off-balance. In some part, surely it had to do with how he was feeling.

He had sent the tickets— an innocent enough gesture— his attempt to make up for how shitty her brother could be, and in part to make up for how shitty he had been. But now here he was, knocking on her door with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, a hard copy novel in hand.  The last time he saw her (and only time, he was quick to remind), things were complicated. More complicated than he cared to admit.

Even the tempo of his knock on the door felt foreign.

Montse appeared with a cat in her arms, who coincidentally appeared to be thinking the same thing as Harlan— what the hell was he doing here? "Hi," He began, taking a side step around the creature. He was right on time, as usual. Being late was not in his nature, even for last-minute plans. "Seems friendly—" Harlan said right as the cat hissed and jumped from her arms, only to stare at him from behind one of the couches.

Instantly, Harlan was more at ease. He allowed himself the indulgence of giving Montserrat a quick once over, before carrying over to the food she'd put out. "I remembered where it was," He began, taking a step forward to have a look at the assortment. "You didn't need to do all this," He shook his head. It looked like a lot of work, just for him. "I brought this—" He paused, holding up his copy of Frankenstein. "And some wine," Which seemed less spectacular in comparison.

“He’s lovely, I assure you, just a bit—protective of his territory I suppose,” she offered as Cosmos hid behind the couch, glaring over at him as if to observe his behavior, decide whether or not he needed to defend his post. Cosmos was not particularly friendly towards male guests, even her own brother had had a significantly difficult time getting the cat to warm up to his existence but Montserrat did not need to tell Harlan that, lest he start wondering how many guys she did have coming in and out of her house. That would make for a very strange conversation.

“It’s nothing special, tapas—you’ve had them before, right?” She wondered, surely he had in his travels. They were Spain’s specialty and extremely popular with tourists, the bite-sized pieces of food a perfect accompaniment to alcohol and a night out with friends. “The…uh—jamón,” she started, not quite sure that the English equivalent of ham did the delicious dry-cured meat any justice, “My mother sends it to me every month, it’s from a very small shop that’s been in business for years, the cheese here," she pointed in its direction, "my aunt makes it it’s amazing,” she added, most of the other things she had purchased across the street but there was nothing like the cheese and jamón from home, that simply could not be replaced and came out only for special occasions. Like this one, she supposed.

“Oh now that cover looks interesting, it’s quite long I see,” she said, reaching out for the book and taking a look at the back to get a sense of what sort of story the pages contained, “How long did it take you to read it?” she wondered, she wanted to know just what she’d be getting into by starting such a book. Looking over at the wine, she smiled, “Thank you, you really didn’t have to,” she insisted, reaching for the bottle as well and setting it on the table. “These tapas go lovely with red wine but are much tastier with sangria, what do you think?” she asked, unsure if it was polite to take a guest’s gifts and basically turn it into something else. Walking over to the refrigerator, she gestured towards the stools on the other side of the kitchen island. “I can cut up some fruit and you can tell me about how excited and optimistic you’re feeling about the finals,” she joked, thinking back to the conversation they had on the train and how unenthusiastically he had been about his entire performance. Obviously it had not been that bad if they’d made it this far.

"Lovely" Harlan repeated, not convinced. He'd never been a cat man— he had Aslan— albeit unintentionally, but even at that, they hardly got along.

He scoured the spread, turning back to Montse. "I have—" He picked up a slice of meat. It was his favorite kind of pre-dinner thing, tapas. "Think she can add me to the order?" Harlan teased with a grin, though he wasn't joking at all. It was all that he was missing, as evidenced by the look of pure ecstasy when he grabbed a piece of manchego and popped it into his mouth.

Harlan handed over the book with pride, smiling as Montserrat gave it the once over. There were few feelings so gratifying, someone reading a recommended novel. "The first time?" He let her take the wine bottle as well. "A week, I'd say..." He mulled over the thought. "Faster now, rereading," He added, watching she made her way into the kitchen, for the first time taking in her black denim cut off shorts and top.

She was trying to kill him.

"I can help?" He offered out of courtesy. Anything to get away from that damn cat. With a turn of his wrist, the cork came out of the bottle and was pouring into the jug Montse had pulled out. "Nice place," Harlan tried to ignore that they had gotten closer to each other at the countertop, working in tandem. She was slicing fruit and he was keeping himself as busy as he could.

“I’ll let her know,” she responded enthusiastically, making a mental note to owl her aunt as soon as their social call was over. Though she was still unsure of how she would address the questions that were sure to come in quick succession as they always did when her family members suspected that the friend in question was indeed a male—a ploy to get as much information as they could before surely exchanging it over family dinner on Sunday. Montserrat was only grateful that unlike her nosy aunt, her own mother was most forgiving and insisted that she focused on her career instead of boys, something she did without hesitation. “I must warn you that she can get a little enthusiastic though so unless you plan to have tapas every night, I’d be firm with her if I were you,” she joked.

Montserrat was intrigued by the fact that Harlan had read the book at all; it seemed like two pieces that did not fit, a Quidditch player with his reputation spending evenings curled up with a book and some wine, but it was certainly not something that Monsterrat was going to tell him to his face. It was rude, she quickly decided, to make assumptions about him based on the ridiculously irresponsible life that her own brother lived. Joan was still convinced that he was in his early twenties, though his body struggled to keep up. Harlan on the other hand, seemed much more like an adult, and that was something that the young witch could learn to appreciate very quickly. “A week! It must be very good,” she commented, opening the refrigerator as she inspected it’s contents before returning to the kitchen island with a couple of lemons, an apple, an orange, a container of cubed pineapple, and a small container of orange juice, and a small jug for the wine. 

“It’s much better if you let it sit but, desperate times and all,” she added, moving over to the sink to quickly wash her hands and return with a cutting board and a knife, “Sure, why don’t you start by putting in the fruit as I cut it, then we can add the juice, and go from there,” she reassured him. “Thank you,” she added, as she looked around her own place, and couldn’t shake the small feeling of pride. “It’s probably a broom closet considering what sort of place you have but it’s cozy and I’m not usually home so when I am, it serves it’s purpose,” she retorted. Even if she did have time to spend it at home, Montserrat had always felt comfortable in small surroundings, probably because it made her feel safe. But, more realistically, the upkeep was much more manageable.

“I thought you weren’t much of a sangria drinker, though?” she questioned as he moved to stand next to her, Cosmos eyeing them suspiciously from his place on the couch. “I might have some whiskey around here somewhere from when Joan came to visit,” she suggested, turning to look into the cabinets above the stovetop to confirm.

Harlan thought it was good at least, Frankenstein, though he wondered what her taste was like. Sure, it was a muggle classic for a reason, but he couldn't imagine what she might make of it. Montserrat was younger— not the reminder that he needed at the moment he watched her stride over to the fridge— and he couldn't be sure what how it would land, though he hoped she enjoyed it. "You'll have to let me know what you think," He added thoughtfully.

No pressure.

Letting out a chuckle, he eventually followed into the kitchen area (a couple of safe paces behind Montse) with a few cuts of meat and cheese in his hand. "She sounds great..." He said, referring to her Aunt. Truthfully, he wouldn't mind this spread every day, so there would be no need to be firm there.

"Is this the sous chef role?" Harlan pulled a face, having been delegating the role of putting the fruit in the bowl. His little nephews could handle that. Certainly, he could be more help somewhere else, but he finally agreed with a quick grin in her direction as he joined her at the counter. At the mention of his own place, his face dropped only a fraction. It made him uncomfortable to talk about those kinds of things— particularly because she was absolutely correct.

The Griffins had put him up in that obnoxious penthouse years ago, and ever since he'd been trying to find his way out of it.

"Cozy is nice," He commented, a bit more quietly, as he dropped some apples in the jug, pausing to sneak an orange slice into his mouth. "Ah—" So she remembered. Harlan finished chewing before speaking again, only briefly watching as she reached to the cabinet. "Got it?" Montse had to stretch up, where he could have easily just opened the cabinet, but she came back with the bottle before he could offer a hand.

"I need the full experience, though," He took the half-empty bottle of whiskey and placed it atop the counter, gesturing to the tapas at the table. "For at least one drink..." Harlan knew himself well enough that he couldn't stick with sangria for too long.

“They’re the best, my family, extremely supportive, very good about giving me space when I need it,” she started, her tone lightening as she spoke of the people she loved the most. Lately the young witch had not had the opportunity to visit them as often as she liked and the alienation from her family was starting to take a toll on her. Now that she was intent on gathering some things for Harlan, it seemed like she had a little more reason to pencil in a quick visit. “Too bad Joan never took you for dinner, but then again, my mom would probably realize that he’s a jerk and nobody is really quite fond of him,” she laughed softly at the thought. But most importantly, it would have been awkward for her to take him home, no girl brought male friends home to a Spanish household and got away with it without an interrogation.

“Yes, I can’t have you messing this up,” she teased, “plus fruit is the most important part, sous chef or not, do a good job,” she advised. Surely he could do more but she wasn’t about to have a guest over to do house work, especially when it was such a simple task to begin with. However, Montserrat was pleased that he was so eager to help and considered how fun it might be to do this again, making something more complicated. She wasn’t going to bring it up but it was a pleasant thought. She rarely met men who wanted anything to do with the kitchen and wondered if he enjoyed these sorts of things on his time off. But before she had the opportunity to ask, the topic of her loft came up.

He wasn’t a man of many words but from what she could gather, he seemed to like the idea of being in a smaller place. Montserrat wasn’t sure what sort of apartment his career in Quidditch had afforded him but considering that Joan was living in a sizeable apartment in Portugal and was in the market for another one in France somewhere, Montserrat could only assume that he lived in a mansion himself. Returning to the counter with the whiskey she smiled in agreement. “Feel free to drink it all, I honestly can’t do much with it, unless you can put it in something edible,” she considered, but had not given it much thought. It had been a bold move to drink this sort of thing the night she met Harlan, and considering the headache she woke up with, did not plan on doing it again. 

“Ah, cinnamon, we need some cinnamon,” she muttered to herself, reaching into the drawer next for a few sticks of the spice. “Do you do a lot of cooking at home?” she asked, adding the orange juice and cinnamon sticks to the jug of wine and fruit.

It was nice— albeit unfamiliar— to hear Montse speak so highly of her family. Harlan tried to imagine what that kind of closeness might look like.

"Messing this up?" He gestured down at the fruit then the container of wine. He'd have to be an idiot to not get it right, he thought. It seemed so simple. Then again, without her instruction (ironically) he'd have had no idea what he was doing. "Aye aye," He didn't bother to fake salute but instead bumped a shoulder into her with a grin. He found the excuse to get closer physically, despite the better mind he had to keep some kind of distance, was enough.

"We'll save that," Harlan pushed the whiskey out of reach and instead focused on his task— as sous chef it was important. He was nothing if not determined, even if that meant dropping fruit into a container. Thankfully, though, they seemed to have reached the tail end of the process. Again, his silvery gaze couldn't help but survey her as she moved, to find the cinnamon, she declared. "Of course," He did his best to be serious through a little grin.

"I try," He shrugged his shoulders, averting his gaze from her legs, as if he was confessing something serious. He was neither a chef extraordinaire nor a take out king. Harlan found himself somewhere comfortably in between. He didn't have the same upbringing she seemed to— family recipes and that innately emotional tie to cooking— but he did enjoy it in some way.

Harlan watched as she stirred, sitting back against the counter. Maybe the whiskey wasn't such a bad idea after all. "So it's ready, then?" He quirked an eyebrow,, nodding to the concoction.

“You’d be surprised,” she quipped in return, “how easy it is to ruin something so simple,” she continued. It was true, she had had her share of sangrias gone wrong and what her friends claimed to be the most authentic Spanish places in all of London, not to mention the state of the food. But drinks and foods aside, Montserrat had always been the sort of woman that had put forth her best effort in all that was set before her, no matter how routine or simple that said task was.

She grinned when he bumped his shoulder against her, not hard enough to hurt but certainly enough for a small shiver to travel along her spine. It was times like this that she remembered that her special curse was not so easily forgotten, interrupting these sorts of moments by causing her discomfort. But she attempted to take her mind off of it, hoping that the goosebumps that almost automatically formed against her arms wouldn’t draw too much attention to herself.

“My mom says that men who know their way around the kitchen are a great catch, so you’d best do a little better than trying,” she said with a small laugh. Cooking was one of the ways her family had stayed so close, creating a meal together and sitting down to eat it over conversation and laughter had been a way of life for her growing up when she wasn’t in school. Though Montserrat did not know much about his family, it seemed almost obvious that he had not been raised in a similar environment and for a moment she wondered if he had ventured over because he felt lonely, more than anything else. The thought made her feel for him. “So what’s your best dish, then? I want to know for when we have our next little book club meeting, you did say you want to know what I think about Frankenstein” she continued.

She had her motives but did want to share her thoughts with him about it. “Wait, wait,” she stopped him, reaching for a glass on the far side of the counter, pouring herself a little in the glass and trying it herself. She waited for a few moments before making a face, “It really ought to sit for at least four hours,” she lamented, “Let’s try some maple syrup,” she suggested, “could you get it out of the fridge, sous chef?” she added with a smile.

If anyone knew how easy it was to ruin something so simple, it was Harlan— and the irony of the timing of realizing that wasn't lost on him. 

He nodded, albeit vaguely, at the mention of someone being good in the kitchen equating to their prowess in the relationship department. Again, irony. He pulled a face, taking extra care with the slices of fruit as he carried out his designated job. "What, that's all it takes?" His gaze shifted from the jug to the counter, up her arms, then neck as she pulled her hair over her shoulder. God dammit.

"I'd like to imagine I do a mean steak and two veg—" Harlan paused for a moment, looking her in the eye. "— does grilling count?" He hoped so. The meal was a staple growing up, and was so even now in his adulthood.

"A book club?" He quirked an eyebrow. Now that he could get used to the sound of— despite the ulterior motives that came to mind.

Montse cleared the air with her little taste test, and Harlan watched intently, not anticipating anything groundbreaking of course. It was some sliced fruit and wine, after all. Though maybe he was just being pessimistic. "A few hours?" He said in disbelief. "Maybe I'll take that whiskey..." He half groaned before turning to the fridge in search of maple syrup. This concoction was sounding more and more like Frankenstein as it went on.

"This will be too sweet..." He quipped as he turned to her, unscrewing the top. Harlan held it over over her shoulder and studied the deep purple of the drink. From the cap, he was the victim of syrupy residue, which he licked from his thumb as he leaned back against the counter to face Montserrat.

“One of very many things, girls are picky and with good reason, too,” she retorted with a dimpled smile. Though Montserrat had never considered herself particularly picky, probably because she tended to see the good in everyone even those with an overwhelming amount of personality flaws. But more than the ability to cook, the witch believed that what drew her to that particular quality was the association she made with the kitchen and family; just thinking about it made her feel a little sentimental. “As long as it’s edible I don’t see why not,” she responded, wondering if he might ever have her over for something like dinner on one of their future book club meetings.

“Yeah, we can like choose a book and talk about it, or exchange books we’ve already read—I’ve been reading so many textbooks for work I’d be nice to read something for pleasure,” she explained though assumed that he knew exactly what a book club was and how it worked. But would he be convinced, she wondered. Harlan was a difficult man to read, something which she attributed to his profession of choice. Montserrat could not begin to imagine how hard it must be to be true to yourself and to be the person that everyone else wanted you to be. This man was nothing like the Harlan Bellamy she had read about in the papers. Though it was initially alarming, it was definitely a side of him that she could happily get accustomed to.

Montserrat made a face, something along the lines of a playful pout, when he considered taking the whiskey instead of waiting for the sangria but was pleased that he turned towards the refrigerator anyway. “Look, here I am making all these nice things for you and you just want to drink whiskey? No way!” she responded lightly, taking the maple syrup from him before shaking her head. “Not a lot, just a bit,” she insisted, pouring in just a little before setting the container down and reaching for a spoon to stir it. Taking another sip, she shrugged.

“This will have to do, want to have you back home by bed time and all,” she joked. “Next time, I’ll prepare it in advance, it’s going to be so good, promise,” she added. If she could only visit her family home between now and then, she could get a proper bottle of Spanish wine to accompany the sangria, she considered as she made a mental checklist. “Here, try it,” she suggested, taking another cup and pouring him a generous amount, “And if it’s two sweet you can chase it with the whiskey or whatever—though that’s probably not a very safe idea,” she added with a grin, reaching over to the platter and taking a piece of cheese and jamon while she waited. “So do I get a fun preview of this book before I have to read it? Spoilers or something like that?”

Of course it was edible— why else would he eat it? The idea seemed so foreign to Harlan that he pulled a face, briefly, his privilege peeking out from the place he'd hid it from for most of his life. From there, he broke into a knowing smile as Montse described what being in a book club together entailed. He wasn't sure if she was just that innocent or if she was fucking with him. "Then you're in for a treat..." He nodded to the hardcopy of the novel on the counter, only a hint of a smirk remaining.

"I don't know, it seems your Aunt did most of the work..." He teased as she poured the syrup, watching to gauge what her idea of what just a bit was. Maybe he was just used to Honey, but he was skeptical from the get-go that she would be over-indulgent.

Her pout had him thinking twice— doe-eyed— and, almost genuine?

Back home for bedtime. What a novel idea, Harlan tried to mask his various thoughts as they came to him, but ended up cupping his mouth and chin in hand to suppress the grin, his eyes betraying him. He was far too sober to say what he thought about any of that. "If you promise..." He looked at Montserrat over the cup of the glass that she'd poured. "Hmm," He hummed a thought aloud, leaving it to linger. "Not bad," He quirked an eyebrow, saying finally.

"I would never" Harlan leaned back against the counter, casting a glance a the book in question. "You wouldn't want to ruin the fun—" He explained, tapping his index and pointer finger atop it in thought. "—be patient and read for yourself," Harlan tried not to come across so commanding but couldn't help it. The cat came creeping around the corner, rubbing against his leg, much to his surprise, and he scowled. "Got a name?" Of course, it did, but it felt better to be unaware.

“One should hope you don’t go around recommending mediocre books just to take advantage of the free food and drinks,” she said with a small laugh, though she would not have been disappointed in him if he had. After all, Montserrat had practically welcomed him over with open arms at the first moment opportunity arose so it would have been unfair to say that it had anything to do with his eagerness and not her own. Montserrat wasn’t sure what she had been expecting of the man but was extremely content with where things were going thus far. He was much better company than Joan, at least, and extremely interesting to look at and talk to, a difficult combination to come across these days.

“She did, that’s true, but I don’t hear you complaining much, must be pretty good,” she teased in return, “Anyway whatever Joan bought is absolute poison, I tried it last time—obviously he cares more about alcohol volume rather than taste,” she warned him. It had been true, Montserrat had even ventured trying it herself after work one day when St. Mungo’s had been particularly stressful. The liquid had barely touched her lips before she found herself throwing the contents of her glass promptly into the sink and brushing her teeth. How anyone could make a habit of drinking something like that, she would never understand.

“Not bad, he says,” she joked, “you’re not very good at all this constructive criticism,” she said with a grin, but thought little of it. If anything, there would be more to enjoy for herself later when the sangria had properly sat for a few hours. It had potential, the first cup had proved that, now it simply needed a little time to get better.

She sighed dramatically before nodding in agreement, “Said like a true book lover,” she complimented him, wondering if Harlan had always been the sort of athletic charming type or if in school he was more prone to be hiding in some corner of the school library curled up with a good book and without any care in the world about anything else. It was a comical thought, she decided and thought to mention it but became distracted by his comment, her eyes moving down to focus on the cat.

Crouching down, she patted him gently on the head, “Cosmos,” she said. “I got him at a shelter I was volunteering at about a year ago or so, the older ones tend to get left behind but he’s been great company ever since. I take it you’re not a cat person?” she asked, standing back up as she moved over to the sink to wash her hands. “I think he’s pouting because he hasn’t had dinner yet,” she decided, moving to a counter to look for a can of cat food. “Don’t you have any pets?”

The allure of food and drink wasn't exactly the first thing that came to mind when Harlan had suggested this visit, but he went along with it and nodded through a closed smile. In truth, he wasn't sure what he wanted out of the trip aside from just spending time with Montse. It happened every now and again, when he couldn't sit alone with his thoughts for too long.

"Well, I've got nothing base my opinion on!" Harlan protested with a sly grin, taking another taste from good measure. "This is the first homemade sangria I've had," He supposed what he had in Spain all those years counted, but for the sake of his argument, it was best to skip that detail. "A bit liberal with the syrup, perhaps..." Harlan teased, pursing his lips in faux-thought if only to keep from grinning.

"What, did you want me to read it to you?" Harlan pulled a face, asking rhetorically. In actuality, that was one of his favorite things about reading— reading with someone else, to someone else. Seeing their reactions at the moment and catching the very moment they were lost in the story. It was a powerful thing in all of its simplicity.

The cat only briefly looked up at Harlan, wrapped around Montserrat, as if to ask who the hell this is this bloke and why is he in my kitchen? "Cosmos," He repeated thoughtfully, glancing down at the creature just as it shot him a skeptical look. "Actually, a cat..." He was just as surprised by it as he imagined she would be. It hadn't been his plan, that was all Arya, but he wasn't about to get into the details of that now. There wasn't really an opportune time to explain how one inherited an exes cat.

"Aslan," Harlan continued, another literary reference woven into his life. "Travel too much to have anything less self-sufficient," And Aslan was, self-sufficient. Sometimes it felt like Harlan was intruding in his home. He leaned back against the counter, furtively looking down every now and again to make sure Cosmos wasn't going to make any sudden moves.

“Yes well you haven’t much of a sweet tooth if I remember, do you eat your pancakes plain too?” In reality, Montserrat couldn’t imagine Harlan ever eating anything so unhealthy, a treat she indulged in once in a while. The witch was not above working harder on her physique if it meant having more of the things she liked. One look at Harlan and it was obvious that he didn’t play around, at least not where his constitution was involved. Not that she minded entirely, she had seen a photo of him shirtless somewhere at some point and had thought about what a nice poster it would make in her room. For inspiration, and all, now that she had actually met him in person, she was eternally grateful that she decided against it.

She considered his question, not really sure if he had meant it in jest or he was serious, either way she had no qualms about answering it. “I wouldn’t be entirely opposed,” she said, shrugging gently as she spoke as she worked on clearing the counter of the fruit peels and placing the cutting board and knife in the sink. Those things could wait until later, she decided, she didn’t want him to think she made it a habit of doing chores in front of guests so that they would offer to help. “You are more than welcomed to anything on the shelf,” she gestured at the tall bookshelf in the far corner, that possessed a healthy mixture of fiction and non-fiction literature.

Cosmos was acting a little bit more defensive but when  Harlan revealed that he too, had a cat, it suddenly made sense. He could probably smell the cat all over him and wanted to make sure Harlan recognized that this was his territory. But Montserrat didn’t dwell on it too long as she thought about how surprised she was that he owned a cat. “Really? You seem more like the dog type,” she said, her tone a little surprised. “But we all have our little secrets,” she smiled, curious to know more about the past but refraining from asking. Harlan seemed a little weary of personal questions, though it was no surprised as to why.

“But I’m sure Aslan still needs company,” she noted, hoping that he was actually spending time with the cat, not just keeping it hostage in his big apartment. “He won’t bite you,” she said with a smirk as she watched him. “Want me to put him, away?” she suggested, “That way you won’t have to worry that he’ll try to kill you,” she added jokingly.

“Does someone sit at home with Aslan when you’re away?” she asked, wondering if she could get a little more information on his personal life.