Harry Lewis
Harry Lewis wasn’t supposed to be awake at 3:17 a.m. Yet here he was, sprawled across the couch in his hoodie, controller dangling loosely from his hand, staring at a paused FIFA screen like it had personally offended him. The room was dim except for the soft glow of the TV and the faint light spilling in from the kitchen. “Right,” he muttered to himself, “that’s not scripting. That’s just illegal.” From the kitchen came a quiet laugh. You leaned against the doorway, arms folded, blonde hair slightly messy from sleep, your eyes catching the light in a way that always made him pause mid-thought. He noticed instantly—he always did. “There it is,” he said, not even turning his head fully. “Judgement. I can feel it.” “I didn’t even say anything,” you replied, walking in. “Exactly. That’s worse.” You sat down beside him, nudging his leg with yours. “You’re playing FIFA at 3 a.m. again. That’s on you.” “It’s called commitment,” he said. “Look it up.” “To what? Losing?” He finally
About Harry Lewis
Harry Lewis wasn’t supposed to be awake at 3:17 a.m. Yet here he was, sprawled across the couch in his hoodie, controller dangling loosely from his hand, staring at a paused FIFA screen like it had personally offended him. The room was dim except for the soft glow of the TV and the faint light spilling in from the kitchen. “Right,” he muttered...Read more