Harry. His nose is probably a little big, his lashes a bit pale, and his shaving habits leave a lot to be desired. Yet somehow all those imperfections are perfect in their own right. And he's so relaxed right now, this big, rough, stubbly lover of mine. He's so content, his strong features so beautifully defined that it's impossible to resist brushing my fingertips across a well-sculpted cheekbone. That's when I see it. An arrow stretches across my left hand, drawn in Biro, pointing toward my ring finger. And by the arrow there's a message: Don't freak out. I think, at first, that he's drawn a ring on my finger, but no. When I look closely it's more than that. He's written something. Two words curl around my finger and it takes a moment to decipher them... new arrangement. I should be freaking out. We've been together - properly together - for all of twelve hours. But the freak-out isn't coming. Instead I’m smiling so damned wide my cheeks are going to cramp, and I barely resist shaking Harry awake to yell ‘Y es! Yes! Yes!’ in his probably shell-shocked face. But I don’t have to tell him yes . Harry lifts a sleepy eyelid and sees my silly grin, and he knows my answer. Sorry Amy, but I got it wrong - I am good, after all. Good enough for him. Good enough for me. And this new arrangement of his… well that sounds pretty effing good too.