------------------------------------------------

Ramen noodles were a definite no-go, since he'd been living solely on them for the past three days. Then again, he couldn't be bothered with cooking, eating out, or calling up a random takeout service. He'd been too busy unpacking his seemingly endless pile of boxes to eat anything apart from ramen noodles so, really, they were his only option.

Shrugging, he grabbed two chicken and two beef flavoured cups of noodles and put them in his basket.

"Excuse me?" A melodic voice rang from beside him.

Harraël turned to the source of the voice and his jaw instantaneously dropped. The woman before him was the most beautiful one he'd seen in his 31 years of existence. The raw beauty she exuded felt like a raging tornado as his eyes slowly moved up her body, appreciatively taking her in. She wore loose clothing which hid her curves, but still managed to give her an enchanting presence.

There was something about her that attracted him the way a flame would attract a moth. Her entire being was captivating, she was glowing, literally glowing. With the face of an angel and plump lips that demanded to be kissed. And her eyes, good heavens, her eyes; pools of never ending blue, he would willingly let himself drown in them if she'd allow it.

"Would you hand me a pack of fresh tagliatelle? It's too high up, I can't reach."

"This one?"

"No, the other one," she pointed, "the olive colored."

He soundlessly obliged and handed it over to the angel, she nodded in thanks.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe beautiful women don't eat carbs?" He joked, and instantly regretted doing so, mentally hitting himself. She must think him a sexist asshole.

To his utter surprise, she snorted, dimples poking her cheeks as she did, and took the pack of tagliatelle from his grip, their hands brushing in the process, "Yeah, well, I have needs."

Another comment was trying to force its way up his throat, but he swallowed it before it had the chance to escape and ruin her opinion of him a little more. All he could do was stare at her, trying to think of something smart and sophisticated to say. In return, she shot him an odd look. A look so odd, that he shot her a look of his own, "What?"

"Aren't you that guy from the toothpaste commercial?"

He burst out laughing, the sound of it echoing through the grocery aisle. Of all the things she could have recognized him from, it was the bloody toothpaste commercial.

"I'm Harraël," He grinned, extending his hand and ignoring her comment.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, but shook his hand either way, "Moira."

"Is that French?"

"Irish."

"Okay, cool,"

As they locked eyes, a pregnant pause arose. Which was ironic, because it was only then that he noticed a baby bump beneath her oversized sweater. To say he was surprised would be an understatement. Yet, the fact that he wasn't put off of her by that tiny detail, was an even bigger surprise.

"How far along are you?" He gestured towards her lower abdomen.

She gazed down and placed a protective hand on top of her bulging tummy, as if also just realising it was there, "Nearly 19 weeks."

His heart sank, disappointment filling the pit of his stomach. Of course she was pregnant with another man's baby, she was too good to be true. Why was he even attempting to act thunder-stricken.

"Well, congratulations. Your husband's a lucky man."

Her facial expression morphed into one of uneasiness, "I'm not married."

"Boyfriend then?"

"No I- I'm single."

The dead butterflies in his stomach came back to life. There was hope after all. The uncomfortable expression gracing her face didn't escape him, however, and made him wonder how this baby had been conceived.

"Why am I even telling you this," She rushed out, "It was nice meeting you, and uhh- thanks for your help." She pointed at the pack of pasta in her hands, and before he could fully register her words, she was gone. That was also when the whole world suddenly seemed to notice he was grocery shopping.

"Oh my god, are you Harraël Stones?"

Needless to say, it was quite some time later when he finally managed to shake off his admirers. Arriving home, he dropped the plastic bag that contained his 'dinner' to the floor and fell onto one of the plush, newly bought couches.

His penthouse was coming along nicely. It would need just a few more finishing touches before it was ready to be fully lived in. Though it helped a lot that the previous residents had had similar taste to his. There wasn't much that had to be redone, close to nothing, in fact.

Who was he kidding. As if he'd do any furnishing work himself. He would tell his friends and family it was all his work when, in reality, a well-regarded Danish interior designer had done the job. But they wouldn't know that, obviously.

It was the ultimate bachelor pad. A penthouse in one of the most popular apartment buildings in the Upper West Side of New York City. With light, open spaces, plenty of room, a roof terrace half the size of his old flat, an outdoor pool and the whole she-bang. While he had paid a rather large amount of money to be able to call himself the proud owner of this humble abode, he still considered himself lucky.

That brought him back to the struggle of the day: A certain baggy clothed, dimpled angel. He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned in frustration. If it weren't for the fangirls standing in his way, he could have easily chased Moira and asked for her number.

Aware of the fact he wasn't making things any better, he groaned again. What on earth was he doing? Acting all frustrated over some woman he hadn't even spoken ten full sentences to? She was just another soul in the sea of billions, by the time he had another willing lady in his bed, she'd be all but history.

For now, a strong drink would do him well.

Thank god the boys would be coming around that evening, for old time's sake. Throw in some beers, pizzas, maybe even a game of some sort and they'd be good. Harraël didn't doubt their ability to distract him from the person clouding his mind. Hopefully, they wouldn't wreck his new apartment.

+w䁽