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he4dlin3 · 2 days ago

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STILL GROWING UP NOW || a harry styles x you one shot. word count: 13,016 content warning: underage drinking, vomiting, mentions of underage sexual activity, showering together, mentions of teen pregnancy, positive-sex talk

summary: you and harry were teen parents. now, you're finding yourselves having to deal with your own sixteen & fourteen year old, who's finding their own curiosities. you want to be trusting, but how much can trust be pushed until it becomes personal?

author’s note: this literally just came to me so quickly! I loved writing this - I am such a dadrry writer and this is just me going back to my roots.

💌 if you'd like to support my writing, please donate to my Ko-Fi - your support means the world.

📩 if you'd like to request a prompt, please send them my way.

this prompt is based off of this anon message I received - hope I did you proud on this!!!

without further ado, please enjoy <3

Saturday mornings felt like such a different universe sometimes.

You would open your eyes to the sound of feet running down the hall, years ago. Excited feet that would lead down the steps to have breakfast, to spend time with one another, to get an adventure in on the day. These days, it was the sound of Harry singing softly to himself downstairs, a low hum over the faint sizzle of the skillet before either of the kids were awake.

You stretched in bed, catching sight of the sunlight spilling through the curtains, and you knew it was a bit later than usual for you. Your T-shirt had twisted in the night—his shirt, technically, soft from years of washes and still faintly smelling of his cologne which only made your heart clench at the nostalgia. You pulled it straight on your thighs, before you threw on a small pair of shorts, padding toward the stairs barefoot, hair in a loose knot.

Harry was at the stove in gym shorts that sat high on his thigh, and another worn band tee, spatula in hand as he whistled down at the fried egg that sizzled on the stove. His curls were messy, half-falling into his eyes as he flipped the egg.

The corner of his mouth lifted when he noticed you leaning against the doorway.

“Well, good morning to me, hm?” He murmured, eyes sliding down to where the hem of his shirt barely covered your thighs.

“Morning,” You replied, voice still rough from sleep as your eyes felt puffy and face felt cool from moving away from the blankets. You crossed the kitchen, your hand brushing his waist as you passed to get coffee. “How long have you been up?”

“Hour, maybe. Went for a quick jog and came back,” He said, placing the egg on the toasted bagel with cheese he had set up already for a sandwich. “Want something to eat?”

You grabbed a cup of warm coffee before sitting down at the kitchen island and glancing at him for a minute.

“Mm, starving,” You tell him with a sneaky smirk, “Think you can whip up some pancakes?”

He took a bite of his bagel sandwich, still standing at the counter before he nodded to himself – almost as if he had really done something with the fried egg and cheese. “Can do, baby.”

It was just that easy between the two of you – Harry did everything that you asked, you reciprocated his needs, too. Everything between you was always so easy and so nurtured with a way to please one another. Between bites, Harry grabbed the bowl and pancake mix, adding in some chocolate chips and blueberries from the farmer’s market, and had a plate of pancakes ready before you could ask him twice.

It had always been that easy, which is why this had always worked. Harry was the kind of man who never had to be asked twice; he knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was you.

He grabbed you a plate, a fork, and a bottle of syrup before you placed a pancake on your plate.

“Thank you, handsome,” you smirked back at him, before you started to hear the sounds of pair of feet thumping on the stairs towards the kitchen.

The soft creak of the upstairs hallway announced the first arrival. Sawyer appeared, shuffling in like a sleepwalker, one hand rubbing at his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. He made a beeline for the fridge without so much as a ‘good morning’ before pulling out the carton of orange juice and drinking straight from it.

“A glass, Sawyer,” you said automatically, not even looking up from your mug.

He sighed and poured some into a cup, then collapsed onto one of the stools at the island. “What’s for breakfast?”

Harry grabbed him a plate before sliding it over to him, “Pancakes is what was made, but you’re welcome to anything else.”

Sawyer took a pancake, placing it on his plate before you watch him drown it in syrup. Your eyes meet Harry’s with a soft smile as he gives you one back.

Sawyer grinned at his plate, quick and lopsided; it was the kind of smile that made you think of the little boy who used to bring you flowers from the yard, roots and all.

He was your youngest; at fourteen, he was the one you’d both been a little more relaxed with after learning from every first-time-parent mistake you’d made with Scarlett. His hobbies including spending hours in his room teaching himself guitar from YouTube tutorials, and gaming, and could be fiercely loyal when it came to the people he loved. But he also had this knack for disappearing into his own world, quietly observing instead of jumping into the chaos.

There were many moments when you didn’t seem to realize how great that quality was in a child, because he kept to himself most of the time. You’d often wondered if that was a youngest-child thing—knowing when to fade into the background and when to speak up.

You’d just topped off your coffee when the faint bass of music bled through the ceiling right above you—it was Scarlett’s way of signaling she was awake but on her own schedule.

It took another ten minutes for her to appear, each footstep down the stairs deliberate, like she wanted to make an entrance even in her own kitchen, even for her own family.

At sixteen, Scarlett carried herself like she already knew the world was watching, even if the audience was just her parents and younger brother. She was tall for her age, with Harry’s green eyes and your smile, her dark hair pulled up in a loose bun that looked effortless but probably took fifteen minutes to get just right. She had on black leggings and an oversized crewneck, but the neat flick of eyeliner and the clear gloss catching the morning light told you this wasn’t a ‘just rolled out of bed’ look.

She didn’t say good morning—she never did before she’d had a few minutes to settle into the day, but she moved with the practiced grace of someone who knew exactly where everything was. Phone in one hand, she crossed the kitchen, opened the cabinet, grabbed a cereal bowl, and set it down without glancing up.

“Morning,” you offered up to her, watching her maneuver around the kitchen with her eyes glued to her device but still making her rounds with ease.

“Hi,” she mumbled, sliding into a stool beside Sawyer and scrolling without looking up.

Harry grabbed the milk and box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch to place in front of her; they didn’t have to speak, he just understood what she needed when she needed it. That had always been the case for their relationship, which made you smile.

The air smelled of coffee, pancakes, and the faint citrus of the juice Sawyer had been downing next to you, and Harry leaned back against the counter watching them with that quiet pride he sometimes tried to hide.

It wasn’t until Scarlett’s phone buzzed again—her eyes lighting up just enough—that you caught the subtle shift. She was already planning something for later, and the way she avoided your gaze told you she didn’t want you to ask.

The banter was easy between the four of you because it was familiar in the way that came from years of figuring out how to be parents while still figuring out who you were yourselves. There had been nights in those early years when you and Harry ate cereal for dinner because it was all you could afford, and mornings when you took turns napping because Scarlett wouldn’t stop crying. Somehow, you’d made it through, and somehow you still loved one another more than anything in the world.

You slid off the stool at the island, wrapping your hands around your coffee mug as you moved to place your plate in the sink. Harry grabbed your waist on your trek to press a kiss to your temple, his fingers lingering against you in a way that made your cheeks warm.

Scarlett groaned at the interaction—of course, the one time she looked up from her phone. “Can you not? It’s too early for you two being gross.”

Harry grinned at her over your head. “One day, you’ll understand, and then I’ll make gagging noises at you.”

“Not happening,” she said flatly, but her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile.

Breakfast held a few conversations that made your mothering heart whole; Sawyer started talking to Harry about a new game he wanted for his computer—something that Harry only tried to keep up with so that Sawyer felt comfortable talking about it, Scarlett was half-listening while firing off texts.

Scarlett got up from her seat before moving to open her bag that she had brought down with her, a bit casually and a bit nonchalant as if she didn’t want you to ask—and you knew that she didn’t.

But that didn’t stop you.

“Got plans today?” you asked casually, taking another sip of coffee.

She shrugged, eyes flicking away to keep the distance between you. “Maya and I are hanging out in a bit. Probably a movie night later.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, filing away the way she avoided your gaze. “What movie? I haven’t been to a movie in so long, I don’t even know what’s out.”

Your conversation bothered her as she rolled her eyes, “Don’t know, mom—I said probably, not definitely seeing a movie. We don’t know yet.”

Harry’s gaze looked over to meet yours at her attitude, which made his lips tip up in a smirk.

It wasn’t unusual—she was sixteen, and secrets came with the territory. But something about the outfit peeking from the corner of her tote bag which included a short skirt you hadn’t seen her wear before made you tuck the detail away in the back of your mind.

Scarlett wasn’t reckless, but she had a streak of curiosity, a need to push at the edges of whatever box she found herself in. You remembered that feeling vividly from your own teenage years which was sometimes thrilling, sometimes it was dangerous.

Really, it’s how you ended up pregnant at seventeen, just a year older than Scarlett was now. It wasn’t that you would have changed anything, because you would never change how everything worked out. You lived in a beautiful home, had a stable job, had a husband that adored you, and two kids who grew up to be significantly enjoyable human beings in society.

There was nothing wrong about how everything turned out, but it made you weary to know that Scarlett had the same level of danger and thrill that you and Harry had when you were making out in the back cab of his ’90 Ford 150 in the parking lot of your school.

The phone in her hand buzzed once, and though her expression barely changed, you caught the quick light in her eyes before she smoothed it over. Whoever it was, it mattered to her, and the way she tilted the screen away from view with almost an adverse reaction, told you she didn’t want you to ask.

Harry caught your eye as she headed upstairs to grab a jacket. That silent, wordless exchange you’d perfected over the years passed between you: We were sixteen once. We know what that skirt’s for.

_____

A few hours had passed from the morning breakfast routine. This was the kind of calm and ease that life had started to become recently, especially since the kids had grown up; it was the kind you almost didn’t notice until you realized how peaceful everything felt.

Scarlett had breezed out earlier in the afternoon with a casual, “Going to Maya’s!” and a wave from the front door, not waiting for you to say goodbye before she vanished down the street. You and Harry had exchanged a glance but let her go. There hadn’t been a reason to not let her go—she hadn’t given you one yet, which made it that much tougher not to trust her.

She was smart and capable and you would hope that she would ask for help if she needed it, but you just hoped that she never needed help.

By six, the evening light was soft outside in the cloudless late September sky which still felt warm, spilling across the backyard. Harry stood at the grill in bare feet and a faded Springsteen T-shirt, flipping burgers with one hand and nursing a beer with the other. Sawyer sat at the patio table with his guitar on his lap, a spiral notebook open in front of him, his pencil tapping against the page in thought.

You were stretched out on the cushioned chaise with a paperback, though you’d read the same paragraph three times without taking in a word. The warm air carried the faint scent of cut grass, and the low hum of crickets had started in the hedges. Somewhere a neighbor’s dog barked; it felt like the suburbs, but it felt heavenly, in some way.

Harry glanced over his shoulder more than once, not subtle about the way his eyes slid from your face to the bare stretch of your legs under the loose hem of your sundress.

“You’re not reading,” he said finally, spatula in hand as he gave you that stupid smirk.

You smirked, keeping your eyes on the page. “I am.”

“You’re pretending to,” he countered, coming over to set the platter of burgers on the table. He bent, kissed the curve of your cheek, his hand brushing the inside of your knee for just a second longer than necessary, then went back inside for the condiments like nothing happened.

When he returned, Sawyer was bent over his notebook again, strumming a few hesitant chords before stopping to scribble something. Harry dropped into the chair across from him.

“Whatcha working on, mate?” he asked, reaching for the ketchup.

Sawyer shrugged, shaking his head as he stared at his notebook. “Just… something, dunno. I’ve been messing with this progression, but it sounds kinda like every other song I’ve heard.”

Harry leaned forward, nodding toward the guitar. “Play it.”

Sawyer gave him a wary look, but did as he was told. The melody was simple but sweet, a little halted in places as Sawyer tried to identify where he wanted to take it next.

“That’s not bad,” Harry said after a moment. “You just need a change-up in the bridge. Something unexpected so people don’t get bored.”

“Like what?”

“Like… go minor for a few bars, or throw in a chord they’re not expecting. Music’s all about giving people what they think they want, then sneaking in something they didn’t know they needed.” He gave a crooked grin, moving to stand up before Sawyer huffed a bit in thought.

When the burgers were plated and everyone had a drink, the conversation stayed light—Sawyer talking about a new band he’d discovered, Harry telling a ridiculous story about a customer who’d tried to return a hammer in front of him at the hardware store today “because it made a funny sound,” you laughing so hard you nearly choked on your fries.

But as Harry started clearing the plates, you decided to take your chance with Sawyer to test the waters on what kind of information he had.

“So,” you said casually to Sawyer as you both stayed seated in your patio chairs, “do you know what Scarlett was doing tonight?”

He didn’t look up from where he was stacking dishes, his voice perfectly neutral. “She said she was at Maya’s, I guess.”

“Mhm. And you believe her?”

Sawyer finally glanced up, meeting your eyes for half a second before looking away. “I don’t get in her business; she doesn’t get in mine.”

Harry arched a brow at him but didn’t push. You knew that tone—Sawyer wasn’t lying exactly, but he wasn’t going to offer up anything more either.

For Scarlett’s sake, his loyalty was absolute. You let it go, even though you felt that quiet prickle of unease in your stomach.

____

After dinner, everyone had moved to do their own things. Sawyer had decided to retreat to his room to continue to play his games with his friends, while you and Harry decided to open a bottle of wine and to watch a movie.

It had been a while since you two had been intimate together—nights like these were easy ad felt like it was just the two of you when both kids were self-sufficient.

It was around 10 when Sawyer had been sprawled on his bed for the past hour, his gaming headset crooked over one ear while he absently clicked through a menu screen that he’d stopped paying attention to as he heard his friends on the other end. The lamp on his desk cast a small pool of light across the open notebook there, the one where he’d been working on chord progressions earlier.

He was half-thinking about picking up the guitar again instead when his phone buzzed against his thigh. His eyes glared at the message that had come across his screen, seeing who it was from.

Scarlett: can you come get me?

He frowned, sitting up before he let his fingers run across the screen.

Sawyer: Aren’t you just down at Maya’s?

Maya only lived down the street from them, which allowed Scarlett to walk there quite frequently, and vice versa. Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then came back again as he waited for his sister’s reply.

Scarlett: no... at a party. don’t tell mom nd dad. pls

Scarlett: i don’t feel good ad im sad. please S.

A weird weight settled in his chest. Scarlett wasn’t the type to admit she didn’t feel good, not unless she meant it. But the don’t tell Mom and Dad was the catch. They had an unspoken agreement as siblings—don’t rat unless it’s absolutely necessary. She’d covered for him plenty of times, and he knew that the same would go for her.

He set the phone down, staring at the wall for a long moment, trying to decide if this counted as “necessary.” She hadn’t said she was in danger, just that she didn’t feel good—but she was also sad? But… why was she texting him instead of Maya? Or an Uber?

He picked the phone back up with an annoyed sigh, typing and deleting twice.

Sawyer: Where is it?

The reply came with a dropped pin. Sawyer zoomed in on the map; it was a neighborhood he didn’t know well, it wasn’t far away, but it was far enough that he couldn’t walk there on his own to get her. Especially if she wasn’t able to make it back herself.

Sawyer: are you drunk?

He waited a few minutes, seeing her typing in the message before he received her reply.

Scarlett: yea. room spinning nd im just outside. leo left with his friends nd didn’t stay. said he was coming back but then h left

He shoved a hand through his hair. If he went himself, how was he even supposed to get her home? He didn’t drive, and he wasn’t about to call one of his friends’ parents to chauffeur them from a party.

Sawyer: why can’t you get a ride?

Sawyer leaned back against his headboard, running a hand through his hair. He knew about Leo—the boy Scarlett had been texting nonstop for the past month, the one she claimed was just a friend when Sawyer caught her smiling at her phone. He also knew there was no way their parents knew—his dad would’ve had an aneurysm by now if he did. Especially if he knew the kind of kid Leo actually was.

Swayer typed another message on his phone: who’s there with you?

The reply from Scarlett came fast, like she was hanging onto every text that came in.

Scarlett: idk. don’t rly know them that well. i don't know anyone here. all older than me, cept maya

That made the knot in his stomach twist tighter. This wasn’t Scarlett’s usual crowd—the parties at Maya’s were usually just a handful of girls who’d been in and out of their house since middle school. This was different—this was older, and he knew was probably more Leo’s idea than anything.

He didn’t reply, but felt another text come in.

Scarlett: that’s why I texted you. please dont tell mom and dad

He stared at the words, knowing she was asking him to keep her secret like they always had for each other. But the image of her alone at some stranger’s house, tipsy and without a ride, kept flashing in his mind.

The knot in his stomach tightened as he thought about the way she’d looked this morning—smirking, brushing off questions. Something about it had already felt off and he knew that she didn’t do this kind of stuff often. She hung out with people she wasn’t supposed to hang out with, but she didn’t just lie about where she was.

With a muttered curse and roll of his eye, he swung his legs off the bed and padded downstairs. If she hated him for this, he knew she’d get over it… eventually, at least.

Downstairs in the living room, the soft flicker of the TV had been cascaded on the walls, the glass of red wine in your hand catching the light every so often when you moved. You were curled into the couch, with a throw blanket over your lap, your legs stretched over Harry’s lap. His bare feet were propped on the coffee table next to the empty popcorn bowl, one arm slung lazily along the backrest behind you.

The movie playing was halfway decent, but it wasn’t really holding either of your attention. Your focus drifted between the warmth of the wine in your chest and the low, familiar cadence of Harry’s voice as he told you about his business trip next week.

“So, Wednesday night’s just the welcome dinner,” he was saying, his eyes fixed on you rather than the screen. “Thursday’s all meetings and panels. Probably just gonna stay the night again instead of driving home late—”

You gave him a look over the rim of your glass. “Are you going to be networking, or are you just avoiding the four-hour drive?”

He grinned back at you, knowing he was guilty of both ends of that. “Bit of both, really. Don’t want to get stuck in rush hour. Besides…” He shifted closer, his palm grazing your knee under the blanket like he had done a million times. “If I’m gone Thursday night, I’ve got all the more reason to make the most of… tonight?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you set your glass down on the table next to you. “You’re terrible.”

“No, baby, I’m hopeful,” he corrected, leaning in enough that you caught the faint scent of the cedar soap he liked which kind of drove you wild—but you’d never tell him that outright.

His thumb traced slow circles on your knee, his other hand draped casually but deliberately behind you. He had that look—the one he always got when the house was quiet, the kids were out, and his mind started working in a very specific direction which practically pushed you both into your locked bedroom.

You were just leaning toward him when the sound of footsteps came from the stairs. At first you thought it was Sawyer heading to the kitchen for a snack, until you realized the steps didn’t pass through the hall toward the fridge. They stopped, hesitated, and then turned toward the living room instead.

Harry sat back slightly as Sawyer appeared in the doorway, holding his phone like it was something he didn’t want to be responsible for. He looked a bit panicked, so your mind tried to stay calm, but you could see the bit of hesitation in his face.

“Need something, bud?” you asked, straightening up as you watched Harry turn his head too.

He hovered there by the archway frame from the kitchen to the living room for a moment, eyes darting between the two of you. “Uh… no, but… Scarlett just texted me.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, his hand dropping from your knee as you could feel his body bristle against you. “Everything okay?”

Sawyer nodded once, then shifted awkwardly. “I mean—I don’t know.”

That prickle of unease moved through you instantly; both of you kept a distinct eye on him, which you know made his start to retreat, but you quietly refrained from pushing a question and rather just asked, “What do you mean?”

Sawyer looked down at his phone, thumb worrying the edge of the case. “She said she’s at a party and she… she wants to come home. She didn’t want to text you guys ‘cause she thought you’d be mad.”

Harry set his wine glass on the table, in his face giving way to a sharper focus. “Is she okay?”

Sawyer’s shoulders lifted in a small, helpless shrug. “She didn’t say. Just that she needs help and wants to come home—I mean, she wanted me to come get her, but… but I can’t.”

You could see the war in him—loyalty to his sister on one side, guilt and worry on the other. The same look he’d had when he was little and knew he’d have to tell on a friend for something dangerous.

“Can we see the texts, bud?” Harry said quietly, encouraging him.

Sawyer hesitated but handed the phone over to his dad. The screen lit with Scarlett’s messages, the last one reading: don’t tell mom and dad.

Harry’s jaw tightened as his eyes moved through the texts between Sawyer and his sister, but before he could speak, Sawyer added, “She… she said she’s kind of drunk. And that Leo was supposed to bring her home, but he left early, I guess.”

The name hit you like a second jolt. You knew enough from Scarlett’s tight-lipped smiles and Sawyer’s occasional teasing that Leo was someone she liked, maybe more than liked, but she’d never mentioned him to you or Harry.

Harry glanced up sharply, at Sawyer first and then at you. “Leo?”

Sawyer shifted, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Yeah. She’s been talking to him for a while. I didn’t think it was… I didn’t think he’d leave her there—I mean, I never met him or anything, but… I don’t know. I think he’s older.”

The silence stretched between you and Harry for a beat, both of you absorbing that extra layer of the situation.

Harry was already on his feet, sliding his keys from the hook by the door.

“Send me that address,” he told Sawyer. His tone was calm, but you knew that calm—the kind that sat on top of something simmering hot. You knew that he was very good at keeping his cool, especially in times of panic.

“You did the right thing telling us,” you said finally to Sawyer, your voice gentler than you felt. “I know it may not feel that way, but it is.”

Sawyer sank onto the arm of the couch, biting the inside of his lip as he shook his head. He looked nervous, and you put your arm around his shoulder to comfort him. “She’s gonna kill me for telling you.”

“She’ll get over it,” you say to him, shaking your head and knowing how his sister would react... he wasn't too far off, but you just needed to reassure him. “Better she’s mad and safe, than the opposite.”

Harry was throwing his sneakers on, before you and Sawyer walked to the door to where he was standing.

“I’ll go with you,” you offered, moving towards putting some flip-flops on to leave the house.

He shook his head, his eyes briefly meeting yours; you saw the anger that harbored in his eyes, but also the hurt of knowing that Scarlett had lied. There were only a few things in the world that got under Harry’s nails—lying was one of them.

“If she’s drunk or upset, she might not want both of us there right away, and I just want to get her in the car. So, I’ll get her. You stay here in case she texts again.”

You nodded, even as your heart hammered between your ribs as you crossed your arms, standing and watching as Harry moved out walked out into the night, cursing under his breath as he closed the door behind him.

The address Sawyer had forwarded lit up on the screen of Harry’s phone, glowing in the cupholder as he drove. He knew the neighborhood — rows of modest single-story houses that all looked too quiet from the outside to be hiding a hundred teenagers and a few gallons of cheap liquor.

The closer he got, the heavier his chest felt. He’d never been able to turn off that part of his brain that ran every possible scenario when it came to his kids. It was worse with Scarlett—not only because she was the first born, but because she was his first and only girl. He didn’t like hearing that boys were involved, he didn’t like hearing that bad boys were involved. It made his stomach turn at what could have possibly been so bad she would want someone to pick her up.

He turned onto the street, and the house came into view immediately with light spilling from every window, bass thumping so hard he could feel it in the steering wheel, kids clustered in groups on the lawn and the driveway. He noticed that there were red cups everywhere—along the lawn, the porch, the stoop. He pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the road, a bit away from the direct scene before he cut the engine and got out.

The air smelled like beer and something sharper. A couple of boys in backwards caps gave him a once-over but didn’t say anything when they caught the look on his face. He wasn’t really sure where he was to find Scarlett, he hadn’t thought of it that far. But when his eyes crossed along the front porch, he saw her—in the short skirt and jacket that that she taken in the tote bag hours earlier.

Scarlett was sitting on the porch steps with her shoulders hunched, her hair falling forward to hide her face. Next to her, Maya was talking in low, hurried bursts, glancing toward the yard like she was worried someone would overhear what she had been talking about.

Harry started up the concrete walkway, hands in his jacket pockets before his eyes fixed on Scarlett, but it was Maya who noticed him first. She froze almost instantly when she recognized who it was, her mouth parting slightly.

“Mr. Styles,” she said, voice slurring just enough to tell him she’d had a few herself. “Uh—”

Harry’s gaze flicked from her to Scarlett. She looked up at the sound of his voice when he said, “Scarlett.”

Her eyes were glassy, cheeks blotchy from crying. She swiped at her face quickly, as if she could erase the evidence before he got any closer. “Dad—”

A girl from the porch turned her head quickly, "That's your dad? Holy shit."

Harry raised his brows at Scarlett and Maya as they looked back at the small group of girls holding solo cups.

Scarlett looked mortified.

“Let’s go,” he said gently, not trusting himself to say anything more. He offered his hand, watching her watch it. He could tell that she was dealing with inner turmoil of not only having her father rescue her, but whether or not she should accept.

Maya shifted uncomfortably on the step, her words slurring as she spoke. “I… she’s okay, I promise. We were just—”

Harry turned his attention fully to her now, noticing the faint sway in her posture as she began to try and stand up on the wooden steps. “You’ve been drinking too?”

Maya winced at his question, shaking her head before she found herself fully giving in. “Like… just a few.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying his best to bite his tongue. “Get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

Maya blinked, clearly not expecting that. “I don’t—”

“You’re not staying here like this,” Harry said, his tone brooking no argument for either of them. “Come on.”

Scarlett stood, arms still crossed over her chest and followed him down the walkway; Maya trailed behind them both reluctantly. Harry opened the back door for her, then guided Scarlett into the passenger seat before getting behind the wheel.

The drive was quiet at first, just the hum of the tires on the asphalt as Harry maneuvered through the neighborhoods, back to your street. He kept his eyes on the road, but his awareness stretched to the seat beside him when he’d stop at red lights. She was slouched against the window, breathing unevenly, still sniffling now and then.

“Scarlett,” he said finally, his voice low against the even lower sound of the 90s Rock that played on the radio, “how much have you had?”

Her answer was a half-shrug, eyes fixed on the blur of streetlights with the glassiness that reminded him of the room spinning. “Dunno. Not a lot.”

He tightened his grip on the wheel. “You’re drunk.”

“I said I dunno.”

Maya’s voice piped up from the back, soft, “We just had a couple drinks—honestly, it wasn’t that much.”

Harry didn’t answer or respond to that, just took in a deep breath and let it out slowly to stop his heart from beating too rapidly.

When they reached Maya’s house, he heard Maya’s quiet thank you before she got out of the car and made her way up the front porch; he waited until she was inside before pulling away.

Now it was just him and Scarlett in the car together, the silence was almost thick enough to hum in his ears.

Harry could hear the faint tick of the turn signal as they waited at a light, the distant echo of bass still ringing in his head from the party; he knew it was ringing worse in her ears. Scarlett sat turned toward the window with her arms crossed, like the world out there would save her.

“You’ve been crying,” he said at last, softer than before.

Her laugh came short and brittle, like it hurt to force it out—there was an odd bitterness to it like Harry hadn’t heard from her before, “So? You gonna ground me for that too?”

“Don’t speak to me like that, Scarlett,” Harry swallowed down the first sharp retort that came to mind. “I want to know why you’re crying.”

She shifted in her seat, curling in on herself as she started to think about the situation again; a few more tears fell against her cheeks.

“Leo was supposed to bring me home. He said he had to leave early, so I-I just thought he’d take me. And then… he’s just gone.” She shook her head, the movement quick and frustrated. “I don’t even know half the people there—they were all older than me. Everyone’s drunk, the music’s so loud you can’t even hear yourself think. And—And it’s not fun. It’s not like in movies o-or anything. It’s just… stupid.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. She swiped her palm at her cheeks again, this time more out of irritation than shame. “I thought he liked me, you know? I thought he was gonna… I don’t know. Make sure I was okay afterwards, b-but he just left. Didn’t even text.”

The sound of her breaking down made his heart rip into shreds, but he knew that he had to keep the façade up to ensure that she knew that she was in trouble, too. Harry didn’t want to ask any pressing questions, but he knew what she was referring to and he could feel the rage boiling through his veins. But hearing her cry only made him bristle to the point of his hands aching from holding on the steering wheel so tight.

“I-I just—I don’t know,” She bit her lip, “I thought it would be different.”

Harry felt something coil tight in his chest — the same combination of rage and helplessness he’d only ever felt when someone hurt one of his kids. He pulled into the driveway, easing the truck into park but not shutting it off yet.

When he turned toward her and could get a good look, the dashboard light caught the side of her neck… and that’s when he saw it. A dark mark, half-hidden by her hair. It didn’t take a genius to know what it was. His stomach dropped, then twisted into something hot.

“Scarlett,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “did he—? Did you… with him?”

Watching her turn towards him, he caught sight of her eyes that were red and looked dry from crying; even worse, he saw the little girl he loved so dearly, but so hurt. Her eyes went wide for a split second before she looked away sharply. “Don’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry gripped the steering wheel for a moment, trying to keep from saying something he’d regret. He had to remind himself she was sixteen, drunk, and already hurting. But the sight of that bruise made his skin crawl.

“Fuck, Scar,” A soft curse came out of his mouth as he shook his head. He leaned his head against the headrest before he shut his eyes. “I don’t even know what you say to you right now because I’m so angry and so disappointed,” He paused for a moment. “You’re sixteen,” he said finally, quieter but with a steel edge. “No one gets to leave you like that. No one. Not a friend, not a boyfriend, not anyone.”

She gave a harsh sniff, still looking out the window. “Yeah, well… guess I was wrong about him.”

He reached over, brushing her hair back from her face like he had when she was small, though now it was partly to see her eyes, partly to hide that mark from the world a little longer. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. But you did the right thing asking to come home.”

Her mouth wobbled, and she gave a small nod.

When they stepped inside, you were already waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Your eyes scanned over Harry and Scarlett, not sure which to look at first. You could see Harry’s eyes had a disappointment, but a relief that she was walking through the doors at all. One look at Scarlett told you all that you needed to know: pale, glassy-eyed, shoulders drawn tight.

You reached for her hand without asking questions, just murmuring, “Come on, sweetheart,” and started toward the stairs.

Scarlett didn’t say anything — just let you take her hand and guide her up to bed.

Halfway to her room, Scarlett stopped short and mumbled back with some sadness laced to her voice, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

You pivoted instantly, steering her into the bathroom instead. She sank to her knees by the toilet, her hair falling forward until you gathered it in one hand and held it back for her. She coughed and retched, pausing to breathe as you heard her crying through it, and your other hand rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades.

A small, sad smile, just out of recognition of the situation, crossed your face as you pet her head and shushed her, “Sweetie, you’re going to be okay.”

When she was finally slumped back against the wall, you dampened a washcloth under cool water and pressed it gently to her forehead. Her eyes were practically shut as she laid against the cool wall.

“Better?” you asked quietly, tucking some hair behind your ear as you tried your best to help her up.

She nodded, weakly, her voice rasping as she spoke. “Sorry.”

You shook your head, looking at her covered in dark eye makeup and tear-stained cheeks, “No apologies. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You helped her into her room, easing her out of her smoky, wrinkled clothes and into an old pair of soft pajamas. She was half-asleep on her feet by the time you guided her under the blankets. You brought the trashcan from her bathroom to sit next to the bed but also sat a glass of water and a small plate of crackers on the nightstand, then crouched to press a kiss to her hairline.

“Drink if you wake up thirsty,” you whispered against her.

By the time you stepped out, closing the door softly behind you, Harry was waiting in the hallway. He was standing in the dim hallway but didn’t ask you how she was or if everything had been okay—he knew that it hadn’t been.

His hands were buried in his pockets, but it didn’t stop the restless energy running through him. The sight of that hickey replayed in his head, sharper each time. She was still his little girl in so many ways, but the night had made one thing painfully clear: she was stepping into a world he couldn’t shield her from completely, no matter how much he wanted to.

And that thought cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

“Let’s go downstairs,” you say to him softly, reaching to grab his forearm before he nods and melts into your touch.

In the kitchen, the quiet felt thick but not entirely uncomfortable; it was like he just needed that peace for a moment. Almost immediately, Harry pulled a quart of ice cream from the freezer and grabbed two spoons, dropping into the chair beside you at the island. The cold carton sat between you before he opened the lid roughly and dove straight in.

For a while, neither of you spoke; you realized that you hadn’t even heard what had really happened, you were just waiting for Harry to give you the version you’d need to parent on tomorrow. You passed the ice cream back and forth, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. It was the kind of silence that meant you were both still turning the night over in your heads.

Finally, Harry sighed, his spoon clinking against the side of the carton. “She was sitting outside with Maya when I got there. Maya was drunk, too. I took her home first.”

You stayed quiet, letting him unspool it at his own pace. You knew that Maya was her best friend, and while you knew Maya to be a good girl, you felt almost motherly towards her, as well.

“She’d been crying when I got there. Said Leo was supposed to bring her home but left early. Didn’t come back.” His voice was calm, but you could hear the grit underneath. “She told me it wasn’t fun — that she didn’t know half the people there. And…” He hesitated, jaw tightening as he let the ice cream melt in his mouth, trying to talk through it. “She had a fucking hickey.”

You exhaled slowly, meeting his eyes. “Harry… she’s sixteen. We were that age once, remember? Doing…,” You took in a deep breath as you shook your head with a bit of self-realization, “Exactly the same things we’re terrified she’s doing.”

His mouth tugged into a humorless half-smile. “I was mature, though.”

You arched a brow as you let out a soft, quiet scoff. “Oh, please. I clearly remember being sixteen, you seventeen, and we were doing it in the back of your truck behind the football field after your band practice. And look how that turned out — nine months later. ”

That got the smallest huff of laughter out of him, though it was tinged with exasperation. “Yeah, but we were mature.”

“We thought we were,” You leaned in a little. “She’s just giving it back to us ten-fold, H. She’s got your charm and my stubbornness. It was bound to happen, and she’s going to make mistakes.”

There was a moment that you hadn’t prepared for, a pinkness lined his nose as he stared at the ice cream carton and tried to almost push away the emotion that built up in him. You didn’t see that often, but his eyebrows were knit before he spoke again, “I—I don’t know, I just didn’t expect… like she just sounded… hurt.”

The last word seemed to sit heavy on his tongue, as if saying it out loud made it more real.

You let your hand slide over his, your thumb brushing the back of his knuckles.

“She was hurt,” you told him gently, “Someone she liked let her down. And she’s sixteen, so that’s going to feel like the end of the world because it is, in her world. Shame and embarrassment are all apart of this, too.”

His jaw shifted a little bit, eyes still fixed on the melting ice cream that sat on the spoon. “I hate that I can’t fix that. I hate that she’s got to learn it like this — sitting on some stranger’s porch, mascara running, smelling like beer. That’s not… I don’t want that for her.”

“I know,” you say back to him. “And you can’t stop every bad night. But you can be the one who shows up when it happens. Tonight, that’s what you did.”

He finally looked at you then, eyes a little glassy, and for a moment he wasn’t Harry the dad or Harry your husband — he was that seventeen-year-old boy again that you fell so deeply in love with, still figuring out how to protect the people he loved. “Feels like it’s not enough.”

“It is enough,” you said firmly, giving his hand one more squeeze. “It’s what she’ll remember. You showed up—the most important man in her life right now showed up for her.”

Harry let out a slow breath, his thumb absently brushing over your wrist before he reached for another spoonful of ice cream. You sat there in the quiet, finishing the ice cream, knowing the real conversation with Scarlett was waiting for you in the morning.

But for now, the silence, the warm of his hand in yours—that felt enough.

_____

This Sunday in the Styles house felt much different. The usual weekend clatter — the sound of Harry at the stove, the faint guitar from Sawyer’s room, you move through the kitchen with coffee and chatter about the upcoming week — was replaced by a silence that felt too careful, too deliberate.

Scarlett hadn’t come downstairs yet, but you could hear the occasional creak of the floorboards above your head, the slow shuffle of feet as she moved around her room. She was awake, but you doubted she felt like facing anyone. But it was good to know that she lasted through the night.

Harry was at the kitchen table, not cooking this time, just nursing a mug of black coffee. His face was unreadable; his eyes fixed on some point outside the window over your shoulder. Every now and then he’d tap his fingers against the side of the mug, but he didn’t say much. You knew that look — the quiet before he decided exactly how he was going to say what needed to be said.

Sawyer wandered in first, hair sticking up in the back, still in his T-shirt and sweats. He stopped in the doorway like he was checking the temperature of the room before stepping inside—like he was checking to see if Scarlett was down there yet.

“Morning,” you said softly, trying to keep it normal.

“Morning,” he mumbled, heading straight for the fridge. He pulled out the juice carton, caught Harry’s glance, and muttered, “Glass, I know,” before getting one from the cupboard.

He poured, sat at the far end of the table, and started drinking. You could see him sneaking glances toward the stairs, his foot tapping under the table. He’d been loyal to Scarlett last night, right up until he’d decided she needed help, and now he looked like a kid waiting for the fallout.

It was nearly ten when Scarlett finally appeared. She took the steps slowly, holding the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She was pale, her hair pulled back haphazardly, dressed in an oversized hoodie and pajama pants. The faint shadows under her eyes told the whole story of the night prior.

She paused in the kitchen doorway when she saw all three of you there. Her gaze flicked to Sawyer, then to you, then to Harry — and lingered there for a moment. He didn’t say anything right away, just raised his mug slightly in acknowledgment.

You moved toward the counter, giving her a small smile, keeping everything normal, still. “Morning, Scar. There’s water on the counter and some toast if you want it.”

She shuffled in, took the glass, and sat at the table across from Sawyer. He kept his eyes on his juice, but you saw the way his shoulders shifted like he was bracing for something.

The air was thick with anticipation — no one quite wanting to be the first to start, but all of you knowing it was coming. After the three of them were at the table, you found yourself moving yourself to the table, as well.

Harry finally set his mug down with a soft clink. “Alright,” he said, his voice even but firm, “let’s talk about last night, shall we?”

Scarlett took a sip of water; eyes fixed on the glass in her hands. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Sawyer shifted in his chair. You caught his eye and gave him the smallest shake of your head — not now.

“Oh, there’s a lot to talk about,” Harry said, leaning forward, forearms on the table. “Starting with the fact that you weren’t where you said you’d be, and you were drunk, and you had no way to get home.”

Scarlett winced at the word drunk, her free hand curling into the sleeve of her hoodie as she pulled herself into the chair. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were bad enough to text your brother instead of us,” Harry replied quickly, annoyed that she would even say something along those lines. “Bad enough that I had to come pick you up from a party with people you didn’t even know.”

She pressed her lips together, and you could see the tension in her jaw. “I didn’t ask you to come get me, you know.”

You stepped in before it could escalate too quickly; you already felt the heat coming off of Harry at her disgruntled words. “Scarlett, this isn’t about grounding you for going out. It’s about making sure you’re safe. Last night, you weren’t, and that makes us not be able to trust you the way we want to be able to.”

Her eyes flicked to you, softer for a moment, but she didn’t speak. Harry sat back slightly, giving her room to answer.

Scarlett stared at the table, idly running her finger along the rim of the glass. “I told you — I wasn’t that bad. I just… I didn’t feel good and wanted to go home.”

Harry’s voice stayed calm, but there was an edge to it now as he stared across the table at her. “And why didn’t you have a ride?”

She shrugged, her hair falling forward to hide her face. “I—I did, but he,” She paused for a moment, “He—uh, Leo, he left.”

The name landed in the middle of the table like a dropped coin. You didn’t miss the way Harry’s jaw twitched.

Harry said, leaning forward again, almost like in an interrogation room. It's a game of tennis between them. “Who is Leo?”

Scarlett’s eyes snapped up to his, shrugging quickly at his questioning. “Just a guy.”

“A guy you’ve been seeing?” Harry pushed, shrugging as it to mimic her nonchalance, “Just a random man you met on the street?”

“I—I mean,” She bit the inside of her cheek, diverting her eyes away from him, “I—He’s a guy I know.”

Sawyer shifted in his seat, eyes darting between them. “He’s also been here.”

“What the fuck, Sawyer?” Scarlett cut in sharply, glaring at him, but you could tell that Sawyer found his way to let the information slip without getting too much in trouble.

“Language,” you turn to her quietly, shaking your head almost to just keep the peace, “And we’re a family who is honest, we don’t lie for one another.”

Harry looked at Sawyer, practically ignoring you before he questions his son instead with a disbelief that made his voice raise just a bit louder, “He’s been here? When?”

“Uh, over the summer.” Sawyer’s foot tapped under the table, his shoulders curling in as he stared at the table, “He snuck in one night... I mean, one night that I saw, I guess.”

Your eyes shut for a moment—you didn’t even know if you could look at Harry with the information presented before you feel the table shift as he leans forward.

Harry’s brows shot up, his tone turning sharper. “He snuck in?”

Scarlett’s glare darted back to Sawyer, with a death sentence written all over it. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

“Scarlett,” you said, your voice firm but calm as you tried to stop the table. “That’s not how this works. We’re not doing secrets and threats in this house. We deal with things straight on.”

Sawyer shrugged as he turned to his sister, a bit more inclined to fight for himself, "Because I don't like him."

Harry had leaned forward on his elbows, his gaze steady at his daughter across the table. “How old is he?”

She hesitated, tugging her sleeve over her hand. “Seventeen.”

Harry’s jaw ticked; your eyes diverted to him for a quick, sharp moment before your eyes met and you cleared your throat.

Scarlett’s lips twisted into a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, and I’m not going to get pregnant like you two did. I know what a condom is, so don’t worry.”

The words landed like a slap across the table—like the slowest, most painful slap that none of you saw coming. Sawyer’s eyes went wide, glancing between you and Harry as if waiting for an explosion between you both.

You inhaled slowly through your nose, trying to keep your voice even. “Scarlett, that’s not something you get to throw around like it’s clever or witty. It’s not a joke.”

Harry’s stare sharpened, but he didn’t raise his voice. “If you think what happened with us was some kind of accident we didn’t take seriously, you’re wrong. And if you think you’re untouchable because you know what a condom is, you’re even more wrong.”

Scarlett’s smirk faltered, the defensiveness still there but not quite as steady now. You could tell that she was sorry for her words but just seemed a bit misguided in her thoughts for a moment. She had been playing the defense, and needed to say something that would end the conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell us about him?” you asked, keeping your tone softer.

“Because I knew you’d do this,” she shot back, gesturing to Harry who you could tell had been so wound up that anything could set him off. “Turn it into an interrogation. Make me feel like I’m doing something wrong just for liking someone—sex is normal, you know, everyone does it.”

Harry’s stare didn’t waver; in some ways you found incredibly attractive, but you can not let it get to you in the tense of the moment. “Sex is normal when it’s between two people who respect each other. Is that what you had last night? A guy respecting you?”

Scarlett’s cheeks flushed instantly, and her gaze dropped to the table. She twisted the cuff of her hoodie between her fingers, the fight in her voice softening just a little. “I don’t know… I mean—he likes me.”

“Yeah, teenage boys like sex, Scarlett.” Harry leaned forward slightly, and there was no bite in his tone now — just a steadiness that came from somewhere deep. “Liking someone isn’t enough. Respect means they don’t leave you drunk at a party with people you don’t know. It means they make sure you get home safe. If they can’t do that, they don’t get you. Not like that.”

She didn’t look up, but you caught the subtle shift in her shoulders — not giving in, but not pushing back as hard.

Scarlett’s lips pressed together, and she let out a slow breath through her nose. “I just… didn’t want you to treat me like I don’t know anything.”

Your lips curved up a little bit as you looked between Harry and Scarlett, “You know more than we sometimes give you credit for.”

Harry interrupted, finishing your thought, “But you also don’t know everything yet — and that’s okay.”

Sawyer, who’d been keeping his head down until now, risked a glance at Scarlett. “For what it’s worth, if I was you and dating someone, and they left me at a party… I’d dump them.”

Scarlett shot him a look, but this time it was almost grateful, like he’d given her an easy way out of admitting the same thing herself.

Harry didn’t blink, answering quickly “Liking someone is fine, Scarlett. Sneaking around with someone who leaves you drunk at a party isn’t fine.”

Scarlett’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t know that was going to happen.”

“I know you didn’t,” you said. “That’s why we’re talking about it — so you think about what you deserve before it gets to that point.”

Sawyer muttered under his breath, “Told you Leo’s a jerk.”

“Not helping,” she snapped, but her voice had lost some of its bite.

Harry sat back finally, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction.

“Scarlett, I’m not here to scare you for the sake of it. But if I have to walk into another party and see you sitting on a porch with your mascara running because some boy bailed on you, we’re going to have a much bigger problem.”

She looked down at her hands, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I get it.”

You reached over, resting your hand lightly over hers. “Good. Then let’s start with being honest from now on, okay? No sneaking in, no sneaking out. If you want us to trust you, you have to give us a reason to.”

Scarlett gave a reluctant nod, and though the air in the room was still heavy, some of the heat had burned off. “How long am I grounded?”

You kept your tone steady, even when she tried to meet your gaze with that practiced teenage glare. “Two weeks. No going out except for school or practice. Phone stays in the kitchen at night. And we drive you anywhere you need to be.”

Her mouth fell open in protest. “That’s—”

“Fair,” you cut in, not raising your voice. “And you know it. If you want more freedom, you earn it back by showing us you can be honest.”

Scarlett slumped back in her chair, arms crossed tightly across her body, but she didn’t argue further — which, from her, was as close to acceptance as you were going to get.

Sawyer kept his eyes on his juice, probably just relieved his name wasn’t part of the punishment.

Harry reached for his coffee mug again, practically empty now, his voice quieter now. “We’re done for now. Go sleep it off, sweat it out. We’ll talk more later if we need to.”

Scarlett stood without anything else to say out loud, only muttering something under her breath you couldn’t quite catch, but she headed upstairs without slamming a door — you both took that as another small win.

When the sound of her footsteps faded back into her bedroom, you let out a breath and exchanged a look with Harry — the kind of look only parents who had just survived a round with a teenager could give each other.

______

It was later that evening, the light in the hallway, when you and Harry found yourselves lingering outside Scarlett’s room. The day had been quiet since breakfast — she’d stayed upstairs, alternating between napping and streaming something on her laptop, and the tension in the house had settled into a low, steady hum instead of the sharp crackle from earlier.

You had both decided to check-in on her, just the two of you without her brother possibly intruding on conversation. You knocked softly on her door. “Can we come in?”

There was a pause, then a muffled, “Yeah.”

Inside, Scarlett was propped up in bed, wrapped in a blanket with her laptop balanced on her knees. She set the computer aside, her eyes flicking between you and Harry as you stepped in.

Harry crossed the room and sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall by her desk, knees bent casually. You sat on the edge of her bed, close enough that she didn’t have to look far to meet your eyes.

“You’ve had a day,” you told her gently, letting the words settle in the room between you.

She shrugged, tucking her legs up under the blanket, sitting crisscross; there was an animosity that Harry could see across the room. “Guess so.”

Harry gave a small smirk, almost like a peace offering. “This isn’t round two of the interrogation, I promise.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t quite smile. “Then what is it?”

“We wanted to tell you something we should’ve said earlier,” you took in a deep breath, knowing it may come better from you than from Harry. “We know what it’s like to be your age and feel like you’re figuring everything out. We were right where you are once — sixteen and seventeen, thinking we were making smart choices, thinking we were ready for anything.”

Scarlett glanced at you, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

Harry picked up from there, sincerity lacing his tone, “I was eighteen by the time you were born, but when your mum and I first got together, I wasn’t much older than you. We were in love — we are in love, but we also made decisions that changed our lives forever. We don’t regret you, Scar, not for a second. But it was hard, and it was a lot for two people who were still kids themselves,” Harry thought for a moment, contemplating if he wanted to continue, “We just want to make sure you’re… giving yourself only to people who deserve you, that’s all.”

Scarlett shifted under the blanket, her voice quieter. “I’m not gonna make the same mistakes you did.”

You reached for her hand, squeezing lightly as you make sure she recognizes that you’re not there to tell her how to live. “We’re not saying you will, but we want you to understand — you know, sex, relationships, all of it — it’s not just about knowing the technical stuff. It’s about being with someone who respects you enough to care for you when it matters. Last night, the person you trusted didn’t do that.”

Harry’s voice was softer now. “I’m not angry that you like someone, Scar. I’m angry that he made you feel small. That you were left sitting outside a party crying.”

Scarlett’s eyes dropped to your joined hands, her shoulders curling in.

“And we’re not going to lock you in a tower for the rest of high school, or anything. We just need you to hear us when we say: your worth isn’t measured by whether a boy stays, or calls, or kisses you. You decide what you deserve, and you don’t settle for less.”

There was a long pause between the three of you. Scarlett swallowed, then gave a small nod. “Okay.”

You watch as she contemplates for a moment before her eyes lift to Harry, "Thank you for coming to get me... last night."

Harry's eyes soften, his smile raises just a bit like he had been hit by something that he hadn't expected. He stayed quiet for a moment before he nodded. "I'd do anything for you, Scar."

You looked at him, "And that's why I picked him," You tell her quietly, "I knew he'd always put us first."

There's a heavy silence in the room, and understanding that is starting to lighten the silence moment by moment.

Harry shifted on the floor, moving to make his way closer to the bed where you were both laying. “Alright. That’s enough serious talk for one day. What are we watching?”

Scarlett blinked at him, surprised by the shift in the mood and the situation in the room. “You’ll just make fun of it.”

“Probably, that’s my job,” he said with a grin. “Scoot over.”

Scarlett looked at you both for a moment before you crawled in one side of her, Harry laying down the edge. He reached for her laptop and flipped it open anyway, shifting over so you could lean in beside her.

It wasn’t forgiveness or a full resolution, but it was a start.

The movie Scarlett picked wasn’t exactly your style — too many quick cuts, too much shaky camera work, weird characters, but she was leaning against your shoulder under the blanket, and since Harry had pulled himself up from the floor to sit on her other side, his arm draped along the back of the bed.

At some point, her head began to grow heavier against you, her breathing evening out when she found a heavenly sleep. Harry caught your eye over the top of her head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. You both stayed still until the credits rolled, not wanting to wake her.

When you finally eased yourself out from under the blanket, she shifted only slightly, curling into Harry’s side then instead. He kissed the top of her head, then carefully laid her back against her pillows. You pulled the blanket up to her chin, tucking it around her the way you had when she was little.

She didn’t stir; the world was so quiet inside her small bedroom.

You and Harry slipped quietly out of the room, closing the door to a soft click. The hallway felt quieter than the rest of the day had, the weight of the morning’s tension finally starting to ease knowing now that there had been some resolution.

The kids would go to school tomorrow and everything would be fine; Harry would get up and go to work tomorrow, you would too. The feeling of heaviness was starting to fall on your shoulders as you realized that the day had started to slip away from you—the weekend practically gone, just like that.

Harry’s hand brushed yours as you walked toward your bedroom, his fingers curling around them. “Time for a shower?”

You didn’t even hesitate, because you knew that he had read your mind—just like he always had. “Yes, please.”

Once you both had made it into your bathroom, you realized that Harry had been staring at you. You moved to turn the shower on, letting it warm up around you as the door had closed behind you. Harry hadn’t made a long stare, but enough that made your heart thump a bit heavier in your chest. Your eyes met his for a moment before he moved to tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head.

Harry’s gaze dragged over your bare skin in that slow, reverent way that made it obvious — he’d never stopped looking at you like the girl he’d fallen for behind the football field, only now he had years of knowing exactly how to touch you; where you liked it, how you wanted it, if you wanted it. His palms skimmed your waist before his thumbs caught under the lace of your bra.

“You know that I love you more than anything in the world, yeah?” Harry asked, almost like it was a question that he had never asked you before.

“More than anything?” You ask again, using your fingers to pull his own t-shirt off, revealing the toned muscles and warm, bronzed skin littered with tattoos underneath. Your eyes danced around on the ink, letting it sink into your memory for the umpteenth time.

“Anything,” he concluded, watching as you tilted your head up towards him.

You both continued to undress, leaving each item of clothing behind on the floor in a scattered mess, like always. It was the moment the hot spray hit your shoulders, that made your body relax; Harry was already crowding in behind you, hands spanning your waist like he was anchoring you there.

“Mm,” he hummed low in your ear, lips brushing the wet skin just beneath it. “Been waiting all damn day for this.”

You tilted your head back against his chest, feeling the water and his voice ripple over you. “The shower or me?”

“Yes.” His witty answer came without hesitation, followed by a slow kiss to the curve of your neck.

You laughed softly, turning to face him, your hands sliding up over the slick warmth of his chest. Droplets clung to his lashes, ran down the stubble along his jaw. He looked at you like he had when you were sixteen—like he’d found something he wasn’t about to let go of—but now there was the weight of years behind it, the kind of devotion that had been tested and won.

“You’re staring,” you teased him, poking at his chest. He pushed you against the wall for you both to lean on before he kissed your cheek softly.

“Getting my fill,” he murmured into the softness of your cheek, thumbs stroking your hips. “I can never stare at you enough.”

“You know,” you tell him softly, “We’re basically sneaking around like we told the kids not to do.”

Harry pulls back for a moment, giving you a glance over before he smirks—it’s the same ridiculous smirk as always, which illuminates his dimples and set fire to your lungs, “Baby, we invented sneaking around—we were the king and queen of it. We couldn’t keep our hands off of each other, we still can’t.”

And it was true. You remembered many nights of sneaking down your parent’s trellis, in the backyard so that you weren’t seen by the front porch light. Then you’d sneak down the pathway in the driveway, out to the street where Harry sat with his pickup truck awaiting your arrival. This wasn’t anything new—this was just you.

You’d slip into the passenger seat, cheeks flushed from the rush, and he’d look at you like you’d just rewritten the rules of the world. That was always the danger of Harry—he made trouble feel worth it. He was always where he said he would be, he always chose you, he always wanted you.

Now, decades later, the truck was gone, replaced by a house, two kids, and a lifetime of responsibilities—but the look in his eyes hadn’t changed.

He pressed you gently back against the tiled wall, the spray cascading over both of you. “Only difference now,” he said quickly, brushing his mouth over yours, “is I don’t have to take you home by midnight.”

You grinned against his lips. “Might still give you a curfew.”

His laugh was a deep, low rumble as his hands roamed with that same slow, teenage reverence, like he still couldn’t believe you were his. “Not a chance.”

You swiped the water from your lashes, still smiling against him. “Fine, no curfew. But you’re still helping me clean up the kitchen after this.”

Harry groaned dramatically, though his hands stayed planted on your hips, squeezing firmly, “Romance killer.”

You kissed him back, “You’ll survive.”

He kissed you one more time, slow and deep, before finally reaching past you to turn off the water. The quiet after the spray stopped felt heavier somehow, just the sound of your breathing and the occasional drip against tile.

You stepped out first, wrapping yourself in a towel, and he followed with that lazy, content grin that told you he’d follow you anywhere. By the time you were both in pajamas, hair damp, the house felt still again—Scarlett asleep, Sawyer probably buried in his video game or guitar in his own room.

The two of you padded barefoot into the kitchen like it was your own little after-hours world.

Harry started stacking plates into the washer while you wiped the counters, his hip brushing yours every time he passed—he did it on purpose every time.

“You know,” he said quietly, looking towards the stairs, setting a glass down with a little more care than necessary, “we could just leave this for tomorrow.”

You gave him a pointed look, squinting a bit. “And wake up to ants? No, thank you.”

He smirked, sidling closer, drying his hands on the dish towel before looping it around your waist to tug you in. “King and queen of sneaking around… reduced to responsible homeowners with a sponge and a bottle of dish soap.”

“Speak for yourself,” you teased, but you didn’t pull away, resting your hands on his chest.

When the last pan was scrubbed and the counters gleamed as clean as they could be, you leaned back against the island, watching him turn off the kitchen light. He caught your gaze in the dim glow from the hallway and tipped his chin toward the stairs.

“Kitchen’s clean,” he said softly, brushing past you, hand skimming your lower back. “Now we can get back to the fun part.”

You followed with a quiet laugh, thinking that maybe, after all these years, that was still exactly what you were best at.

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