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ijustmissyouraccenths · 9 days ago

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Pleased to Meet You

✨ summary: where y/n is a product designer for Pleasing and they’re launching a new product.

📝 word count: 9k

⚠️ content warning: smut.

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“You’re coming tonight, right?”

Y/N looked up from her laptop, blinking away the spreadsheet haze as her boss appeared in the doorway, espresso in hand and eyebrows raised.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was thinking about it.”

Her boss gave her a look. “Thinking about it?”

“I have to go home and feed my cat.”

“Your cat will survive.”

“She’s sensitive.”

“You designed the damn thing, Y/N. You can’t not show up to the launch party.”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, tugging her hair off her neck and twisting it into a loose knot. “I’ve seen enough vibrators for a lifetime. I don’t need to toast to one.”

Her boss smirked. “But this one’s different.”

Y/N rolled her eyes.

“Okay, fine,” her boss said, leaning against the doorframe with the smug energy of someone holding back a better reason. “Well… I did hear a little rumor that Harry might show up.”

That got her attention.

Y/N sat up straighter, trying not to look interested. “Harry who?”

Her boss blinked slowly. “You’re hilarious.”

“I thought he was in Milan.”

“That’s what everyone thought. But someone from PR said he flew in this morning.”

Y/N hesitated. Not because she was starstruck, but because she didn’t exactly want to meet the man whose name sat on her paycheck. The mystery of Harry Styles had worked in her favor so far. She’d done her job, made something sleek and stunning, and no one micromanaged her from the top floor. Especially not him.

Still, the thought of him being in the same room… watching people hold her design like it was something sacred…

Her boss grinned. “So. You’ll come?”

Y/N shrugged, but the smallest smile tugged at her lips. “Maybe.”

Y/N didn’t plan on going.

She told herself that more than once as she rinsed the remnants of her dinner plate and set it carefully on the rack to dry. She wasn’t avoiding the party. She just hadn’t decided. That was different.

Her apartment was dim, peaceful. A candle burned on the windowsill. Her cat purred against her ankle as if begging her to sit down, stay home, and be reasonable.

But her eyes kept drifting to the time.

8:03.

The party had already started. This meant that people were probably milling around the showroom by now, sipping cocktails and admiring the design she’d spent seven months perfecting. A few might be whispering about it. Laughing. Some would be filming it for Instagram, testing the different vibration patterns with their fingertips like it was a novelty instead of a labor of obsession.

It was strange, watching your work become something public. Intimate and impersonal all at once.

She crossed the apartment barefoot and opened her closet without thinking.

She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard. But she also didn’t want to fade into the background. She was proud of what she’d made—of how quietly powerful the product was, how good it felt in the hand, how beautiful it looked on a nightstand. It didn’t beg for attention. It didn’t need to.

She wanted to match that energy.

She bypassed the usual workwear. No slacks. No sensible blouse. Instead, she reached for a dress she hadn’t worn in months—a deep red satin, cut on the bias with delicate straps and a low back. Simple but striking. It hugged her hips like it remembered how they moved.

She stepped into it and smoothed the fabric over her thighs. Then she pulled her hair up into a loose, lazy twist, letting a few strands fall on purpose.

She kept her makeup clean, but she hesitated when she reached for lipstick.

Then she picked the bold one.

Not for anyone else. Just because she liked how it made her feel.

When she finished dressing, her phone buzzed with a message from her boss.

8:12 PM [Boss]: Your baby is the star of the night. People are losing their minds. Champagne’s flowing. See for yourself.

Y/N stared at it for a beat, then set her phone down.

She fed the cat, grabbed her coat, and headed for the door.

This wasn’t about networking. Or making an appearance. Or rumors.

It was about showing up for what she built with her hands.

And maybe, if the night was kind, having one more glass of champagne than she should.

The first thing she noticed was the lighting.

Warm, low, intentional—gold against velvet, shadows curling into corners. It didn’t feel like a corporate event. It felt like a gallery. A lounge. Maybe even a secret.

Music drifted low under the clink of glasses and murmured conversation. Not loud enough to fill the space, just loud enough to loosen it. People leaned close to hear each other. Laughed softly. Stared at the central display like it might do something if they looked long enough.

And there it was.

The product.

Perched in a curved glass case like a sculpture—lit from beneath, casting delicate reflections onto the velvet-covered table. Her prototype. Her baby.

Y/N hovered near the edge of the room, shrugging off her coat and folding it neatly over her arm before slipping it into a corner. No one noticed her yet, which she didn’t mind. She liked seeing it like this—her design surrounded by chatter and champagne, the whole night wrapped around something she made.

She moved toward the bar slowly, letting herself observe.

Someone pointed at the vibrator and whispered, “That’s the one I told you about. The curved tip? It’s unreal.”

“Is it heavy?” the other woman asked.

“Nah, it’s perfect. It feels like—I don’t know. It knows what it’s doing.”

Y/N smiled to herself.

She ordered a glass of sparkling wine at the bar and leaned against the marble edge, surveying the room as she sipped. Faces she half-recognized floated past—editors, influencers, colleagues dressed just slightly edgier than they did in the office. Everyone glowed under the amber light.

A few people passed her with nods or polite hellos. One of the junior engineers gave her a wide grin and mouthed, We did it.

She raised her glass.

She was halfway through her drink when a voice beside her said, “Can I ask you something?”

She turned.

It was a woman she didn’t know—tall, striking, clutching a coupe glass with perfectly manicured fingers. She looked like she belonged in a campaign shoot.

“Sure,” Y/N said, curious.

“Did you work on it?”

Y/N blinked. “On…?”

The woman nodded toward the center display. “The toy.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Yeah. I did.”

The woman’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously?”

Y/N nodded.

“Well,” she said, tipping her glass in salute, “my girlfriend came three times in one night and won’t shut up about it, so—thank you for your service.”

Y/N laughed. “Happy to help.”

“You deserve a raise.”

“I’ll pass that along.”

The woman grinned and disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N turned back toward the bar, still smiling. She felt good, not in a look-at-me way, but in that rare, steady way that came from seeing something through. Quiet pride blooming in her chest like heat. Like a buzz under her skin.

She was halfway through a second sip when something shifted slightly in the room's energy. A hush, not quite a silence. The kind that travels like static.

And when she glanced up, she saw it.

Not him. Not right away.

Just the way heads turned near the entrance. Like gravity had tilted.

She felt him before she saw him.

Not in any magical way—just a shift. A ripple in the room’s rhythm. Like someone had cracked a window and let in something warmer.

Y/N turned her head and caught a glimpse of him near the entrance.

Harry Styles.

He didn’t make an entrance. He just… arrived. A black silk shirt clung softly to his frame, the top few buttons undone like he’d decided collars were optional. His hair curled at the edges, slightly unruly in a way that looked too perfect to be accidental. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing tanned forearms and several rings that caught the soft light.

He smiled at someone as he passed—small, easy, familiar. He didn’t glide through the room so much as settle into it, like it adjusted around him.

She turned back to her drink, heart ticking a little faster, but she didn’t let herself watch him.

Until he appeared beside her.

“Hi,” he said, and his voice was deeper than she expected—gentle, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else.

She looked up, caught off guard. “Oh. Hi.”

He smiled, just slightly. “Sorry to bother. I was told I should meet the genius behind the main attraction.”

Her brows lifted, surprised. “Genius is… generous.”

He glanced at the display. “Not from what I’ve heard.”

She felt her cheeks warm. “I just helped design it. There were a lot of people involved.”

He nodded. “Still. You made something people are talking about—in a room full of people who talk too much.”

That made her laugh under her breath.

“I’m Harry, by the way,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“I know,” she said softly, then immediately followed with, “I mean—I work here. Not, like… not in a weird way.”

His smile deepened. “I didn’t think it was.”

She let her eyes drop to her glass. “I’m Y/N.”

He repeated it like a secret. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

The space between them hummed quietly. Not rushed. Just aware.

“Do you… Come to these launches often?” she asked, half-joking, just to say something.

He gave her a look. “That was bad.”

“Really bad,” she agreed, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“First one I’ve shown up to,” he said, eyes still on hers. “Figured this was the one to see.”

Her voice softened. “Glad you made it.”

He looked like he might say something more, but didn’t right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, warm and full of something neither had named yet.

Then he nodded toward her nearly empty glass. “Can I get you another?”

She hesitated, then gave the slightest nod. “Sure.”

And when he stepped away toward the bar, she found herself smiling.

Not because it was him.

But something about how he looked at her made her feel seen.

He returned with two glasses, holding one out to her with a small, almost boyish smile. “Wasn’t sure what you were drinking. Took a guess.”

She accepted it, fingers brushing his for the second time that night. “Good guess.”

Harry glanced around the room, then leaned in slightly. “Would you mind if we stepped away for a minute? It’s a bit loud in here.”

Her heart ticked up, just slightly. “Sure.”

He didn’t guide her with a hand on her back or anything like that—just walked beside her, quiet and unhurried, as they slipped through the velvet-curtained archway near the bar. On the other side was a smaller lounge area—less lighting, fewer people. Just low couches, scattered candles, and a window cracked open to the sound of the city outside.

No one else was in the room.

She hovered near the edge, unsure whether to sit. He did first, dropping into a curved chair with a low exhale, stretching out like he belonged there. Then he looked up at her.

“Come on,” he said, nodding to the seat across from him. “Won’t bite.”

She sat, tucking her legs neatly and crossing her ankles. The hem of her dress slipped a little higher on her thigh, but she didn’t fidget. He wasn’t staring. He was watching her.

“So,” he said, resting his glass against his knee. “I meant it, by the way. I really did want to get your perspective.”

She smiled a little, setting her glass on the low table between them. “About the product?”

“Yeah.” He tilted his head. “I mean… You probably don’t get to talk about it much in a way that isn’t all—spec sheets and branding.”

She relaxed a little. “You’d be surprised.”

“I don’t know,” he said, sipping his drink. “Seems like most people just want to make jokes about it.”

“They do,” she admitted. “But it’s okay. I kind of like how open everyone’s been.”

“It’s impressive,” he said. “You made something beautiful out of something people usually whisper about.”

Her cheeks flushed again, but she didn’t look away this time. “Thank you.”

He leaned back in his chair, legs stretching out a little. His gaze softened. “So… did you?”

Her brows lifted slightly. “Did I what?”

“Try it,” he said, tone still light—but quieter now. Not teasing. Just… curious.

She blinked, then gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “I knew you were working up to that.”

He grinned. “Was I that obvious?”

“A little.”

“So?” he asked again, voice low and warm. “Did you?”

She hesitated—just for a second—then nodded once. “I did.”

And when she said it, she didn’t flinch. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t making it weird.

He was watching her.

And he looked… fascinated.

Her answer hung in the air—soft but sure.

“I did.”

Harry didn’t react right away. He just nodded slowly, as if cataloguing that. Like he wasn’t just interested in the fact—he wanted the feeling.

“For research,” he said, a small smile on his lips.

She let out a quiet breath of laughter. “Of course.”

“You test all the products yourself?”

“Not all,” she said, tucking her hand around her glass. “Just the ones I work directly on. This one was… a bit more involved.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, glass loose in his hand. His voice dropped a little. “And how did it… perform?”

The words weren’t laced with suggestion—not outright. But there was a curiosity to them. Focused. Like he wanted to know.

She shifted in her seat. Her fingers drummed once against the side of her glass.

“It did what it was designed to do,” she said carefully.

He tilted his head, amused. “That’s a very professional answer.”

“Well, I am a professional.”

He grinned. “I’m sure you are.”

How he said it—warm and low, without looking away—made her throat dry.

She cleared it softly. “It… exceeded expectations,” she added, more quietly. “We went through a few prototypes before it felt right. But the final version… yeah. It worked.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “What made it better?”

She hesitated. Her voice dipped without meaning to. “The rhythm. And the pressure curve. Most toys blast you with power and assume that’s what gets the job done, but we—” She caught herself rambling and stopped. “Sorry. You probably don’t want all the technical details.”

“I do,” he said quickly. “I want all of it.”

Her breath caught for half a second.

“You don’t seem embarrassed,” he added, gently now. “Talking about it.”

“I’m not,” she said, though her voice was a little softer. “I mean… I am a little. But mostly I think people should be allowed to talk about pleasure like it’s normal.”

“It is normal,” he said. “Or it should be.”

There was a pause. Her cheeks were warm, and she couldn’t quite meet his eyes now, not for too long.

“I like how you talk about it,” he said, quieter now. “You don’t sound like someone selling something. You sound like someone who cares if people feel good.”

Her eyes finally lifted to his, and something heavier was now less playful.

“I do,” she said. “Care.”

His gaze dropped briefly—to her mouth, then her hands, then back to her eyes.

And this time, when the silence stretched, it wasn’t awkward. It was thick. Charged.

She felt warm all over.

The air between them had gone thick, slow like honey. His words were kind, earnest, even—but how he looked at her made it feel like he saw more than what she said. Like he was pulling pieces of her out into the light before she was ready.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her glass. She didn’t know what to say next.

So she shifted.

Gently.

“Did you ever try it?” she asked, her voice softer now. Almost hesitant. She kept her eyes on the rim of her drink as she spoke.

There was a pause.

Then a quiet, surprised laugh from across the table.

“That’s not what I expected you to ask,” Harry said, amusement laced.

Her lips pressed together in the tiniest smile. “You asked me.”

“True.”

She braved a glance up at him. His expression was open. Curious. Not mocking.

“No,” he said after a beat. “I haven’t.”

She blinked. “Really?”

He nodded, resting his forearm along the back of the chair. “I wanted to. Meant to. But I figured I should wait until I knew what I was doing.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, brows lifting. “You think there’s a wrong way to use it?”

“Maybe not wrong,” he said, eyes dancing now, “but I didn’t want to half-understand something someone else put real care into.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down again. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He let her sit with that. No teasing. No pressure. Just the sound of his ringed fingers tapping quietly once against his glass.

Then—softer now—he added, “Based on your reaction… sounds like I missed out.”

She let out the tiniest laugh, surprised at herself. “You might’ve.”

Harry smiled again. Not wide. Just enough.

And when he looked at her this time, it wasn’t like he was waiting for her to flirt back. It was like he wanted to hear what she’d say next. She wasn’t just someone who worked for his company—but someone he wanted to know more about.

Someone who made things he hadn’t touched yet, but maybe wanted to.

She didn’t know what she expected him to say next.

Maybe something flirtier. Maybe something bold.

Instead, he looked at her like he wasn’t rushing to go anywhere.

This small conversation in a quiet corner of the room was better than anything else that might’ve been planned.

She opened her mouth, unsure what to say, when a voice broke in from the doorway.

“Harry—sorry.” A woman appeared, poised and efficient, dressed in all black with an earpiece tucked behind one ear. His assistant, probably. “A couple of people from Vogue want a quick moment. They’re asking for you.”

Harry leaned back in his chair with a small exhale, running a hand through his hair as he turned toward the voice. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”

He stood slowly, finishing the last drink before setting the glass between them.

Then he looked at her again.

And this time his smile was a little softer. Regretful, almost.

“It was nice meeting you,” he said, voice low.

She nodded, unsure if she should stand too. “You too.”

He paused like he might say more. Like he wanted to.

But instead, he just gave her one last look, held it for a second too long, and then turned to follow the assistant out.

She watched him go, her hands curled lightly around her glass.

The silence in the room felt louder once he was gone.

She stayed seated for another minute after he left, nursing what was left of her drink and staring at the condensation sliding down the side of the glass. The buzz of conversation from the main room filtered back in slowly, like a tide rolling in after a quiet storm.

It was just a conversation.

She told herself that as she stood, smoothed down the hem of her dress, and returned through the velvet curtain. The party hadn’t changed—still golden, still loud. Still filled with people drinking and laughing and pretending they weren’t watching for a glimpse of him.

She found her boss near the bar, chatting with someone from PR, a half-full coupe glass in her hand. When she saw Y/N approaching, her brows lifted.

“There she is,” her boss said, turning slightly. “You disappeared.”

“I stepped out for a bit,” Y/N said, waving the bartender over for water this time. Her pulse was still doing strange things in her neck.

Her boss narrowed her eyes. “With him?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Harry.” Her boss sipped her drink, watching her over the rim. “I saw him walk you into the lounge.”

She shrugged, trying to sound casual. “He wanted to ask me about the design. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Mmhmm.” Her boss gave her a knowing look. “That’s how it always starts.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite bite back the smile tugging at her lips. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I believe you.” She tilted her glass toward Y/N. “You just look a little flushed, that’s all.”

Y/N tried to hide her smile behind her water.

She stood there for a while, tucked into the corner of the bar with her boss, listening to bits of conversations float past. A few people complimented her, some even recognizing her work. Someone joked about stealing one of the display units. She laughed in the right places, nodded, and made polite conversation.

But now and then, her eyes drifted toward the hallway.

Just once.

After another half hour, the crowd shifted—voices a little louder and laughter sloppier. The ice in drinks melted faster. Someone spilled a cocktail near the edge of the carpet, and the bartender sighed. It was that part of the night when everything started to blur.

Y/N checked the time—almost eleven.

She wasn’t needed anymore.

Her boss had drifted off into a conversation with someone from marketing, one hand on their arm, gesturing animatedly. Y/N waited for a lull before stepping in.

“I’m gonna head out,” she said, gently.

Her boss turned, blinking once before smiling. “You’re not staying for the after-party?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve hit my social limit.”

“Well, if anyone earned an early exit, it’s you,” her boss said, pulling her into a quick hug. “Seriously. Tonight was a hit. Everyone’s obsessed.”

“Thank you,” Y/N murmured, soft and sincere.

“Let me know if you want me to send over the press roundups tomorrow.”

“Will do. Night.”

She slipped from the bar and made her way through the thinning crowd, pausing to give polite goodbyes to a few coworkers and people she barely remembered being introduced to earlier. They all said some version of the same thing: Congratulations. It's an incredible design, and you should be proud.

And she was.

She really, truly was.

But still… her heart beat a little faster as she reached the edge of the hallway.

She hadn’t seen him again. No surprise. He was probably upstairs somewhere doing press photos, shaking hands with whoever paid the most significant ad buy, charming the rooms he was expected to charm.

She was okay with that.

She was.

She tucked a hand into her coat pocket, her heels quiet against the polished floor as she stepped into the hallway leading to the exit. Her footsteps echoed softly, muted by the velvet walls and the hush of being somewhere just slightly removed from the party.

It felt a little lonely. But also… peaceful.

Finished.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Then rounded the corner toward the door.

Then—

Click.

The soft sound of a door opening.

Her heart jumped.

“Y/N?”

She turned.

Harry stood a few feet down the hallway, one hand braced lightly on the doorframe behind him. His curls were a little messier now, and the silk of his shirt relaxed further from his collarbone.

He looked… unhurried. Like he’d followed her without really thinking about it.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

Her grip tightened slightly on her coat. “Home,” she said. “I’m tired.”

He nodded once. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

There was a pause before he added, “I’m heading out soon, too.”

She offered him a small smile. “You should stay. You’re the reason they’re all here.”

“I think you might be the reason they’re all whispering.”

She blushed and looked down, fiddling with her phone. “I was just going to call an Uber.”

Harry stepped forward slightly. “Can I walk you out?”

She blinked.

There wasn’t anything loaded in his voice. Just something soft. Something that made her stomach flutter in a quiet, unexpected way.

“Sure,” she said.

And just like that, they turned toward the door together.

The city hummed in the background. Muted headlights passed, tires whispering along the pavement. Behind them, the glow of the launch party dimmed to something distant.

They walked slowly toward the curb, her heels quiet on the sidewalk. Harry kept pace beside her, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, his shirt untucked just enough to look like the night had lived on him a bit.

She pulled out her phone when they reached the edge of the street.

“I’ll just call an Uber,” she said, flicking it open.

But before she could tap the screen, he spoke.

“You don’t have to do that.”

She looked up.

“I’ll drive you,” he said, like it wasn’t a question. “If that’s alright with you.”

She blinked. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said, and his smile was easy. Sure. “But I’d like to.”

She hesitated.

He took one step closer—not close enough to crowd her, just enough that his voice dropped into something warmer.

“I wasn’t finished picking your brain,” he said. “And I’m selfish when I’m curious.”

That made her chuckle, even as something tightened beneath her ribs.

“You don’t have to impress me,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

He shook his head, eyes catching hers. “I’m not trying to impress you. I want to hear what else you have to say.”

How he looked at her then—steady and open, not pushy, just present—made her stomach flip.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer.

Then she locked her phone and slipped it back into her coat pocket.

“Okay,” she said.

His grin deepened. “Good.”

And together, they turned down the sidewalk.

His car was parked just down the street—sleek and understated, dark paint catching little glints of city light. He unlocked it with a click and opened the passenger door for her without a word.

She slid in, her dress brushing against the seat, the door shutting softly behind her. The interior smelled like leather and something subtle, maybe cedar. Clean. Warm.

Harry settled into the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other raking through his curls as he glanced over.

“You alright?” he asked.

She nodded, smoothing her hands over her coat where it pooled in her lap. “Yeah. … feels quiet now.”

“Nice kind of quiet,” he said, starting the engine. “Different.”

They pulled into the street, the soft hum of the car filling the silence between them for a minute. She watched the city lights blur past the window. She felt completely unobserved for the first time all night, like they were tucked inside something still and separate.

A few blocks in, Harry spoke again—voice low, calm.

“I don’t mean to make it weird,” he said. “But I’ve got a guest room if you want it.”

She turned to look at him.

“No pressure,” he added quickly. “It’s just late, and I figured… I dunno. It’s nicer than sleeping in the back of an Uber with a stranger who keeps playing Pitbull.”

That made her laugh. Quiet, tired. “You have a lot of experience with Pitbull-loving Uber drivers?”

“More than I care to admit.”

She studied him for a second. The way his fingers tapped once against the steering wheel. He glanced over at her, checking—not pushing, just checking.

“Are you sure it’s not weird?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t offer if it were.”

She paused. Then smiled faintly.

“What the hell,” she said.

He looked over at her again, slower this time.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He smiled then—slow and warm and a little smug but not in a way that made her regret it.

“I’ve got a nice whiskey,” he said. “We could break it open.”

She leaned back against the seat, letting herself settle into the idea.

“Alright,” she said. “One drink.”

His smile deepened. “One.”

But neither of them believed that.

His house was tucked behind a low gate. It was modern but warm, with stone, glass, and low lighting that glowed softly along the pathway. When he opened the front door, she caught the faint scent of something clean and woodsy, like cedar, linen, and home.

Inside, the space was spacious but lived-in. Nothing was staged: a stack of books on the coffee table, a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair, and a half-melted candle on the kitchen island.

It felt real. Lived in. His.

She slipped out of her heels just inside the door, quietly grateful to be on solid ground. Her feet ached, but the rest of her felt… light. A little dazed. Like the night was still opening.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Harry said, setting his keys in a small dish by the door. “Couch is yours.”

She stepped into the sunken living room and curled into the corner of the couch, tucking one leg underneath her. It was ridiculously soft. She couldn’t help but exhale.

Harry momentarily disappeared into the other room, then returned holding a folded knit blanket.

“You looked cold,” he said, draping it over her lap before she could protest.

Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”

He nodded and moved to the bar cart by the window. There was a slight clink of glass and a cork popping. He poured two fingers into each glass, but there was no ice.

When he returned, he handed her one and settled into the armchair across from her. Their knees angled toward each other, as if the conversation had already started.

She took a sip—smooth, smoky. Sharp enough to burn in the back of her throat, but not unpleasant.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then he cleared his throat, voice lower now. More careful.

“Can I ask you something?”

She glanced up at him over the rim of her glass. “Sure.”

“Personal questions,” he clarified. “Nothing weird. I… want to know more than your title.”

Her lips parted slightly. Something fluttered low in her stomach.

She nodded. “Okay.”

Harry watched her over the rim of his glass. Not staring. Just… present.

The kind of attention that made her feel warm in a way that had nothing to do with the whiskey.

He let a few seconds pass. No rush. No sharp pivot. Just—

“What makes you happy?” he asked.

She blinked. Not because it was invasive—because it wasn’t. It was just so… simple. And real. Not a party question. Not small talk.

She hesitated. Swirled the liquid in her glass.

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “That’s hard.”

He nodded, like he understood. “Yeah. It is.”

She tucked the blanket a little higher over her lap, eyes flicking to the window for a second. “I guess… little things. Slow mornings. Getting something right after trying for hours. When my cat sleeps on my chest like I’m her entire world.”

That made him smile.

“And this,” she added quietly, before she could stop herself.

He looked up, curious. “This?”

She nodded, a little shy. “Just… being here. Talking. Not being expected to perform.”

He let that settle. Didn’t push.

“I like quiet,” she added, eyes dropping to her drink again. “But not the kind that feels empty. The kind that feels like someone’s listening.”

Harry’s gaze didn’t move.

“I am,” he said.

She looked at him then, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t performing either because he was sitting in his lived-in house, offering her warmth, whiskey, and stillness.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, softly: “Why’d you ask me that?”

His lips curved a little. “Because I like how you answer things.”

Her chest tightened—not uncomfortably, but in that aching, fluttery way when someone looks at you and sees something you hadn’t even named yet.

He leaned forward slightly, his glass dangling loosely between his fingers. “Can I ask another?”

She nodded.

“Why this?” he asked. “Why design something like that?”

She smiled, eyes lowering. “You want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have followed you down a hallway if I didn’t.”

Y/N let her thumb glide slowly over the rim of her glass, her gaze fixed between the blanket on her lap and the amber liquid catching the light.

She didn’t rush her answer.

“I think…” she began, then paused, swallowing gently. “I think a lot of the time, we’re told to want things without ever being asked what feels good.”

Harry stayed still. No interrupting. Just waiting.

“I got tired of the clinical way people talk about pleasure,” she continued softly. “Like it’s something separate from the rest of who we are. Like it’s this weird, taboo corner we only peek into when no one’s watching.”

She glanced up briefly to see him still watching her. Focused. Steady.

“So I wanted to design something that felt… beautiful,” she said. “Not just functional. Something that could sit on your nightstand and not make you feel ashamed. Something that made you feel like it belonged to you.”

She looked down again.

“I guess it wasn’t really about the product,” she said. “It was about giving people—especially women—a little control back. Not just over their bodies, but over what brings them joy.”

The room was quiet.

But it didn’t feel empty.

When she looked up again, his expression had changed.

Softer. Quieter. Like something had settled in him.

“That’s the best answer I’ve ever heard to any question I’ve ever asked,” he said quietly.

She let out a soft laugh, but it caught in her throat.

“You made something compelling,” he said. “And you talk about it like it’s no big deal.”

“It’s not,” she said. “Not really.”

“It is,” he said. “Because it matters.”

The way he looked at her now—it wasn’t just interest. It was respect. Admiration. And something more tender, tucked behind his lashes like a secret.

Like she’d just surprised him.

And he loved being surprised.

He didn’t speak right away.

I just watched her; how someone watches a fire burn low—like it was warming him in a way he hadn’t expected.

She took another sip of her whiskey, not meeting his eyes this time. It was easier to pretend the room wasn’t thick with something new.

But he was still watching her.

And then, quietly:

“Can I ask you something else?”

She nodded once, slowly. “You don’t have to keep asking.”

“I do,” he said. “Because I don’t want to push.”

His voice was low now. Weighted, but careful. It made her heart catch, that kind of restraint.

He set his glass on the table and leaned forward, elbows resting loosely on his knees.

“Do you ever feel like… It’s easier to give pleasure than to ask for it?”

Her breath stalled.

The question wasn’t sexual. Not exactly. It was emotional. Raw. Softened by the way he said it. Like it came from a place he knew too well himself.

She didn’t answer right away. The room felt suddenly warmer, the whiskey blooming in her chest like heat. Her fingers curled a little tighter around the blanket.

“I do,” she said finally, voice quiet. “All the time.”

Harry nodded slowly, eyes still on her.

“I think that’s why I put it to work,” she said. “It’s easier. Safer.”

“Because no one expects you to ask for anything back,” he said.

She met his eyes then—and no teasing was left in him. Just that slow, deliberate interest that felt like gravity.

Like he was inching closer without moving an inch.

“That’s not how it should be, you know,” he said.

Her throat felt tight.

“I know,” she whispered.

Neither of them moved.

But the tension—the weight between them—was suddenly impossible to ignore. Something unspoken vibrated beneath the silence. One had to break it, or it would break for them.

And still, he didn’t reach for her.

But his voice was softer than ever when he asked, “Can I pour you another?”

She nodded, the motion small but sure. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

Harry stood and walked back to the bar cart; this time, there was a new stillness. The kind that came with intention. No longer dancing around anything. He poured slowly, carefully, then returned to the couch—and when he sat, he didn’t give her space this time.

His thigh pressed gently against hers. His body turned toward her. Close enough that his warmth brushed her skin like a secret.

She took the glass from his hand, fingers brushing. Holding. Not letting go right away.

He didn’t pull back.

His hand was still on her thigh, his thumb moving in slow, aimless circles, making it hard to think clearly.

She hadn’t meant to say anything. Not really.

But the moment felt thick with possibility, as if she didn’t speak, it might close around them and vanish.

So she did.

“Do you want to try it?”

Her voice was quiet. Measured. But underneath it, something pulsed. A flicker of nerves. Or anticipation. Maybe both.

Harry didn’t move at first.

He looked at her—really looked at her—like he was trying to decide if she meant it the way it sounded.

His fingers stilled against her thigh.

Then his lips parted, the smallest exhale slipping out. Not a laugh. Not quite surprised. Just heat.

“I don’t know what I’d do with it,” he said, his voice low, like it wasn’t meant to be heard outside the space between them.

Her chest rose with a shallow breath, and she gave the slightest shrug—helpless, honest.

“You can do anything,” she said.

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

For a second, the entire room—the lights, the air, the city outside—seemed to hold still around them.

Then, slowly, he leaned back.

Brought his glass to his lips.

Tipped it.

Swallowed the rest of the whiskey in one long drink.

And when he set the glass down, his hand slid higher on her thigh—slow, deliberate, and no longer careful.

“Why don’t you show me?” he said.

His hand stayed on her thigh, firm now. No more questioning. No more almost.

And his voice was low, heat, and certainty when he leaned in—closer than he had all night.

“Come with me.”

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a request.

It was gravity.

She didn’t speak. She let him take the glass from her hand, setting it down beside his with a soft clink. Then his fingers slipped from her thigh to her hand, curling around hers, warm and deliberate.

He stood, tugging her gently with him.

She followed.

Barefoot, quiet, pulse racing.

The hallway was dim, hushed like the rest of the house had already gone to sleep. She let him guide her past tall shelves, through a doorway, into a room that smelled like linen and skin and something faintly woodsy—him.

The bedroom was spacious but not showy. It had dark walls, soft sheets, and a low lamp glowing gold in the corner.

He turned to face her just inside the doorway.

And for a moment, he didn’t touch her.

Just looked.

His eyes scanned her face, pausing at her lips and neck. Her breath was uneven now, and her hands were at her sides, like she didn’t know what to do with them.

“You sure?” he asked softly.

She nodded.

“That’s not good enough,” he said, stepping closer now, his voice quiet but sure. “I want to hear it.”

Her breath trembled on the way out.

“I’m sure,” she said.

And that was all it took.

His hands slid to her waist. Slow, grounding. He leaned in and kissed her—finally—mouth warm and steady, no rush, just pressure. He’d been thinking about it since she said I helped design it.

She kissed him back, arms slipping around his shoulders, her body moving toward his like it had been waiting.

The door clicked shut behind them.

The kiss deepened as he walked her backward toward the bed, one slow step at a time, his hands splayed warm against her waist. Her breath caught when her legs hit the edge of the mattress, and he pulled back just enough to look at her.

Then his hands slid up—along her sides, over the dip of her waist, until they found the straps of her dress.

He slipped them down with maddening care.

The fabric pooled at her feet.

His eyes dragged over her slowly, taking in the curve of her hips, the heat still lingering in her flushed cheeks, the tension in her thighs. And then, just when she thought he’d touch her again—he stepped back.

Wordless.

Calm.

And crossed the room.

She watched, dazed and aching, as he opened a drawer in the dresser and pulled out the sleek black box—the box she knew by weight and shape alone.

Her chest rose sharply.

He turned it in his hands as he walked back to her. “So this is the one, yeah?” he asked, voice low and wicked.

She nodded, lips parted, not trusting herself to speak.

He smiled, slow and dangerous.

He pressed a soft kiss to her mouth, then her throat, then her collarbone—before murmuring, “And you’re gonna let me use it on you?”

Her knees nearly buckled.

“Lie back,” he said.

She obeyed, heart pounding as she stretched across the cool sheets, her legs trembling slightly with anticipation.

Harry opened the box slowly, as if he were unwrapping something sacred.

He turned the toy on—low at first. A soft, steady hum filled the room, and her breath hitched at the sound alone.

He knelt on the bed beside her, running his free hand up her thigh—slowly parting her legs, his eyes never leaving her face.

He dragged the vibrator gently along the inside of her thigh—up, then down again, nowhere near where she needed it. Teasing.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “You made that happen.”

The vibration buzzed just against her skin. Her body was already arching subtly, craving more.

“You know what the best part is?” he said, bringing it close enough that her breath stuttered.

She whimpered.

He smiled.

“I haven’t even turned it up yet.”

The vibrator's hum was low and steady, like a curling sound around her spine.

Harry sat on one knee on the bed beside her, watching her with infuriating calm. The toy hovered just along the crease of her inner thigh, barely brushing her, never staying still. His touch was maddeningly light, deliberate, withholding.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured.

She tried to bite back a sound, her breath stuttering instead.

He brought the toy a little higher, grazing the edge of her underwear and pressing a bit firmer against the soaked fabric.

Her hips jolted, the pressure too close and not enough all at once.

“You like knowing I have this?” he asked softly. “Knowing I could use it on anyone I want?”

Her eyes fluttered open, already glassy.

“But I’m not,” he said. “I’m using it on you.”

He turned the setting up—not much. Just enough.

The vibration pulsed stronger, buzzing directly against her now. Still through the fabric, still too light to push her over, but enough to make her body arch, to make a soft moan spill from her lips before she could catch it.

“There we go,” he said, voice low and praising. “There’s that sound I’ve been waiting for.”

He dragged it down again, slow and teasing, making her chase the sensation, her thighs shifting restlessly under his hand.

“You made something perfect,” he said, pressing a kiss just above her navel. “But you didn’t make it to be kind, did you?”

She whimpered.

“You made it to ruin people.”

She nodded, helpless.

“Say it.”

“I—I didn’t…” Her voice broke, hips rocking upward. “I didn’t make it to be kind.”

He smiled against her skin.

“Exactly.”

Then he slipped the toy beneath the edge of her underwear, finally letting it touch her properly—warm and wet and ready. Her whole body jolted at the contact, the air catching in her lungs like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

And he still didn’t give her what she wanted.

Not all of it.

He held it just slightly off-center, teasing that sweet spot with maddening precision, not quite letting her tip over the edge.

Her hips bucked. Her hands twisted in the sheets.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice calm and almost gentle. “You don’t come until I say.”

She moaned—frustrated, desperate, right there.

His eyes never left her.

“You’re gonna fall apart for me,” he murmured. “But not until I see what that beautiful little toy of yours can do.”

Then he turned it up again.

And everything inside her broke.

Her body was tense beneath him, trembling at the edge of something sharp and overwhelming. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, her thighs clenching around his hand as he kept the vibrator in just the right place—but not quite enough to push her over.

Not yet.

Harry watched her with dark, steady eyes, his voice low and calm in contrast to how completely he had her coming undone.

“You’re close,” he murmured, his thumb grazing the edge of her hip. “Aren’t you?”

She nodded, breathless. “Please.”

“Please what?”

She let out a desperate whimper, hips grinding into the pressure now, chasing release. “Please let me—please.”

He smiled, just slightly. “Not yet.”

She cried out, a soft, frustrated sound that made something tighten in his jaw. He leaned down and kissed the inside of her thigh. Then her stomach. Then lower.

“You can take a little more,” he said against her skin. “You built this to take more.”

She gasped as he turned the setting up again—deeper now. Buzzing right against her, not holding back anymore. Her body jerked under the intensity, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.

“I can’t—I can’t—”

“Yes,” he whispered, right at her ear now, his lips brushing the shell of it. “You can. Just a little longer.”

Her entire body arched off the bed. Her legs were shaking. She was unraveling under his voice, under his hand, under the thing she had designed to ruin strangers—and now it was ruining her.

“I need—Harry—please, I need—”

That was the moment.

He kissed her jaw, soft and firm.

“Okay,” he said. “Now.”

And the second he said it, she shattered.

Her back arched, her legs locked around his arm, and a deep, broken moan tore from her throat. She came hard, her body shaking with the release—extended, drawn out, helpless beneath him.

He didn’t let up. Not right away. Just kept the toy there for a few seconds longer, until she was writhing, too sensitive, too much.

Then he turned it off.

Silence fell.

Except for her breath. Ragged. Unsteady. Alive.

He brushed her hair back from her damp forehead, his touch feather-light now.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his lips at her temple. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

And in that moment, all she could do was breathe.

And feel.

His mouth found hers again—warm and slow and full of the heat that builds behind the eyes—not rushed. Not rough.

Just wanting.

She pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt, her fingers fisting in the soft fabric. She kissed him harder now, her lips parting for his, her body already arching into his like she hadn’t just fallen apart minutes ago. Like she needed more.

He pulled back just slightly, his breath ragged, his eyes searching hers.

Then his lips curled, low and wicked.

“You’re needy, aren’t you?”

She flushed, her cheeks hot, her thighs instinctively tightening around him as she sat straddled in his lap.

She didn’t deny it.

Didn’t look away.

Instead, she leaned in again—nose brushing his, lips just barely apart.

“I need to ride you,” she whispered.

The change in him was instant.

His hands tightened on her hips, jaw flexing as he inhaled through his nose like he was trying to hold something back. He looked up at her—like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted to feel.

His voice came rough now, all gravel and tension.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

And then he lay back, pulling her with him.

“Go ahead,” he said, voice low, like a promise. “Take it.”

His words were still hanging in the air when she leaned down and kissed him again—slow and sure, lips dragging over his like she was claiming something. His hands were still on her hips, but now they stayed still, like he was letting her take over.

And she did.

Her fingers slipped to the top of his shirt, tugging at the buttons—one by one. No rush. No trembling hands this time. She focused, peeling the fabric apart until the smooth plane of his chest was exposed beneath her.

He watched her.

Silent.

His breathing was heavier now. His lips parted as she spread his shirt open and ran her hands over the warm skin beneath. She traced his collarbone, the light dusting of hair across his sternum, and the soft line that dipped down toward his waistband.

Her lips followed her hands.

She kissed down his neck, open-mouthed and unhurried. Along his chest. Over the curve of his stomach. She felt the way his muscles jumped under her mouth.

And she loved it.

He swore softly under his breath, one hand sliding up her spine, fingers curling into her hair.

But still—he didn’t rush her.

She sat back up, straddling his thighs, and her hands went to the button of his trousers.

She looked up, lips flushed, hair a little messy now.

“Okay?” she whispered.

He groaned, head dropping back against the pillow.

“Fucking please.”

She smiled—just slightly.

And undid his pants.

His cock was already hard in her hand, thick and flushed, and when she wrapped her fingers around him properly, he let out a low, broken noise from deep in his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his head falling back against the pillow as she stroked him—long and slow, her thumb catching the bead of slick at the tip and spreading it down his length. His stomach tensed under her, his thighs shifting, breath catching on every exhale.

“You’re gonna fucking ruin me,” he murmured, eyes fluttering open to meet hers.

She didn’t say anything.

She just smiled—soft, knowing—and pushed his shirt fully off his shoulders as she straddled his hips again. Her knees braced against the mattress, her body bare above him, glowing in the low golden light.

She lifted her hips, guided him to her entrance, and hovered there for a moment—just long enough to feel him pulse against her, just long enough to let the tension coil tight between them.

Then she sank.

Inch by inch.

Slow.

The stretch pulled a gasp from her throat and a growl from his. His hands gripped her hips hard, his knuckles pale against her skin.

“Christ,” he muttered, voice thick. “You feel so good.”

She was tight around him, slick and warm and perfect. Her head dropped forward, forehead pressed against his as she bottomed out, taking every last inch until their bodies were flush.

They stayed there for a moment.

Just breathing.

His hands moved—one sliding up her back, the other wrapping around her waist as he whispered against her jaw.

“You okay?”

She nodded, eyes shut, lips parted around a shaky breath. “Yeah. Just… full.”

That made him smile.

“Good.”

She started to move—rolling her hips slowly, testing the rhythm, finding what felt good. She was in control now. She set the pace, and he let her. Let her ride him with purpose, need, and heat in every motion.

Her hands braced on his chest. He slid down to her ass, guiding her, grounding her.

Every drag of him inside her sent a ripple up her spine.

Every grind of her hips pulled another low moan from his throat.

And when she leaned back slightly, hands on his thighs for balance, he looked up at her like he’d never seen anything so fucking beautiful.

“You’re unreal,” he breathed. “Watching you like this…”

She bounced a little more complicated now, a gasp catching in her throat as he hit deeper.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “Just like that. Keep going.”

She rode him harder.

Faster.

Until the wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, and her moans turned into cries, and he was gripping the sheets beneath him like he was barely holding on.

His mouth found her breast, sucking and biting softly, and she cried out as her orgasm started to build again—sharp and unstoppable.

“Come on,” he whispered against her skin. “Come for me again. Let me feel it.”

And she did.

It hit her all at once—sharp and deep, her entire body tightening around him, her voice breaking as she clung to him and came with a shudder.

He followed seconds later—hips jerking up into hers, jaw clenched, a harsh moan ripping from his throat as he emptied into her, lost in the heat and the rhythm and her.

They stayed tangled and shaking, his hands on her back, hers in his hair, and both gasping into the quiet.

Neither of them said anything at first.

Her body trembled as she leaned forward, chest to chest, resting her forehead against his. Their breaths tangled—shaky and uneven, but slowly syncing again.

Harry’s hands rubbed gently along her spine, his thumbs drawing circles beneath her shoulder blades. No more tension. No more teasing.

Just presence.

“C’mere,” he murmured after a few moments, sliding his hands to her thighs and lifting her carefully off him. She let him, boneless and quiet, as he cradled her against his chest and stood.

He carried her to the bathroom.

He gently set her on the tub's edge, his hand brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “Gonna run a bath, yeah?”

She nodded.

He didn’t say anything else. I just turned the faucet, tested the temperature, and added a pump for something that smelled like cedar and vanilla. The room was filled with steam as he helped her into the warm water; his touch was always gentle and patient.

She let out a soft sigh as she sank in.

He sat beside the tub, legs drawn up, his shirt still open, watching her with a quiet affection she hadn’t expected.

“You okay?” he asked.

She looked up. Met his eyes.

Smiled.

“Yeah. More than.”

After a while, he reached for a towel, helping her out and wrapping her up like she was something to be kept warm and safe. They moved back to the bed in silence. He handed her one of his soft, worn-in-all-the-right-ways T-shirts. She pulled it over her head.

He didn’t ask her to stay.

She didn’t ask him to make it more than it was.

But it didn't feel like a goodbye when he pulled the blanket over them and wrapped an arm around her.

It felt like something real, even if only for the night.

She curled into his side.

His fingers threaded into her hair.

And for a long time, neither of them said a word.

His arm tightened around her, anchoring her there.

“I hope you know,” he said into the dark, “I’m not done with you yet.”

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 11 days ago

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Hey! I've been devouring your writing for the past week and I can't stop thinking about Office hours. I love how it ended but there's a part of me that wants to know more, is there any chance you could write another part? No pressure or anything, the end was excellent, I just enjoyed it so much that I want to keep reading a bit more.

I’m thinking about it! I guess I don’t really know where to take it. I would be open to suggestions!

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 14 days ago

Text

#1 Fan

✨ summary: where y/n is Harry’s #1 fan and he goes along with it.

📝 word count: 5k

⚠️ content warning: smut, power play.

💌 support my work

Everybody wants him.

That’s the thought running through your head as you stand outside the venue, pressed between a girl with glitter on her cheeks and a couple holding hands, all of you buzzing with the same feverish anticipation. The line has wrapped twice around the building. You’ve been here since early afternoon, skipping lunch, stomach full of nothing but nerves and iced coffee.

It’s golden hour now. The sun is low, warm against your shoulders, and your shoes are already aching, but none of it matters. You’re here. You’re in line to see him.

Harry Styles.

Your poster curls slightly in your grip, the sharpie still slightly smudged from when you wrote it earlier in the day:

“TREAT ME LIKE YOUR FAVORITE LYRIC.”

“Whoa,” the girl behind you says, peeking over your shoulder. “That’s… spicy.”

You turn with a laugh. “Is it too much?”

“No, it’s perfect. It’s giving Cinema,” she grins. “Honestly, if that doesn’t get you backstage, nothing will.”

You shake your head, cheeks warming. “I doubt he’s even gonna see it.”

“Please. You’re front row now. You hold that up during ‘Love of My Life’ and he’ll probably fall in love with you on the spot.”

You smile, trying not to seem too eager. “That’s the dream.”

“I swear,” she goes on, shifting her crossbody bag around to her front, “if someone gets pulled for backstage tonight, I’ll cry. I’ve never been to a show where that actually happens.”

“You think it’s real?” you ask, half-playing dumb. “Like they actually do that?”

She shrugs. “One of my mutuals said she saw it once. But it’s always someone gorgeous. Perfect skin, perfect hair. Not me.” She waves a hand over her face like she’s already resigned to being average.

“You’re gorgeous,” you tell her truthfully, because she is. Young and excited and covered in rhinestones like a disco ball. It’s her night too.

She bumps her shoulder into yours. “So are you. I’d root for you if you got picked.”

You try to act cool. “Thanks. I’d root for you too.”

The doors finally open and the line surges forward. Your pulse kicks up as security scans your ticket and waves you through. The venue smells like beer and anticipation, and the second you find your way to the barricade, front and center, you realize how close you really are.

If he looks down, he’ll see you. If he kneels to sing, you’ll feel his breath.

And for now, you pretend this is everything you’ve ever wanted. Because it is. Kind of.

Even if there’s more to the story. Even if the real show hasn’t started yet.

As you make your way through the crowd, weaving toward the barricade, your heart skips with every step. The floor is already packed with people clutching drinks, chatting excitedly, adjusting signs and phones and makeup in compact mirrors. You hug your poster close to your chest, careful not to bend it.

A girl with a sequined heart painted around her eye catches sight of it and grins. “That’s such a good sign. He’s gonna love that.”

“Thanks,” you say, cheeks warm.

Another girl nearby leans over to peek. “If he reads that out loud, I’ll actually pass away.”

You laugh and keep walking. Someone else says, “You’re really pretty. You kind of look like the type he’d go for.”

You flash a quick smile, trying to keep your cool. “Thank you. That’s sweet.”

You finally reach your spot—front and center—and you can hardly believe it. The stage is so close you can see the setlist taped to the floor and the outlines of guitars gleaming under the lights. Your chest feels light, like something inside you is floating.

You pull out your phone and unlock it, thumbs already moving before you can stop them.

You:

I made it to the barricade. It’s perfect. They liked my sign :)

You stare at the screen for a second. Then, as if to ground yourself, you add another.

You:

I wish you could see it from here.

You put your phone back in your bag and take a breath. The venue is humming now, the air full of chatter and bass from the pre-show playlist. The lights are soft and golden. The whole place feels like it’s holding its breath.

And so are you.

Because this night is already everything.

And it hasn’t even started yet.

The venue dims.

The screams are instant, deafening, electric. You can feel them in your ribs. The whole place erupts like it’s come to life, and the lights onstage flicker from gold to violet to deep, pulsing blue.

Your breath catches. Your grip on the barricade tightens.

You know what’s coming.

The intro booms through the speakers, loud and low and heart-stopping. The sound rolls over the crowd like thunder and the entire floor shakes as the band takes their places, one by one. You swear the air shifts. It feels charged, like lightning about to strike.

And then he appears.

Harry.

He steps out from the shadows like he’s walking into a spotlight made just for him. Loose cream-colored trousers, a glittering green vest that catches every flash of light, curls pushed back but still a little messy. His smile is slow and dazzling. Like he knows he’s home.

The crowd loses it. Arms shoot into the air. People cry. Someone next to you starts sobbing immediately, hands clasped over her mouth like she’s seen a god.

You just stare.

He looks like he belongs up there. Like the stage was built around him. And for a moment, while everything is moving and loud and wild, you’re still. All you can do is watch him.

He says something into the mic, but you can barely hear it over the roar. His laugh echoes through the speakers, rich and soft, and the sound alone makes your chest ache.

Then the first song starts.

And you are gone.

He sings like the lyrics were written into his bones. Moves like the music lives under his skin. His voice hits like a wave, like warmth and ache all at once, and when he reaches the chorus, the entire crowd sings it back to him in one voice. Thousands of people. One sound.

You’re screaming the lyrics too, hair sticking to the back of your neck, hands lifted, heart racing. For once, you don’t care how you look. You just feel it. Let yourself be part of it.

Somewhere between songs, he glances down at the crowd. His eyes scan the front row slowly, taking it all in.

And then he sees you.

Just for a second.

You swear it.

Your poster is raised just slightly above the barricade, hands curled tightly around the edges. His eyes flick to it. Then to you. He smiles.

And your knees almost buckle.

The girl beside you gasps and grabs your arm. “Oh my God,” she says. “He so looked at you. Did you see that? He read your sign.”

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too big. “No, he didn’t.”

“Um, yes he did. I have it on video. That was a moment. Like, he stared. I’m shaking.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “You’re making it a thing.”

“Because it was a thing,” she says, holding her phone up like proof.

You glance back at the stage. He’s already moved on, strumming his guitar, lips pressed to the mic, singing like he doesn’t know your whole body is humming.

But you know better.

It was just a second. Just a glance.

But it was him.

And it was you.

He does it again during “Love of My Life.”

Right before the last chorus, he kneels near the edge of the stage. His voice is soft now, almost speaking. The lights glow a warm amber behind him. The entire arena holds its breath.

He looks down.

Directly at you.

And says, “This one’s for the romantics.”

Your mouth parts.

The girl next to you shrieks, smacking your arm. “That’s you, oh my God.”

He starts singing again, but it’s quieter now. Gentler. Like he’s crooning into the dark just for you. You stand there, frozen in place, unsure how to breathe. You feel like your skin is glowing.

You barely blink for the rest of the show.

He plays the crowd like a conductor, dancing and laughing and throwing water, but every so often, you catch him looking. Just barely. Just enough.

When the final song ends and the lights go dark, you stay there for a second longer than everyone else. Letting it sink in. Letting yourself pretend.

You pull out your phone with shaking hands.

You:

You looked at me. Twice. I almost forgot to breathe.

The crowd starts moving toward the exits around you. The girl beside you clutches her chest. “Best night of my life,” she says. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

You laugh softly and tuck your phone away.

The air outside the barricade is buzzing. Everyone’s talking at once, recapping favorite songs, wiping glitter from their faces, checking their phones for blurry videos and tear-streaked selfies. It smells like sweat and perfume and cheap beer. The aftermath of something magical.

You stay still.

Your hands are still clutched on the rail, your poster folded under one arm. The lights have come up but your heart hasn’t settled. You feel untethered, like you’re half here, half still floating somewhere above the stage.

The girl next to you squeezes your arm again. “Seriously. If he didn’t fall in love with you tonight, he’s blind.”

You grin. “Stop.”

“I’m not kidding. I’ve been to four shows. I’ve never seen him look at someone like that.”

You start to say something, but then you hear it.

“Excuse me.”

A deep voice. Calm. Professional.

You turn.

A man in a black shirt and earpiece stands behind the barricade, scanning the thinning crowd. His eyes land on you.

“Are you the one with the ‘favorite lyric’ sign?” he asks.

Your blood stills.

“I… yeah,” you say cautiously, not sure where this is going.

He nods. “Would you mind coming with me?”

You blink. “What?”

“I work with the team,” he says, gesturing to the badge clipped to his hip. “Harry saw your sign. Asked if we could bring you back for a quick hello.”

Your mouth goes dry.

The girl next to you is gaping. “Are you serious?”

The security guy smiles. “Very.”

You glance at her, wide-eyed.

She grabs your wrist. “Go! Are you kidding? Go! This is your main character moment.”

You nod, your brain struggling to keep up. “Wait—do I need a pass or something?”

“We’ve got you covered,” the man says, already opening the barricade.

Your legs move before your mind catches up. You hand your poster to the girl beside you—she squeals and clutches it to her chest like it’s sacred—and step through the gate into the space where no one else is allowed.

The noise fades behind you as the security guard leads you around the edge of the venue. Down a hallway. Through a door. Everything is moving fast and slow at the same time.

You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket.

You check it quickly.

Harry:

Come find me.

You don’t even have time to reply before the door ahead of you opens.

And there he is.

Standing in the middle of the dressing room. Sweat-slicked curls. A fresh shirt thrown on over his shoulders. Smile already tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s been waiting hours to see you instead of minutes.

You stop breathing.

He takes one look at you and laughs softly, low and warm and familiar.

“There she is,” he says. “My favorite lyric.”

And just like that, the performance ends.

Because he’s not Harry Styles, international superstar, when he’s looking at you like this.

He’s just Harry.

Your boyfriend.

And you’re not a fan with a poster anymore.

You’re his.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Harry doesn’t move right away. He just looks at you.

You feel suddenly shy under the weight of it, like the role you’ve been playing all evening is still clinging to your skin. Like you’re still that girl in the crowd, not the one who knows the shape of his laugh in the morning, or the way he looks when he’s thinking too hard.

You hover just inside the room, fingers twitching at your sides.

And then he shakes his head, smile softening, voice warm and low.

“You are so silly.”

You blink. “What?”

He laughs under his breath, crossing the room in three easy steps. “Standing out there like a little groupie with your sign. Flirting with the girl next to you. Acting like we haven’t lived together for two years.”

You grin despite yourself. “You told me to commit.”

“And you did, love,” he says, cupping your jaw gently. “God, you committed.”

His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth like he’s trying to wipe away the smirk forming there.

“She really thought you were gonna fall in love with me,” you murmur.

He leans in, mouth hovering close to yours. “Too late.”

You tilt your chin. “You looked at me.”

“I couldn’t not look at you.”

“Twice.”

“Four times, actually,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. “Nearly forgot the words to ‘Matilda’ when I saw you grinning like that.”

You both laugh, breathless and giddy and tired in the best way.

He pulls you into a hug then, tight and real and grounding. His arms wrap around your waist like they always do, and your face finds its place against his neck like it always has. He smells like sweat and cologne and something warmer underneath—something like home.

“You were so good,” you whisper into his collar. “The whole place was losing it.”

He hums, lips brushing your temple. “Think I was showing off for someone.”

You smile into his skin. “She must be lucky.”

“She is,” he says simply, hands sliding down to your waist. “She just doesn’t know I’m about to make fun of her for that poster.”

You pull back, mock offended. “It was poetic.”

“It was filth.”

“It was romantic filth.”

He grins, leaning in again. “I do like being your favorite lyric, though.”

You kiss him once, soft and slow. “Good. Because you are.”

And just like that, the night resets. The crowd is gone. The music’s over. The mask has dropped.

It’s just the two of you.

His hands settle on your waist, warm and familiar, but his grin is sharp now. A little cocky. A little too pleased with himself.

“I just can’t get over it, you looked absolutely feral in the front row,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing.

You roll your eyes. “I was singing along.”

“You were screaming. Practically sobbing.’”

You narrow your eyes. “I was acting.”

“Mm. Were you?” His fingers tighten just slightly, pulling you in. “Looked pretty real to me. All glassy-eyed and aching.”

“You’re the one who almost forgot his lyrics.”

“Can you blame me? You were holding that filthy little sign like you meant it.”

You bite your lip, heat rising in your cheeks. “Maybe I did.”

He groans softly, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “You’re such a menace.”

You let your fingers drift up his chest, catching the collar of his new shirt between them. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods, distracted by the curve of your neck.

“Can you…” You pause, licking your lips. “Can you stay in character a little longer?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, brow raised, amused. “You want me to pretend I don’t know you?”

You nod slowly. “Just for a bit.”

His smile spreads, slow and dangerous. “So you’re telling me some gorgeous girl got pulled backstage and wants me to seduce her?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He lets out a deep, fake-thoughtful sigh. “I don’t know. She seems a little obsessed with me.”

“She’s harmless.”

“She’s trembling.”

“She’s into it.”

His hands slide lower, gripping your hips. He dips his head, brushing his lips along your jaw, back into character so smoothly it makes your stomach flip.

“You know,” he murmurs, accent thicker now, voice sultry and lazy, “when I saw you out there tonight, I couldn’t stop watching you. The way you were looking at me…”

You smile, letting your hands wander beneath the hem of his shirt. “How was I looking at you?”

“Like you wanted to be ruined.”

Your breath catches.

He noses along your cheek, lips barely touching your skin. “You want that, sweetheart? Want the rockstar to ruin you?”

Your laugh is breathless. “You’re so full of it.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

God, you do.

And the way he’s looking at you now—eyes heavy, smile just crooked enough to feel like a dare—it’s enough to set you on fire.

“C’mere,” he says, walking you backwards toward the couch.

You let him.

And the game starts all over again.

“C’mere,” he says again, his voice all honey and mischief, thick with the role he’s slipped back into like second skin.

You let him walk you backward, step by step, until your knees hit the couch and you sink into it with a soft laugh. He towers over you for a second, just looking. Just letting it simmer.

And then he does something dangerous.

He tilts his head and smiles like he’s never seen you before.

“You looked good out there tonight,” he murmurs, fingers toying with the hem of your top. “Made it hard to concentrate. I almost forgot where I was.”

Your pulse skips. “Thought you were a professional.”

He crouches in front of you, hands sliding slowly up your thighs, thumbs pressing lightly just above your knees.

“Suppose even professionals get distracted by a pretty face.”

You bite back a grin.

“Especially one holding a sign like that.”

You pretend to squirm, a little shy. “You read it?”

He looks up at you from beneath his lashes. “Read it. Memorized it. Thought about it during three whole songs.”

Your breath catches as his hands keep moving, thumbs brushing just under the edge of your skirt now, pushing it higher by the inch.

“Is that why you brought me back here?” you ask softly.

He hums, lips ghosting over the inside of your knee. “Maybe I wanted to see if you meant it.”

You can barely breathe as he kisses higher, slow and deliberate, like he’s following some invisible trail. His hands slide up your sides, then back down, then up again, gripping your waist to pull you closer to the edge of the couch.

“You nervous?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You shake your head. “No.”

He smirks. “You should be.”

His mouth finds yours before you can answer.

It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s hungry. Hot. His hands are in your hair, your jaw, your waist, like he doesn’t know where to touch first. You gasp against his lips and he swallows it like he owns it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“You gonna let me make you mine, pretty girl?”

You nod, dizzy. “Yes.”

“You gonna scream for me like you did in the front row?”

“Only louder.”

He groans, deep and low and wrecked, and then he’s on you again—pushing you back into the cushions, crawling over you, kissing you like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he wants on the menu.

It’s messy. Desperate. All hands and heat and heartbeats.

But even as the clothes start to come off, even as the game gets dirtier, rougher, sharper at the edges—you feel the truth of it humming underneath.

You’re still his.

And he’s still yours.

No matter what names you call each other tonight.

You gasp as his weight presses into you, warm and solid and heavy in the best way, his hands cradling your jaw like you’re something fragile. But beneath the gentle touch is a fire you can feel simmering under his skin.

He kisses you again, slower this time. His lips linger, like he wants to memorize the way you taste in this moment, this version of the story you’re telling together.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” he murmurs into your mouth. “Dreaming about what I’d feel like.”

You nod, breath hitching. “For so long.”

His smile curves wicked. “Yeah?”

“I—I wanted to be good for you.”

He groans at that, tipping his forehead against yours.

“Say that again.”

“I wanted to be good for you,” you whisper, bolder now, your fingers drifting down his chest, tracing every curve of muscle, every warm line of skin. “I want to show you how much I love you. How long I’ve loved you.”

He exhales, hands framing your face like a prayer. “Fuck. You’re really committing to this, aren’t you?”

“Let me,” you say, voice trembling but certain. “Let me worship you.”

His pupils darken, and he nods once. “Then show me.”

You shift, pushing him gently until he leans back into the couch cushions. His hair is a mess, his lips pink and parted, and his eyes never leave yours. You slide down between his legs, settling onto your knees on the plush rug, hands splayed against his thighs like you’ve finally found holy ground.

You look up at him from beneath your lashes, the picture of a fan given too much, heart too full.

“You’re even more beautiful up close,” you say softly.

He bites his lip, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you say it like you don’t tell me every day.”

You smile, fingers curling around his waistband.

“Tonight I don’t.”

His breath stutters as you slowly undo his belt, button, zipper—each movement careful, delicate, reverent. His hand finds the back of your neck, warm and grounding.

“You sure you want this, love?” he asks, quieter now.

You nod. “I want to earn it.”

“Earn it,” he echoes, voice gone thick.

You tug his pants down just enough to reveal the hardness straining against his boxers. You press a kiss just above the waistband, and he flinches—like your mouth burns. Like your touch unravels him.

“Been thinking about this,” you murmur, more to yourself than him. “What you’d look like like this. What you’d sound like. How you taste in my mouth.”

“You’re dangerous,” he says hoarsely, fingers twitching in your hair.

You ease him out of his boxers, letting him spring free into your hand, and your lips part in awe, eyes wide like you’re really seeing him for the first time.

“God,” you whisper, stroking him once, slow and smooth. “You’re perfect.”

“Don’t say that either,” he groans.

“You are.”

You take your time, teasing him, tasting him, letting your mouth explore him like he’s the only man that’s ever existed. You hollow your cheeks, flatten your tongue, moan around him like the music’s still playing and this is your final song.

He’s breathing hard now, thighs tense under your palms, head tipped back against the couch. Every little sound he makes drives you deeper, hungry to prove yourself, desperate to make him fall for you all over again—even if you know he already has.

He lets you have your moment. Lets you give.

Until his hand tightens just enough at the base of your neck to still you.

“Okay,” he rasps. “Enough. You’re gonna make me lose it.”

You blink up at him, lips swollen, eyes shining.

“Good,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, pulling you up into his lap in one smooth motion.

“Your turn,” he says, mouth brushing yours. “Let me show you how it feels to be worshipped.”

And this time, you let him.

He pulls you into his lap like it’s instinct. Like he needs you closer, needs to feel your weight, your warmth, your pulse racing under your skin.

You land astride him, legs straddling his hips, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs. Your chest is rising and falling fast. Your lips are parted, still slick from him. And his eyes—God, his eyes—are dark and blown and full of something that makes your breath catch.

“Harry,” you whisper, still playing. Still pretending.

But he leans in, kisses you once—hard and hot—and then pulls back just far enough to speak.

“I know this is your fantasy,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “I know you love pretending. Being the fan. Being picked. Being special.”

You nod, heart hammering.

“But I can’t do it anymore,” he says, jaw tight, hands curling around your waist. “Not tonight.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He exhales sharply, then presses his forehead to yours.

“I missed you,” he says. “The real you. Not the poster. Not the crowd version. Just you.”

Your heart cracks open.

“I missed your voice,” he murmurs. “The way you talk to me in the morning. The way you smell after a shower. The way you crawl into my lap on Sunday mornings when we’re still half asleep.”

You swallow hard, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes.

“I missed my girlfriend,” he says, pulling back to look at you. “Not my number one fan.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

So he kisses you again—slower this time. Deeper.

You melt into him, hands sliding into his curls, hips pressing closer, body aching with how much you want to feel everything.

His lips trail down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. He tugs your top up and off, tosses it aside, then kisses down your chest like he’s rediscovering you inch by inch.

He undresses you with quiet reverence, all while murmuring little things against your skin.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

“I forgot how soft you are.”

“I can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

By the time you’re bare in his lap, he’s not pretending anymore. And neither are you.

He lifts you slightly and drags your panties to the side. Not off. Just enough.

Then he slides his fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, watching your reaction like it’s his favorite song.

“So wet,” he murmurs, lips at your ear. “Was that all for the role, sweetheart? Or were you really that desperate?”

You moan, rocking into his hand, your body already giving him the answer.

He lets you ride his fingers for a moment—just enough to tease, just enough to make you whimper—before he hooks his arm under your thighs and stands.

You squeal, arms flying around his shoulders.

He carries you across the room and lays you down on the dressing room couch like you’re something fragile, something holy.

Then he slides his pants down, fully this time, and settles between your legs.

“Harry,” you whisper, breath hitching.

“I’ve got you,” he says, guiding himself to your entrance. “Gonna take my time with you. Gonna remind you what this really is and how you belong to me.”

He pushes in slow, every inch dragging heat and tension and pleasure behind it. Your back arches. Your fingers claw at his shoulders. He groans into your neck.

“So fucking tight,” he rasps. “Like your body knows it’s me.”

You can’t speak. You can’t think. All you can do is feel him. Deeper than deep. Full. Perfect.

He sets a rhythm that’s unhurried but unrelenting, rolling his hips into yours with slow, rough precision. It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s everything.

His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together beside your head.

“I love you,” he breathes, right into your mouth.

“I love you,” you whisper back, shaking.

He thrusts deeper, harder, just enough to make you cry out.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Let me hear you. Let me make you feel like you’re mine again.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

“I am yours,” you choke out. “I’ve always been yours.”

He kisses you hard then, messy and desperate, and you can feel him losing control. His movements get rougher, messier. He growls your name, hips snapping, hand sliding down between your bodies to rub slow, firm circles over your clit.

You fall apart.

Your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing through you all at once, white-hot and endless. You gasp his name, over and over, legs trembling, hands clawing at his back like you need to hold onto something real.

He follows with a strangled moan, burying himself deep one last time as he spills into you, his body tensing, shuddering, collapsing.

And then you’re both quiet.

Breathing hard. Skin to skin. Heartbeats syncing.

He buries his face in your neck and holds you tighter than he has in weeks.

You stroke his hair. Press a kiss to his shoulder. Let the world fall away.

The crowd is gone. The lights are off. The show is over.

But this?

This is the part that matters.

You don’t know how long you lie there like that.

Your body feels weightless. Your mind is quiet. His chest is pressed to yours, rising and falling in time with your own, and the room feels like it’s spinning very gently, like the world’s been reduced to skin and breath and the faint thump of the bass still leaking through the walls.

Harry’s still inside you, soft now, but he hasn’t moved. He’s just holding you, forehead resting against your shoulder, one hand splayed low on your belly like he’s grounding you.

Eventually, he sighs.

“God,” he murmurs. “We’re disgusting.”

You smile sleepily, your fingers trailing down his back. “Speak for yourself. I’m classy.”

He lifts his head to look at you, hair a complete mess, eyes warm and heavy-lidded.

“You were on your knees like a prayer five minutes ago.”

“And you brought me backstage like a predator.”

He snorts, eyes crinkling. “You wrote the sign.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You told me to write something bold.”

“I meant like ‘You’re My Sunshine,’ not ‘Treat Me Like Your Favorite Lyric.’ Jesus.”

You smirk. “You loved it.”

“I nearly choked onstage.”

“I saw.”

His laugh is hoarse and quiet, but full of affection. He shifts slightly, finally easing out of you, and you both let out little sounds at the loss. He grabs a nearby towel and gently cleans you up, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh as he does.

You watch him, propped on one elbow, still breathless.

“You really couldn’t make it through the whole show without breaking, huh?”

He glances up at you, eyes gleaming. “You looked so into it. I mean, come on. That little pout? The way you were singing ‘Little Freak’ like I ruined your life?”

You giggle. “I was just in character.”

“Oh yeah?” He crawls back over you, settling beside you now, chest to chest. “So were you in character the last time we did this? When you wore that fake security badge and tried to ‘sneak in’ to my green room?”

You laugh, hard, burying your face in his neck. “You loved that one.”

“I did. You tackled me.”

“You asked me to.”

“You broke my sunglasses.”

“They were ugly.”

He kisses your temple, grinning. “And what about the time I was your ‘Uber driver’ after the concert and you pretended you didn’t know who I was?”

You pull back, eyes wide. “That was a good one.”

“You asked if I listened to my own music.”

“And you said no!”

He shrugs. “I was staying in character.”

You both fall into laughter, easy and warm, limbs tangled, cheeks flushed.

The dressing room is quiet now. Just your breathing, your laughter, your bare skin pressed together like you’ve got nowhere else to be.

Harry nuzzles into your neck again and murmurs, “You know… I never say it during the game, but you’re it for me.”

You smile, brushing your fingers through his curls. “Even when I pretend I don’t know your last name?”

“Especially then,” he says, eyes fluttering shut. “Something about being loved by a stranger who’s obsessed with me… it’s really good for my ego.”

You swat his shoulder. He catches your wrist and kisses it.

“I’ll get us out of here in a minute,” he says. “Just wanna stay like this for a bit.”

“Good,” you whisper. “Me too.”

And you do. You stay there, wrapped around each other, the backstage lights dimming around you. Still playing the game, even as it ends.

Because the truth is, you’ll always want him. And he’ll always come find you.

Even if it’s just for pretend.

318 notes · View notes

ijustmissyouraccenths · 18 days ago

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Pls update Venom and Honey on wattpad😭🙏

I can! I’ll do it later this week.

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 19 days ago

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 21 days ago

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Omg I just found your writing and Trouble was so good!! You're such a good writer 💕

You’re the sweetest. Thank you.

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 21 days ago

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trouble was beautiful, and funny, and delicious, i loved it.

“It was like all the months of voice notes and texts and teasing had collapsed into this tiny sunlit moment, just the two of them, finally real.” - this line was absolute gold, so simple but so intricate and powerful.

your writing is incredible, thank you ❤️❤️

Stop. This is literally the sweetest. Thank you 😭 I’m so happy you enjoyed it!

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 21 days ago

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TROUBLE WAS PERFECTION!!! i devoured that shit like a woman starved

Thank you! I really enjoyed making this one. It’s different than the storylines I usually do.

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 21 days ago

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Trouble

✨ summary: where harry’s a soft TikTok streamer and y/n happens to find his stream.

📝 word count: 11K

⚠️ content warning: smut

💌 support my work

Y/N stumbled through the door a little after ten, dropping her keys in the catchall with a tired clatter. Her feet were killing her. Her back hurt. Her brain felt like it was still stuck at work, replaying petty customer complaints and the awkward half-laugh she’d given her manager when he made that borderline gross joke.

She didn’t even bother with dinner. Just kicked off her shoes, peeled off her jeans, and crawled under the throw blanket on the couch with her phone. This was her routine on nights like this: half an hour of mindless TikTok before she convinced herself to brush her teeth and go to bed.

Half an hour usually turned into an hour. Or two.

She scrolled past dancing girls, recipes she’d never make, a video essay about why romcoms were secretly feminist, a guy cutting soap. It was all noise.

Then, almost by accident, she landed on a live.

The caption just said: “insomnia brain rot. talk to me.”

Only twelve people were watching. She hovered there for a second. Was it weird to pop into something so small?

But then the guy on screen — who looked about her age, maybe a little older, with messy brown hair pulled back by a ridiculous pink clip — laughed at something in the chat. It was a quiet, raspy sort of laugh that made something in her chest warm up.

He was lounging sideways on a couch, one socked foot tucked under the other knee, wearing an old band tee that had definitely seen better days. His accent was British, soft and a bit lazy, words sliding together like he couldn’t be bothered to crisp them up.

“Alright, next question,” he was saying, scrolling through comments. “Worst cereal of all time. And if any of you say Frosted Flakes, we’re gonna have a problem. Those are elite, don’t start.”

Y/N snorted, surprising herself. God, she must be tired.

On impulse, she typed:

bran flakes. taste like depression.

She almost clicked away before he’d see it, suddenly embarrassed. But then his eyes darted down, and he read it out loud, smiling.

“‘Bran flakes taste like depression,’” he repeated, trying not to laugh. “Oh that’s brilliant. You’re right, actually. Like chewing on your last shred of hope.”

He squinted at the username. “Who’s that, then? That’s a new one, innit? Welcome, love.”

A weird flutter went through her stomach.

Love.

He probably called everyone that. Still.

“Alright then,” he went on, still smiling to himself as he scrolled, “let’s hear more hot takes. Is honey nut overrated? I think it might be.”

Y/N settled deeper under her blanket, phone a little closer to her face, feeling the tight coil in her chest start to loosen for the first time all day.

She hadn’t planned to watch for more than a minute. But then he started talking about his day — how he’d tried to bake banana bread and burned the bottom, how he thought his upstairs neighbor had a pet goat (it was just a big dog apparently), how he couldn’t sleep lately because his brain wouldn’t shut up.

He kept scratching at the corner of his jaw when he was nervous. Made these little faces when he was reading comments. And when he laughed, really laughed, it was like he forgot the camera was there.

There were only fourteen people in the chat now. It felt… cozy. Like stumbling into someone’s living room at 2 a.m.

She didn’t even realize how long she’d been there until her phone buzzed with a low battery warning.

Y/N smiled, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Maybe she’d stay a little longer.

Y/N didn’t really mean to become a regular. It just sort of happened.

Every couple nights she’d check if he was live, and more often than not, he was. Always in that same sagging couch, always with that dumb pink clip holding his hair back, sometimes in glasses that made him look unfairly soft.

She’d plop down on her own couch in pajamas with a mug of tea, and it was like hanging out in someone’s living room. Well, his living room. Which had absolutely tragic curtains and a plant he frequently apologized to for nearly killing.

The chat was tiny. Never more than twenty people. A few usernames she recognized now, all of them forming this loose, late-night club of insomniacs and weirdos.

He’d started calling her “BranFlakes” sometimes, because of that first comment. Or just “trouble,” with this grin that made her toes curl under the blanket.

One night, he was leaning back against a pillow, phone balanced on his chest, scrolling through comments.

“So what’s everyone been up to today? Anyone do something interesting? Anyone commit light arson? Emotional or otherwise?”

Y/N smirked, typed, Define interesting. I didn’t get fired for flipping off a customer, so that’s my personal win.

He laughed — that soft, lazy sound that never failed to warm her up. “BranFlakes is in rare form tonight. Didn’t get fired, that’s the bar, huh? Love that for you.”

What about you? she sent. Burn anything down? Confess your sins.

He squinted at the screen, did that little half-smile. “Uh, I absolutely did. Tried to fix a leaky tap in the kitchen. Made it worse. Nearly flooded the place. Landlord’s gonna love that email tomorrow.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, smiling. You’re useless.

“Oh, properly useless,” he agreed solemnly. Then his eyes flicked to the comments again. “Alright, your turn. What actually happened today? You sound more bitey than usual.”

Her stomach twisted a little. She didn’t usually get personal in the chat. It was mostly dumb jokes, snark, flirting that didn’t mean anything.

But he was looking right into the camera, waiting. Like he actually cared.

She sighed, typed, Just had a shit day. Work was hell. People suck. That’s it. I’ll live.

His face softened. He bit his bottom lip, drummed his fingers on his chest like he was trying to think of what to say.

“M’sorry, trouble,” he said finally, voice low and sincere in a way that surprised her. “People dosuck. Proper tossers, most of ‘em. But you don’t, alright? Just thought I should point that out.”

Y/N blinked at the screen. Her throat felt tight in that annoying way that meant if she opened her mouth, she’d probably make an embarrassing noise.

Thanks, she sent. You’re less useless than usual.

That got a grin out of him. “Oi, I’ll take it. Practically a love letter from you.”

A few minutes later, he’d moved on to reading someone else’s comment, but then paused, squinting at the screen again. “Hey — BranFlakes, do us a favor, yeah? Go get some water. Or a biscuit. Or something. You look knackered.”

She made a face at her phone. You can’t SEE me.

“I can sense you, alright? Psychic link. Don’t question it.”

Y/N laughed out loud, shaking her head, but set her phone down and padded into the kitchen for a glass of water anyway. When she came back, he was grinning like he knew he’d won.

“Good girl,” he teased, voice dropping just enough to make her stomach do a little flip.

Shut up, she typed, cheeks hot.

“Don’t think I will.”

When he finally ended the live, she got a DM almost immediately.

h: get some sleep, trouble. tomorrow will be less shit. promise.

She stared at it for a second, smiling like an idiot, then sent back,

y/n: no promises but i’ll try. don’t flood the kitchen again.

He sent a photo back. Just him with his face half-buried in his pillow, hair a mess, eyes soft and sleepy.

h: s’night then.

Y/N bit her lip so hard it almost hurt.

God, she was so gone. Over a boy she’d never even seen outside this little square on her phone. Over someone who didn’t even know what she looked like.

But she couldn’t stop. Didn’t even want to try.

Y/N hadn’t planned on it going this far.

It was supposed to be harmless. A little escape from the drudge of work and the ache of coming home to an empty apartment. But somehow it became the best part of her day.

They texted constantly now. Not just memes or stupid TikToks — though there were plenty of those — but long rambly messages about everything and nothing. About how she hated olives, how his favorite weather was the five minutes right before it rained, how sometimes he wondered if he was wasting his life talking to a phone screen at 2 a.m.

One night he sent her a voice note. Just a sleepy, “Hope your day was better, trouble,” all warm and raspy and impossibly close.

She played it about fifteen times.

Eventually she started sending voice notes back, her voice small and shy at first. He’d tease her — “didn’t know you were so posh” or “god, your laugh’s unreal, you know that?” — and it made her feel stupidly giddy.

It also made her softer. Less snark, more honesty slipping through in little cracks.

One night she was curled up on the couch in an old hoodie, hair damp from a shower, phone pressed to her ear listening to him. He was rambling about the neighbor’s dog again.

“So it’s official — it’s not a goat. Just a dog with… goatish tendencies. Barks like it’s got a personal vendetta against me, though.”

She laughed, tucked her knees tighter to her chest. “Maybe it does. Maybe you give off suspicious energy.”

“Oh, I’m definitely suspicious. But c’mon, who doesn’t want to bark at me a little?”

She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Can’t argue with that.”

Then it got quiet. Not awkward — just easy, comfortable. She could hear him breathing, a little sigh as he shifted around wherever he was.

He spoke again, softer this time. “You sound tired. Long day?”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Just work. Same old. I did have a customer yell at me because his sandwich was apparently ‘threatening.’ So that was new.”

Harry snorted. “Did it have a knife? Or just a bad attitude?”

“Bad attitude. Definitely. Lettuce was giving him a dirty look.”

“Cheeky lettuce.”

She let out a soft little huff, hugging her knees. “But it’s better now. Talking to you always makes it… less shit.”

There was a pause, then a quiet little, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her voice cracked around it, and she didn’t care.

“Same here, trouble. Don’t think you realize how much.”

They sat in that for a second, hearts thudding on either end of the line.

Then she blurted, “Do you wanna see me? Like actually see me? I mean, I could video call, or send a pic or something. You’ve never asked, but…”

His voice came back gentle, almost shy. “I’ve thought about it, loads of times. What you look like. If you’d be smiling when you text me, or rolling your eyes. But… I kinda like not knowing.”

“You like the mystery?” she teased, but it was so soft it was almost tender.

“Yeah, actually. Like… it makes me pay more attention to everything else. The way you say stuff. The weird shit you notice. Your laugh.”

Her heart felt too full, pressing up tight against her ribs. “You’re such a sap.”

“Oh, fully. Can’t even deny it.” He laughed under his breath, then went quiet again. “Don’t worry, though. When I finally see you, it’ll be worth the wait. Bet you’ll ruin me completely.”

Her breath caught.

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just whispered, “Okay.”

He let out a little sigh, like it settled something in him. “G’night, love. Dream of suspicious sandwiches.”

“G’night, Harry.”

When she hung up, her face hurt from smiling. Her phone buzzed one last time.

h: and send me more voice notes tomorrow. m’addicted to your voice.

She squealed into her pillow like a teenager, then typed back with shaky hands.

y/n: only if you promise to keep telling me about your goat dog.

h: deal.

She fell asleep with her phone clutched to her chest, feeling like maybe — just maybe — she wasn’t so alone after all.

She was sprawled on her bed one evening, phone in hand, absently scrolling through photos of cats in funny hats, when Harry’s name popped up on her screen.

Incoming call.

Her stomach flipped. It always did, stupidly, like she was sixteen again. She answered with a half-smile already pulling at her mouth.

“Hey, trouble,” he drawled.

“Hey yourself. What’s up?”

He was rustling around on the other end. She could hear a cupboard door creak, then the distant sound of pouring water. Probably making one of his endless cups of tea.

“So… I’ve got a question. Might be a bit mad.”

“Coming from you, that’s not exactly shocking.”

He let out a soft laugh. “Fair. But listen — there’s this tiny con, kinda a meetup for streamers and random internet people. Not like a big Comic-Con thing. More awkward dudes in graphic tees and cheap coffee. It’s next month, just over in Georgia. I’ve got a little panel spot somehow, talking about building ‘authentic communities’ which is a joke ‘cause it’s me and, like, twenty people on TikTok.”

She grinned into her pillow. “I think your little community’s pretty damn authentic. Bunch of cereal snobs and insomniacs.”

“Exactly. My people.” He paused. She could practically hear him chewing his lip. “Anyway… was thinkin’ you could come? Meet me there? Only if you want. I know it’s a drive and all, but…”

Y/N’s heart was thudding so hard it felt like her chest might crack open.

“You want me to come to a convention?” she teased lightly, trying to keep her voice from squeaking.

“I want you to come see me,” he corrected, softer. “I wanna finally see you. And — alright, selfish — I wanna be the first to see your face. Not through a camera. Just… you, standing there, lookin’ all smug. Maybe roll your eyes at me in real life.”

Her throat was so tight it hurt. She rolled over onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “That’s… really sweet.”

“Don’t make it weird,” he groaned, but he was laughing, nervous.

“You’re the one making it weird! Asking me to drive to another state to meet a boy I met on TikTok. What if you’re secretly a swamp goblin?”

“Babe, I’ve told you I’m a swamp goblin. At least three times. Full disclosure, I get cranky if I don’t have snacks.”

She laughed, pressing her fist to her mouth. “It’s just— it’s kind of a big deal. I mean, what if you’re disappointed?”

Harry went quiet for a second, then his voice came through low and certain. “Won’t be. S’not possible.”

She felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes, completely out of nowhere. God, she was pathetic.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll come.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She could hear the grin in his voice when he let out a breathless little, “Fuck. Can’t wait.”

“So what exactly does one wear to a nerd convention?” she asked, forcing a playful lilt back into her voice.

“Dunno. Something cute. Or come in a full Chewbacca suit, I’ll still fancy you.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Hey.” His voice dropped. “Just bring yourself. Promise?”

She swallowed hard. “Promise.”

“Good girl,” he muttered, and it was so low and fond it made her toes curl.

Later that night, she lay awake staring at her ceiling fan, heart pounding, phone clutched to her chest. She was really going to do this. Really going to cross state lines to meet a boy with floppy hair and a voice that made her stomach flutter.

Harry sent one last text before she drifted off.

h: m’counting the days already. try not to crash your car. i’d like to kiss you eventually.

He wanted to kiss her. She buried her burning face in her pillow, grinning like an idiot.

y/n: not planning on dying before you buy me a shit con coffee.

h: romantic. sleep tight, trouble.

She did. Better than she had in weeks.

Y/N started packing three days before she even had to leave. It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous.

Her bed was a disaster — jeans, crop tops, cardigans, shoes she’d never realistically wear to a sweaty convention hall. Her cat sat in the middle of it all, judging her with bored yellow eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, holding up two shirts. “Which one says ‘I might like you enough to kiss you but also I’m not desperate’?”

The cat blinked slowly, unimpressed.

She flopped down next to it, groaning. Her phone buzzed, and immediately her pulse jumped. It was embarrassing how fast she grabbed it.

h: tell me ur packing. otherwise i’ll come kidnap you myself.

She snorted, thumbs flying.

y/n: packing. but it’s not going well. i have no idea what to wear.

h: wear clothes. preferably.

y/n: you’re SO helpful.

h: m’just sayin, you’d look good in literally anything.

y/n: how do you know that?? you’ve never even SEEN me.

h: gut feeling. also ur voice is fit, so the rest of you must be too.

She made a strangled little noise and buried her face in a sweater.

y/n: stop. i’m already freaking out.

h: why?

y/n: idk. what if it’s weird? or awkward? what if you don’t like me once i’m standing right in front of you?

There was a pause. Three dots blinking. Then his reply came through.

h: listen to me carefully. i already like you. annoyingly so. it’s not gonna change because i see ur cute face in person.

She just stared at it for a long time, her heart doing stupid acrobatics in her chest.

y/n: you’re sappy.

h: i am. you’re stuck with it.

She typed back, her throat tight.

y/n: fine. but if i show up and you bolt i’m keeping your plant.

h: rude. that plant is family.

y/n: he told me he hates you actually.

h: he’s a liar and he needs water.

She laughed out loud. God, how did he make her feel so light?

h: pack something comfy for after. like when i inevitably drag you out for greasy food and keep you up all night talking.

Her cheeks burned.

y/n: okay. i will.

h: good girl.

She nearly dropped her phone.

The rest of the night she kept pulling clothes off hangers, putting them back, debating if she needed to shave literally everything. Her stomach was in knots, but in the best, most electric way.

The next morning, she texted him a picture of her suitcase.

y/n: packed. mostly. leaving tomorrow morning.

h: look at you bein all responsible.

y/n: i’m terrified.

h: i’m not. m’just excited.

She bit her lip, smiling like a fool.

y/n: what if i’m not what you pictured?

h: then i’ll change the picture. easy.

She didn’t know how to reply to that, so she didn’t.

Later that night, curled up in bed with her phone on her chest, he sent her a voice note. His voice was low, tired, a little scratchy.

“Hey. You’re probably asleep already. Just wanted to say… drive safe, yeah? Don’t rush. I’ll be there whenever you get in. And… I can’t wait to see you, trouble. S’gonna be worth it. Promise.”

She listened to it three times before she could finally close her eyes.

Tomorrow, she’d get in her car and drive across state lines for a boy she’d never met, whose voice already felt like home.

Y/N pulled into the hotel parking lot with her heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack a rib.

The drive had been three hours of jittery adrenaline and overthinking every possible scenario. What if he didn’t like her? What if she said something weird? What if he didn’t even show up?

The hotel was surprisingly nice — not some grimy chain, but modern, with big glass windows and a little fountain out front. She checked in, mumbling her name to the woman at the desk, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

The room was clean, a little cold, with an aggressively cheerful painting of sunflowers on the wall. She tossed her suitcase on the bed and sat on the edge, hands clasped together so tight her knuckles hurt.

Her phone buzzed.

h: just got here. room’s tiny. i look like a giant tryin to get dressed in this mirror.

She snorted, a breathy laugh escaping her. Her hands were still shaking when she typed back.

y/n: i’m here too. hiding in my room. trying not to hyperventilate.

h: don’t hyperventilate. m’too selfish, i really wanna see you alive and breathing.

y/n: same.

h: my panel’s in like 30. after, meet me at the hotel cafe? it’s right off the lobby.

y/n: okay. i’ll be there.

h: sweet girl.

Her stomach flipped. She threw her phone on the bed and covered her face with both hands.

“Jesus Christ, get it together,” she muttered.

She paced the tiny space, chugged half a bottle of water, fixed her hair for the tenth time, wiped her clammy palms on her jeans. Finally she decided to go watch his panel — maybe seeing him from a distance first would make it less terrifying.

The convention space was downstairs, tucked behind a couple big double doors. She slipped inside quietly, heart racing. It was a small room, maybe fifty chairs, half-full. Harry was already on stage, perched on a tall stool with a mic in one hand, a bottle of water in the other.

She stopped dead in the aisle.

God.

He was in a thin dark tee that clung to his shoulders, hair pulled back in that same dumb clip, a silver ring flashing on his thumb when he gestured. He was laughing at something the moderator said, head tipping back, eyes crinkling.

She just stood there like an idiot, hugging her arms to her chest, watching him talk about “building safe corners of the internet” and how people deserved spaces where they could be weird without judgment.

He had no idea she was there.

No idea that the girl who’d been teasing him about cereal and goat-dogs and sending him nervous little voice notes was right in front of him, trying not to melt into the carpet.

When it ended, there was polite applause. Harry thanked everyone, flashed that grin that made her knees weak, then stepped down and disappeared through a side door.

Y/N slipped out with the rest of the crowd, heart in her throat, and made her way to the hotel cafe. It was early afternoon, empty except for a barista behind the counter and a young guy in a hoodie reading something on his phone.

She picked a corner table by the window, set her bag on the seat beside her, and stared out at the fountain.

Her phone buzzed.

h: done. headed that way.

She sucked in a sharp breath. Her hands were clammy again. She wiped them on her jeans.

y/n: already here. trying not to pass out.

h: don’t. m’serious. i need you alive for at least ten more minutes.

She barked out a laugh that startled the barista.

Then another text came through.

h: also. you better still let me be the one to find you.

y/n: bossy.

h: i know. sit tight.

She curled up in her chair, arms wrapped around her middle, foot bouncing under the table. Every time the door opened, her heart lurched into her throat.

The guy across the cafe glanced up, gave her a polite nod. She tried to smile back, probably looked manic.

Her phone buzzed again.

h: where exactly are you?

y/n: corner table. window.

h: m’bout to ruin your life.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

When the door opened again, she knew. Couldn’t see him yet, but every nerve in her body lit up like it was hardwired to him.

Her heart was thundering. Actually thundering. She could feel it in her throat, her fingertips, her ears. Every nerve felt raw, hyperaware.

She kept fidgeting, smoothing her hands down her thighs, twisting the little ring on her middle finger. The young guy across the cafe gave her another awkward glance, probably wondering why she looked like she was about to jump out of her skin.

This is so stupid, she thought. It’s just Harry. You’ve talked to him every single day for months. He knows your favorite snack, your weird intrusive thoughts, the exact sound you make when you snort-laugh. This is Harry.

But it wasn’t just Harry. It was him. In real life. Not a voice on the phone or a little face on her screen, but flesh and blood and warm hands and — god — probably so much taller than she expected.

Her stomach did a wild flip.

The door to the cafe swung open again. She didn’t even have to look. It was like her entire body just knew.

She forced herself to lift her head anyway.

And there he was.

Standing in the doorway, scanning the room with wide, eager eyes. Hair perfectly imperfect with a curl placed perfectly across his forehead, wearing the dark tee from the panel, jeans ripped at the knee, arms full of tattoos, and phone clutched in one hand like he’d been texting her the entire walk over.

When his gaze landed on her, it was like the floor dropped out from under her.

His whole face transformed — eyes going wide, mouth parting, then breaking into the most ridiculous, glorious grin she’d ever seen.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, mostly to himself. Then louder, “There you are.”

She couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Just sat there staring at him like a deer in headlights, heart doing cartwheels in her chest.

“Not gonna stand up and greet me, then?” he teased, voice warm and bright and so painfully Harryit made her eyes sting.

She let out a helpless little laugh, pushed her chair back, and stood. Her legs felt like jelly.

Harry crossed the tiny room in three long strides. He stopped right in front of her, close enough that she could see the little bump on his nose, the tiny freckle on his jaw. His eyes were so green.

“Hi,” she managed, voice embarrassingly breathless.

He stared at her like he was trying to memorize every single inch of her face. Then his mouth curved into this soft, disbelieving smile.

“Hi, trouble.”

She laughed again, a shaky sound that was more nerves than humor. “You’re real.”

“Yeah. S’lookin that way.” His voice dropped a little, rough at the edges. “Can I — ?”

She didn’t even wait for him to finish. Just nodded, too overwhelmed to trust her own mouth.

He let out this tiny relieved laugh, then cupped her face in both hands, warm palms bracketing her cheeks, thumbs brushing under her eyes.

“Oh, fuck me, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured. Then he was leaning down, pressing his forehead to hers, breath shallow.

She couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop trembling. Her hands found his wrists, holding on tight.

“You’re taller than I thought,” she whispered, which made him huff out a laugh against her skin.

“You’re shorter than I thought. Tiny little menace.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

She did. Pushed up on her toes and kissed him, soft and a little clumsy at first.

Harry made this wrecked sound, one hand sliding into her hair, the other dropping to her waist to haul her closer. His mouth moved over hers like he’d been waiting forever, savoring it, chasing every tiny shift of her lips.

When they finally pulled back, breathless and grinning like idiots, he rested his forehead against hers again.

“Worth the wait,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” she said, voice catching. “Worth every damn second.”

They didn’t move for a second, still tangled up in each other’s breath, Harry’s hands cradling her jaw like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go.

Then he seemed to realize they were standing dead center in a mostly empty cafe, making out like horny teenagers. He let out a slightly embarrassed little laugh, dropped his hands from her face, but kept one warm palm resting on her hip like he couldn’t stand not to touch her.

“Alright,” he breathed, eyes still dancing all over her face. “Sit with me before I drag you back upstairs and absolutely traumatize the room next door.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m that easy,” she teased, trying to sound breezy even though her voice came out a bit wobbly.

“Oh, I’m counting on you being that easy,” he shot back, grin going crooked. Then he tugged gently at her waist. “C’mon, trouble.”

They settled back at her little corner table. Harry immediately scooted his chair so close their knees bumped, like he couldn’t help it. His leg pressed into hers under the table, warm and solid, grounding her in the best way.

“You’re staring,” she said after a minute, cheeks hot.

He didn’t even pretend to deny it. Just leaned back, smirked, eyes raking over her face. “Yeah. Been picturing this forever. Sort of unfair how much better it is in person.”

“Stop. You’re going to make me combust.”

“Mm, fine. For now.” He nudged her ankle with his foot. “Order something. We’ll do this proper, yeah? Coffee and awkward small talk before I tell you again how pretty you are.”

She let out a shaky laugh, flagging down the barista. Harry ordered something complicated and way too sweet. She ordered a simple latte because her hands were still trembling and she was terrified she’d spill anything else.

When the barista left, Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands. “So. Be honest. Am I taller than you thought?”

“Only a little. I mean, I knew you had to be tall with that tragic camera angle you always use. Could never see half your face.”

“Oi, it’s artsy! Mysterious!”

“It’s lazy. You’re lazy.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Maybe. But you still fell for me, so joke’s on you.”

She rolled her eyes, but under the table, she slid her foot along his calf. His eyes went molten.

“Y’know, when I first saw you across the room…” he started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “Christ. My heart actually stopped. I thought, that’s her. That’s my girl.”

Her own heart lurched painfully, and she reached across the table without thinking, catching his hand. He squeezed back immediately, thumb stroking over her knuckles.

“And you,” she said softly, trying to steady her voice. “You’re somehow exactly what I pictured and also nothing like it. It’s weird.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I dunno. You’re just… more. Louder. Warmer. More real.”

His smile went soft, almost shy. “M’glad. Was worried maybe you’d take one look and run for the hills.”

“You’re an idiot if you think that.”

He squeezed her hand again, brought it up to press a warm kiss against her knuckles. “Well. Lucky for me, you seem to like idiots.”

She laughed, but it cracked into something breathless.

Their drinks came, and they pretended to care about them, but neither let go of the other’s hand for more than a second.

“You’re still staring,” she whispered at one point, cheeks aching from smiling.

“Yeah. Not plannin’ to stop anytime soon, either.”

“Good.”

Harry’s knee bounced against hers, eyes flicking down to her mouth before dragging back up. “After this, wanna go somewhere quieter? Walk around outside maybe? Or— I dunno. I’m not ready to let you go back to your room yet. Might actually die.”

She squeezed his fingers, heart tripping all over itself. “Yeah. I’d like that. Really.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said again, laughing through it. “God, you’re such a sap.”

“Hopeless. Absolutely ruined by you.”

They stayed like that a while longer, hands twined on the table, feet tangled under it, Harry stealing these small, soft looks at her that made her want to crawl into his lap and never move.

It was like all the months of voice notes and texts and teasing had collapsed into this tiny sunlit moment, just the two of them, finally real.

They finished their coffee in slow, distracted sips, talking about absolutely nothing and everything, fingers tangled so tight it was like neither of them trusted the moment enough to let go.

When Harry finally stood, he didn’t even wait for her to gather her bag properly. Just laced their hands together and tugged her up with this boyish, impatient grin.

“C’mon. If we stay here any longer, I’m gonna climb over the table and get us both banned from the hotel.”

She snorted, cheeks going hot. “That’s one way to start off our weekend.”

“Mm, not quite the meet-cute I had in mind, but tempting,” he teased, pushing open the glass door and guiding her into the lobby.

They stepped outside into the afternoon sun. It was warm and bright, the fountain burbling nearby. Harry didn’t let go of her hand once, thumb brushing lazy little circles over her knuckles like he couldn’t help it.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she said after a minute, heart still tap dancing against her ribs.

“What does?”

“This. Being… together. In real life.”

Harry smiled, soft and a little crooked. “Yeah. But good weird. Like I’ve been walking around waiting for something to happen, and it’s just… this. You. Finally here.”

She ducked her head, biting back a grin. “Stop. You’re gonna make me cry and I just put mascara on.”

He laughed, then pulled her gently toward the little path that circled the hotel grounds. It was quiet, dotted with benches and tiny blooming shrubs, just enough to feel like they had a bit of privacy.

“So,” she said, bumping her shoulder into his. “What was your first thought when you actually saw me sitting there?”

“That’s trouble,” he answered instantly, then shot her a playful look. “But also… fuck me, she’s pretty. Too pretty. Like I was gonna have a heart attack before I even got over there.”

She covered her face with her free hand, groaning. “God, why are you so good at this? You’re supposed to be awkward and weird and make me feel better about my life choices.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m plenty awkward,” Harry said with a grin. “I just hide it well. I’m currently terrified you’re gonna realize you’ve made a tragic mistake and run off with the barista instead.”

“Not likely,” she shot back, but her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “You’re stuck with me, sorry.”

“Good. I like being stuck with you.”

They walked a little further, hands still twined, arms bumping. Harry kept sneaking these little glances at her like he couldn’t help it — eyes darting to her mouth, her hair, her shoulders.

At one point, he stopped dead, tugged her gently so she stumbled into him.

“What?” she laughed, palms flattening against his chest. God, he was warm. Solid.

Harry just stared down at her for a long second, jaw working. Then he let out a low, helpless sort of noise, dropped their joined hands so he could cup her face again.

“Sorry,” he breathed. “Can’t — I just—”

Then he was kissing her.

It was different than in the cafe — slower, deeper, almost reverent. Like he was trying to memorize exactly how she tasted, the way she sighed into his mouth, how her hands fisted in his shirt to drag him impossibly closer.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping a little, he rested his forehead on hers and let out a soft laugh.

“You’re gonna wreck me, trouble. Completely ruin me for anyone else.”

Her heart squeezed so tight it hurt. She slid her hands up to his jaw, thumb tracing the edge of his smile.

“Good,” she whispered. “That’s the plan.”

Harry laughed again, kissed her once more — quick and sweet — then grabbed her hand and started walking backwards, pulling her along.

“C’mon. Wanna show you the pathetic little vendor hall. Gotta prove I’m a real internet loser.”

“You already proved that months ago,” she teased, bumping into him.

“Oi. Rude.”

“True, though.”

He laughed, pulled her closer by the hand. “Yeah, yeah. Keep talking. I’ll find more creative ways to shut you up later.”

Her stomach flipped deliciously.

They wandered off together like that, hands tangled, hearts a tangled mess of nerves and giddy relief, already half in love with this new reality where he was real and right there, close enough to touch.

They spent the next hour wandering through the vendor hall, which was exactly as tragic and adorable as Harry had promised.

Tiny tables crammed with stickers, enamel pins, homemade candles, nerdy T-shirts and art prints. A tired looking DJ was spinning some synthy pop in the corner, while groups of awkward twenty-somethings milled around with plastic badge holders swinging from their necks.

Harry didn’t let go of her hand once. Every time she reached for something on a table, he was right there, shoulder brushing hers, thumb stroking lazily over her knuckles.

At one booth, he picked up a truly awful little plushie — a lopsided frog wearing a tiny felt wizard hat.

“Oh my god,” she laughed. “That’s hideous.”

“That’s exactly why I want it.” He flipped the tag over, winced at the price, then smirked at her. “Actually… I think you need it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late.” He handed it to the vendor, pulled out his wallet, then shoved the hideous thing at her with a proud grin.

“Harry.” She tried to scowl but couldn’t stop smiling.

“S’for when I inevitably piss you off. You can punch his little face instead of mine.”

“You’re such a goof.”

He leaned in, brushed a quick kiss over her temple. “Yeah. Your goof, though.”

They drifted through a few more tables, Harry buying them both a cheap iced tea that tasted vaguely like metal, stopping every few feet to look at something he’d insist was “cool” even though it very much was not.

Eventually the crowd started thinning out, people heading back to their rooms or out to the parking lot. The music faded. Someone was rolling up a giant poster banner in the corner.

Harry glanced around, then at her, his thumb still brushing that same soothing line across the back of her hand.

“S’getting late, huh?”

“Yeah,” she breathed. Her heart was starting that stupid frantic beat again, the one that made it hard to get a full breath.

He gave her hand a little squeeze. “I’ll walk you up. Make sure no stray goat-dogs get you.”

She laughed, nudged his shoulder. “So thoughtful.”

They rode the elevator up in a comfortable, slightly charged silence, shoulders brushing, Harry’s free hand in his pocket. At her door, he rocked back on his heels, still holding her hand.

“Well…”

“Well,” she echoed. God, she was suddenly so nervous. Her heart felt like it was rattling against her ribs.

He lifted their joined hands, pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, then her wrist, then lower, to the inside of her palm.

“Night, trouble.”

She stood there frozen for half a second, then blurted out, “Wait.”

Harry stopped immediately, brows lifting. “Yeah?”

She bit her lip, heat crawling up her neck, then tried to laugh it off. “Do you… um. Do you maybe wanna come in? To my room? Just — I dunno. I’m not really ready for tonight to be over yet.”

His eyes went so soft she thought she might melt right there. Then he let out a quiet, slightly relieved laugh, thumb brushing her cheek.

“Fuck. I was gonna ask if you’d come back to mine, but didn’t wanna be that bloke, y’know? Didn’t want you to think I was just—”

She cut him off with a smile. “Harry. It’s me. You’re allowed to want to keep hanging out.”

His grin turned a little crooked. “Good. ‘Cause I really fuckin’ do.”

She fumbled her key card, nearly dropped it twice because her hands were shaking, and Harry just laughed quietly, resting a hand on the small of her back.

When the door finally swung open, he followed her inside, shutting it behind them with a soft click.

His hands found her waist almost immediately, pulling her close until their noses brushed.

“Hi again,” he murmured, voice low and a little breathless.

She laughed, slid her hands up his chest. “Hi.”

“Still can’t believe you’re real,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers.

“You keep saying that,” she teased, voice wobbly.

He just kissed her, slow and deep, like he was determined to prove it over and over.

They stood there for a minute by the door, still half tangled up in each other, her hands pressed flat to his chest, his breath warm on her lips.

Harry’s thumbs stroked soft little circles at her waist, his forehead resting against hers. When he pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, mouth curved in a lazy, wrecked sort of smile.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “I was trying really hard to be a gentleman.”

She bit her lip, heart stuttering. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He ducked his head, mouth brushing her jaw, then lower, nuzzling just under her ear. “Was gonna come up here, tuck you into bed all polite-like, go back to my room and die quietly.”

She let out a breathless little laugh, tilting her head to give him more room. “That sounds tragic.”

“It would’ve been,” he agreed, his mouth hot against her throat. “But now I’m here, and you’re letting me do this, and I’m absolutely fucked.”

That pulled a small, shaky sound from her chest.

She pulled back, just enough to see his face, and slid her hands up around his neck. Her thumbs brushed over the little curls at his nape, soft and sweaty from the day.

“Good,” she whispered. “I want you a little fucked up over me.”

His laugh was low, breathless, hands tightening at her hips. “That’s evil.”

She leaned up on her toes, kissed him.

It was meant to be quick. Just a soft press of her mouth to his. But the second she did it, Harry let out this quiet, desperate noise, his hands slipping lower, fingers digging into her hips to drag her closer.

The kiss went messy fast — all teeth and soft gasps, her hands sliding up into his hair, tugging at the little pink clip until it fell to the floor with a soft clatter. His hair spilled out around her fingers, wild and sweaty, and she fisted it tight, tugging just to feel him shudder.

“Christ,” he breathed against her mouth, voice cracking. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna lose it.”

“Yeah?” she whispered, lips ghosting over his jaw. “What if that’s what I want?”

Harry groaned, backed her up until her knees hit the bed. They tumbled onto it together, her on her back with Harry half on top of her, weight pressing her into the mattress in the best possible way.

His mouth was everywhere — her jaw, her neck, the little sensitive spot just under her ear that made her gasp.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, breath hot against her skin. “Look at you, all sweet and soft, lettin’ me in your room, and now you’re gonna ruin me.”

She laughed, breathless, hips arching up into his. “Maybe that’s the plan.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and a little wild, hair a mess around his face.

“Yeah?” he rasped. “Want me to lose my fuckin’ mind over you?”

She nodded, swallowed hard, then slid her hands under the hem of his shirt, pushing it up. His skin was hot under her palms, muscles jumping under her touch.

“Take it off,” she whispered.

Harry let out a rough little laugh, sat up just enough to yank the shirt over his head. He tossed it somewhere behind him, then dropped back down, hands bracing on either side of her head.

“Happy?” he teased, but his voice was wrecked.

“Yeah,” she breathed, hands splaying over his warm, bare shoulders. “Now kiss me again.”

He did. Hard.

And when she shifted under him, legs parting to let him settle between, Harry let out the filthiest little groan against her mouth, hips pressing down into hers like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck,” he gasped, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and blown. “Tell me if you want me to stop, yeah? Please. I need you to tell me.”

She smiled up at him, heart a wild, happy mess, and slid her hands back into his hair.

“I’ll tell you,” she promised, voice low. “But right now I want everything.”

Harry just stared at her for a second, like she’d just said the most perfect thing in the world. Then he dipped his head, kissed her again, and everything else fell away.

Harry kissed her like he’d been waiting a lifetime — deep and hot and almost clumsy with how badly he wanted it. His hands roamed everywhere, up under her shirt, over her sides, gripping her hips so tight it was like he thought she might slip away.

But then she did something that had his breath stalling out completely. She pushed at his shoulder, gentle at first, then more insistent.

“Lay back,” she whispered.

His eyes flew open, dark and wide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, biting her lip, sliding her hands down his chest. “Want you under me.”

Harry let out this absolutely wrecked little laugh, voice cracking as he flopped back onto the pillows. “Jesus Christ. Gonna be the death of me, trouble.”

She swung a leg over him, settling her knees on either side of his hips. The second her weight sank down, Harry’s head tipped back, a groan ripping out of him. His hands immediately found her thighs, squeezing, thumbs stroking up to the crease of her hips.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breath shallow. “Look at you. You’re gonna make me embarrass myself.”

She leaned over him, bracing her hands on either side of his head, her hair slipping down to brush his cheeks. “That’s the point.”

“Oh, you’re evil,” he breathed, voice breaking on a laugh.

Then she started to move. Just a slow, testing roll of her hips, grinding down into him. The sound that tore out of Harry’s throat was obscene, his fingers digging into her thighs like he might bruise them.

“Trouble—” he gasped. “Fuck, don’t stop, please—”

She kept moving, finding a rhythm that had her own breath coming short and hot. The friction was maddening, sending little sparks dancing up her spine.

Then she dipped lower, mouth brushing his ear.

“You’re so easy for me,” she whispered, biting down gently on his earlobe.

Harry actually whimpered. His hips jerked up into hers, hands sliding to her ass to press her down harder.

“Oh my god,” he choked, breath hot and ragged. “Say that again.”

She just smiled, breathless, and pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses down his neck. Her teeth scraped lightly at the tender skin there, then bit down just enough to make him gasp.

“Mine,” she whispered against his throat. “You’re mine, Harry.”

“Fuck, fuck—” His hands were everywhere now, greedy and frantic, sliding under her shirt, over her back, trying to pull her even closer. His neck arched under her mouth, giving her more room, a helpless offering.

“Say it,” she breathed, nipping lower.

“Yours,” he groaned. “All yours, fuck, been yours since the first voice note you sent me, I’m done—”

She rocked her hips again, harder, and he nearly bucked off the bed. His hands clenched on her hips so tight she’d probably have marks.

“You’re so pretty like this,” she whispered against his throat, sucking another mark into his skin. “So desperate for me.”

Harry’s eyes squeezed shut, a wrecked little smile breaking across his face. “You have no fuckin’ clue, trouble. Absolutely no clue.”

She laughed, soft and breathless, then captured his mouth in another hungry kiss, her hips still moving, chasing that perfect, maddening friction.

And Harry just let her — let her take everything she wanted, moaning into her mouth, hands trembling where they gripped her.

Harry’s hands were shaking where they gripped her hips, thumbs digging into her skin like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. She kept rolling her hips over him, slow and teasing, her mouth pressed to his neck, feeling every helpless groan vibrate under her lips.

Then suddenly his hands tightened, and he growled out a breathless, “Alright, that’s enough.”

Before she could even process it, he was flipping them over, pressing her into the mattress with a low, wrecked laugh.

“Hey!” she squealed, giggling breathlessly, hands flying up to his shoulders.

Harry just smirked down at her, hair falling around his face, eyes dark and hungry but lit with that same playful glint that had made her fall for him from the start.

“What happened to being my good boy?” she teased, trying to sound cocky even though her voice was wobbly.

Harry leaned down, his mouth brushing hers, voice dropping to this low, sinful rumble that made her toes curl.

“Still your good boy,” he breathed, kissing the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then right below her ear so she shivered. “But turns out your good boy’s fucking starving.”

Her breath hitched. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoed mockingly, biting her earlobe just enough to make her gasp. “What, didn’t think I was gonna let you have all the fun, did you?”

Then his mouth was at her throat, kissing and nipping down the column of her neck, hands sliding under her shirt. He pushed it up, impatient, until she lifted her arms so he could yank it over her head.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasped, leaning back just long enough to drink her in. His eyes were so dark it made her stomach swoop. “Been dreaming about this for months, trouble. Ruined me before I even had the chance to touch you.”

“Yeah?” she whispered, arching a little under him, needing more of him everywhere.

“Oh, yeah.” His hands slid down her sides, hooking into the waistband of her shorts. “Now be a good girl and lift your hips for me.”

She did, breath catching as he peeled them down slow, his eyes locked on hers the whole time. When he got them past her thighs, he dropped a soft kiss to the inside of her knee that made her whimper.

Harry just smirked. “What, already needy for me? Haven’t even started yet.”

“Harry—”

But he cut her off with a slow, filthy kiss just below her belly button, then another lower, each press of his mouth sending heat pooling low in her stomach.

When he finally settled between her thighs, hands spreading them wider, she thought she might actually die.

Harry looked up at her, eyes heavy, mouth curved in that wicked, lazy grin.

“Gonna make you forget your own name,” he murmured, voice so rough it was almost a growl. “Then remind you it’s mine you’ll be screaming.”

Then he lowered his head, and everything went molten.

Harry’s breath was hot against her inner thigh, and the second his mouth finally landed on her, she made a sound she didn’t even recognize — high and broken, her back arching clean off the bed.

“Fuck, there she is,” Harry groaned, voice dark and awed, like he’d just discovered treasure. He licked a slow stripe up her slit that had her thighs trying to snap closed around his head, but his hands were there, big and strong, spreading her right back open. “Nah. Don’t you dare hide from me now.”

“Harry—”

“Mm?” He pressed a filthy open-mouthed kiss right over her clit, then sucked, gentle at first, then harder when she whimpered. “What’s that, trouble? Can’t hear you.”

“Fucking— you’re such an— oh my god—”

He laughed against her, the vibration shooting through her entire body. “That’s it. Talk to me. Want to hear every desperate little noise you’ve been keeping from me.”

Then he went right back to it — slow at first, dragging his tongue in lazy circles that had her hips chasing after him, then faster, teasing patterns that made her whine. He sucked her clit into his mouth and let it pop free, then did it again, until she was clutching at the sheets like a lifeline.

“Please,” she gasped, voice wrecked. “Harry, please—”

“Please what?” he growled, pulling back just enough to look at her. His mouth was wet, his jaw shining with her slick, and he looked absolutely feral. “Gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart. I’m a bit slow on the uptake.”

She made a desperate little noise, hands flying down to his hair, gripping tight. “Please, just — don’t stop. Need your mouth, please.”

“Oh, fuck me, that’s pretty.” He dove right back in, groaning low when she tugged hard at his hair. His tongue worked her in deep, filthy strokes, then moved up to suck at her clit again, flicking just the tip of it until her thighs started to tremble.

Her hips stuttered against his mouth, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. “Harry— I’m gonna— oh my god—”

“Yeah?” He didn’t stop for even a second, words muffled against her. “Give it to me then, trouble. Come on my fuckin’ mouth.”

She broke with a soft sob, everything going tight and bright and shattering. Her hips rolled helplessly, grinding against his tongue, and Harry just moaned, holding her down, lapping her through it like he was starved.

When she finally slumped back against the mattress, shaking and spent, he pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, a lazy, wicked smile tugging at his lips.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasped, crawling up over her until they were nose to nose. “You’re a mess. Pretty little thing, all ruined for me.”

She let out a breathless, delirious laugh. “You’re the worst. The actual worst.”

He grinned, leaned in to press a slow, dirty kiss to her mouth — letting her taste exactly what he’d just done.

“Yeah,” he whispered against her lips. “But you love it.”

Her answering moan was all the proof he needed.

Harry pulled back just far enough to look at her, eyes heavy and dark, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His hands were everywhere — smoothing down her sides, gripping her thighs, then sliding up to cradle her face like he needed to hold her steady for what he was about to say.

“Need you,” he rasped, voice all gravel and desperation. “Need to be inside you right fuckin’ now or I’m gonna lose it.”

Her stomach swooped, heat pooling deep and low. She couldn’t help the soft, eager sound that broke from her chest. “Then do it. Please.”

Harry groaned, crashing his mouth back to hers in a rough, breathless kiss that had her head spinning. His hands moved between them, fumbling with his jeans. When he finally shoved them down along with his briefs, he sighed like it physically hurt to be kept from her even that long.

“Look at you,” he breathed, sliding a hand down to guide himself, dragging the head of his cock through her slick folds until they were both trembling. “All wet for me already. Fuckin’ hell, trouble.”

“Harry—” Her voice cracked on his name, needy and wrecked, and that seemed to break the last of his control.

He pressed in slow, pushing inside inch by inch. Her mouth dropped open on a strangled little gasp, hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders. Harry let out a deep, shuddering groan, forehead dropping to hers.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, hips stuttering forward. “You’re so fuckin’ tight — like you were made for me, swear to god.”

She could barely breathe, legs wrapping around his hips instinctively, trying to pull him even deeper. “Harry, please— move—”

“Yeah, baby, I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low and rough, brushing his nose against hers. Then he pulled out nearly all the way and slammed back in, hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.

Her moan was sharp, desperate, nails digging into his back. Harry grinned, breathless and cocky. “There she is. C’mon, let me hear you.”

Then he set a rhythm — slow at first, rolling his hips into hers like he wanted to savor every second, then faster, rougher, every thrust sending a shockwave of pleasure through her that had her clinging to him helplessly.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he panted against her mouth. “Can’t believe I’ve been waiting months for this. Months— thinkin’ about you, your voice, your laugh— didn’t even know what you looked like and I was already gone.”

“Harry,” she gasped, her body twisting under his, chasing each thrust. “Fuck— don’t stop—”

“Not stoppin’. Never fuckin’ stopping,” he growled. His hands slid under her ass, lifting her just enough so he could angle deeper. When he thrust again, she cried out, head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut.

“That’s it,” he rasped, fucking into her harder now, their bodies slamming together with slick, obscene sounds. “Good girl. Take it for me.”

“Feels so— god, you feel so good—”

“Yeah? This what you wanted?” His mouth found her neck, biting down just enough to make her keen. “Wanted me to ruin you, yeah?”

“Yes— yes, please, Harry, I’m so close—”

“Fuck, I can feel you,” he groaned, hips snapping faster. “Come for me, trouble. Wanna feel you squeeze me.”

It only took a few more thrusts before she broke, coming with a sharp cry, nails digging into his shoulders. Her whole body tensed, then went loose and trembling under him. Harry let out a wrecked moan, burying his face in her neck as he followed her over the edge, hips jerking erratically until he spilled inside her.

They stayed tangled up like that, gasping into each other’s skin, his weight heavy and perfect on top of her. His hand stroked her hair, thumb brushing her cheek, grounding them both.

When he finally pulled back to look at her, his grin was lazy and stupidly soft.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough. “Knew you’d wreck me.”

She laughed, weak and breathless, pulling him down into a messy kiss.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because you absolutely ruined me too.”

Harry stayed right there, heavy and warm on top of her, breathing hard against her neck. It should have felt smothering, but it didn’t. It felt perfect — grounding and real, his heartbeat still thundering under her palm where she pressed it flat to his chest.

After a minute, he lifted his head, eyes soft and dazed. His hair was a total disaster, curls sticking up in every direction, still damp at the roots. She reached up and brushed a stray lock off his forehead, and he gave her this small, sappy smile that made her stomach flip all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough, thumb stroking under her jaw.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Better than okay.”

He leaned in and kissed her — slow, gentle, nothing like how frantic he’d been a few minutes ago. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers and let out a quiet laugh.

“What?” she breathed.

“Just…” His grin went a little crooked. “Dunno how I’m supposed to go back to my sad little flat after this. S’not fair.”

“You’ll survive,” she teased, even though her chest squeezed painfully at the thought of him leaving.

“Doubt it. Gonna be pathetic without you there to torment me.”

She laughed, pushing at his shoulder. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Oh, absolutely.” He pulled out slowly, careful and sweet, then dropped another soft kiss on her mouth before rolling off to the side. He flopped down next to her, arm immediately hooking around her waist to tug her into his side.

They lay like that for a minute, catching their breath. Then Harry huffed out another soft laugh.

“What now?” she groaned, nuzzling her face into his shoulder.

“Just thinking how smug you’re gonna be about this. Won’t be able to get your head through a door after tonight.”

“Oh, please. I’m the smug one?” She lifted her head to look at him, arching a brow. “Pretty sure you were the one talking about how you were gonna make me forget my name.”

Harry grinned, completely unrepentant. “Didn’t I, though?”

She smacked his chest lightly. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but you like it.” He pulled her tighter, kissing her hair.

They lay there in a comfortable tangle of limbs, skin still sticky, hearts finally slowing down. Harry’s hand traced lazy patterns up and down her back, then settled low on her waist, thumb brushing soothing circles.

“Can I stay the night?” he murmured after a while, voice small in a way that made her heart squeeze.

“Of course you can,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. “I was hoping you would.”

“Good,” he breathed, then shifted to press her closer. “Need you here. S’like my body’s already addicted.”

She laughed, warm all over. “You’re a sap.”

“You’re gonna keep saying that, but I’m not embarrassed.” He nuzzled her nose with his, eyes crinkling. “Best fuckin’ decision I ever made, driving down here. Even if you did ruin me.”

“You like being ruined.”

“Oh, fully. Hopeless for it.”

She kissed him again, sweet and lingering, then tucked her head under his chin.

“Harry?”

“Yeah, trouble?”

“Don’t let this be a one weekend thing.”

His arms tightened around her. “Not a chance in hell.”

Two years later, and Y/N still couldn’t quite believe how her life had turned out.

It was ridiculous, really — all because she’d been bored and lonely one night, scrolling TikTok with her brain half-melted from work, and stumbled across a scruffy British boy in a pink hair clip rambling about cereal.

Now that same boy was asleep on her couch most nights, leaving half-empty tea mugs everywhere, hogging the blankets, stealing kisses in the kitchen while she was trying to cook.

Harry had moved to her city after six months of painfully sweet long weekends and gut-wrenching goodbyes at airports. “Not doin’ this anymore,” he’d grumbled against her mouth one night, hands cupping her face like she was something breakable. “Want to wake up next to you every bloody day.”

So he did.

They settled into something warm and chaotic — nights in with cheap wine and takeout, quiet mornings tangled up in bed, little trips to bookstores where he’d follow her around with a lazy arm hooked around her waist.

And somehow two years flew by.

They were on a weekend trip up north, renting a tiny cabin that looked out over a stretch of mossy woods. It was chilly, the sky low and gray, everything damp with the smell of pine and earth. Y/N was bundled in one of Harry’s sweaters, hands shoved in her pockets, while he fussed around trying to start a little bonfire.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” she teased, arching a brow.

Harry shot her a look over his shoulder, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “Absolutely not. But you love me anyway, so it’s fine.”

“That’s debatable.”

He laughed, then finally got the flame going, settling back on his heels with a smug grin. “Ha. Ye of little faith.”

She rolled her eyes, sinking down onto the threadbare blanket he’d spread on the ground. The fire crackled softly, little bursts of orange against the dreary afternoon.

Harry dropped down next to her, pulling her immediately between his legs so her back pressed to his chest. His chin hooked over her shoulder, arms warm and heavy around her middle.

They sat like that for a while, quiet, just listening to the fire and the distant birds.

Then she felt him shift, heart thundering against her back in this weird, frantic rhythm.

“Alright, trouble,” he murmured, voice suddenly rough. “Got a question for you.”

She twisted a little to look at him. “Yeah? Why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

“Because I might,” he breathed, and when he pulled back she realized his hands were shaking.

Then he was fumbling in his pocket, pulling out this small, velvet box.

Y/N’s breath completely stopped.

“Harry—”

“Hang on, let me do it before I black out, yeah?” he rasped, popping the box open. Inside was a delicate ring, simple and perfect. Her eyes stung instantly.

Harry laughed, watery, eyes so bright. “Look, I know you’re a menace. You drive me absolutely mad. You steal the covers and use my toothbrush sometimes and leave your hair all over the flat. But I can’t — I don’t want — to do any of this without you. Ever again.”

She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Harry—”

“Love.” His grin was crooked, voice breaking. “Will you marry me?”

She nodded so hard it hurt, a laugh bubbling out through her tears. “Yes. Yes, obviously, you goof.”

Harry let out this wrecked little noise, then was pulling her into his lap, hugging her so tight the ring box squished between them.

When he finally pulled back to slip the ring onto her shaking finger, his own hands were trembling so badly it took two tries.

“Told you you’d ruin me,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers.

She laughed through a sob. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I fuckin’ love you.”

Then he kissed her — slow and sweet and a little salty from both their tears — while the fire crackled on beside them, the sky hanging low and gray overhead, and everything else fell perfectly, irrevocably into place.

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 1 month ago

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Loved your latest one shot!

Thank you!

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 1 month ago

Text

It Was Enchanting to Meet You

✨ summary: where y/n is on a girls trip and meets a man who belongs to the sea.

📝 word count: 11K

⚠️ content warning: mentions of alcohol

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The winding coastal road dipped and curved like a ribbon caught in the breeze, cutting through lemon groves and clusters of peach-colored houses. Y/N leaned her head against the window, eyes half-lidded, watching the glittering line where the sea met the sky. She could already taste the salt in the air, sticky on her lips.

“Okay, I call the room with the terrace,” someone announced from the backseat. It was probably Mia—loud, determined, already half-drunk from the mini bottles they’d smuggled onto the flight.

“You can’t call it before we even see it,” Y/N mumbled, but not loud enough to start a real argument. She was too tired for that.

They’d been planning this trip for months. A last-hurrah kind of thing. Or maybe a break from real life before the next chapter started—jobs, moves, breakups that hadn’t happened yet but probably would. A group of five, crammed into a rented van, their suitcases piled like Jenga blocks in the back.

When they pulled into the little town, it looked like a postcard: crumbling stone walls wrapped in vines, laundry fluttering between windows, the sea stretching out in every direction like a secret waiting to be told.

The villa was even better than the pictures. Sun-bleached and crooked, with arched windows and a path that led straight down to the rocks.

They spilled out onto the patio like kids let out of school.

“Okay, we need spritzes immediately,” said Jess, her sunglasses already pushed up into her hair.

Y/N smiled, but there was a thread of something pulling tight in her chest. That quiet, off-balance feeling. She chalked it up to jet lag.

Still, as her friends laughed and clinked glasses, she couldn’t stop staring at the water.

It looked too perfect. Like it knew something she didn’t.

The club pulsed with music so loud it felt like it was coming from inside her own chest. Colored lights flared overhead, cutting across the haze of bodies that moved together in a kind of careless rhythm. Someone handed Y/N a drink—maybe it was Mia, maybe it was someone they’d just met—and she took it without really thinking, the condensation slick against her fingers.

She had been dancing earlier. Laughing too. Letting herself get pulled into the swarm of heat and perfume and music. But now, sometime past midnight, something had shifted. Her limbs felt heavier. Her smile wasn’t coming as easily. The air inside the club had gone from electric to cloying, like all the oxygen had been used up.

Y/N leaned into Jess’s ear. “I think I’m gonna head back.”

Jess looked over her shoulder, mascara smudged just a little beneath one eye. “Already?”

“I’m just tired,” Y/N said with a small shrug. “I’ll see you back at the room?”

They exchanged a quick hug, followed by a round of half-sincere protests and cheek kisses from the others. No one seemed too bothered. They were deep in the glow of the night, tangled in stories they would half-forget by morning.

Outside, the air hit her like a blessing. It was cooler than she expected, the breeze coming off the water sharp enough to wake her up a little. The town was quieter now. Still, but not empty. She could hear laughter from somewhere down a side street, the low hum of scooters passing by in the distance, the clink of dishes being washed in someone’s open window.

Her heels clicked against the cobblestones as she walked, one hand lightly dragging along the old stucco walls. She should have gone straight back. She knew that. She had her key in her pocket and the villa was just a few turns away. Instead, her feet took her in the opposite direction—down a narrow path she vaguely remembered from earlier that week.

It led toward the water.

She told herself she just wanted to see the ocean. Just for a minute. She didn’t even take her shoes off at first, just stood there at the edge of the rocks with the wind threading through her hair. The moon was high and swollen, and the sea looked almost glassy beneath it. It was the kind of beautiful that made your heart feel too big for your chest.

She stepped out of her heels and left them neatly beside her. Her feet were bare against the cool stone as she picked her way down toward the flat shelf closest to the waterline. It wasn’t smart. She was a little tipsy, and the rocks were slick in places, but she moved carefully and kept her balance.

The sea moved in gentle laps below her, whispering things she couldn’t quite make out. She sat down, tucking her knees to her chest. Her dress slid around her thighs, light and wrinkled from the heat of the club. Her skin was still damp from dancing, and the breeze made her shiver.

For a long time, she didn’t think at all. She just breathed. Watched the stars. Let the stillness wrap around her like a secret.

And then she heard it. The soft ripple of water that wasn’t from the tide. A hush. A shift.

She turned her head slowly.

There, just a few meters out, was someone in the water.

At first, she thought she was imagining him. A shadowy figure half-submerged, reclining like the sea itself was a hammock. The moonlight caught his shoulders, slick and sculpted, and the faint curve of a smile on lips she could barely see.

He didn’t say anything. Just floated there, watching her.

Y/N blinked. “You’re real, right?”

The stranger gave a soft laugh. His voice was low, smooth, unmistakably British. “Suppose that depends on how much you’ve had to drink.”

She tilted her head. “Swimming this late?”

“Could ask you the same, love. Not exactly the safest time to be wanderin’ round out ‘ere.”

Her lips curved slightly. “I needed air. Too many people back there.”

“Mm. Know the feelin’.” His tone was easy. Warm, even. “Too many people everywhere, sometimes.”

The sea lapped quietly between them.

“I’m Y/N,” she said after a pause.

He smiled again. “Pleasure. Proper lovely name, that.”

He didn’t give his own. Not yet. She didn’t ask.

And somehow, that felt right.

Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could see him more clearly.

His hair was dark and pushed back from his face, glinting wet beneath the moonlight. Drops of water slid lazily down his neck, catching against the lines of a tattoo on his collarbone. From this distance she couldn’t make it out, but there were more—one just under his shoulder, another curling along the top of his bicep. Ink that looked like it had always been there. Like it belonged.

His eyes—when she really looked at them—were green. Not the muddy kind. Bright, clean, sea-glass green. They sparkled, which sounded like a cliché, but there was no other word for it.

He was beautiful. That was the only word that fit.

They stayed like that for a moment, quiet but not awkward, just letting the air sit between them.

“So,” he said eventually, voice low and lilting. “How long you in town for?”

“A week,” she said. “We got here a couple days ago. I’m here with friends.”

“Ah. Bit of a girls’ holiday?”

“Something like that.” She rested her chin on her knee, watching the way his fingers skimmed lightly through the water. “What about you? Are you from here?”

He smiled like it was a joke she didn’t get. “Sort of.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not really an answer.”

“S’alright,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “Most people aren’t lookin’ for proper answers anyway.”

“I might be,” she said.

That made him glance up at her again, a little more directly this time. “You always wander off from your friends in the middle of the night?”

“No,” she said, smiling despite herself. “Just felt like the water was calling me.”

“That happens, yeah.” His tone softened. “Sea’s good at that. Pulls you in before you even realise.”

“I’m from New York,” she offered, folding her arms loosely over her knees. “So this isn’t exactly… normal for me. Ocean that glows under the moon. Air that smells like lemons. Mysterious guys floating in the water.”

He chuckled. “Suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

They went quiet again. Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was no rush to say it. The waves brushed against the rocks with a hush-hush rhythm, and a soft wind lifted her hair off her shoulders.

“What do you do here?” she asked. “You live nearby?”

“Something like that,” he said again. His voice dipped a little lower, like the truth was balanced on the edge of his tongue. “Don’t really live the way most people do. I just… stay close.”

“Close to what?”

His smile returned, lazy and unreadable. “The sea.”

She nodded slowly. “You make it sound like a choice.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just looked at her for a moment, like he was trying to decide something.

Then he said, “What’s your hotel called?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Just wonderin’ if it’s near enough that you’ll come back.” His expression didn’t change, but his voice grew quieter. “Wouldn’t mind talkin’ again. S’not every day someone actually sees me.”

The way he said it sent a little chill up her spine.

“I’m staying in a villa up the hill,” she said. “With the orange shutters.”

“I know the one,” he murmured. “Come back tomorrow. If you want.”

She hesitated, just for a second. “You’ll be here?”

“’Course,” he said. “Where else would I be?”

The villa door creaked open around three in the morning.

Y/N was already in bed, though she hadn’t even tried to sleep. She lay on her side in the dark, sheets tangled around her legs, staring out through the slatted window where the moonlight still poured in, soft and silver.

She could hear the girls laughing even before they made it up the stairs—heels clacking, voices hushed but too loud anyway. A chorus of whispered swearing and giggles.

When the bedroom door eased open, Mia tiptoed in with all the subtlety of a marching band.

“You’re awake,” Jess whispered, even though she was already pulling off her earrings and tossing them into a little dish on the nightstand.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Y/N said quietly, not moving from her spot. Her voice still felt distant in her throat.

They smelled like perfume and wine and something citrusy, like the bar had rubbed off on them.

“Babe,” Mia said, crawling onto the edge of her bed, “you left the club so early. What did you even do?”

Y/N hesitated. The words felt a little surreal now that she was back in the warmth of her sheets, with her friends laughing about shots and bad dancing. The moment down by the rocks felt like it belonged in a dream.

But she said it anyway.

“I met someone.”

There was a beat of silence. Then a sharp gasp. Then a flurry of movement as every girl in the room turned toward her like she’d just dropped a firework in the bed.

“You what?” Jess practically screeched, trying not to trip over her dress as she crossed to sit beside her.

Y/N sat up slowly. “Down by the water. He was just… there. In the ocean. We talked for a while.”

“In the ocean?” Mia blinked. “Like, swimming?”

“Yeah. Just sort of… floating. Watching the stars.” She shook her head a little, still not sure how to explain it. “He was really—he was something.”

“Oh my God, you can have a hot Italian hookup without even trying,” said Liv, flopping into the armchair with dramatic flair. “This is what I said would happen.”

“He had a British accent,” Y/N corrected, lips curling faintly.

Even that sounded unreal now. Like something out of a movie.

“That’s even better,” Jess said, nudging her with one elbow. “What’s his name?”

Y/N blinked. Her smile faded just a little. “I… never got it.”

“You didn’t get his name?” Mia flopped backward onto the bed like she couldn’t believe it.

“I was kind of distracted, alright?” Y/N said, laughing softly. “It didn’t come up.”

“He could be a Prince Harry type for all you know.”

“Maybe he’s famous,” Liv offered. “Or, like, a mysterious millionaire hiding from the public eye. A tortured soul who swims at night and writes poetry.”

“I think he just likes the ocean,” Y/N said. “He asked me to come back.”

“Oh you have to,” Jess said, no hesitation. “That’s fate. That’s, like, beach magic.”

“Summer romance,” Mia added with a dreamy sigh. “Follow it through. What if this is your Italian love story?”

“I told you,” Liv said smugly, pointing at her. “I said this trip would be your origin story.”

Y/N laughed again, but it faded quickly. Her heart still beat too loudly. Her hands were cold beneath the blankets.

She didn’t tell them how strange it had felt. How unreal. How she’d walked back barefoot through the sleeping town like she wasn’t even quite on the ground.

She didn’t tell them that when he smiled, it had made the air taste different.

She only said, “Yeah. Maybe I’ll go back.”

Even though she already knew she would.

The morning sun poured through the windows of the café, catching on the glasses of orange juice and the rim of Y/N’s coffee cup. The girls had picked a spot just off the main piazza—someplace with striped umbrellas and little potted herbs on the table. The kind of place that made everything feel like it could be part of a movie montage.

She stirred her cappuccino with the tip of her spoon, not really listening to the conversation. Across from her, Jess was flipping through a rack of postcards she’d picked up from the counter. Mia had already started bargaining with the waiter about the price of extra toast.

Y/N blinked slowly, sunlight warm on her shoulders.

“So…” Liv’s voice pulled her back. “Are you going?”

Y/N looked up. “Going?”

“Back to the water,” Jess added. “To find your mystery man.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said, sipping her coffee.

Mia snorted. “Liar. You’ve been staring at nothing since we sat down.”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’re enchanted,” Liv said, wiggling her fingers in the air like she was casting a spell. “Admit it.”

Y/N shrugged, trying not to smile. “It was just a conversation.”

“An ocean conversation,” Jess said. “With a hot stranger who came out of the sea like some kind of Greek god. Don’t undersell this.”

“You didn’t even get his name,” Mia reminded her. “That’s, like, the most romantic part.”

“Or the most suspicious,” Y/N replied, but there was no bite to it. She was still thinking about the way the moonlight had caught the curve of his cheek, the sound of his voice echoing softly over the tide.

“So what’s the plan?” Liv asked. “You gonna dress cute and walk barefoot into the sea again?”

“I was tipsy. It wasn’t a plan.”

“Tonight, it can be,” Mia said, already reaching for her phone. “We’ll help you pick something. Something mysterious but, like, effortlessly hot.”

“Maybe he’s a fisherman,” Jess said.

“He doesn’t live in town,” Y/N murmured, mostly to herself.

“What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. He just… he said he doesn’t live the way most people do. It stuck with me.”

The table went quiet for a beat. Just the clink of cutlery and the buzz of a scooter passing in the street below.

“That’s kind of deep,” Liv said finally. “Maybe he’s like, an artist. Or a wanderer. Or some guy with too much money and not enough direction.”

“Or he lives in the sea,” Mia said, sipping her juice.

Y/N gave a soft laugh. She didn’t say what she was thinking.

The others left just after ten that night, their heels clicking across the tiled floor, perfume trailing in the air behind them. Mia paused in the doorway to blow Y/N a kiss.

“You’re making the biggest mistake,” she said. “Tonight is crawling with possibilities.”

“I’ve got mine,” Y/N replied with a small smile.

Jess gave a wink. “Text us if you get abducted by a shirtless fisherman.”

And then they were gone, their laughter echoing down the street, fading into the pulse of music and lights that wrapped around the coast like ribbon.

The villa was suddenly quiet.

Y/N stood in front of the mirror, towel around her hair, skin still warm from her shower. She moved slowly, not rushed, but deliberate. She pulled on a soft linen dress—simple, easy to slip off if she ended up near the water again. She left her shoes by the door. A cardigan hung loosely around her elbows as she stepped out into the warm night air.

The walk down to the rocks felt different this time.

The path was familiar now. She didn’t hesitate at the turns. Didn’t check her phone for directions. The town was asleep around her, shutters drawn, windows glowing soft with lamplight. It smelled like salt and citrus and old stone warmed by the day.

When she reached the shoreline, she paused. The moon was thinner tonight, a quiet sliver above her, and the water was darker without it.

She stepped carefully down to the flat shelf of rock and sat, legs tucked beneath her, dress fluttering slightly in the breeze. The sea moved lazily below her, the kind of calm that felt rehearsed. She scanned the surface, eyes straining against the dark.

Nothing.

Her hands fidgeted in her lap. The air was warm, but her fingers were cold.

She waited. For five minutes. Then ten.

Still nothing.

She told herself she’d only stay a little longer. That maybe he wasn’t real. Or maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe he’d been a passing moment, like a dream too good to be true.

She stood, brushing off the back of her dress, preparing to leave.

And then she heard it.

Water shifting. The soft shhhh of something surfacing.

“Thought you weren’t comin’,” a voice said behind her.

She turned.

He was there.

Resting against a low rock just off the shore, arms folded over the edge like he’d been waiting too. His hair was wet again, curling around his temples. The same tattoos danced along his collarbone, lit faintly by the low glow of the stars. His eyes met hers, sharp and unreadable, and his mouth lifted into a soft, crooked smile.

“I almost left,” she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice was too breathless.

“Glad you didn’t,” he murmured. “Would’ve been a bit tragic, wouldn’t it? Me, talkin’ to the sea all night.”

She stepped closer to the edge, her heart thudding hard enough to feel it in her throat. “I didn’t know if you’d be here.”

“Didn’t know if you would, either.”

They stared at each other for a moment, the silence thick but not uncomfortable.

“You look different,” he said, tilting his head. “New dress?”

She smiled. “You remembered what I wore?”

“’Course I did.” His voice softened. “Hard not to notice someone sittin’ at the edge of your world.”

She took a few steps closer, the breeze tugging at her hem. The rock shelf sloped down slightly toward the sea, and she stopped just before her toes would’ve touched the water. He didn’t move. Just watched her, eyes reflecting the shimmer of the waves like glass.

“You’re always here,” she said after a moment. “Every night. In the same spot.”

“S’cause I like it,” he replied, voice smooth and unhurried. “It’s quiet. People don’t tend to wander down here unless they’ve got somethin’ on their mind.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

His smile flickered, like a secret tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Somethin’ like that.”

She sat again, this time facing him, her feet just inches from the water’s edge. “You never did tell me where you’re from.”

He tilted his head. “And you never did ask my name.”

Her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t want to ruin it. You know. The mystery.”

“ S’ Harry,” he said quietly.

She blinked. “Harry?”

“Yeah.” He grinned a little. “Not quite as dramatic as you’d imagined, huh?”

“Honestly? I was betting on something Greek and tragic.”

He chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“You didn’t.” She said it too quickly, and then laughed. “I mean—you haven’t.”

They let the silence stretch again. The waves lapped gently at the rocks. Her dress fluttered softly against her legs. Somewhere up the hill, music played faintly—muffled bass and laughter drifting down from the clubs.

“What about you?” he asked. “You always sit out here alone in the middle of the night? Or is this a new hobby?”

She looked out at the water. “I guess I just like the quiet, too. Everything back there is always so loud. Like I’m supposed to be having the best time of my life, every second, or I’m doing something wrong.”

“And are you?”

“What?”

“Doin’ somethin’ wrong?”

She glanced at him. He was watching her closely now, not teasing, not amused—just listening.

“No,” she said finally. “I just think… sometimes it’s nice not to perform for a minute.”

He nodded like he understood that all too well.

Y/N hesitated. She hadn’t meant to ask. Not yet. But it slipped out before she could stop it.

“Why don’t you ever get out of the water?”

The question hung there between them.

His expression didn’t change right away. But she saw something flicker behind his eyes. Something quiet and careful.

“Would it change the way you see me?” he asked, voice softer now. Almost wary.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then finally said, “Some things are easier to explain with distance. When you don’t have to look too close.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

“I want to look.”

That surprised him. She saw it in the way his mouth parted slightly, the way his body shifted just a little in the water.

“No one’s ever said that before,” he said.

“I’m not like most people,” she replied.

His smile returned—slow and full of something unspoken. “No, you’re not.”

Harry was quiet again.

Not the kind of quiet that meant he had nothing to say—but the kind that meant he was deciding something. Weighing it.

The sea moved around him, soft and steady, and the moonlight painted everything in pale silver-blue. Y/N’s heart was thudding hard, louder than the waves. She could feel something happening. Something about to change.

Then he asked, barely louder than the tide, “Can I trust you?”

She didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

His eyes searched hers for a long moment, like he was testing the truth of it.

Then he nodded once, slow. “Alright.”

He pushed back gently from the rock, gliding further into the water with almost no effort. The movement was fluid. Too fluid. There was something unnatural about the way his shoulders dipped, the way the current seemed to follow him like it knew him.

Y/N stayed still, her breath caught in her chest.

He didn’t go far. Just enough that the moon hit the water at the right angle. Enough that she could see.

A shimmer.

Not a trick of the light.

Not imagination.

His skin shifted just beneath the surface—no longer smooth, but scaled. Not like a costume. Not painted. Real. Soft iridescence that glowed faintly as he moved, like sunlight through deep water. And where his legs should’ve been, there was only the graceful arc of a long, tapered tail—sleek and powerful, the same deep green as his eyes.

She gasped, just a little. Not out of fear, but wonder.

He stilled, watching her. Waiting.

Y/N didn’t move away.

She leaned forward instead.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “You’re real.”

Harry’s voice came low across the water, rougher now, more human than ever. “Told you I don’t live like most people.”

She let out a shaky breath. “You weren’t kidding, you do live different.”

He smiled, just barely. “No one ever believes it ‘til they see.”

“I believe it.”

He tilted his head. “You scared?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Good,” he said. “Didn’t want to disappear just yet.”

“You can do that?”

“If I want to,” he said. “It’s easy, when no one’s lookin’. That’s the trick, isn’t it? Keep to the shadows. Don’t let ‘em see too much.”

“But you let me,” she said.

His eyes met hers. “Yeah. I did.”

And then, as if the moment were fragile, he slipped beneath the surface for just a second—scales vanishing, ripples blooming outward—and when he rose again, only his shoulders and head were visible. Just like before. Like it had never happened.

But she knew.

And she didn’t look away.

Y/N didn’t speak for a long moment.

She couldn’t. Her breath felt caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat, as though the air itself didn’t know what to do. The water between them moved slowly, curling in small, glassy waves. Harry was still, half-submerged, watching her with a softness that made her chest ache.

She leaned forward slightly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Can I touch you?”

His expression didn’t change at first. But his eyes brightened in the moonlight, and after a quiet beat, he nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said gently. “’Course you can.”

She moved slowly, sliding forward to the edge of the rocks, her knees grazing the rough stone. The hem of her dress lifted slightly with the breeze, but she barely noticed. Her focus was locked on him—on the space between them. On the surface of the water that rippled like silk.

She reached out.

Her hand hovered for a moment, uncertain.

Then she touched him—just beneath the water, fingertips brushing the place where skin gave way to something else. It was warm. Warmer than she expected. Smooth, almost like polished stone, but alive. The scales shimmered beneath her touch, soft and iridescent, shifting in color as he breathed.

Her fingers moved lightly, tracing a small curve near where his hip would’ve been.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, he let out a breath—quiet, but real. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like her touch grounded him somehow.

“You’re not cold,” she said quietly.

“‘S the water,” he replied. “Keeps me steady. But your hand… feels different.”

“Different good?”

He smiled. “Yeah. Like I’m not just a thing someone imagined.”

She kept her hand there a moment longer, her thumb brushing gently across the delicate pattern of his skin.

Then, slowly, she let it drift back, her palm settling on the warm stone beside her.

“I don’t know what I thought you’d feel like,” she said. “But it wasn’t that.”

“What’d you expect? Slime?”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “Something less human.”

“Not all that different, really,” he murmured. “Underneath it all.”

Their eyes met again. The space between them felt smaller now. Closer. Charged.

“I’ve never shown anyone before,” he said softly. “No one’s seen me like that.”

“I’m glad you did,” she said.

And she meant it. Every word.

They sat in silence for a while, the hush of the ocean filling the space between them like breath.

Y/N’s fingers toyed with the edge of her dress where it draped over her knee, still damp from the sea spray. She glanced at him—not just at his face this time, but at everything. The curve of his shoulders, the small twitch of his jaw when he was thinking, the way the water moved around him like it belonged to him.

She wet her lips, hesitating. Then asked, gently, “Were you born like this?”

His gaze didn’t shift, but something in him stilled.

“No,” he said quietly.

She looked at him, waiting.

He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on a spot just beyond her. “Somethin’ happened.”

Her voice was softer now. “What happened?”

He dragged a hand through his wet hair, letting the water drip slowly back into the sea.

“It’s a long story,” he said, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell it. But then, almost to himself, he added, “But I don’t want to lie to you.”

She stayed quiet, giving him space.

He looked at her again. “Few years ago, I went swimmin’ off the coast. Nothin’ wild. Just a dive, y’know? I’ve always liked the water. Used to surf, snorkel… I grew up near it. Thought I knew it.”

She nodded.

“Got caught in a current I didn’t see comin’. Got dragged way off course. Thought I was gonna drown.” He paused. “But I didn’t. Someone—or somethin’—found me. Pulled me under instead of up.”

Y/N’s brows furrowed, her breath caught. “What do you mean?”

“They didn’t kill me,” he said simply. “They… changed me.”

His voice cracked just slightly on the word.

“When I woke up, I wasn’t the same. Couldn’t breathe right unless I was in the water. Couldn’t walk properly on land anymore. And this—” he gestured toward where his body disappeared beneath the waves “—this didn’t come all at once. It started slow. Bit by bit.”

Y/N stared at him, stunned. Not afraid. Just quiet. The way you go quiet when someone tells you something too important to interrupt.

“Don’t know why they chose me,” he said. “Sometimes I think I wasn’t meant to survive it. Like maybe I wasn’t supposed to come back at all. And this… this is just what was left.”

She swallowed. “You did come back.”

He gave her a tired smile. “Sort of.”

“You’re still you.”

“Maybe.” He looked down at the water. “But I’m not who I used to be.”

Y/N reached out again—this time not to touch the strange, shimmering part of him, but his arm. His shoulder. Warm and solid and real beneath her hand.

“I don’t think you lost anything,” she said quietly. “I think you became something more.”

He looked up at her then, his eyes soft, shining faintly in the moonlight.

“Y’know,” he said, voice a little rough, “no one’s ever said that to me.”

She smiled. “Well. Someone should’ve.”

Y/N’s hand was still resting lightly on his shoulder, her fingers half-curled in the damp warmth of his skin. She wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting like this—time felt different here. Stretched out. Slow.

She tilted her head. “Do you miss it?”

His brows pulled together slightly. “Miss what?”

“Having legs. Being on land. Walking around without… you know.” She gestured vaguely at the water. “Fish stuff.”

He let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Sometimes. I mean, it’s not like I’ve forgotten what it feels like.”

She looked at him, curious. “You remember it?”

“Course I do,” he said, dragging one hand back through his hair. “Still have ‘em, actually.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Me legs,” he said. “Still there. Just—different when I’m in the water.”

Her head tilted further. “You’re saying… you can walk on land?”

He nodded. “If I’m completely dry. No water. Not even a drop.”

She stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“That’s insane.”

He smiled. “It’s a bit inconvenient, yeah. If it rains or I get splashed, it starts changin’ back. It’s not exactly subtle, either. Hurts like hell sometimes.”

Her jaw dropped. “So you’re telling me… you’re like… just like the girls from H2O: Just Add Water?”

He blinked. “What?”

She laughed, the sound breaking through the quiet like the first crack of sunlight. “It’s this ridiculous teen show from the 2000s. These Australian girls get turned into mermaids and anytime they touch water—even a sink, or like, a drink—they transform.”

Harry stared at her for a second. Then he started laughing too, the sound low and warm and surprised. “Never seen it.”

“You’re living it.”

“I’m a real-life teen drama, am I?”

She grinned. “Honestly, yeah. You’re giving very much moody sea prince with a tragic backstory.”

He smirked. “You sayin’ I’m dramatic?”

“I’m saying if you ever cry in the rain, you’re gonna grow a tail and it’ll be so embarrassing.”

He laughed again, shaking his head. “You’re mental.”

“And you’re magic,” she said, teasing, but her voice softened at the end.

They sat in the stillness that followed, her words floating between them like a dare or a promise. His smile faded, not because he was upset, but because he was looking at her in that way again—like she was something rare.

The wind had shifted slightly, cooler now, whispering across the surface of the sea like a lullaby.

Harry stretched his arms across the rock, resting his chin on them as he looked up at her. His hair had begun to dry in places, curling slightly at the edges. The shimmer of his scales had dulled just enough to blend back into the dark water.

“You should go,” he said gently. “It’s late.”

Y/N didn’t move at first. She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay perched on the edge of the rocks, watching the sea breathe in and out around him. But she knew he was right.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I should.”

She pushed herself to her feet, brushing her hands on her dress. Before she turned to leave, she looked back at him.

“Will I see you again?”

Harry smiled like it was the easiest promise in the world. “’Course. I’m just a short walk to the beach away.”

Her lips curved, and she nodded once. “Okay.”

He dipped lower into the water, resting with his chin barely above the surface. “Sleep well, love.”

She murmured a goodnight, then picked her way carefully back across the rocks, shoes in hand.

The walk through town was quiet and slow. The kind of stillness that made everything feel suspended, like the night had paused just for her. Her dress clung to her calves, damp from sea spray. Her heart was still thudding with the weight of it all—what she’d seen, what he’d said, what she still didn’t understand.

When she crept into the villa, the lights were dim, but the girls weren’t asleep.

Jess was sitting cross-legged on the bed, hair tied up and a half-eaten bag of chips beside her. Liv and Mia looked up from the other room, where they were curled up watching something on someone’s laptop.

“There she is,” Mia said, voice raised in a soft tease. “The moonlit wanderer returns.”

Jess grinned. “So? Spill.”

Y/N slipped out of her cardigan and hung it on the back of a chair. “Not much to spill.”

“Liar,” Jess said immediately.

“Okay, fine. We hung out on the beach. Talked. That’s it.”

Mia groaned. “That’s it? No mysterious kisses? No wild late-night skinny dipping?”

“Nope,” Y/N said, popping the “p” as she sat at the edge of her bed. “Just… talked.”

They all stared at her, waiting for more. But when she didn’t add anything, Jess sighed dramatically and flopped backward. “Ugh. You’re impossible.”

“Was it at least romantic?” Liv asked, more softly.

Y/N smiled to herself. Not for them. For her. For the memory that only she got to keep.

“Yeah,” she said. “It kind of was.”

They didn’t push further. Within ten minutes, the lights were off and the soft sound of sleep began to settle over the room.

But Y/N stayed awake just a little longer.

Lying still.

Listening to the distant hush of the ocean.

And wondering if, right now, he was still out there, floating beneath the stars.

The next day passed in a blur of sunshine and distraction.

They went to a market in the morning—baskets of peaches and figs and handwoven straw bags, the kind of place that smelled like sun-warmed fruit and fresh bread. The girls tried on linen dresses and wide-brimmed hats, made each other laugh over bad Italian, and spent too long deciding where to have lunch.

Y/N smiled when she was supposed to. Laughed when it made sense. But her mind was somewhere else entirely.

She kept thinking about the way his skin shimmered under the moonlight. The way he looked at her like she was something worth waiting for. The soft sound of his voice, how real it had felt when he said she could trust him.

She told herself she wasn’t watching the clock—but when golden hour hit, she already knew what she was going to do.

When the others dressed for another night out, she stayed behind again. No excuses this time. No teasing. They didn’t even ask. They were half caught in their own night, half aware of something they couldn’t name.

She waited until the house went quiet, then got up and changed.

This time, she brought a blanket with her.

The walk to the shore felt different. She wasn’t nervous. Not anymore. She just… needed to see him.

The sea was darker tonight. Still, but deep. The kind of water that seemed to hold its breath.

She stepped onto the rocks and spread the blanket across her usual spot, smoothing it with one hand before sitting down. Her legs crossed, back straight, hair pulled over one shoulder. She waited.

And he came.

Not suddenly. Not loudly. Just the quiet dip of water, the soft ripple that announced him without needing to.

Harry surfaced a few yards out, the glow of the moon catching in his eyes as he turned toward her.

“You came back,” he said, like he hadn’t been sure.

“So did you,” she replied.

He swam in closer, arms folding easily over a smooth rock just beneath the surface. His hair was wet again, curling along his forehead.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d get bored of me,” he said.

“Not likely.”

His lips curved. “You brought a blanket.”

“Thought I’d stay awhile.”

“I like that,” he murmured. “Like the idea of you waitin’.”

They fell quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty.

She watched the sea curl gently around his shoulders. He watched the way her fingers played with the edge of the blanket, like she didn’t quite know what to do with her hands.

She wanted to ask more questions.

He wanted to say more than he knew how to.

But neither of them did.

Not yet.

Instead, she asked, “Do you get tired?”

He blinked. “Tired?”

“Like… physically. Do you sleep?”

“Not the way you do,” he said. “I sort of drift. Don’t need much.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You’re always floating.”

“Always waiting,” he corrected. “For something to pull me in.”

Their eyes met across the space.

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

The tension was quiet, but it was there—thin as thread, stretched between them.

“I should bring you something next time,” she said softly.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something from up there. Just to… see you with it.”

He smiled. “You want to make me real.”

“I think you already are,” she whispered.

His expression shifted, softer now. More exposed.

“You’re not like the others,” he said.

“I know.”

They stayed there until the moon slid further up the sky and the breeze turned cool.

When she finally stood, he didn’t try to stop her.

He only said, “I’ll be here.”

And she said, “I know.”

The following night the sea was calm again. Like it was holding its breath with them.

Y/N stood barefoot at the edge of the rocks, the blanket she’d brought still folded at her side, forgotten. Her dress moved gently in the breeze, the hem brushing against her calves. She had one arm crossed over her stomach, the other hanging loose by her side. Her body was still, but there was something in her posture—something wound tight, like she was bracing herself for something she couldn’t name.

Harry floated just a few feet away, chin resting on his arms where they draped over a rock slick with seawater. He looked up at her with that same quiet focus, the kind that made everything else blur out of view.

She hadn’t said much yet.

Neither had he.

The silence between them had grown comfortable—familiar in that way only late-night conversations could be.

Then, without looking directly at him, she said quietly, “I have to go home in two days.”

The words sat heavy in the air between them. The kind of sentence that didn’t need to be explained. It already felt like goodbye.

Harry didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed on her face.

“Right,” he said eventually, his voice soft but steady. “That’s… not long.”

She nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon. The sea was endless and quiet, like it was listening too.

“Back to New York, then?”

“Yeah. Work. Life. Whatever that means now.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “I’ll miss seein’ you up there. Your little shadow comin’ down the rocks every night.”

She looked down at him. “I’ll miss you too.”

He shifted slightly in the water, pushing himself up just a bit so more of his chest rose above the surface. The moonlight caught on the curve of his shoulder, glinting off the faint lines of his tattoos.

“I’ll remember you,” he said. “Promise I will. And if you ever come back—whether it’s next year or when you’re eighty—I’ll be here.”

She swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

“That’s the thing,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to go.”

His expression flickered—just a brief crack in that calm exterior.

“I know,” he said. “But you’ve got a life up there. And I’ve got this.”

“I know.”

Her hands curled slightly at her sides.

“But when I’m with you,” she said, “it feels like maybe… that other life doesn’t have to be everything. Like there’s something else waiting. Something quieter.”

Harry didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her, really looked, like he was memorizing her face.

And then he said, gently, “Then maybe you don’t have to go.”

Her heart stopped.

She looked at him, startled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… what if you stayed?”

Y/N stood above him, arms crossed over her chest, her weight shifting slightly as the wind came in off the water. She didn’t know why it felt so hard to say, but the words pressed at her until she finally let them out.

“Would you ever come on land?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on hers, steady and unflinching, but softer than she’d ever seen them. Like he understood exactly what she was asking—even if she hadn’t said all of it.

“For you?” he said, voice quiet. “I’d try.”

Something in her chest pulled tight.

He kept going, the words careful but certain. “I’m not sayin’ I could do it now. Or tomorrow. But if it ever came to that—if you asked—I’d try. I’d want to.”

Her throat felt dry. “Even if it’s dangerous?”

His smile was faint, almost sad. “I’ve already done riskier things than walkin’.”

They both went quiet, the sea lapping gently against the rocks.

“I’m not asking you to,” she said after a while. “Not right now.”

“I know,” he replied. “But I wanted you to know ‘s in me. That I’d try. If it ever mattered enough.”

Her gaze dropped to the dark, glistening water. “It matters now.”

“I know that too.”

There was a stillness between them. A quiet acknowledgment of everything they weren’t saying.

Then Harry added, “If you ever came back… if things were different… I’d meet you halfway.”

Y/N looked down at him again, at the way the moonlight touched his face. She wanted to memorize it. She was already trying.

“I’m not ready to leave yet,” she said softly.

“Good,” he murmured. “Neither am I.”

Y/N didn’t move. She just stood there, looking down at him, her heart beating in that slow, aching rhythm that only came when you knew a moment was about to become a memory.

Harry’s eyes never left hers.

Neither of them said anything for a while. The silence felt thick with everything unspoken.

Then, softly, he asked, “Can I kiss you?”

Her breath caught.

It wasn’t said like a line or a dare. It wasn’t cocky or dramatic. It was quiet. Honest. Almost careful.

She didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him—really looked. At the drops of seawater clinging to his hair. At the slope of his bare shoulders. At the way his mouth had gone still, like he was afraid she might say no.

She stepped a little closer to the edge of the rocks.

“Yes,” she said. Barely a whisper. “Please.”

He moved slowly.

Pulled himself up just a little higher against the stone, close enough now that she could see every detail of him. His hands stayed braced against the rock, careful not to touch her until she leaned down, until her fingers brushed the back of his neck, and she met him there—half in the sea, half in the air.

The kiss wasn’t rushed.

It was soft at first. Gentle. Just the press of his mouth against hers, salt-sweet and warm.

But then something shifted.

His hand came up to her hip, wet and sure, anchoring her. Her fingers curled at the nape of his neck. And the kiss deepened—slow, lingering, full of all the things they hadn’t dared to say aloud.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads stayed close. Breathing together. Caught in it.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the first night, love,” he said quietly.

She smiled, still dizzy from him. “Took you long enough.”

Harry’s hand lingered at her waist for a moment after the kiss broke, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of her dress.

Then he pulled back just enough to look up at her, eyes still a little dazed, like he was trying to memorize the way she looked right now—flushed and breathless, moonlight tangled in her hair.

“You should get back to your friends,” he said quietly. “Enjoy your night while ‘s still yours.”

Y/N nodded, but she didn’t move right away. Part of her wanted to stay. To curl up right there on the rocks and never leave.

But he was right. The night was slipping away.

She took a step back, then another, until she was off the stone shelf and back on the narrow path that led toward town. She didn’t look over her shoulder—not at first.

But just before the curve of the path would take him out of sight, she turned.

He was still there, half in the water, chin resting on his arms, watching her like he’d never stopped.

“Harry?” she called out gently.

“Yeah?”

She paused. The question had been floating at the edge of her mind for days, but now it rose to the surface, clear and steady.

“If I had more time… do you think this could’ve been something real?”

He didn’t answer right away.

The waves brushed quietly around him.

Then, softly—“It already is.”

She held his gaze for one long, still moment.

Then she nodded, her throat tight, and turned back toward the hills—carrying his answer with her.

The villa was dark when she got back.

Y/N stepped in quietly, the door creaking softly behind her. The main room was empty—no music playing, no half-finished drinks on the table, no giggles echoing down the hall. Just the faint smell of perfume and lemon soap lingering in the air.

She flicked on the small lamp by the entryway and glanced around.

Empty.

She pulled out her phone and texted the group chat.

where are you guys?

It only took a few seconds for Jess to reply.

Bar by the steps—where we got those shots the first night. Come meet us 💃

Y/N stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering.

Then she smiled, changed quickly into something clean and simple—just jeans and the soft linen tank she loved—and headed back out.

The bar was a low-lit spot tucked into a corner where the street dipped steeply down toward the sea. Fairy lights hung from the beams, and music floated out through the open doors—something upbeat and familiar. She spotted them immediately: Jess waving wildly, Mia with a spritz in one hand, Liv already halfway through a story.

“There she is!” Mia shouted, grinning. “We thought you’d eloped with a fisherman.”

“She glows,” Liv said, pointing at her like she was an exhibit. “That’s post-kiss energy if I’ve ever seen it.”

Y/N laughed as she slid into the booth beside them. “I’m literally just walking.”

“Walking back from where, though,” Jess said, narrowing her eyes. “And don’t even try to lie. You’ve got that ‘someone held my face and looked at me like I matter’ look.”

Mia leaned in. “Did you finally get his number?”

Y/N giggled, shaking her head. “It’s not like that.”

They all groaned in unison.

“Come on,” Liv whined. “You’ve been sneaking off to the water like it’s The Little Mermaid and you’re telling me it’s not like that?”

She bit her lip, still smiling. “It’s just… different, okay?”

Jess squinted at her. “Different good?”

Y/N looked down at the table, cheeks still warm, and gave the smallest, most genuine nod.

“Yeah,” she said. “Different really good.”

The final day felt heavier than the others.

The sun still warmed the stones beneath her feet, and the scent of salt and lemons still hung in the air, but everything around her felt like it was slipping away. The kind of beauty that couldn’t be held, no matter how tightly she tried.

Her friends were packing. Folding dresses back into suitcases, swearing about lost chargers, asking for just one more round of drinks before the night was over.

Y/N nodded. Smiled where she needed to.

But her heart was somewhere else entirely.

She waited until the sky was bruised with stars before slipping out of the villa for the last time. Her bag was light. She carried only one thing with her.

When she reached the shore, Harry was already there, half-floating, his arms resting on the same smooth rock where they’d met again and again.

He looked up when he heard her footsteps.

“There she is,” he murmured, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Thought maybe you’d be off celebratin’.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing left to celebrate but this.”

He didn’t tease her for it. Just nodded like he understood.

She knelt at the edge of the rock, reached into her bag, and held something out to him—a small silver chain with a charm shaped like a wave.

“Here,” she said. “It’s stupid, but… I wanted you to have something.”

He took it gently, water slipping from his fingers as he turned it over in his palm.

“S’not stupid,” he said. “It’s lovely.”

“I wanted you to have a piece of me,” she said quietly. “Something that doesn’t sink.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at her in that steady way he always did—like her being there was enough.

Then, softly, “Can I do somethin’?”

She nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

A small smile. “Do you mind gettin’ wet?”

She let out a breath of a laugh. “Not if it’s you pulling me in.”

“Alright then.”

With one smooth motion, he reached up, hands firm and sure at her waist, and lifted her off the rock. Her breath caught as she slid into the water, her dress floating around her like petals. The sea was cool, but he was warm, his arms steady around her, holding her against his chest.

She wrapped her arms around his neck instinctively, her fingers threading into the damp curls at the base of his skull. He didn’t speak, and neither did she, not at first.

She let her hands trail down the curve of his shoulder, fingertips grazing over the ink that marked his skin—small details she hadn’t noticed before. A star. A bird. A phrase she couldn’t quite read, half hidden beneath the surface.

“You’re covered in stories,” she whispered.

He looked at her, his voice low and soft. “Yeah, well. Some things are easier to remember when they’re part of you.”

She didn’t ask what they meant.

She just held onto him tighter.

And he let her.

The water rocked them gently, their bodies moving as one. She leaned her head into the crook of his neck, closed her eyes, and breathed him in—salt and warmth and something that felt like belonging.

He kissed her temple.

And neither of them said goodbye.

Not yet.

Harry held her for a long time.

The sea moved gently around them, barely more than a ripple, like it was cradling them too. His arms stayed wrapped around her waist, her chest pressed to his, and every so often he would shift slightly—just enough to rock her in the water, slow and rhythmic, like they had all the time in the world.

Her head rested against his shoulder. One of his hands traced light, absentminded circles at the small of her back. The sky stretched out above them, dark and endless, stars blinking quietly in their places.

Neither of them spoke.

Because there was nothing left to say that wouldn’t break something open.

Eventually, though, the weight of time began to press in.

Harry’s breath deepened, and he shifted his hold, pulling her just slightly closer one last time.

“Alright,” he said softly. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

Y/N didn’t answer, but she nodded against him. She didn’t want to move. Didn’t want this to end. But she felt it too—that subtle turning of the world, nudging her back toward the life waiting for her on shore.

He carried her gently through the water, one hand at her back, the other beneath her knees, and lifted her with ease onto the smooth, flat rock where she’d first met him. Her dress clung to her skin, heavy with saltwater, hair slicked down her back. She looked at him like she wanted to memorize him all over again.

Harry stayed waist-deep in the sea, the water lapping at his chest.

Then, wordlessly, he reached beneath the surface and pulled something from the shadows of the tide.

He brought it to her palm, dripping and glowing faintly in the moonlight—a pearl.

But not just any pearl.

It shimmered like oil and light had been trapped inside it, gleaming with soft blues, purples, and greens that shifted with every movement. It was smooth and impossibly round, no bigger than a marble, but heavier than it looked.

“For you,” he said. “To remember me.”

Her fingers closed around it slowly.

Her throat ached.

“Is it real?” she whispered.

He gave her that small, lopsided smile she’d come to know. “As real as I am.”

She nodded once, too full to speak.

He didn’t ask her to stay.

She didn’t ask him to follow.

But as she slipped the pearl into her bag and rose to her feet, she knew she would carry it forever. Not just in her pocket.

In her chest.

Where the ocean had settled.

And when she turned to look back, he was still there—half in the water, eyes on her, lit by nothing but stars and memory.

She didn’t say goodbye.

Because this wasn’t goodbye.

Not really.

The plane took off just after sunrise.

Y/N sat by the window, forehead resting against the cool glass, eyes fixed on the fading coastline below. The water was still visible in the distance, blue and endless, stretching far beyond what she could see—but not far enough to reach him.

She didn’t cry.

She thought maybe she would. Thought maybe the grief of it would hit her like a wave. But instead it settled deep in her chest, still and silent. A weight.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the small pocket in her bag where the pearl was tucked. She hadn’t let go of it since he placed it in her hand.

Jess leaned over from the middle seat, gently bumping her shoulder. “You okay?”

Y/N gave the smallest nod.

Mia, across the aisle, chimed in with a hopeful grin. “You’ll find another hottie. We’ll plan a girls’ trip to Croatia next summer. Who knows, maybe a sexy bartender or a guy with a boat.”

Y/N smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Not even close.

She didn’t want another “hottie.” She didn’t want boat guys or flirty bartenders or anyone who didn’t make the ocean feel like it belonged to them.

She wanted him. She wanted Harry.

The plane lifted higher. The sea disappeared beneath clouds.

By the time she landed in New York, the ache had settled so deep in her that she couldn’t tell where it ended.

Her apartment felt smaller than she remembered. Colder.

She dropped her bag at the door and didn’t bother unpacking. Just stood there for a minute, staring at the window, at the buildings stacked close together, grey and humming with life she didn’t feel part of.

Everything looked the same.

And yet none of it felt right.

The pearl was still in her hand.

She clenched it tight and let the weight of it ground her, even as the world kept moving.

And for the first time, she wondered if she had made the wrong choice.

The weeks crawled.

At first, Y/N told herself it was just post-vacation blues. That eventually she’d slip back into her routine—commuting, iced coffee, emails, dinner plans. That the weight in her chest would lift once the glow of Italy wore off.

But it didn’t.

It settled in deeper.

She sat at her desk each day staring at the same blinking cursor, the same pile of untouched emails. Nothing moved her. Nothing interested her. The days passed in soft, grey silence. Her apartment, once warm and familiar, now felt like a shell. She stopped making her bed. Stopped buying flowers. She wore the same cardigan three days in a row and didn’t care.

And every night, she’d sit by the window with the pearl in her hand.

Rolling it gently between her fingers, watching it catch the light.

Some nights she’d cry. Other nights she wouldn’t feel anything at all.

It wasn’t just that she missed him.

She missed herself—with him. The way the world had felt slower. Softer. Like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

One night, two and a half weeks after she returned, she opened her laptop. Typed in the name of the coastal town she still dreamt about. Clicked through photos like she was trying to reach through the screen.

Then, without thinking, she searched flights to Naples.

She stared at the dates.

Then switched to one way.

Her finger hovered over the trackpad. And then, very simply—she clicked.

Booked.

Just like that.

She didn’t know what she’d do once she got there. Where she’d stay long term. How long she’d be gone.

But she knew one thing.

She had to go back.

She told her friends over dinner that weekend.

They’d gathered at their usual spot—a cozy wine bar with candles and flatbread and the same playlist humming softly overhead. Jess ordered a bottle of red. Liv was already halfway into a story about a guy she’d matched with twice by accident.

Y/N hadn’t said much.

When the food came, she cleared her throat.

“I’m moving,” she said, her voice steady.

Four sets of eyes turned toward her.

Jess blinked. “Wait, what?”

Mia laughed. “Where? You’re not serious.”

“I booked a flight back to Italy,” Y/N said. “One way.”

The table went quiet.

“Wait… like back back?” Liv asked. “To the beach? To—him?”

She nodded.

Jess leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Are you going to live there?”

“I think so,” Y/N said. “I sold the apartment. I gave my notice at work yesterday.”

“You—” Mia gaped. “You what?”

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” she continued, gently. “If I’ll be back.”

They all stared at her for a moment like they were waiting for the punchline.

Then Jess exhaled, slow. “You’re really doing this.”

“Yeah.”

“And this isn’t just… like, a dramatic phase?” Mia asked, but her voice wasn’t cruel. Just scared. “You’re really leaving us?”

“I’m not leaving you.” Y/N’s voice cracked slightly. “I just… I can’t be here anymore. Not the way I was.”

Liv looked at her, softer now. “Is it because of him?”

Y/N smiled a little, but it was sad. “It’s because of me. Because of how I felt there. Because I woke up every day and I felt things. I haven’t felt anything real since I came home. Not until I booked that ticket.”

Silence hung over the table for a beat too long.

Then Jess reached across, placing her hand gently over Y/N’s.

“Okay,” she said. “Then we’ll help you pack.”

Mia sniffed. “Can I cry now or later?”

“Now,” Liv whispered, wiping under one eye. “Now’s okay.”

They all leaned in, four hands tangling over hers, and Y/N let herself feel it—the grief, the relief, the terror, the hope.

Because something was waiting for her across the sea.

And for once in her life, she was ready to swim toward it.

The apartment was small. Barely two rooms. The kitchen sink dripped, and the bed was too firm, and the walls were the color of eggshells left too long in the sun. But it had a window that looked toward the water, and when the breeze rolled in, it smelled like salt and rosemary.

She loved it.

The woman who rented it to her spoke quick, kind Italian and gave her a basket of lemons on the first day. Y/N didn’t know all the words yet, but she understood enough to feel welcome.

The job came a week later—flower shop tucked between a gelato stand and a bookstore with dust on its windows. The owner was an older woman with a sharp sense of humor and hands that moved fast even when she was trying to slow down. She taught Y/N the names of each bloom in both Italian and English, correcting her gently and laughing when she mixed them up.

It was simple work. Honest.

In the mornings, she swept petals from the stone floor and arranged sun-wilted roses in buckets. She wiped chalk from her fingers and tied ribbon bows, and let the scent of peonies and jasmine cling to her hair.

And at night—after the shop closed, after the streets quieted and the sky turned to ink—she walked down to the water.

The first night, her heart raced.

She wore the same cardigan she’d had with her the night he kissed her, and she carried the pearl in her pocket like it might anchor her to the memory. The tide was low, the moon soft above, and the sea stretched out like it was holding its breath.

But he wasn’t there.

She sat on the rocks for over an hour, fingers curled around her knees, waiting.

Nothing.

The second night was colder.

She brought a blanket this time. Made tea in a travel cup. Watched the waves move like they might remember her. Still, no sign of him. Not even a ripple. Not even a shadow.

The third night, she didn’t bring anything.

Just herself.

She didn’t sit.

She didn’t wait long.

She just stood at the edge of the rocks, wind tugging at her dress, and whispered, “Where are you?”

No answer.

No shimmer in the water.

No voice calling her name.

When she got back to her apartment, she didn’t cry. Not really. She just sat at the foot of her bed, shoes still on, and stared out the window toward the sea.

She’d left everything behind.

And now she wasn’t sure if she’d made a mistake.

Days passed. Then weeks.

And he didn’t come.

Y/N kept going to the shore, but not every night. At first she told herself it was to give him space, that maybe he needed time like she had. But eventually, it became about protecting herself. Hope could only take so many beatings before it started to bruise.

She still worked at the flower shop.

She got better at tying bouquets with one hand, and she learned the names of the neighborhood cats that wandered past the door. The shop owner began letting her open some mornings, and she found she liked the quiet of arranging flowers before the town was fully awake.

People came to recognize her. A man with a straw hat who always bought violets for his wife. A little girl who asked every Saturday for “something yellow.” Y/N smiled more. She spoke enough Italian to get by now. Enough to be understood.

But still, the evenings felt like waiting rooms.

Sometimes she walked along the beach instead of sitting on the rocks. Sometimes she just watched the water from her window. The pearl stayed on her nightstand, but she no longer touched it every night. It had started to feel like a souvenir instead of a promise.

She told herself she could live like this. That the ocean alone was enough.

And slowly, it started to feel like maybe it was.

But the dull ache never really left.

It just folded itself into her days—quiet and patient, like the tide.

Then, one night, something changed.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No crashing wave, no voice echoing her name across the water. It was subtle. Almost missable.

She was walking home from the shop. The sun had just dipped below the hills, and she decided to take the long way along the shore. She didn’t expect anything. She hadn’t expected anything for a long time.

But when she reached the familiar rocks, she paused.

Something felt… different.

The air smelled sharper. The waves sounded slower.

And there—just barely—was a shimmer.

Not light.

Not movement.

But something.

Something waiting.

She stood perfectly still, heart in her throat.

But she didn’t run to the edge. Didn’t call his name.

She just breathed.

And for the first time in weeks, the ocean felt like it was breathing back.

She stood at the edge of the rocks, her sandals dangling from one hand, toes sinking into the cool sand.

The air was still.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t want to chase it—whatever it was. That shimmer, that shift in the water. She’d done enough hoping. Enough waiting. If it was real, it would come to her.

The tide rolled in once. Then again. And then—

“Thought maybe you’d given up on me.”

Her breath caught.

She turned slowly, and there he was.

Half-submerged, just as he’d always been. Same spot. Same stillness. But everything about him looked… different.

His hair was longer, darker with water. His shoulders broader. The curve of his jaw shadowed. And his eyes—when they found hers—were tired in a way she’d never seen before. Not broken. Just worn.

She didn’t say anything.

She couldn’t.

“I came back,” he said simply. “Took me a bit longer than I meant.”

The words struck her right in the chest.

“I thought…” she trailed off, voice catching. “I thought maybe you weren’t real. That maybe I actually had imagined you.”

His mouth tugged into a faint smile. “Would’ve been easier, wouldn’t it?”

“No.”

She walked toward him slowly, sandals forgotten on the rocks behind her, water brushing at her ankles as she stepped into the surf. Close enough now to see the droplets clinging to his lashes, the way his lips parted like he hadn’t breathed until she moved.

“I looked for you,” she said. “Every night.”

“I know,” he said. “I felt it. Even from out there.”

“Why did you wait so long?”

His eyes dropped to the water between them. “Because I wasn’t sure you’d still want me.”

Her heart cracked clean in half.

“I left everything for you,” she said. “You think I did that just to forget?”

He lifted his gaze back to hers. “I didn’t want to come back just to hurt you again. Or make you wait for someone who doesn’t belong on land.”

“You do belong. With me.”

He blinked slowly. The moonlight shimmered in his eyes like he might cry, but wouldn’t. Not yet.

“Say that again,” he whispered.

“You belong with me.”

He closed the distance.

His hands reached for her, slow and reverent, and this time, when she stepped into his arms, the water didn’t matter. Her soaked dress, the cold seeping into her skin—none of it mattered.

He held her like a man who’d crossed oceans just to feel her heartbeat again.

And she held him like she was never letting go.

The water curled around their waists, warm where it touched skin, cool where the breeze slipped between them. Y/N’s arms stayed looped loosely around Harry’s neck, his hands still resting at her hips like he was afraid to let her drift.

They hadn’t moved since he pulled her into him. The silence between them had settled, heavy but gentle.

Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her properly.

“You really came back,” he said, like he still didn’t believe it. “I kept hopin’—but I wasn’t sure you would.”

She nodded slowly. “I didn’t just come back. I stayed.”

His brows lifted a little. “What d’you mean?”

“I live here now,” she said, brushing a damp strand of hair off her cheek. “I found a little apartment. Started working at a flower shop in town.”

He stared at her, stunned. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

He blinked, lips parted. “Bloody hell.”

A soft laugh broke from her chest. “That’s your reaction?”

He shook his head, still staring. “I just—I thought you’d gone back to your life. Your city. Didn’t think I’d see you again. Let alone find out you’ve made a whole new life here.”

She shrugged, but her voice was quieter now. “New York didn’t feel right anymore. Not after you.”

He looked down for a moment, water rippling around them.

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured. “That’s… it’s mad. Kind of beautiful, though.”

“I thought I made a mistake for a while,” she admitted. “The first few weeks here, I kept coming down to the shore and you weren’t there. I almost gave up.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Really. I should’ve come back sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He hesitated. “Didn’t know if I’d still fit in your world. Thought maybe you’d get back to New York, settle in, meet someone else… Someone with legs full time.”

She gave him a look. “You think I’d trade you for a finance bro in Brooklyn?”

He laughed softly, leaning his forehead against hers. “Guess not.”

She let out a breath. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he said, voice low. “Every day.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around him, resting her head against his shoulder, letting the hush of the sea fill the space between their words.

“You really live here now,” he whispered, like he still needed to hear it again.

“I do.”

“And you’re alright?”

“I wasn’t,” she said. “But I think I’m starting to be.”

He nodded, his hand gliding gently up her back.

“Good,” he said. “Stay a while longer, yeah?”

She smiled against his skin. “I was hoping to stay forever.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, softly—

“I think I’d like that.”

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