#building harry's house series | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

foxtrology · 10 days ago

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sweet dark haired man (6)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 13.8k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, angst, fluff, smut.

The Cape Cod light was brutal in its honesty—too bright, too clean, the kind of afternoon sun that made everything look sharper than it should. The ocean beyond the windows of the renovated beach house sparkled like glass, waves crashing against the shore in rhythmic indifference.

Lucy hated it.

She hated how picturesque it was. How calm. How settled. How every breath felt like a performance of peace.

John had gone into town to pick up oysters and a bottle of wine he couldn’t pronounce. He kissed her cheek before he left. He always did that. Like routine made up for the silence between them.

She was curled on the white couch in her favorite silk robe—cream, embroidered, delicate—as if softness could protect her. Her hair was tied up with a scrunchie she didn’t remember choosing. The mug of green tea beside her had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it.

Her laptop was open on her knees. And the email was staring at her.

Subject: FYI — goes live tomorrow, late afternoon. Thought you’d want to see it first.

From: Carrie Roth

No greeting. No punctuation. Just a single link beneath the sentence. No context.

But Lucy didn’t need context.

She clicked. And the screen unfurled into a headline she already knew would hurt.

"The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name."

Her breath hitched.

Below the headline, the byline—Carrie Roth. Of course. And below that?

The photo. That photo. The one Harry had supposedly made Carrie delete.

Lucy blinked hard.

There they were—in Harry’s lobby. She remembered the building. The hallway. The marble floors. The stupid orchid arrangement by the elevator that never died.

But that wasn’t what made her pause.

It was the way Harry was looking at the girl. She was in his clothes. Hair wet like she just took a bath. At his place. But Harry? Harry was looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

It was instinctive. Natural. The kind of look you didn’t even realize you gave unless someone froze the moment.

Lucy stared at the image. Her hands went cold. Her ring—thin gold, small diamond, a gift from John—pressed into her skin as she clenched her fingers.

She scrolled. The article wasn’t cruel. Not exactly.

It was careful. Surgical. The kind of carefully worded gossip Carrie was famous for—less fire, more poison. Phrases like “rare public moment,” and “sources say she doesn’t have a last name that anyone can find,” and “Castillo’s first serious appearance with someone new since his highly publicized breakup with his ex Lucy.”

Lucy flinched at the mention of her name. It was in bold.

Of course it was.

Carrie had buried the quote deeper in the piece, almost like a treat for the diligent reader.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet,” Lucy had said, when asked if she knew about the woman. “How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to.”

She hadn’t meant it to sound bitter. Or maybe she had.

Maybe some part of her had wanted Harry to read that line and feel something sharp in his chest. But now, looking at the photo—the girl in his clothes, the way his body was angled toward her, protective, intimate—Lucy felt something sharp in hers.

Because she recognized that version of him.

The quiet Harry. The gentle one. The one who made tea without asking and never needed to be told what you were thinking because he already knew.

She had killed that version of him. And someone had brought him back to life.

Lucy’s phone buzzed once. A message from John.

John: Need anything else from the store?

She didn’t answer right away. She just stared out the window. The sea was bluer than usual. A boat skimmed across the horizon like punctuation.

She clicked the link again. Scrolled back to the photo. Studied the girl’s face—partially turned, but visible. Eyes cast down. Mouth soft. She didn’t look like a socialite. Or an actress. Or a woman who’d ever once tried to control a room.

She looked like someone who’d wandered into Harry’s life by accident. And stayed.

Lucy’s finger hovered over the keyboard. Her eyes flicked back to the headline. Then to the quote.

She’s not built for it.

She closed the laptop. Stood. The silence in the house was so loud it made her ears ring. And suddenly, Lucy wasn’t sure if she’d moved on at all.

Back in Italy, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the hills, casting everything in gold.

The villa glowed like a painting—stone walls kissed by twilight, lanterns strung along the balcony flickering to life one by one. The air was warm, threaded with rosemary, lemon, and the faintest trace of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby.

She stood in front of the mirror, still pinning one last piece of her hair into place.

Her dress was a soft rust color, silk again, but different from last night. This one moved like water when she walked, low in the back, delicate at the shoulders. Her earrings were borrowed from Francesca. Her lipstick was a shade she got from Maya.

Harry watched her from the edge of the bed.

Shirt crisp. Pants pressed. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a small glass of something he hadn’t sipped yet. He’d shaved, but left a trace of scruff. His chain caught the last bit of sunlight, gleaming like a secret.

“You keep staring,” she said, not looking at him.

“I can’t help it.”

She smiled at her reflection. “Is it the hair?”

“It’s the everything.”

He walked over slowly. Stood behind her. Met her eyes in the mirror.

“I thought I was in love with you before,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair off her shoulder. “But then you did that thing with the peach at lunch.”

She laughed, head tilting back slightly. “That wasn’t me. That was the wine.”

“You were licking your thumb.”

“I was cleaning my hand.”

“It was obscene.”

She turned. Faced him.

And for a moment, they just stood there. Quiet. Grounded.

“Well,” she said softly, “good thing I brought extra peaches.”

Harry groaned like a man in pain. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar.”

She kissed him once, quick and mischievous. Then grabbed her bag.

Chiara had texted the address hours ago. Danny was still sulking around the villa, probably pretending not to exist.

The car was waiting. The roads were winding. The evening had started.

And neither of them had any idea what tomorrow night's headline would bring.

But for now—

They were still in Florence. Still in the golden hour. Still theirs.

The driver didn’t speak much.

Harry gave the address once and the rest of the ride passed in a hush, the hum of the engine soft beneath the cobblestone rhythm. The roads curled like ribbon through the hills, olive trees flashing past the windows in soft blurs, golden light smearing the windshield.

In the backseat, she let her head rest against the window for a while, watching the landscape spill by like something dreamt.

Harry sat beside her, shirt deep navy, sleeves rolled up neatly. His trousers were black, fitted. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine—controlled, watchful, impossibly composed.

But his fingers found hers anyway. Laced them together. Rested their joined hands on the seat between them like a promise.

She smiled without turning her head. They didn’t speak the whole ride. They didn’t need to.

When the car finally turned off the main road and slowed onto a gravel path lined with wildflowers and pale stone, she sat up straighter. Adjusted her silk dress. Smoothed her hands down the front.

Harry reached over without a word and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb grazed her jaw.

“You ready?” he asked softly.

“Nope.”

“Too late.”

The car stopped. And there it was.

Chiara’s family home was nothing like the villa. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t curated. It was warm. Chaotic. Built like a hug.

A long, low house with chipped shutters, ivy spilling down the side, and music floating faintly from the open windows. Children’s laughter rang out somewhere around back. The scent of tomato and garlic clung to the air like an old coat.

Lights were strung overhead—crooked, twinkling fairy lights bouncing between olive trees and the wooden beams of a pergola that shaded the long dinner table already half-filled with people.

They stepped out of the car. The gravel crunched under her sandals. Harry opened the door for her, of course. Offered his hand. She took it.

It was now 8:30. And the sun had just melted fully behind the hills, leaving everything bathed in the kind of purple-gold glow that only happened in Italy and movies.

Chiara spotted them first. She was barefoot again, curls pinned half-up, wearing a thin white dress with a red sweater tied around her waist like a ribbon. She bounded toward them with a glass of wine in one hand and a sprig of rosemary in the other.

“You came!” she beamed, flinging her arms around her in a hug. Then looked at Harry and added, “You too. Terrifying boyfriend.”

Harry’s brow ticked. “Thanks.”

Chiara only grinned. “Come meet everyone.”

She grabbed her hand, tugged her forward without giving her time to panic. Harry followed behind, towering, silent, one hand in his pocket, already receiving double-takes from some of the guests as they approached.

The table was long. Wood worn soft by weather and wine stains. Set with mismatched plates and linen napkins. There were pitchers of red wine and baskets of bread at each end. Someone had set out bowls of figs and mozzarella, tomatoes still warm from the vine, plates of roasted eggplant and olives soaked in garlic oil.

Chiara pointed as she rambled on. “That’s my mother—Rosalinda and that’s my father—Leo. Don’t let him pour your wine or you’ll never stop drinking. My brothers—Matteo and Gianni."

There were a bunch of other guests that she didn't introduce but still they still waved.

Everyone waved.

Rosalinda gave a warm smile. “Benvenuti. Welcome.”

Chiara tugged her to two empty chairs at the far end of the table, tucked beneath a blooming wisteria vine. “These are yours. I saved them.”

Harry held the chair out for her. She sat. He took the one beside her.

And just like that, they were in it. The wine was poured before either of them could decline. The bread basket was passed like gospel.

Someone slid over a small dish of anchovies and roasted peppers with a murmur, “Try this. It’ll change your life.”

She was dizzy already—in the best way. Everything smelled like salt and basil and firewood. The table was loud, people speaking over each other in fast Italian, gesturing wildly, laughter bubbling up in waves.

And Harry? Harry didn’t say a word. He didn’t smile. Didn’t reach for the wine. He just sat there—hands folded, watching everything like he was gathering intel.

No one said anything for a while. Until Gianni, Chiara’s younger brother—maybe twenty, maybe high—leaned over the table, squinting.

“So,” he said, accent thick but voice teasing, “you are the scary man, yes?”

Harry looked up. Raised a brow.

Gianni grinned. “Chiara said you looked like you kill people for fun.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Harry replied, deadpan.

The table froze. Chiara choked on her wine. Then—Rosalinda burst into laughter. Loud. Unapologetic.

Everyone followed. Even Harry smiled, just barely. The kind of smile that curled at the corner of his mouth like a secret. And from that moment, the ice cracked. A little.

Rosalinda passed him the wine again. This time, he took it.

A cousin leaned forward and asked if he was a Gemini.

He said, “Worse.”

The table howled. Dinner unfolded in waves.

The food kept coming—handmade pasta with sage butter and lemon zest, grilled zucchini, risotto flecked with saffron. Someone brought out slices of porchetta carved from a roast, still warm, the scent making her stomach ache with joy.

She reached for a piece of bread and Harry slid the butter toward her without being asked.

Their knees touched under the table. At one point, she turned to him and whispered, “You okay?”

He nodded. “You?”

She smiled. “I’m good.”

He reached for her hand beneath the table. Held it loosely, fingers stroking hers as the night softened.

The stars came out slowly. Someone put on a record player—crackling, old jazz spinning from a speaker tucked beneath the table.

Rosalinda began reading tarot cards near the rosemary bush.

Chiara danced barefoot with her grandmother under the vines.

Leo refilled Harry’s glass without asking. He didn’t argue.

He was still quiet. Still him. But softer now. Warmer.

He leaned in close once, mouth brushing her temple, and murmured, “This is the best night I’ve had in years.”

She looked at him. Eyes lit.

“Me too.”

They didn’t talk about Lucy. They didn’t know that across the ocean, Lucy had just stared down the proof of their intimacy frozen in pixels. They didn’t know the article was going live tomorrow.

They didn’t know that Danny was trying—desperately, recklessly—to contain the fallout.

For now, they just drank the wine. Ate the figs. Held hands under a string of crooked lights.

And when Chiara brought out a lemon cake her aunt had baked that morning, they split a slice and fed each other bites like fools. Harry didn’t even flinch when someone took a photo.

“You’re different here,” she whispered, later, when the table had quieted and only the older guests remained, nursing espresso and arguing softly about soccer.

Harry looked at her.

“You’re softer,” she said.

“I think you make me that way.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. His fingers threaded through hers. The record spun to a close. And for now, the night held. Long and safe and theirs.

But even the gentlest nights had to end.

She was mid-laugh, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass as Chiara told some absurd story about falling into a canal in Venice when she was a child—elbows flying, hands gesturing, cheeks pink with wine and warmth—when it happened.

Harry saw it. The yawn.

Small. Half-hidden. She tried to stifle it behind her knuckles, the motion lazy and unbothered. But he caught it. Of course he did.

It wasn’t the kind of yawn that meant boredom. It was the kind that meant her bones were heavy and her body had officially stopped running on adrenaline and sugar and wine. The kind that meant she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open much longer.

He leaned down slightly, his voice brushing her ear like something private.

“You’re fading. Tired?”

She turned, blinking up at him with bleary affection. “No, I’m not.”

“You just yawned mid-sentence.”

“Did not.”

“You did.”

“That was a—dramatic breath,” she mumbled. “For storytelling.”

He smiled. Barely.

Then stood.

It was subtle—how quickly the table noticed. A hush, almost reverent, like the weather had shifted. Conversations paused. Heads tilted.

Harry Castillo had stood. And that meant something.

Chiara looked up. “Leaving?”

Harry gave a slight nod, hand resting at the back of her chair. “We should.”

She opened her mouth to protest. To insist she was fine. But another yawn betrayed her.

Harry quirked a brow.

She gave up. “Okay, fine.”

Chiara leaned over and hugged her, cheek warm against her own. “Thank you for coming. Truly.”

“She’s the one that made us come,” Harry muttered as he shook Leo’s hand.

“You’re a good boyfriend,” Chiara said. Then added, teasing, “Terrifying. But good.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He just placed a hand on the small of her back—warm, grounding—and guided her through the garden path, away from the laughter, the flickering lights, the music still curling into the air like a lullaby.

They walked slowly.

She leaned into him more with each step, her sandals forgotten in one hand, her body sagging with contented exhaustion. The rust silk of her dress shifted with each step, catching moonlight and memory like it was something alive.

The gravel crunched beneath them. The breeze had cooled now, brushing through the trees like whispered secrets. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once. The sound echoed.

When they reached the car, Harry opened the door for her, of course. Helped her in without speaking. Tucked her sandals at her feet. Then slid into the seat beside her and gave the driver a short nod.

They didn’t speak much on the way back.

She leaned her head on his shoulder somewhere between the vineyard and the old church they’d passed earlier that afternoon. Her fingers drifted to his thigh out of habit. He let her stay like that, barely moving, afraid to shift and break the spell.

By the time the car pulled into the villa’s gravel courtyard, she was half-asleep.

The windows glowed with low golden light. The stone shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Everything felt soft. Suspended. Like they were the last people left in the world.

Until Harry saw movement. Someone was pacing near the stone fountain at the edge of the courtyard. Fast. Sharp. A phone pressed to his ear. Gesturing wildly.

Danny. He looked...frantic.

Harry’s brows furrowed.

She stirred, mumbling sleepily, “Are we back?”

He kissed her temple. “Yeah. Just a second.”

Before she could fully register it, Harry had stepped out of the car, door shutting softly behind him. She blinked herself upright, trying to process the sudden absence of his warmth.

Outside, Harry walked toward Danny with a slow, deliberate pace.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” he asked, voice low and even.

Danny jumped. Spun.

“Oh—shit—Harry. It’s nothing.”

Harry stopped a few feet away. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Danny covered the receiver with one hand. “It’s personal.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “From your tone, it sounds like work.”

“It’s not,” Danny said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s one of my exes. She’s losing it. You know how it goes. Screaming about closure or whatever. I’m just trying to shut it down before she flies here with a bat.”

Harry didn’t blink. “You’re lying.”

Danny’s jaw clenched. “I’m not.”

Harry took one step closer.

And for a second—just one, tight, fragile second—Danny’s face cracked.

Not fully. Not visibly. But enough for Harry to see it. To catalog it. To file it under I’ll ask again later.

He looked over Danny once more, then pulled back.

“Figure it out,” Harry muttered, already walking away. “I don’t like being lied to.”

Danny exhaled. Said nothing.

Harry returned to the car without another glance. She was waiting, sandals back on, dress wrinkled from the ride.

“You okay?” she asked, groggy.

“Yeah,” he lied.

He offered his hand. She took it.

Their room was exactly how they’d left it. Soft lighting. The bed turned down. A carafe of water on the nightstand, fresh flowers in the bowl by the window.

She let out a sigh the moment she stepped inside. Toed off her sandals. Swayed slightly in place. Harry locked the door behind them.

She was already halfway to the bed when he said, “Shower first.”

She groaned like a child. “Noooo.”

“Yes.”

“I’m too tired.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“I’ll feel better horizontal.”

Harry arched a brow. “That can be arranged. After you shower.”

“Harry,” she whined, dragging out the syllables like syrup. “I have no bones.”

He moved toward her.

She backed away dramatically, flopping onto the bed like a fainting Victorian ghost. “I’m already dying. Leave me.”

He reached down, grabbed her ankle, and gently tugged her toward the edge of the mattress. She shrieked—quietly, theatrically—but didn’t resist.

“Come on,” he said, voice softer now. “Arms up.”

She blinked.

Then slowly raised her arms. Like surrender.

He knelt down, unzipped the back of her dress. The rust silk peeled away like petals. It fell in a pool at her feet.

She stood in her underwear, hair messy, cheeks flushed from wine and heat and fatigue. She looked like a painting. A little bruised by the night. A little radiant because of it.

Harry touched her waist.

“Shower,” he repeated.

She whined. “You go with me?”

He nodded.

“Fine,” she huffed. “But you better carry me after.”

“Done.”

The shower was warm. Quick.

She leaned into him the entire time, face pressed against his chest, arms around his neck while he washed her hair with the patience of a saint. She mumbled something incoherent about peaches and tarot cards. He just listened.

He dried her gently afterward, wrapping her in a towel, then carrying her back to the bed like she’d demanded.

She giggled when he nearly dropped her onto the mattress. “You’re such a gentleman.”

“I’m reconsidering it.”

She didn’t respond.

She was already half-asleep.

He dressed her slowly—one of his t-shirts again, soft and oversized then a pair of his boxers. Kissed the crown of her head. Pulled the blanket up to her shoulders.

Her lashes fluttered. Then stilled.

And Harry…

Harry sat at the edge of the bed for a while. Just watched her. She looked safe now. Soft. Here. He wanted to believe the worst of it had passed.

But something in Danny’s face—something in that lie—coiled like wire under his ribs.

He reached over. Turned off the lamp. Slipped under the covers beside her.

She stirred only once—just enough to press her cheek to his shoulder, murmuring something like “mine.”

Harry closed his eyes. Wrapped an arm around her waist. And held on. Tighter than usual.

Just in case. But just in case wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Harry opened his eyes before the light did.

It was instinct—some built-in warning system that had always protected him from the worst of it. From too many hours asleep. From the risk of rest. Rest meant exposure. Rest meant you might miss something.

And something was off. He knew it the moment he registered how calm everything was. Too calm.

The room was still. The kind of stillness that only came before something terrible.

She was curled into him like always—head pressed into his chest, one leg tangled over his hip, lips slightly parted as she dreamed something soft.

He looked at her. Really looked.

Hair a little damp from the night before. Cheeks flushed with sleep. The collar of his shirt slipping off one shoulder, exposing the delicate slope of skin he’d kissed a dozen times the night before. Her arm was draped over his chest like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

And he knew—

He would burn the whole fucking world down to keep this. To keep her.

To keep mornings like this where her skin smelled like lavender and sweat and him, where her body knew his even in sleep, where everything had finally felt like it was settling into something close to peace.

Which is why the dread crawling up his spine was unbearable.

He carefully, silently, shifted her arm. She murmured something incoherent. He stilled. Waited.

Then slowly slid out from beneath her. She didn’t wake. Just rolled over, curling into the spot he left behind, still warm.

He grabbed a hoodie off the chair. Pulled it on. Then left.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in soft amber light from the wall sconces. The villa was still asleep—except for Harry. Always Harry. Awake before anyone could disappoint him.

He didn’t make noise. Didn’t need to. He knew exactly where Danny’s room was. Didn’t bother knocking. Just twisted the handle. It wasn’t locked. Because Danny, for all his skills, never thought he needed to hide things from Harry for long.

The room was a mess. Clothes tossed over the back of a chair. Two empty water bottles on the desk. One of those tiny espresso cups half-filled and forgotten on the nightstand.

Danny was asleep on the couch. Fully dressed. Mouth slightly open. One arm flung across his chest like he’d passed out mid-heart attack.

But Harry wasn’t looking at Danny.

His eyes were on the laptop. Sitting open. Still glowing faintly on the coffee table.

He walked over slowly. Silent. Careful. Grabbed the laptop and sat down on a nearby chair.

Danny didn’t stir.

The laptop screen was still unlocked. And there it was. The tab. His name. Her anonymity. His stomach dropped. He clicked it.

There was a draft open—scheduled for publishing at 5PM EST. 11PM Florence. A timestamp in the corner. Carrie Roth.

He felt something cold settle in his ribs.

The headline was more appalling than he expected.

"The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name."

But it didn’t matter.

Because right below it—

The photo.

The one he’d tried to bury. The one she never even saw. The one Carrie took from the lobby of his penthouse—the day of the delivery, when she was in his clothes, her hair still wet from the bath they took together, no warning.

And him?

He looked like he belonged to her. It wasn’t scandalous. But it was real. Too real.

It was a portrait of something not yet built. Something fragile.

And Carrie had caught it. Was going to publish it. Was going to make it permanent.

He read the first few lines of the article, his jaw tightening with every word...

"She doesn’t look like someone accustomed to being photographed. She doesn’t carry herself like a model, actress, heiress, or anyone remotely used to proximity to power. She looks like she just stepped out of his shower, borrowed his laundry, and followed him out without knowing where they were going next. There’s no stylist, no heels, no curated façade. There’s not even a purse in sight."

"Which, of course, begs the question...Who is she?"

His fingers clenched around the edge of the laptop.

Of course Carrie knew about them in Italy. Livia definitely was the one that informed her.

Of fucking course.

The article was bait. Softly written, yes. But full of implication.

A mystery woman? No digital footprint? They made her sound like a ghost. Like a scandal. Like something waiting to be exposed.

And Harry knew what would come next.

The blogs. The forums. The Reddit threads. The obsessed Twitter girls. The old money pages on TikTok that would start stitching clips of her walking into restaurants and speculating about her outfit, her past, her worth.

They’d find photos. Someone would dig up something. And if there wasn’t anything to find? They’d make it up.

He sat there, breath slowing, vision narrowing. Not out of panic. But calculation.

She didn’t deserve this. She wasn’t ready. This wasn’t what she signed up for. And he should’ve protected her. Should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve buried it the moment Carrie Roth stepped into that lobby. Should’ve crushed it before it had the chance to exist.

But he hadn’t. And now? Now there was a countdown.

Nineteen hours. Until her face was everywhere. Until the silence around her wasn’t a sanctuary—it was an invitation for speculation.

He closed the laptop. Carefully. Stood. Walked over to Danny. And kicked the bottom of the couch. Hard.

Danny jolted awake with a sound that could’ve passed for a war cry. “Jesus fu—Harry?!”

Harry stared down at him. “You lied to me.”

Danny blinked. Rubbed his face. “What?”

“You lied. Last night. In the courtyard. You said it was one of your exes.”

Danny sat up slowly. “Look, I was trying to—”

“You think I give a fuck about your intentions?”

Danny sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t ready yet. The article. Carrie’s still fighting with her editor about the angle. Allegra said—”

“You should’ve told me.”

“Allegra made me swear not to.”

Harry’s voice dropped. “And you listened to her?”

Danny’s jaw twitched.

“I asked you one thing,” Harry said. “One fucking thing. Be honest with me.”

“Carrie was going to publish it no matter what,” Danny snapped. “You think she needed my permission? I was trying to delay it. Manage it. Spin it if I could.”

“You let me walk into that dinner. Laugh and drink and kiss her like everything was fine—”

“Because I knew if I told you, you’d ruin it before it hit the press. You’d blow up at Carrie, maybe even call her yourself, and then she’d publish it just to spite you. I was trying to protect her too.”

That stopped Harry.

A beat passed. He looked down. Then back at Danny.

And his voice was cold now. “You don’t get to say that.”

Danny stood. “Harry—”

“You don’t get to say you were protecting her. Because you don’t know her.”

“I know what she means to you.”

Harry turned. Started for the door.

Danny’s voice followed him. “What are you going to do?”

Harry didn’t answer. He just walked out. Back through the hallway.

Back into the room.

She was still asleep. Barely.

One arm stretched across his pillow now. Her mouth slightly open. Her face soft.

She looked peaceful.

And Harry knew—

He had about sixteen hours to keep it that way. To protect the only thing in his life that didn’t feel manufactured.

To preserve whatever fragile, fierce, ridiculous thing they’d built between cups of espresso and whispered fights and silk dresses and rain-soaked kisses.

And he would. He didn’t know how yet. But he would.

He slipped back into bed beside her. Careful not to wake her. Careful with everything now. More careful than he’d ever been.

He wrapped his arm around her again. Pulled her in.

Held her tighter than he did the night before. Just in case. Because the day was coming.

And with it?

Hell.

Harry didn’t go back to sleep. He couldn’t.

Instead, he laid there with her pressed to his chest and stared at the ceiling like it might give him an answer. Something, anything, to make nineteen hours feel less like a death sentence.

Because that’s what it was. A countdown.

Not just to the article—but to the before and after.

Before, quiet mornings and peach juice on her wrist, wine-stained linen and soft kisses behind alleyway walls, her foot in his lap at lunch, the sound of her laughing with Francesca, the way she tucked into his coat like it was always hers.

After, the world.

He already knew how it would go. He’d seen it a thousand times.

The internet would eat her alive.

They’d comb through every blurry photo, every scrap of background noise, and when they didn’t find anything, they’d start making things up.

“She’s too young for him.”

“She’s using him.”

“She’s boring.”

“She’s not boring enough.”

“She’s not even pretty.”

“She’s too pretty—it’s obvious she’s had work done.”

“She’s only with him for the money.”

“She’s not interesting.”

“She’s trying too hard to be interesting.”

“She’s just like Lucy.”

That one would be the worst.

The comparisons. The analysis. The recycled history he’d spent years burying.

And the photo—that fucking photo—would be the centerpiece. Used in every post, every headline, every whisper campaign. Frozen in time.

A moment that had belonged only to them.

Now handed over to the wolves.

He looked at her again. Still asleep. Still soft and safe and everything the world didn’t deserve.

And he made a decision. He would tell her.

Not all of it. Not yet. He couldn’t put that kind of fear in her eyes. But she needed to know what was coming. Before she saw her own face at a newsstand or on a feed. Before someone DM’d her a link.

She’d never forgive him if he let her find out like that.

So when she woke, he’d tell her. Gently. Slowly. He’d cushion it with espresso and pastries and the kind of touch that said, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

The light started to shift around 7:30. The room warmed. Birds stirred outside the balcony. A linen curtain fluttered against the open door.

She woke with a faint groan, face buried in his chest.

“Time is it?” she mumbled, her voice raspy.

“Too early,” Harry murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

But she stretched instead, her body arching against him like a cat.

“No, I’m up. Kind of. Sort of. Halfway.”

He kissed her hair. “Let me get you coffee.”

“No,” she groaned, grabbing his shirt. “You’re too warm. Stay here for five more minutes.”

He did. Of course he did.

She could’ve asked him for anything.

When she finally sat up, the shirt slipped off her shoulder again. She blinked slowly, hair wild, cheeks creased from the pillow. She looked like a dream.

Harry sat up behind her, running his hand down her spine.

“Breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

He helped her out of the shirt—slowly, carefully, like it was ritual. She kissed his jaw before heading into the bathroom, and he stood for a moment in the doorway just watching her.

He wasn’t ready to let her out of his sight.

Not today.

He got dressed while she did her skincare—charcoal slacks, black button-up, sleeves rolled once at the elbow. No tie. No blazer. Just sharp enough to look deliberate.

“Okay, I feel human again,” she declared, voice soft and bright. “Are we staying here for breakfast or leaving?”

He swallowed. “Staying.”

She smiled. “Perfect. I want something carby and sweet and bad for me.”

He watched her cross the room, picking through her things—eventually settling on a soft, tank top and a white cotton skirt. No makeup. Gold hoops. She didn’t even bother with shoes.

“You look…” he stopped, unable to find the right word. “You look beautiful. Truly.”

She blinked.

Then laughed, flushed. “Thank you.”

“You really are.”

They headed down the corridor together, slow and unhurried.

Every staff member they passed tried to look away discreetly. Some nodded. One stuttered out a buongiorno before tripping over his own cart.

She leaned into Harry’s side and whispered, “You know you’re terrifying, right?”

He didn’t respond. Just smirked faintly.

They reached the courtyard where breakfast was being served—small, shaded tables nestled beneath white umbrellas. The smell of espresso, fresh fruit, and butter drifted in the warm air.

She let out a soft sound of delight.

Harry pulled out her chair before she could. She blinked at him, amused.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Castillo.”

He sat beside her, not across. Always beside.

“Of course.”

They ordered coffee—hers with sugar, his black—and two plates of pastries. Then eggs. Then more fruit. He kept glancing at her like she might disappear if he blinked.

She noticed.

“What?” she asked, smiling around her spoon.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” she teased, nudging his thigh with her knee.

He chuckled softly. Then looked up.

Danny. Crossing the garden with his phone in hand, looking half-dead.

She spotted him too.

“Danny!” she called out, waving.

Harry tried not to flinch.

Danny turned. Paused.

Smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

She tilted her head, voice playful. “You’ve been ghosting me.”

Danny approached slowly. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since dinner, and I was beginning to think you hated me.”

Danny gave her a sheepish shrug. “Just busy. Logistics. Emails. All that boring shit.”

“You should eat. Come sit.”

Danny looked between them. Then shook his head. “Nah. You two should have your moment. You lovebirds deserve it.”

She frowned slightly. “You sure?”

Harry stared at him. Flat. Cold.

Danny nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got to take a call anyway.”

Harry didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched him turn and leave like a man on fire.

She turned back to Harry. “He’s acting weird.”

“He’s always weird,” Harry muttered, sipping his espresso.

She leaned her chin into her hand and looked at him. “You okay?”

He nodded once. But she didn’t buy it.

“Tell me,” she said softly.

He set down his cup. Met her eyes. And suddenly, the timing felt like glass.

She was so calm. So soft. Wrapped in sunlight and kindness. And he was about to put a crack in that.

But she deserved to know.

So he took her hand. Held it across the table. And started to speak. Because the world was coming. And he wanted her to hear it from him.

Harry shifted his chair beside her, closer than before.

The courtyard buzzed around them in that golden, slow way—espresso cups clinking, forks scraping, someone laughing faintly in the distance—but at their table, time stopped.

She looked radiant in the morning light, unaware that the world was already bending its gaze toward her. That somewhere, in sleek offices and messy group chats, her name was being typed. That headlines were drafted. That judgment had been scheduled.

And Harry—Harry looked like a man about to ruin something precious.

He didn’t start with the photo. He started with her hand. He took it—quietly, deliberately, fingers wrapping around hers like he was grounding himself first.

Then he turned to her, jaw tense, voice low.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

She stilled. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

The air between them shifted, dipped.

“I found out early this morning,” he continued, “and it's something you should know.”

He glanced away for a moment—toward the far end of the garden where the waiter had just placed another cappuccino down. Then back to her.

“There’s going to be an article. New York Times. It goes live tonight at 11. 5PM back home.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But inside? Her heart cracked.

Just once. A fracture.

He kept going.

“It’s about us.”

That hit. Us.

She heard the weight in it—the implication, the inevitability. About us. Not about him. Not just a line in passing about a man seen with a woman. No, this was different. This was targeted. This was real.

Her stomach dropped. Her throat tightened.

“They’re using the photo,” he added. “The one from the lobby. The woman—Carrie—she didn’t delete it like I told her to.”

There it was.

She blinked once. Twice.

Then nodded.

But she didn’t speak.

And that terrified him more than anything.

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost under his breath. “I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve gotten ahead of it. Should’ve—” he stopped himself, jaw tightening. “It’s my fault.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said finally, her voice quiet but sharp. “It’s not your fault.”

But she didn’t look at him.

Just stared at the tablecloth.

A pale smear of fig jam stained the edge of her plate. A bird chirped somewhere above. It felt wrong that the world was still moving.

She had known—of course she had. Knew the risk the second she let herself be seen with him in public. Knew the reality the first time he brought her over to his place like she'd belonged to him.

But knowing something and facing it were not the same.

Now it was here. Now she had less than fifteen hours before the world knew her face.

Hopefully maybe more.

Her mind spiraled before she could stop it.

What if they dig?

What if they find the pieces I buried?

What if Harry finds them too?

She tried to breathe normally.

Tried to pretend she wasn’t unraveling inch by inch.

Harry’s voice was gentle now. Careful.

“We can stay here. We don’t have to go anywhere today. I’ll talk to the villa staff—have everything brought in. We’ll just… ride it out.”

She nodded again, but it was slow. Mechanical.

He wasn’t getting it. Not really.

He was trying to protect her, and that only made the shame worse. The guilt. The fear.

Because she hadn’t told him. Not all of it.

Not the history that lived behind her ribs, locked up in a box she’d buried at twenty-one and never opened again. Not the part of her life that wasn’t elegant or poetic or beautifully broken—but messy and raw and stained in ways that didn’t wash out.

He didn’t know.

And once the article hit—once her name spread—once someone, anyone, decided to pull a thread—

He would.

And then what?

Would he look at her differently?

Would the way he kissed her change?

Would she become another complication he had to manage?

She couldn’t bear that.

Not from him.

So she stayed quiet.

Let him think it was just nerves.

Let him reach for her coffee cup and slide it closer, let him kiss her knuckles like it meant something more than a sweet morning gesture.

He thought she was afraid of the article.

But she wasn’t.

She was afraid of the fallout. Of what he’d find in the ashes.

He could feel her slipping into herself, pulling back in that silent, practiced way she did when she was scared.

He moved closer. Touched her jaw, guiding her to look at him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “Not yet. I just need you to know—none of this changes anything. Not for me. They can write what they want. Post what they want. You’re still mine.”

That broke her a little more.

She forced a smile—soft and small and almost real.

But inside? Panic.

He didn’t know.

And I can’t be the one to tell him.

Not today.

Maybe not ever.

So she leaned into his touch.

Let him kiss her cheek. Let him finish her coffee. Let him believe she was okay.

But part of her heart had already braced for impact. And the worst part?

She wasn’t afraid of the world finding out who she used to be.

She was afraid of Harry finding out.

Because if he looked at her differently—if he pulled away—if the softness in his voice ever twisted into something cold—

It wouldn’t just break her. It would wreck her.

So she smiled.

Held his hand tighter.

And whispered, “Okay.”

Even though it wasn’t. Even though it was anything but.

They finished their breakfast quietly. She picked at a pastry, peeled apart a fig. Harry didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Just let her move at her own pace, his hand never far from hers, his eyes lingering like he was memorizing her all over again.

And when they stood to leave, he didn’t let go of her hand.

Didn’t say a word.

He just walked her back through the sun-washed corridors of the villa, their footsteps soft against the cool stone floors, her cotton skirt swaying gently with each step.

The second the door closed behind them, it changed.

The quiet was heavier now. Not cold. But dense.

Loaded with things neither of them had fully said.

She crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing over the top of the dresser like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. The breeze from the open balcony door moved through the curtains like breath. Her hair fluttered across her shoulder.

Harry watched her for a long moment. Then moved.

He came up behind her—slow, deliberate—his presence folding over her like gravity. His hands slid around her waist. Firm. Certain.

She let out a breath. Leaned into him.

He pressed a kiss to her neck. Then another. Then one just behind her ear, hot and slow, and she shivered.

“You are quiet,” he said softly.

“I’m okay.”

He exhaled against her skin. “You don’t have to be.”

She turned slightly, eyes catching his. “I just need you.”

That did it. Something shifted behind his gaze. His jaw tightened. His grip on her waist flexed.

And before she could blink, she was being spun—back pressed against the dresser, his hands caging her in on either side, his eyes dark and hungry and full of everything he’d been trying to hold back since dawn.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low.

“I need you.”

He kissed her. Hard. Full-mouth, no space in between them, kissed her.

His hands gripped her face, holding her in place as he devoured her mouth—like he was angry at the air between them. She moaned, arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer like she couldn’t get enough.

His hands moved fast—down her sides, over her hips, sliding beneath the soft hem of her tank top. When he touched bare skin, he growled into her mouth.

“No bra?”

She shook her head, breathless.

He smirked—feral, gorgeous.

“Good.”

The shirt was gone in seconds—tugged up and over her head, tossed somewhere across the room without ceremony.

Then his mouth was on her chest.

Kissing. Biting.

Sucking marks into the tops of her breasts like he needed to brand her. His hands palmed her, thumbs rolling over her nipples until her knees buckled.

“Harry—”

He lifted her. Effortless.

Turned and walked her back toward the bed, kissing her the whole time like he couldn’t stop. He dropped her onto the mattress like he was done being soft. Like something inside him had snapped.

The cotton skirt was next—pushed up her thighs, bunched around her waist.

“Keep wearing this fucking skirt,” he murmured, voice rasping like gravel. “It's like you want me to lose my mind.”

“I do.”

He froze. Looked at her.

Then tugged her panties down in one rough motion, dragging them down her legs and off with a single pull.

He didn’t even kiss her again.

Just sank to his knees at the edge of the bed and dragged her hips toward him.

She gasped.

“Harry—”

“Shh.”

He hooked her knees over his shoulders and dove in. His mouth on her was feral. Starved.

He licked her like he was trying to silence every thought in her head—slow, messy drags of his tongue that made her cry out, one hand clutching the sheets, the other buried in his hair.

He held her open, fingers digging into her thighs like he wanted to leave bruises. Every time she tried to squirm, he growled and pulled her tighter against his face.

“You taste like a fucking dream,” he muttered against her, voice hoarse. “This pussy’s mine.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, yours—Harry, please—”

He moaned into her, sending a jolt straight through her spine. When he added two fingers—thrusting them deep and curling just right—she nearly came right then. Her legs shook. Her head dropped back.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “So wet for me already.”

He worked her like he knew her body better than she did. Licked her until she was whimpering, fucked her with his fingers until her thighs trembled, until her hips bucked uncontrollably.

Then, without warning, he stopped. She whimpered in protest.

He stood.

And looked down at her—chest rising, cheeks flushed, mouth open.

“Turn over.”

She blinked. “What?”

“On your knees.”

The tone left no room for negotiation.

She obeyed—heart pounding, breath ragged.

He dragged her skirt up again. Gripped her ass. Slid two fingers back inside her, slow and deep, making her arch.

“Still so fucking wet,” he growled. “You were dripping at breakfast. Did you like knowing I could take you apart the second we got back here?”

She moaned, pushing back against his hand.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Good girl.”

She heard the rustle of his clothes—his belt, his zipper, the soft hiss of fabric as he freed himself. Then the blunt heat of him at her entrance.

He didn’t ease in.

He slammed into her in one deep, punishing thrust.

She cried out, hands fisting the sheets.

“Fuck, Harry—”

“Shhh, baby,” he growled, leaning over her, one hand on her hip, the other wrapping around her throat. “You can take it. You always do.”

He pulled out slowly—almost all the way—then slammed back in, harder. Deeper. Again. Again. Relentless. Unyielding. Each thrust drove her forward on the mattress, her body a plaything in his hands.

And the sounds—

The slap of skin, her soft gasps, his low grunts—all of it filled the room like heat.

“Look at you,” he rasped, tightening his grip on her throat just slightly. “Letting me fuck you like this. Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

“I was,” she whimpered. “I am—Harry, please—”

He growled.

Dragged her up by the throat, back flush to his chest, his cock still deep inside her.

“Say it.”

She turned her face, breath catching. “Yours.”

He kissed her—deep and brutal—while fucking her harder from behind, one hand between her legs now, rubbing tight circles over her clit until her body started to break apart.

“I’m gonna—Harry—please—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her mouth. “Let go.”

She shattered.

Her orgasm hit like a wave—loud and long, her whole body convulsing as she moaned his name, clenching hard around him. He held her through it, fucked her through it, chasing his own release.

And when he came, he growled something filthy into her neck—buried so deep, so rough, it knocked the breath from both of them.

They collapsed together.

A tangle of limbs and sweat and silk. He stayed inside her. Just held her. Breathing heavy.

His hand moved to her chest—flat over her heart like he was anchoring her. Or himself.

For a long time, neither of them said anything.

Then—

“You’re mine,” he whispered again. Fierce. Quiet.

She nodded. Still trembling.

“I don’t care what they say,” he added. “You’re mine.”

And even though her heart was still racing, even though her mind was already spiraling toward what was coming—

She believed him.

She was his.

And he was hers.

They didn’t move for a while.

The sunlight crept across the bed, warming their bare skin, catching in the folds of the white sheets, highlighting the flushed pink across her chest where he’d kissed too hard, bitten too softly. Her leg was still slung over his hip. Her fingers rested on his stomach, rising and falling with each breath like they were syncing again, recalibrating after the heat of what they’d just done.

Harry couldn’t stop touching her.

His thumb traced idle patterns along the slope of her hip. Her skin was damp, glowing. She was too beautiful like this—undone and half-asleep, skin smelling like lavender, sex, and sweat, hair stuck to her temple.

She blinked up at him. He was already watching her.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured, voice hoarse from pleasure.

“I always stare.”

She smiled. Barely. Then tucked her face against his chest, breathing him in like she didn’t want to forget this. Like she was memorizing the shape of his body beneath her.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, his palm gliding up and down her spine.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. They didn’t need to.

Eventually, she sighed, voice sleepy. “Do we have to leave the room? Or talk to people?”

“No,” Harry said instantly. “We’re not leaving this room today.”

She lifted her head a little. “Really?”

He nodded. “I’m not in the mood to be charming. Or diplomatic. Or hear Lorenzo’s snarky little comments.”

She laughed against his chest. “God, he’s exhausting.”

“Everything out of his mouth is a TED Talk laced with disdain.”

“And Livia’s probably halfway through writing her own op-ed about us already.”

“Exactly,” Harry muttered. “Let them all speculate.”

She sat up slightly, still naked, still flushed, still glowing.

“You sure?” she asked, more serious now. “There’s probably some contract thing or meeting or…I don’t know…state secrets you’re supposed to be handling.”

Harry leaned up on one elbow. Brushed a strand of hair off her cheek.

“I want today to be just ours,” he said softly. “Before everything changes.”

That hit.

She looked at him—really looked at him. The shadows under his eyes. The way his voice dropped when he said “ours.” The crack in his armor that only she ever got to see.

She nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s keep the world out. Just for today.”

He kissed her forehead.

Then wrapped her in the sheet, pulling her back down to his chest, tangling them together like he needed to anchor her to the bed.

They spent the next few hours like that. Not moving much.

Just limbs tangled, bodies lazy with heat and afterglow.

Harry ordered breakfast again—more fruit, more coffee, more bread—then had it delivered straight to the room. When the knock came, he pulled on his slacks and shirt but left the top buttons undone, his chest bare as he cracked the door open and took the tray.

She watched from the bed, head propped on her hand.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “You’re like a hot dad in a cologne ad.”

He smirked. “Tell me more.”

They ate in bed. She sat cross-legged in his t-shirt, drinking espresso from a delicate porcelain cup while he peeled figs and passed them to her, one by one. She stole a bite of his toast. He wiped butter off her lip with his thumb. They didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t check their phones. The world felt far away.

At one point, she curled into his side again, her cheek pressed to his chest. His hand moved slowly through her hair, over and over, soothing. She drifted off like that—worn out and warm and full of carbs and comfort.

And Harry?

Harry laid there, watching her sleep. For hours.

Until he realized it was past three already. His mind never stopped.

He wanted her to rest. Wanted her to stay soft and safe in their little bubble of stolen hours.

But there was the countdown.

And the closer the clock crept to eleven, the tighter his chest felt.

He waited until her breathing evened out, until her fingers went slack against his stomach. Then, slowly, he slid out from beneath her. Careful. Quiet. Placing a kiss at the crown of her head before easing out of bed.

He dressed quickly—charcoal trousers, navy sweater, no shoes. Ran a hand through his hair. Didn’t bother looking in the mirror.

Then he left the room. For the second time today.

Danny was in the corner of the villa he ran off to, holed up in what used to be a study but had become his makeshift office—a tangle of laptops, chargers, espresso cups, and half-buried Italian snack wrappers.

He barely looked up when Harry walked in.

“Close the door,” Danny muttered.

Harry did.

Then crossed the room in a few long strides.

Danny spoke before he could.

“I’ve been talking to Sadie back at the office all morning. She’s trying to get ahead of it. Our options are limited, but—”

“We’re doing a statement,” Harry said flatly.

Danny blinked. “What?”

“When the article goes live. We control the narrative.”

Danny leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. “You’re sure?”

Harry nodded. “She’s not going to become someone’s TikTok theory. I’m not letting people build a myth out of her silence. They’ll do it anyway—but I’m not giving them fuel.”

Danny ran a hand through his hair. “You realize this means press calls. Confirmations. You’ll have to say something. Actually say it.”

“I don’t care.”

Danny looked at him for a beat.

Then nodded.

“Okay. Then we do it your way.”

Harry exhaled.

The silence that followed was short-lived.

Because then Danny added, almost too casually, “There’s something else.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “What?”

Danny hesitated.

“Spit it out.”

Danny didn’t meet his eyes. Just opened his laptop again. Clicked once. Then turned the screen toward him.

It was the article. Still in preview form. But this time—there was a new paragraph at the bottom.

And Harry’s name wasn’t the only one in bold.

Lucy’s was.

He read the quote.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to.”

Harry stilled. Everything in his body went quiet.

Then—

He laughed. Once. Sharp. A sound with no humor in it.

Then he leaned back, ran a hand down his face, and muttered, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Danny didn’t answer.

Harry stood. Started pacing.

“She gave a quote,” he said flatly. “To Carrie Roth.”

Danny nodded.

Harry barked out another bitter laugh. “The same woman who fed a wedding invite to my team like it was an olive branch now wants to narrate my personal life for the New York fucking Times?”

“Harry—”

“She left,” he snapped. “She left me. She walked away. She broke something in me that no one has touched since, and now—what? She wants to throw rocks at the glass house she abandoned?”

“I don’t think she expected you to—”

“To move on?” Harry turned, eyes dark. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

Danny watched him carefully.

Harry’s voice dropped, razor-sharp.

“She’s not protecting anyone. She’s not warning anyone. She just wants to stay relevant in my story.”

A long pause. Harry walked to the window. Stared out at the hills.

Then said, quietly—

“She can’t stand that I’m happy.”

Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Harry turned back, calmer now. But there was something in his eyes. Something cold. Resolved.

“I want it noted in the statement,” he said. “No comment about Lucy. No clapback. Just silence. Her quote will scream louder against it.”

“You sure?”

“I want her words to hang in the air with nothing to land on.”

Danny nodded. “Okay.”

“And when the article drops—have the staff pull the villa Wi-Fi.”

Danny tilted his head. “You really think that’s necessary?”

Harry didn’t blink. “I want her to sleep through it.”

Danny exhaled. “Understood.”

Harry looked down. Then out the window again.

The sun was slipping low now. Dipping into late afternoon. Only a few hours left.

And somewhere upstairs, she was still asleep in his bed—barely covered, skin warm, lips parted, dreaming of nothing.

Still untouched by what was coming.

He clenched his jaw.

“I’m going back,” he said. “I want her to have as much of today as she can.”

Danny didn’t say another word.

Harry turned. Opened the door. And left.

The light was different when he returned. Softer. Golden. Filtering in through the gauzy curtains like a whispered promise.

She was still curled up in bed, just where he left her—one arm flung over his pillow, the other tucked beneath her cheek. Her hair was a mess. Her leg was kicked out from under the sheets. Her mouth twitched once, like she was smiling in her sleep.

He stood at the doorway for a long time. Just watched her. The most peaceful thing in his world.

And he knew—

He would burn it all down if they touched her. If they twisted her story. If they dug too deep.

But for now? She was just his.

He toed off his shoes. Pulled his sweater over his head. Slid back into bed beside her, gentle and quiet, wrapping an arm around her waist.

She stirred. Then melted into him like she’d never left.

And Harry?

Harry closed his eyes. Just for a minute.

Because something was coming.

And with it—hell. But not yet. Not now.

The world outside their villa room remained distant. Muffled. The kind of late afternoon lull that made everything feel dipped in honey. The sun was still warm but fading, and the breeze through the balcony door carried the scent of lemon trees and salt and something blooming.

She was still asleep.

Curled into his side again, her small hand wrapped gently around his thumb like she knew, even in dreams, that something was coming. Harry held her close with one arm, the other resting on the blanket. He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour.

But his mind wouldn’t rest.

He stared at the ceiling. Then at the golden curve of her cheek.

Then, slowly, reached for his phone from the nightstand. The screen glared to life—27 missed messages, 14 emails, 6 calendar alerts—and he ignored them all.

Instead, he opened something he hadn’t touched in weeks.

Messages.

He scrolled down until he found her name.

Lucy.

And clicked.

The thread opened like a wound. Not because he missed her.

But because he couldn’t remember how the hell he ever loved her.

He scrolled, slowly at first. Then faster.

Messages from a year ago. Six months ago.

Texts full of jabs that looked like jokes. Compliments edged with contempt. Whole stretches of time when she wouldn’t respond at all—just long silences punctuated by acid replies.

Harry: I moved the 3PM to 5 to make time for your meeting. Want to get dinner after?

Lucy: Not if you’re going to talk about your profits the whole time again.

He kept scrolling.

Harry: Missed you this morning. Hope your flight was okay.

Lucy: Did you leave the AC on again? My plants are dead. Again.

Another set.

Harry: Can we talk about what happened last night?

Lucy: There’s nothing to talk about. You overreacted. As usual.

He stared at that one for a long moment.

Then scrolled up again.

Harry: I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to understand why you said that.

Lucy: I said it because it’s true. You’re exhausting, Harry. I’m not going to babysit your emotions every time you feel insecure.

He winced. He remembered that night.

Remembered how she’d looked in the restaurant, eyes glittering like a knife. How she’d laughed in front of the waiter when he tried to explain why a news leak had made him sad.

She’d called him fragile.

He kept scrolling. Closer to the end now.

The final texts before it all fell apart.

Harry: Why are you making me feel guilty for wanting to pay the bill?

Lucy: Because you always do it. Because it makes me feel like I owe you something. You don’t know how to exist in a relationship without treating it like a transaction.

Harry: That’s not fair.

Lucy: Life’s not fair. Grow up.

The last message was his.

One he never got a reply to.

Harry: I just want to take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Three days later, she posted a photo onto Instagram in Montauk with John. Smiling. Holding his hand.

The broke ass waiter she used to mock under her breath during charity dinners. The one she told Harry would never understand her. The one she ran to after burning every bridge in his chest.

Harry looked down at his screen. At the last words he ever typed to Lucy.

Then looked at the girl sleeping on his chest. Everything inside him softened.

Because this—what he had now—was not the same storm. It was something else entirely.

She breathed evenly. Her hand twitched once in her sleep, like she was dreaming of running. Or dancing. Or chasing something. Her leg was still tangled with his, bare skin on bare skin beneath the sheets, her body warm and real and here.

And she didn’t ask him to shrink.

She never mocked his care.

She let him hold her.

She leaned into his protection like it meant something. Like he wasn’t some cold, obsessive machine.

She smiled when he opened the door. Laughed when he kissed her shoulder. Praised him with a look alone.

She was everything Lucy never was.

And Harry felt it in his bones—that she wasn’t just a phase or a fix or a fever. She was real. She was joy and grief and survival and softness all tangled into one beautiful, infuriating, irresistible thing.

He wanted to protect her.

He wanted to keep her laughing in bed, lips sticky with figs and espresso, forever. He wanted her to have days where her past didn’t feel like an undertow and nights where she fell asleep safe in his arms, knowing that no one—not Carrie Roth, not Lucy, not the internet—would ever touch her without going through him first.

His phone buzzed. Once. Then again.

He glanced down, expecting another update from Danny. But it was from Luca.

Luca: Francesca got the film developed.

Luca: Thought you’d want these.

Luca: Don’t let her see them yet unless you’re ready to cry like a little bitch.

Harry opened the message.

Three photos. Film. Unedited. Grainy in the way that made things feel truer.

And the moment he saw the first one, his breath left his chest.

They were at lunch. The one with the crooked string lights and those marzipan. The one where they were wine-drunk and sunk into each other like vines.

The first photo was her on his shoulder. Eyes half-lidded. Flushed cheeks. Lips slightly parted. He was saying something into her ear—something private, something that made her laugh in the second photo. That laugh that cracked her whole face open like light through stained glass.

He looked down at her like she was the only thing that existed.

And in the third photo? She was feeding him a bite of cake. Her fingers near his mouth.

And he was smiling.

Not the tight-lipped, polite kind.

But the kind that looked like freedom. Like after.

Harry stared at the screen, heart hammering.

Francesca had been right. They looked like they’d been in love for a hundred years.

He gently tilted the phone away, not wanting to wake her with the brightness.

Instead, he tucked it under the pillow and looked back at her. Still sleeping.

Still unaware that somewhere, deep in the belly of the internet, her face was already loaded into a server, waiting to be released into the wild.

But not yet. He still had time.

And so, with the weight of Lucy’s cruelty still echoing in the back of his mind and the ghost of her last text sitting unanswered in his pocket, Harry wrapped both arms around the woman he hadn’t lost.

And whispered into her hair like a vow.

“I’ve got you.”

Because for the first time in years, he meant it.

And she believed him. Even in sleep. Especially then.

The late Florence light spilled across their bed like honey, warm and gold and cruel in how peaceful it made everything look. She was still tucked into him, limbs loose and trusting, face slack with sleep. Her cheek pressed to his chest, one hand resting over his heart like she needed to feel it beat to believe it was real.

Harry exhaled slowly.

He was still holding the memory of that photo—her laughing, head tilted, eyes closed, like she’d never known anything but love. It rattled something in his chest. A different kind of grief. The kind you only feel when you realize you almost lived your whole life without something that should’ve been this easy.

His hand moved through her hair.

He closed his eyes. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to drift.

All the way.

Just enough. Just far enough to feel her breath against his ribs.

Six more hours until the world opened its mouth and swallowed them whole.

Across the other wing, Danny sat hunched over his laptop, AirPods shoved into his ears, a half-empty espresso growing cold beside a massive spreadsheet of crisis comms protocols. Allegra had finally—finally—gotten Carrie Roth on the phone, and now Danny was regretting every second of his life that had led him here.

The call connected with a click.

And then—

“Danny,” Carrie said. Her voice was syrupy and sharp, like honey poured over glass. “Didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“You know why I’m calling,” he said flatly.

She laughed. Not kindly.

“I’m flattered. You sound so serious. Are you practicing for a deposition already?”

“Cut the shit, Carrie,” Danny snapped, already red in the face. “We know what you’re planning. You’re sitting on an invasion of privacy and running it under the guise of journalism.”

“I’m reporting a public figure’s romantic life,” she replied breezily. “Not the Pentagon Papers.”

“She was followed into his home,” Danny snapped. “The lobby was private property—”

“It’s not private if there’s a camera and a doorman.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing. That headline is disgusting. You’re using an image that was never meant for public consumption.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then Carrie’s voice dropped, slow and smug.

“She’s in his clothes, Danny. Her hair’s wet. She looks like she just blew him in his penthouse shower. I’m reporting the moment.”

Danny’s jaw clenched.

“Harry’s going to sue you.”

Another pause.

And then Carrie laughed.

“Let him,” she said. “Honestly, it might boost traffic.”

“You’re playing with people’s lives—”

“Oh please,” she snapped. “Don’t act like he hasn’t played with other people’s lives before. This is how it works. You want to keep her private? Keep her off Fifth Avenue. Don’t parade her around Italy, you know Livia is a good conversationalist.”

Danny stood up from the desk.

Paced.

“You publish that article and I swear to God—”

“It’s done.”

Danny froze.

“What?”

Carrie’s voice was calm. Deliberate. Cold as marble.

“I got tired of the back-and-forth. My editor was stalling and frankly, I don’t care. The world should know. Everyone’s waiting. Might as well give them the headline, fuck those six hours.”

“Carrie—”

“Refresh your browser, Danny.”

He did.

Fingers shaking.

And there it was.

The New York Times

Culture & Style

The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name

By Carrie Roth | Published 11:14 AM EST, March 5th, 2025

Danny’s stomach dropped.

He opened the article—only the top, only the first few lines before the paywall.

But the photo was there. The photo.

Her. Wet hair. In his sweats. His shirt draped over her frame. Standing beside Harry in his penthouse lobby, his hand hovering near her back like it belonged there.

And Harry—

Harry looked in love.

Frozen in a moment he thought no one would ever see. And now? Now the whole world could.

Danny sank back into his chair, chest tight.

Allegra’s voice buzzed through his phone screen as she called again.

Too late. It was already too late. He was fucking too late. The six hours were gone in an instant.

In the west wing of the villa, the silence still held.

She stirred in Harry’s arms, half-asleep, half-dreaming, lips parted against his skin. Her lashes fluttered. One leg kicked softly under the covers. She murmured something unintelligible—something safe, something soft.

Harry was still asleep.

His chest rose and fell evenly. His face relaxed. His hand loosely tangled in her hair like he couldn’t let go even while unconscious.

They were still untouched. Still dreaming in gold. Still pretending they had six more hours.

And outside their door—

The wolves were already circling.

Meanwhile, across the ocean, Cape Cod was overcast.

The clouds had rolled in sometime after breakfast, dragging a dull gray light over everything—the sand, the water, the white clapboard house Lucy still couldn’t believe she lived in. It was a borrowed kind of life, the kind where the floors creaked like someone else’s memories still lived in the walls.

The kind where she still sometimes reached for a card key instead of a brass doorknob.

John was out back. Raking the garden. They’d promised her parents they’d try growing tomatoes this year. He looked ridiculous in the sweater she shrank in the wash, sleeves too short, collar stretched. He had one earbud in and was humming something off-key.

Lucy watched him from the kitchen window.

There was a teabag steeping in a mug on the counter. She hadn’t touched it.

The clock on the oven read 11:26 AM.

She had tried to write that morning. Opened her laptop. Closed it again. Her Substack hadn’t been updated in two weeks. She had a folder of half-finished drafts, all of them brittle and tired. None of them sounded like her.

She couldn’t figure out what she was trying to say anymore.

The house smelled like Windex and laundry detergent.

She hadn't worn makeup in three days. Her robe was slipping off her shoulder again. The dog—a small mutt they adopted from a local shelter last week—was asleep at her feet.

She didn’t hear her phone at first.

It buzzed once on the counter, face-down. Then again. Then a third time, longer.

She flipped it over with two fingers.

CARRIE ROTH

Lucy stared at the name. The screen. The blinking green light.

Then she answered.

“Carrie,” she said, voice flat. “It’s not a great time.”

“It dropped.”

Lucy’s breath caught. Carrie didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. There was only one thing it could mean.

Lucy turned away from the window. Walked slowly to the table. Sat down.

Her voice was quieter now. “Already?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

Lucy swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

“I thought—”

“Danny threatened to sue me,” Carrie said. “It annoyed me. So I pulled the trigger.”

Lucy didn’t respond.

“People are reading it already,” Carrie continued. “It’s trending.”

Lucy closed her eyes.

“And you used my quote?” she asked. Her voice didn’t shake. But it was cold now. A razor sheathed in velvet.

“You know I did.”

Another long silence.

Carrie didn’t fill it. Just waited.

Finally, Lucy asked, “Does she know yet?”

She could hear the smile in Carrie’s voice.

"She will soon."

Lucy’s stomach turned. She hung up without saying goodbye.

The phone stayed pressed to her palm, screen black, fingers tightening around it like it had betrayed her.

Outside, John waved at her through the glass.

She didn’t wave back. She sat there for a long time.

Long enough for the tea to go cold. Long enough for the dog to shift, whine softly, and curl closer to her feet like it could sense something wrong.

She didn’t cry. She wasn’t the crying type. But something inside her splintered. A small, sharp ache behind the ribs.

She told herself it wasn’t jealousy. She told herself it wasn’t regret. She had made a choice. She left New York. She left him.

And not just the high-rise penthouse and the assistant with the dry wit and the perfectly tailored suits. She left the man.

Harry Castillo. The one who loved quietly.

Who boiled her tea before bed even when they weren’t speaking. Who carried her keys in his coat pocket without asking. Who hated poetry but listened when she read it out loud like he was trying to understand anyway.

But also—

The man who never told her how he felt unless she dragged it out of him. Who made her feel like she was constantly trying to earn softness. Who made the walls of their penthouse feel colder every time he shut down instead of shouting.

They were never right for each other. But they had been something.

And now? He was in love again. And someone had captured it on film.

Lucy had already seen the photo. She didn’t want to have to see it again. She would feel it this time.

The way Carrie had broke it to her. That wasn’t journalism. That was a knife. That was salt in a wound no one was supposed to know she still had.

She looked down at her robe. At the ring on her finger. Thinner than the one Harry had once picked out and never got the chance to give her. The diamond smaller. The love less complicated.

She looked at the phone again. It didn’t buzz. Didn’t ring.

No one was calling to tell her how it felt to be quoted like that. No one was telling her how Harry had reacted.

She wouldn’t know unless she asked. And she wasn’t going to ask.

Because even if she still thought about him when the wind off the ocean sounded like Manhattan in the winter—

Even if she still had his number saved under Harry <3.

Even if she sometimes imagined what he’d say about the neighbors, or the farmer’s market, or the chipped tile in the bathroom—

She had left. And he had moved on.

So she sat there. In the silence. And for the first time since the article dropped—

She wondered if he’d finally fallen in love for real.

And if that woman—whoever she was—wasn’t a nobody after all. But someone who had given him something Lucy never could.

Peace. And the permission to be soft.

She got up slowly. Turned off her phone.And didn’t open the article. Not yet.

─────

The New York Times

Culture & Style

The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name

By Carrie Roth | Published 11:14 AM EST, March 5th, 2025

When Harry Castillo, the notoriously private hedge fund billionaire and reluctant society darling, walked away from the limelight in late 2024 after a very public and very painful breakup with longtime partner Lucy, no one expected to see him surface again in any intimate context.

Yet here we are.

Castillo, 54, was photographed in the lobby of his Fifth Avenue penthouse earlier this month with a woman whose name, background, and entire existence appear to have baffled both the social elite and the media machine equally. In a world where a last name can function as currency, this woman has none—or at least, not one that anyone seems able to find.

The photo—captured by Carrie Roth and verified by multiple sources—features Castillo in a pair of dark joggers and a custom Valentino long sleeve, his expression unreadable. The woman beside him is dressed in what appear to be his clothes, oversized sweatpants, a faded navy shirt likely pulled from his top drawer, and socks patterned in chaotic, juvenile colors that make one wonder if she dressed herself in the dark or simply enjoys looking like a college freshman home for spring break.

Her hair is wet. So is his. Her face is bare. Her body language, reserved.

It would be forgettable if it weren’t so telling.

She doesn’t look like someone accustomed to being photographed. She doesn’t carry herself like a model, actress, heiress, or anyone remotely used to proximity to power. She looks like she just stepped out of his shower, borrowed his laundry, and followed him out without knowing where they were going next. There’s no stylist, no heels, no curated façade. There’s not even a purse in sight.

Which, of course, begs the question...Who is she?

At the time of publication, no verified identity has been confirmed. What we do know, she’s American. Likely in her twenties or early thirties. No public social media. No recognizable affiliations. No traceable digital footprint. A true anomaly in a city—and a culture—obsessed with documentation.

Some will say it’s romantic. That Castillo, long labeled cold and career-obsessed, has finally fallen for someone outside the machine. That love found him in a quiet corner of life and pulled him back into the light.

Others are less convinced.

The most damning quote comes from Lucy herself, the woman who knew him best—and left.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to. She’s not built for it. She’ll realize eventually. It’s a facade. All of it. He doesn’t do warm. Not really.”

Harsh words from a woman once fiercely loyal to the man she now paints as emotionally inaccessible. But they do echo a question many of Castillo's partners are quietly asking...What happens when the charm wears off?

Castillo’s pattern is well-documented. He disappears for months, reemerges without explanation, and surrounds himself with handlers more loyal than blood. He doesn’t date. He selects. Curates. And if this woman—this “nobody”—has truly captured his attention, she may have unknowingly stepped into a role with no script, no exit, and no idea of the performance required.

The optics are troubling.

The power imbalance is obvious.

He’s 54. She, allegedly is in her late twenties, early thirties. He is a billionaire. She, by all accounts, works in a field so mundane no one’s been able to confirm what it is. (Waitress? Gallerist? Nanny? The rumors span the alphabet.) She does not appear to be in fashion, finance, tech, or any industry tangential to his world.

She is not, in the traditional sense, someone.

And maybe that’s what he wants.

Someone who doesn’t challenge him. Someone who looks up to him. Someone who—like the rest of us—didn’t see it coming.

But let’s be clear, this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a headline.

And for now, that headline reads like the beginning of a story that’s more about power than love. More about fantasy than future. More about the image of intimacy than the truth of it.

Whether or not the woman in the photo understands what she’s walked into remains to be seen.

But the internet has already decided.

She’s already a meme.

Already a conspiracy thread.

Already a canvas for everyone’s projections.

And Harry Castillo, once the ghost of Manhattan's most elite rooms, has reemerged—only to set the world ablaze with a single photo of a girl who, until now, had the gift of being unseen.

Now?

Now she belongs to the feed.

And the feed never forgets.

Comments (238):

louisa83 Isn’t she that girl from Charlotte? Her brother…you know. The one who killed himself after their dad went to prison?

sampaige OMG. YES. my cousin went to school with her at hillside academy. her family basically imploded. her dad was some finance guy who scammed half the town. people lost their homes. then the son took his own life and the mom vanished overseas. it was a whole thing. wild to see her resurface like this.

deannareads Yup. This was a huge story here in North Carolina. Her dad ran a fake investment firm and got busted in 2019. Ponzi-style. Churches lost money. Local businesses folded. I had a friend whose grandmother lost her retirement in that mess. The daughter (the one in the article) disappeared right after the brother’s funeral. Like poof. Gone.

moneymessNC THEY LIVED IN THAT BIG BRICK HOUSE ON CEDAR RIDGE LANE! Her mom used to throw those weird garden parties and acted like she was royalty. Then the FBI raided their house and it all went to hell. I heard the mom dipped to Europe with a new identity. And now the daughter’s dating a billionaire? Make it make sense.

brookee02 “she doesn’t have a digital footprint” ....or maybe she just scrubbed the hell out of it after the biggest scandal in north carolina since john edwards. this girl isn’t a mystery. she’s a cover up and fake!!!!

southernbella She used to go by a different last name, I swear. She changed it after the trial. Her dad was literally sentenced to life. People were protesting outside their house for weeks. The fact that she ended up with Castillo? Feels strategic. Sorry not sorry.

annahayes Not her climbing her way back up to billionaire status like nothing happened...I remember the story. That family imploded. We’re talking lawsuits, fraud, rehab, funerals, extradition rumors. The whole Netflix package.

jadedjuliet sooo let me get this straight. her dad ruins hundreds of lives, her brother dies, her mom runs away, and she gets to rebrand as mysterious and date a billionaire? cool. must be nice to fail upward.

stellamae Nothing like a tragic backstory to distract from the gold digging. Daddy’s in prison, mommy’s in hiding, brother’s six feet under and she’s wearing $900 sweats in a billionaire’s penthouse like it’s a redemption arc. Give me a break.

─────

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal

#harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #materialists #materialists fanfic #harry castillo x you #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #the materialists fanfic #the materialists

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capuccinodoll · 24 days ago

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The boyfriend act, part 9.2: "The one with the wedding" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Something’s changed, you can feel it, and you can’t fight it. Frankie keeps his promise—he accompanies you to Harry's wedding. Surprisingly, your ex isn’t the focus of the night. Instead, it's the strange, new dynamic between you and your companion that ends up tangled up in your house. Part 2 of chapter 9. WC: 12.4k

A/N: Oh God... enjoy. Hope you like it—it really helped me a lot to write this chapter this week! Love you love youuuuuuu!! Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!!If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! love you <3

The air inside the party was heavier, charged with warmth from too many bodies pressed together, energy buzzing against your skin. The lights had shifted since you last looked, dimmer now, streaks of blue and violet slicing through the dark like something alive. You stepped into it, absorbing the dizzying warmth of the room. Frankie wasn’t beside you anymore. You didn’t look for him. You didn’t let yourself.

A song was playing—something with a slow build, something from the two thousands. You didn’t recognize it, but it didn’t matter. You let the sound settle over you, let it fill the spaces between your ribs. Without thinking, you moved. Not a dance, not exactly, just the natural sway of a body finding its own rhythm. You let your eyes slip shut, your lips curving in something close to a smile.

And then, just for a moment, there was nothing heavy in your chest. No aching, no lingering weight. Maybe it was fleeting. Circumstantial. Maybe it was the red wine, or the champagne, or Frankie. Maybe it didn’t matter. Somewhere nearby, Harry was spinning Lisa under his arm, and the sight of it didn’t hit you like it did before. The thought sat there, light and untethered, and it felt—God, it felt so fucking good.

Your feet didn’t hurt this time. At least not yet. Right now, all you felt was motion, the firm thrum of music in your bones, and the sharp, electric clarity of being completely, wonderfully untangled from everything else.

And then, again, that warmth. That familiar pressure, retracing its path over your skin—your waist, the soft dip beneath your ribs. He liked to put his hands there. You’d noticed.

Your eyes fluttered open, and Frankie was beside you, balancing two glasses in one hand like it was second nature.

Under the neon lights, he looked like a decoy made especially for you.

He didn’t say anything at first, just extended one toward you, expectant. You took it without hesitation, lifting it to your nose, inhaling the faint bite of alcohol before glancing up at him through your lashes.

“It’s not poison,” he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the music. “That’s in the past.”

“In the past,” you echoed, and took a sip, the fizzing liquid settling on your tongue before you swallowed. You stepped in closer, resting your free hand lightly on his shoulder. “That I do know. Your attacks are different now.”

Frankie exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Are you still at it? You sound almost... defeated.”

“I’m not. I’m just—curious.”

“That much I can tell.” He lifted his drink to his lips, tilting it back, his throat moving as he swallowed.

Your gaze followed the movement without thinking, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the way the lights shifted over the contours of his neck. A pulse flickered just beneath his skin, and for a ridiculous, fleeting second, you thought about sinking your teeth into it.

You exhaled, shaking off the thought, and lifted your chin. “Well, what are you waiting for? Show me those moves, or I’m going to start thinking you’re all talk.”

He looked at you then. Held your gaze. One, two, three seconds. And then, slowly, a smirk edged onto his lips—mischief, something else underneath it.

Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his glass and tipped the rest of his drink back in one smooth motion. You followed suit, feeling the sharp heat of it slide down your throat.

He peeled himself away from you, took your empty glass along with his, and set them on the nearest table.

Something curled inside you. Expectation. Anticipation. He was coming back, moving toward you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from absorbing him fully—the disheveled mess of his hair, the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell as he took those final, closing steps.

God, you wanted to touch him. You wanted to press your fingers into the mess of his curls, trail your hands down the solid plane of his torso, the soft belly right there, show him you weren’t afraid to.

What the fuck.

What the fuck was happening to you?

His body crashed into yours, the force of it pushing you back a step, knocking you slightly off balance. But before you could even process the stumble, his hands were already on you, both palms firm around your waist, steadying you. And then he was moving again, feet shifting forward, pulling you along with him, deeper into the swell of bodies that didn’t notice you, too wrapped up in their own worlds, their own dramas, their own little universes.

Your hands found his chest, instinctively pressing against the warmth of him, feeling the solid weight of muscle beneath your fingertips. Frankie slid one hand upward, brushing from your elbow to your wrist, his touch slow, deliberate. He peeled your hand away from him, laced his fingers through yours, his grip warm.

“This music isn’t going to do us justice,” he murmured, the sound curling against your ear.

He was right—the song blaring through the speakers was all wrong. Too fast, too shrill, the beat frenzied in a way that didn’t suit this.

“That doesn’t matter,” you countered, tipping your chin up at him. “Or you can’t do it?”

Frankie exhaled sharply, something between a laugh and a scoff, and without warning, he let go of your hand. Instead, he grabbed you by the sides and, in one fluid motion, started moving with you, pulling a surprised laugh from your lips.

Somehow, you understood what he wanted without needing to be told. Your body responded to his, falling in sync, matching his rhythm. His hands framed you, adjusting you exactly where he wanted, where he needed. His hips led the way, and yours followed instinctively, as if this had always been muscle memory, as if you had been built to move like this with him.

A grin spread across your face, wide and unguarded, and when you looked up at him, you found his gaze already fixed on you, his dark eyes drinking you in, like he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

The scent of his cologne wrapped around you, seeping into your skin with every small shift between you. It made something stir in your chest, something reckless, something dangerous. Without thinking, you arched into him, pressing closer, as if there were any space left to close.

There wasn’t. Not anymore.

Then, his fingers curled around yours, firm, insistent. In one swift movement, he spun you, pulling you back against him, his arm sliding across the front of your body, locking you in place. Your head tipped against his shoulder, your breath catching for a fraction of a second. The sensation was dizzyingly familiar—how many times tonight had he positioned you like this, as if he wanted you pressed to him, as if his body was something for you to fall into?

His mouth skimmed your ear. “Does this meet your requirements?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment before you tilted your head, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“I’m on my back to you again,” you murmured. “I think that tells me something about the kind of man you are.”

His lips parted. “Don’t be a tease.”

“Why not?”

His hands flexed, fingers pressing into your ribs—not rough, not demanding, but enough to send heat coursing through your veins. Enough to make your pulse hitch. The pressure anchored you, shattered you, pieced you back together in the span of a heartbeat.

He turned you again, your body yielding to the unspoken command in his touch. But this time, you didn’t let him take the lead.

Your hands shot up, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer before he had the chance to do it himself. His breath stuttered, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, and you felt it—his hesitation, his control, the way he was holding something back.

A smile curled at your lips just as his hands found their way to your lower back, pressing, keeping you there. Like he had no intention of letting go.

You shut your eyes for a beat, as if the darkness behind your eyelids might offer you clarity, a sharp-edged thought, something to arm yourself with. But your mind was a useless, static-filled thing, buzzing in your ears, drowning beneath the erratic pulse in your throat. Whatever words you might have thrown at him had disappeared, leaving you unarmed, exposed.

So you turned to the only thing left.

You couldn't fight, but you could touch. You could bring your hands to the sides of his face, feel the heat of his skin under your palms, and close the space between you. You could press your lips to his, soft and deliberate, tilting your head just right, angling yourself toward that sliver of vulnerability in him you’d always known was there.

Frankie exhaled sharply against your mouth—you had him. Right there, in your hands, in the way his lips moved against yours; not rushed, but desperate all the same.

You needed to stay in control. Not let yourself fall on the sword you were wielding. But he got closer, somehow, his hands sliding up your back, mapping bare skin with his fingertips. One settled at your waist, fingers pressing in like he needed proof that you were there. The other skimmed higher, threading through your hair, twisting a strand around his fingers, pulling—just enough to make your breath catch, to tip your head back, to drag a sound from you that you hadn’t meant to give.

And he heard it. Of course, he did.

His breath came harder now, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that burned through whatever restraint he'd tried to hold on to. And for all your careful control, you weren’t sure if you had him exactly where you wanted him—or if he had you.

Frankie pulled back, his mouth slipping from yours with infuriating ease, a lazy, knowing smile settling on his lips. He didn’t let go of you completely—his fingers still tangled in your hair, keeping your head bowed, like he was admiring his own handiwork. The moment stretched until you let out a breath, your hands sliding back to his neck in some attempt at regaining control.

You were just about to say something—something halfhearted, a weak protest dressed up as wit—when the music changed. I Feel It Coming by The Weeknd.

Frankie hummed in approval. “Now we’re talking.”

He released your hair, his hands settling on you differently now, shifting with the rhythm, guiding you into it with him. Like it had never been a question, like it was inevitable.

You followed his lead because what else could you do? You weren’t going to step away now, make up some flimsy excuse and disappear. That would be an admission, wouldn’t it? That all of this had an effect on you. That you could be pulled into him like the tide, no resistance. And from the way he was watching you, that knowing smirk carved into his face, he already suspected as much.

Then the lyrics came through the speakers, weaving their way into the space between you.

Tell me what you really like

Baby, I can take my time

We don’t ever have to fight

Just take it step by step

Your throat tightened. A slow, creeping warmth curled its way up your neck, not the pleasant kind but the kind that came with the quiet, unbearable realization of being seen. Really seen.

I can see it in your eyes

'cause they never tell me lies

I can feel that body shake

and the heat between your legs

You closed your eyes, willing the moment to dissolve into something less intense, less unbearable. But your breath hitched anyway, unsteady, shallow. Overloaded, overwhelmed. Just for a second, but it was enough.

And then you felt him again—his cheek pressed against yours. A quiet anchor. Your eyes fluttered open, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck, holding onto something tangible. You exhaled again, this time steadier, firmer.

Like you could pretend, for now, that you still had the upper hand.

You’ve been scared of love and what it did to you

You don’t have to run, I know what you’ve been through.

The lyrics blurred into background noise. Instead, you focused on your breathing, each inhale smoothing out the jagged edges of your pulse. Frankie’s body was solid against yours, unmovable. A wall you could lean on.

Without thinking, you let yourself sink into him, resting against the breadth of his shoulders, the warmth of his chest. His arms tightened around you, not possessive, not urgent—just encompassing. Holding you there as the music stretched on, your bodies swaying in time, your feet moving without effort, without thought.

You lost track of how long you stayed like that, how many verses passed before the spell was broken. Maybe the song had ended. Maybe it had been cut short. You weren’t sure. All you knew was that, suddenly, the air shifted.

A new beat crashed through the speakers, shaking you out of the hazy moment. Everybody by the Backstreet Boys. A sharp contrast, like being yanked from a dream before you were ready. And with it, the rest of the world reappeared—people you hadn’t noticed before, bodies moving in every direction, laughter spilling into the space you had occupied so quietly with Frankie.

He stepped back, just a little. When you met his gaze, he was smiling, but something deeper in his expression made your stomach tighten.

A sudden yell broke through the music. Both of you turned just in time to see Henry at the center of the room, shouting, his movements exaggerated as he threw himself into some half-choreographed dance. A group of men circled around him, clapping, hyping him up as he mimicked the mummy dance, his hands waving stiffly in front of him.

Frankie let out a short laugh. “We have to admit, he sure knows how to have a good time.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Yeah.”

Your eyes stayed on Henry a second longer, watching his antics, his complete lack of self-consciousness. Then you turned to Frankie, and before you even realized you were going to say it, the words slipped out.

“I want to go home.”

Frankie didn’t question it. He just nodded. Then, with a quiet sort of care, he peeled his hands away from you, stepping back fully.

“I’ll hit the bathroom first,” he said. “Then we’ll go, okay?”

You nodded. “I’ll wait for you at our table.”

Frankie gave you one last glance before turning, disappearing into the crowd with unhurried steps. You exhaled, pressing your lips together as you turned on your heels, moving toward the table with a weight in your limbs that hadn't been there before.

When you sat down, another breath escaped you—longer this time, like you were letting the entire night spill out through your mouth. The music pulsed around you, loud, but the space beside you remained empty. Everyone else was still on the dance floor, their bodies jumping, twisting, losing themselves-

You stretched your legs out under the table, your gaze drifting to your shoes, the heels scuffed from hours of wear. Then, a shift in the air beside you caught your attention.

“Enjoying the night?”

You looked up. Harry had dropped into the seat next to you, his grin loose, his shirt untucked and rumpled. His cheeks were flushed, sweat beading along his hairline, and a pink boa hung lopsided around his neck, the feathers clinging to his skin.

“Where’s your guy?” he asked, voice warm, teasing.

“In the bathroom,” you said, a little louder than you’d intended, the alcohol softening your tongue. “We’re actually about to leave.”

Harry’s brows lifted, his expression exaggerated with the sluggish enthusiasm of someone too many drinks in.

“Already? So early?” The last word slurred slightly, stretching at the edges.

You frowned, the corners of your mouth twitching as you glanced toward the bar. What time was it?

“We have to get up early,” you answered, more for yourself than for him.

“Right, right.” He nodded as if he understood, though his heavy-lidded gaze suggested otherwise. “Well, again, thanks for coming. Honestly, I didn’t think you would. Thought it might be… awkward.”

You let out a short breath, not quite a laugh, not quite agreement. “Life goes on, I guess.”

Your eyes flicked toward the other side of the room, past the shifting bodies and flickering lights, toward the hallway leading to the bathrooms. Frankie was still gone.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured. “That’s right.”

Something about the way he said it sent a small, sharp doubt through your chest. You turned to him suddenly, searching his face, feeling the question settle at the tip of your tongue before you could stop it.

“Can I ask you something?”

Harry nodded, the movement a little loose, a little unfocused. He was drunk. You were drunk. But the question had already lodged itself in your throat, and you couldn’t swallow it back down.

“Why did you invite me?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “If you thought it might be awkward, why?”

He blinked at you, then smiled, like the answer was obvious. “Because it’s all good between us, isn’t it?”

You studied his face. The same face you used to trace with your fingertips, the same eyes that once felt like home. But now, looking at him, there was nothing. No rush of warmth, no nostalgia curling in your chest. Just the vague recognition of something.

“Actually, I’m not so sure about that.”

Harry exhaled, his posture tipping forward slightly. “I know I hurt you.”

You went very still.

“You know,” you said, the words pressing out of you before you could think better of them. “How much?”

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected the question, like maybe he thought whatever damage he’d caused had been inconsequential, forgettable. But then he smiled—an old, familiar smile, the kind that had once undone you completely—and met your gaze.

“Were you in love with me?” he asked. “I think I knew.”

Something twisted in your chest. Not pain, not exactly. Something colder, sharper. Disappointment, maybe. Or anger. Or both.

“You invited me to your wedding.”

“I knew you’d come.”

Your breath caught, your pulse stuttering. Your expression didn’t change, but something in your body must have shifted because he tilted his head slightly, watching you too closely, like he was trying to read you.

Before he could say anything else, your gaze flickered past him, drawn by movement across the room. Frankie. He was weaving between guests, making his way back toward you, and then—he saw.

He stopped short, his dark eyes landing on Harry, then shifting to you. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face, but he didn’t come closer. Instead, he nodded once, a silent message. It’s fine. I’ll wait.

And something in you deflated, because no, it wasn’t fine. You wanted to tell him no, tell him to come now, to pull you out of this conversation before it unraveled any further. But Frankie just shifted his weight, slid his hands into his pockets, and watched. Giving you space.

The last thing you wanted.

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Harry said, pulling your attention back to him. His voice was softer now, coaxing. “It’s not like that. Look—”

His hand slid over yours, sweaty and familiar in a way that made your stomach twist, though not in the way it used to. You glanced down at the contact, at the weight of his fingers pressing lightly against your skin, before looking back up at him.

“I know you and I are good friends,” he continued. “And you understand that these things can’t always be controlled. I love Lisa. I do. That doesn’t mean I didn’t value what you and I had.”

Your throat felt tight. “I have to go,” you said, pulling your hand back.

But Harry only smiled, unbothered, like he was already a step ahead of you.

“I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. If the opportunity presents itself.”

Your brows knitted together. “Excuse me?”

You turned instinctively toward Frankie, your chest tightening with something close to urgency. Was he watching? Did he understand what was happening here? Across the room, Frankie was still looking at you, his gaze steady, assessing. But from that distance, you had no idea what, if anything, he was reading from this exchange.

Harry let out a quiet laugh, tilting his head at you. “You know what I mean.”

You stared at him, your pulse drumming against your skin.

“This is your wedding,” you said, disbelieving. “Your wife is right there—” You gestured vaguely toward the dance floor, where Lisa was spinning under someone’s arm, oblivious.

“I’m—I’m kidding,” Harry said quickly, shaking his head. “Relax.” Then, with a sigh that was just a little too performative, he leaned back in his chair. “See, this is exactly why you and I were never going to work out. You never knew how to take a joke.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Your jokes aren’t funny.”

“Oh, what, I don’t make you laugh anymore?” He teased, tilting his head at you, his smirk lazy, lopsided.

You let out a sharp breath, something between a scoff and a laugh, but there was no humor in it.

“You’re drunk and embarrassing yourself, Harry. That’s enough.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Pf, I bet that—”

“Let’s go home.”

Frankie’s voice cut through the noise, sending a jolt of relief down your spine. When you turned, he was standing behind Harry, his expression unreadable but serious, his hand extended toward you. Without hesitation, you took it, fingers slipping into his, pushing up from your seat without so much as a glance at the man beside you.

Frankie didn’t wait. He turned toward the exit, guiding you with him, and you followed, eager to put distance between yourself and whatever this conversation had been turning into.

But before you could get far, fingers curled around your arm, halting your steps.

You spun, pulse spiking, and found Harry looking at you with that same smug amusement, like this was all some inside joke you weren’t in on. His mouth parted slightly, like he was about to say something—something you were certain you didn’t want to hear—but before he could, Frankie moved.

Still holding your hand, he stepped closer to Harry, leaning in just enough that you could see the shift in his posture, the subtle tension in his shoulders. He murmured something low enough that you couldn’t make out the words over the thumping bass, but whatever he said, it landed.

Frankie's mouth was close to Harry’s ear, and whatever easy amusement had been stretched across Harry’s face vanished in an instant. His fingers slipped from your arm like he’d been burned.

You felt the curiosity tighten in your chest, a sharp pull. What had he said? What could have possibly warranted such an immediate shift? You barely had time to register the thought, and before you could begin to piece together an answer, Frankie was already guiding you away.

He didn’t say anything. Just turned and started walking, pulling you with him.

You followed, quick-footed, your eyes fixed on the back of his neck, on the way the curls at his nape shifted as he moved. The music faded as you stepped into the wide hallway, plush and quiet. And your steps slowed, your grip in his loosening. He turned then, sensing it, looking at you. The lighting was soft, wall sconces casting a golden glow over everything, their reflection flickering in Frankie’s eyes. His expression was unreadable—brows drawn, mouth pressed into a firm line.

"Are you okay?" he asked, taking half a step closer, his hand still holding yours like he hadn't realized he was doing it. "What did he say to you?"

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," Frankie said. "Don’t worry about it."

"Frankie."

"Yeah?"

He said it with a smirk, and just like that, the tension fractured. His attempt at seriousness was transparently bad, his lips twitching at the corners, the glint in his eyes giving him away. You tried to keep your expression flat, but it was impossible—your mouth betrayed you, stretching into a smile before a small laugh escaped.

Frankie’s restraint crumbled entirely. His smirk broke into a grin, wide and pleased, and somehow, it felt like the only thing in the world that mattered.

Frankie gave your hand a light squeeze, tilting his head toward the exit. A quiet gesture, like a nudge in the right direction.

"Come on," he said, shifting his weight, already prepared to move. "Tell me on the way."

But you didn’t move. Instead, you stood there, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips. You squeezed his hand in return, a subtle press of your fingers against his, before giving his arm a gentle tug—just enough to draw him in, close enough that you could see the question forming in his expression before he even voiced it.

His brows pulled together for half a second, barely noticeable. "What?"

"I have to go back inside," you said, your voice light, like the thought had just occurred to you. "Will you wait for me? Just a second."

His hesitation was immediate. “Uh… why?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, already retreating. “Call for a car. I’ll be back in a sec.” You pointed a finger at him, as if making him promise. “Wait here for me, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

And then you spun on your heels, your steps quick and light, not quite a run but close to it. You slipped back toward the entrance, ducking past a group of guests mid-conversation, their chatter faltering briefly as they registered your sudden movement.

Frankie remained where you’d left him, hands shifting to his hips, his expression unreadable. His gaze stayed fixed on the doorway you had just disappeared through, his mind already flipping through possibilities.

What the hell were you up to?

Had you gone back for Harry? Lisa? Did you forget something? Your bag? No, your shoulder—your bag was still there a second ago. So not that. Your phone? No, he was pretty sure he’d seen it in your hand earlier.

Then what?

After a few seconds of standing there, arms tense at his sides, Frankie exhaled sharply and pulled his phone from his pocket. His fingers moved over the screen, tapping through the app with an efficiency just slightly off from his usual pace.

No, he couldn’t order a car yet. What if you didn’t come out? What if he had to go back for you?

He glanced back toward the entrance. Shifted his weight. Waited.

One minute.

Two minutes.

By the third, his patience had started to thin, a restless energy creeping into his limbs. He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling through his nose. Then, with a newfound sense of resolve, he took a step forward, heading toward the entrance. If you weren’t back yet, he’d go in and find you himself.

But just as he neared the door, it swung open, and there you were, practically bursting through it. A grin stretched wide across your face, your steps quick, hurried—definitely running now.

Frankie barely had time to process the scene before you zipped past him, a laugh tumbling from your lips. You had a paper bag clutched tightly in your arms, held close to your chest like something precious, and when you glanced up at him, your eyes crinkled at the corners, bright and alight with mischief.

“Come on, come on,” you said breathlessly, urgency laced with amusement. Your heels clicked against the floor, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the night.

For a beat, he just stared at you, then instinct took over.

Without a second thought, Frankie moved. His stride quickened as he took off after you, falling into step just behind. When you reached the hotel doors, he was already there, reaching forward to pull one open before you could even slow down. The doorman gave him a questioning look, but Frankie barely noticed.

Outside, you kept moving, your heels clicking against the pavement, a few hurried steps carrying you just past the hotel entrance before you finally came to a stop. Your breath came fast, your cheeks flushed, your whole body alight with the kind of exhilaration that made you feel a little untouchable.

Frankie pulled up in front of you, chest rising and falling like he wasn’t quite sure if he should be amused or concerned. His hands settled on his hips, his head tilting slightly, that familiar furrow forming between his brows.

“What exactly—”

“I stole champagne!” you blurted out, eyes shining. “And wine!”

Frankie’s mouth parted slightly before he let out a laugh, one of those short, incredulous ones that got caught in his chest. He glanced at the bag clutched against you, then back at your face, like he was still trying to understand what kind of person would be bold enough to rob an event of its alcohol supply and look this pleased about it.

“What?” he said, half-laughing. “How?”

You waved a hand like the details were unimportant.

“We’re not just leaving empty-handed. Where’s the car?” You cast a quick glance down the street, shifting on your feet, still buzzing with the thrill of it.

Frankie sighed, shaking his head, but there was something almost affectionate in it. “Jesus.”

“Come on,” you urged, already tugging at his sleeve.

Frankie didn’t move, standing there like he was still trying to process the absurdity of the situation.

“Haven't ordered yet.” Then, as if just remembering himself, he held out his hands and plucked the bag from your arms with practiced ease. He peeked inside. Four bottles.

“Damn,” he murmured, eyebrows lifting. “You’ve got fast hands.”

You giggled, the kind of breathless, slightly manic laughter that only came from getting away with something you absolutely should not have. A cool breeze swept over your bare arms, and a shiver ran through you just as—

“Hey! Come back here!”

The shout made you freeze. Your head snapped toward the hotel entrance, where Henry stood pointing an accusatory finger at you, his expression an almost comical mix of outrage and disbelief. Two other men flanked him, their faces still catching up to whatever chaos had just unfolded.

Henry, however, had already reached full comprehension. His usually pristine suit was a disaster, smeared with something white and unidentifiable. His face, normally so composed, was equally streaked with whatever disaster had befallen him. His hair was wild, like someone had either yanked it or he’d been through something emotionally catastrophic.

Your eyes widened. Then, without thinking, you let out a tiny, startled squeal, grabbed Frankie’s arm, and bolted. Laughter tore out of you as your feet hit the pavement, your body moving on pure adrenaline.

Frankie barely hesitated before falling into step beside you, the bag of stolen goods bouncing in his grip.

“You can’t take my Dom Pérignon!” Henry bellowed from behind, the sound of his footfalls closing in. “Come back here, you crazy bitch!”

“I can do whatever I want, Henry, the world is free!” you called back over your shoulder, breathless and delighted.

Frankie, despite running, turned his head slightly to glance at Henry, eyebrows pinched together in amused confusion.

“Your champagne is overrated anyway!” He said, voice loud and cutting through the night air. Then, as an afterthought: “You’ll never be a Backstreet Boy!”

Henry skidded to a stop for half a second, rage visibly bubbling over. Then, with renewed fury, he surged forward, picking up speed.

"Fuck!" Frankie swore under his breath, the laugh that had been creeping up his throat breaking free as he pushed himself faster.

You stole a quick glance over your shoulder, your pulse hammering, your grin stretching so wide it made your cheeks ache.

Your feet pounded against the pavement, so quick they barely felt like they belonged to you. The rush of air lifted your hair, tugging it away from your face. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d run like this—maybe high school, maybe longer.

Frankie ran beside you, his stride matching yours, never overtaking. His arms were locked tightly around the bag, the muffled clink of glass bottles rattling with every step.

You turned a corner, breath coming sharp, pulse hammering in your ears. Another few steps, then you cut across the street. Behind you, Henry had slowed, swiping at the streak of cream on his face, watching you with something like exasperation. His friends skidded to a stop beside him, breathing hard, hands braced on their knees.

“There! A cab, a cab!” You pointed, laughter spilling into your voice. Across the street, a yellow car approached, its neon sign glowing FREE against the windshield.

You threw out an arm, signaling it to stop, and it did—brakes sighing as it pulled up beside you.

Henry said something, gesturing in your direction, but his voice was lost to the blood rushing in your ears. You met his gaze briefly, a teasing smile lingering at your lips, before pulling open the back door.

You motioned for Frankie to get in first, and he did, the bag still clutched against his chest. You slid in after him, shutting the door behind you.

The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror, waiting. You gave him your address, voice still uneven with breath.

Frankie tipped his head back against the seat, eyes slipping shut for just a second. His chest rose and fell deeply, his face still flushed from the run. The cab lurched forward, merging into the current of traffic, city lights washing over the windshield in streaks of gold and blue.

"You almost got my ass kicked," he said, eyes closed, mouth tilted in a half-smile.

"You didn’t have to say all that to him," you shot back, laughter still catching in your breath.

"No, but if they caught up to us, who were they going to take it out on?" He cracked one eye open, looking at you like the answer was obvious.

"Fair point."

He turned his head fully now, watching you, his gaze dark and sharp, like polished obsidian.

"What the hell did Henry have on him?"

You hesitated, biting your bottom lip, knowing how ridiculous it was going to sound.

"I threw pie at him."

Frankie blinked. "Pie."

"Lemon pie," you clarified, the words tipping into laughter. "He was waiting for a drink and I came out from behind the bar. He saw me. I tried to make up some bullshit excuse, but he wasn’t buying it. So…I threw the pie at him. And then I ran."

For a second, Frankie just stared at you, and then he burst out laughing, his head tipping back against the seat. The sound rolled through his chest, deep and warm, until you felt it in yours too, something unspooling between you in the dim glow of the passing streetlights.

You pushed the door shut behind you, exhaling as the tension in your shoulders eased. The quiet hum of your apartment settled around you like a second skin. Frankie made his way into the kitchen, setting the bag down on the counter. One by one, he pulled out the bottles, arranging them in a neat little lineup, the glass clinking softly against the marble surface.

Mr. Darcy let out a meow, lying on the floor without moving, clearly in a relaxed state.

Bracing yourself against the wall, you slipped off your heels, letting them drop carelessly to the floor before padding barefoot toward the couch. You sank into the cushions, head tipping back, eyes slipping shut.

"I'm so tired. What time is it?"

"Twenty past twelve," Frankie said, his voice drifting closer. You cracked one eye open just as he moved past you, his legs brushing yours before he settled onto the couch beside you. He glanced at his phone, then locked it with a sigh, tilting his head back against the cushions. "I could've sworn it was like 2 am."

"Exactly," you said, stretching your arms above your head. "Which means we need a glass of wine."

Without hesitation, you pushed yourself up. Frankie huffed out a quiet laugh, watching you with something like amusement.

"I thought you didn’t want a hangover."

"I'm fine," you insisted, making your way into the kitchen. "I’m still not at the point I want to be, you know? That perfect middle ground—buzzed, happy, warm." You reached for the cupboard, fingers grazing the cool glass as you pulled out two wine glasses. "You want one, don’t you?"

"Yes, ma’am."

You set the glasses down in front of you, picking up the bottle of wine, rolling it in your hands to read the label.

"Ornellaia. Tenuta dell'Ornellaia. Bolgheri. 2002." You glanced up at him with a smirk. "Fancy, whatever that means."

You uncorked the bottle, filling each glass just enough, then lifted one to your nose, inhaling deeply. Across the room, Frankie watched you with the kind of expression that made it seem like you were amusing to him in ways he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

"I'm afraid you're a criminal," he said.

You snorted, crossing the room toward him with both glasses in hand.

"As Fiona Apple put it, it’s a sad, sad, sad world."

You sank into the couch beside him, pressing a glass into his hand. His fingers brushed against yours—just a flicker of warmth, fleeting and barely there—but still, it sent a spark up your arm. You ignored it. Or pretended to.

Frankie took the glass without a word, swirling the deep red liquid in slow, practiced circles. He lifted it to his nose, inhaling, then took a sip, letting the flavor settle on his tongue before swallowing. His expression didn’t shift much, but there was something thoughtful in the way he tilted his head, processing.

"I hate it when insufferable people have good taste," he said, face utterly serious.

A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. "Look at you. Ooh la la la."

He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, then leaned forward just enough to set the glass down on the coffee table. In one smooth, unhurried motion, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the armchair nearby. Then he shifted back into the couch, settling deeper, his posture easy, unguarded—legs spread, arms resting lazily at his sides.

Your gaze drifted over him without meaning to, tracing the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the relaxed angle of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that never seemed to disappear completely. You let your eyes wander, cataloging every detail like you might need them later.

The white shirt clung to him in a way that felt almost unfair. It wasn’t tight, not exactly, but it fit him just right—draping over his frame like it had been tailored with only him in mind. The fabric stretched slightly across his chest, shifting with each breath, and where it met the waistband of his pants, it pulled just enough to hint at the shape beneath. His pants were much the same, fitting him comfortably, though in the way he was sitting—leaned back, legs spread, completely at ease—some things stood out more than others.

Your gaze drifted lower, to the solid line of his thighs, then up again, tracing the broad plane of his stomach. He looked… comfortable. So much so that for a second, you had the ridiculous urge to stretch out and rest your head there, let yourself sink into the warmth of him.

Instead, you said, “I like your outfit.”

Your eyes were still fixed somewhere around his torso, your body tilted subtly toward him, one arm slung over the back of the couch, your legs tucked neatly beneath you. Whether you were leaning into him consciously or unconsciously, you weren’t sure. It didn’t really matter.

Frankie glanced down at himself, then back at you. “Thanks. You gave me an excuse to wear it.”

“It looks great on you.”

He studied you for a beat, then exhaled through his nose.

“I bought it a while back. Most expensive shit I’ve ever paid for in clothes.” He stretched his arms out along the couch, grazing yours, the movement making his shirt pull ever so slightly at the seams. “So it better look good, right?” He shot you a crooked grin.

“That’s right.” You took a small sip of wine, your lips curving. “Lucky for you, I didn’t get any blood on it.”

Frankie let out a quiet laugh, his head tipping back, his chest rising and falling.

Your eyes caught on the movement of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple shifted when he swallowed.

“Do you want to see my list?” you asked, dragging your gaze back up to his face. “I’ve added a couple of things.”

He turned his head toward you, dark eyes curious. “Yeah? What?”

Without answering, you set your glass down on the coffee table and pushed yourself up, padding across the room in search of your journal. It was right where you’d left it—tucked neatly against the framed photo of Mr. Darcy and Santi on the bookshelf by the window. You grabbed it and made your way back, settling in next to Frankie again. This time, when you curled your legs beneath you, your back fit neatly into the space between his arm, stretched across the couch, and the solid warmth of his shoulder.

You held the open journal out to him. “Here. Take a look.”

Frankie hesitated, glancing at you. “May I?”

You rolled your eyes. “Like you asked last time. Yes. You can.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth as he took the journal from your hands, already flipped to the right page. He read through the list carefully, his gaze steady, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the paper. Maybe he was genuinely paying attention, or maybe the wine was making it harder for him to focus.

His eyes landed on one item in particular. “Have a New Year’s kiss. Just like Harry and Sally—but less romantic?” He glanced at you, one brow lifted.

You nodded. “Less romantic. Too much pressure.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, then frowned slightly. “Who’s Sally? Is Harry—wait. Is he that Harry? Harry? The one from the wedding?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“No, it’s a movie. When Harry Met Sally.” You turned your head, watching his face for recognition. There was none. “The one with Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan.”

Frankie blinked at you. “Um, Tom Hanks?”

Your expression twisted in confusion. “What?”

“The one with the bookstores?” Frankie asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

You let out an exaggerated sigh, clicking your tongue. “That’s You’ve Got Mail.”

His lips twitched, the hint of a smile forming. “Didn’t realize I was talking to a rom-com scholar.”

“Didn't you ever see When Harry Met Sally?”

Frankie’s smile stretched wider, something lazy and amused settling in his expression. “Clearly not, sweetheart.”

He shifted, reaching down for his wine glass. Lifting it to his lips, he took a slow sip, then settled back into the couch. His gaze found yours again, dark, something unreadable flickering behind it.

“We can watch it if you want,” he said, his tone quieter now.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But not now. I don’t think I can focus on anything that lasts more than an hour.”

You tilted your head at him, a teasing glint in your eye. “You say that to all your girlfriends?”

The laugh that burst out of him was sudden, cracking through his chest. His head tipped back for a second, the sound filling the small space between you.

“Okay,” you said, your own smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I’ll hold you to that promise. But in the meantime—yes. A New Year’s kiss. Not much more context than that.”

Frankie nodded. “Less romantic.”

“Exactly. I don’t need it to mean anything. Just a kiss.”

“Like kissing a stranger in a club? You could kill two birds with one stone and cross kiss a stranger and New Year’s kiss off your list at the same time.”

You shook your head, lifting your glass. “No, no. Those are two completely different things, Francisco.” You took a sip, savoring the wine.

“Well, I’m no stranger. But I can help you with New Year’s.”

You blinked. “Um?”

He shrugged, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“I can kiss you on New Year’s if you want.” He said it so simply, so matter-of-fact, that it almost sounded like a business arrangement.

A smile tugged at your lips, inevitable. “You’d do that?”

“We were kissing an hour ago, weren’t we? Why wouldn’t I? I don’t see the problem.”

You hummed, nodding absently, your eyes dipping to your glass. He had a point. You took a sip, then glanced back at him.

“That’s true. But we’d have to be in the same place that night.”

“That can be arranged.”

You let out a breath, tilting your head. “Right.”

Frankie watched you. “Now, if you want to kiss a stranger, that’s as simple as a night out, don’t you think?”

You opened your mouth to reply but realized, suddenly, that he was closer than you’d thought. The space between you had shrunk, or maybe it had never been that wide to begin with. You shifted in your seat, tucking your knees to your chest, settling deeper into the warm space between his arm and his body.

“That’s true,” you admitted.

He tipped his head slightly. “Does it have to be any stranger?”

“Well, not any stranger,” you said, considering. “A decent stranger. Not a dangerous one.” You took another sip, then added, “I talked to Emma yesterday. She said we could go out when she comes to Austin—she has a good eye for strangers.”

Frankie let out a low laugh. “She senses vibes?”

“Exactly.” You grinned. “You can come too, if you want. I don’t know if you like those kinds of places.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, like he was actually thinking it over. “

Do you want me to come with you?”

“If you don’t want to, it’s okay,” you said, too quickly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He huffed, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, I’ll go with you.” He lifted his glass, taking a sip before adding, “That way, if you need someone to pull some asshole off your back, you can use me.”

You laughed, softer this time, warmth pooling in your chest. “I'd like that.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was comfortable, the kind that settled easily between two people with no urgency to fill it. Your eyes lingered on the page in your lap, the list of things you’d scrawled down, while Frankie lifted his glass to his lips again, tilting his head back slightly as he drank.

After a moment, he asked, “Why is it so important to kiss a stranger, though?”

You let out a breath, shifting your legs, stretching them out a little more comfortably.

“I don’t know. It’s not like it’s some grand, life-changing thing. It’s just one of those little experiences I’ve never had. I’ve never felt confident enough to just—go up to someone and kiss them. I think I’m too much of a romantic for it.” You laughed, shaking your head at yourself.

“Ah, I get it. Like an act of liberation or something, right?”

“You could call it that.” You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

He hummed in response, a low, quiet sound, and for some reason, the warmth of it lingered in your ear.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Mr. Darcy stir from his spot on the floor, stretching lazily before padding off toward his food bowl in the kitchen. You watched him go for a few seconds, then exhaled, a thought tugging at the edges of your mind.

“Actually,” you said, breaking the quiet, “I almost did it. A couple of years ago.”

Frankie’s eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

“Kissing a stranger,” you clarified.

“Oh, when?”

“A few years ago. Emma and I went with another friend to a Halloween party downtown. It was a great night, mostly. But at some point, I lost them in the crowd and spent forever trying to find them.” You let out a quiet laugh, the memory coming back to you in pieces, hazy at the edges. “I was drunk, obviously. Somehow, I ended up going through a door, thinking it led to a patio or something. And then the door shut behind me, and I realized it didn’t open from the outside.”

Frankie tipped his glass toward his mouth, watching you over the rim.

“I panicked. And then this guy scared the shit out of me.” You shake your head, remembering the jolt of it, the way your breath had caught. “Turns out he’d come up earlier and wedged something in the door to keep it from locking. And I—totally oblivious, completely useless—ruined his plan.”

Frankie laughed, setting his drink down.

“It was actually a terrace,” you went on, “not a patio or anything. And my friends were nowhere to be found. I tried calling them. No answer. He tried calling his friends too, I think.” You exhaled another laugh, quieter this time. “He was dressed as Zorro.”

He smirked. “Sexy.”

You grinned. “Yeah, but no hat.”

“He can be forgiven.”

“We were stuck there for at least an hour and a half. Maybe longer. Just talking. Flirting.” Your voice had softened, slowed. “I told him a lot about my life. And I wanted to kiss him. Really badly.” You hesitated, then admitted, “But I didn’t.”

Frankie’s eyes flickered over you. His voice was quieter now. “Why didn’t you?”

Your hand drifted to Frankie’s torso, fingertips tracing absent-minded patterns over the fabric of his shirt. You toyed with one of the buttons, turning it between your fingers as if the movement might help pull the memory into sharper focus. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed content to let you linger there.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I didn’t. And before I could even think about it, a security guard showed up and—well, that was it. He told us we had to leave. And then he asked for my number.” You exhaled. “And I panicked. I was tipsy, nervous, trying to process the whole situation, and then out of nowhere, Emma came barreling toward me, screaming my name. So I ran.”

Frankie’s mouth twitched at the corner. “You ran.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Full-on ran. Didn’t even ask his name. Didn’t give him mine. Nothing.” You pressed your lips together, the weight of the ridiculousness settling in. “So, somewhere out there, there’s a guy who knows way too much about my life but has no idea what to call me.”

“You should’ve looked him up. Put up a sign or something. ‘El Zorro Wanted.’”

You laughed. “Right. And what, just hope he rides in on a horse to claim me?”

Frankie grinned. “Would’ve been romantic.”

“Yes, if somewhat unrealistic.” You pressed a finger against his belly, just lightly. “But I know I’d recognize him if I saw him.”

Frankie laughed, tipping his head back slightly. “Oh, you think so?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Before he could respond, Mr. Darcy meowed from the kitchen, his voice sharp and insistent. You glanced over and saw him sitting upright next to his water dish, his eyes wide with the kind of urgency you had come to recognize immediately.

You sighed, detangling yourself from Frankie’s warmth and standing up. He watched you go, and when you reached for your empty glass, he handed you his without a word. You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a brief second before you turned and walked toward the kitchen.

There, you placed the glasses on the counter and crouched down beside Darcy, who was still stationed by his dishes, staring at you with clear disapproval. Floating in his water bowl was a single, tragic piece of food—utterly unacceptable, in his opinion. You already knew what he wanted before he so much as twitched an ear.

“Okay, okay,” you murmured, swapping out the water for fresh. When you set the dish back down, he inspected it briefly before brushing his head against your hand. You smoothed your fingers over the soft fur between his ears, a silent apology for the offense.

From the living room, the sound of the television clicking on drew your attention. You glanced back to see Frankie, remote in hand as he navigated YouTube. He looked focused, his eyes fixed on the screen while his thumb moved over the buttons at a measured pace.

A few moments later, the speakers crackled to life. First, the sound of voices and laughter. Then, a melody—light and happy.

This Must Be the Place, by Talking Heads.

Frankie moved first. His shoulders bounced to the rhythm, his eyes squeezed shut, his face twisted in exaggerated concentration, like he was feeling the music with his whole body. You laughed at the sight of him, the unabashed joy of it, the way he gave himself over so completely. Before you could react, he reached for your hand, fingers curling around yours as he pulled you into a messy twirl. The movement sent a dizzy sort of delight through you, spinning your balance just enough to make you stumble forward with a breathless laugh.

His hands found your waist, feather-light at first, just a teasing brush that made you squirm as he tickled at your sides.

“Francisco!” you yelped, half laughing, half breathless, trying to swat him away, but he only grinned, pulling you closer, setting the rhythm for you both.

It took only seconds for your body to sync with his. Bare feet against the floor, moving in tandem, your laughter tangling with the music as you mirrored his steps. He danced like a drunk man at a party—goofy and unselfconscious, his hips swaying exaggeratedly, arms lifting at just the right moments. And you, tipsy and delighted, couldn’t help but match his energy, your body light and free, your head tilting back as giggles tumbled out of you.

He spun you again, this time with a little more flair, his grip firm as he turned you effortlessly, sending a rush of dizziness through your limbs. The music swelled, bright and glittering, filling the space like drops of color spilling onto the floor.

Frankie laughed—really laughed—before pulling you back into him, your body colliding softly with his, breath warm against your temple. His hands settled at your waist, grounding you, his chest rising and falling against your back as the song played on, wrapping you both in its golden haze.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, your hands drifted up his chest, fingers trailing over the fabric stretched across his shoulders. Your arms looped around his neck, fingertips slipping into the curls at his nape, twisting there, just slightly, just enough to make him shiver. His breath hitched—so faint you might have imagined it.

He was watching you, his mouth curved at one side, that lazy, knowing smile playing at his lips, and maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or the warmth of the room, or the hum still alive in your body from dancing—but you didn’t think too much about it.

You rose onto the tip of your feet and kissed him.

It surprised him—you could feel the way his body tensed, the way his breath caught—but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t hesitate. If anything, he reacted in the opposite direction entirely. His hands locked around you, one gripping your waist, the other pressing firm against the small of your back, dragging you in until there was nothing left between you but heat and breath and the sharp, electric rush of contact.

His mouth opened under yours, the kiss deepening so effortlessly it made your head spin. You tilted your chin, parting your lips just slightly, and then his tongue was there, teasing the seam of your mouth. The first taste of him sent a spark up your spine, something hot and liquid pooling low in your stomach. A sound slipped from your throat—small, needy, completely unintentional.

That seemed to tip something over the edge.

Frankie exhaled sharply, his hands gripping harder, his kiss turning feverish, hungry. He moved forward, walking you back step by step until your shoulders hit the wall, his body pressing into yours. His fingers dragged down your spine, lower, lower—until his palm cupped your ass, his grip firm, hard, his thumb pressing into the curve of your hip.

You gasped against his mouth, your pulse hammering, your skin burning everywhere he touched you. It wasn’t enough. It was suddenly, overwhelmingly not enough. The need was blooming fast inside you, hot and insistent, demanding more.

Frankie’s mouth left yours only to drag along your jaw, his lips brushing over sensitive skin before he latched onto the curve of your neck. His kisses were warm, wet, his breath hot as he worked his way down, open-mouthed and eager, sucking just enough to make you shudder, biting just enough to make your pulse spike.

Your breathing turned ragged, uneven, and when you reached for him, your hands trembled slightly, fingers slipping into his hair like you’d been aching to do all night. The curls twisted between your fingers, thick and soft, and when you tugged, just a little, Frankie let out a sound against your throat, something rough and needy that sent heat flooding through your limbs.

Then he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His face was flushed, his lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His eyes—god, his eyes—were darker than you’d ever seen them, blown-out with something raw and desperate, something barely held together. He looked wrecked.

You barely had time to take him in before he was kissing you again, fast, consuming, like he couldn’t stand the space between you any longer. His tongue slid against yours, stroking deep, and you gasped into his mouth, the sensation making your stomach twist tight with heat.

His grip on you was unrelenting. One hand still cupped your ass, kneading as he pulled you closer, while the other squeezed your waist, fingers digging into your skin as if to keep you exactly where he wanted you. Then, with a slow, agonizing drag, his hand moved higher, following the curve of your body, grazing over your ribs before settling at your shoulder.

And then—without a word, without warning—he hooked his fingers under the thin strap of your dress and pulled it down.

The fabric slipped easily, pooling at your waist in a whisper of movement, leaving you exposed, bare against him. Your breath caught as your breasts brushed against his shirt, the contrast of heat and fabric making you shiver. Frankie groaned, his head dipping back to your throat, mouth trailing lower, lips skimming over your collarbone as his fingers drifted down to your cleavage.

A moan spilled from you before you could stop it, your back arching, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard. Frankie exhaled sharply at the sensation, his hands moving over you with something just short of desperation, like he was memorizing the shape of you, like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

Frankie’s grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass as his other hand slid to your hip. Then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he lifted you, pressing you against the wall with his body, holding you there with nothing but strength and urgency. Your legs locked around his waist instinctively, your dress riding up over your thighs as you moved.

And then—you felt him. Hard, unyielding beneath you, pressing against the thin barrier of your underwear, sending a pulse of heat through you so intense it stole the air from your lungs.

Your eyes fluttered shut as your hands found his face, fingers splayed along his jaw, tracing the shape of him before dragging him back to you. You kissed him like you needed it to live, mouths crashing together, breathless and messy, all tongue and heat and want.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and then suddenly, he was peeling you away from the wall, holding you effortlessly as he walked. The motion sent a fresh wave of friction between your legs, a sensation so deliciously torturous that a sigh slipped from you.

Your mind swam—desire and alcohol tangling together, clouding your senses, making everything feel heightened, electric. Every inch of you was aware of him, of his hands gripping you firmly, of the way his breath came ragged against your skin, of the sheer heat radiating off his body.

You didn’t realize where he’d taken you until your eyes blinked open and your mouth broke from his. The room was dark, the air thick with the weight of what was about to happen. Frankie nudged the door shut with his foot before carrying you to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress with a care that sent something hot and unbearable curling in your stomach.

Your chest rose and fell in deep, uneven breaths, your skin buzzing, your nipples pebbling as a shiver passed through you. Above you, he stood at the edge of the bed, his gaze heavy, raking over you like he was committing you to memory. His lips were parted, his hair a mess from where your fingers had been, his entire body taut with restraint.

The light in your bedroom was soft, a muted glow spilling through the window, casting everything in pale blue and silver. Frankie lingered above you, his gaze locked onto yours, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes—hesitation, maybe, or something heavier.

But then you sat up, just slightly, your body tilting toward him, pulling back just enough to give him space, to show him he could reach for you again.

And he did.

His hands found your hips first, thumbs pressing into the curve of your waist, grounding himself in the warmth of you. Then, as if drawn by gravity, you fell back against the mattress, offering yourself up like an invitation.

Frankie moved, positioning himself over you, his weight settling between your legs as his mouth descended to your neck. His lips were warm, teasing, a soft drag over your pulse before opening against your skin, kissing, tasting. You gasped when his teeth scraped along your collarbone, a gentle bite soothed by the heat of his tongue as he moved lower.

Lower.

Your breath hitched when he reached your chest, his mouth ghosting over the swell of your breast before closing around your nipple. His lips sealed over you, sucking with just enough pressure to send a sharp pulse of pleasure straight through your stomach. A quiet, aching sound slipped from your throat, and when his tongue flicked against you, a fresh wave of heat shot between your legs.

Frankie groaned, the sound vibrating through your skin, and you felt the way his body reacted—the way his grip on you tightened, the way his fingers curled against your ribs as he sucked harder, the way his hips rolled just slightly against yours, pressing, teasing.

And then—his leg.

One of his thighs slotted between yours, the fabric rough against the thin lace of your underwear, pressing exactly where you needed him most. Your back arched instinctively, a shudder ripping through you as you moved against him, chasing the friction, chasing him.

His mouth never left you, his hands never stopped mapping you out, like he was determined to unravel you completely.

The hunger in you was unbearable. It twisted deep in your stomach, pulsing in time with the frantic rhythm of your heart. For a fleeting, ridiculous moment, you thought it might break free from your chest entirely.

And then you snapped.

Your hands found Frankie’s shoulders, fingers digging in, pushing him back with a force that surprised even you. A soft, wet pop sounded as his mouth pulled away from your skin, his lips flushed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale.

You didn’t give either of you a moment to think. You pressed harder, guiding him onto his back until he was lying beneath you, sprawled out on your bed, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. His eyes flickered up to yours and before he could say a word, you climbed over him, knees settling on either side of his hips, palms pressed flat against his chest.

He was firm beneath you—solid, unrelenting, there—and for a second, you just felt it, the heat of him seeping through layers of fabric, the pressure of his body beneath yours.

Frankie let his head tip back slightly, his throat exposed, his breath catching in his chest. And your gaze dropped, drawn to the place you’d been watching all night, the place that had tempted you again and again.

Without hesitation, you leaned down and latched your mouth onto his neck.

You bit—just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath, his hands twitching at your waist. You kissed him there, tongue dragging over the mark you left, mouth moving against his skin like you wanted to devour him whole, like you could eat him alive and it still wouldn’t be enough.

And then, as if possessed by something outside of yourself, your hips moved.

Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was both. But the moment you felt him—hard beneath you, pressing exactly where you needed him—it became impossible to stop.

You rocked against him, chasing the friction, the feeling, the unbearable, pulsing ache. And Frankie watched you, his eyes locked onto the place where your bodies met, his fingers gripping your waist, urging you on, helping you, pressing you harder against him.

His mouth parted like he was about to say something, but then—he sat up.

One hand braced against the mattress behind him, the other sliding up your side. His lips found your chest again, hungry, impatient, and he took your breast into his mouth, sucking, licking, dragging his tongue across sensitive skin as your movements turned frantic, desperate.

Heat built between you, unbearable and intoxicating, a tension so thick it felt like you might shatter under the weight of it. And god, you wanted to shatter.

“Francisco,” you murmured, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as the air between you seemed to crackle.

He pulled back, his face raw, his expression one of devastation. His eyes locked with yours, something passing between you—something unspoken, heavy, like a secret he hadn’t meant to reveal, or a confession that had slipped out before he could stop it.

A soft sigh escaped his lips, and then his hands—those hands that had been so sure, so confident before—settled on your hips as if trying to keep you from moving. Trying to stop something that neither of you were sure you wanted to stop.

“Baby,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, a murmur that almost didn’t reach your ears. “No.”

You froze, your body stilling, confusion rising in you. Your chest ached, your pulse fluttering unsteadily as you tried to understand what he meant. Had you even heard him? His words felt distant, muffled by the weight of everything else that pressed down on you.

And then, before you could gather yourself, his hands lifted you—effortlessly, as if you were nothing more than a feather in his grasp—and pulled you off of him, placing you beside him on the bed.

You blinked, disoriented, vulnerable, your heart thundering against your ribcage. You tried to focus, to find words, but all you could manage was his name, your voice thin, fragile, barely more than a breath.

“Frankie,” you said, a quiet plea.

He turned his face toward you, and the look in his eyes made something cold and painful twist in your stomach.

“We can't,” he said, almost too softly, his voice cracking like a broken thing.

He leaned in closer, but then, just as quickly, he pulled away, retreating to the edge of the bed, his back to you.

Your body felt like it was on fire as you sat up, knees pressing into the bed, hands reaching out for him, desperate to bridge the space that had grown between you. You touched his back, fingertips brushing his skin.

He jerked away like your touch had scorched him, a visible flinch, like he couldn’t bear the heat of your skin against his.

“Frankie.”

“We can't,” he repeated, his words barely audible.

“Why?”

“I can’t,” he said, turning his head just enough for his gaze to meet yours. There was something in his eyes—something deeper than confusion, maybe regret, maybe guilt. His jaw tightened, and the words seemed to choke him. “I-I can’t.”

"That's not—"

"I shouldn't. We shouldn't."

"Why?" The question slipped from you, quieter than you'd intended, almost lost in the space between the two of you. But it rang in your ears, your breath stilling as you waited for him to answer. You were stunned by the sudden distance, the barrier he'd just put up between you.

He exhaled sharply, staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on something you couldn't see, something distant. When he finally turned back to you, there was an edge in his gaze, something that wasn’t quite regret but more like hesitation, like he was struggling to keep his thoughts in order.

"We're drunk, baby. You're going to regret it in the morning."

"That's not true," you said, but the words felt fragile, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. Your heart was beating erratically, a mix of frustration and desire coiling tightly in your chest.

"It is."

"Are you going to regret it in the morning?" you pressed, your voice thinner now.

He looked at you for a beat, silent, like he was trying to decide whether to lie, whether to say something easier. Then, almost reluctantly, he shook his head.

"No."

Your hand moved instinctively, reaching for him again, your fingers brushing his back. He didn’t pull away this time.

"Frankie—"

"You don’t really want this."

"I do."

He shook his head again, his brow furrowing as he looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

"No. It’s been a complicated night, and we’ve had too much wine."

"This has nothing to do with the night, or the wedding, or anything."

He sighed, a deep, frustrated sound, and closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, there was a kind of resignation in them.

"You’re Santi’s sister," he blurted, and as soon as the words left his mouth, you felt something inside you snap—an illusion.

Frankie’s eyes locked with yours, but there was something pained in his gaze now, something that made your chest tighten. The way he looked at you—it was as if your mere presence in that moment, sitting in front of him, bare and vulnerable, hurt him more than it should have.

"That didn’t seem to bother you before," you said, your voice firm, holding steady despite the twist of anger in your stomach. "You’ve done worse things to me than this. You never cared that Santiago was my brother."

"This is different."

You stared at the ground, your heart sinking as the words echoed in your mind. Different. It wasn’t a word you wanted to hear. It didn’t make any of this easier to understand.

"Okay," you whispered finally, your voice soft, resigned. You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed yourself.

“I should go,” he said, turning away from you, pressing the heels of his hands against his face like he could wipe away whatever had just passed between you.

You didn’t mean to make a sound, but one escaped anyway—something caught between a sigh and a whimper. Frankie turned at once, his gaze finding yours and holding it, his dark eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decipher something written there in a language he half-understood. For a moment, he just looked. And then he moved.

He stepped toward you, reaching for your dress. His fingers pulled the strap back over your shoulder, smoothing the fabric into place like it mattered, like it made a difference. Like it wasn’t already too late for that.

“I don’t want you to leave.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and you saw the way they landed.

Maybe it was just exhaustion, or the alcohol swimming in both your systems, making everything feel softer and sadder than it really was.

After a beat, he nodded, the motion almost imperceptible. “Okay.”

He took a step back, then another, eyes still on you as he pulled off his shoes and let them drop to the floor. You sat up, watching him with a quiet kind of curiosity, the crease between your brows deepening. And then you understood.

You exhaled, sinking back onto the bed, shifting just enough to make space. A moment later, the mattress dipped under his weight.

You turned your head, finding him beside you, his face illuminated only by the faint glow filtering through the window. He was looking at you the way he always did—like he saw something you didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “Don’t be. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You swallowed. “I like being with you.”

His lips parted, just slightly. “I like being with you too.”

For a second, you hesitated. Then, spurred by the lingering hum of wine in your blood, you reached out, your fingers grazing the sharp line of his jaw. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move away.

You let your eyes slip shut.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy

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narrycherries · 4 months ago

Text

ivy: how’s one to know..

Harry is just an ass and she’s just a stranger.

masterlist // ivy series

word count: 8.6k

warnings/tags: enemies to lovers, harry x fem oc, angst

[before you start: i edited this bc i ended up giving her name back to her, it’s no longer (y/n) but of course feel free to read it however you want and change the descriptors to whatever you prefer!]

The holiday season had wrapped up a handful of days ago and things were slowly starting to go back to normal. The sparkling strings of lights decorating neighborhoods and businesses all around the city were being taken down and shoved back in their storage boxes until the last month of the year circled around again. The weather was staying consistent, though. The gloomy overcast skies and chilly wind that whipped through the streets were enough to keep people bundled up and wishing for spring to arrive.

Most people she knew enjoyed the holidays a lot more than she did. Sure, she loved to see the colorful lights lining roofs and windows of boutiques and restaurants along the main strip. There was something so juvenile, so innocent about the giddy feeling that would fill her stomach as she saw a pile of fake presents and a decorated tree in a shop window. Somewhere deep down inside of her heart, she still had that spark that a child would have.

When she was growing up, she sought happiness during the holidays by admiring other people’s outdoor decorations or gazing in awe at the displays put up in her schools. She didn’t have what most people had that she went to school with, but she tried to be grateful, even as a young chlid, and appreciate what surrounded her.

A strong sadness was building in her chest as she slid the ceramic Santa Claus into his box to pack him away with the other Christmas decorations. She thought about the many years she questioned if Santa was real. There were so many nights when she’d squeeze her eyes shut and whisper out loud, her knees on the floor as she put her elbows into the mattress. There was so much hope in her. She believed that if she wished and prayed and dreamed enough, Santa would leave a present or two on the coffee table next to her dad’s stained coffee mug. There wasn’t a tree most of the years of her childhood, but her dad give gift her things (there was no magical Santa though). There were no twinkling lights outside of her window, hanging down from the roof with a clumsy droop. There were no ornaments to place on the branches of a fake tree, lined with a dusty skirt that would be covered with presents. There were no fresh baked cookies and steaming hot chocolate topped with marshmallows. The television never displayed joyful Christmas movies and specials. The radio on the kitchen counter never once sang a tune of a wintery song about snow and ice. No, none of that. It was just her dad, her brother, and herself for a while.

“Did you keep the box for this guy?” Emma’s curious voice snapped her from her trance.

She cleared her throat and looked up from her spot on the living room rug. Her ‘new’ roommate was holding a ceramic snowman who’s decorated style matched the Santa she just put away. She reached into the plastic storage container and grabbed the box, passing it up to Emma.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks, Ivy.” She smiled back, noticing that there was a glimmer of disappoint on her face, but she didn’t mention it to her. “You didn’t have to put everything away so fast. I would’ve been fine with it for a few more weeks.”

Emma had just moved in before Christmas. Her things were half way unpacked throughout the small house they now shared.

“I didn’t want it to crowd you. Besides, Christmas is over.” Ivy’s tone was partially rough as she began to pack away the miniature houses placed across the console table that the television hung above.

“I’m so excited to actually be here, like, full time. Niall’s a bit upset.. but I told him he’d survive.” She said with a laugh as she started to collect the small figurines that went with the village.

“I’m excited, too. I’m glad you’re actually up for decorating the space and not just.. letting me do it all. My last roommate was not particularly outgoing.” Ivy snickered at the thought, knowing she wouldn’t be missing that person at all. The girl was nice and all, but she was quite boring.

“Oh, totally! I’ve already got some stuff I want to show you in my room. Maybe we could put it out here or something.”

“I’m fine with anything as long as it’s cute.” She shot her friend a grin.

Emma wasn’t a new friend by any means. They met early on while they were both at university. Emma was actually her first partner for a project in one of their biology classes. They met on the third day of class and became friends very quickly. Their chemistry went far beyond the confines of the science lab. Emma was joyful and adventurous and offered Ivy that motivating spark to actually go out and have fun. Not that Ivy couldn’t match Emma’s energy once her veins were filled with alcohol, she just didn’t go out as much.

“Speaking of Niall, I haven’t seen him a while. How’s he doing?”

A proud smile crept to Emma’s lips. “He’s been good. But he’s been super busy with the store.. almost never get to spend time during the actual day with him.”

“But it’s going well, the store, I mean? Like he’s having success?”

Emma nodded. “It’s been great. I told him it would do good around here, especially with the college students. And besides, people are always looking for music lessons. I’m glad he took my advice and decided to offer those through the business.”

Niall was an excellent musician, or so Ivy has been told. She hadn’t actually seen him play anything in person, only through recordings and videos Emma had shown her. She knew Niall was talented, though. He played the guitar and the bass, both of which seemed entirely too complicated in Ivy’s mind. When they started dating last year, Niall was in the midst of finalizing a business plan and opening his music store. Emma told her all about it, including her fears and anxiety about the situation - but only because she was afraid Niall would get so caught up in the store that he would abandon their relationship. Niall ended up not doing that, obviously, and was able to balance everything in his life. He and Emma would be celebrating their one year anniversary on Valentine’s Day - which Ivy thought was particularly sweet and romantic.

“I’m glad everything’s working out.”

The store opened back in the summer, and Ivy had only gone by once to see the place. It was in a part of town she didn’t frequent very often, so the opportunity to casually stroll in was rare. It wasn’t like it was Emma’s store. While she did know Niall well enough to refer to him as a friend, she wasn’t close with him. She was supportive, of course, but not overly involved.

“He’s coming by later to help me put together the dresser. Well.. he’s going to do it for me, not help me.” She snickered as she joined Ivy on the floor to start gently laying the mini figurines in a small cardboard box they knew as home.

“I can make dinner if you’d like. Niall likes that pasta I make, right?”

“Yeah! He actually asked me about that a few weeks ago. He said I have to get your recipe.” She grinned back, rolling her eyes at the thought of her boyfriend’s obsession with food.

“He’s only had it like twice.. but it’s flattering to know I’m such a good chef.” Ivy laughed under her breath. “I’ll give you the recipe.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent on putting away the last of the decorations and moving them into the hallway closet. The box fit perfectly in the bottom of the closet. Emma disappeared into her room to continue unboxing her belongings. Ivy was mostly occupied with dusting the wood furniture and wiping down the kitchen. She liked a neat, tidy home and she was very glad to know that Emma did as well. She checked the cabinets to make sure she had the ingredients required for the pasta she’ll be making later on.

Every now and then, she’d hear a crash of something hitting the floor come from the hallway, presumably from Emma’s room. She would just giggle to herself as Emma’s dramatic cries of curses and sighs would fill the small home. Despite being friends for a handful of years, they had never lived in the same space before. Even while at university when it was mandatory for them to live on campus, they lived in different dorm buildings. Emma was in a sorority and definitely more comfortable with herself than Ivy was. She kept to her small dorm with her roommate, whom she didn’t have anything in common with but she was kind to her. If she were being honest, she thought Emma would try to move in with Niall once her old lease had expired. But, Niall was comfortable where he was in his apartment and he already had a roommate. As much as Emma wanted to live with him, it was just too soon anyway. They tossed around the idea, but Ivy mentioned to her that perhaps she needed to wait, just in case. Niall wasn’t upset with Emma’s decision to move elsewhere, as long as she was in the city close to him. Ivy was also informed that Niall’s roommate wasn’t too keen on letting someone else share their space. She had never met him before, didn’t even know his name, but she couldn’t blame them. She wouldn’t want her house to be permanently crowded either. Niall let Emma stay over there a lot, though, but spending the night for the weekend or on a random weekday when it was too late to drive back home was different than staying full time. And of course, Niall was allowed over whenever he wanted and she made that clear to Emma before she signed the lease. As long as he respected their home and didn’t leave a mess behind, he was welcomed.

A gentle sigh slipped past her thick lips as she trailed back to the living room. The open concept of the front of the home meant the living room was attached to the kitchen with no barrier other than the island. She sat down on the end of the couch, the damp kitchen towel she used to wipe down the furniture sat on the side table. She picked it up, along with the framed photo that was next to the pretty gold lamp. The gold of the frame didn’t quite match the lamp, but it was still beautiful to her. The ornate metal that decorated the frame was cold as she carefully rubbed the pads of her fingers over it. She stared at the photograph locked behind the glass, the speed of her heart beating increased only slightly.

The image was of her and her mother when she was around three years old. It was Halloween, she was dressed in a pink dress that was modeled after Princess Aurora, and her hair was curled and a little makeup playfully swept over her features. Her mother was dressed in a Cinderella themed costume, her matching golden blonde hair curled, too, and pinned up. It wasn’t the last holiday they spent together, but it was one of the only ones Ivy remembered. She doubted herself at times about the memory - she was only three and a half, did she actually remember it or was she imagining it? Despite always doubting herself, she knew too well that the memory was burned into her brain. She can remember the smell of the burning iron as her mom curled her hair. She remembers getting tickled by the fluffy makeup brush as a bit was applied to her face just to add to the illusion. She remembers the taste of the mini chocolate bar her mom unwrapped for her in the car in between neighborhoods - the night was full of trick or treating and giggles and squeals. She even remembered the way her mom’s hand carefully adjusted her curls when they got caught in the zip of Ivy’s costume. It was a memory she held dear to her heart, one she prayed she’d never lose. Ivy had always tried her hardest to find things to fill in the void of not having her mother around. But no matter how determined she was, nothing ever seemed to be enough. She found joy in little things, like collecting whatnots and trinkets that reminded her of the ones that littered her house when her mom was alive. She enjoyed searching for squirrels and birds in the park, collecting odd looking rocks during her walks, listening to her favorite songs on repeat, and a plethora of other things. But nothing could really fill the space in her heart.. It was quite a big space, after all.

That evening, after the sun nestled below the horizon and stars littered the dark winter sky, Emma invited Niall over for dinner. It was third day of actually staying here, since she opted to spend two weeks with Niall for Christmas between her parent’s place and his. Ivy was working on preparing the ingridents for the pasta when Niall knocked and was let in with a grinning Emma planting a kiss to his mouth. He laughed and brushed her off, not a big fan of showing affection in front of other people, even though he knew Ivy wasn’t watching.

“Hey, long time no see!” Niall said with a smile as he followed Emma into the kitchen.

Ivy’s eyes glanced over her shoulder. “Hi, Niall. It’s been a while, yeah?”

“I think you guys haven’t seen each other since the day we moved my crap in.” Emma said with a slight unsure tone.

“Your crap that still isn’t unpacked.” Niall sighed as he leaned against the counter, his arms crossing on his chest.

Ivy chuckled to herself as Emma began to give him excuses for why her things weren’t put away and in their new spots yet. The list included things like being busy with work, having errands to run, and of course ‘spending all my time with you’ that made Niall smack his lips and give her a sarcastic ‘okay, sure’.

They kept up their banter for a bit while (Y/n) rinsed her hands at the sink. She had finished everything she needed to do before actually cooking the food. When she turned towards them, Niall was peering his eyes into the pot of boiling water, frowning as he saw it was empty.

“She’s making the pasta you said you like.” Emma said as she grabbed his forearm to tug him away from the oven.

“Oh, really? That stuff was so good.” Niall’s eyes shot to Ivy’s. “I want a whole pot of it for my birthday, please and thanks.”

She shook her head in disbelief as a laugh rolled out of her mouth. “Isn’t your birthday in September?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, just don’t want ya to forget.”

“C’mon, let's start with the dresser, Niall. Let Ivy cook.” Emma said after checking the time on her phone. “We’ll clean up the kitchen after dinner, okay? Don’t worry about it!”

“Alright, that’s fine. I’ll let you know when it's done.”

And just like that, she was alone in the kitchen again. It didn’t bother her to be alone, she had been for most of her life, especially her late teenage and adult years. Finding something to occupy her bored mind was not a new task for her to learn. She opted for sitting at the small dining table after setting the timer on the oven in case she forgot to check the time.

Ivy pulled her phone from the pocket of her sweatpants and started to maneuver through the notifications that had come through since she last checked. One was a message from a random company that was offering a sale this coming weekend, there were two texts from Niall - the first asking if he needed to bring anything, the second saying Emma told him not to and to just ignore the text - the rest were random notifications from different apps.

Her attention went to her photo app as she scrolled to a few days ago, just a day or so after the New Year began. She went for a walk in the park close by one day during lunch when she had nothing else to do. She snapped a few photos of little random things, like a wild flower that had somehow managed to survive the low temperature, a bird that was perched on top of the black metal fence that lined the park, and a snapshot of the sky with the clouds parting in such a way that made it look like heaven. After having lost so much in life, she learned and forced herself to appreciate the little things that were around. Details of daily life, like the fall of a leaf to the ground or the chirp of a bird in a tree, were almost therapeutic for her.

Dinner didn’t take too long to cook, but the dresser was seeming to take much longer than Emma had expected it to. When Ivy knocked on the bedroom door and stuck her head in, she grinned as she saw Niall sitting on the floor with his head thrown back and Emma pacing the room with her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Her once neatly fixed dark hair was messily tied in a bun on the back of her head. The instruction booklet for the dresser was laid out in between Niall’s legs, along with a torn bag of hardwear.

“Food’s ready.” She said with a singsong voice that made Niall pop his head up.

“Finally.” He quickly rose to his feet and grabbed Emma’s wrist, tugging her behind him as they followed Ivy down the hall and towards the kitchen.

“Eat as much as you want, I made plenty.” She said as she let them make a bowl first.

“Don’t have to tell him twice.” Emma’s mouth shaped to a smile as Niall practically pushed her aside to be first.

“Guests eat first, right?” He joked as he gave them both a quick glance, a smirk on his face as he grabbed the serving utensil.

Once the three of them had fixed what they wanted and claimed a spot at the table, Ivy offered to grab everyone something to drink. Emma and herself chose a glass of ice water while Niall requested a Coke. Emma had just brought home a box this morning after her quick run to the grocery store. The food appeared to be a big hit as Niall scarfed it down, spitting out compliments and satisfied hums that made the girls giggle and roll their eyes jokingly at him.

“Em told me the store is doing great.”

Niall nodded as he sipped his drink. “Yeah, it’s been good, actually. I’m glad.”

“I’m glad you do the lessons. I told her that people are coming in pretty much all day long.” Emma said.

“Yeah, if it’s not someone who’s into music already or just curiously out shopping.. The sign about the lessons really brings people in. And even if they don’t go through with it, they end up looking around and finding something.” Niall told them with a pleased smile, he was relieved his business was staying crowded and people actually enjoyed coming to the store.

“Did you end up finding someone to teach the guitar lessons? I know Emma said something about you were looking for someone else, since you got so busy with your bookings.”

“Yeah, my roommate actually. He’s decent at guitar and he’s just working with the beginners. I’m sticking to the people who sorta know how to play around that just wanna get better.”

Ivy nodded as she took another bite. “That’s good.”

The cooking had made the kitchen a bit warmer than it was before, so she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows. The exposure of the small tattoo on the inside of Ivy’s elbow caught Emma’s eye.

“Oh!” She chirped suddenly, making Niall flinch. “I forgot to tell you, Ivy, I’m getting a tattoo in a few weeks. Already got my appointment.”

“Oh, really? Where at this time?” Ivy asked with genuine curiosity.

“On my foot. Just a cute little flower. Niall says it's going to hurt.”

Ivy squinted her eyes and pursed her lips. “You don’t have any, do you?”

Niall chuckled. “No, but I’ve been told the foot is terrible.”

“I’m not a baby, Niall. It’s not my first one. Besides, Zayn said it would be fine since I’m used to the feeling.”

“Zayn is lying to you to spare your feelings and get your money. He is my friend, I think I'd know when he lies.” Niall was only teasing her, but it brought a flush to Emma’s cheeks.

“Shut up.” She mumbled through a pout.

Ivy was amused by their interaction, but she chose to move on with the conversation so Emma wouldn’t get too sensitive. She wasn’t over emotional or anything, but sometimes she would get embarrassed if Niall playfully taunted her in front of other people.

“Zayn.. is that the guy I met that time at the bar?” Ivy couldn’t remember the person’s name, but she was sort of sure that it was the same person they’re referring to.

Niall nodded to her. “Yeah. The one with all the tattoos.. I would say the one with the black hair but right now it’s platinum blonde.” The lift of Niall’s brows made her think that maybe he didn’t approve of the look, but he had no choice but to accept it.

“I thought that was the same guy. I’m pretty sure he told me he owned a shop.”

“He’s the best around.” Emma said with a laugh. “Plus.. he gives me a discount.”

“You’re welcome for that.” Niall puckered his lips and leaned her direction, demanding a kiss that he knew he wouldn’t get.

“Hush.” She pushed her fingers to his mouth and gently shoved his head back.

He laughed at her reaction. “Just saying, Em. He’s my friend.. like I said before.”

Emma ignored him and turned her eyes to Ivy. “Anyway, Niall can’t come with me.. so I was going to see if you wanted to go.”

“I can see if I can.. just let me know the date and time.”

“Alright. I will. Niall, don’t be a pig.” She groaned as she saw he had slipped from the table and was at the stove, piling his bowl full again.

“Let him eat it. That way we won’t have to worry about leftovers.”

Emma shook her head. “He’d eat the actual house if you’d let him.”

—•—

Ivy was puckering her lips in the mirror of the car visor as she applied her lip balm. It was chilly outside and the weather wasn’t being kind to her skin at all. She huffed as she saw the patch of dry skin right in the middle of her forehead. She had just applied her moisturizer before they loaded in the car to drive to the tattoo shop. Emma was driving, and every now and then she’d glance Ivy’s way and notice she was still staring in the mirror.

“What’s the matter?” She finally asked as Ivy slid the cover over the mirror and flipped the visor up, her back hitting the seat as she felt defeated.

“My skin is horrible right now.” She rolled her eyes to herself, upset that it was bothering her this much. It was just a bit of dry skin and chapped lips, she shouldn’t be so affected by it.. but she was. “Even my lips are dying.”

Emma smiled. “I’m sure lots of people are struggling right now. I’ve got a dry spot on my cheek. It’s been there for a few days. Just the weather.”

“But it's annoying. Y’know my hormones are whacky sometimes.. feel like as soon as I get it under control, I break out or have something like this happen.”

“When we get home, we can look up some different products. Maybe we can find something better for seasonal dryness. My cream isn’t working either.”

Ivy shrugged and took out her phone to mindlessly look through one of her social media apps. “Yeah, we can do that.”

Even though the shop wasn’t too far from where they lived, Emma didn’t want to walk in the cold and she didn’t want to have to cover the tattoo with thick, tight shoes afterwards. So, Ivy agreed to drive back after they left, and after they grabbed some food. The shop was right around the corner, and it caught Ivy’s attention as they turned onto the street. It was just off the main road of the downtown area. The street was lined with different restaurants, stores, thrifting spots, boutiques, and a few law firm offices and an emergency clinic that stayed open during the weekend. She was familiar with the area, and had actually looked towards the tattoo shop’s sign plenty of times. They pulled into a spot and Emma took in a deep breath before pulling the keys out.

“Are you nervous?” Ivy said with an amused grin plastered over her lips as she opened the car door.

“What if Niall’s right? What if it hurts real bad?”

“You’ll be fine. You got one on your ribs and your spine. You can take it.”

Emma was still nervous as she followed Ivy to the door. She grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, allowing Emma to slip into the building first. It was warm in the small lobby of the tattoo shop. She was unfamiliar with the specific shop, but not the reality of one. It looked like the others she had been to and the place she got her tattoos done at. The walls were dark grey and decorated with interesting pieces of artwork and posters. There were rock band posters, most of which she recognized, on the wall behind the dark wood desk that acted as a check in counter. Nobody was at the counter, though. There was a small sleek, black leather couch pressed against the side wall, above it hung a large canvas with what appeared to be an original artwork painted on to it. She saw the signature in the lower left corner and smiled as she read over the name she had heard Niall use a few weeks ago during dinner. So this Zayn character was more than just a tattoo artist? She was intrigued by the brush work on the canvas, the beauty of the image was breathtaking. The muted colors stood out oddly bold against the stark white and midnight black areas. It was nothing like she had ever seen before. Although she didn’t partake in any form of art herself, she was an admirer. She enjoyed frequenting art galleries and museums and contributing to artists as much as she could. She once got a commissioned painting of a bouquet of flowers from an older woman in the area who was a somewhat known artist. The piece lives on the wall near the hall closet.

“Zayn?” Emma called out suddenly as she grew impatient with standing in the middle of the lobby.

Ivy sighed to herself as Emma disappeared through a door. It lead to the main tattoo room, with three different stations placed in it. The back room was Zayn’s private room that his clients were able to be secluded in. Emma knocked on that closed door and waited patiently. A few moments later, Zayn opened the door with a smile, happy to see her.

“Hi, Em.” He said, his accent thick as it rang through the small building.

Ivy heard them chatting, so she decided to peek through the door, a nervous smile on her face. Zayn’s eyes caught hers as he towered over Emma. He offered a friendly wave and gestured for her to join them. She nervously stepped over the threshold and swallowed gently.

“Zayn, do you remember Ivy? You guys met a while back.” Emma said with a gesture of her hand as Ivy approached them.

Immediately, she recognized his features - from his dark eyes to his nearly fully inked arms. His tattooed sleeves wrapped over his shoulders, around his neck, crept over each wrist and wiggled around his fingers. He was covered, to say the least. She could only presume the rest of him looked like that. Colorful tattoos mixed with jet black ones littered his skin. And she noticed, of course, that his hair was blond now like Niall had mentioned.

“I think so, yeah. You’re the chick Niall said could outdrink me, right?” Zayn asked with a laugh.

“I don’t drink that much.. but yeah, that’s me.”

Emma gave her a nudge of her elbow. “She can out drink anyone when she actually lets loose.”

Her eyes rolled as a smile toyed on her lips, still slick from the lip balm. “Yeah yeah.”

“Let me get my chair cleaned off and you ladies can come back here.” Zayn said just as he grabbed the knob to his private room.

They heard something hit the floor and then a shuffle of shoes moving against the tile. Emma furrowed her brows and gave Zayn a curious look.

“Someone in there?”

“Yeah, I just finished a piece.”

He opened the door and went inside, shutting it behind him again. Ivy turned towards Emma and gave her a smile, unsure of what to do next. Emma grabbed her hand and nodded towards the open lobby door.

“We can wait in here.”

They returned to the lobby, where Ivy was easily distracted by the art on the walls again. There was a print of a skull near the door. It had flowers pouring over the crown of it, which then melted to puddles as they hit the imaginary ground. She thought it was interesting and quite cool. From what she could tell about Zayn’s vibe, it fit it well. The music playing from the speakers in the ceiling was loud enough to be heard but not too invasive. She could tell it was a curated playlist going, because the song that just begun seemed to be sung by the same person as the one before.

“Zayn just texted me.. he said we can come back.”

“I thought someone was-“ Ivy stopped speaking the second a body appeared in the doorway. “Oh.”

“Hey, Harry.” Emma said with a friendly tone as she stood up, motioning for Ivy to follow her.

“Hey, Emma.” The stranger replied with a quick lift of one corner of his mouth.

Ivy was slightly confused because it obviously appeared that the two knew each other. She had never heard Emma refer to anyone by the name of Harry, at least not that she could recall. She licked her lips and let her eyes fall down his tall, broad frame.

“What did you get?” Emma asked with her usual curious voice.

Ivy was listening, but she wasn’t paying that much attention. She couldn’t help but be taken aback by the appearance of the person in front of them. He was tall, much taller than Niall but probably close to Zayn’s height. He looked like a sky scraper standing in front of Emma and herself, both of which were shorter than average. His long, dark hair shaped into curls that were messily laying on his shoulders. He suddenly swept his hand through his roots the second she realized he had such long hair. The motion caused the lights above them to ricochet off the rings covering his fingers.

“This.” He said as he extended his right arm to them, well mainly to Emma.

There was a freshly inked snake curling around his forearm, each scale placed perfectly on his tanned skin. There were remenents of blood speckled across his skin, and a deep redness that hazed over the entire tattoo.

“Wow! That’s so good.” Emma beamed at the delicate work.

“Yeah, took two sessions. Zayn got a bit tired last time.” He smirked gently at the girl he knew, completely ignoring the one he didn’t.

“Well, it was cool seeing you! Are you headed home?”

He shook his head. “Gonna sit here for a while. I’ve got to be at the store in an hour to help Niall.”

She checked the time. “Yeah, he said he was the only one closing tonight.”

“Emma?” Zayn called from the back room, his head looking around the doorframe searching for her.

“Coming!” She hollered back, taking one last look at Harry’s freshly inked arm. “It was good seeing you. If you leave before I get out of here, I’ll see you later.”

Ivy didn’t even realize she was tracing her eyes over his body. His arms were like tree trunks, muscles taut under his skin and veins popping out, rolling around as he moved. His legs were tightly wrapped in a pair of dark jeans, she could tell through the fabric that they were toned as well. It wasn’t until he suddenly walked past her, not even sparing her a glance, that she realized she had been standing frozen.

Emma started towards the back room, Ivy in tow as she felt an embarrassed blush cover her cheeks. She didn’t know this Harry guy, but she hoped she wasn’t staring too hard at him. It definitely wasnt polite to just stare at a stranger, especially when she was blanking out. What if she was making a face at him? Something nasty, or something rude looking? She was unsure, but chose to ignore it. He didn’t seem bothered by anything as he took a spot on the couch.

Zayn’s office was just as she expected it to be. It was a deep shade of green, the walls coated in framed prints and a few smaller canvases of what she figured was his work. There was a small accent chair placed in the corner for guests. She sat down and started darting her eyes around the room. The type of work that Zayn had pinned to a board on the back wall caught her eye. He seemed to be good at everything, but most of it was bold color work or extremely detailed realism, sort of like the snake she saw on Harry’s arm moments ago. She wondered if Zayn had given himself any of his own tattoos or if he went to someone else. Surely, not every place on his body was accessible by his own hands, but maybe some of them were done by him. She felt like an amateur compared to him. She had a few tattoos placed on her body, but nothing quite as big or detailed as what she saw on the board or on Zayn’s skin.

“Ivy is your new house mate, right?” Zayn asked Emma as she got comfortable on the chair.

“Yeah. I moved in before Christmas.”

“But.. you’ve known each other for a while, right? I can’t exactly remember.”

Emma nodded. “Yeah, since we were in college together.”

“Zayn.. do you mind if I look through this?” Ivy asked politely as she picked up the small binder off the console table next to the chair. A few figurines of characters she recognized, an hour glass with black sand, and a plant lived on the table as well.

“Of course not, that’s why it’s there.” He gave her a chuckle, but kept his response nice.

She opened the book and started to slowly flick through the pages. She saw his signature on the bottom of the designs. They were all so perfect. Some were executed with such detail and precision that she could've sworn they were fake, others were more loose drawn in a free handed style or just more whimsical in nature. She saw a sketch of a few bees on one of the pages. They were in black and grey, mostly realistic with subtle, soft shading and delicate lines. The drawing was pretty and neat. She glanced to the corner, searching for his signature, but she didn’t find it. Instead, in the corner opposite of where Zayn favored to sign his name was a small H. She hummed to herself, curious to know why Zayn had someone else’s drawing in his book. She quickly shook the thought out and reminded herself that there three other stations in the front. They were not abandoned by any means, she could tell people worked at them based on the different things displayed and the personal trinkets and objects adnoring the areas. Maybe this was one of his college’s work or maybe it was random.

For the most part, the book was filled with things Zayn did. Some of them were his own creations while others were common tattoo designs just drawn by his own hand instead of being pulled from the internet. She liked the way he had a bunch of his own things offered in styles that were more popular. He appeared to be a well versed artist with the talent to create just about anything.

As Zayn prepped Emma’s skin for her tattoo, he was talking to her about Niall’s store. He asked how it was going and if she had heard any horror stories yet of Niall messing up payroll or forgetting to stock an item. She only laughed and said she was surprised he was staying so calm and organized. Everything about the store was going more than according to plan, as at least as much as Ivy could tell from what she’s heard. She was still so happy for Niall. His hobby had turned into a passion and a business and he was able to share it with others, it was like a dream come true she bet.

“Alright, are y’ready?” Zayn said with a deep breath of his own as Emma grew more and more nervous in the chair.

“I think so.”

“You’ll do fine, Em.” Ivy encouraged from the corner, her eyes now focused on her friend.

“Just take some deep breaths. Tell me if it’s too much.” Zayn told her as he pulled the stencil paper off her foot. The flower wasn’t that big, but there were lots of tiny details that Zayn knew would probably hurt her more than anything else she’s gotten. “Just a tattoo.”

“If I cry, you can’t tell Niall. I told him I could handle this.” Emma mumbled out with a frown as she stared at her foot.

Zayn smiled and leaned back, the gun still buzzing in his hand. “Before I start, is it in the spot you want?”

“What do you think? Is it good?” She asked him, twisting her foot to a different pose.

“It’s not my foot, love.”

She groaned and looked over towards Ivy. “Can you check?”

Ivy laughed a little but nodded as she stood up. Just as she was about to step towards them, Emma called for someone else to take a peek at the design.

“Harry? Are you still in there?” Her voice echoed through the room, she hoped that it spilled into the lobby so he could hear her. After a few seconds, she grunted and pulled her phone out to shoot him a text. “I’m so nervous.”

“It looks fine to me.. but it’s your decision.” Zayn told her with a gentle sigh.

Ivy looked down at the placement of the tattoo, her arms behind her back with her hands locked. “Yeah, it’s cute.”

She gave Emma a hopeful smile before turning around. The door opened just as she moved her body, the stranger that wasn’t a stranger to anyone but her, walked in the room, chuckling as he saw Emma fanning her face, the heat swelling her skin with sweat and her eyes with tears - she was nervous.

“You always do this.” Zayn couldn’t resist laughing as Harry walked to them.

Ivy was back in her seat now, her eyes fixed on her phone as she waited for Emma to decide her fate. She could hear snickers coming from Zayn and Harry as they talked about the tattoo and Emma’s apparent hesitation that always came out when she was in Zayn’s chair.

“It’s fine, Emma.” Harry said, giving her a smile before looking to Zayn. “Make sure it hurts.”

“Harry, shut up!” Emma groaned and tried to kick at him. He laughed and took a step back. “You guys are bullies.”

“You’ll be alright, Em. It’s not like it's your first.” Zayn reminded her.

She shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest. “Whatever. Go ahead, then. Thanks, Harry.”

“Welcome.” He said lightly before disappearing out of the door again.

Ivy wondered why he didn’t stay in the room with them. Was he not interesting in hearing the painful grunts Emma would sure be letting out soon or watching Zayn draw his design perfected for Emma into her skin? Maybe he was tired of being near the tattoo gun since he spent however long getting his own. She pushed the thought aside entirely the moment she heard Emma groan, curses falling form her lips but not directly towards anyone.

Zayn leaned over her foot, his fingers pulling her skin tight as he worked the needle into it. It didn’t look like it was much fun, and Ivy became grateful that she had no intention of ever inking anything onto her foot.

—•—

There was a freshness in the air as she looked around Niall’s music store. It smelt like freshly picked lemons, probably because he had just sprayed down the counter before she came in following behind Emma. Niall was in one of his usual band tees and a pair of jeans as he sat on a stool with a guitar resting on his thigh. He was talking with a customer, comparing the similarities of two different guitar brands. Emma found herself busy with the items on the checkout counter - dropping loose pens back into their cup and adjusting the pile of papers Niall had pushed to the side.

Ivy stayed curious as she looked around the store. It was very easy to get caught up in the different items, especially since she had little to no idea what some of the accessories were for. Niall provided more than just items for guitars. She didn’t try to decipher every thing on the shelves, just simply moved her eyes across the packages, curiosity settling in her instead of blurting out questions to Niall. The girls came by to bring him some lunch before they did some grocery shopping for the week. Niall was appreciative, but he was unable to entertainment right away.

Emma smiled as the customer approached the counter, the one Niall had been chatting with. She stepped aside and let Niall take over the register. He had another employee here, but he was in the back room looking for a specific thing they needed to restock on one of the shelves. Ivy waited near by as Niall scanned the guitar music book the customer wanted to get and told him that he’d see him when he returned for the guitar - the customer hadn’t made his decision just yet.

When it was just the three of them at the counter, a few customers were lingering around the store just browsing, Niall gave them both a warm smile before wrapping his arms around Emma for a quick hug.

“Thanks for lunch. I’ll eat it when Josh gets off his break.” He said with a sigh, folding his arms and leaning them on the counter.

“The store is so nice, Niall.” Ivy complimented as she glanced around.

“Thanks.”

Emma walked from behind the counter to where Ivy was standing. She was about to ask her something about their plans for the day when her eyes fell on the few pieces of paper taped to the front edge of the counter. One was the refund policy, one was about the instrument lessons, and the other was new since the last time she was here.

“Oh, a flyer? That’s unusual.” Emma suddenly said as she pressed her finger against the pink dyed paper. “For the show?”

“The show?’’ Ivy asked with a drop of her brows as she read over the words printed in bold black letters.

“Yeah, Niall’s band. They play at a bar across town every couple of weeks.” Emma told her.

Ivy remembered as soon as she heard it. Emma had told her before, long ago when she first started dating Niall, that he was in a cover band. It wasn’t anything serious, not trying to search for record deals or gain stardom, it was just him and his friends having a good time. They got decent money for it, including tips from audiences, and it allowed them to play the instruments each member enjoyed. She wasn’t sure who was in the band as Emma never got to that detail before.

“Oh, right.” She nodded as the memory returned to her brain. “That’s cool.”

“Can’t believe Emma’s never brought you to a show.” Niall said with a somewhat surprised expression.

“I invited her a few times but she’s usually busy with work stuff.” Emma defended herself, even though there was no issue with it.

Ivy smiled at her and shrugged. “I remember you asking a couple times.”

“Well, you’re more than welcome to attend if you’d like.” Niall offered as he pushed himself off the counter the moment the bell jingled above the entrance door.

He went to greet the customer, someone he actually was used to seeing come in the store, leaving the girls alone again.

“Yeah, it would be fun if you came! You could finally meet Alyssa. She’s usually just home with her and Zayn’s kid.. she doesn’t go out much anymore, but she loves the shows.” Emma exclaimed with a sparkle in her eye.

“I dunno.. when is it?” She asked, glancing at the flyer.

“Next Saturday night. It would be cool, Ivy! We haven’t went out since Halloween.”

The stress building up at work during the holidays definitely set her back from enjoying a lot of things, including several invitations from Emma to join her and Niall at a bar or go out for dinner with just the two of them. It truly felt like forever since she got to have fun with her friend. She thought about it for a moment, but only lifted her shoulder at the idea. The mention of meeting Zayn’s fiancé was intriguing since she had heard so much about her from Emma, but she doubted that would be enough to pull her out for the night.

“Maybe.. depends on how the week goes.”

Emma gave her a partial smile. “Okay. I really hope you can go with me.”

“Yeah, you should definitely come, Ivy.” Niall said as he appeared next to them, the customer gone to look for the item they asked him about.

Once again, she let out a small sigh and faked a smile for them. “I said I’ll see how the week goes, but no promises.”

He gave her a fake, dramatic frown. “C’mon! Live a little!”

“I live a lot.. at work.”

Emma grabbed her elbow and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll convince you before the week ends.”

“M’sure you will, Em.”

After spending a few more minutes talking to Niall, and then waiting in the car as he and Emma disappeared into his office to say a private goodbye, Ivy was ready to get the grocery shopping over with. The store they frequented was near by, so the drive was short and easy. It wasn’t close to their shared house, but the prices were better than anywhere else. Emma offered to take her car, so that left Ivy in the passenger seat with her eyes glued to whatever passed by the window.

“Are you okay, Ivy?” Emma asked as they strolled through the fruit section in search for the items on their list.

She gulped gently, distracting herself by collecting a few apples for the cart. “M’fine, just tired.”

Emma watched as she walked towards the basket of lemons and grabbed two, she’d need them for a receipe she was going to try later in the week. Ivy was normally not this quiet. She enjoyed the task of grabbing their groceries and checking things off their combined list while Emma pushed the cart and double checked everything. Something about doing such a mundane thing made her feel content and comfortable, even if they decided randomly to try a new store they’d never been in. But today was different, Emma was growing concerned with her unusually quiet friend.

“If you’re irritated with me and Niall pushing you about the show.. I’m sorry. You don’t have to go.” Emma said with a soft frown as Ivy returned to the cart with a handful of bananas.

She sat them down and lifted her hesitant gaze to meet her closest friend’s. “I’m fine, Emma. Just tired.”

She shook her head gently. “No, you’re too quiet. What’s wrong?”

“You and Niall didn’t bother me, I swear. The bar thing is.. whatever. I’ll think about it, I promise. It’s just.. one of those days.”

Emma wasn’t believing it all the way. Sure, maybe Ivy was being truthful about the role her and Niall played in her newfound mood, or didn’t play - but something else was up. She licked her lips and decided to stay quiet as Ivy busied herself with grabbing the rest of the fruits before moving onto the fresh vegetables.

Although she didn’t want to press it any further, Emma couldn’t stop thinking about what could’ve happened at the music shop or on the way to the grocery store. Her worry was growing quickly and it wasn’t very long before she was asking another question.

“Ivy, please tell me. Are you alright?”

She received a sigh as a response, a couple of tomatoes and a bag of baby carrots joined the cart. “Emma, please.. I’m fine.”

“Something is wrong with you. I don’t want to see you so down.”

Ivy walked towards the next section of the store, knowing that Emma would follow her with the cart no matter if they were talking or not. She held her breath as she thought about what was bothering her. She was too caught up with her racing mind to realize she was actually expressing her emotions on the outside. Emma noticed everything, so clearly she wasn't doing well at hiding it. There was no real issue, really, nothing that anyone caused by saying or doing anything. A lump slid down her throat, Emma was her friend - there was no need to keep anything from her.

Just as they turned down the aisle where the bread was, she stopped in her tracks and turned towards the cart, her hand reaching out to stop it. Emma froze, a lift of her brows offering confidence like a good friend should.

“The guy that walked through the door right before we left.. at Niall’s store..” She started with a strong voice, but it slowly faded to almost a whisper.

Emma nodded, encouraging her to continue. She looked down to the floor as the moment replayed in her memory. It wasn’t an unusual thing for her to experience, in fact it was more common than not. One little thing, one random glance from a passerby, one glimpse of someone with a similar shade of hair as her own, one note from a list of songs she knew were special..

“He reminded me of my brother. I.. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Her response made Emma’s stomach turn to knots. She knew that the conversation was over then, and there wasn’t anything else she could try that would break Ivy. The forbidden topic had been brought up, and quickly dropped back to the vault she kept it locked away in. Emma didn’t mention it again..

[a/n: this is a series! It’s a lot longer per part than my other stuff so I hope you enjoy! This is just the intro so it will be more interesting and exciting as it goes on! reblog, like, do all that lovely stuff!!] ** I did change this from y/n to an actual character but feel free to read her name as whatever you’d like

taglist: (notified for all // if you want to join a taglist for this series, lmk in a comment or message and I’ll start one)

@walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @victoriasigaard @ariiscringe @harlowsgirl @lomllover @haniaaa04 @sideboobrry11 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @fangirl509east @fruity-harry @sassamanda77 @lizsogolden

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jarofstyles · 10 months ago

Text

Flower

Hello… here is another mini series I started even tho I have other things I definitely need to finish…. But I’m kinda obsessed with them so I hope you guys like them 🫢

Check out our Patreon for early access to part 2 and 180+ exclusive writings!

WC- 2.8k

Warnings- y/n being oblivious, stupidly sweet h, things alluding to masturbation

“Y’know that isn’t normal for him, right?” Gia murmured as she came up next to Y/N. The low light of the bar had her squinting slightly, but thankfully the rock music wasn’t blaring too loud over the speakers over here. Coming after work, she had looked forward to meeting up with her friends for some much needed socialization- even if she was exhausted.

Confusion painted her features, looking at her friend with furrowed brows. “What are you talking about?”

“Harry. He’s like, all over you. All the time” She looked over to the man with a smirk, who had previously excused himself to participate in this round of pool. Y/N wasn’t much for the game so she stayed back in their seats, taking a moment to decompress. Or, try to. Sometimes it got a bit overwhelming with so many people talking at once.

“He’s just touchy, isn’t he?” Y/N had only known Harry for a few months, moving here to teach and one of her coworkers so kindly helped integrate Y/N into her friend group. Harry owned a contracting business, actually, and Y/N had been getting lots of help from him on a variety of projects. Specifically, the latest project regarding his expertise in what sort of bannister she should have for the staircase. It was antique, and she didn’t want to be like those flippers she saw online who ruined the charm of old houses. If she wanted a brand new build, she would have bought one. “See?”

Harry had his arm around Mitch, laughing about something probably a little dumb. The man was borderline tipsy but he’d just started his water rounds. He seemed to be an affectionate person, cuddly. At least to her and Mitch and Niall, all of whom seemed used to it.

“Yeah, but not with women. He’s more reserved when it comes to them but not with you. Like… what was that before?” Her cheeks flushed slightly as dhe knew exactly when her friend was talking about. Harry had come back from the bar with their soft pretzel and another drink for her, and when he sat down she was promptly dragged into his lap. She’d let out a yelp but it turned into a laugh, settling in his thighs. Of course there was no admitting that her stomach had erupted in butterflies and she felt them kick up every time he rested his chin on her or squeezed her a little tighter to him. That the scent of his cologne had become something that grounded her anxiety in the moment, and it was weird how he seemed to be an anchor for her every time he pulled something like that. Somehow he just had that sort of effect on her.

Now that she mentioned it, she had noticed Sarah’s eyes widening when he did that, but she had assumed it was just for the pure audacity of a man manhandling a woman into his lap and ripping off a piece of cheese dipped pretzel and bringing it to her mouth.

Y/N knew Harry was a cuddle bug. He was needy, like a pup, nosing and pawing his way into peoples hearts. But she assumed he did this sort of stuff with everyone. Maybe she wasn’t paying enough attention, but she had been too nervous to allow herself to think of his touches as flirtation. It would bring down the wall she’d tried to set there to not get her hopes up and look too deep into things. It had gotten her heart bruised a few times already. “Oh.” She replied, looking at her slowly emptying glass. “I, um, didn’t really think about that. He’s been pretty handsy for a long time.” He was also a flirt. Said things on purpose to make her flustered, but only in her ear so she’d get even more worked up. That was something he really liked to do- whisper in her ear or close to her to share something only with her.

“Babes, you need to open your eyes. That man is completely gone for you. Smitten kitten. I was convinced you guys were secretly banging but I was trying to mind my business… but you mentioned a dating site earlier and I got confused.” She’d wholeheartedly thought they were already an item. “You need to talk to him or make a move or something. He’s all but pissed on you to claim you from the rest of the group, and he keeps looking over here to check on you. He acts like your boyfriend already, but there are more benefits you can cash in on if you just go for it.” She wiggled her brows making Y/N groan, hiding her head in her hands.

She was way too sober for this conversation.

Of course she had interest in Harry. Some feelings, even, but he’d never expressed interest in dating anyone. How could she not? He was almost unreal, checking loads of boxes she had in her mental list of ‘what my dream man would have’, including the dimple thing. The fact that he always said he was “waiting for the right one to find me” when she’d ask floated back into her mind, clearing a bit of the fog that usually surrounded her when she thought about him. Had he been trying to tell her something?

Y/N could admit she wasn’t the most perceptive at times. She was a little oblivious, some could say, and didn’t read into signs well. The trait was something that used to get her into trouble when she was younger, her head always off in the clouds instead of where it needed to be according to the adults around her. It was possible she missed something, but she wanted to find out how to rectify that.

“Speak of the devil…” Gia whispered, moving over a bit with a snicker as Harry seamlessly slipped back into the booth and ran his hand over her hair. Y/N felt his presence like a blanket, face turning to look at him and his concerned features. That little wrinkle between his brow she always noticed when he was upset or focusing heavily on something.

“Hi, petal. Something wrong? Headache?” He asked delicately in case the answer was yes. She got migraines frequently, as much as it sucked- but Harry had brought her some pain relievers while she was at work once to save her ass. God, her head was a mess but it wasn’t from the migraine this time around.

“No, I’m okay.” She lifted her head, feeling his hand slide under her hair to hold the back of her neck. Hopefully he wouldn’t see the chills settling on her skin as his thumb rubbed over the side of her throat, concern still etched on his features. “Was just a bit dehydrated but I’m fine now.” Her smile must not have been as convincing as she tried, his lips pursing as he shook his head.

“Got t’be careful with eating the salty chips and then having the drinks… one glass isn’t gonna be enough.” He sighed. “Stay here for me, yeah? I’ll be right back, let me get you some water.” Without thinking he leaned in and pressed a peck to her temple, sliding back out of the booth leaving the spot tingling. Sitting there with rapidly blinking eyes, she watched the stretch of muscles flex under his tee shirt as he made his way towards the bar to order said water.

Okay. Yeah. Now that she mentioned it, she definitely knew he didn’t press little kisses to the rest of the girl’s heads, or give that amount of attention to her but… again, she had tried to ignore it. Tried not to get her hopes up.

“Girl… you’ve got to see it now.” Gia’s brows were raised up. “You’ve got him wrapped around your finger.”

Maybe she was right.

——

“I’m okay, H. I promise.” Y/N laughed out the words as he brought the straw back to her mouth and gave her a look. “Fine. But I’m gonna have t’piss soon if you keep force feeding water down my throat.” She shook her head as she took another drink, making a show of swallowing it. “See? Done.”

Harry’s eyes had dipped down to her throat when she swallowed and back up to her mouth, taking a beat too long to respond. “Good. You… we can’t have you feeling poorly tomorrow. Are y’still up for it?” His hand was traveling around her body. Not in a sexual way, not really, but over her shoulders. Rubbing her arm. Cupping the back of her neck. Fiddling with her hair. For the first time, Y/N could consciously see what Gia was talking about. Maybe it was sad she needed someone else’s validation of it first, but now that she had it she didn’t feel as crazy for the emotions she felt.

“Of course.” Harry was taking her to a sick used bookstore that he had helped remodel a few years back. When he found out she had gotten back into a reading mood lately, he’d suggested it immediately over text under the table, which now that she was thinking about it…. It was obviously to ensure it would be just the two of them. No one else. He wanted to take her by herself, a little outing for just the two of them.

Stupid butterflies kicked in overdrive. “I’ve been dying to grab some new books.”

“I know. I remembered it when the owner called me a few days back about something and knew I had t’take you.” He grinned, leaning in a bit as he tucked the hair behind her ear. “I really hope you’ll like it.”

Y/N didn’t have much time to respond before the chatter got louder and the group that had gone back up to the bar for more drink ambled back and climbed into the booth. This time it wasn’t as much of a shock when she was scooped up into his lap, but it still made her hot under the skin. Her tummy swirled as he wrapped one solid arm around her and rested his chin on her shoulder, the other running over her thigh. It wasn’t suggestive, closer to her knee as he began to rub his thumb over the soft skin there.

For some reason it was getting to her, making her worked up. The gentle touches, the wholesome nature of it made her feel a bit ashamed as she felt herself throb between her thighs, but it only got worse when he adjusted her in his lap, lifting her like it was nothing. Of course he had strength, the man hauled lumber by himself and did all sorts of superhuman shit when it came to construction, but it still shocked her every time she got to experience it first hand.

Taking a moment to think about it, it was always apparent that he was a beautiful man with a beautiful body. One thing that she really liked were his arms. Just as a whole. Hands, arms, how they’d built out a bit from all the hands on work. His hands could be a little rough with some callouses from those tools, but her grandma always did tell her that was the sign of a hard working man. It wasn’t something she focused on before because she had tried to deny the possibility of not only rejection but not being able to be in the friend group if things went sour.. At the moment she was past that.

She could see the vein in his arm just a bit, near the anchor tattoo. His hand curled over her knee, almost possessively. This entire position was him claiming her. Realizing now he’d never pulled any of the other girls as close as he did her made her head spin. Hell, he really didn’t do much than give a friendly hug or hand to help them if they were stumbling. Fuck, he could actually feel something for her. Far past friendship.

“You’re quiet.” His words were so close they almost vibrated in her ear, making her startle a bit. “Shit, sorry Petal. Didn’t mean to scare you.” The little smile given to her made its way into her bloodstream, heating her up the longer he looked at her. “Why are you in your head, hm? Tired?”

The way he spoke to her was so tender and sweet… gah! Now that she was allowing the possibility to be a thought, it was shaking her up.

“Yeah, getting tired.” She wasn’t lying. Her Friday classes had been a handful. That was the truth. “Need to take a long shower and sleep until an hour before you come to pick me up.”

“Sounds like a good plan. What kind of soap or shampoo do you use?” He asked, a noticeable shift in his voice. A little deeper, softer for her ears only. It was intimate, she realized. How he spoke to her privately with her tucked in his lap. Her body melted further into him, but the lump in her throat had expanded from the realization. “You always smell fuckin’ amazing.” His nose skimmed over the side of her jaw making her exhale shakily. He was taking an inhale of her as he hugged her body against him. Her poor vibrator was in for it when she got home.

“Uh- it’s like a coconut citrus mix?” She had to think about it. It was hard to focus on anything with her revelations at hand and the man of the hour touching her so liberally. Like she was his to touch. It wasn’t disrespectful and she knew he was the first person to read her body language- hell, he probably could read her mind better than she could process her own thoughts. But it was still sinking in, the feelings gripping her stomach. “Thank you. I try my best. No one wants to be stinky.” Nose crinkling in disgust, she felt him shake his head against her.

“Trust me when I say you’re the best smelling person I’ve met. Wouldn’t complain if all my things smelled like you.” Oh? He didn’t elaborate, but there was a barely there kiss to the hinge of her jaw rendering her speechless. His reaction was to place his chin back on her shoulder, interjecting into Niall’s rant while Y/N sat there trying to process what that was.

Deciding to test something made her really nervous, but she wanted to see what he’d do. While he was always the affectionate one and she never pushed him away, she didn’t usually return it as much. He always sought her out and she reciprocated but she wasn’t one to initiate a lot… so she wanted to see what he’d do.

Letting out a yawn, she leaned her head against his shoulder and let her head nuzzle into his neck. Without saying a word, her hand went for his on her thigh and weaved their fingers together, pulling it further up her thigh. Holding his hand, she could feel his body stiffen ever so slightly for a mere moment and his heart rate pick up. His other arm around her tightened, thumb rubbing the back of her hand. “Comfy?” He mumbled to her.

“Mhm.” She nodded, letting his hand squeeze hers. He was just solid and sturdy. She could lean against him and feel protected in a way. Why she hadn’t tried this sooner she didn’t know, but she could hear his mood get better as he spoke. It was palpable, like he was vibrating a little bit, squeezing her hand every once in a while to remind her he was there. Or maybe it was for his own mind?

It continued like this for a bit until everyone decided to get going, Harry being the last to stand. He was gentle about helping her off his lap, beating her to get on his feet and offered his hand to her to help her up. “C’mon, sleepy Flower. Time for your shower and sleep. Can’t have you too tired for the selection of books, hm?” His hand steady on the small of her back, he led her to the car with a bit of a delay as they said good, a hug tight and lifting her off the ground a bit as he did so before having her promise to text when she got home.

She fulfilled the promise, as well as her guilty vibrator session thinking about that tiny kiss on her skin and his hand on her knee, hoping that would make her chill out. It didn’t.

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1982grapejuiceblues · 11 days ago

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New Roads, Old Rules

Official Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Stranger Lanes Part 3

Summary: Y/N and Harry arrive at the lake house and are instantly thrown into the fragile rhythm of group dynamics, uncomfortable reunions, and emotional landmines. Surrounded by friends who don’t quite know what to say—and exes who act like nothing happened—they try to keep quiet and keep the peace. But behind closed doors, a different kind of tension builds. Quiet. Steady. Unavoidable. As the first day ends, what started as survival begins to shift into something softer. Something neither of them expected.

A/N: Okay you guys, here it is. Sorry it took so long, I just really wanted it to be perfect. Let me know what you think! As always, comment or reblog to be added to the taglist! Love ya! <3

Word Count: 8.4k

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

They crossed the final bridge at exactly 4:13 p.m.

She knew that because she checked the clock three times. Once as they merged back onto the main stretch of county road that wound like a lazy loop around the edge of the lake. Again when they passed the sign that said Welcome to Hollow Pines – Est. 1894 in crooked gold letters someone had repainted last summer. And one more time—without thinking—just as the water came into view.

It was always the water that hit her first.

There was something about that stretch of blue between the trees, so sudden and vast and deeply still, that made her chest seize up. Like her body wasn’t sure if it was awe or grief. Like she couldn’t tell whether she was going home or running directly into the wreckage.

She pressed her hand to the inside of the window, not hard, just enough to feel the glass. It was warm from the sun. Her skin buzzed with it.

The lake shimmered.

The road narrowed.

Her breath caught on the edge of something she didn’t want to name.

She hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes.

Neither had Harry.

He drove like someone who didn’t need to announce it. No GPS voice. No “we’re almost there.” No last-minute check-in. Just a quiet, measured pace, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh like it had always belonged there.

His window was cracked. Hers was too. The air between them moved just enough to feel alive, like the car was breathing.

The playlist had long since faded out. The silence had grown roots.

Y/N shifted in her seat.

She could feel it—her body starting to pull in on itself. Muscles tensing, shoulders rising, chest tightening like it was preparing for a wave that hadn’t hit yet.

She wanted to stretch. To crack her knuckles. To open her mouth and say anything.

But the only thing she could think was: he’s going to be there.

Ben. Standing on the porch. In the same spot he stood last summer. The spot where he handed her a beer and kissed her forehead and said “I love this trip. I love us.”

And Claire.

Claire would be barefoot. Probably in cutoffs and an oversized tee, holding a glass of wine like she wasn’t about to play host to a party she’d broken. She’d laugh too loud. Touch people too often. Say “Oh my god, you made it!” like she hadn’t detonated everything.

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

She reached for her water bottle, unscrewed the cap, took a sip.

Harry didn’t glance at her. But she felt him notice anyway.

He always noticed.

The trees thickened.

The road curved left.

They passed a wooden sign half-sunken into the brush—Raven Rock Private Residences—and she felt the memory rush in before she could stop it.

That first summer.

The year they all took tequila shots on the dock and made up fake awards for each other. When Ali cried because someone called her “Most Likely to Start a Cult” and it hit too close to home. When Harry and Claire were new and quiet and curled into each other like a secret no one was allowed to name.

That summer, Y/N and Ben had barely fought.

That summer, she thought they’d make it.

Her throat burned.

“Do you want to stop before we pull in?” Harry asked.

His voice cut through the silence like a soft blade.

Y/N blinked. “Stop?”

He nodded. “Just for a second. In the shade. Before it… starts.”

She stared at him.

He was still looking at the road. Still calm. But something in his voice had changed. Softer. Not tentative. Just… careful.

Like he knew exactly how this was going to feel.

She wanted to say no.

She wanted to say I’m fine. Let’s just get it over with.

But she wasn’t. And she didn’t.

So she said, “Okay.”

They didn’t speak again until Harry eased the car off the road and onto a flat patch of shoulder just before the gravel driveway.

There was no sign. No gate. Just a break in the trees where the light shifted and the road disappeared between two mossy posts and a spray of goldenrod. The lake glimmered faintly through the trees to their right, casting thin, watery reflections against the windows.

He pulled to a stop under a tall maple that arched just far enough to shade the windshield. Killed the engine. Left the keys in the ignition.

Y/N didn’t move.

The stillness was immediate. Pressing. Like someone had shut a door behind them and sealed the moment off from everything else.

There was no wind. No traffic. No noise but the ping of the engine cooling and the soft click of the air settling around them.

She stared straight ahead.

The lake house sat just down the road—just past the trees and around a bend she could practically feel in her bones. She’d walked it a hundred times. Knew how the driveway curved left just before the porch came into view. Knew exactly where people would be standing. Which cars would be parked out front. Which voices would carry.

They’d all be waiting.

Ali. Eli. Maybe Jules and her girlfriend, if they’d arrived early.

Claire.

Ben.

She felt her chest start to tighten.

Her body didn’t quite shake, but it began to pull in on itself, like her muscles were preparing for a blow. Like her skin was trying to build armor from the inside out.

She pressed her hands flat against her thighs.

Breathed in.

Out.

Again.

Harry didn’t look at her.

He just sat. One hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other on his knee. His fingers tapped once, then stopped.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t try to fix it.

And somehow, that made it bearable.

“I hate this,” Y/N said softly.

Her voice cracked like old film.

Harry didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

“It feels like walking into a house fire just to prove I’m not flammable.”

“Mm.”

She stared down at the ridge of her knuckles.

“It’s going to be in their eyes,” she murmured. “That look. The one that says we don’t know what to say to you so we’ll pretend you’re fine.”

Harry let out a breath. Quiet, through his nose.

She continued. “They’ll act like they didn’t know. Or like it’s not that bad. Or like Claire didn’t spend the last two months slow-burning my life to the ground.”

He didn’t offer reassurance.

She was grateful for that.

“I haven’t even figured out how to talk about it yet,” she said. “And now I have to be around people who think not talking about it is the polite thing to do.”

Still, he said nothing.

She turned her head. Finally looked at him.

He wasn’t watching her. But he wasn’t distant, either.

Just… there.

Steady.

A quiet tether.

Birdsong trailed from somewhere behind the trees.

The light shifted.

The car interior was still warm from the drive, but the air around them had cooled. It smelled faintly like pine and distant water.

Y/N closed her eyes.

Let her head fall gently back against the seat.

Breathed again.

Her voice was smaller when she spoke next. Not fragile, just… honest.

“Did you expect it? With them?”

Harry shook his head. “No.”

She swallowed. “I did.”

He looked over.

She met his eyes. “I didn’t want to. But I did.”

He didn’t say I’m sorry.

He didn’t say That sucks.

He didn’t say Yeah, me too.

He just nodded.

And somehow, that was enough.

They sat with that.

Long enough for the moment to settle into something weightier than silence.

Then Harry reached for the keys.

Didn’t turn them yet. Just held them.

“Tell me when,” he said.

And Y/N—after three deep breaths, a glance toward the tree line, and one quick swipe of her sleeve beneath her eyes—finally nodded.

“Now.”

He turned the wheel. Drove slowly. The tires crunched over the gravel like it was warning them.

And then the house came into view.

The car rolled forward like it was holding its breath.

No music. No breeze. No small talk to fill the space between them—just the sound of tires crunching gravel and a tension so thick it wrapped around Y/N’s shoulders like a second seatbelt. The house came into view slowly, framed by the tall curve of trees overhead and the way the sunlight filtered in at an angle that made everything look too still. Too bright. Like the set of a play where she already knew she hated her part.

She could see the porch first.

Two rocking chairs, the blue one repainted since last summer. A small cooler tucked next to the front door. Someone’s sandals. A glass with condensation on the railing.

Then came the cars.

Ben’s. Eli’s. The silver Prius she knew was Jules’. Ali’s rental, slightly crooked at the far end of the lot like she’d pulled in mid-phone call and forgot to straighten out.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.

She hadn’t moved to unbuckle yet.

Harry pulled into a spot near the edge of the driveway, closest to the path that led down toward the dock. He turned off the ignition. The engine ticked. The windshield gleamed.

No one spoke.

And then—

The screen door creaked.

A figure stepped onto the porch.

Hair in a messy braid. Big sunglasses. Barefoot and beaming.

Ali.

She was down the steps before Y/N had even opened the door.

“THEY’RE HERE!” she called back over her shoulder toward the house, voice sharp and sing-song like she was trying to announce it before anyone else could. Like if she named it out loud, she could control what came next.

Y/N got out slowly, her knees stiff from the hours in the car, the weight of her thoughts suddenly too much to balance on such unsteady legs. She shut the door with more force than she meant to, slinging her bag over her shoulder like it might protect her.

Ali reached her before she could speak.

Wrapped her up. Arms around her neck. Chin tucked over her shoulder.

The kind of hug that knew things. That remembered.

Y/N didn’t move at first. Didn’t trust herself to.

But when Ali whispered, “You did it,” into the space where her hair met her ear, something broke in her chest. Quietly. Without fanfare. Just a little crack in the wall she’d been patching over since the text came through two weeks ago and sent her life spinning sideways.

She squeezed her back. Not too hard. Not enough to cry.

Just enough to say thank you without saying anything.

By the time she pulled away, her voice was steady again.

“Hey,” she said.

Ali looked her over. “You okay?”

Y/N offered the ghost of a smile. “Getting there.”

Ali nodded, like she knew better than to press.

She turned to Harry next and threw her arms around him, too.

Less emotional. But still real.

“You made it without killing each other,” she said brightly.

Harry grunted. “Jury’s out.”

Ali grinned, then looped her arm through Y/N’s like a shield. “Come on. Everyone’s inside. Jules brought that weird popcorn mix you like and there’s beer and the air conditioning’s working.”

Y/N let herself be pulled forward.

Each step toward the porch felt heavier.

The sun was hot on her back. The bag dug into her shoulder. Her fingers itched to reach for Harry, to grab a second anchor—but he was behind her now, just far enough not to touch, just close enough that she could still hear the gravel under his boots.

The porch creaked beneath them.

The door stood open.

And there—half in shadow, half in golden light—stood Claire.

She looked exactly the same.

Worse.

Her hair was up in a loose bun that looked casual but probably took effort. Big gold hoops. A linen button-up tied at the waist over a swimsuit Y/N recognized from an ad they’d once laughed about. She held a half-empty glass of white wine and a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

She said, “Oh my god, hi!” like she hadn’t texted Ben “she’ll be fine, I promise.”

Y/N’s spine straightened.

Ali squeezed her arm, gave her one last look—You good?—then slipped inside ahead of her.

Leaving her alone at the top of the stairs.

Claire stepped aside to make space.

Her arm brushed the doorframe. Her wine glass tilted lazily in her hand. The porch light above them flickered like it couldn’t decide whether or not to stay on.

Y/N didn’t move yet.

She stood still at the threshold, just outside the doorway, watching Claire’s smile sharpen in real time. Watching her posture shift into something performative and breezy. Watching the way she tilted her head and said, “Oh my god, hi!” like she was seeing an old roommate and not the woman whose life she’d casually gutted like a ripe pear.

Behind Y/N, Harry stepped up beside her.

She didn’t look at him. But she felt the presence of him—shoulder to shoulder, not touching, but there. Solid. Quiet. Patient.

She could smell the faint citrus of his sunscreen, the edge of his cologne clinging to the fabric of his sweatshirt, the ghost of the road still lingering between them.

She exhaled.

And then—

Without thinking, without turning, she let her hand drift down and barely graze his.

Not quite a touch.

Just a brush.

The briefest flicker of I’m still here. Are you?

Harry didn’t startle. Didn’t pull away.

He shifted—subtle—and let his knuckles rest against hers.

Warm. Intentional.

It only lasted a second.

A beat and a half.

But it grounded her like nothing else had all day.

She swallowed hard.

And stepped inside.

The next two minutes were a blur of hellos.

Jules hugging her too tight. Someone handing her a beer she didn’t want. The sound of Eli’s laugh from the kitchen. Music playing from a speaker somewhere in the corner, faint and too upbeat. The ceiling fan clicking with every rotation.

Harry hovered near the door, his bag still over his shoulder, face unreadable.

Y/N wanted to look at him.

To check in. To tether.

But people were watching. People who didn’t know how much she needed that.

So instead, she smiled.

Nodded.

Laughed at a joke she didn’t hear.

Let someone take her bag.

And pretended.

Like she always did.

The door clicked softly behind them.

The second Y/N stepped inside, she could feel her body go stiff. Like every limb was bracing for judgment. Like the air itself was heavier here—denser with memory, weighted by history, thickened by the collective energy of too many people trying to act normal in a house where everything had changed.

The living room opened wide in front of them.

High ceilings. Worn leather couches. That same ugly green rug someone’s mom had donated five summers ago and no one had had the heart to replace. A low wooden coffee table cluttered with card games and half-sweated drinks and a single citronella candle burning for no one in particular.

Music drifted faintly from the Bluetooth speaker on the bookshelf. Some upbeat indie playlist, chirpy and harmless. The kind of music you put on when you don’t want anyone to think you’re trying too hard.

Y/N scanned the room, mentally tracking movement.

Ali was in the kitchen, pulling something from the oven. Jules sat cross-legged on the arm of the couch, whispering something to her girlfriend. Eli leaned against the counter with a beer in hand, already mid-story, hands gesturing in big loops like punctuation.

Claire was… everywhere. Laughing. Pouring wine. Touching shoulders as she passed. She moved through the space like she owned it, like she’d curated the whole night just to prove nothing was broken.

Ben sat at the table.

He looked up just as Y/N did.

Their eyes caught.

And just as quickly, she looked away.

“You okay?” Harry’s voice was low.

Y/N didn’t answer right away.

She let the question sit, thrum under her skin, echo through the space between her ribs.

Then she gave a short nod.

Not yes.

But I can pretend to be.

They both stood there a beat too long.

Long enough for Ali to glance up from the kitchen and wave a hand toward the table. “You guys want to sit? Food’s almost ready.”

Harry nodded and moved to set his bag down beside the door.

Y/N followed, slower.

As she passed the dining room table, Claire’s voice rang out—just a touch too loud. “Oh! Y/N, sit by me!”

It landed like a splash in the wrong kind of water.

The room shifted.

Not visibly. Not dramatically.

But the energy changed.

Y/N froze. For half a second. Long enough for anyone paying attention to see it.

Then Harry, without missing a beat, said, “Actually, I was hoping she’d sit with me. I need someone to explain Ali’s complicated salt preferences before I accidentally offend a whole household.”

The words weren’t dramatic. Not sharp.

Just dry. Low. Easy.

But they landed like a stone skipping across tension.

Y/N blinked.

Claire smiled—tight, too practiced—and shrugged. “Of course. I forgot you’re the salt whisperer.”

Jules snorted softly behind her beer.

And just like that, the moment passed.

Y/N turned to Harry, heart thudding in her ears, and muttered, “Thank you.”

He just nodded. No smile. No wink.

Just: I’ve got you.

Dinner happened like it always did the first night.

Too many dishes. Too many voices talking over one another. Inside jokes. Bad wine. A toast that started as a joke and ended with everyone awkwardly clinking glasses because no one wanted to be the one who didn’t.

Y/N picked at her food. Answered questions when asked. Smiled when expected.

But her body never fully unclenched.

It wasn’t the noise, not exactly. It was the undercurrent. The fact that Claire kept glancing over like she was measuring reactions. That Ben laughed too loud at Eli’s jokes. That no one asked how are you—not in a real way, not in the way that meant I saw what they did to you and I’m not pretending it’s okay.

And through it all, Harry sat to her right.

Quiet. Observant. Utterly still.

He didn’t speak much. Just nodded along, sipped his drink, offered the salad to Jules, and asked Ali if the pasta was the same one she’d made two summers ago.

But every so often—every few minutes—he’d lean slightly toward Y/N.

Not obviously. Not so anyone else would notice.

Just enough for her to feel the air shift. The space narrow. The edge of his presence brush against hers.

Once, when she dropped her fork, he bent to grab it before she could reach.

Their hands touched.

Briefly.

And when she looked at him—flushed, tired, grateful—he just gave her that same, unreadable look he always had.

Like he knew exactly what she was feeling.

And didn’t need to say anything about it.

The toast came too late.

They were already halfway through dinner—bowls half-empty, glasses nearly refilled, the kind of lazy, lopsided conversation that happened when everyone was tired and buzzed and trying to pretend they weren’t uncomfortable.

Claire stood up.

Of course she did.

She tapped her fork against the rim of her wine glass and smiled that wide, open smile she always wore when she wanted people to forget she could be cruel.

“Okay,” she said, bright and breezy, “first of all, I just want to say how insanely happy I am that we’re all here. Really. This trip means the world to me.”

Ali smiled. Jules nodded. Ben watched his plate.

Y/N stared at a smear of tomato sauce on the rim of her dish and thought about throwing it.

Claire continued, “I know we’ve all had a lot going on this year. Changes, work stuff, life stuff. But the fact that we can still show up for each other like this—god, I just think it says something about the kind of friends we are.”

Something twisted in Y/N’s stomach.

She reached for her water. Her hand shook.

Harry noticed.

His foot tapped lightly against hers under the table.

Not hard. Not obvious.

Just enough to say I’m here.

Claire lifted her glass. “So here’s to all of us. For being the kind of people who don’t let anything get in the way of what matters.”

It landed like a slap.

Y/N’s vision went soft at the edges.

She blinked. Focused on the edge of the napkin in her lap. The faint print in the fabric. The texture. The shape.

Jules raised her glass.

Ben followed.

Y/N’s hand didn’t move.

But Harry’s did.

He picked up his drink. Tapped it against hers. And whispered, just for her, “We don’t have to toast to a lie.”

She looked at him.

Really looked.

And whatever held her chest in a vice loosened. Just a little.

The rest of the table clinked and laughed and moved on. Someone cracked a joke about the garlic bread. Eli started talking about a podcast. Ali asked who brought the Cards Against Humanity deck.

But Y/N barely heard any of it.

She was still staring at Harry.

And he—calmly, quietly—was watching her back.

The dishes were cleared. Dessert was passed around. Someone opened a second bottle of wine.

And then, of course, the conversation turned to the cabin.

“So,” Jules said, dragging the word out, “did anyone actually figure out the room situation, or are we doing the traditional free-for-all and pretending we’re still twenty-two?”

Ali smirked. “I vote for tradition. I love watching everyone fight over the one room that has the window AC unit.”

Ben chuckled. “As long as I’m not on the floor again, I’m happy.”

Y/N froze.

Claire leaned in. “Well, we did sort of… pre-arrange some of it. Just to make things easier. Right, Ben?”

There was a long, dense pause.

Y/N didn’t breathe.

Harry didn’t blink.

Ben coughed. “Yeah. We figured since we got here early—”

Claire cut in, too quick. “We took the back room. The one with the closet. Hope that’s okay!”

The silence was thunderous.

No one said anything. Not really.

Eli raised his eyebrows. Jules glanced at Ali. Ali stared at her drink.

Y/N felt her ears buzzing.

Like the room was underwater.

Like her skin was too tight.

Like she couldn’t possibly sit there one more second without either laughing or screaming or crawling under the table and dissolving into salt and bone.

But then—

Harry shifted.

Just enough that his shoulder brushed hers.

Warm. Present. Grounding.

And without looking at her, without turning his head or clearing his throat or making it into anything more than what it was, he said, “We’ll take the front one.”

Claire looked up.

Y/N did too.

He met Claire’s gaze without flinching. “Hope that’s okay.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a decision.

Claire’s mouth opened. Closed.

Then she smiled.

Tight. Thin. “Of course.”

Y/N said nothing.

But under the table, her foot found Harry’s again.

And this time?

She left it there.

The wine bottles were half-empty by the time the group started to drift.

Jules grabbed her girlfriend’s hand and disappeared onto the back porch with a bottle of rosé. Eli claimed the pullout couch like it was a throne, flipping through TV options and loudly rejecting everything he landed on. Claire offered to make tea no one asked for. Ali started sorting leftovers with quiet, purposeful efficiency, like she couldn’t sit still or she’d drown.

Y/N stayed where she was.

Still seated at the dining room table, empty fork resting on an untouched plate, spine straight as a ruler and throat full of fire.

Her gaze was fixed somewhere in the middle distance—on a dark smudge near the baseboard. A water stain, maybe. A knot in the wood. Anything but the reality of what had just happened.

She could still hear Claire’s voice, echoing in her head.

We took the back room. The one with the closet.

As if it hadn’t once been her room. As if it hadn’t once held the sweater she’d left behind last summer, the novel with the folded page still in the drawer, the sweatshirt Ben used to steal when the nights got cold.

She pressed her thumbnail into the curve of her palm and tried to breathe through it.

Harry stood slowly.

Not loud. Not abrupt. Just enough to pull her out of the spiral.

“You ready?” he asked.

Simple question.

Weighted like a boulder.

She nodded once, careful not to let her voice crack. “Yeah.”

They didn’t look at anyone else.

Didn’t say goodnight.

They just left.

The hallway was dim.

The air smelled like cedar and dust and something faintly sweet—maybe candle wax, maybe spilled wine, maybe the ghost of a summer that didn’t belong to her anymore.

Y/N walked ahead, her feet light against the wooden floorboards, her hand still curled in the hem of her sleeve.

She didn’t speak.

Harry didn’t either.

They reached the front bedroom in silence.

He pushed the door open gently.

The hallway was dim.

The air smelled like cedar and dust and something faintly sweet—maybe candle wax, maybe spilled wine, maybe the ghost of a summer that didn’t belong to her anymore.

Y/N walked ahead, her feet light against the wooden floorboards, her hand still curled in the hem of her sleeve.

She didn’t speak.

Harry didn’t either.

They reached the front bedroom in silence.

He pushed the door open gently.

Harry turned.

His voice was low. “You okay?”

She shook her head.

Then nodded.

Then finally said, “No.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t say that makes sense or me neither or we’ll be fine.

He just looked at her.

And something in his expression cracked open.

Not pity.

Not concern.

Just recognition.

Like he saw her exactly as she was—and wasn’t afraid of it.

She walked in.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The air changed.

It was quiet here. Too quiet. She could hear the fan overhead. The wind through the screen. The blood in her ears.

She stood near the dresser, fingers twitching slightly, like her body didn’t know where to land.

Harry stepped to the window and opened it wider.

The breeze shifted the curtain. It floated softly into the room, brushing the frame before falling back again.

They both watched it move.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed.

Her shoulders slumped.

Her spine folded.

And for the first time all day, she let herself look at him like she meant it.

Harry was standing by the window, arms crossed loosely, hair falling over his forehead in waves. His eyes were on the trees beyond the glass—but his body was turned slightly toward her. Just enough to say I know you’re watching.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

He glanced at her. “For what?”

“For dinner. For the room. For… the fork. All of it.”

He didn’t smile. But something shifted.

“You didn’t need saving,” he said.

She scoffed. “I absolutely did.”

He shook his head. “You were surviving. I just stepped in where it was stupid for you to do it alone.”

She tilted her head. “Is that your thing? Stepping in?”

His gaze didn’t move. “Only when you need me to”

Silence stretched.

Heavy. Familiar.

But not uncomfortable.

Not anymore.

“You really hate her, don’t you?” Y/N asked quietly.

Harry didn’t flinch. “I don’t know if I hate her.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would mean she still has space to take up.”

Y/N blinked.

God, she envied that.

She wasn’t there yet. She still felt Claire in every room.

Still felt Ben in every conversation.

Still felt the parts of herself she’d sanded down to make space for people who never stopped taking.

Harry looked at her again.

Really looked.

And the weight of that gaze made something in her chest ache.

She lay back on the bed without thinking.

Shoes still on.

Bag still by her side.

She stared at the ceiling fan and blinked against the burn behind her eyes.

The bed creaked slightly under her weight.

A second later, the mattress dipped beside her.

She turned her head.

Harry sat on the edge. Not facing her. Just… close.

Enough to feel the warmth of him.

Enough to remember the drive. The silence. The foot tapping under the table. The fork.

The room was dim now. The curtain swayed. Her fingers ached from being curled too tightly for too long.

She reached up.

Flicked a piece of lint off the hem of his sweatshirt.

His breath hitched.

Not audibly. Not dramatically.

But she felt it.

She pulled her hand back slowly.

“I don’t know if I can do this for a week,” she whispered.

Harry didn’t move.

But after a beat, he said, “You don’t have to.”

She turned toward him. “What?”

“You don’t have to do anything. You can sit out. Stay in here. Walk away.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” he said simply. “I’ll cover for you.”

She looked at him.

At the slope of his shoulder.

At the tendon in his throat.

At the way his hands rested—open-palmed, knees apart, like he wasn’t trying to protect anything.

“You would do that?”

“Already am.”

And that was the thing, wasn’t it?

He already was.

From the moment they left. From the first hour in the car. From the fork on the floor to the foot beneath the table to the space beside her in the doorway.

He was the only person who hadn’t looked at her like she was about to fall apart.

He looked at her like she already had—and was still standing anyway.

The fan creaked above them, soft and irregular—three turns smooth, then a faint hitch, like the blades weren’t perfectly balanced.

The breeze through the window had cooled a little, sharp around the edges now that the sun had fully dipped behind the trees. Outside, the lake hummed in low, muffled sounds—distant insects, an occasional splash, laughter from the back porch still bleeding into the air like smoke.

Inside the room, it was just them.

No music. No chatter. No more pretending.

Just one mattress, one quiet body next to another, and the air so thick with unspoken things it could’ve drowned them both.

Harry still sat beside her.

His shoulders slightly hunched, back curved just enough to look like he wasn’t used to staying still this long. His eyes hadn’t moved from the window in minutes, but Y/N could feel him watching her without turning.

Not directly. Not head-on.

But aware. Present.

Like he was holding his breath beside her and letting her exhale for the both of them.

Y/N shifted. Not away—just enough to roll onto her side, eyes tracing the line of his arm from wrist to elbow, where his sleeve had pushed up just enough to show a pale stretch of forearm and the edge of a scar she didn’t know the story behind.

She didn’t ask.

She didn’t need to.

It felt too intimate already, just being allowed to look.

“You don’t talk much,” she said softly, almost to the ceiling.

Harry’s lips twitched. “You make up for it.”

She huffed a faint laugh, but didn’t look away. “Is that a dig?”

“Compliment.”

“Sure it is.”

He finally glanced down at her then—just a tilt of the head, just enough shadow on his face to make the green of his eyes look darker than usual.

“You talk like someone who’s used to not being heard,” he said.

The breath left her lungs too fast.

She blinked.

And then, before she could think better of it, whispered, “You listen like someone who’s always waiting to be needed.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Just nodded once, slowly. Like that hurt a little. Like she wasn’t wrong.

The silence after that felt different. Less like a weight. More like a thread—thin, invisible, running between them. Not pulled tight. But there.

Tangible.

Tethered.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she murmured after a while.

Harry didn’t ask what.

He didn’t need to.

He was quiet for a long time. Then said, “You don’t have to know.”

“I feel like I’m supposed to.”

“Why?”

“Because she does.” The words spilled out before she could catch them. “Claire always knows how to perform. How to play the part. And I just—I never know what to do with my hands.”

Harry’s head tipped a little. Not mocking. Just thoughtful.

“Maybe that’s the part she envies,” he said.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“You don’t pretend well. She does. But you… you’re real. Even when it’s messy.”

She stared at him.

He didn’t look away.

“Are you trying to compliment me?” she asked finally, because her throat felt too tight not to fill the space with something.

“Not very well, apparently.”

“Well, keep practicing.”

He looked at her again, more fully this time.

And something in his gaze softened—like the last inch of armor had finally dropped.

She sat up before she could overthink it.

Crossed her legs on the bed. Let the sheet wrinkle beneath her. Tucked her knees in and stared down at the weave of the blanket between them.

“I feel like I’m walking around without skin,” she whispered. “Like everyone’s looking at me and seeing a version of myself that doesn’t fit anymore.”

Harry shifted.

She felt the mattress pull slightly toward him. The heat of his knee close to hers, not touching, but there.

“Maybe they are,” he said. “But you’re the only one who gets to decide what happens next.”

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t trust herself to.

So she let the words hang in the space between them like a threadbare sheet—light and worn and too delicate to hold anything, but still real.

It was nearly midnight when she finally stood to change.

He turned his back without her asking.

Stayed that way until she whispered “Okay,” voice quiet from the far corner of the room.

When he turned again, she was in an oversized t-shirt and bike shorts, one hand bracing the windowsill like she needed the grounding. Her hair was a little messy. Her eyes were puffy. She looked undone.

She looked beautiful.

Not in the way people threw the word around—effortlessly or performatively or just to fill the space.

She looked beautiful because she wasn’t hiding anymore.

Harry lay down in his bed.

Y/N climbed into hers.

For a long time, they said nothing.

The breeze shifted.

The curtain moved.

And just before the quiet could settle too deeply into sleep, her voice reached across the dark.

“Harry?”

He hummed.

“You’re the only part of today that didn’t hurt.”

His breath hitched.

She couldn’t see his face.

But she felt the weight of his silence like a hand on her back.

After a beat, he whispered, “You too.”

The house had gone still.

The porch had quieted. The back door had creaked shut. The voices had lowered, one by one, as doors closed and lights flicked off. Even the fan overhead seemed to be spinning slower now, the room dipping into that strange space between night and not-quite-sleep.

Harry had already changed—quietly, deliberately—while Y/N curled in her own bed, eyes on the ceiling, pretending not to notice the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional click of a zipper.

She hadn’t moved since.

The silence stretched between them like thread—thin and invisible and so easy to snap.

But no one did.

They hadn’t spoken in a while. Not since she told him, You’re the only part of today that didn’t hurt.

He hadn’t responded with words. Not after that. Just lay there, still as stone, breathing carefully, like if he exhaled too loudly the moment might evaporate.

Now, her eyes had adjusted enough to make out the shape of him across the room. One arm folded beneath his pillow. His hair falling forward into his eyes, shadowed but soft. His chest rising and falling, steady.

She wondered if he knew she was still awake.

She wondered if he was, too.

She turned onto her side. Slowly. Quietly.

The sheet whispered across her skin.

She was hyper-aware of every shift in her own body. The creak of the mattress, the faint press of air against her ankles. The warmth beneath the blanket that now felt too warm, the room too still. Like even her heartbeat was echoing back too loudly.

There was something too naked about the space between their beds.

Not in a literal way.

But in the way that everything between them felt… exposed now.

No more group. No more cover. No more noise.

Just her.

And Harry.

And a whole day’s worth of unspoken weight.

She blinked into the dark.

Her voice, when it came, surprised her.

“Can I tell you something kind of stupid?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly: “Always.”

She inhaled. Held it. Let it go.

��I brought his sweater.”

Silence.

She felt him turn slightly—just enough that she knew he was facing her now.

“I packed it without thinking. It was at the bottom of the drawer and I—I don’t know. It still smells like him.”

Harry didn’t speak.

Didn’t rush to fill the gap.

She was grateful for it.

“I was going to wear it tonight,” she said, voice smaller. “Like maybe it would… I don’t know. Trick my body into thinking I’m okay.”

Harry’s voice was low. Raspy.

“Did it?”

“No.”

She swallowed.

“It made me feel like a ghost in my own skin.”

He shifted again.

She could hear the sheets move.

But he still didn’t say anything.

And somehow, that helped more than anything else would have.

Y/N lay there a while longer.

Eyes open.

Not crying. Not spiraling.

Just… breathing.

Feeling the night settle around them. Feeling the air stretch between her bed and his like the softest, sharpest thread.

At one point, she turned again. Lay on her back.

And whispered, “Harry?”

A beat.

Then: “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

It was quiet for a long time.

So long she almost thought he’d fallen asleep.

But then—

His voice, barely there: “I think I will be.”

She stared at the ceiling.

Me too, she wanted to say.

But she wasn’t ready yet.

So instead, she said, “Good night.”

And from across the room, warm and slow and real:

“Good night, Y/N.”

It wasn’t sleep that came next.

It was something that wore its shape.

Time passed, but it didn’t move.

The dark thickened. The air shifted. The sounds of the house slowed into hush.

But Y/N stayed wide awake.

Not tossing. Not turning.

Still.

Her body was quiet, but her mind wasn’t. Her thoughts raced in slow, dragging circles—too tired to run, too wound up to rest. Her eyes stayed open long after they stopped registering anything, fixed on the faint shape of the ceiling fan spinning shadows against shadows.

The room had changed.

The moonlight through the window was different now—softer, slightly lower, like it had collapsed inward. The breeze had calmed. The curtain had stilled.

Harry hadn’t made a sound in over an hour. But she knew he wasn’t asleep.

She knew.

It was something in the way his breath stayed shallow. Steady, yes. But deliberate. As if he, too, was trying not to be the first one to move.

Y/N’s muscles had gone numb from stillness.

Every part of her felt suspended.

Her wrists. Her calves. Her lungs.

She lay on her side, facing the wall, the curve of her knees pulled tight, one hand curled gently beneath her pillow. Her skin was too warm. Her t-shirt clung in places it hadn’t earlier. Her hair felt heavy at the back of her neck.

And Harry was less than ten feet away.

Still. Quiet. Present.

It should’ve felt comforting.

It didn’t.

It felt like pressure.

Like a truth too big to name.

Like if she rolled over, everything about the day would come pouring out and she’d never be able to put it back in.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Hard.

Tried to breathe through it.

Counted the seconds between the fan’s clicks.

But it didn’t help.

Because behind her eyelids, she could still feel it—him.

Not just Harry.

Harry.

The way he’d looked at her earlier.

The way he’d listened. Really listened. Without asking for anything back.

The way he’d said “Only when you need me to.”

The way he sat beside her like he didn’t need to touch her to hold her up.

It was too much.

It was too much, and yet—

She wanted more of it anyway.

She flipped onto her back.

Slowly. Quietly.

Held her breath as the mattress shifted.

She stared up at the ceiling like it could answer for her thoughts.

And then—just once—she let herself glance to the right.

To him.

To Harry.

He was lying on his side now, facing her.

His eyes were open.

He didn’t pretend otherwise.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

There was just the space between them.

Dark. Bare. Unbearable.

Her voice stayed locked in her throat.

And his expression didn’t change.

But she felt it.

All of it.

The weight of everything they weren’t saying.

The pull of something neither of them had expected, but had been circling since mile three on the highway.

The knowing.

The quiet, impossible truth of I see you. I see you. I see you.

Y/N blinked once.

Harry did too.

Then he shifted—just slightly—like he might say something.

But he didn’t.

And neither did she.

Because this wasn’t a night for saying anything.

This was a night for surviving the silence.

For letting it shape them. Softly. Slowly.

And hoping it didn’t ruin them in the morning.

It was the stillness that woke her.

Not a sound. Not a shift in the bed.

Just that heavy, humming kind of quiet that didn’t feel accidental.

The kind of silence that pressed against her eyelids, warm and slow and thick with waiting.

Y/N blinked into the dark.

Or what was left of it.

There was light now—soft, early, barely-there light spilling through the open window in long, pale strokes across the floorboards. The curtain stirred once, brushed the wall like a sigh, then stilled again.

She stayed where she was.

Her body still curled under the blanket. Her breath still low. Her heart still racing for reasons she couldn’t quite name.

She didn’t know what time it was. But it had that hollow-boned quality—the hour that lives between real rest and being needed. The hour that tastes like forgotten dreams and creaking floorboards and the knowledge that if you speak, the day will begin and nothing will ever go back to how it was the night before.

Y/N turned slowly onto her side.

She didn’t mean to look at him.

She told herself she was checking the window.

The light.

The fan.

But when her eyes found Harry, they stayed there.

He hadn’t moved.

Still lying on his side. Still facing her.

Still awake.

She could tell by the way his chest lifted—too slow for sleep, too steady for dreaming. His hands were folded beneath the pillow. His hair was a mess, curling at the edges and fanned against the case like he’d been fighting gravity in his sleep.

But his eyes were open.

Soft. Heavy-lidded. But open.

Watching her.

She almost looked away.

She should have.

But neither of them flinched.

It felt like something had been peeled back in the dark—something raw and silent and so obvious now, there was no way to pretend it hadn’t always been there.

They didn’t speak.

Not because there was nothing to say.

But because saying anything would mean naming it.

And naming it meant letting it be real.

And real was terrifying.

The fan clicked above them.

A single bird called out from the trees beyond the window.

Harry blinked. Once.

And Y/N, before she could stop herself, whispered, “You’re still awake.”

He nodded.

Barely.

Like even that was too much effort.

Like even that might break the spell.

Harry didn’t speak.

He just looked at her.

Not intensely. Not sharply.

Just… steadily.

Like he’d already decided it was okay to keep looking.

Like he wasn’t going to pretend this wasn’t happening anymore.

And the worst part was—

She didn’t want him to.

She didn’t want him to stop. Didn’t want him to turn away and fold himself back into the safe, quiet, too-neutral version of himself he carried around for everyone else.

She wanted this one.

The one who stayed.

The one who watched.

The one who knew how to sit still beside the burn of someone else’s grief without flinching.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

So she did nothing.

The fan overhead clicked once.

Then twice.

The light creeping through the curtain shifted an inch to the right, washing over the curve of Harry’s cheekbone, lighting just the edge of his profile—his brow, the tip of his nose, the top of his lip.

Y/N’s stomach turned.

Not from nerves.

From recognition.

From the gut-deep awareness that this wasn’t some harmless crush or fleeting moment of situational comfort. This was something she’d remember later. When she shouldn’t. When she’d try not to.

She curled her fingers tighter around the blanket draped across her stomach.

Not out of cold.

But control.

“You’re still awake,” she said quietly.

The words landed softly, but they didn’t dissolve.

They settled.

They stayed.

Harry nodded once, like even that tiny movement carried meaning.

And it did.

Of course it did.

Y/N rolled onto her back.

Carefully. Slowly.

Like the air between them might shatter if she moved too fast.

She didn’t look at him again.

But she felt it.

The weight of his gaze. The heat of it.

The way it rested on her like a question neither of them wanted answered yet.

“Did you sleep at all?” she whispered.

Harry didn’t speak right away.

He rarely did.

“Some,” he said eventually.

She nodded. Not because it mattered.

But because it gave her something to do with her head.

“Me neither.”

No laughter. No soft teasing. No false lightness to smooth out the rawness of it.

Just honesty.

The kind that existed at 5:30 a.m., when the sky hadn’t committed to being blue yet and your chest still ached from dreams you couldn’t remember.

The blanket was too warm.

The air too thin.

The room too quiet.

But somehow, none of it mattered.

Because he was still awake.

And so was she.

And that meant something.

He rolled onto his back too, and their bodies mirrored—lying still, not facing each other now, but not far.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Then: “I kept thinking about the dock.”

She blinked at the ceiling.

“What about it?”

“That first night we got here last year. Everyone jumped in at once. It was freezing.”

A breath of something like a smile passed over her lips.

“Claire screamed like she’d been electrocuted.”

Harry huffed a soft laugh. “And then you dared Ben to stay in for two full minutes.”

Her smile dropped.

The memory stung.

More than it should have.

That ache was back again.

The one that sat behind her ribs like a bruise.

But Harry didn’t leave her there.

“I remember thinking…” he said, voice lower now, “you were the only one who looked like you actually belonged here.”

Y/N’s head turned.

She looked at him.

This time, really looked.

And in the slant of his voice, in the quiet weight of that sentence, she heard it:

I see you. I saw you even then.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was something else.

Something thicker.

Something slower.

Something that buzzed just below her skin, like heat trapped under the surface.

She swallowed.

She didn’t ask him what he meant.

She knew.

And that was worse.

Because knowing meant noticing.

Noticing meant caring.

And caring was a door she hadn’t meant to open.

“I don’t think I ever have,” she said finally.

“Have what?”

“Belonged here.”

Harry didn’t respond right away.

And when he did, it wasn’t with a correction or a protest or a no, that’s not true.

It was this:

“I don’t think any of them notice the difference.”

She frowned.

“But I do,” he added.

Her heart stuttered.

Once. Hard.

And just before she could ask what that meant—what she meant—his voice came again, soft and sure:

“That’s the part that matters.”

The light was climbing now.

Faint pink crept up the walls. The edges of the dresser sharpened. The curtain glowed.

But Y/N didn’t look away.

Not from him.

Not this time.

Harry lay still, one arm bent behind his head, his eyes on hers.

There was no mask now.

Nothing softening the truth of his gaze.

He looked at her like he already knew what she was afraid to feel.

Like he’d felt it too.

And that—

That made it worse.

Because it meant they were standing on the same ledge.

It meant she wasn’t imagining this.

And if she wasn’t imagining it, then…

Then everything had already changed.

She breathed in slowly.

Let it out through her nose.

“Did you mean it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His brow furrowed, just slightly. “Mean what?”

“That I’m the only one who didn’t pretend.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

She nodded once.

Then looked away.

The curtain moved again. Just a little.

Like the morning was reminding her that time still existed, even if she wasn’t ready to move through it yet.

“You should get some sleep,” she said, though she wasn’t sure who she meant it for.

Harry’s voice was quieter now. “You should, too.”

But neither of them did.

They stayed like that.

In the quiet.

In the space between confession and denial.

In the ache that came from being seen too clearly by someone who hadn’t meant to see you at all—and did anyway.

Y/N closed her eyes.

The sun crept higher.

The breeze turned warmer.

And for the first time since arriving, she let herself believe—just barely, just once—that maybe she didn’t have to carry all of this alone.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Taglist: @this-is-tiny-mia @goldensunflowerssss-blog @notsosweetcreature @ohmygoldboots @pradastardust @hsbbyhunny @meganrose139 @reeadyreeady @harrys-flower-vol-6 @sunshinextemptress94 @somebunnybaby @justsimplybands @witch-rry @millsadoresyou @watermelon-medicine @pink-watermelon-cherry @babegoalsreads @namoreno @fairyjuicestyles @pologoonies @mp-269 @musicforastylesrestaurant @finelinereading @sigh-mon-reads @tonystaank

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#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles au #harry styles writing #harry styles angst #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles slow burn #harry styles fan fiction #teacher!harry #strangerlanes

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shun-ie · 2 months ago

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₍⁠₍⁠ ⁠◝ the past, the present, and the future (rhys larsen)

content : longest fanfic yet, rhys larsen, differentpath!au, amab!reader, slowburn, sexual awakening?, strangers to acquaintances to friends to lovers, mentions of trauma/ptsd, healing the inner child, ooc-ish rhys, unprotected sex, slight mention of fingering, bttm!malereader, ceo!reader, mentions of kinks, lmk if i missed anything :))

shun-note : rhys larsen is not my oc. he belongs to ana huang, the author of twisted games. i also noticed that there weren't a lot of twisted series fics (or there's none at all), so i made one. missing some details, but i wanted to post this already so it doesn't rot in my drafts lol

[not proofread]

m.list !

cold hearted. that's what rhys larsen first thought of y/n l/n, the ceo of l/n conglomerate. after being the bodyguard for bridget von ascheberg, the crown princess of eldorra, he took up another commission to drown away the ache that was left when he parted from the woman he spent his two years protecting.

y/n l/n was vastly different from any of those rhys had guarded in the past.

y/n put his work first. sleep? he'd sign and read through papers until he collapsed and died. eat? he'd starve just to entertain the board of his company. he did however, keep a strict hygiene and exercise routine. in those two months with y/n, he never once saw the frown leave his lips. it was like it was permanently scarred on his face. the total opposite of bridget.

rhys was offered the job just after he freshly resigned from his post. he was reluctant to accept the commission, but accepted once he found out it was a man he would be guarding this time. he did all the background checks, read y/n's information, did security protocols, just like any other clients he had previously.

and as he trailed behind the ceo, who parted the crowd of paparazzi and 'fans' like the red sea, he was brought back to the moment when he first met the indifferent man in front of him.

"this is sir y/n l/n. lately, he's being harassed by paparazzi. he has been followed home seven times in the past month . . . ambush interviews . . . and he can't eat in restaurants anymore," the secretary listed as she spoke to rhys via request of y/n's father who took care of affairs in china. "he normally does things alone without bodyguards, but this time people have gone too far," she further explains, pushing an open folder with photos taken by the paparazzi.

they consisted of y/n sitting in a booth at a restaurant, entering sister company buildings, walking through the park, and even leaving his car as he approached his house. it was never this bad with bridget.

as he examined the photos, alongside the blueprints of y/n's house and the company headquarters he requested beforehand, the secretary says something that catches his attention.

"sir l/n doesn't talk much. so don't feel hurt if he gives you the cold shoulder when you guys meet," hurt? hilarious. i don't even know him well enough to be hurt. "-he most likely will ignore you." arrogant? stuck up?

it was then when he met y/n l/n that there was something else. from the way the ceo's eyebrows furrowed, stress shadowing his tense but elegant form, as he scanned the papers in his hand, a cup of something in his other.

"miss clarke, i have another meeting with missus barett on wednesday at seven pm. add that to my schedule. and move my call with mister harris around nine pm after the meeting." he then stopped in his tracks, taking notice of the other presence in the room. he blinks, eyeing the large man sitting in front of his secretary. long hair, broad muscular frame, gunmetal eyes, and a scar slashing through his left eyebrow. he wore all black. "you must be the bodyguard my father hired. rhys larsen, correct me if i am wrong."

y/n's voice was full on business, leaving no trace of any other emotions other than serious and commanding. words rolled out of his mouth like smooth silk and his earlier strides could rival fairies that pranced around gracefully as they took flight.

"yes and if i may, i'll be looking around the building for any security measures," rhys got straight to the point. there was no point dancing around the issue. no point in introductions, they knew each other well enough. it was obvious. his indifference masked the slight curiosity that sparked as he watched y/n disappear into his office, where he caught a glimpse of neatly stacked paperwork and the large window that overlooked the city from above.

even as he drove away from the airport, he knew nothing about the man he's protecting. unlike bridget who he had arguments and decent conversations with, y/n only gave him one or two word responses before silence loomed over them like a cloud everyday for the two months they were together. the basic information about the ceo was nothing compared to the behavior, habits, likes, and dislikes of the crown princess.

he took casual glances from his rear view mirror, observing as y/n scrolled through his hundreds of emails, noting down important information on his pocket journal.

rhys has never seen y/n stop working.

"you're ruining yourself." it was just a thought, he never intended for it to slip. he curses in his mind.

y/n hums, never looking up from what he was doing. "why is that?" he knew exactly why, but he chose to ignore it. he wore himself down most of the time, all the time. he never intended to stop, but the words rang clearly in his mind. you're ruining yourself.

"it just looks like you're burning both ends of a candle, trying to manage yourself and work," rhys focused on the road, "but you can't."

y/n has never disobeyed his instructions which he was thankful for as it made everything easier. he never really did go out as much as bridget did. even then, scheduled events and meetings were always smooth as rhys had planned it to be.

y/n wasn't as hard headed, outgoing, and filled with fire. not like bridget. rhys didn't even know why he was comparing two polar opposites. but being with him, he thought of the crown princess in eldorra who offered him extension of his contract, which he refused. and now he's here.

"i work . . . because it distracts me from my reality."

y/n has never talked about why he does what he does. it felt right in the moment. rhys has never pried answers out of him, partially because he didn't converse with him, however his eyes told him so. those stormy grey eyes that showed nothing but genuine curiosity even though he tried to hide it.

rhys didn't know what to think as they reached the end of the highway. two months and y/n finally spoke a full sentence. rapport was a card he had set to the side because of their circumstances, now he might as well consider putting it back on the table. he saw y/n put his work down, temporarily ceasing his work which were probably with a month or two deadline, and relax against the seat.

"i hate thinking of other things, other people," y/n lets out an empty chuckle, finding rhys' eyes through the rear view mirror, "isn't that why you took the commission to bodyguard me? to forget about the previous client you protected? we're a bit alike, you and i. we do things that would take our minds off things."

it felt like a bucket of ice cold water washed over rhys as he heard those words. we do things that would take our minds off things. his grip tightened on the steering wheel, gazing away from those sad e/c eyes that ingrained themselves in his memory. he never thought his longest interaction with his client would be so depressing, yet eye opening. he knew of three things.

one. he is trying to take his mind off of someone.

two. y/n works to take his mind off of something or someone.

and three. y/n wasn't cold hearted. only seemed like it.

rhys stood at the sidelines, alert and ready. his eyes wandered around the event, as if looking for any threats that would suddenly appear out of nowhere. he then dragged his gaze towards his client, who was in the middle of a group of other businessmen and women. he shared a tight and practiced smile, trying to act polite and respectful as the night dragged on.

y/n wore a tailored suit, it was simple yet elegant. his hair was slicked back, lips full and glossy from constantly licking it as he swirled the wine in his glass. he was total perfection. a face that would leave anyone in ruins. but rhys caught the slight tremble of his hand and his eyes flashing to different places, as he squeezed out of the group that huddled around him. it looked as if he was panicking, though he regained himself when he knocked back the wine. rhys almost left his spot if it weren't for the pointed and reassuring look y/n shot his direction.

it was four months after that conversation. their relationship was less tense and less quiet. y/n now regularly held conversation with rhys, getting his opinions on philosophical and theoretical things. sometimes they spoke about the geographical locations where the company could build a new branch of resort. it never trespassed the gates of personal life.

when rhys asked about something he did for himself, y/n blanked him and changed the topic.

"since you're working because of something or someone, what do you do for yourself?" it was a question that he came up with as they got deeper into the conversation about places that could potentially become a tourist spot. rhys didn't always like talking because it included emotions, but with y/n it felt natural. it was during these one on ones that he caught glimpses and pieces of the person behind the cold ceo exterior.

y/n blinked, turning away and opening another topic about attractions. "what about a butterfly house . . ." rhys sighed through his nose quietly. during the first day he said that he doesn't become included in his clients' lives and that he wasn't there to be a friend, confidant, or anything else. but looking at how y/n tensed when he even hears the words family and yourself . . .

rhys knew y/n at least needed a someone. we're a bit alike, you and i.

it didn't take long for him to notice the signs of ptsd. the way y/n only spoke about his father, excluding his mother in conversations. avoiding places that had closets that contained cleaning supplies or were used for storage of documents. there were also times rhys heard shuffling in the kitchen way past midnight even when they got home around ten or eleven in the evening.

as much as rhys tried to ignore the sense of care, not wanting things to repeat, he couldn't help but feel a bit of fear that y/n wouldn't come out of hi bedroom. would he fail to protect him because of how he lived outside and inside work? terror flashed through him as he thought about it. he's working too much, he'll kill himself before he could even reach forty.

and as of that moment, his heart thrummed against his rib cage. he screamed profanities in his mind as he lost sight of the client he was supposed to protect. he bulldozed through the people, ignoring their glares and mumbles as his eyes darted around for y/n.

there was another thing he feared. repetition of the past.

being with bridget for over two years changed a lot of things for him. never has he breached the contract rules until her. he's hasn't felt anything like it until her. he prayed to the gods that she would be the last. hopefully.

as he rounded a corner, he caught sight of a silhouette through a slightly ajar door. he pushed it open and found y/n sitting on the middle of the floor of the empty ballroom. intricate designs decorated the walls and ceiling, pieces of furniture finishing off the classic look.

"i know that you think of your previous client when you guard me."

it made rhys tense at the door. in all the years of his life, he was the one to read the other, not the other way around. something about y/n challenged him. they were simply a mystery to each other. unlike bridget who knew about his past and him knowing hers, y/n and him knew nothing about each other aside from the basics.

"when i look at you . . . it looks like it pains you to be guarding me. you think you're good at hiding it, but you're really not," y/n droned out, looking at the night sky through the windows. "during the first two weeks, i noticed some habits you retained from your commission before this one. it seems to me there was more to this certain client, that's why you took on the job of protecting me. something must have happened."

rhys stiffened ever so slightly, feeling a spike of both irritation and astonishment. he didn't like this. but at the same time, he also felt a bit of relief that someone knew. he couldn't lie about anything. something did happen with bridget, but he had hardened his heart, ignoring the twisting ache when he left. he left her when he was claiming her in his mind.

"you should think of resigning as my bodyguard," y/n gets up from the floor, patting down his suit and fixing his collar and cuffs, "i think you should go back to your previous client. i can find another bodyguard."

rhys immediately closed their distance in five strides. he's six inches taller and towers over y/n easily with his broad and muscular figure. his eyes doesn't shy away from the heated connection of misunderstandings and mystery that brewed between them in a steady pace for the past six months and threatened to explode like a nuke. "i wanted to be your bodyguard. a client from before doesn't change anything. it shouldn't. protecting you is number one priority." his words were like knives slicing into the tense atmosphere. he didn't want his client doubting him.

silence hung heavy over them, both of them not once backing away from the fiery eye contact. rhys was right, despite his relationship with bridget, that doesn't deter him from doing his job. his job is solely focused on his current client. to protect y/n l/n.

"mister rhys, you truly do surprise me." y/n turns away from his bodyguard and brushes past him, feeling a tug at his heart. he places a hand on his chest, he clenches it and lets it drop back to his side. "i'm exhausted. let me just bid my farewells, then we can leave this godforsaken event."

rhys stared at the back of y/n as they headed back to the garden. the faux personality that he reserved for the attendees returned, treating the man he just spoke to in the ballroom as nothing but another him. no, he didn't have a personality disorder, that's for sure. he just likes hiding behind masks. he definitely fits the role of a ceo.

a year passed. rhys continued his job as the ceo's bodyguard. he really fit the role. during the first week, he memorized y/n's schedule, plans, and the blueprints of the headquarters and estate. the following months, less paparazzi flocked y/n and there were occasional attempted assaults (which was new). he was completely amazing.

y/n watched the man he had been with for one year and a half. since that night during the garden event, a lot of things have shifted. their once debatable and business talks transformed a bit more personal varying from favorites and elaborated opinions on preferences. there were times they strayed away from one topic to another as he signed papers and went over some of them. it took away the ache of loneliness he felt over the years he took his place as ceo.

where his company would be the words he read and the calls he took and the coffee curbed his exhaustion he can never get rid off, he felt lighter than he did before rhys became his bodyguard.

rhys sat on the couch flushed against the trimmed walls of the office, furnished with bookshelves, a glass coffee table, and small trinkets here and there. he could feel y/n's eye drilling holes into the side of his head. he gave him a glance only to see the man turn to his papers, pretending to digest the words printed on them.

y/n had him sit on the couch, getting a slight headache from seeing and hearing him standing at the door and occasionally walking around. rhys found it amusing how the cold hearted ceo felt emotions such as frustration and glints of sadness when the world saw him as someone who used people for his gain and didn't feel a drop of guilt.

throughout the year, he got to know a lot of things about y/n. he loved reading, not his paperwork but novels. he spotted some books laying around but didn't question them and instead, skimmed through the pages. he specifically liked crime and fantasy. he also liked jazz. there was a shelf of cassettes and vinyl records near the fireplace.

"what happened between you and your previous client?" the question brought rhys' attention to y/n again. this one was very personal. were they close enough to even talk about it? he did say that what happened in costa rica stayed in costa rica.

rhys sat back, pondering before concluding. "if i were to answer that, you have to give me something of equal value," the idea of exchanged caught y/n by surprise. interest flickers through his eyes as amusement showed on his face.

"are you bargaining?"

rhys laughs lightly, the sound squeezing at the ceo's heart. "it's business."

y/n reached for his chest as he gulped. he brushed the feeling off and nods, "i like that. let's talk business then." a devilish and heart stopping smirk lifted the corners of rhys' mouth.

"i noticed on the blueprints that you don't have any room that's as small as a pantry. even your walk in closet is as big as your bedroom. why is that?" rhys had an inkling, an assumption, but he wanted it to come out of y/n's lips. he saw his client huff a breath, a thought crossing his mind, before slumping, regal self gone.

"i have ptsd. it was from my mother. when i was younger, she had this twisted sense of duty. she packed my schedule with a lot of lessons. mostly languages and subjects related to business. if i have a low score, she'd lock me in my room for a few hours. if i failed, she'd lock me in a closet. to distract myself, i indulged in hobbies and other things. she found out and locked me in for i don't know long. all i know is i was hungry and thirsty. it didn't take long for my father to find me, he had just come home from a business trip. the house was a mess after that," his voice wavered slightly, but regained its steadiness as he thought about his father. no amount of therapy sessions cured his fear of enclosed spaces.

when he tried to overcome it once, his lungs constricted, he felt nausea and sweaty, he couldn't think at all. he felt so helpless.

y/n was silent for a while before shaking his head, trying to rid of himself of the resurfaced memories. one he tried to forget but couldn't. not when they lingered in the back of his mind. if he couldn't get over his fears, then he couldn't get over his past. so he'd ignore it as long as possible.

"we're alike, you and i." rhys reused the words y/n had told him a year ago, this time removing the words a bit. and true to the bargain, he told him all about bridget von ascheberg. as soon as he mentioned her name, recognition flooded through y/n's eyes. he listened attentively, nodding and humming here and there. (read twisted games for better understanding) understanding settled in the air. comfortable silence followed soon after, both returning to what they were doing before their heart to heart.

rhys gazed at the man sitting at the desk. in a timespan shorter than his time with bridget, he and y/n knew each other in a deeper level. maybe it's because they were both men? or was it because the silence and waiting for the starting few months pushed everything into place? maybe it's because y/n took his time being comfortable first before conversing? he didn't know, there were a lot of possibilities.

he was certain of one thing. there was more to y/n's story.

three months passed. aside from the company parties, meetings, and alumni event, everything was smooth sailing for y/n. he did receive death threats once or twice, but it was all sorted out by rhys who stuck to him like glue. he either trailed behind him like a scary dog or stood beside him when having idle chats with other people.

they started eating at the table together, as y/n's father demanded one day during one of his visits and berated his son for not asking rhys any sooner. the latter has become less alert when they were in a room alone together, not like before where he would pace at times. now he sat reading or sketching, occasionally focusing as if listening or looking for something.

it was the first time rhys saw y/n in casual wear. jeans, shirt, and a jacket. his father had told him to go have fun for one day, then he could go back to working until the day he dies. so there they were, at an amusement park.

a sparkle of childish curiosity passed through y/n's mind as his eyes went from one ride to another. its been a decade since the last time he had fun. the thought twisted at his heart. where everyone enjoyed normality, he couldn't. fun time was a luxury for him when he was around ten to fifteen. he had to work hard for it, but it was only brief. how he wished to experience it all.

"is it your first time in an amusement park?" rhys stood beside him, still in all black, though his outfit was a bit more laidback. he stood tall, oozing with a sense of responsibility. he received a mute nod.

the longer y/n looked around, the more he felt overwhelmed. his lips quivered as he swallowed hard. sadness embraced him. the heaviness of the situation weighed on him. all those stolen childhood days could've been spent being reckless and facing the consequences later, having fun, making friends, and exploring life. "i never thought i'd see a rollercoaster in real life."

rhys followed y/n around. those books that laid around the house held utmost significance. they were worlds that he could imagine himself in, leaving the reality that was set in stone by his mother. universes where he could be the main character of the story, even if it's just for a little while. he felt the sliver of happiness his mother depraved him of.

they walked around the park buying souvenirs and trying out food. they went on the dropper and dropper. y/n looked at the cars of the ferris wheel and refused to get on even when rhys mentioned that the view was nice at the very top. for their last stop, they decided on the haunted mansion. it was the main attraction.

as they entered the mansion, they were covered in darkness. there were dim lights that led the way. there were many twists and at one of the turns, rhys and y/n got separated. the latter looked around in wonder, a burst of excitement guiding him through the maze of halls. the cold hearted man was hidden away in the suit of the ceo, in casual clothes he was just y/n.

just as he was about to run off somewhere, he was shoved against the wall and locked in someplace dark. he furrowed his eyebrows and took a step only to realize there was limited space. his eyes widened as he tried to move, feeling around only to find to familiar structure of two closet doors trapping him.

"hello!?" he tried to open the door only to find out it's been wedged closed by an overturned chair. he slams his palms against the wood, sweat rolling down his forehead, suddenly feeling hot. "let me out!"

his hands slid against the frame, pressing himself against the wall of the closet as if trying to make more space. he hears his pulse in his ears, eyes darting around frantically trying to find some sort of light in the blinding darkness. he feels oxygen leave his lips in pants, he's light headed. "please . . ."

he slides down the wall as the tears of the past come rushing to the present. tears slide down his cheeks as he becomes the helpless child he once was. "please . . . i'm sorry" he wheezes out, his mind flashing back to the old closet in their old estate.

cool air brushed against his sweaty forehead and he's pulled out of the closet and into a set of arms. "l/n? l/n, stay with me." rhys pats y/n's cheek, trying to wake him up from his episode. tears kept pouring as he muttered nonsense. his heart was racing too fast. "why the fuck did you lock him in a closet!?" he barked at the actors, who flinched back from the scalding tone.

"it's part of the experience. it was supposed to be for two minutes," the manager calmly de-escalated the situation.

rhys scowled, supporting y/n who was out of it. "take it out of the fucking experience." he hears the disoriented man mumble something before taking him someplace else where they could have a bit of privacy.

"thank you . . ." y/n stared blankly at the people walking by. he was sitting on a bench. he didn't know what to say. the last time he had an episode was when he tried to overcome his ptsd six years back. it didn't work, instead he had a similar experience but a tad worse.

rhys stood before him, blocking him from the nosy people who tried to peer. his arms were crossed, flexing as the irritation from earlier slowly faded. they were separated by two actors. he was forced into a pit of fake bones and when he was out he was faced with a serious situation. y/n's ptsd episode.

"it's my job."

y/n sighed, shoulders slumping. even on the one day where everything should be normal, it still turned out to be another traumatic day. the child that hid in the mansion of his mind always found his way out, replacing his current with the past. he hated how he couldn't even overcome being in a closet for five fucking minutes.

"no it's not. your job is to protect me from physical harm. but as of this moment, you eased my emotional harm. for that, i thank you," he raised his head and gave him a small smile. it felt foreign, but it felt right in the moment.

rhys' breath hitched. that damned smile that y/n gave. it was unexpected from someone who was frowning everyday. he felt that familiar tug on his heart. one he didn't want to feel, but couldn't kill. y/n looked gorgeous being showered in the golden sunset.

that smile . . . it looked good on him.

another year had gone by. a lot had changed since that day at the amusement park. almost three years, a lot of things changed.

y/n was a bit more expressive with emotions, only with rhys and his father however. he slowly started easing off his work and had rest days. despite having said days, he still could only get in, two at maximum, hours of sleep. he was eating more. rhys was there through everything. another constant in his life.

"i was thinking of a beach resort in areas where resorts aren't that popular," the chief marketing officer proposed, standing confidently in front of the board officers. y/n sat at the head of the long table reading through the hard copy of the presentation. rhys stood to his side like a hawk. since that day in the amusement park, he didn't want another shove incident, even though there weren't any closets nearby.

y/n flipped through the papers once again and sighed, "our company shouldn't only be resorts. i need a proposition that steers away from the word resort. we can't market that forever." he moved his head from side to side and sighed as he felt that satisfying pop. he's been sitting listening to propositions for an hour and a half. his ass felt numb. "everyone, let's take ten."

as people filed out the room, y/n flipped through the rest of the propositions with a groan. it was so deep and stressed, it was attractive. rhys felt his cock stir with interest as he eyed the serious ceo.

he's been having urges. that tousled hair of y/n, he just wants to run his fingers through them and tug them back. those tense shoulders, he could fuck the stress out of him by bending him over the table.

rhys shook his head and cleared his mind. during the past year, he has been curious about sexuality. normally he didn't care, however now that he's feeling something for the same sex, he's been doing some research. it started off small, from bits of information and opinions of other people in the community until he got too deep and even discovered pornographic videos.

it would be a lie if he denied watching some videos, but it was for research purposes. all his life, he had always been interested in women, but since he met y/n, he has been questioning a lot of things in life. he wants it to stop. he had to remind himself that things from the past should never repeat.

as rhys had an inner conflict, y/n had his own as well. he tried to distract himself from the masculine presence behind him, acting as if he was going through the papers. it was half true, he was trying to ignore the glimpses of moments that flashed through his mind of these past two months where he relieved himself at the thought of his own bodyguard. he felt a bit shameful, but it felt so wrong and right at the same time. rhys had been uncovering a past he tried to keep buried. however, it resurfaced every time he saw him.

"you know . . . the reason my . . . mother locked me in the closet . . ." it was a random blurt out, but it was on his mind. rhys showed a sign he was listening. "i danced as a hobby. she didn't like it. she claims its girly. i'm also . . ." y/n trailed off with a thoughtful hum. "i've never really said this to anyone but my mother. i'm also into men." no matter how long its been.

rhys felt his stomach flip. he stared ahead of him, feeling a bit of relief. "good to know."

those three words made y/n's heart flutter. he hid the heat appearing on his cheeks, thankful that his back is turned to the bodyguard that tested and pushed him. but he had to ask, even though deep down he knew the answer, "what does that mean?"

"you have work to do."

three months passed, which makes three years. in those months, y/n came out to his father, who responded with an i suspected that. being the ceo, he was expected to negotiate. he did, though during those meetings, he couldn't avoid proposals like arranged marriage or marriage to merge companies. before he could answer, rhys was already there making his presence known, a frown on his face, scaring away other ceos. it got to the point where y/n only made phone calls for such meet-ups.

to rhys, its been hectic. to resist y/n's bold advances such as sliding a hand against his bicep, sometimes his chest. looking up at him through those lashes with big innocent eyes, even though they're far from it. that cute smile from the amusement park that seemed to be only reserved for him alone. and those sounds he lets out when he's stressed or working.

y/n was driving him insane. forget the contract, they can make a new one where he'd fuck the ceo into submission anytime and anywhere he wanted as long as he stayed his.

rhys knew y/n wanted him. he could tell from his actions and his words with underlying meanings. it was killing him to keep his hands to himself. if he could only reach out, wrap a hand around y/n's neck and kiss him like there's no tomorrow . . .

it was one in the morning, they had just gotten home. in the car, y/n proposed to play a game. two truths and one dare, in which they took turns. as they stepped into the warmth of the mansion, y/n came up with a question for rhys' chosen truth. in all honestly, he just wanted to entertain his client (hopefully to tire him out) so he could turn in for the night before he took him right there on the front door.

"what are your kinks?"

as the game progressed in the car, the questions got more inappropriate, definitely borderline breaching their contract.

"hair pulling . . . bondage you could say . . ." he listed off other kinks, fixing his shoes beside y/n's before entering after him. he could feel himself harden the more the other spoke to him about something sexual, as if interviewing him before having him fuck him senseless.

until that question made his heart stop. "would you kiss me?"

rhys slowly turns to y/n, who was looking at him with mild interest with a mix of arousal. he could feel it from the three feet distance between them. the way y/n's eyes traced his lips, dipping below his chin, and stopping at the bulge straining against the black pants.

y/n was sporting the same in his pants. after he admitted to liking men, it was never the same since then. it would never be the same. not when his heart tugs and flutters because of the man standing in front of him. not when his heart fell hard when he found him in the closet in that haunted house. not when they'd had all these one on one talks. through all he stayed.

"yes. would you like me to kiss you?" rhys returned the question as they neared each other, one foot apart. maybe his feelings started growing the moment the silence turned into small and slow conversations. or that time y/n acknowledged what he truly felt when he left bridget. maybe because they shared some similarities. or is it because y/n relied on him to take away the pain of loneliness of only thinking of the future, not allowing himself to heal from the past and appreciate the present.

"yes."

(⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧ rhys' pov

with that, i dove down and molded my lips against his. i guided his head, tilting my heard, pushing against him. his pants echoed in my ears, trapping him against the nearest wall, taking his breath away. when he tried to pull away, i chased his lips, claiming them once more.

when i pulled away, he looked awestruck. i kiss him hard. i press our clothes cocks together and i feel him hump against me, my hands caress down his body and kneads on his cheeks. grunts pour into my mouth as our tongues fight for dominance.

his legs hook around my hips and i carry him upstairs into the bedroom i claimed. i drop him onto the bed. "clothes off." i turn to grab lube and condoms in the drawers. when i turn around, my breath is almost caught in my throat.

the curves and groves of his body, the fullness of his skin, and the way it's begging for attention, makes me want to drop everything and just fuck him raw. i am well aware this is my second breach of contract. i had no reason to do this. this would be another hook-up and-

"breach of contract or not. resigning or not. once you fuck me and i like you, i'm yours and you're mine. i swear to fucking god, we're not arguing about it. we'll fuck it out too."

that was enough for me to push him against the mattress. i'm not asking him how he knew what i was thinking because most of the time it's like he could read my mind. but he did say, i wear my thoughts on my face. maybe it was something only he could do.

my thoughts never once wavered even as i scissored my fingers into y/n's hold, my eyes watching every contort of his face, every redness of his skin. the noise that fell like waterfalls from his swollen lips as i pressed against the bundle of nerves while he desperately pushes against my hand. i groan under my breath. it took a lot of self control to not just fuck him stupid and take away his walking ability.

everything in my mind felt silent as i admired the man under me, taking me inch by inch after throwing the condom on the other side of the room claiming to want to feel me fully and be filled with cum. that almost made me lose grip.

as i bottomed out, i almost immediately rutted my hips. it was so hot and i'm being squeezed tight but just right. i almost exploded right then and there. i felt him tighten his legs around my hips, uttering for me to go.

slowly i pulled out and pushed back in with a low groan. it felt good. so good. i started to pick up pace, slamming balls deep eliciting beautiful moans and whimpers that tickled my ears like a melody.

my hand found its place around his neck, pushing him back into the soft cushions. i apply light pressure and he cries out in pleasure.

"you're ge- hah~ getting b-bigger~ hng!~"

i felt his hands rub up and down against the scars on my back before they wounded around my neck, pulling me close. my nose traced his carotid as i planted kisses and nipped at his skin, my thrusts growing harsher and erratic.

i bit hard on his shoulder with a grunt as i felt him clamp around me, making me cum, shooting thick ropes of cum inside him. i felt spurts of warmth between us as y/n flinches and convulses from his high. he breathes heavily, a dopey smile on his face. i press a brief kiss on his lips and pull out. he groans and drapes an arm over his eyes.

"i mean what i said, whether you're my bodyguard or not. i like you and you're mine and i'm yours."

hearing that made my heart feel good. if there was a god out there, thank you lord for giving me a second chance. i laid beside him on my back. we both stare at the ceiling. under all that cold hard shell, he was very different. he warm warm and mellow. i was cold and barren. yet he thawed all that.

"can you i be your boyfriend?" y/n asked, interlacing our fingers together. it's been a long while since i've last been in a relationship. people say it's too late to try at my age. but it doesn't hurt to want and need. i crack a rare smile.

"whatever you want buttercup."

#shun-ie #male reader #fanfic #amab reader #male reader smut #twisted series #twisted games #rhys larsen #mlm #bottom male reader

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wisteria-lodge · 8 months ago

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Manipulative/Morally Grey Dumbledore? An In-Depth Canon Analysis

So when I look at Harry Potter, my goal is to separate what I think the books are intending to say, from what they actually say, from what the movies say… and what the common fan interpretation is. So today I’m interested in Dumbledore, and specifically in the common headcanon of Manipulative/Morally Gray Dumbledore. Is that (intentionally or unintentionally) supported by the text?

PART I: Omniscient Dumbledore

“I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here”

In Book 1, yes Dumbledore honestly does seem to know everything. He 100% arranged for Harry to find the Mirror of Erised, publicly left Hogwarts in order to nudge Quirrell into going after the Stone, and knew what Quirrell was doing the whole time. It is absolutely not a stretch, and kind of heavily implied, that the reason the Stone’s protections feel like a little-end-of-the-year exam designed to put Harry through his paces… is because they are. As the series goes on this interpretation only gets more plausible, when we see the kind of protections people can put up when they don’t want anyone getting through.

Book 1 Dumbledore knows everything… but what he’s actually going to do about it is anyone’s guess. One of the first things we learn is that some of Dumbledore’s calls can be… questionable. McGonagall questions his choice to leave Harry with the Dursleys, Hermione questions his choice to give Harry the Cloak and let him go after the Stone, Percy and Ron both matter-of-factly call him “mad.” The “nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak” speech is a joke where Dumbledore says he’s going to say a few words, then literally does say a few (weird) words. I know there are theories that those particular words are supposed to be insulting the four houses, or referencing the Hogwarts house stereotypes, or that they’re some kind of warning. But within the text, this is pure Lewis Carroll British Nonsense Verse stuff (and people came up with answers to the impossible Alice in Wonderland “why is a raven like a writing desk” riddle too.)

This characterization also explains a lot of Dumbledore’s decisions about how to run a school, locked in during Book 1. Presumably Binns, Peeves, Filch, Snape are all there because Dumbledore finds them funny, atmospheric, and/or character building. He's just kind of a weird guy. He absolutely knew that Lockhart was a fraud in Book 2 (with that whole “Impaled upon your own sword, Gilderoy?” thing after Lockhart oblivates himself. ) So maybe he is also there to be funny/atmospheric/character building, or to teach Harry a lesson about fame, or because Dumbledore is using the cursed position to bump off people he doesn’t like. Who knows.

(I actually don’t think JKR had locked in “the DADA position is literally cursed by Voldemort” until Book 6. )

Dumbledore absolutely knows that Harry is listening in when Lucius Malfoy comes to take Hagrid to Azkaban, and it’s fun to speculate that maybe he let himself get fired in Book 2 as part of a larger plan to boot Lucius off the Board of Governors. So far, that’s the sort of thing he’d do. But in Books 3 and 4, we are confronted with a number of important things that Dumbledore just missed. He doesn’t know any of the Marauders were animagi, he doesn’t know what really happened with the Potter’s Secret Keeper, doesn’t know Moody is Crouch, and doesn’t know the Marauders Map even exists. But in Books 5 and 6, his omniscience does seem to come back online. (In a flashback, Voldemort even comments that he is "omniscient as ever” when Dumbledore lists the specific Death Eaters he has in Hogsmeade as backup.) Dumbledore knows exactly what Draco and Voldemort are planning, and his word is taken as objective truth by the entire Order of the Phoenix - who apparently only tolerate Snape because Dumbledore vouches for him:

“Snape,” repeated McGonagall faintly, falling into the chair. “We all wondered . . . but he trusted . . . always . . . Snape . . . I can’t believe it. . . .” “Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens,” said Lupin, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. “We always knew that.” “But Dumbledore swore he was on our side!” whispered Tonks. “I always thought Dumbledore must know something about Snape that we didn’t. . . .” “He always hinted that he had an ironclad reason for trusting Snape,” muttered Professor McGonagall (...) “Wouldn’t hear a word against him!”

McGonagall questions Dumbledore about the Dursleys, but not about Snape. I see this as part of the larger trend of basically Dumbledore’s deification. In the beginning of the series, he’s treated as a clever, weird dude. By the end, he’s treated like a god.

PART II: Chessmaster Dumbledore

“I prefer not to keep all my secrets in one basket.”

When Dumbledore solves problems, he likes to go very hands-off. He didn’t directly teach Harry about the Mirror of Erised - he gave him the Cloak, knew he would wander, and moved the Mirror so it would be in his path. He sends Snape to deal with Quirrell and Draco, rather than do it himself. He (or his portrait) tells Snape to confund Mundungus Fletcher and get him to suggest the Seven Potters strategy. He puts Mrs. Figg in place to watch Harry, then ups the protection in Book 5 - all without informing Harry. The situation with Slughorn is kind of a Dumbledore-manipulation master class - even the way he deliberately disappears into the bathroom so Harry will have enough solo time to charm Slughorn. Of course he only wants Slughorn under his roof in the first place to pick his brain about Voldemort… but again, instead of doing that himself, he gets Harry to do it for him.

Dumbledore has a moment during Harry’s hearing in Book 5 (which he fakes evidence for) where he informs Fudge that Harry is not under the Ministry’s jurisdiction while at Hogwarts. Which has insane implications. It’s never explicitly stated, but as the story goes on, it at least makes sense that Dumbledore is deliberately obscuring how powerful he is, and how much influence he really has, by getting other people to do things for him. But the problem with that is because he is so powerful, it become really easy for a reader to look back after they get more information and say… well if Dumbledore was controlling the situation… why couldn’t he have done XYZ. Here are two easy examples from Harry’s time spent with the Dursleys:

1. Mrs. Figg is watching over Harry from day one, but she can’t tell him she’s a squib and also she has to keep him miserable on purpose:

“Dumbledore’s orders. I was to keep an eye on you but not say anything, you were too young. I’m sorry I gave you such a miserable time, but the Dursleys would never have let you come if they’d thought you enjoyed it. It wasn’t easy, you know…”

It’s pretty intense to think of Dumbledore saying “oh yes, invite this little child over and keep him unhappy on purpose.” But okay. It’s important to keep Harry ignorant of the magical world and vice versa. fine. But once he goes to Hogwarts… that doesn’t apply anymore? I’m sure when Harry thinks he’s going to be imprisoned permanently in his bedroom during Book 2, it would’ve been comforting to know that Dumbledore was sending around someone to check on him. And when he literally runs away from home in Book 3… having the address of a trusted adult that he could easily get to would have been great for everybody.

2. When Vernon is about to actually kick Harry out during Book 5, Dumbledore sends a howler which intimidates Petunia into insisting that Harry has to stay. Vernon folds and does exactly what she says. If Dumbledore could intimidate Petunia into doing this, then why couldn’t he intimidate her into, say - giving Harry the second bedroom instead of a cupboard. Or fixing Harry’s glasses. In Book 1, the Dursleys don’t bother Harry during the entire month of August because Hagrid gives Dudley a pig’s tail. In the summer between third and fourth year, the Dursleys back off because Harry is in correspondence with Sirius (a person they fear.) But the Dursleys are afraid of all wizards. Like at this point it doesn’t seem that hard to intimidate them into acting decently to Harry.

PART III: Dumbledore and the Dursleys

“Not a pampered little prince”

JKR wanted two contradictory things. She wanted Dumbledore to be a fundamentally good guy: a wise, if eccentric mentor figure. But she also wanted Harry to have a comedically horrible childhood being locked in a cupboard, denied food, given broken glasses and ill fitting/embarrassing clothes, and generally made into a little Cinderella. Then, it’s a bigger contrast when he goes to Hogwarts and expulsion can be used as an easy threat. (Although the only person we ever see expelled is Hagrid, and that was for murder.)

So, there are a couple of tricks she uses to make it okay that Dumbledore left Harry at the Dursleys.’ The first is that once Harry leaves… nothing that happens there is given emotional weight. When he’s in the Wizarding World, he barely talks about Dursleys, barely thinks about them. They almost never come up in the narration (unless Harry’s worried about being expelled, or they’re sending him comedically awful presents.) They are completely cut from movies 4, 6, and 7 part 2 - and you do not notice.

The second trick… is that Dumbledore himself clearly doesn’t think that the Dursleys are that bad. During the King’s Cross vision-quest, he describes 11-year-old Harry as “alive and healthy (...) as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well.”

Now, this could have been really interesting. Like in a psychological way, I get it. Dumbledore had a rocky home life. Dad in prison, mom spending all her time taking care of his volatile and dangerous sister. Aberforth seems to have reacted to the situation by running completely wild, it’s implied that he never even had formal schooling… and Albus doubled down on being the Golden Child, making the family look good from the outside, and finding every means possible to escape. I would have believed it if Molly or Kingsley had a beat of being horrified by the way the Dursleys are treating Harry… but Dumbledore treats it as like, whatever. Business as usual.

But that isn’t the framing that the books use. Dumbledore is correct that the Dursleys aren’t that bad, and I think it’s because JKR fundamentally does not take the Dursleys seriously as threats. I also think she has a fairly deeply held belief that suffering creates goodness, so possibly Harry suffering at the hands of the Dursleys… was necessary? To make him good? Dumbledore himself has an arc of ‘long period of suffering = increased goodness.’ So does Severus Snape, Dudley‘s experience with the Dementor kickstarts his character growth, etc. It’s a trope she likes.

It’s only in The Cursed Child that the Dursleys are given any kind of weight when it comes to Harry’s psyche. This is one of the things that makes me say Jack Thorne wrote that play, because it’s just not consistent with how JKR likes to write the Dursleys. It’s consistent with the way fanfiction likes to write the Dursleys. And look, The Cursed Child is fascinatingly bad, I have so many problems with it, but it does seem to be doing like … a dark reinterpretation of Harry Potter? And it’s interested in saying something about cycles of abuse. I can absolutely see how the way the play handles things is flattering to JKR. It retroactively frames the Dursleys’ abuse in a more negative way, and maybe that’s something she wanted after criticism that the Harry Potter books treat physical abuse kind of lightly. (i.e. Harry at the hands of the Dursleys, and house-elves at the hands of everybody. Even Molly Weasley “wallops” Fred with a broomstick.)

PART IV: Dumbledore and Harry

“The whole Potter–Dumbledore relationship. It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister”

So whenever Harry feels betrayed by Dumbledore in the books - and he absolutely does, it’s some of JKR’s best writing - it’s not because he left him with the Dursleys. It’s because Dumbledore kept secrets from him, or lied to him, or didn’t confide in him on a personal level.

“Look what he asked from me, Hermione! Risk your life, Harry! And again! And again! And don’t expect me to explain everything, just trust me blindly, trust that I know what I’m doing, trust me even though I don’t trust you! Never the whole truth! Never!” (...) I don’t know who he loved, Hermione, but it was never me. This isn’t love, the mess he’s left me in. He shared a damn sight more of what he was really thinking with Gellert Grindelwald than he ever shared with me.”

Eventually though, Harry falls in line with the rest of the Order, and treats Dumbledore as an all-knowing God. And this decision comes so close to being critiqued… but the series never quite commits. Rufus Scrimgeour comments that, “Well, it is clear to me that [Dumbledore] has done a very good job on you” - implying that Harry is a product of a deliberate manipulation, and that the way Harry feels about Dumbledore is a direct result of how he's been controlling the situation (and Harry.) But Harry responds to “[You are] Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren’t you, Potter?” with “Yeah, I am. Glad we straightened that out,” and it’s treated as a badass, mic drop line.

Ron goes on to say that Harry maybe shouldn’t be trusting Dumbledore and maybe his plan isn’t that great… but then he abandons his friends, regrets what he did, and is only able to come back because Dumbledore knew he would react this way? So that whole thing only makes Dumbledore seem more powerful? Aberforth tells Harry (correctly) that Dumbledore is expecting too much of him and he’s not interested in making sure that he survives:

“How can you be sure, Potter, that my brother wasn’t more interested in the greater good than in you? How can you be sure you aren’t dispensable (...) Why didn’t he say… ‘Take care of yourself, here’s how to survive’? (...) You’re seventeen, boy!”

But, Aberforth is treated as this Hamish Abernathy type who has given up, and needs Harry to ignite his spark again. There’s a pretty dark line in the script of Deathly Hallows Part 2:

Which at least shows this was a possible interpretation the creative team had in their heads… but then of course it isn’t actually in the movie.

So in the end, insane trust in Dumbledore is only ever treated as proper and good. Then in Cursed Child they start using “Dumbledore” as an oath instead of “Merlin” and it’s weird and I don’t like it.

PART V: Dumbledore and his Strays

“I have known, for some time now, that you are the better man.”

So Dumbledore has this weird relationship pattern. He has a handful of people he pulled out of the fire at some point and (as a result) these people are insanely loyal to him. They do his dirty work, and he completely controls them. This is an interesting pattern, because I think it helps explain why so many fans read Dumbledore’s relationship with Snape (and with Harry) as sinister.

Let’s start with the first of Dumbledore’s “strays.” Dumbledore saves Hagrid's livelihood and probably life after he is accused of opening the Chamber of Secrets - and then he uses Hagrid to disappear Harry after the Potters' death, gets him to transport the Philosopher’s Stone, and he’s the one who he trusts to be Harry’s first point of contact with the Wizarding World. Also, Hagrid's situation doesn’t change? Even after he is cleared of opening the Chamber of Secrets, he keeps using that pink flowered umbrella with his broken wand inside, a secret that he and Dumbledore seem to share. He could get a legal wand, he could continue his education. But he doesn’t seem to, and I don’t know why.

So, Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality is a well known fix-it fic that basically asks “What if Harry Potter was a machiavellian little super genius who solves the plot in a year?” I enjoyed it when it was coming out, but the only thing I would call a cheat is the way McGonagall brings Harry to Diagon Alley instead of Hagrid. Because a Harry Potter who has spent a couple of days with McGonagall is going to be much better informed, better equipped and therefore more powerful than a Harry spending the same amount of time with Hagrid. McGonagall is both a lot more knowledgeable and a lot less loyal to Dumbledore. She is loyal, obviously, but she also questions his choices in a way that Hagrid never does. And as a result, Dumbledore does not trust her with the same kind of delicate jobs he trusts to Hagrid.

Mrs. Figg is another one of Dumbledore’s strays. She’s a squib, so we can imagine that she doesn’t really have a lot of other options, and he sets her up to keep tabs on (and be unpleasant to) little Harry. He also has her lie to the entire Wizangamot, which has got to present some risk. Within this framework, Snape is another very clear stray. Dumbledore kept him out of Azkaban, and is the only reason that the Order trusts him. He gets sent on on dangerous double-agent missions… but before that he’s sort of kept on hand, even though he’s clearly miserable at Hogwarts. Firenze is definitely a stray - he can't go back to the centaurs, and who other than Dumbledore is going to hire him? And I do wonder about Trelawney. We don’t know much about her relationship with Dumbledore, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she was a stray as well.

I think there was an attempt to turn Lupin into a stray that didn’t… quite work. He is clearly grateful to Dumbledore for letting him attend Hogwarts and then for hiring him, but Lupin doesn’t really hit that necessary level of trustworthy that the others do. Most of what Dumbledore doesn’t know in Book 3 are things that Lupin could have told him, and didn’t. If had to think of a Watsonsian reason why Remus is given all these solo missions away from the other Order members (that never end up mattering…) it’s because I don’t think Dumbledore trusts him that much. Lupin doubts him too much.

“Dumbledore believed that?” said Lupin incredulously. “Dumbledore believed Snape was sorry James was dead? Snape hated James. . . .”

We also see Dumbledore start the process of making Draco into a stray by promising to protect him and his parents. And with all of that… it’s kind of easy to see how Harry fits the profile. He has a very bleak existence (which Dumbledore knows about.) He is pulled out of it by Dumbledore’s proxies. It’s not surprising that Harry develops a Hagrid-level loyalty, especially after Dumbledore saves him from Barty, from his Ministry hearing, and then from Voldemort. Harry walks to his death because Dumbledore told him too.

Just to be clear, I don’t think this pattern is deliberate. I think this is a side effect of JKR wanting to write Dumbledore as a nice guy, and specifically as a protector of the little guy. But Dumbledore doing that while also being so powerful creates a weird power dynamic, gives him a weird edit. It’s part of the reason people are happy to go one step farther and say that the Dursleys were mean to Harry… because Dumbledore actively wanted it that way. I don’t think that’s true. I think Dumbledore loves his strays and if anything, the text supports the idea that he is collecting good people, because protecting them and observing them serves some psychological function for him. Dumbledore does not believe himself to be an intrinsically good person, or trustworthy when it comes to power. So, of course someone like that would be fascinated by how powerless people operate in the world, and by people like Hagrid and Lupin and Harry, who seem so intrinsically good.

PART VI - Dumbledore and Grindelwald

“I was in love with you.”

I honestly see “17-year-old Dumbledore was enamored with Grindelwald” as a smokescreen distracting from the actual moral grayness of the guy. He wrote some edgy letters when he was a teenager, at least partly because he thought his neighbor was hot. He thought he could move Ariana, but couldn’t - which led to the chaotic three-way duel that killed her.

One thing I think J. K. Rowling does understand pretty well, and introduces into her books on purpose, is the concept of re-traumatization. Sirius in Book 5 is very obviously being re-traumatized by being in his childhood home and hearing the portrait of his mother screaming. It’s why he acts out, regresses, and does a number of unadvisable things. I think it’s also deliberate that Petunia’s unpleasant childhood is basically being re-created: her normal son next to her sister’s magical son. It's making her worse, or at the very least preventing her from getting better. We learn that Petunia has this sublimated interest in the magical world, and can even pull out vocab like “Azkaban” and “Dementor” when she needs to. She wrote Dumbledore asking to go to Hogwarts, and I could see that in a universe where Petunia didn’t have to literally raise Harry, she wouldn’t be as psychotically into normalness, cleanliness, and order as she is when we meet her in the books. After all, JKR doesn’t like to write evil mothers. She will be bend over backwards so her mothers are never really framed as bad.

And I honestly think it’s possible that J. K. Rowling was playing with the concept of re-traumatiziation when she was fleshing out Dumbledore in Book 7. We learn all this backstory, that… honestly isn’t super necessary? All I’m saying is that the three-way duel at the top of the Astronomy Tower lines up really well with the three-way duel that killed Ariana. Harry is Ariana, helpless in the middle. Draco is Aberforth, well intentioned and protective of his family - but kind of useless, and kind of a liability. Severus is Grindelwald, dark and brilliant, and one of the closest relationships Dumbledore has. If this was intentional, it was probably only for reasons of narrative symmetry… but I think it's cool in a Gus Fring of Breaking Bad sort of way, that Dumbledore (either consciously or unconsciously) has been trying to re-create this one horrible moment in his life where he felt entirely out of control. But the second time it plays out… he can give it what he sees as the correct outcome. Grindelwald kills him and everyone else lives. That is how you solve the puzzle.

If you read between the lines, Dumbledore/Grindelwald is a fascinating love story. I like the detail that after Ariana’s death, Dumbledore returns to Hogwarts because it’s a place to hide and because he doesn’t feel like he can be trusted with power. I like that he sits there, refusing promotions, refusing requests to be the new Minister of Magic, refusing to go deal with the growing Grindelwald threat until he absolutely can’t hide anymore, at which point he defeats him (somehow.) I like reading his elaborate plan to break Elder Wand’s power as both a screw-you to Grindelwald, the wand’s previous master, but also as a weirdly romantic gesture. In Albus Dumbledore’s mind, there is only Grindelwald. Voldemort can’t even begin to compare. I like the detail that Grindelwald won’t give up Dumbledore, even under torture. And, Dumbledore doesn’t put him in Azkaban. He put him in this other separate prison, which always makes it seem like he’s there under Dumbledore authority specifically. Maybe Dumbledore thinks that if he had died that day instead of Ariana…he wouldn’t have had to spend the rest of his life fighting and imprisoning the man he loves.

And then of course, Crimes of Grindelwald decided to take away Dumbledore's greatest weakness and say that no, actually he was a really good guy who never did anything wrong ever. He went all that time without fighting Grindelwald because they made a magical friendship no-fight bracelet. Dumbledore is randomly grabbing Lupin’s iconography (his fashion sense, his lesson plans, his job) in order to feel more soft and gentle than the person the books have created. Now Dumbledore knows about the Room Requirement, even though in the books it’s a plot point that he's too much of a goody-two-shoes to have ever found it himself. He loved Grindelwald (past tense.) And Secrets of Dumbledore is mostly about him being an omniscient mastermind so that a magical deer can tell him that he was a super good and worthy guy, and any doubt that he’s ever felt about himself is just objectively wrong and incorrect. Also now Aberforth has a neglected son, so he’s reframed as a bit of a hypocrite for getting on his brother’s case for not protecting Harry.

So to summarize, I think Dumbledore began the series as this very eccentric, unpredictable mentor, whose abilities took a hit in Books 3 and 4 in order to make the plot happen. He teetered on the edge of a ‘dark’ framing for like a second… but at the the end of the series he's written as basically infallible and godlike. I’ve heard people say that JKR’s increased fame was the reason she added the Rita Skeeter plot line, and I don’t think that’s true. But I do think her fame may have affected the way she wrote Dumbledore. Because Dumbledore is JKR’s comment on power, and by Book 5 she had so much power. In her head, I don’t think that Dumbledore is handing off jobs in a manipulative way. She sees him as empowering other less powerful people. That is his job as someone in power (because remember - people who desire power shouldn't wield it.)

Dumbledore’s power makes him emotionally disconnected from the people in his life, it makes him disliked and distrusted by the Ministry, but it doesn’t make him wrong. That’s important. Dumbledore is never wrong. Dumbledore is always good. That’s why we get the Blood Pact that means he was never weak or procrastinating. That’s why we get the qilin saying he was a good person. It’s why we get the tragic backstory (because giving Snape a tragic backstory worked wonders when it came to rehabilitating him.) And that is why Harry names his son Albus Severus in the epilogue, to make us readers absolutely crystal clear that these two are good men.

#hp #jkr critical #albus dumbldore #albus dumbledore meta #harry james potter #the dursleys #gellert grindelwald #albus x gellert #anti jkr #minerva mcgonagall #petunia dursley #severus snape #draco malfoy #close reading #hp fandom #literary analysis

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saintsenara · 5 months ago

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How do you think memory charms work from a brain science perspective, and what might the implications of such technology be? Given the complexities of memory—how it works, its function (e.g., in identity formation, decision making, psychological well-being, etc.)—the fact that these spells are so routinely used on Muggles who witness magic—especially under traumatic circumstances—is so sinister…

thank you very much for the ask, pal! a very interesting question to think about!

as you say, memory is the central part of human experience. it's integral to who we are, why we understand ourselves to be that way, and how we function daily. without the ability to remember things we've learned or which have happened to us in the past, we don't have the ability to understand the present or plan for the future, or apply context to why we behave in or feel certain ways. memory is so important to our understanding of our own existence that many people would say losing it is the thing they fear most...

and i think there's a very credible case for jkr being one of them.

in its understanding of the body, the harry potter series prioritises cognitive function above all things.

physical illnesses, injuries, or disabilities don't upset or frighten it unduly. this is partially because its genre conventions need to take this approach to physical impairment in order for their plots to advance - harry being able to take a bludger to the head and live to tell the tale is the same as john wick being able to fall from the top of a six-storey building, get up, and keep going: they're action heroes, and the person following their exploits wants that action to continue.

but it's also because the series' central theme is choice - and, specifically, the choice between good and evil. this choice - as the books understand it - is something freely and rationally made, with no cognitive impairment preventing it.

[hence - as i've written about elsewhere - voldemort's horcruxes do not - despite common fanon - make him insane.]

as a result, injuries, disabilities, or experiences which lead to a loss of cognitive capacity - thereby making it impossible for choices to be freely made - are presented by the text as uniquely horrifying.

the revelation that frank and alice longbottom can't recognise neville after they're attacked by the lestranges brings a "bitterness harry had never heard there before" into dumbledore's voice.

lupin is primarily ashamed of the loss of rational thought his transformations bring, and the wolfsbane potion works by preventing this loss of rationality:

"As long as I take it in the week preceding the full moon, I keep my mind when I transform... I am able to curl up in my office, a harmless wolf, and wait for the moon to wane again. "Before the Wolfsbane Potion was discovered, however, I became a fully fledged monster once a month."

harry thinks that "bathilda bagshot" [really nagini in disguise] is starting to forget how to perform magic, and equates this loss of function with the dark, dank, foul-smelling house in which she lives.

ariana dumbledore's trauma-induced cognitive disability gradually ruins her family's lives.

harry, our hero, is never, ever affected by the imperius curse.

and, of course, the dementor's kiss - which canon understands as the single most frightening thing which could ever befall somebody - brings about a state where bodily functions continue, but cognitive ones are lost:

"You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you'll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no... anything. There's no chance at all of recovery. You'll just - exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever... lost."

as a result of this, canon presents memories as things which are straightforward and factual. while they may be interpreted subjectively - harry's horror at snape's worst memory, for example - they are - in and of themselves - objective accounts of events. the memories which harry views in the pensieve, for example, are not "witness statements" - subjective, personal accounts of how an individual experienced an event, which might be contradicted by another person's own subjective recollection - they are fact. what they say happened actually happened. sirius' version of snape's worst memory would be identical to snape's.

and canon understands that memories are - therefore - devoid of things like perception, assumption, imagination, habit, and emotion. indeed, these things are not only irrelevant to the memory... they are detrimental to it.

slughorn's attempt to modify his memory of telling tom riddle about horcruxes is because he wishes to soothe an emotion - shame, at giving riddle the information he needed to commit such evil and then not telling anyone - by presenting an imagined version of events in which he looks better. his attempt to apply these two things to the memory are what curdles it. what dumbledore is asking harry to do, in sending him out to retrieve the unmodified memory from slughorn, is to acquire the objective facts:

"He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better light, obliterating those parts which he does not wish me to see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done, and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true memory is still there beneath the alterations."

in saying that slughorn's "true memory" remains accessible, what dumbledore is saying is that slughorn should be judged as having full cognitive capacity. he's compos mentis, he's of sound mind. if the true memory did not remain - if slughorn had managed to corrupt his memory to such an extent that he genuinely believed that his conversation with riddle had never occurred [rather than knowing it did but wishing he'd behaved differently and therefore pretending he had] - then he would, in the eyes of the series, be insane.

now... this - unsurprisingly - is not how human memory actually works. memory is fragile, inconsistent, and subjective. we forget things. we misremember things. we remember things through subjective lenses. we invent false memories.

but we can - nonetheless - use what we know about human memory to uncover a wizarding theory of memory formation which would explain why they think this way.

and why they feel so comfortable tampering with people's memories.

[and why this is horrifying.]

what are memories?

in canon, memories are presented as something tangible - wisps of silvery liquid. and memories actually are physical things - albeit absolutely microscopic ones - which take up physical space in the brain. they're just kept out of the way of our conscious awareness until we need them.

[basically, they're christmas lights in a box in the attic. they physically exist and they're physically present in the house, but they sit - turned off and with no attention being paid to them - until they're needed, when they're brought out of storage and switched on.]

they are made - like almost everything to do with the brain - from neurons, which are a type of cell. neurons work like the wires in a telephone exchange - they transmit chemical and electrical signals across the brain [and, therefore, across the body] in a vast, high-speed, interwoven network:

a digital model of the neural network from a sesame-seed-sized fragment of human brain. there are about 50,000 connections shown. [source]

a neuron receives a signal, which it then interprets. it then sends a response [or action potential] along its stem [axon].

at the end of the axon, there are synapses, which form a bridge to other neurons, linking a chain of communication together.

synapses are generally activated by chemicals called neurotransmitters - such as serotonin, melatonin, adrenaline, dopamine [which are likely to be the ones most people have heard of], and others.

so: neuron x receives a signal, interprets it, and transmits that interpretation as an electrical signal along its axon, causing the release of adrenaline into the synapse linking it to neuron y. this activates the connection between neurons x and y. the signal passes across the synapse into neuron y, which interprets it, and the process continues.

each neuron has thousands of synaptic connections to other neurons. and these connections aren't static - they get stronger or weaker depending on exposure. the more we use the connection, the stronger the connection is.

one way to think of this is to imagine the synaptic connection as a volume dial, which controls how loudly two neurons "talk" to each other. if the connection between neuron x and neuron y is very strong, the synaptic connection allows them to shout at each other, thereby understanding each other clearly. if the connection between neuron x and neuron y is very weak, they're only whispering to each other, are having to strain to hear each other, and will probably only partially hear the communicated information.

the brain will therefore prioritise the information it can "hear" the clearest. this is why, if you learn two pieces of information, and then revise the first piece of information every day for a month and do no revision of the second piece, you will find it much easier to recall the first piece when asked - the brain prioritises the "loudest" voice.

when we learn or experience something we create synaptic connections, linking neurons into circuits in an ever-changing map across the brain.

these circuits are memories.

remembering something is the process of activating a specific neuron cluster, thereby retrieving the information it contains and communicating it as an electrical signal to another part of the brain.

this process of remembering can be unconscious - a smell might prompt us to remember something without us actively intending to; when we write something, we're not consciously thinking about how we learned to write, we just do it - or conscious - we might sniff a particular perfume bottle in order to summon up a specific memory; we might intentionally decide to remember a day we spent writing in a particular place.

what are the different types of memory?

there are two main categories of memory - short-term and long-term.

short-term memory is the brain's capacity to actively hold onto a small amount of information [about four things, on average] for a brief period of time [and by brief we mean around 15 seconds - any memory which can be recalled after that period of time is a long-term one] in order to allow you to do things, like take down a telephone number.

long-term memory, in contrast, is something the brain possesses an infinite capacity for. it can be divided into two subcategories.

the first of these is implicit memory. this refers to recollections which are unconscious, habitual, primed, or conditioned. learned motor skills - things like holding a pen or riding a bike - which you can do without having to think about how [procedural memories] are an example of implicit memories. so are things we are conditioned to do via the association of an action with a stimulus - like pavlov's dogs salivating when they heard the ringing of the bell - and things we are primed to do by general knowledge or contextual experience - like being shown the word "bread" in a word association game and responding "butter" without having to actively think about why that connection exists for us.

the second is explicit memory, which refers to the conscious recollection of a specific thing. explicit memory has two subcategories: episodic memory - the recollection of events or experiences - and semantic memory - the recollection of knowledge or information.

i know that belfast is the capital of northern ireland and paris is the capital of france. these are semantic memories.

i know i went to a restaurant in belfast with my partner last week and that i went to watch the french open in paris with my friend this spring. these are episodic ones.

episodic memory is highly dependent on context and association - you can remember where you parked your car by thinking about the shop you parked next to - some of which is semantic memory in its own right - you can tell that your friend has misremembered a story they're telling about your teenage years because you know you were sixteen when the event took place, your friend is talking about driving, and you possess the semantic knowledge that the legal driving age in the united kingdom is seventeen.

explicit memory is the aspect of memory most clearly affected by conditions like alzheimer's disease, while implicit memories tend to be recalled for much longer.

explicit memory is also the thing most clearly affected in canon by memory charms...

how are explicit memories formed?

at its most basic level, the brain is divided into three parts - the cerebrum, brainstem, and cerebellum. the cerebrum is the thing we’re concerned with today.

its main part - comprising about half of the brain’s weight - is the cortex, which is the wrinkly surface you probably picture when you hear the word “brain”. the cerebral cortex is divided into two hemispheres. each hemisphere has four lobes [so you have eight lobes in total] which relate to specific functions.

[here's a video of a dissection of a real human brain - if you fancy it - which goes into its anatomy in more detail]

nestled in each hemisphere of the cerebrum are several deeper structures.

in the temporal lobe, we find two of these structures - the hippocampus and the amygdala - which are crucial to memory formation. we have one of these in each hemisphere [so two hippocampi and two amygdalae in total] as part of our limbic system - a group of brain structures that regulate things like our sense of smell, emotions, memories, and autonomic behaviours [heart rate, breathing, sweating, etc.].

[here's a dissection of the limbic system, again - fair warning! - using a real human brain]

the hippocampus

when our brain decides it wants to hold onto a piece of information, it's channelled from the prefrontal cortex [in the frontal lobe], which controls short-term memory functions, to the hippocampus, which is then responsible for linking all of the relevant context surrounding the information together - like it's making a patchwork quilt.

let's go back to the example of being asked to take down a phone number. and let's imagine that the person who asks us to take down the phone number is also our fandom-style soulmate. several pieces of information will be created in the brain at once - the memory of being asked to take down the number, the memory of physically doing that, the sensory input of what our soulmate looks, sounds, and smells like, other sensory inputs [what the broader environment looks, sounds, and smells like; the fact we're drinking a coffee; the fact we're wearing a scratchy jumper], the emotion of knowing we've met our soulmate - which are then sewn together by the hippocampus into a coherent, linear account of what occurred.

the hippocampus is selective - it's more likely, even in an episodic memory as emotionally powerful as this one would be, to hold onto information which is comprehensible to it [so, for example, if a song is playing when you meet your soulmate, but its lyrics are in a language you don't understand, it's less likely to retain that as a key part of its account than if it's a song you understand and, especially, a song you already know and like].

it's also inventive - it will fill in gaps in the recollection of an episode. these inventions are often logical and based on both your semantic knowledge and parts of your implicit memory. for example, in the memory of being a child and going to hospital to meet your new baby brother, he is likely to be wearing a blue hat. it is highly unlikely that you actually remember the colour of the hat he was wearing - especially if you were quite young - but your brain settles on blue to fill that gap in your recollection because it knows you were raised in a culture which associates the colour blue with baby boys.

but they're also subjective. you may, for example, have more than one memory of the same event - with each memory's patchwork quilt having a slightly different pattern. to go back to the memory of meeting your soulmate, you might have one version of the memory which was stored by your brain on the day you first met, in which the thing you primarily remember is how nervous and awkward you were and how you were worried your soulmate didn't actually like you. you might then have a second version of the memory which is altered by contextual information you learned after the first version was created - after your soulmate asks you to marry them, for example, you are less likely to dwell on the parts of the first memory which are about worrying they didn't like you.

while the hippocampus is integral for the formation of long-term explicit and implicit memories, it's not the place where these long-term memories are permanently stored. instead, long-term memories appear to migrate [or awaken] from the hippocampus throughout the cerebral cortex, and to become progressively more independent of it over time. when it comes to explicit memories, the older, stronger, or deeper a memory is the more likely its independence from the hippocampus will be.

we know this because of a man called henry molaison, who had most of his hippocampus surgically removed in the 1950s in an effort to treat his epilepsy. following his operation, molaison was only able to form new episodic memories which lasted for less than a minute before they vanished forever from his consciousness, and essentially lived every single day as brand new, with no context surrounding it. the exception to this rule was that he could recall memories relating to significant experiences in his life which he'd formed years - and often decades - before his surgery. he could also recall certain facts - semantic memories - which he'd already known, but he couldn't form new semantic knowledge.

semantic memory also appears to become progressively independent of the hippocampus over time, much like implicit memories we have acquired through conditioning or priming. for example, the memory of the first time we drank a coffee while tired transforms into the general knowledge that drinking coffee generally helps us with tiredness, bolstered by the semantic knowledge that caffeine is a stimulant.

the amygdala

in the analogy of memory formation as being like creating a patchwork quilt, the amygdala is responsible for one of the most important squares the hippocampus sews together: the emotional significance of the memory.

this is one of the most important bits of context which the hippocampus applies to its account of a memory. the more emotive a memory is, the more likely it is to be remembered.

and this isn't just the case when it comes to specific episodic memories - such as remembering your wedding day, or the time you were in a car accident. it applies to semantic memory - if i tell you that paris is the capital of france and then punch you in the face, you'll remember it - and to implicit conditioned and primed memories.

imagine you are three years old, you're in the park, and you meet a dog. the dog is on a lead, calm, quiet, and well trained. you are asked if you'd like to pet it and you say yes. the dog is happy to be petted - it wags its tail and it licks your hand - and you enjoy the experience and start laughing.

the hippocampus takes care of the "bullet points" of this event - the actions and the order in which they occurred, where they took place, and so on. the amygdala assigns an emotional response to the specific episodic memory - that is, when you recall it later, you will feel happy - and to the implicit memory you have accrued from the experience - that is, the next time you see a dog, even if it's not the dog you petted, your brain will be automatically primed to feel calm, safe, and happy.

and now imagine you are three years old, you're in the park, and you meet a dog. the dog is loose, agitated, barking, and much bigger than you. it bounds up to you while you're playing and knocks you to the ground. it growls and you see its teeth. you're afraid and start crying.

the same process occurs, but with a fear response. the hippocampus remembers what happened and in what order, the amygdala remembers how the specific memory made you feel and extrapolates from this to assign that feeling to your implicit memory. the next time you see a dog, even if the dog is on a lead and behaving perfectly calmly, your brain will be automatically primed to feel afraid.

and this reference to fear is important. as i've said, the brain prioritises remembering emotional memories… but it prioritises remembering stressful and/or frightening emotional memories above all other kinds. and it also tends to really cling on to things we have acquired by fear learning - the process by which we unconsciously associate a stimulus with a frightening event.

to return to the scenario above, if you met the nice dog first and then met the frightening dog later, your brain would prioritise the memory of the frightening dog. if you met the frightening dog first and then met the nice dog later, your brain would still prioritise the memory of the frightening dog. and even if you lose the ability to recall the specific episodic memory of meeting the specific frightening dog, your brain would still remember that it was afraid of dogs in general.

the amygdala plays a major role in this fear learning and fear-based recall. and it does this via channels of communication which don't need to involve the hippocampus - it communicates bi-directionally with the cerebral cortex, both with and without the hippocampus also being part of the conversation.

and this has an enormous implication for our wizarding theory of memory.

and so - at last - we come to...

the neuroscience of memory charms

we know from canon that memory charms focus on the removal of explicit memories - and, specifically, the explicit episodic memories which the series understands as objective snapshots of events.

we also know that short-term memory and implicit memory can experience collateral damage when the explicit memory is removed - especially if the charm is performed poorly. we learn in order of the phoenix, for example, that gilderoy lockhart lost the ability to write [an implicit procedural memory] after his charm backfired, and has had to undergo something akin to physical therapy [the way someone who'd received a head injury would] in order to regain this motor skill:

"I'm very well indeed, thank you!" said Lockhart exuberantly, pulling a rather battered peacock-feather quill from his pocket. "Now, how many autographs would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!"

we also know that the recovery of an implicit behaviour - his fondness for signing autographs, a response based in an unconscious assumption he makes whenever he meets anyone [that they're a fan] - is taken by his healers as a sign that his self-perception is stabilising:

"He was rather well known a few years ago; we very much hope that this liking for giving autographs is a sign that his memory might be coming back a little bit... This is our long-term resident ward... For permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of luck, we can produce some improvement... Gilderoy does seem to be getting back some sense of himself."

crucially, we see here no expectation that any specific memories - episodic memories, canon's factual accounts which prove someone to be of sound mind - will return. what the healer means by "his memory might be coming back a little bit" is something general. a memory charm - as the text understands it - affects something discrete.

but lockhart also shows us that the specific episodic memory impacted by a charm isn't deleted from the brain. it remains in storage - and, therefore, retains the potential to be reactivated.

and he also shows us that this potential reactivation is very likely to depend on an emotional stimulus, especially a negative one:

The smile faded slowly from Lockhart’s face. For a few moments he gazed intently at Harry, then he said, "Haven't we met?" "Er... yeah, we have," said Harry. "You used to teach us at Hogwarts, remember?" "Teach?" repeated Lockhart, looking faintly unsettled. "Me? Did I?" And then the smile reappeared upon his face so suddenly it was rather alarming. "Taught you everything you know, I expect, did I? Well, how about those autographs, then? Shall we say a round dozen, you can give them to all your little friends then and nobody will be left out!"

lockhart clearly associates a stimulus - something to do with harry - with a fear response [probably from being frogmarched at wandpoint and forced to jump into a hole]. this emotional context calls out to an episodic memory it has been severed from, but can't get there and falls silent again, drowned out by the louder activity of the implicit memory, telling lockhart to talk about autographs because these are fans.

so lockhart hasn't lost this specific episodic memory - he just can't access it. from this, we can conclude that memory charms block communication across synaptic connections, thereby preventing a memory from being retrieved.

and we can also conclude that - since wizards regard episodic memories as objective, factual accounts of events, which are unaffected by things like perception, assumption, imagination, habit, and emotion - they only understand the formation of these memories as they happen in the hippocampus. and, specifically, that they understand memory formation only as the hippocampus ordering events into a coherent, linear account - which they regard as objectively correct. we can further conclude that they do not understand anything other than this ordering of events as forming part of the episodic memory process, and, therefore, that they do not understand memory charms as needing to affect anything other than these "factual" snapshots.

which means that a memory charm will block the retrieval of the "bullet points" of an episodic memory from the hippocampus - and, therefore, someone whose memory has been modified won't remember the specific order of events surrounding the memory.

but it won't block the other bits of information - other patches of the quilt of the memory - from being retrieved. it will just remove them from their context.

and - right on the canon page - we learn that this failure to remove anything other than the bullet points, even in memory charms which are accurately and skilfully performed, makes the experience of having a modified memory profoundly disorienting to the person affected.

we see this - for example - in the case of morfin gaunt:

"So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him, to use Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, giving details only the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over his wand, which was proved at once to have been used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight. All that disturbed him was the fact that his father's ring had disappeared. 'He'll kill me for losing it,' he told his captors over and over again. 'He'll kill me for losing his ring.' And that, apparently, was all he ever said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo's last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor souls who have expired within its walls."

morfin's verbal tic is a manifestation of a emotional response which now lacks any other context - the fear caused by his nephew visiting him, on the day the riddles were murdered, and incapacitating him [in a way which would allow him to steal his wand] just before the crime took place. in repeating it, what he's saying is "i know i didn't do this, even though i confessed, but i can't explain how i know this, and i am afraid".

and we know that dumbledore is able to use this emotional clue as the end of a line of string, which he can then follow back across deactivated synaptic connections to the suppressed [and, in canon's view, objective] episodic memory of tom riddle meeting his uncle:

"But he had this real memory in him all the time!" "Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax it out of him," said Dumbledore, "and why should anybody delve further into Morfin's mind when he had already confessed to the crime? However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting to discover as much as I could about Voldemort's past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure Morfin's release from Azkaban. Before the Ministry reached their decision, however, Morfin had died."

we see something similar in voldemort's treatment of bertha jorkins:

"But Wormtail - displaying a presence of mind I would never have expected from him - convinced Bertha Jorkins to accompany him on a nighttime stroll. He overpowered her... he brought her to me. And Bertha Jorkins, who might have ruined all, proved instead to be a gift beyond my wildest dreams... for - with a little persuasion - she became a veritable mine of information. "She told me that the Triwizard Tournament would be played at Hogwarts this year. She told me that she knew of a faithful Death Eater who would be only too willing to help me, if I could only contact him. She told me many things... but the means I used to break the Memory Charm upon her were powerful, and when I had extracted all useful information from her, her mind and body were both damaged beyond repair. She had now served her purpose. I could not possess her. I disposed of her."

something we are told about bertha jorkins across goblet of fire - including by both sirius and dumbledore, characters the doylist narrative of this book trusts to be telling the truth - is that she loved gossip. and this - feeling intrigued in, scandalised by, and excited by a piece of information - is an emotional response.

voldemort - like dumbledore - seizes on this emotional component as the end of a line of string. bertha provides him with a piece of semantic information - the triwizard tournament is to be played - which makes her think of piece of general information - she knows barty crouch sr., who is organising it - which causes an emotional response which places the string in his hand - barty crouch sr. = scandal. voldemort then follows that string across deactivated synaptic connections to the suppressed [and, in canon's view, objective] episodic memory of bertha discovering that barty crouch jr. [about whom she possessed various contextual information, such as the fact that he was found guilty of being a death eater] was alive.

ergo, memory charms block the point-by-point recollection of specific episodic memories, unless someone is determined either to do a lot of careful forensic work or to commit murder.

but they do nothing to block the additional context - above all, the emotional context - which is so important to memory formation and recollection. and this is what makes the casual use of them - especially the casual use of them on muggles - so terrifying. because their efficacy is dramatically reduced in circumstances where a memory has an emotional context.

and witnessing someone performing actual magic would undoubtedly inspire quite a strong emotional response...

the circumstances in which they work well will be those like tom riddle sr.'s run-in with morfin. the ministry response to the incident is speedy, which means the memory hasn't been consolidated for long-term storage beyond the hippocampus. the incident seems to be the first time riddle ever interacts with morfin - meaning that he doesn't retain a conditioned implicit response that morfin is frightening or dangerous. riddle talks about the gaunts in a way that suggests he thinks they're funny and ridiculous, laughs at bob ogden as he's chased from the shack, and is happy riding along the lane where he was attacked, which shows that he didn't develop a fear response to the incident [nor, indeed, any significant emotional response at all]. preventing him from recalling this memory is simple, and it has no repercussions.

[in terms of his brain health, that is. obviously, it has a major repercussion in that it removes any pre-warning he might have given himself about merope…]

but outside of this context - in which the ministry essentially gets incredibly lucky that riddle sr.'s brain reacts in the only way which actually makes them viable - memory charms are clearly nowhere near as effective as wizards seem to think.

because, when it comes to people's strongest, deepest memories, the only thing being removed is the ability to run through the summary of events - to go down a checklist of what happened, and to contextualise an emotional response [for instance] by situating it within the account of the event which triggered it. the emotions these memories provoke, and the way in which they're bound up into the knowledge which helps us understand our place in the world, remain. all that happens is that these feelings can't be situated in a point-by-point context which explains how they might have occurred.

and so, to come to the memory charm the series thinks is noble and benign... what hermione does to her parents is remove the bullet points surrounding the most important memories of their lives from their heads, leaving profound, lingering emotional responses, which respond to stimuli even though the grangers can't understand why...

when she says that they don't know they have a daughter, what she means is that they don't remember the list of events which proved that fact to be true. mrs granger doesn't remember that she took a pregnancy test which was positive, mr granger doesn't remember that he witnessed hermione being born, neither of them remember taking her to the cinema to see the little mermaid, or buying her first school shoes, or taking her to see her grandparents on her sixth birthday.

but the evidence of canon is that the emotions attached to these events - and the unconscious knowledge which emerges from them - would remain.

and this is why hermione's modification of her parents' memories is an example of the series' black-and-white, protagonist-centred morality which i absolutely loathe. not because the watsonian text isn't horrified by it [why would harry know how memory charms work] but because the doylist text handwaves it away as something easily reversed [via jkr saying that hermione immediately restored her parents' memories the second the war was over] which left no adverse effects.

because - sure - i'm not quibbling with the need to think of hermione's decision to wipe her parents' memories as necessary, but it needs to be understood as one of those horrific choices which only become necessary because the alternative is worse.

and this necessity doesn't erase the fact that what hermione does to her parents is meaningfully no different from what bellatrix and company do to the longbottoms. we see that alice longbottom retains the emotional context to a memory - she knows that she loves neville and wants to give him a present - even if she no longer remembers who he is and what his relationship is to her. the same thing will have happened to the grangers.

and so "monica wilkins" might have found herself driving down a street in suburban melbourne one december afternoon when a christmas song came on the radio… and for reasons she doesn't understand, she burst into tears… and she went home and started making dinner… and she'd adapted the recipe she was using so it didn't have any coriander in it… but she doesn't know why, because she likes coriander just fine, and so does her husband… and then "wendall" came in, and she told him about her strange experience… and he said that he turned on the tv and meet me in st louis was showing and he had to change the channel because he thought he was going to cry… and this made them both intensely uneasy… because they've got no reason to behave so strangely… so irrationally... they don't have any memories associated with that song or that film… right?

but that's because they don't remember the facts of how their only daughter - who's got the coriander-tastes-like-soap gene - only lasted two days of a family skiing trip in december 1995, even though they hadn't spent any significant time with her since august 1994, before she swanned off back into a magical world which seemed to be robbing them of her piece by piece.

they can only remember how sad it made them feel.

#asks answered #asenora meta #real special interest hours who's up?

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allwaswell16 · 9 months ago

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A One Direction fic rec of long fics with bottom Harry as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other recs here. Happy reading!

- Louis / Harry -

📖 Time Bomb by ThisSentimentalHeart

(M, 291k, famous/famous au) the one where Louis has everything: a lead role in a giant Hollywood franchise, a glittering new house with an entertaining Irish neighbor, and a steady, normal boyfriend who he probably loves.

📖 Light, Spark and Fire (series) by green_feelings / @greenfeelings

(E, 239k, omegaverse) Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down, until he builds his own up.

📖 Pretty Please (With Sugar On Top) by @angelichl

(E, 113k, omegaverse) Harry is a sugar baby omega who cons rich alphas for a living. Louis is a rich alpha with too much self-control.

📖 Give Me Truths by iwillpaintasongforlou / @canonlarry

(E, 110k, punk Louis) the one in which Louis falls in love with a fragile boy and tells him every beautiful truth in the world, as long as it makes him happy.

📖 apple pie baked just right by 28goldensfics / @28goldens

(E, 106k, farm) Louis has to get away. The news of his father’s terminal diagnosis, the loss of his job, and the breakup with his girlfriend leads Louis to leave for a life of slower things in the small town of Cedar Hills.

📖 Say Something by @kingsofeverything

(E, 105k, omegaverse) At fifty years old and recently divorced, Omega Harry Styles isn't interested in dating. When his doctor suggests a heat and rut matching service, he signs up out of necessity.

📖 of the divine (series) by devilinmybrain / @thedevilinmybrain

(E, 104k, guardian angel Harry) "I'm your-" The man shifts his weight, hesitantly bringing his hands together in front of him. It's an endearingly nervous habit. "I'm your guardian angel."

📖 De amore ex tempore by @persephoneflouwers

(M, 101k, historical) the Time Travel AU where alternate versions of themselves live simultaneously in different realities and their paths collide every time, until somehow, they converge into one.

📖 Victorian Boy by audreyhheart

(E, 101k, historical) Victorian AU. Harry the virgin Duke of Somerset knows little of love, while Louis the sly Duke of Warwick knows too much. When the two dukes come together for the Bilsdale fox hunt in York, Harry finds himself drawn into Louis' bed.

📖 Ace of Spades (series) by @allwaswell16

(E, 90k, pirates) Living as a sheltered omega in a farming village has not prepared Harry for life aboard the most notorious pirate ship to sail the Atlantic. Or Louis is a pirate, Harry is his captive, and no one is who they say they are.

📖 The Pros and Cons of Breathing by @hellolovers13

(E, 81k, omegaverse) Omega Harry has always known he'd be married off someday, so when he's betrothed to Prince Louis, he's anxious about having to leave his life behind, but hopeful for a happy marriage. The hope doesn't last long

📖 Truth Be Told (I Never Was Yours) by JustForTommo

(E, 76k, wedding planner) the one where Louis and Harry have a complicated past, Louis is getting married to someone that’s not Harry, and the universe has decided to have a laugh and make Harry the wedding planner

📖 Falling For Me Won't Be A Mistake by Rearviewdreamer / @all-these-larrythings

(M, 74k, mpreg) Harry is married to his job and so overworked that he doesn't know how to stop. All it takes is a forced Hawaiian get-a-away, the warm tropical breeze of the island, and the most beautiful, elusive man he's ever seen to make him remember what living is like outside of work.

📖 And I'll judge the cover by the book by harrystylesandstuff

(M, 73k, uni) a Private University AU where Harry is a queer posh prince, Louis is a closeted troublemaker, and neither expect to understand each other the way they will.

📖 Bikestrike by thinlines / @thinlinez

(E, 68k, omegaverse) What would you do if you saw someone riding your bike, which had been stolen weeks before, across campus? Omega Harry chose to show no mercy. He didn't know it would all lead him to his own demise.

📖 More Than You Know by @brightlyharry

(E, 64k, miscommunication) the one where Louis is a doorman for a luxury apartment building and Harry is the newest resident of the penthouse

📖 Lend Me Your Hand by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird

(M, 63k, historical) Society has long since decided that the soulmarks everyone is born with are entirely unfashionable. They're just another way for people of a lower class to scam their way into marrying above their station.

📖 Bye Bye's Are Not For Legends (I'm Forever Young) by kikikryslee / @flamboyantommo

(M, 51k, superheroes) A Superhero AU where Louis, Liam and Niall are immortal and have superpowers - Liam can clone himself, Niall can inflict pain at the drop of a hat and Louis can kill with the blink of an eye - and want fellow immortal Harry, who puts a twist on the term 'mind control,' to join their group in order to save the world.

📖 you're ripped at every edge, but you're a masterpiece by Valentia

(E, 50k, uni) The one where Harry is soft and pretty but doesn't see it and Louis just wants to love him the way he deserves.

- Rare Pairs -

📖 All I Want by gvitup4zh

(E, 149k, Zayn/Harry) Zayn, music producer and single father, meets Harry, server and aspiring singer-songwriter, by chance one night and before the evening is over, Zayn has offered him a job as a nanny for his two kids.

#weekly recs #1dficvillage #1dsquad #hltracks #hljournal #hlcreators #ficrec

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vcnillafairy · 1 month ago

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my corpse friend

pairing: rafe cameron x humanexperiment!reader

summary: after the death of his father, rose taking wheeze with her and sarah not even acknowledging his existence, a sad and lonely but prideful rafe decides to use his money to finance the project of a young and ambitious scientist who assures he can built him the perfect life partner.

warnings: mdni! mention of death, and human corpses used for experimentation. justified physical description of reader (reader not feeling comfortable in her own body is an important part of the story). past trauma. reader hating everything about herself. suicidal thoughts. taking the people pleasing too far. emotional dependency. mention of blood and several other body fluids. not scientifically accurate as the heart and brain are used as a metaphor of human behavior. some could consider this includes necrophiliac tendencies (her body is synthetic but her vital organs and other internal systems are from death people). sexual content. p in v. dubcon. creampie. corruption kink. soft dom rafe. emotional violence. cheating. not happy ending.

dead dove🕊️ the insanely long paragraph of tws is there for a reason, prioritize yourself.

word count: 1637

𝜗𝜚 poppy talks₊ ˚ ･ love me an unreliable narrator.

series masterlist. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀next.

For as long as Rafe can remember, Tanyhill had never been a particularly warm place for him. It was too big for five people and they barely got to see each other's faces once a day for a couple of seconds if they were lucky enough to run into each other while attending to their own matters.

Now? His father was dead, his sister Sarah was living with the pogues and hated his guts enough to ignore his presence every time they happened to be in the same place and his stepmother had taken their baby sister away from them both, not even letting them talk to her on the phone.

He had this big empire for himself and yet he never felt so small, Tanyhill was colder than ever making him feel like he was going to drown in its suffocating walls, like he could die anytime and no one will even know until the smell of his rotting flesh was unbearable enough. He was alone everywhere he went and the worst part was the silence. No more Ward yelling at him. No more Rose's scheming against his back. No more... But that also meant no more Wheeze running around and messing with him... No more Sarah's laugh. Oh how he missed it even though he will never say it out loud.

When he was on the verge of throwing himself in front of a car he had a revelation, the answer to all his problems was sitting in front of him in the form of a not so reliable website he got redirected to while watching some shady porn. At first he thought it was a joke. What he read couldn't be true, right? It had to be just a dumb guy with nothing better to do than creating links with stuff he thought about while getting high but the whole idea had caught his eye somehow making him follow the steps to get more information about it.

Looking for more information led him to another website that seemed more legit and an email. Next day he hired some people to dig into it and find if the whole thing was real, feeling like a complete idiot for even giving it the benefit of doubt. The first couple of days all contact was between his team and this so-called doctor but after making sure the project was real and looking for a patron he agreed to a meeting.

Doctor Harris was a strange man, his words were too intricate most of the time and he always seemed too anxious which didn't give Rafe a good first impression but after a tour around the lab watching all the others working there in those weird machines he was a little more convinced. The main charge explained that the project had started as to build a simple android to help with the house but he always thought they could do much more than that and after a couple of years of more deep investigation he found his purpose when he discovered the possibility of bringing back a dead body, he tested his theory with small things like rats and bunnies and puppies and kept going bigger and bigger.

Harris thought that if he could bring back a human being with the due technical alterations he would not only create another monotone android housekeeper but a real living thing with the capacity of sensing and feeling both physically and emotionally taking a huge step for science.

There for a moment Rafe thought he could just go back home and try to be a better man and apologize to try and win back his real family saving himself the waste of a lot of time and money in case that this was to go wrong. But who was he trying to fool? His pride will never allow that so with still a little bit of scepticism but not much to lose he accepted the deal and started the paperwork to finance the project with the condition of getting the very first one for himself.

The first month was entertaining, he spent hours designing her, every part of her body exactly as he liked them, even the wig that will be conditioned to be her hair was going to be made of his favorite shade of real silky hair. The process was alarmingly frivolous but he didn't seem to care or even realize it and he sat for weeks customizing her like his own human sized doll, her height and the colour of her eyes and skin, then it came the turn of her essence.

That wasn't necessarily planned by the doctor but as soon as Rafe's ears heard him say the corpse inside her fake skin was an important part to dictate who she would be and what she would feel he knew he had to carefully pick each one of them. Between the profiles he got offered for the brain he chose a devoted housewife who died in childbirth, he would need that kind of dedication and submission, a tamed good girl to take care of him. But for the brain... he knew he needed more than what they were offering him.

As always his money and connections ended up showing their worth and with the right amount of blackmail and numbers in a check he got the heart of a girl he meet in college who he knew was stupidly in love with him, he remembered rejecting her a thousand times in the worst ways, he didn't liked her at all but she still stayed close to him bringing him lunch every day and doing his schoolwork like that would ever win him over until he dropped out of school. A couple of months later he heard she had died in a car accident and he never thought that would become useful information after all this time but if he wanted the perfect girl he would need the heart of someone like that, that devotion in pleasing him and only him but this time in a body he enjoyed.

After a little more than a year he was growing impatient, the nightstands were boring him and his friends were just every day more and more annoying. But then suddenly the day came.

Doctor Harris called him to his lab to pick her up and after doing all the paperwork confirming the specimen was being given to its owner he was directed to a waiting room where she will meet him after making her a recorded interview to finish with the documentation of the process of her creation. He only waited for twenty minutes but after all this time it felt like an eternity.

“Rafe?” he had his face buried in his hands when her voice dragged her back to reality.

There she was standing in front of him in the dress he had sent them to prepare her for him, there was only one word to describe what he was seeing. Perfection. She was exactly as he had imagined her, every single inch… she was the perfect girl for him.

“Hey…” he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say but he took a couple of steps closer to her enjoying the way his body towered hers, her beautiful innocent doe eyes looked up at him as if she was in front of the octave wonder.

“I want to go home... please” she said in the most soothing voice he had ever heard before and he knew right there.

She was perfect… and she was his.

She was frightened...

Only five days ago she woke up in this world for the very first time. Confused and with thousands of questions pounding inside her as she looked around to that neverending white, white walls, white curtains, white sheets, white coats and hats covering what she believed to be people who surrounded her pinching her with needles and other strange artefacts. People who filmed her and whispered to one another as if she was some attraction to be scrutinized.

They tested her for hours non stop until she passed out exhausted and probably even after that. Then the fifth day came and when she thought things couldn't get worse after all that physical exploitation she got to know what was truly terrifying, human emotion. They gave her a name, clothes and even styled her hair without a single chance to get a say in the matter. Doctor Harris sat with her and explained every detail about her creation and she could only sit there and listen to this stranger tell her how he had built her. Her heart was beating fast and she felt like she could throw it up at any second but the doctor's eyes were shining the way a father's would when he admired his baby daughter.

Rafe. That was the name the doctor gave her whennahe asked why she was there, she had been made just for him and he was supposed to be the love of her life but no one could have ever prepared her for the moment when she met him. The second she laid eyes on her something shifted inside her. His face, the look in his eyes made her chest feel warm but at the same time her hands started to shake and only one thought came to her.

He is going to hurt me.

She remembered lobe hurt. She had no memories of her previous life but somehow she knew she had been through this before. She knew love was painful… lethal.

“I want to go home… please” she was fighting back tears, there was no place to call home for her but she wanted to find it. But what she wanted the most was to be far away from him.

—-𝜗𝜚 taglist: @binniesbabe @nemesyaaa @cl4uus @rafestoothbrush @j-mlover383 @flvredcas

#𝜗𝜚 poppy writes #rafe cameron #rafe #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #obx x reader #rafe obx #obx #rafe fanfiction #obx fanfiction #rafe cameron angst

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weasleyreidstyles · 11 months ago

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Serendipity; snippets of navigating fifth year with Fred Weasley

series masterlist

based on a request from ages ago. its a little choppy, but bare with me, ive just suffered the worst bout of writer's block ever😓 (i'm actually so sad that i've neglected serendipity so much but im back and i have so many wips to share with you all!!!!)

pairing(s): fred weasley x fem!reader, brief theodore nott x fem!reader (platonic)

Hogwarts doesn't feel the same anymore. The usual air of magic had been snuffed out with each imposing rule that was nailed to the Entrance Hall walls. There is no more laughter in the corridors, no more soft chatter from the figures inside the magical portraits; instead the repetitive notes of Professor Umbridge's sugary sweet tone rattle over deafening speakers.

All boys and girls must remain eight inches apart from eachother.

There will be no house fraternising during meal times.

Talk of any unauthorised groups will be met with adequate punishment.

Curfew must be met by every member of the student body.

That last one still haunts you in your peaceful moments.

It's the reason you sit on one of the uncomfortable plush seats in Professor Umbridge's office, a cursed black quill clenched in your harsh grip as you write out those very words, the familiar cursive of your own handwriting etching painfully into the skin of your non-dominant hand. She was smirking at you under the guise of sipping lengthily from her pink teacup, watching as the tears steadily building in your eyes finally spilled down over your cheeks, which were flushed red from the pain.

How had you found yourself in this predicament exactly?

You were made a prefect at the start of the year, alongside Hermione and Ron, which you'd found out when you got your letter detailing which books you would need for your fifth year. You remember the pride written across your parents' faces and how elated you had been to be given such a prestigious role, one that many Ravenclaw students in your year wanted just as badly as you. It was a revered spot after all. Everyone was elated for you, but none more so than the oldest Weasley twin.

"Are you going to give us unlimited leeway with pranks now that you hold such a position of authority, gorgeous?" Fred's husky voice joked in a whisper as the two of you sat at the dining table during the small party that Molly and your mother had set up in celebration for the three of you.

"Are you asking me to take advantage of my new position, Weasley?" You ask, a small smirk making its way on your face as you fight the blush threatening to paint your cheeks at his sudden closeness.

All summer, he had been flirting with you. At first you put it down to his lack of contact to the outside world and you laughed at his well-timed jokes and played into his flirtations with rebutting jokes of your own.

But then one night, when you flirted back daringly, he kissed you. He actually kissed you. It wasn't your first kiss. No, that went to Harry in a random game of truth or dare back in second year (something you both agreed was wrong on so many levels; it was never discussed by any of you again). But this kiss with Fred felt incredible and it cemented a closer bond with the older twin, whose brilliantly blue eyes sparkled with something more whenever he stared at you after that moment.

He'd rewarded your achievement later that same evening, after the party, behind the closed door of your temporary bedroom, leaving you smiling and giddy for the rest of summer. It's what prompted Ginny and Hermione's loose bet as to how long it would take for the pair of you to get together officially.

Your elation lasted until the very moment you stepped into the Prefects' Carriage and found out who you'd be partnered up with for the year.

Theodore Nott. Notorious for his aloof attitude as well as his surprising intellect that rivalled Hermione's. He was part of Riddle's group, one of the most popular groups in school, possibly trumping even the Golden Trio. But because he was part of Riddle's crew you had learned to hate him just a little – his teasing remarks towards your friends, especially Ron, always sent you into a spiral of brewing animosity.

So when Alicia Spinnet, who had been given the prestigious role of Head Girl, announced that she was pairing you with him, you cast her a look of utter betrayal, which she vehemently ignored.

You did not speak to Nott for the entire time you were meant to familiarise yourselves with eachother, and he made no effort either; grey eyes misted over as if he wasn't even part of the present conversation altogether. Gods how you despised him.

~∞~

Upon returning to your original compartment, following slowly behind Ron and Hermione, Fred had immediately seen your crestfallen look.

"What's up, gorgeous?" he asked from his seat by the window, ignoring Ron's faux gagging at the nickname. He'd also moved further into the corner to allow you the space to sit down.

You thanked him with a quiet smile before sitting down with a sigh.

"Alicia paired me with Nott for prefect rounds. How unfortunate is that?" You mumble, resting your head dejectedly against his burly shoulder.

"You're joking?!" He says with wide eyes. "What the hell was she thinking?"

"I assume it was because Davies paired Parkinson with your counterpart, so you got paired with Nott as a consequence." Hermione said from the opposite seat. "The Ravenclaws and Slytherins in sixth and seventh year were paired together as well."

Yes that was an overarching trend that had seemed to stick over the years.

"Maybe it won't be too bad." Ginny says and you all turn to her in synchronised disbelief. "What? I've never seen Nott speak. Maybe that'll be a good thing. A mute partner is better than a snarky one."

"Just the thought of being in his presence makes me uncomfortable. Mute or not." You say quietly, so only Fred can hear.

"If he does or says anything to you, let me know yeah?" He replied with equal secrecy and you nod your head imperceptibly in response.

He lets you use his shoulder as a makeshift pillow when you find your eyes closing drowsily, brushing the loose hair that falls into your face and ignoring George's knowing glances.

~∞~

The very first round of Prefect duties was utterly boring and painfully long. You and Nott had patrolled the Astronomy corridor with lacklustre precision, both eager to get away from eachother's presence.

It was like this for a while, a few months to be exact, until you both became accustomed to the silence, to the point where it was actually bareable. No longer were rounds a labourous activity; you and Nott began to partake in small talk, to the most minute extent – in no way did this make you aquainted and in the daylight, you returned to steely looks and barely contained snarls of discontent, which was mirrored by your friends, and his. You barely noticed the extra attention that Voldemort's son seemed to be giving you as your friendship with Theo progressed at a steadily growing pace.

At your budding friendship with the Slytherin Prefect, Fred began showing up at the end of your rounds to whisk you away, never sparing Theo a glance. The two of you would wander the desolate corridors, hands interlocked as you spoke quietly and unhurriedly. You noticed that Fred, always grinning and never unnecessarily angry, would grow agitated in Theo's presence and you never understood why.

Until one night, when Fred was loitering at the end of your last corridor to patrol, Theo had said something that made you burst into pearls of laughter; his face had lit up with a delighted smirk at the sound.

Fred's face was stoic and so unnaturally like his usual cadence that it took you completely by surprise.

"Of course you're waiting here, Weasley." Theo had mumbled, mostly to himself, but Fred had bristled from where he was leaning against the wall.

"You have a problem with that, Nott?" He had snarled and you'd looked at him with widened eyes at the edge in his voice.

Eager to defuse the tension, you took Fred's hand and gave Theo a look that read 'stop being an arsehole', before leading the ginger boy away.

Theo had gone back to his best friend to report that Mattheo's suspicions were indeed correct: you had been learning Legillimancy and had unknowingly spoken to Theo without so much as moving your lips.

And Fred had no idea.

~∞~

This routine continued for you and Fred, leaving you at the butt end of George and Lee's teasing. You came to expect him to be waiting at the end of your rounds, where you would part ways with Theo before spending at least an hour in Fred's presence.

On some occasions when it was far too cold to continue wandering the hallways at night, he would tell you to go straight to the Gryffindor common room, where there would be a fire in the hearth and plenty of blankets to snuggle into.

On such occasions, Theo offered to walk you there, despite him not wanting to be anywhere near the lions' den. It was during these times where your friendship with him became cemented as pure and real. Your friends were surprised when you actively sought eachother out during lessons.

Fred hated your budding friendship, but he said nothing about it; it wasn't his place to undermine your friendships.

But it became hard to hold his tongue when Professor Umbridge unveiled her new Inquisitorial Squad, which Theo and his friends had joined in quick succession.

The Inquisitorial Squad was a massive hindrance for Dumbledore's Army. The lot of you had to be more vigilant with your timings for the meet ups in the Room of Requirement, lest you get caught out by these glorified prefects. The Inquisitorial Squad is how you ended up in her office in the first place.

You had been patrolling with Theo, who was complaining about how frustrating having magicless lessons was becoming in the lead up to ypur OWL exams (you'd felt guilty about the DA not including any Slytherins all year, and this further cemented that feeling), when Adrian Pucey and Professor Umbridge came waltzing around the corner.

"Good evening Master Nott." the Professor says warmly, before her gaze sweeps over to you and her beady eyes catch onto the flashy Prefect badge pinned proudly tp your chest.

"Miss Meadow, why are you out past curfew?" She asks with faux concern, mouth twisting with a sadistic smirk.

"Uh-" You look at Theo, who looks just as startled as you. "We're just about to finish our rounds, Professor."

Umbridge lets out a heinous giggle that grates on your nerve.

"Oh my dear, didn't you see the newest decree?" She asks, her face alight with victory when you shake your head. "I have no need for Prefects anymore. I disproved them as a group."

"Wha- Why?" you ask, disbelief painted across your face. Pucey smirks as he looks from you to Theo.

"The Inquisitorial Squad has overtaken that job, Meadow." He spits your name like its dirt on the bottom of his shoe. You share a look of alarm with Theo.

I knew nothing of this Meadow, I promise you.

He looks sincere and you believe him, word for word.

"This sheer display of disobedience cannot go unpunished." Her harsh giggle is the only sound that fills the corridor.

She hands you a detention on a silver platter and you go into it blind. You didn't know that Harry had been trying to protect you, Ron and Hermione from the same fate as him.

~∞~

She dismissed you with a delighted giggle after an hour of writing the same line over and over again.

Curfew must be met by every member of the student body.

Your hand is throbbing from the pain, but all you feel is numb. You wander the hallways like a ghost, not bothering to pay mind to where you're walking, until you find yourself at the portrait of the Fat Lady leading to the Gryffindor common room.

"Password?!" Elizabeth says impatiently, as if she'd been repeating herself over and over.

"Gillyweed." You mumble and she finally takes in your appearance, completely forgetting to open the portrait hole.

"Oh my dear, are you alright?" She says, voice full of concern, and if she were able to, you're sure she'd reach a hand out and place it delicately onto your shoulder.

"'M fine, Elizabeth. Just need to sit down." You didn't realise how tired you were, but from the slurring of your words and the speed with which the portrait swings open, with no hesitation towards the blue and bronze tie donning your neck, you must be on the verge of collapsing.

Fred sees you first.

"Meadow? What are you doing here, gorgeous?" he asks, voice filled with concern.

"Don't know. But 'M really sleepy." You say and you grip at his arms with barely any strength, which he notes with wide, panicking eyes.

"Shit- okay, come on let's go upstairs."

He guides you slowly towards his dorm, ignoring his brothers and Hermione and Harry's looks of worry. He sees the blood dripping from your hand in the dim light of the room, which prompts him to usher you much faster.

He sits you on the marble of the ensuit bathroom, the cold of the tiles barely registers to you.

He's mumbling a series of healing charms against your hand, jaw clenching when the blood flow slows enough for him to see the culprit of your bloodlust.

"Did she do this to you?" He asks, his voice as low as a growl that has your thigh clenching at the tone.

"Technically," You start with a weak laugh, "I did this to myself. She told me what to write."

"It's not funny, gorgeous." He says with a frown that you manage to wipe away with a peck of your lips.

"It's fine, Freddie."

"No. It's not."

You can practically see the plans forming in his brain and the next day, a series of crazed birds are let loose in the Great Hall, all headed straight for the newly appointed Head Mistress, Fred's smirking face meeting her's with no hesitation.

His hand sports similar wounds to you by the end of the day and you patch him up in the same fashion that he did for you.

~∞~

You don't show up to your scheduled Prefect meetings for the rest of the year, and you avoid Theo in the corridors, much to your friends' delight.

His voice in your mind is the only point of contact that you have with your Italian friend, something you keep hidden from your friends, especially Fred.

You look sad, tesoro. He says from across the Great Hall, days after your first detention with Umbridge. You sit facing the Slytherin table beside Luna Lovegood, who looks between you, Fred and Theo imperceptibly.

I'm not sad. I'm bored.

Yes because I'm sure the Gryffindor table is just a delight to be seated at.

You scoff outwardly at his sarcasm.

"What're you scoffing about, gorgeous?" Fred's voice says from behind you. You sneak a look towards Theo, who seems to have engaged himself in a conversation with Riddle and Berkshire, not showing that he was just immersed in conversation with you mere seconds ago.

"Just thinking about all the ways I want to make Umbridge suffer." You say with an offhanded shrug. Luna giggles into the palm of her hand.

"I have plenty of ideas." He says with a smirk as he drags you from your seat and into the corridors beyond the Great Hall.

Professor Umbridge may have cast a cloud of sorrow over the magic of Hogwarts, but nothing could take away the fun you'd been having in the stolen moments with your best friend's brother.

Not even the fact that he was leaving prematurely. Certainly not after you convince yourself to share your growing feelings for him, to have that snuffed out by his secret declaration.

Your chance with him is taken from you as he and George sail away from Hogwarts with guffawing laughter at the sight of Umbridge's sour face. They're off to live their lifelong dream, taking your dreams with them.

The next time you see Fred is after you watch Sirius' body fall through the veil, mind and body too numb to process any and all of your feelings. You only reach out for Teddy in your mind, a comforting voice of reason for all you'd seen. Even the strangely beautiful sight of the thestrals, that were invisible only hours before, did not phase you.

You fell into Theo's comforting embrace the moment you were able to leave the Hospital Wing, Fred Weasley long forgotten at Ron's bedside.

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#serendipity series #fred weasley x reader #theo nott x reader #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley angst #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #theodore nott x reader

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thelostmagicians · 2 months ago

Text

Shield of a Heart | Harry Styles: Part I

The Assignment

Series Masterlist

Summary: You’re Harry Styles’s personal bodyguard [3.4k]

Fluff, comfort, angst, panic attack, security risks

♡

The scent of fresh coffee and polished wood lingered in Jeff’s office, blending with the faint aroma of cologne. The morning sun filtered through the half-open blinds, casting slanted golden lines across the desk where Harry sat, fingers idly drumming against the surface. He had heard this conversation before. The ticking of the clock seemed louder than usual, a reminder that time was never on their side.

"H, I know you hate the idea of constant security," Jeff said, his tone serious. "But we can’t ignore what’s been happening. The crowd outside the hotel last week? The guy who jumped the barricade at your show? It’s getting worse."

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls, his gaze unfocused. "I don’t want to be that celebrity, Jeff. The one who walks around with an entourage, who has security pushing people away like they’re some kind of plague. I like interacting with fans. I don’t want to build walls around myself."

Jeff sighed, rubbing his temples, his face lined with frustration. "Then we find a way to make it low-key. I hired someone from an agency that specializes in undercover security. No obvious muscle, no uniforms, just someone watching your back without making it obvious."

Harry arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Sounds expensive."

"Worth every penny. You’ll barely notice her."

Before Harry could argue further, a knock at the door interrupted them. Jeff stood and opened it, revealing you—dressed in a sleek yet practical outfit: dark jeans, a fitted black jacket, and boots sturdy enough for function yet stylish enough to blend in. Your posture was confident, poised, and alert, projecting a quiet authority that immediately commanded attention.

Harry’s lips parted slightly, the surprise evident in his eyes. He had been expecting someone completely different.

Jeff cleared his throat, his expression apologetic. "Harry, meet your new bodyguard."

There was a beat of silence as Harry and Jeff exchanged a quick glance of surprise.

You smirked slightly, though you kept your posture professional. "Let me guess—you two were expecting someone different?"

Jeff opened his mouth to deny it, but Harry’s expression gave them both away.

"A bit," Harry admitted, his voice laced with humor. "Not in a bad way, just... surprised."

"It’s okay," you replied with a shrug, your tone light. "Happens all the time. People see me and assume I’m a PR manager or an assistant. Maybe even a stunt double on a good day. But I assure you, I’m more than qualified to keep you safe."

Jeff leaned forward, a mix of pride and reassurance in his voice. "She comes highly recommended, top of her class. Trained in multiple combat techniques, counter-surveillance, defensive driving—you name it."

Harry hesitated before shaking your hand. "Right. Of course. I appreciate you doing this."

"It’s my job," you said simply, gripping his hand firmly, your touch brief but firm. "And I take it seriously. I’ll be shadowing you from now on. I won’t interfere with your day-to-day life unless I deem it necessary for your safety."

Jeff let out a breath of relief. "Alright. You start tomorrow."

As you left the office, you could feel Harry's eyes following you, still assessing, still deciding how he felt about the arrangement. You had a feeling this wasn't going to be an easy job, but you were used to challenges.

—

The next morning, you arrived early, determined to start taking action. You wanted to make the house feel like a safe space for Harry, not one that reminded him he was constantly under threat. As you entered, Harry’s house was still quiet, but you could hear the faint hum of a coffee machine in the kitchen. Harry’s team had already started arriving, but they barely noticed you as you moved with purpose. You couldn’t afford distractions.

The first thing you did was walk the perimeter of the house. The gates were solid, but outdated. You noted the number of hidden spots that weren’t covered by security cameras. There was an entrance to the side of the house that led to a narrow alley, and another hidden behind a tall garden wall. You couldn’t trust that nothing could slip by unnoticed.

You took mental notes—doorways, windows, gates, and even the trees that created shadows by the fence. No blind spots could go unaccounted for. After another quick call, you arranged for a full security system update.

By noon, new security cameras were being installed. You had chosen ones with facial recognition, ensuring that only those Harry authorized would be able to get past the front gate. Each camera was strategically placed in spots Harry didn’t even think to look. One was on top of the high garden wall, offering a bird's-eye view of anyone who came too close. Another was hidden behind a small decorative tree in the yard, monitoring the back door.

The most important change, however, came at the gate. You had noticed the gate code was easy to remember, but anyone who had once had access to it could still get in if they tried. The security team replaced the old keypad with a biometric scanner—fingerprint and face recognition—making it nearly impossible for anyone other than Harry or trusted personnel to gain entry. It was a decision made in the best interest of both privacy and safety.

Later in the day, as Harry returned home from a brief meeting, you watched him pull into the driveway. He came to a stop, giving you a quizzical look as he noticed the new setup.

"Okay, this is new," Harry said as he got out of the car, motioning toward the new camera at the gate and the biometric scanner you had installed. He raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t think I’d need to scan my face just to get into my own house."

You smiled coolly. "Better safe than sorry. You never know who might have access to your old codes. This is the next level of protection."

Harry paused, eyeing the scanner, and you could almost see the wheels turning in his head. You weren’t just a bodyguard anymore. You were someone who understood how to keep him safe. His face softened slightly, but there was still a hint of hesitation in his eyes.

“I don’t know how I feel about all of this," Harry said, clearly uncomfortable with the changes. "It feels a little... extreme.”

You could sense his resistance, but you had expected this. "The changes are necessary, Harry," you said gently. "And it’s all for your safety. Trust me, it’ll feel like second nature soon enough."

You stepped away, watching him for a moment, before giving him some space. You knew Harry wasn’t the type to embrace change quickly, especially when it came to his personal life. But the new measures weren’t negotiable, and you couldn’t afford to back down.

—

That evening, after a brief rundown of your expectations, Harry seemed to nod along, seemingly compliant. However, as soon as he left Jeff’s office, you noticed his quick pace and sharp turns. You felt a shift in the air—the subtle challenge of Harry trying to lose you. He walked quickly, turning corners sharply, hoping you'd fall behind.

But you didn’t. You kept pace, your eyes scanning the area with precision, anticipating his every move. He stopped by a coffee shop, ordering something he didn’t even want, just to see if you’d relax your guard. You didn’t. By the time he reached his car, you were already standing beside it, waiting for him.

Harry sighed, shaking his head with a small, reluctant smirk. "Alright, I get it. You’re good."

"You should’ve figured that out when they hired me," you replied evenly, opening the door for him. He slid in, still watching you with mild curiosity, his eyes darting over your face as if trying to piece together the enigma that was you.

You didn’t talk much during the ride, but every so often, you could feel his gaze flicking toward you, studying you in his own quiet way. He wasn’t convinced yet, but he was starting to accept that you weren’t going anywhere.

—

After you dropped Harry off, you headed back to the office to wrap up the day’s tasks. Just as you were about to leave, Jeff caught up to you in the hallway. His expression was serious, a far cry from the casual confidence he usually carried.

"Look, I know this is only your first day, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up," Jeff said, lowering his voice. "Harry’s stubborn, and he’s not going to make this easy. He’ll try to shake you, test your limits. He doesn’t believe he needs this level of protection, and he’ll resist at every turn."

You nodded, already anticipating the challenge. "I can handle it. I’ve dealt with difficult clients before."

Jeff glanced at you, his eyes softening just slightly. "It’s not just that," he continued. "Harry doesn’t just push back because he’s stubborn. He won’t admit when he needs help, especially when it comes to anything related to his safety. He’ll act like he’s fine, even when he’s not. Just… be patient with him. This is going to take time."

You absorbed his words carefully, already starting to form a strategy in your mind. This job wasn’t just about physical protection; it was about navigating Harry’s emotional landscape, too. "I’ll keep that in mind."

Jeff sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just don’t back down. He might push you, but that’s just how he is. You’re doing good, though. I can see it."

You offered him a small, confident smile. "Thanks. I won’t let you down."

—

The following morning, after a restless night of monitoring security systems and reviewing the updated perimeter, you decided it was time to establish some ground rules. As you entered Harry’s house early, you noticed he was still in his pajamas, a mug of coffee in hand as he browsed through his phone. His hair was messy, and his usual polished aura was absent. He didn’t look up as you approached, but you knew this conversation was inevitable.

"No unannounced outings," you said firmly, your voice cutting through the morning air. "If you’re leaving the house, I need to know ahead of time. If you’re meeting someone, I vet them first. No exceptions."

Harry scoffed, slumping back in his chair as if the weight of the world had suddenly been placed on his shoulders. "You want to approve my dates now, too?"

You met his gaze without flinching. "If your date is a security risk, yes."

Mitch, one of Harry’s closest friends and bandmate, smirked from across the table. "She’s got you there, mate."

The room was filled with Harry’s band and team, all gathered together. Mitch and Sarah were there, along with Jeff, who had accompanied you to the house early that morning. Sarah stayed mostly quiet, watching the interaction with interest, while Mitch, as always, was ready with a teasing comment. Jeff, however, stood firmly on your side. He knew the importance of what you were doing and had already helped arrange the meeting. His presence was a reminder that this wasn’t just about you and Harry—it was about Harry’s safety, and Jeff understood that.

"I called everyone in this morning to go over some new ground rules," you continued, setting a folder of documents down in front of Harry. "This isn’t just about you, Harry. This is about your team too. It’s important that everyone is on the same page, especially when it comes to security."

Harry raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond immediately, still holding onto his coffee mug. Mitch, noticing the tension, leaned back in his chair, making a show of stretching. "Alright, boss," Mitch said with a playful grin. "What’s the first rule? Can we still sneak out for late-night gigs without her tracking us down?"

You shot Mitch a look, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Mitch, you’re not a teenager anymore. If there’s something important you want to do, you let me know first. No more spontaneous plans. You know I need to vet it. Same goes for all of you. It’s for your safety and Harry’s."

Jeff, who had been quietly watching, finally spoke up, his voice calm but assertive. "Mitch, she's right. We can’t afford to take any chances anymore. If we’re going to do this right, everyone’s got to be on board with the rules. For Harry’s safety and all of ours."

Harry muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue. He toyed with a bracelet on his wrist, his fingers absentmindedly twirling it, clearly irritated by the restriction. You could tell the added pressure was building. It wasn’t just the rules—it was the idea of being watched, the feeling of someone else controlling parts of his life.

But you had to be firm. He needed structure, even if he didn’t want it. And it was your job to make sure he understood that these boundaries were for his own good. You had to pick your battles carefully, but you couldn’t back down now.

"Look, I get it," you added, noticing the strain on his face. "You don’t want to feel like you’re being treated like a child. But I’m not here to ruin your life, Harry. I’m here to make sure you stay safe. That means I need to know where you are, who you’re with, and if anything goes off track. You may not like it, but it’s non-negotiable."

The room was silent for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. Sarah, always the mediator, glanced between Harry and you. She didn’t speak up, but you could tell she was trying to gauge the situation. Jeff, on the other hand, nodded in approval.

"This is exactly why we need to stay organized," Jeff added. "We’ve all seen the risks. It's better to be proactive than reactive. It might seem over the top now, but trust me—it’ll pay off."

Harry’s eyes flashed with mild frustration, but he didn’t speak up. The rules were getting stricter, and though you could tell he wasn’t thrilled, you weren’t about to bend. His life wasn’t just his own anymore—it was part of a much larger, more complex world now, and everything had to be accounted for. This wasn’t just about protecting him from the outside world. It was about making sure nothing slipped through the cracks.

You turned back to Harry, who was still fidgeting with his bracelet, seemingly lost in thought. "I’ll be reviewing all of your appointments and travel schedules. No more impromptu decisions. If there’s anything outside of the ordinary, you’re to clear it with me first. This includes interviews, public events, and meetings with anyone who isn’t part of your team."

Mitch, always ready to throw in his playful commentary, grinned. "So, does that mean you’ll be approving my plans too, or are you going to let me live a little?"

You gave him a deadpan stare. "If your plans involve a security risk, Mitch, then yes. I’ll be reviewing them."

Mitch raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I see how this is going."

Harry let out a frustrated sigh but didn’t argue further. His team wasn’t exactly hostile, but there was a clear air of tension. They were used to having more autonomy, and now they were all adjusting to the fact that you were calling the shots when it came to security.

As the meeting wrapped up, you found another chance to add more rules. "I’m going to be implementing a detailed daily check-in. If you’re going anywhere, I want to know your exact plans for the day. That means no unplanned stops, no sudden changes of heart. Everything is to be accounted for."

Harry slumped further into his chair, running his hand through his hair. "Fine," he muttered, clearly exhausted from the conversation. "But this better not become a habit."

You leaned in slightly, your voice calm but firm. "It will, for your safety. And we both know this isn’t just a ‘habit.’ It’s necessary."

Harry nodded stiffly, his posture still tense, but you could see a flicker of acceptance in his eyes. There was a silent understanding growing between you two—a recognition that this arrangement wasn’t ideal, but it was the only way forward.

You gave him a small, knowing smile. "I know you’re not used to this, but in the long run, it’ll make things easier for both of us."

Harry nodded stiffly, but his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. There was something unspoken between you now, a mutual understanding. He might have fought the rules at first, but you had a feeling he was beginning to see the logic behind them.

Mitch shot Harry a teasing smile. "Looks like she’s got you on lockdown now, mate."

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. He was adjusting, even if it wasn’t easy. And as for you, you knew this was only the beginning. Building trust took time, but you were willing to work for it. The rules you were setting were necessary. And despite his initial resistance, Harry was starting to realize that he needed them.

—

The next few days passed without incident, but you stayed vigilant, constantly assessing Harry’s routines and the security setup. You knew that with a celebrity like him, the danger wasn’t always obvious, and there would be moments when he’d try to slip through the cracks. He was stubborn, determined, but you had a feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time he tested you.

That night, after another late evening of monitoring Harry’s schedule, you retired to the security room once more. You pulled up a map of Harry’s estate, overlaying it with your notes. Every camera feed was up on the screen, every exit was accounted for, and you had finally established a solid perimeter.

As you closed the laptop, your gaze lingered on the footage of Harry smiling in front of the cameras, pushing through the crowd for his fans. The image on the screen didn’t capture the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes always darted around when he was surrounded.

You’d noticed it before, but now you understood it better. Harry wasn’t just worried about his fans. He was worried about the cracks that formed around him—the way people expected him to be perfect, the endless demands for a version of himself that could never be entirely real. The pressure was immense. Behind that charming smile, behind the carefully curated persona, was a man who wasn’t sure where the public’s love for him ended and where his own fear began. People wanted to be close to him, to see the man behind the legend, but the truth was, they didn’t always know what to do with the raw, unguarded version of Harry. The one who, when the cameras were off, sometimes felt like he was drowning in his own image.

You understood it now—the anxiety that haunted him, the cracks that formed around his confidence. It wasn’t just about the crowds or the pressure to always be "on." It was the constant battle of being vulnerable in a world that only ever seemed to want the version of him that smiled on stage, not the person who carried the weight of his own flaws, fears, and humanity.

Your job wasn’t just about protecting him from the outside world. It was about protecting him from his own vulnerability, making sure that he wasn’t consumed by the relentless expectations placed on him.

As you sat there in the dim glow of the monitors, you couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take before Harry truly accepted the help he needed. He had always kept his guard up, never fully letting anyone in. You had learned that much about him already. But you had to admit, there was a subtle shift in the way he relied on your presence. Even if he didn’t admit it, he was beginning to let you in, piece by piece.

You leaned back in your chair, taking a breath. You had your work cut out for you, but it was the job you had taken, and you were determined to make sure Harry never had to face the world alone.

The stakes were higher than just his safety now—he was at a crossroads, and so were you. But if there was one thing you knew for sure, it was that this journey would change both of you in ways you couldn’t yet predict.

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