#harry styles x reader

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Table 11 (H.S One Shot)

ceo!harry x fem!reader

Summary: based on this request.  An encounter at a restaurant brings together Y/N, a hardworking waitress with little time for love, and Harry, a successful yet guarded man who fears opening up. Both hesitant to risk their hearts, they find themselves drawn to each other, their bond growing through late-night conversations, stolen moments, and quiet acts of understanding.

A/n: Hi again!! my second one shot out there! i’m so excited! i hope you all enjoy it and thanks to @panini for sending the request i enjoyed writing this sooo much. And as always thanks to @eileenrry for hyping me up always. If you wish to be tagged in other works please comment, or dm me.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: A tiny bit of angst, use of y/n, casual alcohol consumption over dinner, 700 words of SMUT at the end, use of puppy and daddy, unprotected sex. (If i missed something please do not hesitate to tell me)

“Can you grab table 6 for me?” you asked Mandy while balancing three cocktails on a tray, your fingers trembling slightly from the weight. It was Valentine’s season, and Velours et Flamme was packed to the brim. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses echoed through the gilded dining room, where even the flickering candlelight seemed to exude wealth.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t Valentine’s Day yet—everyone wanted their moment under the chandeliers. For them, it was romance; for you, it was a chaotic shift.

You’d been working at Velours et Flamme for a year now, and you knew the drill: smug diners with wallets thicker than your rent, checks that could pay off your student loans, and that absurd scotch on the menu—£1,500 a pour. To this day, you were waiting for the kind of client who would actually order it. 

“Sure thing,” Mandy said with a wink, swooping past you with practiced ease. She had a knack for smoothing things over, whether it was with a picky customer or a stressed coworker. If Mandy wasn’t here, you weren’t sure how you’d survive these shifts.

London was unforgiving, and the pay barely covered the essentials—your rent, your transit card, and the occasional discount coffee from the café down the street. Your shoes, now with a small but growing hole near the toe, told the story of just how tight things had become. God forbid you needed to replace anything.

As Mandy headed for table 6, you stole a moment to glance around the room. The scent of truffle oil and roasted lamb was in the air, mingling with the sharper scent of overpriced cologne. Couples leaned in close at every table, champagne glasses raised, their conversations drowning in the clinking cutlery and soft piano music. Mandy, as usual, glided effortlessly between the chaos. She was stunning—like she belonged on the cover of Vogue instead of weaving through tables at Velours. The way she carried herself, you wouldn’t guess she was struggling just as much as you were. But you knew better. Beneath her flawless smile and the perfectly knotted apron, she was just like you: one bad week away from disaster.

You adjusted the tray in your hands and sighed. This was your life now. Maybe someday you’d climb out of this rut, but for now, it was all about surviving one shift at a time.

Just as you turned to deliver the drinks to table 9, the heavy oak doors of the restaurant creaked open, and the cold London air swept in. You glanced toward the entrance, catching sight of a man walking in. His tailored coat was with some raindrops, and his dark hair was just long enough to curl at the edges.

He was greeted by the host, and you caught his name—Harry Styles. You watched as the host confirmed his reservation.

Harry was alone, which was odd for this time of year. Valentine’s season practically demanded companionship at a place like this. But maybe his date was running late. Or his wife? You glanced at his left hand, but from this distance, it was impossible to tell.

He looked about 33, though it was hard to pin down exactly—youthful yet mature, effortlessly put-together in a way that suggested his wardrobe cost more than your yearly salary. His tailored black coat hung perfectly over broad shoulders, and when he ran a hand through his hair, the movement seemed practiced, like he was used to being observed.

And worth a million dollars? That part wasn’t in question. Everything about him screamed money—the subtle watch peeking out from his cuff, the polished leather boots, the way he carried himself like the room was his even though he’d just walked in.

The host gestured for him to follow, leading him straight to a table in your section. Your section.

You felt a flicker of something—nerves? Annoyance? You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. All you knew was that your curiosity had been piqued. You adjusted your apron and reached for the notepad tucked into your pocket, readying yourself to take his order.

Before you could take a step, Mandy appeared at your side, her lips curving into a sly smile.

“Think that’s the guy who’s finally ordering the scotch?” she teased, nudging you with her elbow.

You snorted softly, shaking your head. “If he does, I’ll frame the receipt,” you muttered.

Mandy’s grin widened, and she winked before sashaying off toward table 6.

You took a steadying breath and made your way toward his table. As you approached, you couldn’t help but notice how his gaze briefly flicked up from the menu he’d been scanning

“Good evening,” you said, forcing your voice to steady as you reached his table. “Welcome to Velours et Flamme. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

He looked towards his phone on the table “Just water for now, thanks,” he said, his voice rich and smooth, but maybe with a tired undertone

Not the scotch, then.

“Of course,” you replied, scribbling it down. You walked towards the bar and Mandy was there patiently waiting

“The scotch??” she asked, her smile mischievous as her eyes flicked over your shoulder in the direction of his table.

“Water,” you said, your voice tinged with mock defeat as you plopped your notepad on the counter.

Mandy looked at you for a moment before the bartender slid the glass of water across the counter. She grabbed it and handed it to you with a knowing smile. “C’mon don’t be so sad, we will find that scotch guy”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you headed back to his table. As you approached, you couldn’t help but glance at him again—his fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table, his eyes scanning the room but never settling on anything. There was something about him, something you couldn’t quite place.

“Here you go,” you said, placing the glass of water on the table.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Can I get the smoked salmon, the asparagus salad, and…” He paused, finally looking at you. The pause lingered longer than you expected. “A Blackthorn Reserve. Neat,” he finished, his gaze still fixed on you.

“Smoked salmon, asparagus salad, and Blackthorn Reserve,” you repeated, trying to read him, but his expression gave nothing away.

“Thanks…” he said going back to his phone No date, no wife—just him, casually dining in an absurdly expensive restaurant while everyone else was tangled in whispered conversations and candlelit stares. He was the only one alone, a stark contrast to the Valentine’s frenzy buzzing around.

Something about him tugged at your curiosity. Why was he here, of all places? Who was he? How much was his coat, and why did it cost more than your rent? Rich men came and went every day, dripping with smugness and entitlement, but he was different. There was no show, no pretense. He treated this place like it was McDonald’s—calm, unbothered, as if the exclusivity and extravagance meant nothing to him. That nonchalance only added to the mystery, making it impossible not to wonder what his story was.

The bar hummed with activity, a low symphony of clinking glasses, muted laughter, and the occasional scrape of chairs against polished wood. You navigated the crowd, the weight of the tray in your hand feeling oddly grounding amidst the chaos.

“Can I get a Blackthorne Reserve, neat?” you said to the bartender on call. He barely glanced up, focused on shaking a cocktail for the group at the other end of the counter. The momentary wait was a blessing—giving you a second to steal a glance at him again. He sat at the corner table, the one slightly shrouded in shadow. His posture was relaxed, one hand tracing the rim of the empty glass in front of him.

When his drink was ready, you balanced the tray carefully and made your way over. The coaster slid neatly onto the table before you placed the drink on top.

“Blackthorne Reserve, neat,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt.

He looked up, his expression calm yet unreadable. “Thanks... Can I get your name, please?” His tone was casual, but his words carried a strange weight that made your heart stutter.

“Y/N, sir,” you replied, meeting his gaze for a second longer than you intended.

“Thanks, Y/N.” He smiled then—a small, soft smile that you could feel, inexplicably, in your chest.

You nodded and turned away, heading to the next table, though you were suddenly more aware of the way you moved. You kept busy—taking orders, clearing plates, laughing politely at some table’s joke. Yet, every so often, your gaze wandered back to him. He wasn’t demanding, not like some of the regulars who snapped fingers or tapped glasses. No, he sat with an air of quiet patience, occasionally checking his phone, occasionally glancing around the room. You wondered what had brought him here tonight. A celebration? A distraction?

When his dinner order was ready, you rushed to the kitchen pass, grabbing the plate with a precision born of habit. You steadied your breathing as you approached his table, placing the dish down with care.

“Smoked salmon and asparagus salad,” you announced.

“Perfect, Y/N. Thank you so much,” he said, and there it was again—the faint curve of his lips, his voice as soft as it was warm.

The evening rush began to taper off, leaving the restaurant quieter but no less busy. You caught sight of him still at his table, the remnants of his meal neatly pushed to the side. His glass sat empty now, save for the last amber droplet at the bottom, and you found yourself wondering if he was ready to leave.

Before you could approach, he raised his hand slightly—a small, deliberate gesture that seemed to summon only you.

“Another Blackthorne Reserve?” he asked when you were close enough to hear.

“Of course, sir.”

“Drop the ‘sir,’ please,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a barely-there smile. “Harry, my name it’s Harry”

You felt a flush of warmth creep up your neck but nodded. “Coming right up, Harry”

At the bar, you relayed the order, watching out of the corner of your eye as he leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting lazily around the room. By the time his drink was ready, you were certain he had no intention of rushing out. You placed the glass in front of him with the same careful precision. “Blackthorne Reserve,” you said softly.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter now, as though the dimming energy of the restaurant had reached him too. “Anything else?” you said softly

He didn’t immediately answered instead, he cradled the glass in his hands, staring down at the dark liquid for a moment before lifting his gaze again. His eyes roamed the room, landing briefly on each table. Couples sat scattered around the restaurant—some leaning close, sharing quiet conversations; others laughing over shared plates. A few tables sat in comfortable silence, the kind that came from years of companionship. And then at you.

“Busy night,” he murmured, catching you lingering nearby.

You looked around as if you didn’t knew it ws a busy night, then nodded. “Always is, especially with so many couples out. Valentine’s coming up”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice carrying a wistful note. He swirled the drink in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Guess I picked the wrong night to dine alone.”

The words caught you off guard, but you managed a polite smile. “Some people prefer it. A quiet drink, good food—it’s not a bad way to spend an evening.”

He looked at you then, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “What about you? Do you get much time for quiet evenings like this?”

The question was unexpected, and you faltered. “Not much,” you admitted. “Work keeps me busy.”

He nodded, as if that answer satisfied him, but there was something in his gaze that lingered. It felt like he wanted to say more but didn’t. As the evening wore on, he stayed longer than most, nursing his second drink and watching the world around him with a quiet attentiveness. You found yourself glancing his way more often than you meant to, wondering what kept him there—and whether he might ask for something else before the night was over. The restaurant was nearly empty now, the hum of conversation replaced by the clatter of plates being cleared and the occasional murmur of the remaining people. You passed by his table one last time, noting the way he stared into the near-empty glass, lost in thought.

As if sensing your presence, he looked up and offered a faint smile. “Can I get the check, please?”

You nodded, quickly retrieving the bill and placing it on the table. “Here you go.”

He glanced at it, pulled out a sleek black card, and handed it back to you. “Thanks, Y/N.”

The transaction was quick, and when you returned with the receipt, he stood, slipping the signed copy back into your hands.

“Have a good night,” he said softly, pausing just long enough to meet your eyes before heading toward the door.You watched him leave, his figure disappearing into the cool night air. The faint sound of the door closing behind him was a strange punctuation mark to the evening—unremarkable, yet lingering all the same.

And then, the rhythm of work pulled you back, but you couldn’t quite shake the weight of his presence. “Y/N? C’mon there’s a lot of mess here” you heard Mandy and glanced at her, plates, glasses, napkins. It was going to be a long week.

-----

Valentine’s day arrived and the soft murmur of conversations filled the elegant space of Velours et Flamme. You were just adjusting a neatly folded napkin at your station. It was already late, just 2 hours before closing, couples were coming and going, but this was the last shift of reservations

“Good evening, welcome to Velours et Flamme. Do you have a reservation?” the host asked.

“Yes, Styles. Harry Styles,” came the reply. His voice was smooth, distinct, and enough to draw your eyes toward him. Standing tall in a sleek coat.

“Table 11, if possible,” he added with a polite nod, his gaze drifting briefly over the dining area.

“Table 11 is currently busy, but I can offer you 19. It’s a lovely table by the window.”

There was a brief pause “19 it is,” he said, his voice tinged with reluctance.

The host gestured toward the far side of the room, leading him past softly glowing tables and couples lost in intimate conversations. He sat down, still looking for you but his perspective was interrupted by Mandy, the epitome of calm under pressure, She greeted him warmly, placing a menu on the table. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Velours et Flamme. Can I start you off with a drink tonight?”

He looked up from the menu, his polite smile softening as he spoke. “Thanks, but before I order… Is Y/N working tonight?” 

Mandy blinked, caught off guard, but quickly recovered. “Y/N? Oh, yes, she’s here tonight. She’s been covering the other section.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable “Do you think she could take my table instead?”

Mandy’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Of course. Let me check with her, and I’ll be right back.”

As Mandy walked toward you, you noticed her smirking like she was holding onto some juicy secret. “You’ve got a request,” she said, her tone teasing.

Your brows furrowed. “A request? For what?”

“For you,” she said, nodding toward table 19. “Mr. Styles wants you to take his table. Any idea what that’s about?”

Your stomach flipped at the mention of his name. You clearly remembered him from two nights ago. You wiped your hands on your apron, trying to steady yourself. “I’ll take it and you can take table 10 for me” you said, as you headed toward his table.

When you arrived, he looked up, his expression softening into a warm smile. “Y/N,” he said, your name sounding effortless on his lips. “Good to see you.”

“Good evening, Mr. Styles,” you replied, your voice steady despite the quickening beat of your heart. “I’ll be taking care of your table tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?” “Wine, Soléne Blanc, Truffle-infused Fettuccine and sparkling water” he said not even looking at the menu “Coming right up” you said smiling, you somehow felt happy, you had your usuals clients, but they were cold, smug, mostly annoying, him? totally different vibe. You kept serving him with a small smile, always checking in case he needed something, but he didn’t ask for much. He ate quietly, sipping his wine and enjoying his pasta like it was just another evening out. Like if the restaurant wasn’t all decorated with heart balloons and cupid stuff.

The night went on, and the restaurant slowly emptied. Couples left hand in hand, tables were cleared, and the soft hum of conversation faded away. Eventually, it was just one other customer in the far corner—and him. You busied yourself wiping down tables and resetting for the next day, glancing at his table now and then. He didn’t look like he was in a rush, finishing his wine and leaning back slightly in his chair.

Finally, he raised his hand, and you walked over, thinking he was ready to leave.

“Would you like the check, Mr. Styles?” you asked politely, ready to grab it for him.

But instead of nodding, he looked up at you, his expression calm but curious. “Not just yet,” he said. “Are you allowed to sit down for a bit?”

The question caught you off guard. “Yes, of course,” you said, glancing around. The manager and the host had gone home early that day to be with their SOs, but you? Along with the servers, chefs, and cleaning staff? Yeah, no such luck.

You sat down across from him, feeling a bit nervous, not sure what this was all about.

“You know,” he started, his tone hesitant, “I don’t know if this is weird at all—and you can tell me to fuck off if it is—but...” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t have many friends, and tonight... I just need to vent.”

“Well, I’m a good listener,” you replied, suddenly way more curious than before.

He exhaled deeply, his hand still resting on the base of his glass. “It’s Valentine’s Day, you know?” he started, glancing out the window. “Supposed to be about love, connection... all that.” He let out a dry laugh. “But here I am, eating dinner alone, wondering if I’ve got it all wrong.”

You tilted your head slightly, encouraging him to go on.

“My love life?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s... nonexistent. And it’s not like I haven’t tried. But most people don’t stick around. They see me, and they assume—‘CEO,’ right? So they’re either intimidated or they expect me to be some larger-than-life, perfect version of myself. I end up pushing people away because... what’s the point? I’ll never be what they want me to be. And even if I could... it wouldn’t feel real.”

He paused, his expression softening. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? A room full of people earlier tonight, and I’ve never felt lonelier. Sometimes, it feels like there’s this... wall between me and the rest of the world. Like I’ll never find someone who’s really... my person.”

Your heart ached a little at his words. “I don’t think that’s stupid at all,” you said softly. “I mean, I get it... in a way. Maybe not from a CEO perspective,” you added with a small laugh, “but... I get it.”

You leaned forward, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of the table. “I’ve been working as a waitress for years now. Just trying to make ends meet, you know? And between shifts and side jobs, there’s no time for... anything else. No time for dating or even dreaming about a real future.

“The few boyfriends I’ve had?” you continued, shaking your head. “They never got it. They’d complain about me working too much or not spending enough time with them. But they never thought about my goals—what I wanted. And let’s be real,” you added with a small shrug, “it’s not like my paycheck could make those dreams happen anyway. So, yeah, I guess I’ve given up on that, too. What’s the point, right?”

You let out a short laugh, trying to lighten the moment, but he didn’t laugh with you. Instead, he studied you, his expression softening even more.

“It’s different,” you said quickly, “but... I think I understand. Feeling like you’re giving so much of yourself but never really... being seen.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on yours. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Exactly that.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the kitchen winding down and the soft hum of the music filled the space between you.

“Thanks” “Anytime”

-----

After that first night, when he opened up to you, something shifted. He became a regular, showing up more often than you expected. Always in your section. Always polite, Always Harry. with that soft smile that somehow made your stomach flip no matter how much you tried to ignore it. And yet, every time he walked through the door, you felt a tiny pang of dread mixed with curiosity.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t kind—he was. He never made you feel uncomfortable, never crossed a line. But that was exactly the problem. It was too easy to talk to him, to laugh at his dry jokes or share fleeting glimpses of yourself you hadn’t meant to reveal. You’d been down this road before, or so you told yourself. You knew what happened when you let someone in. It started with little things—a laugh, a smile, a shared moment. And before you knew it, your heart was tied up in something messy, something that always felt like it demanded too much of you.

Your exes had taught you that love wasn’t about equal footing, at least not for someone like you. Love had been another job, another place where you had to prove yourself, where your dreams took a backseat because someone else needed more—more time, more attention, more of you.

And now, here he was. Harry. A man who, on the surface, seemed worlds apart from you but had a way of making you feel like he truly saw you. And that terrified you.

Because what if he didn’t? What if, like everyone else, he was drawn to an idea of you—someone kind, patient, maybe even a little mysterious—but not the real you? The one who worked double shifts just to keep the lights on, who barely had time to think about her own dreams, let alone share them with someone else?

So, you kept your walls up. You kept things professional, polite. You smiled, laughed when it felt safe, but you never let yourself think too much about why his visits mattered or why your heart raced when you saw him.

Until that night.

You brought the check over as you always did, a practiced smile on your face. He signed it, handed it back, and thanked you like he always did. But rushed to go out.

When you glanced down at the receipt, your breath caught.

“123-456-7890 Call me? - Harry”

The number scrawled below it was neat, confident, like he hadn’t hesitated for a second. But you did.

You gripped the paper tightly, your mind spinning. This was the moment you dreaded—the moment where things teetered on the edge of something more. And with it came all the fears you’d been trying to bury.

Because what if he meant it? What if he actually wanted something real? What if he saw more in you than you could see in yourself? And maybe worst of all... what if you let yourself hope, only to have it all fall apart again?

You froze for a moment, staring at the slip of paper, your mind racing. He had just walked out the door, and you glanced after him through the window, catching the faintest glimpse of his silhouette.

----- A few nights passed, and you convinced yourself that ignoring the receipt was the right thing to do. The thought of calling him felt too big, too real. You’d gotten good at guarding your heart, at keeping things simple. But deep down, you felt the faint sting of regret every time you thought about it.

Then, on a quiet evening, as the rush died down, there he was.

You saw him before he saw you, his figure familiar now, confident but approachable. He made his way to the host stand, scanning the room until his eyes landed on you. His smile was soft, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t entirely sure he’d made the right decision coming back.

“Table 11 again?” he asked the host.

---

You approached, trying to steady your nerves. “Good evening,” you said, your voice quieter than usual.

“Hi,” he replied, leaning slightly forward. His expression wasn’t upset, but there was something thoughtful in his eyes. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by.”

You shook your head, unsure what to say. “Why would i?” 

“I just wanted to check in,” he said. “About the number. I wasn’t sure if I crossed a line leaving it. If I did, I’m really sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”

You blinked, surprised. The last thing you expected was for him to apologize. God you expected an angry response, even pretentious but you even scolded yourself in your mind just thinking Harry was capable of that. “No, you didn’t cross a line,” you said quickly. “Not at all. It’s just...” You hesitated, feeling your walls crack ever so slightly. “It’s complicated.”

“I get that,” he said softly, leaning back in his chair. “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing I’d want.” The sincerity in his voice made something shift in you. For all your fears about opening up, he was here, not pushing, not demanding, just... waiting. The crack on your walls was now getting bigger.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For saying that. And for... being patient.”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “I figured it was worth it. You seem worth it.”

The words hung between you, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak. Your chest felt tight, like you were standing at the edge of something unknown. And then, before you could overthink it, you made a decision. 

One wall completely down.

You reached into your apron pocket, your fingers brushing against the scrap of paper you’d tucked away days ago. Slowly, you slid it out, unfolding it carefully before placing it on the table in front of him.

He glanced down, his brows lifting slightly as he recognized the paper.

“I didn’t call i did save the number in my phone but..i didn’t call…” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because I was scared. I’ve always been scared. But maybe...” You took a shaky breath. “Maybe I’m tired of being scared.”

His eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something you hadn’t let yourself hope for—understanding, warmth, maybe even relief.

“So,” you continued, your voice steadying as you looked him in the eye. “If the offer’s still open, I’d like to start over.”

His smile widened, and he picked up the slip of paper, tucking it into his jacket pocket like it was something precious.

“The offer’s still open,” he said, his tone light but full of meaning.

For the first time in a long time, you let yourself smile back. “Can I start you off with something to drink?” you said going back to your waitress self, but this time with a big smile on your face.

The rest of the night carried an air of something new, something unspoken. You noticed it in the way his gaze lingered as you brought over his glass of wine—a different one tonight, a crisp Sauvignon Blanc.

“You’re not sticking to a favorite?” you teased lightly as you set the glass down.

He smirked, his fingers brushing the stem. “I like variety. Keeps things interesting.”

“Does that apply to everything or just wine?” you asked, surprising yourself with the boldness.

He chuckled “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

The banter flowed easily after that, your interactions feeling more relaxed, almost playful. When you brought out his dinner—tonight, a wild mushroom risotto—you couldn’t help but make a small quip.

“Risotto,” you said, placing the plate down. “Trying to impress someone tonight?”

“Just my server,” he replied smoothly, making you glance away with a shy smile.

As the evening wore on and the restaurant began to empty, you found yourself gravitating toward his table more often. He didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he welcomed your presence with a smile each time. When he finally asked for the check you came quickly and handed it over.

“Thanks,” he said, glancing up as he pulled out his card. “Should i leave another note on the receipt or should i ask right away?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “About what?” 

He handed back the signed receipt, a sly grin on his face. “Well, if we are skipping the middleman. Have dinner with me—somewhere that isn’t here. I promise I won’t make you serve me.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how casually he’d said it. “You’re asking me out?”

“Too fast?” he teased.

“A little,” you admitted, but your heart was pounding. “But i like it this time”

He stood, shrugging on his jacket. “Well, think about it. No pressure. Just... somewhere nice, where we can talk and you don’t have to carry plates around.”

You couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face. “Okay,” you said softly. “But only if I get to pick the place, no fancy Michelin-star restaurants.”

“Deal,” he said, standing and shrugging on his coat. “But just so you know, I’m good with street tacos or diner burgers.”

The laugh that bubbled out of you was genuine, and as he waved goodnight and walked out into the night, you realized you were already looking forward to whatever came next.

-----

The dates started slow, testing the waters of this new, fragile connection. Their first was at a cozy, family-owned pizzeria, far removed from the polished dining spaces Harry was used to frequenting. They sat in a corner booth, sharing stories over thin-crust slices and soda. You learned that his laugh came easily when he was truly comfortable, and also learned or imagined how wealthy he was. Him telling you about his company didn’t compared how one of your ex-boyfriends talked about a new crypto. He was passionate, honest, not even mentioning how much money he makes in a year, it was pure. As pure as corporate can get.

After that, there was a second date at an indie bookstore. Harry had smiled as you danced from shelf to shelf, excitedly recommending titles, while he kept his hands tucked in his pockets, quietly absorbing your passion. You ended up leaving with two novels you insisted he had to read and a poetry collection he bought, saying, “I thought of you when I saw this.”

Then came the late-night phone calls. You both quickly learned that your lives rarely aligned, but you made the most of the small pockets of time you shared. He’d call after a long day at work, his voice a little tired but steady as he asked about your day. You’d talk quietly from your bed, recounting the chaos of the dinner rush and sharing little anecdotes about your coworkers. sometimes until you fell asleep and he heard your steady breathing through the call.

“Do you ever get a day off?” he joked one night, his voice warm through the receiver.

“Not often,” you admitted. “But I’m used to it. And hey, at least I’m not running a company.”

“Touché,” he replied, laughing softly. “But don’t think for a second I’m not impressed by what you do.”

The weeks passed in a flurry of mismatched schedules and stolen moments. When aligning your off-days seemed impossible, Harry started stopping by the restaurant on his way home from work, not to eat but just to see you.

“Table for one?” you teased the first time he showed up unexpectedly.

“Not quite,” he said with a smile, taking a seat at the bar instead. “Just water, please. I didn’t want to add to your workload. i just wanted to see you” 

You brought him the water, leaning against the counter for a brief moment when the restaurant was quiet. “You didn’t have to come all this way,” you said softly.

“I wanted to,” he replied, his gaze steady. “You’re the best part of my day.” ---

The first kiss came on a rainy night after one of those visits. The restaurant was closing, and he had waited outside under the awning as you locked up. When you stepped out into the night, he was there with an umbrella, holding it out for you.

“Need a ride home?” he asked.

You nodded, and he quickly arrived to your place. At your door, there was a brief pause as you turned to thank him.

Before you could speak, he leaned in, his movements precise, as though giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. When his lips met yours, it was soft and sure, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek.

It wasn’t hurried or frantic—it was the kind of kiss that made you feel like you had all the time in the world. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe you deserved this. When he pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, he whispered, “Finally.”

You laughed softly, your cheeks warm despite the cool rain. “Took you long enough.”

And with that, the lines between your busy lives blurred a little more, the moments you carved out for each other feeling less like an interruption and more like a necessity.

----

It happened on an unusually quiet night. You were sitting across from him at his place, a cozy loft that felt miles away from the chaos of the restaurant. The table was littered with the remnants of takeout boxes, and you were laughing at a story he had told about a disastrous business trip. The laughter faded into a comfortable silence, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning your face as if trying to figure out the best way to say something.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started, his tone casual but his expression serious.

“That sounds dangerous,” you teased, though the look on his face made your heart flutter with curiosity.

“I’m serious,” he said with a small smile, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the table. “I’ve been watching how hard you work. You’re on your feet all day, running around, dealing with difficult customers. And then you come home and somehow still have the energy to take care of everything else in your life.”

“That’s just life,” you said, shrugging. “You know how it is. You make it work.”

“I know,” he said, his voice softening. “But it doesn’t have to be like that. Not for you.”

You frowned slightly, unsure of where this was going. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I’m saying I could offer you something different. A way to work that doesn’t involve twelve-hour shifts and aching feet. Something where you’d have more time for yourself, for your dreams, and…”—his voice faltered just slightly—“for us.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you leaned back in your chair, trying to process his words. “Harry, are you asking me to quit my job?”

“Not asking,” he clarified quickly. “Just… suggesting. If you wanted to. I could offer you a job. Something in my company, but nothing high-pressure. Maybe in admin, or operations, or whatever you’d like. You’d have a flexible schedule, a good paycheck, and, most importantly, time to breathe.” Of course he wasn’t asking, he’s Harry, ALWAYS making sure it was purely your decision.

The weight of his offer hung in the air, and you felt a tangle of emotions—gratitude, doubt, and an overwhelming sense of being cared for in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I don’t know,” you said slowly, trying to find the right words. “I’ve always worked for everything I have. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m just…”

“Stop,” he said gently, cutting you off. “This isn’t about charity. It’s about giving someone I care about a chance to live their life differently. You deserve that. And it’s not just for you—it’s for me too. I want to see you happy. I want to see us happy.”

You looked at him, his eyes earnest and unwavering. “And you think this would make me happy?”

“I do,” he said simply. “But it’s your choice. If you’re not ready, or if you want to keep things as they are, that’s okay. I’ll still come to the restaurant and order my overpriced water just to see you.”

That last comment made you laugh, easing the tension in the room. You stared down at the table, tracing the edge of a takeout container with your finger. “What would I even do at your company?” you asked softly.

His expression brightened slightly, and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Anything you want. Admin, scheduling, planning events—whatever feels right to you. And we can figure it out together. No pressure.”

You bit your lip, considering his words. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “You deserve more than what you’ve been settling for. And selfishly…I’d love to have more time with you.”

His honesty warmed you in a way you hadn’t expected. For so long, you’d carried everything alone, convinced that leaning on someone else meant weakness. But Harry wasn’t asking you to lean on him; he was offering to walk beside you.

“Okay,” you said finally, the word barely audible.

His brows lifted in surprise. “Okay?”

You nodded, a nervous laugh escaping. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll work for you.”

The grin that spread across his face was enough to make your heart skip a beat. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“I better not,” you teased, though the smile on your face betrayed your nervousness. “But just so you know, I’m not going to be some pushover employee. If you’re a terrible boss, I’ll quit.”

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Fair enough. But I think you’ll find I’m quite charming.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “We’ll see about that.”

In that moment, the fear you’d been carrying felt lighter. You weren’t just throwing yourself off a cliff—you were trusting that Harry would catch you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe that was okay.

----

Life had changed in ways neither of you could have imagined. The small apartment you'd once called home was now replaced by a shared space filled with light, laughter, and little touches of each other everywhere—his collection of vinyl records stacked neatly in the corner, your books scattered on the coffee table, and the scent of fresh flowers he insisted on buying for you every week.

You had found a rhythm together, a balance between his busy days running his company and your own work, which had evolved into a role that allowed your creativity to shine. You weren’t just an employee at his company—you were a partner, bringing ideas and energy to projects in ways you never thought possible. And at the heart of it all, there was love. Open, unapologetic, and boundless love.

Mornings were filled with teasing banter over breakfast, and nights ended with shared dreams and whispered promises under the covers. On weekends, you’d go on adventures—sometimes exploring new cities, other times simply enjoying lazy days at home. There was no hesitation in showing how much you adored each other, whether it was in the way he’d kiss your forehead absentmindedly or the way you’d hold his hand tightly in crowded rooms.

One evening, after a particularly exciting day of work, Harry had an idea. “Let’s go out for dinner,” he said, tossing his jacket onto the back of the couch.

“Sure,” you replied, grabbing your shoes. “Where to?”

He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Velours et Flamme.”

You froze for a second, then burst out laughing. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all,” he said, his grin widening. “It’s been a while. I think it’s time we revisit the place where it all started.”

Despite your initial hesitance, you found yourself walking into the restaurant hand-in-hand with him that evening. The familiar scent of wine and spices filled the air, and the decor, though slightly updated, still held the charm you remembered.

The host greeted you with a polite smile “Welcome to Velours et Flamme. Do you have a reservation?”

“Styles,” Harry said smoothly, squeezing your hand.

You were led to a table by the window, the same spot you’d served him on that Valentine’s Day when everything began. As you sat down, you couldn’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia wash over you.

“This feels surreal,” you admitted, glancing around.

“Good surreal?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as he leaned forward.

“Very good surreal,” you said, smiling and carefully looking at the menu, when an idea quickly popped into your mind. You bit your lip, hesitating for a brief moment before speaking up. “Can I splurge a little? Or maybe… a lot?”

Harry tilted his head, intrigued. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, glancing at the menu with a playful smile.

You took a deep breath, letting your finger trace over the menu’s edges before landing on the words you’d been eyeing. “Cairnburn 18,” you said firmly, looking at him with a small, determined smile.

“Scotch?” he asked, raising an eyebrow but not even glancing at the price.

“It’s something I need to do. Please,” you said softly, a touch of vulnerability in your tone.

He didn’t question it, didn’t protest or ask for a reason. Instead, his expression softened, and he reached for your hand, cradling it gently before bringing it to his lips. The kiss he pressed to the top of your hand was tender, a silent reassurance. “Anything you want,” he said, his voice calm and sincere.

The waiter arrived, and Harry placed the order without hesitation, his gaze never leaving yours. You couldn’t help but feel a swell of gratitude for him in that moment—not just for agreeing, but for understanding without needing an explanation.

As the Cairnburn 18 arrived, the rich, £1,500 a pour, amber liquid catching the light, you smiled and raised your glass to him. “To us,” you said simply.

“To us,” he echoed, clinking his glass gently against yours. ----

You both knew how the rest of the night would go the minute you left the restaurant. Back home, he helped you undress, kissing every inch of exposed skin as he did. When you were bare, he pressed his lips to yours, the heat between you building as his hands roamed over your body.

The way he touched you everytime was unhurried, like he was memorizing every curve. His fingers teased along your collarbone, traced your hips, and softly grabbed your breasts. His hands were everywhere, But nowhere near the place you needed him most.

Finally, he pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. You let him guide you to the bed, watching as he stripped off his clothes and joined you. The heat of his body was intoxicating, and you found yourself craving more—more contact, more skin, more of him.

He sensed your need because he moved closer, the length of his body pressed against yours, his cock hard and thick against your thigh. You ached for him, the anticipation coiling in you, but he didn't rush.

Instead, he trailed kisses along your neck, his stubble rough against your sensitive skin. His fingers danced along your inner thigh, teasing closer and closer to your folds. When he finally touched you, it was with a firm, confident stroke, his thumb brushing against your clit and making you gasp. "Harry..." you moaned breathless

"Yes puppy?" He asked with an innocent tone and used that nickname that made you weak, and kept up the torturous pace, working you higher and higher until you were a trembling mess beneath him. You moaned, begging him for more, and he finally relented, easing a finger inside of you and setting a relentless rhythm. “More” Your pleasure built quickly, the intensity making you cry out, but just as you were about to tip over the edge, he pulled away. Before you could protest, he positioned himself between your legs, his cock hard and glistening at the tip.

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on either side of your head and gazing down at you with a look of pure devotion. "I love you," he whispered, the words sending a thrill through your entire body. "And I'm gonna take care of you, puppy. Always."

With that, he thrust into you, filling you completely and stealing the breath from your lungs. The feeling of him inside you was almost too much, and you clung to him, desperate for more.

"Fuck, Harry," you breathed. He didn't respond, instead burying his face in your neck and moving slowly, deeply, as if he was savoring every moment. His hands roamed your body, teasing and caressing as his hips continued their torturous rhythm.

"Do you like it puppy? me being so deep inside you?"

You could only nod, too overwhelmed to form words. The sensations were overwhelming, the pleasure building and building until it threatened to consume you.

Suddenly, he shifted, changing the angle and hitting a spot deep inside you that made you see stars. "it's so....big" you barely said in a moan

"That's right puppy. Take all of it. Just like that"

You writhed beneath him, unable to hold back the moans spilling from your lips. Your release was within reach, and when he finally slid a hand between your bodies, stroking your clit, it was enough to send you tumbling over the edge. "Come on daddy's cock puppy, don't be shy" he murmured

His words were enough to push you over the edge, your body tensing and trembling as pleasure washed over you. You felt him pulse inside you, and he followed soon after, his breath hot on your neck as he came with a groan filling you with his hot cum.

When the last waves of your orgasm faded, you collapsed against him, completely spent. You both stayed there for a moment, tangled in each other's arms, neither of you willing to break the spell.

Eventually, he pulled out and gathered you into his arms, holding you close. You nuzzled into his chest, breathing in the scent of his skin and the faint trace of his cologne.

Both of you were now cuddled in bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting warm light across the room. Harry’s arm was wrapped securely around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your shoulder as you rested your head against his chest, listening to the now steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Your eyes drifted to the two frames hung just above the bed. The first one held the receipt from the night that had changed everything—the receipt where he’d written his number, sparking a connection that had grown into the life you shared now.

The second frame hung beside it, empty but not forgotten. Its purpose was clear—it was waiting for tonight’s receipt, the one with the Cairnburn 18 scribbled on it. The night where everything had come full circle.

Taglist: @hermionelove

[1982grapejuiceblues]

The Mistake I

Series Masterlist

Summary:

She sat at the wrong table. He didn’t tell her. It was supposed to be a mistake — a mix-up, a meet-cute with no consequences. But something about him lingers. And something about her makes him stay. One unexpected conversation. One missed connection. And two people who can’t quite let it go.

A/N: This is the first part in my first Harry fic! I'm so excited, this has been a labor of love and an outlet for my creative juices. I hope you guys love these two as much as I do.

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings:

• Emotional miscommunication

• Mild angst

• Anxiety spiraling / fear of rejection

• Self-doubt

• No physical touch — only emotional intimacy

• Delayed gratification (they do not kiss in this part!)

• Vibes: if-you-like-to-suffer-softly™

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Tuesday 9:06 a.m. - Milk & Honey

Y/N was late, and it was entirely, stupidly, predictably her own fault.

She’d set her alarm. Gotten up early. Even made a checklist. But then she’d done the thing she always did — convinced herself she had just enough time for a homemade coffee and a quick scroll through email.

Which became a not-so-quick scroll. Which turned into a rush out the door, half-dressed and under-caffeinated, with a latte that was more oat milk than espresso and an anxiety level creeping into the red.

She was now power-walking down a narrow Notting Hill side street with her bag bouncing against her hip and her phone buzzing in her coat pocket like it had something judgy to say.

9:06 a.m.

The meeting had been set for nine sharp.

Her boots slapped the pavement as she skidded around a corner and spotted the café ahead — Milk & Honey, of course. Brody Talbot would only agree to a meeting at a place that sounded like it was trying too hard to be whimsical.

It was charming in that perfectly curated way: potted plants in mismatched mugs, fairy lights in the windows, chalkboard menu with extra loops in the cursive. Inside, it was a mosaic of indie girls, old couples with newspapers, and creative types nursing cappuccinos like they held life-altering secrets.

Y/N paused at the door just long enough to press a hand over her chest and try to slow her heart rate. She could do this. It was one meeting. With one very opinionated, very overrated, very tortured author.

She scanned the tables.

And there he was.

In the corner by the window.

Notebook open. Black jumper.

Curls falling lazily across his forehead as he scribbled something into the page.

Sleeves pushed to the elbows. Rings catching the morning light.

God help me, that is absolutely a Brody.

She approached.

“Hi!” she said, breathless and maybe too bright. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Y/N, from Primrose Literary.”

The man looked up. Slowly. Casually.

Like he had all the time in the world.

And that’s when her brain stalled out.

Because holy shit, this man was beautiful.

Not just attractive. Beautiful. In a way that made time hiccup for a second. Green eyes sharp and calm, mouth soft at the edges, a face that somehow made you want to confess something. And a dimple. Of course there was a dimple.

He blinked once, then tilted his head slightly. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

“You’re… not Brody Talbot?”

He smiled. Just a little. “Nope.”

Her entire soul tried to crawl out of her body.

“Oh my god,” she said, already backing up. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were— You just looked very—”

“Writer-y?” he offered, amusement curling around his voice.

“Yes! Exactly. You looked like someone who would write emotionally devastating fiction and judge me for being late.”

“I mean, I can judge you, if that helps.”

She groaned, covering her face. “Please don’t. I’m begging you.”

“I’m just saying,” he added, “you walked in with the energy of someone who’s about to pitch a debut novel and cry about the advance.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “That’s painfully accurate.”

“I’m Harry,” he said, offering no last name, no explanation. Just that — warm and simple and a little too easy.

“Y/N,” she replied, like they hadn’t already been through this part.

“I know. You introduced yourself. Very professionally.”

She gave him a flat look.

He grinned.

Harry watched her flounder with the kind of amused stillness that only someone deeply confident — or deeply entertained — could pull off.

Y/N, on the other hand, felt like she was unraveling in high definition.

“I can’t believe I just sat down across from a stranger and announced my job title like it was a secret code.”

“To be fair,” he said, “you had a very convincing entrance. Firm intro. Apology with just the right amount of panic. Strong eye contact. That’s the kind of energy I want from my wedding speeches.”

She blinked. “You’re married?”

“What? No.”

“You write wedding speeches?”

He nodded, unbothered. “Professionally.”

“That’s a real job?”

“Apparently. People pay me to make them sound like they understand their own feelings.”

“That’s…” She narrowed her eyes. “Honestly kind of amazing.”

“I get that reaction a lot. Right after ‘you’re making that up.’”

She raised her brows. “You are, though.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Cross my heart.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is,” he agreed, “and also mildly lucrative.”

Y/N laughed — really laughed — and something about it lit him up a little. She saw it. That flicker in his expression like he hadn’t meant to enjoy this quite so much.

“I don’t usually do this,” she said, waving a hand between them.

“Crash tables?”

“Talk to strangers.”

“You sat down like you knew me.”

“I thought I did.”

“Well,” he said, “I’d argue you weren’t completely wrong.”

She tilted her head.

“You said I looked writer-y,” he said. “Broody. Like someone who’d glare at you for being late.”

“Right…”

“I do write. Just not fiction.”

“Wedding speeches,” she said again, still incredulous.

He nodded.

“What does one even say in a speech like that?”

“Depends on the person,” he said. “Some people want heartfelt. Others want funny. Most people want to sound like they’re not terrified.”

“And you… translate that for them?”

“I take their chaos,” he said simply, “and turn it into something that sounds like love.”

That landed like a stone in her stomach.

“That’s…” she started, then stopped.

He just looked at her — patient, still, a little too knowing.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, looking down at her latte. “That was more profound than I was prepared for on a Tuesday.”

Harry smiled. “You’d be surprised how often that happens.”

Next thing she knew, she was fifteen minutes in. Still sitting. Still talking. Still not texting her boss to say yes, I found Brody Talbot and no, I haven’t fantasized about throwing a drink in his face yet.

She didn’t even know what she and Harry were talking about anymore. Favorite cafés. The ethics of ghostwriting love. Whether or not books were better when they made you cry.

(He said yes. She said sometimes.)

There was something about him — his ease, his warmth, his unhurried way of speaking — that made the air around them feel like something different. Not romantic. Not exactly.

But charged.

Familiar.

Safe.

Dangerous.

And then the door opened.

She didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. Brody Talbot radiated disdain like a cologne.

Harry followed her gaze. “Is that…”

“Yep,” she said, standing too quickly. “The real Brody. The one I was supposed to impress instead of, you know, you.”

“I’m flattered,” Harry said, not moving.

She grabbed her tote. “Thanks for not being weird about this.”

“Thanks for making my grocery-list-writing morning wildly more interesting.”

She paused. Hesitated.

“You know,” she said, “you’re very good at putting people at ease.”

He looked up at her with that soft, crooked half-smile.

“That’s literally my job.”

And that was the problem.

Because he meant it. And she kind of wished he didn’t.

9:43 a.m.

Y/N turned toward the door.

Brody Talbot had spotted her, of course — standing with his arms crossed and a frown like someone had given him almond milk instead of oat. She gave him a short wave and started across the café, but paused — just for a breath — and turned back to Harry.

He hadn’t moved.

Still in the corner booth, arms resting lightly on the table, watching her with a soft kind of curiosity. Not clingy. Not expectant.

Just… present.

“I hope your client’s less of a diva than mine,” she said, half-joking.

He quirked an eyebrow. “You were kind of my favorite meeting of the week.”

She blinked.

“I’m not saying much,” he added, “but still. Thought I’d mention it.”

She smiled, a little caught off guard.

“I hope they know how lucky they are,” he said, more seriously this time.

Something fluttered low in her chest.

“They don’t,” she replied before she could stop herself.

And then, before the moment could stretch too long, she offered him a final, crooked smile — one part thank you, one part I wish this were different — and turned away.

She walked toward Brody like someone crossing a tightrope: careful, deliberate, already regretting it.

Harry watched her go.

Didn’t stop her. Didn’t call after her.

But something in his chest pulled taut, like he’d just been written into a story and cut from the next chapter before it started.

He opened his notebook.

Wrote:

“She sat down like the seat was waiting for her.

She left like the moment didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

I know it did.”

10:14 a.m.

Brody Talbot looked like he hadn’t smiled since the 2012 Booker Prize shortlist.

He was tall, pale, and sharp-edged — not in the sexy, mysterious way, but in the “I’ve definitely written a twelve-page takedown of a debut author on my blog” way. His coat was expensive and unnecessary. His frown was immediate.

“You’re late,” he said, voice flat as his espresso order.

Y/N inhaled through her nose and gave him a polite smile. “Yes. Sorry about that. The tube was a nightmare this morning.”

“I don’t take the tube,” he replied. “Claustrophobic.”

She nodded like he hadn’t just said something wildly out of touch. “Shall we sit?”

He dropped into the seat with a sigh like he’d already decided the meeting was a waste of his time.

Y/N followed, clutching her tote like it might protect her from his disdain.

“You’re younger than I expected,” Brody said, after a long sip of coffee. “Your boss said you’d handled difficult clients before.”

“I have,” she said smoothly, sliding out her notebook. “And I’m still here.”

He didn’t smile. But something flickered behind his eyes.

She knew the type. Egotistical, overly precious about his work, probably obsessed with the phrase art for art’s sake. A man who thought deadlines were suggestions and notes were personal attacks.

“My last agent,” he said, “wanted me to do social media content. Can you imagine?”

“The horror,” she said dryly.

“She suggested a giveaway. Like I’m a bloody influencer.”

Y/N scribbled nothing in her notebook. “We’d never ask you to give away your soul for engagement, Brody.”

“Thank God.”

He paused, then added, “Unless you liked the book.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“She didn’t like my last manuscript. Said it was ‘too internal.’”

“Isn’t that sort of your whole brand?”

That earned her a sharp glance.

She stared back, unbothered.

He set his coffee down. “You’ve read it?”

“All of them,” she said. “I liked the second. The third needed a stronger editor. The first one tried too hard.”

That startled him.

“You asked,” she said, flipping a page.

He crossed his arms. “Maybe you’re not a total waste of my morning.”

“Thank you,” she deadpanned. “I’ll put that on my business card.”

10:46 a.m.

They spoke for another twenty minutes. He talked in circles. Repeated himself. Lamented the collapse of intellectualism like he wasn’t sitting in a café filled with people reading real books.

Y/N nodded and made all the right noises, but her brain was elsewhere. Somewhere softer.

Back at the other table.

Harry.

The quiet way he watched her. The way he’d smiled when she said he was charming. The way his voice dropped when he said, “I like putting feelings into words.”

It was completely irrational. She didn’t even know his last name. But something about him had made the morning feel fuller.

This? Felt like a chore.

She realized with a jolt that Brody was still talking.

“—so obviously it’s not commercial, but it’s important.”

She blinked. “Of course.”

“You weren’t listening.”

“I was.”

“What did I say?”

“That it’s not commercial, but it’s important.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re good at bluffing.”

She smiled tightly. “You’re good at monologuing.”

A beat. And then, to her surprise, he laughed.

It was short. Clipped. But real.

“You’re a pain,” he said.

“You’re a lot.”

“This might actually work.”

She wasn’t sure if he meant her representing him, or something more ominous — like emotional warfare.

Either way, she was ready to get the hell out of there.

10:56 a.m.

They stood. He offered a curt nod and handed her a business card with only his name and a lowercase email address on it.

“I’ll send the manuscript,” he said. “You can send your notes. But I won’t read them.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I love being ignored.”

“You’re going to do well,” he said, oddly sincere. “Just don’t lose your edge.”

She wanted to say, I left my edge in the corner booth with a man who made me laugh before nine a.m.

Instead, she said, “I never do.”

He left without another word.

She counted to five. And then, before she could change her mind, she stepped back inside the café.

10:59 a.m.

He was gone.

She didn’t know what she expected — a note, maybe. His number on a napkin. His voice, still lingering in the air.

The booth was empty.

The seat was cold.

And Y/N realized something that she really didn’t want to admit:

She hadn’t just walked away from a stranger.

She’d walked away from a spark.

And she might never get it back.

10:48 a.m.

He saw her before he left.

She was sitting at a new table, diagonally across the café. Her back was straighter now, her shoulders squared in that quiet, professional way people do when they’ve put their walls back up. Her face was calm, practiced — polite in the exact way it had not been with him.

The man across from her looked like he came with footnotes. Expensive glasses. Sharp lapel. Frown lines carved into his face like he’d earned them. He gestured with his spoon when he spoke. The kind of man who probably didn’t ask questions so much as wait for silence so he could fill it.

Harry didn’t need to guess who he was.

Brody.

Y/N didn’t look miserable. But she didn’t look like the girl who’d laughed into her latte twenty minutes ago, either.

She wasn’t touching her drink. Wasn’t gesturing. Wasn’t letting herself take up the same space she had at his table.

Something about that bothered him more than he expected.

Harry lingered by the counter with the remains of his flat white in hand, watching the espresso drip into someone else’s cup. He should’ve left already. He knew that.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

Maybe a glance. A nod. A half-second acknowledgment that she still remembered what it felt like to talk to him instead of the person she was supposed to be meeting.

But she didn’t look up.

He considered staying — for real. Sitting back down in the booth they’d shared, pulling out his notebook again, letting the day stretch. But something about it felt… off. Intrusive. Like pushing his luck would break whatever weird little moment they’d already had.

So instead, he quietly reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled five-pound note, and left it folded under his cup on the counter.

He passed the table on his way out. Let his eyes linger for the span of a breath.

She was mid-sentence, eyebrows raised at something Brody had said. Not smiling, not quite frowning. Just… present. Distantly.

Harry stepped through the door, letting the bell chime softly behind him.

He didn’t look back.

11:52 a.m.

He walked. Aimless, slow, hands in his pockets, mind full.

Past the florist next door. Down toward the canal. A street performer was tuning a guitar just outside the station, playing half-chords that didn’t go anywhere.

Harry kept walking.

She hadn’t looked up. And why would she?

She was doing her job. Meeting her author. Handling her morning like the competent, sharp, slightly chaotic literary agent she clearly was.

What they had — that half-hour window of strangeness and connection — it didn’t mean anything.

Except… it kind of did.

He hated that. The way it clung to him. Like fog in his chest. Not heavy, just… present.

He pulled out his phone and opened Notes.

Typed:

I shouldn’t care.

But she made me want to listen to myself speak.

That doesn’t happen often.

Deleted it. Started again.

There was something there. I know there was.

It felt like breathing with someone else in the room.

No. Too much. Too abstract.

Deleted it again.

12:43 p.m.

He sat on his sofa. One leg curled under him, tea on the coffee table. Notebook open to a blank page.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then wrote:

She sat across from me like it wasn’t a mistake.

Like the seat had always been mine.

Like maybe I was supposed to be there.

Then:

I wanted to ask her to stay.

I didn’t.

She left.

I watched her walk toward someone else.

And I didn’t stop her.

Because I didn’t think I had the right to.

He closed the notebook before he could second-guess it.

Ran a hand over his jaw. Pressed the heel of his palm against his eye.

It was nothing.

A stranger. A spark. A moment.

But still… he felt off.

Like something had been almost real, and now it was out of reach.

3:10 p.m.

He passed the café again.

Didn’t even plan to — he was just walking, really. But when he saw the familiar string of fairy lights through the window, his heart gave a little thud he pretended not to notice.

He slowed down.

She wasn’t there.

Different crowd now. A group of friends chatting over croissants. A man in a suit reading a thick paperback. An older woman sipping something bright green with both hands wrapped around the cup.

The booth was empty.

He stood at the edge of the window, looking in for a second too long.

And then kept walking.

He didn’t know what he was hoping for.

He just knew that nothing else that day had felt as vivid as the first five minutes of it.

6:03 p.m. - Y/N's Flat

Her flat was too quiet.

It wasn’t usually a problem — she liked the quiet. She’d picked this place because it was small and cozy and didn’t echo when she walked barefoot across the hardwood floor. But tonight, the silence felt different. Like it was waiting for something she hadn’t said yet.

She stood in the kitchen, staring at the stovetop like it had personally offended her. The pasta was overdone. The sauce was barely warmed through. She didn’t even bother with a plate — just poured it into a chipped ceramic bowl and sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine she didn’t remember opening.

The light above her hummed faintly. Her phone buzzed once. Then again.

Two new emails. Both boring.

She didn’t open them.

She stared down at her bowl, fork dangling from her fingers, and let the weight of the day settle on her shoulders.

It wasn’t supposed to matter this much.

But it did.

6:16 p.m.

She hadn’t meant to sit with him.

That was the thing she kept circling back to — the randomness of it. How easily it could’ve gone another way. If she’d arrived five minutes earlier. If she’d looked left instead of right. If he hadn’t looked like a writer.

But he had.

He’d looked like the kind of person who knew how to listen — really listen. The kind of man who wrote longhand and drank coffee slowly and said the word romantic like it wasn’t embarrassing.

She hadn’t expected to like him.

She definitely hadn’t expected to leave the conversation feeling like she was walking away from something unfinished.

It was a mistake. A mix-up. A one-off interaction.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not in the swoony, fairy-tale way. She wasn’t an idiot.

It was just… something shifted.

And she felt it.

Still felt it, hours later, like an echo.

6:42 p.m.

The water was too hot, but she didn’t get out.

She lay still, arms floating, trying to focus on the quiet splash of the bathwater against the tub. Her phone buzzed on the counter. She ignored it.

Tried to think about work. About the manuscript she needed to review. About the client who’d ghosted her for a week. About Brody, whose ego was roughly the size of London.

But instead, she thought about dimples.

And green eyes.

And that line — “People don’t know how to say what they mean.”

And the way he’d looked at her when she told him his job was weirdly romantic.

He hadn’t laughed it off.

He’d just… seen her.

And now he was gone.

And she didn’t know how to explain why that mattered.

7:12 p.m.

She curled up on the couch, still damp from the bath, oversized jumper sleeves pulled over her hands. The wineglass was on the floor beside her. Her planner was in her lap. She hadn’t written anything yet.

The page was blank.

She flipped back a few days, just to ground herself. Checked her own handwriting like it might remind her who she was before this morning happened.

But all she saw was white space.

Like something had started today — and she didn’t know how to write it down.

Eventually, she opened a new page in her notes app. Started typing, slowly.

Today I made a mistake.

Sat down at the wrong table.

Met a stranger.

Talked about nothing.

Felt more like myself than I have in weeks.

Then, under that:

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

She didn’t delete it.

She didn’t send it to anyone.

She just stared at it until the screen dimmed.

8:04 p.m.

She poured another glass of wine and walked into the bedroom. Turned on the fairy lights. Crawled into bed fully dressed, covers pulled up over her legs like armor.

She opened Instagram again. Searched Milk & Honey Café. Scrolled. Searched her own photos, wondering if maybe she’d caught him in the background of something — a ghost of him somewhere.

Nothing.

She didn’t know why that stung.

She reached for her planner again, flipped to Sunday, and wrote:

Milk & Honey – 9:00 a.m.

Then circled it.

Then added a question mark.

Just to keep herself honest.

9:12 p.m.

She turned out the light and lay in bed, wide awake.

And when she finally drifted off — slow, heavy, unwilling — she dreamed about a corner booth, a cold cup of coffee, and a man with ink on his fingers who smiled like he already knew the ending.

Wednesday 8:04 a.m. — Y/N's Flat

The sun had the audacity to be golden.

The kind of light that filtered through gauzy curtains and made everything feel softer than it deserved to be. The kind of light you woke up to when something good was supposed to happen. Not when your stomach was twisted and your brain was still playing back a voice you barely knew but couldn’t forget.

Y/N lay in bed longer than usual.

Eyes open. Motionless. Staring at the ceiling like it might offer some answer to a question she hadn’t asked out loud.

What was that?

She didn’t say it. But it sat there — right in the center of her chest, heavy as anything.

It wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t even supposed to happen. But now it lived somewhere in her, and she didn’t know how to unfeel it.

She finally got up around 8:17, shuffled into the kitchen barefoot, and stood in front of the kettle like it owed her something.

Her planner was still on the table.

The line she’d scribbled the night before — Milk & Honey – 9:00 a.m. — stared back at her like a dare.

She hadn’t crossed it out.

She hadn’t meant to write it seriously. It was just a fleeting, impulsive maybe. An if-I-see-him-it-was-meant-to-be kind of note.

But now it was morning.

And maybe that felt too loud.

8:34 a.m.

She brushed her teeth with one hand and scrolled through her calendar with the other.

Two calls. One deadline. A reading sample from a client who “just wanted to see if the concept made sense” and had sent twelve pages of character backstory with no plot.

But still — her eyes kept flicking back to the corner of the mirror. To her own face.

She looked the same.

Except she didn’t feel it.

Her reflection stared back, still and a little guarded. Like she was waiting for something.

You’re not going.

It’s stupid.

It wasn’t real.

She picked out jeans and a soft jumper. The same coat she wore yesterday.

Told herself it was just what was clean.

8:59 a.m. — Y/N's Street

She wasn’t walking fast. That would make it obvious.

She wasn’t checking her watch, either.

She wasn’t doing anything except… heading in that direction. Coincidentally. Casually. Just in case she wanted another coffee.

That’s what she told herself.

But her heart sped up as soon as the café came into view.

And that’s when she saw it.

The booth. The table. The seat by the window.

Empty.

Just like yesterday.

No curls. No notebook. No dimple half-hidden behind a coffee cup.

Nothing.

She stood outside for a second, frozen, her hand half-raised toward the door.

And then she turned around.

Walked straight past it.

Didn’t look back.

10:24 a.m. — Y/N’s Office

Y/N stared at the blinking cursor in her inbox like it was mocking her.

Subject: Quick follow-up on Brody

From: Her boss, naturally

Message: Did you manage to get anything useful out of him yesterday?

She could answer that.

She could talk about his refusal to cut the prologue, his disdain for all marketing language, the fact that he referred to himself as “a vessel for unfiltered emotion” without irony.

She could even mention that he called her “tolerable,” which, from Brody, might actually be a compliment.

But she didn’t.

Because none of that felt like what the meeting had really been about.

She minimized the window and leaned back in her chair, letting her gaze drift toward the stack of manuscripts on her desk. Normally, she found comfort in them — in the work, in the flow of someone else’s story.

Today, it felt like static.

She pulled out her phone.

Scrolled to the planner photo she’d taken the night before. The one where she’d written:

Milk & Honey – 9:00 a.m.

She hadn’t gone in.

She couldn’t bring herself to.

But now she was sitting at her desk feeling like she’d missed something. Not just a second chance, but… clarity.

10:46 a.m. — Harry’s Flat

He was still wearing the same coat.

It was too warm for it now, but he hadn’t taken it off after he got home — hadn’t really done anything except move around his flat like a ghost.

He picked up his phone three times.

Didn’t text anyone.

Didn’t open Instagram.

Didn’t write.

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. Just dull and lingering. The kind that makes everything feel one step to the left — like you’re moving, but nothing’s quite aligned.

He sat on the floor, back against the couch, notebook open in his lap.

Blank page.

The pen hovered for a long time.

Then he wrote:

What’s the word for when someone leaves and you don’t even know them well enough to miss them but you do anyway?

And then:

I think I was waiting for something and didn’t realize it until I thought it might show up again.

He stared at the page.

Then scribbled it out.

11:12 a.m. — Y/N’s Office

She tapped her pen against the side of her desk.

Five times.

Then she stood up. Pushed her chair in. Walked down the hall to the break room. Poured coffee. Didn’t drink it.

When she got back to her desk, she opened a new tab and typed:

Milk & Honey café Notting Hill staff

She didn’t even know what she was hoping to find. A name? A website? A list of people who worked there? Maybe some kind of event listing with his name on it?

But it led nowhere.

The café had no online footprint beyond its Instagram — and the last post was a photo of a croissant three weeks ago with the caption “Little joys.”

She stared at it for too long.

Then finally, quietly, she whispered:

“I should’ve stayed.”

And it wasn’t about the coffee.

11:38 a.m.

He found himself back at his desk.

Laptop open. Cursor blinking in the middle of a speech he was supposed to have finished yesterday.

He typed:

“Sometimes you meet someone for five minutes and they rearrange your furniture without touching a thing.”

Paused.

Deleted it.

Rewrote:

“You made me feel like the room had better lighting.”

Nope.

Backspaced again. Too sentimental. Too obvious. Too—

His phone buzzed.

Client.

He ignored it.

He flipped back to the page from earlier. The one with her name at the top.

Y/N

Didn’t stay.

Maybe she thought it was nothing.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe I just want her to be wrong.

He closed the notebook.

Stood up.

This time, he didn’t think about where he was going.

11:59 a.m.

She didn’t even grab her coat.

Just her bag, her phone, and a sharp tug of instinct.

The manuscript on her desk could wait. Brody’s ego could wait. The emails, the edits, the never-ending cycle of deadlines — they’d all still be there in an hour.

But the pull?

That what-if?

That felt time-sensitive.

She was halfway down the block before she even checked the time.

12:03 p.m.

His steps were steady, but not rushed.

He didn’t think she’d be there. That would be too neat, too cinematic. And he didn’t believe in timing like that.

But he still wanted to sit at the table again. Just to remember. Just to feel it.

That energy. That pause. That maybe.

12:06 p.m. — Milk & Honey

Y/N rounded the corner just as Harry stepped up to the door.

They saw each other through the window first.

He froze.

She did, too.

Time paused — not dramatically, not in a crashing, heart-stopping way. Just… softly. Like a breath held a beat longer than it should be.

And then he smiled. Small. Gentle.

Like he couldn’t quite believe it.

And she smiled back.

Like maybe she could.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Part 2

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

You Found Me Here

Where Harry is a librarian who leaves notes poetry books.

Word count: 9k

Warnings: None. Just soft Harry at his finest.

London was soaked to the bone.

Rain spilled from a low, unbroken sky, coating the pavement in a shimmering blur. Cars hissed past, umbrellas tilted like tired eyes. She slipped into the library just after half-past four, damp from the walk, her fingers chilled, her shoulders damp where her coat had failed. The door creaked shut behind her with a low, familiar groan, and the noise of the outside world vanished.

Inside, the air was warm and still. Soft light hummed from brass sconces, catching in the floating dust. The scent of old pages, polished wood, and something faintly herbal—lavender, maybe—hung in the air. The building was old, but well loved. It wrapped around her like a blanket.

She took a breath. Then another.

Behind the front desk sat the librarian. Harry.

He looked up as she entered, as he always did, his eyes catching hers with that same, steady softness. He didn’t speak at first—he rarely did unless she approached—but he smiled, a slow curl of his lips that felt like the kind of thing you had to earn.

“Hey,” he said after a beat, voice quiet, almost reluctant to break the hush of the room.

He wore a thick navy sweater, pushed up at the sleeves, revealing a hint of tattoos that curled just below the hem—inky swallows, barely visible but enough to catch her attention. She’d noticed them before, and every time she wondered just how many there were, how far they went. They didn’t quite fit the softness of him, and yet… they did. Like poetry scribbled in the margins of a quiet life.

He had that kind of presence. Gentle. Self-contained. But there were hints—like the rings on his fingers, the slightly unruly curls that fell across his forehead, the scrawl of ink on his skin—that suggested there was more beneath the surface. A contradiction wrapped in warm jumpers and slow glances.

She smiled back, murmured a hello, and walked past him toward the back corner of the library—the part where the poetry and classics lived, tucked under a tall arched window fogged with condensation. This corner had become her habit. Her haven.

She settled into it the way one might slip into a favorite coat. The shelves were tall and close together, lined with soft-spined volumes that smelled like time. She ran her fingertips along the titles, tracing names she loved—Plath, Dickinson, Whitman. Her fingers paused on Leaves of Grass. Familiar. Comfortable. She pulled it from the shelf, already thinking about the rhythm of its lines.

As she opened the book, something slipped out and floated to the floor.

She frowned, crouching to pick it up. A folded piece of paper. Not a library slip or a note scribbled in haste—but something more deliberate. Neat. A little worn at the edges, as if it had been handled more than once before being left here.

She opened it.

The handwriting was slightly slanted, steady, a little unsure. Ink faded just enough to suggest it had been written a while ago—but not too long.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

She stared at it for a long moment, heart knocking once, hard, like it had heard something before her brain had.

There was no name. No initials. Just a phone number and a quiet, aching sort of invitation.

She glanced over her shoulder toward the front desk. Harry was bent over a return log, one hand in his hair, brow furrowed slightly in concentration. The light caught on the silver band around his finger, glinting briefly.

He didn’t look up.

She turned the note over in her hand, thumb tracing the fold. She didn’t know who had written it. But it had been left here—tucked between lines of Whitman, waiting for someone. Maybe her.

She slipped the note into her coat pocket, heart still oddly light and unsteady.

Outside, the rain kept falling, blurring the world beyond the window into nothing at all.

She sat with the book open, but she hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes. The words blurred, familiar verses gone shapeless under the weight of the note folded in her pocket.

It had to be a student, she told herself. Probably someone young and overly poetic, tucked into a reading nook upstairs with earbuds in and a tote bag full of battered paperbacks. Or maybe just a lonely stranger who wandered in from the rain and left a part of themselves between pages for someone—anyone—to find.

That’s all it was. A passing thought from someone she’d never meet. Someone hoping for a little connection in a quiet place.

Still, her mind played with the idea. Spinning tiny stories behind the handwriting—who they were, what they were thinking, if they meant it or if it was a dare between friends. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe someone was watching to see who would actually respond.

Her phone was in her bag. She could text. The number was right there.

If this means something to you too… text me.

The words looped over and over in her head, tugging gently at the corners of her thoughts. There was something vulnerable in them—something unpolished and true.

She reached into her pocket, pulled the note out, and read it again.

No name. No initials. No clue.

A small part of her wanted to reply. Not even to flirt or chase a story—but just to say yes. I understand. I come here to breathe, too. To disappear for a while. To feel something that isn’t loud.

But she didn’t know who would be on the other side. She didn’t know if she wanted to.

And really, it wasn’t her kind of thing. She wasn’t impulsive. She didn’t chase questions like this. She liked facts. Answers. Tangible things.

She folded the note carefully, the crease already soft from handling. Then she slipped it into the inside pocket of her coat and pressed her hand over it for a moment, like that would anchor it.

Maybe she wouldn’t text. Probably not.

But she’d hold onto it.

Because even if it wasn’t meant for her, something about it still felt like it fit.

Like a sentence she hadn’t written, but somehow remembered.

She didn’t text.

Not that day. Not the next. And after a while, the note just became another quiet thing tucked into her coat pocket, folded and forgotten like a grocery list or a half-finished thought.

Life pressed forward in the usual, slightly heavy way.

Work. Grey mornings. Crumpled receipts. The mundane rhythm of existing in a city that never really stopped to ask how you were doing.

She still came to the library, but not as often. Sometimes she brought her laptop and stayed in the nonfiction section just to change the view. Other times she breezed in and out, barely making eye contact with anyone. The note became something she didn’t think about anymore—just a scrap of paper, misplaced in memory.

Harry was still there.

Always tucked behind the desk or moving between aisles, shelving books with quiet efficiency. They rarely spoke. Just the occasional “afternoon” or a soft nod if their eyes met. He didn’t seem to expect more. He never pushed. It made her oddly grateful.

The seasons were shifting in the subtle way London always handled change—no dramatic turns, just a slow fade. The rain hadn’t stopped, but now the wind carried a different edge, cooler, sharper. People moved faster. Scarves reappeared. The evenings darkened early.

One Tuesday, she reached into the inside pocket of her coat looking for a receipt—and her fingers brushed the edge of the paper.

The note.

She pulled it out slowly, as if it might crumble.

It was still folded neatly, but the creases had softened. The ink looked slightly blurred in places, where the paper had rubbed against the lining of her coat. She stared at the words for a long time, as if seeing them for the first time all over again.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

Her lips pressed into a faint line.

She didn’t know why, but reading it now made her chest feel a little tighter. Not in a bad way. Just… aware. Like something had settled there, waiting. Quietly. Patiently.

She thought about how long it had been since she read something that made her feel anything. Since she let herself pause long enough to notice the weight of silence or the way the city sounded when you weren’t filling the gaps with noise.

And for a moment, she wanted to answer the note. To reach out. Not for romance. Not for mystery.

She didn’t grab her phone.

Not yet.

But she didn’t put the note away, either.

She slid it into her wallet, folding it once more so it fit beside her library card and a receipt from a café she hadn’t visited in months.

And this time, she didn’t forget it.

It was later than usual when she stepped into the library.

The sky outside was already slipping into navy, the rain quieter now, more of a mist than a storm. She’d been delayed—meetings that ran long, a bus that never showed. She almost didn’t come at all, but the thought of going straight home to silence made her stomach twist.

Inside, the library was nearly empty.

Most evenings at this hour, the building felt hollowed out, hushed in a different way—like the quiet had settled deeper into the bones of the place. Only a handful of students lingered at scattered tables, their laptop screens glowing pale in the warm lamplight.

She unwrapped her scarf slowly, fingers stiff with cold, and turned toward the front desk without thinking.

Harry was there. But not in his usual posture—not bent over returns or half-buried in the catalog system. He was leaning back slightly in his chair, a book in his lap, one hand absentmindedly curled at his chin. His eyes moved steadily across the page, completely absorbed.

It wasn’t the stillness that made her pause.

It was the book.

She recognized the cover instantly. Soft navy blue, with a gold-foiled title that had faded over time. To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Her copy at home was marked with ink and underlines and folded corners—half journal, half comfort object.

Something warm stirred in her chest.

Without really meaning to, she walked closer.

“You’re reading that one,” she said, her voice low, almost shy. “That book kind of wrecked me in the best way.”

Harry looked up, a little surprised to see her so close. His expression shifted slowly, from caught-off-guard to soft understanding.

“Yeah?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but not hesitant—just easy. “I just started it.”

She nodded, stepping a little closer to glance down at the open page. “It was the first book that made me feel like someone had opened up my brain and turned it into sentences. It’s kind of… everything, in a quiet way.”

Harry smiled. It wasn’t his usual polite, customer-service smile—it was small and real and slightly crooked. “That’s a good way to describe it.”

She tilted her head, fingers wrapped loosely around the strap of her bag. “It’s funny. I’ve read it three times and I still don’t think I understand it.”

“That’s probably why it’s good,” he said, and there was a faint glimmer of amusement in his voice. “Things that don’t give everything away at once.”

She looked at him a beat too long, surprised by how easily he said it. And maybe a little caught off guard by how that sentence lingered in the air between them.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” she murmured, smiling lightly as she stepped back. “Enjoy the existential spiral.”

He let out a soft laugh—barely more than a breath—but it was warm, and it followed her as she walked toward her usual corner of the library.

As she settled into her seat, something inside her felt shifted. Not dramatically, not loud. Just… nudged. Like the quiet had moved in a new direction.

She reached for her book but didn’t open it right away.

Instead, her fingers brushed her wallet.

The note was still there.

And for the first time in weeks, the idea of texting that number didn’t feel like a question mark.

It felt like a thread, waiting to be pulled.

She didn’t mean to pull the note out again.

It had become something of a habit lately—half-thoughtless, like a nervous tic. She’d run her thumb over the crease in her wallet, feel the worn edge of the paper, and glance at it like it might say something different the next time she read it.

It never did.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

But somehow, after what she’d said to Harry—after the strange comfort of finding him immersed in a book that shaped her, a book she loved like it had once saved her—it didn’t feel so abstract anymore. The note. The invitation. The possibility.

She looked around.

The library was quieter than usual. Dimmer. Outside, the rain had blurred the windows into watercolor. Inside, everything felt suspended. Safe.

She pulled her phone from her coat pocket. Opened a new message.

Typed slowly:

I found your note. And I understood. I still do.

The cursor blinked at her, patient. Waiting.

She hesitated. Let her thumb hover for just one second longer than she should have. The air around her felt charged—not dramatic, just… expectant. Like the moment before a match is struck.

She hit send.

The screen shifted. The message disappeared into the space between her and someone she didn’t know.

No reply came.

She didn’t expect one right away, not really. Still, she stared at her phone for a little longer than she meant to. Waiting for a buzz. For the dots. For something.

But the screen stayed still. Quiet. Blank.

Eventually, she turned it over, face down on the table beside her, and reached for her book.

She read the same paragraph three times before realizing she hadn’t taken in a word.

The next day, she checked her phone more than she wanted to admit.

Not obsessively. Not quite. But in the quiet moments—waiting for the kettle to boil, standing on the bus, walking past the window display at the bookshop she always meant to go into—her fingers would drift to her pocket, her screen would light up, and there would be nothing.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it had been a moment. A single, impulsive choice. It didn’t have to mean anything.

But it did. A little.

Because somewhere in the stillness between that book and that conversation and the folded piece of paper she kept reading like a poem, something had landed softly in her chest. Not a crush. Not even hope, exactly. Just a flicker of connection. And the ache of not knowing if it was real.

The silence stretched into a week.

She came back to the library, but it felt different now—like a page had turned somewhere she couldn’t quite find.

Sometimes, she caught herself watching Harry when he didn’t know. Not in a longing sort of way. Just… studying. Noticing. The way he leaned on one elbow when reading. How he tapped the side of his thumb against his mug when he was thinking. How he smiled when shelving the children’s books, like something about it softened him even more.

He didn’t look like someone waiting for a message.

He didn’t look like someone who’d left a note at all.

And that made it easier, somehow. To convince herself that the number had belonged to someone else—a passing stranger, a romantic idealist, a daydreamer with good handwriting and a moment of bravery.

Still, every time she sat in that same chair under the window, she half-waited for something. A flicker of something new. A word. A sound. A shift.

But nothing came.

Just the rain. The quiet. The rustle of pages being turned by people who weren’t thinking of her at all.

And somewhere between the silence and the stillness, she began to let it go.

Not all at once.

Just enough to breathe again.

It was nearly midnight when her phone buzzed.

She was already in bed, cocooned in a mess of blankets, the room lit only by the soft amber glow of a lamp she always forgot to turn off. Rain tapped gently against the window. The city beyond it had quieted, or maybe she’d just finally stopped listening.

She’d just turned a page in the book resting against her knees when the screen lit up.

Unknown number.

Her breath caught.

She blinked at it for a moment, unsure if she’d imagined it—if maybe it was one of those random marketing texts that slipped through late at night.

But it wasn’t.

Unknown Number: I never thought anyone would actually find it.

Or understand it.

Thank you for texting.

She stared at the words.

Not dramatic. Not flirtatious. Just honest. Simple. Like the note itself.

Her heart thudded softly under the weight of them.

Whoever it was—this person behind the words—they’d waited. Or hesitated. Or both. Maybe they were scared. Maybe they hadn’t known what to say. But they’d replied.

Finally.

She pulled the blankets up a little tighter and reread the message, then typed slowly:

I almost didn’t.

But I kept it. I don’t really know why.

I guess it made me feel a little less alone.

A few seconds passed.

Unknown Number: That’s why I left it.

Her chest tightened. Not in a painful way—more like a release. Like some small thread had finally gone slack after being pulled taut for too long.

She smiled to herself, barely, the corners of her lips curling as she set her book aside and leaned into the light of her phone.

The room felt warmer.

The night a little quieter.

She didn’t need to know who they were—not yet.

Just that someone out there had felt what she’d felt.

And that they’d seen her enough to answer.

Unknown Number:

I’ve hidden notes in other books, but that book felt… right.

Glad it found the right person.

Her:

It was kind of surreal, honestly.

Felt like it was waiting for me.

Or like I’d been waiting for it.

Unknown Number:

That’s exactly how I hoped it would feel.

Like something quiet tapping on your shoulder.

Her:

Why poetry?

Why not just say what you were feeling?

Unknown Number:

Because poetry says it better than I can.

And it’s easier to be honest when no one’s looking back at you.

She stared at that one a while. The glow of her screen lit her face, casting faint shadows on the ceiling. The room felt impossibly still.

Her:

I know what you mean.

There’s something safe about silence.

But also kind of lonely, isn’t it?

Unknown Number:

Yeah.

Exactly that.

She thought about stopping there. Letting the moment rest where it was. But her fingers moved before she could stop them.

Her:

You’re not alone tonight.

There was a longer pause this time. A full minute. Then:

Unknown Number:

Neither are you.

She set the phone on her chest and let her eyes close, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

She still didn’t know who he was.

But somehow, it didn’t matter—not yet.

The next few days folded into something soft and steady.

Their texts never came in flurries. No rapid-fire conversation, no pressure to reply. Just quiet messages sent mid-morning, or just before bed, or while she stirred sugar into her tea at the same café where she always forgot the barista’s name.

They talked about books, mostly. What they were reading. Which lines stuck. What made them pause. He—whoever he was—seemed to understand the way words hit differently when you were tired, or hopeful, or in between.

He quoted Woolf one night and said he’d cried reading it the first time, then followed it with:

I think I’m supposed to be embarrassed by that, but I’m not.

She’d texted back:

Good. You shouldn’t be. The world needs more men who cry over sentences.

He replied:

That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever texted me.

She found herself smiling at her phone more often than she meant to.

And when she wasn’t smiling, she was thinking—wondering. Not in a desperate way. Just curious.

What kind of person leaves a note like that and waits a month for an answer?

She imagined someone older than her, maybe. Someone who worked odd hours and stayed up too late. Someone who kept old poetry books on the floor beside their bed and didn’t mind a little mess. Someone soft-spoken and thoughtful and maybe a little lonely.

Sometimes, without meaning to, she pictured Harry.

Not because she thought it was him—he was probably too composed, too gentle, too real for something like this—but because he fit the feeling. The energy. Like the person on the other end of the screen carried the same softness in their shoulders that he did when shelving books. The same quiet consideration when he asked a regular how their week had been.

She told herself it was just a face to put to the voice. Just a way to soften the mystery.

She was sitting in her usual spot at the library on Thursday afternoon when her phone lit up again.

What do you see right now?

She glanced around, unsure if it was a trick question.

Then she smiled.

Golden light through foggy windows. A crooked stack of books someone left behind. A man a few tables away whispering to himself as he reads.

Unknown Number: You paint good pictures.

She hesitated, then typed:

What do you see right now?

She expected a reply like “the inside of a bus” or “my office wall”. But instead:

You.

Or at least I imagine you. Sitting somewhere quiet, near a window. Head tilted slightly when you read.

Her breath caught a little at that.

Her:

That’s exactly where I am.

Unknown Number:

That’s what I hoped.

She glanced up then. Toward the front desk, toward the shelves, toward the faint rustle of someone turning a page nearby.

Whoever he was, she liked not knowing. It made everything feel dreamlike. Like a story you got to walk through without ever turning the last page.

The texts continued like a secret thread woven through her days.

They never talked about names. Never asked what the other looked like. There was something sacred about the not-knowing. Something safe.

But the tone had shifted lately.

More personal.

More vulnerable.

More present.

One night, he asked,

Do you ever feel like you’re just moving through the world without touching anything?

And she replied:

All the time. But then something small happens. A look. A line in a book. A message. And it pulls me back in.

He said:

You pull me back in.

She stared at that one a long time. Let it sit in her chest like a pebble warming in the sun.

At the library, the distance between her and Harry felt suddenly… thinner. Like the invisible line between stranger and something else had shifted, even though nothing had changed.

She still greeted him with a quiet “hi.”

He still offered a soft smile and a slightly tilted head.

But she noticed more now.

The way he watched people when they weren’t looking. The way he paused with his hand resting on a book like he was listening to it. The little scribbles she sometimes caught in the margins of his notepad—half-formed phrases, lyrics maybe. Or poetry.

And she kept imagining him as him.

The voice on the other end of the texts. The one who made her laugh under her breath. The one who confessed fears she didn’t know how to name. The one who read slowly and felt things deeply.

It wasn’t fair. She knew that. It could’ve been anyone. A stranger in a completely different part of the city. Someone she’d never even met.

But still. She saw Harry, and the thought came uninvited: what if it’s you?

The unraveling began with a message.

She was at the library, sitting under the tall window again, when it came through.

I wonder what would happen if I walked into that library.

If I passed your table.

Would you feel it was me?

Her fingers hovered above her screen.

Her:

Maybe.

I think I would.

Unknown Number:

What would you do?

She didn’t answer right away. She looked up instead.

Across the room, Harry was shelving books. Slow, deliberate. Back turned to her.

She watched him for a moment, the way his shoulders moved beneath his sweater, the way his fingers traced the edge of a spine before sliding it into place. Something caught in her throat.

Then her phone buzzed again.

Would you want it to be me?

Her breath caught.

She read it once.

Twice.

Then, slowly, she looked back at Harry.

And for the first time, she let herself really wonder.

Because suddenly, the idea didn’t feel dreamy or distant or abstract.

It felt close.

Tangible.

Like maybe the person she’d been texting wasn’t far away at all.

She didn’t answer his last message.

Not right away.

Her phone sat in her palm, screen glowing softly in the dim light of the library, those words blinking back at her:

Would you want it to be me?

It wasn’t even a confession. Not yet. Just a nudge. A gentle pulling at the thread they’d both been carefully wrapping around themselves for days now.

She looked up.

Harry was still shelving in the far corner. Focused, quiet, unaware.

But her brain had already started moving without her permission. Turning over old moments. Replaying things that hadn’t seemed like anything at the time.

She’d always assumed the person behind the messages was a stranger. Maybe someone who wandered in off the street. A student. A writer. Someone passing through, looking for meaning or connection or whatever people looked for when they left little pieces of themselves in library books.

But Harry…

Harry was here every day. Surrounded by books. By pages that held all the softness and sadness and searching she’d been reading in those messages.

He shelved Leaves of Grass.

He could have left the note. Easily. Casually. Like a thought slipped into the world without needing to see where it landed.

She remembered the way he looked when he was reading—completely lost in it. Like the rest of the world dropped away when he turned a page. Like he felt the words, not just read them.

She remembered his pencil tucked behind his ear. The handwritten scrawls in his notepad. The way he listened when she spoke about books like he was saving the words for later.

And that night—when he’d been reading To the Lighthouse, the same way she once had, like it was revealing something about her she hadn’t known how to name—he’d looked up at her, and it had felt like he knew.

She’d pushed the thought away then.

But now?

Now it settled in her chest like it belonged there.

What if it was him?

What if she’d been sitting in front of the person this entire time?

What if all those words—the quiet honesty, the poetry, the gentle ache—had come from the man behind the desk with ink on his wrists and eyes that always met hers like they meant it?

It wasn’t a certainty.

Not yet.

But it was more than an idea now.

It was a possibility.

And that possibility was suddenly too loud to ignore.

She stood up without really thinking.

Her heart beat louder than her footsteps, but the rest of her stayed calm. Focused. Her hand tightened slightly around her phone, like it was anchoring her to something solid.

Harry had just finished shelving a small stack, turning slowly toward the desk with that same quiet ease he always moved with. Like nothing in the world was urgent. Like time bent around him.

She stepped into his path gently—careful not to startle, but intentional.

“Hey,” she said softly.

He looked up, surprised, but his smile came quickly, natural.

“Hey.” His voice had that same warmth it always did. Soft. Unassuming.

For a second, she almost chickened out.

Almost smiled, asked him about the book he was holding, and walked back to her corner to keep pretending.

But something in her wouldn’t let her.

She held his gaze and lifted her phone slightly in her hand—not enough to show the screen, just enough to acknowledge what it represented.

“I got a text the other night,” she said, her voice steady but low. “From a number I didn’t know.”

His expression didn’t change.

Not immediately.

But his eyes flicked—barely—down to the phone. Then back to her.

She continued.

“It was a reply to a note. The one I found in Leaves of Grass.”

Now he froze. Not in a dramatic way. Just… stillness. Like something inside him had stopped mid-breath.

“I didn’t text back right away,” she said. “And I didn’t expect a reply when I finally did. But I got one.”

She stepped just slightly closer.

“And the more we talked, the more I started imagining who it might be. Not on purpose. Just…” She hesitated, then smiled, just a little. “The words reminded me of someone.”

Harry swallowed, slow. He didn’t speak. But his fingers flexed around the edge of the book in his hand.

“I’m not asking you to say anything,” she said. “I just want to ask you one thing.”

He nodded once, eyes still on hers, gaze unreadable—but not closed off. Never that.

She raised her phone again, unlocked it, and turned the screen toward him.

The last message was still there.

Would you want it to be me?

His eyes dropped to the screen. Just for a second.

Then he let out a breath—quiet and careful—and when he looked back at her, it was different.

Open. Real.

“Yes,” he said.

Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just honest.

Yes.

Her stomach flipped. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath.

She let out a small, shaky laugh, almost in disbelief. “It’s you.”

He nodded once. “It’s me.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

The world didn’t shift. The library didn’t gasp. The rain didn’t stop.

But something between them… settled.

Like two halves of a sentence finally meeting in the middle.

She was still holding her phone when he spoke again.

“I put the note there on purpose,” he said, voice low. “In Leaves of Grass. Because I knew you always go to that shelf.”

Her heart flipped again—different this time. Not from surprise, but from understanding. Everything shifted into place.

“You hoped I’d find it,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She studied him for a moment. The quiet behind his eyes. The weight of the admission.

“Why not just talk to me?” she asked. “All this time?”

He exhaled—slow, careful—and looked down at his hands, then back up again. When he met her gaze, he didn’t look away.

“Because this place matters to you,” he said. “You come in here and go straight to the same corner, like it’s the only place in the world where everything feels okay. I didn’t want to take that from you.”

His voice was even, but she could hear the truth in it. The care behind it. That it wasn’t shyness. It wasn’t fear of rejection.

It was respect.

“I thought if I said something,” he continued, “if I made it weird or pushed anything on you… you might stop coming. And I didn’t want to be the reason this place stopped being safe for you.”

She didn’t realize how much that would hit her.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and something quiet inside her broke open in the best way.

“I didn’t know you noticed,” she said.

He smiled, faint and crooked. “I notice a lot more than you think.”

She felt her throat tighten—grateful, stunned, and completely unsure what to do with all the feeling sitting suddenly between them.

And he must have seen it, because he stepped back slightly, giving her space.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly. “If this is too much. If you want to go back to how it was, or not talk at all—”

“I don’t,” she said.

He blinked.

“I don’t want to go back,” she repeated, quieter now. “I want to know you. For real.”

The corners of his mouth lifted, slow and sincere.

“You kind of already do.”

They stood there a little longer—both of them held in the small, fragile space between something ending and something beginning.

And for once, neither of them rushed to fill the silence.

It was enough to just stand in it.

Together.

They didn’t say goodbye when she left the library that night. Not formally.

Harry just walked her to the door, hand brushing lightly against the edge of the frame as he held it open. The rain had eased to a light drizzle, streetlamps glowing like small moons in the mist.

She looked at him one last time before stepping out. He smiled—small, knowing. She smiled back.

That was it.

No plans.

No pressure.

But something had changed. And neither of them needed to say it out loud to feel it.

The next afternoon, he texted.

You free tomorrow evening?

She replied:

Yeah. I think I am.

He sent:

There’s a coffee shop not far from here. Quiet. Big windows. You might like it.

She sent back:

You had me at “big windows.”

They met just after six.

He was already there when she arrived—curled up at a corner table with a book open and two mugs on the table, steam curling lazily into the air. The café was quiet, with warm lighting and mismatched chairs. Music played low, the kind you don’t notice until someone stops talking.

He stood when he saw her, smiled in that soft, earnest way he had, and pushed one of the mugs toward her as she sat.

“Earl Grey,” he said. “Took a wild guess.”

She laughed. “You’re good.”

“I shelve a lot of books. You learn things.”

They didn’t talk about the note at first. Or the texts. Or even the library. It was like they both understood that everything important had already been said in silence and margins and moonlight. Now was for the other things.

She learned he liked rainy days more than sunny ones. That he used to write songs before he realized he liked reading them more. That he kept a stack of journals at home and only let himself read old ones when he was feeling brave.

He learned she always carried two books in her bag because she didn’t trust herself to pick one mood for the day. That she once tried to write poetry and hated every line. That the library had saved her, once. Not in a dramatic way. Just enough to matter.

They stayed until close.

Neither of them wanted to leave first.

When they stepped outside, the rain had stopped completely, the air clean and cold and full of that stillness that only exists in the hour when the world forgets to be loud.

They stood near the curb, neither one saying goodbye.

He looked at her then—really looked—and said, “Can I walk you home?”

She nodded.

And he did.

No hands held. No promises made.

Just two people walking side by side under the soft orange glow of streetlights, a silence between them that no longer needed to be filled.

She still went to the library.

Even now, even after coffee shops and late-night walks and text messages that lingered long after the screen went dark—she still found her way to her usual spot under the arched window, coat damp from the rain, fingers chilled, heart a little steadier than before.

Harry was always there.

But things were different now.

There was an ease between them, threaded into their silences. A familiarity that didn’t need naming. They didn’t hover around each other, didn’t cling to conversation or force time together—but they noticed. They chose each other, over and over again, in small, deliberate ways.

The first time she found a book sitting on her table, it had no note. No explanation. Just a slim volume of poetry with a ribbon tucked into one page. A quiet suggestion.

She smiled, opened it, and read the poem he’d marked. It hit her like a quiet wave.

A few days later, she left a book behind on the returns cart—slipped between thicker volumes, nearly invisible. A copy of The Secret History, worn and annotated, with a sticky note on page 42 that simply read:

“I thought this line might stay with you. It stayed with me.”

She didn’t sign it.

But the next morning, when she came in, he caught her eye across the desk, and there was a softness in his expression that said I found it.

That became their rhythm.

A kind of silent conversation.

Some days it was a novel she’d mentioned in passing. Other days, it was something obscure—something she’d never pick for herself—but when she opened it, she’d find underlined passages or faint pencil marks in the margins. Sometimes she left her own—an asterisk, a question mark, the occasional folded corner.

They were learning each other through the books they passed back and forth. Through themes. Through characters they debated in whispers over tea. Through dog-eared pages and ink-smudged notes.

She started coming earlier, just to sit near the poetry shelves and pretend she wasn’t waiting to see what he might recommend next. And sometimes he’d wander over, lean against the end of a row, and ask, “Have you read this one?” like it wasn’t the highlight of her entire afternoon.

Once, he placed a novel in front of her, paused, and said, “This one made me think of you.”

She opened it to find a single sentence circled in pencil:

“She carried quiet like armor, and kindness like a blade.”

She didn’t say anything in response.

She just looked up at him, and he looked back, and neither of them had to explain the weight of that moment.

The more they read, the more they understood each other—without pushing, without rushing. It was all there, between the lines.

And every now and then, she’d catch him watching her with that look.

Like he couldn’t believe he’d left that note.

Like he couldn’t believe she’d answered.

One rainy evening, she arrived to find a cup of tea already waiting for her.

It sat on the corner of her usual table, still warm, steam curling lazily into the air. No note, no grand gesture. Just Earl Grey, just how she liked it.

She glanced toward the front desk. Harry didn’t look up, but she saw the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

She shook her head, smiling to herself as she slid into the chair.

Later, when she returned the empty mug to the cart behind the desk, she whispered, “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he said, without looking up from his computer. “But I’m charming, too, right?”

She rolled her eyes and didn’t answer. But she was smiling when she walked away.

They started talking more in between the books.

Not always with words.

Sometimes, he’d rest a hand briefly on the back of her chair as he passed by. Sometimes, she’d place a book down beside him at the desk with a sticky note that just said: “Read this one slowly.”

He started writing small lines of poetry on scraps of paper and slipping them inside the pages of the books he handed her. Sometimes they were his. Sometimes borrowed. She never asked. She just read them quietly and tucked them into her coat pocket.

She began to respond.

Once, she left him a copy of Letters to a Young Poet with a small folded square of paper inside.

It read:

“You said words were safer on paper. But you can say them to me now, if you ever want to.”

He didn’t say anything that day.

But two mornings later, she arrived to find a volume of Mary Oliver’s poems resting on her table, open to a marked page:

“Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say ‘Look!’ and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads.”

Underneath, in pencil, he’d written:

Look.

I’m here.

She sat down slowly, the book open in front of her, heart too full to move.

There was still no kiss. No confessions. No declarations of anything.

But every time she left the library, it felt like something important had happened. Something wordless and slow and true.

And every time she came back, it felt like returning—not just to the space, but to him.

To them.

Whatever they were becoming.

It started with a sentence dropped so casually she almost missed it.

“You ever cook with someone?” he asked one afternoon, eyes flicking up from the book she’d just returned.

She paused. “Cook?”

He nodded, leaning slightly over the desk. “Like, really cook. Not just throw a frozen pizza in the oven or boil pasta. I mean… stand in the kitchen for too long and make something slowly. Talk between chopping. Burn the garlic a little.”

Her lips quirked. “Very specific scenario.”

“I have a recipe I want to try,” he said. “And it’s a two-person dish. Apparently. According to the internet.”

She raised a brow. “Are you inviting me over to help you cook, or is this an elaborate metaphor for something else?”

He smiled—soft, a little crooked. “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

She didn’t say yes right away. But later, when he handed her a folded piece of paper with the recipe written in neat, slightly rushed handwriting, she tucked it into her book without a word.

His flat was warm and a little chaotic in a lived-in way—books stacked under the windowsill, a record playing faintly in the background, mismatched mugs on the kitchen counter. It looked exactly how she’d imagined it and nothing like she expected at the same time.

She stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching him fumble with a garlic press.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” she said, amused.

“None whatsoever,” he replied, grinning. “But I make a very sincere effort, which should count for something.”

She reached for the knife instead. “Move over. I’ll show you.”

He didn’t argue. Just stepped aside and handed her a towel, fingers brushing against hers for a second too long. She didn’t pull away.

They cooked like that for an hour. Side by side. The kind of domestic closeness that would feel far too intimate if it weren’t laced with laughter and the smell of rosemary and lemon. He moved around her easily. She passed him ingredients without asking. Their shoulders bumped more than once, but no one apologized.

He read instructions aloud like they were poetry, and she corrected him without hesitation.

They talked about small things—childhood food disasters, favorite late-night snacks, the time he tried to make soup and ended up with something that “tasted like sadness.”

And then, somewhere between letting the sauce simmer and plating the food, something shifted.

He reached behind her for a dish towel, but she turned at the same time, and they nearly collided.

They froze—close. Close enough to see the freckle just under his left eye. Close enough that she could hear the small hitch in his breath. Close enough to feel it—that charged, suspended thing that had been stretching between them for weeks.

Neither of them moved.

Not yet.

“I like this,” she said quietly, eyes not leaving his. “This… not-the-library version of you.”

His voice was low, almost hoarse when he answered. “I think it’s still me. Just a little less… edited.”

She nodded, heart thudding. “I like the unedited version.”

A beat passed.

Then two.

And still, they didn’t move.

Until he spoke again.

“You know I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now, right?”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “I guessed.”

He tilted his head just slightly. “Do you want me to?”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.

She just nodded.

And that was enough.

He kissed her like he’d been waiting. Like he already knew what it would feel like, and he’d just been waiting for permission. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hesitant. It was quiet, and full, and there.

All the unspoken things between them, finally said.

They didn’t rush away from it.

The kiss.

It ended slowly, naturally, like the final note of a song hanging in the air before dissolving.

She leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. He still had one hand resting lightly at her waist, the other curled against the counter behind her like he needed something to hold onto.

He looked a little dazed. Not in shock—just full. Like he hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed that closeness until it happened.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low.

He laughed under his breath, soft and warm. “Yeah. Just…” He shook his head slightly, lips curling up. “You’re really cute, you know that?”

She blinked, caught off guard—not because of the compliment, but because of how sincere it was. He said it like it had been on the tip of his tongue for a while. Like it wasn’t just about how she looked in that moment, but how she’d been showing up in his life—quiet, consistent, entirely herself.

“Cute?” she repeated, amused.

He gave her a look. “Very cute.”

She smiled, a little flustered. “That’s… surprisingly straightforward for you.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging, “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I’d say if this ever happened.”

Her chest tightened—softly, pleasantly. “This? Like… us standing in your kitchen, post-risotto, post-kiss?”

He nodded. “Exactly this. You, here, looking at me like that. Me, trying really hard not to say something too intense and ruin it.”

“You’re not ruining anything,” she said, honest, steady.

He exhaled, relieved. “Good.”

There was a pause.

Then: “I really enjoy you. Being around you. Talking to you. Sitting quietly near you. Reading the same book six feet apart and pretending we’re not aware of each other.”

She laughed, looking down for a second. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

“I never was,” he said, smiling. “You just needed time to catch on.”

She looked up at him again, heart full in a way that didn’t feel heavy at all. “I’m glad I did.”

He leaned in just enough to nudge his forehead lightly against hers. “Me too.”

The risotto sat forgotten on the stove, plates untouched on the counter.

Neither of them moved to fix it.

Some things could wait.

Eventually, they remembered the food.

They ate standing in the kitchen, barefoot and casual, sharing one plate between them. He offered the last bite. She took it without hesitation. No more pretense. No more edges between them.

Afterward, while he rinsed the dishes, she wandered.

Not far—just into the living room, where his bookshelves lined the wall in a slightly uneven row. Not curated for show. Just lived-in. Dog-eared. Annotated. Real.

She ran her fingers lightly across the spines, stopping now and then to tilt her head and smile.

“Of course you have three different editions of The Bell Jar,” she called out, teasing.

He dried his hands and leaned against the doorway, watching her. “They’re all slightly different.”

“Right,” she said, mock-serious. “Important nuance.”

He smiled, didn’t interrupt.

She kept scanning.

“Murakami. Wolfe. Some obscure poetry collections. A Little Life—you really went through that willingly?”

“I cried three separate times,” he admitted. “Once in public.”

She turned, grinning. “Okay, that earns you points.”

Then she pulled a book free, thumb brushing over the worn cover. The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“This one,” she said, softer now. “This was the first book that made me realize writing could be beautiful and brutal.”

“I remember you mentioned that once,” he said.

“You remember a lot.”

He shrugged, casual, but there was something warm behind it. “I was listening.”

She turned back to the shelf, pulled another. On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.

“This one wrecked me.”

“I figured. I found it shelved wrong one day and assumed it was you who left it there.”

She smiled without turning around, sliding the book gently back into place.

She could feel him behind her now. Not close enough to touch. Just… near.

Comfortably near.

“I like that you read like this,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Like it’s not just about escaping, but about collecting pieces of yourself in other people’s words.”

“I think that’s what I saw in you,” he said. “Right away.”

She turned, slowly, book still in hand.

He was standing a few steps behind her, eyes soft, arms crossed loosely like he was grounding himself.

“You’d sit in that corner of the library,” he went on, “with your entire body tilted toward a book like you were trying to fall into it. I couldn’t stop watching.”

They stood like that for a moment—between stories, between books, between whatever came next.

Then she reached back toward the shelf, pulled out another.

He looked at it, amused. “You’re curating my taste now?”

“No,” she said, handing it to him, “I’m organizing your shelf by emotional trauma level. This one’s top tier.”

He laughed, taking the book from her, brushing her fingers in the process. But this time, the touch didn’t linger. It stayed.

He held the book in one hand, and with the other, he reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

No words. Just a look.

That unspoken kind of look—the kind that says this is safe now. The kind that says you’re allowed to be here.

And she was.

After that night, nothing was technically different.

They still texted in the early mornings and late at night. Still passed each other books and notes in the library. Still sat in the quiet corners, reading, sometimes alone, sometimes side by side.

But everything had changed.

Now, when she walked in, Harry smiled like he’d been waiting to. Like he’d always wanted to.

Now, when she handed him a book, their fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary.

Now, he’d sometimes slide a note into the pages that didn’t say anything poetic at all—just things like “You’re on my mind” or “I like when you sit close”—and it made her smile in a way she couldn’t help.

He didn’t try to claim her time. He didn’t hover or demand space in her world.

He just offered.

Gently.

And she kept choosing to show up.

One afternoon, she walked into the library and found a book already waiting at her usual table.

A worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet. Her favorite edition. His.

Inside, a note:

“No one’s ever made me want to be understood this way. I think that matters.”

She folded the note carefully and tucked it into her bag like a secret.

When she looked up, he was behind the desk, head bowed slightly, pretending not to watch her.

But she knew he was.

She stood, walked over, leaned her arms against the counter.

“Do you want to get out of here when your shift ends?” she asked, voice quiet.

He looked up, surprised at first, but then his face softened, like he’d been hoping she’d ask.

“Always,” he said.

The days kept rolling in, and so did they.

Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just a steady unfolding.

Sunday mornings spent sharing pastries on a bench just outside the library, passing back and forth a book of poems neither of them had read.

Wednesday evenings full of casual texts that read like confessions in disguise.

Nights at his flat, reading on opposite ends of the couch with their feet tangled somewhere in the middle. No music. No noise. Just the quiet rhythm of pages turning and two people learning each other sentence by sentence.

Sometimes she’d glance up and find him already looking at her.

He never looked away.

The library was still her place.

Still sacred.

Still quiet.

But now, when she sat under the tall window, it felt less like a place she came to disappear, and more like a place she came to be seen.

Because now, when she looked up from the pages, there was someone there.

Someone who noticed.

Someone who always had.

deeper.

It was a Thursday when she found the last note.

Not tucked inside a book or slipped across the counter.

This one waited for her at her usual table, folded carefully, resting on top of a hardcover she hadn’t seen before—some obscure poetry collection she’d never heard of, which meant it was probably perfect.

She sat down slowly, thumb grazing the edge of the paper before she opened it.

It wasn’t long.

Not poetic.

Not cryptic.

Just Harry’s handwriting, steady and familiar now.

You don’t feel like a maybe anymore.

You feel like home.

She stared at it for a moment, letting the words settle in her chest.

The light through the window hit the table just right. Dust floated in the air. Everything felt still.

She turned the card over and wrote two words on the back.

Me too.

Then she stood, walked to the front desk, and handed it to him—face down, no explanation.

He looked at her, really looked.

Then tucked the note into his pocket, came around the desk, and took her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They walked back toward her table together. No big moment. No kiss. Just their hands joined between them, like a sentence finally finished.

The book still sat there, waiting.

She opened it to the first page.

He sat across from her.

And they read.

Together.

[maudie-duan]

Okay, @theastrologie I see you! thanks so much!!💁🏽‍♀

Summary: What starts as a sweet and innocent crush ends with you finally getting your hands on the guys you've been eyeing for months.

Paring: Frat!Harry X (Fem)Reader

Tags: @sassamanda77 @loverofhsandallthings1d @styless-syndrome @carolinaastyles

Word Count: 10K

A/N: This was based on this CONCEPT<- from the wonderful @hesbunnies This a bit of a slow burn but so worth the finish!

Warnings: 18+FLUFF/SMUT(Language, alcohol use, light peer pressure, light public humiliation, size kink, talks of oral sex/ oral sex (m) receiving, brief spit talk, light Dom Frat!Harry behavior, protected sex, hair-pulling...) I think that's it. If I forgot anything, please let me know!

It started as innocent. 

Sweet.

A playground crush, the kind you held like a treasure.

A glimpse from across the room, the cute boy you have that one class with.

Tuesday and Thursday.

All it took was one glance to lock that secret inside. You held it near like you were waiting for a rainy day, the chance to hold out your tongue and pray that tiny gumdrops would fall from the sky. 

That day, you took your seat, setting yourself up for that morning’s lecture, slightly hungover from the night before. You knew that you had dealt with worse, that you could push through it, but that didn’t stop you from forcing your headphones into your ears and putting your head down to rest your cheek against the cool surface of the desk. 

As the song changed, you caught the pitch of the professor’s voice, and you lifted your head just as Harry walked in, barely making it to class on time, the two of you locking eyes immediately. The second you made the connection, his presence stole your focus, the song pouring into your ears ushering him in like it was meant for this very moment, your gaze following as he found a seat. 

When he didn’t look away, neither did you because with a face like that, how could you? 

Especially once you noticed that slight little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, he had you captivated, and that’s when you realized you were smiling, your eyes darting away as fast as you could, but it was too late because just as your eyes moved away, you caught a glimpse of the smile that little smirk had turned into.

 You knew you were screwed.

So fucking screwed.

It was like once you saw him, you saw him everywhere. 

The campus coffee shop was your favorite place to glimpse him, see him out in the wild, in the untamed setting that didn’t confine you both to a classroom. He had just started working there, a startling site to see the first time you saw him behind the counter. 

That’s where you noticed his dimples for the first time, his green eyes, the rasp in his voice when he called out your drink, and you had to suffer your way to the counter, too shy to meet his eyes, just bold enough to mutter “Thanks,” because him taking your order at the register was all you could handle, and as you pushed through the door, you peeked over your shoulder, Harry’s eyes on you, and you were grateful for the chill of the day, the cold air settling over your flushed face. 

You were already hooked, and you knew it.

The dining hall was fun; those were the times you got to see him come alive. When he was no longer in a role but hanging with his friends, not a care in the world but eating—He was silly, boyish in the way he shoveled food in his mouth as a laugh spilled out, mouthful conversations, jokes being passed around, a pat on the back here and there—boys, being boys, but not in the barbaric way you pictured, just having a good time. 

And god, there were so many glances, the stolen glance from across the class, Harry never sitting in one spot, but always in your line of sight somehow, the back of his head, a side profile, sometimes at the end of your row, only capturing a glimpse of him from your peripheral view, and if you dared to sneak a peek, of course, his eyes would catch you, and you would have to play it off like you weren’t seeking those green eyes out.

You swore your eyes were magnets for his, like he was seeking yours, too. This gut-deep feeling, sickly sweet, that churned deep in the boom of your belly, always leaving you wanting more.

The more details you gathered from afar, the more you picked up on his charm, and dammit, it was so effortless, his presence sugary sweet, coating your insides like cotton candy fluff, each sugary layer dissolving on the tip of your tongue, the moment it came in contact because with the charm came the girls, and fuck, there were so many girls vying for his attention, the girls just as consumed by the tattoos and skinny jeans.

You realized this made you no different than the girls huddled close in the library watching him walk by, you snagging fragments of their hushed conversation, the topic of his hidden tattoos, that so and so had hooked up with him last week, and he was even hotter in bed.

The thought instantly consumed you and sent you reeling—adding yet another hopeless layer to dissect.

Luckily for you, your roommate Lena seemed to be hitting it off with one of his best buddies, which gave you an in because that was the first time he gave you a nod of recognition—a sweet little morsel you almost missed because you were so caught up in the words drifting behind you that you barely caught the smile he left you with as he shoved a hand in his pocket and strolled out of the library.

For days, you sat floating on a fluffy pastel daydream, his smile the only thing you could see, and that’s when your looks became intentional, not just a hopeful glance, but a direct line of sight.

For months, you spun the idea of Harry in your mind, each thought starting off sweet, sometimes heating up—a low simmer, a carmelized daydream spinning into thin strands of candied floss, a clouded haze of fluff you were dying to devour. 

And he never let you down because there he was feeding you those tiny morsels, like sucking on a lemon drop—sweet and sour—a treat that took its time to melt in your mouth. A “Hi” here, an “I’ll see you around” there—the art of Lena now dating his friend paying off when you found Harry sitting on your couch one day after class. You remembered this because the vision would haunt you for days to come as you felt his eyes follow you to your room. Harry was still in sight when you reached for the door, and as you turned the knob and stepped inside, you stole one last look, his gaze still trained on you, then he disappeared as you entered your room, his curious glance making your heart pound in your chest. 

And when the early evening turned to night. You stayed in your room because you knew you wouldn’t be able to play it cool, and as the noise picked up down the hallway, you laid there in bed, memorizing the way his deep voice echoed in your tiny apartment, and swore one day he would be in your bed.

Another night, you found yourself in the backseat with Harry, him grabbing a ride with his buddy, and Lena, dragging you along, and although you put on a show of not wanting to join, deep down, you knew Harry would be there. 

 This was another memorable night, playing out in your head so fucking clear because you were so nervous. You remembered sliding into the backseat, thinking Lena would be joining you, but then Harry made it a point to give Lena the front seat, and the second he slid in, it was like he stole the oxygen straight from your lungs. 

This was the closest you guys had ever been, only a shallow gap sitting between you both. You felt yourself straightening in your seat, lengthening your spine so you could take a decent breath, a silent intake of air that you held in your lungs as your body went still, your heart hammering in your chest after you muttered a quick “Hey.” 

And there was silence until there was music. 

The car ride was long, and no one wanted to play DJ, so Lena made you plug in your phone. Lena had put you on the spot, exposing you like a gutted fish. At least, that’s what it felt like, so you chose a recent playlist you had just made—later you would learn that this was also the night something shifted between you and Harry.

You kept overthinking every song that came on, a true act of vulnerability as each song came and went, and then there was that one song, the song you had been playing on a loop, the song that made you think of Harry, an upbeat tune with lyrics that made you melt at the idea of him, and out of nowhere, Harry asks:

“What’s the name of this song?” His voice woody as he cleared his throat, the silence taking its toll.

You pretended you didn’t know, even though you felt the title at the tip of your tongue as soon as he asked. Once you swiped open the screen, the title was there. You watched Harry pull out his phone and enter it into his search, adding it to his favorites. Then, he asked if he could look through the list, so you gently handed him your phone, your hand shaky, trying not to unplug the aux it was attached to. 

Giving him your phone was like giving him an extension of yourself, and there it was in his hands.

All you could do was watch, holding your breath until you decided to let it go; you falling back into your seat as he scrolled through the list, the blue light of the screen glowing over his face. You observed a smile ghost over his lips, making your chest tight with excitement, and you had to turn away as you exhaled a weighted breath, the tension tight in your body, your phone in his hands now a tether between you both.

The next time you saw him in class, he sat right next to you.

You were stunned, a slow smile spreading across your face as he dropped his bag onto the table, and you looked up at him. You knew you must have had a strange expression because he asked, “What? Is it not cool if I sit here?” And he smiled, that smile when both dimples show, and you nod your head, his green eyes searching your face, leaving you with nothing to do but smile.

From then on, he sat next to you every Tuesday and Thursday, always something to look forward to, that crush even more persistent the closer you got to him—a low whisper in your ear when he leaned over to crack a joke about something the professor said, or the times his arm would graze yours. Another memory to add to the collection—the first time it happened, you subtly pulled away, his touch sending a jolt up your spine, a running chill over your skin as the tingle remained the longer you kept your focus on the touch. 

On another occasion, when it happened again, you waited to see if he would pull away, but he never did. As you slowly drew your arm away, you held your breath, and the feeling of your skin dragging against his heated you from within, sending a fluttering bloom to the depths of your belly.

Your resolve was starting to waver, and you knew it.

Your face had to be giving you away, the warmth filling your cheeks, burning as you tucked your hands into your lap, and you sat there perfectly still, leaning back into your chair like you were completely unphased by it all. You slowed your breath then, in through your nose, an even slower release, and you wondered how long you could go on like this, the room narrowing, Harry’s close proximity stirring the atmosphere of the room.

You were only aware of him and his every movement.

And when his knee knocked into yours, you bit down on your lower lip, your eyes flicking to his knee, now pressed against yours, and with every ounce of bravery you had, you chanced the smallest of looks at Harry—there he was, smiling the faintest of smiles down at his paper, his pen moving as if nothing was happening, even though your whole body was buzzing with it, and then you did something crazy, something completely out of character. You lean forward, resting your cheek in the palm of your hand, elbow pressing into the desk, and you look him dead in the eye, sending him a playful smirk, and your hand smoothes over his knee, the move undetectable to those around you, but you knew, and you let your hand rest, the bold move sending a spark between your legs, that tension a growing knot in the pit of your stomach. 

What you weren’t expecting was for Harry to grasp hold of your hand, a quick squeeze, and then he was slowly dragging your hand up his inner thigh, stopping right before the crotch of his jeans, but you felt the warmth, the shock running through you like electricity, your head spinning as he flattened your hand against the top of his thigh, the tips of your fingers grazing near the mound between his legs, giving his inner thigh a light squeeze, and Harry pushed out a low laugh, his eyes flicking to yours, and you couldn’t stop the smile rising as you gazed back at him,

That’s when you knew you wanted him, no matter what it took.

Then, the professor was ending the lecture, the class beginning to stir, but neither of you moved, and when people began to stand around you, you gave his thigh one last squeeze, moving your grip deeper, your pinky brushing the inner seam of his jeans, and Harry sucked in a quick breath, a wide smile on his face as his hand grasped hold of yours and he squeezed your hand hard, pulling it away, and he bit down on his lower lip, scooting his chair back.

“Soon…” He whispers.

That was Thursday.

So on Saturday, when Lena asked if you wanted to go to the guy’s house for a little get together, you knew that was your chance; you knew this night would be different because Harry wanted it too. 

“Soon,” He said; the low tone of his voice dripped down your spine like a sugary glaze that you had to live with for almost two whole days with no plan. A single word looming over your candied haze, your mouth going dry at the thought. You kept thinking of that look, him biting down on his lip, the vision caking your mind, and now every passing thought was honeyed with his intentions.

You felt the pull deep in your body, a dull throb between your legs as you stood there, eyeing Harry from across the room, but you didn’t want to look desperate, so you kept yourself busy, thankful that Lena made you guys pregame before you came because it didn’t take long for your drink to start catching up, and it was welcomed because you needed the delusional courage the alcohol would bring.

There were more people than Lena put on. You stood there thinking you would never get your chance with Harry, and it was understandable, but you couldn’t go one more day without a definite green light, without at least the taste of those heart-shaped lips pressed to yours, and you waited, so patient, so calm, so fucking unbothered by the many girls, flitting around, trying to capture his attention. 

How many times was he going to catch your eye and not make a move because you knew without a doubt you weren’t going to be the one? 

You were technically the one who made the first move, so he was going to have to give. So what’s another round of cat and mouse? You thought, taking another drink, Harry still eyeing you at every chance, ignoring the girl talking at him with desperation every time she flipped her hair over her shoulder, then you smiled into your cup, taking one more drink before you turned away, knowing Harry had his eyes on you no matter where you roamed around the room.

You liked this, this subtle power you knew you had over him; you had what he wanted, that much was clear, and when he finally made his way to you, you felt it.

His eyes traveling down your body spoke volumes, that cocky grin lingering as he took your drink from your hand, and he started toward the drinks, that invisible tether back, pulling from within as you felt the longing stretch through your entire body.

This was it,

this was going to happen.

 But how do you get there?

“So you’re not going to talk to me, huh?” Harry asked, handing you a full cup of something red, swishing around in your cup, and when you brought it to your mouth. Harry watched you, waiting for an answer as you shrugged your shoulders, the sweet taste of punch coating your tongue, spurring that cotton candy daydream to life as you gazed into his eyes.

“I was waiting for you to talk to me, sir,” You tell him, nudging his arm as your eyes flit over his top, a sheer material, leaving nothing to the imagination, and when you peep the vailed butterfly at the center of his chest, your eyes dart to his, then back, and you poke a lazy finger into the center of his shirt, and he laughs, taking hold of the tip of your finger. 

Just then, Lena calls your name from across the room, ripping your attention from Harry, and you pull your finger from his grasp, feeling like you just got caught doing something naughty, and even if you weren’t, you knew you wanted to, and your cheeks burned with it.

“You guys…” Lena shouts, “You too, Harry…” and when you look to Harry, he too is like a deer in headlights, pointing to himself like he has no idea what his name is.

“Come play guys…” Harry’s buddy yells, pulling Lena onto his lap, and the shame of your thoughts has you moving, not wanting to draw any more attention to you and Harry.

 What the both of you didn’t know was that they were playing Truth or Dare, and you had that sinking feeling already that you knew you were screwed because you guys weren’t kids anymore, and now there was alcohol involved. 

The first couple of rounds weren’t bad; you chose Dare right off the bat, thinking a bold move would mean they would go easy, and that they did. The dare was to take a shot; that was easy. Harry, on the other hand, was playing it safe; while you chose Dare three times, he chose truth, uttering things from his mouth that made you blush because, of course, each question was loaded.

 Who didn’t like a good dirty secret? 

By the fifth round, it was Harry’s turn again, and when he chose Truth, his buddy interjected and told him he had to choose Dare. When Harry smiled, your stomach dropped because his friend wasn’t budging, and so he took it, eyes flitting past you as they moved to his friend—it just took that split second of attention to rally every nerve in your body because, let’s face it…you were tipsy, teetering on the edge of drunkenness, and so was he. 

You could see it in his glossy green eyes, that lazy smirk that hadn’t left his mouth, the way he kept getting closer, the two of you shoulder to shoulder, even though there was plenty of space on either side of you both, that innocent touch making the room vibrate, buzz with the anticipation of how you wanted this night to end—it had to be with him, it had to be underneath, on top of him, his face between your legs, it didn’t matter, at this point you would even drop to your knees for him

But what do they say? Be careful what you wish for. Because the next thing you know, Harry’s buddy is giving the dare, telling Harry to pick someone to waterfall a can of beer into their mouth, and you’re so caught up in the idea of beer being a shit choice that you don’t even realize everyone is staring at you until you see that cunning smile Harry is giving you, and when your eyes flick to Lena she’s nodding her head, one of those, yeah you looks, then Harry grabs your arm, your whole body heating as your eyes dart around the circle of people staring back at you.

Your legs are stiff as Harry pulls you near, his buddy handing him a cold beer, your gaze trained on the can now in Harry’s hands. It’s all moving so fast, catcalls ringing around you, the energy of everyone picking up, gearing up to watch the show you’re about to put on for them because it’s fight or flight, and you’re sticking to it.

When Harry drops your arm, it’s like lightning tearing through your body, your eyes darting to his as the crisp sound of the tab bursts open, the cream-colored froth spilling over the edge of the can. You both glance down, Harry extending it further away so he doesn’t get any on his boots. Even though you’re not a fan of the taste of beer, you know the ice-cold liquid would cool you down because your body is on fire, heat creeping through you—should you be mortified? You’re not sure, but when Harry’s eyes return to yours, you swallow hard, your heartbeat pounding in your throat. 

You’re willing your nerves not to show as your eyes sweep over Harry’s face. Then he leans in and says, “I’ll go slow…don’t worry…”

You let out a small laugh, your hand finding his wrist as he pushes his hand into your waist, sending a raspy laugh into your ear while the tip of his nose brushes against your earlobe, and it’s dizzying. The only thing keeping you balanced is your grip on his wrist because, holy shit, you’re really going to follow through with it, and just as you tip your head back, Lena yells, “On your knees, bitch—” your eyes go wide, and Harry gives your waist a little squeeze as he pushes you back, opening up space for you to kneel before him.

His smile is teasing, spurring you on, keeping that flame burning within, but little does he know you’re about to make him pay, make him suffer, make him weak—water the seed you planted that day in class—leave him wanting more because isn’t that what this is, and so you play into it, a sly grin playing at the corner of your mouth as you lock eyes.

You release his wrist, then lock your focus on Harry as you begin to kneel, slow and precise, lowering until one knee hits the ground, then the other. You sit back on your heels, only breaking eye contact to place both palms neatly on your thighs, straightening your spine and rising up like the dutiful girl you’re about to become. Once your gaze moves back to Harry, he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing with the effort, and you know you’ve got him that easily, and you haven’t even opened your mouth.

He steps in front of you then, his smile fading, and he leans over you, his dick inches from your face, and he gathers a handful of your hair with one hand, a makeshift ponytail, adding to the list of unexpected acts, and when he gives your head a gentle nudge, you have to force your eyes away from the obvious bump in his pants because there’s no way this dude isn’t packing some serious heat, and your dying to know, and maybe, just maybe you’ll find out.

You comply when he gives your hair another little tug, your head falling back as your eyes meet his, “Now open that sexy little mouth,” Lena shouts, playing into the bit. She’s like the best wingman without even realizing it, and your lips part, your mouth rounding into an “O,” and you widen your mouth, opening your jaw, and you give Harry one last look before your eyes flit shut.

“That’s so hot,” someone says, and you smile. Harry presses the cold can to your bottom lip, and your heart picks up as the chill runs through your chest, a sudden thrill.

He’s playful at first, a quick glug of beer spilling into your mouth, and the second it spills out, the crisp cold carbonation washes over your tongue like water leaving the stale taste of sour yeast running over your taste buds, cheap beer of course, and you feel your throat seize, overwhelmed, the feeling intensified by your lack of visual clues, then you lap your tongue over your bottom lip licking a stray drop that just hit the surface.

As you open your eyes, you take a moment to straighten your posture, preparing yourself for what’s next. Leaning back again, you feel Harry starting to pour, the can hovering just above your bottom lip. As your mouth widens in anticipation, he carefully lifts the can, his grip on your hair gentle yet firm, slowly guiding your head back. The beer flows steadily, and with each widening of your mouth, your jaw relaxes a bit more. Your gaze is fixed on the stream, and you engage your core muscles to maintain your straight posture. Like a little bird being fed, you take in the first gulp effortlessly. 

There’s a slight strain, but it’s nothing you can’t handle.

Like he promised, his pour was slow, and this time, you let your mouth fill more, thinking it would be easier. Your eyes flicked to Harry, a small grin peeking at the corner of his mouth as the stream got higher—tiny specks of droplets hitting your face as it splashed into your mouth, and you closed your eyes, stretching your spine to guzzle your next mouthful, now weighing down the back of your tongue, and you gulp, a loud gurgle coming from your throat as you hold steady trying not to move any other muscle but your throat, then someone yells, “I bet she’s good at giving blow jobs—” 

Hearing Harry’s raspy laugh, your eyes open, and you look him dead in the eye, opening your mouth as wide as you can, your jaw relaxing into the stretch. That’s when Harry decides to quicken the pour—the beer halfway gone, you hope— and he pulls at your ponytail with his firm grip, inching your head back further; and Harry takes control of the whole situation as panic rises up, your mouth filling faster this time, and you know you have to swallow.

 Then he’s pouring faster.

The new angle of your neck has made the strain harder, stretching the muscles in your neck taut, giving you less control, and you open the back of your throat as liquid spills down, fast, heavy as it gushes past the barrier you were holding, the choke down louder this time, a strained glug as you puff out your cheeks trying not to cough, and your eyes widen flicking to Harry who is biting back his smile, his chin rising as the pour speeds down into your mouth, and when his lips part, you choke down another gulp, eyes never leaving his.

He licks his lips then, and you do it again, just to see his reaction. As he licks his lips, a flying droplet hits your eye, then another, and you have to force your eyes shut, “Dump the rest in her mouth,” some dude says.

“Make her really choke on it!” another adds, and Harry grips the makeshift ponytail hard, and you open your eyes as the can comes down closer to your mouth. Harry tilts the can, emptying it out into your mouth, and you gasp down the beer, liquid spilling out the sides of your mouth, and there you are, squirming under Harry’s hold as you force the liquid down your throat, coughing in a gulp of air, once it’s completely down. 

As quickly as Harry grabbed hold of your hair, he released it, and you sucked in a breath, grasping at your neck with one hand, reaching for Harry with the other, and he pulls you to your feet and past the people flooding your hazy vision, your head spinning as a rush of oxygen fills your lungs, and it feels like your floating on a cloud, every limb on your body numb, heavy, yet weightless because you think you could do anything, yeah, you could do anything.

Then Harry pulls you through a doorway to a bedroom, your whole world coming to a hurried halt, you standing there trying to play catch up with a scene of events that just unfolded. Harry, in perpetual motion, moves way too fast, in a frantic rush, a hasty pace, as he walks over to his desk, grabs hold of a wooden chair, walks back to his door, and he jams the back of the chair under the handle, pulling on the knob to make sure it’s secure. 

And then he just stops, standing there looking at the door, and you don’t know what to do; the reality that you must be in his room setting in, yet Harry is unmoving. Standing there in some sort of contemplation, and you wonder if he forgot that you were here, and when he runs a flustered hand down his face, you listen to him exhale, putting a hand on his hip as he pivots to face you, “That damn lock is broken on my door,” he confesses, his smile suddenly shy.

“Yeah?” you breathe, unsure what to say.

“Yeah…” He says, his green eyes searching your face, and now you were dizzy with the vision of him before you, that shitty beer trying to show its face.

You had no idea what you looked like in that moment; Harry just stood there, rolling his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger, that boyish charm thing he does, another little cork you had picked up on over the months—was he nervous? You couldn’t tell with his furrowed brows, so serious, his tall stature seeming to consume the room because he was all you could focus on. 

“Was it weird that I brought you to my room?” He speaks up, and then he moves past you to turn on a lamp next to his bed.

Your response isn’t quick; it takes until he moves past you again to turn off his overhead light, a change in mood, the atmosphere shifting in a tipsy state, every subtle change amplified, “No…” is what you tell him because it isn’t weird, but getting to this point was overwhelming, 

“We don’t have to do anything…” He says, kicking a boot off, and you follow suit, peering down at your feet as one shoe comes off, then the next.

“But you want to, right?” You ask him, picking up your shoes and placing them by the door, and when you look back, you catch a hint of a smirk peeking at the corner of his mouth, a flutter building, and you bite the edge of your tongue to keep your smile at bay.

“I just wanted to get away from all those people…couldn’t think with all of that noise…” Harry tells you, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“It was so fucking loud…” you agree, eyes roaming his room, your obsessive little mind already at work.

“Yeah…” He says, and when your eyes shift to him, he’s leaning back into his arm, breathing an air of casualness into the room, and you rake your eyes down his body.

You give him a small smile, eyes moving away, “So you couldn’t hear yourself think, huh?” You ask, his room oddly sobering because how many times had you thought about it, wondered what it looked like? Imagined yourself in it, and who cares if you had been a tad bit obsessive? You never forced the idea on anyone or him; it was your sweet little innocent secret to keep, and look at what it got you: a front-row seat to your favorite show, so why not take it? 

“Yeah…a bit overwhelming…” he laughs, his tongue lazily stretching out that last word, his British drawl heavy.

You look over your shoulder, “Overwhelming?” You smile again, matching Harry’s smile, and your eyes dart to his books lined across a shelf. 

“What was there to think about?” you question, dragging a slow finger down the spine of an old book, taking in the faded colors, and you turn just in time to glimpse that cocky grin rising, Harry’s mouth corking to one side, mischievous is all you can think. 

“You—” He says, plain and simple, the word falling out of his mouth like a hopeful gumdrop falling from the sky, something you never imagined happening, and you felt your body buzzing with it, a slow hum vibrating deep in your belly, your pussy waking with it, and you knew this was it—You were going to get what you wanted.

“Tell me more…” You push, moving over to him, and Harry falls back into his other hand, his body now a long, lean line in front of you.

He pushes out a throaty laugh, eyes moving down your body, and you try to relax, let the alcohol work its magic, “I’ve noticed you blush easily…I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Hmm…” you hum.

“They’re a bit naughty…these thoughts—” He starts, sending a pulse straight to your clit as your heart begins to race, and you lean forward, placing a hand on each of his knees, looking him directly in the eyes, and you nod your head for him to continue. 

“You started it, you know…” and this makes you laugh, “When you put your hand on my knee…”

“But did I start it?” You asked, feeling playful, “You’re the one who knocked my knee…” you tell him.

“Okay…I did do that…but you actually started this whole thing?”

“This whole thing?” you repeat, eyes moving to his mouth.

He licks his lips then, well aware of your eyes, “Yeah,” he says, smoothing his lips together, “When you smiled at me…that day in class…I saw you…”

“What? How do you know I was smiling at you? I could have been smiling at anyone…” you lie, trying to sidetrack him, and he was right about the blushing; you could feel the heat rising, your brain stumbling over the fact that he even remembered that.

He rasps out a laugh, leaning up to rest his hands on yours, his face only inches away, and the light catches the glint of his green eyes, leaving you in awe. “No…I saw it…there’s no fooling me, miss.”

“Fooling you?” you ask, smoothing your hands up his legs a few inches, and Harry grabs hold of your wrists, stopping them, his eyes sweeping down to your hands.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you—” and you force your face forward then, your mouth knocking against his, and you couldn’t help it, that persistent thought of him making you spiral, and when he doesn’t hesitate, you begin to move your mouth.

Harry deepens the kiss as his hands move up to your face, and you propel the both of you into action when you bring a knee to the edge of the bed. Then Harry breaks the kiss, reality hitting like a tidal wave, one big rush of awareness, knocking the air from your lungs, and you realize you should have asked. 

“Is this okay?” He questions, his hot breath fanning over your lips, your face still in his hands.

You laugh, “I probably should be the one asking you, right? sorry…”

“No—I should have asked before I locked you in my room…” He forces, eyes darting over your face, but you’re watching the rise and fall of his chest, both of you winded from the sudden change of possibilities. 

Staring down at his shirt, you say, “I want it…if you want it…” and you give his shirt a longing tug, your whole body aching for him, like even just rubbing your body against his would be enough, yearning like an adolescent dying to be touched for the first time.

“I’ve wanted you so fucking bad—” He tells you, forcing the words into your ear as a hand reaches for the button of your jeans, and it pops open in one swift move, then you lean forward, beginning to push them down, Harry lending his hands as you move in to kiss him.

You pull away then, fighting with the leg of your pants as you watch Harry yank his shirt over his head, the sight momentarily stunning you when you spot the tattoo at the center of his chest that you glimpsed earlier. 

When Harry reaches for his jeans, you stop what you’re doing, “Please…give me the honor…” you joke, your hands moving with a need to the button of his jeans, and your mouth is already watering, excited when you spot the outline of his growing bulge taunting you.

Harry grabs hold of the top of his boxers as you shimmy his pants down his hips, lifting, then helping once they reach his ankles, “Skinny jeans will be the death of me…” He laughs out, ripping his ankle free, and then they’re off, Harry leaning back slightly to adjust himself in his Calvin Kline boxers, so fucking sexy, and your eyes feast on the sight of his abs, the tight muscles bending and flexing, and what a fucking sight to behold. 

But he doesn’t give you much time because he snags the hem of your shirt and pulls it up, standing to lift it over your head, and just as your sucking in a breath, his mouth moves to yours, grabbing you by the waist to shift you onto the bed as you try to drag a quick breath through your nose.

His hands are everywhere—your face, your neck, your stomach, gliding up the curve of your waist, gently cupping a handful of boob, hungry, but you’re just as hungry, gripping and smoothing your hands over his muscles, hands roaming down the plains of his back, grabbing his ass to press him into you. 

It’s all fast, every breath short and desperate, as desperate as you both were to spur this on.

And your legs are spreading, inviting him in, and when you grab his ass again, your shoving him into you, a slow grind into his hard bulge, and you gasp at the relief, the sensation, the air heavy, a narrowing focus that nothing else exists except this, and when Harry takes the lead pressing into you again, you arch your back, lifting your hips up to meet his, until you’re finding a rhythm, Harry just as involved, needy, forcing out moans, each one a low simmer, a slow burn, both your bodies heating with it.

Weak.

That’s what you are weak for him, a heady rush stealing every thought because all you can feel is him, his body, his slow grind between your legs, pressing into you hard, like he too is aching, longing, and it’s one long stroke, his dick so hard that you can make out the head hitting you right at your center, gliding up your panties until you feel the base of his cock, and he groans out your name, stilling his body.

“I’ll fucking come if we keep this up—” he tells you.

And you nod, planting a kiss on his lips, “I want you to fuck me…” you force, grinding your hips into his.

“Is that what you want?” He breathes, pressing a kiss to your neck, his words catching in the shell of your ear.

“So fucking bad…” you laugh, nipping at his shoulder, and he pushes himself up then, crawling back on the bed, the warmth of his body leaving you, making you even needier for him.

Harry reaches into his bedside table and mulls around, the sound of clutter filling the silence, and you draw your knees up, lifting yourself onto your elbows. “Sorry…I only have one condom left…”

And you laugh, “Damn, I guess we’ll have to make it count...”

With a smile, Harry brings the foiled wrapper to his mouth, tearing it open with his teeth, your heart pounding in your chest as you hold your breath, a sliver of the wrapper holding by a thread at the edge, and you scoot forward on the bed, beating him before his hands can even reach for his boxers.

You look up then, “You have a big dick, don’t you?” you smile, giddy almost, thrilled at the notion of him being inside you.

“I guess to some…yeah…does that make you change your mind?”

He had you from the moment he walked into that class, but he’s about to have to figure out a way to rid himself of you because once you tug down his boxers, your eyes go wide, your hand like a magnet to his hard dick springing before you, and you’re already climbing off the bed, his warm dick in your hands, and your down on your knees before he can even say another word.

“I want to do something first,” You tell him, wrapping your hand around the back of his leg to bring him closer.

Harry lets out a breathy laugh and covers his face, letting his head fall back like the sight of you on your knees is too much, and he puffs out a loud sigh, dragging his hands down his face, “I can’t watch…” He tells you, pushing his words to the ceiling with a smile, and he laces his hands behind his head, letting the weight of his neck fall into his hands, and your eyes move down his body, traveling down his flexed stomach until you spot the tattoo, and you laugh, gripping his swelling dick in your hand.

“Oh my god, Harry—” and you peer up at him. He’s probably heard it all before, but it doesn’t stop him from laughing. 

The excitement sends a pulse through his dick, and it bounces in your loose grip, “I can’t look down…I already told you…”

You focus on the words inked into his skin, bringing his thick dick to your lips, the head of his cock, perfectly round like every candy-coated daydream you’ve ever had of him—a fucking treat, a lollipop earned, you think, already on your knees for him because those have been the daydreams you wanted to act out, put on a show that would drive him wild for you, but that was you on your knees tonight for him already, when you were that dutiful girl choking down beer for him, now you wanted to choke on him, fill the back of your throat until you were gagging on his big dick.

It started with a bounce against your mouth, the heavy head of his penis rippling across your lips; another bounce and you were lining your bottom lip with the ridge of his head, bounce, bounce, bounce, the weight of him hitting your mouth waking your senses, and then your lips were parting, a warm breath fanning over his dick, and your eyes flick up to Harry, watching him suck in a shallow breath.

“Might as well,” the tattoo says.

 So you open your mouth, flattening your tongue, your hand guiding his head into your mouth, and you open wider as you slowly drag him past the tip of your tongue, and you listen as Harry drags in a sharp breath through his teeth.

You like this; you like his reaction, and when you close your mouth around him, your tongue flattens against his dick, working his head, your hand moving down his shaft, giving you more of him to take in; a couple of bobs and you hear him rasp out a low moan, throaty like he’s trying to control himself. When you pull him from your mouth, you gasp in a breath, gearing up to take on more, knowing you need to loosen your jaw. Then you’re diving for more, shoving him in further, and Harry forces out, “Oh, God—”

The encouragement provokes you further, ripping his dick from your mouth, and you spit down his shaft, working it down the base—a little extra help; then you’re bobbing your head, your hand moving with your mouth in unison, synchronized as your throat opens for him.

 “Shit—” Harry breathes when you give his head a little extra attention, and he meets your eyes then, your gaze unmoving when you puff out your cheeks and force his dick to the back of your throat and the thick head of his penis hits your gag reflex hard, making your throat close around him, constricting as you force him back further, and you grip the base, readying yourself to do it again, then Harry tears his cock from your mouth, your throat seizing as you choke in a breath, the abrupt movement snatching the air from your lungs, and you gasp in a fast breath.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry…I didn’t mean for it to be that forceful.” Harry blurts, leaning down to hook a finger under your chin, and you rise to your feet, wiping at the corner of your mouth. 

“Oh my god—” you say, trying to keep a straight face, falling back onto the bed, turning the dramatics up when you clutch your throat. “I could have died—”

“I swear I didn’t mean to—” he tries.

You push yourself up on your elbows, “Now you owe me,” you tell him, feeling the corner of your mouth rise, and you narrow your eyes, bringing your foot up to the middle of his chest when he tries to climb on top of you. 

That’s when Harry realizes you’re joking, and he wraps a hand around your ankle, straightening his torso with a smile, “I know just how to repay you—” he tells you, gently lowering your leg to the bed. 

His large palms come down to the tops of your thighs, giving you a light squeeze before they drag down your skin and hook behind your knees as you watch that smile widen on his face, and with one quick tug, he tugs you to the edge of the bed, a faint gasp leaving your mouth and you bite down on your lower lip, watching as he reaches for your underwear. 

When his fingers hook under the top of your panties, you suck in a quick breath, drawing your tummy in as he starts to pull, and you fall back onto the bed again, bringing your feet up on the edge of the bed to lift your hips as your close eyes focusing on the way Harry slowly drags the material down your thighs, and you lengthen your leg as he pulls them past your ankles. 

That’s when you lean up, eyes meeting his as he drops to his knees. A flutter of excitement runs between your legs, and your heart races with anticipation. “Since you were such a good girl…” He starts his hands on your waist now, and his thumbs caress the skin of your hip bones, gripping the meat at your sides to drag you closer.

You can’t help but squeeze your leg shut. “You’ll have to open those legs so I can give you your treat, darling. “ and you laugh, his British accent making you giddy, and you press your thighs together harder. 

You speak up then, “I kinda want you to just fuck me…” you tell him, your voice coming off more timid than you’d like, and Harry lets out a laugh, brings his mouth to the top of your knee, and presses a kiss into your skin, making your pussy pulse. 

“But I really—” he says, placing another kiss on the other knee, “want to return the favor—” 

“How about next time?” you answer, your clit starting to ache for his dick to fill you up. 

“You promise?” he asks, resting his chin on your knee, his green eyes almost pleading like a cute little puppy begging for scraps.

And you reach forward, running a hand through his hair, giving it a light tussle, and Harry closes his eyes, relishing the feeling, “Next time…I promise—”

“But right now—” you force, and Harry’s eyes flit open, meeting yours, “I want you to fuck me.”

Harry’s eyes go wide then, his brows lifting, and he swallows hard, his chin digging into the top of your thigh as a playful smirk appears, “Yeah?”

“Please—” you push. 

He reaches for the condom he placed on the bedside table and stands to his feet, his large dick coming back into view, and you clench your thighs tighter, feeling the slickness between them spread every time you move.

You watch him pull the condom from the wrapper, his dick in one hand, slowly smoothing up and down his shaft, his eyes trained on you, “You want or need me to fuck you?”

You choke on a laugh then, your mouth going dry at the sight, and you lick your lips, “Both—” and you smile.

“Mmm…” he hums, concentration etching into his brow, “Take your bra off,” he tells you, and you push yourself up, your hands shaking with adrenaline as your heart picks up, and you unclasp your bra and toss it to the ground. 

This brings a smirk to his face as his eyes flit over your naked body on his bed, “I liked the way you grabbed my hair earlier… that was hot,” you tell him…” and he licks his lips, biting down on his lower lip to control the smile that’s dying to rise.

“Is that how you want it?” he asks, his deep voice humming through your body.

The smiles are gone, a new energy creeping into the room, something heavy and charged with a new demand, “That’s how I want it…” you tell him.

“Scoot up on the bed.” He instructs, making your whole body go numb, the excitement overwhelming your nerves, and as you scoot your way back onto the bed, your legs spread, bringing awareness to your wet pussy as a gust of air rushes over your skin.

When you look back up, Harry is rolling the condom down his dick, stopping once he hits the base, and you both lock eyes, “All fours—” he says.

“Turn around and get on all fours,” and you give him one last look and silently flip over, your heart beating in your chest.

“Good—just like that—face down—” he tells you, “ass up—” he demands as you press your face into the bed, and you extend your arms straight, feeling the edge of the bed under your palms. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks one more time, “ Is there anything you don’t want to do?”

“No anal…” you tell him, peeking over your shoulder, “I don’t think I could handle that on the first go.” 

Harry laughs then raises his brows, “Noted—” he answers, leaning forward to grab hold of your hips, and just as you plant your cheek to the comforter, he rips you back to the edge of the bed, no warning as your cheek drags across the blanket, and you gasp, the quick motion stealing your breath, and when you lift your cheek from the bed to readjust yourself, there’s a slight burn from the fabric grazing your skin. 

“Changed my mind…I want you on the edge…in case you try and squirm—”

And you swallow, pressing your forehead to the comforter, and lengthen your spine as Harry adjusts your hips, stretching your arms across the bed; no safety of the ledge, just the grasp of the fabric lightly bunching under your palms. 

When Harry presses a knee into the bed, you feel his flattened palm press into your upper back, trying to flatten you more, and you turn your face, trying to stretch further, the tips of your fingers now at the edge of the side, and you close your eyes.

Harry drags a finger down your lengthened spine, then, starting at the base of your neck, a slow drag gliding down your smooth skin, making you curve your back like a cat as a shiver runs down your spine at the very thought of his touch, and you arch your back, letting your ass come down to your heels, completely taken by the sensation shuttering through you. 

And all you hear is the tisk of Harry’s tongue, “Ass up—” Harry commands, jerking your hips back into place, and suddenly you’re scared out of your fucking mind, yet lost in the trance he’s put you in because you are so turned on, even more, turned on by his commands—You’ve never let a guy just take you like this, given him the control.

When you feel the pad of Harry’s thumb smooth over your slick entrance, you let out a soft moan, the feeling making your clit pulse as he spreads the wetness over the lips of your pussy, the cold air mingling with your wet skin and you suck in an audible breath, and Harry dips a finger inside, getting you ready for him, and you feel yourself opening, melding into the bed as his finger dips further, and when he adds the motion of his thumb over your clit, you hold your breath, a slow circle beginning to take way.

“Oh—that—” you breathe, pushing out a heavy breath, a knot already forming deep inside.

“So fucking wet for me—tight,” he coos, the pressure on your clit deepening, and you moan out a loud sigh of satisfaction, raising your ass higher, growing needy for him, and then he slips another finger inside you, a light stretch as he sinks his fingers deeper this time, paving a slick way for his dick to fill you.

Harry dips his fingers one more time and then pulls them away, “Tastes good—” he says, and you lift your head just as he shoves his fingers into his mouth, his lips curving around them, and you have to look away, another shudder moving down your spine at the absence of his hands, and you almost want to beg, but then harry is grabbing hold of your hips again, a knee pushing back into the bed, and your ready, so ready, ass perfectly lifted, spine just how he wants it.

He brushes his thumb over your opening one more time, and he presses your hip into his inner thigh, you spreading slightly to give him more access, and you feel the firm head of his cock streak down your entrance, then again, making you draw in a slow breath, and your whole body tenses as he sinks in a little further, a groan leaving his mouth once the tip pushes past your entrance.

This is happening, his dick inching in more, and you moan out, pushing your forehead into the bed, gripping the blanket under your palms as if they could save you because then he’s pushing into you more, with a little force, your neck lifting to push out a low whimper.

It’s everything you pictured the stretch would be, a painful beginning, the delicate skin at your entrance on fire as your walls clench around him, and Harry forces himself deeper, stretching his way until he’s completely inside you, splitting his way past the point of no return, and you gasp out, “Fuck—” louder when he pulls your hips into him, your ass pressed to his pelvis, and Harry groans out, “So fucking tight—” a breathy laugh leaving his mouth as he leans forward to press a kiss into the center of your back, and the new angle has him pushing deeper.

“Mmmm,” you force, pushing your hips into him, trying to move past the pain, and he is so fucking deep, pressing into the pit of your stomach; at least that’s what it feels like because you’ve never been filled like this, every muscle lining the walls inside your pussy straining against his large mass, and you know what this can be, and when he slowly inches his dick back, you feel the gap he leaves, your body already desperate to be filled again, and he thrusts back inside you, slow and rhythmic, the stretch evening out with every stroke.

“Is that good?” He asks, giving your hips a squeeze, and you drag your forearm down to your forehead and rest your head, trying to focus on every breath in and out, breathing in tandem with his strokes.

“Don’t stop, okay?” you force on an exhale, and you hear the rasp of Harry’s laugh as you slam your eyes shut, his thrust harder this time.

Harry’s grip tightens on your hips, and when he pushes inside you again, it’s one long, slowed thrust, and he drives himself inside you deeper, the pressure hitting your lower belly again, and you moan out, forcing in a sharp breath.

“You like that dick, don’t you?” He asks, but you don’t lift your head; you just nod. Harry pulls back again, and you grip the comforter, gearing up for his next thrust as they begin to pick up.

“I like—” you try as Harry hits that spot again.

“You like what—?” he huffs, pulling all the way out.

“So fucking big…” you tell him, and he shoves his thick cock deep inside you, pushing past your walls as a new layer of stretch burns like a line of fire inside you, and you force yourself up, reaching behind you to force his hips back as a pained moan leaves your mouth.

Harry knocks your hand away, “No—this is what you wanted, right?” he laughs, that dimpled smile beaming down at you, “You’re doing so well…I know you can take me.” and it’s like his words ignite the challenge aching in your bones, that longing for him, all those months of being so fucking patient, pining for this very moment.

And so you seize it, giving him one last look before you plant your hand back down on the bed, and Harry grasps a handful of your hair, just like you asked, slowly pulling your head back as he drives his dick back inside you, and you draw out your moan, the slow thrust in, stirring that knot in your belly.

In and out, slow at first, his grip on your hair light, your neck comfortably positioned as the pleasure begins to roll in, and you push back into him and lower onto your elbow, ready to let your lower half do all the work.

When he pulls back out, you chase his dick back to keep the same pace, rolling your hips back until your ass is flush with his body, and you arch your spine, your hair beginning to pull at your scalp from the new position, and you lift your hips, dropping back down as harry pushed in, the two of you finding a new cadence, spurring each other on as pleasure completely takes over.

“Mmmm—I like that—” he moans as you move up his dick, catching the head of his cock on your entrance; you dip back down, gasping when you hit that spot inside you, and it feels so good, a bittersweet edge as the pain dulls, and you do it again. This time, with more force, and Harry lets you take control, taking more hair into his grip, the reign between you both shortening.

“Those hips are magic—” Harry praises you, and you want more, so you pick up your pace, drawing your hips up, a light swirl at the tip, bringing them back down hard and fast, Harry tugging your head back until you do it again, and again until he’s pulling your hair so tight that every muscle in your neck is straining to catch a decent breath, a new facet of control you’ve never explored taking hold of your whole body, and you give in, Harry plowing his dick in and out of you like the gallop of a horse, your ass bouncing back against him as he tugs your hair, both of your words filthy, flying out of your mouths as you both act out in desperation.

“More—” you cry out.

And he does it, releasing your hair and pushing you to the bed as he grabs your hips and slams into you with such force that you yell out his name, the whole room spinning as you drop your cheek to the bed, and you tuck a hand between your legs, spreading until you reach your clit

That’s all it takes, your fingers moving between your legs, Harry’s hard thrusts in and out of you, and as you feel your orgasm about to mount, you dip your back, arching your ass out as far as you can, sending his dick deeper inside you, and you come, a hard tremble ripping through your body, so hard that it steals your words, your body going slack, a hard gasp in, your lungs seizing with the effort, and your whole body shudders, your walls clamping around his dick as Harry slams one last thrust into you and his entire body stills, arching around you as he comes, his sweaty torso, sticking to your skin as you fall into the bed, the world going silent around you both.

“It’s a shame you only had one condom,” You laugh, your body shaky as you stir back to life, and Harry plants a lazy kiss on your shoulder as he pushes himself up, his dick pulling out of you, leaving you hollow, and you cross your arms under your cheek, and lay there.

“Are you already wanting more?” and you lift your head and watch that charming little smile turn up at the corners of his mouth, drawing you in as you lay here in the sticky sweet aftermath of every candied daydream you’ve ever had of him, and it’s better, better than you could have ever envisioned, and when you lower your cheek back down to your arm, the air is light, your head clouding into that cotton candy haze, and your lost in him, lost in the feeling, and you know you’ll be forever wanting more because if that was just a tiny little morsel you want more and then you tell him:

“I have more condoms at my place…”

A/N: Well, that was a bit of a rollercoaster...what did you think??

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Press play (p4) | boyfriend!harry

Summary: Harry has been waiting all day—teased, taunted, and wound up until he’s barely holding it together. Tonight, control isn’t his to keep, and you make sure he knows it. Bound, blindfolded, and completely at your mercy, he learns exactly how it feels to be on the receiving end of every agonizingly slow touch, every whispered command, every ounce of pleasure he’s ever given you. But when the camera keeps rolling, and the idea of sharing his destruction enters the picture, the night takes on an even riskier thrill.

A/N: Listen… I’m not saying Harry might actually thrive in this scenario, but I am saying I had a little too much fun writing it. This was supposed to be a simple little tease, and then my brain went, “But what if we made it worse for him?” And here we are. Hope you enjoy this absolutely sinful mess. Reblog, scream in the tags, and send me your thoughts—I love hearing them! 

Word Count: 4,9k

Warnings: 

Dom/sub dynamics

Bondage (wrist restraints, blindfolds)

Sensory deprivation

Teasing/edging

Overstimulation

Light power play (control exchange)

Praise kink & degradation

Explicit smut (NSFW, 18+)

Filming during intimacy (consensual)

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The sun has long since set, casting the apartment in a soft, amber glow from the scattered lamps and flickering city lights beyond the windows. The atmosphere is quiet but thick, charged with an energy that’s been simmering all day.

Harry hasn’t been able to sit still since breakfast. Since the second you let those words leave your mouth, his mind has been stuck in a loop, replaying the taunt in every possible iteration.

You better get some rest, H. You’re gonna need it.

That smug, teasing lilt in your voice had made his stomach clench, and it’s only gotten worse as the day dragged on. You’d spent hours dangling the promise of something wicked just out of his reach—brushing your fingers over his skin when you walked by, pressing fleeting kisses to his jaw with a knowing smirk, leaning in like you were about to whisper something obscene only to breathe out the most innocent words.

Every touch, every look, every casual brush of your body against his had been designed to drive him absolutely fucking insane. And it had worked.

Harry is restless now, standing in the middle of the bedroom in nothing but his boxers, running a hand through his curls with a huffed exhale. He can’t focus on anything else. His fingers flex at his sides, aching to grab, to pull, to take back the control he’s always had—but he knows.

Tonight, that control doesn’t belong to him.

He turns when he hears you enter, and fuck, if the sight of you doesn’t nearly send him to his knees. You stand in the doorway, silhouetted by the soft light spilling in from the hall, wrapped in the sheerest little thing he’s ever seen. It’s barely there, teasing at modesty but offering nothing close to it. His throat goes dry, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

You take your time approaching, like you have all the time in the world, and when you finally stop in front of him, you tilt your head, assessing him with those sharp, knowing eyes.

“Been waiting all day, haven’t you?”

The question is a slow drag of silk across his skin, and he swallows hard, already fighting to keep his breathing even. “You know I have.”

Your lips twitch. “Poor thing.”

Harry’s jaw tenses, his nostrils flaring as he watches the slow, deliberate way you reach up to trace a single fingertip down his chest. It’s barely a touch, but it might as well be a goddamn brand. He feels it everywhere.

You lean in, close enough that your breath ghosts over his lips but never touches. “I think it’s time we make something clear.”

His breath stutters. “Yeah?”

Your fingers trail lower, dipping just beneath the waistband of his boxers before pulling away just as fast, leaving him clenching his teeth to keep from groaning.

“Mhm,” you hum, circling him slowly, letting your hands skim along his shoulders, his back, his sides—everywhere but where he needs you. “You like to be in charge, don’t you, H?”

His lips part slightly, but no words come.

You smile, dragging your nails lightly down his spine, enjoying the way his muscles twitch beneath your touch. “You like to call the shots. Like to make the rules. Like to watch me fall apart for you.”

His breathing is heavier now, chest rising and falling just a little too quickly.

You step back around to face him, tilting your chin up as you look him dead in the eye. “But tonight? That’s not your job.”

His pupils dilate.

You reach up, fisting a hand in his curls and giving the slightest, sharpest tug. His mouth parts on a quiet inhale, his lashes fluttering just barely, and fuck, if that isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“Tonight, you listen,” you murmur, your other hand splaying flat against his chest, feeling the way his heart pounds beneath your palm. “You do exactly as I say. You give me everything I want.”

A sharp exhale leaves him, and you see it—the way his body shudders, the way his restraint cracks, the way his control fractures beneath the weight of your words.

And when you tighten your grip in his hair, pulling his head back just slightly to expose the long, gorgeous line of his throat, you swear you hear him whimper.

Your smirk is slow, dangerous. “Understand?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, his breathing ragged. And when he finally manages to get a word out, it’s barely more than a rasped whisper.

“Yes.”

You hum, pleased, releasing his hair and stepping back. His gaze stays locked onto you, his hands twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but knows he shouldn’t. Not yet.

“Good boy.”

The sound that leaves him is a low, strangled groan, his head tilting back slightly, his hands flexing into fists. And god, that does something to you.

You take another step back, eyes dragging over his flushed skin, his tensed muscles, the way his cock is already straining against his boxers, eager, desperate.

Your smirk deepens.

“You’re going to wish you never made me wait.”

Harry’s breath shudders. You can see it—the sharp, involuntary inhale, the way his throat works as he swallows. His entire body is pulled tight, his muscles tensed beneath his flushed skin, his hands still clenched into fists at his sides like he’s trying to keep himself in check.

It won’t last.

You step forward again, slow and deliberate, letting your fingers ghost over his collarbones, down his arms, over the flex of his biceps. His pulse pounds beneath his skin, fast and frantic, and you know that under all that bravado, under all his usual arrogance and control, he’s waiting.

Waiting for you to make your next move.

Waiting for you to break him.

And tonight? You will.

“Hands,” you murmur, holding out yours in silent command.

Harry hesitates, just for a second, and that’s all it takes for you to arch a brow, giving him a look that makes his breath stutter. He exhales slowly, jaw tensing as he finally lifts his hands, palms up, wrists together, offering himself to you.

He’s never done this before—never let you take the lead like this. And it must be killing him, giving up that control. But the way his pupils are blown wide, the way his cock is already straining against his boxers, the way his breath is coming in uneven little pants?

He likes it.

A slow, satisfied smirk pulls at your lips as you reach for the soft silk you’d left on the bed. It’s deep crimson, expensive, cool against your fingers. The same one he’s used on you before, tied tight enough to keep you in place while he had his way with you.

It’s poetic, really.

The hunter becoming the hunted.

The predator becoming the prey.

You loop the silk around his wrists, wrapping it securely, knotting it tight enough to make sure he feels it. Tight enough that every little twitch, every failed attempt to reach for you, will remind him exactly where he stands tonight.

His breathing is heavier now, the rise and fall of his chest growing more pronounced. His fingers flex slightly, like he’s testing the binds, like he’s already restless.

Good.

You let your hands drag down his arms, featherlight, trailing lower—along his ribs, down the hard lines of his stomach, stopping just at the waistband of his boxers. His muscles jump beneath your touch, his entire body pulled taut like a live wire. You can feel the anticipation rolling off him, thick and tangible, crackling like static in the air.

He’s waiting for the next move.

For your next command.

You reach for the second piece of silk—the blindfold.

His jaw tenses as he watches you, eyes flicking between the fabric and your face.

“Problem?” you murmur, tilting your head.

Harry exhales hard through his nose, his fingers curling into his palms before he shakes his head. “No.”

Your lips twitch.

“Good.”

You lift the blindfold, pressing it over his eyes, securing it behind his head with a slow, practiced knot. The moment the fabric settles into place, stripping him of his sight, his entire body reacts—his breathing stutters, his shoulders tense, his throat works through another swallow.

He’s not used to this.

Not used to being the one left in the dark.

Not used to not knowing.

And fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

You step back, taking a moment to admire him—standing there, bare except for his boxers, arms bound in front of him, eyes covered, every muscle tight with restraint.

Waiting.

It would be so easy to drag this out. To tease him. To make him beg.

But first, you want to make sure every single moment of this is captured.

You turn, reaching for the camera—already set up at the foot of the bed, perfectly angled. The red light blinks steadily, waiting to be turned on.

Your finger hovers over the button for just a second before pressing down.

Record.

The soft beep fills the silence, and Harry shifts. His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to follow the sound, like he’s listening in a way he never usually has to.

He’s so used to watching. To seeing. To drinking in every little reaction, every shift in your expression, every tremble, every gasp.

But not tonight.

Tonight, all he has is what you let him hear. What you let him feel.

And the camera?

The camera will see it all.

You step forward again, letting your fingertips just barely graze the waistband of his boxers. He jolts slightly, his breath catching, his fingers twitching against the silk binding his wrists.

“Mm,” you hum, tilting your head as you watch his reaction. “So responsive.”

His throat bobs.

“You always watch me, don’t you, H?” Your voice is nothing more than a low, taunting whisper. “Always studying me. Reading me. Seeing everything.”

A sharp exhale leaves him, his fingers flexing again.

“But not tonight.”

You drag a single fingertip up the center of his chest, slow and deliberate, tracing over his sternum, up his throat, stopping just beneath his jaw. His breath shudders at the contact, his head tipping back slightly.

“You’re not going to see anything.” Your voice is a slow drag of heat against his skin. “You’re just going to feel.”

He lets out a quiet curse under his breath, and fuck, you haven’t even done anything yet.

His wrists flex against the silk bindings, muscles straining beneath his skin. The blindfold is firm over his eyes, cutting off his sight, leaving him in darkness, forced to rely on every other sense—every rustle of fabric, every slow inhale, every shift in the air around him.

You watch the rise and fall of his chest, the way his body twitches, already on edge before you’ve even touched him. It’s intoxicating.

You reach for the first tool of your torment—a feather, soft and teasing between your fingers.

The first touch is light, barely there, trailing down the column of his throat.

Harry inhales sharply.

You drag it lower, across his collarbone, letting the fine strands skim over his flushed skin. His body jerks, but he stays still, just as you commanded.

“See?” you murmur, letting the feather dance down the center of his chest. “Not so easy, is it?”

His jaw clenches.

You smile, moving lower, circling his navel, then dipping just below it. Not touching where he wants you most—where he’s already hard, already aching, cock pressing against the fabric of his boxers—but teasing close enough that he can feel it, that it drives him insane.

A shaky breath escapes him. His fingers curl, his knuckles turning white against the bindings.

You switch tactics. The feather is gone, replaced by something sharper—ice.

He barely has time to register the shift before you press the melting cube just beneath his ribs. He hisses through his teeth, his stomach muscles flexing beneath the sudden chill.

You drag it lower. Down his abdomen. Along the crease of his hip.

“You’re so fucking reactive,” you hum, tilting your head as you watch him. “I wonder if you even realize how desperate you look right now.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His lips part slightly, but he stays silent, obeying the rule you gave him. No speaking unless given permission.

You grin. “Good boy.”

The cube melts against his overheated skin, leaving trails of wetness in its wake. You lean down, dragging your tongue along one of them, tasting the contrast between the cold water and the warmth of his body.

Harry shudders. His hips jerk just slightly, an instinctual movement, a plea without words.

But he still doesn’t speak.

You press your lips to the side of his throat. “You’re holding back so well,” you whisper, brushing your mouth over the shell of his ear. “But tell me, H… how does it feel to be the one waiting?”

His entire body tenses. His head tilts slightly toward your voice, breath uneven.

“Every time you made me beg,” you continue, trailing your fingers lightly over his stomach, over his thighs, skipping where he needs you. “Every time you made me fall apart before giving me what I wanted… was it this frustrating?”

His exhale is sharp, ragged. His fingers twitch in their bindings.

You click your tongue. “Nothing to say?”

He grits his teeth. His self-control is fraying. You can see it in every tremble of his muscles, in the way his cock twitches beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.

You decide to break him further.

A vibrator—small, powerful—presses against the inside of his thigh.

Harry jolts.

You smirk. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”

His breathing turns shallow. His thighs tense beneath your hands as you move the toy slowly, so fucking slowly, up his leg. You keep it just off to the side, letting the vibrations buzz against the sensitive skin, but never where he really needs it.

He groans, his head tilting back against the pillows. His hands pull against the silk binding, fighting the urge to grab, to take control.

You turn the setting higher.

His breath stutters.

You trace the toy up and down, teasing the crease of his hip, the dip of his lower stomach. He’s so hard now it has to be painful, his cock straining against the fabric, leaking at the tip. But you don’t touch him there.

Not yet.

His body twitches beneath you, muscles flexing, every inch of him practically vibrating with need.

Finally, you lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “All you have to do is ask, baby.”

A deep, wrecked noise leaves his throat. His fingers curl tight, his body trembling.

But he doesn’t speak.

You smile against his skin. “That’s what I thought.”

And with that, you pull the vibrator away completely.

His entire body tenses—his breath catching, his head snapping forward as if to search for you through the blindfold.

You don’t say a word. You don’t touch him.

You just leave him there.

Waiting.

The silence is suffocating. The kind that stretches, thick and heavy, wrapping around his body like a vice. Every nerve in his skin is burning, still buzzing from everything you’ve done to him—and from everything you haven’t.

Harry swallows hard. His lips part slightly, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He’s teetering right on the edge of breaking, right on the brink of snapping, and he knows it.

But he also knows you know it.

You’re watching him. Studying him. Taking in the way his muscles tense, the way his fingers twitch against their bindings, the way his cock is so painfully hard against his stomach that he’s sure it’s leaving a damp spot on the fabric.

Still, you wait.

Still, you make him suffer.

And fuck, it’s working.

A strangled groan tears from his throat, his jaw clenching, his head falling back against the pillow in a mixture of frustration and submission. His hips jerk slightly, instinctively seeking friction that isn’t there, and when that gets him nothing, he finally exhales a shaky breath.

“…Please.”

It’s quiet. A whisper. A ghost of a plea.

You smirk.

Your hands finally move—slowly, deliberately—dragging the tips of your fingers down his chest. The touch is featherlight, barely there, but after everything, it feels like fire against his overstimulated skin.

You trace the ridges of his stomach, your nails scraping just lightly enough to make him shudder, before your fingers dip lower—down the sharp line of his hip bones, toward the waistband of his boxers.

He sucks in a breath.

Your fingers hook into the fabric. You tug them down, exposing him completely, watching the way his cock twitches as it’s freed. He’s flushed, aching, so fucking hard it must be painful.

You hum in approval, letting your fingers ghost up his thighs—still not where he needs them.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmur, tilting your head as you take him in. “So desperate. So fucking needy.”

A frustrated noise escapes him, his arms flexing against the restraints, and you know he’s fighting every instinct, every urge to take control.

You drag a single fingertip up the length of him, barely a touch, just enough to send a shiver through his entire body.

His breath stutters.

You wrap your fingers around him, finally giving him what he wants—but it’s slow. Torturously slow. Your grip is barely there, your strokes light, teasing, dragging this out for as long as possible.

Harry groans, his hips lifting slightly into your touch.

Immediately, you stop.

His entire body jerks, a strangled noise catching in his throat.

You lean in close, your lips grazing the corner of his mouth. “No,” you whisper. “You don’t get to take.”

A sharp exhale leaves him, his head tilting forward slightly, as if he’s trying to chase the touch of your lips.

You smile. “You wait until I say.”

And then you start again.

Your hand moves, slow and steady, working him up, pushing him right to the brink before stopping. Again. And again. And again.

Each time, his moans get rougher. His breathing gets more ragged. His body trembles beneath you, muscles clenching, thighs shaking.

By the third time, he’s wrecked.

By the fourth, he’s pleading.

His voice is strained, thick with desperation, edged with something wrecked and ruined. “Please. Fuck—please, baby—”

You hum, dragging your thumb lazily over the head of his cock, watching the way his stomach flexes, the way he twitches beneath you. “Please what?”

A growl rumbles in his chest, but it’s weak, a last-ditch attempt at control. “Need—”

You squeeze him just slightly. He gasps.

You tilt your head. “Need what, H?”

His lips part, but no words come out at first. He’s shaking now, his breath unsteady, his body barely able to keep up with the pleasure you’ve denied him.

And then—finally—he breaks.

His voice is barely a rasp. Barely a whisper.

“Need to come.”

A satisfied smile spreads across your lips.

You reach for the blindfold, sliding it off slowly, watching as his lashes flutter, his pupils blown wide, his lips swollen from biting back moans. His entire body is wrecked, ruined, trembling beneath you.

And still—you’re not done.

You reach for the camera, tilting it slightly, adjusting the angle so it captures every last bit of his destruction.

Then you grip his jaw, tilting his face toward it.

“Look at the lens,” you murmur. “Tell them what you want.”

His throat bobs. His fingers curl into fists. His entire body is pulled so tight it’s a miracle he hasn’t snapped yet.

He shakes his head slightly, still fighting, still resisting even now.

You click your tongue, leaning in to press your lips just beneath his ear.

“Tell them,” you whisper. “Or I stop.”

His breath stutters. His stomach clenches. He’s silent for one more second—one final, useless attempt at control.

Then, he caves.

His voice is hoarse, wrecked, barely above a whisper.

“Please… let me come.”

You smirk.

“Good boy.”

And then, finally, you give him what he wants.

The second your grip tightens around him, Harry lets out the most wrecked, guttural sound you’ve ever heard. His body tenses, every muscle coiled so tightly that he looks like he might snap apart from the sheer force of restraint he’s been clinging to.

But now?

Now, you’re tearing that restraint away.

Your hand moves with a new intensity—firm, deliberate, slick and merciless as you stroke him, dragging him past the brink he’s been teetering on for what feels like eternity. His hips lift instinctively, but this time, you let him. Let him chase, let him need, let him take because you know he can’t hold back anymore.

Not when you finally wrap your lips around the head of his cock.

The sound he makes is devastating. A choked, desperate groan, his head snapping back against the pillows, his hands flexing uselessly in their bindings. His thighs shake violently beneath your touch, his entire body shuddering with overstimulation as you take him deeper, your tongue swirling, your mouth working him with obscene, filthy precision.

You glance up, and fuck, the sight of him alone could make you come.

His lips are parted, glossy and swollen from the way he’s been biting them. His face is flushed, a deep, intoxicating pink spreading down his throat, across his chest. His eyes—blown wide, dark, glassy—are locked onto the camera now, completely undone, completely gone.

And it’s all yours.

You moan around him just to watch him shudder, just to watch his stomach clench, his fingers twitch, his entire body tremble beneath you. You work him ruthlessly, your hand and mouth moving in tandem, swallowing every wrecked noise, every desperate plea that spills from his lips.

“F-Fuck—” His voice is barely there, strangled, raw. “Gonna—fuck, baby, I’m—”

You don’t slow.

You don’t stop.

You push him further, letting the camera capture every second, every sound, every fucking moment of him falling apart for you.

Until finally—finally—he breaks.

He comes with a shattered moan, his entire body jolting, his stomach tensing, his thighs trembling beneath your grip. You take it all, swallowing everything, letting him ride it out, dragging him through every last second of pleasure until he’s whimpering, gasping, his entire frame quaking with the force of it.

And even then—you don’t let up.

Your mouth stays on him, your tongue flicking over the most sensitive spots, your hand milking every last drop from his exhausted body. His noises turn wrecked, overstimulated, raw—half-groans, half-pleas, too fucked-out to form real words.

You finally pull back, pressing a soft, satisfied kiss to the inside of his thigh, and sit back to admire your work.

He’s a mess.

Fucked-out, wrecked, panting, struggling to even hold himself together. His chest is heaving, his skin is damp with sweat, his curls are an absolute disaster against the pillows. His wrists are still flexed against the bindings, as if his body hasn’t realized he doesn’t have to fight anymore.

You smirk, reaching up to trail your fingers through his damp hair, tugging just enough to make his dazed eyes flutter open.

“That’s one,” you murmur, thumb brushing along his cheek.

His breath stutters.

You lean in close, letting your lips barely ghost over his.

“Hope you’re not too tired, baby.” A slow, wicked smirk spreads across your lips. “This is only the beginning.”

Harry makes a sound—somewhere between a whimper and a groan—his body still twitching beneath you, aftershocks rolling through him like waves. His chest is rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths, his lips parted, glossy from where he’s been gasping and moaning your name.

But his eyes—fuck, his eyes.

Blown-wide pupils, dark and glassy, flickering between your face and the camera that’s still rolling, still capturing every tremor in his ruined body. He looks completely wrecked. Helpless. Gone.

And you love it.

You drag your fingers through his curls again, tugging lightly, watching the way his lashes flutter, the way he tilts his head toward your touch without thinking. His body is still begging for more, even when he’s barely recovered from the last round.

A smug smirk tugs at your lips. “What’s wrong, baby?” you murmur, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Too much for you?”

Harry lets out a weak, breathless laugh, his voice hoarse. “You’re fucking evil.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Am I?” Your fingers trail lazily down his chest, over his stomach, feeling every little twitch and shudder beneath your touch. “Because you seemed to like it.”

His throat bobs. His fingers curl into fists against the bindings. His entire body is still betraying him, even as he struggles to collect himself.

You lean down, lips brushing over his jaw, over the shell of his ear. “You looked so pretty coming for me,” you whisper. “The camera got every second of it. Every sound. Every shake.”

A deep, wrecked groan rumbles in his chest. His arms tense, muscles flexing as if he wants to grab you, flip you over, reclaim control—but he can’t.

You don’t let him.

Instead, you take your time, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down his throat, his chest, letting your hands wander, letting your nails scrape lightly over the most sensitive spots you’ve mapped out so well.

And when you settle between his thighs again, you feel him jolt.

“Fuck—” His head snaps up, eyes wide, body tensing as he realizes what you’re about to do.

You smirk.

“You didn’t think we were done, did you?”

His breath shudders. His hips twitch instinctively, his entire body caught between sensitivity and lingering arousal.

“I—” His voice catches. His jaw clenches. His head falls back against the pillows. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He’s still catching his breath, sprawled out on the bed, body twitching from overstimulation, sweat dampening his curls. His chest rises and falls in uneven gasps, skin flushed, muscles trembling. He looks wrecked—completely, utterly ruined. But even in his haze, his mind is racing.

Between deep breaths, he finally mutters, “You know… people would lose their fucking minds over that.” His voice is hoarse, thick with exhaustion but laced with something darker.

You pretend not to know what he’s talking about, running your fingers lazily down his chest, feeling the way his skin jumps under your touch. Your fingertips trace over his sternum, then lower, following the slick heat of his body. The camera is still recording, its tiny red light blinking steadily beside you. You let your nails scrape lightly down his stomach before dragging them back up.

“Over what, H?” you murmur, tilting your head as if you don’t already know.

His smirk returns, slow and knowing, despite the wreckage of his body. It starts at the corner of his lips before spreading, that signature, lazy grin that always spells trouble.

“Over you,” he says, voice a little steadier now. “Over the way you just ruined me on film.”

Your breath catches, thighs pressing together at the way he says it. The way his accent curls around the words. He shifts, propping himself up slightly, green eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he watches your reaction.

A thrill runs through you, sparking at the base of your spine, igniting something dangerous. The idea of putting one of your videos online—of letting strangers see just how completely he falls apart for you—sends a shiver through you.

You bite your lip, pretending to think about it, but you both know you’re already considering it. The temptation is there, thick in the air between you.

“We could do a test run,” you suggest lightly, reaching for the camera. He watches you, expression unreadable, as you scroll through the recorded clips, replaying snippets from the night.

His moans, the way his body tenses, the raw need in his voice—it’s all there, captured in crystal-clear detail.

“This one,” you murmur, hovering over the first video you ever made together. The lighting is low, the angles perfect, the chemistry undeniable. It’s art, in its own filthy way.

His breath catches. He wasn’t expecting that. He thought you were teasing again, pushing his buttons just to watch him squirm. But now? Now, you’re serious.

The video is right there. One click. One upload. A whole new world of possibility.

You exchange a look, your fingers hovering over the button.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28

[harrywavycurly]

Sarah can I request a text with bf Harry when he accidentally does something “bad”💕

Hiii lovey!! I hope you enjoy this, it’s very silly and the bad thing Harry did isn’t even THAT bad but it’s just a very Harry like thing for him to do😂💖

Find all things Boyfriend Harry here✨

Tag List: @styleswithaseaview @blckburd @umadirectioner @styleswithaseaview @sunflower-tia @tulips4harry @gmikaelson @fangirl509east @howling-wolf97 @outofthisworl-d @namoreno

Summary: Harry texts you while on his way home from the store about something “bad” that he’s done and it results in him having to turn back around…twice💖

[1d1195]

The Lottery - Extra I

Read The Lottery here | ~2.5k words

From me: takes place within days of the last part (maybe even the next day?) I missed them; I know some of you did too 💕

Warnings: none, they're just going to love each other now (although FINE, maybe a TINY bit of angst)

Summary: One peach and one white chocolate chip pancakes with a side of Harry please. --Peach to Harry, probably, 24/7.

“Can I have one peach and one white chocolate chip pancake?” She batted those pretty eyelashes at him so excessively. Today wasn’t a reading day, so she was dressed in her normal clothes and yet Harry thought she still looked stunning. Not that it was particularly difficult to do so. She made the Cat in the Hat look good for God’s sake. Dressed as an elf made him have inappropriate thoughts. So a plain shirt tucked into jeans made him nearly lose his mind. The way she fluttered her lashes was downright sinful. She was so sweet it was nauseating.

And she was all his.

“No,” he rolled his eyes and headed toward the other end of the counter to pour coffee for another person.

She pouted. “Really? There’s no perks to this boyfriend thing at all?”

“Nope,” he shrugged a shoulder. But within seconds he placed her cold coffee in front of her. She reached over the counter for the plate of cream and sugar, but he smacked her hand gently. She sighed.

“What was the point,” she mumbled.

He rolled his eyes and leaned over the counter, cupped the side of her face, and kissed her forehead letting his lips linger there for a second. “So dramatic,” he muttered brushing his thumb over her cheek.

She smiled sweetly and sipped her coffee. Her face felt warm with the display of affection in front of everyone. She didn’t mind in the slightest but wasn’t sure how Harry would approach it.

Given the entirety of the regular breakfast diners watched their exchange, she thought he might not like all the attention. “It’s about time,” Alice sighed and sipped her coffee satisfied at last it seemed. She giggled at the older woman. “We were all beginning to lose hope,” Alice nodded knowingly and nearly everyone else in the diner responded with nods of agreement.

Harry ignored their teasing and headed back to the kitchen to make the love of his life the pancakes she so desired. But there was that twinge of a smile at the corner of his lips that felt so much harder to hide this morning. “Alice,” Ed rolled his eyes. “They’re kids, let them live.”

“Well, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes they belong together,” Alice grumbled to her husband. She laughed again as she took her notebook from her bag and settled it on the counter to make her list for the day. She glanced at Harry longingly as he hid in the back, only catching sight of his forearm as he worked at the grill. She wondered how he really felt about the attention. Would he be different? Was he okay with the spotlight back when he was young? She didn’t think he would change all that much and that was fine; he was exactly who she loved exactly as he was. She didn’t want him to think he had to change though.

But maybe he would smile more. He had a great smile, and the town deserved to see it, they probably missed it. She bet it reminded them of his mother and that had to be a treat for them. However, selfishly, part of her liked being the one that drew smiles out of him. Getting to enjoy his dimples in private.

Was he touching her because he felt like he had to? That was the last thing she wanted. She wanted Harry to be himself and nothing else. That was why she loved him.

“We like when Harry smiles like that,” Alice whispered loudly.

“Don’t get used to it, Alice,” Harry deadpanned from behind the kitchen wall.

She rolled her eyes. “Men are stubborn, Miss Peach,” Alice reminded her. “Even the cute ones that make you breakfast.”

“I agree,” she nodded as Harry returned with that heavy sigh of his; the very one that quite possibly made her fall in love with him and the very stool she sat on so many years ago. He settled the plate of pancakes in front of her (one of each of her favorites, of course, not that anyone could tell). He leaned over again and kissed her temple. “Extremely stubborn,” she said pointedly as she poured syrup onto her plate.

“M-hmm,” he hummed going around to the tables to refill coffees while she worked on her list. She pulled her phone out to check her calendar, examined her emails, and looked over her messages to see if there was anyone she needed to text. Which was probably plenty, actually. Bailey, Louis, and her family needed a message sharing the news. “Busy day?” He asked putting a hand on her lower back as he peered over her shoulder. She melted into the touch a bit, shifting ever so slightly to sink a bit into his hand.

“Think so,” she smiled. “Lucky me.”

“Mm...”

“Do you say anything besides mm and m-hmm, and nuh-uh.”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

She tilted her head up at him. “You don’t have to touch me if you don’t want to in public. I like it, but if it’s not your thing...”

Harry bent so his lips touched her ear, the hand at her back slid forward wrapping around her waist and he pulled her toward him to half-hug her as he spoke. “I like touching you very much, Peach. Don’t worry,” he assured her and pressed another kiss to her cheek. “S’easily going t’be m’new favorite thing,” blood rushed to her face, making her feel utterly warm all over. “Eat your pancakes, Peach. Y’got a busy day,” he reminded her with a squeeze and headed back to the kitchen to cook.

“Stubborn isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Alice,” she felt a bit flustered as she felt the gaze of her neighbors and friends all over her blushing face.

“Never said it was, Miss Peach.”

*

She missed him. If she stepped outside, she could probably see him in his diner, and yet, she still missed him. It was insane. She was craving him, and it felt nearly idiotic to feel such a way. There were kids at the table studying, there were people milling around for books, and she was sitting at the register trying to maintain her composure at how ridiculous she felt for missing Harry after a couple hours of being apart. She never missed him before, and it seemed silly to start now.

She would see him later, of course. They would order pizza or eat leftovers. There would be a movie or a show. Snuggles on the couch or and maybe she would make out with him. There was no reason to miss him when he was hardly far away.

Her phone vibrated. At the risk of sounding a little insane... I miss you.

Her heart burst. I thought I was going crazy. 😅 I miss you too

Good ❤️

I’ll come by after I close.

I might need a pick-me-up sooner than that. I’ll have to come in for coffee before I head home.

I’m walking across the square now.

She couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across her face as she looked up to see Harry carrying a coffee tumbler and a pastry bag. There was a small smile on his lips. Not the full blown smile she saw when he was alone or the one he always managed around Gemma, but the one she was sure the town knew. He was stunning and he was all hers.

She sighed with relief and met him outside because even the extra ten seconds it would have taken him to walk inside seemed ludicrous. Ten seconds she would never have again. Maybe it was because it had been so long without being a couple. Or because she was finally able to know and acknowledge what Harry had gone through to know life was incredibly short. She wasn’t wasting any additional time without the love of her life.

“Hi Peach,” he chuckled at her as she held the door open.

“Hi.”

He ducked his head to press a gentle kiss against her lips. “How’s your day?”

“Better,” she sighed.

He smirked, shaking his head. “Well, I gotta get back, but...”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“See you later,” he grabbed her hand, squeezed it, and brought it to his lips. His eyes watched her the entire time and she felt so adored and loved by the emotion it seemed almost too intimate for the middle of her bookstore. But it was exactly what she needed to satisfy the craving of needing Harry. “Bye Peach.”

“Bye,” she smiled.

*

“Peach?” He called into her house.

“Out back!” She answered. Harry dropped his keys and a bag for overnight items in her front room. He made his way to her backyard. He found her between two trees, lounging in her hammock. She had a can of bug spray cradled beside her as well as a book, with a small light attached to the front cover and illuminating the page. “Hi baby,” she grinned as he approached. “Wanna lay with me?” She asked.

His heart skipped a beat. Yes, always. Every minute of every day. “Yeah,” he nodded.

She scooched slightly as best she could in the unsteady hammock and Harry fell in beside her. Carefully he coaxed his arm under her neck, and she turned slightly dropping her head to his bicep and she sighed contentedly. “M’gonna spray this, close your eyes and mouth,” she ordered.

He smiled and waited while the smell of bug spray settled over him. “How was work?” She asked.

“Good,” he shrugged. “Same as always.” She brought a hand to her necklace and pulled the charm along the chain for a moment. “Y’nervous?” He asked, bringing his fingers to her cheek and he skimmed his knuckle across her jaw.

“Why do you think I’m nervous?”

“You play with your necklace when you’re nervous.”

She tilted her head. “I didn’t know that,” she mumbled.

“Hmm,” he hummed. “It’s subconscious to touch the necklace I got you?” There was a smile in his voice that was a little hidden by the setting sun.

She snorted. “Wouldn’t peg you as the possessive type.”

There was no hiding the warmth of his beautiful smile at the sound of that. “For you, Peach? M’very possessive.”

“Good to know.”

“Why are y’nervous?”

“Do you remember the day Bodie broke up with me?” She asked.

He nodded. “I know y’were upset...but anytime y’broke up with someone made me happy.”

“Very kind of you,” she laughed.

“Possessive,” he repeated. “I remember.”

“Why were you upset?” She asked quietly.

He frowned. “Uh...”

“I guess you don’t have to tell me. It’s just I was thinking about how you said there’s not a lot of living here. Which I think is unmistakably wrong. There is so much life in this town and I love it so much but I worry that you’re going to continue thinking it’s not enough for me, because I know you. So I just want to know what about that day got you so sad that when some guy that doesn’t even matter anymore told me this place wasn’t everything—”

“S’the date m’mum died.”

Her voice died in her throat. “Oh,” she managed.

He smirked. “Sorry t’bring y’down. You asked.”

“You were so upset.”

“I missed you,” he shrugged. “Hadn’t seen y’much.”

“So... you’re not... not going to try and talk me out of this town?”

“Honestly, Peach. I’ll probably try t’convince y’to move away every day of our lives.”

She held his face in both her hands and pouted. “What if I don’t want to go?” She whispered.

“M’not going t’be very convincing,” he assured her with a grin and bumped her nose against his.

“You have the best smile, Harry Styles,” she sighed.

“S’for you, Peach. Y’brought it back to the surface,” he reminded her. “Did y’see the moon?” He asked pointing up. “Saw it on m’way over.”

It was the entire reason she was out there, but she was never going to tell Harry that ever. She would let him point out the moon every day of their lives because it was the sweetest thing in the world, and he was the only person in her life that cared to look for it on her behalf. “She’s so pretty, isn’t she.”

“Stunning,” he murmured but he was looking at her and kissing along the length of her hairline.

She laughed. “Harry,” she giggled. “I meant the moon.”

“Mmm... I love you,” he whispered.

She sighed deeply, her heart feeling so warm and so happy. It seemed unfair that they took all this time to get to here, but God did it feel worth it. “I love you,” she answered. Harry cupped her face and pressed a kiss on her mouth the way he imagined kissing her for the entire time he knew her. She tasted like syrup, and it had been over twelve hours since she ate pancakes. She was just that sweet. As much as she reminded him of the moon, she was warm like the sun, and he loved holding her so much. She was light, love, and simply perfect for him in every single way.

“M'a lucky guy, Peach,” he mumbled into her lips.

“Feeling is mutual,” she whispered back breathlessly.

There was a snap, and they were on the ground with a thud.

“Fuck!”

“Ow!”

“Jesus,” she hissed and then laughed. “That hurt.”

Harry laughed. “Are you alright?” He asked, turning on his side to look at her.

“I think my butt is going to bruise,” she giggled. “Are you alright?”

“M’hip is definitely going t’be sore, but m’fine,” he assured her.

They continued laughing at one another and the situation. The sound felt foreign to Harry and yet natural at the same time. It was a gorgeous sound, and she loved it so instantly that she wished she could record him and make it a ringtone every time he called and texted.

“You’re happy?” She asked once the sound of their laughter died long enough for her to speak.

Harry smiled and nodded. “God, Peach. Yeah. M’always happy around you.”

“Am I enough though?” She asked. Her voice sounded happy, positive. The way it always did. But it broke his heart to know she felt she had to ask.

Harry said he didn't hate the men she dated in the time he knew her, but right then he did. He hated every man that ever made her feel small. Hated the way they made her feel like she wasn't enough and that she was this burden or something. But he was so glad they felt that way because it led her right to him. “You’re more than I could ever imagine, Peach.”

--

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[maudie-duan]

Finally working my way through this series today! The writing is soooooo good! Love the story line. The fucking tension already😱 Just starting the the third part. Whatever this is leading up to is going to be sooo damn good!

For Worse or For Worse: Masterlist

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· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

Status: Ongoing

Preview and Summary

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

One-shots (read in any order):

Turbulence - Y/N flies for the first time

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[28harryssunflower]

hello! could you please write something for harry from like late 2013/early 2014 where harry is feeling a bit insecure about his acne? i think it is quite possibly the hottest thing ever and if it could be like, reader is in the hotel room with him just relaxing after a show or interview and he’s in the bathroom like over analyzing it? trader doesn’t have to be in the band either.

i really hope this makes sense i literally love your writing :)

Hope you like it xx

Imperfectly perfect

Puberty had hit Harry hard, and even at 20, he still struggled with acne. You never understood why he let it bother him so much. To you, he was beautiful - his dimples, his green eyes, the way he scrunched his nose when he laughed. The acne? It was just part of him, something normal, something that didn’t make him any less attractive. But no matter how many times you told him, he still struggled to see himself the way you did.

Tonight was no different.

Harry walked into the hotel room, his shoulders slumped, his usual lively energy missing. He looked drained, almost defeated. You were curled up on the bed waiting for him, excited to spend the evening together, but the second you saw his face, you knew something was off.

“Hey, love,” you greeted softly, watching as he kicked off his shoes and let out a heavy sigh. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, running a hand through his curls. “Just tired.”

You frowned. You knew him too well - he wasn’t just tired. Something had happened. Maybe an interviewer made a comment? Maybe he saw a picture of himself he didn’t like? You wanted to ask, but you also knew how stubborn he could be. So, for now, you let it go.

“Okay,” you said gently. “Want me to join you in the shower?”

You often showered together - not always in a steamy way, but just to be close, to help each other relax. But tonight, Harry shook his head.

“Not tonight, love. I just need a minute.”

His words made your stomach twist, but you nodded. “Alright. I’ll be here.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, and you listened as the water turned on. But as the minutes passed - ten, twenty, thirty - you started to worry. Harry never took this long.

After almost an hour, you couldn’t take it anymore. You walked over to the bathroom and slowly pushed the door open, peeking inside.

Your heart ached at what you saw.

Harry stood in front of the mirror, a towel loosely wrapped around his waist, his face inches from the glass. His fingers were digging into his skin, trying to pop the blemishes on his cheeks and chin, his brows furrowed in frustration. The steam from the shower still filled the room, but it was clear he hadn’t even stepped in.

With a soft sigh, you slipped inside, turning off the water he had left running to fool you. He jumped at the sound, his hands immediately stopping as he turned toward you.

“Y/N-“

“Harry,” you cut him off gently, stepping closer. You reached for his hands and pulled them away from his face. His fingertips were red, and small spots of blood dotted his skin where he had been picking at it. You frowned, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheek.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” you whispered, your voice filled with nothing but love.

His jaw clenched. “Because I hate it,” he admitted, looking away. “I hate how my skin looks. I hate that no matter what I do, it won’t go away.”

Your heart broke for him. You knew how much it affected him, how self-conscious he felt even when you told him over and over how perfect he was.

You guided him to sit down on the toilet lid, standing in front of him. Grabbing a washcloth, you carefully cleaned the irritated spots on his face, your touch featherlight.

“You are gorgeous,” you told him firmly, your eyes locked on his. “Every single inch of you. This doesn’t change that. You are literal perfection, Harry.”

He shook his head, a tired chuckle escaping his lips. “You have to say that. You’re my girlfriend.”

You huffed. “I don’t have to say anything. I say it because it’s true.”

Leaning forward, you pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Perfect,” you whispered.

You kissed his temple. “Beautiful.”

His cheek. “Handsome.”

His nose. “Stunning.”

With every kiss, you gave him a compliment, covering his face in love, making sure he felt every word. You felt him relax under your touch, his shoulders losing their tension, his breath evening out.

When you pulled back, you cupped his face in your hands. “You are more than your skin, Harry. And I love every single part of you.”

He exhaled slowly, his green eyes softening as they met yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Don’t say that.”

A small smile finally tugged at his lips, and that was enough for you.

“Now,” you said, standing up and grabbing his skincare products, “let’s take care of the rest, yeah?”

And this time, he let you.

After that night, it started happening more often.

Some nights, Harry would come home from interviews, drained and quiet, the ghost of insecurity lingering in his eyes. Other times, he’d stare into the mirror too long, fingers itching to pick at his skin. You noticed the way he touched his face absentmindedly, the frustration in his sighs whenever he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection.

But instead of letting it break him, you turned it into something else. Something softer. Something full of love.

Every evening, without fail, you did his skincare.

At first, he resisted.

“You don’t have to do this, love,” he mumbled one night as you gently dabbed toner onto his face.

“I know I don’t have to,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. “I want to.”

He sighed, but he let you do it.

And then, as the days passed, something shifted.

It became your thing.

After long days, no matter how exhausted he was, he’d sit on the toilet lid, waiting for you. You’d stand between his legs, your hands moving gently over his skin, applying serums, moisturizers, and treatments with the kind of tenderness that words couldn’t match.

You’d hum softly as you worked, sometimes talking about your day, sometimes just enjoying the comfortable silence. And every night, after the last step, you’d press soft kisses to his face, whispering the words he still struggled to believe.

“Perfect.” Kiss.

“Beautiful.” Kiss.

“My handsome boy.” Kiss.

And every night, Harry would smile just a little more.

One evening, as you smoothed moisturizer over his cheeks, he let out a content sigh. His eyes fluttered shut under your touch, his head tilting slightly into your palms.

“You know,” he murmured, “I think I actually like this now.”

You grinned. “Oh? So all my hard work is finally paying off?”

He chuckled, opening his eyes to look at you. “You’re just good at making things feel… safe.” His hands found your waist, pulling you closer. “I love you, Y/N.”

Your heart swelled, and you leaned in, pressing one last kiss to his nose. “I love you too, Harry.”

And as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest, you knew - no matter how many times insecurity crept in, no matter how many bad days came - he would always have you to remind him of the truth.

And for a while, it seemed like things were getting better.

Harry was getting more comfortable in his skin, his confidence growing, even if the insecurities still lingered in the background. The nightly routine you had built together became a source of comfort, a moment of peace at the end of every day.

But some days were harder than others.

Some days, no matter how many times you told him he was perfect, he couldn’t believe it.

And today was one of those days.

You had gone shopping with Louis in the afternoon, leaving Harry alone in the hotel for a few hours. He had seemed fine when you left, just a little tired - but looking back, you should have noticed the way he was avoiding the mirror. The way his fingers kept ghosting over his jaw, his forehead, his cheeks, like he was already fighting the urge to scratch.

When you came back to the room, shopping bags in hand, the moment you stepped inside, your heart dropped.

Harry was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, his curls a mess from running his fingers through them.

And then you saw his skin.

His cheeks, his chin, his forehead - everything was red and raw, angry scratches covering his face where his nails had dug in too deep. Some spots were bleeding, tiny cuts that made your heart ache.

You didn’t need to ask what happened. You already knew.

“Oh, Harry…” you whispered, setting the bags down and immediately kneeling in front of him.

He flinched, not looking at you. “I- I tried not to,” he said, his voice small, filled with frustration. “But I just… I couldn’t stop.”

You reached out, gently pulling his hands away from his face. He let you, his fingers trembling slightly in yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened. “No, love. You don’t have to be sorry,” you said softly. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

You sat next to him on the bed, one hand resting on his knee while the other brushed through his curls soothingly. “Take a deep breath for me, okay?”

He nodded weakly, inhaling shakily as you guided him through a few slow, steady breaths. His body slowly relaxed under your touch, his hands no longer clenching into fists.

After a few minutes, you stood up, pressing a kiss to his temple before heading to the bathroom. You grabbed a clean washcloth, dampening it with warm water, and returned to him.

“This might sting a little,” you warned as you knelt in front of him again, carefully dabbing at the irritated spots on his skin.

He hissed quietly, but he didn’t pull away.

You worked gently, your touch featherlight, your heart aching for him. As you cleaned his skin, you spoke softly, filling the silence with reassurance.

“You’re still the most handsome man in the world, you know that?” you murmured.

Harry let out a weak chuckle, shaking his head. “Doubt it.”

You frowned playfully. “Oi, don’t make me start listing all the ways you’re perfect.”

That made him smile - small, but real.

Once you had cleaned his face, you set the cloth aside and ran your fingers through his curls. “You wanna lay down for a bit?”

He nodded, letting you guide him onto the bed. You sat beside him, his head resting on your lap as you continued playing with his hair.

“Can I braid it?” you asked softly, knowing how much he loved the feeling.

He hummed in approval, closing his eyes.

As you carefully twisted his curls into loose braids, you continued speaking. “You know, bad days don’t erase the progress you’ve made. And you don’t have to go through them alone. I’ll always be here, Harry. No matter what.”

His fingers brushed against your knee, a silent thank you.

Once his hair was braided, you leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Think you’re up for some skincare?”

He nodded slightly. “But… just the ones that won’t burn,” he mumbled.

You smiled. “Of course.”

You grabbed the gentlest products you had, skipping anything that might sting his open wounds. As you applied a soothing cream to his skin, he let out a sigh, melting under your touch.

By the time you finished, his breathing had evened out, his body completely relaxed. You curled up beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Thank you,” he whispered, barely audible.

You kissed his cheek - the one spot that wasn’t scratched. “Always, my love.”

And as he drifted off to sleep, safe in your arms, you knew that no matter how many rough days came, you’d always be there to remind him - he was loved.

Just as he was.

[pankowcrumbs]

Got That Out of Your System, Princess? x Harry Styles

I’d like to think that I’m not the type of person who holds a grudge.

But when Harry and I had a petty little argument one of those stupid ones where neither of us could remember what we were even actually arguing about I found myself feeling a little... spiteful.

Not in a serious way. Just in a maybe I’ll cause a little chaos way.

Harry was overseas doing press interviews, and I was back home, stewing in my own irrational irritation. It wasn’t even a real fight. Something about whether or not he should’ve texted me or called me when he arrived at the hotel. I had been worried when I hadn't heard back but he was tired and It was stupid.

But still, my pride wouldn’t let me drop it.

So, I did the most ridiculous, over-the-top thing I could think of I took his credit card he gave me for emergencies and went on a spending spree from hell.

If he was going to make me feel petty, I was going to make him pay for it. Literally.

First, I strolled into a high-end boutique, the kind where the employees give you a once-over to decide whether you belong there. I had Harry Styles’ black Amex in my hand I belonged.

£50,000 later, I had bags full of entirely unnecessary designer clothes.

Then, I wandered into a car dealership and test-drove the most obnoxious luxury vehicle I could find. Sleek, fast, completely impractical.

“Would you like to discuss financing?” the salesman asked, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

I smiled sweetly. “Oh, no need. I’ll pay in full.”

That was another £100,000.

And finally, the pièce de résistance I bought a horse.

A real-life horse.

Do I know how to ride a horse? No.

Do I own any land or a stable? Also, no.

Did that stop me from dropping £10,000 on the most majestic looking stallion I could find? Absolutely not.

Petty? Yes.

Justified? Also yes.

By the time I got home, I was buzzing with the thrill of my absolutely ridiculous spending spree.

I had no idea how Harry was going to react. Maybe he’d be mad. Maybe he’d be so confused that he’d forget he was supposed to be annoyed at me.

Either way, I felt very pleased with myself.

Meanwhile…

Harry was finishing up an interview when his phone started vibrating relentlessly in his pocket.

He ignored it at first, but when he checked his notifications and saw five missed calls from his accountant, he knew something was up.

As soon as he was out of the studio, he called back, bracing himself for whatever financial catastrophe was awaiting him.

“Harry, mate, I have to ask are you okay?” his accountant’s voice was practically breathless with panic.

Harry frowned. “Yeah? Why?”

“Because there are outrageous charges on your account! Did you buy a £100,000 car today?”

Harry blinked. “...No.”

“Right. Did you spend £50,000 on clothes?”

Harry smirked, already catching on. “Nope.”

There was a long, exhausted sigh on the other end of the line. “And please, for the love of God, tell me you did not order a purebred racing horse.”

At that, Harry let out a loud, full-bodied laugh.

“Ahh,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “That’ll be my future wife throwing a tantrum.”

The accountant spluttered. “Harry, she bought a horse.”

He laughed again, running a hand through his curls. “Yeah, she’s a dramatic little thing, isn’t she?”

There was a beat of silence before the accountant sighed again, utterly defeated.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

Harry grinned. “Let her charge whatever she wants.”

“You do realise she spent a ridiculous amount of money, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, still thoroughly amused. “Actually, could you sort out a stable for that damn horse while you’re at it?”

His accountant made a noise like he was about to quit on the spot.

Harry was still chuckling as he hung up and immediately dialled my number.

When my phone rang and I saw Harry’s name, I hesitated for a split second.

Then I answered.

“Got that out of your system, princess?”

I winced slightly. “You, um... noticed?”

Harry barked out a laugh. “Oh, I noticed. My accountant nearly had a heart attack.”

I bit my lip, feeling a little guilty. “I may have gone... slightly overboard.”

“Oh, slightly, yeah?” he teased, still entirely unbothered. “You spent six figures just to prove a point, love.”

I groaned, flopping onto the bed. “I was just being stubborn! You know I never spend your money, and I...I just wanted to be petty!”

“I know,” he said, warmth in his voice. “And honestly? It was hilarious.”

I blinked. “Wait... you’re not mad?”

Harry snorted. “Mad? Sweetheart, you just threw the most expensive tantrum I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s iconic.”

I let out a breathy laugh, feeling my tension ease. “I am sorry, though.”

“I know you are.”

I hesitated. “You really don’t care?”

“Not in the slightest,” he promised. “You could’ve bought ten horses and I’d still just be here thinking about how much I love you.”

My heart fluttered at that. “I love you too.”

“Good,” he said softly. “Now, about this horse...”

I groaned. “Yeah... about that...”

“Darling, where are you even planning to keep it?”

I bit my lip. “Is your accountant’s handling that?.”

Harry laughed again, long and hard. “Of course he is.”

There was a pause before he added, “You do realise this means you’re coming horse-riding with me now, right?”

My eyes widened. “Wait, what?”

Harry smirked. “Oh, you think you can just buy a horse and not ride it? Nah, love, we’re gonna be equestrian professionals by the end of this.”

I groaned, but I was smiling like an idiot. “You’re impossible.”

“And you are the most dramatic, expensive little menace I’ve ever had the pleasure of loving.”

I laughed. “That’s me.”

He chuckled again, voice low and affectionate. “Go to sleep, my love. I’ll be home soon.”

And just like that, everything was right again.

I sighed happily. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, my insanely expensive princess.”

Two weeks later, I found myself at a stable, standing in front of my very expensive, very large, very real horse.

Harry stood beside me, grinning from ear to ear.

“So,” he said, nudging me. “Shall we go for a ride?”

I turned to him, utterly deadpan. “I hate you.”

He just laughed, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and whispered, “Love you too, sweetheart.”

[harrystyleshotwife]

Through the Night (h.s.)

Word Count: 1.9k

tw: sickness (no vomit!), use of y/n, medicine dosage (to a child), gross sick things idk, cheesy fluff because why not

I’ve never had to write warnings before so lmk if there’s something to add

⸻

Harry had performed in front of thousands, won multiple Grammys, and traveled the world. But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for the challenge of a sick baby and a sick wife at the same time.

It started one night with a sniffle from his daughter, Rosie, just shy of eleven months old. Then, by the next morning, she was burning up with a fever, her tiny body radiating heat against Harry’s chest as he cradled her.

“Poor baby,” he murmured, rocking her gently as she whimpered. He pressed a kiss to her damp curls, frowning. “Mumma’s gonna be so cross that she can’t hold you.”

Speaking of, his wife, (Y/N), was curled up on their bed, buried beneath a mountain of blankets. Her voice had been scratchy the night before, and now, she was also down for the count. When Harry had woken up, she was shivering, nose red, and throat too sore to even argue when he told her to rest.

Now, with Rosie clinging to him like a little koala, her fevered cheek resting against his shoulder, Harry was on full-time duty.

Rosie whined, rubbing her face against his chest, snot leaving a wet patch on his t-shirt. Harry didn’t even flinch. He’d long since accepted that fatherhood meant getting covered in all sorts of things.

He carefully measured out the pink liquid and sat her on the counter, keeping a firm hand on her waist. “Okay, love, just a little sip.”

Rosie made a face before she even tasted it.

It took three tries, two fake-out attempts, and a promise of a cuddle, but finally, Rosie swallowed the medicine, shuddering dramatically.

“Good girl,” Harry praised, kissing her forehead. He couldn’t help the smile of triumph that was creeping onto his face.

Harry peeked into the bedroom to check on (Y/N). She was exactly where he’d left her—wrapped in blankets, a tissue tucked under her pillow, eyes closed.

He felt a pang of sympathy. She rarely got sick, but when she did, it hit her hard.

“Baby?” he whispered, nudging the door open with his foot, Rosie still in his arms.

(Y/N) cracked one eye open, albeit only slightly.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks her gently.

She groaned. “Like I got run over by a bus.”

Harry chuckled softly, shifting Rosie to his other arm. “Sounds about right. Want some tea?”

She nodded weakly. “With honey.” She reminds him, although he never forgets.

“Got it.” He hesitated. “You want me to leave her in here?” He nodded at Rosie, who was now chewing on the collar of his shirt.

(Y/N) pouted. “I want to cuddle her, but I don’t want to make her sicker.”

“She’s already got the same sickness as you, sweetheart,” Harry reminded her gently. “Think it’s a bit late for that.”

She sighed. “Alright. Bring her here.”

Harry settled Rosie beside her, and immediately, the little girl snuggled into her mum’s side.

“Hi, baby,” (Y/N) croaked, kissing the top of Rosie’s head.

Harry watched them for a moment, heart full despite the chaos.

Then Rosie sneezed—right into (Y/N)’s face.

Harry winced. “Well. Guess we’re really all in this together now.”

Rosie had finally dozed off on Harry’s chest, and (Y/N) was lightly snoring in bed. Harry had one arm wrapped around their daughter while using his free hand to scroll on his phone.

He was exhausted, but he wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Well, maybe for a little sleep.

But mostly, he was just grateful.

Grateful for his wife, for their baby, for the quiet moments like this, even in the middle of sickness.

⸻

Okay this was a hard read/write idk but I feel like I could’ve ended it better but I just can’t be bothered so yay!!

I got the divider thing online with no credits attached so please tell me if it’s yours and I’ll give creds!!

[crazygirlinthisworld]

Oh how I have missed this!! All caught up now and loved it 😍 Can’t wait for more!

I DIG YOUR CINEMA — smau masterlist

harry styles x yn aspiring filmmaker — social media AU

About the smau: yn starts posting videos on youtube and is trying to build a career as a filmmaker. Things are going pretty well for her and she starts getting more attention when she creates content about shows she goes to. She’s also a fan of Harry’s music and some of his fans start getting suspicious when his team starts interacting with her.

Disclaimer: The story it’s set in 2021 and it will follow their relationship through the LOT leg in the US. Since this is nothing but fiction, I will be following some of the real timeline but also adding my own stuff. On top of that, I won’t be basing myself on Harry’s actual posts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PART 1 — MEET YN

PART 2 — LAS VEGAS

PART 3 — DENVER

PART 4 — THE VIDEO

PART 5 — FROM SAN ANTONIO TO DALLAS

PART 6 — PHILLY AND DC

PART 7 — FROM DETROIT TO ST. PAUL

PART 8 — CHICAGO

PART 9 — BEFORE NASHVILLE

PART 10 — NASHVILLE

[1982grapejuiceblues]

The Mistake II

Series Masterlist | Part 1 here

Summary:

They weren’t supposed to see each other again. But when they do, everything they tried to walk away from is still there — unspoken, unresolved. This is what happens after the silence. When one person reaches out. When the other hesitates. And when two people try to move on from a moment that never really ended.

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love on part 1! I've wanted to post my little story for so long and I'm so glad that I'm finally doing it! I hope you guys love this one as much as the last. Be on the look out for more to come from these two! <3

Warnings:

• Emotional vulnerability and self-doubt

• Delayed communication / left-on-read anxiety

• Fear of rejection / avoidance of intimacy

• Mentions of overthinking, perfectionism, and emotional burnout

• A lot of yearning

• A lot of silence

• A lot of almosts

Word Count: 7.3k

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

12:06 p.m. — Milk & Honey Café

The door jingled.

Not in the casual, background way it usually did — not for either of them.

Y/N stepped in just as Harry stepped back, like the weight of her presence knocked the air out of him slightly. She wasn’t rushing this time. She wasn’t apologizing. And she wasn’t late.

He looked exactly the same.

Black jumper. Curls a bit messier than yesterday. Notebook in hand. Like he’d walked straight out of the memory.

She blinked. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoed. His voice was lower than she remembered, like he hadn’t spoken yet today and she was the first word.

They stood in the entryway, just… looking at each other. Two people blinking at something that shouldn’t be happening, but is.

Then, without planning it, without even talking about it, they both turned and drifted toward the same booth.

Same seats. Same angle of sunlight. Same quiet hum of music in the background.

Like no time had passed. And somehow, like too much had.

12:08 p.m.

He sat first this time.

She set her bag down. Smoothed her sleeve. Glanced at the coffee cup already on the table and raised a brow.

“Back for round two?”

Harry shrugged, smiling gently. “Didn’t feel finished.”

She blinked. That one sentence landed harder than it should’ve.

“Did you…” she started, then hesitated. “Come here hoping I’d be here?”

He met her gaze evenly. “I came here hoping I’d want to stay, even if you weren’t.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “That’s a very emotionally intelligent answer.”

“I’m a professional,” he said, mouth twitching into a smirk.

She laughed — short and genuine — and suddenly the air between them softened.

12:14 p.m.

“I thought about you,” she said, then immediately winced. “Sorry, that was blunt.”

“I’m glad,” Harry said, steady. “I thought about you too.”

There was something about the way he said it. Not eager. Not shy. Just honest. Like he wasn’t scared of the truth if she wasn’t.

Y/N fiddled with the edge of a napkin. “It felt weird, yesterday. How easy it was to talk to you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It really did.”

They fell into a comfortable silence — the kind that stretched, not sagged. They weren’t rushing this. Maybe because it had already rushed them once, and now they wanted to take their time.

“I didn’t ask what you were doing here,” she said eventually.

“You didn’t,” he agreed.

She tilted her head. “So?”

“I write here sometimes,” he said. “Well — I procrastinate here. Scribble a sentence. Drink a flat white. Lie to myself about how productive I’m being.”

“You had me convinced.”

“That’s because you assumed I was a tortured genius.”

She smiled. “I assumed you were Brody.”

“And now you’ve met the real Brody.”

She groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

He grinned. “Still think I looked like him?”

“You’re much less pretentious.”

Harry raised a brow. “You said I looked broody.”

“Broody is fine. Pretentious is a red flag.”

“Duly noted.”

12:24 p.m.

The conversation drifted after that. They ordered coffee. She got a croissant she didn’t really want. He asked her about literary agents (“Is it actually like You’ve Got Mail, or have I romanticized your entire industry?”), and she asked him about speechwriting.

They talked about books. About weird client requests. About the time he had to ghostwrite a breakup text for a guy who wanted to end things “with grace but also dominance.”

They laughed. A lot.

But underneath all of it, something deeper simmered. A current neither of them acknowledged yet. The sense that they’d already skipped a few steps — and weren’t entirely sure what came next.

Y/N glanced at him as he stirred sugar into his second cup. “You’re good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making things feel like they’re supposed to happen.”

Harry looked at her for a long beat.

Then said, quietly, “You’re good at staying even when you want to bolt.”

She stared at him.

And for a second, something unspoken hovered in the air between them.

And neither of them moved to break it.

12:42 p.m.

Y/N tucked one leg beneath her in the booth and watched him trace the rim of his cup with his thumb.

She wasn’t sure when they’d stopped pretending this was casual.

Maybe it was somewhere between his second coffee and her third laugh. Maybe it was the way his eyes never drifted to his phone, or the way he kept asking her questions like he was cataloguing her for safekeeping.

Or maybe it was that moment — five minutes ago — when they both stopped talking for a beat too long, and didn’t fill the silence.

And still, it hadn’t felt awkward.

Just… full.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

He looked up. “You’ve been asking me things all morning.”

“This one’s more personal.”

He didn’t move. “Go ahead.”

Y/N hesitated, then leaned back a little, fingers still wrapped around her mug.

“Why didn’t you stay yesterday?”

Harry blinked.

She didn’t say it accusingly. It wasn’t a complaint. Just a quiet inquiry — like she was asking about a weather pattern. Something she couldn’t control but maybe understood.

He exhaled. “I don’t know.”

Y/N waited.

“I think…” he said slowly, “I told myself it was nothing. And that it was easier to leave nothing than risk it becoming something.”

Her eyes didn’t move from his.

“But then I walked away,” he added, “and it didn’t feel like nothing anymore.”

Y/N's lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something. But she didn’t.

Just nodded once.

“I thought about coming back,” she said. “But I didn’t want to be wrong.”

“You weren’t.”

She looked at him.

He meant it.

He didn’t say it to be nice. Or clever. Or to score points.

He just meant it.

12:54 p.m.

Harry stared at the half-empty cup between them, then said, “I almost left before you sat down.”

“What?”

“That first morning. I was going to pack up and head out. I didn’t even want to be there. But I stayed. Just… couldn’t get myself to move.”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. “Why?”

He shrugged a little. “Couldn’t tell you. But if I had left, we never would’ve had this conversation.”

She gave a half-smile. “Sliding doors.”

“Sliding coffee shops.”

She laughed. He smiled at the sound.

Then, softer: “I keep thinking about how random it was. How weirdly easy it was to talk to you. Like we skipped the part where people pretend they’re not afraid of being seen.”

He said it so plainly. Like it wasn’t terrifying.

Y/N swallowed. “That’s a hard thing to come back from.”

Harry tilted his head. “Coming back’s the good part, isn’t it?”

1:08 p.m.

They sat with it — the kind of openness that usually came hours, days, weeks into knowing someone. But here it was. Laid out in front of them. All their almosts and maybes and unsaids, crowding the small space between their coffee cups.

“I’m scared,” she said suddenly, softly.

Harry didn’t flinch. “Of what?”

“That this feels like a beginning and I don’t know the rules.”

He considered that.

Then, with the smallest smile: “What if we don’t need any?”

She let out a shaky breath. “That’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because it means we’re making them up as we go.”

Harry leaned forward slightly. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Their eyes locked.

Something clicked — not loudly, but firmly. Like a door closing gently behind them.

And neither of them moved.

1:17 p.m.

They didn’t leave.

They could have. The booth was getting uncomfortable. Their mugs were long empty. The lunch crowd was starting to creep in, soft chatter and clinking cutlery replacing the calm from earlier.

But they stayed.

Because the table between them wasn’t a table anymore.

It was a line.

Thin. Invisible. Teetering.

And neither of them wanted to be the first to cross it — but neither wanted to leave it untouched.

Y/N traced the edge of her saucer with a fingertip, eyes flicking up to find Harry already looking at her.

Again.

She smirked. “Do you always stare like that?”

He didn’t even pretend to look away. “Only when I’m trying to remember something.”

“Remember what?”

“What this felt like.”

Her throat went tight. Too tight. She blinked and looked down, heart thudding a little too hard.

“Don’t do that,” she murmured.

“Do what?”

“Say things that sound like lines when you probably mean them.”

Harry tilted his head. “Would it be better if I didn’t mean them?”

She looked up.

Their eyes locked.

Held.

Neither smiled.

1:24 p.m.

He didn’t mean to reach for her hand.

Not fully. Not directly.

He just shifted, and the back of his hand brushed hers — so lightly it could’ve been an accident, if they’d both decided to lie.

They didn’t.

Y/N stilled.

Harry froze.

But neither pulled away.

Instead, she slowly turned her hand over, and their fingers didn’t interlace, but hovered — barely touching. Close enough to feel the tremble. Far enough to pretend it didn’t mean anything.

It did.

This is dangerous,

she thought.

This is inevitable,

he thought.

1:32 p.m.

“Tell me something real,” she said.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

“I haven’t written anything for myself in over a year.”

She blinked. “You’re a writer.”

“I’m a ghostwriter. For weddings. Toasts. Breakups. Anniversaries. Apologies. Everyone else’s feelings.”

“And yours?”

“Buried.”

Her lips parted, breath caught between a response and a reaction.

“I tried,” he said. “I started something. But it never sounded like me.”

“What did it sound like?”

“Noise.”

Y/N exhaled. “You should try again.”

Harry looked at her. Really looked.

“You think I’d sound like myself now?”

She nodded. “You do when you’re with me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was reverent.

And somewhere inside it, they both understood that something had shifted.

1:46 p.m.

“I should get back soon,” she said, finally.

“Me too,” he replied, even though he had nowhere urgent to be.

But neither of them moved.

“I don’t want to lose this,” she said.

“You won’t.”

“That’s a risky promise.”

“I’m not making promises,” Harry said. “I’m asking for something.”

“What?”

“More.”

She swallowed. “More what?”

“Time. Space. Pages. Whatever this is.”

He held her gaze, unflinching.

“Okay,” she whispered. “More.”

And that was it.

The beginning that came after the almost.

The moment that wasn’t a mistake.

2:03 p.m. — Outside Milk & Honey

The door swung shut behind them with a familiar chime, but this time, it felt different.

Not final.

Not like last time.

This wasn’t an exit — it was an intermission.

They walked side by side without speaking at first. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence between them had changed. It had weight now. Warmth. Like it was doing its own kind of talking.

The city moved around them, ordinary and indifferent — buses rolling past, people on their phones, a teenager speed-walking while eating a wrap. But none of it touched the air between them.

Harry’s hands stayed in his pockets.

Y/N’s stayed tucked into her coat sleeves.

But their shoulders… stayed close.

Close enough to notice.

Close enough to feel the presence of something blooming.

“Are you going to write today?” she asked eventually.

He glanced over. “I already did.”

Her brows lifted. “What’d you write?”

“A sentence,” he said.

“That’s it?”

He nodded. “But it’s mine.”

She smiled. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s said to me all year.”

“Tragic,” he deadpanned.

“Deeply.”

They both laughed. But it faded slower this time. Left something tender in its place.

2:12 p.m. — The Corner Where They’ll Split

They stopped without saying it.

Y/N turned slightly, toeing the edge of the pavement, the next step already pulling her toward a different direction. She didn’t take it yet.

“This is where I pretend I wasn’t hoping you’d ask for my number yesterday,” she said.

Harry smiled, slow and sure. “This is where I pretend I haven’t already written your name in my notes five times.”

She bit her lip to stop herself from grinning.

He pulled out his phone. “Do you want mine first, or—”

She gently took it from his hand. Typed her number. Then added:

Y/N (the mistake you’re glad happened)

He blinked.

“You don’t have to save it like that,” she said quickly. “That was a joke.”

“I’m going to,” he said.

There was a pause.

The kind that asked if this was it. The kind that teetered on the edge of more.

“I’m really glad I sat at the wrong table,” she said softly.

“I’m really glad you stayed,” he said.

“I almost didn’t.”

“I almost left before you got there.”

They both smiled. Quiet, a little stunned by the timing.

She took a step back.

And so did he.

But neither turned around right away.

“See you soon?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her like she was a sentence he wanted to memorize.

Then said, “You will.”

Thursday — 5:02 p.m. — Y/N’s Office

The day after was normal.

Annoyingly normal.

Emails. Coffee. More emails. Brody had replied to her notes with a twelve-line rant about “editorial overreach” and a screenshot of a Tweet he liked that said “plot is a prison.” She hadn’t even opened it fully. She just sighed, closed the tab, and reached for her phone.

No new messages.

Not from Harry, anyway.

And that — that — was what threw her.

She didn’t want to be the kind of person who expected immediate follow-up. Who got spun out over someone not texting within 24 hours of an emotionally seismic coffee. But there was something… missing.

Or rather, not missing.

Present.

Lingering.

Every time her phone buzzed, her heart skipped before her logic caught up.

It was never him.

And that stung in a way she couldn’t name.

They’d shared something. They had.

So why did she feel like she was the only one still holding it?

5:18 p.m. — Harry's Flat

Harry hadn’t written back because he didn’t know what to say.

He’d saved her number. Immediately. He’d read her contact name — “the mistake you’re glad happened” — at least twelve times.

And he’d started a text. Four, actually.

But none of them said what he wanted.

Hey, want to meet up again?

Too casual.

Still thinking about yesterday.

Too intense.

Do you want to come with me to this gallery thing Saturday?

Too forward.

I don’t know what this is, but I want to keep finding out.

Too much.

So he didn’t send anything.

Which, ironically, said way more than any of those messages would have.

6:01 p.m.

She told herself not to care.

She’d had intense connections before. She’d felt things quickly, built them up too fast. Maybe that’s all this was.

A spark. A moment. An almost.

But it didn’t feel like almost when it was happening. It felt like something had cracked open — and now, the silence was echoing through the space it left behind.

Her phone buzzed.

She grabbed it.

Not him.

Of course.

She dropped it onto her desk with more force than necessary and muttered, “Coward.”

Then she picked it back up, opened her messages, and stared at the empty thread.

Just send something.

Make it simple. Make it light.

Don’t give him the satisfaction of thinking you’re waiting.

She typed:

Hey. Hope your ghostwriting’s going better than Brody’s editing.

Paused.

Deleted it.

Typed:

Coffee again soon?

Paused.

Deleted it.

Typed:

I keep replaying that moment where we almost held hands.

Paused.

Deleted it.

Threw her phone across the desk and buried her face in her hands.

6:29 p.m.

Harry opened her contact one more time and just stared at her name.

He hadn’t meant for it to get this loud in his head.

He thought giving it a day would help. Give them space. Give him time to figure out what he actually wanted to say.

But all it had done was make the silence louder.

He typed:

You’re still in my head.

Paused.

Backspaced.

Typed:

I can’t stop thinking about what you said. About skipping the pretending.

Paused.

Backspaced.

Typed:

Are you free this weekend?

He stared at it.

Didn’t send it.

Closed his phone.

Ran both hands down his face like that might shake it off.

It didn’t.

Friday — 8:07 a.m. — Y/N’s Flat

The second her alarm went off, she grabbed her phone.

Still nothing.

She stared at the screen in disbelief. Not anger. Not quite sadness.

Just… hollow confusion.

She wasn’t even sure what she wanted from him. A check-in? A joke? Something small and dumb that reminded her it wasn’t in her head?

Because that’s what she was afraid of most — that it was.

That all the energy in that booth, all the sparks and almost-touches and “more,” had only felt real on her side.

She opened Notes again.

Typed:

You asked for more.

Then you disappeared.

Deleted it.

Typed:

I don’t like silence when it comes from someone who made me feel seen.

Deleted it.

Typed:

I shouldn’t be the first to reach out.

Stared at that one.

Didn’t delete it.

But didn’t send it, either.

9:12 a.m. — Harry’s Flat

He’d stared at her number for ten minutes.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she looked at him right before she walked away — like she wanted to stay but didn’t know if she was allowed to.

He was afraid if he reached out now, it’d feel forced. Like too much time had passed.

But not reaching out felt worse.

So he opened the thread. Typed:

Morning. Hope your week wasn’t a complete disaster.

Paused.

Then added:

I’ve rewritten this message six times, so I’m just going to send it.

I keep thinking about that moment at the café.

The almost.

Do you want to finish it?

He stared at the message for five full seconds.

Then hit send.

Immediately regretted it.

Put his phone face down and left the room.

9:14 a.m. - Y/N's Office

She saw the message come in before the notification lit up her phone.

She didn’t open it.

Her breath hitched just from seeing his name.

She waited a minute — because she was stubborn, and scared, and still not sure what she wanted.

Then she unlocked her phone.

And read it.

The almost.

Do you want to finish it?

She stared at it for a long time.

Then did something she didn’t expect.

She closed the app.

And didn’t reply.

Not yet.

Because right now, she didn’t want to fall into something that might vanish again.

She needed him to mean it.

And she needed a minute.

Friday — 9:48 a.m.

Ten minutes.

Then fifteen.

Then thirty.

No reply.

Harry checked his phone more times than he was proud of. Each time, his chest pulled tighter.

Maybe she was busy.

Maybe she needed time.

Maybe she was playing it cool. Or maybe she didn’t feel it the same way.

He told himself it was fine. Told himself not everyone replies immediately. It’s not personal.

But it felt personal.

It felt like a conversation left hanging in mid-air.

And he didn’t know how to breathe through that.

10:31 a.m.

She reread the message six times.

Do you want to finish it?

God, she did.

But also?

She didn’t know what “it” was.

And she wasn’t ready to find out that maybe he didn’t either.

Something in her felt wobbly. Raw.

She wasn’t in the mood for almosts anymore.

And what if he wasn’t serious?

What if this was just another soft-spoken moment from a man who knew how to say the right thing but didn’t know how to follow through?

She’d been there before.

And she didn’t want to do it again.

Not with him.

Not when it had felt real.

So she waited.

Let the message sit there.

Didn’t reply.

Didn’t delete it.

Just… froze.

1:14 p.m.

He was pacing now.

Not a lot. Not fast. Just that quiet, agitated kind of pacing that looks like moving but feels like unraveling.

He’d sent one message.

That was it.

It wasn’t a declaration. Wasn’t a plea. Just a truth. A door half-open.

And she hadn’t walked through it.

It was fine.

It was fine.

But he’d opened something soft, and the silence was starting to bruise.

1:37 p.m.

She opened the message again.

Still no response from her.

Her own.

She typed:

I want to.

Paused.

Typed:

I’m not sure yet.

Paused.

Typed:

I don’t want to be something you forget when it’s inconvenient.

Stared.

Deleted it.

Locked her phone.

Rubbed her forehead with both hands.

Whispered to herself, “Get it together.”

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

3:12 p.m.

Harry gave up checking his phone.

Not because he didn’t care — because he cared too much.

Because every time the screen lit up and it wasn’t her, it made his chest tighten.

And every time it didn’t light up at all, it felt worse.

He set it face down on the table, walked to the window, leaned his forehead against the cool glass.

He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t even disappointed.

He was… quiet. Inside.

Because something had shifted.

He’d put his heart in a sentence and hit send. And now it was floating out there, alone.

And that hurt more than he wanted to admit.

3:49 p.m.

She felt like a coward.

Not because she hadn’t responded — but because she didn’t know how to.

She wanted to reply. Desperately. But she wanted to be sure. Of him. Of herself. Of whatever this was trying to be.

And the more she sat with it, the more unsure she became.

It would be easier if he hadn’t said anything at all.

But he had.

And she’d asked for a man who could say what he meant.

And now she was… freezing.

She hated that.

She hated the tightness in her chest and the way the message just sat there like it was waiting for her to become braver.

She didn’t feel brave.

She just felt tired.

4:07 p.m. - Outside Harry's Flat

He went for a walk.

Not because he wanted to — but because the flat felt like it was closing in on him.

He didn’t go anywhere in particular. Just wandered. Hands deep in his pockets. Head low. Letting the afternoon stretch out ahead of him like a question with no ending.

I shouldn’t have sent it.

I should’ve waited.

I should’ve known better.

It looped in his head, quiet and cruel.

He walked past Milk & Honey.

Didn’t go in.

Didn’t even slow down.

He didn’t want to see the table empty again.

He didn’t want to hope.

4:33 p.m.

She finally opened the message again.

Reread it slowly.

The almost.

Do you want to finish it?

She closed her eyes.

Imagined what it would feel like to say yes.

To let it happen.

To go back to that booth and sit with him again and not be afraid.

She smiled.

Soft. Small. Sad.

Then whispered, “God, I wish I could.”

But she didn’t type it.

Didn’t send anything.

Not yet.

6:08 p.m. — Y/N’s Flat

She got home and didn’t even take off her coat.

Just dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and stood in the middle of the living room like she didn’t recognize her own space.

Everything looked the same.

But everything felt different.

She walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it again.

Sat on the couch.

Checked her phone.

Still him. Still there.

Still unread. Still waiting.

The silence now felt like a choice — hers.

And it was louder than anything she could’ve said.

6:39 p.m. — Harry’s Flat

He didn’t turn on the lights.

The flat was dark now, grey-blue with early dusk, but he sat on the floor beside his sofa, back pressed against it, phone in his lap.

He’d stopped opening the thread.

He already knew what it said.

He also knew what it didn’t.

No “yes.”

No “no.”

Just a space where a heartbeat used to be.

He rested his head back and whispered to no one, “I thought she felt it too.”

And the part that hurt was — she had.

7:21 p.m.

She lay on her side, staring at the wall. The phone buzzed once — a group chat. She ignored it.

She should say something.

Anything.

But now it had been almost twelve hours.

And every second that passed made it harder.

You waited too long.

He’s probably writing you off already.

Maybe you made it all up.

She flipped over and grabbed the pillow beside her.

Buried her face in it and exhaled hard.

“God, what am I doing?”

She didn’t have an answer.

Only the ache.

8:03 p.m.

He wrote a sentence in his notebook.

Then crossed it out.

Wrote another.

Crossed that one out too.

He wasn’t trying to write anymore. He was just trying to feel normal.

But nothing felt right when the thread sat open and silent. When the thing he almost believed in didn’t echo back.

He thought maybe he’d go out. Distract himself.

He didn’t.

He sat there.

And missed her.

Quietly.

Fully.

Without permission.

9:17 p.m. — Y/N’s Notes App

I think I messed it up.

I think I waited too long.

I think I wanted him to prove something.

And now I don’t know what there is left to say.

9:32 p.m.

She locked her phone.

Turned off the light.

Lay in bed and whispered:

“Please still mean it.”

But she didn’t send anything.

Not yet.

Saturday — 8:14 a.m. — Y/N’s Flat

She woke up with guilt in her throat.

Thick and bitter. Not the kind that made you cry — the kind that made you still.

It had been nearly 24 hours.

She should’ve answered.

She wanted to. But wanting wasn’t enough when you were afraid.

And now?

Now she wasn’t even sure if the door was still open.

She sat up. Reached for her phone.

It was still there.

The almost.

Do you want to finish it?

Her chest squeezed.

She tapped into the message.

She stared at it.

And then — slowly — she started typing.

I haven’t been fair.

I got scared.

I thought if I said yes, it would be real.

And if it was real, you could leave.

And if you left, I’d feel stupid for believing in something that started with a mistake.

She paused.

Then added:

But it didn’t feel like a mistake.

It felt like the first thing that made sense in a long time.

Her thumb hovered.

She shook her head.

Closed the app.

Opened it again.

Reread the message.

And this time?

She hit send.

8:17 a.m. — Harry’s Flat

His phone buzzed on the bedside table.

He didn’t look at it right away — didn’t want to get his hopes up again. But when he finally reached for it, groggy and resigned, the screen said one thing:

Y/N.

His heart stopped.

He opened it.

Read it once.

Then again.

Then sat up, the blanket falling off his shoulders as the words actually landed.

But it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the first thing that made sense in a long time.

He didn’t smile.

He exhaled.

Hard.

Like something had been sitting on his chest for a day and finally lifted.

Then he typed:

Thank you for saying that.

I was scared too.

Still am.

But I’d rather be scared with you than wonder if we missed it.

He sent it before he could overthink it.

And for the first time in 24 hours, the ache eased.

Just a little.

Saturday — 10:02 a.m. — Milk & Honey

It wasn’t planned.

No set time. No “see you then.”

Just a message.

Then another.

Then:

Are you there now? Her.

Just sat down. Him.

Okay. On my way. Her.

And now they were sitting across from each other again — same booth. Same light.

But nothing felt the same.

Not because anything was wrong.

Because everything had changed.

They both looked at each other like they were seeing the other for the first time — not because they hadn’t before, but because now they knew what it meant.

The silence was comfortable.

Then Harry smiled, soft and a little tired. “Hi.”

Y/N let out a breath that sounded like relief. “Hi.”

It didn’t matter that they’d already said it.

It felt different now.

Like an apology and a beginning at the same time.

10:09 a.m.

She wrapped her hands around her cup, not drinking. Just holding.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“You don’t have to be.”

“I am, though.”

He nodded. Let the words settle.

“I got in my own head,” she added. “Told myself too many things before you had the chance to say anything at all.”

“I was afraid to follow up,” he admitted. “Didn’t want to come on too strong.”

“We’re a mess,” she said, almost smiling.

“A very self-aware mess,” he said.

She laughed then. A real one. It cracked the last of the tension.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

“I almost didn’t.”

“I know.”

“I’m glad I did.”

They both sat with that — the weight of what didn’t happen and the miracle of what still could.

10:24 a.m.

“You said something in your message,” Harry said after a while, “about it feeling real.”

Y/N nodded.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

He looked down for a second. Then back at her.

“Do you think we’re writing the same story?”

She froze. In the best way.

Because she knew exactly what he meant.

They hadn’t even kissed.

Hadn’t crossed any physical line.

But this — this — felt like a page they were both holding from opposite ends.

She answered without flinching. “I hope so.”

He smiled. This time it reached his eyes.

“Then let’s not skip ahead.”

“No fast-forwards,” she agreed.

“Just… next lines.”

They didn’t rush the coffee.

Didn’t talk about the future.

Didn’t fill every silence.

But when she reached for the sugar, her fingers brushed his.

And this time?

They didn’t pull away.

10:37 a.m.

Y/N didn’t mean to stay.

She told herself she was just stopping by. Just answering the message. Just giving closure to something that had hung between them too long.

But then he looked at her like she’d come back from war.

Like she was something brave and beautiful and unrepeatable.

And she knew.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

They hadn’t touched — not really. Not beyond the brush of fingers and the echo of a maybe.

But she could feel it.

Underneath the quiet.

Beneath the coffee and soft laughter.

A current.

They were building something.

They were staying.

11:12 a.m.

Harry was the first to shift.

He pushed his mug aside, leaned forward, arms resting on the table, gaze soft but searching.

“Can I ask something?”

Y/N smiled, small. “You ask a lot of things.”

He tilted his head. “You keep answering.”

She gave a half shrug. “Fair.”

He looked down for a second, then back up.

“What would’ve happened if you sat at the right table that day?”

She blinked. “What?”

He kept his voice low. Steady. Like he wasn’t trying to shake her, just… hold something up to the light.

“If you hadn’t sat across from me,” he said, “what would your day have looked like?”

Y/N thought about it.

Really thought.

She pictured Brody’s frown, the rushed notes, the cold espresso, the tension headache. She pictured the way she would’ve walked home — alone, unaffected, unchanged.

Then she said, “I probably wouldn’t remember it.”

Harry nodded.

Then he said, “I think about that a lot.”

11:24 a.m.

They talked more. About small things.

Weird facts.

Favorite cities.

Songs they listened to on trains.

The last time they cried (her: at a commercial involving a dog and a deployed soldier, him: rereading the final page of A Little Life, again).

It wasn’t a first date.

It wasn’t a catch-up.

It wasn’t even anything definable.

It was… staying.

Choosing not to leave.

12:03 p.m. — Soft Shift

Y/N said, “I don’t usually do this.”

Harry said, “Me either.”

She said, “I mean it.”

He said, “I do too.”

She stared at her cup.

Then said, barely above a whisper, “I feel safe with you.”

Harry’s heart clenched.

He didn’t make it dramatic. Didn’t say anything flowery.

He just nodded and said:

“I’ve been waiting for that to matter to someone.”

12:44 p.m.

They ordered lunch without deciding to.

She moved her bag to the floor like she wasn’t going anywhere for a while. He peeled off his jumper like he was settling in. They shared a pastry. Argued about whether almond croissants were superior (they were, he insisted; she refused to concede).

And somewhere between that and a second refill, the tension shifted.

They weren’t circling anymore.

They were sitting inside it.

Comfortable. Unafraid.

1:26 p.m.

Harry said something funny — not even that funny — and Y/N laughed.

Not just politely.

Not softly.

Really, really laughed.

Head back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut kind of laugh.

And when she looked up, he was already staring.

Not in a weird way.

In a ruined way.

Like, God help me, I’m already gone.

And she knew.

Because the feeling hit her back just as hard.

1:49 p.m.

The café was louder now.

No longer quiet and cozy. The lunch crowd had arrived — the kind of people who linger in scarves and say things like “I’ll just have the oat cortado” like it’s a spell.

But Harry and Y/N were still in the corner. Still in their booth. Still orbiting each other like the world hadn’t turned since they sat down.

Y/N pulled the sleeve of her jumper over her wrist. “It’s getting noisy.”

“Want to leave?” Harry asked, like it wasn’t the most loaded question of the day.

She looked up.

He held her gaze.

It wasn’t a throwaway offer.

Not just “let’s leave the café.”

It was:

Let’s not let this end here.

Let’s keep going.

Let’s see where this leads.

She swallowed. “Where would we go?”

He smiled — small, almost sheepish. “My place is close.”

She blinked.

Not because she didn’t trust him.

Not because she thought he meant something he didn’t.

But because of how gentle it was.

He wasn’t asking her to cross a line.

He was asking if she wanted to keep the conversation going without the noise. Without the crowd.

Just them.

Still them.

“Okay,” she said softly.

And that was it.

2:12 p.m. — Harry’s Flat

It was clean.

Not neat — lived in. Books stacked two deep on shelves and record sleeves leaning against the wall. A candle flickered faintly near the windowsill. Soft jazz hummed from a speaker in the corner.

It was warm in a way that felt like him.

She stepped inside, quiet at first.

Harry closed the door behind her, slow, careful. Like he didn’t want the sound to startle whatever they’d built between them.

“Shoes off?” she asked.

“If you want.”

She did.

She walked into his space like she’d been invited into something private — not just his flat, but his mind. His rhythm.

Harry watched her. Let her move without narrating.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was… unspoken understanding.

2:18 p.m.

They sat on the couch, side by side, still talking, still orbiting.

She pointed to a photo on his shelf — two kids holding a plastic trophy, one clearly him. “Is that a bowl cut?”

“Tragically, yes.”

“Please tell me there’s a matching yearbook photo.”

“There is,” he groaned. “And I will never show you.”

“You say that now.”

Harry grinned.

Their knees touched lightly.

Neither pulled away.

2:41 p.m.

They weren’t talking as much now.

But the silence wasn’t heavy. Just… warm. Easy. The kind that happened between two people who didn’t need to prove they belonged in the same room.

Y/N curled her legs beneath her. Harry stretched his arm along the back of the couch — not touching her, but close.

So close.

Her head tilted slightly toward his shoulder.

Not resting.

Just… near.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

3:03 p.m.

They were still on the couch.

The conversation had drifted. Now it was music. The soft kind — jazz, low and layered — the sort that fills a space without taking it over.

Y/N’s head had slowly, almost imperceptibly, leaned closer to Harry’s shoulder.

She hadn’t meant to.

She just… settled there.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe too hard.

Didn’t dare speak.

Because this — this exact second — was the most delicate thing he’d ever held.

And he wasn’t even touching her.

She could feel the heat of his arm beside hers.

Could feel the tension in the air.

Not anxious. Not unsure.

Just… alive.

Her hand rested lightly against her leg, fingers grazing the hem of her jeans.

His hand was just inches away.

If she moved even slightly, they’d touch.

She didn’t.

But she didn’t pull away either.

Harry turned his head slowly. Looked at her.

Y/N felt the gaze before she met it.

When she did — God.

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t smiling.

Wasn’t trying to charm her.

Just looking at her like she was the kind of sentence he didn’t want to rush through.

She felt it in her spine.

She turned slightly toward him.

Just a few degrees.

Their faces… closer now.

Not close enough to kiss.

But close enough to consider it.

His voice, when it came, was low. Careful.

“Y/N.”

She blinked. “Yeah?”

He hesitated.

Her eyes were wide. Her lips slightly parted. The moment hanging between them like a held breath.

Then he said, quietly:

“I’m not going to do anything unless you want me to.”

She didn’t move for a second.

Then:

“I know.”

Her voice was steady.

Small. But sure.

And still… neither of them moved.

3:19 p.m.

The moment passed.

Not with regret.

With reverence.

They pulled back just enough to breathe again, but stayed close. Still curled on opposite ends of the couch, knees almost touching, tension replaced with something even quieter.

Something like trust.

Y/N picked up a small, leather-bound notebook from the edge of the coffee table. “This yours?”

Harry blinked. “Yeah. Old one.”

She ran her fingers along the edges. “Can I—?”

He didn’t answer right away.

That book hadn’t been opened in months. Maybe longer. It wasn’t the kind of thing he usually shared — not with clients, not with friends, not with people who might ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

But he nodded.

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

She opened to a random page. Read silently.

He watched her — every flick of her eyes, every small inhale, every tilt of her head.

Then she said, voice soft, “This one’s about me.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

She looked up.

He held her gaze.

“You wrote this the first day,” she said.

He nodded.

“I hadn’t even left yet.”

“I know.”

Her lips parted. “You were already writing about me.”

“I couldn’t not.”

There was a silence after that. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

She closed the book slowly and held it in her lap.

“I haven’t written anything in years,” she admitted.

Harry tilted his head. “You used to?”

“Poetry. Short stuff. Before I started working with other people’s stories all the time. Eventually I just… forgot how to listen to myself.”

“That’s not true,” he said, without hesitation.

She blinked. “You don’t even know what I used to sound like.”

“I know what you sound like now.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

She didn’t have a response for that.

So she did the only thing that felt natural.

She reached out — not for his hand, not for his face — but for the notebook.

Opened to a blank page.

And handed it to him.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

“Always,” he said.

She looked down at her hands. Picked at the seam of her sleeve. Didn’t say anything for a beat.

Then:

“I’m used to being the person who listens. Not the one who talks.

Most people just… fill the silence and move on.

I think I forgot what it feels like to actually say something and have someone wait.

And today—

I don’t know.

It felt like there was space for me to be a person instead of a function.

And I didn’t realize how much I missed that until it happened.”

She exhaled through her nose.

Didn’t look up right away.

Harry didn’t rush to fill the space. He let it exist.

Then, gently:

“You’re allowed to take up space, Y/N.

Not just here. Everywhere.”

And she believed him.

Because he said it like he wasn’t trying to reassure her —

He said it like it was just a fact.

5:48 p.m.

They hadn’t moved much.

The day had slowed into honey — warm and viscous, stretching without asking for anything in return.

No big moments.

No kiss.

No grand declarations.

Just stillness. Shared space.

A kind of quiet neither of them had been able to find anywhere else.

Eventually, Y/N looked at the clock.

Her smile wilted slightly. “I should go.”

Harry nodded, like he’d already prepared for that truth. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t move.

Neither did she.

They stayed on the couch another few minutes — the kind of minutes that say: this mattered. This wasn’t nothing.

6:02 p.m. — The Walk Back

They walked together.

Not touching.

Just next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, their pace slow enough to mean something. The air was cooler now, the late-afternoon kind that feels like it could turn into evening if you blink too slowly.

“Thank you for today,” Y/N said.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” she said, glancing up at him. “You made space. For everything.”

Harry looked over.

“You filled it,” he said.

She exhaled — not like she was relieved. Like she was feeling something too big to name.

6:19 p.m. — Outside Her Building

They stopped at the edge of her steps.

The quiet wrapped around them like a held breath.

She turned to him, hands in her pockets. “I’ll text you.”

“You don’t have to wait this time,” he said.

She smiled. “I won’t.”

He nodded, looked down at the pavement, then back up.

“I know this is early. And fragile. And maybe too soon to say anything definitive.”

Y/N tilted her head.

Harry continued, slowly. “But I want to see what this turns into. I want to show up for it. For you. Even if we go slow.”

She stepped closer — not much. Just enough.

“You already are,” she said.

He didn’t ask to come up.

She didn’t ask him to stay.

But the pause before goodbye held more weight than a hundred promises.

When she opened her door, she looked back.

He was still there.

And when she stepped inside, she left the porch light on.

Not because it was dark.

But because she wanted him to find his way back.

[gurugirl]

[1] It's Good to Be King | mean king!harry

MAIN MASTERLIST

Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.

Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.

Ch. 1 Word Count: 8,282

Ch. 1 Warning: smut (not w/Y/n), mention of a funeral, manipulation and coercion, corruption kink, humiliation

. .

The sky was gray, which seemed fitting for the occasion, and a single bell from the watchtower at the kingdom's town center slowly clanged the funeral toll.

It was a sad day for the prosperous kingdom of Thornekeep. The king’s funeral was quite the spectacle. There was not one citizen with a dry eye, for King Augustus Styles was beloved by all. The townsfolk stood along the cobbled road as two steeds pulled the king’s covered coffin to the cathedral for a ceremony that would end the elder King Styles’ reign and make way for the prince to be crowned by birthright.

The young prince was at the front of the procession riding on a lone horse wearing battle armor, along with his father’s shield and sword. No one could read his expression as he kept his eyes on the road ahead toward the cathedral. The people of the monarchy were not so keen on the prince. He was not as warm as his father, and he often ruffled feathers. Some would say he was downright mean. But what could they do? He had been brought up for this very thing. To rule and protect the kingdom and its people. They would have to put their trust in him no matter what.

The ceremony was attended by the royal court, Privy Counsellors, Lord Mayer, Realm High Commissioners as well as the family of the King. Prince Harry Styles sat on the woven red wool chair at the front as the announcement was made by the Council and the accession declaration was called before the Prince stood to receive his crown.

When the ceremony had concluded the old Sovereign’s casket was taken again by steed for the final burial where the whole of the kingdom stood in wait as their new King made his proclamation over the land and the kingdom to the public.

And so it was. The new Sovereign of Thornekeep, King Harry Edward Styles, would rule over the people henceforth.

.           .           .

“Your Majesty, we apologize for the intrusion, but it is time to get to the order of official business.”

“You wouldn’t have to apologize if you weren’t intruding, now would you?” Harry’s groggy voice spoke as he remained sprawled on his back in his warm velvet bed with three naked women lying draped over his limbs still fast asleep and unaware of the two men standing at the King’s chambers door.

“May it please Your Majesty if we return in one half-hour’s time? Our Lord Mayer and the Orders of Council are awaiting you in the Great Hall. This is a very important meeting, Sir.”

Harry knew he had a meeting set up. He knew it was important to keep it and he understood the gravity of it all. But he couldn’t resist when he took three lovely young things with him to his chambers the evening prior and they each let him do as he pleased. He’d just been crowned King for Christ’s sake! He deserved to sew his wild oats before things got heavy and real and it was time to get down to the nitty-gritty of his new stifling responsibilities.

“I will find myself in the Great Hall in one half-hour’s time. No need to return.”

“Yes, Sir. And what should we tell the Lord Mayer of your tardiness?”

“Fuck’s sake! I don’t care! Tell them I’ve got my privy member sallying forth and I’m in the sack with three concubines if you like! The Lord Mayer can wait a half hour. Give him a thumb of brandy. Tha’ should keep him with a smile.”

It was this very attitude that had the folk of Thornekeep nervous. Harry’s proclivity for saying what he pleased with little regard for the people he was saying it to.

The two men bowed their heads and backed out the door, closing it behind them before Harry sat up, pushing the women from him and stretching his arms overhead.

His first full day as King. He’d not looked forward to wearing the crown. But he knew what he needed to do and he had no choice just as the kingdom had no choice but to accept him as he was; full of grit and scandal, haughtiness and ego.

His bare feet landed on the heavy wood floors and he scratched his member before draping a sheet over the naked women in his bed. They’d all had too much to drink and Harry figured they could stay put until he returned. Maybe another round or two would do him some good and sober him up before he kicked them out to get back to their duties. Whatever those were.

He robed himself that morning and even though he’d been offered a personal dresser to assist him, he declined. Harry didn’t like the idea of having a valet in wait unless he was feeling like making them watch him fuck whoever he took in his bed for the night. That could be fun… Harry liked being watched. Maybe he’d reconsider and take a personal assistant after all.

The council and mayor were sitting in their places in the Great Hall when Harry sauntered in, unkempt and smelling of muff. Everyone stood and waited until he took his seat at the head of the long wooden table. Light poured in through the stained-glass panel behind him and everyone awaited the King’s call to order.

“We may begin,” he spoke. And so it started.

It was laid out for Harry the major issues that always needed tackling, allocation for funds and the people of Thornekeep, the Kingdom’s allies, and enemies, projects left undone that were awaiting signatures or provisional work. Then there were the upcoming events and additional contracts that needed sorting.

But there was also the concern of the King’s marital status.

“You’ll need a Queen. Someone to continue the Styles’ lineage for Thornekeep. The people will want to know they are under the rule of a stable Sovereign.”

“What does it matter how the people feel? I can rule without a Queen. I’d rather not be hindered.” Harry waved a hand as he spoke unconcerned.

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, how do you expect to have a child out of wedlock?”

The cheeky grin that pulled up on Harry’s face had his advisor suddenly standing to stop the King from answering that question but Harry only laughed and looked at the man. “Sit. Do not interrupt me again. I think Our Lord Mayer would like a lesson in biology and I’m not one to turn down a teaching moment.”

The advisor relented with a sigh (what was he to do? tell the King not to speak?), sat back down and Harry began. “One does not need the burden of wedlock to create offspring. It’s quite simple you see…” All the men knew where this was going as Harry continued. “All I need to do is stick my fiddle within the sweet quim whiskers of a beautiful woman and keep it in until I’ve done my duty. Could take a few rounds to set but I imagine soon enough the woman receiving my bounty will be heavy with child and upon the moment of birth will provide me an heir. No need for a marital contract of any sort.”

The men of the council looked around at one another in near shock at Harry’s dismissal of tradition as the Lord Mayor spoke. “That will not do. It is imperative that you find a Queen, my Lord. You need a woman that will raise said heir in the castle with you, bring them up properly, and teach them our ways. This will be your legacy. You must see that.”

Harry knew of course that his words would fall on deaf ears. He knew he’d have to marry and make a show of it. But he did rather enjoy seeing the looks on the faces of the fancy and feathered men, all tensed with their sleek coverings of velvet and wool and white tights tucked into silk and leather shoes with shiny silver buckles and heels that made them appear taller than they were.

“Fine. I’ll have my selection in a fortnight.”

His selection. As if he were choosing a dish to be served for dinner. But that is how Harry saw it after all. He would have his choice of dishes just as he would have his choice of women. It would be the roasted venison with piping hot potatoes, smothered in butter, and artichokes for his dinner, and for his wife, he’d take the pretty redhead with the plump bottom and big bosom lying in his bed. She had the kind of tummy that would take a child well he figured.

Making his way to his chambers he whistled a tune to himself, his mood not diminished by the news of his new tasks, for he was about to wet his fiddle once again. The redhead did seem quite desirable in that moment. But instead, upon entering his room, the redhead was missing.

The two others were lying on their backs and turned to see the King enter. Sitting up quickly Harry pulled his robe off and shut his door. “Where is the redhead with big breasts?”

“She was gone when I woke, Your Majesty,” the one with dark hair spoke.

“Well, bullocks. Do you know her name?”

Both women shook their heads no. “No, King.”

Harry sighed and continued removing his clothes. Well, if he couldn’t find a wife that night, he’d enjoy what was leftover in his room. He had a fortnight after all. Plenty of time to find someone he could tolerate. He had no intention of selecting anyone from the pool of suitable women the advisors told him about. That was a bore.

“You.” He pointed at the fair-skinned girl. “Sit in that chair and face the bed.”

Harry’s undervest was pulled off and he was left naked as he walked up to the one with dark hair and grinned at her. “You’ll suck my cock while she watches.”

He enjoyed his position of power. Women never told him no. Not when he was a prince and certainly not now as King. He had the young woman take him down her throat and checked in with the fair-skinned girl. “Keep watching. Want to make sure you get a good look at how well she does it. Just like last night. This one knows how to suck.”

Her slick mouth encased his girth and he groaned as he stood at the bed, the girl on her hands and knees taking the King on her tongue and gagging violently around his length.

“Oh, a noise maker!” Harry moaned, “Keep up the good work my little whore…”

The girl sputtered and pushed away from him, gasping as she looked up at him. “I’m not a prostitute! I’m–“

Harry interrupted, balking, “I don’t care. Think of it as a term of endearment. Get back and finish the job. It’s much better when you don’t speak.”

“King… perhaps you could just fuck me? My throat is starting to hurt.” She rounded her eyes at him.

He sighed as if it were an annoyance. “Okay. Turn around, face down.” He looked over at the girl on the chair. “Still watching?”

She nodded. “Yes, King.”

Harry poked himself into the pretty woman and she was already slick for him. He enjoyed a cunt just as much as he enjoyed a mouth and the view he had was rather delightful. He rocked into her and watched as her pussy lips gripped him, her insides coating him with a glisten that smelled like a proper cock wrapper.

His heart began to thud harder as he thrust into the hilt, smacking his hips into her soft round bottom and moaning in gasps as he felt his testicles squeeze and tighten. 

The girl was making her own little grunted noises but Harry wasn’t concerned if she finished or not.

Harry’s breathy moans changed into something deeper and more guttural the closer he got and he began to pound into her harder.

“Ahh! Oh!” She hollered as she was spread open by the King’s large cock.

But before she could even find her end Harry was pulling himself from her and spraying her back with his royal come and moaning in delight at his release.

The girl fell into the bed with a whine and the King noted the one watching was sitting at the edge of her seat with her eyes upon his cock.

“S’nice in’nit?” He turned toward her with his member in his palm. “Clean it off. Let’s make my knob shiny and new again.”

The girl was quick to lean in and take him in her mouth, licking off the slick from the other one who was left unsatisfied on the bed.

And when he’d had quite enough and his prick was deflating he parted from the girl and patted her cheek. “There we are. Off you go. Both of you. I’ve got to find myself a Queen.”

 .           .           .

Y/n had seen the procession with the new King from his father’s funeral at the cathedral. He was a handsome man with a strange emotion set on his face. She couldn’t tell what it was, but sadness, it was not. She’d heard all the talk about him from when he was a Prince. An ass of a man with an ego the size of Rome. And now, worries of the new King’s reckless attitude being trouble for Thornekeep.

No one could know exactly what to make of it. He’d not yet really had a chance to do much of anything. As Prince, he served in the Royal Army. It was said that he led a very strict outfit during times of conflict and was good at negotiation. That he loved confrontation and could coordinate a group of soldiers to be the best and most feared on the lines. But what did that mean for the citizens of his kingdom? The monarchy relied on his strength and wits to lead. While it was a promising thing that he was good at combat and negotiation, what about the finer details of being a sovereign leader? How would the people fare?

 “Right prat our new king. Doesn’t give a shite about us lot. You wait and see. S’gonna fuck the poor til we’re caged up like hogs. I don’t trust ‘im.” Lane was three quarts of beer in and Y/n watched as he guzzled from his tin.

The pair were sitting outside in the cold near the corner of the factory where the middle-income earners worked. Hoping for any scraps they might be willing to part with.

Y/n was a beggar. She would hold out her fabric basket or her satchel and try to look as haggard and tired as she could. But most just sniffed at her and walked past. She was young and while not the picture of health with her greasy hair and bones protruding, she was not fully unhealthy either. Most who gave to the poor were poor themselves. So she tried to look worse off to get anything she could.

A loaf of bread, a small salt fish, and whatever fibrous mash of grains and beans could be spared was allotted to each household weekly. And for Y/n, that was not enough food for her parents, her grandmother, and her three little sisters. She often went without eating and was the only one who could handle the chilled air for hours at a time to beg anyone who would spare a morsel.

Thornekeep was a rich, thriving kingdom but as was the norm for every city, town, and kingdom across the land, poor people did exist. Y/n had heard tales of other kingdoms that never allotted any food to households. And how some didn’t even have a roof over their heads at all. She was told she should be thankful that she wasn’t sleeping on the streets with the rats and their excrement as was common elsewhere.

But she wasn’t thankful. Her lot in life was hell. No one deserved to be treated as she was even if she was given a monthly stipend.

The debutante was held a week after King Harry’s crowning. Of course, Y/n would not attend. She was not of that world nor even close to being in a league where one would want her hand in marriage. What a laugh! Y/n imagined herself being presented among all the young beauties in their fine dresses with jewels and pinned and curled hair. What man would look at her and think he’d offer a proposal?

The young ladies and their mothers were all dressed to the nines. Shoulders held back, hair pinned high, fake smiles plastered on their faces… They were there to show the kingdom they were eligible for marriage and to compete for the king’s eye.

King Harry would be in attendance to select a bride for himself. He seemed to reject the normal route of having a queen selected for him. There were many who were raised up for that very thing and so his choice should have been easy. But he was stubborn. No one was surprised. Every woman presented to him, of those that his court felt would be a good match, he hardly even looked at before rudely sending away. 

Gossip traveled through Thornekeep as the ball was held to show off the citizens’ most beautiful and affluent daughters around. If he didn’t want the perfectly crafted, and trained young women fit to be his wife and queen, then perhaps he’d find one at the ball.

As always, Y/n sat perched near the castle gates holding out a small fabric basket for anyone to give anything and, as always, the scraps she did get were barely fit for filthy stray street dogs. Most of the people on that day were tucked away and out of sight in their covered carriages, horses trotting past, kicking up mud. She was used to being disappointed. Used to being ignored. Used to going hungry at the end of the day.

 "Dungworms, all 'em. Don't care if they dress in linen and fur. They're nothing but beetle-headed rot. Hate all 'em," Lane moaned as a coach passed them by. He threw a vulgar gesture toward them, but only after they were out of sight. It wasn't worth it to get in trouble over.

"S'true. Can't wait for the Spring. At least then we'll have the sun warming us while all the ratbags pretend they're better than us."

They laughed as they looked into the gates that were opening for the carriage. The castle was a majestic landmark. Y/n imagined that inside it was warm with fireplaces in every room and a hot stove in the kitchen that was constantly cooking food for the king and all his staff.

Maybe one day she'd be lucky enough to sneak inside without being caught. She could hide in one of the many rooms and pilfer food little by little and warm her bum at night by one of the fires.

She sighed at the silly dream, as her stomach growled and the gates clanked shut.

 . .

The young women were all pretty enough. Harry was sure any one of them would be a fit. It wasn’t like he needed to do more than fuck the new queen until she was pregnant anyway but still… He found the freshly washed, smooth-skinned, rose and powder-scented young ladies of Thornekeep to all be a bore. And what good was making such a boring selection? Harry wanted people to watch. He wanted to see as all the advisor’s jaws fell to the floor. He wanted to make a scene. None of these fancy-frocked girls would do. He needed something more exciting that would really ruffle everyone’s feathers.

Stepping away from the pomp and circumstance of the ball he stood out on his balcony and watched out over the front of the castle yard with people milling about and stringed music floating up toward him. The gates were open with guards at the stand as new arrivals made their way in but he noticed a small group of peons sitting not far from the wall with their baskets and tins held out hoping for a scrap.

And he had a sudden idea. Using his small telescope he fitted it against his eye and lengthened the eyepiece to get a better look. Among the group of menials was a young woman. She was thin (too thin) and she had a scowl about her face but the thing that really stuck out to him was that she was… pretty. Not pretty in the way that many would notice but with a month or two of larded foods and sugared pastries, she’d be just as pretty as any of the girls in the ballroom. 

Even better, she was of peasant stock and the kingdom would lose their mind over such a pairing. It was perfect. He could simultaneously cause a stir among the lowly proletariats, the middle-class bourgeoisie, and the affluent magnates at the same time. No one would expect it. And no one could stop it.

Harry descended the stairs as everyone in the room had eyes on him. The King easily dodged anyone looking for attention or conversation and pushed through to the front as he exited the castle. His guards followed close behind with Fred, one of his men in waiting, scrambling to catch up with Harry’s long-legged strides. 

“King Styles! Where are you going?”

“Off to meet a young lady who sits opposite the wall. I think I’ve found my Queen.” 

The King’s approach felt like slow motion. Guards surrounded as he sauntered along the path toward the gates and Y/n couldn’t imagine why the King himself would be walking through them and not be driven in a carriage. Mud was kicked up on his fine dressings and shoes but he seemed unbothered by the mess.

“You.” He pointed, his finger (adorned with a heavy gold ring) appearing to be directed right at her. “What’s your name?”

Looking to her left and right she furrowed her brow as she looked back to the young king.

“Can you hear or not? You, the one with the fabric basket, what’s your name?”

Putting her hand over her chest she responded. “Me? Your Highness, forgive m–“

“Said– what’s your name, girl?” He spoke in a clipped, annoyed tone.

He stopped in front of her feet, standing tall over where she sat upon the dirt and brick. “My name is Y/n. Your majesty.” She bowed her head.

“None of that. Up. Stand up.”

She felt his hand groping underneath her armpit as she was pulled upward, clutching onto the empty basket.

"How old are you?"

Y/n looked behind herself toward Lane and then back at the king. "I'm 20, your majesty."

His odd inspection had her feeling a bit miffed. She would have told him to watch his hands and to be gentler but this was the king. She couldn’t have imagined what interest he had in her but when he turned her around and held her out in his arms to view her backside he spoke. “We can work with this. Bit skinny but soon enough she’ll be well fed.”

“Your Highness… sir, the young women in the ballroom are far more… Why you can’t possibly–“ his attendant spoke.

“I can do as I please and I say this is the one, Fred.” The King spoke before he twisted Y/n back around and examined her rag of a dress before speaking. “Bring the coach around. I need to have her come in quietly at the back where the servants enter and then brought up to the Rose Room forthwith. We’ll need a few ladies-in-waiting as well. Do that for me without running your mouth to anyone and I’ll give you the night off.”

She watched with wide eyes, confused as the man called Fred scurried off back to the castle and then turned to look up at the king. “Your Majesty, I don’t understand. What is your business with me? Have I done something wrong?”

“On the contrary. Your luck is about to change. With a little sprucing you’ll be quite darling I think. You’ll live with me in the castle henceforth.”

Her lips parted as she dropped her empty basket and looked down at Lane who was also in shock with his mouth agape at the whole encounter before looking back to the King. “I don’t understand. Why will I live with you? Am I being sequestered or summoned for a servant’s job?”

“Oh no. Nothing like that. In one month’s time you’ll be crowned Queen. You and I will produce an heir to the throne once our nuptials bind us for good. You’ll be given your own room with your own attendants and we’ll fatten you up in no time to prepare you for carrying my offspring.” 

She gasped and felt everything around her spin and spin and spin until all was dark and her mind stopped reaching for answers.

Harry caught her in his arms before she fell to the ground. He wasn’t surprised she fainted, given how malnourished she appeared. A guard and two of his aids helped bring her inside once the carriage arrived and up to the room that would be hers. A down mattress, silk and velvet bedsheets and blankets, a fireplace lit with a pot of warm water on the hearth, and a tray with a bounty of food were all waiting for her.

And if she was shocked by the King’s announcement about her being the Queen then waking up in such a lavish room that smelled of flowers and the smoke of a warm fireplace surely had her confused.

When she sat up, she felt the weight of a goose-down blanket draped over her body heavily. Blinking her eyes she saw a flickering fire and the ornate details of the room she was in.

“Madam…” A woman was suddenly stood at her side with a towel draped over her arm. “The King has requested that you bathe and eat before we bring you to him. Which would you like first?”

She shook her head, unsure of what was going on exactly. “I… is this for me?” She gestured toward the tray of food. Colorful fruits and a loaf of hearty bread caught her eye. She could go for a meal.

“It is. Would you like anything more?”

She quickly slid her legs from under the blanket and stepped toward the tray. The bright red apple beckoned her so she picked it up and took a large bite of the skin and flesh before tearing off some of the bread and stuffing that in her mouth as well.

There were blackberries, pears, bilberries, plums, a bowl of boiled potatoes, and cream. A pitcher of red wine beckoned with a pretty crystal goblet to drink out of. There was a whole smoked and salted fish, a gob of butter, and her favorite, a plum tart.

She’d nearly eaten the whole tray when she realized the woman had filled a tub with warm water and perfumed oil. She sat down the emptied glass feeling buzzed from the wine and stuffed so full that her ribs ached.

The room she was in was easily twice the size of the slum housing her family was given. The room was opulent and lit with fuel sconces and lanterns. A fireplace kept the space warm and the furnishings were a feast for the eyes. She imagined that the porcelain bowl near the tub would pay for a month of food for her family.

"Your bath is ready, madam. If you'd like I can leave you alone while you bathe or I can assist."

Y/n stepped in closer to the bathtub. It was one of those built-in tubs that you stepped down into, not the metal ones you had to climb up in. Her family didn't even have their own tub. It was shared with the men from the workhouse across the way and set at the back of the buildings outside.

But here, the tub was inside in a warm room and there was even a ledge to sit. Privacy. She'd love a little privacy.

"I'll be fine on my own. Thank you."

The woman nodded and left the room after folding a cloth and placing it near the tub. Y/n began to take her clothes off, the dirty rags left in a stinky pile on the wool rug before she dipped a toe into the bath. The water was hot. She could see the steam rising from it as she slowly slunk down inside and settled her bottom into the seat ledge. She sighed and closed her eyes, letting the water surround her body and soak away the dirt and grime between all her bits and crevices.

And the scent wafting from the water was glorious. Like a flower with honey and tea caressing her skin. She used the small cloth to wipe herself down and then dunked her head to clean her face. The last time she had a proper bath was over a month prior. Her usual cleanup method consisted of a wetted rag wiped over her privy area and underarms.

But to have a hot bath scented with herbs and flowers by a warm fire in a room decorated with the finest fittings was a dream. A real-life fantasy come true. She couldn't wait to tell Lane about the whole thing. It almost all had her so distracted she'd forgotten the reason why she was there in the first place.

She let her limbs float outward as she closed her eyes and basked in the delicious silence. Everything in her life was chaos and noise and panic. But in that moment, none of that existed. Not until the door of her room was being opened and the young woman who'd filled the tub had returned with heavy material and silky fabrics draped over her arms.

She laid the clothes out on the bed in a row as Y/n watched from her spot in the tub.

"I've an outfit here the King has selected for you. I'll help you put it on once you're ready."

Y/n stretched her neck and peered toward the bed. "The King. Will I be seeing him once I'm dressed?"

"Yes, madam. He would like to see you when you're ready."

The reality of it all was heavy when she was helped from the tub and felt the prick of chills run over her skin. As warm as the fireplace made the room, it was still winter outside and she shivered as she dried her skin.

The young woman helped dress her. Y/n'd never worn such frocks before. It was a complicated task, getting dressed in fine clothing. She lost track of all the layers as she was fitted and the material tied around her and her body tossled. But even she could admit, once all the fabric was put into place and the woman began to fuss with her hair she looked quite captivating.

For a beggar.

She was led through a carpeted hall that seemed to stretch the length of the whole of Thornekeep until they were stopped at a wide doorway that opened up to a pair of mammoth wooden double doors. The young woman glanced back at Y/n before she rapped her knuckles over the heavy door firmly.

The door didn't open right away. Moments went by as Y/n shifted on her feet and the young woman nervously smiled at Y/n.

"I'm Phoebe. Think I forgot to introduce myself," she spoke quietly as she trailed her sight over Y/n's dress. "Hopefully the King is kind to you. He's been… difficult—"

The door was pushed open and a beautiful woman with olive skin stepped past them. "He's all yours," she spoke in a sultry voice that Y/n could only hope to one day mimic.

Phoebe gestured for Y/n to pass through and Y/n stepped into the King's chambers. If she thought her room was spectacular, his was a sickening show of lush wealth and haughty, needless adornments.

She was startled when the king spoke from his lounge. "Come. Sit."

Y/n and Phoebe walked deeper into his room and stepped down into a sunken seating area. Harry sat up straight and motioned toward Phoebe. "Not you. Leave us."

When it was just Y/n and Harry and she'd delicately sat her bottom at the furthest spot from the king she could find, Harry got up and placed himself next to her. "Are you scared of me?" He asked with a bright tone, as if it amused him.

"Your majesty, I don't know how to act. I've never seen such indulgent things in all my life as today."

He nodded and looked her over. "What are you wearing?" He lifted at her skirt and she batted his hand away on instinct.

"Phoebe said you picked it for me."

"Who is Phoebe?"

Y/n blinked and looked toward his chamber doors and back at the king in confusion. "The lady who helped dress me and… She was just here with me. The one you sent away."

"How sweet that you learned her name already. And I didn't pick this for you." He plucked at the fabric. "I asked that you come here in nothing but a robe so I could inspect you."

She scooted away from him, her heart racing at the idea of showing herself to him without clothes. Harry laughed and leaned himself back into the large cushioned seat and draped a leg over his knee as he watched her curiously. "You are scared. Good. You should be. Take off your clothes."

Shaking her head she squished herself as far from him as she could but he simply reached his leg out and hooked his foot under her ankle to pull at her. "Don't do that. Said remove your clothes, girl."

"Yo– your majesty… I don't even know how these were put on. I don't know how. I… I've never…" Her heart was racing and she felt her fingers tremble as he sat and grinned at her like this was a game to him.

"What? You can't remove your coverings because you don't know how? I can deal with a timid vazey, but not a liar. Off with your things."

"No! You're rude! I will not!"

The king scoffed, surprised at her disrespect, as he pushed himself up to stand and stood over his bride-to-be. "I am rude, you'll learn well. But I have needs and you're here to keep them. Look at me when I speak to you."

Hesitantly, Y/n lifted her face upward to look into the eyes of the man who she could hardly believe would be her husband. That part—that didn't feel real. Not at all. It couldn't be.

"Have you ever been touched by a man before?"

She thought she might pass out as her skin heated under the scrutiny of his gaze. "No. Of course, not. I'm unwed."

He laughed. "Plenty of unwed ladies get their fannies fucked and fingered, my poor feather-brained girl. You're a virgin?"

She nodded, keeping silent, though not happy about the insult to her intelligence. Perhaps she wasn't as smart as someone with a royal education but she knew how to read and could do basic math, which was more than almost everyone in her social stratus.

"I see." Harry sighed and reached down to grip her jaw and look her over like she was an animal. "Surprised no one has warmed their member with your quim yet. Rather sickly but you are pretty. Have you ever seen one?"

She gulped loudly. "Seen… seen one? What?"

He clicked his tongue and smirked. "A cock, my dear. Have you seen a cock?"

Y/n, though a virgin, wouldn't call herself a prude. She was used to crash speak and rude men but the king was a shock to her. She never imagined someone with his pedigree could be so filthy. "Yes."

He let go of her jaw, keeping his eyes set on hers as he lifted his brows. "Oh, you have. And did you play with it?"

"No!" Y/n looked down at her lap and inhaled a breath. She couldn't believe the conversation she was having with the king.

She felt his long fingers at her jaw again, forcing her to lift her gaze back up at him. "Don't look away from me when we're talking."

She knocked her head up and down and he dropped his hand away from her.

"Would you like to see mine?"

Her eyes widened and she shot her gaze down toward his crotch and then back up to his face. "No."

He smiled and let out a hearty laugh as he began to unbutton his forest green silk tricot coat. He eyed her, waiting to hear her protest again but when she simply watched him he continued to undo his outer layers until he had access to his breeches and tucked his fingers into the buttons at his front flap. Raising a brow he paused to give her a chance to tell him to stop.

But she only watched, flicking her gaze from his hands up to his face. She wouldn't admit it but she was curious. Scared a little of his demeanor and that he was the sovereign and could do as he pleased with her if he wanted, she still wondered what it might look like.

His pink lips curved upward slowly as he unhooked one button and let the fabric drape dangerously low. "I'm not going to make you suck it or anything. But if you want, I won't deny you your pleasure."

Y/n bristled and blinked her eyes away from him to the edge of the room before looking back up at him. "You're rude."

He smiled sweetly, a handsome dimple dipping into his cheek like he wasn't just about to whip out his big fiddle and show her. "You said that, yes… Keep going? Or stop? Up to you. I've got plenty of others I can show it to. They're all waiting, just hoping you disappoint me. They'd love to be in your shoes right now. Vying to be the next Queen of Thornekeep. If you don't want to be here you may leave and go back to the street. What will it be?"

She inhaled slowly and fought the stinging embarrassment that needled at her insides. She wasn't keen on seeing the king's privy member but his handsome face was alluring and if she said no, would she not be kept as Queen? Did she even want to be Queen of Thornekeep? She could say no and he'd send her back out into the cold with her old brown rags and her fabric begging basket. She'd have quite the tale to tell but that would be it. Everything would go back to how it always was. She'd continue sitting in the street and asking for kindness from strangers who wouldn't even offer her a glance, as the excruciating pain of hunger slowly ate her alive.

"Continue," Y/n spoke as confidently as she was able to. She didn't want that life anymore. Though she had no idea what she was getting herself into with the king, she figured it was better than life as a beggar. Cold, dirty, starved, angry, riddled with pain in her bones like she was an elderly woman… Being fed, bathed in perfumed oils, and dressed in fine silk and wool skirts, inside a warm castle, with a bedroom all her own wasn't just tempting, she wanted it. Even her bed and its heavy down blanket were to die for. Worth the humiliation.

Plus, if she told herself the biggest truth of it all, he was dashing. More than just dashing. He was the most fine-looking man she might have ever laid eyes upon. But she wasn't ready to admit the way his green eyes had her pulse fluttering like a small bird.

Harry reached down to run a finger over her jaw gently while he unplucked the second button from the front flap. "Keep your eyes on mine for a moment."

She tried to wet the dry desert of her throat as she steadied her eyes on him, which turned out to be quite the task when she could see at the limn of her vision his hand working something fleshy just in front of her. His cock was out, she knew that much, but she wanted so badly to take a quick glimpse.

"Mmm… Your eyes are pretty," he spoke, still moving his hand about. "How many cocks have you seen?"

Blinking her eyes softly she puffed out a shaky lungful of air. "I don't know. The men at the workhouse who use our tub just walk around nude."

"And they never touched you?" His finger felt sweet on her face and for a moment she thought he was a man she could find herself trusting, loving even. Perhaps she was too naive.

She shook her head. "I wouldn't let them."

"They tried?"

"A few."

He clenched his jaw and stretched his neck as he lifted his sight away from hers. She resisted the urge to peek at his crotch even though she could have gotten away with it right then as he wasn't looking at her.

When he returned his gaze down at her he stepped in closer, pushing her legs apart to stand between her feet. He glanced down at himself and moved his hand from her jaw. "Look at your king's cock."

Y/n swallowed hard and blinked as she shifted her stare downward until she saw the big thing in her face, swollen and thick. And long. His big palm was wrapped around the space of him that grew out from a thatch of dark hair.

Now, she'd seen cocks before. Soft ones, hard ones, weird and infected ones… The workmen didn't care who saw when it came to bathtime and some of them even tried to get her to participate if she were anywhere near them. But Harry's was… well, it looked fit for a king she supposed. Maybe all royals had clean, pretty pricks.

"Touch it."

She glanced up at him, struggling to even breathe. Not only was the corset pulled too tight around her ribs, but the king's vulgar words and his cock in her face were making her feel quite fettered and discombobulated. Her chest heaved so hard she was worried she was about to burst the stay lace that held the corset together.

She reached her fingers upward and focused on the very tip of him where there was a small slit that carved outward like it was draped in a blanket made of smooth flesh. The rest of him was a little more crude with veins that ran along the rigid flesh. When she touched the top of it with her fingertip she gasped and pulled her hand away. It was like a warm small naked creature that'd been warmed by the fire for a bit too long.

"He's not going to bite. He might spit at you, though." He laughed. "Touch it. No need to be virtuous with me. You'll have to get used to handling it anyway."

"It's the first I've touched. I… Where should I place my hand?" She was genuinely worried she'd do it wrong, and he was the king so she was cautious.

King Styles reached down to grab at her hand and he spat a big glob of slick from his mouth that pooled into her palm. She winced as he placed her hand on the long shaft of himself, pressing her fingers around his girth and guiding her upward to his smooth tip.

"What do you think? Not bad, right?"

When he let go of her hand she slowly continued smoothing his spit over his flesh and peered closely at the organ. It was a curious thing to touch a penis. She was surprised by how warm it was and the mechanics of how all that worked were still somewhat of a mystery to her. She understood that men used their pricks to stick babies into women and that it hurt and it was disgusting.

"It feels funny. S'really warm."

"Is it?" He smirked down at her as she examined him, her hand still sliding in very stunted strokes up and down. He quite enjoyed the way she looked at it in awe. Of course, the way she was handling him did him no good. That wasn't going to do anything for him but she'd learn soon enough what he liked. Whether she liked it or not.

"How does it feel for you?" Y/n knew enough to know that for men, it felt good and that while what she was doing wasn't sex, it should be favorable for him.

"You'll need teaching but your little hand will never feel quite as nice as your mouth or the warm treasure you're hiding between your legs."

She stopped and frowned at him. "I haven't ever—"

"Yes, we know. You haven't touched a man before. But we'll change all of that, won't we? Keep going with your hand and spit on it."

Sliding her palm over his tacky skin she spat over the spot just above her fist and smeared her saliva upward. "What will I tell my mum and dad? I should tell them where I am and—"

"Oh, girl." He patted her cheek condescendingly. "Let's not talk about mum and dad while you're working my knob. Tomorrow we'll fetch them."

She swallowed and tried to focus but everything was so overwhelming.

"Are we going to have intercourse?" She looked up at him with big pretty eyes.

"Of course we are. How else do you expect to find yourself with child?"

"I don't know… I'm scared to do it. I don't like the idea of it."

Harry pushed her hand away and tucked himself back into his front flap as he sighed. "You're no good at this. And if you don't want to learn how to be good for me then there's no need for you."

He turned to walk away, leaving Y/n sitting on his plush sofa she sat up straight, confused. "Should I… What shall I do?"

Harry pulled his jacket into place and rebuttoned it as he looked at her with an indifferent expression. "Go to your room or stay here. I don't care particularly either way. I was disappointed by you so I'm going to have to call in someone who can please me properly. Someone who can do the things you can't. If you want to stay and watch and learn then so be it."

Y/n stood up quickly and clasped her hands together in front of her hips. "Your majesty, please—"

"My King. You'll address me either as My King or My Lord. Yes?"

She nodded quickly, stepping closer to him. "Yes, my King. I only need a little more time to learn. I promise tomorrow I'll be better for you. I'll do whatever you need. Please don't replace me."

Harry lifted a brow, his still unreadable expression was worrying to Y/n but the way he scraped his eyes down her frame made every inch of her body burn. He wouldn't tell her but he was pleased with her already despite what he'd told her. She was desperate and quite pretty and that was all he required. She played into his rude affront exactly as he hoped and it had her worried he wasn't going to keep her. He had no plans to touch anyone else now that he had his mind made up. She'd do just fine once she learned to be more obedient and malleable.

"We shall see." He flicked a hand in the air and then gestured toward his door. "Off you go. You'll try again to be better tomorrow. You'll have one more chance to prove yourself to me."

She felt defeated. Walking slowly past him she turned to look back once more and watched him step out onto his balcony, the lace curtains blowing in the wind as he moved out of view. Pushing at the heavy wooden door she bit down on her lip to keep herself from crying. She didn't know if she was more upset with herself for not being bolder, or if she was angry at how the king had just treated her so poorly and insulted her. The situation was discouraging but she was determined. She'd dealt with worse, hadn't she?

Phoebe met her outside the doors and walked her back toward her room. Y/n wasn't sure how she was going to work up the courage to be enough for the king. She didn't want him to find another to take her place so she needed to do something. But what?

"Would you like anything, madam?" Phoebe asked.

"Are there books here in the castle? A library?" Perhaps she could read about pleasing a man if such a thing existed.

"Yes. A grand library. I can't read myself. Are you able to?"

Y/n nodded. "I can read, yes. I'd like to see it. Would you show me there?"

. .

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Masterlist

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As Y/N and Harry finally escaped the suffocating formality of his mother's Christmas morning celebration, an almost palpable relief settled between them. The drive back to their Hampstead home was quiet but comfortable, both of them decompressing from the tension of maintaining appearances around Anne's critical gaze.

Harry glanced over at Y/N as he navigated the nearly empty London streets, appreciating how the winter sunlight caught in her hair. Their relationship had shifted dramatically since their conversation last night—the antagonism that had defined their first months together giving way to something neither had anticipated when they'd signed those marriage papers.

"Christ, I thought we'd never escape," Harry said, reaching across to take Y/N's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Every year I forget how exhausting she is until I'm right back in it."

Y/N turned toward him with a small smile, the genuine warmth in her expression a stark contrast to the polite mask she'd worn all morning. "You handled her well. I especially enjoyed when you shut down her comment about my dress being 'almost appropriate for once.'"

Harry's jaw tightened momentarily at the memory. "She's lucky that's all I said. I had about fifteen other responses lined up, none of which would have made for a peaceful Christmas breakfast."

As they pulled up to their home, Harry noticed Y/N's expression brighten. This place had been just another part of their arrangement at first, a stage set for their performance. Now, somehow, it had become a sanctuary.

"Home sweet home," Harry murmurs as he turns off the engine, the relief evident in his voice making Y/N realize just how tense the visit to his mother's estate had been for him despite his outward confidence.

"Much better than your mother's mausoleum," she agrees, earning a surprised laugh from Harry as they gather their overnight bags from the trunk.

The moment they step through the front door, they're greeted by an indignant meow as Grumps appears from wherever he'd been napping to twine around their legs in greeting.

"Yes, yes, we're home," Harry tells the cat, crouching down to scratch behind Grumps' ears despite his frequent insistence that the cat is Y/N's responsibility. "I suppose you're expecting dinner now, aren't you?"

Grumps meows again, his single yellow eye fixed on Harry with what can only be described as feline expectation.

"I think he missed you more than me," she commented, setting down her bag and closing the door behind them. "Traitor."

Harry looked up with a grin. "He's got good taste, what can I say?"

"I'll feed him," Y/N offers, dropping her bag by the door. "If you want to bring our stuff up and maybe start a fire?"

He stood, brushing off his clothes, then surprised her by reaching out to pull her into a casual embrace, kissing her. "Merry Christmas, by the way. Properly merry, now that we're home."

The simple affection in the gesture made Y/N's heart flutter in a way she was still getting used to.

"Merry Christmas," she returned softly, allowing herself to lean into him briefly before pulling back. "Now, I believe I was promised waffles before our walk?"

Their eyes held, the moment stretching between them with possibilities neither had anticipated when they'd signed those papers binding them together for a year. The contract that had once seemed like a countdown clock now felt increasingly irrelevant to what had developed between them.

The kitchen fills with warmth and the sweet scent of batter as they move around each other with a newfound ease. Harry has rolled up the sleeves of his sweater, revealing the tattoos scattered across his forearms as he measures flour into a large mixing bowl while Y/N cracks eggs beside him.

"You're doing it wrong," she teases, bumping her hip against his as she watches him add the flour.

Harry raises an eyebrow, pausing with the measuring cup midair. "Am I? And here I thought I was following your oh-so-specific instructions to the letter."

"You're supposed to level it off," Y/N demonstrates, taking the measuring cup from him and running a finger across the top to even out the flour before dumping it into the bowl. "See? Otherwise, the proportions are all wrong."

"The proportions," Harry repeats solemnly, though his eyes dance with amusement. "Of course. How could I have forgotten the critical importance of perfectly level flour in waffle making?"

Y/N flicks a small amount of flour at him in retaliation, laughing as it dusts his dark sweater with white. "Mock all you want, Styles, but there's a science to this."

"Is there now?" Harry's voice drops lower as he steps closer, crowding her against the counter with a playful intensity that sends a shiver down her spine despite the kitchen's warmth. "And what happens if I disrupt your scientific process?"

Before she can respond, he dips his finger into the bowl of flour and traces a line down her nose, his expression triumphant as he marks her with the white powder.

"Harry!" she protests, laughing despite herself as she reaches up to wipe it away.

He catches her wrist before she can, his other hand coming up to cup her cheek as he leans in to kiss the tip of her flour-dusted nose. "There," he murmurs, his breath warm against her skin. "Much better."

The simple affection in the gesture makes something warm unfurl in Y/N's chest, a feeling that's becoming increasingly familiar in Harry's presence. She tilts her face up, seeking his lips in a kiss that starts soft but quickly deepens as Harry presses closer, his hand sliding from her cheek to tangle in her hair.

The bowl of ingredients sits forgotten between them as the kiss continues, Harry's body warm and solid against hers, the counter edge digging into her lower back barely registering through the haze of desire building once again.

It's Grumps who eventually interrupts them, jumping onto the counter with a disgruntled meow that has them breaking apart, both slightly breathless.

"I think he's judging us," Y/N observes, laughing as the one-eyed cat stares at them disapprovingly before turning his attention to investigating the mixing bowl.

"Off," Harry commands, gently shooing the cat down despite his earlier indulgence of Grumps' behavior. "Unless you want flour-paw prints all over the house."

Grumps gives him what can only be described as a feline glare before jumping down with exaggerated dignity, stalking away with his tail held high in obvious offense.

"Now, where were we?" Harry asks, turning back to Y/N with a mischievous smile that suggests he's thinking of resuming their kiss rather than the waffle-making.

She laughs, placing a hand on his chest to gently push him back a step. "Waffles first," she insists, though her resolve wavers when he captures her hand and presses a kiss to her palm that's far more sensual than the gesture has any right to be. "Harry..."

"Waffles first," he agrees with exaggerated reluctance, releasing her hand and returning his attention to the mixing bowl. "Though I'm going to hold you to the 'first' part of that statement."

The promise in his voice sends another shiver through Y/N, but she determinedly refocuses on their breakfast plans, directing him to whisk the dry ingredients while she combines the wet ones in a separate bowl.

As they work, the earlier tension mellows into a comfortable rhythm, their movements around the kitchen surprisingly coordinated despite Harry's relative inexperience with cooking. They exchange casual touches as they pass ingredients back and forth—Harry's hand lingering on her waist as he reaches past her for the vanilla, Y/N's fingers brushing his as she takes the whisk from him.

"Did your mother really never let you help in the kitchen?" Y/N asks as she watches Harry pour the wet ingredients into the dry ones with careful concentration, his brow furrowed in a way she finds unexpectedly endearing.

Harry shakes his head, his expression briefly shadowed by old memories. "Cooking was for the staff," he explains, his tone carefully neutral though Y/N can hear the underlying criticism. "Mother believed children should be seen and not heard, and definitely not covered in flour in her pristine kitchen."

The admission adds another piece to the puzzle of Harry's childhood—the privilege and wealth, yes, but also the strict boundaries and emotional distance that had shaped him.

"Well, her loss," Y/N says lightly, determined not to let Anne's shadow fall over their morning. "Because you're actually not terrible at this."

Harry's expression lightens at her teasing, his dimple appearing as he grins. "High praise indeed," he remarks dryly. "Not terrible. I'll have to add that to my list of accomplishments."

"Grammy-winning musician, devastatingly handsome model, and now, not-terrible waffle maker," Y/N lists, counting off on her fingers with mock seriousness. "Truly, a renaissance man."

Harry laughs, the sound rich and genuine in a way that still surprises Y/N sometimes. It was so different from the carefully controlled amusement he displays in public. "You forgot devastatingly handsome husband," he corrects, stepping closer to slide an arm around her waist and pull her against him.

The casual claim of the title—husband, not arrangement, not business partner—sends a flutter through Y/N's stomach that has nothing to do with hunger for waffles.

"I stand corrected," she murmurs, allowing herself to lean into him briefly before turning her attention back to the batter. "Now, let's see if your waffle-pouring skills match your mixing abilities."

Harry accepts the challenge with good humor, taking over the waffle iron duties while Y/N slices fresh fruit for toppings. They work in companionable silence for a few moments, the only sounds the sizzle of batter on the hot iron and the soft Christmas music playing from the speaker in the corner—a playlist Harry had surprisingly created the day before, full of classic carols and modern favorites.

"These actually look edible," Harry observes with genuine surprise as he lifts the first golden-brown waffle from the iron, the steam rising in fragrant clouds. "I think I might be a natural."

"Don't get cocky," Y/N warns, though she can't help but smile at his obvious pride in the simple accomplishment. "The true test is in the eating."

They carry their plates to the small breakfast nook overlooking the garden, now covered in a light dusting of snow that sparkles in the winter sunlight. Grumps follows, apparently having forgiven their earlier transgression as he settles beneath the table, no doubt hoping for dropped morsels.

Harry cuts into his waffle with exaggerated ceremony, raising a forkful to his mouth with dramatic flair that has Y/N rolling her eyes even as she watches expectantly for his verdict.

"Well?" she prompts when he chews thoughtfully, drawing out the moment.

A slow smile spreads across his face, genuine pleasure replacing the theatrical suspense. "Not bad," he admits, cutting another piece with noticeable enthusiasm. "Not bad at all."

"See? I told you homemade is better than those frozen ones you're always buying," Y/N points out, taking a bite of her own waffle and humming with satisfaction at the perfect balance of crisp exterior and fluffy interior.

"You might have a point," Harry concedes, reaching across the table to steal a strawberry from her plate despite having plenty on his own. "Though I maintain that frozen waffles have their place. Specifically, at three in the morning after a long flight when cooking seems like an insurmountable challenge."

Y/N laughs, swatting his hand away as he goes for another strawberry. "You have your own," she protests, though there's no real annoyance in her tone.

"Yours taste better," he insists with a grin that's equal parts charming and mischievous, successfully snagging another berry before she can stop him.

Their breakfast continues in this vein, easy conversation and playful banter flowing between them as naturally as breathing. When Harry reaches across the table again, Y/N assumes he's going for more of her fruit, but instead, his fingers gently brush away a drop of syrup from the corner of her mouth, the casual intimacy of the gesture making her heart skip.

"What?" he asks, noticing her sudden stillness.

Y/N shakes her head, unable to fully articulate the emotion welling in her chest at these simple moments of domestic harmony. "Nothing," she says softly. "Just... this is nice."

Harry's expression softens, understanding passing between them without the need for further explanation. "Yeah," he agrees, his hand finding hers on the table, fingers intertwining with easy familiarity. "It really is."

They stay like that for a moment, connected by more than just their joined hands, before Harry's expression shifts to something more playful.

"Now," he says, giving her hand a squeeze before releasing it to gather their empty plates, "I believe I was promised a walk with our cyclops cat before presents?"

As if recognizing his cue, Grumps emerges from under the table with an expectant meow, his single eye fixed on them with unmistakable anticipation.

"I think he understood that," Y/N remarks with amusement, standing to help clear the table.

"Of course he did," Harry replies, bending down to scratch under the cat's chin. "He's the most intelligent one-eyed cat in London, aren't you, Grumps?"

The cat purrs in response, rubbing against Harry's leg in apparent agreement, and Y/N finds herself smiling at the sight—this man who once claimed to despise cats now openly doting on theirs. Theirs.

Just another of the many surprises that have emerged as the walls between them gradually crumbled, revealing the person beneath the carefully constructed facade Harry presents to the world. A person Y/N is discovering she likes very much indeed—flour-flicking, strawberry-stealing tendencies and all.

"Let me get the dishes," she offers, taking the plates from him. "You find Grumps' leash for our walk."

Harry nods, pressing a quick kiss to her temple as he passes—another of those casual affections that are becoming wonderfully commonplace between them—before heading off in search of the cat's harness, Grumps trotting dutifully at his heels.

As Y/N rinses their breakfast dishes, she finds herself humming along with the Christmas music, a sense of contentment settling over her that feels both foreign and entirely right.

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The winter morning is crisp and bright as they stroll through Hampstead Heath, their breath forming small clouds in the cold air. The park is relatively quiet on Christmas Eve morning, just a few other dog walkers and joggers braving the chill. Harry holds Grumps' leash loosely in one hand, his other entwined with Y/N's, their gloved fingers interlaced as they walk side by side along the frost-dusted path.

"I still can't believe you got him to wear that," Y/N remarks, glancing down at Grumps who trots ahead of them wearing not only his harness but also the small red and green plaid sweater Harry had mysteriously produced that morning.

Harry shrugs, though there's a hint of pride in his expression. "He was cold. Aren't you, Grumps?"

The cat, predictably, ignores him, too busy investigating an interesting patch of frozen grass to acknowledge the conversation about him.

"You spoil him," Y/N accuses, though her tone is warm with affection.

"Says the woman who feeds him organic salmon treats," Harry counters with a raised eyebrow.

"That's different. That's nutrition."

"And the cat bed that cost more than some people's actual beds?"

"It's orthopedic," Y/N defends, laughing at Harry's knowing expression. "He's a senior cat. He needs proper support."

"Of course," Harry agrees solemnly, though his eyes dance with amusement. "Just like he needed that catnip mouse that's shaped like a Christmas pudding."

"That was on sale!"

"It was thirty pounds!"

Their playful argument is interrupted when they reach the small pond at the center of the park, now partially frozen over. Harry tugs gently on her hand, leading them to a bench overlooking the water.

"Let's sit for a minute," he suggests, brushing a light dusting of snow from the bench before they settle side by side, Grumps immediately investigating the area around their feet with feline curiosity.

Y/N leans slightly against Harry's side, drawing warmth from his solid presence as they watch a pair of ducks navigate the unfrozen portions of the pond.

"This is perfect," she murmurs, content in a way she never expected to feel. "Much better than your mother's stuffy Christmas party."

Harry's arm slides around her shoulders, pulling her closer as he presses a kiss to her temple. "Agreed. Though I'm sure she's currently telling everyone who'll listen how her ungrateful son abandoned her on Christmas to shack up with his gold-digging wife."

There's a bite to his words despite the light tone, the hurt of his mother's rejection still fresh despite his defiance.

"Hey," Y/N says softly, turning to face him. "Don't let her ruin this. Not even from a distance."

Harry's expression softens as he looks at her, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair that's escaped her hat back behind her ear, his touch lingering on her cheek.

"You're right," he acknowledges. "This is our Christmas. Just us and the cyclops."

Speaking of the cyclops...

Y/N glances down, expecting to see Grumps still investigating the area around the bench, but the cat is nowhere in sight. Her heart immediately jumps into her throat as she scans the immediate vicinity.

"Harry," she says, an edge of panic already creeping into her voice. "Where's Grumps?"

Harry looks down, his relaxed posture immediately tensing when he realizes the leash in his hand now leads to nothing. "What the—" He stands quickly, turning in a circle as he searches for the cat. "He was just here a second ago."

Y/N is already on her feet, her eyes darting frantically around the park. "Grumps!" she calls, her voice rising with worry. "Grumps, where are you?"

"He must have slipped out of his harness," Harry says, examining the end of the leash where the small harness dangles empty. "Clever little bastard."

"This isn't funny, Harry!" Y/N's voice is tight with panic as she starts moving in widening circles around the bench. "He's an indoor cat. He doesn't know how to survive out here. And he only has one eye!"

The fear in her voice has Harry immediately sobering, any amusement at the cat's escape vanishing as he takes in Y/N's genuine distress.

"We'll find him," he assures her, his own voice calm and steady in contrast to her rising panic. "He can't have gotten far. Which direction was he facing when we sat down?"

Y/N tries to think through her mounting anxiety. "I—I think he was sniffing around that bush," she points to a holly bush several yards away. "But I wasn't really paying attention. I was distracted by—"

"It's okay," Harry interrupts gently, placing his hands on her shoulders. "We'll start there and work outward. He's wearing that bright sweater, which will make him easier to spot."

Despite his reassuring words, Y/N can feel tears pricking at her eyes, her breath coming faster as worst-case scenarios flood her mind. "But what if he's scared? What if he's hiding? What if a dog chases him or he falls in the pond?"

"Y/N," Harry's voice is firm but kind as he cups her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Breathe. Panicking won't help us find him. Grumps is smart, and he's wearing identification. If someone finds him, they'll call us."

She nods, trying to control her breathing as Harry had suggested, but the thought of Grumps—their one-eyed, perpetually grumpy but secretly affectionate cat—alone and frightened in the park is enough to make her stomach twist with anxiety.

"You take that path," Harry directs, pointing toward a winding trail that leads deeper into the park. "I'll check around the pond and those bushes. Call me immediately if you see him."

Y/N nods again, grateful for Harry's calm approach even as her own thoughts race with worry. She watches him stride purposefully toward the pond before turning to hurry down the path he indicated, her eyes scanning every bush and tree.

"Grumps!" she calls, her voice carrying in the crisp morning air. "Grumps, come here! Treats!"

The promise of treats would normally have the cat appearing as if by magic, but there's no sign of movement in response to her calls. Y/N continues down the path, her heart pounding with increasing dread as minutes pass without any sight of their wayward pet.

She's about to turn back and try another direction when her phone rings. She fumbles to answer it with gloved hands, nearly dropping the device in her haste.

"Harry? Did you find him?"

"Not yet," his voice comes through, slightly breathless as if he's been running. "I've checked around the pond and those trees near the entrance. Nothing. Any luck on your end?"

"No," Y/N's voice cracks slightly, the fear she's been trying to suppress bubbling to the surface. "Harry, what if we can't find him? He's not used to being outside. He could be anywhere by now."

"We'll find him," Harry repeats firmly, though she can hear the concern underlying his confidence. "Keep looking. I'm going to check the area near the playground. Kids might have spotted him."

They hang up, and Y/N continues her search with renewed desperation, calling Grumps' name until her throat feels raw from the cold air. Every rustle in the bushes makes her heart leap with hope, only to crash again when it turns out to be a squirrel or a bird.

Twenty minutes later, she's nearly back at their original starting point, having circled a large section of the park without success. The panic she's been fighting now threatens to overwhelm her completely. Grumps isn't just a pet—he's the first living thing she and Harry had taken responsibility for together, the unexpected catalyst for many of their early moments of genuine connection when Harry would pretend to be annoyed by the cat while secretly sneaking him treats and affection.

She's about to call Harry again when she spots him in the distance, walking quickly in her direction. She hurries to meet him, hope flaring briefly before dying at the sight of his empty arms.

"Nothing?" she asks, though the answer is obvious.

Harry shakes his head, his own worry now clearly visible despite his earlier calm. "I've asked everyone I've seen. No one's spotted a one-eyed cat in a Christmas sweater."

A sob escapes before Y/N can stop it, the reality of the situation hitting her full force. "He's gone, Harry. We lost him"

Harry pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly as she presses her face against his coat. "We haven't lost him yet," he insists, though his voice lacks the certainty of before. "We'll keep looking. And if we don't find him today, we'll come back tomorrow. We'll put up posters. We'll hire a professional pet finder if we have to."

The lengths he's willing to go to should be comforting, but it only emphasizes the seriousness of the situation. Y/N clings to him, drawing what strength she can from his presence even as tears threaten.

"It's my fault," she murmurs against his coat. "I should have been watching him more closely. I should have checked his harness was secure."

"It's not your fault," Harry counters firmly, pulling back just enough to look at her. "If anything, it's mine. I was holding the leash."

Before Y/N can respond, a voice calls out from behind them.

"Excuse me! Is this your cat?"

They both turn so quickly they nearly lose their balance, hope surging as they spot an elderly woman approaching, holding what appears to be a bundle wrapped in her scarf.

"He was hiding under a bench near the café," the woman explains as she draws closer, pulling back the edge of the scarf to reveal a familiar one-eyed face peering out with what can only be described as feline disdain. "Poor thing seemed quite put out by the whole adventure. I recognized him from his tag."

"Grumps!" Y/N cries, relief flooding through her as she rushes forward, Harry right beside her.

The cat gives a small meow of recognition as they approach, seemingly unperturbed by the panic he's caused while they transfer him from the woman's careful hold into Y/N's waiting arms.

"Thank you so much," Harry tells the woman sincerely, his hand never leaving Y/N's back as she clutches Grumps against her chest. "We've been searching everywhere."

"He's quite the escape artist," the woman observes with a smile. "Managed to wriggle right out of that fancy harness but kept the sweater on. Quite stylish for a cat."

Y/N laughs through her tears of relief, burying her face in Grumps' fur. "You scared us half to death," she murmurs to the cat, who responds by butting his head against her chin in what might be affection or simply a demand to be put down.

After thanking the woman profusely, they learn her name is Mrs. Finch—a local who walks in the park every morning and has seen them when they'd taken Grumps out a few times. They say goodbye and turn toward home, Grumps now securely cradled in Y/N's arms rather than risking the harness again.

"I told you we'd find him," Harry says as they walk, though the relief in his voice betrays just how worried he'd actually been.

"Technically, Mrs. Finch found him," Y/N points out, still holding Grumps so tightly the cat squirms in protest. "But yes, you were right. And thank you for staying calm when I was falling apart."

Harry slips an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side as they walk. "One of us had to," he says simply. "Besides, I knew Grumpy here is too stubborn to stay lost for long. Probably got bored with freedom after five minutes and decided to find someone to pamper him."

As if understanding the conversation, Grumps gives a small "mrp" of agreement, settling more comfortably in Y/N's arms as they make their way out of the park.

"No more adventures for you," she tells the cat firmly, scratching under his chin in the way he loves. "At least not without proper supervision."

Harry laughs, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I think our Christmas walk has had enough excitement for one day. What do you say we head home and move on to the presents part of our plan? Preferably with Grumps safely contained within four walls."

Y/N nods, the last of her panic finally subsiding as they walk together through the park gates, their little family intact once more. The morning's scare has pushed all thoughts of Anne and her disapproval completely from her mind, replaced by a profound gratitude for what truly matters—this unexpected happiness she's found with Harry and their troublesome cat.

"Home," she agrees softly, leaning into Harry's embrace as they walk. "That sounds perfect."

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The living room glows with soft light from the fire and the twinkling Christmas tree, casting warm shadows across the hardwood floors as they settle onto the plush rug before the hearth. Grumps, now safely confined indoors and apparently over his adventure, has claimed his favorite spot on the windowsill where he can survey his domain while still keeping a watchful eye on his humans.

Y/N sits cross-legged on the floor, still occasionally glancing at Grumps as if to reassure herself he's truly safe, while Harry retrieves several beautifully wrapped packages from beneath the tree. His own wrapping skills had proven surprisingly meticulous—each gift adorned with precise folds and elegant ribbons that put Y/N's more enthusiastic but chaotic wrapping attempts to shame.

"I still can't believe you color-coordinated the presents with the tree decorations," Y/N remarks, accepting the mug of hot chocolate Harry passes her before he settles beside her.

"Aesthetics matter," he replies with mock seriousness, though the effect is somewhat undermined by the whipped cream mustache he acquires after his first sip.

Y/N laughs, reaching out to wipe it away with her thumb, a gesture that's become natural between them. "Says the man who once wore a shirt patterned with dancing flamingos to a charity gala."

"That was a Gucci limited edition, I'll have you know," Harry defends, capturing her hand to press a kiss to her palm before releasing it. "And you're changing the subject. Presents." He nudges a neatly wrapped package toward her. "You first."

Y/N looks down at the gift—a medium-sized box wrapped in deep emerald paper with a gold ribbon that matches the ornaments on their tree. The sight of it sends a flutter of anticipation through her stomach; she's never been good at receiving gifts, always feeling awkward and unsure how to react, but with Harry watching her with such eager expectation, she pushes past her hesitation.

"If this is another one of those ridiculously expensive candles your sister keeps sending, I'm going to start thinking you all believe I smell," she jokes as she carefully unties the ribbon.

Harry's laugh is warm and relaxed. "Open it and find out."

Y/N peels back the wrapping paper, revealing a sleek black box underneath. She lifts the lid, then goes still as she sees what's nestled within. A delicate gold locket, oval-shaped and engraved with intricate vines that curve around its surface. It's elegant without being ostentatious, exactly the kind of jewelry she would choose for herself.

"Harry," she breathes, lifting it carefully from the box. "It's beautiful."

"Open it," he encourages softly, watching her face with an intensity that suggests this gift means more than a simple piece of jewelry.

Y/N finds the tiny clasp on the side of the locket, her fingers trembling slightly as she opens it. What she sees inside makes her breath catch in her throat—on one side, a photo she hasn't seen in years: her parents on their wedding day, young and radiant with joy as they look at each other rather than the camera. On the other side is an equally cherished image of herself as a little girl, maybe five or six, sitting on her father's shoulders at what appears to be a county fair, both of them laughing in the summer sunshine.

For a moment, Y/N can only stare at the photos, her vision blurring as tears well up. She traces a finger over her father's face, remembering the sound of his laugh, the safety of his arms, the way he could make even the hardest days seem manageable.

"I contacted your cousin, Leila," Harry explains, his expression earnest. "She had some old family albums and helped me find these. I know how much you miss him, especially around the holidays."

The thoughtfulness of the gift and not just the locket itself overwhelms her. These aren't the kind of photos that can be found online or through a quick search; these required genuine care and attention, a desire to give her something truly meaningful.

A tear escapes, sliding down her cheek as she looks up at him, struggling to find words adequate to express what this means to her.

"Harry, I..." her voice catches, emotion making it difficult to continue. "I don't know what to say."

Harry reaches out, gently wiping away the tear with his thumb, his touch tender against her skin. "You don't have to say anything," he assures her, his own voice soft with understanding. "I just wanted you to have them with you. Something to keep them close."

Y/N nods, closing the locket carefully before looking back up at him. "Will you help me put it on?"

Harry takes the necklace as she turns, lifting her hair so he can fasten the chain around her neck. His fingers brush against her skin as he secures the clasp, the touch sending a shiver down her spine despite the warmth of the room.

"There," he murmurs, his breath warm against her neck before he presses a soft kiss to the spot where her shoulder meets her throat. "Perfect."

Y/N turns back to face him, her hand automatically going to the locket now resting against her chest, the weight of it comforting in a way she hadn't expected. "Thank you," she whispers, the words inadequate but heartfelt. "This means more than I can say."

Without hesitation, she leans forward to kiss him, pouring into the gesture all the emotion she can't quite articulate. Harry responds immediately, one hand coming up to cup her face while the other slides around her waist, drawing her closer.

When they finally part, both slightly breathless, Y/N rests her forehead against his, unwilling to move away just yet. "How did you know?" she asks softly. "About my dad, about how much I miss having photos of him?"

Harry's expression turns thoughtful, his thumb tracing gentle patterns on her cheek as he considers his answer. "You mentioned it once, when we were arguing about what to put on the mantle," he admits. "You said you wished you had more photos of your family but most were lost in the move after your father died. I don't think you even realized you'd told me."

The revelation that he had been listening, truly listening, even during their arguments—that he had filed away this piece of her heart for later—makes something warm unfurl in Y/N's chest, a feeling too new and fragile to name but powerful nonetheless.

"I didn't think you were paying attention," she confesses with a small, wondering smile.

"I always pay attention to you, Y/N," Harry replies, his voice low and serious in a way that makes her heart skip. "Even when I was pretending not to."

Y/N swallows hard, suddenly aware of how far they've come from those first tense days of their marriage, how much has changed between them. "I have something for you too," she says, reluctantly pulling back from his embrace to reach for one of her less elegantly wrapped packages beneath the tree. "Though I'm afraid it might seem rather insignificant after this."

"I doubt that," Harry assures her, accepting the gift with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes in the way she's come to adore.

He unwraps the package with careful attention, preserving the paper despite its somewhat haphazard application, until he reveals a leather-bound book. Opening it, his expression shifts from curiosity to surprise and then to something deeper as he realizes what he's holding—a collection of handwritten music, his own compositions and half-finished songs that he's worked on over the past months, now transcribed onto proper sheet music and bound together in a professional volume.

"How did you—" he begins, looking up at her with wonder.

"Your producer helped," Y/N explains, a hint of nervousness in her voice as she watches him flip through the pages. "All those melodies you're always humming, the ones you play late at night when you think I'm asleep...I asked him to help me get them properly arranged. He said some of them are the best work you've done in years."

Harry continues turning the pages, his fingers tracing the notes with reverence. "These were just ideas, fragments," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I didn't think anyone was listening."

"I was," Y/N tells him simply. "I always am."

Harry looks up at her then, his eyes suspiciously bright in the firelight. "This is incredible, Y/N. Truly." He shakes his head slightly, as if in disbelief. "No one's ever done anything like this for me before."

"There's more," she says, gesturing for him to continue through the book.

He turns more pages until he reaches the final section, where he finds not music but a letter. Y/N's handwriting flows across several pages in what appears to be a deeply personal message.

"You don't have to read it now," she says quickly, suddenly self-conscious as he stares at the letter. "It's just... some thoughts. About your music, about what I hear in it. Things I thought might help with the album you've been struggling with."

Harry's gaze returns to her, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softens into something that makes her breath catch. "Y/N," he says, her name almost a caress as it leaves his lips, "this is the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me."

Before she can respond, he's setting the book carefully aside and moving toward her, cupping her face in his hands as he kisses her with an intensity that leaves no doubt about his appreciation. Unlike their earlier kiss, this one is deeper, hungrier, his fingers threading through her hair as he pulls her closer until she's practically in his lap.

"I take it you like it, then?" Y/N asks when they finally break apart, her attempt at lightness undermined by the breathlessness in her voice.

Harry laughs, the sound rich and warm against her skin as he presses his forehead to hers. "I more than like it," he assures her. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

The sincerity in his voice makes her heart flutter, but she can't resist teasing him just a little. "I'm hardly perfect, Harry Styles. Just ask your mother."

He winces slightly at the mention of Anne, but recovers quickly, his thumb tracing the line of Y/N's jaw with gentle affection. "My mother wouldn't recognize perfection if it came with a designer label and a royal seal of approval," he says dryly. "Her loss."

Y/N smiles, leaning into his touch, the locket warm against her skin as a tangible reminder of this unexpected gift of a day—of finding in Harry not just a temporary solution to her problems but someone who sees her, truly sees her, in a way few others ever have.

"There are a few more presents," Harry mentions, nodding toward the remaining packages under the tree. "But they can wait if you'd rather—"

His suggestion is interrupted by Grumps, who chooses this moment to leap from his windowsill perch directly onto Harry's lap with impressive accuracy for a one-eyed cat, causing both of them to jump in surprise.

"Jesus Christ," Harry exclaims, though his hands automatically move to steady the cat rather than push him away. "Was that really necessary?"

Grumps merely blinks his one eye slowly in response, settling himself more comfortably on Harry's lap as if he belongs there—which, Y/N supposes, he rather does these days.

"I think he's feeling left out," she suggests, laughing as the cat begins to knead Harry's thigh with determined paws, completely unconcerned by Harry's wince at the pressure. "I think he's just a cockblocker" Harry grumbles. "Or perhaps he's reminding us that he deserves extra treats after his traumatic morning."

"Traumatic for us, maybe," Harry mutters, though he's already scratching behind Grumps' ears in exactly the way the cat prefers. "I'm pretty sure he planned the whole escape just to give us both heart attacks."

"Probably," Y/N agrees, reaching out to stroke the cat's back. "He does have a flair for drama. Wonder where he gets that from?"

Harry gives her a mock-offended look that quickly dissolves into a grin. "I have no idea what you're implying."

"Of course not," she replies innocently, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his cheek before retrieving another package from under the tree. "Now, I believe Grumps also has a present for you."

Harry raises an eyebrow as she hands him a small, somewhat lumpily wrapped gift with a tag that reads 'To Harry, From Grumps' in Y/N's handwriting. "Does he now? How entrepreneurial of him, considering his lack of opposable thumbs and income."

"He's very resourceful. Don't mind the wonky wrapping. He insisted on wrapping it himself," Y/N says solemnly, though her eyes dance with amusement as Harry unwraps the gift to reveal a coffee mug emblazoned with 'World's Most Reluctant Cat Dad' and a cartoon drawing of a one-eyed cat.

Harry laughs, turning the mug to examine it from all angles. "Well, at least it's accurate," he concedes, though they both know his reluctance regarding Grumps has long since been an act.

"He insisted," Y/N says with exaggerated seriousness. "Said it was time you embraced your true identity."

Harry sets the mug aside with care before fixing her with a look that's equal parts exasperation and affection. "You're ridiculous," he tells her, though the fondness in his voice transforms the words into something close to endearment.

"You like it," she counters confidently.

Harry's expression softens as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering against her cheek. "I do," he admits quietly, and they both know he's not just talking about the mug.

The moment stretches between them, filled with all the things they're still learning to say to each other, until Grumps decides he's been ignored long enough and headbutts Harry's hand with imperious demand.

Harry laughs, breaking the tension as he obediently returns to petting the cat. "Yes, Your Majesty, how could I forget my duties?"

Y/N watches them, her heart full to bursting with unexpected joy. The locket rests against her skin, a weight both new and familiar, connecting her past to this present she never could have imagined when she agreed to Harry's business proposition all those months ago.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," she says softly, leaning against his side as they sit before the fire, their cat purring contentedly between them.

Harry's arm slides around her shoulders, drawing her closer as he presses a kiss to her temple. "Merry Christmas, Y/N," he murmurs against her skin, his voice warm with promise. "The first of many."

And in that moment, surrounded by the tangible evidence of their care for each other, Y/N allows herself to believe that it's true—that this happiness isn't just a temporary respite but the beginning of something lasting, something real that they're building together, one day, one gift, one revealed truth at a time.

The rest of their day unfolded with the same easy intimacy—preparing a simple Christmas dinner together, Harry insisting on wearing the ridiculous novelty apron Y/N had included as part of his gift, stealing kisses between tasks as if they couldn't quite get enough of this new freedom to touch, to connect.

The television murmurs in the background, some classic Christmas film neither of them is really watching. Instead, they've spent the past hour in comfortable conversation interspersed with companionable silence, Y/N nestled against Harry's side, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as they enjoy the simple pleasure of being together without pretense.

Grumps has claimed his spot at their feet, curled into a tight ball of contentment after having sampled a carefully portioned amount of their Christmas turkey—a treat Harry had insisted was "just this once" while simultaneously sneaking the cat an extra morsel when he thought Y/N wasn't looking.

Harry's fingers move through Y/N's hair with gentle, almost absentminded affection, occasionally pausing to trace the curve of her ear or the line of her neck in a way that sends pleasant shivers down her spine. The touch is intimate without being demanding, the kind of casual tenderness that has gradually become natural between them.

"What are you thinking about?" Y/N asks, tilting her head to look up at him, curious about the thoughtful expression on his face.

Harry's expression was thoughtful, his eyes reflecting the twinkling lights from the Christmas tree. "The contract," he admitted.

Y/N felt a flutter of anxiety at his words. "What about it?"

"It's got another four months," he said slowly. "four months until it officially expires and you're...free to move on."

Something in his tone made Y/N shift to face him more fully. "Is that what you want? For me to move on when the contract ends?"

Harry's eyes searched hers, vulnerability and determination warring in his expression. "No," he said simply. "That's not what I want at all."

The admission hung between them, weighted with implications neither had been ready to face until now.

"What do you want then, Harry?" Y/N asked softly, her heart racing at the intensity in his gaze.

His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing lightly across her lower lip in a gesture that had become familiar yet still sent heat coursing through her.

"I want this to be real," he said, his voice low and certain. "Not just behind closed doors, not just for the cameras. I want to tear up that bloody contract and start over—not as a business arrangement with an expiration date, but as...us. Just us, figuring it out together."

Y/N's breath caught at the raw honesty in his voice, at the vulnerability he was offering her.

"Are you sure?" she asked, needing to be certain. "This isn't just because it's Christmas, or because we've had a good day, or—"

Harry cut her off with a kiss—deep and thorough and unmistakably sincere. "I'm sure," he murmured against her lips when they finally broke apart. "I've been sure for weeks now. I just wasn't sure if you felt the same way."

Y/N looked into his eyes and saw no calculation there, no performance—just the man she'd come to know beneath the fame and fortune and carefully constructed public persona. The man who made waffles on Christmas morning, who rescued ugly cats, who remembered the stories she'd told about her father and tracked down lost photographs to ease an old grief.

"I do," she whispered, the words carrying a weight beyond their simple syllables. "I want this to be real too. I want us to be real."

Harry's smile—slow and genuine and slightly awed—was worth every moment of doubt and difficulty that had brought them to this point.

"Then that's what we'll do," he said, drawing her closer. "Tear up the contract. Start fresh. Figure it out together."

Without hesitation, Y/N climbs onto his lap, “I know something else we can do” 

Harry's eyes darken at her words, his hands automatically settling on her hips as she straddles him. The soft fabric of her dress pools around them, creating a intimate cocoon that separates them from the rest of the world. Grumps, sensing the shift in atmosphere, rises with a disgruntled stretch and pads away to find a quieter spot to nap.

"Is that right?" Harry murmurs, his voice dropping to that lower register that never fails to send a shiver down her spine. "And what might that be?"

Y/N rocks slightly against him, feeling him already beginning to harden beneath her. There's something intoxicating about the knowledge that she affects him this way—that despite his wealth and fame and the countless women who've undoubtedly thrown themselves at him, it's her touch, her voice, her body that he craves now.

"I think you know exactly what I'm suggesting," she replies, leaning in to brush her lips against the sensitive spot just below his ear, gratified by the slight hitch in his breath. "Unless you'd rather finish watching the movie..."

Harry's laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against her. "Fuck the movie," he says, his hands sliding up her thighs beneath her dress, his fingers tracing teasing patterns along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. "I'd much rather fuck you."

The crude words send a pulse of heat straight to her core, dampening the lace between her legs where his fingers are now brushing with deliberate lightness.

"That can be arranged," she breathes, grinding down more deliberately against the growing bulge in his pants, savoring the low groan she draws from him.

Harry's fingers hook into her panties, tugging them aside rather than removing them completely, his touch tantalizingly close to where she wants him but not quite there. "Already wet for me," he observes, his voice husky with desire as his fingers slide through her folds, gathering her arousal. "Eager little thing, aren't you?"

"Only for you," Y/N admits, the honesty of it surprising her even as the words leave her lips.

A flash of possessive heat in Harry's expression makes her pulse quicken. His free hand slides up her back to tangle in her hair, pulling her down for a kiss that's all-consuming, his tongue delving into her mouth as his fingers finally, finally slide inside her, curling to find that spot that makes her gasp against his lips.

"That's it," he encourages as she rocks against his hand, her body already tightening around his fingers. "Show me how much you want it."

Y/N's hands work at his belt, fumbling slightly in her eagerness as Harry continues his ministrations, his thumb now circling her clit with just enough pressure to build her pleasure without tipping her over the edge.

"Harry," she pleads, finally managing to free him from his confines, her hand wrapping around his thick length. "I need you inside me. Now."

Harry groans at her touch, his cock jumping in her grip, but he doesn't immediately give in to her demand. Instead, he adds a third finger, stretching her as his thumb continues its maddening circles.

"Not yet," he says, his voice strained but determined. "Want to feel you come on my fingers first. Want to make sure you're ready for my cock."

The combination of his filthy words and skilled touch pushes Y/N closer to the edge, her thighs beginning to tremble as she rocks more desperately against his hand.

"That's it," Harry encourages, his eyes dark with desire as he watches her chase her pleasure. "Let go for me, love. Let me see you fall apart."

His thumb presses more firmly against her clit, his fingers curling inside her with perfect precision, and Y/N shatters with a cry, her inner walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through her.

Harry works her through it, gradually slowing his movements as she comes down, his expression one of masculine satisfaction as he withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with deliberate sensuality.

"Delicious," he murmurs, his free hand guiding her hips until the head of his cock is positioned at her entrance. "Now, I believe you wanted something?"

Y/N, still sensitive from her orgasm but already hungry for more, sinks down onto him with a shared groan, taking him inch by inch until he's fully seated within her, stretching her deliciously.

"Fuck," Harry hisses, throwing his head back, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks. "So tight, so perfect around my cock."

Y/N circles her hips experimentally, adjusting to the fullness, savoring the way his breath catches when she clenches around him. "You feel so good," she breathes, beginning to rise and fall on his length, setting a pace that quickly has them both panting.

Harry's hands slide up to cup her breasts through her dress, thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples, sending fresh jolts of pleasure through her already overstimulated body. "Want to see you," he demands, tugging at the fabric. "Take this off."

Y/N complies, raising her arms so he can pull the dress over her head, leaving her in nothing but her lacy panties, still pushed to the side to accommodate him, and the locket he gave her, which rests between her breasts, catching the light as she moves.

"Beautiful," Harry breathes, his eyes roaming hungrily over her exposed skin. "Fucking gorgeous riding my cock like you were made for it."

His praise sends another rush of heat through her, making her clench around him, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. Harry's hands return to her hips, guiding her movements as he begins to thrust up to meet her, the new angle allowing him to hit spots inside her that make her see stars.

"Harry," she gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt as the pleasure builds again, impossibly fast. "I'm going to—"

"Not yet," he growls, suddenly flipping them so she's on her back on the sofa, his body covering hers, still buried deep inside her. "Want to make this last."

He withdraws almost completely before slamming back in, setting a punishing pace that has Y/N crying out with each thrust, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

"Look at me," Harry demands, one hand coming up to grasp her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his as he continues to pound into her. "Want to see your eyes when you come on my cock."

The intensity of his stare, combined with the relentless friction as he drives into her again and again, pushes Y/N rapidly toward the edge. She's close, so close, her body tightening around him as the pressure builds.

"Harry, please," she begs, not even sure what she's asking for, just knowing she needs something, needs him.

Understanding her need without words, Harry shifts his angle slightly, grinding against her clit with each thrust as his hand slides between them to apply direct pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough with exertion and arousal. "Come all over my cock, show me how good I make you feel."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless drag of his cock inside her tips Y/N over the edge into a climax that seems to go on and on, her inner walls clamping down on him as waves of pleasure crash through her.

Harry groans at the sensation, his rhythm faltering, "Fuck, Y/N, you feel so good," he gasps, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "Going to fill you up, make you mine."

Harry's thrusts grow increasingly desperate, his breathing ragged against her neck as he chases his own release. Despite the haze of pleasure clouding her mind, Y/N registers the familiar tension in his body, the telltale signs of his approaching climax.

"Harry," she manages, her voice breathless but clear enough to cut through his concentration. "Condom."

A flash of clarity crosses his features—desire warring briefly with practicality before the latter wins out. With a frustrated groan, Harry pulls out of her, the sudden emptiness making Y/N whimper despite her rational understanding of the necessity.

"Fuck," he mutters, his cock painfully hard and glistening with her arousal as he rummages through the coffee table drawer, praying for a foiled packet. "Wasn't thinking straight."

Y/N pushes herself up on her elbows, watching as he retrieves a condom with hands that aren't quite steady, tearing the packet open with his teeth in his haste.

"Let me," she offers, taking the condom from him and rolling it down his length with deliberate slowness, her touch firm enough to provide the friction he craves but careful not to push him over the edge too soon.

Harry's jaw clenches at her ministrations, his eyes dark with renewed hunger as she finishes. "You're going to be the death of me," he growls, pushing her back down onto the sofa and covering her body with his once more.

He slides back into her in one smooth thrust, both of them groaning at the reunion. The brief interruption has done nothing to diminish their desire; if anything, the momentary pause has only heightened their need for each other.

"Not going to last," Harry warns, already setting a punishing pace that has the sofa creaking beneath them. "Feel too good, too tight around me."

Y/N arches into him, meeting each thrust with equal fervor, her hands sliding down to grip his ass, encouraging him deeper. "It's okay," she gasps, already feeling the beginnings of another climax building despite the sensitivity from her previous orgasms. "Want to feel you come."

Harry's control fractures at her words. His thrusts become erratic, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks as he drives into her with abandon. The wet sounds of their coupling fill the room, punctuated by their increasingly desperate moans.

"Y/N," he groans, his face buried in her neck, breath hot against her skin. "Fuck, I'm going to—"

His words dissolve into a guttural moan as his release overtakes him, his body shuddering above her as he empties himself into the condom. The pulse of him inside her, combined with the pressure of his pubic bone against her clit as he grinds through his orgasm, triggers Y/N's own climax—less intense than her previous ones but no less satisfying as it ripples through her, leaving her boneless and breathless beneath him.

For several moments, they remain tangled together, sweat-slicked and panting, neither willing to break the connection just yet. Harry's weight is heavy atop her, but Y/N welcomes it, her arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders as their heartbeats gradually slow.

"Sorry about that," Harry murmurs eventually, pressing a kiss to her collarbone as he carefully withdraws from her, holding the base of the condom to ensure it stays in place. "Got carried away."

"It's okay," Y/N assures him, watching as he ties off the condom and sets it aside to dispose of properly later. "I did too."

Harry settles back beside her, pulling her against his chest as they both catch their breath, his fingers tracing idle patterns along her spine. "We should probably be more careful," he acknowledges, though there's a hint of reluctance in his voice. "I mean, unless..."

He trails off, leaving the implication hanging in the air between them. Y/N lifts her head to meet his gaze, finding a question there that makes her heart skip.

"Unless...?" she prompts, wanting him to articulate what he's suggesting.

Harry's expression turns more serious, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear with unexpected tenderness. "Unless that's something you might want. Someday. With me."

The implications of his words—children, family, a future together that extends far beyond their original agreement—send a flutter of something both terrifying and exhilarating through Y/N's chest.

"Are you asking if I want your babies, Harry Styles?" she asks, aiming for lightness but not quite managing to hide the emotion in her voice.

A flush creeps up Harry's neck, a rare sign of genuine embarrassment from a man usually so confident. "I'm asking if it's something you'd consider. Not now, obviously too soon. But...eventually."

Y/N considers his question seriously, knowing this isn't a moment for flippancy or deflection. The fact that he's even thinking about such possibilities with her, that he's imagining a future where they might create a family together, fills her with a warmth that has nothing to do with their recent exertions.

"Yes," she answers honestly, watching his expression carefully. "Someday. I'd consider it."

The smile that breaks across Harry's face is breathtaking in its genuine joy—no artifice, no performance, just pure, unfiltered happiness that crinkles the corners of his eyes and deepens the dimples in his cheeks.

"Yeah?" he asks, sounding almost boyish in his excitement.

Y/N laughs, charmed by this unexpectedly vulnerable side of him. "Yeah," she confirms, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. "But maybe we should get through tearing up that contract first, before we start planning our hypothetical children."

Harry pulls her closer, his arms tightening around her as if he can't bear the thought of letting her go. "Fair enough," he concedes, though the smile doesn't leave his face. "One step at a time."

They lie together in comfortable silence for a while, the Christmas tree lights casting a soft glow over their entwined forms, the abandoned movie still playing quietly in the background. Harry's fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare shoulder as their breathing gradually returned to normal. Y/N could hear the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear, the rhythm soothing in its constancy.

"Best Christmas ever," Harry finally murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Y/N laughed softly, tilting her face up to look at him. "Is that because of the presents or the sex?"

Harry pretended to consider this seriously, his expression thoughtful. "Well, the book was pretty spectacular..."

She swatted his chest playfully, and he caught her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss her palm with surprising tenderness.

"It's because of you," he said, all teasing gone from his voice. "Just you, Y/N. Everything else is just...bonus."

The simple honesty in his words made her throat tight with emotion. For someone who made his living with lyrics, Harry was often most devastating when he spoke plainly, without artifice or calculation.

"I feel the same way," she admitted softly. "About you."

Harry's arms tightened around her, his expression softening into something so nakedly vulnerable it made her heart ache. For a moment, it seemed like he might say more—those three words that had been hovering unspoken between them—but instead, he simply lowered his head to kiss her. It was a different kind of kiss than before—not desperate or hungry but achingly tender, communicating without words what neither of them was quite ready to say aloud.

When they broke apart, Y/N settled back against his chest, content in the warmth and security of his embrace. Outside their window, snow continued to fall, blanketing London in hushed white. Inside, in the sanctuary they'd created together, the world had narrowed to just the two of them—no contracts, no expectations, no performances. Just Harry and Y/N, finding in each other something neither had been looking for but both now couldn't imagine living without.

After a while, Harry's fingers began tracing more deliberate patterns on her skin, moving from her shoulder down her arm, then across to the curve of her breast.

Y/N felt her body responding immediately to his touch, desire rekindling despite their recent exertions.

"Again?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, though she was already shifting to give him better access.

Harry's answering smile was slow and wicked, his eyes darkening with renewed hunger as he rolled her beneath him once more.

"It is Christmas," he pointed out, lowering his head to press open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat. "Season of giving and all that."

Y/N laughed, the sound quickly turning to a gasp as his teeth grazed her collarbone. "Well, in that case...who am I to argue with tradition?"

Harry's answering chuckle vibrated against her skin as he moved lower, clearly intent on unwrapping his Christmas gift all over again. And as his mouth found her breast, his tongue circling her nipple with exquisite attention, Y/N surrendered herself to the pleasure of being thoroughly, completely consumed by the man who had started as her adversary and somehow, against all odds, become her everything.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·  

The bedroom was still dark when Y/N's alarm blared at 4:30 AM. She fumbled for her phone, silencing it quickly to avoid waking Harry, only to realize his side of the bed was already empty. Confused, she blinked away sleep and caught the faint scent of coffee drifting from downstairs.

Pulling on a sweater over her pajamas, Y/N padded quietly down the hallway. Their massive bedroom suite led to an equally impressive landing overlooking the foyer below. The house was mostly dark, save for a warm glow coming from the kitchen.

She found Harry there, leaning against the counter in sweatpants and nothing else, his tattooed chest bare in the soft kitchen lighting. Two travel mugs sat ready beside him, and he was scrolling through his phone with a furrowed brow that softened when he noticed her.

"Morning," he said, setting his phone down and reaching for the coffee pot. "Thought you could use this before your flight." He gestured toward the mugs, then added with a hint of his usual sarcasm, "Can't have you missing your grand escape from me."

Despite the teasing tone, Y/N caught a reluctance he wasn't fully masking. The past few days has shifted everything between them, leaving them in uncharted territory. Their declaration to tear up the contract and try for something real hung in the air between them, making this first separation more significant than either had anticipated.

"You're up early," she observed, accepting the coffee that Harry had somehow gotten her hooked on, "You didn't have to do that."

Harry shrugged, the motion highlighting the defined muscles of his shoulders and chest in a way that still made her breath catch slightly. "Couldn't sleep much anyway. Grumps was hogging the bed after you packed last night."

As if summoned by his name, the cat came padding into the kitchen, looking thoroughly displeased at being awake at such an hour. He curled up dramatically at Y/N's feet with a grunt that perfectly captured her own feelings about the early hour.

"The true reason for your insomnia reveals himself," Y/N smiled, crouching to scratch under the cats’s chin. "Poor Harry. Forced to share his California king with a tyrant."

Harry's lips quirked upward, "our California king", but his eyes remained serious as he watched her. "How long's your flight again?" He asks, as if he hasn't flown there numerous times in his youth.

"About three and a half hours," she replied, straightening up and taking a sip of her coffee—fixed exactly how she liked it, with just enough cream and a hint of cinnamon. "Then about an hour's drive from the airport to my mom's place."

Harry nodded, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the counter. "And you'll be back...?"

"January third," Y/N confirmed, feeling a strange flutter in her stomach at the genuine concern in his tone. "Just like we discussed."

He nodded again, looking momentarily uncertain. An expression so at odds with his usual confidence that it tugged at something in Y/N's chest.

"It's just a week," she reminded him gently, moving closer to bridge the distance between them. 

Harry's expression shifted to one of understanding mixed with genuine remorse. "I know. I'm not—I'm not trying to make you feel bad about going. Your family needs you." He ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "It's just...first time we'll be apart since..."

He didn't finish, but he didn't need to. Since they became friends four months ago. Since Christmas. Since they'd decided to make this marriage something real. Since they'd crossed the line from contractual housemates to...whatever they were becoming.

Y/N set her coffee down and stepped into his space, placing her hands lightly against his bare chest. The contact sent a familiar warmth through her fingers. "I'll call every day. And it's not like I'm going to change my mind about us while I'm gone, if that's what you're worried about."

Harry's hands settled at her waist, his thumbs tracing small circles against the fabric of her sweater. "That obvious, am I?"

"Only to me," she replied softly, the intimacy of the statement not lost on either of them.

Harry dipped his head, resting his forehead against hers with a sigh. "I still don't like it. A week is too fucking long."

"Says the man who regularly goes on month-long tours," Y/N pointed out, her hands sliding up to link behind his neck.

Harry's grip tightened slightly at her waist, pulling her closer against him. "That's different."

"How so?"

"Because when I'm on tour, I'm the one leaving," he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "I'm shit at being the one left behind."

The confession, so honest and vulnerable, made Y/N's heart twist. She rose slightly on her toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Well, look at it this way," she murmured, "the sooner I leave, the sooner I'll be back."

Something darkened in Harry's eyes at her words, and his hands slid from her waist to her hips, pulling her flush against him. "Is that supposed to make me feel better about letting you go?"

The low timbre of his voice sent a shiver down Y/N's spine, and she was suddenly very aware of the heat of his bare skin beneath her palms, the solid press of his body against hers.

"We have to leave for the airport in twenty minutes," she reminded him, though her body was already responding to his proximity, a familiar warmth spreading through her.

Harry's mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile. The one that never failed to make her pulse quicken. "I can be very efficient when properly motivated," he murmured, before capturing her mouth in a kiss that was anything but brief.

His hands moved from her hips to slide beneath her sweater, finding bare skin that pebbled with goosebumps at his touch. Y/N gasped against his mouth as his fingers skimmed higher, tracing the curve of her ribs before reaching the soft swell of her breast.

"No bra," he observed with approval, his thumb brushing across her nipple and drawing a soft moan from her lips. "Were you trying to test my self-control?"

"I just woke up," Y/N protested weakly, her head falling back as Harry's mouth moved to her neck, finding that sensitive spot just below her ear that always made her knees weaken.

"Hmm," he hummed against her skin, unconvinced. "And yet you knew exactly where to find me."

Before she could formulate a response, Harry had lifted her onto the counter in one smooth motion, positioning himself between her legs and recapturing her mouth in a searing kiss. His hands pushed her sweater up and over her head in one fluid movement, leaving her upper body bare to his appreciative gaze.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his eyes darkening as they roamed over her exposed skin. "Every fucking time, you take my breath away."

Y/N flushed under the intensity of his gaze, still not entirely used to this side of Harry. The unguarded admiration, the open wanting that had replaced his earlier disdain. She reached for him, pulling him back to her for another kiss, her fingers threading through his hair as his hands explored her body with increasing urgency.

Harry broke the kiss to trail his mouth down her neck to her collarbone, then lower still until his lips closed around one peaked nipple. Y/N arched into the contact with a gasp, her hands tightening in his hair as he sucked and teased the sensitive bud, his tongue circling it before his teeth grazed lightly across the hardened peak.

"Harry," she breathed, her voice already taking on that needy quality that he loved to draw from her. "We really don't have time—"

"We have time," he insisted, his attention shifting to her other breast, lavishing it with the same thorough devotion. "Consider it a proper send-off." His fingers traced the waistband of her pajama shorts, dipping just beneath the elastic to tease the sensitive skin there.

Y/N bit her lip, torn between practicality and the mounting desire his touch was stoking within her. "The driver will be here—"

"I texted him to come fifteen minutes later," Harry admitted, looking up at her with a wicked smile that sent heat pooling low in her belly. "I had plans for this morning."

"You're impossible," she accused, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the way her body responded to his wandering hands, her legs parting wider to accommodate him.

"Only with you," he murmured, his fingers slipping beneath her shorts to find her already wet for him. "Only ever with you, Y/N."

The sincerity in his tone, combined with the expert touch of his fingers against her most sensitive flesh, drew a moan from deep in her throat. Harry captured the sound with his mouth, kissing her deeply as his fingers continued their exploration, circling her entrance before sliding one inside her with deliberate slowness.

"God, you're soaked," he groaned against her mouth, adding a second finger and curling them in a way that made her gasp. "Always so ready for me."

Y/N could only nod, words beyond her as his thumb found her clit, pressing and circling in rhythm with his thrusting fingers. Her hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as the pressure built rapidly within her.

Harry's free hand returned to her breast, pinching and rolling her nipple between his fingers as his mouth reclaimed the other, the dual sensation sending shocks of pleasure straight to her core. Y/N's head fell back, her breath coming in short gasps as she approached the edge.

"That's it," Harry encouraged, his voice rough with arousal as he watched her responses with heated eyes. "Let go for me, love."

The endearment, still new enough to send a thrill through her each time he used it, combined with a particularly skilled twist of his fingers inside her, was enough to push Y/N over the edge. Her body tensed and then shuddered as release washed over her, Harry's name falling from her lips in a breathless cry.

He worked her through it gently, prolonging her pleasure until she was trembling and oversensitive. Only then did he withdraw his hand, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead as she struggled to catch her breath.

"That was..." she began, then shook her head, unable to find adequate words.

Harry grinned, self-satisfaction evident in his expression. "I know."

Y/N rolled her eyes at his smugness, but couldn't suppress her own smile. As her breathing steadied, she became acutely aware of his arousal pressing insistently against her through the thin material of his sweatpants.

"Your turn," she murmured, reaching for the waistband, but Harry caught her wrist gently.

"Later," he said, pressing a kiss to her palm. "When you get back. Something for both of us to look forward to."

Y/N blinked in surprise. "Are you sure? We still have a few minutes—"

"I'm sure," Harry confirmed, though the strain in his voice betrayed the effort it took to refuse her offer. "Consider it my insurance policy for your return."

The possessive undertone in his words sent another small shiver through her, though she tried to mask it with a teasing smile. "As if I needed extra incentive to come back."

Harry's expression softened, his hands coming up to frame her face with unexpected tenderness. "Just come back to me, yeah? That's all I need."

The vulnerability in his eyes made her heart clench. Y/N leaned forward to kiss him softly, pouring all the reassurance she could into the contact. "I will. I promise."

They stayed that way for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. Then the spell was broken by Grumps, who had apparently grown tired of being ignored and let out a particularly disgruntled sound from his position on the floor.

Harry laughed, the sound vibrating through Y/N where their bodies still touched. "Someone's feeling neglected."

Y/N smiled, reluctantly pulling away to retrieve her discarded sweater. "I should finish getting ready. The driver really will be here soon, adjusted schedule or not."

Harry nodded, stepping back to allow her to slide off the counter, though his eyes never left her form as she pulled the sweater back over her head. "I'll take your bags down."

The next fifteen minutes passed in a flurry of last-minute preparations. Y/N changing quickly into her travel clothes, Harry insisting on making her a breakfast sandwich to take with her ("Airport food is shit, and you'll be starving by the time you land"), Grumps following them both from room to room as if aware that a separation was imminent.

When the driver texted to announce his arrival, Harry carried Y/N's luggage to the front door, setting it down with a reluctance that was evident in every line of his body.

"Call me when you land?" he requested, trying for casual but not quite achieving it.

"Of course," Y/N promised, reaching up to straighten the collar of the shirt he'd finally put on. "And every day after that."

Harry nodded, his hands coming to rest on her hips in a now-familiar gesture that felt both possessive and steadying. "Give your mum my best. And tell her I'm still working on getting her that signed album she mentioned"

Y/N smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. "She'll be thrilled. Though I think she's more excited about the fact that you've apparently convinced her daughter that you're not, and I quote, 'just another entitled celebrity with more money than sense.'"

Harry laughed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "High praise indeed, coming from your mother."

"The highest," Y/N confirmed, rising on her toes to press a final kiss to his lips. "I really do have to go now."

Harry sighed, reluctantly releasing her. "I know."

Y/N reached down to give Grumps a final scratch behind the ears, the cat looking up at her with such mournful eyes that she almost laughed. "Be good for Harry, okay? Don't let him waste away in lonely brooding while I'm gone."

"I don't brood," Harry protested, though the slight quirk of his lips betrayed his amusement.

"You absolutely do," Y/N countered, straightening up to face him once more. "It's actually quite attractive, in a tortured-artist sort of way. But try to keep it to a minimum, for Grumps' sake."

Harry rolled his eyes, but couldn't maintain his mock offense in the face of her teasing smile. He pulled her in for one last embrace, burying his face briefly in her hair as if memorizing her scent.

"One week," he murmured against her temple.

"One week," Y/N confirmed, squeezing him tightly before forcing herself to step back.

Once again, those three words lingered in the air, creeping into their hearts. Unspoken yet deeply felt

Harry opened the door, the cold morning air rushing in and making Y/N shiver. The driver was waiting patiently beside the car, ready to take her luggage as soon as she approached.

"Safe travels," Harry said, his voice steady even as his eyes betrayed a depth of emotion that made Y/N's heart flutter.

"See you later, Harry," she said, pressing one last kiss to his lips before turning toward the door. He didn’t move, rooted to the spot, until the car disappeared from view.

The journey through the airport was a blur, her mind replaying their goodbye over and over. It wasn’t until the plane had already taken off that she reached for her phone—only to find nothing. Her stomach dropped. Not because of the lost device that must have slipped somewhere, but because she hadn’t memorized Harry’s number. No way to call. No way to reach him.

Shit

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · · 

A/N: Can I apologize for the next part in advance...? I just couldn't stop writing these two :))

Taglist:  @mysunflowerposts @lydiasfalling @panini @ell0ra-br3kk3r @donutsandpalmtrees @sunshinemoonsposts @angeldavis777 @fangirl509east @maudie-duan @indierockgirrl @harryssunflower17 @lizsogolden @daphnesutton @spinninc @behindmygreyeyes @wheredidmyeyesgo @matildasatellite @drewrry @inlikea-coolway @jerseygirlinca

[maudie-duan]

@finelinereading Yes!!! I'm glad you spotted the references. They make it really fun! Thanks for sharing! So kind!

Summary: You were an almost lover, now a hushed whisper in the dark when his Ex moves back to town. Nothing is worse than a love than a love triangle you weren't expecting--old flames, new love, and lingering feelings, but who's the real winner when everyone gets hurt?

Taglist: Let me know in the comments if you want to be tagged for this series. @sassamanda77 @panini @unfuckwitablenarry @triski73 @haleyannaw @raajali3

Warnings: All Angst, Mild Spice/only mentions of sex, Use of Y/N in the form of texting.

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: New Three Part Mini Series!! You guys asked for ANGST!!!!!!! So now I'm delivering. This will be a little spin-off from The Sabrina Series<- but still the same concept, just roping together three songs based on these requests<-

POV: YOU

Was it wishful thinking that got you here?

That silent plea.

That eternal want for him to miss you.

You wanted just the tiniest glint of recognition or even a fucking unspoken promise to say that when the sun rose the next morning, he would be there in your bed, tucked away like you were tucked under him that night. 

That the glint of longing you saw in his eyes lasted longer than the fickle act of want he had on those desperate nights when he called, and you answered, and those “need you” eyes would walk through your door, and you would give in, just like that.

You made it that easy.

How many times were you going to keep doing this? Torture yourself, sit idle in the misery you’ve become for a fleeting moment that would be gone in the morning because there he was. Moving around your room as quiet as a mouse in the warm glow of the early morning sun for the third time this week. How many times were you going to allow it, the torment of not knowing as you watched him gather his clothes from your bedroom floor? 

You knew as soon as he pieced himself back together, both boots a foot, he would walk out that door, and who knows when you would hear from him again, him leaving you in this in-between, this desperate state, the questions a list of growing heartache because where did you fall on his list when you had been the one prioritizing him. Carving out space in your mind for him when you didn’t even know if you were a passing thought in his. 

Now, here comes the suffering.

The two of you in some strange limbo that you couldn’t even explain to yourself, let alone your friends who had already been nagging you to death, taking shot after shot, tearing his character to pieces, and at this point, you could barely defend him—and after every nag session you wished they would take your phone, lose his number so you would never be tempted to fall back in, and out, and in—this tangled web that kept you connected, sticky, dangerous, inescapable every time he called your phone.

Again, you allowed it, allowed his lack of commitment, and every time you let him walk out that door, you let him rob you of the joy you both created, this span of intricate moments you shared with him over time being ripped from under your feet. If you asked, would he tell you, or would he tell you what you wanted to hear, save face for the sake of not losing you? Maybe he would tell the truth, but it wouldn’t be his face you saw; it would be hers. 

 Always the million dollar question playing on repeat when he’s gone. Was he with her, or was he not? 

“Are you leaving?” you asked, knowing the answer, but you wanted to catch him in the act, not let him leave another morning without saying goodbye. 

He stops mid-zip of his jeans, your eyes moving from his hands to the fern leaves inked along either side of his abdomen, and when he draws in a breath, his muscles tighten, flexing as he exhales, his silence proof that this was exactly what it was, even if you thought it was different this time because this time he was actually sober, coherent when he walked through the door—not like the nights before when he passed out the second he hit your pillow, his warm body filling your bed, and you were lonely enough to slip into the illusion of what you wished it was.

Last night was different.

 He even called at a decent time, coming over, not a trace of alcohol on his breath. The first thing he said was that he missed you, that smile on his face, the one where his dimples dipped, and anything he said could have been true. He didn’t even flinch when the lie fell from his mouth, holding your gaze, his hands taking your face into a gentle embrace, and it was that effortless because the second his mouth pressed to yours, you knew exactly what you would do to have him, just like that, in that very moment, the one where you felt like his like he could be yours, not an ounce of doubt constantly fraying the edges of your mind.

“I didn’t want to wake you…” He lies, and he’s back in motion, his zipper up, his jeans buttoned.

You sit up, clutching the sheet to your body, nausea stirring in the pit of your stomach, naked and alone, left bare in the bed he took you in just hours before, “I wouldn’t have minded…” You answered, watching him search the room for his shirt, but you know it’s in the hallway, and you don’t remind him because, no, he’s going to face this just like you have to face this every time he leaves.

“Maybe next time…” he tells you, the passing phrase like a paper cut you know will sting later, but he’s distracted, looking for his other sock. 

“Right—” is all you can muster, rage swelling in your chest, frustrated at him, but mostly yourself.

He must sense this because his eyes flick to you for the briefest second as he shoves his foot into the other sock, “What is it?” He asks

“Nothing…” you tell him, trying to brush him off.

Both socks are on, and all that’s left is the shirt in the hallway and his shoes by your front door, “It’s obviously something…I can see it on your face…are you mad?”

“I don’t know—Harry…” and you shrug your shoulders, looking away.

He sits on the bed, and from your peripheral, you can see his gaze trained on you, waiting silently, and when you don’t say anything, he says:

“Do you want me to stay—is that it?”

You shrug your shoulders, your throat tight, and you will yourself not to break down in front of him, but the tears are already stinging, and you swallow hard, shaking your head, “I don’t know anymore…” you force out, your eyes flicking to his, then back at the wall you had been staring at, you know there’s a scowl on your face, but you can’t control anything rising to the surface.

Harry clicks his tongue, and when you look back, he’s shaking his head, fidgeting with the ring on his finger as silence mounts between you…

“I don’t know what to tell you…” he finally speaks up, and your head swivels in his direction, taking in the tragic look sweeping over his features, like maybe there’s guilt or sadness, but you can’t tell.

“Is she back?” You ask. Harry shrugs his shoulders this time,  pursing his lips to speak, but nothing comes out. 

He just stares at you with those fucking innocent eyes, and you wonder how he does it, how he wins every time because even when you want to loath him, you still find a way to hold space for him, and maybe that’s human—he’s human—but it doesn’t stop it from hurting any less, and the absence of words speaks louder than ever, but you want him to say it to you, you need it to hurt even more because maybe this time he’ll actually leave and it will stick.

“It’s a yes or a no?” You tell him, anger taking your tone.

“It’s not that simple—” He says, his voice cracking.

And it’s like you’re hitting a breaking point, the last couple of months catching up to you, and you slam your hand down on the bed, rage filling your whole body because he can’t just answer the fucking question? Is it really that hard?

“It’s not that hard—you’re either with her, or you’re not. I know she’s back—”

“What are you even on about—?” Harry spits, matching your tone, and he stands to his feet.

“Why are you fucking gaslighting me, dude?” You toss back, “I saw those pictures…that wedding that you went to the other night. When I invited you to Sam’s, and you fucking lied and said you were with your family. God, she didn’t even miss a beat?”

Harry puffs out a breath, his defenses going up the second you said pictures, “So now you’re keeping track of me?”

“Oh, fuck off—it literally came up on my feed. Don’t think so highly of yourself—”

He laughs, “Right, and you expect me to believe that—”

“Like I care what you think of me anymore…it’s obvious that you don’t think very highly of me. I’ve never lied to you…I don’t have a reason to lie to you.” and this stumps him for a second, and after he runs a hand down his face, he says:

“I don’t know what you want from me…” raking an angry hand through his hair, “I thought that this was what you wanted?”

You laugh this time, genuinely amused by the gull of this guy, “Who wants to be used? Who wants to feel like shit when someone you care about cares nothing for you…you don’t care—”

“That’s fucking bullshit, and you know it—” he interjects.

“But is it? Because when was the last time we went out or hung out with friends? When was the last time we saw the light of day outside my bedroom walls?”

Harry clicks his tongue again, pacing the floor in search of his shirt, “This is fucking crazy I should have never come…” and this line sets you off.

“Oh—is it crazy—” you yell, rising up to your knees in bed, gripping the sheet tightly, “Is it so fucking crazy—”

“Yes—” he yells back, “You’re acting crazy—”

And now you feel crazy, dizzy with the weight of his words, “You’re fucking making me crazy—!”

“Tell me, Harry—” You force, grabbing his attention, “When you fuck her, do you think of me?”

This pisses him off, “For fucks sake, grow up—” and maybe you are losing your mind because then you bound off the bed, grabbing hold of his arm as he heads for the bedroom door.

“No—seriously, answer the fucking question. It’s the least you can do—” you tell him, digging your heels into the carpet, but Harry is stronger, and when he yanks his arm out of your grasp, you fall backward on the carpet, hitting the ground hard.

“Goddammit…” He breathes, turning back to hold out a hand to help you up, but you slap it away hard, a loud smack filling the space as a tunnel vision of rage creeps in. Harry holds his hands up in mock surrender, a fucking smug smirk playing at his lips, and you leap up and push past him.

His shit is outside the bedroom door, and you snatch it from the ground, “This isn’t Happy Hour…” you shout, throwing his shirt at him, “You don’t get to have me whenever you want anymore…” and now the tears are coming, your whole body trembling, anger coursing through every fiber of your being, and it’s maddening.

The sight of him is maddening.

“I need you to leave—” you yell, but he’s just standing there, stunned, and so are you, but you know you need to stand your ground because this is the first real fight you’ve ever had.

“Leave Harry—” You scream, “I need you to leave…I need you to leave…” and every time you say the word leave, it hurts even more, the reality of it hitting you hard, and then you’re sobbing, your knees hitting the ground, everything going dark as you force your eyes shut, your palms covering your face, and of course, Harry is there in seconds, pulling you into his embrace, and for a moment you almost give in, your body relaxing into his touch, your faith in him unwavering, but then you breathed him in, the smell of earth and sex, and you remember how you got here, why you’re on the floor naked, in the grasp of a boy who never deserved you in the first place and you force him away from you, taking in the surprised look on his face.

“Get out…go hold her—go fuck her—whatever you’re doing—I don’t want it anymore,” You push through gritted teeth, shoving a hand into his bare chest, “I don’t want you anymore—I don’t want this—I can’t do this anymore.”

This was the parallel you lived in, knowing right from wrong.

A year you had been doing this.

In the beginning, it was great, normal even; Harry was attentive and willing. You never questioned your position in his life because there was never a reason to. 

The thing is, you knew it was risky.

Harry was only three months out from his breakup with Leah. You had heard the rumors, heard of their messy ending, and were close enough to the situation to see the aftermath and the effect it had on Harry, and although she was no friend to you, it didn’t stop you from yielding the slightest bit of empathy for her and Harry. You thought It had to be hard to end a four-year relationship so abruptly.

That was until you found out that she had cheated on him. It wasn’t until she had moved away that you found out the real reason for their demise. 

For months before their break up, you and Harry had been running around in the same circles. The only thing you really knew about him was that you had mutual friends; in fact, you never even said a word to him before their break up. It was always Leah you interacted with. She was one of those girls who liked to mark her territory, the possessive type. It was common knowledge that Harry was hers, and hers alone, and you, being the “girls—girl,” that you are respected that.

So when she moved away, you kept your distance. Not out of loyalty to Leah but out of sympathy for Harry because all it took was for one person to breathe the word “single” in Harry’s direction, and girls were coming out of the woodwork to stake even the tiniest bit of claim, and Harry being the sad, lonely boy he was gave in, and it wasn’t long before he became “that guy” you know, the playboy type, girls in and out of his bed, infamous for his erotic hookups that had girls talking like giddy school girls on the playground swooning over this weeks crush.

Their gossip spread like wildfire.

 And, of course, you were curious because you were, after all, human. 

You liked hearing the stories; they were fun, and each week there was always a new story to entertain you.

Your favorite was the one where he crammed so and so into the back seat of his two-door sports car. This had your gears turning because once, when you were hanging out with his friend Alex, whom you were trying to hook up with, you and Alex caught a ride with Harry. You remembered being amazed that you had even pulled it off, fitting yourself in his back seat, especially in a mini skirt. 

That was also the night that Alex had gotten too drunk, so you and Harry had to team up to get him home, carrying his heavy body like dead weight to the car. You had to give up being graceful in your barely there outfit, and since you guys had a hard time putting Alex in first, you had to crawl into the backseat on Harry’s side of the car. You were too flustered to give a fuck if he saw your ass while bending to fit into his car, but when you announced that you were tucked away and ready to go, you saw that he had turned away, giving you privacy while you situated yourself.

Something about the gesture brought heat to your cheeks as he slid into the driver’s seat, and when you both locked eyes in the rearview mirror, you couldn’t help the shy smile turning up at the corner of your mouth as silence took way.

That was also the first time Harry acknowledged you, called you by your name, and asked for your address. The whole ride home, you found yourself repeating his simple words over and over in your head as you both caught glimpses of one another, you sometimes catching his lingering stare at a red light, or you, when you were caught up in mouthing the words of a song, and your eyes, met his.

That night, as you crawled out of the back seat as graceful as you could, Harry gave you a hand, and when you stumbled, nearly missing your step, he grabbed you by the waist, your heart racing from your near fall, and you looked up at him, a slow smile spreading, and it was the first time you caught the green of his eyes, witnessed his dimples up close, spotted that tiny little beauty mark marking a sweet little dot by his heart-shaped lips, and you had to force your eyes away from his face. 

And what would steal your thoughts later, leave you reeling for days, was the light squeeze he gave your waist, the breathy laugh that left his mouth when he realized he was just as caught up in the moment, and your hand moved to your side, gently nudging his hand away, and you knew you were in trouble, that he would be trouble, and when you whispered “thanks” you forced your feet to move toward your door. As you turned your key in the lock, you stole one last glance at Harry, who was leaning against his car with his hands shoved into the pockets of his skinny jeans, and he lifted a hand to salute you off, and dammit, that smile he gave you, stole your fucking breath, and you rushed through the door before he could see your reaction.

That night took a turn.

That was when your mind started weaving a new narrative as you lay there in bed, and somehow, Harry was at the forefront, giving you a new plot to figure out.

These are also the thoughts that would haunt you later.

10:20am.

1 missed call:

10:23am.

H: Hey, can we talk?

10:24am:

3 missed calls:

10:26am.

H: Please, can we just talk?

12:00pm.

H: I get why you’re mad, but why can’t you just text me back?

3:47pm.

H: I’m trying to talk about this. Why are you making this harder? You’re the one that wanted me to leave.

5:55pm.

2 missed calls.

8:02pm.

1 missed call and one new voicemail.

10:16pm.

H: Can you just call me back? Give me a chance to explain myself??

10:42pm.

Y/N: There’s nothing to talk about.

H: There’s plenty to talk about. Why are you being difficult?

Y/N: Why are you being an asshole about everything?

H: How am I being an asshole? I’ve literally been trying to reach you all day.

Y/N: Because you keep fucking gaslighting me, Harry.

H: How am I gaslighting you?

Y/N: I can’t do this with you.

Missed call:

H: Please just pick up your phone!!!!

Y/N: I don’t want to talk to you if you’re not going to be honest.

H: What do you want me to tell you that you don’t already know? You told me that you saw the pictures. There’s nothing else.

Y/N: I don’t believe you.

H: Well, it’s not like I’m denying it. What else do you want me to say?

Y/N: Why didn’t you tell me about it? Do you know how shitty it is to see the proof?

H: The proof?

Y/N: Yes! the fucking proof Harry. You’ve been weird lately. Do you not think I haven’t noticed the distance you’ve been keeping?

H: I haven’t been keeping distance. I told you I’ve been busy.

Y/N: Why are you lying?

Y/N: We went from hanging out almost every day…and then Leah came to visit her friend that one weekend…Idk like what a couple of months ago. You got weird, and I brushed it off and gave you space, and when you hit me up like a week later everything was fine, like back to normal. Then I saw those pictures a couple of weeks ago, and you haven’t been the same.

…

Y/N: Am I right or wrong?

…

Y/N: I mean, look at the freaking pictures, Harry. You look perfectly cozy.

…

H: It’s just like all really confusing.

Y/N: I get that.

H: Then why are you on my ass about it?

Y/N: Because all you had to do was say something…anything.

H: And would you have understood?

Y/N: Obviously, my feelings would have been hurt, but at least you would have given me the chance to decide what I wanted to do…like moving forward.

H: I didn’t want to hurt you.

Y/N: Yeah, but it hurts more to find out the way that I did. I didn’t even know you guys were talking like that.

H: We weren’t. She had called the night before, and we like talked and stuff.

And this was the onset, the calm before the storm, the deep seed of regret that would take you wholeheartedly the moment you put down your phone.

Y/N: Okay.

H: I’m sorry. I didn’t think anything would come of it, and it’s just like all really confusing, and I think I just need time, and I know it’s cliche to say, but It really is me, not you. 

…

H: I get it if you hate me. I wasn’t expecting any of this. The breakup, you, her coming back, and I just, like, I need to sort this out. I’m like leading you on, I think, and that’s not fair.

…

H: You don’t have to text me back. I just want you to know that I think what we had was real, like I really like you, and hopefully, it’s not weird when you see me around. 

It had been less than 24 hours since he had been in your bed, and he was already talking about you in the past tense. What was there to say? You knew that no matter what you said, you wouldn’t get what you wanted, and that was him—so you didn’t respond.

What we had was real.

What we had was real.

How many times could you think it, repeat it, the line a curse, a shudder of guilt, a slice of anger, a pull of agony down your spine as you shift under the blankets, the pillow next to you, empty, the faint smell of his cologne a lingering reminder of all the nights he’s filled your bed, and woke with your face pressed to his chest, memorizing the way the scent faded on his warm skin.

An almost lover, a whisper in the dark.

And maybe you knew that this would happen, that this was how it would end because deep down you knew, you knew he wasn’t ready, but it felt so good to be the girl he wanted, a love-struck fool, to believe it would last. 

In the beginning, your friends warned you and said that it was too soon.

 But you didn’t listen.

Because it didn’t take long for you to become the girl filling the days in his week.

After that night, after Harry dropped you off, everything shifted. 

The tiny moments that got you to this point. Pushed you past the point of no return because it wasn’t going to be that simple; the line “Hopefully it’s not weird when I see you around” already had you on your knees with longing. It wasn’t going to be that easy, a parting line to cushion the blow. 

It was all him, all of it.

 Harry was the one who sought you out.

That one night at a party, when Alex showed up with someone else, you brushed it off because you weren’t that attached to the idea of him; you just wanted to get laid. So you had a good time, and when Harry came up behind you in the kitchen while you were making yourself another drink, it was nothing, a casual encounter, a brief moment, Harry just saying Hi.

But this is how it started.

A casual encounter at a party, here and there, a whispered “hey” in passing if you saw him on campus, a lingering smile over his shoulder, an occasional beer pong buddy, a touch on the arm, a witty line, a fetched drink when your cup was empty. 

Little things that were beginning to add up.

And when the casual encounters became a prolonged conversation, Harry picking your brain, a shared thought, a passing laugh, his eyes studying your face, the ease of it all stitching a mutual attraction that seemed to be taking you both.

So when his roaming eyes landed on your lips one night, Harry cornering you in the kitchen, you standing there willingly, just another drunken night absorbed in his presence, you were no longer phased that he was talking to you because it just happened, the two of you, the normalcy in which no one blinked an eye when they passed you both huddled in a corner or him next to you in the library when he spotted you sitting alone. 

You had become Harry’s friend, the girl he confided in, the girl he texted when he was bored, the girl who sparked the small chatter, the pointed reason Harry was no longer hooking up with anyone. Honestly, you didn’t even realize it, the natural chemistry you guys shared; yes, you found him attractive, but so did everyone else.

You thought you were just friends, and you were okay with that.

Then he kissed you. 

That night in the kitchen changed everything. You went from friend to lover in the blink of an eye, a split-second jolt of surprise, and you leaned into it, the two of you falling into his bed the moment he kicked open the door, this new hunger rising in you both, your hands all over him, him just as needy, and when you woke up the next morning, nothing felt weird, you didn’t question a thing, which was odd for you, and that should have been your first major sign.

You fell for him hard and fast, as fast as you fell into his bed that night.

For months, you never questioned a thing. You even felt fine when you saw Leah at that party because Harry never gave you a reason to worry— you knew you were the one going home with Harry, that you would be the one waking up in his bed, the one he kissed good morning. She didn’t even bother you guys; she barely looked his way, but the truth was that you felt it, that weird tug between them, their history filling every inch of the room.

Invading your thoughts, stealing the oxygen from your lungs when your eyes met Leah’s. You felt it grow heavy. The weight of your insecurities bearing down on your chest as a steady stream of doubts flushed across your skin, your cheeks burning at the thought of any form of rejection, but there was none. It was like you couldn’t take the fact that what you guys had might be genuine. Leah’s presence made you question if maybe it was too soon to feel secure in anything that you and Harry had because what were you?

It had never been established.

 You never needed it until that moment.

Every time he held your hand that night, your grip was tight, as if you felt him slipping away already. With every kiss, you found yourself deepening the intention, trying to push all your feelings into a single kiss as if your lips could convey all your hopes and dreams. Every touch you pressed to his skin was you praying he felt it too, and when he took you to bed, and Harry pushed inside you, you called out his name, wishing it would be the only voice he wanted to hear. 

But what he didn’t know was that you saw the message the next morning when you were reaching for your phone on the nightstand and accidentally grabbed his. Harry was still passed out next to you, and then the screen came to life in front of your blurry vision. There was her name, a notification that she had DM’ed him that morning.

This was your worst fear. Now you knew the message existed, the fear running down your spine like a bolt of lightning, a hot flash of heat racing through your body, a cold sweat spreading over your palms as you slowly put his phone back on the nightstand, just as Harry started to stir. And as fast as the fear came, so did the desperation; the second you saw him stir, you climbed on top of him. Willing to do anything to hold his attention for as long as you could before he picked up that phone and everything changed. 

Maybe it was a power play, but what other choice did you have? You wanted him, and you wanted to do anything to keep him.

It worked that morning.

It worked in the shower; it even worked when you talked him into going back to sleep, you know, sleep off the hangover, but when you woke to Harry typing away at his phone, you knew she had won, that she would get him, that she was back.

Another shift.

Your first seeds of doubt were planted in your hopeful thinking, but there could be no hope in the misery of what you guys would become because you would never be able to escape their history. 

And now.

Every fear, every doubt that you had held onto since that day was coming full circle as you stepped through the door, and the first thing you saw was Leah leaning against Harry—you didn’t even want to come to this party, but your friends dragged you out. They weren’t going to let you mope any longer, lay in bed for days, let you grieve your loss because that’s what it was—grief.

Now, you had to witness them, watch Leah try to claim what she thought was hers, but that’s the part that makes you laugh because if he was truly hers, you wouldn’t have even been a passing thought in his head. It had only been days since his lips were on yours, and all that time, you wanted him to think of you, but now you found yourself hoping she was the one suffering. That when she kissed his lips, that you were the one she tasted, that you were the passing thought raking across her mind, an agony of questions making her spiral every time he touched her, did something new, cracked a joke that only you would get. 

For days, your heart weighed heavy, a sinking pit of all the “what ifs” weighing you down until you were nothing—your friends kept saying to smile because it happened; at least you got to hook up with Harry, and all you wanted to do was cry—cry because it was over, and that’s what you want to do. Stand here and drink your drink and slip into that languid state of delusion where nothing seems to penetrate the surface.

Drink until you’re numb.

And maybe you’re almost there because when Leah looks over, her gaze holds no power. In fact, she almost seems to mirror you as you watch a hint of doubt sweep over her features, and she grabs Harry’s arm and wraps it around her waist, the movement pulling him from his conversation, and you watch as he connects the dots, his eyes on Leah, following her gaze to you. 

It all happens so fast that you don’t steal a chance to look away, and when your eyes meet his, the hard lines creasing between his brows loosen, and the curiosity fades. His gaze flits over your face, and you drop your eyes to his hand on her waist. Without hesitation, he drops it, bringing it up to run a hand through his hair, and you turn away, the first smile you’ve had on your face for days.

Pathetic with hope. 

That’s what you were. 

Here was the delusion.

That little bit of faith you held onto for him, and you don’t know why you’re doing it, but the next thing you know, you’re pulling out your phone and you message him:

Y/N: You can fake whatever it is you’re faking with her, but I know. I fucking know.”

A/N: Writing this honestly made my angsty soul so fucking happy. I hope you enjoyed it!!!

PART TWO Ex-Girlfriend POV<-

Almost Lover Masterlist<-