#harry styles fanfiction

[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

[angelsueeeeeee]

i will always come back to this

REASSURANCE

Warnings: Angst

Words: 2k

Summary: Harry feels insecure and needs reassurance that Y/N won’t leave him.

The sun was shining, birds were singing and the sound of water splashing made the summer feeling even sweeter. The distant sound of people talking was almost unnoticeable, compared to the hectic and loud streets of London, Y/N, and Harry was so used to. It almost made them forget how quiet the world could be and they were thankful for the little getaway into a peaceful habitat to recollect themselves.

Currently, Y/N was sitting on a chair on the balcony of the small Italian house, reading a book Harry urged her to, a while ago, and eating grapes every once in a while when she had to turn the page. Her white summer dress was floating in the wind and her hair was up in a ponytail to keep the strains of hair out of her concentrated face. The tip of her tongue was sticking out as she tried to imagine the scenario she had just read, not noticing her boyfriend staring at her in awe further away.

Harry was trying to cool himself down at the small pool, Y/N had great access at looking at, and he had hoped she’d join him but she was too focussed on her reading to even notice the lack of attention she was giving her boyfriend. Wet hair was sticking to his forehead and tiny little droplets we’re covering his body when he looked up to see her sitting on the balcony. His heart immediately picked up on speed and started to hammer harder against his ribcage. His emerald eyes were scanning every single one of her outlines, trying his best to memorize them as if she was his favorite painting he never wanted to forget.

With a muffed sigh he got out of the pool and instantly felt the hot ground beneath his feet as he grabbed a towel to dry himself off a bit, knowing well that his girlfriend wouldn’t approve of him getting the expensive Italian carpet wet.

Keep reading

[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

[cloudyluun]

London Fever (p3) | neighbour!harry

Summary: The internet explodes when photos of Harry leaving your apartment go viral, thrusting you into the public eye. While Harry’s team scrambles to control the narrative, you’re left to deal with the fallout alone. Frustrated and hurt by his silence, you make a bold move—one designed to get his attention. But when the game of jealousy spirals out of control, the tension between you ignites in a way neither of you can deny. Passion, frustration, and raw emotion collide in a moment that changes everything, but when morning comes, reality crashes back in.

A/N: If pettiness was a sport, you and Harry would be Olympic gold medalists. This chapter is the deliciously toxic mix of angst, jealousy, and 🔥 tension that makes bad decisions feel so good. Remember, no brain cells were harmed in the making of this fic—but feelings? That’s another story. Enjoy!!

Word Count: 5,4k

Warnings: 

Public scrutiny & online harassment

Toxic communication & jealousy

Possessiveness & heavy angst

Emotionally charged smut (18+)

Public confrontation & smoking

Strong language

Questionable decision-making fueled by unresolved tension

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The internet is on fire.

You wake to the relentless buzzing of your phone, vibrating against the wooden nightstand like it might rattle itself to the floor. Calls. Texts. Notifications piling up faster than you can clear them.

Your stomach knots as you stare at the screen, the blinding glow of your phone casting harsh shadows across the room. You don’t need to look. You already know.

The moment you tap open your social media, the reality crashes down.

"Harry Styles’ Secret Romance Exposed!" "Mystery Girl Identified—Who Is She?" "Meet the Woman Who Stole Harry’s Heart—And Kept It a Secret."

Your name is everywhere. Your photos. Your old tweets and Instagram posts, dissected, analyzed, twisted into narratives you don’t control.

Strangers pick apart your life like vultures tearing into fresh prey.

Who is she? What does she do? Why hasn’t she spoken about him before?

Some are convinced you’re a gold-digger. Others claim you’re a long-time fan who manipulated your way into his bed.

Threads with thousands of comments unearth every public detail about your past—your exes, your childhood hometown, even a blurry yearbook photo from when you were sixteen.

You can’t breathe.

Your hands are shaking as you scroll, past the speculation, past the hate, past the fans who have already decided whether they love or loathe you.

A single picture changes everything.

The one that went viral first. The one taken at 4 a.m., when Harry left your apartment. His curls disheveled, hoodie pulled low, jaw tense as he stepped into a waiting car.

The damage is done.

You barely process the calls flooding in before one name flashes across your screen.

Harry.

You hesitate.

And then—you silence the call.

—

Harry doesn’t get a chance to speak before his team does.

By the time he arrives at the meeting, the decision has already been made for him.

"We need to control the narrative," they say.

A public statement. A carefully worded message, something that downplays it, spins the focus elsewhere.

They slide a phone across the table. A draft already typed out, waiting for his approval.

"Harry is currently focused on his career and has no further comment on speculation regarding his personal life."

It’s detached. Impersonal. Exactly what they need it to be.

But when he reads it, all he can think about is you.

He can still see the way you looked at him before you left. The way your voice wavered when you said, So that’s it?

He had let you walk away.

Now, you’re out there, drowning in the fallout while he’s sitting in a boardroom, signing off on a statement that does nothing to protect you.

But this is how it has to be.

That’s what they tell him.

And maybe, just maybe—he lets himself believe it.

—

He calls you that night.

You don’t answer.

A text follows. We need to lay low for a while.

Three dots appear. Disappear.

Then, finally, a response.

Understood.

No fight. No argument. Just… distance.

He tells himself it’s for the best.

But the truth festers beneath his skin.

You know.

Know he’s protecting himself. His image. His career. Not you.

And when that realization sinks in—when the sting of rejection turns into something sharp, something hollow—you make a decision of your own.

—

The restaurant is dimly lit, all warm candlelight and quiet jazz.

You barely know the man sitting across from you. He’s handsome—dark hair, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, easy charm that fills the silence when you don’t bother speaking.

You don’t need to say much.

You just need the cameras to see you.

Need the paparazzi to catch the way your fingers brush against his across the table. The way you smile, lean in just enough, laughter spilling softly past your lips.

It’s calculated.

It’s a performance.

And you make sure the pictures surface.

Make sure he sees them.

—

Harry clenches his jaw so tight it aches.

The phone screen burns in his hands, the headline flashing in bold print.

"Harry’s Mystery Girl Moves On—Spotted on a Romantic Date Night."

There you are. In another man’s arms.

Your lips painted red. Your dress clinging to every curve. Your smile—bright, dazzling, meant for someone else.

His fingers curl into fists.

He tells himself he doesn’t care.

But when he finds out you’ll be at the club that night—

He makes sure he’s there, too.

—

You don’t dress to impress—you dress to destroy.

The black dress is an old favorite. Short. Tight. Sinful. It clings to your body like a second skin, dipping low in the front, riding high on your thighs, leaving just enough to the imagination while ensuring every eye in the room is on you.

Your makeup is meticulous—dark, smoky eyes, lips painted the same scarlet shade you know he loves. The shade he once smeared across your skin in the heat of a moment neither of you could take back.

But tonight, it’s war paint.

You know he’ll be there.

And when you step inside, you feel it instantly.

His eyes.

A slow, searing heat crawling up the length of your body before you even spot him across the room.

He’s at the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass, the other resting against his thigh, fingers tapping idly. Casual. Unbothered. But his jaw is clenched tight, his throat bobbing as he swallows back whatever reaction is clawing its way to the surface.

He looks good. Infuriatingly so.

Dark trousers, a silk button-down left undone just enough to reveal a teasing sliver of ink and bronzed skin. Rings glinting under the dim neon lights.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of staring too long.

Instead, you order a drink and down half of it in one go before reaching for a cigarette.

You don’t even like smoking.

But you remember the way he once told you he hates it.

Remember the disgust in his voice, the crease between his brows.

So you light up.

Take a slow, deliberate drag, letting the smoke curl past your lips before exhaling toward the ceiling.

The glass in his hand tightens.

You watch, catching the minute shift in his expression, the way his fingers flex before wrapping tighter around the drink.

He hates it.

Good.

You don’t stop there.

You move to the dance floor, slipping between bodies, letting the music sink into your bones, letting the bass thrum through your chest like a second heartbeat.

You don’t dance to the beat. You dance to be watched.

And you are.

Hands find your waist—ones that aren’t his. A stranger, tall and broad, pressing in behind you. He leans in, murmuring something low in your ear, something you don’t even register because you don’t care.

You laugh anyway.

Not because it’s funny, but because you know Harry is watching.

You know exactly what you’re doing.

And when you place a teasing hand on your date’s chest, fingertips skimming over fabric as if you’re actually considering leaving with him—

That’s when Harry snaps.

It happens fast.

One second, you’re smirking up at the man in front of you, and the next—

A strong hand wraps around your wrist.

Firm. Unyielding.

"Enough."

The word is low, rough, laced with something dark and dangerous.

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

You look up, tilting your head slightly, feigning innocence. "What’s the matter, Harry?"

His jaw ticks. His grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you’re dealing with.

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t waste time with words.

Just takes your hand—

And drags you out of the club and into the dark hallway.

The moment the door swings shut behind us, I barely have time to breathe before I’m slammed against the wall.

Hard.

The impact sends a shockwave through my body, my head tipping back against the cold surface as a sharp gasp escapes my lips. But the sound barely gets a chance to settle before Harry is on me.

His body presses in, hot and solid, caging me against the wall. One hand braces beside my head, fingers curling into a fist against the cool concrete, while the other grips my hip so tightly I know I’ll find bruises in the morning.

I don’t care.

Not when he’s this close.

Not when I can feel the anger rolling off him in waves, burning through the space between us, making my skin prickle with anticipation.

His breath is warm against my cheek, uneven, rough, the scent of whiskey mixing with the faint traces of his cologne. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes dark—burning, furious, desperate.

"You think this is funny?" he mutters, his voice a low snarl, vibrating against my skin.

A shiver rakes down my spine, but I force it away before he can see. Instead, I smirk. I tilt my chin up just enough to challenge him, my fingertips dragging down the center of his chest, feeling the way his muscles flex beneath my touch.

"I thought you didn’t want this," I whisper, voice light, teasing.

A sharp, humorless laugh leaves him, nothing soft about it. His fingers tighten on my hip, digging in harder, possessive, unforgiving.

"Thought I didn’t either." His nose skims along my jaw, a ghost of a touch that makes my breath hitch, makes heat coil low in my stomach. Then, he grips my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Turns out, I don’t give a fuck."

Then—his mouth crashes against mine.

It’s not gentle. Not careful.

It’s raw. Demanding. A collision of lips and teeth and frustration.

He kisses me like he’s trying to erase the last few hours. Like he’s trying to undo every touch that wasn’t his, every glance I stole across the club, every laugh I let slip for someone else.

Like he wants to punish me for making him feel this way.

His hands move fast—one sliding up, gripping my thigh, hoisting me up before my back slams against the wall again, his body pressing in harder, rougher, leaving no space between us.

I react instantly, legs wrapping around his waist, locking him in. The friction is intoxicating, sharp edges of pleasure curling through me as his hips press into mine, every part of him searing hot, desperate.

"You wanted my attention, sweetheart?" His lips trail down my neck, the words warm against my skin, sending a shudder racing down my spine.

"Now you have it."

A gasp slips past my lips as he nips at the sensitive spot below my ear, his teeth grazing just enough to make my fingers tighten in his hair, to make my hips stutter against him.

But he isn’t done.

One hand moves—grabs my wrists in a firm grip, pinning them above my head, holding me in place, making it impossible to touch him, to pull him closer, to drag my nails down his back the way I so desperately want to.

His other hand—

Rips the lace away.

A sharp, sudden tear.

The sound slices through the tension, making my stomach flip, my chest tighten, a rush of heat pooling low in my belly.

A startled gasp escapes me, my eyes widening, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate.

His fingers skim up the inside of my thigh, teasing, slow, light enough to drive me mad, but never where I need him.

"You were so desperate to make me jealous," he mutters, voice rough, taunting, his fingertips tracing circles against my bare skin, just high enough to make me squirm.

"Let’s see how much you can take."

His mouth replaces his fingers.

A slow, devastating lick between my thighs.

The shock of it makes my head slam back against the wall, a strangled sound tearing from my throat, my body arching toward him on instinct.

He hums against me, a satisfied little noise, before he does it again. Slower.

I can’t think.

Can’t breathe.

All I can do is feel.

"Tell me how bad you want it," he murmurs against my skin, breath hot, a cruel contrast to the cold hallway pressing against my back.

I gasp, fingers curling into fists above my head, back arching, legs tightening around him. "Harry—"

That’s all it takes.

He gives in.

Fast. Rough. Desperate.

There’s no hesitation. No teasing. No slow build.

The wall rattles with each thrust, my moans swallowed by the shadows, by the heavy beat of the music still thumping through the club just beyond the door.

I can’t hold back, can’t bite down the noises spilling from my lips, can’t stop my nails from raking down his back, leaving behind red streaks that I know he’ll feel tomorrow.

His forehead presses against mine, breath ragged, eyes dark, burning. "Say it."

I smirk, tilting my head just enough to whisper against his lips—

"Make me."

His grip tightens.

His pace turns brutal.

"Sweetheart," he groans, voice wrecked, ruined, desperate.

"I fucking will."

The words are a growl, dark and ragged, vibrating against my lips before he claims them again. His kiss is messy, unrestrained, all tongue and teeth, like he’s trying to consume me whole. His hands tighten on my thighs, hoisting me up higher, pressing me harder against the wall.

I gasp into his mouth, barely able to keep up, barely able to do anything but take it.

Take him.

The rhythm of his hips is relentless, punishing, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. The wall behind me creaks with the force of it, my body pinned between cold concrete and searing heat.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

I’m losing myself, drowning in the way he touches me, in the way he takes me.

One of his hands drags up my body, gripping my wrists again, pinning them above my head, controlling me completely. His other hand—rough, calloused, unforgiving—slides between us, fingers finding where I’m already dripping for him, teasing, circling, wrecking me with every calculated movement.

"You wanted to be seen tonight, didn’t you?" he murmurs against my neck, voice rough, taunting. His fingers flick over my clit, sharp, precise. "Wanted their eyes on you while you acted like a fucking brat."

A whimper catches in my throat, my legs tightening around him, my body jerking at the sensation.

He smirks, teeth grazing my pulse before he soothes the sting with his tongue. "But none of them get to see you like this, do they?"

I shake my head, lips parting, breath uneven.

"None of them get to hear the sounds you make," he continues, his voice like velvet and fire, slipping under my skin, wrapping around my ribs, holding me captive. His fingers press harder, matching the relentless pace of his hips. "None of them get to feel how fucking wet you are for me."

I let out a choked moan, my head tipping back, surrendering completely.

His grip on my wrists tightens. "Say it."

I swallow, barely able to form a coherent thought, my mind fogged over with pleasure, with him.

"Only you," I gasp. "Only you, Harry."

His control snaps completely.

A deep, wrecked groan tears from his throat, his mouth claiming mine in a bruising kiss, swallowing every sound I make as his pace turns brutal, his fingers dragging me higher, higher—

Until I shatter.

It crashes into me all at once, a sharp, blinding wave of pleasure so intense I almost sob from it. My entire body locks up, trembling, shaking, pleasure burning through every nerve, leaving me gasping, weightless.

Harry isn’t far behind.

His hips stutter, his breath falters, and then—

He buries himself deep, groaning my name against my lips as he comes, his entire body shuddering with the force of it.

For a long moment, the only sound between us is our heavy, uneven breathing.

The music still pulses faintly through the walls, muffled by the thick silence of the hallway. My limbs feel boneless, my skin sticky with sweat, my head still spinning.

Harry doesn’t move.

Doesn’t let me go.

Instead, his hands slide down my thighs, gripping them gently, soothing the bruises he just left behind. He presses his forehead against mine, his breath still ragged, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against my hip.

Neither of us speaks.

Because there’s nothing to say.

Nothing that won’t ruin this.

So I just stay there, legs wrapped around his waist, heart pounding against his.

Pretending, for just a moment, that this is something we can hold onto.

The morning is soft in a way the night never was.

Sunlight filters through the heavy curtains, casting hazy streaks of gold across the sheets, warming my bare skin where it peeks from beneath the tangled fabric. The air is thick with the remnants of last night—his cologne, my perfume, sweat, sex, something heavier than all of it combined.

I’m not supposed to be here.

I should move. Should untangle myself from him before the weight of what we did settles between us, before it turns into something neither of us knows how to deal with.

But then—

His arm tightens around me.

A slow, absentminded pull, like his body knows before his mind does that I’m thinking about leaving. His hand drifts lazily over my skin, fingers tracing light, lazy patterns along my spine.

The touch is thoughtless. Gentle.

It brands itself into me anyway.

I stay still.

I let my eyes slip shut, let my cheek rest against the pillow, let myself pretend, for just a second longer, that this is something more than what it is.

That I could stay.

Then his lips brush against my shoulder. Soft. Barely there.

"Don’t go yet."

His voice is rough, thick with sleep, lower than usual. That perfect rasp that lingers in the morning, all honey and heat, curling around my ribs and sinking into my chest.

I don’t answer right away.

Because I don’t know how to.

I can’t let myself believe that he means it.

Instead, I turn my head slightly, catching sight of him from the corner of my eye. His curls are a mess, sticking out in every direction, a few stubborn strands falling over his forehead.

His face is relaxed in the dim light. No tension in his jaw, no furrow between his brows.

Just… soft.

Too soft.

Like he hasn’t realized yet that the world outside this bed still exists. That there are consequences waiting on the other side of this moment.

I exhale slowly, feeling his fingers still tracing patterns down my spine, lazy and unhurried, like he has nowhere to be.

Like he wants me here.

For a moment, it’s easy.

For a moment, we’re not fighting a losing battle.

—

Then, his phone buzzes.

And the moment shatters.

The vibration hums against the wooden nightstand, a sharp, grating reminder that whatever we thought we had in the safety of the dark doesn’t exist in daylight.

He shifts beside me, his arm slipping away, the warmth of his touch disappearing as he reaches for his phone.

I already know what it is before he even reads the screen.

PR.

Damage control.

The aftermath of a night that never should have happened.

His lips press into a thin line as he scans the message.

Then—he exhales.

Long. Slow. Controlled.

Like he’s steadying himself.

Like he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.

"We need to be careful."

The words land between us, heavy and careful and deliberate.

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Fuck careful."

His head snaps up. His eyes lock onto mine, guarded now, no softness left in them.

"Y/N—"

"This wasn’t supposed to happen," I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intend.

I see the flicker in his expression, something quick, something almost hesitant.

"And yet," he says quietly, fingers twitching at his sides, "it did."

That’s it.

That’s all he says.

Not I want you to stay. Not This means something.

Just—it did.

Like that’s enough. Like that’s supposed to fix the mess we’ve made.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

I can feel it pressing against my ribs, curling around my throat, filling the spaces between everything I want to say and everything I can’t.

I already know how this ends.

I inhale sharply, forcing my hands to move, pushing back the sheets, sitting up even though my body protests, even though my skin still hums with the memory of his touch.

His gaze follows me, unreadable now, his fingers flexing against the sheets like he’s considering reaching for me.

But he doesn’t.

Not last night. Not now.

Not ever.

I find my dress on the floor, slipping it back on with shaky fingers, the fabric sticking to my skin, a stark reminder of everything we did, of how deeply I let him ruin me.

I don’t look at him.

Not when I fix my hair in the mirror.

Not when I slip my shoes back on.

Not when I step toward the door, fingers curling around the handle, pulse hammering in my throat.

I hesitate.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to give him the chance.

To stop me.

To say something, anything, that makes this hurt less.

But he doesn’t.

So I walk out.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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[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]

This is so sweet! Thanks for sharing. I'm really happy you liked it!

Summary: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, they say, but does it really have to be the end if it turns into one of the deepest connections you've made in a while?? Paring: Long Hair Harry x (Fem)Reader Tags: Always Open @sassamanda77

Word Count: 16K

A/N: I've been working on this story on and off for weeks. Didn't like it at first, but I was really craving an LHH fic where he's just really emotional and in his feelings. So there will be lots of angst.

Warnings: Strong Angst/Smut: mentions of Zayn leaving, and the band's hiatus. Implications of fooling around under the influence of alcohol, Size Kink, Talks Of Oral Sex (M/F receiving), Fingering, (M/F) Masturbation, Slight Spit Play (Just barely), Edging, While I don't condone unsafe sex, there is Unprotected Sex, Pull Out Method...on a lighter note there is lots of fluff, Soft Harryx100, Very Emotional.

(If I missed anything PLEASE LET ME KNOW!!)

What was the last thing you remembered? Before the dizzying haze sent the world spinning, a tunnel vision of shadows speeding past you. Maybe there was walking, a stumble, a hand gripping yours, maybe the distant face of a stranger.

What was his name? 

And then there were lights? There were so many lights; was the bar really that bright? There was that last shot when the burn of the alcohol was no longer apparent, the sugary finish the only thing washing over your tongue. Kelsey said to take another, so you did; the scene was already blurring around you, and then she said one more, so you did it without hesitation. 

After that, there was the bathroom, except Kelsey wouldn’t leave Bryan’s side, so you had to go alone. Yes, this is where the world started fading because you remember using the bathroom and seeing yourself reflected in the dim lighting of the mirror, but what happened next? 

“Fuuuuuuck—” is all you can say, squeezing your eyes shut, face planted in the pillow. 

When was the last time you felt this hungover, your ears ringing, the roar of a headache this intense, so painful that it hurt to even move your head? A pang so deep in your temples that there’s pain with every thud of your racing heart, feeling the throbbing pulse with every beat pounding through your skull--a steady reminder of the many drinks you felt the need to indulge in, now churning in the pit of your stomach. 

And then there was the ache in your jaw as you gritted your teeth together, willing yourself not to throw up because you didn’t know if you could even move another muscle. Had you fallen? Was that it? Fallen and hit your head…

“That bad, huh?” a deep voice sounds in your ear. 

At first, you don’t think anything of it; maybe it was a figment of your imagination, the demon on your shoulder from last night whispering in your ear, materializing through the pulsing headache ripping through your brain. 

But there it was again, and this time there was a dip in the bed next to you, “I’ll get water?” it says, and maybe you’re still dreaming because every time you move your head, the world still seems to spin, any movement too fast, and there’s that wave of nausea again and that voice—that smooth voice, and is that an accent? 

You know you need to lift your face from the pillow, but you’re unsure if you have the strength or the will to stir this feeling any further. That voice is familiar, though, and when the blanket rustles, the feeling of the moving sheet awakens your naked body and alerts you. Wait naked? You think, whipping your head toward the movement on the bed, and when you spot the man sitting next to you, your whole body reacts, a sudden jolt jumping through you, and then you’re falling off the edge of the bed, the sheets coming with you as your body hits the ground with a hard thud, agony already taking way. 

“Oh my god—oh my god—!” you yell, clutching at your chest, your heart slamming against your ribs, every breath coming at a rapid pace. If you thought your head was pounding before, this was a new torture. 

“I didn’t mean to give you a fright,” He says, and you watch his tall figure crouch next to you, grasping the sheets tight around you as you study his features. It’s like each aspect of his face pulls at your mind like a distant memory. 

He hands you the bottle of water and comes down to his butt, a small smile playing at his lips, and the longer you stare, the more you think you remember; at least you know you came here willingly, hence your naked body under these sheets, but was there sex? 

He’s quiet, only a smile, and when you bring the bottle to your mouth, he laughs, “You don’t remember a thing, do you?”

And when he laughs again, you watch his dimples dip into his handsome face, and you think to yourself…if you’re going to have a one-night stand, this is definitely someone you would want to go home with…or to a hotel? Because when you force your eyes away from his face, you peer around, eyes moving around the luxury suite.

“Did we have sex?” you ask, eyes shifting back to him, and he licks his lips, drawing his knees to his chest, a casual demeanor taking way.

His face morphs from playful to serious in a matter of seconds, which makes your heart drop, and even though it was more plausible than not, you kind of hope you didn’t because you can’t remember a single detail of being in this hotel room, and as you clinch your jaw the ache travels to your temples, bringing tears to your eyes because this has to be the worst headache of your life—and fuck this guy is so hot.

What do they say? You can’t experience beauty without pain? Then you’re cursing to yourself, thinking the one time you score a decent one-night stand, you would, of course, be too miserable to enjoy it. 

“There wasn’t sex in the traditional sense, I guess…” He tells you, cutting through your thoughts.

“Mmmm…” you mumble, eyes sweeping over his face. Then you find yourself smiling because he looks so earnest, and his answer has you searching the tiny treads of memory you can’t seem to conjure no matter how hard you try.

There’s a faint grin tugging at the edge of his mouth, and you can tell he remembers everything, but something tells you that you’ll have to dig for the details. 

“Would you mind…maybe elaborating a little?” you push, watching the smile spread on his face. He reaches forward then, stretching past you to the nightstand, the scent of his faded cologne filling your nose, beckoning you as your eyes fall to the inked skin along his ribs, and then it’s like they’re all coming into view, a sleeve running up and down his arm—fuck.

He sits back on his heels, “Here, I tried giving you these last night, but you passed out pretty quickly after…”

“After…?” You try again and look down at his open palm, the ibuprofen resting in the center of his large hand. You grab the pills and toss them back, guzzling the rest of your bottle of water as if your life depended on it.

He laughs again, his deep rasp breaking through, “So if I can remember correctly…” He starts with a grin, his British drawl making your heart skip a beat. 

“You said, Gerry…I want you in that bed. Then you led us to the room.” He bursts into laughter then and says, “My name is Harry, by the way.”

You immediately feel the heat creeping up your neck, your face burning with shame--shame for your bold behavior, which few have ever seen. “My apologies, but please continue,” you say.

“Don’t worry, Darling, it was quite humbling. Very few get my name wrong…”

You shake your head, thinking you would probably believe anything he told you if he said it with that smile. The same smile that probably got you to this hotel room, but now you’re having second thoughts about who was calling the shots, thinking maybe you’re the one that spurred last night on—you in one of your rare moods, a toss-up of what kind of drunk you’d be, but at least you weren’t bent over a toilet crying over your Ex, so that was a win already.

“Do you want to shower?” Harry asks, as your eyes travel down his torso, eyeing the tattoos; not a single one is familiar, except maybe the butterfly—Like perhaps you saw it in a dream, and why is he wearing boxers, and you’re completely naked?

“I would love a shower…” You breathe, watching as he springs to his feet, a little too fast for your current state, and he smiles when he catches the dizzying look on your face.

“Man, you’re in rough shape…” He laughs, reaching out a hand, and you clutch the sheet to your body, embarrassed by your lack of clothes, suddenly feeling more modest than you’d hope in this kind of situation—But there’s nothing a hot shower can’t fix, right?

Here is the thing about Harry: He brought you back on a whim. He had no intention of bringing a girl back to his hotel room; in fact, it was never in the cards to even go out. He was here in Vegas with the band, probably even the last time they would play here since there was already talk about their impending hiatus. 

Harry was minding his own business, passing you in the hallway on your way out of the bathroom, and when you locked eyes, he watched the smile grow on your face. He thought…fuck…another fan… but when you stopped him in his tracks, there wasn’t a glimmer of recognition. 

You planted your hands on his chest, gazing up at him--a bold move on your part—which immediately piqued his interest. Harry was just drunk enough to play into it. Maybe see it through and play along to see what your next move might be. When you pushed him against the wall in the shadowy light of the hallway, he nustled his face into your neck, trying to shield his face from all the random people shuffling in and out of the bathrooms.

And this is where maybe he did spur you on just a little…

The second he drew a breath, breathing in your scent, he felt himself giving in. The warm flesh of your neck was so close to his mouth that he couldn’t help but push a soft kiss—press his lips into your skin and listen for the gasp he knew would fill his ear, your hot breath fanning over his neck, sending a shiver down his spine, and what else could he do?

He felt your hands roaming his body, clutching at his shirt, pulling with such want that one of the buttons on his shirt popped open, making him pull away in laughter, excitement surging through him that felt foreign because when was the last time he just got to let loose like the? Tensions had been so high lately that nothing in him wanted to be here in Vegas, but now he could at least have a little fun, and why not?

Harry hated Vegas; it almost felt worse than New York, a dense population, always a sea of faces, a place he could rarely go unnoticed, and here he was letting some stranger fondle him, and when you asked him what his name was, he laughed again, pulling away with curiosity, he wanted to see your face, he wanted to know if you were playing into some kind of bit, but then you noticed the tattoo at the center of his chest, and the look in your eyes told him otherwise. 

You didn’t know who the fuck he was, and this made him even more curious—Yeah, you were drunk, but so was he, and would this be a bad thing? He hadn’t had sex in a while, on a sort of cleanse he held himself to for the last six months, and maybe you guys didn’t have to have sex; there were other things. 

But as your hand moved the thin silk of his shirt aside to get a better view, you forced your hand to his chest, pinning him against the wall, his body unmoving as your finger began to trace the outline of one of the butterfly wings. Harry watched as your finger slid down the center of his abdomen, his muscles tightening, forming a straight line to the top of his belly button, sending a rush to his dick.

When you bit down on your lower lip, Harry nearly lost his mind; even then, he wanted to hear your thoughts, wanted you to say them out loud. 

There you were, standing before him with very few words, and then you called him Gerry, which somehow sealed the deal for him. He knew nothing about you, whether you came there alone, what your name was. He figured he could ask you in the car, but as you guys pushed your way through the bar, Harry made a point to be your guiding light, his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you guys past the flashing lights of the cameras, cursing to himself the moment you guys stepped foot outside the bar—what was supposed to be fun and low-key turned into him moving through a crowd of people, and while Harry didn’t regret his choice, he knew that you would bare the sting of this later.

Do you want to shower first? You ask, taking hold of Harry’s outstretched hand. Your eyes are trained on his face, watching a smirk spread on those heart-shaped lips you knew you were lucky enough to kiss last night…because there must have been kissing, right? You just wished you could remember.

“You want to take separate showers?” He grins, pulling you up from the ground, and just as you stand to your feet, the sheet is ripped from your body, but your reaction is too slow, and when you look down at your feet, Harry’s foot is at the edge of the material.

“Shit, I’m sorry…” He blurts, adverting his eyes while you stand there clutching at your breast, trying to cover yourself in any way that you can. “I have already seen you naked…if that means anything…”

You laugh then, your face burning, “Yeah…but it would be different if I actually remembered…” 

“So you really don’t remember a thing?” He questions, covering his eyes.

This makes you smile as a bashful look takes Harry’s features--the kindness to cover his eyes is enduring as he crouches back down to feel around for the sheet on the ground blindly, patting his hand across the floor. He grasps the material and holds it out to you, not daring to peek.

“Thanks…” you say, your smile stretching wider, and you can’t help but laugh as you pull the sheet around your body. 

You like Harry’s easy energy; nothing about how he’s presented himself has made you uneasy in the slightest, and when you give him the clear to look, his eyes don’t even wander. They move straight to your face, making your heart pick up a beat.

You can shower first,” he offers, and as soon as he says the words, you feel this draw, this urge, this want to be close. 

A want to explore what it is about this guy that’s conjuring this strange sense of wanting to give your all. Was that what it was last night? A sense of safety? You could have done anything…he could have done anything, but something tells you he didn’t take advantage of the situation.

“We could shower together…if you’d like…?” You ask almost as if it were a question, letting it hang in the silence between you. Harry ponders your words, weighty in the way his brows knit together, his eyes surveying your face, his gaze on the verge of making you backtrack. 

And then he smiles, and you see that glint in his eye, the look that probably lured you in, and he says:

“A mutual shower, no sex?” 

He holds out his hand with a mischievous smirk, turning up the corner of his mouth, and when you grasp his hand, his grip is firm, his green eyes holding you in place, and you wish you remembered what these hands felt like on your body. Did he play into your assertive mood, or was he more gentlemanly? Did this kindness show through the whole time?

You return the smirk, feeling your guard waiver, “Deal--” Then he tugs you toward the bathroom, the sheet falling around your body like a gown, and you wonder if this is what it felt like to be swept off your feet—that giddy feeling of new wonderment filling the air around you both, and when Harry laughs it makes your stomach flutter, like a crush you’ve held secret for years and now you’re finally playing out that fantasy. 

Because later, when this was all said and done, this is the part you’ll look back on and wonder why you did it, why it was so easy because this…him…that feeling blooming deep in your belly would become as familiar as looking in the mirror, and although his face felt distant right now you knew it, somewhere deep within. 

…

Harry couldn’t believe it worked, getting you here in the shower with him. 

He could tell you were nervous. 

The way you kept making small jokes to mask your apprehension, your eyes barely meeting his. When you wrapped the sheet around your body tighter and wiggled yourself up onto the counter, he could see you trying to play it cool, and maybe you would have fooled anyone else, but there was something jerky in your movement, stiff, still guarded, everything understandable, but there was just this tiny piece of him that wanted that girl back from last night.

It didn’t have to be sexual. Although that part was pretty amazing, Harry admired your boldness the most. Yes, he knew that alcohol had a lot to contribute to that, but it came from somewhere, right? He wanted to get this part over, you know, get past all the weird stuff because whether or not he wanted to admit it to himself, you guys were complete strangers. 

So he stood there, patient, his hands tucked behind his back, leaning against the wall as the silence stretched, both of you waiting for the water to warm up, “Are you from Vegas?” he asked. 

He watched you draw in a deep breath, your posture straightening. “I’m from Colorado…you?” and when he gave a faint chuckle, he watched the realization dawn on your face as you let out a nervous laugh.

“England…” Harry laughed, running his hand under the water. It was the perfect temperature, but he knew you weren’t ready. 

“Still kind of cold.” He lied. 

You shrug, “What are you doing in Vegas?” He asked next. 

“I’m supposed to be here with my friend Kelsey. I was actually hanging out with her and her boyfriend last night…damn…I hope she’s not freaking out right now. I can’t remember if I called her.”

“You did--” Harry confirms, followed by a laugh.

Harry catches your eye for a brief second right before they dart to the ground, your cheeks flushing, and he’s still trying to wrap his brain around you and the person you were last night, feeling himself getting sucked in all over again, but differently something more approachable, less fleeting. 

“I don’t do this a lot,” you finally tell him--a pang of guilt is eating away at Harry, and his mind is trying to piece together why you felt like you had to explain yourself. Was he making you feel weird, he wondered? 

When Harry heard this bit, a sense of relief washed over him; this he could work with, this he knew, “Yeah?” He questions.

“Actually… I’ve never had a one-night stand…I ummm….” He watches you swallow the rest of your words, your eyes searching his face. As you gaze at him, he observes the fear creeping into your features, witnessing it take over.

And when he sees this, he’s quick to speak up, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do…and last night I didn’t do anything that you didn’t ask of me…I only did what you wanted…I swear.”

When your eyes sweep over his face, he feels this need for you to believe him because it’s true, and when you breathe the word “Okay…” You nod, then your face relaxes, and you hop down from the counter and move toward the shower, leaning past him to check the temperature of the water. 

When your arm grazes over the soft skin of his stomach, he sucks in a breath, his nerves getting the best of him now, and when you turn your head, your eyes move over his belly, and he stills himself, afraid to move, “Did those hurt?” You ask, and he watches your eyes trail along the band of his boxers.

“They did…” He says, “But it was more of me wanting to cover up another tattoo there, and then these just happened…”

You nod your head again, and he feels himself involuntarily sucking in his stomach, suddenly self-conscious, your neutral gaze unreadable. 

Then your eyes flick to his, smoothing your lips together, “I think it’s ready…” you tell him. 

“Yeah?” He asks, wanting to make sure this is something you want. 

“You’ve already seen me naked…” you laugh, then out of his own bewilderment, that damn sheet drops to your feet, and you step into the hot shower, eyes on his the whole time.

Okay…so he could definitely work with this, and even though he was fighting back his boner, the half-mass that threatened to give him away. He knew he couldn’t help it, and as Harry pulled down his boxers and stepped in behind you, he turned away, not wanting to weird you out. 

…

“Do you want some of the water?” You ask, your eyes closed, the hot water hitting the top of your head like heavy rain. The humidity of the shower fills your lungs as you reach and smooth your hair back, and its soothing warmth is all-consuming.

You know that you’re on full display, but you’re having one of those “fake it til you make it” kind of moments, and you figured if he didn’t like what he saw last night, maybe he would have asked you to leave. I mean, he was the one offering the shared shower in the first place. 

You thought the longer you kept your eyes closed, the longer you could keep them from roaming. You knew you were hogging the hot water, but something about the heat washing over your scalp felt like a christening of new life, the ibuprofen starting to kick in. You stood there finally at peace, massaging your scalp as a long sigh slipped past your parted lips, causing Harry to clear his throat. 

When your eyes flutter open, you blink away the water, the moisture from your eyes blurring your vision. Then, you step away from the downpour, taking care not to look anywhere but at Harry’s face, his focus trained on your eyes, never drifting any lower.

This made you smile, knowing damn well his eyes had plenty of time to survey your body, and a piece of you wanted him to. 

There was something about him that made you want him. You wanted him to watch you, maybe make the first move so that you wouldn’t overthink it, and here you guys were, in the midst of a hot shower, your bodies only inches away as you both played polite, and the thought alone was driving you crazy. 

That’s when you grab hold of his arms, trying to maneuver around him in the tight space, guide him toward the shower head, watching as the water cascades over his dry hair, and when you let go, your gaze falls to his shoulder, the trickle of water floods down his chest as Harry closes his eyes, and he lets his head fall back, an audible sigh escaping as you watch his lips part, his tongue coming out to lap tiny droplets of water—and fuck you are so turned on, a dull throb pulling between your legs already.

“This feels so good…” he mutters, caught up in the tranquil lull of the water. 

Would it be so bad to take a peek? See what Harry would have been working with? Because if you’re honest, your eyes may or may not have flitted over his mounding bulge stretching out the front of his boxers earlier, so why not confirm and put your curiosity to rest?

But here you are with every opportunity—do you do it? His eyes had to have roamed, and as your eyes scan down his body, you watch the toned muscles along his torso tighten and relax as he moves his arms above, running his fingers through his long hair, and there’s those damn…what are they…leaves? 

And as you eye them, you can’t imagine what he could have possibly covered up; it doesn’t even look like anything was there…and oh fuck, you think as his thick dick comes into view, the weight of it hanging heavy and hard between his legs and shit. There was no way that was inside you last night because as you sucked in a deep breath, reeling over his size, Harry asked, “Can you pass me the soap,” and for the second time that day, you jumped, slamming your hand over your mouth to muffle the yelp of surprise rising. 

When you peel your eyes away from his dick, your eyes meet his, and of course, he’s smiling because your dumbass couldn’t stop gawking.

Now you’re blushing, and when you pivot on your feet, you slightly slip, causing Harry to grasp hold of you--your wet hand slides down the wall and comes to a halt as you push the weight of your body into the palm of your hand and holy fuck, Harry’s hands are on your naked body, and as you right yourself, his hard dick pushes against your ass, and you’re trying everything in your power not to provoke it any further—push into him, nudge the idea into his head.

“You okay, Darling—” Harry questions, and you don’t even have to turn around to know that he’s smiling; you can hear it in the pitch of his voice, the amused tone of someone who just caught you red-handed, but how could you not look, and why are you making this so awkward? There’s no reason to freak out, but like the weirdo you know you can be, you’re doubling down, pushing out the first words that come to mind.

“We didn’t have sex--” you force, over-dramatic, of course, and then you’re repeating it. “We didn’t have sex…we for sure--did not--have sex.”

He laughs, “I know silly…I told you that already…”

“Yeah, I know--” you tell him, your tone getting pushy, the embarrassment of it all catching up to you.

“Okay…” He says, “Is everything okay?”

“I just accidentally looked at your dick…” you blurt, almost as if you’re waiting to be reprimanded. Harry drags his hand from your waist as his hand finds purchase on the wall next to yours. He releases you then, his breathy laugh filling your ear, and he pulls away, tsking his tongue several times in a row, making you smile.

“Why would you taking a peek at my dick be more confirmation than me saying? He pokes.

You shake your head, pushing yourself upright, “You just want me to say it?” 

This warrants another laugh, the laugh echoing through the shower, “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about…I swear?”

Then your head whips in his direction, catching his cocky grin right before it disappears, “You know why…”

“Come on, Darling, humor me just a little?” he pleads, and now you look again, your eyes sweeping to his hard dick, your gaze making his cock bounce, and you draw your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to suppress your smile.

“I’m just a shy girl…” you joke.

“You weren’t shy last night…” he tells you, with that sexy smile again, and you laugh, your nerves getting the best of you as you try and play it cool.

“It doesn’t count…I don’t remember…” you say.

“Well…I’m just a shy boy… I’m not sure I can repeat your demands out loud…”

You gasp, pushing a hand into his chest, “My demands?” you ask, and Harry grabs hold of your wrist, holding your hand in place.

“Yes, Darling, you were very demanding last night…”

“Stop…I might go run and hide.” You threaten him, feeling shy, but there’s something calming about his energy. You like his playfulness and find yourself wanting to play into it. 

“Like go hide back under the blankets?” He offers, poking you in the belly, and then your eyes drop to his finger moving away, your boobs coming into view, a reminder that your casually standing here naked with a dude you just met, and it’s starting to shock you how easy this feels.

“If I get back in that bed… I’m going back to sleep…” You tell Harry, firm, no room for negotiations.

“Can there be cuddling?” Harry suggests, taking a step toward you as you ponder his offer.

You laugh, a nervous flutter growing in your stomach, “So you want me to stay?” You whisper, your back hitting the wall. You were so focused on Harry’s gaze that you didn’t even notice the steps he had taken toward you, caught up in the idea of sharing a bed again.

 Now, there was proof that your body acted on its own accord around this man, that you could be inching backward and have no conscious thought of it until you were staring up at him, watching him plant a hand next to your head, walling you in.

And now you’re holding your breath, contemplating his next move, his inquisitive gaze sweeping over your face—what is he thinking? 

Then Harry reaches forward and tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear. Moments later, his finger drags along your jawline as you exhale that weighted breath—His close proximity dizzyingly affecting you as you fold your hands behind your back and flatten against the hard-tiled surface—Your mind is desperate to find something real, something to root you in place. 

It’s like suddenly you’ve been here a million times with this guy, this stranger that’s growing strangely familiar by the second, and as you glimpse the smile spreading on his beautiful face, your eyes drop to his mouth just as his tongue comes out to smooth over his bottom lip, and he rubs them together, drawing you in even further.

And as if there were an invisible string tugging at your core, you push your hips from the wall, an urge pulling between your legs as his thumb traces a faint line across your lips, and he presses his body to yours, your lips parting the second his thumb moves away. 

“Would you like to stay longer?” He whispers, his tone like honey dripping down your spine, and there you go again, arching your hips into his. Then his hand comes up to your waist, softly gripping the skin at your side, driving your hips back until your hands are flat against the wall again, Harry’s hard dick pushing against your thigh, and your willing yourself to stay perfectly still. You stand there compliant, relishing the feeling of his hand moving to your hip. 

Your throat is tight with every word you want to say, and as you nod, you swallow down hard, trying to force the lump down, “Yes…” you push, your voice barely above a whisper, and he’s smiling again, his lips corking into a playful grin, and you’re dying for him to kiss you because he could kiss you right now.

Those lips could be pressed to yours in a matter of seconds because his face is so close, so close that you, yourself, could close the gap, but you’re too scared, and when you watch his gaze flick to your lips, again, you rub them together, preparing for that kiss, because he’s definitely going to kiss you, his head is moving, he’s closing the gap, and as your eyes flit closed, you hold your breath waiting, waiting…and then his lips, press into your cheek, delicately lingering until his raspy laugh fills the crook of your neck as Harry moves his mouth to the shell of your ear, “Maybe later…” 

Then you grab hold of his hips, pulling them into yours, your arms wrapping around his neck, and then you’re hugging him, and you don’t know why you’re doing it. Still, it’s like this primal urge of wanting to be close to him, to feel his body next to yours, this safety that seems to emanate from every fiber of his being. You want him close, to feel that closeness with Harry, because you can’t remember the last time you felt this safe, this open vulnerability. 

It’s like it’s overtaking you, and when Harry’s arms wrap around your body, his grip tightens, and he returns the gesture—Everything about it feels real.

It’s like this surreal calm takes over your body, and suddenly you’re crying, a few tears drifting because this feels so good, this hug, and you think you wouldn’t need anything else, that this is perfect, and he’s not letting go. Then he pushes his face into the crook of your neck, his body trembling in yours, his weight slightly shifting. That’s when you realize he’s crying, huffing a hot sob into your neck, and you hold him--You hold him tight because maybe he might just need this more than you. 

…

Harry didn’t think he would cry, but there he was, crying into the neck of a total stranger, not even second-guessing himself because once he heard your soft sniffle brush past his ear, he knew he was a goner. 

Harry felt his edges crack them crumble into a sob like the weight of days, months, the years were coming down on him--All the days that had vanished slipping past him, and while Harry had the world at his fingertips, there had been a hollow opening up, one big question mark, marking his life with no plan for his future because 

Harry knew that things with the band couldn’t last forever, that the shelf life of a boy band was short. It wasn’t just the band; they were all getting tired, especially Zayn, who was already on his way out the door. Harry could feel it, see it there in his features, Zayn 

withering away right before their eyes.

Another collective weight, the foundation of their legacy, splitting beneath their feet.

So when you stumbled into his world, he wasn’t necessarily looking for you, but here you were, wrapped in his arms, both of you tucked beneath the blankets as Harry listened to your slow breaths, your body growing heavy as you drifted off to sleep, feeling a world of safety crashing into him.

At first, he told himself he would wait until you fell asleep and then sneak out of the bedroom, hang out in the living space, watch a movie, or write in his journal. But the second he opened his eyes, you were still in his arms, your face inches away from his. He watched as you stirred awake, your eyes lazily flitting open, a slow smile waking on your face. 

“So it wasn’t a dream…” you whispered, making his heart flutter, and without thought, his lips moved to your forehead, and Pressed a soft kiss to your skin. 

As the kiss lingered, he breathed you in, thinking how was it that you both used the same soap, but somehow you smelled more inviting, the soap taking on a whole new aroma, one he wanted to savor, and when he pulled away, you brought your hand up to his cheek, stroking your thumb back and forth. Then, your hand drifted to the nape of his neck. 

And as you drew in a breath, you pulled his face to your mouth, your lips moving to his temple, and ever so gently, he felt your lips meld to the tiny hairs along his hairline, whispering the words, “I’m so hungry…” and when you laugh, a puff of warm air ghosts over his ear, sending a slow hum down his spine. 

This is the feeling he had been longing for. That feeling of ease, of comfort. 

It had been months since he had three consecutive days off in a row; it had been even longer since he had felt this building notion, this anticipation of feelings—the beginning of a crush—those silly flutters in the depth of your belly every time you look at them, and you were merely a stranger. There could be nothing else from here. He didn’t even know if you knew who he was. 

“Let’s order room service…” he whispered, trying to keep his voice even as he bit back tears. Your eyes wandered over his face. He wondered if he had asked what you were thinking if you would tell him, and then he did, his heart starting to pick up.

“What are you thinking?” he forces the words tight in his throat. 

And to his surprise, you don’t even hesitate, “That for some reason you look familiar, but I swear I can’t figure out why…like maybe it’s just my brain recalling your face from last night…”

Then Harry is holding his breath, watching, waiting for you to figure it out, and when you say, “I don’t think I could forget a face like this—” he lets out a quiet breath, pressing your hand into his cheek.

Just then, a rapid tap drums from the other room, and Harry lifts his head, his eyes flicking to the open door of the ensuite. “I think someone’s knocking,” he hears you say through the onset of panic. 

His heart races, and he tries to remember if they had anything planned as a band, but today and tomorrow were free days. Why the hell would anyone be bothering him? 

The knocking stops, but then the sound of clicking fills the silence of the room, and just as Harry is piecing together what’s happening, the hotel door opens; a soft glow from the hotel hallway bleeds into the main room, and Harry springs to his feet as a man calls out his name. 

“Shit—be right back…” he told you, fidgeting with his boxers, now sitting low on his hips, “It’s just Paul… probably checking in—” 

And when Harry catches the worry streaking your features, he bends down and kisses you on the cheek, “Don’t worry, love, it’s just a friend…” Then he watches your brows knit together, mulling over this bit as Paul calls Harry’s name again, his voice drawing closer to the bedroom.

…

Lights began to beam through the dark doorway as you watched Harry step out, closing the door behind him just as you caught sight of a man leaning down to click on a lamp next to the sofa just beyond the door. 

You lay there for a beat, wondering if you should feel fear, but the feeling never stirs, then your thinking why did Harry need all this space, and what does he do for a living to afford such a luxury hotel room.

As soon as Harry closed the door, the room was swallowed in darkness, and you bound off the bed to search for the curtains, opening a small section until you realized that the sun was setting, the twilight of the evening just settling over the bright lights of Vegas and holy shit, what a view. 

You had to have money to get this kind of view, so you opened the curtains wide, sinking into the comfy chair next to the window, crossing your legs underneath you, mesmerized by the hustle and bustle far below, the room so high that you could barely see the people moving around, or maybe your eyesight was shit, either way, it was the perfect view.

Bored, you turned on lights, trying to breathe life into the room. 

When Harry took longer than you expected, you shut yourself in the bathroom, taking this moment to spruce up. As you gazed at yourself in the mirror, your eyes darted to the oversized t-shirt Harry let you borrow.

Your eyes scanned over the faces, filling five boxes, the last box spelling out “1D,” and you laughed, thinking, what the hell is this? The faces of these little boys stretched across the shirt, blue, pink, and purple, repeating the pattern, and at the very bottom of the shirt, it read, ‘Up All Night Tour 2012,” which was two years ago. Harry seemed too old to be repping this; how old was Harry anyway?

The more you look at the shirt, the more you want to make jokes, like, of course, it says ‘Up All Night’ They looked just on the cusp of no longer having a set bedtime, and with any boy band, you find yourself surveying their attractiveness, your eyes only lingering on the dark-haired boy with the earrings who probably grew up to be really hot, with those dark eyes and dark lashes—the others weren’t your vibe, but then you felt weird thinking that, like how old were they anyway.

Then it dawned on you that they were the reason you were here, that Kelsey arranged this whole trip to Vegas around this concert, the only way she wanted to bring in her 21st birthday, at the iHeart Music Festival.

That’s when you made a mental note to ask him about this band, see if it was worth it, see if your friend was crazy for dragging you guys here because you could barely afford it as it was, and when she brought her stupid boyfriend, it ruined the whole trip…maybe hooking up with Harry will be the only highlight of the trip after all.

Eventually, you returned to bed after searching for your phone. You found it under the bed, but it was dead. Now you had to wait for Harry and Jeez. What was taking so long?

When the door finally opens, Harry is running a hand down his belly, a sweet grin, peeking at the corner of his mouth, “I’m starving…” He drawls his British accent heavier when the words are lazy.

“I think food is the last step to curing this hangover.” You tell him, sitting up on the bed.

“Sorry that took so long…we were going over plans for the next couple of days.”

“Gotcha…” you nod, “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s whatever…” He pushes, shrugging his shoulders as he puffs out a breath of frustration.

“I think for like the first time in a while, I just need a vacation…” He continues.

“Vacations are nice…” you agree.

“Do you get to at least enjoy Vegas while you’re here? Did your friend want to go out? I could always ditch. I don’t want to impede on any of your plans—”

He laughs, “I’m technically not old enough to hit the town just yet. It wouldn’t be a good look…”

“Wait, what? Weren’t you out last night?” 

“Well yes…but that was 18 plus…”

“Are you telling me you’re 18?” you blurt, surprised because you thought you guys were at least the same age.

“Darling, I’m 20… don’t worry… you’re not robbing any cradles trust me…” and you watch as a faint blush creeps into his cheeks, and when he runs a hand through his long hair, he scrunches his nose, making you laugh because shit, this dude is hot, like probably the hottest guy you’ve ever scored as far as hook up’s go. 

“What?” He asks, eyes searching your face. You push yourself off the bed, coming to stand in front of him, feeling a sudden urge of confidence, and when you bring your hands up to cup his face, you ask:

“May I kiss you?” and he lets out a nervous laugh, grabs your face in his hands, and matches your stance.

“May I kiss you…” he jokes, and you drop your hands, wanting him to take the lead.

“Yes…” and just as he’s leaning in, you say, “But let the record show…I did ask you first.”

His breathy laugh fans over your lips as he presses his mouth to yours. Your smile slowly fades as your lips begin to move together. When Harry deepens the kiss, you release a chaste breath. Your lips part, and you swipe the tip of your tongue over his top lip. Then Harry groans, and the vibration hums across your lips.

Your hands come up to his waist, gliding up his torso until they wrap around his neck, your hands threading through the curls at the nape of his neck. You couldn’t believe you were kissing him. It was like everything that you had imagined in the shower, except his touch was a lot more gentle, his pace slow, meaningful in the way his thumb caressed your cheek back and forth, kissing you the way you’ve always dreamed of being kissed, like cue the night sky and all the stars above you and this would be absolutely perfect, but fuck the stars if you had this mouth kissing yours.

Because what were the stars if you had his hand gripping the back of your neck, holding you in place, anchoring you there, because suddenly it feels like you’re floating, this kiss dizzying you, a heady sense of giddiness coursing through your entire body and all you can think is this…this is what I want right now.

And you’re acting on it, greedy for it, a soft moan slipping past your lips, and you want this, you want this right now, and Harry seems to be picking up your cues, and as your breath picks up, so does the kiss, and it’s breath after breath, this urge growing, and as you begin to move the kiss, taking a slow step back, Harry breaks away.

“Mmmm…” He breathes, swiping a thumb over his bottom lip, a grin spreading across his mouth, and there’s that urge again, and you take a step forward, your mouths crashing together.

Then you’re picking up on that same rhythm, and then you’re pulling him toward the bed, you’re mouths move with hunger--desperation in each step that you take backward, Harry moving with you until the backs of your legs bump the bed, and your pulling at his waist, needy for him to crawl into this bed with you, and then he laughs, halting your hands, and you open your eyes just as he’s pulling away from the kiss, his eyes trained on you.

“What?” You ask, “Is this not okay?” 

His hands smooth down your forearms and grasp your hands, “If this is what you want…I hate to say it…but I really need food…” He suggests, dropping one of your hands to pat his hungry belly.

“Food?” you repeat, almost dazed because you literally almost had him in this bed.

“Yes, love, I need fuel to take you on again…” he rasps out with a laugh.

“Again…?” you ask, licking your lips, the taste of his mouth still on yours keeping you in the moment.

“Yes… you’re a feisty one…” Harry tells you, bringing his mouth to your ear, “Mmhmmm….” is all you can say when you feel his lips press into your neck, revving you back up, and you squeeze his hand hard, gasping out a breath of desperation as you tug his hand toward the ache between your legs.

Harry releases a weighted breath as he pulls away, his eyes locking with yours. You pressed his hand to the fabric of your panties and unclenched your tight hold on his hand. When you bite your lower lip, you watch the contemplation crease between his brows. 

Then ever so slightly, he drags his fingers over the warm center of your underwear, your mouth rounding into an ‘O’ as the pressure of his touch deepens over your clit, and he begins to draw a small circle with his fingers, and you whimper a low, “Mmmm…” just as his hand draws away slowly, a small smile playing at his lips, and your hips move in the direction of his hand, not wanting the touch to end.

Then you’re on the tips of your toes, pressing your lips to his again, and this time his hands are on your hips, forcing them back until you’re seated on the bed, and he breaks away from the kiss, pushing his weight into his hands, planting your ass to the bed, “Food first. Then this…” He reiterates, this time a little more firmly, and all you can do is smile, him nodding his head until you’re following along.

“Fine—” you puff out, sexually frustrated, to say the least. You laugh as you fall back onto the bed, ready to pout about it, as you swing your legs back and forth over the side of the bed, suddenly feeling a fit rising, and you exhale a loud dramatic sigh bubbling up from within, and when your eyes sweep to Harry. He’s standing there with a huge grin, stretching from ear to ear, and you cover your face, embarrassed maybe, but more overwhelmed by what this dude was doing to you, your resolve crumbling with every passing hour.

“See…I told you…feisty…” He chuckles out, running a hand through his hair.

…

Harry knew he was in for it the second his fingers slid over the soft cotton of your underwear as he watched you unfurrow, your jaw going slack, mouth curving into the perfect shape. He knew exactly what those perfect lips felt like wrapped around his cock, and had you put up more of a fight; he would have given in, fallen mercilessly into the greed that was overtaking him.

And when you fell back onto the bed, his fingers twitched at his sides, a whole vision of him falling to his knees to pry those delicious thighs open. The only thing between his mouth and your pussy was the weightless material of your panties. All he would have to do was slide them to the side, bring his mouth to your warm center, and taste you. Drag his tongue up your slit till he was spreading you open, the salty-sweet slick of your pussy coating his tastebuds because you were already wet, the fabric damp under his touch—you needed him like he needed you—and now as you both sat there taking your last bites of food, the T.V. droning on in the background, he was smitten.

“Okay—that’s fair, but what’s like the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you? You asked Harry, a broad smile stretched across your face as both of you enjoyed each other’s company, and he couldn’t believe how much fun he was having just sitting there talking to you.

Harry had to think this question through; he knew what he wanted to say, but how could he tell you without giving his identity away or not spurr on more questions to lead you there because Harry had decided back in the bedroom what this would have to ultimately be—a hook up—that’s all it could be because once you figured out who he was, it would scare you away. 

How could something like this work when it’s so clear that you both lead two very different lives? 

“Ummm…I guess…one time I fell in front of a room full of people…I mean, like a massive fall, a ridiculously stupid fall, and not only did I fall in front of all these people, but my family and friends were there too….and I just laid there for a second, not wanting to get back up.”

You laughed and asked, “Was it like a presentation or something?” and Harry studied your face, readying himself for the lie.

“Yeah, back at Uni, it was pretty silly, really…I had a nasty bruise down my hip later, but that didn’t hurt half as much as my ego.” He laughed out, stuffing his last bite into his mouth.

He liked the way that last line made you laugh as you took a drink of your water, your eyes darting to his mouth, lingering, making his dick tingle, and he wished he could hear your thoughts out loud, and then you surprise him:

“What are you thinking?” 

Harry is thinking a lot of things, and he knows that if he tells you the truth, it will shift the mood, switch gears from light and easy to possibly where you guys had left off in the bedroom. 

He could feel the tension floating at the surface of every thought—feel it in the way your gaze lingered, the way your lips smoothed together every time he licked his lips or ran a hand through his hair. The way he felt himself flirting, witty with a purpose just to make you smile, laugh that cute laugh of yours—you taking any excuse to touch his arm, his hand, he liked you loose like this, a girlish playfulness that sent a flutter to his stomach, his dick anxious to please you.

But that was the problem. Harry didn’t know if he could do it. He had gone so long without sex already, and he wasn’t prepared. 

There wasn’t a single condom in the room, and yes, you guys could fool around like last night, but he knew he would want more. Ever since you touched his face in that shower, held him while tears streamed down his face, he wanted to bury himself deep inside you, make you feel the way you made him feel—warm, safe, secure in his touch, your bodies pressed together in a haven that only you two could build because couldn’t this last longer? 

Did it have to end at this? All of it was so confusing, these feelings circling inside him.

“What am I thinking?” He finds himself repeating, trying to stay in the moment.

“Yeah…” You answer, your tone soft and inviting.

“I’m thinking that I’m really glad you’re here…and that this has been the best time I’ve had in a really long time.” And when Harry says it. He knows it wasn’t what he planned on saying, but the words tumble out of his mouth with intention.

Harry wanted you to feel precisely what he was feeling right now, and that was fulfillment because even if you didn’t move any further than this, this would be just enough, you being here, the presence that you’re bringing to his life in this very moment—this joy—Harry hasn’t felt this kind of happiness in so long that all he wants to do is bask in it, savor every second.

…

There it was again. That soul-deep kindness that’s been chipping away at your guarded facade all day, casting away doubt from the moment you opened your eyes this morning. 

Who was this person, this man sitting next to you on this couch? 

Where had someone like him been when all the other failed before him--his presence alone was the biggest mindfuck you have had in a long time because what the fuck are you doing here? Where was this going? It was starting to feel like more than a hook up; the time you both were putting in said otherwise.

Technically, you guys had already hooked up, even if you didn’t remember, he did, so you both had already gotten what you wanted, so your staying longer was a choice on both of your parts, and here you knew nothing about him, but feeling a draw so intense that you can’t even put a finger on the feeling, it’s like your soul already knew him—already knows him—his eyes as familiar as looking in the mirror, but what was the catch? How was this going to end? Could this be more?

“Harry, should I go?” You ask him, needing to know where he stands in all of this; hear the words that he wants you to stay.

He’s in the middle of gulping down his water, and as soon as he hears the question, he chokes the water down with a cough, eyes darting to you, and you wait for his cough to settle.

Harry takes a beat, taking you in, his eyes sweeping over your face, “Do you want to leave?” he finally says, making your heart pick up a few paces.

“I just want to make sure I’m not overstaying my welcome…” you answer, studying his face.

He shakes his head. “Am I making you feel that way?” Harry scoots closer to you on the couch, your body shifting toward his, and places both hands on the tops of your thighs, bringing his eyes level with yours.

There’s a plea rising in his features, a worry furrowing his brow as his hair falls into his face, and you reach to sweep the tuff of hair behind his ear, “No—I just feel like—”

“I don’t know…” And you can’t even look at him, his gaze too much, that look sucking you in, making you weak for this man—you want to fulfill every silent want that he has, every want that’s filling the air because you can feel it, the breath heavy in your lungs. You want him just as much as he wants you because you’re aching with it, pleading from the depth of your belly for it—an unspoken want so desperate it hurts.

“I want you to stay…” he whispers, cupping your cheek in his hand. The warmth seeps into your skin, and you close your eyes, wanting to savor the feeling.

Then there are tears, and you don’t know why you’re crying, but when the pad of his thumb swipes over your cheek, you grab hold of his wrist, your eyes shuddering open. His face is blurry until the tears spill over, and he’s wiping them away, “I’m scared…” you choke, barely able to get the words out.

“I’m scared too…” He manages, as his face begins to break, then you spring forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, and when he falls back into the pillows of the couch, you crawl into his lap as he draws you into his body, Harry holding you tighter than he’s had this whole time.

“I think I really like you…” He murmurs, pushing the words into your neck, and you feel your whole body heat with the thought; your feelings mutual, but all you can muster is a “Yeah?”

And as you relax into his lap, Harry’s grip loosens enough for him to rub a slow hand up and down your back, your body going slack, and your head nestles into his shoulder as the tears continue to fall, and you close your eyes, getting lost in the feeling of the rhythmic stroke of his hand.

It’s not until he scoots his hips forward on the cushion that you stir from your trance, his arms a fortress from whatever was plaguing you before, and you shift your hips until you’re realigned with his body, your hand absentmindedly twirling a lock of his hair around your finger. 

You listen as Harry draws in a slow breath through his nose, one of his hands traveling lower, moving over the curve of your hip, skimming under the back of your thigh, and he grabs your flesh, pulling you further into him, your center now pressed against the mound of his boxers as your legs spread just enough to make it known, your body waking, the path his hand took now alive with his touch. 

Without thinking, you press a delicate kiss to the skin of his neck, your lips slightly sticking to the damp aftermath of your hot breath, which came and went as your emotions slowed. Harry’s shoulder slick with your tears. When you lift your head, your hair is glued to the side of your face, and you brush it back, forcing it behind your ear. 

The blush of his lips is the first thing you see, more predominate in the trace of his tears now glistening on his flushed cheeks, and when your eyes meet his, a tear spills over, and your throat seizes with the sight. You have no idea why he’s crying, but somehow you feel the pain of it settling in your bones, the pain fitting to your flesh as if it was your pain to carry. 

Will a kiss make it better, make it all go away? 

Because the way he’s looking at you with those green eyes, so green, islands in a sea of pain, the whites of his eyes red, giving it all away. You reach for the hem of your shirt, bringing it up to his nose, and wipe it clean, making Harry laugh. It’s a start, and when he grabs hold of the shirt, he silently nudges his chin upward, a quick nod, signaling for you to take it off, and he helps you lift it over your head, your bare breasts coming into view, and you’re straightening your spine ready for him to take you in.

His head falls back against the cushion of the couch, his body slumping as the tears continue to come, like the sight of you is too much to bear, a pained look as he bites his lip, and everything in you wants to ask, just ask, that’s all, but it doesn’t feel like the right time, like whatever Harry feels he needs to release, let it go, so he can move on from it.

He scoots himself further down on the cushion, his ass nearly toward the edge, and you shift your weight into your knee, pushing into the sofa, your outstretched hand coming down next to his head. 

The sudden jolt of your arm falling into the pillow makes your boobs bounce up, only inches from Harry’s face, and the two of you lock eyes as you adjust yourself in his lap, a chill running down your spine when his warm breath fans over your skin, bringing awareness to your hard nipples—the unspoken need for him rising as the air grows thick around you, all your focus closing in on Harry.

His long legs become the perfect chair, enough space between you and the tenting bulge forming in his briefs, and he drags a hand down his torso, dipping into the band to readjust the growing boner that has your mouth watering because there’s no way that dick hasn’t already filled your mouth, that your jaw hasn’t stretched around it, tried to fit as much of him into your mouth as you could, was that it? 

Was that the pain in your jaw this morning? So stiff you could barely open it. 

Did he fuck into your mouth until he came, shot his warm load down your throat? Did you both go to sleep satisfied because now you’re thinking the only way you could leave this hotel satisfied is if that dick had been deep inside you, a memory for later when all else fails when you have to say goodbye because you’ll have to say goodbye, right?

The head of his long penis peeks out of the top of his boxers, and the material settles over his girth, and all you can do is stare, his fingers grazing up and down the fabric as he comes to full mass, the movements slow and steady like a sunset opening up to the night, taunting you, knowing that darkness brings all the things you hide in the light, and these are the things you want to give him, the things you want to share.

…

It’s an unspoken want, but this is what Harry needs, he thinks while he watches your body lengthen, your posture righting itself as you cup both of your breasts in your hands, your gaze moving from his dick to his face, your mouth smoothing together, stirring a hunger in him when you pinch the tips of your nipples with your fingertips, arousing yourself, and your rock hard nipples even further. 

And what a fucking sight to see, the pleasure it brings when you clamp down on the tips, just hard enough to release that soft gasp slipping past your parted lips, and he wants more. He wants to see it all, and when Harry reaches for your wrist, he pulls your hand between your thighs--he wants to see you touch yourself--he wants to see you plead for more than just your fingers. 

The gesture is silent; no words needed because your fingers are already moving, a palm pressed into his knee as he watches you steady yourself, the other hand moving over the center of your panties, a slow, gradual pace as your hips jut forward. 

He sees your need growing as you find your rhythm, your gaze focused on him, right where he wants it, making him even more turned on as he watches the slow circles, your legs widening when you press a foot to the ground, rising slightly, your body secure. 

That’s when you slip your hand into your underwear, the need more pressing, your breath picking up, and when you roll your hips into your touch, your head falls back as you unleash a gentle moan, your eyes flitting shut, ready to get lost in it.

Harry decides to join in on the fun, stroke his hard throbbing cock, while he takes you in--The idea of him being inside you was only a fantasy at this point, but maybe he could make it real.

Harry knew he couldn’t be as graceful as you. What started as slow and delicate for you was already sloppy and pressing for him. He couldn’t help the groan rippling from his throat as he cast it with a slowing stroke, forcing himself to stay in rhythm with you as your eyes fell to his, then his hand, and you both shared a smile, and he locked his knees together to give you more stability, your weight sinking into your hips as you slowed down.

“Tell me what we did last night?” you asked with a smile, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh as he forced his dick completely out of his boxers, his cock resting in his hand.

That’s when Harry felt the power shifting in his favor, “Take your panties off…I want to see…” He tells you, glimpsing the smile widening on your face as you come to standing, and when you swing your leg over his, he spots the wet center of your undies, and he has to let go of his dick, or else he might come. 

“Fuuuuck…” He breathes, “Those are mine now,” He forces as his gaze follows the motion of you stepping out of your underwear.

He loves the playful smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as you swipe them from the ground and toss them on his chest. 

“Here…” he tells you, patting the space beside him.

You laugh then, Harry’s chest tightening in anticipation, but you comply, gracefully taking your seat next to him. What was bold before slips into a timid smile, your eyes darting to your hands clasped together in your lap, and this is what Harry was waiting for: the vulnerability you were giving so freely.

…

Was this it, you thought? Was this going to be the moment you’ve been waiting for? 

The undressing was easy. You had already done that part; this part was new, and the rest was still a mystery, every event from last night. 

Harry places a hand on your thigh, and you grab hold of it, nervous, too nervous to look at him, suddenly scared because suddenly sex with him was a real possibility, not just a passing thought that had flitted in and out of your mind all day. 

When he leans in and whispers, “You okay?” his rasp catches in the shell of your ear, and you nod, shooting him a quick glance, and he presses a soft kiss to your cheek, chills running down your arms.

“Lay back,” he asks, your eyes on his face as his eyes flick to the arm of the couch. You turn and look, pausing to take in the empty space beside you and picture yourself lying there. 

When you turn back to Harry, he’s watching you, his eyes glancing over your face, and he sits back, lifting his hips to push down his boxers. When he leans forward to push them past his knees, he kisses your lips, soft and brief, and when he pulls away, you crawl toward the end of the couch, doing as you’re told, a giddy sense of pride swelling in your chest, that you guys have made it this far.

Once your head is resting against the armrest, you bring your knees up, pressing your feet flat to the cushion, your knees slamming together when you catch sight of Harry rising, his face serious, unreadable, sending a pulse between your legs, and my god, you want him so bad, you want him to shove that fucking dick so deep inside you that you’re yelling his name at the top of your lungs, so loud that your voice fills every vacant space in this room.

“This may come as a surprise,” he starts, his penis in his hand again as he stands before you, “But I don’t have any condoms…” and he laughs, your eyes trained solely on his hand, now gliding down his hard dick, his words barely registering. 

You tear your eyes from his moving hand just in time to catch the cocky smirk rising on his face, “Good thing we didn’t have sex last night. I’m not on birth control anymore…”

“‘Mmmmm…” he hums, watching you lick your lips, and you swallow hard, your mind in overdrive, already contemplating what you would say if he asked to fuck without one, and when your eyes sweep down his body, you think, fuck it, let’s risk it all! 

This thought makes you laugh, “Yeah…” you say, meeting his eye again, “So… that’s bad, right…?” you ask, your clit throbbing, and you bite down on your lower lip, praying he’ll make the decision for you both.

“I think…?” He answers with a curious smile, the words coming out more of a question, and you squeeze your thighs together, trying to find relief from the pressing thought of you guys fucking, raw, and nasty; no holding back because that’s what it would be if he stuck that warm, supple dick inside you…and your almost begging that those are his next words, the tension building between your legs, your gaze, and Jesus Christ, just say yes or fucking no you plead internally. 

Your legs fall open at the sight of him continuing to stroke himself, your fingers already rubbing slow circles, enough to satiate the ache, and then Harry smiles, that fucking smile, so cute, and so sweet, his dimples dipping, “Sit!” you force out through a wave of pleasure—a single word humming through your body enough to take you to the edge and you have to stop touching yourself or else you’ll come right then and there and it’s too soon. 

Harry doesn’t even question you. He drops into the cushions, one of the decorative pillows in his way, and he thrusts his hips forward, his dick still in his hand, and when he falls back into the couch, his hard cock stands tall, ready for you, and he scoots his hips back down the cushion, opening up space for you to climb on top. 

“So we’re doing this?” he asks, and he definitely thinks sex is about to happen. There’s not a single trace of question on his face as his hand glides down, hitting the base of his dick, and damn it, he wouldn’t even care if you shoved him inside you right now, and should you just do it, just fuck him now, and worry later because this is the first time in your life that you would, that you’ve ever wanted to. 

Without a word, you climb into his lap, leaving a space between you and his moving hand. When Harry drops his penis to reach for your face, it hits your inner thigh with a thud, heavy and hard, and maybe in another lifetime, you would ask him to smack that fucking hard dick across your lips, tap your cheeks, feel the thickness down your throat, and maybe he already has, you’ll never know, but there’s no time because you have to find relief. 

Harry’s kiss is sloppy, his mouth moving against yours with force, with hunger, his tongue coming out to wet your lips, and you follow up by shoving your tongue into his mouth, greedy to taste him. 

When your tongues clash, Harry pushes a groan into your mouth. The tremble runs over your tongue, sparking a cooling chill down your spine that sends a quiver to your clit, “God dammit!” you yell into the air with a laugh, and your head falls back, your eyes fluttering shut as Harry, presses a wet kiss to your neck. 

“I want it…I want you,” Harry pleas, his woody voice filling your neck, and you’ll do it, you really will, but that little voice in the back of your head is telling you that you’ll regret it. 

“I just want to feel you for a second,” he gravels, forcing you back in his lap, creating enough distance for you to take hold of his dick, now hot in your hand, and it’s so fucking tempting, the thrill filling your chest, the thought swirling something deep in your gut, and your fucking pussy beats with it.

Your mouth is already watering, and you work a glob of spit against the roof of your mouth, thick, and you spit down onto his cock, Harry laughing out a breathy, “Shit, baby—” as you both watch it drip over his pulsing head, the saliva working down his sensitive cock. 

You spit again for good measure, working it down his dick. When you bring your hand back up to the head of his penis, Harry sucks in a sharp breath, stopping your hand the second you smooth over the tip; a smile stretches across both of your faces, a knowing stare—your whole world as you know it, right now, in this very second is getting lost in those green eyes peering back at you, and you’re captivated, his eyes moving to your lips and you draw yourself forward in his lap.

With his dick in your hand, you lift your hips, pressing a hand into his knee, finding stability as you press the head of his penis between the lips of your pussy, your wetness dragging down his shaft until you hit the base of his cock, a moan leaving your mouth as you push against his dick with more pressure, your hand starting to work the tip.

“You’re teasing me…” he breathes, letting his head fall into the pillow, and he closes his eyes, his lips parting, a slight twitching in his hips, and he hooks both arms over the back of the couch, letting you take control. 

His dick is warm against your pussy, your slickness marking a glossy streak down his thick dick, and you follow the wet path back up to the tip, rolling your hips once you reach the top, giving the head of his cock a little more attention, and when you press him into your cunt, needing more pressure, his tip dips past your entrance, a quick stretch as his dick snags on your opening. You both groan out in unison, Harry’s head whipping up to meet your eyes, a throaty laugh feeling his chest, and his dick pulses against your clit.

Your strokes get more aggressive, up and down, stroking down with your hand in tandem with your movements, his dick getting more and more wet and sloppy as you tease your entrance again. Then, Harry grabs hold of your thighs, his fingers digging into flesh as he bucks his hips up, and you yell out a pained “Ahhh…fuck…” as your hand wraps around his dick, pulling it away, and your body shudders, the overwhelming sensation edging you.

Harry drags your hips forward as you move through the wave. Your head falls to his shoulder as warmth rises from his body, your hot breath filling the space between you, and you close the gap by pressing a kiss to his inked skin. “We can if you want to…” This time, his words hang between your stare as you bring your face up to his. 

“Harry…”

“I know…” He coos, his soft lips hitting the lobe of your ear, and his breath splays over your neck, sending a hum down your spine, between your legs, and he grips you tighter. 

His arms wrap around the small of your waist, bringing you flush to him, his hard dick pushed to his belly, now tall between you.

He’s so fucking ready for you, but you like the way he begs.

The heat of him pressed between your thighs is making you crazy, your clit swelling for it, and you want it so bad. “Just for a second,” he begs, his voice straining as you begin to move against him, each movement short and precise. 

You circle your arms around his neck, feeling the tension build, the urge for him growing deeper, tugging at you from within, every spot you know he could hit, whispering from inside you, begging, pleading. You press your forehead to his, each breath growing shorter and faster as you work against him, trying to fulfill that pressing need for him as he stares back at you, waiting for you to say anything.

“Just for a second…?” you force out, your fucking pussy aching, the friction on the verge of pain and pleasure as he pulls you down harder, forcing your cunt against him, and you can barely move your hips, Harry strangling your movements, making you desperate for relief.

“Just for a second…” he whispers with more control, and he lifts his chin to push a kiss to your mouth while your hips are fighting for more.

“Just—a second…” you say into his mouth, already pushing a knee into the couch, and lift your hips, breaking Harry’s hold. 

He grabs hold of his dick, both of you gazing down as he guides his dick to your opening, and you spread yourself, making it easier, your hand shaking as adrenaline surges between you both. 

Harry nudges the tip in, your pussy opening for him as you grab hold of his neck, and you slowly sink with a loud, “Mmmmm….” pushing past his ear, filling the space, but all you hear is, “Oh, fuck, baby… that’s so good…” as your walls stretch around him, the pain sharp, and foreign, but as his dick pushes past the spots that need him, that were calling out for more, there’s pleasure—pure fucking pleasure.

And just as you hit the hilt of his dick, your breath hitches, the entire expanse of him now inside you, and you tense up as your mouth moves against his. Harry slows you both down, and you gasp into his mouth as soon as your hips ease to a standstill. 

The sudden pause magnifies the intensity of the stretch--his length stretching past anything you’ve ever felt before, his girth widening you beyond any measures you’ve ever experienced because they were nearly warm-ups, lead-ups to this very moment because it is so fucking good, so good, and then your hips are moving, Harry scraping out a sharp groan into your mouth as you continue to kiss.

Each time you lift and lower back down, the walls clenching around his dick loosen. 

His dick is wet with your juices, nice and slick, the fit better with every movement, and it sends a flutter of excitement to the pit of your stomach, “So good—” you breathe out, “That dick is so good…,” and Harry laughs, grabbing hold of your face, not wanting to break the kiss.

He’s more romantic than you pictured.

He’s gentle and lets you move at your own pace. When you swivel your hips on the way back down, he nips your lower lip, bringing you with him as he falls back into the cushions. “Play nice…” he laughs as you guys hit the pillows with a soft thud. 

“I don’t want to play nice…” you tell him, taking his bottom lip into your mouth, and you gently tug, grabbing hold of the back of the couch. 

That’s when you slam down on his dick hard, releasing his lip. His eyes roll back as his body relaxes into the couch, his hands twitching on your hips, then sinking into your skin to grab hold of you, and he lifts his hips, drawing you forward, then back. The first time it’s slow, but he does it again with more force, and you cry out a moan, his cock deep in the pit of your stomach, and you squeeze the firm surface under your palm to ground you.

“Tell me how good it is…” he pushes out, between a moan, “More—” you shout, and he juts you up with a raise of his hips, and you yell out his name, letting your head fall back as the force runs through you.

Your entire body heats with the growing pressure, and when you look back at him, he’s securing his hands on your waist, bucking into you again, and as soon as you hit the base of his dick, he does it again, and again, until your bouncing up and down, losing your grip on the couch—losing control, each thrust up a welcoming embrace, tipping you closer to your threshold, and it’s hot, and heavy, your hands slipping on his chest as you try to steady yourself.

“Oh my god—”

“You’re going to—” you choke out. 

“Say it!” he says as you fall into his chest, your resolve etching away, and his grip tightens; Harry gaining more control, his pace consistent, his strokes shortening, deeper, as he holds you in place.

Your gaze is trained on his chest, your hand smoothing over the butterfly--transformative that’s what this will be because you’ve never gotten this close, this fast, without the extra work of your hand, and it’s a completely different feeling, a feeling you have to let go and let happen, every breath in and out, pulls deep in your belly.

“Come—I think—” you blurt, your mind becoming a jumbled mess, every sense entirely overwhelmed, and when he smiles at you, the knot building tightens, and you feel your walls beginning to clamp around his dick, like a fist, as Harry slows his thrusts.

“I’m going to come—I’m coming—I’m coming,” you stretch out with a long moan. 

And It’s that quick, the feeling sneaking up, and just as you’re coming undone, he yanks his dick from inside you with enough force that you collapse onto his chest, leaving you hollow, a sliver of emptying space closing as your walls continue to pulse, and you rub your pussy against his lower abdomen, riding out your orgasm, with that last bit of friction. 

…

Harry hadn’t intended sex, but here you guys were in the aftermath, his hand wrapped around the head of his dick, cum spilling out into his hand as you rode out your orgasm, his body the object of your desire, and he fucking loved it. He wanted this feeling with you for as long as you allowed him. 

“That was—” you huffed out, trying to catch your breath as every harsh puff pushed into Harry’s neck, and he was taken—the start of obsession creeping in because that was--amazing.

“Amazing—” he laughed between a quick inhale, finishing your sentence.

He felt your lips press into his skin, chills running through his whole body, every touch electric, heightened by the energy you guys shared, a connection he hadn’t felt in so long that he forgot what it felt like to actually let go—to get so caught up in the moment that nothing else mattered—and yes, using the risky “pull out method” isn’t the best decision but maybe you guys could cross that bridge later. He didn’t want to think about it; he wasn’t ready for the reality that it would bring, the reality that you would be leaving. 

“Stay another night…I promise I’ll make it worth your while…” he told you. 

That’s when you laughed, a breathy sigh leaving your mouth. Content, your gaze was starry-eyed, beaming up at him. Your body was totally relaxed against his. “As long as there are pancakes…” 

Harry couldn’t decipher his feelings, what this was turning into for him, the way he was catching feelings.

When was the last time he had stayed up all night just talking about anything and everything with someone? He wanted to run his fingers through your brain like you ran your fingers through his hair, everything light, a delicate touch, a mindless gesture, comfortable and charismatic, your walls completely down.

What made you tick? Was it something he could figure out in one night, or would he spend months dwelling on the what-ifs because he felt hopeless for you, desperate for the idea of trying to make this work?

All night had been a fever dream, a kiss, a stare, a laugh; you filled every inch of this space—of his being. When he was inside you because, yes, he was inside you again, you took it slow, no rush, your bodies melding together in a slow rhythm, your mouths moving easy, light, a carefree laugh, a hand intertwined, a giddy clinginess that neither one of you could shake, and when the morning sun sliced through the edges of the curtains Harry was the first to wake.

He lay there as still as he could, not daring to stir you as his gaze lingered on your face, memorizing the details, your head resting on his chest. Your breaths were slow and rhythmic, in and out of your nose, a faint warmth beating down on his skin, almost humming him back to sleep. 

He knew this would be all the time that he had left with you, so Harry savored the seconds, meditating on the thoughts that circled his mind—dwelling on the questions that tugged and ground deep in his gut, the longing to be something else, knowing Harry could never lead a normal life, that love could never be this simple because, after all, you didn’t even know who Harry was, what he did for a living—how in hindsight you were still strangers.

How he was barely his own person anymore, and how could he ask you to share when this was all he could give? Hell, you’ve had him more than anyone else lately, more time than he’s had by himself.

Harry knew that when you woke, there would be no pancakes because he had a gnawing feeling that you wouldn’t want to stick around, that maybe you were the type that just ripped the bandaid off, and he was right.

As soon as you opened your eyes, goodbye had stolen the night and cast light to the inevitable—the end—and as your eyes lingered on his face, your lazy gaze taking him in, still half asleep, the corner of your mouth dropped just enough for Harry to peep the frown you were fighting, the still sadness in your eyes, that didn’t want to leave his.

Then your eyes dropped to his chest, your arm still draped over his torso. You lifted your head and pressed the softest, most delicate kiss into his flesh, your lips pushing into his skin, lingering, and when your mouth moved away, he watched you press your cheek into the warm spot you left behind, closing your eyes to savor the fleeting moment.

Because that’s what this all was, one fleeting moment after the other, and when you rest your chin on his chest, eyes meeting his, the knot burning his throat tightens.

All of his words are lost. Harry biting them back, pressing down on his lip that he’s trying to keep from quivering because you’ve just become the longest goodbye he’s ever had to make, and the grief of it is already taking him.

“I don’t think I’ll have time for pancakes,” you tell him, only furthering the pain building in his chest.

His heart sinks as the words leave your mouth, and you don’t even look at him, your voice still thick with sleep, and you clear your throat, Harry watching the effort it takes to swallow, and he knows you feel it too, the weight of the goodbye.

One more time…

He just needs you one last time. 

…

When Harry gently nudges you onto your back, you know what he wants, and so do you; your body moving with his movements as your eyes fill with tears. When Harry hums out a small sob, hovering over you, his face falls to your neck, and you reach between your bodies, feeling for the hard mass resting against your thigh.

You know what this is; you know this is goodbye.

What you didn’t tell Harry was that you knew, that you had figured it out, who he was—after you showered and slipped back into his t-shirt. 

The two of you stood in front of the mirror brushing your teeth, all laughs, flirty gestures. You stood there thinking this has never been so easy. You felt something wild stirring, the thought creeping into your head with the glimpse of his smile, and you thought maybe love, like maybe you could fall in love with a guy like him, like you could make it work. 

When Harry turned away to reset the bathroom, you stood there brushing your teeth, and you honed in on your reflection, thinking you hadn’t looked this happy in so long, so long that it overwhelmed you, and you stood there, your heart already longing. 

Already mourning this girl you got to be with him, trying to hold it together, trying to hold onto all your pieces because you wanted to give them all away, tell him how you felt, and maybe he would say the same. 

There wouldn’t have to be an ending, at least not now. 

That smile, that kindness could be yours, those lips, those hands could have you any time he wanted.

You were so caught up in this idea, and as your eyes lazily flit over yourself in the mirror. You half-heartedly glanced over the five faces reflected back at you, your eyes taking them in again, remembering you were going to ask Harry about the shirt. 

As you silently studied their faces. You found yourself focusing in on the boy with the playful smile, the boyish grin stretched across his face, familiar, his dimples giving him away and how had you not noticed before?

Then terror took way. 

It was like lightning striking your body, the realization like an earthquake ripping down your spine as your mind fought to keep up. The feeling was almost dizzying as your eyes flicked to Harry, now standing next to you, your toothbrush stopped mid-brush. 

You knew you couldn’t react.

That’s when you had to make the decision, and you knew in that split second that if you said a word, it would change everything. A sacrifice because this is what you wanted, this guy standing before you, just like this, how you’ve had him all night. 

So you bury it deep, a tunnel of grief already splitting inside you because it’s in those flashing moments you know he could never be yours, so you let him go and force the idea from your brain, letting him be exactly who he was, and will be until the time comes to say goodbye, because what he’s given has been so much bigger--bigger than all the fleeting moments--and even if it hurts, and it will hurt later, maybe it’s a gift you thought, and you ran with it.

So now, as he pushed inside you, the pain is sharp, and your body tenses, and you gasp in a breath and let it take way because there was already pain the moment you opened your eyes, the longing that never left your body. 

And as your mouths move together, the tears begin to fall from his closed eyes, your heart aching with it, and you close your eyes, getting lost in it, falling until there’s nothing else but this. 

It’s pain and pleasure all over again, and when he groans, you spread yourself wider, giving yourself completely as tears spill down the sides of your face, goodbye at the edge of each breath that pulls in and out of your mouths. 

Then it’s a whimper, a moan, a ragged hand dragging down his back as his strokes deepen, your nails digging as he rasps out a grunt of satisfaction.

Deeper and deeper, he pushes like he’s trying to merge your bodies together as one. The weight of him forcing against you until you don’t know where your skin begins and his ends--each stroke persistent and measured, like Harry is savoring the feel of you, memorizing it for later, your name falling off his tongue as if he’ll forget and maybe he will, but you don’t want to think of it.

And it’s right there. 

The look in his eyes, the words he’s holding back, but you’re close, and so is he, and the tears haven’t left, and you nod your head, Harry following suit—a shared sense of recognition. 

Harry lets you go first, and seconds later, he’s pulling out, and like every time before, leaving an empty void, but the satisfaction is in the pleasure you’re bringing him. 

Something tells you that very few get him like this, and this notion, this waking realization, is what you’ll walk away with. 

When your back is pressed against the door frame, readying yourself to leave, his arm perched above your head, and it’s all smiles, him putting your number in his phone. 

Maybe he’ll call, or maybe he won’t; it doesn’t matter because what he gave you was the gift of a lifetime—the gift that will keep giving every time you glimpse a picture of him in a magazine or a song comes on the radio years from now, you’ll know it, you’ll know the moments he sings of, the tiny details hidden in his words.

He sends you off with a parting kiss, your mouth moving until he pulls away, and you wrap your arms around his neck, your bodies coming together in one last deep embrace, and you both get lost in it, not sure who will pull away first.

That’s when a voice sounds behind you, Harry’s face lifting to see who it is. When he loosens his grip, you turn your head to see the dark-eyed boy with the pierced ears, and you look at Harry and push away, forcing yourself to leave.

The dark-eyed guy moves aside and gives you space. You move past him, walking a few paces down the hall, the elevator in view. You stop then, looking down at the shirt, pulling it away from your body to glimpse the faces, and when you turn back around, Harry is leaning against the door frame, hands pinned behind his back. 

That boyish grin is in full swing, “You finally figured it out, huh?” he laughs. You turn away and shake your head, a smile never leaving your face, and as the elevator door opens, you walk in and push the button for the lobby. Harry is still watching, and when the doors begin to close, you lean forward to stop them and yell:

“I figured it out last night—”

He brings his hands to his face, fainting embarrassed, and maybe he is. You can’t tell from this far away, but his smile never falters, and you take that as a good sign, “When?” he shouts back.

You step back into the elevator and shrug your shoulders, a cunning smile taking over as you shake your head. Harry pushes away from the doorway and starts walking toward you. The doors begin to close, and that’s when Harry starts to run. His tall figure becomes a sliver as the doors seal shut, Harry disappears, and you look down at your feet and wonder what the hell you just got yourself into.

A/N: This baby was long, but I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think of it here<-

Masterlist<-

[darling-flora]

the cute boy with the white jacket and the thick accent...

harry styles x yn!popstar - social media au

fc: jade thirlwall

✰ request : here ✰

summary — winning a brit award is the prefect time to announce your engaged to everyone's favorite brit...

note — another really short smau!! let me know what you think!! reblog's and comments are appreciated ❤

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yourinstagram

Liked by harrystyles , chappellroan and 1,159,944 others

yourinstagram see you tomorrow brits 💋

view all comments

user the look is gonna eat i already know

user this face card omggg

user harry being a popstars boyfriend just feels right

user gonna win soty

user icon!!!!!!!!!

☆ -------------------------------------------------- ☆

☆ -------------------------------------------------- ☆

yourinstagram

Liked by harrystyles , chappellroan and 4,269,944 others

yourinstagram  we have really good bed chem 👩‍🔬💍

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user i was right, the look ate 💋

user MARRIED???

harrystyles fiancé has a nice ring to it ❤

liked by yourinstagram

↳user omg my parents are married ↳user why is he being cheeky while were sobbing ↳user bro can't read the room

user you deserve all the happiness in the world im so happy for these two people who have no clue who i am

user LOVE ALBUMS FOREVER!!!!

user doesn't feel real but holy shit congrats

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[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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[0nlythrowharrybeaux]

Twelve Days: The Next Step

Hello friends! This is based on a request for a check-in when Harry asks Y/N to move in with him! I feel like this take is very realistic! I hope you like it!

READ THE SERIES HERE!

Warnings: Divorce, family drama, alcohol use

WC: 4.8K

It had been a couple months since your and your sister’s reality TV style confessional in front of your parents. When you looked back at it, it made you cringe just a little bit but that feeling soon faded when you remembered what had come out of it - a relationship with Harry. Thankfully, your parents had gotten used to you being the one with him rather quickly and when they saw how different the dynamic was between you two compared to him and Julie, it was so much easier for them to support it.

After things between her and Joe got better they went back to their normal routine and she was spending half her week and the weekends at his place. And that left space for you to come see Harry from Thursday to Sunday. However, now you’d always leave after breakfast because Julie usually returned Sunday afternoons. 

You recall the first time she’d seen you there she had been extremely passive aggressive about it. It had been a bit childish in your opinion, really… But you both had sensed the shift in her attitude and while she went out to get some dinner for herself you told Harry that you were going to just pack up and leave after dinner with him. When you got to the bathroom you saw your skin care and make up bag all crammed onto Harry’s side of the countertop. Even your toothbrush! Which you distinctly remember you’d left in the holder with Harry’s! And well, as you suspected, your pajamas, earrings, and charger you’d left on what used to be her side were all dumped into your carry-on luggage that you’d left near the closet. That’s also when you realized that she had washed the pillowcase you’d used with her laundry. 

You remember calling Harry up to see this and you both had a huge laughing fit over the pettiness of it all. They weren’t officially divorced yet at that time and you also figured it was hormones or nesting behaviors that made her more territorial than usual. But then you got a text the next morning about her still not feeling entirely comfortable with you seeing Harry and that she’d appreciate a bit more discretion on your part. It was a bit insane, but you and Harry often made jokes about her actions and the text now.

But this also meant that sometimes she would come a little earlier than usual though, just to get you out of there sooner. But joke was on her because you’d learned to just be packed up by Saturday night and bring your own pillow. She did have a point in washing the pillowcase each time, you couldn’t argue with that logic. But ultimately you bringing your own was more for your comfort. 

Anyway, it was Wednesday night and you were backing up for the weekend with Harry when you got a call from him and quickly put it on speaker.

“Hi baby!” You greeted happily as you continued to fold your clothes and cute lingerie that you’d wear for him.

“Hi, love. How are you?”

“Good, it wasn’t too bad today. How was work?”

“Good as well! We’re gearing up for the end of the school year so lots of reading and grading.”

“I could help this weekend?” You suggested.

“Sold! And when we’re in the trenches of it don’t forget that you offered…” he quipped playfully and you giggled.

“Alright…” you assured him and then heard him sigh. “You nervous for tomorrow?” You asked. It was the divorce finalization hearing, finally! 

“Not nervous…just want it to be over.” He clarified. “Just don’t want any surprises. My lawyer overheard her asking her attorney about finding any loopholes in the prenup we have.” He explained and you frowned. “The only protected assets there are my retirement savings and the house.” He explained. “I know that it’s airtight, you know? But I just hope she doesn’t try to drag this out longer if they feel like there’s anything to argue over there.”

“Well, she signed it and she cheated…”

“So did I… technically.” He added and a lump formed in your throat.

“Would you hate me if I told my parents? Shame isn’t always a bad thing…and maybe this time we just…use it against her.” You suggested.

“I just…” he paused for a moment and you waited as he thought on it. He sighed audibly after a few moments.

“It just wouldn’t be fair of her at all, Harry.” You reminded him.

“You know what? You’re right…she’s playing stupid games. There isn’t even an infidelity clause or anything! Asking her lawyer to look over it to find something just proves bad intent!”

“It does! I’ll call you right back!” You said and he chuckled and let you go.

That conversation with your mom had been quite dramatic. She could not believe Julie would do something like that after what she had pulled with Harry. And when you explained that they could argue it from an angle of Harry also being unfaithful because of his relationship with you, well that got your mom going. You were sidelined as she told your dad about this who you heard laugh incredulously about it and comment about the level of entitlement Julie was displaying. You didn’t feel too great about doing this to your own sister, but the fact of the matter was that what she was suggesting was a shitty thing to do to Harry. And well, despite being relieved that everyone knew about her situation now, she had pulled away a bit from your parents. It’s like your roles had been reversed and now they would dissect her actions and behaviors and problems like they once did your own, so you knew that they would definitely reprimand her about this and have her shut it down. 

Maybe it was a good thing that the hearing was scheduled for a Thursday because regardless of what happened there, you’d be with Harry for the next few days. While you were optimistic about things going exactly as planned, there was still a slight chance that there’d be a delay if Julie’s lawyer felt that the prenup needed to be entered into evidence and revised by the court. You’d been thinking on it all morning and when you got a call from Harry around 3pm you were quick to answer.

“It’s done! It’s finally fucking done!” He cheered and you felt a laugh bubbling up in your throat and you just let the joy escape you that way before you did a few little jumps up and down in your client’s kitchen.

“Congratulations! I’m so happy for you!” You cheered. “We’re celebrating tonight!” 

“We are! I think I can snag a reservation somewhere…”

“Let me! I have a friend who I’m pretty sure works at Barbeño as a host! I’m sure they could help us get in.” You said and he scoffed.

“You’re just telling me this now?”

“We just recently reconnected and I let him do laundry at my place when his complex’s laundry room was being redone! So I can ask for favors now.”

“Alright, love. You do what you need to do…within the bounds of reason, of course.”

“That goes without saying…” you mumbled and he chuckled. “Alright, I have to go, don’t want my chicken to get dry. But I’ll confirm if we got it in a bit, okay? And if not, I’ll make you something special.” You assured him.

“I love you.” He said and you smiled wide, feeling your heart flipping and thumping in your chest.

“I love you too. Talk soon.” You hummed before you hung up.

***********

Thankfully, you’d gotten the reservation! So you’d have to pull out the nicer outfit you had planned for your Saturday night dinner but that was no problem. On the way to Harry’s he warned you that Julie had come by to pack up for the weekend but that she should be gone by the time you arrived. Just to kill a bit more time, you stopped to pick him up a bouquet of flowers and then headed to the house. You parked in the driveway, like always, and then hurried up to the front door with the flowers, you’d unload your stuff later…You rang the doorbell and perked up as you heard the locks turning.

“Congratulations to the hottest divorcee in Southern California!” You laughed as the door opened but then saw Julie standing there with a slightly judgmental look on her face. That didn’t dampen your spirits though.

“Celebrating a divorce? Classy.” She muttered and you shrugged.

“It actually is going to be very classy! And I’d say there’s plenty of cause to celebrate.” You said as you walked forward until she just had to let you inside. “I was imagining that if you were able to you’d be doing backflips so that you could be with the guy you’ve been wanting this entire time!” You added.

“It still sucks.” She said simply.

“I think what sucks for you is that I’m with Harry. Not that you’re divorced from him.” You pointed out and she rolled her eyes. “Look, I get that it’s…a little weird and this is definitely a unique situation but you can’t ice me out over something you wanted. And you were dragging it out and for what?” You asked simply as you headed to the kitchen to grab a vase for the flowers for Harry. Of course she followed you there.

“I don’t want Harry to be hurt.” She said and you smiled as you opened up the cabinet where you’d seen some vases before before straightening up again and setting it on the counter.

“Does he look hurt to you?” You asked before walking over to the drawer with the scissors and pulling them out to cut the stems of the arrangement down a bit. She didn’t respond and you sighed. “Look, I get that you don’t like me as a person, you never really have…but this petty back and forth shit? It’s getting ridiculous! It’s so immature, we can only laugh at it at this point…like it can’t be real life!” You exclaimed through a sardonic laugh and her features hardened further. 

“While I’m flattered that you’re so invested in being weird and bitter towards me, I want you to know me being with Harry wasn’t intended to betray you! We love each other and want to be happy together! Just how I want you to be happy with your man and your baby! So whatever stick you have up your ass about me? Time to get it out, Jules. And focus on how great everything can be for you starting now!” You advised and she just stared at you for a few more seconds before she left through the garage. 

You felt a little more satisfied after saying all that when you realized she’d only been waiting for you to arrive. You were feeling a little smug about what you’d said to her but beneath all of her offense, you hoped that she heard what you were saying. Never in a million years did you think that this is where you life would lead! Or that you could even have a relationship with a person of Harry’s caliber. In your mind, he was leaps and bounds away from where you were! 

“Hey!” You heard him call and you glanced up from the spot on the counter you had honed in on as you got lost in your thoughts. “Why so pensive?” He asked through a smile as he approached. You could see he had just styled his hair, it was still looking a little damp.

“Oh, just Julie…I think she was waiting for me.” You explained and his brows creased as he came around the counter and reached for you. You put the scissors down let him pull you into his arms. 

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t know she was gonna stick around. I had to hop in the shower and get ready for our reservation.” He mumbled before kissing the top of your head.

“That’s alright. I’m not really stuck on anything she said. More my own thoughts.” You assured him. And he reared back and grabbed your face gently instead before pecking your lips quickly.

“About?” He asked and you smiled.

“How you’re way out of my league.” You explained with a slight smile and his features turned down in confusion.

“Me? Out of your  league?” He scoffed and you nodded. “That’s the craziest thing Iv’ve ever heard. You’re kind and smart. You’re an amazing friend, a hard worker. Not to mention you’re drop dead gorgeous.” He said as his eyes searched your own. “You’re perfect for me. And I love you for everything you are.” He hummed as he leaned lower and lower until your eyes were blinking closed until your lisp were meeting in a sweet and gentle kiss.

“Love you, baby.” You whispered.

“Now, were those for me?”

“Yeah. Just wanted to say congrats.” You hummed. “Let me fix this up and then we can go.” You assured him.

“Sure, baby. Did you unload your stuff?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll go get your things from the car, okay?”

“Thank you!” You chirped as he grabbed your keys and headed out. After a few moments he was hurrying up the stairs to set your things down in the bedroom. When he returned you were just fitting the flowers into the vase with a proud smile.

“They’re lovely. Thank you.” Harry said with gratitude before smooching the side of your head. 

“Of course. Now, let’s go. I’ll drive.” 

“Sure? You already drove all the way here.” He reminded and you shrugged.

“Fine…” he hummed and you were glad he didn’t fight back too much. You wanted to treat him tonight because you knew that he’d been a bit stressed over this. You were already ten minutes out wen he turned to you with a sly smirk.

“Now I get to pay.”

“Harry!”

“It’s going to even out!”

“We don’t need to even out. I just want this to be celebratory for you.” You reminded him.

“And I’d like to you to realize that this is celebratory for us.” He said and you briefly turned to him as you came to a stop at a red light. “This marks our new beginning officially.” He stated and you smiled.

“I quite like that.”

“Knew you would.” He chuckled as he reached for your thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze.

*************** 

“Baby!” You exclaimed through a terrified laugh as Harry nearly fell out of the car. 

It had certainly been his mistake to make friends with the couple seated next to you and tell them that he had just gotten divorced today because he’d taken two shots of tequila before your dinner arrived. He was also drinking a rather stiff cocktail with mezcal and then before the couple had left they ordered you both a shot even though you’d already declined earlier since you were driving and had ordered the same cocktail as Harry. This led to Harry taking your shot for you and your lightweight boyfriend was drunk. Thankfully, Harry was a lovely drunk. He was sweet and flirty and very affectionate, but obviously he was not at full capacity.

“M’alright. M’fine.” He assured as he steadied himself on the car’s body as you hurried around to help him get up to the door.

“I know, you are for the most part.” You giggled as you grabbed his hand and pulled him to the door. He clung to your body, planting sloppy kisses to your neck and shoulder as you tried to get the door open. And finally, you were both making your way into the dimly lit house. Harry kicked off his shoes and you also slid out of your heeled sandals and hooked your bag onto the coat hook by the door.

“We’re gonna have some sexy time now, aren't we?” He asked smugly.

“Ew… don’t say it like that!” You laughed and he sniggered.

“Okay then. Are you gonna be getting frisky with me?”

“Me with you? I think it’d be the other way around.” You pointed out as you pushed him along towards the staircase.

“How could I, I’m inebriated!” He pointed out as you carefully guided him up. “Though, I give you full permission to take advantage of me. I consent to anything and everything.” He said as he quickly glanced back with a smirk.

“Not how that works, but okay…” you mumbled through a giggle and he laughed as well.

“Well…can we make out and get a little handsy?” He asked and you giggled.

“Sure. We can do whatever you want. We just have to get you ready for bed though, okay?”

“Kay.” He hummed agreeably. 

After a few minutes he was haphazardly washing his face. You could see that he was making an effort not to make a mess but he wasn’t too successful, which was leading to a lot of laughs and some light berating until finally, he was just leaning on the counter and waiting for you. You could feel his gaze penetrating into your as you finished up your skin care. It was making you feel so nervous and it was evident in the way you were struggling to twist the top back onto your moisturizer.

“Stop staring, you weirdo.” You giggled as your eyes locked briefly through the mirror.

“I simply can’t.” He shrugged.

“You’re giving me performance anxiety!” You said and he laughed and reached for your hip. You were just in your bra and sleep shorts. And he hooked his finger into the band lightly.

“Sorry, baby.” He hummed glancing at you through his lashes.

“Sure, sure…” You mumbled sarcastically and he grinned. “You should get changed.” You advised.

“I’m waiting for you for that.”

“Need help?” You asked and he shook his head.

“No, but want your help.” He said and you smiled.

“Okay, baby.” You assured him and when you finally finished he led you out into the bedroom. 

You had to reach out to flick off the bathroom lights in passing to the bedroom and were finally in the dim lighting of his bedroom. He’d left his bedside lamp on before leaving, which you were more than grateful he had the foresight to do so that he didn’t stub his toe or hurt himself on something due to his drunken state. He stopped you and angled your face up before dipping down to kiss you. Your lips met in a slow and sweet kiss but it quickly started to get a little more heated. You giggled and let your hands land over his chest before sliding up a bit to reach for his first button. And from there you started to work your way down, sniggering are he peppered kisses all around your face. When both side of his shirt were parted you were about to reach up to help him get the material off his shoulders but he grabbed your hand and pressed it to his flexed abs and let you feel him out for a bit before guiding your hand up to his chest and stopping over his heart. Your eyes met and he smiled.

“My heart beats for you.” He hummed and you glanced away with a timid smile on your face. You felt your stomach flipping and your body tingling in a nearly uncomfortable way. Not because of him but because you didn’t know how to receive this much love from someone. This was the bare minimum! He wasn’t love bombing you or anything, just simply telling you but it felt like so much. “You know that, right?” He asked and you nodded before collecting yourself enough to look back into his eyes.

“I do. I just…it’s a lot to hear it.” You explained.

“Cringey is it?” He asked with a small but nonjudgmental smile.

“A little bit, to be honest. And not because of you! But more me and just what I’m used to, you know? Being with someone like you who is so forward about their feelings…I just haven’t really had that on a regular basis before.” He nodded in understanding despite his inebriated state.

“Is it too much?” He asked, “Because if it is…I can stop. Or like tone it down, you know?” He asked more seriously. You could see him fighting not to sway a bit or to have his speech be slurred for this more solemn moment and you smiled.

“I could get used to it.” You assured him, “I do like to hear it. W-would you like me be more vocal about that too?” You asked. “Or… we can talk about this at another time when you’re not so drunk.” You suggested and he giggled.

“Maybe, yeah let’s postpone.” He mumbled and you sniggered and pressed yourself up to smooch his pretty, berry-toned lips. 

“Well for now let me just say that I love you so much. I’m so fortunate to have you.” You said softly and his smiled widened before kissing you again. 

When you’d finally gotten him all undressed you had cuddled up in bed, he was the little spoon this time around, face buried into your chest. And you were touching his hair and arms and back as he asked and guided while you yapped about random things over the soft sounds of the TV in the background until he brought your sister up.

“Sorry about earlier, with Julie.” He said and you tutted.

“S’not your fault, honey.” You assured.

“Might be. I ummm…I told her that I wanted her moved out completely by next week.” He explained.

“Oh… and she didn’t take it well.”

“Definitely not.” He huffed out a chuckle and you hummed, “Started spouting off about how it was you pressuring me to get her out of here while she and Joey figured out a new arrangement… it was an argument for sure.”

“Everything is to her…”

“Yeah. She doesn’t like the house he’s renting, says it’s too small. Which it’s about the same…he has two bedrooms and I have three here. But both spares are used as office spaces here. So when she’s here I’m banished to the couch!” 

“In your own home…” you tutted.

“Exactly!” He defended. “Now that everything is done-done I don’t see the need for her to keep inserting herself in here. You didn’t want me, you know? And now you don’t want to leave? Like I know it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you.”

“Stupid.”

“Yeah, it is… she said she wanted me to be happy. And I am! With you! I know she’s petty and shows up unannounced on Sundays because she wants you to feel uncomfortable. And I don’t like that one bit, baby. That makes me very unhappy.”

“I’m used to her petty things though, so they don’t get to me as much, H. But thank you for sticking up for me. S’very sweet of you.” You assured him before sponging a gentle kiss to his temple and he nuzzled further against your chest before kissing over your sternum.

“Of course, my love.” He hummed against you before you both fell silent for a little bit and then he reared back from you and you peered down at him as best as you could.

“What is it? Are you gonna be sick?” You asked with concern, ready to spring out of the bed and grab him a garbage can.

“No!” He chuckled and you laughed as he gave your hip a playful pinch.

“Then what is it? ”

“I’ve been thinking about taking the next step of…moving in with me?” He said inquisitively.

“Oh!”

“And it doesn’t have to be now! Maybe a couples months from now or even closer to the end of summer.” He explained and you felt your pulse decrease upon hearing this. “I’d like to take some time to spruce things up a bit first to something more my taste or ours even!” He explained to you. “What do you think of that?” He asked.

“Honestly, I do feel a little nervous about it! Just because you know? Not because of you or anything, it’s just a new milestone, you know?”

“Yeah, I get what you mean.”

“And you’re ready for that?” You asked.

“I am. Are you?”

“Well, I’m also thinking of those statistics about couples who cohabitate and how that leads to greater dissatisfaction in couples who are…in it for the long-term, you know?”

“You mean marriage.” He clarified and you hummed. 

“And like…I want this to work.” You confessed. “Like I don’t…know where this will go…” you trailed off. You wanted to say that you wanted to marry him in the future but you couldn’t bring yourself to admit that to him just yet. “And I’m just scared to jump the gun a bit, you know? I mean, you’ve just divorced! I don’t want you to feel pressured to speed through that. I know that the dynamic wasn’t great with you guys in the end but that’s still something that you have to heal from, you know? And I understand that you’re still in a place where…it’s hard…” you trailed off, “Yeah, I just don’t want to get in the way of that.” You rambled a bit. Suddenly, Harry was pressing himself up and using his elbow to prop himself up.

“You seem to be thinking and feeling on my behalf a lot.” He pointed out with a very faint smile as his eyes met yours despite the darker lighting. “If you’re not ready for that, it’s okay, baby. You can say so. That’s why we’re talking about it.” He added and you glanced to the TV for a few seconds before finally looking back to him.

“I’m just scared.” You confessed.

“Scared of what, love?”

“Of how much I feel for you?” You said with a questioning tone and then glanced away again and he chuckled as you shivered a bit. “Ughh, there are just a lot of feelings happening!” You explained nervously.

“Do you need a bin?” He asked jokingly and you laughed nervously before looking into his eyes again.

“M’alright… just feeling is hard.” You said more quietly and he nodded. “Like I know you. I know you’d never hurt me intentionally. Like the chances are low, but never zero, you know? And like…” you sighed, “I’m scared of how much I already love you and I know it can only get worse!” You explained through nervous giggle and he chuckled. “You know what I meant.”

“I do, baby.” He assured you. “And I need to be honest with you about something. I think the things you’re saying about me needing to heal and such? You’re just projecting.” You sighed and smiled a bit.

“Yeah…a bit.” You confessed.

“I have my plan for healing. Redoing the house, that’s part of it. I think I’ve moved through a lot of the stages of grieving my marriage. I sat with it for so long, even did some of it in couples therapy. And now that it’s officially over I just feel like a weight was lifted off, you know? And I can now move forward.” 

“Yeah, I get that.” You whispered.

“Obviously, I see a future with you and want that so badly. But I also get that the timing needs to be right for the both of us. I’m very patient.” He said and you smiled.

“Are you still drunk?” You asked and he chuckled.

“Yeah, a bit.” He confessed and you sniggered. “But I mean everything I’m saying to you. Been thinking about it over the last few weeks, with all this coming and going.”

“I know, me too.” You hummed. “I see a future with you too and I would like to move in with you eventually.” You smiled.

“Good. I know that it’s also your work and clientele you need to think about. So yeah, nothing rushed. We can take our time with it, work up to it. I just want to share everything with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, baby.” Harry assured you.

“Well, I definitely will give the timeline a bit more thought. What you initially said, about the end of the summer? I feel that's pretty realistic.” You smiled.

“Yeah?” He grinned and you nodded quickly. 

“I do have one request of you.” You said and he hummed.

“Redo your bedroom first.”

“Oh definitely! And you’re gonna help me pick a new mattress since we’re gonna be getting some major use out of it.” He smirked and you giggled. “I’m serious! You’ve gotta do this with me, baby!” He insisted and you nodded.

“Okay, H.” You agreed through a chuckle.

“Deal?” He asked and you smiled.

“Deal.” You agreed.

--- TAG LIST ---

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[yvaineseleneposts]

The only one

Requested: no

A/N: based on the song Ask you tonight by Big Time Rush

Pairing: Harry Styles x reader

Words: 900

Warning(s): none just fluff

The evening in London had a stillness to it, a calmness that seemed to reflect the way I was feeling in the moments before I knocked on Harry’s door. It had been a long time coming. I’d spent so many nights staring at my phone, wondering if he felt what I felt, wondering when he would say the words that I needed to hear. I had always been careful, patient even, not wanting to rush him, to push him before he was ready. But tonight—tonight I felt something shift in the air. Something undeniable.

I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. I hadn’t been this nervous in a while. Every inch of me wanted him to say it—wanted him to tell me everything that had been building between us. But I also wanted to be sure. This wasn’t a fling. It couldn’t be. I knew that.

The door clicked open, and there he was. Harry, looking effortlessly charming, a smile dancing on his lips. But there was something different in his eyes tonight—something that felt more certain, more intense.

“You’re early,” he said with a playful grin.

I couldn't help but grin back. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”

Harry’s gaze softened as he stepped aside to let me in, but I could feel a shift in his energy, a quiet tension hanging between us. It wasn’t like before, when we would joke and laugh and enjoy the lightness of each other’s company. There was an unspoken weight tonight. Something had changed, and I could feel it deep in my chest. It felt like we were standing on the edge of something huge, something we couldn’t ignore anymore.

As I stepped inside, I noticed the place looked almost the same as it always had—simple but cozy. It felt like Harry. There were no fancy decorations or pretensions—just a place that he could call home. And now, standing in it, I realized how much I wanted to be a part of that. To be a part of him.

“Everything okay?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as I set my bag down on the couch.

He turned toward me, his eyes locking with mine. There was something in his gaze that stopped me in my tracks. It was a combination of longing and something I couldn’t quite name—maybe vulnerability, maybe hope.

“I’ve been putting this off for far too long,” Harry said, his voice low and steady. He paused, taking a deep breath, before continuing, “But I can’t wait anymore. I know you’re the one.”

My heart skipped a beat. The words hit me like a wave, crashing over me with all the force of everything I’d felt these past few months, everything I’d been trying to ignore. He had said it—he had said it. The thing I had been waiting for, the thing that had been lingering between us like a secret, was finally out in the open.

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving mine, his hand reaching out as if to reassure me he was there, grounded, real. “The only one I want to love. For the rest of my life, plus a million more years, I want it to be with you. I don’t need to search anymore. You’re the one.”

I could feel the tears welling in my eyes as I stared at him, speechless. Was this really happening? Was I really hearing him say all the things I had only dreamed of? For so long, I had wondered whether he felt the same way, if he was just waiting for the right moment to admit it. And now, here we were.

“Harry…” My voice cracked, but I forced myself to keep going. “You really mean that?”

He smiled, but it wasn’t just the playful grin I was used to seeing—it was something deeper. Something that came from the very core of him. “I do. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he said, his voice firm and resolute. “And I might just ask you tonight.”

My breath hitched. It felt like my whole body was on fire, buzzing with anticipation. This was the moment. The moment everything changed. No more hiding, no more wondering. We were in this, fully and completely.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” I whispered, my hands trembling slightly as I reached out toward him.

Without another word, Harry pulled me toward him, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that felt like everything I had ever needed. Time seemed to slow down, and for those few seconds, it was just us. His hands held me tight, as if to make sure I was real, as if he were afraid that if he let go for even a moment, I might disappear.

When we finally pulled apart, I could see the sincerity in his eyes. “For the rest of my life,” he whispered, his forehead resting against mine.

I closed my eyes, letting the words wash over me. “And a million more years,” I replied, my voice thick with emotion.

Harry smiled, the kind of smile that made my heart swell. “No more waiting. No more searching. This is the real thing. I know it’s the real thing,” he said, his hands gently cupping my face.

I leaned into his touch, letting out a shaky breath. I had waited for this for so long, and now that it was here, I didn’t know what to do with all the feelings inside me. It was like a weight had been lifted off my chest, and in its place was nothing but certainty and love. This was it. This was real.

He kissed me again, this time slower, deeper, like he was pouring everything he had into me. I could feel it in every touch, every word, every shared breath.

When we finally broke apart again, I took a step back, not wanting to pull away but needing to say what was on my mind.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this, Harry,” I said softly. “I knew you were the one from the start, but I wasn’t sure if you felt it too. I didn’t want to push you.”

Harry looked at me, his expression soft and understanding. “I know. I know it wasn’t easy. But I needed to figure it out on my own. I couldn’t let you go, not when I knew this was what I wanted. You’re the one. And I’m not letting you go.”

I smiled, my heart soaring. It felt like everything had led to this moment. The late-night talks, the laughter, the shared experiences. It had all been building to this.

“No more waiting,” I said, repeating his words back to him. “No more searching. This is it, isn’t it?”

“This is it,” he confirmed, a grin spreading across his face.

We stood there in the quiet of his flat, the weight of everything settling in. No more wondering. No more hesitation. We were both all in, ready for the life we were about to build together.

And as we wrapped our arms around each other, I knew one thing for sure—there was nothing else I wanted. Nothing at all.

This was forever. And a million more years after that.

[sushirrrry]

*cracks knuckles*

bringing this back in all of its glory

now... what's first?

[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

[cloudyluun]

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 ❤️‍🔥

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[ghstyles]

For Worse Or For Worse

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WC: 13k

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."

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

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.

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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

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A/N: Can I apologize for the next part in advance...? I just couldn't stop writing these two :))

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