Summary: Y/N’s summer starts with a betrayal and a very long car ride. Her boyfriend leaves her for Claire. Claire, who also happened to be dating Harry. Now Claire and Ben are together, and Y/N and Harry? They’re the ones left behind—with a cross-country drive to a friends trip they no longer want to be part of. They don’t know each other. They don’t like each other. And they definitely weren’t supposed to share a car, a room, or anything remotely close to trust. But between gas stations, terrible playlists, and late-summer silences… something shifts. Because the worst part of the trip isn’t being stuck with Harry. It’s realizing she doesn’t want it to end.
Tropes: Strangers to reluctant allies to lovers | Forced proximity (one car, two exes, zero escape) | One bed (motel edition™) | Road trip romance | Exes of exes |Slow burn with tension so thick it could shatter | Quiet pining & internal monologues of doom™ | “We don’t talk about it” energy | Grumpy x guarded | Emotional repression Olympics | Falling in love in silence first
Warnings: Off-page infidelity / cheating (by secondary characters) | Breakups / heartbreak (past relationships and emotional fallout) | Emotional repression / avoidance | Loneliness and grief surrounding failed relationships | Light alcohol use (coping, social, and isolation contexts) | Mild language and sarcasm-as-defense-mechanism | Complicated friend group dynamics | Moments of emotional vulnerability, crying, and self-doubt | Subtle themes of trust rebuilding, emotional intimacy, and fear of abandonment
Summary: The night after their grocery run, Harry and Y/N settle into a softer, slower rhythm—one that neither of them tries to define, but both of them feel. What begins as cozy banter over groceries stretches into something deeper as they fall asleep side-by-side and wake the next morning still wrapped in quiet closeness. As the house wakes and the group’s dynamics shift, the change between Harry and Y/N becomes noticeable—visible in the space they share, the glances they hold, and the ease with which they orbit one another. Through small moments and slow conversations, they begin to realize they’ve been noticing each other for far longer than they thought. And now? They don’t want to stop.
Warnings: Emotional intimacy and physical closeness, Subtle group tension / awkward dynamics with exes, Unspoken jealousy (not graphic), Long stretches of slow-burn tension and silence, Extended quiet/physical vulnerability between characters, Strong mutual awareness / noticing / emotional softness, Vibes: soft, domestic, loaded eye contact, blanket warmth, “we’re not saying it, but we’re saying it”
A/N: You guys. The amount of messages that I've received these past two weeks asking me to update Stranger Lanes is insane, I'm so glad you love it! Without further ado, here we go! As always, comment or reblog to be added to the taglist! Love ya! <3
Word Count: 9.8K
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By the time they got back to the lake house, her cheeks ached from smiling. Not the kind of smile you pull out for photos or to make small talk palatable—but the kind you forget you’re wearing, the kind that curls at the corners of your mouth because of something dumb someone said or the way someone looked at you across a narrow grocery aisle with too much toothpaste and too little judgment. Harry made her laugh. Not just polite, I-guess-that-was-funny laughter, but unfiltered, belly-deep laughter that left her leaning on the cart and pretending to scold him for making a scene when she was the one cackling in the cereal aisle.
It had been easy with him today. Maybe a little too easy. And now, as they unpacked bags of food in the warm yellow light of the kitchen, that same easy rhythm had followed them back like a soft hum beneath the surface.
He was beside her at the counter, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair a little tousled from running his hands through it all evening. He kept brushing against her, not in any overt way—just enough that their elbows collided when they both reached for the same bag of granola, just enough that his knee nudged hers when he stepped around her to grab a mixing bowl that wasn’t even in use yet. She should’ve minded. She didn’t.
The others were scattered throughout the house, drifting in and out of the kitchen to grab a snack or comment on something they’d forgotten. Ali had passed through twice just to eye the Doritos with suspicion, and Ben had made a barely veiled comment about “coordinated grocery store showmances” that Claire tried—and failed—to smooth over with a joke that landed with all the subtlety of a brick. But Y/N didn’t really care. Not in the way she used to.
Because Harry was leaning over the counter with a bag of apples tucked against his chest, humming some obscure tune under his breath, tossing her a look every time she opened a cabinet and couldn’t find what she needed. And every time, she found herself holding his gaze a little longer than necessary.
It had become a silent game, this exchange of glances. One she didn’t remember agreeing to play but now found herself reluctant to stop. He’d glance at her with those stupid green eyes and that crooked half-smile like he was in on some secret she hadn’t figured out yet, and it made her chest tighten in a way that felt suspiciously like wanting.
She reached for the bread and he reached for the peanut butter, and for a second, their hands brushed, fingers curling back reflexively. She felt it like static—quick, sudden, warm.
Harry looked at her. Not away. At her.
Y/N swallowed, but didn’t step back. “You gonna hoard the snacks or share with the class?”
His mouth twitched, amused. “You calling this a class?”
“I’m calling it a democracy. And I think I deserve equal access to the pretzels, at the very least.”
Harry leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice lower now. “Didn’t realize I’d been elected to office.”
“You haven’t,” she said, lips quirking. “You’re a temporary appointment at best.”
“Wow. Brutal.”
“Democracy’s ruthless.”
He looked at her for a beat longer, and then passed her the pretzels without breaking eye contact. “Here then. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
She tried not to smile. Failed. “I’ll file it for future reference.”
It was nothing. It was everything. The quiet exchange. The ease. The small flickers of humor folded into something warmer.
And it didn’t stop there. Every time she moved, he was there—not in a suffocating way, but in that rare, magnetic kind of proximity that made her feel like they were orbiting the same sun. That sun, lately, was shaped suspiciously like a grocery list and the way Harry grinned at her like he knew she was about to say something sarcastic before she’d even opened her mouth.
And worse—she’d come to like it.
More than like it.
The hum of the refrigerator filled the space between them, layered beneath the soft shuffle of feet on tile and the occasional thump of a grocery bag being set down. The rest of the house had grown quieter now—Claire and Ben had retreated to the back porch with a couple of drinks and the unearned air of smugness that still made Y/N’s stomach twist, while Ali, ever the perceptive guardian angel, had claimed she was going upstairs to “sort out the towel situation,” which Y/N knew was code for I see what’s happening here and I’m giving you space. Everyone else had followed suit, either drifting to their rooms or settling into the den, and for the first time that evening, the kitchen belonged to just the two of them.
Y/N stood barefoot near the sink, sleeves pushed up, organizing the pantry with something that vaguely resembled purpose. But her brain had long stopped caring about where the almond butter went. All she could think about was the way Harry had started humming again—some bluesy guitar riff that didn’t quite belong to a real song but had enough shape and rhythm to stay stuck in her head. It matched the tempo of the evening: a little loose, a little unexpected, but easy to fall into.
He was crouched near the fridge now, rearranging produce with more care than anyone who had just launched a pineapple into the cart an hour earlier had any right to possess. And when he stood and glanced over at her, catching her mid-stare, his brows lifted as if to say you good? with nothing but the arch of his face.
She nodded, too quickly. “I was just—thinking about how weird it is that you’re good at this.”
“Organizing groceries?”
“Being useful. Functional. I feel like I need to recalibrate my entire impression of you.”
He grinned, slow and smug, and leaned a hip against the counter like he’d just won a bet. “See, this is why it’s fun to keep expectations low. Then when I’m actually helpful, it’s a revelation.”
Y/N scoffed, tossing a box of pasta into the pantry without looking. “You act like that was some kind of elaborate strategy.”
“Who says it wasn’t?”
She narrowed her eyes, but the amusement curled in her chest before she could try to stifle it. He made her feel off balance, but not in a way that felt dangerous. It was… disarming. Like he’d quietly invited her into a different version of the week than she thought she’d be having, and she’d somehow agreed without realizing.
And maybe she wasn’t mad about it.
-
“Why are you so chipper tonight?” she asked finally, watching him move toward the paper towels like they hadn’t shared the same exhaustion earlier in the car. “You were grumpy all day yesterday. Fully brooding. Brood-y. Broodman.”
Harry barked out a laugh as he tore into the plastic. “Broodman?”
“It was that or The Grumble Knight.”
He rolled his eyes. “Alright, Shakespeare. Let’s calm down.”
“You say that,” she said, leaning against the pantry doorway now, her shoulder brushing the frame. “But the Harry I drove here with would’ve had at least four sulky comebacks by now. And he wouldn’t have bought the marshmallows.”
“Those marshmallows were a peace offering,” he said, pointing at her with a dishtowel like it was a gavel. “I’m trying to be the bigger person.”
“Interesting choice of words coming from a man who tried to body-check me into the cereal aisle.”
“I guided you,” he said, nose crinkling as he tried not to laugh. “Gently.”
“With your hip. Like a hockey player.”
Harry grinned. “You stayed upright.”
“Barely.”
They paused again. A beat of stillness that felt a little too thick to be casual. Y/N’s eyes lingered on his face longer than they should’ve. She noticed the way his lashes caught the kitchen light, the faint trace of sun still warming his cheekbones, the softness of his mouth as he fought another smile. He was infuriating and charming and deeply annoying in the way people are when you’ve accidentally let them matter too much.
She wondered if he was thinking the same thing.
Then Harry broke the moment, eyes flicking toward the pantry. “You still gonna tell me where you want this stuff, or should I just start hiding peanut butter in weird places?”
“Try it,” she said, lifting an eyebrow. “I dare you.”
He smirked and stepped forward, closing the space between them just slightly—enough that she had to tilt her chin to keep her eyes on his.
“Don’t tempt me, Y/N,” he said quietly, playfully, but there was something behind it now. Something that felt just a little heavier. Just a little more loaded.
Y/N’s breath caught for half a second. Then, just as quickly, she broke eye contact and turned back to the shelf. “You’re exhausting,” she muttered, trying not to smile.
“Don’t pretend you’re not thriving off the chaos,” he said, stepping away, but his tone was lighter again, teasing, like he’d sensed the shift and knew just how far to push it. “You practically instigated a three-minute argument over oat milk. You like the chaos.”
“Chaos,” she said, pulling a snack bag from the bottom of the tote and turning it in her hand, “is the only way to survive in a house this full.”
And maybe, she thought, setting it down, it’s also the only way to fall into something new without realizing you’re falling.
-
He watched her for a second longer than he should have—watched the way her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the counter, how she leaned her weight into her hip like she was trying not to lean into him instead. The overhead light wasn’t particularly flattering, too yellow and dim in the way lake houses always were, but it caught on her skin in places that made him stare anyway. The curve of her jaw, the side of her neck, the slight tilt of her mouth as she sorted through bags of trail mix like it mattered.
He told himself he was just tired. That was why his chest felt a little warm. That was why he kept noticing the little things.
But that wasn’t it. Not really.
The truth—uncomfortable, clear, and increasingly undeniable—was that something between them had shifted. Somewhere between the grocery aisle detour into cereal warfare and the way she’d leaned into him, laughing too hard to stand straight, something had cracked open. And now that it was out in the open, he didn’t know how to tuck it back in.
It had been easy to keep things distant before. She was smart and quick and had a mouth that didn’t quit, and he liked that about her—liked sparring with her, testing the edge of her wit. But earlier today, when she’d thrown her head back laughing about his passionate Wheaties speech, something had tightened in his chest. And when she hadn’t looked away afterward—had just stood there, watching him like she was seeing past something—he hadn’t wanted her to.
That was the problem now. He liked being seen. Not the easy kind of attention. Not the casual glances or forced conversations. But this—this quiet, offhand familiarity she offered. Like he didn’t have to perform around her. Like he could just be.
And now, with the kitchen emptied out and the hum of the fridge giving way to soft, companionable silence, that realization pressed heavier on his ribs.
-
“Okay,” Y/N said finally, reaching up to adjust a shelf like she had any intention of organizing anything. “We’ve got a suspicious amount of granola, and I’m blaming you.”
He walked to the other side of the counter, resting his forearms against the surface as he watched her. “I stand by my granola choices.”
“Of course you do. They’re chaos.”
“They’re curated.”
“They’re evidence of a man who doesn’t know what he wants.”
Harry tilted his head, amused. “That supposed to be some sort of deep metaphor?”
“Maybe.”
She didn’t turn to look at him, but he could see the way her lips twitched as she spoke. And something in his chest flipped.
He wanted to say something about it—about the way she noticed him, about the way she kept giving him these small openings and trusting he wouldn’t take too much. But he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Didn’t want to name it too early and watch it evaporate.
Instead, he opened a cabinet and started stacking cans, letting the moment breathe.
-
The quiet between them stretched again, long and comfortable, until Y/N broke it with a laugh that came out of nowhere.
He turned toward her. “What?”
She held up a small, crumpled receipt from one of the tote bags. “You bought a single kiwi.”
“I did,” he said, nodding solemnly. “It was calling to me.”
Y/N blinked at him. “You bought one kiwi.”
“Correct.”
“No other fruit. Just… the lone kiwi.”
“Don’t kiwi-shame me.”
She stared at him like she was trying to figure out if he was joking. “What were you going to do with it?”
Harry shrugged. “Bond with it. Maybe name it. Maybe slice it open dramatically at a key plot point later in the week.”
“You’re unwell.”
“I’m a man of simple needs.”
Her laugh was soft but full, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made his chest tighten again. She tossed the receipt at him without thinking, and he caught it midair, tucking it into his pocket with a grin that felt too easy for how tightly wound he actually was.
He didn’t say what he was thinking—that the grocery trip hadn’t really been about the food. That maybe the whole thing had just been an excuse to be near her longer. That he’d kept finding reasons to slow their pace, to prolong the wandering, to hold onto the moment before they had to come back to the house and face the rest of the world again.
But she knew. He could see it in the way her eyes softened when she looked at him again. In the way she let herself stay near him even after the last of the groceries were put away, even after the last bit of banter had faded. They were standing in the kitchen like neither of them had anywhere else to be, and maybe they didn’t. Maybe they didn’t want to.
He looked down at her hands, then back up at her face. “We did good.”
“With the groceries?”
“With… all of it.”
Her breath hitched just slightly—barely perceptible—but she nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “We did.”
-
When they finally stepped out of the kitchen, the house felt different. Not silent, but settled. The low murmur of the others had dulled to a comforting hum in the background—faint music from someone’s speaker upstairs, a door clicking shut, the rhythmic tick of the ceiling fan in the front room. The kind of quiet that only comes after a day has been lived fully and completely. And somehow, she and Harry had outlasted it.
Y/N moved toward the living room without saying anything, brushing her hand over the worn wood of the banister as she passed. She half-expected Harry to head upstairs, maybe say goodnight with that lopsided smile and a parting joke, but when she turned slightly, he was still following her. Quiet. Calm. As if it was obvious he’d go wherever she went.
The moment settled into her like warmth. Like gravity.
She tucked herself into the corner of the wide, overstuffed couch, legs folding beneath her, a throw blanket tossed absently over the armrest as if someone had abandoned it mid-afternoon. The lake outside the window was completely dark now, just a shimmer of moonlight off the glassy surface visible through the trees. She felt it—the shift. The almost sacred hush of a summer night when you’ve laughed too hard earlier in the day and your body remembers it in the best possible way.
Harry dropped down beside her a second later, but not too close. Not the way Ben or someone like him would’ve—overconfident, presumptive. He stayed a few inches away, elbows resting on his thighs, head tilted slightly back against the cushion. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter now, something lazy and loose threaded into it.
“You tired?”
She shook her head. “You?”
Harry hummed in response—noncommittal. But he didn’t move to get up.
The lamp in the corner buzzed slightly, its golden light catching on the curve of his jaw and casting his eyelashes in long, soft shadows. Y/N leaned her cheek against the back of the couch and just… looked at him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so comfortable doing nothing with someone. Not just silence for the sake of it, but silence that felt like it meant something.
He glanced over a beat later and caught her watching. And instead of looking away, he held her gaze.
“What?” he asked, his mouth teetering up at the corners.
She shrugged, but her lips parted into the beginnings of a smile. “Just surprised you haven’t tried to start another cereal debate.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he said, shifting slightly toward her now. “I still think your take was objectively wrong.”
Y/N let her smile widen. “You’re just mad I had better arguments.”
“Better marketing. Not better arguments.”
“Marketing is half the battle.”
“You’re exhausting.”
She gave a light shrug, the fabric of the blanket shifting against her arm. “Takes one to know one.”
Harry snorted softly and leaned back again, but this time, his knee bumped against hers. He didn’t move it.
The contact was small—barely noticeable in a room this quiet. But to her, it felt like a light being switched on. A soft there you are. And when he didn’t shift away, when he let the contact stay, something inside her responded with a kind of stillness that surprised her. Like her body knew something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
They stayed like that for a while. Not speaking. Not needing to.
-
The window let in just enough breeze to lift the edge of the curtain, and Y/N found her gaze drifting to it as her mind wandered. There had been so many ways this trip could’ve gone. And yet, here they were—her and Harry, of all people. Existing in the same corner of the world in a way that felt almost deliberate. Like they’d been steered here by a hundred tiny decisions neither of them had realized they were making.
And she didn’t want to waste it.
“You always this quiet at night?” she asked eventually, not because she minded the silence, but because she wanted more of his voice in the room.
Harry tilted his head toward her, mouth ticking up slightly. “Only when I’m trying not to ruin it.”
“Ruin what?”
“This.”
Y/N’s breath caught.
He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. And she didn’t press.
Instead, she turned a little more toward him, their knees still touching now. She let her head rest back against the couch, mirroring his posture, letting the moment stretch.
She didn’t want it to end.
-
He didn’t remember the last time silence had felt this good.
Usually it meant something was missing—words that needed saying, a thought waiting to be cleaned up and made less jagged, or worse, something unsaid hanging sharp between him and someone who didn’t know how to fill the gaps. But this wasn’t that.
This silence felt earned.
She was sitting a little closer now—still curled up in her corner, but angled toward him. Their knees pressed side by side, just barely, but firmly enough that he knew it was deliberate. A shared warmth, a quiet we’re here. And the room held it. Carried it gently, like it understood this was something new, something precious that hadn’t been named yet.
He could hear her breathing. Not loud. Just steady. Present. And it somehow made the space around them feel smaller in the best way.
Harry didn’t want to ruin it. He didn’t want to break it with the wrong comment or a joke that would land sideways. But more than that, he didn’t want to pretend anymore—not after the grocery store, not after the car ride, not after the way she’d laughed today like he’d said the most brilliant thing she’d ever heard even though he’d been talking about cereal mascots.
There were so many things about her he’d started to collect without meaning to.
Like how she always tied her hoodie strings in a double knot and never fixed them once they slipped uneven. Or how she picked up boxes in the grocery store and read the ingredients—not because she cared about health, but because she liked knowing what was inside something. Like how her voice got softer—not quieter, just rounder—when she was trying to figure out how to say something honest. Or how she never leaned away when someone moved closer. Only in.
And then there were the things he didn’t know how to name. The way she felt in a room. Like she steadied it. Even when she was teasing him. Especially when she was teasing him.
That was the part that got him. The steadiness.
-
Her head tilted slightly, like she was half-lost in thought, and Harry felt the urge to say something rise up in his chest. Not anything big. Just something. To bridge the space between what they were doing and what they both knew they were doing.
But before he could, Y/N moved. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly. Her foot slipped down from beneath her and stretched just enough that her ankle bumped against his.
Harry didn’t move.
Y/N didn’t either.
She just stayed like that—close, still, barely touching but definitely touching. And when she looked over at him, when her eyes met his without pretense, it felt like something broke open again.
“Sorry,” she murmured, though her voice wasn’t apologetic. It was more like an invitation to respond. To meet her there.
He didn’t look away. “Don’t be.”
They sat like that for a moment—watching each other, but not trying to figure anything out. Just… noticing. Letting it be what it was.
-
She didn’t know what made her move. Not exactly.
Maybe it was the stillness. Or the way his breathing was calm but not quite even. Or the way she’d been watching the way his fingers curled around the throw pillow like he didn’t realize he was doing it, like he needed something to hold onto.
But it felt natural, the way her leg had shifted, the way her foot had bumped his. It hadn’t been a mistake. Not really. She could’ve moved it. She could’ve leaned back into her corner and made the moment small again. Dismissible.
But she didn’t.
Because the moment wasn’t small.
She looked at him then, and the expression on his face wasn’t something she had words for. Open. A little vulnerable. Like he was already where she was, but had been waiting for her to catch up.
And the way he said don’t be—soft, low, steady—made her feel something deep in her chest unfurl slowly and completely.
She hadn’t felt that in a long time. Not in a way that mattered.
-
Her voice, when it came again, was quieter than before. “You’re not what I expected.”
Harry tilted his head slightly. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He smiled then, but it wasn’t cocky or teasing. It was the kind of smile that happened when something felt real. And the sight of it—unguarded, a little tired, completely honest—made something twist in her chest again.
She didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t want to break whatever this was, whatever they were building in the spaces between eye contact and half-laughed jokes. Because this was the part she always missed. This part—the quiet, unspoken build—was the part no one ever paid attention to.
She wanted to remember this.
The way his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to be funny. The way his breath hitched a little when she looked too long. The way his knee pressed into hers like he didn’t want to let her drift too far away.
She wanted to stay.
-
She didn’t pull away.
That’s what he noticed first. That after she shifted, after her ankle nudged against his and she looked at him like he was worth seeing, she didn’t take it back. She just… stayed. Let it happen. Let them happen.
He hadn’t realized how much of himself had been waiting for that—for the proof that this thing wasn’t one-sided. That the rhythm they’d found today wasn’t just a fluke of timing or convenience or boredom. That she felt it, too. The tension. The pull. The comfort and the edge and the way she never gave him the easy version of herself, and how he didn’t want it even if she did.
She shifted slightly now, just enough that her shoulder brushed his arm, and the contact was light—barely anything—but it traveled straight to his chest like it had weight.
He let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.
-
He didn’t move away. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. Something about her presence made everything else quieter. And not in a muted way. In a way that made more sense. Like his brain had finally stopped doing the thing where it ran in a hundred directions at once.
She made things quieter.
Clearer.
And now she was here, pressed just barely against him, and the house had fallen away. The whole house. The trip. The people upstairs. The water outside. Everything had dimmed. All of it.
Except her.
-
He turned toward her just enough to catch her profile. The shape of her mouth in the soft lamp glow. The crease between her brows that deepened when she was thinking about something she didn’t want to say out loud. The slope of her neck where it met her shoulder, loose and relaxed now, like she didn’t feel the need to tense around him.
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to say anything stupid. He didn’t want to push it too far. But he also didn’t want to lose this—this sliver of time where she was here and real and his world had narrowed down to the warmth of her leaning toward him without hesitation.
So he shifted his arm. Slowly. Cautiously. Until his forearm was resting behind her on the back cushion of the couch. Not touching. Not yet. But close.
She looked over at him, just her eyes. They flicked toward his arm, then back to his face.
He didn’t smile.
She didn’t look away.
-
It felt like something might happen.
Not something dramatic. Not anything that needed music or speeches or the weight of big declarations. But something important. Something small and undeniable and impossible to forget.
She could feel the heat from his arm now, close behind her shoulders. Not touching. But there. Waiting.
She wanted to lean into it. Just a little. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she did—if he’d shift away, if the spell would break, if it would feel like too much. But her body wanted to close the gap, and her heart hadn’t argued once all evening.
Harry had been different tonight. Lighter, yes. Playful. But also present. The kind of present you couldn’t fake. And she’d been watching it happen in real time—his gaze on her when she smiled, the way he passed her things wordlessly, the way he hadn’t walked ahead of her once at the store. He let her be beside him. He wanted her beside him.
And now they were here, in the dim quiet of a worn summer living room, and he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t drifted off or shut down or offered some sarcastic remark to undo the softness between them. He was staying.
She didn’t want to pretend anymore either.
-
So she shifted again. Small. Just a fraction of space. Enough that her back met the warm line of his arm, and she let it rest there—light and certain and brave.
He froze for a second. Not tense. Just still. As if he didn’t want to ruin the way her weight felt against him.
Then, slowly, he relaxed into it. Let his arm settle behind her like it had always belonged there.
And it was everything.
-
Her heart beat slower now. Heavier, but not with anxiety. With knowing. With the kind of awareness you only get when you’ve been dancing around something for long enough to understand that it isn’t going away.
This wasn’t about fixing anything anymore. Not about making up for what they’d lost or comparing where they were to where they’d been. It was just this. Him. Her. The night. The shift that had started in a grocery aisle and hadn’t stopped since.
He leaned his head toward hers slightly, not resting against her, but close enough to make her breath catch.
She didn’t say a word.
Neither did he.
But in the stillness between them, in the warmth of the contact and the way neither of them felt the need to explain it, something settled.
A beginning.
-
There was something about the way she settled into him that made the whole day snap into focus.
Like all the noise and heat and tension that had woven itself through the morning—the posturing, the clipped conversations, the weight of unspoken things—had finally broken apart, leaving behind only this: the quiet rhythm of her breath beside him, the solid warmth of her against his side, the soft brush of her shoulder pressing against his chest.
He could’ve sat there forever.
No one had ever leaned into him like that without pulling away eventually. No one had ever stayed close without needing it to be a moment or a joke or something performative. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t a moment being made—this was a moment becoming.
And he didn’t want to miss it.
He let his arm settle fully around her now, his hand resting lightly against her upper arm, careful but certain. Like he was learning the shape of what this could be. And when she didn’t flinch, didn’t tease, didn’t shift away, something in him unclenched. Something deep and quiet and tightly wound that had been waiting for her to decide if she wanted this, too.
She did.
And that truth pulsed through him like steady heat.
-
It wasn’t the contact that undid her. It wasn’t the way his arm fit around her or the strength of his presence or the subtle curve of his body pressing into hers like he meant to stay. It was the ease. The way it felt natural. Uncomplicated. Like they had always ended days like this, quietly and without urgency, tucked into the same corner of the couch and the same fold of breath.
There was no pressure here. Just closeness. Just stillness.
And somehow, that made it all feel more real.
She wanted to say something. Just a small thing. A word or a whisper to acknowledge what this was without cracking it open too wide. But everything she thought of felt either too much or not enough.
So instead, she let her head tip slightly, just enough that it brushed the side of his shoulder. Not quite a lean. Not quite an ask. Just a shared quiet.
Harry didn’t speak. He just shifted, his fingers curling slightly where they rested against her arm. Like a promise. Like yes, I feel it too.
And it was enough.
-
The room had dimmed even more now, the lamp flickering once and holding steady, the only light against the coolness of the lake air drifting in through the window. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked, and someone murmured a goodnight. But the house was drifting into its own hush, and they were drifting with it.
Y/N blinked slowly, her body finally catching up with the weight of the day, her eyes heavy but her thoughts still alive and buzzing beneath the quiet.
He smelled like the outdoors and coffee and something faintly citrusy she couldn’t place. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath against her shoulder, the calm rhythm of someone who wasn’t pretending to be okay—someone who was okay, in this moment, with her.
And it was disarming. And lovely. And more than she’d let herself want, until now.
-
She didn’t want to sleep.
Not because she was afraid of what morning would bring. Not because she was waiting for him to ruin it. But because she didn’t want it to stop.
This stillness. This closeness. The way he hadn’t made it a big thing. The way he’d let it grow slowly, carefully, without needing it to become something right away.
It made her trust him more than she expected.
Maybe more than she should.
But she wasn’t scared.
She was… here.
And when she felt the weight of his head dip slightly, the gentle pressure of him leaning just a bit more into her, she let herself breathe into the moment like it belonged to her.
Because maybe it did.
-
The last thing she remembered before sleep took hold was the warmth of his hand, slow and steady where it rested on her arm, and the certainty—clear, quiet, and undeniable—that she wasn’t alone in this anymore.
Not even close.
-
She woke slowly.
Not because she’d slept particularly well—she’d only half remembered drifting off, barely aware of when her limbs gave in to the pull of rest—but because she was afraid that moving too fast would shatter whatever quiet magic had wrapped itself around them the night before.
The first thing she registered was the soft pressure of something warm around her waist. Not heavy. Not restrictive. Just there. Steady. Familiar in a way that felt startling.
Harry.
He was still beside her. His body relaxed, breathing slow and even. One arm draped loosely around her middle, the other resting across his own chest. And she was tucked into him, head against the curve of his shoulder, like they’d been fitted together by some gentle, invisible hand while they slept.
She didn’t panic. She didn’t tense. That was the most surprising part of all.
She just stayed there. Eyes open, barely breathing, letting herself feel the moment before she had to move through it.
The room was awash in morning light now—faint and golden, slipping in through the narrow window over the couch. Dust motes floated in the quiet beams, suspended in the air like they were trying to hold onto the hush as long as they could. And outside, she could hear the lake birds beginning their slow, lazy chorus. The world was waking up. But the cocoon they’d created hadn’t cracked yet.
Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of the throw blanket draped over them. She didn’t remember pulling it up. Maybe he had. Maybe it had just fallen that way. It didn’t matter.
All she knew was that she hadn’t slept like that in a long time. Not just beside someone. But with someone.
Safe. Easy. Warm.
She knew it should scare her. That if she thought about it too long, if she let her mind get too far ahead of her heart, she’d ruin it with questions and panic and doubts. But right now, lying in the soft hush of the early morning, she didn’t want to move at all.
-
A shift.
His breathing changed—just slightly, just enough.
And then his fingers twitched against her waist.
She stilled, breath catching.
A pause. A stretch of silence so heavy she could hear her own pulse.
Then, quietly, his voice—rough from sleep, soft at the edges.
“You’re still here.”
She turned her head slightly against him, enough to feel the faint rumble of his voice in his chest. “So are you.”
A beat passed. She could feel his cheek shift as he smiled.
“Wasn’t sure if you’d sneak away.”
“I thought about it,” she murmured. “Didn’t want to risk waking the human furnace.”
Harry chuckled, low and warm. His breath stirred the hair near her temple. “I am unreasonably warm. That’s fair.”
She smiled, but didn’t move.
Neither did he.
The morning felt like something suspended—like time had been stretched out a little, just for them. And for once, she didn’t want to rush into the next thing. She didn’t want to ruin the slowness.
-
It took him a minute to remember where he was.
Not the house—that was easy. The lake, the trip, the chaos of the friend group turned semi-hostage situation, the way Claire and Ben had imploded them all into the same orbit. That was background noise by now.
It was this—the body curled against his, the warmth of her breathing soft and even, the way she hadn’t moved when he woke—that made his brain catch up slower.
Y/N.
Still here.
Still in his arms.
And somehow, not weird.
Not wrong.
It felt natural in the kind of way that made him worry about how natural it felt. Like his body had already adjusted. Like it knew what to do with her pressed into his side, with her breath brushing his chest, with the silence that sat comfortably between them like it was supposed to be there.
He hadn’t expected to fall asleep. Not really. He’d meant to stay there until she shifted, until it got too warm or someone came downstairs and ruined it. But the longer she’d stayed close, the more his body had given in. The stillness had soothed him in a way he couldn’t explain.
And now—morning light and all—she was still here.
No rush. No excuses.
Just warmth. Just her.
-
“I’m sorry if I was—” he started, not even sure how he meant to finish that sentence.
“You weren’t,” she said before he could. “I wasn’t, either.”
That startled him a little. The honesty of it. The way she didn’t even let him apologize for something he hadn’t said yet.
And he realized, again, that she saw him. The version of him he didn’t always let people near. The one who second-guessed when things felt too easy.
His voice came quieter. “This isn’t weird, is it?”
Y/N turned just enough to glance up at him, her chin brushing his chest. “It’s not.”
He exhaled slowly. “Okay.”
And somehow, it really was.
-
They eventually moved, but only because they had to.
Not in a dramatic sense—no one came barging in, no phone call interrupted the silence. It was just the sun creeping a little higher, the house shifting around them, the collective rhythm of morning making itself known in soft creaks and a far-off shower running upstairs.
Still, it took time. Several long minutes of neither of them saying anything, of her just breathing into the warmth of his chest and him keeping his arm where it had settled naturally around her waist. She felt his thumb move once, tracing the fabric of her shirt absentmindedly. Not possessive. Just present.
But the stillness couldn’t last forever, and eventually her body started to stir with the weight of the day ahead.
She shifted slightly. Just enough that their legs uncrossed, their limbs uncurled, their shared warmth gave way to the cooler space between them again.
And even though it was small—just a few inches of air—she felt the ache of it.
Harry sat up with her, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face, blinking against the light. His curls were flattened in one spot and sticking up in another. She could see the faint red line of the couch seam pressed into his cheek. And still, somehow, he looked stupidly good.
She pulled the blanket from her lap and folded it out of habit. Something to do with her hands. Something to keep the air moving before it thickened again.
“So,” she said quietly, glancing sideways at him. “How long until someone walks in and ruins this completely?”
Harry snorted, leaning back against the couch, arms draped across his knees. “Ten minutes. Tops.”
She smiled, but it faded quickly—softly—not because anything was wrong, but because everything felt right, and she didn’t want to lose that by trying too hard to hold onto it.
He must’ve sensed it, too, because he looked at her for a long beat. Then, quieter, steadier, he said, “You okay?”
Y/N nodded once. “You?”
His smile was small. “I am.”
And for a moment, that was enough.
-
The morning air was cool against the back of his neck when he finally pushed off the couch and stretched. He let out a quiet groan, partly for dramatic effect, mostly because his spine wasn’t built to spend the night curled up on a lakeside sectional with only half a cushion under him.
Y/N stood too, rolling her shoulders, pulling her hoodie tighter around her as she moved toward the kitchen without a word. He followed her out of habit now, like he didn’t know how not to. It didn’t feel weird. It didn’t feel too much.
It just felt like them.
Something had changed, and it wasn’t just the proximity. It was the ease. They were moving around each other differently now. Calmer. Not waiting for the next sharp word or cold glance or clumsy silence. They existed in each other’s spaces like the sharp corners had been sanded down. Like they’d forgotten, for a few hours, how to be suspicious of one another.
The house was still mostly asleep. The floor creaked beneath them as they padded into the kitchen, but the lights were off, and the world hadn’t quite woken up yet. Just the rustle of trees outside, the soft lap of water against the dock, and the distant clink of someone—Ali, probably—mumbling about coffee filters upstairs.
Harry watched as Y/N stood by the sink, her back to him, and reached for a mug from the drying rack. The one she’d used yesterday. A small floral one with a chip in the handle. She held it in both hands for a second, then set it gently on the counter like it was fragile.
Maybe they both were.
He crossed the space between them slowly, stopping beside her, leaning against the counter the way he had yesterday when they’d bickered over peanut butter.
Except now, she didn’t look tired of him.
Now, she looked softened by him.
-
“I was thinking,” he said, voice quiet in the hush between them, “we could go on another walk today.”
She didn’t look at him, but her shoulder tilted in his direction like she wanted to. “Another scenic route?”
“Something like that.”
She glanced up at him then, and the look in her eyes wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t guarded.
It was open.
And it hit him like a stone dropped into still water.
“I’d like that,” she said.
And just like that, the day began with a promise neither of them had to say out loud.
-
Ali was the first to see it.
Of course she was. She wasn’t loud about it. Didn’t say anything. But the second she walked into the kitchen and found them already there—quiet, close, in sync in a way they hadn’t been before—her expression shifted for just a second. Something soft. Something aware.
Then she moved toward the coffee pot and started fussing with the filters like she hadn’t seen anything at all.
Y/N caught the flicker of a smile at the corner of her mouth anyway.
She kept her back mostly turned to Harry as she helped pull things from the fridge—fruit, eggs, the container of almond milk he’d made fun of yesterday. But it was different now. Every step she took near him came with the awareness that they’d slept beside each other. That they’d woken up warm and still touching, neither one in a rush to leave.
She could feel it in her fingertips. In her chest. In the way her voice softened when she asked him to hand her a fork.
She didn’t think she’d be able to hide it. Not really.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to.
-
More footsteps. Laughter upstairs. The house was waking now.
And then—Ben and Claire.
They entered together, too casual to be natural, both holding mugs that didn’t quite match their expressions. Ben had that look he always wore when he knew he was walking into a room with too much history in it. And Claire was smiling too tightly, her gaze flicking once between Y/N and Harry before landing somewhere pointedly else.
Y/N said nothing.
Harry, to his credit, didn’t even look at them. Just kept slicing a banana in long, careful strokes, setting the pieces gently into a bowl.
The air got thicker.
Ali cleared her throat. “I think we’ve got stuff for pancakes if someone wants to take lead on that.”
Ben made a vague noise, but Claire stepped toward the counter instead. “I can do it.”
“Let me help,” Ben offered.
“No, it’s fine.”
Y/N kept her head down. Kept cutting strawberries, even though they didn’t need more fruit. Kept breathing evenly.
Harry bumped his elbow against hers once. A light touch. Intentional.
She glanced at him, and he gave her the smallest, most devastatingly calm look—like I’ve got you. Keep going.
She did.
-
He didn’t like the way Ben looked at her.
He never had, even before everything. There was something smug about it. Something that suggested he still thought he had a claim. And even if Harry couldn’t quite name what he was to Y/N right now, he knew what Ben wasn’t.
Still, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Because she was next to him.
Because she hadn’t moved.
Because when he bumped her elbow, she looked at him like she wasn’t sorry for last night. Like she wasn’t planning to take it back.
And that was more than enough.
-
Ali talked more now, filling the space with questions about breakfast and day plans and whether anyone wanted to help bring the cooler out of the garage. Y/N slipped out of the kitchen for a moment to grab her water bottle, and Harry found himself alone at the counter with Claire.
He didn’t look up at her. He didn’t speak.
But she did.
“You two seemed… close this morning.”
He didn’t stop slicing the banana. “Is that a problem?”
Claire’s smile was light, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not for me.”
“Good.”
She lingered like she wanted to say more. But then she turned away.
Harry didn’t watch her go.
He didn’t need to.
Because Y/N came back into the room a second later, and without thinking, she stepped back to his side like she’d never left it.
-
It wasn’t that they were doing anything obvious.
No hands held. No whispered confessions. No sudden announcement over breakfast that she’d fallen asleep in Harry’s arms and woken up still tucked there, blinking into the soft light of morning like something in her chest had clicked into place overnight.
But everything had changed.
Because now, every time he walked past her, he didn’t brush against her accidentally. He drifted closer. Purposefully. Every time she looked up from chopping something or setting out plates, his gaze was already on her. Steady. Soft. Knowing. And when they moved around each other in the kitchen, they didn’t speak much—but their silences were whole conversations.
And people noticed.
Not loudly, not directly. But the shift was unmistakable.
The group, for all their oblivious chaos, picked up on the undercurrent. Ali clocked it instantly, her glances flickering like checkmarks—okay, okay, I see you two. Jules didn’t say anything, but her mouth twitched more than once when they reached for the same bowl of granola or started laughing at something no one else had heard. Even Eli, half-asleep and nursing his coffee like it owed him money, gave them a lingering second look as he passed them on his way to the table.
The only ones who seemed actively uncomfortable were Ben and Claire.
Which was a little too on the nose.
Ben kept making comments that didn’t land—backhanded jokes about “overcorrecting” and “people getting cozy all of a sudden.” Claire kept stirring the pancake batter too hard. And Y/N kept not looking at either of them.
She didn’t need to.
Because Harry was beside her. Solid. Quiet. Constant.
And when she felt the pressure of his hand at the small of her back as he passed behind her with a stack of mugs, it grounded her in a way she hadn’t expected.
She exhaled slowly. Picked up the jar of jam. Set it on the table like her hands weren’t still buzzing.
-
He wasn’t trying to make a scene. He wasn’t trying to do anything, really.
Except not hide it.
Whatever “it” was. Whatever last night had become. Whatever he and Y/N were doing now—if they were doing anything at all.
Because the truth was, they hadn’t defined it. Hadn’t drawn a line or written the story down or decided what any of this meant. But what he knew—what he felt—was that she’d stayed. That she’d leaned in. That when she looked at him now, she didn’t do it with the skepticism from before. She did it like she knew him. Like she chose him.
So he didn’t perform. He didn’t overdo it.
But he also didn’t shrink.
When she turned to ask him if they had more butter, he didn’t answer right away—just looked at her. Long enough for her to notice. Long enough that her breath hitched.
She said nothing.
Neither did he.
But the space between them got quieter.
And that said everything.
-
The table was loud once they sat down, but Harry barely heard it.
People talked over each other. Laughed about something someone said last night. Ben kept trying to direct the conversation, his voice louder than necessary, his eyes flicking toward Y/N like he was waiting for her to jump in.
She didn’t.
She was sitting next to Harry.
Close. Not pressed up against him. But close enough that their knees brushed. Close enough that she leaned toward him when she reached for the strawberries instead of across the table. Close enough that it meant something.
Ali raised an eyebrow once—just once—when Y/N said something under her breath and Harry laughed before anyone else had a chance to catch the joke. But she didn’t say anything. She just smirked into her orange juice.
It felt like a secret. One the whole table was almost in on, even if no one had the guts to say it out loud.
And Harry didn’t mind.
He liked it.
He liked the quiet between them. The comfort of her beside him. The weight of her presence when she wasn’t trying to hold it back. The way she’d looked at him that morning like something had been decided.
And maybe it had.
-
The meal started to wind down. People stood up to rinse plates, talk about who wanted to swim, what time the hike might be. Ben made another joke—something about “partners in crime” and “getting too close for comfort”—but it fell flat.
Harry didn’t even look up.
Y/N didn’t respond.
Instead, she leaned slightly toward him as she stood, brushing her hand against his arm on her way to the sink.
She didn’t say anything.
But the touch lingered.
And his chest ached in the best way.
-
She found him on the back deck twenty minutes later.
The house had scattered. Claire and Jules were arguing over sunscreen, Eli was trying to convince someone to help him test out the paddleboards, and Ben—blessedly—had wandered off somewhere, maybe finally catching on that his presence wasn’t wanted. The kitchen was mostly clean, the dining table half-abandoned, and Ali had quietly told Y/N to “go take five minutes or forty” with a pointed look before disappearing toward the driveway.
She didn’t need to be told twice.
And she knew exactly where she was going.
Harry was sitting in the shaded corner of the deck, barefoot, his long legs stretched out in front of him, mug balanced on one knee. His sunglasses were pushed up into his curls, his shirt soft and wrinkled from sleep, and he looked unfairly at ease with the world. Like nothing could rattle him here.
Except maybe her.
Because the moment he saw her step through the sliding door, his entire posture shifted. Just slightly. Not a dramatic straighten, not anything performative. Just enough to say there you are.
And that was enough to make her chest ache.
She didn’t say anything. She just sat down beside him—close again, like they were already used to being close. Her thigh brushing his, her shoulder leaning in just enough to tilt her toward him.
The silence between them stretched, but not because there was nothing to say. Because everything was already being said.
Harry passed her the mug without a word.
She took it. Sipped. And handed it back.
-
The lake glittered in front of them, impossibly bright in the mid-morning sun. Kids shouted somewhere across the water. A bird wheeled lazily overhead. Everything felt suspended—like the world was moving forward, but this moment wasn’t. Like this was the kind of stillness people wrote about and never quite got right.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Feels different now.”
He looked at her. “Yeah.”
She didn’t ask what he meant. She didn’t need to.
Because she already knew.
-
She was so close.
And it wasn’t just physical. It was her being here, her showing up, her choosing to be near him again when she could’ve so easily blended into the chaos of the group and let the night before blur into memory.
But she didn’t.
She was here, beside him, her presence tucked against his like she was built to fit there.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just sat with her, letting the breeze move through the trees above them, letting the scent of the lake wrap around them like summer itself was trying to keep the air quiet.
It didn’t feel like a conversation anymore.
It felt like a knowing.
And it made him braver.
-
“I think I notice more than I let on,” he said finally, his voice low.
Y/N glanced at him, curious. “What do you mean?”
He swallowed once, glancing down at the mug in his hand. “About you.”
Her breath caught. But she didn’t speak.
“I know you always skip the fourth question in card games. Even when no one’s paying attention. You tuck your thumb under your palm when you’re uncomfortable. You hum to yourself when you walk away from an argument.” He smiled softly, still not looking at her. “And you put the blueberries at the back of the fridge so no one else finishes them.”
She laughed quietly. “Okay, that one’s fair.”
He looked up at her now, the smile still tugging at his mouth. “I notice things.”
She held his gaze. “So do I.”
That surprised him a little. He blinked.
“I know you don’t like the first sip of coffee—always wait a second before drinking it. You reread instructions, even if you know what they say. You look away when you’re trying not to laugh.” She paused. “And you always stand behind people when you talk to them. Just far enough that no one thinks you’re trying to get too close.”
His throat tightened.
She shifted closer, eyes soft. “You don’t do that with me.”
And he didn’t. He hadn’t thought about it until now, but she was right.
He wanted to be near her.
He was near her.
And it didn’t feel like a risk.
It felt like finally.
-
They didn’t speak after that.
They didn’t need to.
Not every connection was made through conversation. Not every moment needed explanation or context or anything more than this—two people sitting just close enough that their shoulders touched, breathing the same air, watching the same water glitter beneath the sun.
Harry shifted slightly so their knees aligned again. Their legs pressed from hip to ankle now. Steady. Solid. Warm.
And she let herself lean.
Not because she was tired. Not because it was comfortable.
But because she wanted to.
She didn’t want to be anywhere else.
-
The breeze lifted her hair gently, strands tickling her face. Harry reached over without hesitation, tucking one behind her ear.
His fingers lingered.
Her eyes met his.
And for a long, breathless moment, they didn’t move.
There was a question between them. Unspoken. Not ready to be asked, but undeniable in its presence.
And then he smiled.
Soft. Crooked. The kind that made her feel like the morning light had shifted just for her.
She smiled back.
And leaned her head against his shoulder.
-
She fit.
That’s what hit him most.
Not the heat of her beside him, or the way she leaned without asking, or the way her hair brushed his jaw as she settled into him.
It was how right it felt.
How easy.
How like he’d been carrying a weight he hadn’t noticed until it was gone.
He let his cheek rest gently against the top of her head. Just a little. Just enough to say I’m here.
And she didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen.
She just sighed, slow and full, and let her hand rest on his knee.
-
It was quiet like that for a long time.
Long enough that the world started to fade. The laughter from the dock became background noise. The creak of the screen door lost its edge. The wind and the trees and the water became a rhythm beneath them, something that moved with them instead of around them.
He didn’t want to move.
He didn’t want to speak.
He didn’t want to risk even one second of disrupting the way she was curled into him like she’d always known how.
So he didn’t.
He just stayed.
-
Eventually, she closed her eyes.
Not to sleep. Just to feel it better. To memorize the way the sun warmed her cheek, the way his arm wrapped lightly around her, the way her entire body exhaled when she let herself believe—for one slow, golden morning—that this didn’t have to be complicated.
That maybe, for the first time in a long time, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Summary: Y/N’s summer starts with a betrayal and a very long car ride. Her boyfriend leaves her for Claire. Claire, who also happened to be dating Harry. Now Claire and Ben are together, and Y/N and Harry? They’re the ones left behind—with a cross-country drive to a friends trip they no longer want to be part of. They don’t know each other. They don’t like each other. And they definitely weren’t supposed to share a car, a cabin, or anything remotely close to trust. But between gas stations, motel nights, terrible playlists, and late-summer silences… something shifts. Because the worst part of the trip isn’t being stuck with Harry. It’s realizing she doesn’t want it to end.
Tropes: Strangers to reluctant allies to lovers | Forced proximity (one car, two exes, zero escape) | One bed (motel edition™) | Road trip romance | Exes of exes |Slow burn with tension so thick it could shatter | Quiet pining & internal monologues of doom™ | “We don’t talk about it” energy | Grumpy x guarded | Emotional repression Olympics | Falling in love in silence first
Warnings: Off-page infidelity / cheating (by secondary characters) | Breakups / heartbreak (past relationships and emotional fallout) | Emotional repression / avoidance | Loneliness and grief surrounding failed relationships | Light alcohol use (coping, social, and isolation contexts) | Mild language and sarcasm-as-defense-mechanism | Complicated friend group dynamics | Moments of emotional vulnerability, crying, and self-doubt | Subtle themes of trust rebuilding, emotional intimacy, and fear of abandonment
dedicated to all my bisexuals out there💞 you’re the lil flood of sunshine that streams through everyone’s curtains in the morning! never stop shining☀️
the one where you’re dating harry, but he can’t quite forget how he met you through your ex clare and how you two get a little too close sometimes.
Request: ok so imagine y/n being a bisexual music student and meeting clare somehow throughout music stuff. (Clare would also be bi in this fanfic) Y/N knowing her before and finding her very attractive. they go on a date but they notice that they are better off as friends. through clare Y/N meets harry, they start dating & sometimes harry gets really mad bc sometimes he feels like she gets too close with clare but it’s all cute jealous you know? (anonymous)
Pairing: Fem!Reader & Harry, Fem!Reader & Clare
Word count: 17k (lol what)
NB: bisexual!mc, explicit language, alcohol, smoking, sexual content
