[sushirrrry]

CATCH A GLIMPSE || a harry styles x you one shot. word count: 5,683 summary: you and harry are walking around paris, and he's stopped by fans; it's your first interaction with him out in public, and it starts to make you think about how he feels about it all.

the story is based on this request:

author’s note: I'm back!!!! something short and quick like this was such a fun moment for me to write harry - I've never actually written "real" harry before, so I hope you like my interpretation of him!!! if you have any requests or anything you'd like to see, or just wanna chat, please know that my ask is open! I'd love to hear from you <3

📩 if you’d like to request a prompt, please send them my way.

By the time you even remember to take the picture, the foam has already started to blend into the coffee, leaving it frayed and darker than before.

It’s not ruined, just not as perfect as it was when it was first set down in front of you, the little leaf pattern still visible if you tilt the cup slightly toward the light. You do that now, nudging the saucer a fraction of an inch across the table, angling it so the late-morning sun catches the surface just right. The café is bright without being harsh, that golden kind of light that makes everything feel warmer than it actually is.

“Wait—don’t move,” you say, reaching out without thinking to adjust his hand where it rests loosely around his mug, so easy and so casual.

Harry lets you, easy about it, like he always is with these small things. His fingers shift when you guide them, the rings glinting faintly as they catch the light. There’s something familiar about the weight of his hand now, something you’ve gotten used to seeing in your periphery, across tables, draped over the back of chairs, brushing absentmindedly against your knee.

“Am I being styled?” He asks, voice low and amused as he’s watching the way that you hold your phone up, trying to find the best lighting.

“Obviously,” you murmur, focused on your screen as you lean back slightly to frame it. “You’re part of the composition, my muse.”

“Lucky me.”

You hum in response, already snapping the photo before he can move again. It’s instinctive to capture something small and keeping it saved in your phone for a rainy day. Not for anyone in particular, not even really for yourself in a deep, meaningful way. It’s a quiet documentation of moments that would otherwise blur together.

You drop back into your seat, pulling the photo up and tapping through your story settings. The colors are slightly muted at first, so you warm them, soften the shadows, bring the highlights up just enough to make it feel like how it looked in real life.

His hand is in it, but barely.

Not his face, not anything obvious, you think. Just the edge of his wrist, the curve of his thumb against the ceramic, the glint of silver that you, now, would recognize anywhere—but to anyone else, it’s nothing. It’s just someone’s hand—it’s his hand, that you know so well.

“You and your little posts,” he says, not unkindly, more like he’s thinking out loud than teasing you directly.

You glance up at him, a small smile tugging at your mouth, trying to decipher if that was meant to be pushing at you a bit. “What, you don’t like them?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replies, shifting slightly in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table, just slightly. “Just interesting how you feel the need to record everything.”

“I don’t record everything,” you say, even though you kind of do; you know that you take photos of it all, moments between you that you have to keep for days when he’s not around. “Just the nice parts.”

“That feels like a biased archive, if I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug lightly, eyes dropping back to your phone and the image presented. “That’s the point—it’s my archive.”

You hover over the post button for half a second, not really thinking about it. It’s automatic at this point, the motion of your thumb, the quiet satisfaction of sharing something small and inconsequential.

“Hey—”

It’s the soft voice that is sharp, something about it has a plea that reminds you of what is was that you found so adoring of him before. Not sharp enough to startle you, but enough to interrupt the rhythm of what you’re doing. You pause, thumb still hovering, and look up.

His expression hasn’t changed much, not in any obvious way. He’s not tense, not upset, not even particularly serious, really. But there’s something more deliberate in the way he’s looking at you now, something that wasn’t there a second ago when he was joking about being styled.

You watch as he takes a small sip of his coffee before asking quietly, “Can you not post that one?”

For a second, it doesn’t fully register and you blink at him with a bit of confusion, then down at your phone, then back up again like you’re missing something obvious.

“What?”

“The picture,” he clarifies gently, nodding toward your screen. “Can you just not post that one.”

There’s a beat where you just stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking. Then a small laugh slips out of you that feels ridiculous, because it feels like it should be a joke.

“Why?” You ask, tilting your phone slightly so he can see it more clearly. “You can’t even tell it’s you.”

He glances at the screen, then back at you, his mouth pulling into a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I know,” he says, plainly and without much conviction, “I just—”

He stops there, like he’s trying to find a way to explain something that feels obvious to him but might not land the same way for you. He bites at his lip slightly before you can see that he stands his ground.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

You shift in your seat, one eyebrow lifting slightly as you study him more closely now.

“It’s literally just your hand,” you say, the words coming out a little more playful than pointed, like you’re trying to keep this in the realm of something small and silly; you practically roll your eyes. “No one is going to look at that and think anything of it.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head just slightly as he takes another sip, “You’d be surprised.”

“Would I?” You counter, still smiling, still not quite taking it seriously. “Because I feel like you’re giving people way too much credit. It’s a latte in a coffee shop in Paris and a hand.”

His fingers tighten just a fraction around his cup, not enough that you would notice if you weren’t already looking at him differently now.

“Babe, it’s never just that,” he says, and there’s something steadier in his voice now, something that isn’t trying to convince you so much as state something he knows to be true.

You tilt your head, your smile fading just a little at the edges.

“What do you mean?”

He leans back slightly in his chair, as he glances past you toward the window. It’s subtle, the way his eyes move, the way they take in the reflection in the glass, the people walking by outside, the car that slows just a touch too long at the curb before continuing on. The green in his eye’s freckles at the late morning light before he focuses back in on you.

“It starts out as that,” he says after a moment, nodding toward your phone again, “and then it’s where you are, and then it’s what time it was posted, and then someone recognizes something in the background, and then—”

He trails off, making a vague gesture with his hand like the rest of it should be obvious: “It turns into a whole thing.”

You stare at him, the weight of what he’s saying not quite matching the simplicity of what you’re holding in your hand, and you wonder if he’s just paranoid. You understand why he would be so, but you also need to wonder if there’s something else buried beneath it.

“It’s a café,” you say, a small crease forming between your brows. “There are like a hundred cafés that look exactly like this one, I guarantee no one would know before we left.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, not dismissing you, just… adding to it. “And there are people who make a living out of figuring out which one it is.”

The way he says it is so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it makes it harder to brush off. Still, a part of you resists it, because it feels too big for what this is.

“That feels a little extreme, Harry,” you say, quieter now, but still holding onto the idea that this is being blown out of proportion.

Harry isn’t defensive, he’s not one to argue. He’s really never one to have a definitive stance on any of it, but something about this bothers him and you can see by the way that his eyebrows crease and he stares down at his coffee that maybe, just maybe, you are out of lien.

“You haven’t really seen it yet,” he says.

There’s no accusation in it, no judgment, just truth. You feel your stomach dip slightly, though you’re not entirely sure why.

“Seen what?”

He exhales through his nose, glancing down at the table for a second before looking back up at you.

“What happens when they figure it out,” he says.

The café feels the same. The light hasn’t changed, the music still hums softly in the background, someone laughs near the counter like nothing in the world has shifted. You look down at your phone again, at the picture that, just a minute ago, felt so normal about posting a morning with your boyfriend.

Now it feels like something else entirely, and you wished that it didn’t or that he hadn’t made a comment. Your thumb hovers over the screen again, but this time you don’t move to post it.

Instead, you lock your phone and set it down on the table, face down, the soft click louder than it should be.

He watches you for a moment, like he’s trying to gauge whether you actually understand, or if you’re just agreeing to avoid pushing it further.

Then, as soft as he can, “Thank you.”

You nod, your fingers tracing the edge of your sleeve as you try to settle the strange, unfamiliar feeling sitting in your chest.

The rest of the café trip felt tense, almost like there was something he wanted to say or needed to say but couldn’t find the words to do in a public setting. You understood that—there were many things that he didn’t want to display in front of the world, no matter what. But this was sacred, what you two had.

But Harry knew more than anyone that it was the beginning of a trail, a long and winding trail that would lead people to finding more about him—which meant knowing you. And you were sacred to him, especially in moments like this.

It hadn’t been too long since you had started to date; maybe a couple of months now. There were so many nights in the house, so many private dinners. Harry had explained how easy it was to not be seen, but that he knew that once you had started to go out, it would be known immediately. So, you took his word and continued the late nights at home, enjoying each other’s company.

You understand that his life was different than yours, and you understand that his world had a different view point than yours ever could.

Once you’re both finished with your drink, you both decide to make your way to the door; Harry thanks the baristas one more time, giving them an extra cash tip that was certainly not necessary, but he was generous in small moments like that.

It doesn’t feel like anything is wrong when you first step outside.

The air is cool in that soft, early afternoon way, the kind that makes you glad you grabbed a coat but not cold enough to rush anywhere. The street hums with life in that low, constant, comforting way. A bus exhales at the corner, brakes sighing as it comes to a halt. Someone laughs too loudly just ahead of you, and music spills faintly out of an open storefront.

It’s normal enough that you don’t think twice about the way your arm brushes Harry’s as you walk, or how easily your hand slips into the pocket of his coat where his already is, your fingers finding his without looking. It’s become second nature, the way you move around each other now, like your bodies have figured it out before your minds had to.

He adjusts his sunglasses as you step off the curb, his hand intertwined with yours as it briefly comes up to rest at the small of your back in a guiding motion when you cross the street. It’s protective in a way that feels instinctive rather than intentional.

“Left or right?” He asks, glancing down at you.

You look up the street, pretending to consider like it’s a serious decision. “Left feels right.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at your pun, letting you steer him in that direction without argument. “Alright. Lead the way.”

This had been your first time to Paris, it was a trip that Harry had made quite on a whim. Walking the streets felt like everything you could imagine, but at the same time, you feel like being a tourist with him feels instinctually normal.

You point out things as you go like a bookstore window with handwritten staff picks, a dog in a sweater that looks vaguely annoyed about it, a couple arguing in hushed, intense voices outside a café. Harry listens, adds commentary when it suits him, teases you when it doesn’t.

“You absolutely judge people by what they’re reading,” he says, following your gaze to the bookstore.

“I do not.”

“You just said you trust her taste because that girl picked up a hardback.”

You bite your lip as you try not to let the smile over take you, “I think that’s valid—hardback books have a kind of badass vibe to them that paperbacks don’t. They feel classic.”

“Whatever you say.” He smiles at that, shaking his head slightly, his shoulder bumping into yours.

But then, something shifts. You don’t notice it as quickly as you wished you had, but more of a slow-motion moment.

It’s not a single moment, not something loud or obvious that demands your attention because it really didn’t have your attention quickly. It’s smaller than that, and quieter, as it was meant to be.

There’s a girl walking toward you that slows, not enough to be strange or out of the ordinary, just enough to linger. Her phone is already in her hand, angled outward like she’s mid-text, but her eyes flick up once, quick, before dropping again.

You catch it, but only halfway. Your brain registers it as something slightly off, something that doesn’t quite match, but you don’t hold onto it long enough to question it. People look at people all of the time—that’s normal, and you keep walking.

Harry does too.

“…I’m telling you, that place is overrated,” he’s saying, and you’re catching the tail end of his comment as he’s nodding toward a bakery up ahead with a line curling out the door. “It’s all aesthetic. Croissant is average at best.”

“You’re impossible,” you reply, glancing at the line before you think back to the girl you’ve passed. “People wouldn’t wait like that if it wasn’t good.”

“They absolutely would,” he counters, his hand pulls yours back into his jacket pocket. “People love a queue. Makes them feel like they’re part of something.”

You open your mouth to argue, and then it happens again, but closer this time. It’s far less discreet—Hary definitely notices now, you’re certain by the way that he tilts his head down, almost to shy his face away from the people who notice him.

It’s a few girls this time that are standing just outside a shop window, one’s body is angled toward the street, phone held loosely in front of her, casual, but not raised in your faces.

Your steps falter—barely, just enough that your rhythm breaks for a second, but Harry doesn’t stop the rhythm of your walk.

Inside his pocket, his fingers curl more securely around yours as if to anchor you back into reality. His pace doesn’t change, but his presence does—subtle, controlled, like something in him has sharpened without becoming visible.

You glance up at him, searching his face for confirmation, for some kind of reaction, but you can’t find anything.  At least, not one anyone else would notice. You see the way his jaw has set just slightly, and the way his gaze flicks—not toward the small group thad had gathered, not directly, but toward the reflection in the glass as you pass.

Of course he’s aware; he’s seeing everything, maybe even before you are because he’s been anticipating this.

“Harry,” you murmur, your voice low enough that it barely carries beyond the space between you.

He hums in response, not looking at you, not breaking stride.

“I think,” you hesitate for a solid moment, the words catching slightly in your throat as your eyes flick back, just for a second. “I think that people are taking photos of us.”

You expect a reaction, but instead he just confirms everything you thought.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, because he knows that’s what’s happening. “Don’t look.”

It’s enough to see them still standing there, their phones now lowered slightly, their posture just a little too stiff, like they’re trying to pretend they weren’t doing exactly what you think they was.

Harry’s hand tightens, just a fraction, but it breaks your thoughts again.

“Hey,” he says, softer now but firmer, pulling your attention back to him without actually touching your face or forcing you to turn. “Don’t.”

You freeze mid-motion, caught between instinct and instruction.

“Why?” You whisper, your voice thinner than it was before. “How can I not?”

“Because that’s what makes it worth it to them,” he says. “They want to be perceived; that’s the goal here.”

You blink up at him, confusion flickering across your face. “What do you mean?”

He exhales, his gaze still forward, his expression composed in a way that suddenly feels like effort.

“They want you to notice,” he explains, in a friendly way, not condescending. “They want the look, the reaction, the—” he gestures slightly with his free hand “—moment where it becomes something.”

Your chest feels tighter now, your awareness stretching outward in a way that’s impossible to pull back.

“So, I just… we pretend it’s not happening?” You ask him and it feels like an impossible feat, especially when people are close to you, and when people want to sneak photos of you and invade your privacy for their own gain.

“Yeah.”

“That’s—” you let out a small, disbelieving breath. “I mean, that’s insane, Harry.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s something almost apologetic in it. “But it works, and it’s worked for ten years, and I want it to work for the next ten.”

You swallow, your gaze dropping to the pavement as you try to steady yourself. But now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it. There are wandering eyes everywhere now, especially when others see people looking at you, wondering who it could be. Maybe even shuffles of whispers that amount to him being seen with a new girl.

There’s a girl across the street who slows just a little too long, she stops mid-conversation on her phone.

Now, a couple who stops walking as you pass, their conversation pausing mid-sentence. It’s a phone angled outward, held just a second too still.

Instead, he shifts closer to you, not dramatically, not in a way that would draw attention. Just enough that your shoulders press more firmly together, that the space between you disappears.

“I don’t know how to act,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper now. “Like, what do I do with my face? Where am I supposed to look?”

That gets a small smile out of him, softer this time, something warm breaking through the control.

“At me,” he says. “Look at me,” he repeats gently. “Or straight ahead, really. Anywhere that feels normal to you, just don’t search for it. The sunglasses helps you not be so obvious.”

You take what he says and let it rest in the corners of your brain like a token of wisdom, wondering how he’d made it this far with this many eyes on him at all times. It feels like such an invasion of your day, and while you know that this comes with the territory, you wonder if he’s self-conscious that you have to follow his rules too.

You walk beside each other, your shoulder brushing his every few steps, your hand tucked into the pocket of his coat where his fingers rest loosely around yours. It’s a small, contained thing, something private in the middle of a public space, and you find yourself holding onto it a little more deliberately now. Not tightly, not in a way that would draw attention, just enough to feel anchored in something that still belongs to the two of you.

He’s begun mid-sentence, talking about something inconsequential like some place he used to go years ago, how it’s changed, how everything eventually does. You follow along easily, responding where it fits, letting the conversation carry the same way it always has. But underneath it, you’re tracking the

There’s a group of girls a little further down the street, clustered together in that unmistakable way, heads close, shoulders brushing, their energy just slightly too focused in one direction. You don’t look at them directly, but you notice the way one of them leans in, says something quickly to the others, the way their attention shifts all at once.

You can tell in the way his hand shifts against yours, the way his posture stays relaxed but becomes more deliberate, more aware of space, of distance, of timing and of preparing for interaction that may not necessarily be welcome at the moment. You don’t say anything because you don’t want to make it something out of the ordinary.

“Harry?” One of them calls, a little breathless, a little disbelieving, like she’s not entirely sure she’s right but hopeful enough to try.

You both slow to the corner where you’d all be crossing the street. There’s no point pretending you didn’t hear it because it’s quite obvious.

They approach together—three of them then, moving with that mix of excitement and hesitation, like they’re trying to be respectful but can’t quite contain themselves. Their phones are already in their hands, not raised yet, but ready.

“Oh my god, hi,” one of them says, smiling wide, her voice overlapping slightly with the others. “We didn’t want to bother you, but—hi.”

Harry turns toward them fully, his expression open and warm in a way that feels genuine, not performative and that’s just because he is. You’ve seen that before, but now you notice the precision in it, the way he controls the moment without making it feel controlled.

“Hi,” he says, easy and calm.

He steps slightly forward—not away from you, but just enough to meet them where they are—and reaches out his hand. It untangles with yours, but you smile at the acception of that.

“I’m Harry,” he adds.

It’s such a simple thing, but it catches them off guard in the best way. They laugh, a little flustered, each of them taking his hand in turn.

 “What are your names?”

They tell him, one after the other, and he repeats them back, nodding, like he’s committing them to memory even if it’s just for the moment. It slows everything down, turns what could’ve been rushed into something steadier, something that feels more like an interaction than an interruption.

You stay just beside him, close enough to feel included but not pulled into the center of it—you don’t know that he’d want that, you hadn’t really talked about that, but you figure that this isn’t your moment at all. It’s theirs. One of the girls’ glances at you briefly, curious but not intrusive, before her attention returns to him.

“Can we get a photo?” Another one asks, already lifting her phone slightly.

You watch him closely now, not because you expect him to struggle with it, but because you want to see how he does it, how he keeps it kind without letting it get away from him.

“Do you mind if we don’t?” He speaks out.

His tone stays soft, the same warmth still there, but there’s a quiet firmness underneath it that makes the boundary clear without making it uncomfortable. They hesitate, just for a second, the request still hanging in the air and the disappointment slowly travels to their face.

“Oh—it’ll be really quick,” one of them says, not pushy exactly, but hopeful that maybe she can change his mind.

“I know,” he tells her gently, his hand over his heart in the genuine way that he does. “I’m sorry.”

There’s no edge to it, no frustration, but hopefully an understanding that he doesn’t want to have photos today—it’s your day, together. Just a calm, steady refusal that doesn’t leave much room to push further. They exchange a quick glance between themselves, then nod.

“Okay,” one of them says, her smile softening. “That’s okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says easily, as if to help ease their sadness. “It’s nice to meet you all, thank you for the support—are you coming to the show tomorrow?”

The lights in their faces start to beam back as they all nod graciously, telling him yes and how excited they were and that makes him smile. They thank him, still smiling, still a little breathless, before stepping back, letting the moment dissolve without turning it into anything bigger.

You both give small waves back to them as you turn to go your separate ways.

You start walking again as soon as there’s space to, falling back into step beside him as you feel the quiet hum of adrenaline under your skin now, not overwhelming, just enough to make everything feel slightly sharper.

“That was…” you start, searching for the right word.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing down at you briefly. “I would do that a million times over, it always means so much.”

Harry’s head turns just slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you see it, and his expression changes in a way you haven’t seen yet. The lines between his brows start to crease as he pulls his lips into his mouth for a moment.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?” You ask, your voice low, already knowing the answer before he says it.

“Paps, over there” he replies, just as quietly, tilting his chin to the left near the small park that you’re passing; you can hear the small clicks of the automated cameras.

Harry’s hand tightens around yours, and his pace picks up—not rushing, not running, but purposeful like he wants to get off of the streets.  

“Come on,” he says softly.

You match him immediately, your steps falling into his without hesitation. He keeps you close to his side, guiding you through the movement of the street with practiced ease, his hand at your back again, more constant now. You pass a corner, then another, his awareness stretching outward in a way that feels almost tangible.

“Hotel’s just up here,” he murmurs.

You nod, your grip on his hand tightening slightly, not out of fear, but out of instinct.

When you reach it, he doesn’t slow. He moves straight inside, the shift from street to lobby immediate and noticeable, the noise dropping away, the space suddenly more controlled, more contained like you both are in control now. Only then does he let out a breath.

His shoulders drop just slightly, the tension easing in increments rather than all at once.

You stay close as you cross the lobby, your steps finally slowing to something normal again. The elevator doors slide open, and you step inside together, the space closing around you in a way that feels almost surreal after the street.

You both walk towards the elevator, thanking the door man before you step inside to go to your room on the twenty-fourth floor. He removes his sunglasses, and you place yours on your shirt collar for a moment. It’s the small moment of silence with the two of you that makes you exhale, too.

For a second, neither of you says anything, then he turns toward you.

His hand comes up to your jaw, warm and steady and guiding, and he leans in, kissing you softly. It’s not hurried, not desperate, like he’s reminding both of you where you are now. You exhale into it without realizing you were holding your breath.

When he pulls back, his forehead lingers close to yours for a second before he drops his hand again.

You study him, really looking now at the way that his skin freckles and his eyes are greener under the blue hat he’s wearing.

“Sorry our walk had to be cut short.” You say quietly.

“You’re sorry?” He add, almost instinctively, his expression shifts at that, something gentler settling in.

You frown just a little. “I mean it—I know I don’t have to be sorry, but I feel sorry that you have to deal with all of that just by going out. That’s—” you exhale softly. “That’s a lot.”

He leans back slightly against the wall as the elevator continues its slow climb, his gaze steady on yours.

“Everything comes at a cost,” he says, almost as easily as he could have—it’s not a lie, it’s just to you. “But it’s nothing I’d change because there’s nothing I love more than this life.”

When the elevator reaches your suite, you both step off and the sound feels heavier than it should, like it seals something out instead of just closing a space. For a moment, neither of you moves very far from where you’ve stopped. Harry drops his keys onto the console by the door, the soft clatter loud in the stillness, and then runs a hand back through his hair, exhaling slowly.

It isn’t dramatic, the way the tension leaves him. It doesn’t vanish all at once. It loosens in pieces—his shoulders easing, his posture becoming looser, the sharp edge of awareness dulling now that there’s nothing to track, nothing to anticipate. There’s nothing new here.

You slip your shoes off near the door and drift a little further into the room, your fingers trailing absentmindedly along the back of a chair. The adrenaline from earlier has settled into something quieter, something more reflective, and you’re aware now of how much you’ve been holding in your body without realizing it.

“Are you alright?” You ask, as you watch him cross the room.

He nods once, then again, like he’s confirming it to himself as much as to you. “Yeah. Are you?”

You give a small, understanding nod, leaning back against the edge of the table. “Yeah, I’m totally fine.”

That earns you a faint smile, something softer than what he gives the world, less practiced. It’s when he backtracks, working his way back to you before he lets his eyes drift down to your lips now. It feels intimate, and you lift your hands to rest on his biceps as you hear the exhale expel from him.

There’s a beat of quiet after that, not uncomfortable, just… full. The kind that follows something shared, something understood without needing to be picked apart immediately.

You reach for your phone without thinking, more out of habit than intention. The screen lights up in your hand, and for a second you just look at it, your thumb hovering without moving.

“You can post it, you know,” he says, the words rolling off of his tongue. “The picture,” he clarifies then, nodding toward your phone. “If you want to.”

You study him for a second, searching his expression, trying to figure out if he means it or if this is something he feels like he should say.

“No—I mean, why? Are you sure?” You ask.

He nods, a little more firmly this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “I trust you.”

The words land softly, but they carry more weight than you expect.

You tilt your head slightly, wondering if he feels some sort of guilt around it. “What changed?”

He lets out a small breath, his gaze dropping for a second before coming back to you.

“Today,” he says simply. “The way you handled it.”

You consider it for a second longer, your thumb brushing lightly over the screen, then you lock your phone without another second to consider.

“I don’t think I need to.”

Harry watches you, something curious flickering across his face. You shake your head slightly, a small smile pulling at your mouth as you continue.

“I think I like it better like this,” you say to him, and only him. “That it’s just ours, you know?”

There’s a quiet pause after that before you watch the way that his dimples start to make their way on his face, crossing his cheeks in that shy, coy way that always enveloped him.

His hand slides a little more securely around your waist, pulling you closer, and this time when he kisses you, it lingers just a fraction longer and you let your hand drift up to pull at the hair at the nape of his neck before you pull back to look at him once more.

“I like that people can have small glimpses,” Harry tells you, pushing some hair behind your ear before he lets his gaze draw down to you, “But I like that I’m the only one who can have you.”

The smile then pushes on your lips as you feel him push your hips against the table, almost trapping you, “I feel the same way.”

He kisses you once more, then twice before whispering against your lips, “Mine, all mine.”

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

One Slice of Cheese

part two of No Boats Involved. Read part one here!

after one unexpectedly good first date, Harry comes back to the city early and a spontaneous walk turns into the first stop on your very unofficial New York tour.

word count: 11.9k

The date goes well.

Not in a flashy, cinematic way. Nothing dramatic happens. No one at the bar recognizes him, no one interrupts, and the world outside keeps moving like this is just another quiet Wednesday night.

Which, for the two of you, it somehow becomes.

The strange part is how quickly the nerves fade. For the first few minutes you’re aware of everything. The way you’re sitting. The way he’s looking at you. The low hum of the bar around you.

Then the conversation finds its rhythm and suddenly it feels familiar.

Like the app just changed locations.

He takes a sip of his drink and glances at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

“This is strange,” he says.

“Strange good or strange bad?”

“Strange like we’ve been talking for weeks but I’m only just hearing your voice in person.”

You laugh softly. “It is a little weird bringing the chat into real life.”

“That’s exactly it,” he says. “Feels like we skipped the awkward part.”

“You mean the part where two strangers pretend they’ve always liked the same music?”

“Exactly that.”

You tilt your head. “We did cover a lot of ground already.”

He smiles. “We did.”

There’s a small pause, comfortable enough that neither of you rush to fill it.

“So,” you say, turning slightly toward him, “how were the meetings today?”

He exhales softly, leaning back on the stool.

“Long,” he says. “A lot of people in rooms talking about the album like it’s a strategy.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not terrible,” he says quickly. “Just strange sometimes. You make something extremely personal and suddenly it’s being discussed like a product.”

You nod slowly.

“I think that happens with writing too,” you say. “Just smaller.”

His eyes flick back to you.

“How so?”

You shrug slightly, tracing the rim of your glass.

“I’ll write something about a neighborhood or a person and suddenly people online are arguing about it who have never been anywhere near the place I’m talking about.”

He smiles faintly at that.

“Sounds familiar.”

“Does it bother you?” you ask.

He thinks about it for a second.

“Not always,” he says. “Sometimes it means people care. Sometimes it’s just background noise.”

You nod.

“That’s the exact balance.”

He studies you for a moment, curious in a way that doesn’t feel intrusive.

“You’re exactly how I imagined you’d be,” he says.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “That sounds like a dangerous thought.”

“Why?”

“Expectations.”

He shakes his head.

“Not expectations,” he says. “Just… familiar.”

You glance down at your drink to hide the small smile forming.

The conversation drifts after that. Not shallow, not heavy. Just steady.

You tell him about the bakery that almost closed and the neighborhood that rallied around it. He tells you about the strange quiet of studios late at night when everyone else has gone home.

At one point he leans his elbow against the bar and tilts his head slightly.

“You ask good questions,” he says.

You shrug.

“That’s the job.”

He smiles at that, like he’s realizing something.

“Good thing you asked me out then.”

You blink.

“I did not ask you out.”

“You asked if I had plans.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’s close enough.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

And somewhere between that moment and the next sip of your drink, the last of the nerves disappear.

You’re not meeting Harry Styles.

You’re just talking to Harry.

Eventually the night starts to wind down on its own.

Not because the conversation dries up, but because the bar slowly empties around you. The couple in the corner leaves. The bartender begins wiping down the far end of the counter again. The quiet hum of closing time creeps into the room.

You glance at the clock on the wall without meaning to.

He notices.

“Early morning?” he asks.

“Always,” you say. “Deadlines wait for no one.”

He smiles faintly at that, but there’s a small nod that follows.

“Same,” he says. “Flight’s early.”

That swims in the space between you. Not heavy. Just real life.

You both sit there for a moment longer, letting the night settle around the edges of the conversation.

“I’m glad you asked if I had plans,” he says after a second.

You look over at him.

“I’m glad you said yes.”

The simplicity of it makes you smile.

The bartender brings the check without being asked. He reaches for it automatically and you immediately reach too.

“You don’t have to—” you start.

“It’s one drink,” he says lightly.

“You flew across the country.”

“That’s unrelated.”

You hesitate, then let it go with a quiet shake of your head.

Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. The streetlights make everything look softer, quieter than the day version of the same block.

You stand there for a second on the sidewalk, both of you adjusting to the abrupt shift from dim bar to cold night air.

“Well,” you say.

“Well,” he echoes.

It’s not awkward. Just the natural pause of two people deciding what the ending of the night looks like.

Then he steps forward and wraps you in a hug.

It catches you slightly off guard, but you hug him back without thinking.

And for a brief second your brain short circuits.

Wow.

That’s a really good hug.

Warm. Easy. The kind that feels genuine instead of polite.

And he smells… incredible.

Clean, warm, something subtle and expensive that you can’t place but immediately notice.

You pull back before your brain can spiral too far down that path.

“Safe flight tomorrow,” you say.

“Good luck with the deadlines,” he replies.

You both hesitate for half a second like there might be something else to say.

But somehow it already feels complete.

You start walking toward your building, hands tucked into your coat pockets, trying very hard to act normal.

Halfway down the block you realize something.

You’re smiling.

And you can still faintly smell whatever cologne he was wearing clinging to your clothes.

Work drags the next morning.

Not because anything is particularly difficult. Just because your brain refuses to stay where it’s supposed to be.

Wednesday night keeps replaying in small, inconvenient flashes.

The bar. The way the conversation never stalled. That hug.

You sit through a meeting Thursday morning where someone is explaining a zoning amendment and realize halfway through that you haven’t heard a single word. Your editor asks you a question and you answer just slowly enough that she pauses.

“Coffee,” you say.

She nods like that explains everything.

By the afternoon you’re finally settling back into your work when your phone buzzes on your desk.

Raya.

Your stomach flips immediately, which is deeply annoying.

You open it.

Made it.

You blink at the screen.

Gone so soon :(

The typing bubble appears quickly.

Still thinking about our date.

A smile creeps onto your face before you can stop it.

Wow. A date? I thought it was just one drink.

Three dots appear.

Semantics.

You laugh quietly to yourself and lock your phone, setting it face down on your desk before you can keep the conversation going.

The rest of the afternoon slowly finds its rhythm again. Emails. Edits. A deadline that refuses to write itself.

Still, every once in a while, your brain drifts back to Wednesday.

Friday passes in much the same way. Normal enough on the outside, but with your mind wandering back to the same handful of moments.

By evening you’re finally packing up your bag when your phone buzzes again.

Camille.

Girl dinner tonight. My place.

You smile.

What time.

Soon. I made pasta and something I’m calling salad but it’s mostly cheese.

On my way.

You step out into the early evening air and start walking toward her neighborhood, letting the noise of the city swallow up the end of the workweek.

Your mind drifts again, unhelpfully, to Wednesday night.

The way he laughed when you told him about the laundromat cat.

The way he listened when you talked about your job.

The way that hug lingered just a second longer than you expected.

You shake your head slightly as you walk.

It was just one drink.

A very good drink.

But still. Just one.

By the time you reach Camille’s building the sky has already turned that deep blue that only happens at the end of a long day in the city, the kind of evening where the sidewalks are still busy but the rush has softened into something looser, people lingering outside restaurants and talking louder than they probably should. You climb the familiar stairs and let yourself in the way you always do, the faint smell of garlic and something creamy drifting down the hallway before you even reach her door.

When you push it open she’s standing at the stove with her back to you, hair twisted up loosely and one of those oversized sweatshirts she claims is vintage even though you’re fairly certain she bought it last month. A pot is bubbling on the stove and the island is already scattered with bowls and plates in a way that somehow still looks intentional.

“You’re early,” she says without turning around, stirring something with exaggerated focus.

“You texted soon,” you reply, dropping your bag near the couch and shrugging out of your coat.

“That’s my version of time management.”

You walk over and slide onto one of the stools at the island while she finishes whatever final step she’s pretending requires deep concentration. Without even looking she reaches behind her, grabs a wine glass from the counter, pours generously, and slides it across the island toward you.

You accept it gratefully.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says, finally turning around. “You look calm for someone who had a full work week.”

You take a sip before answering, letting the wine settle for a second.

“It was normal.”

“Normal is boring,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter and studying you.

You shrug. “It was busy.”

She starts plating the pasta while you talk, asking about your editor, about the piece you were finishing, about the bakery story that had you rewriting the same paragraph three different ways. The conversation drifts the way it always does between the two of you, jumping between work and random stories and small complaints about the city.

You answer her, but you’re quieter than usual.

Not distant exactly. Just… thoughtful.

Camille notices almost immediately.

She always does.

Halfway through telling you about a brand event she went to the night before she stops mid sentence and squints at you across the island.

“What happened.”

You blink. “What.”

“You’re thinking about something,” she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you like it’s evidence. “And you’re trying to act like you’re not.”

You look down at your wine for a second before glancing back up at her, a small smile already pulling at the corner of your mouth.

“Nothing dramatic,” you say.

Her eyes narrow further.

“Tell me.”

You take another sip of wine, setting the glass down carefully before finally saying it.

“I met up with Harry Wednesday night.”

There’s half a second of silence where the words land.

Then Camille screams.

Not a polite gasp. Not a surprised laugh.

An actual scream.

The wooden spoon flies out of her hand and clatters across the counter as she grabs the nearest thing within reach and throws it at you, which turns out to be a folded kitchen towel that bounces harmlessly off your shoulder.

“YOU WHAT?”

You burst out laughing despite yourself while she stares at you like you just announced you’ve secretly been living on the moon.

“You went on the date and didn’t tell me?” she demands, already pacing behind the island.

“It wasn’t a whole thing,” you protest.

“You went on a date with him, and then just casually came to pasta night like that didn’t happen?”

You lift your hands defensively, still laughing.

“It was one drink.”

“ONE DRINK?” she repeats, throwing her hands in the air. “You buried the lead for forty eight hours and now you’re acting like this is normal information?”

You shake your head, smiling into your wine glass.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?” she demands. “Next month?”

“I was literally about to tell you.”

She stops pacing and stares at you, hands on her hips, trying to process the fact that the story she’s been waiting weeks to unfold apparently already happened without her.

“You went on the date,” she says slowly, like she’s confirming reality.

You nod.

“And?”

You take another sip of wine, letting the suspense linger just long enough to annoy her.

“It was really good.”

You take another sip of wine, letting the moment breathe while Camille stands there across the island looking like she might explode if you don’t start talking.

“It was great,” you say finally.

She blinks.

“That’s it?”

“It was short,” you add with a small shrug. “He was a little late. But once he got there it was… really good.”

Camille leans forward across the island like she’s conducting an interrogation.

“How good.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head.

“Camille.”

“I need details.”

You roll the stem of your wine glass between your fingers for a second before answering.

“It was just easy,” you say. “We talked the whole time. It didn’t feel weird or awkward like I thought it might. It just felt like we picked up the conversation we’d already been having.”

She studies your face carefully, clearly reading between the lines.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Did you kiss.”

You chuckle at the bluntness of it and take another sip of wine before answering.

“No.”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“No?”

“We hugged.”

She leans back, crossing her arms.

“A hug.”

“It was a really good hug,” you say defensively.

“That is not the same thing.”

“I know.”

She watches you for another second, then smirks slightly.

“You liked him.”

You try to keep your expression neutral and fail completely.

“He was amazing,” you admit.

Her reaction softens just a little at that.

“Okay,” she says. “So what did he think.”

“What do you mean.”

“The date,” she says impatiently. “Did he say anything. Did he text you after. Did he vanish into the pop star void.”

You reach into your bag and pull out your phone, unlocking it before sliding it across the island toward her.

“He messaged me when he got to the airport.”

She grabs the phone immediately and starts scrolling through the short exchange on the screen, reading the messages silently while you sip your wine.

Her expression moves through a full range of reactions in about ten seconds.

“Hm.”

“What.”

She looks up at you.

“Well first of all,” she says, pointing at the screen, “I love that he called it a date.”

You smile slightly.

“Second,” she continues, narrowing her eyes a little as she hands the phone back to you, “I don’t love that he hasn’t taken it off the app.”

You blink.

“What.”

“He should’ve given you his number,” she says matter of factly. “That’s step one.”

“It’s been like… thirty hours,” you reply.

“I don’t care,” she says. “Men with phones give numbers.”

You laugh.

“That’s your takeaway.”

“It’s one of them.”

She leans forward again, lowering her voice slightly like she’s sharing a theory.

“But.”

“But?”

She points at the screen again.

“He said he’s still thinking about Wednesday.”

You glance down at the message again.

“Yeah.”

“That’s not casual,” she says. “That’s a man who wants to see you again.”

You take your phone back from her and stare down at the screen for a second, the short exchange suddenly feeling heavier now that someone else has looked at it.

Camille watches you closely while you think.

You run a hand through your hair, pushing it back in that absentminded way you do when your brain is moving faster than your words.

“I want to see him again too,” you admit finally, your voice quieter than it was a minute ago.

Her expression immediately softens into something smug and sympathetic at the same time.

“I knew it.”

“But,” you continue quickly, leaning your elbows on the island and wrapping your hands around your wine glass, “we haven’t actually talked about that.”

She tilts her head.

“What do you mean.”

“I mean we had the drink, he had to fly out early the next morning, and then he texted when he got to the airport. That’s it.”

Camille squints at you like she’s examining evidence.

“And you didn’t bring it up.”

You shake your head.

“He’s so busy,” you say, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “He flew back to LA for promo and meetings and all of that. I’m not going to be the person who immediately asks when he’s coming back.”

She leans against the counter, thinking.

“That’s fair,” she says slowly. “But also you’re allowed to want to see someone again.”

“I know,” you say with a small laugh. “I just don’t want to make it weird.”

She studies you for another second, then gestures toward your phone again.

“You realize this whole situation is already weird, right.”

You smile into your glass.

“I’m aware.”

Camille sighs dramatically and pushes the pasta bowl closer to you.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s establish a few things.”

You brace yourself.

“One,” she says, counting on her fingers, “you went on a date with Harry Styles and had a good time. No, a great time.”

You nod.

“Two,” she continues, “he texted you after and called it a date.”

Another nod.

“And three,” she says, pointing directly at you now, “you both clearly liked each other.”

You laugh quietly.

“When you say it like that it sounds ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous,” she says immediately. “But it’s also happening.”

You glance down at your phone again, the screen still dark in your hand.

“I just don’t know what the next step looks like,” you admit.

Camille grins.

“Oh, I think we’re about to find out.”

You shake your head immediately.

“No.”

Camille lets out a dramatic groan.

“Why are you acting like this is a hostage negotiation,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Just message him.”

“I am not messaging him.”

“You literally already message him.”

“That’s on the app,” you say quickly, pointing at the phone on the counter between you. “That’s different.”

“How.”

“Because that’s where we’ve been talking,” you explain. “This would be… something else.”

Camille stares at you for a long moment like she’s trying to understand how your brain works.

“You two have already gone on a date,” she says slowly. “You hugged goodbye.”

You wince slightly.

“That was a really good hug.”

“That is not the point.”

You drag your hands back through your hair again, leaning your elbows on the island.

“I don’t want to make it weird.”

Camille leans forward, suddenly calmer.

“Okay,” she says. “Then don’t make it weird.”

You squint at her.

“I don’t like when you say things like that.”

“Just send him your number.”

You blink.

“What.”

“Send him your number,” she repeats, like this is the most obvious solution in the world. “You’re not asking for anything. You’re just saying, hey, if you want to text instead of the app, here it is.”

You hesitate.

“He might actually feel more comfortable with that,” she adds. “Think about it. He probably doesn’t just hand his number out on apps.”

You sit there quietly for a second, considering it.

“That’s actually… not a terrible point,” you admit.

“I know.”

“But it’s still terrifying.”

Camille smiles.

“That’s because you like him.”

You look down at the phone again, suddenly very aware of the empty message box waiting on the screen.

Your stomach twists.

“I can’t.”

“You absolutely can.”

“No, I really can’t.”

She sighs and holds her hand out across the island.

“Give me the phone.”

You hesitate for a second before sliding it toward her across the counter.

“I regret this already,” you say.

Camille grabs it immediately, eyes lighting up like she’s been waiting all night for this moment.

“Relax, look what happened when I messaged him last time for you,” she says, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

“You are not allowed to say anything weird.”

“I would never.”

“That’s a lie.”

She grins without looking up.

“Trust the process.”

You lean back on the stool and cover your face with one hand while she starts typing.

Camille studies the screen for a second, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard while you sit across from her with your hand still half covering your face.

“You better not say anything crazy,” you mumble through your fingers.

“I am crafting a perfectly normal message,” she says calmly.

“That sentence alone makes me nervous.”

She ignores you and starts typing, pausing once or twice to reread it like she’s editing an email instead of sending a message on a dating app.

“Okay,” she says after a moment. “Tell me if this is insane.”

You slowly lower your hand and lean forward across the island.

She turns the phone so you can read it.

Hey, I really enjoyed our time together Wednesday. I figured I’d send my number in case texting is easier than the app. No pressure, just thought I’d share it.

Below it she’s typed your number.

You stare at the message for a few seconds, reading it twice.

It doesn’t sound desperate. It doesn’t sound awkward. It sounds… normal.

Thoughtful, even.

“That’s good,” you admit quietly.

“I know,” Camille says smugly.

You hesitate for another second, your stomach tightening again now that the send button is right there.

“What if this is weird,” you say.

“It’s not weird.”

“What if he thinks it’s weird.”

“He won’t.”

You exhale slowly and lean back on the stool again, pushing the phone back toward her.

“I can’t press send.”

Camille grins.

“Good thing I can.”

Before you can change your mind, she taps the screen.

The message disappears into the chat.

For a moment neither of you move.

You both just stare at the phone sitting on the counter between you like it might explode.

“Oh my god,” you say, dropping your head into your hands.

Camille laughs and slides the phone back toward you.

“Relax.”

You peek at the screen again, your heart suddenly beating much louder than it should.

“Now what.”

“Now,” she says, reaching for her wine again, “we wait.”

And you did wait.

Not dramatically at first. The message had been sent, the number shared, and for the rest of that night you and Camille forced yourselves to stop staring at the phone like it might immediately light up with an answer. Dinner continued, the pasta was eaten, the wine disappeared from your glasses, and eventually the conversation drifted to other things the way it always did.

The next morning passed quietly. You checked the app once out of habit and saw the message sitting there exactly where it had been left, your number at the bottom of it like a small offering you were now trying not to overanalyze. You told yourself that was fine. He was traveling. He had meetings. You had no idea what his schedule actually looked like and you refused to become the person who refreshed a dating app every twenty minutes.

So you let it sit.

A few days moved past that way, filled with work and errands and the small routines that keep a week moving forward whether your brain cooperates or not. By the time the weekend rolled around you had mostly convinced yourself not to expect anything. If he texted, great. If he didn’t, the date had still been good and that could simply be where the story ended.

Late Sunday afternoon you left your apartment to walk to the grocery store a few blocks away, your coat half zipped against the chill and your mind already making a mental list of things you needed to buy. The sidewalks were busy in that lazy weekend way where people move slowly and no one seems particularly rushed.

Your phone started ringing in your coat pocket just as you reached the corner.

You pulled it out without thinking, already assuming it was Camille calling to ask if you wanted to come over again or some unknown number trying to sell you something you definitely didn’t need. The screen lit up with a number you didn’t recognize and for a moment you just stared at it, thumb hovering over the answer button while the phone continued vibrating in your hand.

You debated letting it go.

If it was important, they would leave a voicemail. If it was spam, it would stop eventually. There was no real reason to answer a random number while standing on a cold sidewalk.

The phone kept ringing.

You sighed quietly and tapped the screen.

“Hello?”

There was the faintest pause on the other end before a familiar voice came through the speaker, warmer than you expected and immediately recognizable in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Hi,” he said. “It’s Harry. I hope it’s alright that I called.”

You stop walking the second you heard his voice.

Not gradually either. One step forward and then nothing, like your body forgets the next instruction.

People move around you on the sidewalk while you stand there holding your phone to your ear, the grocery store completely forgotten.

“Harry?,” you say after a second, your voice catching slightly before settling. “Yes. Hi.”

You hear him let out a quiet breath on the other end, almost like relief.

“Good,” he says. “I was starting to think you might not answer.”

“Well… I almost didn’t.” You laugh softly, the sound more nervous than you meant it to be.

There’s a small pause between you. Not uncomfortable, just the kind that happens when two people who are used to texting suddenly have to remember how conversations move out loud.

“I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” he says.

You glance around, still standing on the corner with a grocery bag hanging off your arm.

“No,” you reply. “I was just walking to the store.”

“I’ve been meaning to reach sooner, but things got a little chaotic here.” He replies.

“LA,” you say.

“Exactly.”

You start walking again without thinking, moving slowly down the block while you talk.

“So,” you say after a moment, “you survived the meetings.”

“Barely,” he says. “But I did.”

“That’s impressive.”

Another small pause settles in, the kind that feels thoughtful instead of empty.

Then he says something that makes your stomach flip all over again.

“I’ve been thinking about Wednesday.”

You glance down at the pavement while you walk.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His voice is calm, almost reflective.

“I had a really good time.”

You feel yourself smile automatically.

“Me too.”

A few steps pass before he speaks again.

“I was actually calling because I wanted to ask you something.”

You slow down slightly.

“Okay.”

Another breath on the other end of the line.

“When are you free again?”

You feel the smile before you even answer.

It spreads slowly, the kind you can hear in someone’s voice even if they’re miles away.

A quiet laugh escapes you as you continue walking, weaving around a couple pushing a stroller while you tuck the phone closer to your ear.

“I’m actually free next week for a few days,” you say.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a little sheepish now that you’re saying it out loud. “I decided to take what the kids call a mental health break.”

He laughs softly at that.

“Good for you.”

“I figured if I didn’t step away from my computer for a minute I might start writing zoning updates in my sleep.”

“That sounds like a real risk to the public.”

You smile to yourself.

“So I took a few days.”

There’s a small pause on the other end of the line before he asks, casually but with just enough curiosity tucked into the question.

“Do you have any plans?”

You slow your pace slightly as you approach the grocery store, the automatic doors sliding open and letting out a burst of warm air that fogs your glasses for a second.

“Not really,” you say, stepping inside and grabbing a basket without breaking the rhythm of the conversation. “That was kind of the point.”

You hear him shift slightly on the other end, like he’s settling into the call.

“That’s good,” he says.

You pause in the produce aisle, leaning your hip against the display while you listen.

“Why’s that?”

There’s a brief moment of quiet before he answers, his tone still easy but carrying a small thread of intention now.

“Because I happen be in New York again that week.”

You stop mid step in the produce aisle, your fingers hovering over a basket of apples as his words settle in.

“Wait,” you say, a small laugh slipping out with a hint of surprise, “really?”

“Yeah.”

There’s something casual about the way he says it that makes it feel almost spontaneous.

You let out a quiet gasp before you can stop yourself.

“Yeah? Doing anything fun while you’re here?”

You hear him shift slightly on the other end of the line, like he’s leaning back wherever he is.

“I decided to just take a trip,” he says. “See the scenes a bit. Walk around without a schedule for once.”

You smile to yourself, picturing it.

“That’s actually a pretty good plan.”

“Thought so.”

You pick up one of the apples absentmindedly, turning it in your hand while you think.

“Well,” you say lightly, trying to keep your voice casual, “there are a few places you should try if you’re actually going to do that properly.”

“Oh yeah?” he replies.

“Yeah,” you say. “Most people do the obvious stuff and miss the good parts.”

There’s a small pause on the line.

Then he answers, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well,” he says, “maybe you know a good tour guide.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you set the apple back down.

“That depends,” you say.

“On what?”

“On whether you’re actually interested in the local version of the city and not just the Instagram one.”

He hums thoughtfully.

“I think I’d prefer the local version.”

You shift the basket on your arm, leaning your shoulder lightly against the display while you answer.

“Well then,” you say, smiling into the phone, “you’re in luck.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “I’m pretty good with the local area.”

There is a small pause on the other end of the line, just long enough that you know he is smiling.

“I had a feeling you might say that.”

You shift the basket on your arm and start slowly down the aisle again, scanning shelves while trying not to look like someone currently planning an entire tour of New York in their head.

“So,” he says, voice relaxed, “are you volunteering.”

You laugh quietly.

“That might be possible.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Only if you’re actually interested in seeing the city properly,” you say. “I have very strong opinions about the right way to do New York.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“I refuse to be responsible for someone thinking Times Square is the highlight,” you add.

He laughs again, the sound warmer this time.

“Fair enough.”

You grab a box of pasta off the shelf without really looking at it.

“So when are you coming,” you ask, keeping your voice casual even though your stomach has started doing something inconvenient.

“Early next week.”

You pause in the aisle.

“That’s soon.”

“Yeah,” he says simply.

You lean your shoulder lightly against the shelf, thinking for a second.

“Well,” you say slowly, “lucky timing.”

“How’s that.”

“My very official mental health break starts Monday.”

There’s a brief silence.

“Perfect,” he says.

You continue down the aisle, turning toward the next row of shelves.

“So what does your ideal version of sightseeing actually involve,” you ask.

“Honestly?” he replies. “Walking around, finding places that look interesting, eating something good.”

“That’s a solid approach.”

“I figured someone with local expertise might refine the plan a bit.”

You bite back a smile.

“I could probably work with that.”

“Good.”

The conversation settles for a moment as you reach for a loaf of bread, your phone tucked between your shoulder and your ear.

Then he asks, almost casually,

“What are you doing Monday.”

You slow your steps a little as you reach the end of the aisle, the basket resting against your hip while you think about the question.

A small smile slips across your face before you answer.

“Well,” you say lightly, “I was hoping I’d be seeing you.”

There’s a quiet pause on the other end of the line.

Then you hear him laugh under his breath.

“I think that can be arranged.”

You pick up a loaf of bread and drop it into the basket, trying not to look like someone whose mood has just shifted dramatically in the middle of a grocery store.

“Good,” you reply. “Because my very official mental health break would feel wasted otherwise.”

“That would be tragic.”

You turn the corner toward the checkout lanes, the conversation settling into a comfortable rhythm again.

“So Monday,” you say. “What are you thinking.”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

For a second all you hear is the faint sound of movement on his end of the line, like he’s shifting the phone in his hand.

“There’s actually a place I’ve been wanting to take you,” he continues. “It’s one of my favorite spots in the city.”

You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it.

“Oh, so now you’re the one giving the tour.”

“Something like that.”

You smile, shifting the basket onto the counter as the cashier waves you forward.

“Well,” you say, pulling your wallet out of your coat pocket, “I guess I’ll have to trust your taste.”

“I think you’ll like it,” he replies.

The quiet confidence in his voice makes you believe him.

The way he says it that makes you believe him without asking anything else.

The cashier starts scanning your groceries and you fumble for your wallet, suddenly aware that you’ve been standing in the middle of the store having a full conversation.

“I should probably let you go,” you say with a small laugh. “I’m currently holding up a checkout line.”

“Ah,” he says. “Important responsibilities.”

“Very important. Pasta and bread don’t buy themselves.”

You hear him laugh quietly on the other end.

“So Monday,” he says, his tone settling again, making sure it’s understood. “I’ll text you when I’m in the city.”

“Okay.”

There’s a brief pause before he adds, softer this time,

“I’m looking forward to it.”

You feel the smile spread across your face again, even as you swipe your card through the reader.

“Me too.”

Another quiet beat passes between you.

Then he says, “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

“You too. Safe travels.”

“Talk soon.”

“Talk soon.”

The line clicks softly as the call ends.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, phone still in your hand, while the cashier finishes bagging your groceries.

The ordinary sounds of the store fill the space again, carts rolling past and people chatting as they move through the aisles.

But as you pick up the bags and step back out into the cool evening air, the week ahead suddenly feels very different than it did an hour ago.

You step out of the store and into the cool evening air with two grocery bags cutting into your fingers and your phone still warm in your hand. For a moment you just stand there on the sidewalk letting the call settle in your head, the noise of the street moving around you like normal while your brain is still catching up.

Then you immediately tap Camille’s name.

The phone barely rings once before she answers.

“Hello?”

“Monday,” you say.

There’s a pause.

“What.”

“Monday,” you repeat, starting down the block toward your apartment, the grocery bags swinging slightly at your sides. “I’m seeing him Monday.”

You hear the rustling of something on her end, like she just sat up very quickly.

“You spoke to him?”

“He called me.”

Camille makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a gasp and a shriek.

“He called you?”

“Yes.”

“On the phone?”

“Camille, how else would someone call me.”

“Don’t get technical with me,” she snaps. “What happened.”

You weave around a couple standing outside a deli, shifting the bags in your hands while you start walking faster without meaning to.

“I was walking to the grocery store and my phone started ringing from a random number. I almost didn’t answer.”

“You almost didn’t answer a call from Harry Styles.”

“I didn’t know it was him!”

She groans loudly.

“Continue.”

You laugh under your breath and keep walking.

“He said he saw the message with my number and wanted to call. We talked for a bit and he asked when I was free next week.”

“And?”

“And I told him I’m off Monday through Wednesday.”

“And?”

You smile despite yourself.

“And he’s coming back to the city.”

There’s a full second of silence.

Then Camille screams so loudly you have to pull the phone away from your ear.

“I KNEW IT.”

You shake your head, laughing as you turn onto your street.

“He said he wanted to see me again.”

“Of course he does.”

“And he’s taking me somewhere,” you add.

“Oh my god.”

“He said it’s one of his favorite places.”

You hear Camille pacing through the phone now, the sound of her footsteps echoing as she processes this new development.

“So this is a second date,” she says finally.

“I guess so.”

“No,” she corrects immediately. “This is a second date.”

You smile to yourself as you reach your building.

“Well,” you say, pushing the door open with your shoulder, “I guess it is.”

The weekend passes slowly in a way that feels slightly unfair.

Not painfully slow, just stretched. Every normal moment feels a little heavier with the knowledge that Monday is coming.

After you hang up with Camille that night you put your groceries away and try very hard to behave like a person whose life is not suddenly orbiting a second date with someone she met on the internet. You cook dinner, you watch something mindless, you answer a few emails you’d been ignoring.

Still, every once in a while your brain drifts back to the call.

The quiet confidence in his voice. The way he said he had a place in mind.

Saturday morning you wake up later than usual and take your time with the day. Coffee, laundry, a long walk through the park where the air still has that sharp early spring chill to it. At one point you catch yourself mentally calculating how many hours are left until Monday and immediately shake your head.

This is ridiculous, you tell yourself.

It’s just a date.

Sunday goes by even faster. You meet Camille for brunch where she spends an unreasonable amount of time trying to decide what you should wear tomorrow.

“You’re acting like this is a red carpet,” you tell her as she leans back in her chair, studying you with the kind of focus that would make sense if she were planning a photoshoot instead of brunch.

“It might as well be,” she says, completely serious while scrolling through her phone. “This is a second date.”

You laugh and shake your head, but she continues anyway, holding up different outfit ideas and explaining her reasoning like it’s a full strategy meeting.

By the time you get home that evening the city has that quiet Sunday night feeling where everything slows down just enough that you start noticing the coming week creeping in.

You tidy your apartment a little, mostly as a distraction, and eventually settle onto the couch with a book you read three pages of before realizing you’ve absorbed none of it.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

You glance at it automatically.

Harry.

Your heart jumps before you even open it.

You pick up the phone.

Made it to the city.

A smile spreads across your face before you even start typing.

Already?

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Flight got in early.

You lean back into the couch cushions.

Welcome back.

There’s a short pause before another message appears.

Still good for tomorrow?

You glance at the clock, then back at the screen.

Yes.

Another bubble appears.

Good.

You set the phone down on the coffee table and stare at it for a moment longer than necessary, the glow of the screen fading as it locks again. The apartment is quiet in that particular Sunday night way where everything feels paused for a second before the week starts again. Outside your window the city is still moving, distant traffic humming and someone laughing somewhere down the block, but inside your living room the silence feels heavier now that you know he’s back in the city.

Tomorrow.

You lean your head back against the couch and let out a slow breath, letting the thought settle in. A second date. The words still feel slightly surreal when you say them in your head. A few days ago you were standing on a street corner debating whether to answer a call from a number you didn’t recognize. Now you’re sitting here on a Sunday night knowing you’ll see him again in less than twenty four hours.

You pick up your book again and try to read, but your eyes move over the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word. Eventually you give up and set it aside, pushing yourself up from the couch and wandering into your bedroom instead.

Your closet door slides open and you stand there for a moment looking at the options like they might magically arrange themselves into the right answer. Camille’s voice echoes faintly in your head from brunch earlier, her dramatic commentary about outfits and second dates still fresh enough to make you smile.

“You’re acting like this is a red carpet,” you had told her.

“It might as well be,” she replied.

You shake your head and pull out the outfit the two of you eventually landed on, holding it up briefly before laying it carefully over the back of the chair. Seeing it there makes the plan feel more real, less hypothetical.

Your phone buzzes again from the living room.

Your heart jumps immediately and you walk back out faster than you intended, picking it up from the coffee table.

Harry.

You open the message.

Settled into the hotel.

A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth.

Hope it’s cozy for you.

A moment passes before the typing bubble appears again.

You watch it blink on and off, curiosity building as the next message appears.

Is it wrong that I kind of want to see you tonight?

You stare at the screen for a second, completely caught off guard by the question.

Your heart does an immediate, inconvenient flip.

You read it again just to make sure you didn’t imagine it.

Is it wrong that I kind of want to see you tonight.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quiet but incredulous, and you sink back onto the couch while you think about what to say. The plan had been tomorrow. That was the timeline. That was the reasonable, well paced version of events.

And yet the thought of seeing him tonight sends a warm ripple through your chest.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before you start typing.

Wrong might be a strong word.

You hit send before you can overthink it, watching as the message disappears into the conversation.

You stare at the screen for a moment after sending it, the quiet of your apartment suddenly feeling a little too still. The message sits there for a second before the typing bubble appears again, blinking on and off like he’s reconsidering how much to say.

Then the next message comes through.

I know we said tomorrow.

You can almost hear the slight sheepishness in it.

Another bubble appears.

But I just got in and the city feels too quiet.

You shift your legs up onto the couch, tucking them underneath you as you read.

A third message follows.

Thought I’d ask.

Your stomach flips.

You glance back up at the ceiling for a second like the answer might be written somewhere up there. The plan had been tomorrow. That was the reasonable version of this. The paced, sensible one.

Instead you’re sitting on your couch with your heart doing something wildly unhelpful while a pop star casually asks if he can see you tonight.

You look back down at your phone just as the typing bubble appears again.

You’re probably tired.

A quiet laugh slips out of you.

I’m not, you type.

There’s a brief pause on the other end before the bubble returns.

Are you sure?

You glance around your apartment, taking in the quiet room, the outfit hanging over the back of your chair in the bedroom that you had carefully set aside for tomorrow.

You smile.

I think I can handle one spontaneous decision.

The response comes quickly this time.

I’m glad you said that.

You feel that same warm ripple again, the anticipation settling in where the earlier nerves used to be.

What did you have in mind, you ask.

The typing bubble flickers once more.

Nothing complicated.

Another message follows right after.

Maybe a walk.

You tilt your head slightly at the simplicity of it.

You flew back to New York for a walk.

Don’t sound so unimpressed.

You laugh softly.

I’m not.

There’s a small pause before his next message appears.

If you’re up for it.

You glance toward the window where the city lights glow faintly through the glass, the quiet hum of traffic still drifting up from the street below.

The idea of stepping outside again, of seeing him tonight instead of waiting for tomorrow, suddenly feels far more appealing than staying on your couch pretending to read.

Your fingers move before you can second guess it.

Where?

The reply comes almost immediately.

Central Park. West side entrance.

You read it twice, like seeing the words again might make the moment feel less surreal.

Give me twenty minutes.

Your heart jumps.

You sit up straighter on the couch, suddenly aware that you are currently wearing an old sweatshirt and socks that definitely do not belong in the category of spontaneous nighttime walks with someone you are very interested in.

Okay, you type.

The second you hit send you’re already standing up.

Your apartment shifts from quiet Sunday evening to low level chaos in about ten seconds. You move quickly through the living room and into your bedroom, mentally cataloguing options as you go. The outfit you had carefully laid out for tomorrow is still draped over the chair, looking far too intentional for what is now a late night walk through Central Park.

You pause for a second, staring at it.

“No,” you say quietly to yourself.

This needs to look like you didn’t panic.

You pull open your dresser and reach for something easier. Dark jeans. A soft sweater that hangs just loose enough to feel comfortable without looking sloppy. You run a hand through your hair while you walk past the mirror, pausing long enough to smooth it down and check that you at least look like someone who planned to leave the house tonight.

Your phone buzzes again on the bed behind you.

You turn back immediately.

Leaving now.

Your stomach flips.

Me too, you reply.

You grab your coat, slip your phone into your pocket, and head for the door before you can talk yourself out of how ridiculous this entire situation feels.

The hallway outside your apartment is quiet, the kind of still that only happens late on a Sunday night when most people have already settled in for the week ahead. Your footsteps echo lightly as you make your way down the stairs and push through the building’s front door into the cool evening air.

The city feels different at night.

Not quieter exactly, but softer somehow. The traffic is lighter, conversations drifting out of restaurants and bars as people linger over late dinners. You pull your coat a little tighter as you start walking toward the park, your mind moving faster than your feet.

You are meeting Harry Styles in Central Park for a walk.

You laugh under your breath just thinking it.

A few blocks pass before you realize you’re checking your phone every thirty seconds like someone waiting for a ride share to appear on a map. Eventually you force yourself to stop and just walk.

The park entrance comes into view ahead of you, the tall trees forming dark shapes against the glow of the city lights behind them. A couple walks past you with a dog, their conversation fading as they move toward the street.

You slow slightly as you approach the entrance, scanning the path without meaning to.

For a moment you wonder if you’re early.

Then you see him.

He’s leaning casually against the stone railing near the path, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat, his hair slightly windblown like he’s been standing there for a few minutes already. There’s something almost unfair about how easily he blends into the scene, like he belongs to the city in a way that makes him look completely natural standing there under the park lights.

He spots you at the same moment.

The small smile that spreads across his face is immediate.

You walk the last few steps toward him, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat again.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi.”

He pushes away from the railing, stepping closer.

“I’m glad you said yes, I know it’s late.”

You smile, hands tucked into your coat pockets.

“I’m glad you asked.”

For a moment neither of you move, the quiet of the park settling around you while the city hums softly beyond the trees.

Then he gestures toward the path.

“Walk?”

You nod.

And just like that the two of you start moving deeper into the park together, the gravel crunching lightly under your shoes as the lights of the street fade behind you.

The path curves gently as you move farther into the park, the noise of the city softening behind the trees until it becomes more of a distant hum than actual traffic. Lamps line the walkway in warm pools of light that stretch across the gravel, and every so often the wind moves through the branches above you with a quiet rustling sound that makes the entire park feel calmer than the streets just outside it.

For the first few moments you simply walk.

Not awkwardly. Just adjusting to the strange fact that you’re next to each other again after a week of messages and one date that ended faster than either of you expected.

He glances over at you.

“You look different.”

Your eyebrows lift.

“Different good?”

“Different from the other night, but yes. Good.”

You glance down at yourself like the sweater might explain something.

“I didn’t exactly plan this outfit.”

“I know.”

You look back at him.

“You know?”

“You texted back too fast,” he says with a slight smile. “That’s how I knew you were scrambling.”

You laugh out loud.

“That’s rude.”

“It’s observational.”

“I had a perfectly good outfit ready for tomorrow,” you tell him. “You disrupted the entire plan.”

The path opens slightly ahead where a small clearing lets the skyline peek through the trees in the distance. The lights glow faintly above the dark outline of the park, and for a moment both of you slow without saying anything.

Eventually he asks, “How was your weekend.”

“Pretty normal,” you say.

“Oh yeah?”

“Laundry. Coffee. Camille interrogating me about you.”

He laughs.

“She is very proud of the Raya code.”

“I owe her then.”

“Please don’t encourage her,” you say quickly. “She’ll start expecting thank you notes.”

He smiles at that.

“I had a pretty quiet weekend too,” he says.

You glance over.

“That surprises me.”

“Why.”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I assume your life is usually… louder.”

“It is,” he says. “That’s why I like coming here.”

You look around at the path, the trees, the quiet space stretching out around you.

“This is your version of normal.”

“For tonight,” he says.

A comfortable silence settles between you as you keep walking. Not the kind that feels empty, just a moment where neither of you feels the need to rush the conversation forward.

Eventually he nudges it again.

“So,” he says, glancing over at you, “do I get the official tour tomorrow or did tonight count.”

You smile.

“This was just the preview.”

“Good.”

“You still have to earn the full tour.”

“And how does one do that.”

You pretend to think about it.

“Well,” you say slowly, “not getting lost would be a good start.”

He laughs quietly.

“That feels like a challenge.”

“Everything in this city is a challenge.”

The path bends again and you pass a couple walking a dog, the leash stretching across the walkway as the dog stops to investigate something near the edge of the grass. The owner apologizes as they pull it back and you both step around them before continuing on.

After a few more minutes you slow your pace, glancing toward the streetlights glowing through the trees ahead.

“You hungry?” you ask.

He looks over.

“Always.”

You smile.

“Good.”

You turn toward the park exit and start leading the way back toward the street.

“I guess I can start the tour tonight after all.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, stepping out onto the sidewalk and turning down a quieter block lined with older buildings. “There’s a place a few blocks from here.”

“What kind of place.”

You glance back at him with a small grin.

“The kind that doesn’t look impressive at all from the outside.”

“That sounds promising.”

“It’s a hole in the wall pizza spot,” you say. “The best one I know.”

He nods immediately like that’s the easiest decision he’s made all day.

“I trust your expertise.”

The two of you walk the rest of the way down the block together, the bright lights of the tiny shop coming into view ahead. Through the window you can see the glow of the ovens and a man behind the counter sliding a fresh pie onto the counter.

You glance over at him with a satisfied little smile.

“Welcome to the real tour.”

The bell above the door gives a tired little jingle as you push it open, the sound barely audible over the low hum of an old refrigerator somewhere behind the counter. The place is small in the way only real neighborhood pizza shops are, narrow with a few tiny tables pushed up against the wall and a long glass case stretching across the counter that holds rows of slices under warm yellow lights.

The air is thick with the smell of baked dough, tomato sauce, and something faintly sweet that’s probably been drifting out of the dessert case all day.

It isn’t polished. The tile floor has seen better decades, and the menu board above the counter is a mix of faded letters and handwritten additions taped into the corners. One of the tables near the window wobbles slightly when a guy in a Yankees cap shifts his weight, and the soda fridge in the corner rattles every few seconds like it’s considering retirement.

Behind the counter an older Italian man stands with his arms folded, watching the two of you walk in with the quiet authority of someone who has been working in the same place for thirty years and intends to continue doing so until they die.

He squints at you for a second.

“Late night pizza?” he asks.

You smile.

“Always.”

He nods like that’s the correct answer and reaches for a paper plate without asking another question.

You step up to the counter and glance back at Harry, who is taking the whole place in with clear amusement, his eyes moving over the slightly crooked menu board and the stack of flour bags tucked against the wall.

“So,” you say, turning toward him. “What do you want.”

He looks at you immediately.

“I feel like I should let you decide.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“That’s a lot of trust.”

“You’re the local,” he says with an easy shrug. “I’m following your lead.”

You turn back toward the counter, considering the options for half a second before nodding.

“Alright,” you say. “We’re going classic.”

The man behind the counter slides open the glass case.

“Two cheese,” you tell him. “And two cannolis.”

He nods approvingly like you’ve passed some kind of test and reaches for the slices with a metal spatula, sliding them into the oven for a quick reheat.

Harry leans slightly closer to you while you wait, lowering his voice just enough that it doesn’t carry across the room.

“This is already better than most restaurants I get dragged to.”

You glance sideways at him.

“Because it’s not trying to impress you.”

“Exactly.”

A minute later the man pulls the slices out and slides them onto paper plates before adding two cannolis wrapped in wax paper and pushing the whole thing across the counter.

You hand over a few bills and grab the plates before Harry can even reach for his wallet.

He notices immediately.

“You didn’t let me pay.”

“You’re the guest,” you say simply.

“That’s not how dates work.”

You shrug.

“You asked for the local experience.”

He laughs softly as you lead him over to one of the tiny tables by the window.

You set the plates down and slide one toward him.

“A slice of cheese,” you say. “The only correct first order.”

He studies it for a second before picking it up.

“You’re very confident about this.”

“You’ll understand in about thirty seconds.”

He takes a bite.

For a second he just stands there chewing while you watch him with the quiet satisfaction of someone who already knows the outcome.

Then his eyebrows lift slightly.

“Okay,” he says slowly.

You grin.

“Right?”

He nods once, looking down at the slice again like he’s reassessing something.

“That’s very good.”

You pick up your own slice.

“See,” you say. “Tour guide knows what she’s doing.”

He takes another bite before saying anything, folding the slice the way people here do without thinking about it. The cheese stretches for a moment before breaking cleanly, and he chews slowly, looking down at it like he’s considering something.

Then he nods once.

“That’s very good.”

You smile slightly and take another bite of your own slice.

“I told you.”

For a minute the two of you eat quietly, the small shop carrying on around you in its usual rhythm. The oven door opens and shuts behind the counter, the soda fridge hums steadily in the corner, and every so often someone passes by the front window, their footsteps muffled by the glass.

Harry glances around the room again, taking in the slightly crooked menu board, the narrow tables, the flour bags stacked near the wall.

“It’s nice,” he says after a moment. “Feels real.”

“That’s why I like it,” you reply.

You brush a few crumbs from the paper plate and lean back in your chair.

“I’ve been coming here for years,” you add. “Usually late after work when everything else is closed.”

He nods like that makes sense.

The man behind the counter calls something in Italian toward the kitchen and slides another tray of slices into the glass case. The smell of fresh dough drifts across the room again, warm and familiar.

Harry wipes his hands on a napkin and looks back at you.

“You weren’t exaggerating about this place.”

You shrug lightly.

“It’s one of those spots people only find if someone brings them.”

He nods again, like he understands exactly what you mean.

You reach for the cannoli and slide the small wax paper package toward him.

“You should try that too.”

He unwraps it carefully and takes a bite, pausing for a second before giving a quiet laugh under his breath.

“That’s dangerous.”

You smile.

“Right?”

He sets the rest of it back down on the paper and leans back slightly in the chair, looking more relaxed now than when the two of you first walked in.

Outside the window the street has grown quieter, the late night crowd thinning as the city settles in.

You glance toward the clock near the counter.

“Technically this was the beginning of your tour,” you say.

He looks back at you.

“Just the beginning?”

You nod.

“Tomorrow is the actual tour.”

He considers that for a moment, then gives a small nod.

“Good.”

You both finish the last of the pizza slowly, the conversation drifting into easier things as the night settles around you.

By the time you stand up to leave, the shop has grown nearly empty, the older man behind the counter already stacking trays and wiping down the glass case.

When you push open the door the bell jingles softly again, the cool night air meeting you on the sidewalk.

For a second you both pause under the streetlight, the quiet stretch of the block glowing faintly in the distance.

Tomorrow suddenly feels very close.

The bell gives its soft, tired jingle again as the two of you step back out onto the sidewalk, the warm air of the pizza shop fading behind you the moment the door swings closed. The night has settled fully now, the street quieter than when you first walked in. A few cars pass at the far end of the block and somewhere nearby someone is dragging a metal chair across pavement, the sound echoing briefly before disappearing again.

For a moment you both just stand there beneath the streetlight, the glow from the shop window spilling out behind you.

You glance down the street and then back at him.

“So,” you say, adjusting your coat slightly, “where’s your hotel?”

He turns and points casually down the block.

“Couple streets that way.”

You follow the direction with your eyes, nodding.

“That’s close.”

Then he gestures in the opposite direction.

“And you?”

You point back the way you came, toward the darker stretch of street leading toward your neighborhood.

“That way,” you say. “Short walk.”

He looks down the block for a second and then back at you, considering it.

“I’ll walk you back.”

You blink, caught slightly off guard by the immediacy of it.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “It’s really not far.”

“That’s not the point.”

You smile faintly at the seriousness in his voice.

“It’s New York,” you reply. “People walk home alone all the time.”

He shakes his head a little.

“Still.”

You tuck your hands into your coat pockets and tilt your head at him.

“You realize it’s not exactly safe for you either.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“You’re an international pop star,” you point out. “You walking around the city at midnight probably comes with its own risks.”

For a second he just looks at you.

Then he laughs, the sound easy and warm in the quiet street.

“Fair enough.”

You both stand there another moment, the night stretching comfortably between you.

Finally he glances down your street again and then back toward his.

“Well,” he says, “at least we both made it this far safely.”

You smile.

“So far.”

For a moment neither of you move.

The street is quiet, the glow from the pizza shop window behind you fading as the owner inside begins stacking chairs and wiping down the counter. A car passes slowly at the end of the block, headlights sliding across the pavement before disappearing around the corner.

You both know this is the part where the night ends.

You shift your weight slightly and glance down your street again.

“Well,” you say softly.

“Well,” he echoes.

There’s a small pause where it feels like something else might be said, but neither of you rush it.

Then he steps forward and pulls you into a hug.

It’s warm and easy, the kind that lingers just a second longer than a polite goodbye. Your arms wrap around him automatically and for a moment you just stand there like that beneath the streetlight, the quiet of the city stretching around you.

When you pull back he’s still smiling slightly.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he says.

“You said you wanted a walk,” you reply. “I upgraded it.”

“Good call.”

You hesitate for a second, suddenly aware again that tomorrow technically still exists. The plan. The tour.

“So,” you say, tucking your hands back into your coat pockets, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I guess you will.”

Another small pause settles between you, neither of you quite stepping away yet.

Then finally he nods toward your street.

“Text me when you get home.”

“You’re still doing the protective thing.”

“Just covering my bases.”

You smile.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight.”

You both turn at almost the exact same moment, heading in opposite directions down the block.

You make it about four steps.

Maybe five.

Then something in your chest tightens suddenly, a rush of adrenaline hitting you so quickly you stop walking without even thinking about it.

You turn around.

He’s already halfway down the sidewalk, hands in his coat pockets, head slightly down as he walks.

Your heart is pounding now.

Before your brain can catch up, you call out.

“Harry!”

He stops immediately and turns around.

“What—”

You don’t give him time to finish.

You’re already moving, jogging back across the distance between you with a burst of nervous energy that feels completely irrational and completely necessary at the same time.

He looks slightly surprised for half a second as you reach him.

And then you kiss him.

It’s sudden and unplanned and far more certain than anything you expected to do when you left your apartment earlier that night. Your hands find his coat automatically, pulling him slightly closer as your lips meet his.

For a moment he freezes in surprise.

Then he kisses you back.

The city fades into the background again, the quiet street and the glow of the streetlight blurring into something distant while the kiss deepens just slightly, enough to make the moment feel real instead of impulsive.

When you finally pull back, both of you are a little breathless.

He’s looking at you like he’s still catching up to what just happened.

You take a small step back, suddenly aware of the adrenaline still racing through you.

“Sorry,” you say softly.

But you’re smiling.

And so is he.

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

No Boats Involved

After a brutal breakup, your influencer best friend hands you a Raya invite code as a distraction, and somehow you end up matching with the one person you never expected to see on a dating app.

word count: 8.5k You are sitting on Camille’s kitchen counter while she rearranges a cluster of candles on her dining table, muttering to herself about lighting.

“Don’t move,” she says, angling her phone toward the window. “You’re accidentally in frame and it looks candid.”

“I refuse to be background texture in your oat milk sponsorship.”

“It’s not sponsored. It’s aspirational.”

You swing your legs idly and watch her fuss with the tripod. Camille has always been like this. Confident in a way that looks effortless but is actually engineered. She calls her job lifestyle content, but it’s really just her life filtered through better angles and cleaner fonts. A few years ago a video of her ranking iced coffees in the city blew up, and she never quite stepped out of the spotlight after that. Now brands send her candles and oversized blazers and she goes to events she claims she hates and somehow leaves with three new contacts and a story.

She stops recording and glances at you. “You look sad.”

“I am not sad.”

“You are aggressively neutral. Which is worse.”

You pull at the sleeve of your sweater. “It’s been three weeks.”

“Three weeks since the breakup,” she says, hopping onto the counter across from you. “And you are still defending a man who thought oat milk was a personality.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “He was not that bad.”

“He was that boring.”

The thing about Camille is that she could have said I told you so months ago. She saw the cracks before you did. Instead she let you figure it out, and now she is careful with you, even when she’s teasing.

“You need a distraction,” she says, softer now.

“I have work.”

“You write about city council meetings.”

“I like writing about city council meetings.”

“I know you do,” she says quickly. “I’m not diminishing your civic passion. I’m saying you deserve something that makes your stomach flip in a good way.”

You give her a look. “That sounds dangerous.”

She grins and reaches for her phone. “It is.”

You already know that expression. It’s the one she gets right before she convinces you to do something you swore you wouldn’t.

“Camille.”

“Raya.”

You laugh immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because that is for models and DJs and men who own boats. I am a writer for an online newspaper. I am painfully normal.”

She slides off the counter and comes to stand in front of you, arms crossed. “First of all, you are not painfully normal. You are emotionally literate and hot. That’s a rare combination. Second, I have an invite code.”

“How do you just have an invite code?”

She shrugs. “It circulates.”

“That is not an answer.”

“One of the stylists I worked with last month had extras. Influencer privilege. It resets every so often.”

You stare at her. “Your life sounds fake.”

“And yet here I am, using it for good.”

She types something quickly and your phone buzzes in your hand.

“Camille.”

“Just download it. You don’t have to use it. Think of it as exposure therapy.”

“I do not need exposure therapy. I need to stop wanting to text my ex.”

“Exactly,” she says, like you just proved her point. “This is you moving forward without actually moving forward. Low stakes. No expectations.”

You look down at the string of letters and numbers on your screen. A code. A tiny door you did not ask for.

“You’re going to make fun of every man on there with me, aren’t you.”

“Respectfully,” she says. “Yes.”

You slide off the counter and open the app store before you can overthink it. Camille watches like she’s overseeing a soft launch.

When the app opens and asks for photos, you hesitate.

“Use the one from Emma’s birthday,” she says immediately.

“I look shiny.”

“You look dewy. Big difference.”

You scroll anyway, choosing three that feel honest. You laughing mid sentence. You walking down a street. You at your desk with coffee and a stack of papers.

It asks for your job.

You type: Writer, online newspaper. You pause, then add: Painfully normal.

Camille leans over your shoulder and smiles. “That’s charming.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s self aware. People love self aware.”

“I do not want people loving anything. I want them mildly intrigued at best.”

She nudges you. “You say that now.”

You finish setting it up. The profile exists. A version of you sitting in a digital room full of strangers.

“Now what,” you ask.

“Now nothing,” she says. “Close it. Let it breathe. You don’t have to dive in tonight.”

You study her for a second. “You’re being surprisingly chill about this.”

She softens. “I’m not trying to throw you into chaos. I just don’t want you shrinking.”

The words land heavier than the joke did.

You swallow and nod once. “Okay.”

That night, the app sits on your home screen. Small. Unassuming. You open it once, just to look. Profiles slide past. People with glossy photos and inside jokes in their bios. It feels like a room where everyone already knows each other.

You close it. You are not ready. The next day you don’t open it at all. Or the day after that. But you don’t delete it either. You don’t open the app again.

Not when you’re bored on the train. Not when you’re half tempted to text your ex and need a distraction. It just sits there, tucked between your news app and your notes, quietly existing.

A week passes.

Then Camille texts: Girls night. Emergency vibes. Bring pajamas.

You show up at her apartment with a tote bag and low expectations. She’s already in matching satin shorts she claims were gifted but absolutely bought herself. There’s a charcuterie board that looks suspiciously sponsored but isn’t, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.

“You look alive,” she says approvingly as you kick off your shoes.

“I showered.”

“Growth.”

You roll your eyes and accept the glass she hands you. The apartment smells like whatever expensive candle she’s currently pretending not to be emotionally attached to. Music plays softly in the background. It feels easy.

You talk about work first. You tell her about a piece you’re drafting and how your editor keeps asking for more bite. She tells you about a brand dinner where a micro celebrity tried to explain crypto to her for twenty minutes.

By the second glass of wine, you feel looser. Not reckless. Just less tight in your chest.

Camille studies you from across the couch. “Did you delete it?”

You know exactly what she means.

“No.”

Her eyes light up. “So you kept it.”

“That does not mean anything.”

“It means you’re curious.”

“It means I forgot.”

She gives you a look that says she does not believe you for a second.

“Open it.”

“Camille.”

“Open it. We’re in a safe environment. I will curate.”

“You are the least neutral curator alive.”

“Correct.”

You hesitate, then reach for your phone. The app opens faster than you expect, like it’s been waiting.

Profiles start sliding past. A director in Berlin. A DJ in Miami. A guy whose bio is just a single black square emoji.

Camille narrates like it’s a sport.

“Absolutely not.”

“He looks like he says ‘let’s circle back.’”

“Oh he owns a boat. You were right about the boats.”

You laugh more than you have in days. It feels harmless. Distant. These are just faces on a screen.

You swipe left. Left. Left. Then you pause.

Camille notices immediately. “What.”

“Nothing.”

“Show me.”

You turn the phone toward her.

The first photo is candid. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses. A half smile that feels familiar in a way your brain takes a second to process. The second is him on what looks like a boat, wind pushing his hair back. The third is simple. Black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera.

There’s no over the top bio. Just his name. Harry. A few understated details. A song playing in the background of the profile that you recognize immediately.

Your stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with wine.

Camille blinks. Then blinks again. “Is that…”

“Yes.”

She grabs your wrist. “Oh my god.”

“It’s fake.”

“It does not look fake.”

“It’s absolutely fake.”

The photos don’t look like press shots. They look like someone handed a friend a phone. The prompts are understated. Almost boring. Which somehow makes it worse.

Camille leans closer to the screen. “Location?”

You glance at the top. It lists New York, but there’s a small note about frequent travel.

Your heart is beating faster now, and you hate that it is.

“This is stupid,” you say, more to yourself than to her.

“Swipe right.”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“Because what if it matches.”

“That is the point of the app.”

“Camille.”

She softens, just slightly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you’re going to tell this story one day, you’re going to wish you swiped right.”

You stare at the screen. At the small, digital version of a man you have only ever seen on stages and magazine covers. It feels ridiculous. Unreal. He is just another profile. Just another person in a room full of people.

You swallow.

“This is insane.”

“I know,” she whispers, grinning.

You swipe right.

The screen barely has time to settle before it flashes.

It’s a match.

You and Camille freeze at the exact same time, staring at the glowing words like they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.

“No,” you say immediately.

Camille grabs your arm. “No way.”

The phone is still in your hand. Still warm. Still real.

You both scream. It’s not cute. It’s not controlled. It’s loud and sharp and slightly panicked. Camille knocks over her wine glass in the process and you fling the phone onto the couch like it just burned you.

“Oh my god,” she says, half laughing, half hyperventilating.

“This is not funny,” you say, backing away from the couch like the phone might start speaking.

“You matched with him.”

“It’s fake.”

“It literally says matched.”

“That does not mean anything. People hack things.”

She lunges for the phone. You lunge too. You both miss and it slides off the couch and lands face down on the rug.

You stare at it.

“Pick it up,” she whispers.

“You pick it up.”

“It’s your life.”

“It was your code.”

She laughs in this nervous, stressed out way that makes everything feel ten times more unhinged. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. This is fine. You’re fine.”

“I am not fine.”

She scoops up the phone and flips it over. Still there. His name at the top of the screen. The little notification bubble waiting.

“You have to message him,” she says.

You actually yell. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No. Absolutely not. I am not messaging him.”

“You cannot match with Harry Styles and then just sit there.”

“I can and I will.”

She shoves the phone toward you. “Say hi.”

“I don’t know how to say hi to that.”

“You say hi like you would to anyone else.”

“That is objectively untrue.”

You grab the phone from her and clutch it to your chest like you’re protecting it from her.

“What if it’s not him,” you say quickly. “What if it’s someone pretending to be him and I say something normal and they screenshot it and it’s humiliating.”

Camille squints at the profile again. “The photos look real. The prompts look real. It’s understated in a way that feels real.”

“That is not comforting.”

She tilts her head. “Do you want him to message first?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t control that.”

You glance down at the screen like it might betray you at any second. “This was supposed to be funny.”

“It is funny.”

“It is not funny. It’s deeply stressful.”

She grins despite herself. “You are glowing right now.”

“I am panicking.”

“Same,” she says brightly.

Your thumb hovers over the message bar. Blank. Waiting.

“Okay,” Camille says, suddenly serious. “If you don’t message him, you’re going to think about it all week. If you do message him, worst case scenario he doesn’t respond and we move on.”

“And best case.”

She smiles slowly. “We get a story.”

You look at the phone. At his name. At the tiny space where words are supposed to go.

You feel ridiculous. You feel curious. You feel a small flicker of something that does not feel like your ex.

“I hate you,” you tell her.

“I know,” she says sweetly.

Your thumb taps the keyboard. Then you panic and throw the phone back onto the couch again.

“No. I can’t.”

Camille bursts out laughing and dives for it before you can. “You are impossible.”

“Do not send anything,” you warn, scrambling after her.

“I won’t. I promise. I’m just looking.”

You both collapse onto the couch, shoulders pressed together, staring at the screen like it’s a live wire.

The message bar is still empty. Waiting. You stare at the blinking cursor like it’s personally judging you.

Camille is practically vibrating next to you.

“Okay,” she says carefully, like she’s negotiating with a wild animal. “Give me the phone.”

“No.”

“You are spiraling.”

“I am thinking.”

“You have been thinking for ten full minutes.”

You glance at the clock. She’s right. It has been ten full minutes of you typing something, deleting it, typing something else, deleting that too.

“What if I say something weird,” you say.

“You won’t.”

“What if I black out and accidentally propose.”

She snorts. “Then at least it would be memorable.”

You press your lips together and look back down at his name. It still feels surreal. Too big for the tiny screen.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “You can send it.”

Her eyes widen. “Really.”

“Yes. But nothing embarrassing. Nothing flirty. Nothing that sounds like I’ve ever listened to music in my life.”

She grabs the phone gently, like it might shatter. “Relax.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

You watch her thumbs hover over the keyboard. Your heart is pounding again, which is ridiculous. This is a dating app. People message each other every day. This is normal.

Painfully normal, you remind yourself.

“Just say hi,” you whisper.

“That’s boring.”

“Boring is safe.”

She thinks for a second, then starts typing. You crane your neck to see.

Hi. I was told this app was for models and DJs and men who own boats, so I’m slightly confused.

You stare at it.

“That’s actually good,” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“It sounds like me.”

“Because I am a genius.”

She looks at you one more time. “Last chance.”

You take a breath. The worst that happens is nothing. The worst that happens is it is him and he doesn’t respond. The worst that happens is you wake up tomorrow and your life is exactly the same as it was this morning.

“Send it,” you say.

She taps the screen. The message flies off into the void. You both immediately scream again and she drops the phone onto your lap this time.

“It’s done,” she says, laughing in that stressed out way that makes everything feel unreal. “You did it.”

“I didn’t do it. You did it.”

“You approved it.”

You stare at the chat. The message sits there, small and harmless looking. Sent. Now you wait.

Camille leans her head against your shoulder. “See. That wasn’t so bad.”

You swallow. “It was terrible.”

She smiles. “Admit it. You’re curious.”

You are.

There isn’t an immediate response. Of course there isn’t.

You and Camille stare at the screen for a full minute like something dramatic is supposed to happen. It doesn’t. The chat just sits there with your message hanging in polite, digital silence.

Camille eventually clears her throat. “Well. He’s busy.”

“Right,” you say quickly. “He’s… him.”

“He could be in a studio. Or asleep. Or on a boat.”

“Stop mentioning boats.”

She laughs, but after another minute of nothing, the intensity fizzles. The wine settles. The night moves on. You order takeout. You watch something mindless. You do not check the app again before you fall asleep on her couch.

The next morning, you half expect a notification. There isn’t one. And weirdly, that makes it easier.

Life resumes.

You go to work. You draft headlines. You sit in meetings where someone says the phrase content vertical without irony. The Raya message drifts to the back of your mind, filed somewhere between embarrassing and funny.

Every few days, Camille checks in.

“Any movement?”

“No.”

“Are you checking?”

“Not obsessively.”

“That is not what I asked.”

You roll your eyes at her texts and keep walking down the street, coffee in hand. It becomes a bit. A running joke. The time you matched with Harry Styles and nothing happened.

You stop opening the app altogether. You don’t want to see the unchanged chat. It feels cleaner to leave it unopened than to confirm the silence.

A week passes. Then another.

The sharpness of it dulls. You stop imagining what you would say if he responded. You stop replaying the message in your head. It becomes a story you’ll tell someday. Remember when.

One evening, you’re walking up the stairs to your apartment, juggling your tote bag and your keys. It’s been a long day. You stayed late finishing a piece and your brain feels like static. All you want is a shower and something easy to eat.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You don’t even look at the screen at first. You assume it’s Camille. She tends to text around this time, usually something chaotic like I have a new theory about men.

You push your door open with your shoulder and glance down casually.

It’s not iMessage blue.

It’s the Raya icon.

Your heart drops so fast you actually miss the doorway and bump your hip against the frame.

You stare at the notification. Harry sent you a message.

For a second, you just stand there in your dim apartment hallway, door half open behind you, keys still in your hand.

You genuinely consider not opening it. Preserving the possibility instead of facing whatever is actually there.

Your phone buzzes again. Another message.Your throat goes dry.

You step inside slowly and close the door with your foot, like you’re trying not to disturb something fragile. The apartment is quiet. The only sound is your own breathing, suddenly louder than it should be.

You unlock your phone.

Your thumb hovers over the app.

You think, absurdly, I thought this was Camille.

It isn’t.

It’s him.

You open it before you can talk yourself out of it.

The chat loads.

Your message is still there at the top, slightly smug now that it has company.

Below it:

I don’t own a boat. Feels important to clarify.

You stare at it.

Then the second message.

But I am slightly offended I got lumped in with DJs.

You let out a sound that is half laugh, half something close to hysteria.

It’s him. It has to be him. The tone is dry. Understated. Not trying too hard. Not grand.

You drop your bag on the floor without meaning to.

Your brain immediately starts overanalyzing. How long ago did he send this. You check.

Three minutes.

Three.

He is currently on the app.

Your heart begins beating in a way that feels wildly disproportionate to a dating app notification.

You pace once across your living room. Then back.

You consider calling Camille. You absolutely cannot call Camille. She will scream and make this worse.

You look back at the messages.

There are no emojis. No exclamation points. Just clean, simple sentences.

You sit down on the edge of your couch and type.

I appreciate the clarification.

It feels neutral. Slightly amused. Safe.

You hesitate for only a second this time before hitting send.

The message delivers.

You immediately lock your phone and toss it onto the couch like distance will regulate your nervous system.

It buzzes.

You freeze.

You turn slowly and pick it up.

That was faster than I expected. I thought you might have forgotten about this place.

Your stomach flips.

You type back before you can overthink it.

I did. Briefly.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Fair. I disappear for weeks at a time. Occupational hazard.

You swallow. Occupational hazard. He’s referencing it without naming it. Casual.

You lean back into your couch now, letting yourself settle into it.

Hazard implies danger. Should I be concerned.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Only if you’re afraid of slightly inconsistent texting habits.

You actually smile.

That feels honest. Not polished. Not trying to charm.

You decide to push, just slightly.

And what exactly is the occupation that causes that.

You stare at the screen after sending it. It’s a normal question. Completely normal.

The three dots take longer this time.

Then:

I sing sometimes.

You laugh out loud in your empty apartment.

Sometimes.

You rest your head back against the couch and type:

Ah. Casual.

A pause.

Then:

And you’re painfully normal, if I remember correctly.

Your cheeks warm.

Writer. Online newspaper. I cover city council meetings sometimes. No boats involved.

Three dots.

That sounds more interesting than boats.

You blink at the screen.

You weren’t expecting that.

Before you can respond, another message appears.

How did you end up on this app if you’re so painfully normal.

There’s no judgment in it. It reads curious. Respectful.

You hesitate for a second, then decide honesty is easier than crafting something cool.

A friend passed along an invite code. She said it would be character building.

You add, after a beat:

I haven’t decided if she was right.

The typing bubble appears again.

I respect a friend with connections. Sounds efficient.

You smile at that.

Your apartment feels different now. Lighter somehow. Charged in a quiet way.

It stays small. Contained. Two people in a digital room, testing the edges.

And for the first time in weeks, your chest feels full of something that isn’t grief.

It’s curiosity.

And it feels dangerously close to excitement.

You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, letting the fact that this is happening settle somewhere in your chest.

You decide to keep it light.

She would be thrilled to hear that. She considers herself very well connected.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Sounds intimidating. Should I be worried about her vetting process.

You smile.

She’d absolutely run a background check if she could.

That feels fair.

The ease of it surprises you. There’s no heavy flirting. No performance. Just conversation.

Another message appears.

So. Writer for an online newspaper.

You shift on the couch, tucking one leg under you.

Yes. Very glamorous.

What do you write about.

You consider giving him the short version. Instead, you answer properly.

Local things. City council meetings when they matter. Housing issues. Small business stories. Restaurant openings. The kind of pieces people actually click on at eight in the morning while they’re drinking coffee.

You pause, then add:

Sometimes it’s more human. I interviewed a man last month who’s been feeding the same stray cat outside a laundromat for nine years. That one did surprisingly well.

The typing bubble appears quickly.

That sounds more interesting than most things I’ve read today.

You blink at the screen.

It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.

A moment passes.

Real is better.

You feel that one land somewhere you weren’t expecting.

Then:

What got you into it.

It isn’t surface level. He keeps asking follow ups like he actually wants to know.

You think about it before answering.

I like paying attention to things that would get ignored otherwise. Small decisions. Small people. The stuff that doesn’t trend but still matters.

You hover over the screen, suddenly aware you might be revealing more than you planned to.

You send it anyway.

The typing bubble lingers.

That doesn’t sound painfully normal to me.

Your cheeks warm.

You’ve exchanged maybe fifteen messages with me. That’s not a thorough character study.

I work well with limited data.

You laugh under your breath.

You decide to pivot.

And you. You “sing sometimes.” Is that what you put on tax forms.

A beat.

Depends who’s asking.

I’m asking.

There’s a slightly longer pause this time.

I travel a lot. I write songs. I spend more time in airports than I’d like.

It’s understated. No résumé. No ego.

Then another message appears.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Italy lately. I’m there now.

You sit up a little straighter.

Oh.

Work. I tend to stay longer than planned.

You picture it without meaning to. Warmer air. Different language. A life that moves at a different speed.

That sounds better than New York in February.

It’s quieter. Less arguing outside the window.

You smile.

On impulse, you switch languages.

Quindi ora sei ufficialmente italiano? (So are you officially Italian now?)

You immediately wonder if that was too much.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Capisco un po’. Not enough to get in trouble. (I understand a little.)

Your eyebrows lift.

That’s suspiciously vague.

It’s strategic.

You laugh.

How much is “un po’.” (“A little.”)

A beat.

Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.

You shake your head, smiling into your phone, alone in your apartment but suddenly not feeling it quite as much.

You stare at the last message for a while.

Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.

You type a response. Delete it. Type another. Delete that too.

You don’t want to overextend it. You don’t want to drag the conversation into the early morning just because you can. He said it was late there. You can feel the natural pause settling in.

So you send one last thing.

That feels like the correct level of fluency.

The message delivers.

You lock your phone before he can respond.

Not in a dramatic way. Just deliberately. You don’t want to sit there watching the typing bubble. You don’t want to turn this into something frantic.

You set your phone on the coffee table and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Your apartment is quiet again.

It feels different though. Charged. Like the air shifted a few degrees.

You tell yourself you’re being normal. You had a conversation. That’s it. People have conversations every day.

Still.

After a minute, you reach for your phone again.

You don’t open the chat.

You open his profile.

The first photo loads. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. A half smile that looks unguarded. The kind of picture that feels like it was taken by someone standing too close, not a press photographer.

You swipe.

The boat photo. Wind in his hair. Sun on his face. He looks relaxed in a way that feels almost private.

You swipe again.

The black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera. No exaggerated expression. Just him.

You exhale slowly.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a distant, untouchable way. In a human way. In a way that feels almost unfair when it’s paired with the quiet, thoughtful messages you just read.

You zoom in slightly before you can stop yourself, studying details you would absolutely make fun of Camille for noticing. The curve of his mouth. The line of his jaw. The softness in his eyes that doesn’t fully translate on stage but shows up here.

Your stomach flips again.

You close the app.

Open it again.

Just to look one more time.

You’re not desperate. You’re curious. There’s a difference, you tell yourself.

You set your phone down for good this time and stand up, pacing once across your living room.

This is ridiculous, you think.

You give it a few days.

Not on purpose at first. Just life moving the way it does. Work piles up. Your editor sends back notes. You spend an entire afternoon interviewing a bakery owner who insists on telling you her full life story before answering a single question.

You do not open the app.

You think about it, though.

In line for coffee. On the train. When your phone buzzes and your heart does something irrational before you check the notification and it’s just a news alert.

You tell yourself this is healthy. Measured. You are not spiraling. You are not glued to a screen waiting for a typing bubble.

You are taking it slow.

By day three, you’ve convinced yourself that leaving space makes you mysterious.

By day four, you realize you are just nervous.

Camille texts you on Thursday night.

Are you alive.

You stare at the message.

Yes.

That’s it? she replies. Suspicious.

You hesitate, then type:

He messaged.

There are three dots immediately.

WHAT.

You call her before she can send anything else because you know she will escalate.

She answers on the first ring.

“You cannot just text ‘he messaged’ and leave it there,” she says, already breathless.

“It was normal,” you say quickly. “Very normal. Calm. Human.”

“Define human.”

“We talked about work. Italy came up.”

“Italy,” she repeats, like it’s a plot twist in a show she’s invested in.

“He’s there.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

She goes quiet for a second. “So what’s the problem.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then why do you sound like there is.”

You sit on the edge of your bed, twisting the hem of your shirt around your fingers.

“I just… I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin what.”

“I don’t know. The tone. The ease.”

Camille softens.

“You’re allowed to enjoy something without pre ruining it.”

“I’m not pre ruining it.”

“You’re rationing it,” she says gently.

You look at the floor.

She’s not wrong.

“I haven’t opened the app in a few days,” you admit.

“On purpose?”

“Kind of.”

“Why.”

You search for the right words.

“Because if I answer too fast, it feels like I care too much. And if I answer too slow, it feels like I’m playing a game. I don’t want to play a game.”

Camille exhales.

“You are overthinking this.”

“I know.”

“He is a man. On a dating app. You are a woman. On a dating app. You are allowed to respond when you want to respond.”

“It’s different.”

“Because he’s famous.”

You don’t answer.

She continues, softer now.

“Is he talking to you like he’s famous.”

“No.”

“Is he acting like you should be impressed.”

“No.”

“Then stop assigning weight to it.”

You lean back onto your bed and stare at the ceiling.

“I’ve just been taking it slow,” you say finally.

“Slow is fine,” she replies. “Slow is sexy. Slow is mysterious. Slow is emotionally regulated. But slow is not avoidance.”

You laugh quietly.

“Which one am I.”

“A little of both,” she says.

You glance at your phone on your nightstand.

It hasn’t buzzed.

But you know the conversation is still there. Waiting. Not in a demanding way. Just existing.

You shift on your bed, tucking the phone tighter between your shoulder and your ear so you can free up one hand.

“Don’t,” Camille says immediately.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can hear it.”

You roll your eyes even though she can’t see you. “I’m just looking.”

“You are absolutely about to open the app.”

You don’t deny it this time. You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, switch to speaker, and open Raya.

The screen loads.

Your thumb hesitates before you tap the chat.

Nothing new.

The last message is still there. Calm. Unmoved. No typing bubble. No fresh notification.

You stare at it longer than you should.

“Well?” Camille asks through the speaker.

“Nothing.”

There’s a small pause.

“That’s okay,” you add quickly. “He’s busy.”

Camille hums in a way that says she’s watching you spiral from miles away.

“Yeah,” she says. “He probably is.”

You exit the chat but don’t close the app right away. You linger on his profile picture at the top of the screen like it might offer some kind of reassurance.

“He said he disappears for weeks sometimes,” you say, trying to sound unaffected. “Occupational hazard.”

“You remember the exact phrasing,” she points out.

“Stop.”

You finally lock your phone and set it on your nightstand.

“I don’t want to be the girl who waits around,” you admit.

“You checked once,” she says calmly. “While actively talking to me.”

“That still counts.”

“It counts as being human.”

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.

“It’s fine,” you say again, softer this time. “He’s in Italy. It’s late there. He probably has a life.”

Camille laughs gently. “I hope so.”

You smile despite yourself.

“It was one conversation,” you continue. “A good one. But still.”

“And if that’s all it is, that’s still nice,” she says.

The week stretches longer than you expect.

Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly.

You stop checking every day. Then you stop checking at all. Work fills the space. You finish the bakery piece. You sit through a zoning meeting that runs forty minutes past what it should. You have dinner with Camille where neither of you says his name out loud.

It settles into something that almost feels finished.

You tell yourself that was nice. A good conversation. A small reminder that the world is bigger than one breakup.

You don’t delete the app.

You just let it exist.

It’s the following Tuesday when it happens.

You’re on the train, wedged between a woman reading a thriller and a man aggressively eating almonds out of a plastic bag. You’re half listening to a podcast, half staring at nothing.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down automatically.

Raya.

Your stomach drops so fast you actually miss your stop announcement.

You stare at the notification without opening it.

Harry sent you a message.

The train keeps moving. Someone coughs. The world continues like this is not a seismic event.

You open it.

The chat loads.

The last message is still yours. Then below it, new.

Sorry. I disappeared.

Your throat tightens.

Another message comes through.

You were right about the argument thing. I lost one in Italian. Very humbling experience.

You let out a soft, startled laugh on the train, earning a brief look from the almond man.

It’s been a week.

A full week.

And yet the tone is exactly the same. Dry. Casual. Like no time has passed.

You type slowly, deliberately.

That does sound humbling.

You stare at it.

Then add:

I assumed you were busy.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

I was.

A pause.

Didn’t mean to vanish.

There’s something in that. Not defensive. Not overly apologetic. Just acknowledging.

You lean back against the train pole, trying to keep your expression neutral.

Occupational hazard, you write.

Three dots.

Exactly.

Another pause.

How’s New York.

You smile to yourself.

The fact that he remembers where you are.

Still cold. Still loud. No progress on the arguing neighbors.

The typing bubble.

I admire their commitment.

You laugh softly.

The train lurches and you grab the pole with your free hand, heart still beating faster than it needs

The train rattles forward and you stay where you are, letting two stops pass without even thinking about it.

Your phone buzzes again.

Did you write anything interesting this week.

You blink at the screen.

It’s such a simple question. And yet it doesn’t feel like filler.

You shift your weight and type carefully.

I wrote about a bakery that almost closed because of a rent increase. The neighborhood showed up for them. It worked.

There’s a pause.

Then:

That’s a good story.

You smile.

It felt like one.

Another message appears before you can overanalyze.

Do you ever want to write something bigger.

You hesitate.

Bigger how.

More glamorous. More visible. Less local.

You decide not to shrink.

Sometimes. But I like knowing exactly who I’m writing for. It feels less abstract.

The typing bubble lingers.

That makes sense.

Then:

Abstract gets lonely.

That lingers quietly.

You swallow.

The train announces the next stop. Yours. You step off, weaving through people while still holding your phone low against your chest.

Lonely in what way, you type as you climb the stairs to street level.

A longer pause this time.

You reach the sidewalk just as the reply comes through.

You play to a lot of people. It doesn’t mean they know you.

Your steps slow.

The city noise rushes around you. Taxis. Conversations. Wind cutting down the block.

You type carefully.

Do you want them to?

Three dots.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Not all of them.

There’s something steady in that answer. Not self pitying. Not dramatic.

You walk toward your apartment, pulse still elevated.

Selective, you write.

Almost instantly:

Exactly.

You smile.

There’s a rhythm now. A comfort.

Another message comes through.

What are you doing right now.

You glance around at the sidewalk, at the guy walking a dog in a tiny sweater.

Walking home. It’s disgustingly cold.

Italy would like to offer an alternative.

You laugh.

That feels like a marketing pitch.

It is.

You shake your head.

What are you doing?

A beat.

On a terrace. It’s late. I should be inside.

You can almost see it without trying. Warm air. Quiet. Different sky.

And yet, you type.

And yet I’m not.

There’s a softness to that.

You unlock your apartment door and step inside, shutting out the noise of the street.

Why not, you ask.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately this time.

Because I’m enjoying this conversation.

Your breath catches just slightly.

You sit down on the edge of your couch again, like your body instinctively knows you need to brace for impact.

You stare at the screen.

Then, slowly:

Me too.

There’s no immediate response.

Just the quiet hum of your apartment and the faint echo of traffic outside.

Then:

Good.

It continues like that.

Not intense. Not dramatic. Just steady.

A few messages in the morning. Sometimes late at night. Sometimes nothing for a full day, then a casual reappearance like no time has passed.

You fall into a rhythm without meaning to.

How’s the bakery.

Thriving. The power of carbs.

Impressive.

—————

How’s Italy.

Still warm. Still confusing me grammatically.

Have you won an argument yet.

Absolutely not.

—————

What are you writing today?

Housing piece. Slightly less charming than stray cats.

You make it sound charming.

—————

Some days it’s just:

Morning.

Morning.

Or:

You alive?

Barely.

It never tips into too much.

He disappears occasionally. Reappears with something small and thoughtful.

Heard a song today that felt like something you’d write about.

Saw a café that would make a good scene in an article.

You don’t ask for proof. You don’t demand consistency. You just let it exist.

Camille notices the shift before you say anything.

“You’re calmer,” she observes one night over dinner.

“Am I.”

“Yes. You’re not spiraling. You’re just… talking.”

That’s exactly it.

You’re just talking. Having fun even.

No declarations. No flirting that feels forced. Just pieces of each other exchanged in manageable amounts.

He tells you about long studio days without naming locations. You tell him about a zoning vote that got unexpectedly heated. He sends a photo once, unprompted. A blurry shot of a street at night. Warm lights. Stone buildings.

It’s quieter than New York, he writes.

You send back a photo of your street. Snow piled against the curb. A bodega glowing under fluorescent light.

It’s louder, you reply.

The time difference becomes familiar. You start to recognize when he’s likely awake. He learns your routine too.

You’re usually on the train around now, he texts one morning.

You pause at that.

Observant.

Limited data, he replies.

You smile.

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks of casual conversation. Of checking the app without panic. Of feeling something build slowly instead of crashing all at once.

There are no grand gestures.

Just consistency.

It’s a random Wednesday afternoon when it shifts.

You’re at your desk, halfway through rewriting a paragraph for the third time, when your phone buzzes.

You glance down automatically.

Raya.

You open it without thinking now. No dramatic pause. No pacing.

I’m coming back to the States for a bit.

Your fingers still over the keyboard.

You stare at the message for a second.

Then:

Oh?

The typing bubble appears quickly.

Yeah. A few weeks.

Your heart picks up, just slightly.

Where.

A pause. Not long. Just long enough for you to become aware of your own breathing.

Los Angeles.

You lean back in your chair.

Of course.

Work? you type.

Promo. New album coming out. Record meetings. The usual chaos.

You smile at the understatement.

That sounds mildly busy.

It’ll be fine, he replies. Just loud.

You glance around your small office. Your muted computer screen. The hum of fluorescent lights.

You thrive in loud, you write.

There’s a pause.

Sometimes, he replies. Sometimes it’s just noise.

You sit with that for a second.

Then:

When are you back.

Next week.

Your stomach flips. You hate that it does.

Next week feels close. Close in a way Italy never did.

You try to sound casual.

That’s soon.

Yeah.

Another pause.

Will you be in New York at all, you ask before you can talk yourself out of it.

There’s a slightly longer beat this time.

Possibly. Not sure yet. Schedules are still moving around.

You nod to yourself like that makes it less vague.

Fair.

The typing bubble appears again.

Would you want to know if I am?

Your breath catches.

You read it twice.

It’s not a grand gesture. Not an invitation. Just a question.

But it feels like one.

You swallow and type carefully.

I think I would.

There’s no immediate response.

Just the faint hum of your office and your own pulse in your ears.

Then:

Okay.

Life keeps moving.

He flies back to the States and the day he lands your phone buzzes mid afternoon.

Made it. LA is aggressively sunny.

You smile at your desk.

Welcome back to chaos.

A photo comes through. Blurry palm trees from the window of a car. Another of what looks like a studio. Cables. A mic stand. Nothing flashy.

Proof of life, he writes.

You send one back without overthinking it. Your laptop open. Notes scattered across your desk. A coffee cup with lipstick on the rim.

Proof of deadlines.

He replies almost instantly.

Yours looks more organized than mine.

That’s a generous interpretation.

The weeks in LA settle into the same rhythm you built before. Messages between meetings. Late night replies when he’s done for the day.

Long one today, he texts one evening.

Good long or exhausting long.

A bit of both.

He sends a photo of a sunset over the hills. The sky pink and unreal.

You send back a photo of your street in the rain. Reflections in the pavement. A taxi splashing through a puddle.

Still louder, you caption it.

Still warmer here, he replies.

It feels steady. Not performative. Just two lives running parallel with small windows into each other.

You don’t talk about meeting. Not directly. It floats unspoken between you.

Until one night.

It’s late afternoon. You’re already in bed, half asleep, when your phone buzzes on your nightstand.

Raya.

You squint at the screen.

You up.

You blink, suddenly awake.

Unfortunately yes.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

I’m in New York.

You sit up in bed so fast you almost knock your lamp over.

What.

Another message.

One night. Early meetings tomorrow. Flying back out after.

Your heart is pounding now. Loud in the quiet of your apartment.

That’s… random.

Very.

You stare at the screen, trying to slow your breathing.

Where in the city, you type.

A pause.

Midtown. Hotel near the park.

Of course.

You swallow.

The distance between Italy and New York felt theoretical. LA felt far enough to be safe.

But this.

This is different.

Another message comes through.

Thought you’d want to know.

You stare at that one for a long time.

Your city. His one night.

The possibility hanging there.

You stare at Thought you’d want to know until the screen dims.

Your heart is beating too loud for how quiet your apartment is.

You could ignore the implication. You could say that’s exciting, hope it goes well. You could play it safe.

Instead, you sit up straighter and type carefully.

Busy schedule? Or do you get to pretend you’re a normal person for a few hours.

You erase it.

Too pointed.

You try again.

Any plans after your meetings.

Neutral. Almost casual.

You hit send before you can overthink it.

The typing bubble appears quickly. Disappears. Comes back.

I was hoping you might ask that.

Your stomach flips.

Then, another message.

No plans yet.

You inhale slowly.

He doesn’t leave it there.

Do you want to get a drink?

There’s no hedging. No vague maybe we should. No soft landing.

Just direct.

Your pulse kicks up again.

You stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure you didn’t invent it.

This is real. He is in your city. For one night.

You type back, forcing your fingers to stay steady.

That depends.

A pause.

On what.

You smile despite yourself.

On whether you’ve improved your argument skills.

Three dots.

I can lose in English too. Very versatile.

You laugh quietly.

Then you type what you actually mean.

What time?

It takes a few seconds longer this time.

I’m free after nine. I can come to you. Or we can meet somewhere you’re comfortable. If that’s not too late.

There it is again. Direct. But careful.

Not assuming.

Your chest feels tight in a way that isn’t panic. It’s anticipation.

You glance around your apartment like it might offer guidance.

There’s a place near me. Quiet but nice. Not Midtown chaos, you write.

The reply comes quickly.

Send me the name.

Another pause.

See you at nine.

Your breath catches at the simplicity of it.

No overcomplicating. No dramatic build.

Just a plan.

You lock your phone slowly and stare at your reflection in the dark window.

One night.

Nine o’clock.

The second you lock your phone, the calm dissolves.

You stand in the middle of your bedroom staring at your closet like it personally orchestrated this.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.

It is one drink. One man. One normal human interaction.

Except it is not normal and you know it.

You start pulling hangers aside too fast. Sweater. No. Too casual. Black dress. Absolutely not. That feels like you’re trying too hard. Jeans. Maybe. But which ones. The good ones. Obviously the good ones.

You sit on the edge of your bed and take a breath.

Cute and comfy. Well dressed. Effortless.

You settle on high waisted tailored trousers and a soft cream button up that drapes just right. Simple gold hoops. Loafers. Hair down, brushed out, not overly styled.

You look at yourself in the mirror.

You look like you. Just slightly steadier.

“Okay,” you whisper.

At 8:45 you’re pacing. At 8:50 you grab your coat. At 8:55 you’re walking faster than necessary.

The bar you chose is dim and narrow and usually quiet on weeknights. You push the door open at exactly 9:00.

No one else is there.

Just the bartender wiping down the counter and a couple in the corner booth speaking in low voices.

You swallow and walk to the bar, sliding onto a stool.

“Can I get you something?”

“Just a glass of red.”

Your phone sits face down on the bar in front of you.

9:02.

That’s fine. Two minutes means nothing.

You take a small sip of your wine and try not to look at the door every time it opens.

9:05.

He’s in Midtown. Traffic exists. Elevators exist. Security exists.

9:08.

Your stomach starts doing something uncomfortable.

You flip your phone over casually.

No new messages.

You open the app.

Nothing.

The last thing he said still sits there.

See you at nine.

You swallow.

9:10.

The bartender glances at the door when it opens. It’s not him. Just someone picking up a takeout order.

Heat creeps up your neck.

This is fine. You are early. Or he is late. That happens. That’s human.

9:12.

You open his profile again without meaning to. The same photos. The same half smile.

A ridiculous thought creeps in.

What if this is the long game.

What if you have been talking to someone who is not him. What if this is the punchline. What if you are about to become a story Camille tells at dinner parties.

9:15.

Your chest feels tight now.

You pick up your phone and hover over the chat.

You could send something casual.

You alive.

Too pointed.

All good.

Too needy.

You lock your phone again and place it back down carefully.

You will not spiral in public.

9:17.

The door opens again.

You look up automatically.

And for a split second, before your brain catches up, you think you might actually be getting catfished.

The door closes behind him and the cold air follows.

For half a second your brain doesn’t register anything except tall.

Then the details come into focus.

Black coat. Slightly windblown hair. That same half smile from the photos, only less curated. More real. His eyes scan the room quickly, adjusting to the dim light.

And then they land on you.

Recognition is instant.

Not confusion. Not hesitation.

Recognition.

Your stomach drops in a completely different way.

He walks toward the bar without rushing. Calm. Almost casual. Like this is just another Wednesday night and not the culmination of three weeks of careful conversation.

You are suddenly very aware of how you’re sitting. Of your hands. Of your face.

He stops a few feet away.

“Hi.”

His voice is softer than you expected. Warmer.

You blink once like your body needs to reboot.

“Hi.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Relief, maybe. Like he wasn’t entirely sure either.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Elevator situation.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “That tracks.”

He smiles properly at that.

Up close, he looks exactly like himself and not at all like a screen version. There’s texture. Movement. A small crease near his eyes when he smiles.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, nodding to the stool beside you.

You shake your head. “No.”

He slides onto it and shrugs off his coat, draping it over the back. The bartender appears immediately.

“Whiskey,” he says, then glances at you. “That okay?”

You nod, like you have any authority over it.

There’s a small beat of quiet once the bartender steps away.

This is the moment that could be awkward.

It isn’t.

He turns slightly toward you.

“You look like yourself,” he says.

You blink. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I wasn’t catfished.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

“That was absolutely my fear fifteen minutes ago.”

His eyebrows lift. “Really.”

“9:15 was dark for me.”

He laughs softly at that, shaking his head. “I should’ve sent a message. That’s on me.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “You’re here.”

The simplicity of that lands between you.

He studies you for a second in a way that doesn’t feel invasive. Just present.

“You’re real,” he says quietly.

“I could say the same.”

He smiles again, smaller this time. Less public. More private.

The bartender sets his drink down. He thanks him absentmindedly without breaking eye contact with you.

For a moment the noise of the bar fades into the background.

It’s just the two of you. No typing bubbles. No time difference. No distance.

Just this.

He takes a sip of his drink and tilts his head slightly.

“So,” he says. “Hi.”

And somehow it feels like the beginning all over again.

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

I Know What You Like

where Harry studies the way Y/N reacts to music and writes a song built around it (based off Carla’s Song by Harry Styles)

Word count: 6.9k

The first time you really notice the way Harry listens to music happens on a quiet night that feels so ordinary you almost miss the moment entirely.

Dinner has long since finished, but neither of you has made any move to leave the kitchen yet. The plates are stacked loosely beside the sink and Harry is rinsing them one by one under the warm stream of water, his movements slow and absentminded in the way people move when they are comfortable in their own space. The smell of garlic, butter, and a little bit of lemon still lingers in the air from the pasta he insisted on making himself earlier, and the window above the counter is cracked open just enough to let the cool evening breeze slip in. Somewhere in the other room a record is spinning steadily, the music drifting down the short hallway and into the kitchen in soft waves. It sounds warm and textured, slightly grainy the way vinyl always does, like the song has lived a little before reaching you.

You are perched on the kitchen counter beside the stove with your legs hanging over the edge, the heel of your socked foot occasionally tapping lightly against the cabinet below without you realizing it. Your wine glass rests loosely in your hands while you watch Harry move around the sink with quiet concentration, sleeves pushed up his forearms and hair slightly messy from where you had been playing with it earlier while the two of you were stretched across the couch. Every once in a while he hums along with the music coming from the living room, not loudly, just a soft absent sound under his breath that seems more instinct than decision.

It takes you a moment to realize he is doing it.

“You like this one,” you say after watching him for a little while.

Harry glances back over his shoulder at you, one hand still resting on the edge of the sink while the other holds a plate under the running water. There is a small smile on his face like the observation is both obvious and slightly amusing to him.

“I do,” he says simply.

“What is it?”

He tells you the name of the artist and the record, like it is information you are supposed to already have. Then he shrugs one shoulder lightly.

“Found it the other week.”

You nod, turning your attention back toward the doorway where the music is drifting in. It is not something you would have chosen on your own. The song is soft and layered, the kind that takes its time building itself instead of announcing what it is right away. The instruments weave together in a way that feels almost delicate, like each sound is placed exactly where it belongs.

Harry shuts the faucet off and dries his hands slowly on the dish towel before leaning back against the counter across from you. For a moment neither of you says anything. The kitchen feels warm and calm, the only real movement coming from the quiet music floating in from the other room.

After a few seconds he tilts his head slightly, listening more carefully.

Then he looks at you.

“Listen to this bit,” he says, nodding toward the living room.

You glance toward the doorway and then back at him. “I am listening.”

He smiles faintly, shaking his head once.

“No,” he says gently. “You’re hearing it.”

You let out a small laugh under your breath, the corner of your mouth lifting.

“What’s the difference?”

Harry does not answer right away. Instead he just watches you for a moment, his attention settled on your face with quiet patience, like he is waiting for something to happen that only he knows is coming.

Then he tips his head slightly toward the living room again.

“Just give it a second.”

The two of you fall quiet again after that, the kitchen settling back into the comfortable stillness it had before you started talking. The music continues to drift in from the living room, soft enough that you have to pay a little more attention than before. Harry stays leaned against the counter across from you, arms loosely folded now, his gaze shifting between you and the doorway like he is following the shape of the song in his head.

At first nothing really changes. The melody continues the same gentle way it has been moving along, the instruments layered softly over one another. You start to think maybe you already missed the moment he was talking about. Your fingers turn the stem of your wine glass slowly while you listen, trying to catch whatever it is he is waiting for.

Then the song shifts.

It is subtle at first, just a slight build in the sound, like something is opening up underneath the rest of the music. A second guitar slides in quietly, brighter than the rest, weaving around the melody instead of sitting behind it. The rhythm picks up a little, the whole thing starting to feel more alive, like the song has been walking slowly and suddenly decides to start running.

And then there is a little riff.

It is quick and playful, just a few notes tucked perfectly into the middle of everything else, but something about it lands exactly right. It scratches at that strange, satisfying part of your brain that reacts before you even think about it.

Your face changes without you realizing.

A smile spreads across your mouth as the sound fills the room and you tilt your head slightly, listening closer now.

“Oh,” you say softly.

Harry immediately notices.

You glance back at him with a small laugh, pointing toward the doorway. “That bit.”

He is already smiling like he knew it was coming.

“I like that,” you say, still listening as the riff slips back into the rest of the song. “It… I don’t know. It tickles my brain a little.”

Harry’s smile widens at that, something warm and quietly pleased settling across his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thought it might.”

Harry is already smiling when you look back at him, like the reaction landed exactly where he expected it to.

The music continues to swell gently from the other room, the little riff weaving itself back into the rest of the song as if it had always belonged there, but your attention has shifted now. You are watching him instead, the quiet satisfaction sitting on his face making something warm curl low in your chest.

“You knew I’d like that,” you say softly.

He shrugs a little, pushing himself off the counter. “I had a feeling.”

Harry crosses the small space between you slowly, the movement easy and familiar, until he is standing right in front of where you are sitting on the counter. His hands settle naturally on your thighs, warm through the thin fabric of your clothes, and he steps closer until he is gently easing himself between your legs without asking. The movement is so casual, so practiced, that you shift automatically to make room for him.

The music continues quietly in the background while his thumbs rest against the outside of your legs.

“You always do that,” you say after a second.

“Do what?”

“Watch me when you play something new.”

Harry’s mouth curves slightly at that, his eyes lifting to yours for a moment before his gaze drifts down to your lips, then back again.

“Of course I do.”

“Why?”

He does not answer right away. Instead he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him before his lips brush softly against yours. The kiss is unhurried and gentle, the kind that feels less like a moment and more like a quiet pause in the middle of the night. His hand shifts slightly higher on your thigh as he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours.

Then his mouth drifts to the side of your neck.

His voice is low when he speaks, the words half murmured against your skin.

“I like watching you experience things.”

For a moment he stays there, close and warm between your legs, his breath still brushing softly against your neck while the music continues to drift in from the other room. The record crackles faintly between notes, the sound folding into the quiet of the kitchen in a way that makes the whole moment feel slower, softer. His hands remain resting against your thighs, thumbs moving absentmindedly as if he has forgotten they are even there.

You slide your arms around his neck, pulling him closer without much thought, the familiar weight of him settling comfortably against you. Harry leans into it easily, his forehead brushing lightly against your temple as you hold him there for a second longer than necessary, the two of you swaying just slightly in place.

Then you lean back just enough to look at him.

Your finger hooks gently under his chin, tilting his face up so his eyes meet yours again. There is still that quiet softness there, the kind he gets when he is talking about music or watching you listen to it.

You smile.

Before he can say anything else you lean forward and kiss him again, slow and affectionate, the kind of kiss that makes him laugh softly into it because he was not expecting it quite like that.

When you pull away, you shake your head at him fondly.

“You’re such a big sap.”

Harry lets out a quiet laugh, one eyebrow lifting slightly like he might argue with that if he felt like it.

But he does not.

Instead he just looks at you, amused and a little pleased all at once.

You brush your fingers lightly through the hair at the back of his neck before speaking again.

“Do you want some ice cream?”

Harry does say yes, immediately, like the offer was the easiest decision he has made all evening.

You slide off the counter and the two of you move around the kitchen together in that easy, slightly clumsy way couples do when they know the space well. The freezer opens, the cold air spilling out as Harry pulls the tub of ice cream forward while you lean across the counter looking for bowls. He insists on making the sundaes properly, which means there is chocolate syrup involved, a handful of crushed cookies he finds in the cupboard, and a very serious moment where he debates whether or not whipped cream is necessary.

“It’s always necessary,” you tell him.

He glances over at you, already holding the can. “Just checking.”

You end up standing shoulder to shoulder at the counter while he finishes them, his arm occasionally bumping yours as he drizzles chocolate over the top in messy spirals. When he hands the bowl to you, he looks quietly proud of it.

“Presentation matters,” he says.

You take a bite and nod thoughtfully. “Very professional.”

He hums in approval, satisfied.

Later, when the bowls are empty and the kitchen is dim except for the soft light over the stove, the record has long since finished spinning in the other room. The night settles into something quieter after that, the kind of calm that happens when nothing else needs to be done.

Hours pass almost without either of you noticing.

Harry eventually ends up in the corner of the living room where his computer and small keyboard sit, one leg tucked under him in the chair while he idly scrolls through something on the screen. There are headphones hanging loosely around his neck and the faint glow of the monitor lights the side of his face while he taps at a few keys, testing sounds the way he always does when he is half focused and curious at the same time.

Across the room you are curled into the armchair with a book resting open in your hands, your legs pulled comfortably underneath you while you read. The lamp beside you casts a warm circle of light across the pages, and every once in a while you turn one slowly, settling deeper into the story.

Harry is only half paying attention to what he is doing. His fingers press down on the keys experimentally, letting a few notes drift softly into the room while he scrolls through different sounds on the computer. None of it is really a song yet. Just small fragments. A chord here. A few notes there. The quiet exploration of someone who cannot stop playing with music even when they are not trying to write anything.

One particular combination of notes rings out a little brighter than the others.

You shiver suddenly.

Harry looks over immediately.

“Cold?” he asks, his hand hovering over the keyboard.

You glance up from your book, a small smile pulling at your mouth as you tuck the edge of the page between your fingers.

“No.”

He studies you for a second, unconvinced.

“You just shivered.”

You shift slightly in the chair, pulling the blanket beside you a little closer around your legs before looking back at him.

“It wasn’t that.”

“What was it then?”

You tilt your head toward the keyboard, the smile growing just a little.

“The notes.”

Harry blinks once.

“The notes?”

You nod softly, tapping the page of your book absentmindedly.

“That thing you just played.” You pause, searching for the right way to explain it. “It… tickled something in my brain.”

Harry stares at you for a second after you say it, the faint glow from the computer screen catching the slight crease forming between his brows as he tries to understand exactly what you mean. Then the expression shifts all at once and he lets out a soft laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair.

“I know exactly what you mean,” he says.

You lower your book a little, watching him with mild curiosity as he runs a hand through his hair, still smiling to himself like the explanation made perfect sense to him all along. His fingers tap the edge of the keyboard once more, replaying the few notes he had pressed earlier, letting them ring gently through the room again.

You feel it immediately.

That same little spark in the back of your mind that makes you shift in your seat.

Harry sees the reaction before you can even say anything.

“See,” he says lightly.

You point at him from across the room. “That. That part.”

He laughs again, softer this time, like the whole thing is quietly fascinating to him. For a moment he just sits there looking at the keyboard, his fingers hovering over it thoughtfully.

Then he closes the laptop.

The screen goes dark and he pushes the chair back slightly, turning to face you fully now instead of the desk. The energy around him changes in a small but noticeable way, like an idea has just taken root in his head and he is already halfway excited about it.

“What?” you ask, setting your book down on your lap.

Harry leans forward a little, resting his forearms on his knees while he looks at you with that familiar spark in his eyes.

“I’m going to start showing you things,” he says.

You blink. “Things?”

“Music.”

You laugh quietly under your breath. “You already do that.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head once. “I mean properly.”

He gestures vaguely toward the keyboard behind him, then toward the living room where the record player sits, then back to you again.

“I want to see what you really like.”

You tilt your head slightly, amused by the sudden seriousness of it.

“What does that mean?”

Harry smiles, slow and thoughtful.

“It means I’m curious.” He pauses, studying your face the same careful way he had earlier in the kitchen. “You react to things differently than most people I know. Not the big obvious parts. It’s always the little bits tucked inside the song.”

You shrug lightly, pulling the blanket closer around your legs.

“I just like what sounds good.”

“Exactly,” he says.

There is a quiet excitement in his voice now, the kind that creeps in when he starts thinking about music too deeply.

“So I want to see where that happens.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to study me?”

Harry grins.

“I’m going to play you a whole bunch of different things,” he says. “And watch what your face does.”

Time starts to move a little differently after that night.

It does not become some formal experiment the way Harry jokingly suggested. There are no notes taken, no serious declarations that he is studying your taste in music. Instead it becomes something softer and more natural than that. Music simply begins to fill more of the space between the two of you.

Sometimes it happens in the car while you are driving somewhere with the windows cracked open and the late afternoon sun washing everything in gold. Harry will reach across the console to switch songs halfway through something else, his eyes flicking toward you for only a second before the new one begins. He never says anything right away. He just lets it play, watching the road while he waits.

You will hum along to the chorus of one without even realizing you are doing it, and he will smile quietly to himself like he just learned something important.

Another time it happens while the two of you are stretched across the couch late at night, the lights turned low while a record spins slowly beside the bookshelf. Harry will sit up halfway through the song and reach forward to replay a section again, leaning closer to the speakers like he is chasing a sound.

“Did you hear that guitar?” he asks.

You nod, thoughtful. “I really liked that bit.”

He rewinds it again anyway, just to watch the moment land on your face a second time.

Not everything works.

One afternoon he plays something loud and chaotic through the speakers while he paces around the room explaining why it is brilliant, his hands moving animatedly as the music crashes and shifts in strange directions. You try to follow along, really you do, but after a minute you scrunch your nose and shake your head.

“It’s making me anxious,” you admit.

Harry stops pacing and laughs, running a hand through his hair.

“Fair enough.”

Sometimes the reaction is immediate.

A soft piano melody once drifts through the living room while you are half distracted flipping through a magazine, and before you even look up Harry notices the way your foot starts tapping gently against the rug.

“There it is,” he says under his breath.

You glance up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Other times it surprises both of you.

One night Harry is sitting on the edge of the couch with a guitar resting loosely across his lap, idly playing while you are curled up beside him reading. He is not performing exactly, just letting the chords wander the way they do when his hands need something to do.

Then he sings a line quietly under his breath.

The melody lifts at the end in a way that feels unexpected, his voice flipping gently upward before settling again.

The sound sends a sudden wave of goosebumps down your arms.

You actually gasp a little.

Harry immediately stops playing.

“What?” he asks.

You look up at him, wide eyed, one hand rubbing your arm where the chill passed through.

“Do that again.”

“What?”

“That thing you just did with your voice.”

He frowns slightly, confused. “Which bit?”

You try to mimic it badly, your voice cracking halfway through the attempt.

“That little… flip thing.”

Harry stares at you for a second, then laughs softly before repeating the line the same way.

The moment it happens again your shoulders lift instinctively.

“There,” you say, pointing at him.

Harry’s smile spreads slowly as he watches the reaction settle over you.

“Tickled your brain?” he asks.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you admit quietly. “That one really did.”

As the weeks pass the pattern becomes so natural that you almost stop noticing it happening. One constant thing is that Harry always watches you.

Not obviously. Not in a way that feels like you are being studied. It is quieter than that. He will lean back against the couch while a song plays, one arm stretched along the back cushion behind you, and every once in a while his eyes drift to your face instead of the speakers. Sometimes he catches the small smile that spreads across your mouth when a melody lands just right. Sometimes he sees the way your eyebrows knit together when something feels strange or unfamiliar.

He never interrupts right away.

He just observes.

Eventually though, the curiosity starts to grow on your end too.

One evening the two of you are stretched out on the couch together after dinner, the room lit only by the lamp in the corner and the soft glow from the kitchen spilling in behind you. A playlist is drifting quietly through the speakers, something Harry had put on earlier while the two of you cleaned up. Your legs are tucked comfortably beneath you while Harry sits beside you with one arm draped along the back of the couch, his fingers absentmindedly tracing slow circles against the fabric near your shoulder.

Another song begins, something warm and layered, and you notice his gaze shift toward you again.

You glance sideways at him.

He immediately looks back at the speaker like he was not doing anything.

You sigh and let the moment pass for a few seconds before speaking.

“Okay.”

Harry hums softly. “Okay what?”

You turn slightly toward him, resting your elbow against the cushion.

“Why do you do that?”

He looks back at you, confused. “Do what?”

“You literally stare into my soul when music is playing.”

There is no accusation in your voice, just curiosity.

Harry’s expression softens a little as he leans his head back against the couch, considering the question.

For a moment he does not answer.

The music continues quietly in the background while he gathers his thoughts.

Then he shrugs lightly.

“I already told you, I like seeing it.”

“Seeing what?”

“The way you listen to things things,” he says.

You frown slightly. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Harry smiles faintly, like he expected that answer.

You shift a little closer, waiting for him to explain.

He glances toward the speakers for a moment before looking back at you again, his voice calm and thoughtful when he continues.

“I’ve been around music my whole life,” he says. “Writing it. Recording it. Breaking it apart and putting it back together again. After a while it starts to feel… technical.”

“Technical?”

“Like science,” he explains quietly. “You know what a chorus is supposed to do. You know where a song is meant to lift or soften. You know which notes are supposed to give people goosebumps.”

He pauses briefly, searching for the right words.

“When I hear something now, part of my brain is already analyzing it. Thinking about structure. Production. Why it works.”

You listen carefully while he talks.

“But you don’t do that,” he continues.

Your brow lifts slightly. “No?”

He shakes his head gently.

“You just feel it.”

The words are simple, but there is something sincere behind them.

Harry looks at you for another second before his mouth curves into a small smile.

“And I love watching that.”

You tilt your head.

“But why?”

He studies your face the same way he does when a new song starts playing, quiet and thoughtful.

“Because it reminds me what it’s supposed to feel like.”

You do not think about that conversation again for a long time.

Not because it was not meaningful, but because life with Harry tends to move easily from one moment into the next. Days pass in the comfortable rhythm the two of you have built together, filled with small routines and quiet evenings and the kind of laughter that happens without effort. Eventually the memory of that particular conversation settles somewhere in the back of your mind, not forgotten exactly, just tucked away.

So when your phone buzzes one afternoon while you are stretched across the couch at home, you do not expect anything unusual.

You glance down at the screen.

Harry Lunch with me today?

You smile slightly.

You Thought you were working

Harry I am But I’m starving

You stare at the message for a second before typing again.

You So you want me to bring you lunch

Three little typing bubbles appear almost immediately.

Harry You’re catching on

You shake your head, already reaching for your keys.

You stop by a small place the two of you both like, grabbing a couple of sandwiches and drinks before heading toward the studio nestled downtown. The building is quiet when you arrive, the hallway carrying that familiar mix of coffee, cables, and faint music leaking through closed doors somewhere deeper inside.

When you push open the door to the room Harry is working in, he is sitting at the desk with his back partially turned, clicking through something on the computer screen while a pair of headphones rest around his neck. The glow from the monitor lights the side of his face as he leans forward slightly, focused.

He looks up the second he hears the door.

“There she is.”

You lift the paper bag in one hand. “Your lunch delivery.”

Harry pushes his chair back and walks over with a grin that spreads easily across his face, taking the bag from you before you can even set it down.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“And you my friend are dramatic.”

He laughs softly, already opening the bag while the two of you sit down at the small table nearby. The next few minutes pass the way they always do with him, relaxed and a little chaotic. He steals half your chips without asking. You shove the drink toward him when he almost knocks it over while talking. At one point he pretends to guard his sandwich like you might suddenly change your mind and take it back.

It feels easy. Familiar.

When the food is gone and the wrappers are folded back into the bag, Harry leans back in his chair slightly and looks at you.

“Do you have somewhere else you need to be?” he asks.

You glance up from the table. “No.”

“What were you planning to do today?”

You shrug lightly. “Go home. Probably look at adoptable cats for a while.”

Harry immediately shakes his head.

“No cats.”

You laugh. “Why not?”

“Because I want to show you something.”

He stands up before you can ask anything else and walks back toward the desk, gesturing for you to follow. You push your chair back and move across the room, curiosity building a little as he guides you over to the computer.

Harry reaches out and pulls the chair forward for you, his hand resting briefly against your back as you sit down. He stays close beside you, leaning slightly over your shoulder while the screen glows in front of you.

For a moment he just looks at it.

Then he glances down at you.

“I’ve been working on something,” he says quietly.

You raise one eyebrow slowly as you settle into the chair.

Harry notices immediately.

“What?” he asks.

“You’ve been working on something,” you repeat, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly.

Harry laughs softly under his breath, leaning forward to tap a few keys on the computer. The studio is quiet around you, the hum of equipment filling the space while the screen shifts as he pulls up a project file. A timeline spreads across the monitor with different tracks stacked on top of each other, colors and waveforms stretching across the length of the screen.

You glance between the screen and him.

“You’re not about to make me critique something serious, are you?”

“No,” he says easily. “Just want you to hear it.”

The file finishes loading and he rests one hand lightly on the back of your chair while the other moves the mouse across the desk. For a moment he does not press play. Instead he looks down at you, his expression softer now, a little more thoughtful than it had been when you walked in.

“You know you really inspire me,” he says.

You blink.

“Do I?”

Harry nods slightly, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the edge of the desk while he searches for the right words.

“Watching you listen to things,” he continues quietly. “Watching you react to them. It reminded me why I wanted to do this in the first place.”

You turn in the chair just enough to look up at him properly.

“What do you mean?”

Harry gestures lightly toward the computer.

“I’ve been around this so long it becomes… a job. You start thinking about structure and production and all the things that make a song work.” He pauses, his voice softening slightly. “But you don’t do that. You just hear it. You feel it. You let it take over your body and I love that. It reminds me how music should make people feel.”

Your brow lifts a little, not entirely sure what to say to that.

Harry smiles faintly.

“Seeing that again reminded me why music is so special and made me appreciate this journey even more.”

For a second the two of you just look at each other in the quiet of the studio.

Then he presses play.

The music starts gently at first, a soft swell of sound that fills the room through the studio speakers. It feels warm and layered, the instruments unfolding slowly the way good songs do when they know they do not have to rush.

You lean back slightly in the chair, listening.

Harry watches you.

His voice eventually comes in over the music, soft but steady.

“There is a bridge that leads to troubled waters…”

The words settle into the melody like they belong there.

“If you know then you know,” he sings, the line stretching easily across the music. “If you don’t then you don’t…”

You glance up at him briefly before looking back toward the speakers.

“That’s heavenly.”

The song continues to build slowly around you, the sound opening wider with each section. There are little details tucked underneath everything else, bright pieces of melody weaving through the instruments in a way that feels familiar.

Harry moves quietly beside you, leaning his hip against the desk while he watches your face.

“From your head to your toes,” he sings.

You feel your shoulders shift slightly as the music swells again.

“Saw the light in the gold that you discovered…”

Your eyes drift closed for a second as the next part rolls in.

“Through your eyes,” Harry continues softly. “In awe…”

The melody lifts there, just enough to give the words space.

“Melodies like the tide…”

You feel it again.

That strange little spark in the back of your mind when something lands exactly right.

The music grows fuller now, the rhythm settling in underneath the melody as the chorus opens.

“It’s all waiting there for you,” Harry sings.

The line repeats gently, the sound expanding across the room.

“It’s all waiting there for you…”

You shift slightly in the chair, completely focused now.

Harry’s gaze stays on you the entire time.

“Can you hear that voice delivering the news?” he continues.

The next section moves into something lighter, almost playful.

“Ignorance or innocence,” he sings. “Call it what you wanna…”

You let out a small breath, shaking your head faintly at how easily the melody keeps unfolding.

Then the music dips for a moment.

When it rises again the sound shifts slightly, and Harry’s voice carries the next line with quiet certainty.

“I know what you like…”

Your eyes open.

Harry glances down at you.

“I know what you’ll really like…”

The melody lifts right at the end of the line in a way that sends a little wave of recognition through you.

“I know what you like,” he continues. “I don’t have to read your mind…”

You turn slowly in the chair to look up at him now, the realization beginning to settle.

Harry just smiles gently.

“I know what you like,” he sings again. “You can hear it anytime.”

The music fills the room around you while the chorus swells again, the same line weaving through the sound.

“It’s all waiting there for you…”

You sit there quietly, the words settling slowly in your chest as the song continues to play.

The music continues to move through the room, the sound filling the studio in that full, layered way that good speakers make possible. It feels different hearing something like this in a place where it was built piece by piece, where every note and sound has been shaped and adjusted until it sits exactly where it is supposed to.

But you are not thinking about any of that.

Your body reacts before your brain really catches up. A small shiver runs through you first, quick and involuntary, like a ripple passing through your shoulders. You pull your arms in slightly without realizing it, rubbing one hand across the other as goosebumps spread along your skin.

Harry notices immediately.

He straightens just a little beside the desk, his attention sharpening the moment he sees it.

“You okay?”

You nod automatically, but the sound still fills your chest in a way that makes it hard to breathe normally. The chorus rolls through the speakers again, that line repeating with the same gentle certainty.

I know what you like. I know what you’ll really like.

Your fingers curl against the arm of the chair while you listen, your shoulders lifting slightly as another little detail slips through the melody, something bright tucked quietly into the music that feels exactly like the kinds of sounds he has been watching you react to for weeks.

Your throat tightens.

Harry is still watching you carefully when you finally turn to look up at him.

Your eyes are already glossy.

He sees it immediately.

“Oh no,” he says softly.

You shake your head a little, but it is too late. The tears gather quickly, spilling over before you can stop them as the music continues behind you.

Harry stares down at you for half a second, surprised.

Then he lets out a small breathy laugh.

“Well,” he says lightly, lifting his hands a little in surrender. “If it was shit you could’ve just told me.”

You immediately reach up and shove his arm.

“Harry,” you protest through a shaky laugh.

“I’m serious,” he continues, smiling now even as he watches you cry. “You didn’t have to get emotional about it.”

“Shut up.”

You swipe at your cheeks quickly before pushing yourself up out of the chair. The moment you are standing you step into him, wrapping your arms around his middle and pressing your face into his chest before he can say anything else.

Harry lets out a soft surprised sound but his arms come around you automatically, holding you close as the music continues to play quietly through the room.

For a moment he just stands there with you, one hand moving gently along your back.

“You’re crying,” he says after a second, his voice softer now.

You nod against him.

“Yeah.”

He tilts his head slightly, resting his cheek lightly against the top of your hair.

“That bad?” he teases.

You shake your head quickly, pulling back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes are still wet but there is a small smile sitting there too.

“No,” you say quietly.

Your hand slides up to his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“It’s just… you knew.”

For a moment neither of you moves.

Harry’s arms stay loosely around you while the last part of the song continues quietly through the studio speakers, the sound filling the room in a way that suddenly feels very different now that you understand what you are hearing. Your hands rest against the front of his shirt while you look up at him, your cheeks still warm from the tears that caught you off guard.

You let out a small breath, shaking your head faintly.

“I feel so seen right now,” you admit.

The words come out softer than you expected, almost like you are still trying to catch up with the realization sitting in your chest.

Harry’s expression changes when you say that. The teasing edge that had been in his voice a moment ago fades, replaced by something gentler. His hand slides up along your back, settling comfortably between your shoulder blades as he looks down at you.

“Well,” he says quietly, “I’ve been watching.”

You let out a small laugh through the last of your tears. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“I mean really watching,” he continues. “All those little moments when something catches you. When a guitar does something strange or a melody lifts in a way that makes you sit up.” He nods slightly toward the speakers behind you where the track is still playing. “All those bits.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you look back at him.

“I took them,” he says simply. “The sounds you liked. The ones that made you react. And I put them in there.”

You stare at him for a second, completely overwhelmed by how straightforward he makes it sound.

“You built a whole song out of my weird little brain reactions.”

Harry smiles.

“They’re not weird.”

“They are.”

“They’re honest.”

The simplicity of that makes something in your chest tighten again. You look back toward the speakers where the chorus drifts through the room one more time.

I know what you like. I know what you’ll really like.

You shake your head softly and look back at him.

“You’re too perfect,” you say.

Harry immediately groans.

“Oh no.”

“You are,” you insist, poking lightly at his chest. “Who does that? Who sits there studying someone’s music reactions and turns it into a song?”

He shrugs lightly, his arms still loosely wrapped around you.

“Someone who thought it was beautiful.”

Your expression softens immediately at that.

The room grows quiet around the two of you as the song begins to fade toward its ending. For a moment you both just stand there in the middle of the studio, close enough that you can feel his breathing slow and steady against you.

Your hand drifts up to rest along the side of his neck, your thumb brushing lightly against his jaw.

“That was the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you say quietly.

Harry smiles in that small, slightly shy way he gets when he knows he has done something meaningful but does not want to make a big deal out of it.

“I just wanted you to hear it,” he says.

You lean forward then, wrapping your arms around him again, pulling him into a tighter hug than before. Harry laughs softly but holds you just as tightly, his chin resting briefly on the top of your head while the last notes of the song fade out behind you.

For a second neither of you says anything.

The moment just sits there between you.

Eventually you lean back just enough to look at him again.

Your eyes are still a little glassy from earlier, but the emotional weight has settled into something lighter now, something warm that sits comfortably in your chest. Harry studies your face for a moment, checking you the way he always does when you get emotional about something.

“You alright?” he asks gently.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

His thumb brushes once along your side before he lets out a quiet breath, clearly relieved that you are not about to start crying again.

“Good,” he says.

You stare at him for another second, your expression slowly shifting into something more thoughtful.

Then the corner of your mouth lifts.

Harry notices immediately.

“That look worries me.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him in a way that makes him instinctively narrow his eyes back at you.

“You love me a lot, right?” you ask sweetly.

Harry blinks once.

“That feels like a trap.”

“Just answer the question.”

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Yes.”

“Like a lot a lot?”

Harry groans softly, already knowing where this is going.

“Oh no.”

Your smile widens.

“So,” you continue, folding your arms loosely while still standing close to him, “since you clearly love me so much…”

Harry points a finger at you immediately. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“Yes I do.”

You try to look innocent.

“Can I get a cat?”

Harry stares at you for half a second before shaking his head immediately.

“No.”

The answer is so quick you burst out laughing.

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did,” he says firmly. “The answer is still no.”

“Harry.”

“No.”

“It would be one cat.”

“No cats.”

You squint at him. “You just wrote me a whole song.”

“Yes.”

“About how well you know me.”

“Correct.”

“And how much you love watching me experience things.”

“Yes.”

You lean forward slightly, poking him lightly in the chest.

“A cat would be a very meaningful experience for me.”

Harry lets out a helpless laugh, running a hand through his hair before looking down at you again.

“You’re unbelievable.”

You grin.

“So is the song.”

He tries very hard not to smile.

But fails anyway.

[ladyg1rll-deactivated20260404]

「 ⋆.˚ WHEN IN ROME...ᐟ 」

SUMMARY: after a night out in rome with your boss, you wake up in his bed to find out that one of your fantasies had come true.. but now comes the awkward part. talking about it.

PAIRING: current! harry styles x younger assistant! reader

ⓘ WARNINGS: slightly awkward conversation, use of nicknames (sweetheart), kissing, fluff, smut flashbacks (nipple sucking, neck kisses, p in v), sweet harry.

WORD COUNT: 3.1k+

gracie speaks .ᐟ

i’m absolutely in love with this one omg. if you guys are interested, i’d be open to making this a mini series perchance. not making any promises, but who knows 🤷🏼‍♀️

© st4rkeysangel, posted december 30th, 2025. do not steal, copy or repost without my permission.

You feel him before you see him. The feeling of a large hand resting on your stomach, the thumb almost between your breasts as you lay on your back. There’s another leg rested against yours, draped over your calf. You’re awake but your eyes have yet to open out of fear that what you’re thinking happened, has actually happened.

Reluctantly, after minutes of contemplating a violent death, you peel your eyes open. You slowly turn your head in the direction of the loud breathing in your ear, and even though you knew it was already true, your eyes confirm it for you.

Your boss, Harry Styles, lays asleep beside you with his hand on your stomach and his leg draped over yours.

Naked, by the way.

You swallow thickly as stare at him, his face inches away from yours as it rests on your pillow instead of his own. He’s completely on your side of the bed. If this was any other situation, you would’ve rolled your eyes.

But this is a situation you never really thought you’d be in.

Of course you’d fantasised about it. Doesn’t every girl fantasise about sleeping with Harry Styles? You certainly did, but then you got the job as his personal assistant and realised you had to stop thinking about him in that way, knowing that nothing could ever happen between the two of you.

It’s unprofessional.

But now you’re in his bed at one of his Italy houses, specifically the one that’s closer to the sea. Not the other one that’s further in land.

Harry brought you to Italy because he had a meeting with his label yesterday, and it was gonna be a long one so he wanted you there. He paid for your flights, your hotel (that you’re clearly not using), and any other expenses.

After the meeting was over, he suggested grabbing some dinner. You agreed and the two of you set off down the streets of Rome. You ended up at one of Harry’s favourite restaurants in the city, and he managed to get you two a nice table inside where the lights were warm and the atmosphere was more private.

The drinks came faster than you thought. Before your dinner had even arrived, you’d finished your second one and the third was on the way. Same for Harry, who had a few more drinks than you by the end of the night.

The rest of the dinner was a blur. You remember raving about how good the food was and thanking Harry for bringing you there, and then that’s it. How does that equate to you lying naked beside him?

You’re frozen as you stare at his sleeping face. You’ve never been this close to him before. Never been close enough to feel his breath on your lips or the warmth of his large hand on your soft skin. It’s… nice. But you shouldn’t be thinking about that right now.

After a few minutes of staring, you manage to slide yourself out of bed without waking him. He shuffles around slightly, his arm extending a little bit further as if seeking your presence before he relaxes again, lips parting as he slips further into his deep sleep.

You grab your shirt from last night and quickly put it on before tip toeing at a speedy pace into his bathroom. You slide in and quietly close the door behind you with a soft click. You sigh as you rest your forehead against the wood.

Your gaze is fixed on the side of his face as he sits beside you, looking out at the view from the terrace. His sharp jawline always caught your attention. It looks like it’d be sharp enough to cut your tongue if you licked it-

You blink rapidly as the memory randomly pops up in the forefront of your head. You seperate your head from the door before standing up straight, shaking your head slightly to try and rid your brain of the sinful thought.

You go about your business, using the toilet and digging around in Harry’s cabinets until you find an unopened toothbrush. You use his toothpaste to brush your teeth as you look at yourself in the mirror.

Your hair is messy. It’s all over the place, pointing north, east, south and west. Your lips are swollen and red from the kisses he must’ve given you last night. Your attention is drawn to the marks on your neck, the faint hickeys that litter your skin.

“Don’t leave any marks,” you say breathlessly, tilting your head to the side as he drags his lips across your neck. You feel his tongue stick out, travelling up your neck and then back down again.

“I won’t,” he lies straight through his teeth before he latches onto your skin, lips sucking a mark onto your neck.

The memory flashes up in your head as you run your finger over one of the marks, the toothbrush now sitting idle in your mouth after the distraction. You can almost still feel his lips as he left open mouthed kisses all over your skin.

You continue to brush your teeth before rinsing your mouth out and putting your toothbrush on the counter next to Harry’s. Running your fingers through your hair doesn’t really make it look any neater or untangle any of the knots, but it’s all you’ve got. You can’t see a hairbrush and you’re not gonna go snooping.

You turn towards the door again but pause with your hand hovering over the handle.

He’s out there. Naked. In bed.

Your boss.

The one person in the whole world that you weren’t supposed to sleep with. And yet you did, but that can’t be undone now, can it?

Once you’ve managed to hype yourself up enough, you let out a breath and open the door quietly, just incase he’s still asleep. You step into the room and see him sat up on the bed and your breath hitches.

The sheets are draped over his lap, showing off the smooth skin of his chest. His beautiful tattoos adorn his torso and lower stomach, the morning sun light that comes in through the window just laying him glow. His hair is messy, sticking up in all directions and his eyes are slightly puffy from sleeping for hours.

He’s got his phone in his hand as he sits there, not noticing you yet. When he does notice you, he lets out a small breath as he makes eye contact with you.

“There you are,” he says, his deep, smooth voice holding a bit of rasp to it. “I was just about to call you. Thought you left.”

You shake your head, swallowing thickly. “No,” your murmur. “Just in the bathroom.”

Harry nods a little bit, his eyes subconsciously running down your body.

The shirt you’re wearing falls to your upper thighs, showing off your smooth legs. His eyes linger on your thighs and the faint marks left on the inside of them before he looks back up at your eyes, acting as if he wasn’t just checking you out.

“God, Harry!” You moan, throwing your head back into the pillow as you hold onto his biceps, your fingers squeezing the firm muscle. His body sits comfortably between your legs as he moves back and forth at a steady, fast pace. Every thrust hits the perfect spot inside of you, drawing those beautiful moans that he’s always wanted to hear.

“Yeah? You like that, hm?” He hums into your skin as his lips start to kiss down your chest. You look down at him just in time to see his lips wrap around your sensitive nipple, causing you to gasp.

“Fuck,” you breathe out as he sucks on it, his eyes meeting yours. He smiles against your skin as his hand comes up to the other breast, gently squeezing the flesh before pinching your nipple.

Your eyes widen when you realise you were just staring at him, thinking about the things he did to you last night. It made your heart beat faster in your chest.

“You okay?” He asks, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” you nod your head instantly. “Yeah. I’m good. Just.. tired.”

Harry has to fight the urge to smirk, knowing that’s not at all the case but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“So..” he begins, lying back down. His arms rest behind his head, causing his muscles to flex. You have to force yourself not to stare. “Should probably.. talk about last night, yeah?”

Fuck.

You didn’t think he’d want to talk about it. You were hoping the two of you could just ignore it and move on.

You should’ve known though. Harry’s the type of guys who talks out his feelings. Not talking about a situation makes him anxious.

“Yeah,” you nod your head again. “Yeah, we can- yeah, let’s talk. We can talk.”

“You gonna just stand there?” Harry asks, watching your motionless figure stand in the middle of his bedroom.

“Right,” you breathe out, moving back towards the bed. On your way, you grab the underwear from last night and put them on before sitting on his bed again. You sit at the foot of the bed but reach up to grab a pillow, putting it over your crotch so he can’t see your underwear when you cross your legs.

The action makes Harry smile a little bit.

It’s quiet for a couple of moments before he starts speaking.

“This isn’t.. gonna make things weird, is it?” He asks, concern evident in the tone of his voice. “‘Cause I- well, it’s just that.. you’re a really good assistant and I don’t wanna.. ruin it.”

“No, I mean- yeah,” you shrug your shoulders, trying to appear nonchalant. “It doesn’t have to be weird. It’s only weird if you make it weird, right?”

“Right,” he agrees, and then his eyes drop the bed between the two of you.

Silence follows.

You still can’t believe it.

You’re living the life that most girls want to live.

Being twenty two years old, waking up in Harry Styles’ bed in his house in Rome.

When you found out that you got the job as Harry’s assistant, you went into shock. He’d been someone you admired since you were young. You always loved his music, both in the band and by himself. You’d always considered yourself a fan of his.

And then suddenly you were always in his space. He was texting you multiple times a day, asking to meet up or if you wanted to go somewhere with him. The first mission you went on with him was to his friend’s gallery where you spent a few hours watching him decide on a piece to put in his London house.

“You pick, I can’t choose,” he’d told you, like the decision was genuinely tearing him apart. Your eyes went a little wide. He stood there with his arms crossed, one hand resting on his chin as he thought deeply about the art pieces he wanted in his house.

“Uh..” you shook your head a little bit, blinking as you looked between the two pieces he was trying to pick between. “This one?” Your tone sounded almost uncertain as you pointed to the one nearest to you.

Harry nodded his head in agreement, like you’d picked the perfect one. “You’re right,” he continued nodding before he looked over at you. “You’re so right. Good choice, sweetheart.”

You remember the feeling it gave you when he called you ‘sweetheart’. Your cheeks went warm and you got butterflies in your stomach, and you couldn’t help but think about it for the rest of the day. The rest of the week, actually. Until he did it again the next time he saw you.

It stuck after that. He continued to call you ‘sweetheart’, and he tried to pretend he didn’t notice the way you would blush after he said it, or how you’d always stutter whenever you tried to speak afterwards. He liked it.

“I know I.. probably crossed a line last night,” he starts speaking again, still looking at the bedsheets. And then he looks at his hands as he picks at his cuticles. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, so.. I’m really sorry if I did.”

You immediately shake your head, brows furrowing. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” you tell him.

“I didn’t?”

“No. Why would I be uncomfortable?”

“Well, I mean, I’m your boss. And I’m also nine years older than you. And we were both intoxicated.”

“No, I was very comfortable, actually.”

A tiny smile appears on Harry’s lips as the words that you didn’t mean to say. But he doesn’t tease you like he normally would. He looks back up at your eyes.

“Okay…” he nods slightly. “Good, yeah. That’s good.”

More silence.

“I didn’t mean very comfortable in that way, I just meant.. y’know, like you weren’t a creep or something,” you ramble on, regretting your words the more you speak but you can’t seem to stop. “Like I’d rather it was you than some weird man. It was nice. I mean- not nice, but you were nice-“

“It’s okay,” he chuckles slightly. “I get it, don’t worry.”

“Okay,” you smile a little bit, your cheeks heating up. You look down at your lap, fiddling with a loose thread on the pillowcase that sits there. A thought pops into your brain and you voice it before you can stop it. “Do you have to tell someone?”

His brows furrowing slightly as he looks at you with a slightly tilted head. “Tell someone?” He questions.

“Like.. Human Resources or something.”

“No,” he chuckles again, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, we probably violated some terms in your contract but we don’t have to tell anyone. I think.”

The idea of not telling anyone that you slept with your boss makes your heart rate speed up. It’s something that no one should ever do, but the thought of keeping it a secret excited you.

You shake your head. “We don’t have to tell anyone,” you agree. He smiles a bit again.

More silence follows, but this time it’s less tense. It’s.. quite comfortable, actually.

“You don’t have to sit so far away,” he tells you, waving you over. “You can come closer, if you’d like.”

You contemplate it for a moment before ultimately deciding to move closer to him. You’re sat by his waist but there’s still no contact. You cross your legs again before you speak.

“I had a lot of fun, though,” you admit quietly.

A real smile appears on Harry’s face, one that shows his perfect teeth. He runs a hand through his hair as he nods his head a little bit.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too,” he responds. “It was pretty good, wasn’t it?”

You smile as well, looking down at your lap. Your ears have to be burning red right now.

“Yeah,” you laugh nervously.

Harry keeps smiling as he watches you, taking in the expression on your face. You look so shy right now and it makes his chest feel warm.

“I just feel bad because you took me to your favourite restaurant and I got drunk before the food came,” you sigh, but there’s still a small smile on your face as you look up at him. “I don’t even remember what I ordered.”

He chuckles softly. “That’s okay,” suddenly his hand is on your bare thigh, gently patting it. “I’ll take you there again, if you want.”

He doesn’t move his hand off your thigh as you stare at him, lips slightly parted. He just means.. a business dinner, right?

“Like a date,” he says and it catches you completely off guard. “If you want to, of course.”

“Yes!” You respond a little too quickly. You lower your tone before nonchalantly nodding your head and shrugging your shoulders. “I mean, yeah. Yeah, that sounds cool.”

A part of you was telling you that you were an idiot for agreeing to go on a date with your boss, who’s still laying naked in bed beside you with the sheets covering him.

But the other part of you is screaming to keep going with this, to see where it leads you. After all, Harry is the dream man.

He’s mature, emotionally intelligent, lives an amazing life, has a healthy relationship with his family, and he knows what a girl wants — something you learnt last night.

“Tonight?” He suggests, giving your thigh a soft squeeze. “I can get us a reservation.”

You nod your head, smiling a little bit. “Okay,” you agree. “Sounds good.”

Harry tries not to smile as big as he does, but he failed miserably. “Perfect,” he says.

A few moments pass and he sits up. “Should probably get out of bed, huh?” He says as he swings his legs over the edge, his back now facing you. Your eyes rove over the muscles, lips parting slightly. You remember running your hands over them last night.

You watch as he grabs his boxers and pulls them on before you can see anything. He stands up, walking around the bed to head towards the bathroom. He changes his path and ends up on the side of the bed that you were sleeping on.

You look up at him from your spot, wondering what he’s doing.

“Can I kiss you?” He causally asks, standing there in nothing but his boxers looking like a wet dream.

“Yeah,” you basically whisper, nodding your head slowly as you stare up at him. He smiles and bends down a bit, gently grasping your jaw.

You watch as his eyes move over your face like he’s analysing every detail, before gently swiping his thumb over your cheek. “Beautiful..”

Your eyes fall closed as he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your mouth. His soft lips rest against yours for a few moments before he pulls away, but not before pressing one last peck to your lips. “I’ll get your things sent over from the hotel,” he murmurs against your mouth.

He pulls away for good and stands up straight, letting go of your jaw. He nods once before turning on his heel and disappearing into the bathroom.

You stare at the closed door for a moment before the biggest smile known to man appears on your face. You bury your head in your hands, trying to figure out if what just happened was real. After deciding it was in fact real, you lay back down.

This time, it’s on his side. Your head rests on his pillow and his comforting scent fills your nostrils, and your eyes flutter closed before you fall back to sleep.

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[likea-silhouette]

groomsman!harry styles x bridesmaid!reader border by @zclhs wc: 4k warnings: nothing for now taglist: @triski73 @cherry-fics

You'd heard he was coming.

The little whispers of the other bridesmaids-even the taken ones-had been lingering the entire drive over to the rehearsal dinner.

Little giggles and searches on Google and other various social media platforms became the topic of conversation as someone's phone was passed around, sharing images of how "hot" he looked in a recent candid street image. "I know I'm married, but I feel like my husband would give me a hall pass for this opportunity", one of the girls giggled as her thumb continued to scroll through various images of the man of the hour-Harry Styles.

It wasn't every day that a wedding was graced by a celebrity, which surely contributed to the bridesmaids having a bit of a tizzy over his appearance being made at the wedding, let alone him being a groomsmen. "Which of us is paired up with him? Please, please-you have to tell us!", another bridesmaid nearly begged the bride, but she wasn't giving in to the temptation to spill. "I'm not saying a word! Besides, Harry's a nice guy-very normal. And if you can help it, please just treat him like any other guy this weekend, alright? I'm sure he doesn't want all of that special attention." The bride's words were soft spoken as she set the ground rules with each of us in her wedding party with a stern face. "Oh, please, no photos of him. If I find out any of you snuck a photo of him, and then it's all over the internet, I will be furious. Okay?" Each of the bridesmaids, you included, nodded with facial expressions falling more seriously at the bride's request. "Are we allowed to stare...tastefully?", another bridesmaid asked, sending the group of us into a fit of giggles, even the bride shaking her head with an amused grin.

"Just treat him like anybody else! Seriously-he's a normal guy." "Yeah, a normal guy who had sold out tours and looks like a mythological god." You chuckle with a light smile as you observe the group of girls who continue to chatter about this celebrity's appearance. As your eyes trace around the moving vehicle, they stop on the bride once you realize she is looking at you with the tiniest hint of a smirk curling at her lip. "What?", you mouth with eyebrows scrunched together. The bride doesn't verbally reply. Instead, she gives you a simple shake of her head, with that small smirk still plastered on her face that was a mystery to you. What the bridal party on both the bride's and groom's side didn't know was that each of the bridesmaids and groomsmen was paired up with their opposing partner very strategically. The entire weekend, bridesmaids and groomsmen would be intermingling with one another as they attend the various wedding celebrations and events. This is the very reason the bride and groom hand-selected the pairs, seeing as they knew the group very well; thus, they were able to decipher who would best get along with whom.

The rehearsal space-aka the wedding venue- was gorgeous. Your eyes marveled at the high wood ceilings where the reception would take place. "And here is where the bar will be", the bride served as a tour guide of sorts as she gestured to the very obvious bar that was already stocked full of various alcohols that hung on the back shelf. "Open bar?", you inquired with a curious grin, making the rest of the girls giggle and pique their interest as well. The bride nods, "Open bar-BUT don't get too messy with it, okay? I don't want anyone blacked out." The bridesmaids nodded, eyes scanning around their surroundings some more as the bride led them down a hallway that was in the far back of the venue; it contained two doors, one set on the left and the other on the right. "Here...", the bride said, pressing her hand to the door on the right, making the once cracked door fully open, "...is where we will be getting ready on the day of." You could tell the bride was very proud of the venue she had chosen as she beamed up at the surroundings and then back to the group to gauge their reaction. The room was rustic in nature, but had a very well-balanced mix of vintage and modern pieces of decor. Off to the side of the room held a large, vintage Renaissance couch that was adorned in pale pink fabric and gold accents for the trim. In the center, all the way to the back, were three large conjoined mirrors with rounded edges that were encased in a gold that matched the couch seamlessly. A large, round rug, also most likely vintage, along with various tables for setting items on, complemented the entire room. "This is gorgeous", you awed, marveling at the space that seemed to suit your best friend severely well. "Isn't it!", the bride beamed as the rest of the girls in the group contributed positive compliments and reactions to the space as well. "And right across the hall is where the boys will be getting ready. I can show you that space too", the bride made strides towards the door as she led us each only a few feet deeper into the hallway. As she opened the door, her eyes went wide. "I didn't know you guys were here-you should've told me! I could've done introductions and all that." You were standing in the very back of the group, and your height difference from the others wasn't a good advantage at this time, causing you to not be able to see what everyone else was able to see clearly and be excited to be viewing. But you had a pretty good idea what or who it was that made each of the bridesmaids stand up straighter and place excited grins on their faces. "Well, we can do it now! Come in, everyone", you could hear the groom's voice as he spoke from the other room, causing the group of women to begin piling into the space.

You were the last to enter, but his eyes fell on you instantly-though you weren't aware of it at the time. "Everyone, this is the boys, aka the groomsmen. Since we are all here, I can let everyone know who they are paired up with." You nodded, your eyes scanning the group of men across from you, wondering which male you'd have the pleasure of tolerating for an entire weekend. You only hoped he wasn't an insensitive and insufferable macho type, not that you thought your friend's future husband would entertain a type of guy like that. However, you never truly know these days.

"He is so much cuter in person", one of the bridesmaids-who you were familiar with, but wouldn't call her a friend-more so an acquaintance-leaned over, keeping her face completely forward as she spoke in a hushed tone in your direction. Your eyes searched her face and drew a line from her eyes to what had been the object of her attention at the moment. That's when your eyes met his side profile.

His eyes were focused on the bride and groom who stood together at the front of the room as they began calling out names one by one and announcing the other half of the pair. You stood up straight, blinking away your previous concentration on the strikingly handsome-more handsome in person infact-guy as you followed his gaze to the front of the room. As the bride and groom got down to the bare bones of the list, there were only two people left to announce. "And that leaves Y/N and Harry as the final pair." The bride gestured to you and Harry with her hand, waving between both of you. Your eyes flickered in Harry's direction to find him already smiling at you. Casually, he nodded his head in greeting as a friendly smile graced his lips; a pout that was surrounded by neatly kept facial hair. You returned a friendly smile, holding his eyes for a moment, until you turned forward once again to the bride and groom. "You're so fucking lucky", the same girl who spoke in a quiet voice earlier spoke again into your ear. "I expect a full rundown of everything that happens after this weekend." You roll your eyes, still containing a playful smile on your lips. "I'm sure it'll be..you know..like a normal wedding. It's not like he's actually going to talk much to me anyway. He's a celebrity and I'm sure he wants some peace and quiet wherever he can get it." The fellow bridesmaid shrugged. "I heard he's actually quite personable so...you never know", she finishes by bumping her hip with yours in a playful manner.

10 minutes or so later, the wedding planner had arrived and quickly began putting the bridal party to work. They assisted in situating everyone at the front of the room where the wedding ceremony would be taking place. Bridesmaids and Groomsmen were to forma curved line on either side of the bride and groom, lining up in an order that is even with their partner for the weekend. "Everyone will walk down the aisle. No stomping, no walking heavy, or walking too fast. Just a nice, even walking pace. Let's have everyone try so you can get a feel for it." The wedding planner's instructions seemed like common sense; however, as the first couple of pairs walked down the aisle, it seemed that neither of them were able to keep the same pace or walk with delicate feet. Once a set of partners took their turn at walking, another went, taking a step up in the line until they were next up in taking a go at the aisle and trying-perhaps failing-at walking with one another and not making it look forced. You caught Harry's eye from across the short way, both of you making a silent vow to not be as horrid as the others had been at this. Your eyes moved to the pair currently walking down the aisle, with the groomsman seeming to walk way too fast and the bridesmaid trying to catch up with his large steps as if her life depended on it. Humored, you looked back in Harry's direction, noticing him cringing lightly at the couple, making note of the same things you were, you could only assume. You let out a chuckle, one you hadn't realized was so heavy in volume as everyone turned to look in your direction; bride, groom, wedding planner-the whole lot. You clear your throat, acting as if you simply had something caught in it that made the simple task of breathing too scratchy to not attempt to clear your airways. Harry wore a smug grin and shook his head, seemingly amused by your too-loud laughter. As the couple finished their jaunt down the aisle-next up was you and Harry. This was the first time you would be in close confines with the deeply well-known man, and to say you felt a bit of nerves would be an understatement. You weren't sure if it was simply his social status that caused this feeling or the way his light colored eyes looked at yours. "Let's show 'em how it's done, yeah?"", Harry mumbled, only loud enough for you to hear as he lifted his arm for you to grasp onto. You looked and met his forest colored eyes with a little grin. "Let's do it." Your arm encircled his as you both stood at the front of the aisle for a moment, collecting yourselves before making that first step. "Yes, yes! Perfect. Just like that everyone." The wedding planner called as you and Harry walked down the aisle with seemingly no effort or much brain power. It seemed as natural as breathing. "What's your secret?" one of the guys who had already taken their walk of shame down the aisle called over to you and Harry, causing the wedding party to collectively laugh at the light-hearted banter. "Pay attention to the differences between you and the person you're walking with", Harry's voice commended to an audience, or at least each of the bridesmaids who looked acutely aware of him speaking. "She's shorter than me, so naturally her steps will be smaller than mine. I just toned my natural speed down a bit and that's it", Harry shrugged, his gaze moving down to yours as he finished his top secret recipe for 'walking down the aisle without looking like a complete jack ass 101'. The wedding party all nods, but all you can think about is how Harry observed you for long enough to note the height difference between the two of you; even if it was only a second or so, it was still something. As the rest of the bridal party take their turns practicing walks down the aisle, Harry stands behind you, close enough to feel the vibration from a laugh that rumbled in his chest as the groom made a joke about hoping no one would fall when walking down the aisle. "Think we were the best?"

You feel a fanning of breath on the back of your neck as Harry's accent fills your ears as if it were the most beautiful composition of music you'd ever heard. You turn your gaze slightly over your shoulder, noting that Harry must've taken a step or two closer to you. "Oh, definitely", you say with a beat of confidence that's intermingled with amusement and humor. Harry smirks behind you, his eyes drifting to the back of your neck, finding it..pleasing to the eye, but his gaze remains respectful as he draws it back upwards, narrowing in on the latest pair to practice their walk.

"Alright, shots for everyone", the maid of honor called out as she handed out various shot glasses for each of us in the bridal party as we sat in some highly luxurious bar that was set on the highest floor of the skyscraper building. The walls bulged out, creating a circular shape that was perfect for giving a panoramic view of the city that dwelled below as various cars and tiny specs of humans galavanted, going about their lives. The bride and groom had set up a dinner just for the bridal party as a way for all of us to get to know each other better, but also as a means to shower their closest friends with love and appreciation for participating in their wedding. The bridesmaids all sat on one side of the table, with the groomsmen on the other. Naturally, each of the pairs sat across from each other, and as the alcohol began flowing, so did the conversation between the group. Harry was relatively more on the reserved side, you noted. You weren't sure if this was due to his nature of perhaps being a more laid back person, or if he was just attempting to keep a spotlight off of him. Both items are very, very understandable. Plus, it gave you more chances to simply observe this man you'd be spending loads of time with this weekend. "So, how do you know the bride?", Harry's voice finally resounded, your eyes moving upwards and gazing at him head on. "College roommate", you say simply with a nod and small smile as you sip from your water. Harry nods in response. "What about you? How do you know the groom?" "Childhood friend, believe it or not", Harry quips. His facial expression pinpoints himself as doing mental math, trying to configure the amount of time him and the groom had been friends.

"I've known him since I was like..ten I want to say." "Wow, that's a long time", you say with arms that fold and rest gently on top of the marble table. Your gaze is interested, genuinely interested; Harry finds that rather endearing. He nods, his mouth pressed to the glass of his whiskey neat, and a mouth being hidden slightly by the mustache covering his upper lip. "It is. One of the only lads I've managed to keep up with since childhood." You nod, "Did you lose a lot of friends when..you know", you motion with your head, hoping Harry picks up on what you are hinting at without you having to bring up the obvious past that most people on the planet know of, yet him having the knowledge of you being familiar with the slightest bit about his milestones to fame, somehow that felt embarassing or stalkerish.

"When One Direction started?"

Your breath seems to hitch in your throat as he says the band name-the ever popular boy band name; making it very, very real that this is indeed a celebrity you are chatting with so casually about old friends. On the other hand, it felt refreshing to talk to someone without an unbiased opinion of yourself, even more so when it was someone who had the sort of social status that Harry did.

"Yeah", you nod, stating simply.

Harry appreciates your relaxation of the matter. He was very under the impression that you easily could've been some sort of fan girl, oogling him all weekend. However, he put his trust in one of his best mates and his future wife that they'd sort out this pairing of the wedding party in a positive way on Harry's behalf.

Harry nods, "I did, yeah. Sort of hard to keep up with people when you're that sort of busy-and it all happened so fast."

You nod, feeling sympathetic towards a feeling of losing touch that, unfortunately, you had never thought to pair with the rising of fame in such a short time span.

"I can understand that. Seems difficult to navigate. Like...how do you tell someone, 'Sorry, can't text. I'm doing interviews and photoshoots all day'."

"Exactly-and it was just as new for me as it was for the people around me, too. I think a lot of them just didn't know how to respond to this being my life now."

For a beat, you forgot about the crowded, noisy bar, as you became enveloped in Harry's view of things. That is, until a loud bustling of bass-heavy music seeped through the speakers.

Your eyes moved focus from Harry for the first time since you'd started talking.

Your vision became preoccupied with fellow bar attendees- you'd noted that the room had gotten much fuller in the time you both had started chatting. Harry's eyes too darted around the room, except his were hyperaware for a much different reason than yours.

"You alright?", you inquired, noting his eyes very intently concentrated.

Harry nodded, but didn't meet your eyes right away as he stared off into the crowd that loomed behind your back.

"Yeah", he answered dryly, before his eyes came back to yours. You weren't convinced.

"You sure?", you pressed a little more, turning from your waist in your seat.

There, the obvious answer to Harry's uneasiness stood. Phone held directly in front of her face as if he was some sort of show to be put on display specifically for her and her camera phone.

"Ah, I see", you said, twisting around slowly in the chair to face Harry again.

"Want me to punch her? I can't fight, but I would at least thoughtfully consider it."

Harry's pinched eyes loosened at your humor. "You'd consider it...but not actually do it?"

"Yes", you said as if it were a plain, set in stone fact.

"Wow, how kind of you", his response was 50/50 charm, with the other half being pure sarcasm, but the ever-playful kind. Though the moment didn't seem to last long before Harry's eyes were flitting back around the room-analyzing.

"Do you have to be aware like this everywhere you go?", you asked with sympathy dripping off your tone. Harry's eyes, again, found yours.

"Pretty much", he shrugged, though seemingly not as phased as one might think a person would be should they near-constantly have a camera shoved in their face.

"Let me know if you need me to block them."

Harry cocked his head to the side, "What do you mean?"

"You know-", you began moving your head from side to side-something so subtle, yet it made Harry feel an encapsulated pit of warmth in his chest.

"You're going to block them by moving your head in front of their camera?"

"Do you have a better idea?" you challenged, making Harry let out a genuine single chuckle as he pressed his whiskey to his lips again.

"Suppose not", he smirked, setting his glass on the table with a small clinking noise.

Again, Harry's eyes returned to behind you, something you were finding easy to catch on to now that you knew it was something he was forced to do.

"Right or left?"

"What?", his accent accentuated the vowel sound pleasantly.

"Right or left-which way should I lean to block them?"

Harry shook his head with a warm smile, but decided to play along.

"Left", Harry spoke after a beat of silence, giving you the resources you needed as you tilted your head to the left.

"No, my left. Not yours", he grinned, finding amusement in this entire situation, but primarily at how charming you were being.

You create an "aha" shape with your mouth as you tilt your body the other way. Instantly, a smirk pressed to Harry's lips.

"Nice. Glad you know your left from your right then."

"Hey! You never specified if it was your left or mine", you defended, but all in good fun.

"Do you always do this?"

"Do what?", you posed the question, this time with genuine concern etched onto your features; however, that wouldn't stay for very long.

"Make the rubbish feel a little less heavy."

It took you a moment to process the depth of what Harry had just said, and it seemed that he realized that as well as he did what he always did when things got a little too serious for his liking-he cracked an insanely dry joke.

"You know what they say about American cheese?"

You watched in confusion as Harry plucked up a piece of cheese from the charcuterie board laid in the middle of the table.

"American cheese?"

"Mhmm, you know what they say about it, don't you?" Harry's smirk was boyish in nature-as if he held a pretty little secret that he knew would do just the trick in adding some liveliness to this conversation to replace his rather sentimental compliment he gave you moments before.

"It's shitty and addicting, just like my ex."

For a moment, all you could do was stare at this man from across the table with narrowed eyes and a cracked smile.

"How long have you been sitting on that one?" you teased-of course, Harry appreciated the playfulness very, very much.

"Way too long, love. Way too long. Felt good to get it out", he mused, a series of chuckles mingling between both of you. To Be Continued

[harrypoppy]

Morning With Him

Morning cuddles and kisses. You couldn't help admire his perfect features while he sleeps.

Author's Note: I tried writing in a different perspective. Let me know how you guys like it. Send me requests and enjoy reading!

Fluff | Kisses | Cuddles | Banter | Slight Smut | WC: 1255

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The morning sun, painted the room in strokes of gold as it filtered through the cream-colored blinds. Dust motes danced in the illuminated air, highlighting the pristine white sheets where you lay. Spooning you from behind was Harry, your boyfriend, his arm wrapped around your waist. His head nestled itself into the back of neck, breathing hot air onto your skin. His legs tangled up against yours.

A soft groan escaped your lips, interrupting you from the depths of sleep, due to the warmth of your skin kissed by the light of the rising sun. Consciousness flickered, slow and hesitant, as your body registered the solid warmth pressed against your back and the possessive weight of Harry's arm. With a gentle wiggle, a silent negotiation with slumber, you turned. The bed protested with a soft creak, the sound of the sheets shuffling against each other. And there he was, Harry, his face softened in sleep, every line and angle somehow more endearing. A soft smile bloomed across your face, as you let yourself be captivated by the sight of him.

His dark curls cascaded across his forehead, partially obscuring the long, dark lashes that framed his closed eyes, and the sharp angles of his cheekbones that you adored. A soft frown tugged at your lips as you reached out, your hand hovering for a moment before gently sweeping the errant curls back and away from his face. With a feather-light touch, you traced the constellation of beauty marks scattered across his skin, each one a familiar landmark on the map of his face, trying not to disturb him. A wave of disbelief washed over you, a silent question echoing in your mind.

How did you get so incredibly lucky?

Lost in a reverie of adoration, you were jolted back to reality as Harry stirred, a low groan rumbling in his chest. You watched as his brows furrowed in his sleep, a fleeting expression of unease that tugged at your heart. Instinctively, you reached out, your thumb gently stroking the space between his eyebrows, seeking to smooth away the tension etched there. His face softened under your touch, the lines of worry melting away as a serene smile bloomed on his lips. In a swift, fluid motion, he pulled you closer, the unexpectedness of the gesture stealing your breath and eliciting a soft gasp.

"Morning," Harry mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, yet still carrying the warmth of his smile. Your heart swelled at the sound, and you couldn't help but mirror his expression, a matching smile curving on your own lips. "Morning, handsome," you whispered back.

You pressed a soft, lingering kiss onto his lips, then pulled away to watch his reaction. A wider, more radiant smile bloomed across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, as he began to stretch out his long legs, which had been tangled with yours in a comfortable embrace throughout the whole night. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing his green eyes, and he caught sight of the cheeky grin playing on your face, which caused a soft, throaty giggle to escape his lips. "Are you laughing at me?" you questioned, feigning offense as you playfully pushed his shoulder. He shook his head in mock denial, his giggles subsiding but the mirth still dancing in his eyes. "No. Never," he replied in a teasing tone, his gaze fixed on you with adoration as he began to rub small, soothing circles against your exposed hips beneath the cozy warmth of the covers.

You gently began to run your fingers through his tousled hair, and he let out a soft sigh of relief, his muscles relaxing under your touch, yet his eyes remained fixed on you with unwavering adoration. "How'd you sleep?" you asked softly, the remnants of sleep still lacing in your voice. "Slept like a baby, love," he whispered back, his voice still hoarse with sleep, as he slowly fluttered his eyes closed, reveling in the gentle sensation of your fingers playing with his hair. "Always good with you," you replied, a warm smile tugging at your lips as you pressed another tender kiss against his. Your heart swelled with delight, overwhelmed by the joy of being able to spend your mornings cuddled up in bed with him. Reluctantly, he wrapped a hand around the back of your neck, drawing you closer as he deepened the kiss.

The kiss was slow, passionate, an expression of love. His thumb caressed the sensitive skin along the side of your neck, sending shivers down your spine as he parted your lips with his tongue, inviting you into a deeper embrace. You eagerly parted your own lips in response, granting him access, savoring the sweetness of his mouth and the soft, yielding pressure of his lips against yours. He mumbled softly into the kiss, a low hum of contentment, before you reluctantly pulled away, a delicate string of saliva momentarily connecting your lips before it broke. "You're so beautiful," he murmured awestruck, as he pulled you close and pressed a tender kiss on the top of your head. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his waist, nuzzling yourself against his chest, as he ran his fingers through your hair, murmuring sweet nothings. Meanwhile, you pressed small, wet kisses against his tattooed chest, tracing the intricate artwork inked into his skin with your fingertips.

He moved his hand down to your chin, gently lifting your head to meet his gaze. He peppered your lips with soft, fleeting kisses, causing a genuine smile to blossom on your face. "I love you," he confessed against your lips, his words a tender whisper that sent a wave of warmth through your veins, prompting you to pull away and look into his eyes. His green eyes were filled with adoration, twinkling with an inner light that mirrored your own. You kissed his jawline, your voice barely audible as you whispered, "I love you back," shyly hiding your face against his chest, causing a deep, rumbling chuckle to emanate from within him.

"Don't get all shy with me, love. Did you forget how bold you were last night when I was giving you it?" he whispered smugly, a playful glint in his eyes, causing you to whip your head up to meet his gaze. "Harry!" you exclaimed, feigning offense as you playfully pushed against his chest with your hands, only for him to pull you in even closer, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace. "You screamed my name last night—" he began, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, but you quickly covered his mouth with your hand, silencing his teasing words as he chuckled against your pressed palm. A blush crept up your neck and spread across your cheeks, and you nervously bit down on your bottom lip, trying to suppress the memories of the previous night's passionate encounter.

As Harry kissed your palm, he playfully tugged your wrist, a smug grin dancing on his lips. "You were begging for it too."

"Harry," you interrupted with a soft whine, causing his laughter to fill the space around you. "Okay. I'll stop teasing you." You looked up at him, gratitude shining in your eyes, before settling back against his chest. A comfortable silence enveloped you both, a blanket of warmth and affection. Then, he leaned in, his breath tickling your ear as he whispered a secret message.

"I want to relive last night." a smirk plastered on his lips, and his morning wood pressing against you.

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

#1 Fan

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

📝 word count: 5k

⚠️ content warning: smut, power play. 

💌 support my work

Everybody wants him.

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

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

Harry Styles.

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

“TREAT ME LIKE YOUR FAVORITE LYRIC.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” you say, cheeks warm.

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

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

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

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

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

You:

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

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

You:

I wish you could see it from here.

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

And so are you.

Because this night is already everything.

And it hasn’t even started yet.

The venue dims.

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

Your breath catches. Your grip on the barricade tightens.

You know what’s coming.

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

And then he appears.

Harry.

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

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

You just stare.

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

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

Then the first song starts.

And you are gone.

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

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

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

And then he sees you.

Just for a second.

You swear it.

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

And your knees almost buckle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you know better.

It was just a second. Just a glance.

But it was him.

And it was you.

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

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

He looks down.

Directly at you.

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

Your mouth parts.

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

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

You barely blink for the rest of the show.

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

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

You pull out your phone with shaking hands.

You:

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

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

You laugh softly and tuck your phone away.

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

You stay still.

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

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

You grin. “Stop.”

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

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

“Excuse me.”

A deep voice. Calm. Professional.

You turn.

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

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

Your blood stills.

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

Your mouth goes dry.

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

The security guy smiles. “Very.”

You glance at her, wide-eyed.

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

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

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

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

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

You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket.

You check it quickly.

Harry:

Come find me.

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

And there he is.

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

You stop breathing.

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

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

And just like that, the performance ends.

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

He’s just Harry.

Your boyfriend.

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

You’re his.

The door clicks shut behind you.

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

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

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

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

“You are so silly.”

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I couldn’t not look at you.”

“Twice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was filth.”

“It was romantic filth.”

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

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

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

It’s just the two of you.

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

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

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

“You were screaming. Practically sobbing.’”

You narrow your eyes. “I was acting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, distracted by the curve of your neck.

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

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

You nod slowly. “Just for a bit.”

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

“Mm-hmm.”

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

“She’s harmless.”

“She’s trembling.”

“She’s into it.”

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

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

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

“Like you wanted to be ruined.”

Your breath catches.

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

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

“And you love it.”

You do.

God, you do.

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

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

You let him.

And the game starts all over again.

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

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

And then he does something dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

You bite back a grin.

“Especially one holding a sign like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “No.”

He smirks. “You should be.”

His mouth finds yours before you can answer.

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

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

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

You nod, dizzy. “Yes.”

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

“Only louder.”

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

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

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

You’re still his.

And he’s still yours.

No matter what names you call each other tonight.

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

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

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

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

His smile curves wicked. “Yeah?”

“I—I wanted to be good for you.”

He groans at that, tipping his forehead against yours.

“Say that again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

You smile, fingers curling around his waistband.

“Tonight I don’t.”

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

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

You nod. “I want to earn it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t say that either,” he groans.

“You are.”

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

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

He lets you have your moment. Lets you give.

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

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

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

“Good,” you whisper.

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

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

And this time, you let him.

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, heart hammering.

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

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He exhales sharply, then presses his forehead to yours.

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

Your heart cracks open.

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

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

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

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

“I forgot how soft you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You squeal, arms flying around his shoulders.

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

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

“Harry,” you whisper, breath hitching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fall apart.

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

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

And then you’re both quiet.

Breathing hard. Skin to skin. Heartbeats syncing.

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

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

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

But this?

This is the part that matters.

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

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

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

Eventually, he sighs.

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

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

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

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

“And you brought me backstage like a predator.”

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

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

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

You smirk. “You loved it.”

“I nearly choked onstage.”

“I saw.”

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

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

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

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

You giggle. “I was just in character.”

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

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

“I did. You tackled me.”

“You asked me to.”

“You broke my sunglasses.”

“They were ugly.”

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

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

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

“And you said no!”

He shrugs. “I was staying in character.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” you whisper. “Me too.”

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

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

Even if it’s just for pretend.

[watchmegetobsessed]

AUGURI

A/N: this is my current fantasy, being on an italian vacation with my fiancé, that's it, that's the fic.

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

SUMMARY: A glimpse into being freshly engaged, on vacation with your fiancé who is obsessed with seeing a ring on your finger.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

If you told your younger self that in a few years you would be sitting on the floor of an Italian villa, doing your makeup, getting ready for dinner at a restaurant down by the beach while your fiancé is out on the balcony making phone calls, you would have laughed at the image. You never thought you’d fit into the picture, with a man like none other than Harry Styles, who is one of, if not the biggest name in business.

And you are his fiancé.

Well, you’ve been his fiancé for just a little over 24 hours, it still feels like a dream, the memory of the sunset walk you took to a secluded part of the beach, then he got down on one knee and said the most beautiful things as he asked you to marry him. There was no doubt you’d say yes and now the diamond ring on your finger is proof that it wasn’t just a dream. 

Your skin is glowing from the day spent on the beach, tanning and swimming, sipping on cocktails and reading. You haven’t decided what to wear yet, so you’re still wrapped in a towel after your shower you shared with Harry when you came back to the villa. 

Once you’re finished with your makeup you gather the mess you made on the floor and then move to the closet to find something to wear. You brought way too many clothes, but you couldn’t help yourself. Harry made sure to go all out and you traveled with a private jet so you had no restriction about how many suitcases you bring. Not that he would have ever said no if you wanted to check five bags if you didn’t travel with the jet, Harry is always eager to cater to your every wish. 

You choose a light summer dress and grab a scarf you can wrap around your shoulders if the night grows colder. Standing in front of the mirror you’re trying to figure out what shoes you should wear when you hear footsteps from the bedroom and a moment later Harry’s tall figure appears behind you. 

He has always been touchy-feely but ever since his proposal he just can’t take his hands off you. From behind, he wraps his arms around your waist, his face instantly buries in your neck as he peppers your glowy skin with kisses. 

“You look stunning,” he murmurs and you flash him a smile in the mirror before turning your head so your lips could meet in a kiss. “Can I call the driver or do you need more time?”

“Call him, I’ll be done in five.”

“Alright. I’ll be downstairs, because if I stay here, we will not leave in five.”

You laugh at his words as he presses one last kiss to your shoulder and wills himself to walk out. You grab a pair of sandals that match your dress and then fix your hair quickly, before heading down after Harry. The car is already waiting, Harry is standing by the open door, scrolling on his phone, but once he sees you he locks and puts the device into his pocket, turning his full attention to you. 

He is always busy, someone always needs him, but whenever he is spending time with you he makes sure to limit his time spent working to the bare minimum, squeezing calls into the time you spend getting ready, calling your mom or when you’re in the bathroom, though he very much likes to join you in the shower. 

“Ready?” he beams with a smile as you walk over and he instantly kisses the top of your head before going for your lips.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

For dinner you’re meeting some of his friends that live nearby. He chose a nice restaurant that has a terrace facing the water, an incredible view for the amazing food. You’re having a great time, Rocco and Bianca congratulate you on your engagement and the conversation moves to discussing their own wedding that happened three years ago. They reminisce about how fun the whole party was, they danced all night with their friends and family. 

A warm hand moves to your thigh under the table, when you glance over to Harry he is already peeking at you, a tiny smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. For a moment, you feel breathless, looking at him with his light sunburn on his cheeks and nose, the breeze is tangling his locks that turned lighter thanks to the time spent out in the sun. Behind him it’s the endless blue sea, the waves seem to move slowly from this far. The Sun is dipping under the horizon, painting the clear sky vibrant shades of orange and red. 

Your heart has never felt fuller. 

Your hand finds his on your thigh and gives it a squeeze. His palm covers your hand, his thumb running back and forth over the ring on your finger, as if he needs to touch it to believe it’s actually there. His smile grows wide, eyes shining as he just stares at you in awe. 

Leaning closer he steals a quick kiss and you swear you hear a content sigh from him before you both tune back into the conversation by the table. 

The dinner stretches long, most tables are cleared around you when you finally decide to head home. Rocco and Bianca came with their own car so you say your goodbye before parting ways. When Harry is about to call the driver, you stop him, putting a hand over his phone.

“Why don’t we walk home? It’s just about thirty minutes.”

“Sure,” he nods smiling and taking your hand in his, you head back to the villa. 

Walking down the streets you pass by a house with an open window, music flowing out into the evening and Harry surprises you by pulling you against him and starts swaying to the rhythm. 

You remember when you met him, he claimed he is not the romantic type, that those small gestures you see in movies don’t come to him naturally. Turns out he just needed to meet the right person to bring it out of him.

And that person is you. 

Your head falls back as you laugh and dance with him, he even starts humming the melody as he twirls and moves you with ease, leading you in this impromptu choreography. When he dips you, a gasp slips past your lips, but he just grins and then kisses you, slowly pulling you back up while not breaking the kiss. 

When he pulls back he brings your hand between the two of you, his fingers once again playing with the ring and while Harry’s gaze is glued to the diamond, you can only look at his face, so bright and happy. 

He places a soft kiss to the ring on your finger, then hooks an arm around your shoulders and you keep walking. 

In front of one of the houses near your villa, there’s some kind of family gathering happening, people are sitting around a table, eating, laughing and singing, having a fantastic time. You watch them happily, it’s always so great to see people enjoy life to the fullest. 

An older man shouts something your way in Italian that you don’t understand, but Harry chuckles and shouts back.

“Le ho chiesto di sposarmi due giorni fa!” 

The man starts clapping and shouting, a few other people joining in and you still have no idea what they are talking about.

“Auguri! Tanti auguri per una vita felice insieme!” they all chant together, raising their glasses in your way.

“What was that?” you ask Harry chuckling, as you keep walking. A cheeky grin tugs on his pink lips.

“He told me we look good together and I should never let you go. I told him I just asked you to marry me.”

“He said that? For real?” you ask, your own grin growing wider.

“See, everyone knows we belong together,” he hums, his lips pressing against yours again, but he doesn’t stop after just a short kiss, he deepens it, tongues melting together, his hand tangling in your hair or feeling up your back through the thin fabric of your dress. It escalates quickly, you can feel his erection pressing against your lower stomach as he pushes you against the wall of one of the houses. Open mouthed kisses trail down the column of your throat and you can’t hold a moan back when he wedges a thigh between your legs, giving you a chance to grind against it for more friction. 

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes against your mouth and you’re ready to take it further right then and there, but then you hear shouting from near. 

“Vergogna! Go away!”

An old lady is waving your way from a nearby window and you start running, Harry takes your hand and you’re both laughing as you speed up the rest of the street to the villa. At the gate, he pulls you back into his arms and you feel like horny teenagers, can’t get enough of each other. It’s like that tiny ring on your finger has doubled the lust that was already pretty high when it came to you and Harry. 

“Mm, let’s take this to the bedroom, where no old ladies can scream at us for indecency,” you chuckle, when his hand slips under your skirt. 

“Whatever the future Mrs. Styles wants,” he grins and before you could get another word out, he picks you up, bridal style and carries you to the bedroom and continues what you started on the street, this time without an audience. 

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[didhewinkback]

you're my best friend

the last chapter of the something old universe. it is, in fact, the proposal. the photos are more for a general vibe, he is not wearing a baseball cap when he proposes okay.

warnings: smut; switches pov halfway through. word count: 18k

---

June 2022

“I wanna marry you.”

You freeze, the plate in your hand clattering onto the table as you look up at him, his own eyes as wide as you imagine yours are, looking like he absolutely did not mean to say what he just said. Your heartbeat is thundering in your ears as you stare back at him, his mouth opens and closes a few times like the words won’t come out.

“Are you -” you start to ask but stop yourself, not sure if it is totally ruining the moment if you ask if this is what you think it is, if he is actually proposing to you in the backyard in Italy while you’re wearing your ugliest pair of gym shorts, covered in stains from the dinner you had just finished cooking. It’d be fine if he was - more than fine, it’s just you haven’t talked about any of this and he’s still on tour for another year - 

“No. ‘m not - this isn’t -” he cuts off your mental spiral, as he plants his hands on the back of the chair he’s standing behind, shaking his head. “This isn’t a proposal.”

“Ookay.”

“It’s a… proposal for a proposal.”

“Okay?” you say with a laugh as he grimaces, head dropping down with a big exhale. 

“Swear ‘ve planned this out better, been practicing what to say -” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair before holding it out to you. “Can you come over here, please?”

You walk over towards him, taking his hand and he pulls you in, wrapping his arms around your waist as you bring your hands up to his face, thumbs rubbing over the pink tinge blooming on his cheeks.  

“Your heart’s racing,” he mumbles, pulling you closer against him. “Can feel it.”

“Yeah, well, you gave me a bit of a shock there.” you say and he groans, leaning his head into your hands. “You’re blushing.”

“Feel like I mucked this all up.”

“You haven’t -”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that -” 

“It’s alright,” you say gently. “I just don’t really know what you meant to say?”

His eyes graze over your features as he takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

“I want to marry you.” he says, the look in his eyes making your breath catch in your throat. “Been thinking about it for a while now and think - I know it’ll be the best thing I ever do. But I - ”

He pauses, looking down for a moment before looking back up at you, his eyes a bit unreadable as he shifts his weight to his other foot. You brush your thumb along his cheekbone before sliding your hands down to his shoulders, squeezing the back of his neck once. 

“But I know that ‘s a bit complicated because I’ve done this bit before.” he continues, eyes flitting across your face when your stomach drops, his ever perceptible gaze picking up on even the slightest change of your expression before he quickly speaks again. “‘S important to me that we talk about this ‘nd see where we’re both at with it. Because I don’t want to do anything that’s gonna make y’ feel uncomfortable or second rate or summat -” 

He cuts himself off, brow furrowing as he shakes his head in frustration, staring off into the yard, eyes watching the slowly falling sun. He turns back to face you after a few moments, new determination in his eyes. 

“This means everything to me, you and I.” he says, eyes never wavering from yours. “Everything. But I want us to do this whatever way you want. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, however you want to. I mean - if you want to -”

“I do.” you say, breathlessly cutting him off, heart stopping in your throat when you watch the way your words hit him, his whole face opening up, his eyes blinking rapidly. 

“Okay. That’s -” he huffs out a laugh, swallowing before speaking. “I mean that’s good. That’s really - Christ, I’ve never been less smooth in my life -” 

“I know, what is going on with you?” you ask, laughing when he drops his head with a groan. “Did you think I was going to say something different?”

“No - I just.” he stops himself with a sigh. You give him a second, before gently cupping his jaw and lifting his face back towards you. He looks at you, eyes grazing over your features before he plants a kiss to your palm. “‘s been fucking me up a bit, thinking about how I may have ruined some part of this for you. ‘S a big step, this. And it bloody kills me to think that my past may have soured this for you. ‘S the last thing I ever wanted to do-” 

“Whoa, hey, I know.” you say gently, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone, the days old stubble scratching your skin as he goes quiet, watching you with rapt attention. “It’s not been soured at all.”

“No?” he asks, hands tightening around your waist. 

“No,” you say with a firm shake of your head. “I mean, I don’t love thinking about you proposing to someone else but I don’t think that has anything to do with us, not now, after all this time has passed. It feels very different now, you know? Everyone’s moved on and your bloody Uncle Mack has finally stopped making jokes at weddings about how your cousins should watch out for me, how it only takes Twist men one time to get it right -”

Harry groans, squeezing his eyes shut as you laugh. “I still am really sorry about that. Mum did give him a proper bollocking for it, though, if that makes it any better.”

“It does.”

“Good.” he says, the corner of his mouth hitching up slightly, his shoulders relaxing, looking the most at ease he has since this conversation began.

“You know, I have given this a fair bit of thought myself this past year,” you say, you can feel his breath hitch. “And never once has anything I imagined felt soured or ruined by anything you or I have done. So I really wish you’d talk to me, instead of tying yourself up in knots over it -”

“Talking to you now, aren’t I?” he grumbles sheepishly.

“Yeah, and how’s that going for you?”

“Oiii -”

“Can feel you sweating through your shirt -”

“Oh cheers for that, darling. Next time I have one of the most important conversations of my life I’ll be sure to keep my perspiration levels in check -” 

“Perspiration levels? You are such a nerd -” 

“Yeah, a nerd you’d like to marry - 

“Oh god, you’re right,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck, heartbeat picking up when his mouth twitches into a smile. “What does that say about me?” 

“That you’re very charitable.” he says, arms tightening around your waist, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Or quite stupid.” 

You snort out a laugh, leaning in slow, nudging your nose against his.

“Feeling quite lucky actually,” you mumble against his mouth before pressing your lips to his. He instantly crushes you against his chest as he kisses you back, taking his time, kissing you the exact way you like to be kissed. He’s mumbling in between kisses, “‘s me who’s the lucky one, baby” the words falling against your lips as he refuses to pull away for too long, kissing you like he has all the time in the world. 

He pulls away slowly, lips dragging across your skin as he kisses a line up your face, resting his mouth against your forehead. 

“Nothing has ever felt like this before,” he says quietly. “Never wanted anything more in my life.” 

“Me either.”

“I did want to talk about it for real though.” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead before pulling back to look you in the eyes. “I’d like to propose to you, properly, get down on one knee, tell you how much you’ve made me a better man…unless that is something you don’t -”

“No, I would.” you say, his lips twitching up at how quickly you cut him off. “I would like that. But I’d like that to just be us. No one else but you and me. if you do it publicly or have a flash mob planned, I’m going to say no.” 

“There goes all my plans,” he says, soft smile on his face as he brings his hand up to cup your jaw. “What else would you like?”

“I’d like to have a wedding.” you say, the look on his face making your stomach swoop, your cheeks heat up as his thumb brushes against your skin, matching grins practically splitting your faces in half. “Would quite like to see you cry when I walk down the aisle.” 

“Baby, ‘m gonna weep.” he says, pulling your face towards his so he can kiss you, though it's not much of a kiss, given how wide you’re both smiling, giggling against each other's mouths. “What else?”

“I’d like to say vows to you”, you say, your breath catching as you watch him take a deep breath, his eyes going misty. “Tell you that it’s only ever been you, for me. And that it’ll over ever be you.”

He cuts you off with a kiss, his lips gentle against yours despite the way his grip has tightened as he walks you a step back so you’re flush against the table, his hips resting against yours. 

“What else?”

“I’d like to go on a long honeymoon and have a lot of sex,” you say and he huffs a laugh against your neck, tapping your hip with two fingers before helping you push yourself up onto the table, widening your legs so he can fit in between, his hands slowly roaming your body. “I mean, a lot.”

“What else?” he asks softly, lips dragging against your skin as he plants a line of slow kisses up your neck. 

“I’d like to be your wife,” you say, breath catching when he pulls his face back to look at you, adoring eyes trained on yours. “Been dreaming about what it’s going to feel like when you call me it for the first time.” 

“I’d like to be your husband.” he says gruffly. “‘S all I -”

“Me too.”

You regard each other for a moment, hearts racing, misty eyes locked on each other, in awe of this life you’re building together, of the road that lays ahead of you. Knowing the person right in front of you is who you want to be with for the rest of your life. And knowing they feel the same. 

You can’t really help it when the tears start to fall, feeling overwhelmed with the love you have for the man in front of you. Overwhelmed by how much that love has grown and shifted over the course of your life, never not a part of you, never stronger than it is now. He cups your jaw with his hand, thumb softly brushing away the tears, looking none the more held together himself.

“I know, baby. I know.” he says. “Me too. S’ - just - c’mere.”

He leans in, kissing you with everything he has, hand steady on your jaw as his lips drag against yours, pulling you closer to kiss you deeper. You wind your arms around his neck, your hand coming up to play with the hairs on the nape of his neck as his tongue slides over yours. He’s holding you like the most precious thing, his other hand tightening its hold on your hip as he kisses you over and over.

He pulls back to breathe, leaning back in to kiss you once before pulling back, his lips dancing along your cheeks until he hears you laugh, pressing one more kiss to your temple before pulling away. 

“Can I say one more logistical question and then I swear this sweaty conversation will be over ‘nd you can make me sweat in other ways -”

“Jesus Christ -” you say and he barks out a laugh, smiling wide when you laugh with him, his hands holding you tighter as he smacks a kiss to your forehead with a giggle.

“‘S just - I’d like to wait a bit.” he says. “Work is still quite crazy ‘nd I’ve kinda got this fantasy of getting to be in one place with you for a while once we’re engaged. Not having to jet off to any obligations or anything. Unless you’d rather-”

“No, no I don’t think I’m ready for all that quite yet. That makes sense to me, waiting a bit.” you say. “I’m not really in a rush, I’m still quite content being your girlfriend.”

“Oh that’s great to hear, cheers for the feedback.” he says, grinning when you giggle. “So how’d you feel about like… sometime after the end of tour next year?”

“Yeah, I think I could be someone’s fiancée by then.” you say, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face as he smiles back at you, the two of you just staring at each other giddily. “I’d have to check my calendar, but I should be able to squeeze you in.”

“Never had a problem doing that before,” he says, giggling when you swat at him before grabbing your hand and interlacing your fingers, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “So that sounds alright to you then?”

“Yeah, it’s alright with me.” you say, and he squeezes your hand, planting a kiss to your knuckles. 

“I love you so much baby.”

“I love you too.” you say, words drifting into a sigh when he leans in to capture your lips. His hands fall to your hips, gripping tighter as his mouth starts to pull away from yours, planting a line of kisses along your jaw, slowly making his way down your neck and taking his time.

“Is dinner gonna be fucked if I do you on this table right now?” he says, and your laugh quickly turns into a gasp as his tongue darts out along your neck, sucking at the skin and making his presence known. 

“We can reheat it.” you say breathlessly. “Or go into town later. I don’t care. I need you, I need -”

“Yeah, yeah - me too baby - ”

He lifts off your neck to capture your lips once more, immediately deepening the kiss as he groans into your mouth. His hands slide down your hips and trail along the front of your thighs, gently guiding them wider. He pulls back, licking his lips as his eyes roam your body, his pupils blown wide as his chest heaves before leaning in to kiss you once more. 

“Suppose I should should start practicing getting down on my knees.” he mumbles against your mouth, pulling back slowly with a wink as he slowly sinks down to the ground, pulling you closer to the edge of the table as his lips start to trail down your thighs and everything else fades away.

September 2023

“This spot look okay?” he asks, pulling you to a stop on the middle of the hill. You look out at the completely empty field that surrounds you, the view of the town just a ways down the hill, almost sparkling in the September sun. It’s just you and him for miles.

“Bit crowded, innit?” you say and he snorts in reply, waiting for you to look back at him so you can see his eye roll in full effect.

“Good one.” he deadpans, seemingly taking your snarky answer as confirmation that this is a nice spot to stop, as he squeezes your hand once before letting go, placing the picnic basket on the ground. You reach into your bag to pull out the blanket, unfurling it before laying it down and taking a seat as he gets to work on unpacking the basket and you know better than to disturb an artist at work.

It’s a new hobby of his, borne out of a competition with Gemma a few weeks ago to see who could arrange the best snacks for the boat. Naturally, he lost and has not been a decent sport about it. He is now a man possessed. You bite your tongue as you watch him pull out the board - yes he packed a board - and begin to assemble the charcuterie with utter concentration. 

“Can feel y’ about to laugh at me.” he says, not daring to look up from his careful arrangement of cheeses.

“I’m not even saying anything!”

“Yeah but you forget how well I know you,” he mutters, pulling a container of sliced peaches out of the basket and making quick work of getting them on the board. “Can feel it in your stare.”

“I -”

“But don’t you worry, baby,” he continues and you can feel him on the precipice of a dramatic monologue, “I’ve dealt with my fair share of critics. People who don’t understand the vision of a true artist, don’t appreciate the skills required to tackle such a task. I know how to rise against adversity -”

“Jesus Christ -”

“I believe in myself ‘nd my work,” he barrels on, undeterred, trying his best to maintain a straight face but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch up, “‘m not afraid to face my haters -”

“Oh my god,” you say, laughter breaking through your words as you tackle him back against the blanket, straddling his hips as you slap your hand across his mouth, his eyes twinkling with mirth as he looks back at you, looking all too pleased with himself as his hands coming up to rest against your thighs. “Are you done? Can you be? Please?” 

He shakes his head, eyes crinkling as you slide your hand down, resting on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palm.

“I’ve got more in me baby. But you’ve found my kryptonite,” he says, eyes darting down to your mouth before looking back up at you, hands sliding up to squeeze at your hips. “Quickest way to shut me up. You on top of me.”

“You forget how well I know you,” you say, in a horrible impression of his voice, expecting him to take the bait, crack a joke but instead his face softens as he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, his hand coming up to rest at the back of your neck, pulling you in. 

“Could never forget that. Not ever.” he whispers. “Come here.”

He pulls you in, his lips pressing against yours so gently you almost forget how you ended up here, trying to shut him up from his stupid joke that you secretly loved, which he knows as well as you. 

You both pull back slowly, slightly panting into each other’s mouths as you lock eyes and he’s got that look on his face, the look that makes your breath catch in your throat, the look that makes your heart race, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The look you’ve seen more times this year than any other, the look that you won’t let yourself fall for this time. Because you know what's on the other side of this look. You can feel it in your bones, can read it in his eyes, knowing you want the same things just as badly. Looking at you like you hold the keys to the universe. Like it’s just the two of you on this planet. Like he’s moments away from saying those words you’ve been waiting for, the words you talked about last summer.

You saw it on his face after his last night at Wembley, convinced he was about to propose to you stark naked in his dressing room, his dungarees still pooling around his ankles. You saw it the morning after the last night of tour, when he slept in the latest he’s slept in two years, after he rolled over to find you quietly reading as you waited for him to wake up, sleepy eyes locking with yours. You’ve seen flashes of it all week, when you came back from the market when you got the exact honey he likes, when you woke up early three days ago to join him on his morning run, when you decided to go for a midnight swim completely naked two nights ago. 

He’s always been shit at surprises is the thing, always too excited to see the person’s reaction so he inevitably spoils it anyway. It’s something Gemma has ragged on him about for years, the amount of times during their childhood that he blurted out the gifts they got their mum for her various birthdays, always too excited to see her reaction that he couldn’t contain himself. It happened throughout your friendship too.  Like the time he burst into your room on Boxing Day when you were ten to tell you your families were going on a joint holiday that year mere hours before your parents intended to surprise you, or the time he flew on a red eye from Paris mid filming to see you on your 22nd birthday, completely ruining Roxy’s elaborate ruse by blurting out, “I’m outside” on the phone when he was supposed to pretend he was stuck on set all night.  So you’ve always had the feeling you’d know when he was about to propose, that he wouldn’t be able to contain himself due to the excitement and gravity of the occasion but so far this motherfucker has been a steel trap.  

But you can see it now, in the look on his face. And you can feel it, you swear you can. It’s in the way he’s slowly brushing your hair from your face, his other hand resting on your hip, a light but possessive hold. But you know better than to fall for it this time, know this will be another one of those moments where he can knock the wind out of you with a mere look in his eyes and then say something completely mundane like…

“Food’s ready.” 

Exactly. You barely suppress an eye roll, giving him a quick kiss as you roll off of him, though he doesn’t let you get far as he sits up, rearranging himself so you can settle back between his legs, your back pressed against his chest, the platter of snacks within reach. 

“Did you already take a pic to send to Gem or should I wait before diving in?”

“Y’ know sometimes, the artist just creates for the sake of creating. Doesn't need an audience to validate his passion - ,” he says, laughing when you groan, pressing a kiss to the back of your head before mumbling, “course I’ve already taken a picture.”

You dive into the food from there, reaching into the basket to pull out the wine you packed, pouring it into the paper cups you brought and handing him a glass. You’re both buzzing about having this time together, just the two of you, no work obligations, no friends or family to host, just getting to hold each other close and talk about everything and nothing. 

He teases you about the absolute state you left the kitchen in a few weeks ago, when you Gemma and Roxy had a few too many and were convinced you could make authentic Italian pizza, which resulted in more dough stuck to the ceiling than you’d like to admit. You tell him about the early stages of planning you’ve been doing for your parents 30th anniversary party, desperate to properly celebrate the most aspirational love story you’ve ever known, two people who have always put their love for the other first in everything they do, just two best friends who have loved each other deeply all this time. And he only asks about 15 times to see pictures of Sammy, the puppy you’re adopting in two weeks when you get back to London. It’s mostly just the same two pictures he’s seen one hundred and nine times but that doesn’t stop his face from completely lighting up all the same, as he says “he’s gonna be ours”. 

Hours pass, but it could be minutes, time always seeming to fly when the two of you are together.  And most of the food is gone, the two of you sitting in comfortable silence as you play with his hands resting in your lap as his head rests against yours when you’re almost bowled over with emotion for a moment. It’s just - you love him. Can’t believe that after all this time, you can still have the most fun just sitting and talking to each other, never getting bored of hearing every thought in his head or getting to make him laugh or being on the receiving end of one of the cheesiest jokes of all time. 

“This is just one of my favorite things,” you say softly.

“What is?” he asks.

“Talking to you. Listening to you talk. Like in my life I’ve probably talked to you more than I’ve talked to anyone else and I still just never get tired of it.” you say, leaning back into his chest as his arms tighten around you. “I just really love you, you know?” 

“Yeah, I do.” he says softly, his hand coming up under your chin to guide your face back to his, kissing you gently as his thumb strokes against your cheekbone. He pulls back slowly, planting kisses along your cheek, temple and hairline, arms wrapping around you to pull you tighter against him. “Do y’ remember the first time we met?”

“When we were six?” you ask and he hums in response. “I mean…not really? I can’t tell if what I remember is because I actually remember it or if I’d been told it. I remember being really obsessed with Gemma.”

“Oii –” 

“Just because - hey, let me finish,” you say with a laugh, “She was nine going on ten and we were only six and she was so bloody cool and I got to be neighbors with her.”

“Fair play.”

“Thank you very much.” you say, smiling at how easily his delicate ego can be bruised. “I can remember like, flashes of that time but my more vivid memories with you are from years later. But my mum talks about it all the time - when we first moved to Holmes Chapel, meeting your family and it always, always makes her cry.” 

“Why?” he asks softly, his hands finding yours again, squeezing lightly. 

“I think -” you start to stay, brow furrowing as you try to place these memories flashing through your mind. It’s nothing tangible, there’s no clear image in your mind but you’re grasping at the ghost of a feeling, that that little six year old you felt, surprising yourself with how emotional you feel. “I think she had been quite nervous about the move, feeling badly we could no longer afford our old place once Dad lost his job and she’d been really nervous she just fucked my whole life up, taking me away from the friends I had made at that age. I was quite a loud kid but became pretty quiet when we first moved, like I could sense that my entire life was changing even if I didn’t fully understand why, so she got scared that I would just be alone all the time or have a hard time making friends. But she always says that - oh fuck, this is going to make me cry now too -”

“What is it?” he asks gently, thumbs rubbing over the backs of your hands.

“She says that there was a moment that she knew I would be okay, and that we’d be okay and that her and Dad had made the right call. It was a few weeks after we moved, she had left me playing outside for a moment when she ran in to grab something and a few minutes later she heard me laughing really, really hard. Like when she tells this story, she says she’d never heard me laugh that hard before. And she came back out to see what was going on, and there you were. And we were just playing together and really cracking each other up. And that’s when she knew we’d be alright. Because of you.”

You can feel his sharp intake of breath and you turn in his hold, his hands falling to your hands to steady you as you settle onto his lap. You just take your time looking at him, the man that boy grew into, the handsomest man you’ve ever known, the only man you’ve ever loved. God, you love him. You’ve always loved him, but it’s different now. You’ve never felt like this before, about anyone, him included. What your younger selves thought was love was merely scratching the surface of what it means to know him like this, to be entrusted with his heart like this. It’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you, him. It feels impossible to describe most days, how the hell you got lucky enough to fall in love with your best friend, to have him love you back just as hard. You blink back into focus and he’s got that look on his face again, his eyes glassier than usual as he swallows back against the emotion. 

“Y’ never told me that story before,” he says, leaning into your touch when your hands come up to frame his face.

“Think Ang was saving it for a big speech someday. So if you hear it again, just pretend you didn’t.” you say and he huffs a watery laugh. “She’s got a new ending for it now though.”

“What’s that?” his voice is barely above a whisper.

“That there are three times she’s known deep in her bones that I’d be alright, that I was right where I was meant to be.” you say, breath catching as you blink back tears, softly brushing his hair back over his ear. “One was when she found us playing when we were six, one was when I gave that speech at graduation and the third… was when you came out onto that courtyard, looking for me.”

“Baby -”

You close the gap between you in a millisecond, wrapping your arms around his neck as he wraps his around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he kisses you back, giving as good as he’s getting, barely giving you time to breathe before he’s diving back in for another one. His lips drag against yours as he licks expertly into your mouth, goosebumps erupting all over your body as his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, the two of you getting lost in each other. 

You pull back eventually, unable to stop yourself from kissing along his jaw, planting a final kiss against his temple before pulling back completely. 

“Thank you for playing in the backyard with me.” you say softly.

“Could play with you right now if y’ want.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Not like that, you deviant mind.” he laughs, lying through his teeth. “Could play cops ‘nd robbers or summat -”

“Roleplay. Kinky.”

He honks out a laugh at that, head tilting back as his shoulders shake and you can’t help but laugh with him. 

“Dirty, dirty mind.”

“Yeah, I learned from the best.” you say and he grins, eyes crinkling as he looks back at you. 

“Hey,” he says, keeping one hand on your hip as he reaches back into the bag, pulling out this camera and handing it to you. “Could y’ take a picture of us please?”

“You wanna do a selfie?” you ask and he nods with a smile. 

You turn back around in his hold, pulling the camera up to face the two of you. He nestles his chin onto your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist and you can feel the movement of his cheek against your face, his beard lightly scratching you as he breaks into a wide grin that you can’t help but match. You take the picture going to pull the camera back but he stops you.

“Do another one please.” he murmurs and you’re about to press the trigger when he turns his head, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you take the picture. You scrunch your nose almost involuntarily, feeling a swoop of butterflies as a blush forms on your cheeks like you’re fifteen years old. 

It just never gets old, with him. The way he wears his adoration on his sleeve, the little things he does almost subconsciously to keep you close, letting you know you’re always on his mind. Like how he can’t walk next to you without having his hands on you in some way, whether it’s holding your hand or wrapping his arm around your shoulder, sometimes just sliding his fingers through your belt loops.

It’s just every time he’s next to you, like a few weeks ago when you were sat next to each other, both in separate conversations but he slipped his hand along your thigh, thumb rubbing back and forth as he laughed with Mitch. The way he lets you sleep in any time he can, like this morning when he quietly slipped out for a long run before sliding back into bed a few hours later to wake you up slowly, pressing soft kisses to your neck as he slipped down under the sheets. It’s the way he listens, always hanging onto your every word even if you’re telling the most boring story in the world. It’s a lot, to be loved by him. It’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you and you can only hope that he feels your love just as strongly as you do his.

“Where’d you go?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back from your face as you turn to face him. 

“Just thinking about you.” you say and his smile softens into something more private, something just for you. “How much I love you.”

He takes a deep, shaky breath, thumb softly dragging down the side of your face as his eyes roam over your features.

“I love you so much, baby.” he says, pulling you in to kiss you gently. 

He pulls back, kissing the corner of your mouth before reaching down to take the camera out of your hands, now aiming at you.

“Oh, H -” you groan, instinctively bringing a hand up to cover the lens before he gently grabs your wrist and pulls it out of the lens’ way.

“Indulge me, darling.”

“You’ve got nine hundred pictures of me on there.”

“Yeah, well, ‘d like to make it nine hundred and one.” he says, already adjusting the focus on the camera as he holds it up, clearly not taking no for an answer. You heave a sigh, smiling when you hear him chuckle as he takes the picture. And then takes another one, and another one. And another one. 

“Oh my god, you said one!” you laugh, pushing the camera down away from your face as he laughs.

“Changed my mind. Needed photographic evidence of me making you blush,” he says, trying to pull the camera back up before you push it down again. “Alright, alright. Can’t blame a man for trying to capture his favorite subject.”

You’re helpless to do anything but shake your head at him, heart skipping a beat as he smiles back at you, quickly putting the camera back in the bag before wrapping his arms around you once more, burying his face into your neck. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, the two of you just sitting there for a few moments, holding each other close, breathing each other in. 

“What do you say,” he starts, mumbling into your neck as he slowly presses a line of kisses along your jaw before pulling back completely, smiling softly at you before continuing, “we head over to Leonardo’s to grab a drink and check out the sunset? Supposed to be a good one.”

“That sounds nice.” you say, running your fingers through his hair as he smiles back at you, a twinkle in his eyes that you can’t quite decipher. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.” you say, smacking a kiss to his cheek before standing up and helping him up as you both start to clear up the picnic. You can feel his eyes on you more often than not, and every time you look over at him you catch him staring right back, smiling at you in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. You fold up the blanket together and he smacks a kiss to your forehead when you meet in the middle, giggling when you roll your eyes. He gathers the bags, putting them one on top of the other on his shoulder and picks up the picnic basket, always making sure to leave one hand free for you to grab onto. 

“Ready?” you ask, holding your hand out towards him and he looks back at you and suddenly your simple question feels like something more, though you can’t quite put your finger on what. It just feels like there is something in the air, like you’re on the cusp of something bigger. But you just let the thought pass, deciding to just exist in the present moment instead of overanalyze it because there he is, smiling that brilliant smile at you, eyes full of love as they stare back into yours.

—

He takes a moment to take everything in. The slowly sinking sun, the trees blowing in the summer breeze, the town sprawling out below. It’s been stunning all day, almost as if he planned the weather along with everything else. The perfect day for his perfect girl. He looks over at you, patiently waiting, knowing how he likes to take his time, to soak a moment in, commit the day to memory, take a second to express his gratitude to whoever in the universe let him have days like this, let him have you. 

He looks at you, gorgeous, stunning, beautiful you, and the way you were looking back at him, your hand outstretched towards his. He doesn't know what he did to deserve this, to deserve you looking at him like that but he’s determined to do everything he can to get you to look at him that way for the rest of his life. He takes your hand, squeezing it once, resisting the urge to run his thumb along your bare ring finger, feeling giddy with the knowledge that this would be the last time he would hold your hand without a ring on that finger. Holy shit. 

He’s trying desperately to sneak in a meditative breath, to manually slow his heart rate down so as to not raise suspicion as you make your way back towards town. Trying his best to appear calm, cool and collected and not like he was mere minutes away from one of the biggest moments of his entire life.

He’s not nervous, necessarily. He knows what you’re going to say, feels like the luckiest man in the world that he knows with absolute certainty how you feel about him, that you are in this as much as he is. He just needs to get this moment exactly right. He’s spent a lifetime choosing his words carefully but never more so than now, desperately hoping the words he came up with can begin to encapsulate all that you mean to him, knowing no words will truly ever be be able to do you and all that you are justice but he’s going to give it his best try. 

It’s been a perfect day so far. He slipped out in the early hours while you were still sleeping under the guise of a long morning run to get everything set up, facetiming his Mum and Gemma and your parents sporadically, texting Johnny, Roxy,  Archie and Jeff in between set ups before he put his phone away, wanting this day to just be about the two of you, wanting to set up as quickly as possible to get back to where you were waiting for him in bed. 

And now, after spending the afternoon on a picnic, wrapped up in each other with no one else for miles, here you both are, turning down familiar streets as you make your way closer to Leonardo’s and he feels like he might scream, the energy building inside him coming to a near boiling point. He’s just really bloody excited, is the thing. More excited than he’s ever been in his life, which is saying a lot, considering all he’s done this year, this life. But none of that has even come close to this. 

Because all that out there, while wonderful, while the most unbelievable thing to happen to some guy from Holmes Chapel, it belongs out there, to everyone else. He’s proud of all he’s done obviously and knows how much he’s had a hand in it but all the accolades, the adoring fans, the hundreds of shows, that comes down to a lot of people. It’s for public consumption, something to be shared with as with everyone who works with him, a team effort. It’s something he’s used to, something he’s been doing since he was sixteen years old. It’s second nature at this point, sharing himself with the world. 

But this? With you? This is his. You’re his. He’s never had anyone know him like you do, can’t believe how much more you’ve learned about each other over the past three years, becoming aware of each other’s little habits in a way you hadn’t been privy to before and using this new knowledge to care for each other. It can come down to the tiniest of things sometimes, how when he falls asleep reading - because he’s going to become a reader this year damnit, if only he could stop falling asleep three pages in, book splayed out on his chest - he’ll wake up the next morning to find the book on his bedside table, a bookmark in place of where he left off. 

How he likes to spend his mornings listening to records while he makes his coffee and will come home from a long time away to find new records added to his collection, long sought after legends you likely spent ages digging for. How he made a passing comment when you first moved in to the new flat two and half years ago about how one of his favorite things to do when he’s home is check the mail, that it makes him feel like he’s got a place he belongs, a place that’s his, somewhere he can settle down and now whenever he’s home, you never get the mail, not once, always leaving it for him, sometimes even going so far as to send a postcard from your office to the flat, a little love note, something nice for him to find as he flips through bills. 

He’s never had that before, not in romantic relationships, having typically found himself stuck in the archaic mindset that one person gets the gestures, one person gives them but it’s not like that with you. And he can’t believe how nice it feels to have someone love him like that. To be listened to and cared for like you do for him. You’ve taught him that love is paying attention, and it can be so simple, can be so effortless but it makes him feel like he’s flying, soaring. Knowing with you, he’s always got a soft place to land. And he works hard to do the same for you, to study his favorite subject. There is nothing he loves more than learning something new about you, figuring out a new way he can get you to smile. 

This is something he waited his whole life to experience, something he had given up any hope on actually finding. Resigning himself to settle for good enough, for fine. Not ever daring to think the greatest person he’s ever known was loving him all this time. He physically has to stop himself from picking up the pace, the temptation to start sprinting to Leonardo’s, to get down on his knee as soon as possible far too strong.

It’s all led to this, hasn’t it? This journey the two of you have been on, that started the day his mum dragged six year old him to meet the new neighbors next door. The day his life changed forever. The day he met the greatest friend he has ever had, who became the truest love he’s ever known. The kind of love that feels impossible to capture, too big and all encompassing to be dwindled down into a few words or a simple melody. It’s why he always has to have his hands on you, finding it easier to physically express himself when the words don’t feel like enough to capture all that you are to him, what this love feels like. It feels bigger than him and yet he knows it's his, that it belongs to him. That there’s no one else you look at like this, touch like this, love like this. There’s no one else for you. And there’s no one else for him. How fucking lucky is he?

He looks over at you and it’s almost game over, breath catching in his throat as his eyes sweep over your profile, the soft smile on your face as you look over the familiar buildings. He’s so in awe of you, so, so in love with you that he’s about to start crying in the middle of the street. He’s going to spend the rest of his life with you right here by his side, holding his hand and he’s never felt luckier in his life. You. Magnificent, luminescent, radiant you. 

He’s helpless to do anything but pull you in close, unwinding his hand from yours in favor of framing your face, praying you can’t feel the way his hand is slightly trembling. He barely gives you a second to react before he’s pressing his lips to yours. If you’re surprised, you barely show it, melting into him as you wrap your arms around his waist, his hand on your face clutching you tighter, thumb running along your cheekbone as he kisses you over and over again. He’s still holding the damn picnic basket but can’t be arsed to care, trying his best to communicate his love with every push and pull of his lips, every tease of his tongue against yours. 

He pulls away slowly, pressing kisses along every inch of your face until you laugh and push him away though he doesn’t let you get very far, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close, resting his cheek against the top of your head when you hug him back. Your hands slide up his sides, squeezing at his biceps once, seemingly unaware of the goosebumps your touch leaves in its wake before you let go, tilting your head up to look at him. 

“Were you holding that picnic basket the whole time just so you could flex?” you ask with a laugh, grin widening when he laughs with you. 

“My girl told me she’s got a thing for my arms. Gotta give the people what they want.”

“Oh my god -” you start to say but he cuts you off, kissing you once, twice, three times in rapid succession, before pulling back to plant a kiss to your cheek. Taking a moment to stare at you, the love of his bloody life. 

“Gonna miss the sunset if you keep looking at me like that.” you say softly. 

“Don’t need any view but the one I’ve got right now.” he says, heart flipping when your smile widens, your eyes crinkling as a blush blooms on your cheeks and he has to bring his hand back up to feel that warmth under his thumb. “You’re so beautiful.”

He watches in delight as you huff a breathless laugh, swaying on your feet slightly as if his words knocked you off balance.You just stare at each other for a moment, both your grins growing as you lean in to kiss him softly, squeezing his arm once before you pull back. 

“Could kiss you forever.” he mumbles against your mouth, and it’s true. But he really, really can’t wait anymore. “But actually I really want to see the sunset.” 

“Yeah, I know you do.” you say with a laugh, pushing him away gently. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

“Yeah, almost there.” he says, trying to ease the shake out of his voice as he takes your hand again, his heartbeat suddenly thundering in his ears as he can see the way your stare lingers on his face, knows you can read him like a book, that whatever you’re seeing in his eyes is giving you pause. But you don’t say anything, squeezing his hand once as you head on down the street. 

“You never answered your own question, you know.” you say, as you turn a corner, Leonardo’s coming into view and he just might scream. 

“What question?” 

“Do you remember the first time we met?” you ask, looking over at him, not yet noticing how different Leonardo’s looks at this hour, that it is completely closed,  though it’s still a bit far away so there’s still time for you to notice. But if you don’t, it is possible that he has successfully pulled off a surprise for the first time in his entire life. Okay. focus, Harry. Focus. 

“I think it’s like y’ said,” he says, letting go of your hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders, if only to hide how sweaty his palm has become. Trying his best to sound as normal as possible though his stomach is flipping with every step you take. “I can’t remember the exact day, I don’t think, though I have, like, a sense of that first day? Like standing on your step with Mum ‘nd Gem, ‘nd like, flicking Gemma’s ear.” 

“Nice to know both of our first memories of each other are about Gemma.” you say with a laugh and he squeezes you a bit tighter as you get closer and closer to the destination. 

“Think my first proper memory of you is when we were, like, 8. In my backyard. Trying to send telepathic messages to each other. Which we were absolute shit at.”

“Heeey, I thought we were quite good at it then. Especially in school and stuff. We only fucked up when we tried to communicate with your old cat.”

“Oh yeah, Petey. Legend.” 

“Legend.” you agree with a laugh, “I reckon we’re a lot better at it now, though. Like I can always tell when you really want to leave a party or when you’re on stage and -”

You cut yourself off, slowing to a stop right in front of Leonardo’s. He watches as your brow furrows in confusion as you take in the shuttered windows, the lack of lights and activity. You take a step forward, out of his hold as your eyes search the front of the trattoria, searching for answers that won’t come. He can’t breathe, is the thing. His mind on a constant loop of “this is it, this is it, this is it.”

“Wait, what? They’re closed? On a Sunday? Are they alright? Do you think something’s wrong?”

“I’m sure they’re alright. But we can check it out if you want.” he says, and he feels like he’s a dam on the verge of breaking, clenching his fist once before releasing it, taking a deep breath as he reaches into his pocket. “They gave me the keys.”

“They gave you the keys?!” you ask incredulously. “Why would they -” 

You turn to face him, mouth snapping shut the moment you lock eyes with him and he knows, in an instant, that his poker face has been absolutely shot to shit. He can see the understanding bloom in your eyes, a wave of emotion passing over your face as your hand flies up to cover your mouth. You did say you could read his mind. 

“H, why did they give you the keys?” you ask, your voice barely louder than a whisper. 

“Needed someplace to store the flash mob.” he says, warmth blooming in his chest when you huff a watery laugh. He reaches out to pull your hand down from your face, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before pulling you closer. “Do y’ want to go inside?”

You take a deep breath, biting down on a grin as you nod. He smiles back at you, squeezing your hand as he leads you both to the door, trying to use the keys on the door but his hands are shaking too bad, he tries to bring up the other hand to help but the picnic basket gets in the way, muttering a curse as he tries again. 

“Here, let me -” 

“Yeah, could you -” he starts to say, but you’re already reaching for the picnic basket, taking it out of his hands, always anticipating what he needs before he can vocalize it, always there to ease his burdens. Is he being too dramatic about a picnic basket? Yes. But he can’t help it, emotion flowing through him like a tidal wave, in disbelief that what he’s been working towards for a whole year is on the other side of this door. 

He grabs the doorknob with his newly freed hand, keeping it steady as he works the lock with the other and this time it swings open to reveal the restaurant, completely shrouded in darkness. He holds the door open for you, letting you walk in first, living for the slightly confused expression on your face as he follows in behind you. 

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” you deadpan and he honks out a laugh, closing the door behind him and locking it as he feels the last of his nerves shake free, comforted by the fact that while he’s about to walk into the moment he’s been waiting his whole life for, the two of you are still you. Still giving each other shit.  And why should he be nervous when he’s about to get the opportunity to tell you how much he loves you? And wants to spend the rest of his life with you? God, he’s so, so lucky. 

“Taking the piss at a moment like this. Should’ve known.” he says, shaking his head as you grin over at him. 

“So should I be expecting the dancers now or …”

“Give a lad a moment, jesus.” he says, grinning when you laugh. He reaches over and takes the basket from your hands, placing it on the nearest chair. “Can y’ close your eyes for me?”

You take a deep breath, nodding and shut your eyes. He quickly pulls the bags off his shoulder, placing them next to the basket and reaching into the depths of his bag to pull out the small square box and slide it into his pocket, squeezing once. He grabs his camera out of the bag and swings the strap over his shoulder before shuffling up behind you, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as he covers your eyes with his hand. 

“H, my eyes are already closed -”

“Can’t be too careful with you,” he says, laughing when you grumble. “Alright, walk forward for me. I’ll guide ya.” 

He guides you through the restaurant, through the kitchen, and onto the back patio where you had dinner that night three years ago and where you’ve had several dinners since. He gently pushes you forward and then pulls you to a stop. 

“Keep ‘em closed,” he says, taking a step back and plugging in the twinkling lights that he hung from the wood paneled roof and the space is suddenly illuminated, looking just as he imagined it, the sun beginning to set in the distance. Fuck yes. He snaps a quick picture of you, completely unaware of your surroundings before placing the camera down on a nearby table. This is it. He looks himself over quickly, running his hands through his hair, adjusting his shirt, reaching into his pocket to quickly squeeze the box once before he takes a deep, deep breath and moves next to you.

“Y’ can open your eyes now, love.” he says, not daring to look away from your face, watching you with rapt attention as you open your eyes. Your eyes widen instantly, tears brimming in your eyes as you squeeze his forearm. 

“Oh, H.” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes sweep the space. It’s been completely transformed - most of the tables have been shoved to the side, except for a semicircle in the middle, leading to a perfect view of the sunset. Every single table is absolutely covered in bouquets of lilies - your favorite flower, asiatic lilies if he’s going to be specific, and he was, calling every florist within a 100 mile radius until he found the perfect ones, blooms of pinks, reds and purples covering every inch of the patio. 

Every inch, except the six tables in the semicircle. Those each hold a different photograph from the two of you over the years, blown up, framed and propped up, encircled with smaller photographs from the same time of your lives. You go to inspect them further, linking your fingers with his as you pull him behind you. 

The first photo is the two of you in his kitchen, age 7, hands absolutely covered in paint from an arts and crafts project you had taken up yourselves. You smile wide as you take it in, taking your time to look at the pictures covering the table, like one from when you were both ten, still in your costumes from the school play, arms slung around each other’s shoulders as you clutch onto the flowers your mums gave you or the one of you during Boxing Day charades when you were twelve. He had spent days in his mum’s house, looking over his and your parents’ piles of photos, desperately eager to find the best ones, the ones that would make you smile like you’re smiling right now. 

You pull him along to the next one and he hears you huff a laugh at the teenage awkwardness in all its glory, the two of you making some questionable fashion choices while on a family vacation in Paris, right before the band’s first single came out. He’s smiling wide at the camera, an arm around your shoulders and you are looking right at him, the braces adorning your teeth adding some extra shine. 

“Stupid in love with you, even then.” you mumble, sniffling as you give his hand another squeeze, eyes poring over the photographs surrounding the biggest picture. There’s a noticeable shift, as school pictures fade into pictures taken backstage at venues or near historic monuments all over the world. A time capsule, watching his life drastically change in every sense right before his eyes. But there’s always you. Right there, by his side. 

The next table has a photo from your 22nd birthday, the two of you practically tackling each other outside your flat, when he absolutely fucked up the surprise, but he hadn’t seen you in ages and was too excited. He stared at that picture for a while when setting up this morning, wondering how he could have possibly missed what he knows to be deeply true now, when he can see the joy and love so clearly written on his younger face.

You turn as you pull him to the right, to the next three tables, all covered with pictures of you both from the last three years. Each table represents a different year of your relationship, there’s one with the photo of when you first moved in together, the self timer picture you took in the middle of the barely set up living room, both of you smiling wide at the camera, giddy despite the exhaustion from the move. There’s the next one with one of his favorite pictures ever, from the vacation you took in the Cayman Islands after his insane year of touring last year, a selfie you took in the pool together and you look like the hottest woman alive. 

He feels you squeeze his fingers to smithereens as you get to the last table, covered in photos he knows you’ve not seen yet, including the big one that knocked the wind out of him when he first saw it. It’s from a few weeks ago, taken by Johnny. You’re at dinner in the backyard with everyone but the two of you are lost in your own world, his arm is wrapped around the back of your chair with his other hand resting on your thigh as you stare into each other’s eyes, laughing at a dumb joke one of you must have told. The love in the photo is palpable, it makes his stomach flip the more he looks at it.

He feels almost shy then, as you look everything over once more. He hasn’t done something like this for anyone… ever. He hasn’t tried to make a gesture this big in ages, certainly not by himself (though Leonardo did insist he and his sons help with the flower unloading, but they left Harry alone to set up the photos.) He wanted a visual of your lives together, everything that led up to now. He’s been working on this since your conversation last summer, scouring over photos in your family homes, going through all the film he has. He wanted it to be perfect for you. Wanted to show his love as best he could. He can feel a blush blooming on his cheeks, desperate to know what you think, hoping it’s not too corny, hoping you can see what he meant.  

“I can’t believe you did all this,” you say softly, voice thick with emotion. 

“Y’ like it? ‘S not too -” he asks and you’re already shaking your head before he can finish the question. 

“No it’s perfect, it’s…” you say, looking around at the tables, all the photographs, all the years of memories the two of you share. “It’s crazy to see it like this, all of our years together. It’s…”

You bring your hand to your forehead, shaking your head in disbelief, words seemingly failing as you look around at everything. He squeezes your hand, thumb rubbing over the back of it as you take a deep, shaking breath, tears falling from your eyes. 

“Oh, baby…” he says softly, pulling you in by the hand as he brings his other up to frame your face, thumb wiping away the tears that fall.

“I’m good, this is all good, it’s better than good. I’m just …overwhelmed.” you say, with a watery smile as you look back at him. “Just like all this history…and the flowers and the photos, like this must have taken ages. The thought of you looking through everything is killing me.”

“Been searching for the best photos for the past year,” he says softly, hand not leaving your face. “Our parents helped with the childhood photos but a lot of the other ones come from my film.”

“Oh my god, don’t tell me that,” you groan, quickly squeezing your eyes shut. “I already look a mess enough as it is.”

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” he says softly and you blink your eyes back open at that, leaning into the gentle caress of his hand. “Got something I’d like to say to you, if that’s okay.”

He watches as you take a deep, shaky breath, your face lighting up as you look back at him with such love in your eyes, he may faint. 

“Yeah, that’s okay.” you say back just as softly. “Do you need me to like, let go?”

“No, y’ can stay right where you are. Actually hang on.” he says, walking you backwards so the two of you are perfectly in line with the sunset, the sky a perfect pink. He stares at you for a moment, can already feel the tears brimming in his eyes as he takes a deep breath. 

When he looks at you, it’s like he can see all versions of you at once. The versions of you that surround the two of you where you stand. His new neighbor that became his favorite person to play in the backyard with when he was six, the girl he wanted to kiss more than anyone when he was thirteen, his best friend who answered his phone call no matter the time or place when he was nineteen, the woman who stopped him from making what would’ve been the biggest mistake of his life, his girlfriend who makes him laugh more than anything in the world and loves him more than he’s ever been loved. The first face he seeks out in a crowd, the first voice he longs to hear when he’s been away, his love, his life, the love of his life. The woman who is going to be his wife. 

He didn’t realize the tears started to fall from his eyes as well until he feels your hand, gently  cradling the side of his face, brushing his tears away. He huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your palm before taking your hand in his, holding both of your hands with both of his. It’s reminiscent of what you’ll be doing in the future, at a ceremony somewhere and you both seem to be struck with that thought at the same time, squeezing each other’s hands as your grins widen. He’s got to do this now. He’s got to. He’s got to. He clears his throat, takes a deep breath. 

“I never said thank you, you know.” he begins, “Not properly. For being brave enough to tell me how you felt on the courtyard that night. For wanting better for yourself and for me. Y’ always…always want better for me. I don’t think I’d have ever had the courage to go against what was being expected of me or the situation I put myself in. And I can’t think about that too much, what my life would look like if you hadn’t done that. What a life without you, without this would look like. Because this is everything to me. You’re everything to me. And I’m grateful every single day that you told me how you felt when you did.” 

Emotion clogs his throat and he has to pause, shaking his head slightly as he takes a deep breath, knowing you’re not better off, biting down on a smile as tears fill your eyes, taking your own shaky breath, sliding your thumbs along the back of his hands, the move comforting him more than you know. 

“I never knew love could feel like this.” he continues, his voice shakier than before. “I didn’t have many examples of it growing up in my own family, not of this type of love. Always thought that people exaggerated, that it couldn’t be as good as they’re making it out to seem. But with you…it’s the greatest thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. I love how you love me, I love the way being with you makes me feel. You’ve been my best friend for my entire life and getting to be in love with you is the greatest gift you’ve ever given me.”

You make a soft sound at that, a small sob escaping you as you try your best to hold it together, the look on your face is going to make him absolutely lose it, as if he hasn’t already. He squeezes your hands, letting go of one to catch the tears that start falling from your eyes.

“Keep going,” you croak out, both of you laughing softly at the absolute state you’ve found yourselves in, matching tear tracks and smiles. He pinches your cheek and you swat away his hand, and he takes it once more in his.  “Please.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles, his vision already swimming again as he takes a deep breath. He can do this. 

“I love your mind and your heart. I love being able to come home to you every single day and waking up next to you every single morning. These last three years getting to love you like this have been the best of my life. I’m the best version of myself when I’m with you. Being loved by you has made me a better friend, a better son, a better partner. The way you pay attention, the way you support me and believe in me has changed my life completely. You make me happier than I ever thought possible. You make me feel alive. You make me feel loved and cared for in a way I’ve never experienced before. And, if y’ let me, all I want to do is spend the rest of my life making you feel the same.” 

“You already do,” you say softly, and he has to bow his head at that, feeling overwhelmed with gratitude for this life, this moment, this love. He looks back up to see you looking right back at him, his beacon of light, his home. 

“I wanted to do this here because it was one of the first places that felt like ours.” he says, “This is the first place I ever called you my girlfriend. And I’d like for it to be the last.” 

He gently lets go of your hands, eyes never leaving your face as he sinks down to one knee, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the ring box. He opens it, living for the way you gasp, hands flying up to your face when you recognize the ring inside. Your Nana’s ring that your mum gave him that weekend in Scotland all those months ago. Updated, slightly. He couldn’t resist a Cartier twist. You’re proper crying now ,all pretenses of holding your composure long abandoned and he knows he’s no better, can feel the tears sneaking their way down his face. It’s just everything to him, knowing this means as much to you as it does to him.

“Baby,” he says, and the smile you give him in response makes his heart skip a beat, feeling like he could fly. “Will you marry me?

“Yes.” you say instantly, 

“Yeah?” he says, grin practically splitting his face as you nod fervently.

“Yes yes yes yes yes.”

You practically lunge at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and almost knocking him backwards. He wraps his arms around your waist, careful not to drop the ring as he pulls you close. You pull back, taking his face in your hands, wiping the tears away with your thumbs. You take a moment to stare at him, your watery gaze matching his as you smile at each other, the look on your face making him feel like he’s on fire. You lean in, kissing him so softly, so carefully, he’s going to start crying harder. It’s messy, both of your faces wet from snot and tears, but neither of you seem to care, pulling each other closer and closer, his hand coming up to squeeze the back of your neck as you mumble against his mouth, a mix of  “yes, please, I love you I love you I love you.” 

He presses kisses to your cheek, temple, the edge of your jaw before looking you in the eyes, both unable to do anything but laugh, feeling overwhelmed with love and joy. 

“Getting snot all over your face.” you say softly, laughing when he does. “Quite gross, sorry.”  

“Don’t care.” he mumbles against your cheek. “Can I give y’ the ring now please?” 

“Please.” you say back, pulling back and sitting back on your heels as he unwinds his arms around you, pulling the ring out of the box before placing it down. 

He takes your hand in his, smiling up at you as he slides it onto your finger, the two of you doing a collective sharp inhale as he does. You both are quiet for a moment, staring at the ring glimmering on your finger, a perfect fit.  

“H. I…this is my Nana’s ring, yeah?”

“Yeah, your mum gave it to me earlier this year. Said your Granddad had wanted you to have it.” he says softly, kissing you on the shoulder when your face crumples slightly, rubbing his hand up and down your arm. 

“He did?”

“He did. He told her to give it to the person that makes her daughter the happiest. That that’s what he and your Nana would want. Ang said she almost gave it to me that first Christmas we came home together. Said that she..uh,” he stops for a second, voice catching on emotion as he remembers the conversation, tears springing back to his eyes. “Said that she had never seen you that happy.”

“Oh Jesus. I’m gonna be crying for a month,” you say, bringing your hands up to cover your face as you’re overwhelmed for a moment. He huffs a gentle laugh beside you, his hand not leaving your arm as you lower your hands to stare at the ring again. “I can’t believe it’s Nana’s ring.” 

“I upgraded it a bit -”

“Yeah, no shit.” you say and he honks out a laugh, breath catching when you look at him, eyes aglow with affection. “It’s stunning.”

“Yeah? Y’ like it?”

“I love it. More than I can say.” you say, softly smiling at him. “I love you.”

You lean in to kiss him, resting your hand against the back of his neck, only this time he can feel the back of the ring against his skin and he just about loses his mind. He sits back, pulling you onto his lap with his arms around your waist as he kisses you back, having no interest in leaving the ground when he gets to have you this close. 

“You know it’s all the same for me, right?” you say, pulling back abruptly as your eyes search his face. “Everything you said?”

“I know, baby -” he says, already leaning in to kiss you again but you stop him, pressing your fingers against his mouth.

“Hang on, just let me -” you start to say, smiling when he presses a soft kiss to your fingertips covering his mouth, before you bring them down to rest on his jawline, your eyes roaming over his face, lighting up when they lock with his. “You’re my best friend, my favorite person to spend time with. And I can’t quite believe this is real, that we’re now bloody engaged.”

You pause for a moment, blinking back tears as he tightens his arms around you, brushing the back of your knuckles against his face. 

“Forever wouldn’t be enough time with you. You make me so, so happy, happier than I’ve ever been in my life. These last three years your job has brought us to the most beautiful places but - I’m going to be cheesy right now, you just have to let me, - there’s something about getting to come home to the flat and have you there that’s just…there’s nothing like it in the world. I feel so lucky. You make me better. You make me believe in myself more, take more risks, knowing I’ll always have a safe place to land. Nothing has ever felt like this before. Getting to see you grow into the man you are has been like, one of the greatest privileges of my life and now, getting to grow alongside you, build a life with you… dream come true doesn’t do it justice. I am so, so in love with you -”

He closes the distance between you in an instant, choking back tears as he crashes his lips against yours, bringing one hand up to cradle the back of your head. He feels all out of words at the moment, unable to articulate the way your words have his heart about to beat out of his chest. He never knew it was possible to feel this much about another person, love radiating out of every fiber of his being as he kisses you over and over again.

You press a line of kisses up his face, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper into his ear an endless loop of “I love you, I love you, thank you, I love you” and he may just melt. The two of you sit there for a while, holding each other tight. He pulls back, eyes grazing over your face before he leans in again, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Did you bring your camera out here?” you ask “Should try to capture the moment, yeah? Document the craziest I ever looked?”

He laughs, shaking his head almost instantly. “Y’ don’t look crazy. You’re gorgeous.”

“You only saying that because you just put a ring on my finger?”

“Caught me there.” he says with a smile. “Camera’s over by the door.”

You squeeze his shoulder once before standing up and walking over to grab it. He watches you walk away, the swish of your dress as you walk, the dip of it in the back, the way that ring on your finger now glimmers against the lights. He stands up once you have the camera in hand, watching with a curious smile as you place it on the table, propping it up, getting the angle right before pressing the button on the back for the self-timer, the red light instantly flashing as you hurry back to where he stands in the center of the patio, the flowers and photos surrounding him. 

He holds his arms open for you and you step into his embrace, your back to his chest as you both face the camera. He loops an arm around the front of your chest, hand resting on your shoulder as you bring your left hand up to clasp his forearm, both smiling at the camera as it takes the picture. 

He presses a kiss to your head, squeezing your shoulder once, as he mutters into your hair, “Gonna make you do a selfie.”

Not listening to your half-assed protests as he walks back over to the camera, picking it up and instantly snapping a picture of you standing there, amongst the flowers. His favorite sight. 

You immediately wrap your arms around his waist when he gets close, settling your head in the crook of his neck as he fumbles with the camera.

“C’mon, you gotta hold your hand up. Show off the goods”

In response you smack your hand over his face, completely covering it,  laughing when he glares at you through the spaces in your fingers. He clicks the shutter, unable to stop his smile when you honk out a laugh. 

“Cheers for that, darling. Just how I wanted to capture the moment.”

“I’ll be framing that one, me.” you say with a laugh, trying in vain to dodge his hand trying to pinch your side. “Alright do a real one, I’ll be good.”

“Heard that one before,” he says, giggling when you swat at him before you turn back to the camera, holding your hand up with a quirk of your lips and he’s so hopelessly endeared as he presses the button, taking four pictures in rapid succession, knowing you’re about to smack him but you surprise him by just tightening your arms around his waist before you turn to face him, your hand coming up to tilt his face towards yours. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, one that almost sweeps him right off his feet. His hand falters on the trigger, feeling a little lost in your lips before he snaps a photo quickly, heart flipping when you laugh against his mouth. 

“Take another one,” you mumble against his lips before leaning in to kiss him again and he all but forgets the camera in his hand as he wraps his arms around your waist,  both of you smiling too wide to get a proper kiss in, but you can’t be arsed to care. He pulls back, pressing a line of kisses along your jaw, smiling against your skin when you hum contentedly. 

“Got the shot?” you ask and he nods, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck before pulling back, smiling at you the way you’re smiling at him.  

“Got something else, too,” he says.

“Yeah? What’s that?” 

“Heard a rumor that Isabella may have left a treat for us in the kitchen.” he says, watching in glee as your mouth opens in shock. “Something about a tiramisu -”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Should be a nice bottle of bubbly in there somewhere, too.”

“Why are we still out here?!” you say, pulling the camera out of his hands and placing it on the nearest table before grabbing his hand as you beeline back inside towards the kitchen. 

It’s a struggle to get the lights sorted inside, resulting in him absolutely slamming into a table, your bark of laughter echoing in the empty space. He figures it out eventually, hindering your mission towards the fridge with a hand around your wrist, pulling you back and pressing you against the wall to steal a few more kisses, completely ignoring your warning that you’re “breaking about 100 health codes right now,” laughing when you roll your eyes at his offer to break about a hundred more. 

He eventually lets you go, leaning over to open the fridge, a wave of emotion flowing through him when he sees the dessert, “Tanta felicita!” written across the top in Isabella’s handwriting, a bottle of Dom right next to it. Just feeling very lucky that he has people in his life that dropped everything to help him with this, who believed in your love from day one, people who looked out for him when he was younger and would still do anything for him, despite him being on much steadier feet now. 

“Oh, fuck yes.” you say as you peer over his shoulder. He laughs, smacking a kiss to your head as you grab a pair of forks and glasses while he handles the food and drink. You head back outside, moving some bouquets out of your way before sitting down at a table, pulling your chairs right next to each other as he rests his arm around the back of your chair. He lets you do the honors with the champs, both of you cheering as the cork flies off, toasting when you get your glasses filled. You let him get all of two bites in before you’re demanding he tell you every detail of how he pulled this off. 

He tells you all about how he first got the idea when he was at his Mum’s house last year and came across a picture of the two of you that he had never seen before and started to wonder what a time capsule of your lives together would look like. How he had begun working on it in private for a few months before telling his mum, how he asked your parents when you were all staying together in Scotland. Your eyes widen in disbelief that that all happened without you having a clue, though maybe you should have been paying more attention because your dad was “so, so weepy that weekend.” 

He tells you how when he told Archie his plans, he had cried, though he swore to deny it if you ever asked him about it, telling Harry he’s been like a big brother to him all his life. How he had brought him, Gemma, Johnny and Roxy with him to Cartier, trusting his instincts but wanting input from the people that knew you best. How all your friends begged him to propose while they were here a few weeks ago, but he knew it was meant for just the two of you. How Leonardo and Isabella leapt at the opportunity to help, how Isabella was tempted to hide in the kitchen to cook you a full seven course meal but begrudgingly agreed to settle for a tiramisu. How he had done this whole operation by himself, no assistance from a single member of his team, determined to prove he was capable and worthy of your yes all by himself. 

How he almost threw it all away when he got the finished ring in early July, running on fumes from the end of tour, the greatest year of his life, desperate to get down on one knee as soon as possible. How he couldn’t look at you for too long without getting emotional,  knowing what the end of summer was leading up to, tripping over his tongue to tell you how much he loves you no matter where you were, sometimes looking over at you in the cleaning supplies aisle of the grocery store and being unable to breathe for a second, in disbelief that he was going to get to spend the rest of his life with you.

He usually hates to talk this much, but finds he never minds it when you’re the audience, a soft smile on your face as you listen with rapt attention, reacting at all the right parts, just the way he imagined you would. You’re in tears again by the end, insisting they’re good, that you’re just feeling happier than you’ve ever felt and your body just has no idea how to respond.

“I’ve turned into a bloody fountain,” you say, huffing a laugh as you wipe your eyes. “You know you can’t tell me anything about Archie being nice, I instantly lose it.”

He laughs, moving his arm from the back of your chair to your shoulders, pulling you in to press a kiss to your head. You lean into his hold, resting your head against his shoulder as your eyes scan the space, a soft smile on your face. It’s a while before either of you speak, taking your time to relish the moment, both your eyes catching on that ring every so often. Happy to take time to just hold each other close, surrounded by the flowers and years of memories. It’s gotten cooler since the sun went down an hour or so ago and he can feel the shiver in your spine as the breeze passes through. 

“Y’ cold?”

“No, I’m fine.” you say, though the way you burrow your head into his chest may give you away. 

“Got a sweater in my bag -” he says, already on his way to get up and grab it for you but you pull him back down with laugh. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say, wrapping your arms around his waist, as your eyes graze over his face, your lips quirking up into that smile that’s just for him. “Wanted to say thank you. It’s been the perfect day.”

“Y’ happy, yeah?” he asks, living for the way your smile grows as you nod. 

“Best day of my life.” you say with such sincerity it makes his breath catch, saying a silent vow to himself that he will do all he can to have a hand in every best day of your life for the rest of it. “Could stay here forever.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, already leaning in to kiss him, pressing your lips to his once, twice, three times before you pull away. “But -”

“You’re cold.”

You simply shake your head and he can see something shift behind your eyes and - oh. He clears his throat, heat simmering in his veins. You slide your hand up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers softly moving through the curls, he’s helpless to do anything but lean into the touch.

“Kinda feel like if I don’t get my hands on you soon, I’m gonna lose my mind,” you say.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Could do stuff here but I’d really rather be able to look Isabella and Leonardo in the eye next time I see them,” you say and he laughs, the laughter fading into a sigh when your lips find his neck, the hand not in his hair sliding up his thigh. 

You press a soft kiss right behind his ear, squeezing his thigh once before whispering right into his ear, “Do you want to take your fiancée home?”

He captures your lips in an instant, groaning when the hand in his hair tightens as you kiss. There’s fire, heat. It’s different from the countless kisses you shared today. There’s intent behind it and you both realize it at the same time, shivers going down your spines as you pull each other closer, his hand coming up to frame your jaw as he takes over the kiss. 

He kisses you until he can’t breathe, only pulling back when his lungs feel like they’re about to burst. Panting against your mouth as you’re no better off, trying to catch your breath as you run your fingers through his hair. 

“C’mon baby,” he mumbles, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before pulling away, “Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t remember much of the walk home. He knows the basics - knows he turned off all the lights, locked up the doors with a vow to come back to clean everything up early tomorrow, thanking his lucky stars that the restaurant is closed on Mondays. He knows that he packed up the remaining dessert and champs and his camera, that you grabbed the loose photographs and one of the vases of lilies, that he made you wear his sweater for the walk home. But everything else fades away. Nothing else matters except here and now, where he’s pressing you against the hallway wall, too eager to get his mouth on yours to make it all the way to the bedroom. 

He feels your hand squeeze at his shoulder before sliding down his chest, scratching along his pecs as you make your way down his abs, fingers digging into the grooves. You don’t stop kissing him, every swipe of your tongue against his setting his every nerve ending on fire, as you slide your hand lower, fingers sliding under the waistband of his briefs as you wrap your hand around him. He groans into your mouth, kissing you harder as you start to stroke him.

He pulls back, kissing a line up your jaw, moaning every so often when your hand twists just right. 

“Perfect fucking hands,” he grunts out, not letting his lips leave your skin as your hand lets him go, your fingers deftly undoing the button on his trousers, pulling the zipper down before you bring your hand up to your mouth.  When your next touch comes back wet, he has to bite down on your skin before capturing your lips with his as you move your hand up and down his cock. His hands slide down your body, gripping your skin every so often before settling on your arse, squeezing once, breath stuttering against your mouth when you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, just the way he likes it. He’s going to lose his mind. 

“C’mon baby, let’s go to bed.” he grunts out, when the need burning in his veins reaches a boiling point,  kissing you quickly before sliding his hands down your thighs, encouraging you to jump into his arms as your legs wrap around his hips, your arms settling around his neck. “Want to fuck my fiancée in our bed.”

“Say it again,” you gasp out as he starts to walk you both towards the bedroom, your mouth already starting to work down his neck, tongue splaying out on the parts you know are his favorites. He nudges his nose against your jaw until you pull back your head to face his and he kisses you right away.

“Want to fuck my fiancée,” he whispers, kissing you again, hard. “My fiancée. My fiancée. My fiancée.”

A moan punches out of you at that, sliding your hands up into his hair as you kiss him back, not letting his lips leave yours as he crosses the threshold to your bedroom, bending down to lay you back against the bed. He plants his hands on either side of your head as he lets you kiss him into oblivion, your legs tightening around his hips as you grind up against him. 

He pulls back for a moment, catching his breath as his eyes roam your body. Your perfect body, your beautiful face. That look in your eyes making him weak, looking at him with such open want, such need, it makes his hands start to tremble. It’s a lot, to be wanted by you. There’s nothing like it in the world. And god, does he want you. He wants to give you everything. 

He leans back in, slowly brushing his lips along your jaw, tongue darting out to taste the skin of your neck, taking his time as he feels your hands work open the buttons of his shirt, doing your best to push the fabric off his shoulders while he refuses to part from your neck. Your legs fall from his hips as he moves his way down your body, shaking his shirt from his arms as he covers every inch of your exposed skin with his mouth, his lips diligently following the path the deep V your dress makes, living for every sound you make. 

His hands fall to your thighs as he slides down the bed, kissing the skin he exposes as he slowly pushes the fabric of your dress up, taking his time to suck a mark in your inner thigh as he pushes the dress farther and farther up your skin. Your hands meet his on your belly, where he rubs smooth circles as his lips work their way up your thighs before you sit up to pull the dress over your head. 

He’s frozen in place for moment, unable to take his eyes off your body before you nudge him with your foot, huffing out a, “Take your trousers off, you look a bit insane.” He looks down, huffing a sheepish laugh at the state of himself, trousers open with his hard cock poking out of his briefs. He quickly stands up to pull them off, molten lava traveling down his spine as your eyes scan him up and down and he has to give himself a few tugs for relief as you pull your underwear off and lay back down on the bed in all your naked glory. 

He’s crawling back over you, the least graceful he’s ever been by the way you giggle at him. He takes a second to hover over you, nudging his nose against yours, chucking softly. A well of emotion flows through him as he says, “Thank you for agreeing to spend the rest of your life with me.”

He watches as you swallow, eyes blinking a few times before you whisper back, “Thank you for agreeing to spend the rest of your life with me.”

“Easiest decision of my life, baby. I love you I love you I love -” 

You cut him off by leaning up and capturing his lips with yours, though he's still trying to mumble it against your mouth in between kisses. He slides his hand along your arm to interlace his fingers with yours, groaning when he can feel that ring against his skin. Proof that this is real, that you’re his. That you’re going to be his forever. 

He pulls back and smacks a kiss to your jaw before sliding back down the bed once again, needing to be close to you more than he’s ever needed anything in his life. Pressing his lips to your belly, his kisses getting slower and wetter the closer they get to your core. You’re making the prettiest sounds, sounds he finds himself in the studio desperate to translate to a melody, unable to find a combination of notes that comes close to making him feel the way these do. He pulls your legs over his shoulders, squeezing your thighs as he kisses his way up to your core. He looks up at you, the look of bliss on your face, the gleam in your eye and dives in. 

He gets lost in it, in you, his favorite way to make you fall apart. Your hand slides up into his hair and pulls when he sucks your clit into his mouth just right, keeping the rhythm of his tongue just the way you like it. Heat sears through him when he hears you moan, spurring him on to work harder. His tongue lapping over your folds, nudging his nose against your clit as he buries himself in the heat of you. He loves this, loves how wet you get, loves being able to directly feel how much he affects you, every tense of your thigh, every quiver of your core. 

He squeezes your thigh, dragging his hand towards your core and he slides one finger inside your tight, wet heat, the slide slick and easy with how wet you are. He crooks his finger and your back arches, your hand gripping tight in his hair as he groans against you. He works double time, more determined than ever to get you to your high. He slides another finger into, mumbling nonsensical praise against your folds, dragging his tongue up to encircle your clit. A twist of his fingers, a hard suck of his mouth and that’s it. 

You gasp out his name as you come undone, a never ending loop of “Harry, Harry, Harry” falling from your lips as he works you through the orgasm, only pulling back when he feels you tug on his hair. He looks at you, gloriously fucked out you, and lifts his fingers to his mouth, indulging in the taste of you, stomach flipping when you mutter “oh fuck” and shut your eyes, too overwhelmed by the sight. 

You’re reaching for him but he’s already making his way up to you and you kiss him the moment he’s close enough, sliding your hands up and down his back as you lick into his mouth, moaning when he rolls his hips down against yours. He pulls back, pressing a slow line of kisses along your jaw before looking at you, hand slightly trembling as he brushes your hair behind your ear, the look in your eyes making him melt. 

He’s usually talkative during sex, unable to stop an endless stream of praise from falling from his lips but here and now, he feels all out of words. Too overwhelmed by how good it feels to be with you like this. One look at your face tells him you’re right there with him. It always feels good with you but there’s something different happening here, something deeper, the heat between you almost palpable. It feels like making love. He grinds down against you a few more times as his lips map kisses across your face, your hands squeezing at his skin every so often. 

When he locks eyes with you,  you can instantly read his mind, nodding at his unasked question, emotion passing over your eyes as you pull his mouth back to yours. You kiss him deeply, the twist of your tongue making him groan out loud as he reaches down to guide himself into you, both of you moaning instantly when he sinks inside. White hot heat sears through him, everything is warm, wet, perfect. 

He’s never felt like this before, almost choking on his desperation, his need as he drives into you slowly, steadily, resting his forehead against yours to see your every reaction up close. He slides his hand along your thigh and presses it up, the new angle making both of you moan. You squeeze his shoulders, nails digging into his back muscles as you pull him closer to you, not wanting a centimeter of space between you two, the slide of your bodies making him feral, biting down on your neck as need seeps deep into his bones. 

At one point you flip over and he thinks he may die here, feeling useless as you take him apart with each roll of your hips as you ride him, resting your left hand on his chest. He puts his hand over yours, his fingers catching on the ring every so often and making his heart clench in his chest. He brings the other hand up to feel the way your hips circle his, moans being punched out of him as he melts back into the mattress, almost paralyzed by the sight of you, your kiss swollen lips, your breasts bouncing with every twist of your hips, the look in your eyes. You wrap your hand around his neck, pulling him up to you to kiss him deeply, panting against his mouth as he gently lays you back against the mattress. 

He wraps one arm around your upper back to pull you close, pressing the other against the mattress to drive his hips into yours, hard. He’s kissing you until he can’t, until you’re both too far gone, just moaning against each other’s mouths. He knows you’re close, can feel you squeezing him tighter. He squeezes the back of your neck once before sliding his hand down to rub circles against your clit. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, biting down on his neck as you come, making the prettiest, softest sounds that make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. You’re murmuring praise in his ear, scratching your nails down his back and it’s all but two seconds before he comes, hard. It’s never felt this good. Kissing you as he comes down, can’t stop sliding his tongue over yours as he kisses you with everything he has. Needing you to know, to understand when the words are failing, that you’re everything. That you’re always going to be everything. 

You pull back slowly to let him breathe, gently rubbing circles on his chest as you both pant. He buries his head into your neck and you wrap your arms around him, the two of you holding each other close through the comedown. You’re so close he can feel it when your breath hitches, can feel it when your tears mix with the sweat on his shoulders. He pulls back to look at you, any concern fading instantly when he sees the look of love in your eyes, the smile on your face. 

You shake your head slightly when you lock eyes, in disbelief of what the two of you can create, your smiling growing when he grins as well. He crushes his lips to yours, you slide your hand up into his sweaty hair as he kisses you so thoroughly, chuffed knowing you’re as in awe of this dynamic as he is, that you’re as excited as he is to spend the rest of your lives together. 

“I don’t think I have words for how good that felt,” you say softly when he pulls back, pressing a kiss to your cheek before sliding out of you. 

“Quite alright with doing it like that for the rest of my life,” he says, feeling warm all the way down to his toes when you honk out a laugh. He quickly hops off the bed and into the ensuite, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it with the sink before coming back to you. Where you’re laying completely naked staring at the ring on your finger with the greatest smile on your face. God. 

He crawls back onto the bed, gently pulling your thighs apart as he cleans you up, unceremoniously throwing the washcloth on the floor to make his way back up to you, where you’ve been watching him with a warm smile. 

“I love you so much,” you say, threading your hand into his hair as he settles on top of you, your eyes scanning his face as you scrunch your nose to hold back your emotion. “You’re going to be my husband.”

“You’re going to be my wife,” he says back, his voice cracking at the end as emotion flows through him. “I am so bloody in love with you.”

“Me too,” you say sincerely, staring into his eyes, the corners of your lip twitching up. “I’m also in love with me.”

He honks out a laugh shaking his head as you giggle, clearly proud of your own joke. 

“Such a little shit,” he says, pinching your side as he rolls over, carrying you with him, settling against the mattress with you on top of him. “Should’ve known that was coming.”

You look at him for a few moments, running your hands through his hair, smile deepening when he leans into the touch. 

“I’m really bloody in love with you, too.” you say softly and it feels like his heart grows five inches. He knew, he’s never questioned it with you, not once. That doesn’t stop the butterflies from swirling in his belly when he hears you say it out loud.

You lean in at the same time, kissing each other so tenderly, goosebumps erupting on his skin when you sigh into his mouth. You both pull back slowly, grinning at each other so wide that you start giggling like school kids, feeling so giddy, so grateful for this love, you’re overflowing with joy. It’s so nice that it always comes back to this, just two best friends making each other laugh. 

But there’s something different, he thinks, as you whisper something about the leftover tiramisu and champagne and not saving any for him as you bound out of bed, grabbing one of his t-shirts from his drawer before taking off down the hall. He hastens after you, those morning sprints coming in handy as he catches up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you shriek, your cackles echoing through the house. 

It’s the same but it’s different, it’s stronger, it’s deeper, it’s a love he never thought himself capable of feeling. It’s like how he felt standing outside your hotel room that night all those years ago, feeling like he was about to jump off a cliff, but somehow knowing he had a safe place to landAs he carries you into kitchen, laughing against your neck as you try to break his hold, the ring on your finger shining in the light, he thinks about how this has grown, how it’s turned into something he never thought possible. How even today feels like the start of something different. 

It feels like something new.

---

a/n: oooooooomg. wow. can you actually believe it. i in fact cannot. its been a year & 2 days since i posted the first part of this story, meant as a one off to see how my writing skills would fare. i cant BELIEVE how many of you have read this and loved it, it has meant more than you could ever know. thank you for sticking with me, for encouraging me, for supporting any little blurb i pu tout. writing this story was a real lifeline for me this year and i cant tell u enough how much your support of it has meant. this is the final part. knowing me, never say never. but. i think this is a really nice way to end it. pls let me know what you think!! thank you so, so much for reading.

taglist:@tobesolovelysstuff, @louyoursins, @daydreamingofmatilda, @jojo-blog53, @marzhshaim, @devilsqueen722, @just-happiness-only,@lomlhstyles, @feestyles, @spock4presidnet, @sunshinemoonsposts, @indierockgirrl, @jerseygirlinca, @kissitnhekitchen, @goldnrry,

[ellewritesx]

explore me slowly

(part two of the teach me slowly series)

Summary: Firsts aren't always easy. Lucky for you, Harry's got patience— and a plan.

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, lots of talk about virginity and sex, fingering, brief oral (f!receiving), sexual guilt (it's so common and it's time we start talking about it)

Based on: this ask!

A/N: hi lovelies! sorry this update took foreverrr. i've had a rough week, but i'm back now and working hard on creating new content for you guys :) i'm so happy to see the love i received on part one of this, thank you all sososo much. series tag list is open x

Word Count: 4,319

...

You're nervous.

Not the jittery, wide-eyed kind of nervous, but the quiet kind. It simmers just beneath the surface, where your stomach feels light and fluttery, and your thoughts are buzzing too fast to catch.

You're sitting with Harry on his couch, tucked beneath the blanket that always smells like him, like fresh, warm laundry and cedarwood and something a little sweeter underneath. The movie he put on a while ago has turned to static now, background noise, barely audible under the sound of your pulse in your ears.

Your mind keeps drifting back to last Friday night, to that first conversation you and Harry had about your virginity, turning it over in your head, trying to decide what you want.

But now you know.

You pull back a little, tilting your head to look at him properly, and your voice is smaller than you mean it to be when you speak up. ''I think… I want to try something tonight.''

That gets his attention.

His arm, which had been draped along the back of the couch and absentmindedly stroking your shoulder, stills. He turns to face you, scanning your features with those sharp, observant eyes like he's trying to understand everything you're not saying. ''Try something?'' he echoes, but it's not teasing. It's curious. Encouraging.

You nod. Your fingers curl in the hem of your shorts, anchoring yourself. ''I don't know what exactly. I just… I trust you. And I want to explore. Whatever you think is best to start with.''

He stays quiet for a beat, his thumb brushing the side of your thigh under the blanket. ''Are you sure?''

You nod again, firmer this time. ''Yeah. I've been thinking about it a lot. I'm not trying to rush into anything I'm not ready for. And I'm not ready for... everything, but we could do something else, right?''

Harry's expression softens into something tender. You can see it shift, the subtle change in how he's holding himself. The way he sinks a bit deeper into the cushions, like the weight of your blind trust, and his responsibility for it, slowly settles onto his shoulders.

''Okay,'' he says. ''We'll go slow. If you're okay with it, I'd like to understand where you're at. What you're comfortable with. What you like, what you don't like, y'know?''

You inhale deeply, your shoulders relaxing at the sound of his calm voice. You hadn't realized how much tension you'd been holding until now. You hum in response, heart thudding steady in your chest.

Harry's eyes flick to your lips, your eyes, your hands in your lap. He shifts slightly so he's facing you more directly. ''So… when you say you want to try something, what does that look like for you tonight? Is there something you've been curious about?''

You chew your lip. ''I don't know, really. That's the thing. I've never done any of this before, so I don't really know where I'm supposed to start, what I'm supposed to explore. That's why I'm asking you to... I don't know, lead. To tell me what to do.''

''I can do that. Is there anything that's off-limits tonight?'' he asks carefully, his hand moving to rest lightly on your bare knee.

You think about it for a moment, then shake your head. ''I don't want to… you know. Go all the way. Not yet.''

''Okay,'' he smiles, squeezing your knee softly in reassurance. ''What about me touching you? With my hands, or my mouth?''

Your breath catches, heat rushing to your cheeks. The words make you squirm, but you manage to give him a curt nod, forcing a tight-lipped, nervous smile. ''Yeah. I think I'd like to try that.''

He smiles gently, fingers brushing your neck, waiting for any sign of hesitation. When all he sees is curiosity etched onto your features, he dips his head under yours, pressing soft kisses to your neck.

Your heartbeat pounds under your skin as Harry caresses your arms, rubbing them up and down soothingly. You gasp when he sucks lightly on your skin, taking his time getting you in the mood.

''Do you want me to show you what feels good? Or do you want to tell me what to do?'' he murmurs, his lips brushing your collarbone.

You bite your lip, throat dry. ''I… I want you to show me.''

He stands up, then holds out a hand.

''Come here, love.''

You take it, and he tugs you to your feet, pulling a huffed laugh from you. He puts his hands on your waist and begins slowly walking you backward, firm and deliberate, toward his bedroom, not breaking eye contact once. Something about it, the effortless confidence he exudes, the air of nonchalance, makes your breath hitch.

And when your back hits his bedroom door, he pauses. He leans in, foreheads touching, his breath mingling with yours.

''You're sure?'' he whispers.

You nod. ''I'm sure.''

And then he kisses you, deep and passionate, his hand fumbling for the door handle behind you. He chuckles against your lips when he clumsily opens the door, and you both stumble in with a laugh.

Harry's bedroom is dim, the lamp on his bedside table painting the room in a soft yellow. You turn around, taking in his space. It feels intimate. It's simple, minimalistic, but so Harry.

There are sticky notes attached to the small notice board above his desk, filled with hasty scribbles like yoga pushed to 7 this Thursday!!! and pick up mum from the airport!!! and a nonsensical jumble of random words and phrases. Lyrics for new songs, you think.

The door clicks shut behind him and you feel his presence behind you, steady, unfaltering, unlike the beat of your heart. For a second, neither of you speak. You're not sure when the room got so quiet, but your pulse thrums in your ears, the sound of your shallow breathing seeming to mute everything else.

Then his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back into the solid heat of his chest. He dips his head to your height and presses a kiss just behind your ear, then another one to the slope of your neck, and you melt into him by instinct.

His fingers find the hem of your hoodie, his hoodie, technically, the navy one you borrowed weeks ago and never gave back. It still smells faintly like his cologne, the way his clothes always do when he forgets them on your couch. He gathers the fabric, lifting it inch by inch until it bunches beneath your waist, right above your grey shorts.

It had felt a little silly when you put it on after your shower this morning, but his mouth twitches into a smile when he recognizes it, his fingers toying with the material. ''This mine?''

''Yeah. You were outgrowing it anyway,'' you tease, turning around in his hold and playfully squeezing his biceps. He's been frequenting the gym increasingly more often, and it shows. You assume it's his way of blowing off steam now that he's not performing.

''Hm. It does look better on you,'' he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple as his hands trail lower. He gently tugs at the hem, waiting for your approval. ''Can I take this off?''

You hesitate, just a second, but it's enough to make him pause, watching you closely. It's not that you don't trust him, or don't want to, but you can already feel the air on your thighs, your stomach, the dip of your lower back. And the idea of being completely bare under his gaze, no barriers, no fabric, no layers to hide behind, suddenly feels a little too exposed. Too vulnerable.

Your hands catch his quickly, wrapping around his palms, though you know that Harry wouldn't move an inch without your consent.

''I… would it be okay if I kept it on? Just for now?'' you ask, cheeks burning. ''I don't think I'm comfortable being fully naked yet.''

There's not even a beat of silence before he nods, brushing your hair back behind your ear. ''Of course. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You look beautiful like this, too.''

Your hesitation doesn't frustrate or deter him. Instead, he reaches for the hem of his own shirt, and in one smooth motion, he pulls it up over his head and carelessly tosses it aside.

Your breath catches. He's so close that you can see the faint freckles adorning his collarbone, the gold cross nestled between his pecs, the trail of ink curling down his strong arms.

You reach out before you can second-guess it, fingers brushing across the small tattoos above his heart, the ones you've only ever seen half-hidden beneath his clothes. Your hand grazes the tattoos that trail down the skin of his left shoulder, his bicep, his arm, like a river that meanders delicately through a forest.

He watches you, quiet and confident, as your palm flattens over his chest. His skin is warm under your fingers, smooth and solid and real. You trace one of the swallows across his collarbone, then dip lower, brushing your knuckles down the line of his sternum. The ridges of his abs flex slightly beneath your touch.

''You're so…'' you trail off, suddenly embarrassed by your own awe.

Harry gives you a lopsided smile, like he knows what you mean without needing to hear it. ''Thank you, baby. You can touch me as much as you want,'' he says, voice thick with something more tender than lust. ''Take your time, darlin'. I'm not going anywhere.''

You lean up to kiss him, and when your hands settle around his hips, he presses forward just enough to guide you backward toward the bed. Your knees hit the edge of the mattress and you land with a soft thud. Harry follows, kneeling between your legs, one hand curling around the back of your thigh to pull it around his waist.

You shiver when his knuckles graze the edge of your shorts, and he catches the reaction immediately.

''Still okay?'' he murmurs against your lips.

''Yeah,'' you whisper. ''I just… don't know what I'm doing.''

''You don't have to,'' he insists. The sheets are cool against your skin, grounding, while Harry hovers over you, broad and warm and impossibly gentle and patient. ''That's what tonight's for, yeah? You tell me what feels good. What doesn't. I'll listen.''

His fingers stroke over the outside of your shorts first, featherlight at first, then with a little more pressure. Just enough to let the heat pool low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively at the unfamiliarity of it all. You let out a soft, shaky breath.

He looks up at you, lips curved, eyes kind. ''That feel alright?''

''Mhm.''

''Use your words for me, baby,'' he teases lightly, but there's no pressure. Just playfulness.

You swallow. ''It feels… really good.''

That earns you a kiss, warm and sweet, and this time his hand drifts over your stomach, fingers brushing under the hem of your hoodie. He doesn't try to lift it again, just slips his palm beneath the fabric, splaying it over your skin, stroking your bare side.

His hands don't rush. They just keep tracing the shape of you, mapping the curves and valleys like they're sacred terrain. Then his fingers slide down past your navel, knuckles grazing your skin, brushing the waistband of your shorts.

You draw in a shaky breath.

''Still good?'' he asks, watching you.

You nod. ''Yes. Please.''

He smiles reassuringly and continues his trail down your shorts. His fingers move over the cotton, just the faintest pressure, barely there. But even that is enough to send a jolt through you, hips twitching in surprise when he brushes against your clothed clit.

You're more sensitive than you expected. Everything feels heightened: his breath on your cheek, the press of his fingers through the fabric, the weight of his gaze on your face.

''Feels good?''

You nod, unable to speak.

He strokes over the same spot a little more firmly this time, slow and rhythmic. ''You're already wet,'' he groans, almost like he's in awe. ''I haven't even done anything. Fuck, that's so hot.''

You flush, turning your face into his shoulder, and he chuckles softly. ''You don't have to be shy with me,'' he whispers. ''Nobody's around. It's just you and me, yeah? I've got you.''

You nod bashfully. His hand slips under the waistband of your shorts and slides your panties aside with a gentle tug. For the first time ever, someone else touches you where you've barely explored yourself, the pad of his finger dragging softly through your folds.

You tense instantly, just from the unfamiliarity of it, but he doesn't push. Just keeps it slow, gentle, careful, learning the way your body responds, noting every soft whine and every stutter of breath. It's a different kind of touch than your own. More assured. Confident, but not cocky. He's paying attention to every shift in your body, like your pleasure is a language and he wants to be fluent.

He finds your clit and circles it with the pad of his finger, light and teasing, until your hips lift from the bed with a choked whimper, and his pace quickens. You didn't know it could feel like this. Every nerve is lit up, like your skin is catching fire in the best way.

''Oh,'' you breathe out, your body sinking into the mattress as you sigh contently, the tension in your muscles melting away.

Harry smiles. ''Yeah?''

You nod, eyes fluttering shut, head thrown back against the pillow.

Harry glances up again, pride flickering in his expression. ''That good?''

''So good,'' you whisper.

He grins, but it's soft, not smug. He eases you further back onto the bed, and you go willingly, your legs falling open around his waist as he crawls down your body, pulling your shorts down with him as he goes, just enough to expose your panties to him.

Then he leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. And another, closer to the edge of your underwear. He hums low in his throat, like the scent of your arousal has undone something in him. His hand is still between your thighs, and he pushes a finger inside, just one for now, testing, studying your reaction, while his thumb keeps stroking your clit to keep you relaxed.

Your breath catches at the stretch. It's not painful, just… new. Unfamiliar. Full.

But it feels good. Better than anything you've ever felt on your own.

Harry leans his cheek against your inner thigh, watching your pussy accomodate to the stretch of his finger with awe etched onto his face. His eyes flick up to your face, searching your expression for any discomfort or pain. ''Too much?''

You shake your head. ''No. Feels… good.''

Then he kisses your thigh again, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. A shiver runs down your spine when you feel his hot breath against your cunt, and you realize what he's planning.

But when you feel the first swipe of his tongue, it's too much.

You gasp and your hand flies to his hair, not tugging hard, just enough to pull him back. ''Wait. Sorry. That's... a little overwhelming.''

He pulls back instantly, looking up at you with such gentle understanding it nearly makes your heart burst out of your chest. ''Don't apologize. That's totally okay.''

''I don't know why,'' you say, cheeks warm. ''It's just… a lot.''

''It's okay, love. This is all brand new to you,'' he soothes, pressing a kiss to your thigh. ''We can save that for another night, yeah? We have all the time in the world to go slow, baby.''

There's no disappointment in his voice. No pressure. He's just... here. With you. For you. The realization tugs at your heartstrings.

You nod, and he climbs back up your body, propping himself up on one arm, letting you catch your breath as he hovers over you. The warmth between your legs lingers, building slowly as his hand starts to move again, hushed praises falling from his lips.

His touch is focused, fingers slow, right where you need them. This time, you relax into it. Let the tension coil in your belly, growing tighter and tighter with every slow circle of his fingers, every kiss he presses against your shoulder, your jaw, your temple.

Your breathing stutters. Your thighs clench. Your fingers dig into his forearm, making him groan. He curls his finger slightly and your back arches with a sudden, gasping moan.

''Harry, fuck—''

''There she is,'' he breathes. ''There you go, darlin'. That's it. Let go for me. You don't have to think. Just feel. I've got you.''

He keeps the rhythm steady, his thumb circling your clit, his finger curling inside of you. Your thighs tense, your hips stutter, and then your whole body locks up with a choked sound as the pleasure spills over all at once. Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, sharp and sweet and overwhelming in the best way. Your fingers grip the bedsheets, and you can barely hear yourself moaning his name like a prayer, your breath stuttering out in broken gasps.

Harry's voice is low and tender as he eases you through it. ''That's it, baby. So good. So fucking good. You did so well for me.''

You're shaking while he helps you ride it out, only pulling his hand out of your shorts when you whine quietly in overstimulation, your chest heaving. His attention shifts to you immediately, cradling your face in his palm, brushing sweaty hair from your temple.

''You okay?''

''Yeah. Just…'' you swallow, blinking up at him, dazed. ''I think… I think that was my first real orgasm, Harry.''

He stills, his mouth curving into a slow smile. ''Yeah?'' he says, and he sounds so proud you could cry. ''That was your first?''

You nod again, cheeks hot. ''I thought I'd already had one, but it's never felt like that before. Not even close.''

He leans in to kiss you, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he's ever laid his hands on. ''Fuck, baby. Thank you for letting me be the first. That means more than you know.''

He rolls over and plops down on the mattress with a content sigh, one arm falling over his eyes. You rest your head on his heaving chest, heart still pounding, and his other arm instantly wraps around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

Your body feels weightless, boneless, like you've melted into the sheets completely. The air around you is warm and still, the silence only broken by Harry's pants beside you.

The hem of his hoodie is still bunched around your thighs, and you're vaguely aware of the dampness between your legs and the faint throb in your muscles. It doesn't hurt, it just lingers, like your body is still catching up to the memory of being touched.

Harry presses a kiss to your temple, then leans up on one elbow, brushing your hair back gently.

''Stay here,'' he whispers. ''Gonna get you some water and a towel to clean you up, alright? I'll be right back, promise.''

You nod, dazed. His voice is so soft. So safe.

A few minutes pass while he moves around the room. You hear the faucet turn on in the bathroom, the clink of a glass against porcelain, the shuffle of his feet across the floorboards.

Everything is ordinary. Normal.

But the longer you lie there, the tighter your chest becomes.

It starts slow. A little whisper in the back of your mind. You did that. You let someone do that to you. You gave it away. It's over.

Your thighs are still damp. You feel the stickiness on your skin and suddenly you can't breathe quite right. Your heartbeat starts to pick up. A sour kind of shame crawls up your throat, thick and hot, choking you before you can swallow it down.

You shift in the bed, curling your legs up to your chest. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, knuckles turning white from your grip.

It was good. He was kind. You wanted it. So why do you feel like this?

The door creaks open again. Harry enters quietly, carrying a glass of water and a warm washcloth. His eyes go to you first, always to you, and the second he sees how you're curled in on yourself, his face tightens, his brows furrowing.

''Hey,'' he calls out gently, setting everything on the nightstand. ''What's wrong?''

You try to speak but your throat closes up. The tears come suddenly, a choked sob leaving your chest. One moment your eyes are just stinging, the next they're spilling over, silent and hot, streaming down your cheeks faster than you can wipe them away.

Harry's at your side in an instant.

''Baby…'' He kneels beside the bed, cupping your face in both hands, eyes scanning yours like he's desperate to read your mind. ''Talk to me. Did I hurt you? Was I too rough?''

You shake your head, but your voice is caught in your chest.

''Do you… do you regret it?'' he asks, and you hear the break in his voice. ''Did I do something wrong?''

''No,'' you whisper, your voice hoarse and cracked. ''No, it's not you. You didn't, Harry. You didn't do anything wrong. You were perfect.''

His brows pinch together, eyes searching, lips parting like he wants to understand so badly, but can't. ''Then what is it? What's hurting you, love? Please talk to me. Tell me so I can fix it.''

You swallow hard, wiping your tears in silent frustration, your voice small and scared. ''I just feel… gross. I feel dirty. I don't know why. I wanted it, and I don't... I don't regret it, but now that it happened I...'' you hiccup a sob. ''I feel so fucking ashamed.''

The words are like acid in your mouth. Saying them aloud makes them more real.

Harry's eyes soften instantly, his whole body folding toward you. He takes a seat next to you on the bed, pulls you into his arms gently. ''Oh, baby,'' he breathes out, cradling you against his chest. ''I'm so sorry, love. I should've realized how you were feeling sooner.''

You press your face into his shoulder, fists curling in the fabric of his sweatpants. ''It's not your fault,'' you whisper. ''I promise. I just… it's me. Something's wrong with me.''

''Nothing's wrong with you,'' he says, kind, but firm. Definitive. ''Nothing. This is so much more common than you think, baby. Especially when it's your first time.''

''Really?'' you ask, timid.

He pulls back slightly to look at you. ''Yeah, love. You can want it, and it can feel amazing, and you can still feel overwhelmed after. It's okay to feel both things at the same time,'' he gives you a pained smile, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ''It's not because you did something bad. Not at all, baby. It's because we're taught to feel shame around sex. Especially women.''

You sniffle, the words loosening something in your chest.

''I just feel like I lost something,'' you say quietly, shame sinking into your bones. ''Something I can't get back. And I know I chose it. I don't regret it, I really don't, but it feels... sinful, almost. Like I should've saved it longer, or done it differently, or just… I don't know.''

Harry kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there. ''You didn't lose anything, darlin'. You shared something. With someone who loves being trusted by you. You didn't lose anything.''

Your eyes blur again at the softness in his voice. ''But it feels so wrong, and I know that doesn't make sense. You were gentle, and I wanted it, I loved it, and I still feel like I did something wrong.''

Harry wraps his arms tighter around you, holding you close like he can protect you from your own insecurities. ''It makes perfect sense,'' he says. ''You're not wrong for feeling this way. You're human. You're taught that virginity is something that gets taken from you. It's not. It's an experience you share, but nothing fundamental changes.''

You bury your face in his neck, your voice muffled. ''But why do I feel so small?''

''Because it was a big step,'' he says simply. ''Because it mattered. You've built this up in your head for so long, and maybe part of you started to think doing this would change you forever. But you're still the same person you were yesterday, baby.''

Your breath shudders and you collapse into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, and he just holds you, rocking you softly and murmuring sweet reassurances and praises into your hair.

Eventually, the tears ease. The ache in your chest dulls. You feel whole again, grounded. And you stay there, in his arms, breathing in the safety of his skin, until the world feels quiet again.

Harry kisses your hair and whispers, ''Wanna try that water now?''

You sniffle and nod, still tucked against him. ''Yeah. Thank you.''

He reaches for the glass and hands it to you, his fingers brushing yours. You bring it up to your lips and gratefully take a few sips before handing it back to him with a shaky smile.

''You okay to stay here with me tonight?'' he asks as he puts the glass back on his nightstand.

You nod again, taking in a shuddering breath. ''Please.''

He helps you under the covers and slips in beside you. You curl into his chest and he strokes your hair like it's second nature. Like holding you is something he was made to do.

''I think I'm in love with you.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73

teach me slowly series tag list

@maddiesalvatore1839 @mleestiles @imaginexxharry

...

[ellewritesx]

teach me slowly

Summary: Harry doesn't mind waiting, as long as it's you he's waiting for. a harry styles x inexperienced!reader series

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, sexual advances, lots of talk about virginity and sex, that's it for now

Based on: this ask!

A/N: hi lovelies! this is the new series i'll be writing now that we've parted ways with the sugar, baby series for now (sobbing). huge shoutout to anon who submitted the request this is based on. while exaggerating things for fiction is fun, i tried to also be relatively realistic about virginity. tag list is open :) this first part is, as always with my series, kind of a prologue to the story. have fun x

Word Count: 2,529

...

The first time you stopped him, it was subtle. A hand against his chest, a breathless ''maybe not tonight,'' and a kiss that lingered just long enough to prove you still wanted him, just not like that, not right now. He didn't push, didn't ask questions, just smiled against your lips and said, ''Alright, love. Another time.''

It wasn't the last time it happened.

You've been seeing Harry for a few months now, longer than you expected when he'd first spotted you across a room you didn't belong in, some industry party you'd been dragged to by a friend of a friend, too many faces and too many flashes. Harry was in the spotlight, the center of attention, you were hidden away in a dark corner, and yet his eyes managed to find yours through the sea of faces.

When he walked over, laid-back, confident, too pretty for his own good, you expected it to be fleeting. Maybe flirtation, a drink or two, something to roll your eyes about later.

But then he asked for your number. And not even two days later, he actually used it. And now here you are, tucked under his arm with his heartbeat thudding steadily beneath your ear.

It's late. A slow Friday night, the familiar sounds of reruns of Friends filling Harry's apartment as you're curled into his side, your fingers absently tracing a pattern against the slope of his ribs. The scent of cheap takeout still lingers in the air, mixing with the cologne he wore earlier, now faded into the cotton of his worn-in hoodie.

You feel it when his hand shifts. When it goes from lazily draped around your waist to something more deliberate, fingers tracing a purposeful path under the hem of your sweatshirt.

He leans down, pressing his lips to yours, making you smile at the faint taste of wine still lingering on his tongue. Your breath hitches, deepening the kiss, one hand fisting in his shirt. His hands graze your bare skin, curling at your waist, pressing you closer to him.

But the moment they start to travel higher, sliding up your midriff toward your chest like it's second nature, your stomach drops, and before you've fully thought it through, your hand slides over his and stops him, gently, but definitively.

''Sorry,'' you whisper against his lips, squeezing your eyes shut so you don't have to see the disappointment likely flashing across his face. ''I… Sorry, can we not tonight?''

Harry opens his eyes, confusion etched into his features like he was just abruptly woken from a peaceful dream. He blinks down at you, clearly startled by your tone. ''Yeah, of course,'' he says, pulling his hand back immediately. ''You okay?''

You nod quickly ''Yeah. Just… tired.''

It's not a lie. But it's not the whole truth either. You feel him hesitate, like he wants to press, wants an explanation, answers, but chooses not to. Just kisses the top of your head and settles back into the cushions, shifting so you're still cuddled into his side.

The silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable, but different now. Tense. Loaded. You let it sit there, unsure how to break it. Not yet, at least. But soon. You have to.

It takes you a few more minutes, waiting for the episode to end, for Harry's breathing to even out slightly, having willed away his arousal. When you turn your head to look at him, he's watching you with the kind of quiet patience you've come to recognize.

''I need to tell you something,'' you say finally. Your voice doesn't shake, but your heart is beating erratically. You sit up on the couch, just enough to give yourself some room to breathe. ''I've been meaning to. I just... I didn't know how.''

Harry sits back a little, his hand moving to lightly rest on your leg, calming you. Concern flickers across his eyes, focused frown on his face, his curiosity piqued. ''Okay. What is it?''

You push your hair behind your ear, fingers suddenly clammy. ''I've... I've noticed you've tried to take things further a few times now. And I always stop you.''

His eyes stay on yours, steady, unreadable. ''Yeah. I've noticed. I don't mind waiting, love.''

You inhale. ''It's not that I don't want to. It's just… I've never actually done it before.''

For a moment, Harry says nothing. His brows knit together, like he's processing, like the words don't quite click at first. Then something shifts. Not judgment, not disgust, just genuine surprise.

''You mean… you're a virgin?''

You nod once, jaw tight. Your heart stutters, bracing yourself for his inevitable rejection, already regretting bringing it up. ''Yeah.''

There's a pause. A long one.

But then Harry exhales, a soft smile tugging at his lips, head ducking to meet your gaze. ''Okay,'' he says softly. ''That's okay.''

You blink at him. ''You're not weirded out?''

He smiles, kind. ''No, of course not. I just… I wasn't expecting it. You're so confident. So sure of yourself. I guess I assumed…''

''That I'd done all of that already?'' you finish for him, smiling weakly.

He shrugs. ''Yeah. Doesn't change anything, though.''

Your bite your lip. ''You're older than me. More experienced. I thought maybe you'd be… disappointed.''

''I'm not,'' he tells you firmly, his hand finding yours, leaving no room for your doubts and fears.

You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling the warmth of his raw honesty settle somewhere deep in your chest.

Then, a beat later, his voice drops slightly, light-hearted but still earnest. ''So… would you want me to be your first?''

You look up at him, fidgeting with your fingers anxiously. ''I don't know. But if I did… would you want to be?''

His eyes search yours. ''If you decided you wanted that, I'd be honored.''

You sigh in relief. After the initial heaviness of the moment has passed and you've both found your way back into the soft cushions of the couch, it's quiet for a while. Not the kind of silence that stretches with discomfort, but something gentler. Pensive.

His fingers trace idle shapes over the back of your hand, and every now and then you catch him glancing at you like he's thinking about saying something, but keeps deciding against it.

Until finally, he does.

''Can I ask you something?'' His voice is soft, almost sheepish. Like he's worried you might shut down again.

You turn to face him, tugging the throw blanket around your legs a little higher. ''Of course.''

His thumb slides along your knuckles, thoughtful. ''Are you saving yourself for marriage? Or was it just... situational?''

The question doesn't surprise you. You were expecting it. Still, there's something about him saying it aloud that makes your chest ache. It's the explanation people seem to instantly assume, like there couldn't be any other possible reason to not want to have sex in your early twenties. The prejudice bothers you sometimes.

You shake your head with a chuckle. ''Not marriage, no. I just…'' You pause, choosing your words carefully. ''I never found someone I wanted to give it to. It never felt right. It always felt like… I don't know, something I'd be giving away for the wrong reason.''

Harry nods like that makes perfect sense, like you've just confirmed something he suspected about you all along. That you don't move through the world withholding things, you move through it protecting them. ''You wanted it to matter.''

''Yeah.'' You smile faintly. ''I guess I figured that the first time should be something I remember fondly. Not something I regretted five minutes after.''

''That makes sense,'' he says, reaching up to brush a fallen strand of hair out of your face. ''I kind of figured something was holding you back. I just didn't know if it was because you were nervous, or waiting for something specific… or someone specific.''

Your cheeks flush. ''I guess it's both.''

A smile spreads across his face, slow and reverent. ''And you think that... might be me?''

You glance away, trying not to look too embarrassed. ''Maybe,'' you admit quietly, before glancing at him, raising a brow. ''And you? First time with someone special?''

He huffs out a laugh, scratching at the side of his jaw. ''Not exactly. I was young, dumb, and too eager to impress someone older than me. Regret's not the word, but I wouldn't say it was magical.''

You both laugh softly at that, and the tension that had crept in between your ribs eases again. There's a pause. He meets your eyes carefully, trying to phrase his question without making you squirm. ''Have you ever... touched yourself?''

The heat rises to your cheeks instantly, not from shame, but from the sheer boldness of the question. Your relationship with Harry is still relatively new, and for a moment, you don't know how to respond.

Your eyes flicker down to the curve of his smile, cheeky but careful, like he's testing the waters. You tuck your knees up slightly under the blanket. ''I mean... Yeah, of course.''

That earns you a grin. He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly, his other hand rubbing up and down your arm soothingly. ''And? Has it ever felt... good?''

Your eyes narrow a little, teasing. ''Are you asking if I've had an orgasm before?''

''Yeah,'' he admits, unabashed now. ''Not trying to be weird. I just want to know where we're starting from.''

You shrug, a bit self-conscious. ''I think I've had a few? But like… nothing crazy. I don't know if it's something wrong with me or—''

''Hey,'' he cuts you off gently, hand brushing your hip. ''There's nothing wrong with you. You know that, right?''

You nod, but it feels like a reflex, not something you fully believe yet. He must sense it, because he dips forward and presses a kiss to your shoulder, warm and grounding. Then another, just beneath your jaw. ''It's harder for women, y'know? But it'll get better. Some things just take time. Patience. And the right person. I'm glad you've tried.''

You snort. ''Why? Would it have been a red flag if I'd said no?''

He chuckles, pressing another sweet kiss against your skin before pulling back. ''No, not a red flag. I just think it's important. Knowing your own body. Knowing what feels good.''

There's something so matter-of-fact in the way he says it that it makes the conversation feel less intimidating. Less taboo. You inhale deeply, a weight lifted off your shoulders now, and you run your fingers along his biceps to ground yourself.

''I haven't explored much. It felt... underwhelming. But with the way everyone raves about sex, I must be doing something wrong.''

His thumb stills over your hand, his expression softening. ''That's okay. It'll be different when you're with someone else. With me.''

You glance at him, curious. ''How so?''

He shifts toward you, arm slung over the back of the couch now. ''It's a mix of things. Trust. Communication. Timing. Like… it's not just friction, right? It's being seen. It's vulnerability. Intimacy. And if that isn't there, if you don't feel comfortable, it's hard to get there.''

Your stomach flutters at the way he says it, so attentive, so considerate. ''That's kind of what I'm scared of. That it'd be awkward. Or disappointing.''

Harry's voice dips lower, more serious now. ''It doesn't have to be. Especially if you're honest. If we are.''

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and smile bashfully, ''That's what I want, I think. Just... honesty. I don't want to have to pretend I know everything. Because I don't, and I don't want to have to act, to perform.''

He nods, the corner of his mouth tugging into something fond. ''I don't want you to do that either.''

You settle into the cushions, knee brushing his thigh. ''Have you ever been with someone inexperienced before?''

He thinks for a second, then shakes his head. ''Not really, no. I mean, I've been with people who had less experience than me, sure. But never… never someone completely new to it.''

Your eyes find his again. ''Does that scare you?''

He gives you a look, a lopsided smile on his face. ''No. If anything, it makes me want to be better. I want to make it good for you.''

That does something to you, sends a warmth crawling up your spine. ''You're already doing everything right, Harry.''

''Am I?'' he teases, bumping his shoulder with yours.

You laugh shyly. ''Yeah. You ask questions. You listen. You make me feel… like it's okay to not have all the answers yet.''

''It is okay,'' he reiterates.

You smile gratefully, but your insecurity creeps back in quickly. Your voice is timid when you speak again. ''So you don't think it's weird? That I haven't… done any of it?''

''Not even a little,'' he says, cupping your face gently, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. ''I think it's admirable, actually. You're twenty-three, and you've gone this long without letting someone touch you, just because nobody earned it? That's sexy as hell.''

You huff out a laugh, surprised. ''Really?''

''Really,'' he says, lips quirking. ''It means you know your worth. You know what you want. I wish I'd had your strength of will at that age.''

You smile gratefully, tension slowly uncoiling from your shoulders. ''Thanks. I don't always feel that way.''

Harry dips his head down, pressing a short, sweet kiss against your lips, effectively shutting up your mind. He sinks back into the couch with a satisfied smirk, cushions dipping under his weight.

You swallow nervously. ''Hey, just out of curiosity. What… what would you have done if I'd told you I was waiting for marriage?''

He raises a brow. ''You mean, like… completely off-limits?''

You nod.

He considers that. ''I would've respected it. Obviously. But I probably would've asked what else we could do instead. Would still want to be close to you, in whatever way you'd be comfortable with.''

You nod. ''I think that's the thing. I do want to be close. I just… I want it to mean something.''

He hums in response. There's a peaceful silence then. You're both thinking, processing. It's the kind of silence that only happens when you feel truly at ease with someone.

''So… if we did want to start exploring things… slowly…''

He grins, just a little. ''Want me to teach you, huh?''

You roll your eyes. ''Don't make it a thing.''

He lifts both hands in surrender, chuckling softly. ''We'll go at your pace. Whatever that looks like. You just tell me, yeah?''

You nod, the corners of your mouth tugging into a fond smile. ''Thanks, Harry. For being cool about all this.''

He scoffs. ''I'm not being cool,'' he says. ''I'm being decent. What kind of idiots have you been surrounding yourself with?''

That earns him a playful shove, but he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, right where your pulse flutters at the touch. His eyes flick up to yours, warm and steady.

''Whenever you're ready, love,'' he says softly.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list @2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera

...

[messyemmy]

GRAPEJUICE (FIC) MASTERLIST 🍷Harry Styles x reader

Harry has always had an overwhelming fondness for you- his best friends older sister. He really wants to show you he's no longer a kid, but you aren't so willing to accept that just yet.

[Also known as the one where Harry goes after what he's always wanted, and you just might let him. Romance, red wine, wit, and a sweet, sexc summer in Italy.]

Premise: A slow-burn; deep pining; best friends brother; scandalous summer in Italy.

Warnings: 18+ Smut / Age gap (2 yrs) / Slight drug & alcohol use.

Word Count: 68k (as of June 2025).

Fashion Board - Fic Playlist - Other Writing

🍷 Part One🍷

🍷 Part Two🍷

🍷 Part Three🍷

🍷 Part Four 🍷

🍷 Part Five 🍷

Flashbacks:

🍷Little Angel, Only Freak - Halloween.🍷

🍷 Green-Eyed Monster - Reunions.🍷

🍷 Fuck Love - Valentines Day. 🍷

[sushirrrry]

clean || harry styles x you one-shot.

saw this picture, had to write something immediately — hot off the press, just for you hehe enjoy <3

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

You’re brushing your teeth beside him again.

It’s not the first time that you've done that—far from it, but something about this particular night makes the moment feel worthy of being remembered.

Harry’s standing next to you in the tiny bathroom of your rental villa, his skin still golden from the sun and his hair wild with salt and humidity; his curls starting to emerge at the root from the exposure to the heat.

He’s got a toothbrush dangling from his lips, foam threatening to escape the corners of his mouth as he tries not to smile too much at himself in the mirror. You hold your phone up, capturing the scene out of instinct.

Click.

He playfully rolls his eyes when the shutter sound goes off.

“Hope you’re not sending that to anyone. That’s top-tier blackmail, that is.”

You glance at the screen. The photo’s perfect; he's photogenic in a way that you merely can't describe.

His perfectly fitting t-shirt is rumpled from where he threw it on after his shower, damp at the collar, and a little crooked on one side. The linen pants sitting around his hips are low and loose, and there’s something sweetly disheveled about all of it as you prepare for dinner together.

“I’ll sell it to the press,” you say with a shrug, trying to keep a straight face as you rinse your mouth.

He chuckles, swiping at a bit of toothpaste foam with the back of his hand from it, then leaning in just enough to nudge your arm. “Can’t take me anywhere.”

“You’re in your own house.”

“Exactly. Even worse.”

You both laugh, and it’s a warm sound. Familiar, the happiness that is bursting around the small, tiled bathroom. It smells like mint and coconut conditioner and leftover sea breeze, like the beach never really left your skin even though you rinsed it off.

The villa had been a last-minute decision—his idea, of course. He’d shown you the listing one rainy Thursday in London, scrolling through photos of wide windows, string lights, and hammocks that swung over white sand.

“Let’s disappear for a week,” he’d said, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “No work, no stress. Just you, me, and the ocean.”

You’d said yes because saying no to Harry was almost impossible. And now, four days in, your skin is freckled and your hair’s gone a bit wild and you haven’t worn real clothes since Tuesday. Only bikinis and linen shirts that you kept getting mixed with his in your pile of clothes that surrounded your suitcases.

He spits into the sink, grimacing dramatically— he was known for dramatics. "I think I got sand in my molars.”

You laugh, wiping your mouth with a towel. “Is that even possible?”

“Dunno. But everything tastes like sunscreen and fish and chips.”

You lean your hip against the counter, tilting your head as you watch him rinse. His profile’s soft in the low light; you notice that his nose is slightly sun-kissed, jaw shadowed with a bit of stubble from the lack of shaving the last few days.

There’s a tiny patch of peeling skin at the tip of his ear from where he’d missed with the sunscreen, and his forearm is still faintly striped from the crocheted bracelets he’d refused to take off in the water.

He catches you staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” you murmur, pouting out your lip as you give him eyes that seem to gleam in his presence. “Just… you.”

That earns you a lopsided grin and a little shake of his head. The dimple expresses itself and makes you feel warmer than usual. He steps closer, resting his wet toothbrush on the side of the sink.

“You like me like this, don’t you?” he teases, voice low and teasing and full of cheekiness. “All brown and beachy. Bit feral.”

You scrunch your nose at him. “You’re not feral.”

“I’m practically wild.” He leans in until his forehead brushes yours, his voice nothing more than a whisper now, hands pressed to your waist that practically burn. “You should see what happens when I run out of moisturizer— I'm an animal.”

You snort, but you don’t pull away. You stay pressed forehead to forehead, his breath warm and minty and his hands, a bit damp from rinsing. sliding over your hips in that easy, familiar way that makes your stomach flutter.

“Mm,” he hums, tilting his head slightly. “Got all soft on me these last few days. Used to take you ages to relax.”

“You’re imagining that.” You press your hands to his chest, leaning back a bit in his arms.

Harry shakes his head. "I’m not. First day here you still checked your emails on the beach.”

“Once.” You argue.

“Twice.”

You roll your eyes, "Okay, twice.”

He grins in triumph, then brushes a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Now look at you. Barefoot. Sun-drunk. Smiling in your sleep," Harry cocks his head, "All those cheeky bikini bottoms you're flaunting are really turning you into someone else."

You pull back a little to look at him properly. “That’s ‘cause I have good company.”

Harry’s smile softens at that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He sighs, dramatic again, and rests his chin on your shoulder. “Gonna be hard to leave.”

“I know.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment. The quiet isn’t heavy—it’s full, though. The kind of silence that stretches and wraps around you like warm sheets, thick with shared memories of late-night swims, sand between your toes, and early-morning pancakes eaten straight from the pan because neither of you could find a plate in the villa.

“I took a picture,” you say after a while.

“I know. Saw you.”

“Want me to send it to you?”

He perks up. “Only if you caption it with something flattering. Like, ‘my gorgeous man brushing his teeth with the grace of a tanned Grecian god.’”

“More like, ‘Bigfoot sighting.’”

He gasps, mock-hurt as he grasps at his chest. “Cruel. After everything I’ve done for you today—carried your beach tote, bought you three different kinds of ice cream, let you win at Uno—”

“You didn’t let me win.” You fight back, shaking your head.

Harry smirks, “I might’ve— could've played two Draw Fours in a row, but I spared you."

You both grin again, loving the ease of the moment. Then he grabs your phone, taps around, and pulls up the photo. His eyes linger on it longer than you expect.

“You really like it?” you ask, craning your neck to look.

He nods, smiling down at it. "Yeah. Looks like us.”

You step behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back. His skin is still warm from the shower, his muscles relaxed under your hold.

The familiarity of the muscles makes your stomach twist at all the time spent between the sheets this weekend alone .

“You make me feel like this could be easy,” you say quietly, wondering if he can hear you properly.

He twists slightly to glance at you. “What d’you mean?”

“Like all of it. Loving someone, living with someone. You make it feel… calm. I used to think I wasn’t the kind of person who could do that."

You didn't know you could be loved this way, which makes it harder for him to accept your self-doubt. But you start to see how easy it is, and everything becomes... different.

His expression shifts—soft, sincere. “That’s ‘cause no one’s done it right yet. ‘Til me.”

You chuckle, kissing between his shoulder blades. “So humble.”

He turns, arms slipping around you now, pressing you to his chest as he leans against the bathroom counter.

"I’m serious,” he says, kissing your hair. “Don’t care how messy it gets. I want all of it.”

“Even the part where I use your towel without asking and get it all wet?”

He groans, still smiling beneath it. “You do that again and I’ll break up with you on the spot.”

You grin into his shoulder. “That’s fair.”

Another beat of silence. This time, it’s him who breaks it.

“Stay,” he says.

You hum into his chest, knowing you're not moving for a moment.

“I am staying.”

There's a pause before you feel him shake his head.

“No, I mean… after. When we go back. Don’t go to your place. Just come to mine. Bring your stupid frog mug collection and your sexy little bathrobe and take over my bathroom counter with your serums and your tangled necklaces and just… stay.”

Your heart trips a little at his confession, your eyes leaning up to meet his.

“You mean that?” you whisper, a bit confused by the sudden intimacy of the moment.

He pulls back enough to look you in the eye, the cheeky grin faded into something gentler. “I do. I want all the days with you. All the brushing teeth and stealing towels and waking up tangled up and going to sleep to your snoring—”

“I don’t snore.”

“Sure.” He bites his lip.

You kiss him before he can say more, pressing your smile into his mouth. And he kisses you back like he’s already won, like it was always going to be you.

Later, you’ll crawl into bed with your legs still cool from the evening walk on the beach to grab sharks teeth, and his arms pulling you close before you’ve even settled. You’ll fall asleep with the hum of ocean waves in the distance and his breath steady at the back of your neck as you lay tangled in between his tanned limbs and skin.

But for now, you stand in the bathroom, his toothpaste-smeared grin fading into something real, and think: this is it.

This is love. Sun-kissed with hints of mint and ocean breeze.

[hsjazebel]

Toothpaste kisses

Summary: Just a sleepy morning, a toothbrush, and the kind of love that feels like home

A/n: I saw this photo and immediately had to write something about it — it just felt so soft and real

Wordcount: 541

———

The bathroom was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan and the occasional rustle of fabric. Morning light spilled in through the window, pale and sleepy, washing everything in gold. Harry stood in front of the mirror with a toothbrush hanging lazily from his mouth, his hair tousled from sleep and his shirt wrinkled from where he’d curled up in bed just twenty minutes earlier.

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, watching him with a small smile tugging at her lips. There was something endlessly charming about the way he looked in moments like this—completely unbothered, soft around the edges, and totally himself.

She reached for her phone, raising it with a quiet chuckle. “You look like a kid who got caught playing pirate in the bathroom,” she said gently.

Harry’s eyes flicked toward the mirror, catching hers in the reflection. He gave a playful squint but didn’t move, continuing to brush as if this was just part of their usual dance. Which, in a way, it was.

Without asking for permission, Y/N snapped the photo.

The moment froze: Harry standing in front of the mirror, sleep still in his eyes, toothbrush angled between his lips, her arm draped just barely into the frame holding the phone. It was the kind of moment you never really plan, but it sticks with you—simple, real, and filled with quiet affection.

Harry mumbled something incomprehensible with the toothbrush still between his teeth, narrowing his eyes like he was pretending to be annoyed.

“Oh, don’t act like you’re not loving the attention,” Y/N said, biting back a laugh as she set the phone down on the counter. “You’re literally the definition of ‘soft boyfriend morning aesthetic.’ Pinterest is going to eat this up.”

He finally pulled the toothbrush from his mouth and grinned, foam still lingering in the corner of his lips. “I don’t know what that means, but I’ll assume it’s a compliment.”

“It is,” she said, stepping closer to him. “You’re very on-brand this morning.”

Without a word, Harry turned slightly, enough to let her slip her arms around his waist, resting her head gently against his chest. His shirt smelled like sleep and minty toothpaste, and he was warm in that way people only are first thing in the morning.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and mumbled, “Mornings are better with you.”

Y/N smiled, eyes closed. “Even better than your oat milk lattes?”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, mock offense in his eyes. “Let’s not say things we can’t take back.”

She laughed, swatting at his shoulder. “Fine. I’ll make the coffee while you finish pretending to brush your teeth.”

“I do brush properly!” he called after her as she slipped out of the bathroom, already giggling down the hallway.

Left alone, Harry looked at himself in the mirror again and shook his head with a smile. His hair was wild, his eyes were still tired, and he had toothpaste on his lip—but she looked at him like he hung the stars anyway.

And honestly, in quiet moments like this, brushing his teeth while the person he loved made coffee just down the hall—he believed he might have.

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

A Moment Of Peace.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here !!

authors note - the devil works fast….but i work faster. this picture is making me go feral!! 😫🩵

word count -800.

in which, first thing in the morning, the only time that you and your husband get any peace is when your both getting ready in the mornings, before the cries of your baby boy disturb you.

It’s around seven thirty in the morning, and the gentle light of early dawn spills across the bedroom like a whisper.

You slowly rise from bed, careful not to wake Harry, who lies tucked in the covers, his arm having slipped from around you moments ago.

At the foot of the bed, your ten-month-old son sleeps peacefully, soft little breaths puffing against the edge of his blanket.

You move quietly into the en-suite bathroom, the air cool and calm around you. Turning on the tap, you splash some water onto your face, feeling the refreshing chill wake you gently.

As your fingers reach for your toothbrush, a pair of warm arms slide around your waist, slow and easy, like a hug made from sleep and love.

You breathe out a soft smile.

“Morning,” you whisper.

“Mm,” Harry murmurs against your shoulder, his voice low and velvety. “Didn’t wanna be away from you.”

You rest your hands over his, leaning into his warmth. He lingers there for a moment, then pulls away just enough to reach over and grab his toothbrush from the pot beside yours.

He doesn’t speak again, just stands quietly beside you, adding a small swirl of toothpaste before beginning to brush his teeth.

You do the same, the two of you moving in quiet rhythm, brushing side by side in the mirror’s soft reflection. His arm brushes gently against yours now and then, a little point of connection in the stillness.

At one point, you glance over, and he’s already looking at you, his eyes soft and sleepy, smile tugging faintly at his lips beneath the toothpaste. You can’t help but smile back.

“You okay?” you ask softly after rinsing your mouth.

He nods, eyes never leaving yours.

“Yeah,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “Just… like this. Being near you.”

You dry your hands, watching as he finishes up, then steps toward you again, wrapping his arms around your waist like it’s second nature. You rest your head lightly against his chest, listening to the gentle beat of his heart.

“I love mornings with you,” he whispers, brushing his lips against your hair.

You smile, your fingers gently curling into his t-shirt. “Feels like the world hasn’t started yet.”

“Exactly,” he breathes, holding you a little closer. “Just us.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment—no rush, no noise but the tap trickling and the distant coo of your son beginning to stir.

“He’s waking,” you say quietly.

You frown playfully at your husband. “The moments of peace were nice whilst they lasted.”

Harry smirks at you and kisses your nose.

“I’ll get him,” Harry murmurs. “You finish here. Take your time.”

He brushes a kiss over your temple, lingering, then gives your waist one last squeeze before slipping out of the room.

And as you stand there, toothbrush in hand and heart full, you hear Harry’s soft voice from the bedroom:

“Hey there, my little love… morning, sweetheart…”

You can hear the quiet squeak of your baby’s contented cooing, followed by Harry’s voice as he scoops him up.

“C’mere. Gotcha. You’re all warm still, huh?” There’s a pause, then a soft chuckle.

“Ohhh, big stretch. Just like Daddy.”

Your heart tugs as you picture it—your baby curling into Harry’s chest, both of them wrapped in that hazy kind of early-morning softness only families like yours get to share.

Then, a few slow footsteps… and the bathroom door eases open.

Harry steps in, barefoot and tousled, your little boy nestled perfectly into the curve of his arm. The baby’s cheek is squished against Harry’s shoulder, tiny fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, gently playing with the curls there in that absent, sleepy way only babies do.

You melt instantly.

“Look who came to find you,” Harry says softly, smiling as he rocks their little one gently. “Someone missed his mummy.”

Your son lifts his head slightly at the sound of your voice, eyes blinking up at you with sleepy wonder, but he stays snuggled close to Harry, still playing with his hair.

Harry presses a kiss to the baby’s temple and murmurs, “He’s so cozy, love. Think he’s trying to decide whether he wants to fall back asleep right here.”

You step closer, running a tender hand over your son’s soft hair.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, your voice warm and slow. “Did you have sweet dreams?”

The baby responds with a soft coo, burying his face back into Harry’s shoulder. Harry just smiles down at him and rocks a little, swaying gently. “We’re not in any rush, are we, bub?” he whispers.

“We’ve got all the time in the world.”

You lean your head against Harry’s free shoulder, wrapping your arm lightly around his back. He turns to kiss the top of your head, his voice no more than a breath.

“Let’s just stay like this for a little while longer,” he says.

“Feels too perfect to move.”

[ellewritesx]

teach me slowly

Summary: Harry doesn't mind waiting, as long as it's you he's waiting for. a harry styles x inexperienced!reader series

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, sexual advances, lots of talk about virginity and sex, that's it for now

Based on: this ask!

A/N: hi lovelies! this is the new series i'll be writing now that we've parted ways with the sugar, baby series for now (sobbing). huge shoutout to anon who submitted the request this is based on. while exaggerating things for fiction is fun, i tried to also be relatively realistic about virginity. tag list is open :) this first part is, as always with my series, kind of a prologue to the story. have fun x

Word Count: 2,529

...

The first time you stopped him, it was subtle. A hand against his chest, a breathless ''maybe not tonight,'' and a kiss that lingered just long enough to prove you still wanted him, just not like that, not right now. He didn't push, didn't ask questions, just smiled against your lips and said, ''Alright, love. Another time.''

It wasn't the last time it happened.

You've been seeing Harry for a few months now, longer than you expected when he'd first spotted you across a room you didn't belong in, some industry party you'd been dragged to by a friend of a friend, too many faces and too many flashes. Harry was in the spotlight, the center of attention, you were hidden away in a dark corner, and yet his eyes managed to find yours through the sea of faces.

When he walked over, laid-back, confident, too pretty for his own good, you expected it to be fleeting. Maybe flirtation, a drink or two, something to roll your eyes about later.

But then he asked for your number. And not even two days later, he actually used it. And now here you are, tucked under his arm with his heartbeat thudding steadily beneath your ear.

It's late. A slow Friday night, the familiar sounds of reruns of Friends filling Harry's apartment as you're curled into his side, your fingers absently tracing a pattern against the slope of his ribs. The scent of cheap takeout still lingers in the air, mixing with the cologne he wore earlier, now faded into the cotton of his worn-in hoodie.

You feel it when his hand shifts. When it goes from lazily draped around your waist to something more deliberate, fingers tracing a purposeful path under the hem of your sweatshirt.

He leans down, pressing his lips to yours, making you smile at the faint taste of wine still lingering on his tongue. Your breath hitches, deepening the kiss, one hand fisting in his shirt. His hands graze your bare skin, curling at your waist, pressing you closer to him.

But the moment they start to travel higher, sliding up your midriff toward your chest like it's second nature, your stomach drops, and before you've fully thought it through, your hand slides over his and stops him, gently, but definitively.

''Sorry,'' you whisper against his lips, squeezing your eyes shut so you don't have to see the disappointment likely flashing across his face. ''I… Sorry, can we not tonight?''

Harry opens his eyes, confusion etched into his features like he was just abruptly woken from a peaceful dream. He blinks down at you, clearly startled by your tone. ''Yeah, of course,'' he says, pulling his hand back immediately. ''You okay?''

You nod quickly ''Yeah. Just… tired.''

It's not a lie. But it's not the whole truth either. You feel him hesitate, like he wants to press, wants an explanation, answers, but chooses not to. Just kisses the top of your head and settles back into the cushions, shifting so you're still cuddled into his side.

The silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable, but different now. Tense. Loaded. You let it sit there, unsure how to break it. Not yet, at least. But soon. You have to.

It takes you a few more minutes, waiting for the episode to end, for Harry's breathing to even out slightly, having willed away his arousal. When you turn your head to look at him, he's watching you with the kind of quiet patience you've come to recognize.

''I need to tell you something,'' you say finally. Your voice doesn't shake, but your heart is beating erratically. You sit up on the couch, just enough to give yourself some room to breathe. ''I've been meaning to. I just... I didn't know how.''

Harry sits back a little, his hand moving to lightly rest on your leg, calming you. Concern flickers across his eyes, focused frown on his face, his curiosity piqued. ''Okay. What is it?''

You push your hair behind your ear, fingers suddenly clammy. ''I've... I've noticed you've tried to take things further a few times now. And I always stop you.''

His eyes stay on yours, steady, unreadable. ''Yeah. I've noticed. I don't mind waiting, love.''

You inhale. ''It's not that I don't want to. It's just… I've never actually done it before.''

For a moment, Harry says nothing. His brows knit together, like he's processing, like the words don't quite click at first. Then something shifts. Not judgment, not disgust, just genuine surprise.

''You mean… you're a virgin?''

You nod once, jaw tight. Your heart stutters, bracing yourself for his inevitable rejection, already regretting bringing it up. ''Yeah.''

There's a pause. A long one.

But then Harry exhales, a soft smile tugging at his lips, head ducking to meet your gaze. ''Okay,'' he says softly. ''That's okay.''

You blink at him. ''You're not weirded out?''

He smiles, kind. ''No, of course not. I just… I wasn't expecting it. You're so confident. So sure of yourself. I guess I assumed…''

''That I'd done all of that already?'' you finish for him, smiling weakly.

He shrugs. ''Yeah. Doesn't change anything, though.''

Your bite your lip. ''You're older than me. More experienced. I thought maybe you'd be… disappointed.''

''I'm not,'' he tells you firmly, his hand finding yours, leaving no room for your doubts and fears.

You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling the warmth of his raw honesty settle somewhere deep in your chest.

Then, a beat later, his voice drops slightly, light-hearted but still earnest. ''So… would you want me to be your first?''

You look up at him, fidgeting with your fingers anxiously. ''I don't know. But if I did… would you want to be?''

His eyes search yours. ''If you decided you wanted that, I'd be honored.''

You sigh in relief. After the initial heaviness of the moment has passed and you've both found your way back into the soft cushions of the couch, it's quiet for a while. Not the kind of silence that stretches with discomfort, but something gentler. Pensive.

His fingers trace idle shapes over the back of your hand, and every now and then you catch him glancing at you like he's thinking about saying something, but keeps deciding against it.

Until finally, he does.

''Can I ask you something?'' His voice is soft, almost sheepish. Like he's worried you might shut down again.

You turn to face him, tugging the throw blanket around your legs a little higher. ''Of course.''

His thumb slides along your knuckles, thoughtful. ''Are you saving yourself for marriage? Or was it just... situational?''

The question doesn't surprise you. You were expecting it. Still, there's something about him saying it aloud that makes your chest ache. It's the explanation people seem to instantly assume, like there couldn't be any other possible reason to not want to have sex in your early twenties. The prejudice bothers you sometimes.

You shake your head with a chuckle. ''Not marriage, no. I just…'' You pause, choosing your words carefully. ''I never found someone I wanted to give it to. It never felt right. It always felt like… I don't know, something I'd be giving away for the wrong reason.''

Harry nods like that makes perfect sense, like you've just confirmed something he suspected about you all along. That you don't move through the world withholding things, you move through it protecting them. ''You wanted it to matter.''

''Yeah.'' You smile faintly. ''I guess I figured that the first time should be something I remember fondly. Not something I regretted five minutes after.''

''That makes sense,'' he says, reaching up to brush a fallen strand of hair out of your face. ''I kind of figured something was holding you back. I just didn't know if it was because you were nervous, or waiting for something specific… or someone specific.''

Your cheeks flush. ''I guess it's both.''

A smile spreads across his face, slow and reverent. ''And you think that... might be me?''

You glance away, trying not to look too embarrassed. ''Maybe,'' you admit quietly, before glancing at him, raising a brow. ''And you? First time with someone special?''

He huffs out a laugh, scratching at the side of his jaw. ''Not exactly. I was young, dumb, and too eager to impress someone older than me. Regret's not the word, but I wouldn't say it was magical.''

You both laugh softly at that, and the tension that had crept in between your ribs eases again. There's a pause. He meets your eyes carefully, trying to phrase his question without making you squirm. ''Have you ever... touched yourself?''

The heat rises to your cheeks instantly, not from shame, but from the sheer boldness of the question. Your relationship with Harry is still relatively new, and for a moment, you don't know how to respond.

Your eyes flicker down to the curve of his smile, cheeky but careful, like he's testing the waters. You tuck your knees up slightly under the blanket. ''I mean... Yeah, of course.''

That earns you a grin. He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly, his other hand rubbing up and down your arm soothingly. ''And? Has it ever felt... good?''

Your eyes narrow a little, teasing. ''Are you asking if I've had an orgasm before?''

''Yeah,'' he admits, unabashed now. ''Not trying to be weird. I just want to know where we're starting from.''

You shrug, a bit self-conscious. ''I think I've had a few? But like… nothing crazy. I don't know if it's something wrong with me or—''

''Hey,'' he cuts you off gently, hand brushing your hip. ''There's nothing wrong with you. You know that, right?''

You nod, but it feels like a reflex, not something you fully believe yet. He must sense it, because he dips forward and presses a kiss to your shoulder, warm and grounding. Then another, just beneath your jaw. ''It's harder for women, y'know? But it'll get better. Some things just take time. Patience. And the right person. I'm glad you've tried.''

You snort. ''Why? Would it have been a red flag if I'd said no?''

He chuckles, pressing another sweet kiss against your skin before pulling back. ''No, not a red flag. I just think it's important. Knowing your own body. Knowing what feels good.''

There's something so matter-of-fact in the way he says it that it makes the conversation feel less intimidating. Less taboo. You inhale deeply, a weight lifted off your shoulders now, and you run your fingers along his biceps to ground yourself.

''I haven't explored much. It felt... underwhelming. But with the way everyone raves about sex, I must be doing something wrong.''

His thumb stills over your hand, his expression softening. ''That's okay. It'll be different when you're with someone else. With me.''

You glance at him, curious. ''How so?''

He shifts toward you, arm slung over the back of the couch now. ''It's a mix of things. Trust. Communication. Timing. Like… it's not just friction, right? It's being seen. It's vulnerability. Intimacy. And if that isn't there, if you don't feel comfortable, it's hard to get there.''

Your stomach flutters at the way he says it, so attentive, so considerate. ''That's kind of what I'm scared of. That it'd be awkward. Or disappointing.''

Harry's voice dips lower, more serious now. ''It doesn't have to be. Especially if you're honest. If we are.''

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and smile bashfully, ''That's what I want, I think. Just... honesty. I don't want to have to pretend I know everything. Because I don't, and I don't want to have to act, to perform.''

He nods, the corner of his mouth tugging into something fond. ''I don't want you to do that either.''

You settle into the cushions, knee brushing his thigh. ''Have you ever been with someone inexperienced before?''

He thinks for a second, then shakes his head. ''Not really, no. I mean, I've been with people who had less experience than me, sure. But never… never someone completely new to it.''

Your eyes find his again. ''Does that scare you?''

He gives you a look, a lopsided smile on his face. ''No. If anything, it makes me want to be better. I want to make it good for you.''

That does something to you, sends a warmth crawling up your spine. ''You're already doing everything right, Harry.''

''Am I?'' he teases, bumping his shoulder with yours.

You laugh shyly. ''Yeah. You ask questions. You listen. You make me feel… like it's okay to not have all the answers yet.''

''It is okay,'' he reiterates.

You smile gratefully, but your insecurity creeps back in quickly. Your voice is timid when you speak again. ''So you don't think it's weird? That I haven't… done any of it?''

''Not even a little,'' he says, cupping your face gently, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. ''I think it's admirable, actually. You're twenty-three, and you've gone this long without letting someone touch you, just because nobody earned it? That's sexy as hell.''

You huff out a laugh, surprised. ''Really?''

''Really,'' he says, lips quirking. ''It means you know your worth. You know what you want. I wish I'd had your strength of will at that age.''

You smile gratefully, tension slowly uncoiling from your shoulders. ''Thanks. I don't always feel that way.''

Harry dips his head down, pressing a short, sweet kiss against your lips, effectively shutting up your mind. He sinks back into the couch with a satisfied smirk, cushions dipping under his weight.

You swallow nervously. ''Hey, just out of curiosity. What… what would you have done if I'd told you I was waiting for marriage?''

He raises a brow. ''You mean, like… completely off-limits?''

You nod.

He considers that. ''I would've respected it. Obviously. But I probably would've asked what else we could do instead. Would still want to be close to you, in whatever way you'd be comfortable with.''

You nod. ''I think that's the thing. I do want to be close. I just… I want it to mean something.''

He hums in response. There's a peaceful silence then. You're both thinking, processing. It's the kind of silence that only happens when you feel truly at ease with someone.

''So… if we did want to start exploring things… slowly…''

He grins, just a little. ''Want me to teach you, huh?''

You roll your eyes. ''Don't make it a thing.''

He lifts both hands in surrender, chuckling softly. ''We'll go at your pace. Whatever that looks like. You just tell me, yeah?''

You nod, the corners of your mouth tugging into a fond smile. ''Thanks, Harry. For being cool about all this.''

He scoffs. ''I'm not being cool,'' he says. ''I'm being decent. What kind of idiots have you been surrounding yourself with?''

That earns him a playful shove, but he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, right where your pulse flutters at the touch. His eyes flick up to yours, warm and steady.

''Whenever you're ready, love,'' he says softly.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list @2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera

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