Bella’s Imagination

[bellaimagination]

🦋Masterlist🦋

The Route Back to Me (Complete)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Extra (Dinner Night - Night In)

Extra Extra (Somewhere Behind the Noise)

Golden Was The Coast (Complete)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

The Night We Never Finished (On Going)

Part 1

You can send me requests, if you want!

Sending all the love ♡

[bellaimagination]

The Night We Never Finished

Chapter One — Six Years Later 

There was exactly one person Y/N had hoped wouldn’t be at the wedding. Unfortunately, he was already standing at the entrance. 

Harry Styles leaned against one of the pale stone pillars framing the guesthouse door, a ceramic mug resting between both hands while he listened to something Ben was saying. The sleeves of his dark jumper had been pushed carelessly to his elbows, revealing his forearms, and the afternoon light caught the edge of his face whenever he tipped his head back to laugh. He hadn’t noticed the car yet. Y/N had. Her fingers remained wrapped around the passenger-side door handle, although she had stopped halfway through opening it. Beside her, Emma switched off the engine. The music vanished, leaving the inside of the car so quiet that Y/N could hear the faint ticking of the cooling engine. Neither of them moved. 

“Don’t,” Y/N said. 

Emma hadn’t even turned towards her. “I haven’t said anything.” 

“You inhaled.” 

“I do that quite often.” 

“You inhaled judgementally.” Emma glanced through the windscreen, then back at Y/N. “He looks good.” 

Y/N closed her eyes. “That was exactly what I told you not to say.” 

“You told me not to say anything. You didn’t specify what.” 

“I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

Outside, Ben said something else. Harry smiled into his mug, completely unaware that six years of carefully constructed distance were sitting inside a silver car less than thirty metres away. Y/N had spent most of the drive convincing herself that the reunion wouldn’t matter. They were adults now. They had careers, separate lives and an entire collection of experiences that had nothing to do with one another. Whatever had once existed between them belonged to university corridors, badly lit student bars and one evening neither of them had handled particularly well. She had been twenty-one. He had been twenty-two. They had been impulsive, defensive and too proud to admit how much the opinion of the other mattered. Six years should have been enough to make him ordinary. Instead, the sight of him had made her forget how car doors worked. 

Emma rested one arm over the steering wheel. “We can still turn around.” Y/N looked at her. 

“I’m serious,” Emma continued. “We fake a family emergency. Something dramatic but not tragic. Your aunt has locked herself in a conservatory.” 

“I don’t have an aunt with a conservatory.” 

“He doesn’t know that.” 

“Olivia does.” 

“We’ll say she developed an interest in gardening recently.” 

A reluctant smile tugged at Y/N’s mouth. “You’d drive four hours back home?” 

“I’d complain the entire way.” 

“Comforting.” 

“That’s friendship.” 

Y/N released the door handle and leaned back against the seat. The guesthouse stood at the end of a long gravel driveway, surrounded by colourful gardens, open fields and a thick line of trees that climbed towards the hills. It was larger than the photographs Olivia had sent, an old country estate converted into accommodation, with ivy crawling over pale stone and wide windows reflecting the summer sky. 

Cars filled one side of the courtyard. Music drifted through an open window, mixed with voices and an occasional burst of laughter from somewhere behind the house. 

They were among friends. People Y/N had known for almost a decade. People who had seen her drunk, heartbroken, overworked and once wearing a traffic cone as a hat because Mason had dared her to. There was no reason to be nervous. Except for the man at the entrance. 

Emma’s expression softened. “You knew he’d be here.” 

“I knew logically.” 

“And emotionally?” 

“I was hoping he’d catch a mild but inconvenient virus.” 

“Very mature.” 

“I’ve grown tremendously.” 

Emma studied her for a moment. “When did you last see him?” 

“Graduation.” 

“That was genuinely the last time?” 

They had lived in different cities after university. Harry moved to London for an architecture placement that became a permanent job, while Y/N accepted a position in Manchester before eventually beginning to work independently as an interior designer. The group had tried to remain close, but adult life reduced spontaneous weekends to carefully negotiated dates in calendars. Harry attended gatherings she missed. She attended the ones he couldn’t make. At first, the timing had been accidental. Eventually, Y/N stopped asking. 

She knew enough through the others to understand that he was doing well. He had become an architect, travelled often for projects and apparently worked far too much. She knew he had dated someone for nearly a year because Olivia had mentioned the breakup during a phone call. She knew he had moved flats twice and once broken his wrist while attempting something Mason refused to explain. She did not know the details. That had been deliberate. Mostly. 

Emma tilted her head. “You’ve looked at his profile.” 

Y/N turned sharply. “What?” 

“You have.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You did that thing with your mouth.” 

“What thing?” 

“The guilty thing.” 

“I don’t have a guilty mouth.” 

Emma laughed. “How many times?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“So more than once.” 

“Everyone looks at people online.” 

“Not everyone scrolls through six years of photographs at two in the morning.” 

“I did not scroll through six years.” 

“Four?” 

Y/N looked through the windscreen again. 

Emma gasped theatrically. “You did.” 

“It was one time.” 

“You paused.” 

“Fine. Twice.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Maybe three times, but one of them was because Olivia tagged him.” 

“Of course.” 

Y/N pushed the car door open before Emma could continue. “We’re going inside.” 

“Suddenly eager?” 

“I’d rather face him than this conversation.” 

“That’s the spirit.” 

Warm air met Y/N as she stepped onto the gravel. Her legs felt stiff after the journey, and she took longer than necessary to straighten the fabric of her cream trousers before walking towards the boot. Emma joined her, still visibly entertained, and began unloading their bags. Harry remained beneath the entrance arch. Y/N kept her head down as she lifted her suitcase from the car, concentrating on extending the handle. It caught halfway. She pressed the release button again. Nothing happened. 

“Need help?” Emma asked. 

“No.” 

“You’ve been fighting it for thirty seconds.” 

“I have it.” 

“You’re pressing the wrong button.” 

Y/N looked down. 

Emma reached across and pressed the button beside her thumb. The handle extended immediately. 

“Thank you,” Y/N muttered. 

“Any time.” 

When she finally looked up, Harry was watching her. Ben had disappeared inside. Harry stood alone now, his mug abandoned on the low stone wall beside him, and the easy smile had left his face. For several seconds, neither of them reacted. 

Y/N had imagined this moment occasionally over the years, although never when she was prepared to admit it. In some versions, Harry looked exactly as he had at twenty-two: curls falling into his eyes, a careless grin on his mouth and the restless energy of someone who believed every night could become a story. 

In others, she passed him unexpectedly in a crowded station or found him sitting at a table with their friends. He would look at her, she would look at him, and somehow she would know exactly what to say. 

Reality offered no useful dialogue. Harry was different. The most obvious changes were physical. His shoulders were broader, his features more defined and his hair shorter around the sides, though still long enough on top to curl in the warm air. Light stubble shadowed his jaw, and there was something steadier in the way he held himself. University Harry had demanded attention without appearing to try. This Harry didn’t seem to need it. 

The confidence remained, but it had settled beneath his skin instead of spilling from him. He looked like someone who had learnt when to speak, when to wait and how dangerous silence could be when used properly. 

His gaze moved slowly across Y/N’s face, as though confirming details his memory had preserved. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. Not the careless grin she remembered. Something smaller. Almost uncertain. Y/N’s chest tightened. 

“Still time to run,” Emma whispered. 

“Shut up.” 

Harry stepped away from the entrance. Y/N gripped the handle of her suitcase and began walking before she could reconsider. Emma fell into step beside her, the wheels crunching over the gravel. The distance between them shortened far too quickly. Harry greeted Emma first. 

“Hi.” 

She abandoned her suitcase and hugged him without hesitation. “Look at you.” 

Harry laughed as he wrapped both arms around her. “That sounds threatening.” 

“You look offensively healthy.” 

“I sleep now.” 

“Disgusting.” 

“I’ve also discovered vegetables.” 

“Marriage material.” 

“Don’t start.” 

Emma pulled back, holding him at arm’s length. “It’s been ages.” 

“It has.” His attention moved past her. “How was the drive?” 

“Long. Y/N threatened to abandon me at a service station because I wouldn’t let her choose the music.” 

“I threatened to drive myself,” Y/N corrected. 

“You don’t know the route.” 

“I have maps.” 

“You missed the exit while holding the map.” 

Harry’s gaze settled fully on Y/N. There it was again—the pause. The sense that everyone else had slipped slightly out of focus. 

“Hi,” Y/N said. 

It sounded embarrassingly inadequate after six years. 

Harry looked at her for another moment. “Hi, Y/N.” 

Hearing her name in his voice was worse than seeing him. It was too familiar. 

Deeper than she remembered, but still carrying the soft rasp that used to appear when he was tired or had spent an entire night shouting over music. For one disorientating second, Y/N could hear that same voice beside her in the university library, asking whether she intended to ignore him forever because she hadn’t answered his previous three questions. 

She straightened her shoulders. “You look well.” 

“So do you.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Wasn’t expecting that.” 

Her brows drew together. “What?” 

“A polite response.” 

“I can be polite.” 

Harry’s mouth curved. “You could always be polite. You simply chose not to be with me.” 

“I wonder why.” 

“That’s better.” 

The ease of the exchange irritated her. She had expected awkwardness, perhaps a stiff hug neither of them wanted or a greeting polite enough to confirm that they had become strangers. Instead, Harry slipped into their old rhythm as though they had paused a conversation six minutes ago rather than six years. 

Emma looked between them. “I’m going to take my bags inside.” 

“Coward,” Y/N said. 

“Survivor.” 

She dragged her suitcase towards the entrance. 

Harry glanced at Y/N’s larger bag. “Want me to take that?” 

“No.” 

“I didn’t finish the question.” 

“You were going to offer to carry it.” 

“I was.” 

“I can carry it.” 

“I know.” 

“Then why ask?” 

“Because carrying it would be easier than watching you fight another handle.” 

Y/N stared at him. 

He held out one hand. 

She tightened her grip. “I have it.” 

“Y/N.” 

“Harry.” 

His eyes flickered with amusement. “Still stubborn.” 

“Still interfering.” 

“Good. I was worried it might be awkward.” 

Before she could answer, the front door flew open. Olivia appeared in the entrance, barefoot and dressed in grey joggers and an oversized white jumper. Her hair was tied messily on top of her head, and she looked nothing like the composed bride from the photographs she had been sending for months. She looked happy. Completely, overwhelmingly happy. 

“Y/N!” 

Olivia ran down the steps. Y/N released the suitcase just in time to catch her, laughing as Olivia wrapped both arms around her waist with enough force to knock them slightly off balance. 

“You’re here,” Olivia said into her shoulder. 

“Obviously.” 

“You took forever.” 

“Emma drives like someone’s grandmother.” 

“Your life expectancy has increased because of me,” Emma called from the entrance. 

Olivia pulled back, keeping both hands on Y/N’s arms. “Let me look at you.” 

“You saw me three months ago.” 

“That was before I became emotionally unstable.” 

“You’ve always been emotionally unstable.” 

“Exactly. This is worse.” 

Y/N smiled, affection softening the tightness in her chest. “You look beautiful.” 

“I look like I’ve spent the morning arguing about tablecloths.” 

“A beautiful woman who has spent the morning arguing about tablecloths.” 

“I’ll accept it.” 

Olivia’s gaze flicked over Y/N’s shoulder towards Harry. Her expression changed almost imperceptibly. 

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Why is everyone saying that today?” 

“Because you keep reacting to things we haven’t said.” 

Harry picked up Y/N’s suitcase. 

She turned. “Put that down.” 

“No.” 

“I told you I can carry it.” 

“And I believed you.” 

“Then—” 

“But now Olivia is holding you hostage.” 

Olivia tightened her grip around Y/N’s arm. “He’s right.” 

“You’re both irritating.” 

Harry began walking towards the house with her suitcase. “Some things don’t change.” 

The guesthouse was even more impressive inside. Patterned tiles covered the entrance hall, leading towards a wide staircase framed by carved wooden banisters. Coats had already accumulated across a long bench, while boxes marked with words such as CANDLES, TABLE NUMBERS and DO NOT LET MASON TOUCH THIS were stacked beneath the windows. Voices echoed from somewhere deeper inside. Noah appeared through an archway carrying a wooden crate. He set it down the instant he saw Y/N and crossed the hallway with his arms open. 

“Finally.” 

Y/N hugged him. “You say that as though I’m late.” 

“You’re the last ones here.” 

“Because your future wife gave us the wrong postcode.” 

Olivia gasped. “I did not.” 

“You sent the postcode for a farm.” 

“It was near here.” 

“It had goats.” 

Noah nodded thoughtfully. “They’re nice goats.” 

Y/N pulled back from him. “I’m reconsidering the wedding gift.” 

“You’ve already bought it.” 

“I can return it.” 

Noah smiled before kissing Olivia’s temple as she moved beside him. The gesture was automatic and unselfconscious, the kind of affection built through years of knowing where the other person would stand before looking. 

They had been together since their second year at university. Nine years. Y/N remembered watching them fall in love gradually, then all at once. Noah began carrying snacks because Olivia became irritable when she was hungry. Olivia learnt to recognise when he needed reassurance but was too proud to ask. Their lives had slowly rearranged themselves until no one could remember what either of them had looked like alone. For a brief, unwelcome moment, Y/N wondered what six years might have looked like if one dinner had ended differently. She pushed the thought away. 

“Everyone’s in the kitchen,” Noah said. “Mason is pretending to cook.” 

“I’m supervising!” Mason shouted from somewhere beyond the hallway. 

“That means Sophia is cooking,” Emma replied. 

“Correct,” Sophia called back. 

Olivia looped her arm through Y/N’s and led her towards the voices. Harry followed with the suitcase, ignoring every look Y/N sent him. 

The kitchen occupied the back of the house, with high ceilings, exposed beams and wide glass doors overlooking the gardens. A long wooden table stood beside the windows, large enough to seat the entire group. The central island was covered with bags, bottles and partly prepared food. 

Mason stood beside the cooker holding a wooden spoon as though it were a microphone. Sophia was chopping vegetables with the expression of someone reconsidering every choice that had led her there. Ben opened wine at the island, while several other friends from university sat on the counters talking over one another. 

The room erupted when Y/N entered. For the next several minutes, she was passed between hugs, questions and complaints about how long it had been. Mason accused her of avoiding them. Sophia inspected her hair. Ben asked whether she still made the same unnecessarily complicated coffee order. It felt easy. Familiar. The kind of affection that survived long silences without demanding an apology. Y/N almost relaxed. Then Harry stepped into the kitchen behind her carrying her suitcase. Mason stopped speaking. His eyes moved from Harry to Y/N and back again. 

“Oh,” he said. 

Y/N pointed at him. “Don’t.” 

“I only said a vowel.” 

“You said it suggestively.” 

“I didn’t know vowels could be suggestive.” 

“You’ve managed it.” 

Sophia took the spoon from Mason before he dropped it into the sauce. “Behave.” 

“I am behaving.” 

Ben looked towards Harry. “How long did the reunion take?” 

“Approximately four minutes,” Harry answered. 

“Before they started arguing?” 

“Three.” 

Y/N turned to him. “We weren’t arguing.” 

Harry placed her suitcase beside the doorway. “You told me to put that down six times.” 

“Because it belongs to me.” 

“Exactly. It gave us something to discuss.” 

Mason looked delighted. “This week is going to be excellent.” 

“It’s Olivia and Noah’s wedding,” Y/N said. “Try focusing on them.” 

“I contain multitudes.” 

“You contain mostly alcohol.” 

“Also true.” 

Sophia ordered everyone to sit down before the food became cold. The group moved towards the table in a noisy wave, carrying dishes, bread and bottles of wine. Y/N reached for an empty chair near Emma. 

Olivia appeared beside it. “That’s Mason’s seat.” 

Mason, standing several places away, looked confused. “Is it?” 

“Yes,” Olivia said quickly. 

Y/N glanced at her. Olivia avoided eye contact. 

“Where am I sitting?” 

“There.” 

She pointed towards a chair halfway down the table. Directly opposite Harry. Y/N looked at him. Harry had already taken his seat, one arm resting along the back of the chair beside him. His expression suggested that he had noticed the arrangement before she did and decided not to comment. 

“There are other seats,” Y/N said. 

“There are exactly enough for everyone,” Olivia replied. 

“I can sit at the end.” 

“That’s where Noah is sitting.” 

“I’ll sit beside him.” 

“That’s my seat.” 

“Convenient.” 

Olivia smiled innocently. 

Y/N lowered her voice. “You promised.” 

“I promised not to interfere.” 

“This looks suspiciously like interference.” 

“It’s lunch.” 

“With assigned seating.” 

“Because Mason keeps stealing people’s food.” 

“I do,” Mason confirmed. 

Harry reached for the water jug. “You could sit down.” 

Y/N turned towards him. “Thank you. I was waiting for your permission.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

She pulled out the chair and sat. Harry filled his glass, then held the jug towards her. Y/N stared at it for a second before moving her glass closer. 

“See?” he said quietly as he poured. “We’re already cooperating.” 

“It’s water.” 

“Small steps.” 

She resisted the urge to kick him beneath the table. Lunch began with several conversations happening at once. Olivia discussed the rehearsal schedule with Emma while Noah explained how many deliveries were still arriving. Mason criticised Sophia’s cooking until she threatened to remove his plate. Ben asked Harry about a project in Copenhagen. Y/N tried not to listen. She failed. 

Harry had become an associate at an architecture firm in London. He had worked on hotels, residential developments and the restoration of a theatre he described with obvious affection. He spoke differently about work than he had at university, no longer dismissing ambition with jokes whenever someone noticed how much he cared. Back then, Harry had often pretended not to take anything seriously. 

He finished assignments at the last moment, arrived late to lectures and spent most weekends moving between parties. Yet his designs had always been the ones professors displayed. He could stare at a blank page for hours, then produce something brilliant while everyone else slept. Y/N used to accuse him of wasting his potential. He used to tell her she worried enough for both of them. 

“You’re staring,” Emma murmured beside her. 

Y/N picked up her fork. “I’m listening to Ben.” 

“Ben hasn’t spoken for thirty seconds.” 

“I’m listening to the space where Ben’s words were.” 

Emma smiled into her glass. Across the table, Harry looked towards them. Y/N immediately focused on her plate. 

“Are we telling university stories yet?” Mason asked. 

“No,” Y/N answered. 

“Yes,” Olivia said at the same time. 

Mason grinned. “Excellent.” 

“We have four days together,” Y/N warned. “You don’t need to ruin everything during the first meal.” 

“I’m pacing myself.” 

Sophia gestured towards Harry. “Tell them how you met Mason.” 

“I’d rather not,” Harry said. 

“He climbed through my bedroom window,” Mason announced. 

“The front door was locked.” 

“You didn’t live there.” 

“I knew Noah.” 

“You’d met Noah twice.” 

Harry shrugged. “I had good instincts.” 

“You were drunk.” 

“Both can be true.” 

Ben laughed. “How did Y/N meet Harry? Was it at the student bar?” 

“No,” Olivia said. “It was at my flat.” 

Harry’s eyes moved to Y/N. 

She knew what was coming before anyone spoke. 

“He stole my chair,” she said. 

“I didn’t steal it.” 

“My bag was on it.” 

“You moved the bag.” 

“To get a drink.” 

“You created an opening.” 

Y/N looked at the others. “This is the sort of logic I had to endure for three years.” 

Harry leaned back in his chair. “You told me to move.” 

“You refused.” 

“You were rude.” 

“You were sitting in my seat.” 

“There wasn’t a name on it.” 

“My bag—” 

“Wasn’t a person.” 

The old exchange returned so perfectly that several people laughed before Y/N realised they had almost repeated it word for word. 

“He followed her around after that.” 

“I did not,” Harry said. 

“You absolutely did,” Sophia replied. “You appeared everywhere she was.” 

“We had the same friends.” 

“You joined a library session for a module you weren’t taking,” Emma said. 

Harry looked towards Y/N. “I needed somewhere quiet.” 

“You fell asleep on my notes,” she reminded him. 

“I was supporting you.” 

“You drooled on economic theory.” 

“Improved it.” 

“You also started bringing her coffee,” Olivia added. 

“That was for everyone.” 

“No,” Emma said. “You brought one coffee.” 

Harry reached for a piece of bread. “Perhaps I was financially struggling.” 

“You knew her order after two weeks,” Noah said. 

“It wasn’t complicated.” 

Y/N watched him break the bread in half. 

“Double espresso, one sugar, a little milk,” Harry said without looking at her. 

The table quieted just enough for the words to land. Y/N’s fingers stilled around her fork. Harry finally lifted his gaze. 

“Unless you changed it.” 

There was no teasing in his voice. 

“No,” Y/N said. “I didn’t.” 

Something passed across his expression. Satisfaction, perhaps, or simple recognition. 

Mason looked between them. “This is entirely normal.” 

“Eat your lunch,” Y/N told him. 

The conversation moved on, but the atmosphere had changed. Small glances passed around the table whenever Harry or Y/N spoke. Their friends remembered enough to know there had once been something between them, even if most had never understood exactly what happened. Y/N wondered how much Olivia knew. At the time, Y/N had told Emma almost everything, but she had reduced the date to a simple disaster when the others asked. Harry had apparently done the same. Neither had offered details, and the group eventually learnt not to mention it. Years softened curiosity. Until now. 

After lunch, Noah carried the plates towards the sink while Olivia opened a note on her phone. 

“Rooms,” she announced. “Before everyone starts drinking and forgets where they’re sleeping.” 

“I already know where I’m sleeping,” Mason said. 

Sophia looked at him. “Do you?” 

“No.” 

“Thought so.” 

Olivia began reading names. Couples were placed in the main house, while the single rooms had been divided between two converted wings connected by narrow corridors. 

“Emma and Sophia, rooms seven and eight in the east wing. Ben and Mason are opposite you.” 

“Why am I beside Mason?” Ben asked. 

“Because nobody else volunteered.” 

“Fair.” 

Olivia continued. “Y/N, you’re in room twelve in the west wing.” 

Y/N nodded. 

“Harry, room eleven.” 

Her head turned. Harry’s did too. Olivia looked suspiciously interested in her phone. Y/N waited. 

Olivia cleared her throat. “The two rooms share a bathroom.” 

Mason coughed into his wine. 

Y/N closed her eyes briefly. “Of course they do.” 

“It wasn’t deliberate,” Olivia said. 

“That sentence has never sounded less convincing.” 

“The rooms were assigned based on arrival.” 

“We arrived last.” 

“Exactly.” 

“What about the room above the garage?” 

Noah winced. “It smells damp.” 

“I don’t mind damp.” 

“It has no heating,” Olivia said. 

“I run warm.” 

Harry folded his arms. “It’s a bathroom, Y/N.” 

She turned towards him. “I’m aware.” 

“I think we can manage.” 

“I never said we couldn’t.” 

“You’re volunteering to sleep above a garage.” 

“That’s unrelated.” 

“Is it?” 

“Yes.” 

Harry’s expression remained infuriatingly calm. “Fine.” 

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Fine.” 

Mason looked between them. “Excellent. Resolved with no tension whatsoever.” 

“Do you want to sleep above the garage?” Y/N asked. 

“No.” 

“Then be quiet.” 

Harry stood and reached for her suitcase. 

Y/N moved at the same time. “Absolutely not.” 

“You left it by the door.” 

“I was going to take it.” 

“You were arguing about damp.” 

“I can argue and carry luggage simultaneously.” 

“I remember.” 

His hand closed around the suitcase handle before hers. For a moment, they stood too close, both holding it. Harry’s gaze dropped briefly to her fingers wrapped beside his. Y/N released it first. Not because she wanted him to win. Because the contact had sent an inconvenient warmth through her hand. 

Harry lifted the suitcase. “Room twelve?” 

“You know it is.” 

“I’m confirming.” 

“You could leave it here.” 

“I could.” 

“But you won’t.” 

“No.” 

He walked towards the hallway. 

Y/N looked at Olivia. “I blame you for everything that happens this week.” 

Olivia smiled. “I accept no responsibility.” 

The west wing was quieter than the main house, its long corridor lined with framed paintings of the surrounding countryside. Room twelve stood at the end, beside a blue-painted door marked eleven. Between them, each bedroom had a second door leading into the same bathroom. Harry carried the suitcase inside Y/N’s room and placed it near the wardrobe. 

The room was bright and comfortable, with exposed wooden beams, a pale quilt and a wide window overlooking the gardens. An armchair stood beside a small fireplace, and fresh flowers had been arranged on the dresser. Y/N remained beside the door. 

Harry looked around. “Nice.” 

“It is.” 

He glanced towards her. “You can say thank you.” 

“I can.” 

Harry waited. Y/N waited longer. His mouth twitched. 

“Thank you,” she said eventually. 

“There she is.” 

He stepped towards the bathroom door and pushed it open. The room beyond contained two sinks, a claw-foot bath and a large glass shower. Another door stood directly opposite, connecting to his bedroom. Harry tested the lock on Y/N’s side. 

“It works.” 

“I know how locks work.” 

“I’m making sure.” 

“Planning to protect your virtue?” 

He looked over his shoulder. “I was thinking of yours.” 

“My virtue doesn’t need your assistance.” 

“That’s reassuring.” 

Harry opened the door into his room, checking that it could also be locked from the bathroom. Y/N watched him move around the space with the confidence of someone who belonged anywhere he stood. When he returned, he rested one shoulder against the frame. 

“Lock your side when you’re in here.” 

“I was planning to.” 

“I remember you forgetting things when you’re distracted.” 

“I don’t get distracted.” 

Harry’s eyes moved slowly down the length of her body before returning to her face. The look lasted only a second. Long enough. Heat rose beneath Y/N’s skin. Harry’s expression remained composed, but his eyes had darkened slightly. 

“No?” he asked. 

Y/N folded her arms. “Get out.” 

He laughed quietly and stepped into the corridor. 

At the bedroom door, he stopped. 

“It is good to see you.” 

The sincerity in his voice caught her unprepared. Harry didn’t smile this time. He simply looked at her, one hand resting on the doorframe, as though the answer mattered more than he wanted to reveal. Y/N noticed the small movement of his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He had done that when he was nervous at university. She had forgotten. Or tried to. 

“You too,” she said. 

Harry held her gaze for another second, then nodded and left. The door closed behind him. Y/N sat on the edge of the bed and released a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. 

“This is fine,” she whispered to the empty room. 

A knock sounded against the bathroom door. Y/N froze. 

“Thin walls,” Harry called from the other side. 

She grabbed one of the decorative cushions from the bed and threw it at the closed door. His laughter followed her across the room. The afternoon was spent unpacking decorations and preparing the guesthouse for the next few days. Olivia had brought enough candles, ribbons and handwritten signs to decorate a small palace, most of which now covered the floor of the main living room. 

Y/N sat cross-legged on the rug beside Emma, writing names onto place cards while Sophia organised the seating chart. Music played quietly from a speaker. Noah and Harry worked near the fireplace, assembling wooden stands for the table numbers, while Ben and Mason argued over a box of tangled lights. 

For almost an hour, Y/N managed to behave normally. She wrote, talked and laughed with the others. She avoided monitoring Harry’s position in the room, although she remained aware of it with an accuracy she found irritating. Whenever he laughed, she heard it. Whenever he crossed behind her, she knew. Once, when she looked up, she found him already watching her. Harry didn’t look away. He simply held her gaze until Y/N returned to the cards, pretending the interaction hadn’t unsettled her. 

“Your handwriting is still intimidating,” Emma said. 

Y/N examined the card in her hand. “It’s handwriting.” 

“It looks printed.” 

“That’s because I learnt how to hold a pen.” 

“Some of us developed practical skills.” 

“You learnt how to open wine with a shoe.” 

“And it has saved lives.” 

A shadow fell across the cards. Harry crouched beside them, one knee touching the rug. “Do either of you have a pen?” 

Emma looked at the dozen scattered around Y/N. “No.” 

Y/N passed him one. His fingers brushed hers. The contact was brief and accidental, but both of them noticed. 

Harry’s gaze lowered to their hands before he took the pen. “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

He remained beside them while writing something on the wooden stand resting across his thigh. Y/N tried to concentrate on the next name, but his knee was close to hers, and she could smell the faint warmth of his cologne. When he finished, he held out the pen. Y/N reached for it. Harry kept his grip on the opposite end. 

She looked at him. “Really?” 

“Checking your reflexes.” 

“Let go.” 

“You used to be faster.” 

Y/N pulled harder. Harry released it without warning, making her hand fall back against her chest. He smiled. She hit his arm with the capped pen. 

“There she is,” he murmured. 

Before Y/N could ask what he meant, Noah called his name from across the room. Harry stood and moved towards the fireplace, passing behind Y/N’s place on the rug. His hand brushed lightly over the top of her head. Then he stopped beside her. Not looking at Y/N, Harry began answering Noah’s question about the wooden frame. As he spoke, his fingers found a loose strand of her hair where it rested over her shoulder. He wound it absent-mindedly around his index finger. Y/N became completely still. Harry continued talking. He wasn’t watching her. He wasn’t trying to provoke her or create a moment. His attention remained on Noah, brows drawn together as they discussed whether the frame would support the sign. His hand simply remembered. The strand of hair tightened gently around his finger, then loosened as he turned it again. 

Across from Y/N, Emma stopped writing. Her eyes dropped to Harry’s hand. Then lifted to Y/N’s face. 

Y/N didn’t know what expression she was making, but it caused Emma’s eyebrows to rise slowly. 

A memory slipped through the present. 

Harry had been arguing with Noah about a football match, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa behind Y/N. He wasn’t looking at her. 

He rarely looked at her when he did it. His fingers had found the ends of her hair, winding a strand around them while he insisted the referee had been blind. Y/N had glanced down at the curl trapped around his index finger. Olivia, sitting across the room, noticed. 

See? she mouthed. 

Y/N had rolled her eyes. She hadn’t moved away. 

Harry released the strand only when Noah asked him to hold the other side of the frame. He crossed the room without any sign that he had noticed what he’d done. 

Emma waited until he was out of hearing distance. 

“He still does it.” 

Y/N looked down at the place card in her lap. “I don’t think he realised.” 

Emma’s voice softened. “That’s exactly why it’s a problem.” 

“It isn’t a problem.” 

“Of course not.” 

“It was a habit.” 

“Yes.” 

“Habits don’t mean anything.” 

Emma glanced towards Harry. “Some do.” 

Y/N pressed the pen against the card, leaving a small dot beside the name. The rest of the afternoon passed too quickly. By six, the place cards were finished, most of the decorations had been organised and Mason had somehow tangled himself in a string of lights. 

Olivia eventually ordered everyone upstairs to shower and change for dinner. Noah had reserved a long table at a nearby pub, insisting that nobody should attempt to cook for seventeen people on the first night. Y/N showered early, locking both bathroom doors before stepping beneath the water. She told herself the additional check was sensible rather than paranoid. 

Afterwards, she returned to her room and changed into a black dress with long sleeves and a skirt that ended several inches above her knees. It was simple but fitted closely through the waist, and she paired it with small gold earrings and boots. She was applying mascara when someone knocked against the shared bathroom door. 

“Are you dressed?” Harry asked. 

“No.” A pause. 

“Should I come back?” 

Y/N looked down at herself. “I’m dressed.” 

“Why did you say no?” 

“Why did you ask?” 

“Because I need the bathroom.” 

“Then use it.” 

She heard the handle turn. Harry entered wearing dark trousers and a white shirt, the sleeves folded to his forearms. The top buttons remained undone, revealing the base of his throat, and his hair was still damp from the shower. He stopped when he saw her. The teasing answer Y/N had prepared disappeared. Harry’s gaze travelled over her slowly. Not crudely. Not with the exaggerated appreciation he might once have used to make her uncomfortable. 

He simply looked. His eyes followed the shape of the dress from her shoulders to her waist, lingering there before dropping briefly to her bare legs. When he returned to her face, the intensity in his expression made the spacious bathroom feel smaller. 

Y/N set the mascara on the counter. “What?” 

Harry’s mouth opened, then closed. It was satisfying to know she could still make him lose a word. 

“You look beautiful,” he said. 

Y/N met his gaze through the mirror. “Thank you.” 

Harry stepped towards the second sink. “No insult?” 

“I’m capable of accepting a compliment.” 

“Another new skill.” 

“You’ve missed quite a lot.” 

His hands stilled briefly over the watch he had left beside the sink. 

“Yes,” he said. “I have.” 

The answer was quieter than she expected. Y/N picked up her perfume and applied it to her wrists. Harry fastened his watch, but she saw him looking at her reflection. 

“You changed it,” he said. 

“What?” 

“Your perfume.” 

She turned slightly. “You remember my perfume?” 

Harry glanced down at his wrist as he adjusted the strap. “I remember a lot of things.” The honesty of the answer made her chest feel tight. 

“Why?” He looked up. For a moment, the bathroom contained only the sound of distant voices moving through the house. 

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. 

Y/N believed him. Mason shouted from the hallway that the first cars were leaving. Harry moved towards his bedroom door. Before stepping through, he looked back at her. 

“That one suits you too.” Then he disappeared into his room. 

Y/N remained in front of the mirror, staring at the perfume bottle in her hand. Six years ago, she had spent an entire evening wishing Harry would pay attention to her. Now every piece of his attention felt like a threat. 

The pub was a fifteen-minute drive from the guesthouse, built from dark stone and surrounded by flower-filled gardens. Inside, low wooden beams crossed the ceiling, candles flickered on the tables and a fire burned in a wide fireplace near the bar despite the warm evening. Their group had been given a private area at the back. A long table filled most of the room. Y/N saw the place cards immediately. She stopped walking. Harry’s card sat directly opposite hers. Again. 

Olivia moved beside her. “Before you say anything—” 

“You promised not to interfere.” 

“I didn’t choose the seating.” 

“Your name is printed at the top of the plan.” 

“Noah helped.” 

Noah, already halfway to his seat, looked alarmed. “Don’t involve me.” 

Y/N pointed towards the cards. “This is deliberate.” 

“It’s symmetrical,” Olivia said. 

“What does that mean?” 

“I don’t know. The wedding planner says it often.” 

Harry appeared beside Y/N, reading the cards. His shoulder brushed hers. 

“Still planning to sit on the floor?” he asked. 

Y/N looked at him. “I’m considering it.” 

“Your dress is too nice.” The compliment was casual, but his eyes lowered briefly as he said it. Y/N felt the look like a touch. 

“Sit down, Harry.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled out the chair opposite her. 

Y/N took her seat between Emma and Sophia, while Harry sat between Ben and Noah. The arrangement placed them directly across from one another, close enough that their knees might touch if either stretched beneath the table. This time, Y/N suspected Olivia had planned every centimetre. Dinner began with wine and stories from university. The pub was busy, but the private section softened the surrounding noise, allowing the group to speak freely without shouting. Harry sat in Y/N’s direct line of sight. It was impossible not to notice him. 

He listened more than he spoke, resting one hand around his glass as he smiled at the others’ stories. When attention turned towards him, he answered without trying to perform for the room. The difference was subtle but unmistakable. 

At university, Harry had treated attention like oxygen. He had been a frat boy in every recognisable sense: popular, loud, invited everywhere and rarely seen leaving a party alone. His house had hosted gatherings so regularly that the neighbours stopped complaining and simply moved away. There was always a new story about him, often involving alcohol, a reckless dare or a woman whose name nobody could remember the following week. 

Harry hadn’t lied to anyone. He hadn’t promised relationships he didn’t intend to offer. That had almost made it worse. He had been charming, honest and casual enough to leave women convinced they had understood the arrangement, even when they secretly wanted more. Y/N had watched it happen repeatedly. She told herself it proved she had been right not to take him seriously. Then she agreed to the date anyway. 

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” Olivia asked. 

Y/N looked around. “We’ve been here before?” 

“After the mountain trip,” Noah said. “Final year.” 

Mason pointed at Harry. “He nearly got us banned.” 

“I did not,” Harry replied. 

“You stood on a table.” 

“Ben dared me.” 

“I dared you to sing,” Ben said. “The shirt removal was independent.” 

Sophia laughed. “Y/N threw his shirt outside.” 

“It was raining,” Harry said, looking directly at her. 

Y/N took a drink of wine. “Consequences.” 

“I had to walk through mud.” 

“You found the shirt.” 

“It was ruined.” 

“It was ugly.” 

Harry placed one hand over his chest. “You told me you liked that shirt.” 

“I lied.” 

“When?” 

“When I told you I liked it.” 

His smile spread slowly. 

Mason watched the exchange with open fascination. “This is exactly how you used to talk.” 

“No, it isn’t,” Y/N said. 

“It absolutely is,” Olivia replied. 

Harry continued looking at her. “Some things don’t change.” 

Y/N broke eye contact first, turning towards Emma as the waiter arrived to take their orders. The conversation shifted, but Harry remained present across from her like a constant low heat. When the bread was placed on the table, he automatically pushed the butter towards her before she asked. Later, when onions appeared in the sharing salad, Y/N moved the bowl away from him without thinking. Harry noticed. 

“You remember.” 

She looked down at the bowl. “You complained about onions every time we ate.” 

“I don’t complain.” 

The entire table laughed. Y/N smiled despite herself. “You once sent a burger back because it had touched an onion.” 

“It contaminates everything.” 

“You’re dramatic.” 

“You moved the bowl.” 

“Because I didn’t want to listen to you.” 

Harry held her gaze. “Still counts.” 

The main courses arrived. For a while, the meal became louder, everyone speaking over one another as plates were passed around. Y/N relaxed enough to laugh freely, occasionally forgetting to monitor every exchange with Harry. That was when he was most dangerous. Not when he deliberately provoked her. When she forgot she was supposed to resist him. Harry reached across the table for the salt at the exact moment she did. Their hands stopped beside one another at the centre of the table, his smallest finger resting lightly against hers. The contact was insignificant enough that nobody else would have noticed, but warmth moved through Y/N’s hand as though Harry had touched far more than a single finger. 

“You first,” he murmured. 

“How generous.” 

“I’ve matured.” 

“That remains unproven.” 

She drew her hand away. Harry picked up the salt, but instead of using it, he placed it beside her plate. His eyes remained on her face, lowering briefly towards her mouth before returning to meet her gaze. Y/N’s pulse shifted. Then a woman’s voice came from beside the table. 

“Harry Styles?” 

The reaction inside Y/N was immediate and humiliating. Her body recognised the situation before her mind could remind it that six years had passed. Harry looked up. A blonde woman stood beside his chair, one hand curled around the stem of a wineglass. She was beautiful in a polished, effortless way, wearing a fitted red dress and the easy smile of someone who had approached him with complete confidence that she would be remembered. Recognition crossed Harry’s face. 

“Lucy?” 

The woman smiled more widely. “I thought that was you.” 

Harry stood to greet her. Lucy stepped closer and wrapped one arm around him, her free hand settling briefly against his shoulder as he returned the hug. The gesture was harmless. Familiar, perhaps, but harmless. Y/N lowered her eyes to her plate. It wasn’t the same. She repeated the words silently, forcing her grip around the fork to loosen. This was not their date. Lucy was not the woman from six years ago. Harry did not belong to her. He could hug whomever he wanted, speak to whomever he wanted and leave the pub with whomever he wanted. He could return to the guesthouse at sunrise with another woman’s perfume on his shirt and owe Y/N absolutely nothing. That knowledge did nothing to ease the instinctive pressure gathering beneath her ribs. 

“What are you doing all the way out here?” Lucy asked. 

“Wedding.” Harry gestured towards Olivia and Noah. “We’re staying nearby for the week.” Lucy looked along the table, smiling politely at the group. Her attention passed over Noah, Olivia and Ben before settling briefly on Y/N. 

“Sorry,” she said. “Am I interrupting something?” The question struck with the precision of a blade. 

“Sorry,” the other woman had said, although she hadn’t removed her hand from Harry’s shoulder. “Am I interrupting something?” 

Harry had glanced across the restaurant table at Y/N. 

Only for a second. 

“It’s just dinner.” 

In the present, Harry looked directly at her. 

“Yes,” he said. 

The single word silenced something inside Y/N. Harry stepped away from Lucy, increasing the distance between them with quiet deliberation. “Sorry. We’re all catching up, and I haven’t seen some of them in a long time.” 

His eyes remained on Y/N while he spoke. Lucy followed his gaze. Understanding seemed to pass across her expression, though her smile never faltered. 

“Of course,” she said. “I won’t keep you.” 

“It was good seeing you.” 

“You too.” Lucy touched his arm once in farewell before returning to the main area of the pub. Harry sat down. 

The group’s conversations restarted gradually, Mason deliberately asking Noah an unnecessarily loud question about the venue while Olivia became fascinated by the contents of her wineglass. 

Y/N stared at her plate. Harry did not speak to her. He did not explain what he had done or draw any additional attention towards the moment. He simply picked up his fork and returned to the conversation, allowing her to pretend that his answer had meant nothing. That should have made it easier. Instead, Y/N spent the remainder of the main course wondering why he had done it. 

Harry had been perfectly capable of speaking to Lucy for another minute without repeating the past. He could have introduced her to the group, exchanged a few polite sentences and let her leave naturally. He had chosen not to. More than once, Y/N felt his attention from across the table. Whenever she lifted her eyes, however, Harry was speaking to someone else or looking down at his plate. He knew she was thinking about it. He was allowing her to. The main courses were cleared, and dessert menus appeared. Y/N declined before opening hers. 

Emma glanced at her. “You always want dessert.” 

“I’m full.” 

Across the table, Harry’s hand stilled against his menu. The words had been ordinary. The memory attached to them was not. 

“I’m not hungry anymore.” 

Y/N reached for her wine, hoping nobody noticed the shift in her expression. Harry studied the menu for another moment before setting it down. When the waiter approached, he ordered a chocolate tart. Y/N looked at him. Harry did not look back. 

Perhaps it was coincidence. Chocolate tart was hardly unusual, and he had always preferred desserts that contained more sugar than seemed medically responsible. He might not even remember what they had ordered during the date. The possibility lasted until the dessert arrived. The waiter placed one plate directly between them. 

Chocolate tart. Two spoons. Harry stared at it. Every trace of casual conversation disappeared from his expression. Y/N felt the same recognition move through her. 

The chocolate tart had arrived after the woman finally returned to her own table. Two spoons had rested beside the plate. Harry and Y/N had sat in silence, the warmth that had filled the first half of the evening replaced by something jagged and defensive. 

“You can go after her if you want.” 

Harry’s eyes had narrowed. “What?” 

“She seemed disappointed that you were busy.” 

“I was talking to someone I know.” 

“You were doing more than talking.” 

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” 

The memory fractured before the worst of the argument. In the present, the tart remained untouched. Harry picked up one spoon. Then he lifted the second and held it across the table towards Y/N. She stared at it. The pub continued around them—glasses clinking, chairs moving, their friends talking deliberately about anything except the two people sitting in the centre of the table. Harry’s hand remained steady. 

“We never finished it,” he said quietly. He wasn’t talking only about the tart. 

Y/N could hear it in his voice. The dessert. The date. The conversation they had abandoned in anger. Whatever they might have become if neither of them had destroyed the possibility before it had properly begun. She should have refused. She had spent six years refusing in quieter ways. Instead, Y/N reached across the table and took the spoon from his fingers. Their hands touched. Harry released a breath so softly that she almost missed it. He pushed the plate until it rested precisely between them. Y/N took the first bite. The sweetness settled across her tongue, familiar enough to make the past feel physically present. Harry watched her. 

“Still too sweet?” he asked. Her spoon paused above the plate. 

“It’s too sweet,” Y/N had complained after stealing the first bite from his spoon. 

Harry had laughed. “You ordered it.” 

“You chose it.” 

“You agreed.” 

“I was distracted.” His eyes had lowered towards her mouth. 

“I noticed.” 

Y/N swallowed. “No,” she said. “It’s not.” A faint smile touched Harry’s mouth. 

“Guess some things change.” She met his eyes across the candlelit table. 

“Not everything.” The smile disappeared. Something deeper replaced it. 

They ate the tart slowly, passing the plate back and forth without speaking. Occasionally, their spoons touched at the centre. Neither apologised or pulled away quickly. 

When only one bite remained, Harry pushed it towards her. Y/N divided it with the edge of her spoon and returned half to his side. Harry looked down at it. Then at her. For the first time in six years, they finished the chocolate tart. The empty plate remained between them after the final bite. Neither Harry nor Y/N reached to move it. 

The spoon in Y/N’s hand had warmed from her grip, and she became aware of every detail at once: the candle burning between them, the low scrape of chairs from the main room and Emma’s knee pressing lightly against hers beneath the table. Harry looked down at the plate before lifting his eyes. There was something almost disbelieving in his expression, as though sharing a dessert had altered the shape of the evening in a way neither of them had expected. 

Mason leaned across the table. “Was that romantic, or are you both simply very committed to chocolate?” 

Y/N placed her spoon down. “It was dessert.” 

“Right.” 

“People share desserts.” 

“People who like each other share desserts.” 

“People who don’t want to order two also share desserts.” 

Harry leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “She’s financially responsible.” 

Y/N looked at him. “Don’t encourage him.” 

“I’m agreeing with you.” 

“That somehow feels worse.” 

Mason glanced towards Olivia. “Are we certain they haven’t been secretly married for years?” 

“We would have killed each other,” Y/N said. 

Harry’s gaze remained on her. “You say that as though it rules marriage out.” 

Several people laughed. Y/N did not. Not because the comment upset her. Because Harry had said it too easily. The words carried the comfortable rhythm of an old joke, but his eyes held hers for a second longer than the humour required. It created the strange impression that they were having two conversations at once: the one everyone could hear and another that existed entirely inside each pause. 

Sophia pushed back her chair. “I need the bathroom.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Olivia said immediately. 

Emma began to stand. Y/N caught her wrist beneath the table. Emma looked at her. 

“Don’t leave me.” 

Her friend’s mouth curved. “I thought you were fine.” 

“I am.” 

“Then why are you holding me hostage?” 

“Because I value your company.” 

Emma sat again. “How touching.” 

Harry watched the exchange, clearly amused. Y/N released Emma’s wrist and reached for her wine. The rest of dinner passed more easily than she expected. Perhaps the dessert had broken some invisible barrier, or perhaps she was simply too tired to maintain the same level of vigilance. She allowed herself to join the conversation. Harry did too. They still provoked each other, but the sharper edge had softened. When Mason told a story about Y/N accidentally setting fire to a tea towel during university, Harry corrected three exaggerated details without being asked. When Harry claimed he had once won a drinking competition against an entire rugby team, Y/N reminded everyone that he had fallen asleep in a laundry basket twenty minutes later. Harry denied it. Emma produced photographic evidence. The table dissolved into laughter. Y/N looked across at Harry and found him laughing too, his head lowered as he tried unsuccessfully to cover his face with one hand. 

For a moment, she forgot the restaurant from six years ago. She remembered everything that came before it. The nights when the group occupied the same corner of the student bar until closing. The mornings when Harry appeared at her flat with coffee and no explanation. The long arguments over films, music and whether cereal qualified as dinner. She had not merely lost the possibility of something romantic. She had lost one of her closest friends. That was the part she rarely admitted. 

When the bill arrived, Noah attempted to pay for everyone and was immediately overruled. Several cards were placed on the table, calculations became unnecessarily complicated and Mason insisted he had only consumed one drink despite three empty glasses standing beside his plate. Harry reached for Y/N’s receipt before she could. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Checking your share.” 

“I can read.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“Then give it back.” 

“You paid for the wine.” 

“I ordered the wine.” 

“And everyone drank it.” 

“It’s fine.” 

Harry examined the total. “It isn’t.” 

“Harry.” He lifted his eyes. The use of his name sounded more intimate than she intended. His thumb remained over the edge of the receipt. “You always did this.” 

“Did what?” 

“Paid for things before anyone could stop you.” 

“It saves time.” 

“It also means people forget to pay you back.” 

“I can afford a bottle of wine.” 

“That isn’t the point.” 

Y/N studied him. “You remember that too?” 

Harry gave a small shrug and returned the receipt to her. “I told you. I remember a lot.” Before she could respond, he stood and walked towards the bar with Ben. Y/N watched him go. 

Emma leaned closer. “You’re doing it again.” 

“Doing what?” 

“Looking at him like you’re trying to solve a crime.” 

“He’s confusing.” 

“He was always confusing.” 

“No. He used to be simple.” 

Emma laughed softly. “Harry was never simple. He was just loud enough that everyone assumed he was.” 

Y/N looked at the empty dessert plate. Perhaps that was true. At twenty-one, she had believed Harry’s charm explained him completely. He liked attention, parties and women. He moved through life easily because very little seemed to matter enough to frighten him. Yet she remembered details that had never fitted that version. The way he became quiet before important presentations. The nights he stayed in the library after everyone else left. The fact that he always noticed when someone in the group was struggling, even if he pretended his concern was casual. And the way he had looked at her when she arrived at the restaurant. Nervous. Hopeful. As though the night mattered. 

Then another woman had appeared, and Harry became the person Y/N expected him to be. Or perhaps she had decided that before giving him the chance to prove otherwise. 

The group left the pub shortly after eleven. The warm evening had cooled while they were inside, and a fine mist hung beneath the streetlights. Everyone separated between the cars. Y/N followed Emma towards the vehicle they had arrived in, but Olivia called her name from beside Noah’s car. 

“Can you come with us? Emma’s taking Sophia and Mason.” 

Emma was already unlocking the driver’s door. “Sorry.” 

“You don’t sound sorry.” 

“I’m deeply upset.” 

Mason climbed into the back seat. “I get carsick in the middle.” 

“You’re sitting by the window,” Emma said. 

“I get emotionally carsick.” Y/N looked towards Olivia’s car. Noah was driving. Olivia occupied the passenger seat. Harry stood beside the rear door. Of course. 

He opened it and stepped aside. “After you.” 

Y/N considered arguing. Then she noticed the satisfied expression on Olivia’s face. She refused to provide additional entertainment. 

“Thank you,” she said, sliding into the back seat. Harry joined her and closed the door. 

The car was spacious enough that they didn’t need to touch. Still, his thigh rested only a few inches from hers, and when Noah reversed from the parking space, Harry placed one hand behind Y/N’s headrest to look through the rear window. His arm framed her. The scent of his cologne surrounded her before he settled back into his seat. 

Olivia adjusted the radio. “Everyone survive the first dinner?” 

“Barely,” Noah said. 

“Mason attempted to order another round after the bill arrived,” Harry added. 

“He considers financial consequences a problem for the future,” Y/N said. 

Harry looked at her. “He learnt that from you.” 

“I’m financially responsible.” 

“You bought tequila for twelve people during our final year.” 

“It was my birthday.” 

“It was a Tuesday.” 

“My birthday happened to be on a Tuesday.” 

“You had an exam the next morning.” 

“I passed.” 

“You fell asleep during it.” 

“I still passed.” 

Noah laughed from the driver’s seat. “You two remember an alarming amount.” 

The statement settled quietly inside the car. Y/N turned towards the window. Harry didn’t answer. Outside, narrow country roads curved between dark fields and rows of trees. The headlights revealed stone walls, occasional cottages and stretches of mist that seemed to dissolve as the car passed through them. Music played softly from the speakers. Olivia and Noah began discussing the deliveries expected the following morning. Y/N listened without contributing, watching her reflection in the glass. Harry’s hand rested on the seat between them. Not touching her. Close enough that she remained aware of it. 

The car turned sharply. Y/N slid slightly across the leather, her shoulder brushing Harry’s arm. His hand moved automatically to her waist. The touch lasted perhaps two seconds. Long enough to steady her. Long enough for his palm to fit against the curve of her body with unsettling familiarity. Neither spoke. Harry released her slowly. Y/N sat upright, smoothing her dress even though it hadn’t moved. 

“Seat belt,” Harry said quietly. 

“I am wearing one.” 

“I know.” She turned towards him. 

He was looking straight ahead, but the tension in his jaw suggested he had felt the contact just as clearly. The rest of the journey passed in silence. When they reached the guesthouse, the others were already gathering near the entrance. Emma’s car arrived behind them, music loud enough to make the windows vibrate. Noah parked beside the gardens. 

Olivia stepped out first, immediately calling Mason a disgrace when he emerged from the other car wearing Sophia’s scarf around his head. Y/N climbed out of the back seat. The cold air sharpened her senses. Harry followed. The group began walking towards the house, but Y/N remained near the car for a moment, searching inside her handbag for the room key Olivia had given her earlier. 

“You left it in the side pocket.” Harry stood beside her. 

“What?” 

“The side pocket.” Y/N frowned and checked. The key was there. 

She looked at him. “How did you know?” 

“You put it there after lunch.” 

“You were across the room.” 

“I saw you.” There was no reasonable answer to that. She closed the bag. 

“Thank you.” Harry nodded. 

The others were already halfway across the courtyard. Y/N began walking, and Harry matched her pace. Gravel shifted beneath their shoes. For several steps, neither spoke. The night felt different from the afternoon. Quieter. The fields beyond the gardens had disappeared into darkness, and only a few upstairs windows glowed against the stone walls. 

Y/N glanced towards him. “Why did you do that?” Harry didn’t pretend to misunderstand. 

“With Lucy?” 

“Yes.” His gaze remained on the house ahead. “Because I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.” The words landed more heavily after an entire dinner spent waiting for them. 

“You didn’t have to send her away.” 

“I know.” 

“She was only saying hello.” 

“I know.” 

“You could have spoken to her.” 

Harry stopped walking. Y/N took another step before turning back towards him. He stood beneath the faint light from one of the garden lamps, his face calm but his eyes fixed intently on hers. 

“I could have,” he agreed. “But I saw your face.” 

Y/N folded her arms. “My face was fine.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” 

“You don’t know what I was thinking.” 

“I knew where you went.” Her defences faltered. Harry stepped closer. 

“You weren’t standing in that pub anymore,” he continued. “You were back at that table with me.” 

Y/N looked towards the guesthouse. “You’re giving yourself too much importance.” 

“Probably.” 

His calm acceptance irritated her. 

“But I wasn’t wrong.” 

“No,” she admitted quietly. The word remained between them. Harry pushed his hands more deeply into his coat pockets, as though preventing himself from reaching for her. 

“I should have done that six years ago.” 

“Done what?” 

“Told her she was interrupting.” 

Y/N released a humourless breath. “You told her the opposite.” 

“I know.” 

“You said it was just dinner.” 

“I was trying to stop the situation becoming awkward.” 

“For her.” 

“Yes.” 

The admission came without hesitation. Harry didn’t defend his younger self. He didn’t insist that Y/N had misunderstood or that the woman had behaved inappropriately. He simply accepted what he had done. 

Y/N looked away. “She stood there for ages.” 

“Eight minutes.” 

Her eyes snapped back to him. “You counted?” 

“I replayed the night enough times.” 

The honesty unsettled her. 

“You remember eight minutes?” 

“I remember you becoming quieter with every one of them.” A fine chill moved across Y/N’s skin that had nothing to do with the night air. Harry continued, his voice lower now. 

“I remember you looking down whenever she touched my arm. I remember asking you a question after she left and realising you hadn’t heard it. I remember knowing something had changed and becoming defensive instead of asking why.” 

“You knew why.” 

“I thought I did.” 

“You enjoyed the attention.” Harry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. 

“Usually, yes.” The answer hurt more because it was honest. 

“But not that night,” he added. 

Y/N laughed softly. “You seemed comfortable.” 

“I was performing.” 

“You weren’t on a stage.” 

“I was always on a stage back then.” She studied him. Harry looked towards the dark fields for a moment, searching for words. 

“I knew how to be that person,” he said. “The loud one. The easy one. The idiot everyone expected to laugh with, drink with or take home. I didn’t know how to sit across from you and admit that the evening mattered.” 

“So another woman appeared, and you chose the easier version.” 

“Yes.” 

Y/N hadn’t expected him to say it. The bluntness stripped away the argument she had spent years preparing. 

“You made me feel stupid for thinking it was a date.” 

“I know.” 

“You made me feel like I was only there until something more interesting arrived.” 

“I know.” 

“You let her speak about things the two of you had done while I sat there.” 

“I know.” Harry stepped closer. His expression had changed, control giving way to something more painful. 

“And I hated myself for it before you even stood up.” Y/N’s throat tightened. 

“You didn’t follow me.” 

“I thought you wanted me to let you go.” 

“You could have asked.” 

“You could have looked back.” 

Silence settled over the driveway. The same old wound. Two people waiting for proof while refusing to offer any themselves. Y/N wrapped her arms more tightly around her body. “You told me the date was a mistake.”

“I wanted you to tell me it wasn’t.”  Harry looked down briefly. 

“That’s ridiculous.” 

“I was twenty-two.” 

“So was I.” 

“Yes.” His mouth twisted faintly. “That was the problem.” 

A memory rose between them. 

“If that’s what you think of me, why did you agree to come?” 

“Maybe I wanted to believe everyone was wrong.” Harry had stared at her, anger disguising the hurt she was too young to recognise. 

“And now?” 

Y/N had looked towards the woman returning to her own table. 

“Now I think they gave you too much credit.” 

Harry’s face had hardened. 

“Then maybe this was a mistake.” 

In the present, Y/N swallowed. 

“I waited.” Harry became completely still. 

“What?” 

“At the door.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I stopped.” 

“I know.” 

“You remember?” 

“I remember every second.” The intensity of his answer stole her breath. 

“Why didn’t you come after me?” Harry’s expression held six years of regret. 

“Because you had just told me exactly what you thought of me.” 

“I was angry.” 

“So was I.” 

“I wanted you to stop me.” 

The admission left her before pride could pull it back. Harry stared at her. His voice was barely above a whisper when he answered. 

“I wanted you to stay.” Neither moved. The light from the house stretched across the gravel but didn’t quite reach them, leaving the two of them suspended between darkness and the warmth waiting inside. Y/N’s heart beat hard enough to hurt. 

“Then we were both idiots,” she said. Harry released a breath that almost became a laugh. 

“Yes.” 

It was the first thing about that night they had agreed on. The front door opened before either could continue. Mason leaned outside with a bottle of water in one hand. His gaze moved between them, assessing the distance, the silence and whatever remained visible on their faces. 

“There you are.” Y/N stepped away from Harry. 

“Olivia’s threatening to begin the game without us,” Mason added. 

“That sounds serious.” 

“Potentially fatal.” 

Y/N moved towards the house. When she passed Harry, his fingers brushed briefly against the back of her hand. It might have been accidental. Neither treated it that way. Inside, most of the group had gathered in the living room. A fire burned in the stone fireplace, and bottles, glasses and bowls of snacks covered the coffee table. Mason had found a box containing old photographs Olivia had printed for the wedding weekend. Y/N stopped when she saw them. 

Olivia looked up from the sofa. “What?” 

“You have photographs.” 

“It’s nostalgic.” 

“It’s evidence.” 

“Same thing.” 

Y/N sat beside Emma, choosing a place at the end of the sofa. Harry entered a moment later. The only available space was beside her. She suspected that had not happened by accident. 

Olivia patted the cushion. “Sit.” Harry glanced at Y/N. She looked away. He lowered himself beside her. Their bodies didn’t touch, but the sofa cushions dipped beneath his weight, drawing them slightly closer. Mason held up a photograph of Noah asleep at a library desk with a highlighter stuck to his forehead. The group laughed. For the next half hour, old images moved from hand to hand. Parties. Graduations. Terrible haircuts. Trips where everyone looked sunburnt or exhausted. Y/N began to relax again. 

The earlier conversation remained inside her, but the comfort of the group softened its sharpness. Harry sat quietly beside her, occasionally leaning closer to see a photograph. His arm rested along the back of the sofa behind her, not touching. Then Olivia held up another picture. 

“Oh.” Y/N immediately disliked her tone. 

“What?” Olivia turned the photograph around. It had been taken during their final year at a house party. Harry and Y/N sat together on a kitchen counter. She was laughing at something outside the frame, her head tipped slightly back. Harry stood between her knees, one hand resting beside her hip while he looked at her rather than at the camera. The expression on his face was unmistakable. Soft. Completely absorbed. The room became quieter. Y/N stared at the photograph. She didn’t remember it being taken. She remembered the party, though. 

Harry had spent most of the night near her. Whenever she moved into another room, he appeared minutes later. At some point, he had stolen one of her earrings and refused to return it until she promised to dance with him. They had never danced. Or perhaps they had. Some memories had been damaged by what came afterwards. Mason leaned forward. “How did none of us see this?” 

“We did,” Sophia said. “They didn’t.” 

“We saw it,” Emma corrected. “They denied it.” Harry reached for the photograph. Olivia handed it to him. His fingers tightened around the edge as he studied it. Y/N watched his face. 

“What?” she asked. 

Harry looked at her. “Nothing.” 

“You’re making a face.” 

“I’m looking at a photograph.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

His eyes returned to the image. “I remember this.” 

Y/N’s pulse shifted. “I don’t.” 

“You were angry with me.” 

“That narrows it down.” 

“You thought I’d taken your earring.” 

“You did.” 

“I found it on the floor.” 

“You put it in your pocket.” 

“For safekeeping.” 

“You demanded a dance in exchange for returning my property.” 

Harry’s mouth curved. “You agreed.” 

“I did not.” 

“You did.” 

“Did we dance?” 

The question came out more softly than she intended. Harry’s smile faded. 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

He looked at the photograph again. “You left early.” Y/N tried to remember. A flash of something returned. 

Harry had stood in the middle of the kitchen with her earring held between his fingers. 

“One dance.” 

“Give it back.” 

“After.” 

“You’re insufferable.” 

“You like me.” 

Y/N had laughed because denying it aloud felt safer than remaining silent. “Not even slightly.” 

Something heavy settled inside her. She had spent years believing their date had been the first and only opportunity they destroyed. Perhaps there had been many. Olivia continued passing photographs around. Harry placed the picture on the coffee table, but his attention remained distant for several minutes. Conversation moved towards plans for the following day. They needed to collect flowers, finish the rehearsal dinner decorations and attend a late-afternoon run-through at the wedding venue. Y/N listened while Emma discussed transport. Beside her, Harry turned towards Noah and began asking about the venue layout. As he spoke, his hand moved. His fingers found a strand of Y/N’s hair resting against the back of the sofa. The gesture happened so naturally that she almost missed it. Harry continued talking to Noah, winding the strand around his index finger and releasing it, then catching it again. His eyes never left the conversation. Y/N became still. The earlier moment in the living room had been brief. This time, he continued. 

The touch was gentle, absent-minded and intimate in a way deliberate flirtation could never be. Harry’s knuckles occasionally brushed the back of her shoulder as he played with the strand. Emma, sitting on Y/N’s other side, noticed. Her gaze lowered. Then moved to Y/N. Y/N looked forward, refusing to react. Harry asked Noah another question. His fingers remained loosely tangled in her hair. The physical memory of him existed before Y/N could reason with it. Her body relaxed against the sofa. The tension in her shoulders eased. Six years ago, this had been ordinary. 

Harry would sit beside her during films, study sessions or conversations and reach for her hair without noticing. Sometimes she braided the drawstrings of his hoodies in return. Sometimes he rested his chin on her shoulder while reading over her notes. They had possessed an intimacy neither of them named. Harry finally looked down. He saw the strand wrapped around his finger. His voice stopped mid-sentence. Noah followed his gaze. The room didn’t become silent, but Y/N felt the exact moment Harry realised what he was doing. His fingers loosened slowly. The strand slipped free. He looked at Y/N. She met his eyes. For a second, embarrassment crossed his face. Then something darker replaced it. Not regret. Awareness. Harry’s hand remained on the back of the sofa behind her. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

Y/N swallowed. “It’s fine.” 

Neither looked away. Mason dropped a stack of photographs onto the floor. The moment broke. Harry withdrew his arm and leaned forward to help gather them. Y/N turned towards Emma. Her friend’s expression said everything. Y/N shook her head slightly. Emma mouthed, Problem. Y/N mouthed back, Shut up. The evening ended shortly after midnight. One by one, everyone began carrying glasses to the kitchen and retreating upstairs. Y/N helped Olivia collect the photographs. When she picked up the image of herself and Harry in the kitchen, she hesitated. Olivia noticed. 

“You can keep it.” 

Y/N looked at her. “Why would I want it?” 

“Because you’ve been staring at it for three minutes.” 

“I was trying to remember the party.” 

Olivia smiled gently. “Harry asked me for a copy years ago.” Y/N’s fingers tightened around the photograph. 

“What?” 

“He asked whether I still had it after graduation.” 

“Why?” 

“He didn’t say.” 

“Did you give it to him?” Olivia nodded. Y/N looked towards the doorway. Harry had already left the room. A strange pressure built beneath her ribs. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You weren’t speaking to him.” 

“That doesn’t mean—” 

“You asked us not to update you about his life.” Y/N looked down. She had. At the time, every mention of Harry had felt like reopening a wound she was determined to pretend didn’t exist. Olivia placed a hand on her arm. “I’m not trying to interfere.” 

“You placed us opposite each other twice.” 

“That was logistical interference.” 

Y/N gave her a look. Olivia’s expression softened. “I’m not expecting you to forgive him in four days.” 

“I’m not angry anymore.” 

“You still look angry.” 

“I’m confused.” 

“That seems more honest.” 

Y/N slipped the photograph back into the box. “Goodnight, Liv.” 

Olivia hugged her briefly. “Goodnight.” 

The west wing was silent when Y/N reached it. Light from the wall lamps stretched across the wooden floor. Room eleven was closed, and no sound came from inside. Y/N entered her own room and locked the door. She placed her handbag on the chair, removed her earrings and changed into a loose sleep shirt that reached halfway down her thighs. The day had exhausted her, but her mind remained painfully awake. Harry remembered the date. He remembered her walking slowly. He had kept the photograph. The facts circled without settling. Y/N entered the bathroom to wash her face, locking Harry’s door before turning on the light. His watch remained beside the second sink, exactly where he had placed it earlier. She looked at it. The leather strap was familiar. He had worn something similar at university, though that watch had been cheaper and permanently scratched after a night involving Mason, a bicycle and a hedge. Y/N finished her routine and returned to her room. She lay in bed with the lamp off, listening to the guesthouse settle. Pipes moved behind the walls. A door closed somewhere down the corridor. Faint laughter drifted from below before finally disappearing. Sleep refused to come. She turned onto one side. Then the other. The conversation outside replayed itself. 

I wanted you to stop me. 

I wanted you to stay. 

The most frustrating part was that Y/N still didn’t know what she wanted now. At twenty-one, she had wanted Harry to follow her. She had wanted him to prove that she mattered more than his pride. At twenty-seven, she wanted to believe she had outgrown the need for that proof. Then he looked at her, and every carefully matured part of her became uncertain. Movement sounded through the bathroom wall. A drawer opened in Harry’s room. Footsteps crossed the floor. A moment later, someone tried the locked bathroom door. The handle moved once. Then stopped. Y/N remained still. A soft knock followed. 

“Y/N?” She closed her eyes. 

“What?” 

“Are you awake?” 

“No.” 

Harry paused. “You’re very articulate in your sleep.” 

“What do you want?” 

“My watch is in there.” 

“You can get it in the morning.” 

“I need it.” 

“At midnight?” 

“I feel incomplete.” 

Y/N pushed back the quilt. “That sounds serious.” 

“Potentially fatal.” 

She crossed the room barefoot and opened her side of the bathroom door. Harry’s remained locked. Y/N unlocked it. Harry stood on the other side wearing dark pyjama trousers and a grey T-shirt. His hair was untidy, falling over his forehead, and without the structure of the white shirt and coat from dinner, he looked less like the composed man from the driveway and more like someone she remembered. His eyes moved over the sleep shirt. The gaze lowered once. Then returned to her face. Y/N stepped aside. “Your watch.” 

Harry entered the bathroom. The room was bright after the darkness of her bedroom, forcing both of them to narrow their eyes slightly. He picked up the watch. 

“Thank you.” 

“You could have survived until morning.” 

“Debatable.” 

Y/N remained beside her door. “Goodnight.” 

Harry didn’t move. His fingers worked the strap of the watch absent-mindedly. 

“Did Olivia show you the photograph?” 

Y/N’s heartbeat shifted. “Which one?” 

“You know which one.” 

“She showed everyone.” Harry nodded. 

“She said you asked for a copy.” 

His hands stilled. “Olivia talks too much.” 

“So it’s true.” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

Harry looked down at the watch, then placed it back on the sink instead of wearing it. “I liked the photograph.” 

“That isn’t an answer.” 

“It’s the only one I have of us.” The sentence entered the room quietly. Y/N stared at him. 

“There must be others.” 

“There are group photographs.” 

“That one was taken at a party.” 

“I know.” 

“You barely look at the camera.” 

“I’m not looking at it at all.” 

His eyes met hers. The implication was impossible to ignore. Y/N folded her arms, suddenly aware of how little she wore beneath the thin cotton of the shirt. 

“Why keep it after everything?” Harry leaned back against the sink. 

“Why did you look at my profile?” Her mouth opened. Then closed. 

“Emma talks too much too,” he added. 

“She had no right to tell you.” 

“She told Ben. Ben told me.” 

“I’m going to kill both of them.” 

Harry smiled faintly. “How many times?” 

“That isn’t relevant.” 

“More than once?” 

“Goodnight, Harry.” Y/N turned towards her room. 

She looked back. “Why do you care?” His expression changed immediately. The amusement disappeared. 

“Because I looked at yours too.” Silence filled the bathroom. Y/N’s arms slowly lowered. 

“How often?” Harry pressed his lips together, considering whether to answer honestly. 

“Enough.” 

“That’s vague.” 

“It’s safer.” 

“For whom?” 

“Both of us.” 

The intensity in his voice made her remain. Harry took one step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough that she could see the tiredness beneath his eyes and the faint shadow along his jaw. 

“I looked whenever someone mentioned you,” he said. “Whenever Olivia posted a photograph. Whenever I knew the group was meeting and you might be there.” 

“Why didn’t you come?” 

“Sometimes I couldn’t.” 

“And the other times?” Harry looked at her for several seconds. 

“Because you might be there.” 

The answer hurt before she understood it. Y/N’s expression hardened. “You avoided me.” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s comforting.” 

“I didn’t say it was the right choice.” 

“You seem to have made many wrong choices.” 

“So did you.” 

The response carried no cruelty, but it struck the defensive place inside her. Y/N stepped closer. “I didn’t humiliate you during our date.” 

“No. You only told me I was incapable of taking anyone seriously.” 

“You had spent two years proving it.” 

“I never lied about who I was.” 

“That didn’t make it less hurtful.” 

“To whom?” 

The question silenced her. Harry’s gaze sharpened. 

“To you?” he asked. Y/N looked away. There it was. 

The admission they had both avoided six years ago. She had been hurt because Harry mattered. Not because another woman interrupted. Not because he behaved badly. Because Y/N had wanted the night to be different. Harry moved closer. 

“Were you hurt because you liked me?” 

She gave a quiet laugh, but no humour accompanied it. “You knew I liked you.” 

“No.” 

“Everyone knew.” 

“Everyone assumed.” 

“You flirted with me constantly.” 

“So did you.” 

“You asked me on a date.” 

“And spent the entire evening wondering whether you were there because Olivia forced you.” 

“She didn’t force me.” 

“I know that now.” Y/N looked at him. Harry’s voice lowered. 

“I didn’t know it then.” The distance between them had reduced to less than a step. Neither appeared to have made the final movement. The bathroom doors stood open behind them, each leading into a separate bedroom. Two exits. Two opportunities to end the conversation. Neither used them. 

Y/N searched his face. “You were nervous.” 

Harry’s mouth curved without humour. “Terrified.” 

“I had never seen you nervous.” 

“You weren’t supposed to.” 

“You acted as though everything was easy.” 

“Most things were.” 

“And I wasn’t?” 

His eyes lowered briefly to her mouth. 

“No.” The answer entered her body like warmth. Harry lifted one hand. For a second, Y/N thought he might touch her face. Instead, his fingers found a strand of hair resting over her shoulder. He wound it slowly around his index finger. This time, the gesture was not absent-minded. He knew exactly what he was doing. Y/N watched his hand. Harry’s knuckles brushed the bare skin near her collarbone as he turned the strand once, then again. 

“You did that twice today,” she said. 

“I know.” 

“The first time, you didn’t.” 

“No.” 

“When did you realise?” 

“When Noah stopped talking.” Y/N’s mouth threatened to curve. Harry moved the strand between his fingers. 

“I used to do it without thinking.” 

“I remember.” 

“You never told me to stop.” 

“Sometimes I did.” 

“You never moved.” The words mirrored the old memory. Y/N lifted her eyes to his. 

“Maybe I was comfortable.” Harry’s expression darkened. 

“So was I.” The air between them shifted. He released her hair, but his fingers remained near her shoulder. Y/N could feel the warmth of his hand without contact. Harry looked down at her mouth again. This time, he didn’t hide it. Her pulse became unsteady. 

“Harry.” 

His eyes returned to hers. “What?” 

She didn’t know. A warning. A question. Perhaps only his name, spoken because the silence had become too intense to survive. Harry’s hand touched her waist. Barely. His palm rested against the side of the sleep shirt, fingers curving around her as though testing whether she would retreat. Y/N remained still. The touch was more deliberate than the one in the car. Slower. Harry stepped closer. Their bodies were not quite touching, but the distance between them had disappeared enough that Y/N could feel the warmth of him. 

“You should tell me to move,” he said quietly. 

“You should know whether you want to.” 

“I know what I want.” The certainty in his voice sent a shiver through her. Y/N’s hand rose before she could stop it, fingers resting against the centre of his chest. Harry inhaled sharply. His heartbeat was faster than she expected. The discovery gave her courage. 

“You always did,” she said. 

“No.” Harry’s fingers tightened slightly at her waist. 

“At twenty-two, I knew what I wanted for approximately five minutes at a time.” 

“And now?” His gaze held hers. 

“Now I know exactly what I want.” The answer felt dangerous. Y/N’s fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his T-shirt. Harry lowered his head. Not enough to kiss her. Enough that his breath touched her face. For one suspended second, the entire week seemed to narrow towards that point. Then a door slammed somewhere in the corridor. Voices followed. Mason laughed loudly outside their rooms. Y/N stepped back. Harry’s hand fell from her waist. The loss of contact felt immediate and unreasonable. They stared at each other. Neither pretended that nothing had happened. Mason’s footsteps passed their doors and disappeared towards the east wing. Harry released a slow breath. 

“You should sleep,” he said. 

Y/N’s heart was still racing. “So should you.” 

“I was trying.” 

“Try harder.” A hint of the old smile returned. Harry reached for his watch, fastening it around his wrist. At his bathroom door, he stopped. 

“Y/N.” She looked at him. “I meant what I said outside.” 

“Which part?” 

“All of it.” Before she could answer, he stepped into his room. The door remained open for another second. Harry looked back at her. His gaze travelled once more to her mouth. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

He closed the door. Y/N locked it. Then she stood alone in the bathroom, both hands pressed against the edge of the sink while she tried to slow her breathing. Her reflection looked exactly as unsettled as she felt. She returned to her bedroom and closed her own door, leaning against it. The warmth of Harry’s hand remained at her waist. His heartbeat seemed trapped beneath her palm. She climbed into bed but did not sleep for a long time. On the other side of the wall, Harry moved once, then became silent. Y/N stared into the darkness. They had spent six years pretending one unfinished night had ended everything. Less than a day in the same house had already begun proving otherwise. And this was going to be a very long week. 

[bellaimagination]

pls pls plsss write the dirtiest smut ever

I’m not really good at smut to be honest but I Will think about it 😂🤭

[bellaimagination]

What Next?

Hi there! I'm already working on my next series but I would like to know what else would you like to read from me!

Leave some comments or requests!

[bellaimagination]

I absolutely loved route back to me are u planning on any more extras becuase they were amazing 💕💕 you are amazing 🤍🤣

Hi, love!

I’m so sorry, I only just saw this! I’m not planning on adding any more extras to this series, but I’ve just finished another one, and I have a new series coming soon!

[bellaimagination]

Golden Was The Coast Series

Part V — Same Dates 

Warnings: romantic angst, bittersweet ending, emotional farewell, implied intimacy, tasteful sensuality, fame/life obligations, long-distance promise.  Mini summary: The end of summer arrives too quickly. As Harry prepares to leave San Fiora and return to studios, meetings, and the noise of his real life, he and Y/N try to hold onto every remaining moment. On their last night together, they take Stella out one final time, where love, longing, and goodbye become impossible to separate. But some summers do not end. Some summers make promises. 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

The last week of August arrived much faster than either of them wanted. 

It did not come loudly. There was no sudden storm, no dramatic change in the weather, no obvious sign that the summer was beginning to loosen its grip on San Fiora. The sea stayed blue. The lemon trees stayed heavy against the walls. The mornings still smelled like coffee, warm bread, and salt. Bicycles still moved lazily through the square, and Lucia still shouted at Matteo from the café door as if the whole town did not already know she loved him more than anything. 

Everything looked the same. 

That was the cruel part. 

The world had the audacity to keep being beautiful while time began slipping through their fingers. 

After Ravello Piccola, Harry stopped belonging to the corner table altogether. He still sat there sometimes, mostly out of habit, but it no longer felt like a hiding place. It felt like a beginning. A place they both knew too well to treat casually. The table where he had arrived as a stranger with sunglasses and silence. The table where he had ordered the same thing too many times. The table where Y/N had placed lemon gelato in front of him like a dare and somehow changed the shape of his days. 

Now, he no longer waited for her to come over with a notepad. Sometimes, he helped Lucia carry crates of lemons from the back. Sometimes, he stood behind the counter while Y/N wiped tables, leaning close enough to murmur something only she could hear. Sometimes, when Lucia disappeared into the kitchen, Harry would catch Y/N gently by the wrist, tug her behind the old wooden shelf near the coffee machine, and kiss her once. 

Only once. Never long enough. Never as long as either of them wanted. 

And every time, Y/N would pull away first, breathless and trying to look annoyed. 

“Harry,” she would whisper. “I’m working.” 

He would glance toward the kitchen, then back at her mouth. 

“I’m aware.” 

“You’re distracting.” 

“I’m trying to be helpful.” 

“You are absolutely not helpful.” 

Then he would smile that dangerous smile, the one she had named weeks ago and never quite learned how to survive. 

“Lucia asked me to keep you happy.” 

“No, she didn’t.” 

“She might have.” 

“She told you to stop leaning on the counter because it makes tourists slow down outside.” 

Harry would grin. 

“That too.” 

Lucia saw everything. Of course she did. 

She saw Harry’s hand resting at the small of Y/N’s back when he passed behind her in the café. She saw Y/N wearing one of his loose shirts over her swimsuit when she came down late one morning, cheeks still warm from sleep and hair damp from a shower that had clearly not happened in her own room. She saw Harry watching her when she laughed with customers, as if the sound had become something he needed to measure the day by. 

Lucia saw it all. And she said nothing. Which, for Lucia, meant she said everything. Matteo was less subtle. 

“Good morning,” he said one day, when Y/N arrived at the marina wearing sunglasses that belonged very obviously to Harry. 

Y/N ignored him and stepped into Stella with a bag of bread and fruit. 

Matteo leaned against the dock, arms crossed. 

“Nice sunglasses.” 

“They’re mine.” 

“They are too big for your face.” 

“They’re fashionable.” 

“They are Harry’s.” 

Harry appeared behind her with two bottles of lemonade and a smile he was not even trying to hide. 

“They are fashionable,” he said. 

Matteo pointed between them. 

“You two are terrible liars.” 

Y/N took one bottle from Harry’s hand and glared at Matteo. 

“Do you want us to use your boat or not?” 

Matteo held up both hands. 

“Use the boat. Fall in love on the boat. Make the boat dramatic. She likes attention.” 

Harry looked at Stella. 

“I feel like the boat knows too much.” 

“Everyone in San Fiora knows too much,” Y/N said, sitting down near the bow. “You get used to it.” 

Harry stepped in after her, the boat rocking under his weight. 

“I don’t think I will.” 

But he did. Slowly. 

He grew used to being seen in San Fiora. Not photographed. Not claimed. Not chased. Seen. There was a difference. 

He grew used to Lucia calling him handsome in front of his face and then charging him extra for tart because, according to her, “beauty must pay taxes too.” He grew used to Matteo yelling “Inglese!” from halfway across the marina whenever he wanted help moving something that did not need moving. He grew used to Rosa pressing lemons into his hands and telling him, in Italian he only half understood, that a man who looked that much at a woman should at least learn to make proper lemonade. 

And he grew used to Y/N. That was the most dangerous part. 

He grew used to waking up beside her in the small room she rented above the square, where the ceiling fan clicked every few seconds and the curtains moved with the morning breeze. He grew used to her sleeping with one hand tucked beneath her cheek and the other always reaching, somehow, toward him. He grew used to her apartment smelling faintly of coconut shampoo, sea salt, and the lemon soap Lucia insisted everyone in town should use because “mosquitoes hate elegance.” 

He grew used to the way Y/N made coffee badly because she always grew impatient, and the way she insisted she was not bad at making coffee, merely “emotionally incompatible with machines before nine.” He grew used to finding her barefoot in his rented house above the cliffs, wearing one of his shirts, her hair wet from the shower, humming some tune she claimed not to know. He grew used to her sitting on the kitchen counter while he cooked, stealing pieces of tomato, criticising his knife skills, and then kissing him when he told her to get down before she hurt herself. 

He grew used to her knees pressed to his beneath small tables. Her foot hooked around his ankle under café chairs. Her head on his shoulder during boat rides. Her laughter when he tried to speak Italian and accidentally told a waiter he was “very window” instead of “very full.” 

He grew used to the quiet confidence of her hand finding his in the dark. The easy weight of her body beside his. The way she no longer hesitated before touching him. The way she would walk past him in the café and brush two fingers against his wrist just because she could. The way he could kiss her forehead in the middle of the square and she would roll her eyes, but smile before she could stop herself. 

And Y/N grew used to him too. 

She grew used to Harry leaving a glass of water on her bedside table every night because she always forgot to drink enough after swimming. She grew used to him remembering that she liked fruit at breakfast but hated when melon tasted “too polite.” She grew used to him standing behind her on the balcony of his rented house, arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder while the sun went down. 

She grew used to his voice in the morning, rough and quiet, asking, “Five more minutes?” even when they both knew Lucia would kill her if she was late again. She grew used to him pressing absent kisses to her shoulder when he passed her. To his fingers tracing small shapes on her thigh while they sat on the boat. To the way he looked at her when he thought she was not paying attention. 

As if he was still learning her. As if he had not nearly memorised her already. Those final days blurred into a kind of happiness that felt too fragile to name. 

One evening, it rained. Not for long. Just enough to trap half the town under awnings and send tourists running through the square with bags held over their heads. Lucia declared it “a dramatic little weather situation” and refused to close the café, even though water kept blowing through the open door. 

Harry and Y/N ended up sitting at the corner table, playing cards with Matteo while Lucia pretended to supervise from behind the counter. 

Matteo cheated. 

Badly. 

“You are not even trying to hide it,” Harry said, staring at the card Matteo had very obviously pulled from his sleeve. 

Matteo looked offended. 

“In San Fiora, this is called creativity.” 

“In most places, it’s called cheating.” 

“Most places are boring.” 

Y/N placed her cards down. 

“I hate to say this, but he has a point.” 

Harry turned to her. 

“You’re siding with him?” 

“He owns the boat.” 

“I thought we had something.” 

“We do, but the boat has emotional value.” 

Harry stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. 

“Betrayed over a damp deck of cards and an ancient boat.” 

Y/N leaned closer and kissed his cheek. 

“You’ll survive.” 

He looked at her. 

“I might not.” 

Lucia made a sound from behind the counter. 

“Less kissing. More cards.” 

Y/N pulled away immediately, face warm. 

Harry smiled into his cards. 

Matteo groaned. 

“I hate being the third person in someone else’s romance.” 

Lucia hit him lightly with a towel. 

“Then stop sitting with them.” 

“But they are entertaining.” 

And they were. To everyone else, perhaps. To Y/N, it felt like living inside something she already knew she would miss while it was still happening. That was what scared her most. Not the leaving. 

The knowing before the leaving. 

The way every touch began to carry an echo. The way every joke ended with something unsaid. The way she would look at Harry across the café and suddenly imagine the chair empty. The way he would watch her by the sea, and for a second his expression would change, as if he was seeing her both there and already gone. 

Neither of them mentioned it. Not at first. 

They built a fragile agreement out of silence. They would not count the days. They would not talk about London. They would not ask what happened after. They would stay inside San Fiora for as long as San Fiora allowed. 

But the world had never been good at staying outside closed doors. 

It came on a Thursday morning. 

Harry’s phone rang while they were in his kitchen. Y/N was sitting on the counter, bare legs swinging, one of his shirts hanging loose over her swimsuit. Harry stood by the stove, making eggs badly and pretending they were not badly made. 

“You’re burning them,” Y/N said. 

“I’m not.” 

“They smell frightened.” 

“Eggs can’t smell frightened.” 

“These can.” 

Harry turned to look at the pan, frowning. 

“They’re fine.” 

“They are suffering.” 

He opened his mouth to answer, but his phone began vibrating on the table. 

The sound changed the room immediately. 

It was only a ringtone. 

Only a phone. 

But Y/N knew before he picked it up. 

Harry looked at the screen. His expression shifted. Not much. Just enough. The softness left his shoulders. His mouth pressed into a line. His eyes flickered once toward her and then away. 

Y/N slid off the counter slowly. 

“Take it,” she said. 

Harry hesitated. 

“It’s just—” 

“Take it.” 

He answered. 

She did not listen. Not properly. She walked to the balcony and looked out over San Fiora, giving him the illusion of privacy even though the house was too small for real distance. Below, the town looked the way it always did: sun on pale walls, laundry moving in the breeze, the sea glittering like nothing important had happened. 

Harry spoke quietly behind her. 

“Yes.” 

A pause. 

“I know.” 

Another pause. 

“I can be there.” 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

There it was. The beginning of the end. 

When the call finished, Harry did not speak right away. Neither did she. 

The silence stretched across the kitchen, filled with the faint smell of burnt eggs. 

Y/N turned first. 

Harry was still standing by the table, phone in one hand, the other resting on the back of a chair. He looked almost guilty, which somehow hurt more than if he had simply looked sad. 

“Tomorrow?” she asked. 

His eyes lifted to hers. 

He did not pretend not to understand. 

“Morning.” 

She nodded once. 

“London?” 

“London first. Then probably a few days in L.A. after. Meetings. Studio. Some things I pushed back when I came here.” 

“When you disappeared.” 

Harry looked down. 

“Yes.” 

Y/N tried to smile. 

It did not work. 

“Well,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice because the alternative was breaking in his kitchen, “the eggs are definitely ruined now.” 

Harry did not laugh. That was how she knew it was worse than she had prepared for. 

He crossed the room and stopped in front of her, close enough to touch but not touching. 

“I don’t want to leave like this,” he said. 

Her throat tightened. 

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m being pulled away.” 

“Aren’t you?” 

Harry closed his eyes briefly. 

“Yes.” 

Y/N looked past him, toward the stove. The eggs were burned beyond saving. It seemed stupid that she noticed. It seemed unbearable that life kept having details. 

“When?” she asked. 

“My car comes at seven.” 

“In the morning?” 

He nodded. 

She let out a small laugh with no humour in it. 

“That’s rude.” 

“I know.” 

“Lucia will say it’s cowardly to leave before coffee.” 

“She’d be right.” 

“She usually is.” 

Harry reached for her hand then. 

Y/N let him take it. 

His thumb moved over her knuckles slowly, the way it always did when he was thinking too much. 

“We have tonight,” he said. 

Y/N looked at their hands. 

One night. 

After a summer that had somehow become an entire life. 

“One night,” she repeated. 

Harry swallowed. 

“I asked Matteo if we could take Stella out.” 

Y/N looked up. 

“Already?” 

“I may have known the call was coming.” 

That hurt. 

Not because he had known. 

Because he had carried it alone. 

“For how long?” she asked. 

Harry did not answer immediately. 

“Two days.” 

“Harry.” 

“I didn’t want to ruin it.” 

“You don’t get to decide that by yourself.” 

“I know.” 

The words came quickly, full of regret. 

“I know. I just… I wanted a little more time where you looked at me without knowing exactly when I was leaving.” 

Y/N stared at him. 

She wanted to be angry. 

A part of her was. 

But the rest of her understood too well. 

Because she also wanted that. 

A little more time without the shape of goodbye pressed between them. 

She pulled her hand from his, but only to wrap both arms around his waist and hold him. 

Harry exhaled sharply, as if he had been waiting for permission to fall apart. He held her back immediately, one arm around her shoulders, the other across her lower back, his face buried in her hair. 

They stood like that in the kitchen while the ruined eggs cooled on the stove. 

“I hate this,” Y/N whispered into his shirt. 

Harry kissed the top of her head. 

“I know.” 

“I hate that tomorrow you’ll be somewhere above the clouds.” 

His arms tightened. 

“And I’ll hate that you’ll be here, and I won’t.” 

She closed her eyes. 

“I don’t want to look at your table and not see you.” 

Harry went still. Then he pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes had gone bright. 

“Don’t say that.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I’ve been thinking about ordering an espresso in London and realising it tastes wrong because you’re not the one bringing it.” 

Y/N laughed, but it broke halfway. 

“That’s so dramatic.” 

“I learned from you.” 

“I’m not dramatic.” 

“You told me lemon gelato would change my life.” 

“And it did.” 

Harry looked at her then, really looked at her, and something in his face softened into pain. 

“Yes,” he said. “It did.” 

That night, Matteo did not make a joke when he gave them the keys to Stella. 

That was how Y/N knew everyone knew. 

He stood at the edge of the dock, turning the small metal keyring between his fingers. The sun had already disappeared behind the cliffs, leaving the sky painted in violet, peach, and deep blue. San Fiora glowed behind them, warm and familiar, as if the whole town had lit itself gently for the goodbye. 

Matteo held the keys out to Y/N. 

She took them. 

For once, he did not immediately let go. 

“Bring her back before morning,” he said. 

Y/N nodded. 

“I will.” 

Matteo looked at Harry next. His expression was serious in a way that made him look older. 

“She likes calm water,” he said. 

Harry glanced at Stella. 

“The boat?” 

Matteo shrugged. 

“The boat. The girl. San Fiora. All of them.” 

Y/N looked down, smiling despite the ache in her chest. 

Harry nodded once. 

“I’ll take care of her.” 

Matteo studied him for a moment. 

Then he let go of the keys. 

“You better.” 

Lucia was standing outside the café when they passed through the square carrying a blanket, a small basket of food, and two bottles of lemonade. She pretended she had come out to shake crumbs from a cloth. No one believed her. 

Y/N stopped. 

Lucia looked her up and down, then looked at Harry. 

“You have food?” 

“Yes,” Y/N said. 

“Water?” 

“Yes.” 

“Blanket?” 

Y/N lifted the one over her arm. 

“Jacket?” 

Harry held it up. 

Lucia nodded, satisfied. Then, without warning, she pulled Harry into a hug. 

Harry froze for half a second. 

Then hugged her back. 

Y/N looked away because the sight did something terrible to her heart. 

Lucia patted his cheek when she released him. 

“You come back,” she said. 

Harry’s expression shifted. 

“I’ll try.” 

Lucia’s eyes narrowed. 

“No. You come back.” 

There was no room for negotiation in her voice. 

Harry smiled, though it looked difficult. 

“Yes, Lucia.” 

She turned to Y/N and softened. Just a little. 

“Go,” she said. “Before I become sentimental and blame the heat.” 

Y/N stepped forward and hugged her. 

Lucia held her tightly. 

“Don’t cry too much tonight,” she murmured, low enough that only Y/N could hear. 

Y/N’s throat tightened. 

“I can’t promise that.” 

Lucia kissed her hair. 

“I know.” 

They left before it became impossible. 

Stella rocked gently when they stepped aboard. The boat smelled like sun-warmed wood, salt, and old rope. Y/N ran one hand over the edge as Harry untied them from the dock. She knew every mark in the paint now. Every little creak. Every place where the wood had been repaired and repainted and loved badly enough to survive. 

Harry started the engine. 

Neither of them spoke as San Fiora began to move away. 

The town grew smaller behind them, its lights stretching across the dark water in long, trembling lines. The café was still visible for a while, a square of warm light near the centre of the village. Y/N watched it until the shape blurred. 

Harry guided Stella farther than they usually went. Not too far. Just enough. Enough that San Fiora became something they could look at fully. A whole town held in the curve of the coast. The place where he had arrived trying to disappear. The place where she had stayed trying to become someone else. The place that had, without asking, turned them toward each other. 

Harry cut the engine. 

Silence opened around them. 

Only water. 

Only night. 

Only the quiet sound of the boat rocking beneath their feet. 

Y/N sat near the bow, drawing her knees to her chest. Harry joined her a moment later, bringing the blanket with him. He wrapped it around her shoulders first, then sat behind her, legs on either side of hers, arms circling her waist. 

She leaned back into him immediately. 

It hurt how natural it felt. 

For a long while, they did not talk. 

Harry rested his chin against the side of her head. Y/N placed her hands over his where they met at her stomach. His fingers were cold from the rope, but his palms were warm. 

San Fiora glowed in the distance. 

The sky above them was full of stars. 

“I’m going to miss this,” Y/N said eventually. 

Harry’s arms tightened. 

“The boat?” 

“The boat. The town. Lucia shouting at everyone. Matteo pretending he doesn’t care about anything. The old woman who keeps giving us lemons like we’re sick.” 

“Rosa.” 

“Yes. Rosa.” Y/N smiled sadly. “The square in the morning. The sound of the church bells. Your ridiculous sunglasses.” 

“They’re not ridiculous.” 

“They are a little ridiculous.” 

“They were yours last week.” 

“Exactly. I know what I’m talking about.” 

Harry kissed the side of her head. 

She closed her eyes. 

“And you,” she added, much quieter. 

He did not answer. 

For a few seconds, she thought maybe he could not. 

Then he said, “I’m going to miss the way you say my name when you’re annoyed with me.” 

Y/N turned her head slightly. 

“That’s what you’ll miss?” 

“One of the things.” 

“What else?” 

Harry breathed in slowly. 

“The way you look at the sea when the sun goes down.” 

Her chest tightened. 

“The way you eat gelato too fast and blame the gelato.” 

“That’s valid.” 

“It’s not.” 

“It is.” 

He smiled against her hair. 

“The way you fold napkins when you’re nervous. The way you pretend not to be late when you are very clearly late. The way you talk to the bicycle like it’s a difficult relative.” 

“She is a difficult relative.” 

“The way you make me feel like the world can be quiet without being empty.” 

Y/N went still. 

Harry did too, as if he had not meant to say it aloud. 

The night seemed to gather around them. 

Y/N looked at San Fiora because looking at him would undo her. 

“I’m scared,” she admitted. 

His voice was gentle. 

“I know.” 

“No, I mean…” She swallowed. “I’m scared that your life will get loud again, and this will start feeling too quiet to remember.” 

Harry sat up a little behind her. 

“Y/N.” 

She shook her head. 

“Don’t say it won’t. You don’t know that.” 

He was silent. 

That was worse, somehow. 

She continued because if she stopped now, she might never say it. 

“You have studios. Meetings. People waiting for you. Cities. Planes. Songs. A whole life that existed before me and will keep existing after this. And I’ll go back too. I’ll leave San Fiora. I’ll return to everything I was supposed to return to. And one day maybe this will just be…” 

She could not finish. 

A summer. 

A pause. 

A beautiful bad decision. 

Harry turned her gently in his arms until she was facing him. 

“Look at me,” he said. 

She did. 

His face was pale in the moonlight, eyes darker than usual, curls moved by the wind. He looked tired again. Not the way he had the first day. Not empty. Just open. Like the goodbye had stripped him of all the careful things he used to carry. 

“You are not quiet because you are small,” he said. 

Y/N stared at him. 

“You are the quiet because you made the noise stop.” 

Her eyes filled before she could stop them. 

Harry lifted one hand and brushed his thumb beneath her eye, catching the tear before it fell. 

“When I came here, I wanted no one to find me,” he said. “And then you did.” 

“I didn’t mean to.” 

“I know.” His smile trembled slightly. “That’s why it mattered.” 

She laughed through the tears. 

“That’s terribly romantic.” 

“It’s terribly inconvenient.” 

That made her laugh properly, just for a second. 

Then she was crying again. 

Harry pulled her into him. 

This time, the hug was different. Not the kind that comforted. The kind that held something together because neither of them could. 

Y/N pressed her face into his neck, breathing him in. Salt. Warm skin. The faint clean scent of his shirt. Something entirely Harry that had become familiar too quickly. 

“I don’t want to forget this,” she whispered. 

“You won’t.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

Harry kissed her temple. 

“I do.” 

She pulled back just enough to look at him. 

“How?” 

He took her hand and pressed it against his chest. 

His heart was beating hard beneath her palm. 

“Because I won’t.” 

The words were simple. 

They broke her anyway. 

Y/N looked at him, at his face, at the moonlight touching the line of his jaw, at the mouth she already knew she would miss in a way that felt physically impossible. 

Harry lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. 

One by one. 

Not dramatically. 

Not like a performance. 

Like a man trying to memorise what he was about to lose for a while. 

“You’re doing it again,” Y/N whispered. 

“What?” 

“Looking at me like that.” 

Harry did not smile this time. 

“I’m trying to remember you without needing photographs.” 

Her throat tightened. 

“Harry…” 

“I know.” His fingers brushed slowly along her wrist, then up the inside of her arm, leaving warmth in their path. “I know I’ll have pictures. I know I’ll have messages. I know I’ll hear your voice if I call. But it’s not the same.” 

His hand reached her shoulder, then paused there, thumb moving gently over the skin just above her sleeve. 

“It won’t tell me how soft your skin is after a day in the sun,” he murmured. “Or how your hair smells like coconut even after you’ve been in the sea for hours.” 

A small, tearful laugh escaped her. 

“It’s just shampoo.” 

“No,” he said softly. “It’s not.” 

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to her shoulder through the thin fabric. 

“It’s this summer.” 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

His lips moved slowly from her shoulder to the side of her neck, not with urgency, but with devotion. With sadness. With the kind of tenderness that made every touch feel like both a hello and a goodbye. 

“I want to remember the way you shiver when the wind hits you on the boat,” he said against her skin. 

Another kiss. 

“The way you pretend you’re not cold because you’re stubborn.” 

“I’m not stubborn.” 

Harry lifted his head, one eyebrow raised. 

She sniffed and smiled. 

“I’m selectively determined.” 

His laugh was quiet and broken. 

“I want to remember that too.” 

Y/N touched his face, tracing the edge of his beard, the curve of his cheek, the soft line beside his mouth that deepened when he smiled. She moved slowly, because he was right. Photographs would not be enough. Messages would not be enough. She wanted to know the shape of him by heart. 

“I want to remember this,” she said. “Your face when you’re trying not to cry.” 

Harry closed his eyes. 

“Cruel.” 

“The way your voice sounds when you’ve just woken up.” Her thumb moved over his lower lip. “The way you look at me when you think I can’t see you.” 

His eyes opened. 

“And how do I look at you?” 

Y/N swallowed. 

“Like you’re afraid to want me too much.” 

Harry was still for a moment. 

Then he took her face in both hands and kissed her. 

There was no careful beginning this time. 

No question. 

No almost. 

They had asked each other enough over the summer. In glances. In pauses. In hands waiting at waists and wrists and shoulders. In every moment they had chosen patience when desire had already arrived. 

This kiss knew. 

It knew the time they did not have. It knew the morning waiting at the edge of the sea. It knew every goodbye they had not said yet. 

Y/N moved closer until she was in his lap, knees on either side of him, the blanket sliding from her shoulders and pooling around them. Harry’s hands found her waist immediately, steadying her, holding her like he had done a hundred times and never like this, never with the whole night pressing down on them. 

She kissed him harder. 

Harry breathed her name against her mouth. 

Not like a warning now. 

Like a surrender. 

Her hands slid into his hair, fingers tightening gently at the curls near his neck. He leaned into it, one hand spreading across her back, drawing her closer until there was no space left to measure. 

The boat moved softly beneath them. 

San Fiora glowed far away. 

Y/N felt his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt, fast and uneven against hers. She pressed her forehead to his for a second, just to breathe. 

“I’m going to miss you so much,” she whispered. 

Harry’s hands stilled on her back. 

His eyes shone in the moonlight. 

“I know.” 

“No, Harry, I’m going to miss you in stupid ways.” Her voice broke, and she laughed because if she did not, she would sob. “I’m going to hate espresso because of you.” 

“That feels unfair to espresso.” 

“I’m going to see lemon gelato and want to throw it into the sea.” 

He smiled, but his jaw trembled. 

“Please don’t. Lucia would find out.” 

“I’m going to hear boats at night and think it’s Stella.” 

Harry touched his forehead to hers again. 

“I’m going to hear every laugh in every crowded room and wish it was yours.” 

That silenced her. 

He kissed her once. 

Soft. 

Then again. 

Longer. 

“I’m going to miss the way you make me feel like I don’t have to be anything first,” he said. “Not Harry Styles. Not someone expected somewhere. Not someone with a schedule. Just…” 

“Harry,” she finished. 

His eyes closed. 

“Yeah.” 

Y/N kissed him again, and this time there was nothing left to hold back except the part of the night that belonged only to them. 

Harry’s fingers moved beneath the edge of her shirt, slow and careful against the warm skin of her waist. The touch was not rushed, not demanding. It was a question he asked with his hands, and Y/N answered by leaning closer, by softening into him, by letting the small sound that left her mouth disappear into the next kiss. 

He paused anyway. 

He always paused. 

His forehead rested against hers, breath unsteady. 

“Still okay?” he asked. 

Y/N looked at him, her heart aching with how much she loved that he still asked. 

“I’m here,” she said. 

“I know.” 

“No.” She touched his cheek. “I’m here.” 

Harry understood. 

Something in his face changed. 

The sadness stayed. The longing stayed. But beneath it came something steadier. A kind of gratitude so deep it made his hands tremble slightly as they returned to her waist. 

Y/N lowered her mouth to his neck, kissing the skin just beneath his jaw. Harry inhaled sharply, fingers tightening for a moment at her back before relaxing again. She smiled against him, not teasing, not really. Just memorising the fact that he could still react to her like that, even when everything hurt. 

Her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt. 

She did not hurry. 

Neither did he. 

She opened them slowly, one by one, her fingers brushing the skin beneath with each movement. Harry watched her the whole time, eyes dark, expression soft and almost disbelieving, as if he could not understand how something could feel so much like comfort and heartbreak at once. 

When the shirt loosened, she pushed it gently from his shoulders. 

It fell somewhere behind him, forgotten on the wooden floor of Stella. 

Y/N placed both hands on his chest. His skin was warm from the day, cooler now where the night air touched him. His heart beat beneath her palm, steady and fast, and for a moment she forgot about morning. Forgot about planes. Forgot about all the miles already waiting for them. 

Harry covered her hands with his. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rough. 

“Remembering.” 

His eyes softened. 

Then his hands found the hem of her shirt. 

He did not move further until she looked at him. 

Y/N nodded, barely. 

That was all he needed. 

Harry lifted the fabric slowly, carefully, as if even the act of removing a barrier between them deserved tenderness. The shirt slipped over her head and joined his on the floor, and for a second the air between them changed completely. 

Not because of what was revealed. 

Because of what was trusted. 

Y/N felt suddenly shy in a way she had not expected, despite everything they had already shared. Maybe because this was not the hotel room in Ravello Piccola. This was not an accident after a missed boat. This was their last night. A choice made with full knowledge of the goodbye waiting at sunrise. 

Harry noticed. 

Of course he did. 

He always noticed her. 

“Hey,” he whispered. 

She looked at him. 

His hands rose to her shoulders, then down her arms, slow and warm, grounding her. 

“You’re beautiful.” 

Y/N’s eyes stung again. 

“Don’t say that like goodbye.” 

Harry’s face crumpled just a little. 

He leaned in and kissed her shoulder. 

Then the place above her heart. 

Then the curve of her collarbone. 

“Then I’ll say it like a promise,” he murmured against her skin. 

He kissed her again. 

“You’re beautiful.” 

Another kiss, slower. 

“And I’m going to remember.” 

Y/N pulled him back to her mouth before either of them could break any further. 

The kisses deepened. The blanket tangled around their legs. The night air moved across their skin. Harry’s hands travelled over her with the same care he had shown from the first touch, learning and relearning, lingering at her waist, her back, the curve of her shoulder, never careless, never taking anything for granted. 

Y/N let herself feel it all. 

The roughness of his breath when she kissed his neck. 

The warmth of his chest beneath her palms. 

The way his hands shook almost imperceptibly when she came closer. 

The sound he made when she whispered his name like it was something she was already missing. 

They did not speak much after that. 

There were only small words. 

His name. 

Her name. 

“Come here.” 

“I’m here.” 

“Don’t go yet.” 

“Not yet.” 

At some point, Harry lay back against the folded blanket, bringing her with him, and the boat rocked gently beneath their shifting weight. Y/N rested over him, hair falling around them like a curtain, and Harry pushed it back from her face with both hands. 

He looked at her for so long that she almost asked him to stop. 

But she did not. 

Because she understood now. 

He was not looking because he was afraid of forgetting. 

He was looking because he knew he would remember. 

And that made it hurt more. 

“I love you,” Y/N whispered. 

The words came out before she had time to protect herself from them. 

Harry went still beneath her. 

For one terrible second, she thought she had ruined it. 

Then his eyes closed. 

A breath left him, broken and quiet. 

When he opened them again, he looked so helplessly happy and so painfully sad that she felt the words settle between them like something that had been there all along, only waiting to be named. 

“I know,” he said softly. 

Y/N stared at him. 

Then hit his chest with the flat of her hand. 

“That was not the answer.” 

Harry laughed, and the laugh cracked in the middle because his eyes were wet too. 

He caught her hand and pressed it against his heart. 

“I love you too,” he said. 

No hesitation. 

No performance. 

Just truth. 

“I love you,” he repeated, as if the first time had not been enough. “So much that I don’t know what to do with it.” 

Y/N bent down and kissed him. 

The rest of the night unfolded from there, tender and aching, made of skin warmed by summer and moonlight, of hands trying to memorise what distance would soon take away, of kisses that said everything the morning would not give them time to say. 

And when the world narrowed to the quiet space between their bodies, the sea kept moving gently around them, guarding what belonged only to the two of them. 

By dawn, San Fiora had gone soft and blue. 

Y/N woke to the sound of water against wood. 

For a few seconds, she did not know where she was. Then she felt the blanket around her. The solid warmth of Harry behind her. His arm across her waist. His breath slow against the back of her neck. 

The night returned in pieces. 

The stars. 

The crying. 

The promise they had not made yet. 

The way he had said he loved her like he was both grateful and ruined by it. 

Y/N opened her eyes. 

The sky was pale. 

Not gold yet. 

Almost. 

San Fiora lay in the distance, still asleep, a small town held between cliff and sea. The café would not be open yet. Lucia would not yet be shouting. Matteo would not yet be pretending to fix ropes he had already fixed. 

For a moment, everything was suspended. 

The last moment before the day began. 

Harry stirred behind her. 

His arm tightened gently around her waist before he even opened his eyes, as if his body knew before his mind did. 

Y/N closed her hand over his. 

“Morning,” he murmured against her hair. 

She turned slowly in his arms. 

His face was soft with sleep, hair tangled, eyes heavy, skin touched by the first hints of morning light. He looked younger like this. Not in age, but in the absence of everything he usually had to be. 

“Morning,” she whispered. 

He looked at her for a long moment. 

Then his face changed. 

The memory came back to him too. 

Morning. 

The car. 

The flight. 

Goodbye. 

Y/N saw it happen and hated it. 

Harry lifted a hand to her face. 

“Don’t,” he whispered. 

She tried to smile. 

“Don’t what?” 

“Look like that.” 

“I don’t know how else to look.” 

His thumb moved over her cheek. 

“Me neither.” 

They lay there for a few more minutes, tangled beneath the blanket on the floor of Stella, the boat rocking softly under them, the sky brightening with every breath they took. 

No one moved first. 

Moving meant starting the day. 

Starting the day meant ending the summer. 

Eventually, Y/N sat up. The blanket slipped from her shoulder, and Harry reached for her shirt before she could. He handed it to her silently, then put his own back on with slow movements, like each button was another step toward leaving. 

Neither of them made a joke. 

That was how she knew they were both trying very hard not to break. 

They returned to San Fiora as the sun rose. 

Harry drove Stella slowly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Y/N’s knee. She sat beside him, watching the town grow larger, trying to memorise it from the water one last time. 

The marina. 

The café. 

The stairs. 

The corner where Harry had first walked in wearing sunglasses and silence. 

When they reached the dock, Matteo was already there. 

Of course he was. 

He did not say anything when Harry tied the boat. He only took the rope, secured it, and looked at them with the sort of expression that pretended not to be emotional and failed. 

Y/N stepped onto the dock first. 

Harry followed. 

For a moment, the three of them just stood there. 

Then Matteo cleared his throat. 

“She behaved?” he asked, nodding toward Stella. 

Harry looked at the boat. 

“She was perfect.” 

Matteo nodded. 

“Good.” 

Another silence. 

Then he reached into his pocket and took out a small key on a faded blue keyring. 

Y/N frowned. 

“Matteo?” 

He ignored her and held it out to Harry. 

Harry looked at it. 

“What’s this?” 

“The spare key,” Matteo said. 

“To Stella?” 

Matteo shrugged, trying very hard to seem casual. 

“You’ll need it next summer.” 

Y/N’s chest tightened. 

Harry stared at the key. 

For once, he seemed genuinely unable to speak. 

Matteo pushed it into his hand. 

“Don’t lose it, Inglese.” 

Harry closed his fingers around the key. 

“I won’t.” 

Matteo nodded once, then turned away quickly. 

“I have ropes to fix.” 

Y/N looked at the perfectly fixed ropes. 

Harry did too. 

Neither of them said anything. 

They walked through the square as San Fiora woke around them. The town seemed to know. Or maybe Y/N only felt like it did. The old men outside the tobacco shop nodded at Harry. Rosa waved from her doorway, a lemon already in her hand because of course she would not let him leave without one. A child who had once splashed them at the beach ran past with a pastry in his hand and shouted something in Italian that made Harry smile even though he did not understand it. 

Lucia stood outside Caffè Lucia. 

Arms crossed. 

Waiting. 

The sight nearly broke Y/N before anything had happened. 

Harry stopped in front of her. 

Lucia looked him up and down, as if checking he was properly dressed, properly fed, properly worthy of the grief he was about to cause. 

“You leave too early,” she said. 

Harry nodded. 

“I know.” 

“Cowardly.” 

“Yes.” 

Y/N almost laughed and cried at the same time. 

Lucia’s expression softened. 

Then she pulled Harry into another hug. 

This time, he did not freeze. 

He held her back tightly. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

Lucia patted his back. 

“For what?” 

Harry looked over her shoulder at the café. 

“The table.” 

Lucia pulled away. 

“The table was not free.” 

Harry smiled. 

“I paid.” 

“You paid for coffee. Not emotional transformation.” 

Y/N wiped quickly under one eye. 

Harry laughed softly. 

Lucia cupped his face for half a second. 

“You come back,” she said. 

Harry looked at Y/N. 

Then back at Lucia. 

“Same dates.” 

Lucia nodded, satisfied. 

“Good.” 

Then she turned to Y/N. 

Her gaze was gentle now, too gentle. 

“Go,” Lucia said. “Before the car arrives and I become unbearable.” 

“You already are,” Y/N whispered. 

Lucia kissed her forehead. 

“Yes. But you love me.” 

Y/N hugged her. 

“I do.” 

“I know.” 

The car arrived at seven exactly. 

It looked wrong in San Fiora. 

Too clean. Too black. Too much like the outside world. 

The driver parked near the edge of the square, beside the road that climbed away from the coast. Harry’s bag sat at his feet. It was small. Too small for someone leaving a whole summer behind. 

Y/N looked at it because looking at him was harder. 

Harry noticed. 

He always noticed. 

“Hey,” he said. 

She looked up. 

He was standing in front of her, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt, curls still damp from the sea, the spare key to Stella tucked into his pocket. 

For one second, he looked exactly like the man who had walked into her life by accident. 

And nothing like him at all. 

“I hate this,” Y/N said. 

Harry nodded. 

“Me too.” 

“I’m trying not to be dramatic.” 

“Don’t.” 

She frowned. 

“Don’t try?” 

He shook his head. 

“Be dramatic. I love it.” 

Her face crumpled. 

“Harry.” 

“I know.” 

He stepped closer and took her hands. 

The whole town seemed to blur at the edges. Lucia in the doorway. Matteo near the marina. Rosa with her lemons. The car waiting. The sea shining behind everything like it had no idea how much it had done. 

Harry looked down at their joined hands. 

“Same dates?” he asked. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“Next summer.” 

“Same place?” 

“San Fiora.” 

“Same boat?” 

“If Matteo doesn’t change his mind.” 

“He won’t.” 

“No. He won’t.” 

Harry breathed out, shaky. 

“And if life gets messy?” 

Y/N squeezed his hands. 

“Especially then.” 

His eyes searched hers. 

“If I’m on tour?” 

“You find a break.” 

“If you’re somewhere else?” 

“I find my way back.” 

“If it’s hard?” 

“It will be.” 

He smiled sadly. 

“Realistic.” 

“I learned from Lucia.” 

Harry laughed, and the sound hurt because it was still beautiful. 

Y/N lifted one hand between them. 

Her smallest finger extended. 

Harry looked at it. 

Then at her. 

“A pinky promise?” he asked. 

“You have a problem with that?” 

“I’m just surprised this is legally binding.” 

“In San Fiora, it is.” 

He nodded solemnly. 

“Then I should take it seriously.” 

“You should.” 

Harry hooked his pinky around hers. 

The gesture was small. 

Childish, maybe. 

But the promise inside it felt enormous. 

“Same dates,” he said. 

Y/N held on. 

“Same dates.” 

He pulled her into him then. 

Not gently. 

Not casually. 

He held her like he had been trying not to hold her that tightly all morning. Y/N wrapped both arms around his neck and buried her face against him, breathing him in one last time while she could still do it without memory getting in the way. 

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair. 

She closed her eyes. 

“I love you too.” 

He pulled back just enough to kiss her. 

It was not like their first kiss. 

Not careful. 

Not like their last night either. 

Not desperate. 

It was slower than both. 

A kiss that tried to hold too much and knew it could not. 

His hands framed her face. Hers gripped the front of his shirt. Around them, San Fiora existed quietly, politely, letting them have the moment. 

When Harry stepped back, his eyes were wet. 

Y/N reached up and wiped beneath one of them. 

“You’re terrible at not crying,” she whispered. 

He laughed once, broken. 

“Learned from you.” 

The driver cleared his throat softly. 

Harry closed his eyes. 

“Of course.” 

“Go,” Y/N said, though the word nearly killed her. 

“I’ll call when I land.” 

“I know.” 

“And before that.” 

“Harry, you’ll be on a plane.” 

“I’ll text before takeoff.” 

She smiled through tears. 

“Okay.” 

He picked up his bag. 

Took three steps toward the car. 

Stopped. 

Y/N knew before he turned. 

He came back. 

Of course he did. 

He dropped the bag, took her face in his hands, and kissed her again. Harder this time. Less composed. A kiss that made Lucia look away and Matteo suddenly become very interested in the ropes. 

When Harry pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. 

“Lemon gelato,” he whispered. 

Y/N laughed through a sob. 

“What?” 

“Don’t let anyone else tell me it’ll change my life.” 

She shook her head. 

“Never.” 

He kissed her forehead. 

Then stepped away for real. 

Y/N did not move as he got into the car. 

She did not wave immediately. 

She could not. 

Harry looked at her through the open window. 

The car began moving slowly toward the coastal road. 

Only then did Y/N lift her hand. 

Harry lifted his. 

The car turned the corner. 

And he was gone. 

For a while, no one spoke. 

The square was too quiet. 

Then Lucia came to stand beside Y/N. 

She did not hug her. 

Not yet. 

She only slipped something into her hand. 

Y/N looked down. 

A small paper cup. 

Lemon gelato. 

Her mouth trembled. 

“He paid for it,” Lucia said. “Before leaving.” 

Y/N laughed, but it broke into tears. 

“Of course he did.” 

Lucia looked toward the road where the car had disappeared. 

“Men are stupid,” she said. 

Y/N looked at her, startled. 

Lucia shrugged. 

“But sometimes they learn.” 

Y/N held the gelato in both hands. It was already beginning to melt at the edges. She sat at the corner table. 

Harry’s table. 

Their table. 

For the first time since he had arrived, it was empty across from her. 

That was when she cried. 

Not loudly. 

Not dramatically. 

Just enough for Lucia to stand guard at the counter and glare at anyone who looked in her direction for too long. 

The days after Harry left were strange. 

San Fiora did not become less beautiful. 

That almost made it worse. 

The sea still glittered. The boats still left the marina. The café still opened every morning. Tourists still ordered too much, understood too little, and asked whether lemon tart really tasted different here. 

Y/N still worked. 

Still smiled. 

Still served coffee. 

Still corrected people gently when they pronounced Lucia’s name wrong. 

Still walked past the corner table and looked at it before she could stop herself. 

Sometimes, she heard the bell above the café door and her heart moved before her mind could catch it. 

Not him. 

Never him. 

Lucia never commented. She only placed a lemon gelato in front of Y/N at odd times, as if sugar and cold could patch a heart if administered consistently. Matteo became softer too, though he would have denied it under oath. He kept Stella cleaner than usual. 

Y/N noticed. 

So did he. 

Neither of them mentioned it. 

Three days after Harry left, Y/N left San Fiora too. 

Her room above the square looked too small when she packed. Not because she had too many things. Because somehow the summer had become larger than the space that held it. 

She folded her dresses. Packed her swimsuit. Found one of Harry’s shirts at the bottom of a chair and sat down on the bed with it in her hands for five full minutes. 

It smelled faintly of him. 

Not enough. 

Just enough to hurt. 

Her phone had messages from him. Many. A photo from the airport before takeoff. A message when he landed. A picture of an espresso in London with the caption: 

Not right. 

A voice note from a car, where he said nothing for three seconds and then simply laughed because he did not know what to say. 

A message at two in the morning: 

I keep thinking I hear the sea. 

Y/N replied when she could. 

Sometimes immediately. 

Sometimes after staring at the screen long enough for the words to blur. 

On her last morning, she went to the café before leaving. Lucia made her breakfast without asking. Matteo came in carrying a crate of lemons he did not need to carry. Rosa arrived with a bag of fruit. People said goodbye in pieces. 

A hug here. 

A kiss on the cheek there. 

Promises to return. 

Promises she meant. 

When Y/N finally stood in the square with her suitcase, Lucia pressed both hands to her face. 

“You come back too,” she said. 

Y/N smiled. 

“Same dates.” 

Lucia nodded. 

“Good girl.” 

Matteo walked her to the car that would take her to Naples. He carried her suitcase even though she told him she could do it herself. At the door, he handed her something. 

A photograph. 

Y/N looked down. 

It was slightly crooked, sun-washed, clearly taken without either of them noticing. She and Harry on Stella. Y/N sitting at the bow, head tilted back in the sun. Harry behind the wheel, not looking at the water. 

Looking at her. 

Y/N’s throat closed. 

“When did you take this?” she asked. 

Matteo shrugged. 

“I am very talented.” 

“You’re very nosy.” 

“That too.” 

She laughed and hugged him. 

He hugged her back quickly, awkwardly, then stepped away as if emotions were contagious. 

“Same dates,” he said. 

Y/N tucked the photo carefully into her bag. 

“Same dates.” 

Leaving San Fiora felt different from leaving Harry. 

It was quieter. 

But not easier. 

As the car climbed the coastal road, Y/N looked back until the town disappeared behind the cliffs. She had arrived there months ago thinking she had stayed because of the sea. Because of the light. Because of the way the world felt less urgent on that coast. 

Maybe that had been true. 

At first. 

But now she understood that some places did not change you because they asked you to become someone else. 

They changed you because they allowed you to stop pretending. 

San Fiora had done that. 

So had Harry. 

And leaving both felt like stepping out of sunlight before she was ready. 

Weeks passed. 

Then a month. 

Then more. 

Life returned because it always did. 

That was both cruel and kind. 

Y/N went back to ordinary mornings. Back to schedules. Back to streets that did not smell like lemons. Back to rooms without sea air. Back to coffee that tasted fine and therefore tasted wrong. 

She spoke to Harry often. 

Not every hour. 

Not in a way that tried to pretend distance was easy. 

But enough. 

Enough that she learned the pattern of his days again. Studio in the morning. Meetings that ran too long. Cars. Hotels. Flights. Nights where his voice sounded tired through the phone and she could tell he was lying when he said he was fine. 

Sometimes, he called from places where she could hear people in the background. Assistants. Producers. Someone laughing. Someone asking for him. 

Those calls were always shorter. 

She understood. 

She hated that she understood. 

Other nights, he called from quiet hotel rooms and stayed on the line until one of them fell asleep. 

Those were the worst. 

Those were the best. 

One night, sometime in October, Y/N was sitting on the floor of her room with her back against the bed, the photograph Matteo had given her propped against a lamp. Rain tapped lightly against the window. Not San Fiora rain. Not warm and dramatic. Just ordinary rain, the kind that made the room feel smaller than it was. Her phone lit up beside her knee, and when she saw Harry’s name on the screen, she smiled before she could stop herself. 

Are you awake? 

Y/N picked up the phone and replied. 

Unfortunately. 

His answer came almost immediately. 

Dramatic. 

Italian by adoption. 

The three dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again. For some reason, her heart started beating faster before he had even sent the next message. Maybe because she had learned him well enough to know when he was nervous, even through a screen. Maybe because there were silences that still felt like his hands looking for hers in the dark. 

Then his message arrived. 

I finished something. 

Y/N sat up a little straighter. 

That sounds suspicious. 

It’s a song. 

Her fingers stilled over the keyboard. Outside, the rain kept moving down the glass in thin silver lines. She stared at the message for a few seconds before typing. 

One of yours? 

Yeah. 

A pause. 

Then another message. 

It’s called Golden. 

The word sat there on the screen like it already knew her. 

Golden. 

The coast. The late afternoons. The sun on his shoulders. The way San Fiora had looked from the water on their last night, all warm lights and trembling reflections, as if the whole town had been built out of something too bright to touch. Y/N swallowed, but before she could answer, another message appeared. 

Play this when you miss the coast. 

A file came through beneath it. 

GOLDEN — H.S. 

For a moment, Y/N only looked at it. She did not press play right away. She held the phone in both hands and stared at the title until the room blurred a little around the edges. Harry had sent her songs before — small voice notes, melodies, half-finished things he claimed were nothing. But this was different. This had a name. This had a shape. This had the colour of everything they had tried to keep. 

Finally, she tapped the file. 

The song began softly, spilling into the room with that strange magic only music had — the ability to make distance feel both unbearable and survivable at the same time. Then his voice came in, familiar enough to hurt. Not the voice the world knew from stages and speakers. Not really. This was closer. Warmer. Like the version of him that had hummed under his breath while making terrible eggs in his kitchen above the cliffs. Like the version of him who had sung quietly into her hair on Stella when he thought she had fallen asleep. 

And then she heard it. 

“You’re so golden.” 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

San Fiora came back whole. 

Not slowly. 

Not gently. 

All at once. 

The first espresso. The corner table. Harry sitting with sunglasses on indoors, looking like a man who wanted the world to forget him. Lucia calling him handsome and pretending she was not already adopting him into the town. The lemon gelato placed in front of him like a challenge. His face when he tasted it for the first time — offended, surprised, delighted, and betrayed all at once. Her own voice telling him that routines killed, and his smile when he realised she was right. 

The song moved on, and Y/N felt the meaning shift beneath it, becoming less like something she was hearing and more like something she was remembering. When his voice reached toward light, she saw the coast at sunset. She saw Harry opening his eyes on the boat the morning after Ravello Piccola, sun catching the side of his face, his hand already reaching for her waist before he was fully awake. She saw the hill above San Fiora, the sea flashing gold below them, the world briefly quiet enough for both of them to breathe. 

When the song carried that feeling of wanting to be taken back to brightness, Y/N knew exactly where it was asking to go. Not to a stage. Not to a city. Back to the water. Back to the café. Back to the little wooden boat called Stella. Back to the place where Harry had stopped being a name before he was a person. Back to the summer that had found them both when neither of them had known what they were looking for. 

And when the song turned fragile, when the words made him sound almost afraid of something too bright, too good, too easy to lose, Y/N pressed a hand to her mouth. Because she knew that too. She knew the way he had looked at her on their last night, like she was both the light and the thing that made leaving it unbearable. She knew the brokenness underneath his jokes. The exhaustion he had brought to San Fiora. The quiet he had not known how to ask for until she gave it to him without making him explain. 

The music filled the room, and with it came every specific thing she thought distance might eventually soften. The blue bicycle with the dramatic brakes. Harry accusing her of cheating during their race up the stairs. Her accusing his legs of having an unfair advantage. The hidden cove. His hand around her wrist in the water. The way he had asked why she pretended not to know him, and the way she had told him he looked tired of being recognised before being received. 

Then came Ravello Piccola. Lanterns over the square. The old woman saying they made a beautiful couple. Harry asking if Y/N had corrected her. Bad dancing. His hands at her waist. His mouth close to her ear as he admitted he was trying very hard not to kiss her in front of everyone. The first kiss by the stone balcony. The missed boat. The small room. Morning sunlight. His lips on her shoulder. His voice asking if she regretted it, already sounding afraid of the answer. 

By the time the song reached its final stretch, Y/N was crying. But she was smiling too, because suddenly she understood. Golden was not only a song. Not to her. Not to them. It was a place. It was San Fiora folded into melody. It was lemon on her tongue, salt in her hair, his shirt over her skin, Lucia’s voice from the café door, Matteo tossing keys across the dock, the sea turning bright beneath a summer neither of them had meant to keep. 

Harry had not sent it to explain goodbye. He had sent it because he knew there would be days when memory would not feel like enough. Days when the distance would feel too real, when ordinary rooms would feel too far from the coast, when she would start to wonder if a summer could really change two people that much. And now she would have this. His voice. That word. The light. A way back. 

When the song ended, the room fell silent again, but it was not the same silence as before. Y/N looked down at the phone in her hands. The title still glowed on the screen. 

Golden. 

A new message appeared. 

Too much? 

Y/N laughed through the tears, wiping her cheek with the sleeve of her jumper before typing back. 

You made me cry. 

His reply came quickly. 

Bad cry? 

Y/N looked at the photograph of them on Stella. Her at the bow, face turned toward the sun. Harry behind the wheel, not looking at the water. 

Looking at her. She answered. 

San Fiora cry. 

A pause. Then Harry wrote. 

I miss you. 

Y/N held the phone against her chest for a second before replying. 

I miss you too. 

The three dots appeared again, and this time she could almost see him wherever he was — in some studio, hotel room, or car too far from the sea, looking down at his phone with that same careful expression he wore whenever something mattered too much. 

Same dates? 

Y/N looked out at the rain. For a moment, she could hear the sea beneath it. She could almost smell lemons. Almost feel the warm wood of Stella beneath her hands. Almost hear Lucia telling someone that quiet did not include free dessert. Almost see Harry at the corner table, smiling like he had been waiting for her all along. 

She typed slowly. 

Same dates. 

Then, after a moment, she added. 

Independent of everything. 

His answer came one minute later. 

Especially then. 

Y/N smiled through the tears and pressed play again. 

The rain kept falling. The room stayed small. The world stayed complicated. But somewhere beyond all of it — beyond studios and flights, beyond ordinary days, beyond distance, time zones, and lives that still needed to be lived — there was a small town on the Italian coast waiting for August. A café with a corner table. A boat called Stella. A lemon tree leaning over a stone wall. A promise tied to a blue keyring in Harry’s pocket. 

And somewhere, on opposite sides of the same song, two people were already finding their way back to each other. 

Same dates. 

Tag list: @indierockgirrl @pizzadragono7

And this is the end of this series! I hope you liked it as much as I did! If you want some extra part, please let me know and give me some opinions on it!

[bellaimagination]

Golden Was The Coast Series

Part IV — The Last Boat Home 

Warnings: romantic tension, sharing one room, intimacy, emotional vulnerability.  Mini summary: A night in Ravello Piccola changes everything. Between lanterns, music, bad dancing, and a missed boat back to San Fiora, Harry and Y/N finally stop hiding from what has been growing between them all summer. But some moments are too fragile to rush, and some almosts are only waiting for the right night to become real. 

The boat to Ravello Piccola moved through the evening like it knew exactly what it was carrying. 

Y/N stood near the railing with Harry beside her, their shoulders touching whenever the boat shifted over the water. The sun had not fully disappeared yet, but it had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, spilling gold across the sea until every ripple looked like it had been touched by fire. Behind them, San Fiora grew smaller with every passing minute, its pale houses folding into the hillside, the church tower catching the last of the light, the café becoming nothing more than a warm square in the distance. 

Y/N kept looking back. 

She told herself it was because the view was beautiful. 

That was not entirely a lie. 

Harry’s hand was still around hers. 

That made looking forward difficult. 

His fingers were warm, steady, curled naturally through hers as if they had been doing this for much longer than a handful of days. As if hand-holding had not only recently become something they allowed themselves. As if all those almosts — the cove, the hill, the square, the boat, the brush of fingers beneath café tables — had been quietly teaching their hands what to do before either of them found the courage to say it aloud. 

Harry looked down at their joined hands, then out at the water. 

“You’re quiet,” he said. 

Y/N glanced up at him. 

“You say that like you’re not usually the quiet one.” 

“I’m branching out.” 

“Into observation?” 

“I was told I collect them.” 

“You do.” 

“I’m trying to use them responsibly.” 

Y/N smiled, but her stomach was full of nerves. 

“I’m fine.” 

Harry looked at her. She sighed. 

“I’m mostly fine.” 

“That sounds more honest.” 

“I’m nervous.” 

His thumb moved slowly over her knuckles. 

“About Ravello Piccola?” 

“No.” 

He waited. 

Y/N looked back at San Fiora again, even though it was already softening into the coast. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe about tonight feeling like it already means something before anything has happened.” 

Harry’s hand tightened very slightly around hers. 

For a moment, he did not answer. 

Then he said, “It does.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

The wind moved through his hair, lifting the curls from his forehead. He was not smiling now. There was no joke waiting to soften the sentence, no easy charm, no attempt to step around what they both knew had been following them for weeks. 

“It means something to me,” he said. 

Her breath caught quietly. 

Harry looked down, as if the honesty had cost him more than he expected. 

“I just wanted you to know that before Matteo ruins it with boat schedules.” 

Y/N laughed before she could stop herself. There he was. 

Her Harry. 

The one who could open something tender and then immediately look embarrassed by how much of himself he had shown. 

“I think Lucia threatened him into silence,” she said. 

“Lucia is terrifying.” 

“You love her.” 

“I do.” 

“She knows.” 

“That’s also terrifying.” 

Y/N smiled and looked toward the front of the boat. Ravello Piccola was beginning to appear along the coast, tucked between cliffs and water, smaller than San Fiora but brighter tonight, strung with lights that trembled in the evening air. Music floated faintly across the sea before the town fully came into view, a warm, distant pulse of voices, strings, and laughter. 

Harry followed her gaze. 

“That’s it?” 

“Yes.” 

“It looks like someone spilled stars down the hill.” 

Y/N turned to him, surprised. Harry noticed. 

“What?” 

“That was beautiful.” 

He looked almost shy. 

“Don’t sound so shocked.” 

“You hide the poet well.” 

“I’ve been told I’m dramatic.” 

“You are.” 

“That felt like a trap.” 

“It was.” 

The boat slowed as it approached the little harbour. Ravello Piccola glowed ahead of them, lanterns strung from balconies, fishing boats tied close together, flowers spilling over stone walls. People waited on the dock, waving at relatives, calling out names, taking bags and baskets as the boat bumped gently against the pier. 

Harry stepped down first, then turned and held out his hand. Y/N took it. 

She had taken his hand so many times by now that it should not have made her heart move. It still did. The second her feet touched the dock, Ravello Piccola wrapped around them. 

The town was all warmth and movement. Narrow streets rose from the harbour into a square filled with long tables, lanterns, people, music, and the smell of grilled fish, basil, tomatoes, sugar, wine, and sea air. Children ran between adults with paper flags in their hands. Older women sat near doorways, watching everything with the calm authority of people who had seen every romance begin and end twice over. Somewhere near the centre of the square, a band played something lively enough to make everyone clap off beat. 

Harry looked around, taking it in. 

Y/N watched him instead. 

Without the cap. Without the sunglasses hiding half his face. Without San Fiora’s familiar corners around him. 

He looked exposed again. 

Not badly. 

Just visibly aware of being in a place full of people. 

Y/N stepped closer. 

“You okay?” 

Harry looked down at her, and the tension in his mouth softened. 

“Yeah.” 

“You sure?” 

His smile was small. 

“I’m with you.” 

The answer was simple. It still did something stupid to her chest. 

They walked through the narrow street toward the square, their hands joined between them. No one stopped them. No one shouted his name. A few people glanced at Harry because he was tall and beautiful in a way that made glancing inevitable, but then they looked away and returned to their conversations, their food, their music, their own lives. 

Y/N felt Harry notice that too. 

His hand relaxed more fully in hers. 

At the edge of the square, an old woman sitting at a table with a glass of wine looked at them, smiled, and said something in Italian. 

Harry turned to Y/N. 

“What did she say?” 

Y/N pressed her lips together. 

“Nothing.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes. 

“It was absolutely something.” 

“It was just a comment.” 

“About what?” 

“About us.” 

His eyebrows lifted. 

“Us?” 

Y/N looked away, suddenly very interested in the lanterns. 

“She said we make a beautiful couple.” 

Harry was quiet for a second. 

Then, far too casually, he asked, “Did you correct her?” 

Y/N looked at him. 

“I didn’t have time.” 

“You had time.” 

“I was translating.” 

Harry’s mouth curved. 

“Convenient.” 

“You’re enjoying this too much.” 

“I’m enjoying many things.” 

Her face warmed. 

“Harry.” 

He looked pleased with himself. 

“Yes?” 

She shook her head and started walking again. He followed, still holding her hand. 

They found space at one of the long tables near the edge of the square. The food arrived in waves, not ordered so much as delivered by people who seemed offended by empty plates. Pasta with fresh tomatoes. Bread brushed with olive oil. Little fried things Y/N did not know the name of but ate anyway. Grilled fish with lemon. Peaches soaked in wine. A small cake with cream and almonds that Harry claimed he was “only trying” and then finished nearly half of. 

Y/N watched him take another bite. 

“I thought you were saving room.” 

“I did.” 

“For the whole table?” 

“For culture.” 

“That cake is not culture.” 

“In Italy, I feel like cake can be culture.” 

“It can,” said an old man beside them in English so sudden and serious that both of them turned. 

Harry froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. 

The old man nodded at the cake. 

“Very important.” 

Y/N burst out laughing. Harry swallowed, trying not to smile. 

“Thank you.” 

The old man lifted his glass. 

“You listen to her, though. Women know when men are foolish.” 

Harry looked at Y/N. 

“I’ve heard that before.” 

Y/N lifted her eyebrows. 

“From wise people.” 

“From many people.” 

“Same thing.” 

The old man seemed satisfied and returned to his wine. Harry leaned closer to Y/N. 

“Does everyone in Italy comment on strangers?” 

“Only when they know they’re right.” 

“That seems dangerous.” 

“You get used to it.” 

“I’m not sure I will.” 

“You said that about San Fiora.” 

“And I was wrong.” 

Y/N looked at him. The smile faded from both of them a little. 

Not sadly. 

Just enough to acknowledge that he had said something true by accident. 

He had gotten used to San Fiora. He had gotten used to her. 

Maybe too much. 

Maybe not enough. 

Before the thought could settle heavily, the music changed. 

The band near the fountain began playing something brighter, faster, and people immediately started clapping, pulling one another from chairs, laughing as they moved into the open space. A woman in a green dress grabbed her husband by both hands and dragged him into the centre. Children spun in circles until they nearly fell. Someone shouted encouragement from a balcony. 

Y/N felt Harry look at her before he said anything. 

“No.” 

Harry smiled. 

“I haven’t said anything.” 

“You were about to.” 

“I was going to ask if you wanted more cake.” 

“Liar.” 

He stood and held out his hand. Y/N shook her head. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Come on.” 

“You stepped on my foot last time.” 

“One time.” 

“One traumatic time.” 

“I’ve improved.” 

“It was three days ago.” 

“I’m a fast learner.” 

“You told a waiter you were very window.” 

“That was Italian.” 

“This is dancing.” 

“Arguably more universal.” 

Y/N stared at his hand. 

Harry lowered his voice. 

“Dance with me.” 

That did it. Not because the words were smooth. Because they were not. 

Because his voice held the same careful courage she had heard in it on the boat, when he told her the night already meant something. 

Y/N placed her hand in his. 

“One song.” 

Harry smiled. 

“One song.” 

He led her into the square. 

The lights overhead threw gold across his face, and the music moved around them, too fast for elegance, too cheerful for nerves. Harry took her waist with one hand and held her other hand in his, pretending seriousness for approximately three seconds before immediately turning them the wrong way. 

Y/N gasped. 

“That is not the rhythm.” 

“I’m interpreting.” 

“You’re lost.” 

“I’m artistically exploring.” 

“You are going to injure me.” 

Harry laughed and pulled her closer, avoiding a child who spun past them with alarming speed. 

“I’m doing my best.” 

“Your best is concerning.” 

“You’re very critical for someone who agreed to one song.” 

“I was manipulated.” 

“By my charm?” 

“By your audacity.” 

He grinned. 

“I’ll take it.” 

They were terrible. Objectively terrible. 

Harry was a good dancer when he had to be Harry Styles, but apparently that did not translate to dancing in a crowded Italian square with Y/N laughing too hard to follow his lead and him laughing too hard to lead properly. He turned her too late. She stepped the wrong way. He bumped into a man who was moving with far more confidence than either of them. Y/N almost tripped over someone’s abandoned sandal. 

Harry caught her immediately. 

His hand tightened at her waist. 

“You okay?” 

She was laughing, breathless. 

“Yes.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

The music kept going, but they had stopped moving. Or maybe everything else had simply moved around them. Harry’s smile faded slowly. Y/N realised how close they were. 

His hand was still at her waist. Hers had landed against his chest when he caught her, fingers pressed to the open collar of his shirt. She could feel his breath moving beneath her palm, uneven now. Not from dancing. 

The lanterns blurred behind him. The square softened. 

Harry looked at her mouth. Then back at her eyes. 

“I’m trying very hard not to kiss you in the middle of a square full of people,” he said quietly. 

Y/N’s stomach dropped. Then rose. Then forgot how to behave entirely. 

“Is it working?” 

Harry’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed dark. 

“Very badly.” 

She almost laughed. 

Almost. 

But then his thumb moved once at her waist, slow and unconscious, and the sound caught in her throat. 

“Harry,” she said. 

His name came out differently this time. Not warning. Not teasing. Something closer to permission. 

Harry heard it. 

She knew he did. 

His face changed, and for a second she thought he might actually do it. Kiss her there, under the lanterns, with Ravello Piccola clapping around them and the sea just beyond the harbour. 

Then someone bumped into Harry from behind. A child, again. Because apparently the universe had a personal commitment to interruption. 

Harry steadied himself, and Y/N stepped back with a breathless laugh that felt half relieved and half furious. The child shouted an apology in Italian and ran off before either of them could react. Harry stared after him. 

“I’m beginning to think children are being strategically deployed.” 

Y/N laughed, pressing a hand to her chest. 

“By who?” 

“San Fiora. Ravello. The bicycle. All of them.” 

“The bicycle isn’t even here.” 

“That’s what she wants us to think.” 

Y/N laughed harder. Harry smiled, but his eyes returned to her mouth once more before he looked away. The song ended. Then another began. Y/N expected him to release her. He did not. 

“One more?” he asked. 

“You said one.” 

“I lied.” 

“You’re getting comfortable with that.” 

“You’re a bad influence.” 

“I’m a wonderful influence.” 

Harry’s hand slid more securely around hers. 

“You are.” 

It was said too softly to be only a joke. So they danced again. Better this time. Not because they had improved much, but because they stopped trying so hard. Harry let the rhythm be messy. Y/N let herself lean into him. The crowd moved around them, and after a while she stopped thinking about who might be looking. His hand at her waist became familiar. His laughter against her ear became something she wanted to keep. His body close to hers under the warm lights became one more thing summer had given her without asking whether she was ready. 

When the music finally slowed, Harry did not step away. 

Y/N looked up at him. 

He looked almost dazed. 

“You still with me?” she asked. 

His smile was faint. 

“Unfortunately.” 

She rolled her eyes. 

“Dramatic.” 

“Learned from the best.” 

They left the square before the next song could pull them back in. 

The streets of Ravello Piccola were narrower away from the festa, quieter too. Lanterns hung from balconies, casting warm pools of light over stone steps and painted doors. The music followed them, softer now, mixed with the sound of distant voices and water against the harbour wall. 

Harry walked beside Y/N with his hands in his pockets, their shoulders brushing every few steps. Neither of them reached for the other. 

Maybe because they had been touching all night and needed to feel the absence of it. 

Maybe because if one of them did, they would not stop. 

They climbed a short set of stairs to a small terrace overlooking the sea. It was not empty, exactly, but quieter than the square. An old stone railing separated the terrace from the drop toward the water, and below, the harbour lights trembled on the surface like broken stars. 

Y/N rested her hands on the stone. Harry stood beside her. For a while, they only looked out. 

The air was cooler there. Y/N could feel it on the back of her neck, on her bare arms, against the warmth left by dancing. Her heart had not fully slowed. She was not sure it wanted to. 

Harry’s voice came softly. 

“I wanted to kiss you before tonight.” 

Y/N’s fingers tightened on the stone railing. 

She did not look at him yet. 

“When?” 

He huffed quietly, but there was no humour in it. 

“When didn’t I?” 

That made her turn. Harry was already looking at her. 

The lantern light touched one side of his face, leaving the other softer in shadow. He looked nervous. Not dramatically. Not visibly to anyone who did not know him. But she did. She knew his careful silences now. The way his mouth softened when he was about to be honest. The way his eyes searched hers before he gave away something he could not take back. 

“The beach,” he said. “After the lemon gelato. On the boat. At the festa in San Fiora. Yesterday. This morning when you walked into the square.” 

Y/N’s breath caught. 

“This morning?” 

His smile was small and helpless. 

“You looked beautiful.” 

“You didn’t say that.” 

“I know.” 

“Why?” 

“Because Matteo was there.” 

Y/N laughed softly. 

“Coward.” 

“Yes.” 

The honesty of it made her smile. Harry stepped closer. Not all the way. Just enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to keep looking at him. 

“And because if I said it, I thought I might kiss you.” 

The laughter left her. The music from the square drifted up the street, soft and far away now. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“And now?” 

Harry looked at her mouth. Then her eyes. 

“Now I’m asking first.” 

Her heart was beating too hard. 

“Okay.” 

His expression flickered. 

“Okay?” 

Y/N nodded. 

“Okay.” 

Harry’s hand rose slowly to her face. Slowly enough that she could move away. She did not. 

His fingers touched her jaw with a gentleness that made her chest ache. Not a performance. Not seduction. Just care. His thumb brushed once along her cheek, and then he leaned in. 

The first kiss was softer than Y/N expected. 

Maybe because they had almost done it so many times that part of her had imagined something urgent, inevitable, overwhelming. But Harry kissed her like he was afraid of frightening the moment away. Like he knew how long it had taken them to reach it and refused to rush through the door now that it had finally opened. 

His mouth touched hers once. Then paused. His forehead rested briefly against hers. 

Y/N opened her eyes. 

Harry’s were still closed. 

“Still okay?” he whispered. 

The question nearly undid her. Instead of answering, she lifted a hand, gripped the front of his shirt, and pulled him back to her. 

The second kiss was different. 

Not careless. Never careless. But less afraid. 

Harry made a quiet sound against her mouth, one hand sliding to her waist, the other settling at the side of her neck. Y/N stepped closer until there was no room left for hesitation, until the stone railing pressed behind her and Harry’s body was warm in front of her and the entire summer seemed to exhale at once. 

There it was. The thing all the almosts had been reaching for. 

His mouth moved slowly over hers, then deeper, still gentle but no longer uncertain. Y/N’s hand slipped into his hair, and Harry leaned into the touch like he had been waiting longer than either of them wanted to admit. The music from the square became distant. The sea below became a hush. The lantern light became gold behind her eyelids. 

When they finally broke apart, Harry did not move away. 

His lips brushed her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth. Then stopped at her temple. 

“I wanted this,” he said quietly. 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

“I know.” 

He pulled back enough to look at her. 

“You knew?” 

“I hoped.” 

Harry smiled then. A real smile. A little stunned. A little ruined. 

“You’re terrible.” 

“You’re slow.” 

“I was being respectful.” 

“You were being impossible.” 

“I can be both.” 

Y/N laughed, and he kissed her again before the sound had fully left her mouth. 

After that, the night changed. Not loudly. Not in a way anyone else would have noticed. But for them, everything shifted. 

Harry held her hand on the way back to the square, but now their fingers did not feel like a question. He kissed her once beneath an archway because the street was empty and because, apparently, once Harry had permission, he became very interested in making up for lost time. He kissed her again near a closed flower shop, slower this time, smiling against her mouth when she told him they were going to miss the boat if he kept stopping. 

“We won’t,” he said. 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I trust Matteo’s chaos.” 

“That is a terrible system.” 

“It’s worked so far.” 

“It has almost never worked.” 

Harry kissed her forehead. 

“Come on, then.” 

They were not late when they reached the harbour. Not technically. 

The problem was that the harbour was confusing, the festa had spilled into the docks, and Matteo’s “boats until late” had apparently been less of a schedule and more of a poetic impression. Several boats were tied along the pier. People were laughing, calling names, carrying baskets. A man told them the San Fiora boat had already left. Another said no, it was leaving from the other side. A woman told Y/N the last boat was at midnight. A boy insisted it had been at eleven-thirty. 

Harry looked at Y/N. Y/N looked at Harry. 

“What time is it?” she asked. 

Harry checked his phone. His expression changed. Y/N closed her eyes. 

“No.” 

“Maybe.” 

“No, Harry.” 

“It’s twelve-oh-eight.” 

She stared at him. 

“You said we wouldn’t miss it.” 

“I trusted Matteo’s chaos.” 

“I told you that was a terrible system.” 

“In my defence, you kissed me.” 

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it. 

“That is not a defence.” 

“It was distracting.” 

“You kissed me first.” 

“After asking respectfully.” 

“You are unbelievable.” 

Harry looked past her toward the empty stretch of water where the boat to San Fiora should have been. 

Then he laughed. Not loudly. Not because it was funny. Because it was so inevitable that anger had nowhere to go. 

Y/N tried to glare at him. Failed. Then she laughed too. 

“Oh no,” she said, covering her face. 

Harry stepped closer, still smiling. 

“How bad is this?” 

“We missed the last boat.” 

“Yes.” 

“Lucia told us to bring money.” 

“Yes.” 

“Matteo tried to warn us.” 

“Lucia stopped him.” 

“Because she trusted us.” 

Harry tilted his head. 

“Did she?” 

Y/N lowered her hands and stared at him. 

“You think Lucia planned this?” 

“I think Lucia is capable of many things.” 

“She is.” 

They both looked back toward the sea. 

San Fiora was somewhere beyond the dark water, close enough to feel possible and far enough to be unreachable until morning. 

Y/N let out a breath. 

“Well.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“Well.” 

“We need somewhere to sleep.” 

His smile faded slightly. The night seemed to shift again, quieter now. 

“Yes.” 

Y/N felt the same thought arrive between them. One room. Maybe two. Maybe not. A missed boat was suddenly not funny in the same way. 

Harry must have seen the change in her face because his voice softened immediately. 

“We’ll find somewhere. You can have the room. I’ll sleep wherever.” 

“Harry.” 

“I mean it.” 

“I know you do.” 

“I don’t want you to feel—” 

“I don’t.” 

He stopped. Y/N looked at him. 

“I don’t.” 

A beat passed. His eyes searched hers carefully. 

“Okay.” 

They found the locanda at the end of a narrow street above the harbour. 

Locanda del Mare was small, family-run, and half asleep by the time they arrived. The woman at reception wore a cardigan over her nightdress and looked at them with the resigned expression of someone who had seen many missed boats become sudden accommodation requests. 

Y/N explained in Italian. The woman listened, nodded, glanced at Harry, glanced at Y/N, and said something that made Y/N’s face warm instantly. Harry leaned closer. 

“What?” 

“She says the sea makes people forget clocks.” 

His mouth twitched. 

“Does it?” 

“Apparently.” 

The woman typed something slowly into an old computer, then looked up. Y/N turned to Harry. 

“There’s one room.” 

Harry nodded. 

“One room is fine.” 

“One bed.” 

His expression changed. Only slightly. Enough. Y/N looked away. Harry looked back at the woman. 

“We’ll take it.” 

Then, immediately, to Y/N, “Only if you’re okay with that.” 

The receptionist looked between them, unimpressed by their emotional complexity. 

Y/N met Harry’s eyes. 

“I’m okay.” 

He held her gaze for one second longer. Then nodded. The room was on the second floor. 

It was simple. White walls. Wooden shutters. A small balcony with open doors letting in the sound of the sea. A narrow wardrobe. A little table with two glasses. A bed with white sheets turned down neatly, looking far too innocent for the way Y/N’s heart began beating when she saw it. 

Harry stepped in behind her and stopped near the door. For a few seconds, neither of them moved. 

The night air entered through the balcony, carrying salt, distant music, and something floral from a plant outside. The room smelled faintly of soap and sun-warmed fabric. Somewhere below, someone laughed in the street, then the sound faded. 

Y/N placed her small bag on the chair. Harry set the key on the table. 

“I can sleep on the floor,” he said immediately. 

She turned. 

“No.” 

“Y/N.” 

“No.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“I know. But no.” 

His shoulders lowered slightly, though not with relief. More like he was still trying to decide where the safest place to stand was. 

She stepped closer. Not much. Enough. 

“You don’t have to keep proving that I can trust you,” she said softly. 

Harry looked at her. The sentence landed. She saw it in his face. 

“I know,” he said. 

“Do you?” 

His mouth opened. Closed. Then he let out a quiet breath. 

“I’m trying.” 

Y/N nodded. 

“I know.” 

For a moment, they only looked at each other. 

The missed boat, the one bed, the balcony, the sea, the kiss by the railing — all of it gathered around them, but none of it felt accidental anymore. Not really. Maybe the boat had left without them, yes. Maybe the room had only one bed. But the want between them had not been created by circumstance. 

It had been there long before Ravello Piccola. Long before the last boat home. Harry looked at her like he needed her to understand that too. 

“I don’t want this to feel like it’s happening because we’re stuck here,” he said. 

Y/N’s chest tightened. 

“It doesn’t.” 

“I wanted to kiss you before we missed the boat.” 

“I know.” 

“I wanted to kiss you before tonight.” 

“I know.” 

His expression softened. 

“I wanted to kiss you when you brought me that stupid lemon gelato.” 

Y/N smiled. 

“It wasn’t stupid.” 

“It was life-changing.” 

“Morning-changing.” 

“No,” Harry said quietly. “Life-changing.” 

The smile faded from her face. 

Harry stepped closer. 

“I mean that.” 

Y/N swallowed. The room seemed too quiet suddenly. Too full of the sea. 

“I wanted you to kiss me then too,” she admitted. 

Harry’s breath changed. 

“Then?” 

“And after.” 

“How much after?” 

She looked up at him. 

“Most of the time.” 

His eyes darkened. The honesty was out now. There was no putting it back. Harry lifted a hand to her face. Slowly. Always slowly. Y/N leaned into it before his fingers even touched her. That small movement broke something in him. 

Not violently. 

Softly. 

His thumb brushed along her cheek, and then he kissed her. The kiss in the room was not like the first one by the terrace. That kiss had been a door opening. This one was what happened when they stepped through. 

Still careful. Still tender. But deeper now, filled with the quiet relief of not having to stop at almost anymore. Y/N’s hands moved to his shirt, gripping the fabric at his waist, and Harry’s arm wrapped around her lower back, drawing her closer without taking, without rushing, as if closeness was something he wanted to be allowed to keep. 

She gave it to him. Gladly. He kissed her again. 

And again. 

The room grew smaller around them. The sea moved outside the balcony. The music from the festa drifted faintly in and out, broken by distance. The low light from the bedside lamp warmed the edges of Harry’s face when he pulled back just enough to look at her. 

He looked wrecked already. 

Y/N touched his jaw. 

“You’re looking at me again.” 

“I know.” 

“You keep doing that.” 

“I know.” 

“Why?” 

Harry’s hand moved slowly at her back. 

“Because I spent weeks trying not to.” 

Her breath caught. Then she kissed him. 

This time, she was the one who pushed closer. The one who rose onto her toes. The one who pressed her mouth to his like an answer that had finally stopped pretending to be a question. Harry made a quiet sound against her lips, one hand sliding into her hair, careful not to pull, only to hold. Y/N felt it everywhere. The restraint. The wanting. The way he was trying so hard to be gentle that it made him tremble. 

She pulled back just enough to breathe. 

“Harry.” 

He stopped immediately. His hand loosened in her hair. 

“Too much?” 

Y/N shook her head. 

“No.” 

His eyes searched hers. 

“Tell me.” 

She touched the open collar of his shirt, fingers brushing the warm skin beneath. 

“Don’t disappear into being careful.” 

He stared at her. Then his mouth parted slightly, as if the words had taken the breath from him. 

“I don’t want to scare you.” 

“You don’t.” 

“I don’t want you to feel rushed.” 

“I don’t.” 

“I don’t want this to be something you wake up and regret.” 

The vulnerability of it hurt more than the desire. 

Y/N placed both hands on his face. 

“Harry.” 

He looked at her. 

“I’m here.” 

He swallowed. 

“I know.” 

“No.” She held his gaze. “I’m here.” 

The same words. A different kind of promise. Harry understood. She saw the moment he did. His face softened into something so open that Y/N almost had to look away. 

Almost. 

Then he kissed her again. This time, he let himself want her a little less quietly. 

His hands found her waist, warm and steady, and Y/N stepped back until the edge of the bed touched the backs of her legs. The movement made both of them pause. Harry looked down, then back at her, asking without words. Y/N answered by pulling him with her. 

They sat on the edge of the bed together, still kissing, still half smiling whenever nerves made their mouths miss. Harry’s hand slipped from her waist to her knee, then stopped there, his thumb brushing slowly over the skin as if even that small touch required reverence. 

Y/N laughed softly against his mouth. 

“What?” he whispered. 

“You’re very serious.” 

“I’m trying not to lose my mind.” 

Her laughter faded. 

“Oh.” 

Harry looked embarrassed for half a second. Then Y/N kissed him again, because there were some confessions that deserved mercy. His shirt was the first thing to go. Not dramatically. Not in a rush. Y/N’s fingers found the buttons slowly, one at a time, each one undone with a care that made Harry watch her as if he could barely believe he was allowed to be this close. When the shirt loosened, he let it slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor near the bed. 

Y/N placed her hand against his chest. 

His skin was warm. His heart was fast. Harry covered her hand with his. For a moment, they simply stayed like that. Her palm over his heartbeat. His hand over hers. No performance. No words. Just proof. 

“You’re nervous,” she whispered. 

Harry huffed a small laugh. 

“Very.” 

“Why?” 

His eyes lifted. 

“Because it’s you.” 

The answer was unfair. Too soft. Too honest. 

Y/N kissed him before he could see how badly it affected her. After that, the room became a collection of small things she knew she would remember. 

The sound of Harry’s breath catching when her mouth touched the side of his neck. The warmth of his hand at her back. The brush of his curls against her cheek. The way he smiled for half a second when she bumped her knee awkwardly against his, and the way the smile disappeared when she whispered his name again. 

His hands moved to the straps of her dress. 

Paused. 

Always paused. 

Y/N looked at him. 

He did not ask aloud this time. He did not need to. She nodded. 

The straps slipped carefully from her shoulders, his fingers following their path with a gentleness that made her close her eyes. Not because she was afraid. Because being touched with that much attention felt almost more intimate than the touch itself. 

Harry pressed his mouth to her shoulder. Then her collarbone. Then the place just above her heart. Y/N’s hand moved into his hair. 

Outside, Ravello Piccola continued without them. Music, voices, footsteps, the distant clatter of plates from the square. Inside, the room held only the sea and the slow undoing of all their almosts. 

When Harry lowered her back onto the bed, he moved as if he expected the world to change its mind and take the moment away. Y/N reached for him before he could retreat into thought, pulling him down until his weight settled carefully above her, one arm braced beside her head, the other curved around her waist. 

He looked at her. Too long. Long enough for her to smile despite the ache building in her chest. 

“What?” 

Harry shook his head. 

“Nothing.” 

“Terrible liar.” 

His thumb brushed over her cheek. 

“I’m trying to remember this.” 

The words made her throat tighten. 

“Already?” 

His smile was small. 

“I don’t want to wait until I miss it.” 

Y/N pulled him down and kissed him because she did not know how else to survive that sentence. The night unfolded slowly after that. Not rushed. Not careless. 

It was not the kind of wanting that burned through everything and left nothing behind. It was warmer than that. Deeper. The kind that had been growing in glances and jokes and hands held under tables, in lemon gelato and boat rides and almosts interrupted by children, birds, bicycles, and fear. 

Harry kissed her like he had time, even though they both knew summer did not. 

He touched her like he was learning a language he wanted to speak properly. 

Y/N answered with the same care. Her hands on his shoulders. His mouth at her temple. Her fingers in his hair. His breath against her skin. Small pauses. Quiet laughter. The lamp glowing low beside the bed. The balcony doors open to the night. At some point, Harry pressed his forehead to hers, breathing unevenly. 

“Still okay?” he whispered. 

Y/N smiled, eyes closed. 

“You really do ask a lot.” 

“I’ll keep asking.” 

“I know.” 

“Is that annoying?” 

She opened her eyes. 

“No.” 

His face softened. 

“Good.” 

She brushed her thumb along his lower lip. 

“But Harry?” 

“Yes?” 

“If you ask me again instead of kissing me, I might become Lucia.” 

He laughed. A real laugh. A relieved one. Then he kissed her. 

And when the kisses deepened again, when the room grew warmer and the sea outside became a softer sound beneath everything else, Y/N stopped thinking about the last boat, about San Fiora, about what morning would ask them to become. There was only Harry, and the way he held her like tenderness could be a place, and the way she held him back because maybe it could. 

Later, much later, when the light had gone lower and the music from the festa had thinned into distant echoes, the world narrowed to the quiet space between them. 

The words stopped being necessary. 

The night belonged to hands and breath and trust, to the moonlight slipping through the balcony doors, to clothing left forgotten on the floor, to skin warm from summer and the kind of closeness neither of them could pretend was an accident anymore. 

And when there was nothing left to say that their bodies were not already saying carefully, tenderly, completely, the sea kept moving below the balcony, guarding the rest for them. 

Morning arrived in gold. 

Y/N woke slowly, not all at once but in pieces. The first thing she felt was warmth. 

Not the heavy heat of afternoon, but the soft warmth of sunlight spread across her bare back. The second thing she felt was the sheet tangled low around her waist. The third was Harry behind her, quiet and awake, his fingertips tracing a lazy line along the curve of her hip as if he had been doing it for a while. 

For a moment, she did not move. 

She kept her eyes closed and let the morning gather around her. 

The open balcony doors. The white curtain lifting gently in the breeze. The distant call of someone in the street below. The smell of salt, soap, warm sheets, and something new she did not yet have a name for. 

Harry’s mouth touched her shoulder. Softly. Once. Then again, a little lower, between shoulder blade and spine. 

Y/N smiled before she opened her eyes. 

“That is an unfair way to wake someone up,” she murmured. 

Harry’s voice was rough with sleep. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

She turned her head slightly, still not fully facing him. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

His quiet laugh brushed against her skin. He kissed the top of her shoulder again. Then her upper back. Then rested his forehead there for a second, his arm sliding more securely around her waist beneath the sheet. The tenderness of it was almost worse than the night before. 

Desire, Y/N could understand. Desire made people brave, reckless, hungry. 

But this — Harry kissing her shoulder in the morning light like the world had not ended, like he was grateful to find her still there — made something in her chest ache with frightening softness. 

He lifted his head. 

“Morning.” 

Y/N turned carefully in his arms. 

The sheet shifted between them, and Harry adjusted it without looking, a small gesture of care that made her want to kiss him and cry at the same time. 

His hair was a mess. His face was soft with sleep. There was a crease on his cheek from the pillow. Y/N touched it with her finger. 

“You have a line.” 

Harry blinked slowly. 

“A line?” 

“From the pillow.” 

He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. 

“Good morning to you too.” 

She smiled. 

“Good morning.” 

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. They only looked. There was no way to pretend now. 

No way to fold the night neatly away and return to what they had been before. The room knew. The sheets knew. The shirt and dress on the floor knew. The sunlight on his shoulder and the warmth in her face and the way his hand rested at her waist as if it belonged there — all of it knew. 

Harry’s expression grew careful. 

“There you go,” Y/N whispered. 

His eyebrows moved. 

“What?” 

“Thinking too much.” 

He let out a breath. 

“Maybe.” 

“About?” 

His thumb moved slowly over her waist beneath the sheet. 

“Whether you’re okay.” 

She softened. 

“I am.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

His eyes searched hers. 

“And whether you regret it.” 

Y/N’s heart tightened. 

She touched his face. 

“No.” 

Harry closed his eyes for half a second. 

The relief on his face was so open it almost hurt to look at. 

“No,” she repeated, quieter. “I don’t regret it.” 

He opened his eyes. 

“I don’t either.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you?” 

She smiled faintly. 

“You’re not that good a liar.” 

Harry huffed a soft laugh, then looked down between them. 

“I just didn’t want it to feel like…” 

“Like the missed boat made it happen?” 

His eyes returned to hers. 

“Yes.” 

“It didn’t.” 

His hand tightened slightly at her waist. 

“I wanted you before we missed the boat,” he said. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“I know.” 

“Before Ravello.” 

“I know.” 

“Before I understood what I was supposed to do with it.” 

Her chest moved with a quiet breath. Harry’s voice softened. 

“I wanted to kiss you when you told me I looked tired of being recognised before being received.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

“I wanted to kiss you when you tried lemon gelato and looked personally offended.” 

He laughed. 

“I was offended.” 

“You loved it.” 

“I did.” 

“I know.” 

His smile faded into something warmer. 

“And now?” 

Y/N asked it before she could lose her nerve. 

Harry’s gaze moved over her face. 

“Now everything feels different.” 

Her stomach tightened. 

“Bad different?” 

“No.” He shook his head immediately. “No. Just… real different.” 

She understood. Too well. 

The almosts had been safe because they could still pretend they were only tension, only summer, only a beautiful delay. But this was no longer almost. This was a morning. This was skin warmed by sunlight and Harry’s fingers at her waist and the strange vulnerability of looking at someone after the wanting had become something shared. Y/N touched the curl resting near his forehead. 

“We don’t have to solve everything this morning.” 

Harry’s mouth curved. 

“We don’t?” 

“No.” 

“What do we have to do?” 

“Find the right boat.” 

He laughed properly then, eyes closing, face turning briefly into the pillow. 

Y/N smiled. 

“And maybe breakfast.” 

“Lucia would approve.” 

“Lucia would say we’re late.” 

“She doesn’t know.” 

Y/N gave him a look. Harry paused. 

“Does she?” 

“She knows everything.” 

He considered this. 

“That’s alarming.” 

“It’s Lucia.” 

“Fair.” 

He leaned in and kissed her. Slow. Warm. Morning-soft. Not the kiss from the terrace, full of nerves. Not the kiss from the night before, full of finally. This was a kiss that said: still here. Still us. Still true in daylight. 

Y/N’s hand moved to the back of his neck. 

Harry smiled against her mouth. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Harry.” 

“I like morning you.” 

She rolled her eyes, though her face warmed. 

“You’ve barely met morning me.” 

“I’m optimistic.” 

“You’re impossible.” 

“I learned from the best.” 

She laughed, and he kissed her again. They stayed in bed longer than they should have. Not long enough to miss the morning boat, though Y/N suspected Harry considered the risk. They moved slowly, reluctantly, collecting clothes from the floor, laughing softly when Harry could not find one shoe until Y/N pointed out it was under the bed. 

“How did it get there?” he asked. 

Y/N lifted an eyebrow. 

“Do you want a full investigation?” 

He smiled. 

“No.” 

“Then put it on.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Noted.” 

He said it like he would absolutely do it again. 

Before they left the room, Harry stepped onto the balcony and looked down at the harbour. Morning had turned Ravello Piccola gentle. The festa had vanished except for a few stray ribbons tied to railings and empty chairs stacked near the square. The sea below was bright, the boats rocking lazily as if none of them had caused emotional damage the night before. 

Y/N came to stand beside him. Harry slipped an arm around her waist. She leaned into him. For a moment, neither spoke. Then he kissed her forehead. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

Y/N looked up. 

“For what?” 

His eyes stayed on the water. 

“For trusting me.” 

She rested her head against his shoulder. 

“Thank you for asking.” 

His arm tightened. 

They checked out under the knowing gaze of the woman from reception, who handed Y/N the receipt and said something in Italian that made Y/N look immediately at the floor. Harry waited until they were outside. 

“What did she say?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Y/N.” 

“She said the sea is very powerful.” 

Harry stopped walking. Then he laughed. Y/N covered her face. 

“I hate everyone.” 

“You love everyone.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

They bought coffee and warm bread from a small bakery near the harbour and ate sitting on the low wall overlooking the water. Harry tore the bread unevenly and handed her the bigger piece without thinking. 

Y/N looked at it. Then at him. 

“What?” 

“You gave me the bigger piece.” 

Harry glanced down. 

“Oh.” 

“Lucia told you I forget to eat when I’m happy.” 

“She did.” 

“And now you’ve decided that’s your responsibility?” 

His smile softened. 

“No.” 

Y/N waited. 

“I noticed she was right.” 

That was worse. Much worse. 

She looked away, biting into the bread to avoid saying something too tender for a morning after a missed boat. Harry saw. Of course he did. He bumped his shoulder gently against hers. 

“Too much?” 

“No.” 

“You sure?” 

She smiled. 

“Still asking?” 

“Always.” 

The morning boat back to San Fiora was less crowded than the one they had taken the night before. A few older women with shopping bags, a man carrying a box of tools, two teenagers half asleep against each other, and them. 

Harry and Y/N sat near the back. At first, they kept a polite distance. Then the boat moved. Their knees touched. Harry looked down. Y/N looked at him. He offered his hand, palm up on the bench between them. She took it. No hesitation. 

As Ravello Piccola drifted behind them, Y/N leaned her head against Harry’s shoulder. His thumb moved slowly over her fingers, and for once, neither of them needed to fill the quiet. 

The coast passed around them in morning light. Dark rocks. Pale houses. Lemon trees. The sea shining bright enough to hurt. 

San Fiora appeared slowly, familiar and waiting. The marina first, then the café, then the church tower rising above the square. Y/N felt Harry shift slightly beside her. 

“Nervous?” she asked. 

“Of Lucia?” 

“Yes.” 

“Deeply.” 

Y/N smiled. 

“Good.” 

“What will she say?” 

“Something humiliating.” 

“Helpful.” 

“Probably about coffee.” 

He nodded. 

“I can survive coffee humiliation.” 

“Can you?” 

“No.” 

When the boat reached the dock, Matteo was waiting. Arms crossed. Expression far too smug. Y/N closed her eyes. 

“Oh no.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“What?” 

“Brace yourself.” 

Matteo watched them step off the boat, gaze dropping immediately to their joined hands. 

Then to Harry. Then to Y/N. Then back to Harry. 

“You missed the boat,” he said. 

Y/N lifted her chin. 

“We are aware.” 

Matteo nodded gravely. 

“A tragedy.” 

Harry looked at him. 

“You tried to warn us.” 

“I did.” 

“Lucia stopped you.” 

“She did.” 

“So technically—” 

“No,” Y/N said immediately. 

Harry smiled. 

Matteo’s grin widened. 

“Was Ravello beautiful?” 

“Yes,” Y/N said. 

“Was the food good?” 

“Yes.” 

“Was the room expensive?” 

Y/N’s face burned. 

“Matteo.” 

Harry coughed, looking away. Matteo looked delighted. 

“I ask practical questions.” 

“You ask terrible questions.” 

“I learned from my mother.” 

“That explains too much.” 

Matteo turned to Harry. 

“Did you enjoy Ravello?” 

Harry looked at Y/N. 

Then smiled. 

“Yes.” 

Matteo clapped once. 

“Good. Very good. San Fiora approves.” 

Y/N groaned. 

“San Fiora was not asked.” 

“San Fiora always knows.” 

Harry leaned toward Y/N and whispered, “He might be worse than Lucia.” 

“He is.” 

“I heard that,” Matteo said. 

“You were supposed to.” 

They walked up from the marina together, Matteo behind them whistling something unbearably cheerful. Harry’s hand stayed in Y/N’s until they reached the edge of the square. Then he loosened it, as if checking whether she wanted to let go before the town saw. 

Y/N tightened her fingers around his. Harry looked at her. She kept walking. His smile arrived slowly. Caffè Lucia was already open. 

The morning crowd had begun. Two tourists were arguing over a map near the fountain. The old men had taken their place outside the tobacco shop. Rosa stood in her doorway holding a basket of lemons, watching with unmistakable interest. 

Lucia was behind the counter when they entered. She looked up. Saw them. Saw their hands. Saw everything else because she was Lucia. Her face gave nothing away. Y/N braced herself. Harry did too. 

Lucia finished wiping the cup in her hand, placed it carefully on the counter, and looked at Harry. 

“Coffee?” 

Harry blinked. 

“Yes, please.” 

She looked at Y/N. 

“For you?” 

Y/N stared. 

“That’s it?” 

Lucia lifted an eyebrow. 

“You are disappointed?” 

“No.” 

“You wanted drama?” 

“No.” 

Matteo appeared behind them. 

“Yes.” 

Lucia pointed at him. 

“Out.” 

“I work nearby.” 

“Farther.” 

Harry’s mouth twitched. 

Y/N squeezed his hand to warn him not to laugh. 

He laughed anyway. 

Lucia looked back at Harry. 

“The usual?” 

Harry glanced at Y/N. 

Then at the corner table. 

Then back at Lucia. 

“No.” 

Lucia’s eyebrows rose slightly. 

Y/N turned to him. 

Harry smiled. 

“Something different.” 

For a second, Y/N thought Lucia might actually cry. Instead, she nodded once, as if this was a personal victory. 

“Good.” 

Harry and Y/N sat at the corner table while Lucia made coffee and pretended not to watch them. It felt strange to sit there together now. The first place where he had hidden. The first place where she had seen him. The first place where everything had begun without either of them knowing it. 

Harry ran his thumb along the edge of the table. 

“This feels different.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

“The table?” 

“Everything.” 

She smiled faintly. 

“It does.” 

“Bad different?” 

“No.” 

His eyes softened. 

“Real different?” 

Y/N felt the echo of the morning between them. 

“Yes.” 

Lucia arrived with two coffees and a small plate of almond biscuits. Harry looked up. 

“I didn’t order biscuits.” 

Lucia looked at him. 

“No. You missed a boat.” 

Y/N pressed her lips together. Harry lowered his head, smiling. 

“Fair.” 

Lucia placed the plate down and looked between them. 

“For energy.” 

“Lucia,” Y/N groaned. 

“What? Boats are tiring.” 

Matteo made a choking sound from the doorway. Lucia threw a towel at him without turning around. He disappeared. Harry laughed so softly Y/N felt it more than heard it. Lucia stood beside the table for a second longer. Then, in a quieter voice, she said, “You are both still here.” Y/N looked up. Lucia’s face had softened. That was all. Just a little. But enough. Harry nodded. 

“Yes.” 

Lucia looked at him. 

“Good.” 

Then she walked away before the moment could become too sentimental for her liking. Y/N watched her go. Harry watched Y/N. 

“What?” she asked. 

He reached across the table and brushed his fingers lightly over hers. 

“Nothing.” 

“Terrible liar.” 

“I know.” 

But he did not say more. He did not need to. 

Outside, San Fiora moved through another morning. Cups clinked. Church bells rang. Tourists dragged suitcases over stones they would complain about later. Rosa placed two lemons on the café windowsill and pretended she had not. Matteo shouted something from the marina that made Lucia roll her eyes before she even understood the words. 

Everything was the same. Everything had changed. 

Later, after Y/N had gone behind the counter to help Lucia and Harry had remained at the corner table with his coffee, she felt him watching her. 

When she looked up, he smiled. Not the careful smile from the first day. Not the hidden smile from the corner. 

This one was open. 

Soft. 

A little dangerous. 

Y/N pointed at him with the cloth in her hand. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

Harry leaned back. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re about to become a problem.” 

His smile widened. 

“I think I already am.” 

Lucia, without turning around, said, “Finally.” 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

Harry laughed. 

And the sound filled the café, warm and easy, as if he had never come to San Fiora to disappear at all. 

By that afternoon, when they walked to the hidden cove, Harry reached for her hand before the narrow street even turned empty. 

Y/N let him. 

The blue bicycle leaned against the wall as they passed, still dramatic, still impossible, still waiting for another day to interrupt them when necessary. Harry looked at it with suspicion. 

“She’s watching us,” he said. 

Y/N laughed. 

“She knows too much.” 

“Everyone here does.” 

“You get used to it.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“I think I have.” 

They reached the path above the sea just as the light began to soften. The same path they had taken before. The same stones. The same lemon trees. The same cove below. 

But not the same. 

Harry stopped halfway down and turned to her. 

Y/N looked up. 

“What?” 

He stepped closer, one hand sliding to her waist. 

“I just realised something.” 

“What?” 

“No one has interrupted us in hours.” 

Y/N smiled. 

“That is suspicious.” 

“Very.” 

“A bird could still attack.” 

“The bicycle could roll downhill.” 

“Matteo could appear from a bush.” 

Harry glanced around, mock-serious. 

“Don’t say that.” 

Y/N laughed. 

Then Harry kissed her. 

There, on the path above the hidden beach, with the sea opening bright below them and the lemon trees moving softly in the wind. 

No almost. 

No interruption. 

No hesitation. 

Just Harry’s mouth on hers, warm and sure, and Y/N’s hands lifting to his shoulders as if they had always known where to go. 

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. 

“I’m glad we missed the boat,” he said. 

Y/N laughed softly. 

“That sounds irresponsible.” 

“It was.” 

“Lucia would be disappointed.” 

“Lucia packed money.” 

“She knew.” 

“She always knows.” 

Y/N smiled against his mouth. 

“Are we going to blame her?” 

Harry kissed her once more. 

“Definitely.” 

They stayed there longer than they meant to. 

Of course they did. 

By evening, they were back on Stella, not far from the marina, watching the sun lower over San Fiora. Harry sat behind Y/N, arms around her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder. The boat rocked gently beneath them, and the town glowed ahead, all pale walls, dark windows, lemon trees, and the corner of the café where everything had started. 

Y/N leaned back into him. 

Harry’s hand moved slowly over hers. 

Neither of them spoke for a while. 

The silence was not empty. 

It was full of everything they had stopped pretending not to feel. 

Eventually, Y/N said, “This changes things.” 

Harry kissed the side of her head. 

“Yes.” 

“You don’t sound scared.” 

“I am.” 

She turned her head slightly. 

“You are?” 

“Terrified.” 

“Of what?” 

Harry looked at the town. 

“Wanting something I can’t keep.” 

Y/N’s chest tightened. The sun slid lower. Gold moved across the water. 

“And can you?” she asked softly. 

“Can I what?” 

“Keep it.” 

Harry looked at her then. His eyes were serious, open, too honest for the soft evening light. 

“I don’t know,” he said. 

It hurt. Because it was not a promise. 

It hurt more because it was true. 

Y/N nodded, even though something in her chest had gone quiet. 

Harry held her closer. 

“But I know I don’t want to pretend I don’t want to.” 

She closed her eyes. 

That was not a promise either. 

But it was something. 

Maybe, for now, it was enough. 

The boat moved gently beneath them. San Fiora shone in front of them, warm and impossible, as if the whole coast had turned golden just to witness the moment. 

Harry pressed his mouth to her temple. Y/N covered his hands with hers. 

The last boat home had left without them. 

But somewhere between Ravello Piccola, one room above the harbour, and the morning light on Harry’s skin, Y/N had begun to understand that maybe some missed boats were not mistakes at all. 

Maybe some of them were how summer made sure people stopped running long enough to be found. 

Tag list: @indierockgirrl @pizzadragono7

Cannot wait to hear your thoughts on this one! Next part is the last one of this series!

[bellaimagination]

Golden Was The Coast Series

Part IV — The Last Boat Home 

Warnings: romantic tension, sharing one room, intimacy, emotional vulnerability.  Mini summary: A night in Ravello Piccola changes everything. Between lanterns, music, bad dancing, and a missed boat back to San Fiora, Harry and Y/N finally stop hiding from what has been growing between them all summer. But some moments are too fragile to rush, and some almosts are only waiting for the right night to become real. 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 5

The boat to Ravello Piccola moved through the evening like it knew exactly what it was carrying. 

Y/N stood near the railing with Harry beside her, their shoulders touching whenever the boat shifted over the water. The sun had not fully disappeared yet, but it had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, spilling gold across the sea until every ripple looked like it had been touched by fire. Behind them, San Fiora grew smaller with every passing minute, its pale houses folding into the hillside, the church tower catching the last of the light, the café becoming nothing more than a warm square in the distance. 

Y/N kept looking back. 

She told herself it was because the view was beautiful. 

That was not entirely a lie. 

Harry’s hand was still around hers. 

That made looking forward difficult. 

His fingers were warm, steady, curled naturally through hers as if they had been doing this for much longer than a handful of days. As if hand-holding had not only recently become something they allowed themselves. As if all those almosts — the cove, the hill, the square, the boat, the brush of fingers beneath café tables — had been quietly teaching their hands what to do before either of them found the courage to say it aloud. 

Harry looked down at their joined hands, then out at the water. 

“You’re quiet,” he said. 

Y/N glanced up at him. 

“You say that like you’re not usually the quiet one.” 

“I’m branching out.” 

“Into observation?” 

“I was told I collect them.” 

“You do.” 

“I’m trying to use them responsibly.” 

Y/N smiled, but her stomach was full of nerves. 

“I’m fine.” 

Harry looked at her. She sighed. 

“I’m mostly fine.” 

“That sounds more honest.” 

“I’m nervous.” 

His thumb moved slowly over her knuckles. 

“About Ravello Piccola?” 

“No.” 

He waited. 

Y/N looked back at San Fiora again, even though it was already softening into the coast. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe about tonight feeling like it already means something before anything has happened.” 

Harry’s hand tightened very slightly around hers. 

For a moment, he did not answer. 

Then he said, “It does.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

The wind moved through his hair, lifting the curls from his forehead. He was not smiling now. There was no joke waiting to soften the sentence, no easy charm, no attempt to step around what they both knew had been following them for weeks. 

“It means something to me,” he said. 

Her breath caught quietly. 

Harry looked down, as if the honesty had cost him more than he expected. 

“I just wanted you to know that before Matteo ruins it with boat schedules.” 

Y/N laughed before she could stop herself. There he was. 

Her Harry. 

The one who could open something tender and then immediately look embarrassed by how much of himself he had shown. 

“I think Lucia threatened him into silence,” she said. 

“Lucia is terrifying.” 

“You love her.” 

“I do.” 

“She knows.” 

“That’s also terrifying.” 

Y/N smiled and looked toward the front of the boat. Ravello Piccola was beginning to appear along the coast, tucked between cliffs and water, smaller than San Fiora but brighter tonight, strung with lights that trembled in the evening air. Music floated faintly across the sea before the town fully came into view, a warm, distant pulse of voices, strings, and laughter. 

Harry followed her gaze. 

“That’s it?” 

“Yes.” 

“It looks like someone spilled stars down the hill.” 

Y/N turned to him, surprised. Harry noticed. 

“What?” 

“That was beautiful.” 

He looked almost shy. 

“Don’t sound so shocked.” 

“You hide the poet well.” 

“I’ve been told I’m dramatic.” 

“You are.” 

“That felt like a trap.” 

“It was.” 

The boat slowed as it approached the little harbour. Ravello Piccola glowed ahead of them, lanterns strung from balconies, fishing boats tied close together, flowers spilling over stone walls. People waited on the dock, waving at relatives, calling out names, taking bags and baskets as the boat bumped gently against the pier. 

Harry stepped down first, then turned and held out his hand. Y/N took it. 

She had taken his hand so many times by now that it should not have made her heart move. It still did. The second her feet touched the dock, Ravello Piccola wrapped around them. 

The town was all warmth and movement. Narrow streets rose from the harbour into a square filled with long tables, lanterns, people, music, and the smell of grilled fish, basil, tomatoes, sugar, wine, and sea air. Children ran between adults with paper flags in their hands. Older women sat near doorways, watching everything with the calm authority of people who had seen every romance begin and end twice over. Somewhere near the centre of the square, a band played something lively enough to make everyone clap off beat. 

Harry looked around, taking it in. 

Y/N watched him instead. 

Without the cap. Without the sunglasses hiding half his face. Without San Fiora’s familiar corners around him. 

He looked exposed again. 

Not badly. 

Just visibly aware of being in a place full of people. 

Y/N stepped closer. 

“You okay?” 

Harry looked down at her, and the tension in his mouth softened. 

“Yeah.” 

“You sure?” 

His smile was small. 

“I’m with you.” 

The answer was simple. It still did something stupid to her chest. 

They walked through the narrow street toward the square, their hands joined between them. No one stopped them. No one shouted his name. A few people glanced at Harry because he was tall and beautiful in a way that made glancing inevitable, but then they looked away and returned to their conversations, their food, their music, their own lives. 

Y/N felt Harry notice that too. 

His hand relaxed more fully in hers. 

At the edge of the square, an old woman sitting at a table with a glass of wine looked at them, smiled, and said something in Italian. 

Harry turned to Y/N. 

“What did she say?” 

Y/N pressed her lips together. 

“Nothing.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes. 

“It was absolutely something.” 

“It was just a comment.” 

“About what?” 

“About us.” 

His eyebrows lifted. 

“Us?” 

Y/N looked away, suddenly very interested in the lanterns. 

“She said we make a beautiful couple.” 

Harry was quiet for a second. 

Then, far too casually, he asked, “Did you correct her?” 

Y/N looked at him. 

“I didn’t have time.” 

“You had time.” 

“I was translating.” 

Harry’s mouth curved. 

“Convenient.” 

“You’re enjoying this too much.” 

“I’m enjoying many things.” 

Her face warmed. 

“Harry.” 

He looked pleased with himself. 

“Yes?” 

She shook her head and started walking again. He followed, still holding her hand. 

They found space at one of the long tables near the edge of the square. The food arrived in waves, not ordered so much as delivered by people who seemed offended by empty plates. Pasta with fresh tomatoes. Bread brushed with olive oil. Little fried things Y/N did not know the name of but ate anyway. Grilled fish with lemon. Peaches soaked in wine. A small cake with cream and almonds that Harry claimed he was “only trying” and then finished nearly half of. 

Y/N watched him take another bite. 

“I thought you were saving room.” 

“I did.” 

“For the whole table?” 

“For culture.” 

“That cake is not culture.” 

“In Italy, I feel like cake can be culture.” 

“It can,” said an old man beside them in English so sudden and serious that both of them turned. 

Harry froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. 

The old man nodded at the cake. 

“Very important.” 

Y/N burst out laughing. Harry swallowed, trying not to smile. 

“Thank you.” 

The old man lifted his glass. 

“You listen to her, though. Women know when men are foolish.” 

Harry looked at Y/N. 

“I’ve heard that before.” 

Y/N lifted her eyebrows. 

“From wise people.” 

“From many people.” 

“Same thing.” 

The old man seemed satisfied and returned to his wine. Harry leaned closer to Y/N. 

“Does everyone in Italy comment on strangers?” 

“Only when they know they’re right.” 

“That seems dangerous.” 

“You get used to it.” 

“I’m not sure I will.” 

“You said that about San Fiora.” 

“And I was wrong.” 

Y/N looked at him. The smile faded from both of them a little. 

Not sadly. 

Just enough to acknowledge that he had said something true by accident. 

He had gotten used to San Fiora. He had gotten used to her. 

Maybe too much. 

Maybe not enough. 

Before the thought could settle heavily, the music changed. 

The band near the fountain began playing something brighter, faster, and people immediately started clapping, pulling one another from chairs, laughing as they moved into the open space. A woman in a green dress grabbed her husband by both hands and dragged him into the centre. Children spun in circles until they nearly fell. Someone shouted encouragement from a balcony. 

Y/N felt Harry look at her before he said anything. 

“No.” 

Harry smiled. 

“I haven’t said anything.” 

“You were about to.” 

“I was going to ask if you wanted more cake.” 

“Liar.” 

He stood and held out his hand. Y/N shook her head. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Come on.” 

“You stepped on my foot last time.” 

“One time.” 

“One traumatic time.” 

“I’ve improved.” 

“It was three days ago.” 

“I’m a fast learner.” 

“You told a waiter you were very window.” 

“That was Italian.” 

“This is dancing.” 

“Arguably more universal.” 

Y/N stared at his hand. 

Harry lowered his voice. 

“Dance with me.” 

That did it. Not because the words were smooth. Because they were not. 

Because his voice held the same careful courage she had heard in it on the boat, when he told her the night already meant something. 

Y/N placed her hand in his. 

“One song.” 

Harry smiled. 

“One song.” 

He led her into the square. 

The lights overhead threw gold across his face, and the music moved around them, too fast for elegance, too cheerful for nerves. Harry took her waist with one hand and held her other hand in his, pretending seriousness for approximately three seconds before immediately turning them the wrong way. 

Y/N gasped. 

“That is not the rhythm.” 

“I’m interpreting.” 

“You’re lost.” 

“I’m artistically exploring.” 

“You are going to injure me.” 

Harry laughed and pulled her closer, avoiding a child who spun past them with alarming speed. 

“I’m doing my best.” 

“Your best is concerning.” 

“You’re very critical for someone who agreed to one song.” 

“I was manipulated.” 

“By my charm?” 

“By your audacity.” 

He grinned. 

“I’ll take it.” 

They were terrible. Objectively terrible. 

Harry was a good dancer when he had to be Harry Styles, but apparently that did not translate to dancing in a crowded Italian square with Y/N laughing too hard to follow his lead and him laughing too hard to lead properly. He turned her too late. She stepped the wrong way. He bumped into a man who was moving with far more confidence than either of them. Y/N almost tripped over someone’s abandoned sandal. 

Harry caught her immediately. 

His hand tightened at her waist. 

“You okay?” 

She was laughing, breathless. 

“Yes.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

The music kept going, but they had stopped moving. Or maybe everything else had simply moved around them. Harry’s smile faded slowly. Y/N realised how close they were. 

His hand was still at her waist. Hers had landed against his chest when he caught her, fingers pressed to the open collar of his shirt. She could feel his breath moving beneath her palm, uneven now. Not from dancing. 

The lanterns blurred behind him. The square softened. 

Harry looked at her mouth. Then back at her eyes. 

“I’m trying very hard not to kiss you in the middle of a square full of people,” he said quietly. 

Y/N’s stomach dropped. Then rose. Then forgot how to behave entirely. 

“Is it working?” 

Harry’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed dark. 

“Very badly.” 

She almost laughed. 

Almost. 

But then his thumb moved once at her waist, slow and unconscious, and the sound caught in her throat. 

“Harry,” she said. 

His name came out differently this time. Not warning. Not teasing. Something closer to permission. 

Harry heard it. 

She knew he did. 

His face changed, and for a second she thought he might actually do it. Kiss her there, under the lanterns, with Ravello Piccola clapping around them and the sea just beyond the harbour. 

Then someone bumped into Harry from behind. A child, again. Because apparently the universe had a personal commitment to interruption. 

Harry steadied himself, and Y/N stepped back with a breathless laugh that felt half relieved and half furious. The child shouted an apology in Italian and ran off before either of them could react. Harry stared after him. 

“I’m beginning to think children are being strategically deployed.” 

Y/N laughed, pressing a hand to her chest. 

“By who?” 

“San Fiora. Ravello. The bicycle. All of them.” 

“The bicycle isn’t even here.” 

“That’s what she wants us to think.” 

Y/N laughed harder. Harry smiled, but his eyes returned to her mouth once more before he looked away. The song ended. Then another began. Y/N expected him to release her. He did not. 

“One more?” he asked. 

“You said one.” 

“I lied.” 

“You’re getting comfortable with that.” 

“You’re a bad influence.” 

“I’m a wonderful influence.” 

Harry’s hand slid more securely around hers. 

“You are.” 

It was said too softly to be only a joke. So they danced again. Better this time. Not because they had improved much, but because they stopped trying so hard. Harry let the rhythm be messy. Y/N let herself lean into him. The crowd moved around them, and after a while she stopped thinking about who might be looking. His hand at her waist became familiar. His laughter against her ear became something she wanted to keep. His body close to hers under the warm lights became one more thing summer had given her without asking whether she was ready. 

When the music finally slowed, Harry did not step away. 

Y/N looked up at him. 

He looked almost dazed. 

“You still with me?” she asked. 

His smile was faint. 

“Unfortunately.” 

She rolled her eyes. 

“Dramatic.” 

“Learned from the best.” 

They left the square before the next song could pull them back in. 

The streets of Ravello Piccola were narrower away from the festa, quieter too. Lanterns hung from balconies, casting warm pools of light over stone steps and painted doors. The music followed them, softer now, mixed with the sound of distant voices and water against the harbour wall. 

Harry walked beside Y/N with his hands in his pockets, their shoulders brushing every few steps. Neither of them reached for the other. 

Maybe because they had been touching all night and needed to feel the absence of it. 

Maybe because if one of them did, they would not stop. 

They climbed a short set of stairs to a small terrace overlooking the sea. It was not empty, exactly, but quieter than the square. An old stone railing separated the terrace from the drop toward the water, and below, the harbour lights trembled on the surface like broken stars. 

Y/N rested her hands on the stone. Harry stood beside her. For a while, they only looked out. 

The air was cooler there. Y/N could feel it on the back of her neck, on her bare arms, against the warmth left by dancing. Her heart had not fully slowed. She was not sure it wanted to. 

Harry’s voice came softly. 

“I wanted to kiss you before tonight.” 

Y/N’s fingers tightened on the stone railing. 

She did not look at him yet. 

“When?” 

He huffed quietly, but there was no humour in it. 

“When didn’t I?” 

That made her turn. Harry was already looking at her. 

The lantern light touched one side of his face, leaving the other softer in shadow. He looked nervous. Not dramatically. Not visibly to anyone who did not know him. But she did. She knew his careful silences now. The way his mouth softened when he was about to be honest. The way his eyes searched hers before he gave away something he could not take back. 

“The beach,” he said. “After the lemon gelato. On the boat. At the festa in San Fiora. Yesterday. This morning when you walked into the square.” 

Y/N’s breath caught. 

“This morning?” 

His smile was small and helpless. 

“You looked beautiful.” 

“You didn’t say that.” 

“I know.” 

“Why?” 

“Because Matteo was there.” 

Y/N laughed softly. 

“Coward.” 

“Yes.” 

The honesty of it made her smile. Harry stepped closer. Not all the way. Just enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to keep looking at him. 

“And because if I said it, I thought I might kiss you.” 

The laughter left her. The music from the square drifted up the street, soft and far away now. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“And now?” 

Harry looked at her mouth. Then her eyes. 

“Now I’m asking first.” 

Her heart was beating too hard. 

“Okay.” 

His expression flickered. 

“Okay?” 

Y/N nodded. 

“Okay.” 

Harry’s hand rose slowly to her face. Slowly enough that she could move away. She did not. 

His fingers touched her jaw with a gentleness that made her chest ache. Not a performance. Not seduction. Just care. His thumb brushed once along her cheek, and then he leaned in. 

The first kiss was softer than Y/N expected. 

Maybe because they had almost done it so many times that part of her had imagined something urgent, inevitable, overwhelming. But Harry kissed her like he was afraid of frightening the moment away. Like he knew how long it had taken them to reach it and refused to rush through the door now that it had finally opened. 

His mouth touched hers once. Then paused. His forehead rested briefly against hers. 

Y/N opened her eyes. 

Harry’s were still closed. 

“Still okay?” he whispered. 

The question nearly undid her. Instead of answering, she lifted a hand, gripped the front of his shirt, and pulled him back to her. 

The second kiss was different. 

Not careless. Never careless. But less afraid. 

Harry made a quiet sound against her mouth, one hand sliding to her waist, the other settling at the side of her neck. Y/N stepped closer until there was no room left for hesitation, until the stone railing pressed behind her and Harry’s body was warm in front of her and the entire summer seemed to exhale at once. 

There it was. The thing all the almosts had been reaching for. 

His mouth moved slowly over hers, then deeper, still gentle but no longer uncertain. Y/N’s hand slipped into his hair, and Harry leaned into the touch like he had been waiting longer than either of them wanted to admit. The music from the square became distant. The sea below became a hush. The lantern light became gold behind her eyelids. 

When they finally broke apart, Harry did not move away. 

His lips brushed her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth. Then stopped at her temple. 

“I wanted this,” he said quietly. 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

“I know.” 

He pulled back enough to look at her. 

“You knew?” 

“I hoped.” 

Harry smiled then. A real smile. A little stunned. A little ruined. 

“You’re terrible.” 

“You’re slow.” 

“I was being respectful.” 

“You were being impossible.” 

“I can be both.” 

Y/N laughed, and he kissed her again before the sound had fully left her mouth. 

After that, the night changed. Not loudly. Not in a way anyone else would have noticed. But for them, everything shifted. 

Harry held her hand on the way back to the square, but now their fingers did not feel like a question. He kissed her once beneath an archway because the street was empty and because, apparently, once Harry had permission, he became very interested in making up for lost time. He kissed her again near a closed flower shop, slower this time, smiling against her mouth when she told him they were going to miss the boat if he kept stopping. 

“We won’t,” he said. 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I trust Matteo’s chaos.” 

“That is a terrible system.” 

“It’s worked so far.” 

“It has almost never worked.” 

Harry kissed her forehead. 

“Come on, then.” 

They were not late when they reached the harbour. Not technically. 

The problem was that the harbour was confusing, the festa had spilled into the docks, and Matteo’s “boats until late” had apparently been less of a schedule and more of a poetic impression. Several boats were tied along the pier. People were laughing, calling names, carrying baskets. A man told them the San Fiora boat had already left. Another said no, it was leaving from the other side. A woman told Y/N the last boat was at midnight. A boy insisted it had been at eleven-thirty. 

Harry looked at Y/N. Y/N looked at Harry. 

“What time is it?” she asked. 

Harry checked his phone. His expression changed. Y/N closed her eyes. 

“No.” 

“Maybe.” 

“No, Harry.” 

“It’s twelve-oh-eight.” 

She stared at him. 

“You said we wouldn’t miss it.” 

“I trusted Matteo’s chaos.” 

“I told you that was a terrible system.” 

“In my defence, you kissed me.” 

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it. 

“That is not a defence.” 

“It was distracting.” 

“You kissed me first.” 

“After asking respectfully.” 

“You are unbelievable.” 

Harry looked past her toward the empty stretch of water where the boat to San Fiora should have been. 

Then he laughed. Not loudly. Not because it was funny. Because it was so inevitable that anger had nowhere to go. 

Y/N tried to glare at him. Failed. Then she laughed too. 

“Oh no,” she said, covering her face. 

Harry stepped closer, still smiling. 

“How bad is this?” 

“We missed the last boat.” 

“Yes.” 

“Lucia told us to bring money.” 

“Yes.” 

“Matteo tried to warn us.” 

“Lucia stopped him.” 

“Because she trusted us.” 

Harry tilted his head. 

“Did she?” 

Y/N lowered her hands and stared at him. 

“You think Lucia planned this?” 

“I think Lucia is capable of many things.” 

“She is.” 

They both looked back toward the sea. 

San Fiora was somewhere beyond the dark water, close enough to feel possible and far enough to be unreachable until morning. 

Y/N let out a breath. 

“Well.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“Well.” 

“We need somewhere to sleep.” 

His smile faded slightly. The night seemed to shift again, quieter now. 

“Yes.” 

Y/N felt the same thought arrive between them. One room. Maybe two. Maybe not. A missed boat was suddenly not funny in the same way. 

Harry must have seen the change in her face because his voice softened immediately. 

“We’ll find somewhere. You can have the room. I’ll sleep wherever.” 

“Harry.” 

“I mean it.” 

“I know you do.” 

“I don’t want you to feel—” 

“I don’t.” 

He stopped. Y/N looked at him. 

“I don’t.” 

A beat passed. His eyes searched hers carefully. 

“Okay.” 

They found the locanda at the end of a narrow street above the harbour. 

Locanda del Mare was small, family-run, and half asleep by the time they arrived. The woman at reception wore a cardigan over her nightdress and looked at them with the resigned expression of someone who had seen many missed boats become sudden accommodation requests. 

Y/N explained in Italian. The woman listened, nodded, glanced at Harry, glanced at Y/N, and said something that made Y/N’s face warm instantly. Harry leaned closer. 

“What?” 

“She says the sea makes people forget clocks.” 

His mouth twitched. 

“Does it?” 

“Apparently.” 

The woman typed something slowly into an old computer, then looked up. Y/N turned to Harry. 

“There’s one room.” 

Harry nodded. 

“One room is fine.” 

“One bed.” 

His expression changed. Only slightly. Enough. Y/N looked away. Harry looked back at the woman. 

“We’ll take it.” 

Then, immediately, to Y/N, “Only if you’re okay with that.” 

The receptionist looked between them, unimpressed by their emotional complexity. 

Y/N met Harry’s eyes. 

“I’m okay.” 

He held her gaze for one second longer. Then nodded. The room was on the second floor. 

It was simple. White walls. Wooden shutters. A small balcony with open doors letting in the sound of the sea. A narrow wardrobe. A little table with two glasses. A bed with white sheets turned down neatly, looking far too innocent for the way Y/N’s heart began beating when she saw it. 

Harry stepped in behind her and stopped near the door. For a few seconds, neither of them moved. 

The night air entered through the balcony, carrying salt, distant music, and something floral from a plant outside. The room smelled faintly of soap and sun-warmed fabric. Somewhere below, someone laughed in the street, then the sound faded. 

Y/N placed her small bag on the chair. Harry set the key on the table. 

“I can sleep on the floor,” he said immediately. 

She turned. 

“No.” 

“Y/N.” 

“No.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“I know. But no.” 

His shoulders lowered slightly, though not with relief. More like he was still trying to decide where the safest place to stand was. 

She stepped closer. Not much. Enough. 

“You don’t have to keep proving that I can trust you,” she said softly. 

Harry looked at her. The sentence landed. She saw it in his face. 

“I know,” he said. 

“Do you?” 

His mouth opened. Closed. Then he let out a quiet breath. 

“I’m trying.” 

Y/N nodded. 

“I know.” 

For a moment, they only looked at each other. 

The missed boat, the one bed, the balcony, the sea, the kiss by the railing — all of it gathered around them, but none of it felt accidental anymore. Not really. Maybe the boat had left without them, yes. Maybe the room had only one bed. But the want between them had not been created by circumstance. 

It had been there long before Ravello Piccola. Long before the last boat home. Harry looked at her like he needed her to understand that too. 

“I don’t want this to feel like it’s happening because we’re stuck here,” he said. 

Y/N’s chest tightened. 

“It doesn’t.” 

“I wanted to kiss you before we missed the boat.” 

“I know.” 

“I wanted to kiss you before tonight.” 

“I know.” 

His expression softened. 

“I wanted to kiss you when you brought me that stupid lemon gelato.” 

Y/N smiled. 

“It wasn’t stupid.” 

“It was life-changing.” 

“Morning-changing.” 

“No,” Harry said quietly. “Life-changing.” 

The smile faded from her face. 

Harry stepped closer. 

“I mean that.” 

Y/N swallowed. The room seemed too quiet suddenly. Too full of the sea. 

“I wanted you to kiss me then too,” she admitted. 

Harry’s breath changed. 

“Then?” 

“And after.” 

“How much after?” 

She looked up at him. 

“Most of the time.” 

His eyes darkened. The honesty was out now. There was no putting it back. Harry lifted a hand to her face. Slowly. Always slowly. Y/N leaned into it before his fingers even touched her. That small movement broke something in him. 

Not violently. 

Softly. 

His thumb brushed along her cheek, and then he kissed her. The kiss in the room was not like the first one by the terrace. That kiss had been a door opening. This one was what happened when they stepped through. 

Still careful. Still tender. But deeper now, filled with the quiet relief of not having to stop at almost anymore. Y/N’s hands moved to his shirt, gripping the fabric at his waist, and Harry’s arm wrapped around her lower back, drawing her closer without taking, without rushing, as if closeness was something he wanted to be allowed to keep. 

She gave it to him. Gladly. He kissed her again. 

And again. 

The room grew smaller around them. The sea moved outside the balcony. The music from the festa drifted faintly in and out, broken by distance. The low light from the bedside lamp warmed the edges of Harry’s face when he pulled back just enough to look at her. 

He looked wrecked already. 

Y/N touched his jaw. 

“You’re looking at me again.” 

“I know.” 

“You keep doing that.” 

“I know.” 

“Why?” 

Harry’s hand moved slowly at her back. 

“Because I spent weeks trying not to.” 

Her breath caught. Then she kissed him. 

This time, she was the one who pushed closer. The one who rose onto her toes. The one who pressed her mouth to his like an answer that had finally stopped pretending to be a question. Harry made a quiet sound against her lips, one hand sliding into her hair, careful not to pull, only to hold. Y/N felt it everywhere. The restraint. The wanting. The way he was trying so hard to be gentle that it made him tremble. 

She pulled back just enough to breathe. 

“Harry.” 

He stopped immediately. His hand loosened in her hair. 

“Too much?” 

Y/N shook her head. 

“No.” 

His eyes searched hers. 

“Tell me.” 

She touched the open collar of his shirt, fingers brushing the warm skin beneath. 

“Don’t disappear into being careful.” 

He stared at her. Then his mouth parted slightly, as if the words had taken the breath from him. 

“I don’t want to scare you.” 

“You don’t.” 

“I don’t want you to feel rushed.” 

“I don’t.” 

“I don’t want this to be something you wake up and regret.” 

The vulnerability of it hurt more than the desire. 

Y/N placed both hands on his face. 

“Harry.” 

He looked at her. 

“I’m here.” 

He swallowed. 

“I know.” 

“No.” She held his gaze. “I’m here.” 

The same words. A different kind of promise. Harry understood. She saw the moment he did. His face softened into something so open that Y/N almost had to look away. 

Almost. 

Then he kissed her again. This time, he let himself want her a little less quietly. 

His hands found her waist, warm and steady, and Y/N stepped back until the edge of the bed touched the backs of her legs. The movement made both of them pause. Harry looked down, then back at her, asking without words. Y/N answered by pulling him with her. 

They sat on the edge of the bed together, still kissing, still half smiling whenever nerves made their mouths miss. Harry’s hand slipped from her waist to her knee, then stopped there, his thumb brushing slowly over the skin as if even that small touch required reverence. 

Y/N laughed softly against his mouth. 

“What?” he whispered. 

“You’re very serious.” 

“I’m trying not to lose my mind.” 

Her laughter faded. 

“Oh.” 

Harry looked embarrassed for half a second. Then Y/N kissed him again, because there were some confessions that deserved mercy. His shirt was the first thing to go. Not dramatically. Not in a rush. Y/N’s fingers found the buttons slowly, one at a time, each one undone with a care that made Harry watch her as if he could barely believe he was allowed to be this close. When the shirt loosened, he let it slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor near the bed. 

Y/N placed her hand against his chest. 

His skin was warm. His heart was fast. Harry covered her hand with his. For a moment, they simply stayed like that. Her palm over his heartbeat. His hand over hers. No performance. No words. Just proof. 

“You’re nervous,” she whispered. 

Harry huffed a small laugh. 

“Very.” 

“Why?” 

His eyes lifted. 

“Because it’s you.” 

The answer was unfair. Too soft. Too honest. 

Y/N kissed him before he could see how badly it affected her. After that, the room became a collection of small things she knew she would remember. 

The sound of Harry’s breath catching when her mouth touched the side of his neck. The warmth of his hand at her back. The brush of his curls against her cheek. The way he smiled for half a second when she bumped her knee awkwardly against his, and the way the smile disappeared when she whispered his name again. 

His hands moved to the straps of her dress. 

Paused. 

Always paused. 

Y/N looked at him. 

He did not ask aloud this time. He did not need to. She nodded. 

The straps slipped carefully from her shoulders, his fingers following their path with a gentleness that made her close her eyes. Not because she was afraid. Because being touched with that much attention felt almost more intimate than the touch itself. 

Harry pressed his mouth to her shoulder. Then her collarbone. Then the place just above her heart. Y/N’s hand moved into his hair. 

Outside, Ravello Piccola continued without them. Music, voices, footsteps, the distant clatter of plates from the square. Inside, the room held only the sea and the slow undoing of all their almosts. 

When Harry lowered her back onto the bed, he moved as if he expected the world to change its mind and take the moment away. Y/N reached for him before he could retreat into thought, pulling him down until his weight settled carefully above her, one arm braced beside her head, the other curved around her waist. 

He looked at her. Too long. Long enough for her to smile despite the ache building in her chest. 

“What?” 

Harry shook his head. 

“Nothing.” 

“Terrible liar.” 

His thumb brushed over her cheek. 

“I’m trying to remember this.” 

The words made her throat tighten. 

“Already?” 

His smile was small. 

“I don’t want to wait until I miss it.” 

Y/N pulled him down and kissed him because she did not know how else to survive that sentence. The night unfolded slowly after that. Not rushed. Not careless. 

It was not the kind of wanting that burned through everything and left nothing behind. It was warmer than that. Deeper. The kind that had been growing in glances and jokes and hands held under tables, in lemon gelato and boat rides and almosts interrupted by children, birds, bicycles, and fear. 

Harry kissed her like he had time, even though they both knew summer did not. 

He touched her like he was learning a language he wanted to speak properly. 

Y/N answered with the same care. Her hands on his shoulders. His mouth at her temple. Her fingers in his hair. His breath against her skin. Small pauses. Quiet laughter. The lamp glowing low beside the bed. The balcony doors open to the night. At some point, Harry pressed his forehead to hers, breathing unevenly. 

“Still okay?” he whispered. 

Y/N smiled, eyes closed. 

“You really do ask a lot.” 

“I’ll keep asking.” 

“I know.” 

“Is that annoying?” 

She opened her eyes. 

“No.” 

His face softened. 

“Good.” 

She brushed her thumb along his lower lip. 

“But Harry?” 

“Yes?” 

“If you ask me again instead of kissing me, I might become Lucia.” 

He laughed. A real laugh. A relieved one. Then he kissed her. 

And when the kisses deepened again, when the room grew warmer and the sea outside became a softer sound beneath everything else, Y/N stopped thinking about the last boat, about San Fiora, about what morning would ask them to become. There was only Harry, and the way he held her like tenderness could be a place, and the way she held him back because maybe it could. 

Later, much later, when the light had gone lower and the music from the festa had thinned into distant echoes, the world narrowed to the quiet space between them. 

The words stopped being necessary. 

The night belonged to hands and breath and trust, to the moonlight slipping through the balcony doors, to clothing left forgotten on the floor, to skin warm from summer and the kind of closeness neither of them could pretend was an accident anymore. 

And when there was nothing left to say that their bodies were not already saying carefully, tenderly, completely, the sea kept moving below the balcony, guarding the rest for them. 

Morning arrived in gold. 

Y/N woke slowly, not all at once but in pieces. The first thing she felt was warmth. 

Not the heavy heat of afternoon, but the soft warmth of sunlight spread across her bare back. The second thing she felt was the sheet tangled low around her waist. The third was Harry behind her, quiet and awake, his fingertips tracing a lazy line along the curve of her hip as if he had been doing it for a while. 

For a moment, she did not move. 

She kept her eyes closed and let the morning gather around her. 

The open balcony doors. The white curtain lifting gently in the breeze. The distant call of someone in the street below. The smell of salt, soap, warm sheets, and something new she did not yet have a name for. 

Harry’s mouth touched her shoulder. Softly. Once. Then again, a little lower, between shoulder blade and spine. 

Y/N smiled before she opened her eyes. 

“That is an unfair way to wake someone up,” she murmured. 

Harry’s voice was rough with sleep. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

She turned her head slightly, still not fully facing him. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

His quiet laugh brushed against her skin. He kissed the top of her shoulder again. Then her upper back. Then rested his forehead there for a second, his arm sliding more securely around her waist beneath the sheet. The tenderness of it was almost worse than the night before. 

Desire, Y/N could understand. Desire made people brave, reckless, hungry. 

But this — Harry kissing her shoulder in the morning light like the world had not ended, like he was grateful to find her still there — made something in her chest ache with frightening softness. 

He lifted his head. 

“Morning.” 

Y/N turned carefully in his arms. 

The sheet shifted between them, and Harry adjusted it without looking, a small gesture of care that made her want to kiss him and cry at the same time. 

His hair was a mess. His face was soft with sleep. There was a crease on his cheek from the pillow. Y/N touched it with her finger. 

“You have a line.” 

Harry blinked slowly. 

“A line?” 

“From the pillow.” 

He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. 

“Good morning to you too.” 

She smiled. 

“Good morning.” 

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. They only looked. There was no way to pretend now. 

No way to fold the night neatly away and return to what they had been before. The room knew. The sheets knew. The shirt and dress on the floor knew. The sunlight on his shoulder and the warmth in her face and the way his hand rested at her waist as if it belonged there — all of it knew. 

Harry’s expression grew careful. 

“There you go,” Y/N whispered. 

His eyebrows moved. 

“What?” 

“Thinking too much.” 

He let out a breath. 

“Maybe.” 

“About?” 

His thumb moved slowly over her waist beneath the sheet. 

“Whether you’re okay.” 

She softened. 

“I am.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

His eyes searched hers. 

“And whether you regret it.” 

Y/N’s heart tightened. 

She touched his face. 

“No.” 

Harry closed his eyes for half a second. 

The relief on his face was so open it almost hurt to look at. 

“No,” she repeated, quieter. “I don’t regret it.” 

He opened his eyes. 

“I don’t either.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you?” 

She smiled faintly. 

“You’re not that good a liar.” 

Harry huffed a soft laugh, then looked down between them. 

“I just didn’t want it to feel like…” 

“Like the missed boat made it happen?” 

His eyes returned to hers. 

“Yes.” 

“It didn’t.” 

His hand tightened slightly at her waist. 

“I wanted you before we missed the boat,” he said. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“I know.” 

“Before Ravello.” 

“I know.” 

“Before I understood what I was supposed to do with it.” 

Her chest moved with a quiet breath. Harry’s voice softened. 

“I wanted to kiss you when you told me I looked tired of being recognised before being received.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

“I wanted to kiss you when you tried lemon gelato and looked personally offended.” 

He laughed. 

“I was offended.” 

“You loved it.” 

“I did.” 

“I know.” 

His smile faded into something warmer. 

“And now?” 

Y/N asked it before she could lose her nerve. 

Harry’s gaze moved over her face. 

“Now everything feels different.” 

Her stomach tightened. 

“Bad different?” 

“No.” He shook his head immediately. “No. Just… real different.” 

She understood. Too well. 

The almosts had been safe because they could still pretend they were only tension, only summer, only a beautiful delay. But this was no longer almost. This was a morning. This was skin warmed by sunlight and Harry’s fingers at her waist and the strange vulnerability of looking at someone after the wanting had become something shared. Y/N touched the curl resting near his forehead. 

“We don’t have to solve everything this morning.” 

Harry’s mouth curved. 

“We don’t?” 

“No.” 

“What do we have to do?” 

“Find the right boat.” 

He laughed properly then, eyes closing, face turning briefly into the pillow. 

Y/N smiled. 

“And maybe breakfast.” 

“Lucia would approve.” 

“Lucia would say we’re late.” 

“She doesn’t know.” 

Y/N gave him a look. Harry paused. 

“Does she?” 

“She knows everything.” 

He considered this. 

“That’s alarming.” 

“It’s Lucia.” 

“Fair.” 

He leaned in and kissed her. Slow. Warm. Morning-soft. Not the kiss from the terrace, full of nerves. Not the kiss from the night before, full of finally. This was a kiss that said: still here. Still us. Still true in daylight. 

Y/N’s hand moved to the back of his neck. 

Harry smiled against her mouth. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Harry.” 

“I like morning you.” 

She rolled her eyes, though her face warmed. 

“You’ve barely met morning me.” 

“I’m optimistic.” 

“You’re impossible.” 

“I learned from the best.” 

She laughed, and he kissed her again. They stayed in bed longer than they should have. Not long enough to miss the morning boat, though Y/N suspected Harry considered the risk. They moved slowly, reluctantly, collecting clothes from the floor, laughing softly when Harry could not find one shoe until Y/N pointed out it was under the bed. 

“How did it get there?” he asked. 

Y/N lifted an eyebrow. 

“Do you want a full investigation?” 

He smiled. 

“No.” 

“Then put it on.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Noted.” 

He said it like he would absolutely do it again. 

Before they left the room, Harry stepped onto the balcony and looked down at the harbour. Morning had turned Ravello Piccola gentle. The festa had vanished except for a few stray ribbons tied to railings and empty chairs stacked near the square. The sea below was bright, the boats rocking lazily as if none of them had caused emotional damage the night before. 

Y/N came to stand beside him. Harry slipped an arm around her waist. She leaned into him. For a moment, neither spoke. Then he kissed her forehead. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

Y/N looked up. 

“For what?” 

His eyes stayed on the water. 

“For trusting me.” 

She rested her head against his shoulder. 

“Thank you for asking.” 

His arm tightened. 

They checked out under the knowing gaze of the woman from reception, who handed Y/N the receipt and said something in Italian that made Y/N look immediately at the floor. Harry waited until they were outside. 

“What did she say?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Y/N.” 

“She said the sea is very powerful.” 

Harry stopped walking. Then he laughed. Y/N covered her face. 

“I hate everyone.” 

“You love everyone.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

They bought coffee and warm bread from a small bakery near the harbour and ate sitting on the low wall overlooking the water. Harry tore the bread unevenly and handed her the bigger piece without thinking. 

Y/N looked at it. Then at him. 

“What?” 

“You gave me the bigger piece.” 

Harry glanced down. 

“Oh.” 

“Lucia told you I forget to eat when I’m happy.” 

“She did.” 

“And now you’ve decided that’s your responsibility?” 

His smile softened. 

“No.” 

Y/N waited. 

“I noticed she was right.” 

That was worse. Much worse. 

She looked away, biting into the bread to avoid saying something too tender for a morning after a missed boat. Harry saw. Of course he did. He bumped his shoulder gently against hers. 

“Too much?” 

“No.” 

“You sure?” 

She smiled. 

“Still asking?” 

“Always.” 

The morning boat back to San Fiora was less crowded than the one they had taken the night before. A few older women with shopping bags, a man carrying a box of tools, two teenagers half asleep against each other, and them. 

Harry and Y/N sat near the back. At first, they kept a polite distance. Then the boat moved. Their knees touched. Harry looked down. Y/N looked at him. He offered his hand, palm up on the bench between them. She took it. No hesitation. 

As Ravello Piccola drifted behind them, Y/N leaned her head against Harry’s shoulder. His thumb moved slowly over her fingers, and for once, neither of them needed to fill the quiet. 

The coast passed around them in morning light. Dark rocks. Pale houses. Lemon trees. The sea shining bright enough to hurt. 

San Fiora appeared slowly, familiar and waiting. The marina first, then the café, then the church tower rising above the square. Y/N felt Harry shift slightly beside her. 

“Nervous?” she asked. 

“Of Lucia?” 

“Yes.” 

“Deeply.” 

Y/N smiled. 

“Good.” 

“What will she say?” 

“Something humiliating.” 

“Helpful.” 

“Probably about coffee.” 

He nodded. 

“I can survive coffee humiliation.” 

“Can you?” 

“No.” 

When the boat reached the dock, Matteo was waiting. Arms crossed. Expression far too smug. Y/N closed her eyes. 

“Oh no.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“What?” 

“Brace yourself.” 

Matteo watched them step off the boat, gaze dropping immediately to their joined hands. 

Then to Harry. Then to Y/N. Then back to Harry. 

“You missed the boat,” he said. 

Y/N lifted her chin. 

“We are aware.” 

Matteo nodded gravely. 

“A tragedy.” 

Harry looked at him. 

“You tried to warn us.” 

“I did.” 

“Lucia stopped you.” 

“She did.” 

“So technically—” 

“No,” Y/N said immediately. 

Harry smiled. 

Matteo’s grin widened. 

“Was Ravello beautiful?” 

“Yes,” Y/N said. 

“Was the food good?” 

“Yes.” 

“Was the room expensive?” 

Y/N’s face burned. 

“Matteo.” 

Harry coughed, looking away. Matteo looked delighted. 

“I ask practical questions.” 

“You ask terrible questions.” 

“I learned from my mother.” 

“That explains too much.” 

Matteo turned to Harry. 

“Did you enjoy Ravello?” 

Harry looked at Y/N. 

Then smiled. 

“Yes.” 

Matteo clapped once. 

“Good. Very good. San Fiora approves.” 

Y/N groaned. 

“San Fiora was not asked.” 

“San Fiora always knows.” 

Harry leaned toward Y/N and whispered, “He might be worse than Lucia.” 

“He is.” 

“I heard that,” Matteo said. 

“You were supposed to.” 

They walked up from the marina together, Matteo behind them whistling something unbearably cheerful. Harry’s hand stayed in Y/N’s until they reached the edge of the square. Then he loosened it, as if checking whether she wanted to let go before the town saw. 

Y/N tightened her fingers around his. Harry looked at her. She kept walking. His smile arrived slowly. Caffè Lucia was already open. 

The morning crowd had begun. Two tourists were arguing over a map near the fountain. The old men had taken their place outside the tobacco shop. Rosa stood in her doorway holding a basket of lemons, watching with unmistakable interest. 

Lucia was behind the counter when they entered. She looked up. Saw them. Saw their hands. Saw everything else because she was Lucia. Her face gave nothing away. Y/N braced herself. Harry did too. 

Lucia finished wiping the cup in her hand, placed it carefully on the counter, and looked at Harry. 

“Coffee?” 

Harry blinked. 

“Yes, please.” 

She looked at Y/N. 

“For you?” 

Y/N stared. 

“That’s it?” 

Lucia lifted an eyebrow. 

“You are disappointed?” 

“No.” 

“You wanted drama?” 

“No.” 

Matteo appeared behind them. 

“Yes.” 

Lucia pointed at him. 

“Out.” 

“I work nearby.” 

“Farther.” 

Harry’s mouth twitched. 

Y/N squeezed his hand to warn him not to laugh. 

He laughed anyway. 

Lucia looked back at Harry. 

“The usual?” 

Harry glanced at Y/N. 

Then at the corner table. 

Then back at Lucia. 

“No.” 

Lucia’s eyebrows rose slightly. 

Y/N turned to him. 

Harry smiled. 

“Something different.” 

For a second, Y/N thought Lucia might actually cry. Instead, she nodded once, as if this was a personal victory. 

“Good.” 

Harry and Y/N sat at the corner table while Lucia made coffee and pretended not to watch them. It felt strange to sit there together now. The first place where he had hidden. The first place where she had seen him. The first place where everything had begun without either of them knowing it. 

Harry ran his thumb along the edge of the table. 

“This feels different.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

“The table?” 

“Everything.” 

She smiled faintly. 

“It does.” 

“Bad different?” 

“No.” 

His eyes softened. 

“Real different?” 

Y/N felt the echo of the morning between them. 

“Yes.” 

Lucia arrived with two coffees and a small plate of almond biscuits. Harry looked up. 

“I didn’t order biscuits.” 

Lucia looked at him. 

“No. You missed a boat.” 

Y/N pressed her lips together. Harry lowered his head, smiling. 

“Fair.” 

Lucia placed the plate down and looked between them. 

“For energy.” 

“Lucia,” Y/N groaned. 

“What? Boats are tiring.” 

Matteo made a choking sound from the doorway. Lucia threw a towel at him without turning around. He disappeared. Harry laughed so softly Y/N felt it more than heard it. Lucia stood beside the table for a second longer. Then, in a quieter voice, she said, “You are both still here.” Y/N looked up. Lucia’s face had softened. That was all. Just a little. But enough. Harry nodded. 

“Yes.” 

Lucia looked at him. 

“Good.” 

Then she walked away before the moment could become too sentimental for her liking. Y/N watched her go. Harry watched Y/N. 

“What?” she asked. 

He reached across the table and brushed his fingers lightly over hers. 

“Nothing.” 

“Terrible liar.” 

“I know.” 

But he did not say more. He did not need to. 

Outside, San Fiora moved through another morning. Cups clinked. Church bells rang. Tourists dragged suitcases over stones they would complain about later. Rosa placed two lemons on the café windowsill and pretended she had not. Matteo shouted something from the marina that made Lucia roll her eyes before she even understood the words. 

Everything was the same. Everything had changed. 

Later, after Y/N had gone behind the counter to help Lucia and Harry had remained at the corner table with his coffee, she felt him watching her. 

When she looked up, he smiled. Not the careful smile from the first day. Not the hidden smile from the corner. 

This one was open. 

Soft. 

A little dangerous. 

Y/N pointed at him with the cloth in her hand. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

Harry leaned back. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re about to become a problem.” 

His smile widened. 

“I think I already am.” 

Lucia, without turning around, said, “Finally.” 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

Harry laughed. 

And the sound filled the café, warm and easy, as if he had never come to San Fiora to disappear at all. 

By that afternoon, when they walked to the hidden cove, Harry reached for her hand before the narrow street even turned empty. 

Y/N let him. 

The blue bicycle leaned against the wall as they passed, still dramatic, still impossible, still waiting for another day to interrupt them when necessary. Harry looked at it with suspicion. 

“She’s watching us,” he said. 

Y/N laughed. 

“She knows too much.” 

“Everyone here does.” 

“You get used to it.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“I think I have.” 

They reached the path above the sea just as the light began to soften. The same path they had taken before. The same stones. The same lemon trees. The same cove below. 

But not the same. 

Harry stopped halfway down and turned to her. 

Y/N looked up. 

“What?” 

He stepped closer, one hand sliding to her waist. 

“I just realised something.” 

“What?” 

“No one has interrupted us in hours.” 

Y/N smiled. 

“That is suspicious.” 

“Very.” 

“A bird could still attack.” 

“The bicycle could roll downhill.” 

“Matteo could appear from a bush.” 

Harry glanced around, mock-serious. 

“Don’t say that.” 

Y/N laughed. 

Then Harry kissed her. 

There, on the path above the hidden beach, with the sea opening bright below them and the lemon trees moving softly in the wind. 

No almost. 

No interruption. 

No hesitation. 

Just Harry’s mouth on hers, warm and sure, and Y/N’s hands lifting to his shoulders as if they had always known where to go. 

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. 

“I’m glad we missed the boat,” he said. 

Y/N laughed softly. 

“That sounds irresponsible.” 

“It was.” 

“Lucia would be disappointed.” 

“Lucia packed money.” 

“She knew.” 

“She always knows.” 

Y/N smiled against his mouth. 

“Are we going to blame her?” 

Harry kissed her once more. 

“Definitely.” 

They stayed there longer than they meant to. 

Of course they did. 

By evening, they were back on Stella, not far from the marina, watching the sun lower over San Fiora. Harry sat behind Y/N, arms around her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder. The boat rocked gently beneath them, and the town glowed ahead, all pale walls, dark windows, lemon trees, and the corner of the café where everything had started. 

Y/N leaned back into him. 

Harry’s hand moved slowly over hers. 

Neither of them spoke for a while. 

The silence was not empty. 

It was full of everything they had stopped pretending not to feel. 

Eventually, Y/N said, “This changes things.” 

Harry kissed the side of her head. 

“Yes.” 

“You don’t sound scared.” 

“I am.” 

She turned her head slightly. 

“You are?” 

“Terrified.” 

“Of what?” 

Harry looked at the town. 

“Wanting something I can’t keep.” 

Y/N’s chest tightened. The sun slid lower. Gold moved across the water. 

“And can you?” she asked softly. 

“Can I what?” 

“Keep it.” 

Harry looked at her then. His eyes were serious, open, too honest for the soft evening light. 

“I don’t know,” he said. 

It hurt. Because it was not a promise. 

It hurt more because it was true. 

Y/N nodded, even though something in her chest had gone quiet. 

Harry held her closer. 

“But I know I don’t want to pretend I don’t want to.” 

She closed her eyes. 

That was not a promise either. 

But it was something. 

Maybe, for now, it was enough. 

The boat moved gently beneath them. San Fiora shone in front of them, warm and impossible, as if the whole coast had turned golden just to witness the moment. 

Harry pressed his mouth to her temple. Y/N covered his hands with hers. 

The last boat home had left without them. 

But somewhere between Ravello Piccola, one room above the harbour, and the morning light on Harry’s skin, Y/N had begun to understand that maybe some missed boats were not mistakes at all. 

Maybe some of them were how summer made sure people stopped running long enough to be found. 

Tag list: @indierockgirrl @pizzadragono7

Cannot wait to hear your thoughts on this one! Next part is the last one of this series!

[bellaimagination]

Golden Was The Coast Series

Part III — The Days Between Us

Warnings: slow burn, soft flirting, summer romance, emotional vulnerability, almost-kisses, light angst, fame kept in the background.

Mini summary: Harry stops hiding only at the corner table and begins to belong, little by little, to San Fiora — and to Y/N’s days. Between lemon gelato, boat rides, swimming competitions, stolen glances, terrible Italian, and sunsets that make the world go quiet, they learn each other in the small ways that matter most. But some almosts can only stay almost for so long.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

Part 5

By the next week, Harry had stopped pretending he only came to Caffè Lucia for the coffee.

Not openly, of course.

Harry was still Harry in the way cautious people were always cautious, even when they were happy. He still arrived through quieter streets when the square was full. He still chose the side of the café where sunlight did not fall too sharply across his face. He still looked up when the bell rang, though less like a man preparing for impact and more like someone checking whether the world had changed its mind about leaving him alone.

But the corner table no longer felt like a hiding place.

Not completely.

It had become something else. A habit, yes, but a chosen one. A place where he knew Lucia would pretend not to care while saving him the best slice of whatever she had baked that morning. A place where Matteo would pass by on his way to the marina, lean through the open door, and shout, “Inglese!” for no real reason other than enjoying the way Harry looked startled every single time. A place where Y/N would sometimes bring him espresso, sometimes lemon gelato, sometimes nothing but a look that said she had noticed him watching her.

He came back every day.

And every day, the town made a little more room for him.

San Fiora did not treat people gently at first. It was too old for that. Too stubborn. It had stones that punished careless ankles, streets that turned into stairs without warning, church bells that rang when they pleased, and locals who measured newcomers by how they handled heat, hills, and Lucia’s opinions. But once the town decided someone belonged, it made the decision quietly and completely.

Harry started belonging in small, inconvenient ways.

Rosa began leaving lemons for him on the corner table, even when he was not there yet. The old men outside the tobacco shop nodded when he crossed the square. The little girl from the beach waved at him with sticky fingers full of pastry. The baker began slipping extra almond biscuits into paper bags and pretending it was an accident.

Lucia claimed this meant nothing.

“It is hospitality,” she said one morning, pushing a plate of warm focaccia toward Harry with unnecessary force.

Harry looked at the plate.

“I didn’t order this.”

“You look hungry.”

“I had breakfast.”

Lucia gave him a slow look.

“Not enough.”

Y/N, who was wiping the counter beside them, tried not to smile.

Harry glanced at her.

“Do I look hungry?”

“You look British,” she said.

“That wasn’t the question.”

“It felt related.”

Lucia nodded, satisfied.

“Eat.”

Harry picked up a piece of focaccia.

“Yes, Lucia.”

Y/N lowered her head before he could see her laugh.

He saw anyway.

He always did now.

That was one of the first things that changed: Harry started noticing her openly.

At first, Y/N thought she was imagining it. The way his eyes followed her when she moved between tables. The way he looked up from his notebook when she laughed with Lucia. The way his attention seemed to settle on her whenever she entered a room, not loudly, not in a way anyone else would point out, but completely enough that she felt it in her skin.

Then he began saying things.

Small things.

“You fold napkins when you’re annoyed,” he said one afternoon, watching her stand behind the counter with a stack of clean napkins in front of her.

Y/N looked down.

The napkin in her hand was folded into a painfully precise triangle.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re aggressively making geometry.”

She unfolded it.

Harry smiled into his espresso.

Another day, when she came back from delivering coffees outside with her hair sticking to her cheek from the heat, he pushed his glass of water toward her without a word.

Y/N stared at it.

“What?”

“You forgot to drink anything.”

“I did not.”

“When?”

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Harry lifted an eyebrow.

Y/N took the glass.

“This is annoying.”

“Hydration?”

“Being observed.”

His expression softened in a way that made the joke land somewhere more fragile.

“Sorry.”

She looked at him then, really looked.

He meant it.

Y/N sat down across from him for half a minute, even though Lucia would complain if she saw.

“I didn’t say stop,” she said.

Harry’s eyes held hers.

“No?”

“No.” She took a sip of water. “Just be less smug.”

He leaned back.

“I can try.”

“You won’t.”

“No.”

She smiled despite herself.

The second thing that changed was the gelato.

After the first lemon gelato, Harry insisted he did not understand why Y/N seemed to think this had become his entire personality.

Y/N, naturally, disagreed.

“You looked spiritually transformed,” she said as they stood outside the little gelateria two streets down from the café, where the owner had known Lucia since childhood and therefore treated Y/N like a niece and Harry like an amusing foreign problem.

“I looked appreciative.”

“You closed your eyes.”

“It was cold.”

“You said it changed your morning.”

“I was under pressure.”

“You said it twice.”

Harry looked wounded.

“I trusted you.”

“And I was right.”

“That is becoming a problem.”

“For you, maybe.”

She ordered lemon.

Harry ordered lemon too.

Y/N turned to him immediately.

“Again?”

He froze.

“What?”

“You’re making it a routine.”

“I like lemon.”

“You like hiding inside familiar things.”

“It’s gelato, Y/N.”

“That’s how it starts.”

He stared at her.

“You are impossible.”

“I am wise.”

“You are dramatic.”

“Selectively determined.”

“That is not a thing.”

“It is now.”

The woman behind the counter laughed and handed them their cups.

Y/N took hers proudly.

Harry took his with a sigh that fooled no one.

“You know,” he said as they stepped back into the street, “you could choose something other than lemon.”

“I do.”

“You got lemon.”

“It’s fruit.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I prefer fruit flavours.”

“Always?”

“Mostly.”

“Why?”

Y/N looked at him as if he had asked why the sun rose.

“Because chocolate and caramel are too heavy when it’s this hot. Fruit tastes like summer.”

Harry considered this with unnecessary seriousness.

“That sounds like something you’ve thought about.”

“I have strong beliefs.”

“About gelato?”

“About many things.”

“Apparently.”

They sat on the church steps that evening, eating too quickly before the heat could melt the gelato into soup. Y/N was halfway through explaining why peach was underrated and pistachio was “for people with patience” when she froze, one hand flying to her forehead.

Harry looked at her.

“What happened?”

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

“Brain freeze.”

He laughed.

She pointed at him blindly with her spoon.

“Do not.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re thinking it loudly.”

Harry pressed his lips together, trying and failing to look serious.

“You eat gelato like you’re racing time and then act betrayed when time fights back.”

“It attacked me.”

“You attacked it.”

“The gelato knew what it was doing.”

“It was sitting in a cup.”

“Men always defend each other.”

Harry laughed so hard he had to look away.

Y/N opened one eye and glared at him.

“You’re enjoying my suffering.”

“I’m admiring your commitment.”

“To what?”

“Being offended by dessert.”

She tried not to smile.

Failed.

After that, Harry started watching her eat gelato with the kind of fond anticipation that made her want to either kiss him or throw the spoon at him. Sometimes he would count silently with his fingers until the brain freeze hit. Sometimes he would hand her water before it happened. Sometimes he would simply say, “Careful,” in a tone so amused that she refused to slow down out of principle.

Every time, she got brain freeze.

Every time, Harry looked delighted.

“You’re insufferable,” she told him one night, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead while sitting on the low wall above the marina.

“You do this to yourself.”

“You could show compassion.”

“I brought you water.”

“You brought judgement.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Y/N looked at him.

“Did you just quote yourself dramatically?”

Harry’s mouth twitched.

“No.”

“You did.”

“I’ve never been dramatic in my life.”

Y/N laughed so loudly that Matteo shouted from the dock below.

“Lies!”

Harry leaned over the wall.

“You weren’t even part of this conversation!”

“In San Fiora,” Matteo called back, “I am part of all conversations!”

Y/N laughed harder.

Harry watched her.

Not the way strangers watched.

Not the way fans watched.

The way someone watched a moment they were grateful to be inside.

When she noticed, her laughter softened.

“What?” she asked.

Harry shook his head.

“Nothing.”

It was not nothing.

They both knew.

But he let it stay there.

So did she.

The days began to join at the edges.

Morning became coffee. Coffee became work. Work became the small thrill of looking up and finding Harry already watching from the corner table. Afternoons became streets too hot to walk through unless they moved slowly and stayed close to the walls. Evenings became gelato, the marina, and the long slide of sunlight across the water.

And then there was Stella.

Matteo lent them the boat for the first time because, according to him, leaving her tied to the dock all afternoon was “bad for her mood.”

“She is a boat,” Y/N said.

Matteo placed a hand over his heart.

“She has feelings.”

“She has chipped paint.”

“Because she has lived.”

Harry stood beside them at the marina, trying to look respectful and failing because his smile kept giving him away.

Matteo pointed at him.

“You understand, yes?”

Harry glanced at Stella, then at Matteo.

“I feel like I should say yes.”

“Good. Intelligent man.”

Y/N crossed her arms.

“You barely let me steer her last month.”

“You nearly hit a buoy.”

“The buoy was being difficult.”

“The buoy was still.”

Harry coughed into his hand.

Y/N looked at him.

“Don’t.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were thinking.”

“I do that sometimes.”

Matteo tossed the keys to Y/N.

She caught them badly, almost dropped them, then held them against her chest as if she had meant to do that.

Matteo sighed.

“Do not sink my boat.”

“I’ve never sunk anything.”

“That is not as comforting as you think.”

Harry stepped carefully into Stella, holding out a hand for Y/N without making a show of it. She took it because stepping into boats was not the time for pride, and also because his hand had become increasingly difficult to refuse. It closed around hers, warm and steady, and for one second she forgot why she was holding it.

Matteo saw.

Of course he saw.

He saw everything except his own bad flirting.

“Ah,” he said.

Y/N glared at him.

“Ah what?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not nothing.”

Matteo smiled.

“Bring her back in one piece.”

“Y/N or the boat?” Harry asked.

Matteo looked between them.

“Yes.”

The first time they took Stella out alone, neither of them spoke much at first.

Harry sat behind the wheel with a concentration that made Y/N bite her cheek to keep from laughing. His sunglasses were on. His hair moved wildly in the wind. His white shirt kept lifting at the collar, and every time it did, Y/N looked away with the determination of someone trying to remain normal and failing privately.

“You look very serious,” she said.

“I’m responsible for a dramatic boat.”

“She responds to confidence.”

“I’m trying not to insult her.”

“She can sense fear.”

Harry glanced down at the wheel.

“Can she?”

“No.”

He looked at her.

“You lie very easily.”

“Only about boats.”

“And gelato?”

“I have never lied about gelato.”

“That is true.”

They moved away from the marina, past the fishing boats and the small stone pier, out into the wide blue quiet beyond town. San Fiora slowly unfolded behind them, rising up the hillside in layers of pale walls, terracotta roofs, flowers, and lemon trees. From the water, it looked almost unreal, like something built for a painting and then accidentally inhabited by people with too many opinions.

Y/N sat near the bow, letting the wind push her hair back from her face. Harry looked at her once, twice, then gave up pretending he was not looking.

“What?” she asked without turning.

“How do you know I’m looking?”

“You’re quiet in a specific way.”

“I have specific silences?”

“Several.”

Harry smiled.

“That sounds concerning.”

“It’s fine. This is the ‘thinking too much but pretending not to’ silence.”

He laughed softly.

“And what am I thinking?”

Y/N finally looked at him.

His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but she could feel him anyway.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Yet?”

“I’m learning.”

Harry’s smile changed.

Not bigger.

Softer.

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Only if I’m right.”

“You usually are.”

Y/N looked back at the sea, trying not to let those words settle too visibly inside her.

Matteo had packed them nothing, because Matteo believed adults should feed themselves, but Lucia had appeared at the dock before they left with a basket so full it looked less like lunch and more like a family obligation. Bread, cheese, tomatoes, peaches, olives, cold pasta, two bottles of lemonade, and lemon biscuits wrapped in cloth.

“For you,” she had said to Y/N, shoving it into her arms.

Harry had looked inside.

“This is for both of us.”

Lucia ignored him.

“Y/N forgets to eat when she is happy.”

Y/N had sputtered.

“I do not.”

Lucia gave Harry the basket.

“She does.”

Harry looked at Y/N, thoughtful.

Y/N pointed at him.

“Do not add that to your collection of observations.”

“I don’t have a collection.”

“You absolutely do.”

He smiled.

“I’ll try not to.”

He added it.

Of course he did.

On the boat, every time Y/N became distracted by the water, the view, or Harry leaning back with one hand loose on the wheel, he would quietly pass her food. A piece of bread. Half a peach. A tomato sprinkled with salt. He did it without making a big thing of it, which somehow made it worse.

After the third time, she looked at him.

“What?”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I have.”

“You ate one olive.”

“It was a large olive.”

“Y/N.”

She took the piece of bread from his hand.

“You’re becoming Lucia.”

“Good. She’s terrifying.”

“You admire that?”

“Deeply.”

Y/N bit into the bread, mostly so she did not smile too much.

They anchored near a small stretch of water where the cliffs curved around them and the sea darkened from turquoise to blue. The afternoon settled heavily, heat pressing over the boat, sun bright on their arms and knees. Y/N dipped her fingers into the water and sighed.

Harry watched.

“That’s one of them,” he said.

“One of what?”

“My observations.”

Y/N turned her head.

“Already?”

“You do this when you’re calmer.”

“What?”

He nodded toward her hand in the water.

“You touch something. The wall. The table. The sea. Like you need to remind yourself where you are.”

Y/N looked at her fingers moving through the water.

She had not known she did that.

Or maybe she had, but had never named it.

“I think everyone does that.”

“No.” Harry’s voice was quiet. “Not like you.”

She swallowed.

“What else?”

He leaned back against the side of the boat, squinting slightly in the sun.

“You get quieter before sunset.”

“That’s not an observation. That’s normal.”

“Not just quiet.” He looked toward the horizon, where the light had not yet changed but was beginning to soften at the edges. “The whole day could be loud, and then the second the sun starts going down, you look like someone turned the volume down inside you.”

Y/N looked at him.

He seemed almost embarrassed by how much he had said.

So she looked back at the water to spare him.

“That might be the most accurate thing anyone has ever said about me,” she said.

Harry did not answer right away.

Then, softly, “Maybe no one watched at the right time.”

Something in her chest tightened.

The boat rocked gently beneath them.

Y/N kept her fingers in the sea.

“And what have I learned about you?” she asked.

Harry looked wary.

“Should I be afraid?”

“Probably.”

“Go on.”

“You hum when you don’t know what to say.”

He opened his mouth.

Then shut it.

Y/N smiled.

“You also pretend you’re not competitive until you lose.”

“That is untrue.”

“You argued with a ten-year-old yesterday because he beat you at cards.”

“He cheated.”

“He was ten.”

“Exactly. No one suspects them.”

Y/N laughed.

Harry pointed at her.

“That laugh means you know I’m right.”

“It means you’re ridiculous.”

“What else?”

She looked at him more carefully now.

“You prefer swimming when there aren’t people around.”

His expression softened slightly.

“Yes.”

“When you laugh for real, you tilt your head down first.”

He looked away.

“And you take off your sunglasses faster when you feel safe.”

Harry went still.

Y/N wished she had not said it.

But then he reached for the sunglasses and took them off completely, folding them beside him on the wooden seat.

The gesture was small.

It felt like trust.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Instead, Harry nodded toward the water.

“Want to swim?”

Y/N smiled.

“Race?”

His face changed immediately.

“No.”

“You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You are.”

“I’m not racing you.”

“Because you’ll lose?”

Harry stood, pulling his shirt over his head in one easy movement that made Y/N’s brain briefly stop functioning.

He dropped the shirt on the seat and looked at her.

“I won’t lose.”

Y/N looked anywhere but at him.

“Big words.”

“You started this.”

“I did.”

“And now?”

She stood too, pretending the boat was the reason she felt unsteady.

“Now you’re about to lose to a girl who eats gelato too fast.”

Harry leaned closer, voice low and amused.

“I thought the gelato attacked you.”

“It did.”

“And yet you survived.”

“I’m resilient.”

He smiled.

“That you are.”

The race was to a large flat rock not far from the boat.

Y/N claimed it was fair.

Harry pointed out that she knew the current better.

Y/N told him his legs were approximately twice the length of hers and therefore he had no right to complain.

“My legs are not twice the length of yours.”

“They are offensively long.”

“Offensively?”

“Yes.”

“What would be an inoffensive leg length?”

“Mine.”

Harry laughed.

“That seems biased.”

“That seems true.”

They counted down together.

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

Y/N pushed off first because she absolutely cheated.

Harry shouted after her.

“That was early!”

“It was strategy!”

“You cheated!”

“You’re losing!”

He was not losing for long.

Harry caught up halfway to the rock, cutting through the water with annoying ease. Y/N kicked harder, laughing and swallowing seawater, trying to ignore the fact that he looked very pleased with himself beside her. They reached the rock almost at the same time, but Harry’s hand touched it first.

Barely.

By maybe a second.

He lifted his head from the water, breathless and triumphant.

“I won.”

Y/N grabbed the rock, gasping.

“You have unfair arms.”

“Arms now?”

“And legs.”

“Anything else?”

“Hands. Fingers. General reach.”

Harry laughed, pushing wet hair from his face.

“You can’t blame my fingers.”

“I can and I will.”

He floated closer, still smiling.

“You cheated at the start.”

“You won anyway. Why are you complaining?”

“Because I won with honour.”

“You won with limbs.”

Harry looked delighted.

“That might be the strangest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It wasn’t one.”

“I’m taking it.”

They swam back slower.

Halfway there, Harry disappeared beneath the water and surfaced beside her with such suddenness that Y/N shrieked and splashed him hard in the face.

He came up laughing.

“That was aggressive.”

“You vanished!”

“I was swimming.”

“You were lurking.”

“Lurking?”

“Like a sea ghost.”

Harry wiped water from his eyes.

“A sea ghost?”

“A smug one.”

He grinned.

“You’re very creative when scared.”

“I wasn’t scared.”

“You screamed.”

“I expressed surprise.”

“Loudly.”

Y/N splashed him again.

They spent half the afternoon turning swimming into increasingly stupid competitions.

Who could hold their breath the longest.

Y/N lost because Harry made a ridiculous face underwater and she came up laughing before her lungs had even protested.

“That was sabotage,” she said, treading water.

Harry surfaced beside her, grinning.

“That was psychological strategy.”

“That face should be illegal.”

“I thought it was charming.”

“It was disturbing.”

“You laughed.”

“I panicked.”

“You laughed.”

She rolled her eyes and swam away.

Then came the diving rock.

It was not very high at first. A dark ledge rising from the side of the cove, worn smooth by weather and teenagers with too much confidence. Y/N climbed it barefoot, careful on the hot stone, while Harry followed behind her.

“You’ve done this before?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Enough.”

“That’s vague.”

“Comforting, isn’t it?”

He looked down at the water below.

“It’s fine.”

“You sound like you’re convincing yourself.”

“I’m evaluating.”

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m thoughtful.”

Y/N stepped closer to the edge.

Harry looked at her sharply.

“Careful.”

His voice had changed.

Not teasing now.

Y/N looked back.

“I know.”

Tag list: @indierockgirrl @pizzadragono7

[bellaimagination]

Golden Was The Coast - Series

Part II — The Boy Who Hid

Warnings: slow burn, soft flirting, emotional exhaustion, fame, quiet vulnerability, summer romance.Mini summary: Harry comes back to Caffè Lucia. Then again. And again. What begins as a quiet routine at the corner table slowly becomes something else when Y/N insists that, in a town full of lemons, he cannot keep ordering the same thing forever. A lemon gelato, a walk through San Fiora, and a hidden beach begin to pull him gently out of hiding.

Part 1

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Harry came back the next day.

Y/N told herself she had not been waiting for him.

That would have been ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. She had known him for exactly one espresso, one slice of lemon tart, two small almond biscuits, and a note left beneath a water glass. That was not enough to wait for someone.

Not properly.

Still, when the bell above the café door rang at a little past ten and she looked up too quickly, Lucia noticed.

Of course she did.

Lucia always noticed.

Harry stepped inside wearing the same faded baseball cap, though this time his sunglasses were pushed up into his hair instead of covering his eyes. His shirt was pale blue, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he carried no leather bag today. Only himself. Somehow that made him look even more exposed.

He paused at the door for a second.

Y/N pretended to straighten the stack of menus beside the counter.

Lucia leaned close to her without looking away from the espresso machine.

“Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“You are standing like someone announced the Pope.”

Y/N glared at her.

Lucia smiled sweetly.

Harry’s gaze found the corner table first.

Then her.

It was such a small thing, the way his expression changed when he saw her. Barely there. A softening around his mouth, maybe. A hesitation that looked almost like relief. But Y/N noticed it anyway, and then hated herself for noticing because noticing things about Harry had already started to feel like the beginning of a problem.

“Morning,” he said when she walked toward him.

“Morning.”

“Is the table free?”

Y/N glanced toward the back corner.

“It is.”

“Good.”

“Are you asking me or the table?”

That earned her the smallest smile.

“The table seems less intimidating.”

“Smart choice.”

She led him there as if he did not already know the way.

He sat down, and this time, he did not reach for a menu.

Y/N waited, pen hovering above her notepad.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Espresso. Still water. Lemon tart.”

Harry looked up.

“Am I that predictable?”

“You’ve only been here twice.”

“That feels unfair.”

“And yet.”

He leaned back slightly, considering her.

“Fine. Espresso, still water, lemon tart.”

Y/N wrote it down.

“Bold. Unexpected. Wildly adventurous.”

“I’m easing into change.”

“Very slowly.”

“I’ve heard that’s the safest way.”

Y/N looked at him for a second longer than she should have.

“Sometimes.”

His eyes stayed on hers.

Then she looked away first.

The corner table became his again.

Not officially. Not because anyone said so. But by the third morning, Lucia stopped seating anyone else there after half past nine. By the fourth, Matteo had walked into the café, seen Harry reading quietly in the back, looked at Y/N, and mouthed, “Again?” with a grin so annoying she nearly threw a spoon at him.

By the fifth, Rosa had begun calling him “the beautiful tired boy” even though Y/N was fairly certain she did not know who he was.

Or perhaps she did.

Rosa knew many things.

Harry did not always arrive at the same time, but he always arrived in the same way. Carefully. Like he was still expecting the town to change its mind and notice him all at once. He kept his head down when he crossed the square. He chose quieter streets. He sat with his back to the wall. He looked up every time the bell rang.

But he came back.

Every day.

Espresso.

Still water.

Lemon tart.

Sometimes almond biscuits appeared beside his plate because Lucia had apparently adopted him and refused to admit it. Sometimes he read. Sometimes he wrote in a small notebook, turning it shut whenever anyone passed too close. Sometimes he did nothing at all, which Y/N thought might be the hardest thing for someone like him.

To do nothing.

To be nowhere expected.

To sit in a corner of a café in a tiny Italian town and let the day pass without anyone asking him to become useful, charming, photogenic, available, grateful, or brilliant.

At first, Y/N only spoke to him when she had a reason.

More coffee?

More water?

Was the tart good?

Did he need anything else?

He always answered politely.

Not coldly.

Never coldly.

But carefully.

As if every word he gave away was something someone might try to keep.

Then, slowly, the conversations stretched.

It happened in pieces.

One morning, he asked whether the square was always that loud.

“Only when tourists discover stairs,” Y/N said.

Harry looked toward the window, where a man in sandals was dragging a suitcase over cobblestones with the hopeless expression of someone questioning every decision that had led him there.

“Looks painful.”

“It builds character.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Y/N gave him a look.

“I was born charming.”

Harry’s mouth curved.

“Of course.”

Another day, he asked about Lucia.

“Is she always like this?”

Y/N glanced toward the counter, where Lucia was telling a French couple that asking for ketchup with focaccia was not a crime, but it was spiritually close.

“Yes.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

“And you work for her voluntarily?”

“I prefer to think of it as surviving near her.”

Harry laughed into his espresso.

Lucia looked over immediately.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Y/N called.

Lucia narrowed her eyes.

Harry lowered his voice.

“She scares me.”

“She should.”

“I’ve played stadiums.”

“Lucia has ended marriages with one sentence.”

Harry looked genuinely concerned.

“Has she?”

Y/N smiled.

“No.”

A pause.

“Probably.”

By the end of the first week, Harry had begun taking off his sunglasses before reaching the table.

By the second, he sometimes sat facing the room instead of the wall.

Y/N noticed.

She noticed the small signs of him unwinding. The way his shoulders lowered when Lucia shouted at someone else and not him. The way his fingers stopped tapping the edge of the table every time teenagers walked past the window. The way his smile arrived more easily when Matteo came in and acted like he had no idea who Harry was, only to ask him five minutes later if all Englishmen dressed like they were on expensive boats.

“They do not,” Harry had said.

Matteo looked him up and down.

“You do.”

“I’m not on a boat.”

“Yet.”

Y/N had groaned.

“Please don’t invite him anywhere without warning me.”

Matteo turned to her, offended.

“I am a gentleman.”

“You once told a tourist your boat was faster if she complimented it.”

“And it was.”

Harry watched the exchange with the kind of amusement that made him look almost boyish.

Almost.

There was still something guarded in him, something that did not fully step into the light. Some days, his phone would ring and his whole face would close before he even looked at the screen. Some mornings, he arrived quieter than usual and sat for an hour without finishing his espresso. Once, Y/N found him outside the café before opening, leaning against the wall beside the door with his cap low over his face, staring at nothing.

She unlocked the door and pretended not to be startled.

“You’re early.”

He looked up.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Jet lag?”

He huffed softly.

“Something like that.”

“You know most people who can’t sleep don’t come wait outside cafés like tragic poets.”

“I wasn’t waiting.”

“You were standing outside a closed café.”

“I was appreciating the architecture.”

Y/N looked at the plain wooden door, chipped paint, and crooked sign.

“Deeply moving.”

“I thought so.”

She opened the door and stepped inside, holding it for him.

“Come in before Lucia sees you and decides you’re too sad to be charged full price.”

He followed her in.

“Is that a risk?”

“With Lucia? Being sad usually costs extra.”

He smiled, but it faded quickly.

Y/N noticed.

This time, she did not comment.

She only turned on the lights, started the coffee machine the way Lucia had taught her, and let the quiet stay quiet.

That was the thing about Harry.

He seemed to like silence.

But not empty silence.

Not the kind that made a room feel abandoned.

He liked silence that allowed people to stay.

Y/N understood that more than she wanted to.

On the tenth day, she decided enough was enough.

Harry arrived just before eleven, hair damp at the ends like he had been swimming or had walked too close to the sea. He looked less pale than he had the first day, his skin slowly warming under the Italian sun, his shoulders less tense beneath a loose white shirt. He sat at the corner table, placed his sunglasses beside his hand, and opened his mouth before Y/N could even lift her pen.

“Espresso, still water, lemon tart.”

Y/N did not write it down.

Harry looked at her.

“No?”

“No.”

His eyebrows rose.

“I’m sorry?”

“No.”

“To the entire order?”

“To the lack of imagination.”

Harry leaned back.

“I like the tart.”

“I know.”

“And the espresso.”

“I know.”

“And still water is difficult to ruin.”

“Impressive argument.”

“Thank you.”

Y/N closed her notepad.

“Harry.”

He went very still for half a second, like he was not used to hearing his name sound so ordinary and so direct at the same time.

She ignored the way that made her stomach tilt.

“You are in Italy,” she said.

“I had noticed.”

“In a village full of lemon trees.”

“Yes.”

“Where Lucia makes lemon tart, Rosa hands out lemons like medical advice, and people would probably defend lemon as a concept if needed.”

Harry’s mouth twitched.

“I’m listening.”

“And you have ordered the same thing every day since you arrived.”

“It’s a good thing.”

“It’s a routine.”

“I like routines.”

“No,” Y/N said. “You like hiding inside them.”

That landed differently.

She saw it.

The humour shifted in his face, not disappearing, but quieting. His fingers stilled on the edge of the table.

For a moment, she thought she had gone too far.

Then Harry looked down at his untouched menu.

“Maybe.”

The answer was so honest it softened her immediately.

She sat in the chair opposite him before she could talk herself out of it. Just for a second. Just long enough.

“You came here to get out of one routine,” she said, gentler now. “Don’t make another prison out of that table and a slice of tart.”

His eyes returned to hers.

“And what would you suggest?”

“Lemon gelato.”

Harry blinked.

“At eleven in the morning?”

“Exactly.”

“That feels illegal.”

“It’s Italy. Half the best things feel illegal until someone’s grandmother approves them.”

His smile came back slowly.

“Lucia approves?”

“She will when I tell her it was my idea.”

“That sounds like cheating.”

“In San Fiora, we call it creativity.”

Harry laughed.

Y/N pointed at him.

“See? You’re already adapting.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“You have.”

“I absolutely have not.”

“You smiled.”

“That is not a legally binding contract.”

“It is in San Fiora.”

He looked toward the counter, where Lucia was pretending not to listen while very obviously listening.

“And the tart?”

“The tart will survive without you for one day.”

“I’m not sure I will.”

“You will. The gelato will be fresh, wonderful, and it might change your life.”

Harry looked amused now.

“My life?”

“Or at least your morning.”

“That’s a smaller promise.”

“I’m being realistic.”

He studied her for a moment, the smile softening around the edges.

“You’re very sure about this.”

“I’m right a lot.”

“That sounds exhausting for everyone around you.”

“It builds character.”

Harry looked down, laughing under his breath.

Then he closed the menu.

“Fine.”

Y/N smiled.

“Fine?”

“Lemon gelato.”

“And?”

His eyes narrowed.

“There’s an and?”

“You also have to trust me.”

Harry leaned forward slightly.

There was something new in the movement.

Something less cautious.

“Those are dangerous words.”

“Only if I’m wrong.”

“Are you ever?”

Y/N stood, picking up her notepad even though she had written nothing on it.

“Rarely.”

Lucia nearly combusted with satisfaction when Y/N told her.

“Finally,” she said, already reaching for the small freezer where she kept gelato from a family shop two streets down.

“Don’t look so proud.”

“I am proud. He has eaten the same tart for ten days. It was beginning to insult me.”

“You made the tart.”

“Yes. And even I know obsession is unattractive.”

Y/N glanced toward Harry.

He was watching them from the corner table, looking both suspicious and amused.

Lucia lowered her voice.

“He trusts you.”

Y/N’s hand paused around a spoon.

“It’s gelato.”

Lucia looked at her as if she were an idiot.

“It is never only gelato.”

Y/N wanted to argue.

She did not.

A few minutes later, she placed the small glass bowl in front of Harry. The lemon gelato was pale, almost white, with a bright yellow curl of peel on top. It looked simple. Clean. Cold enough to fog the glass.

Harry stared at it.

“It looks innocent.”

“That’s how it gets you.”

He picked up the spoon.

Y/N stood with both hands behind her back, waiting.

Harry looked up.

“Are you going to watch me eat this?”

“Yes.”

“That feels aggressive.”

“This is an important cultural moment.”

“I feel pressure.”

“You should.”

He shook his head, smiling, then took a spoonful.

Y/N watched his face carefully.

At first, nothing.

Then his eyebrows lifted slightly.

His mouth closed more slowly.

He looked down at the bowl.

Y/N grinned.

“Well?”

Harry took another spoonful.

“Annoyingly good.”

“That sounded like pain.”

“It is pain.”

“Because I was right?”

“Because you’re going to be unbearable about being right.”

Y/N leaned a hand on the table, delighted.

“So it is fresh?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful?”

“Yes.”

“Life-changing?”

He took another bite, deliberately making her wait.

“Morning-changing.”

“I’ll take it.”

“You shouldn’t. It’s already too much power.”

Y/N straightened.

“Too late.”

Harry looked at her over the bowl, still smiling, and for a moment the café around them seemed to fall back. The tourists, the cups, Lucia muttering by the counter, the heat pressing against the windows. All of it blurred slightly, leaving only the strange intimacy of someone letting himself be gently pulled out of a corner.

Then Matteo burst through the door and ruined it.

“Ah,” he announced, pointing at Harry’s table. “The Englishman eats gelato before lunch. San Fiora is healing him.”

Harry turned.

“You must be Matteo.”

Matteo stopped.

Then looked at Y/N.

“He knows my name?”

Y/N lifted one shoulder.

“You’re loud.”

Matteo seemed pleased by this.

“Yes.”

Harry held up the spoon.

“I was told this would change my life.”

Matteo came closer, inspecting the bowl.

“Lemon?”

“Yes.”

He looked at Y/N.

“You chose.”

“She forced me,” Harry said.

“Good.” Matteo nodded solemnly. “She is usually right about food and wrong about boats.”

“I’m not wrong about boats.”

“You call Stella dramatic.”

“She is dramatic.”

“She has personality.”

“She has emotional instability.”

Harry looked between them.

“Is Stella a person?”

Matteo pressed one hand to his chest.

“Do not insult my boat.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were thinking it.”

Y/N laughed.

Harry smiled into his gelato, and the sound seemed to loosen something in the room.

After that, the day shifted.

Maybe because of the gelato.

Maybe because of Matteo.

Maybe because Harry had allowed one small routine to break and the world had not ended.

He stayed until Y/N’s shift slowed. Not in the heavy way he had stayed before, quiet and folded into himself, but more present. He listened when Lucia argued with a supplier on the phone. He watched an old man teach a little girl how to dip biscotti into coffee without losing half of it. He asked Y/N what the best time of day was to walk through the town without melting.

“After three,” she said. “When the worst of the heat starts leaving the stones.”

He looked toward the door.

“And would I get lost?”

“Definitely.”

“That was quick.”

“You look like someone who thinks maps can be trusted.”

“They can’t?”

“In San Fiora? No.”

“Why?”

“Because half the streets are stairs, the other half pretend to be streets and then become someone’s courtyard.”

“That sounds like a design flaw.”

“That sounds like charm.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully.

“I see.”

“You don’t.”

“No.”

Y/N smiled.

At three, she took off her apron.

Harry was still at the corner table.

Lucia watched from the counter with a face of theatrical innocence.

Y/N ignored her and walked over.

“I’m done.”

Harry looked up.

“With work?”

“With pretending not to notice you’ve been waiting.”

His mouth opened.

Closed.

Then he smiled.

“I was appreciating the architecture again.”

“Of course.”

“The corner has excellent walls.”

“Very emotional walls.”

“Deeply.”

Y/N shook her head.

“I can show you the town, if you want.”

Harry’s smile faded, just enough for sincerity to enter.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

A beat passed.

He looked down at his sunglasses, then back at her.

“I’d like that.”

Y/N tried not to look too pleased.

Failed, probably.

“Good. But I’m taking the bike.”

Harry glanced toward the window, where the blue bicycle was leaning dramatically against the wall outside.

“That thing?”

“She has a name.”

“Does she?”

“No, but she deserves respect.”

“She looks dangerous.”

“She is.”

“Comforting.”

“You’ll walk.”

“While you ride?”

“I’ll push her most of the way. The hills are offensive.”

Harry stood, sliding his sunglasses into his shirt collar.

“Sounds romantic.”

Y/N looked at him.

He looked back.

Then, as if realising what he had said, he cleared his throat.

“I mean scenic.”

“Of course.”

“Very scenic.”

Y/N walked toward the door before he could see her smile.

San Fiora in the late afternoon was softer than it was at noon, though still warm enough that the stones held heat through the soles of Y/N’s sandals. The shadows had lengthened across the square, stretching from the church steps toward the fountain. A group of older men sat outside the tobacco shop, discussing something with the intensity of world leaders and the pace of people who had nowhere else to be.

Harry followed beside her as she pushed the blue bicycle up the narrow street behind the café.

At first, he kept his cap low.

Y/N noticed but did not comment.

They climbed past shuttered houses, potted basil, laundry hanging between balconies, and doorways painted in colours softened by sun and salt. At one point, the street narrowed so much Y/N had to turn the bicycle sideways to pass.

Harry reached out automatically to steady the handlebar.

His hand brushed hers.

Barely.

A quick touch.

Still, they both noticed.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay.”

Neither of them moved for half a second.

Then the bicycle rolled forward sharply, knocking against the wall.

Y/N grabbed it.

Harry laughed.

“She is dangerous.”

“She’s sensitive.”

“She’s a liability.”

“She heard that.”

They kept walking.

Y/N showed him the little chapel with blue tiles around the door, the stone fountain where children filled bottles and splashed one another, the balcony where a woman always grew red geraniums even though the sun punished them every afternoon. She showed him the bakery with the best almond biscuits and the alley that smelled permanently of garlic because a restaurant kitchen opened onto it. She showed him the stairs that looked like a shortcut but were, according to Lucia, “a punishment created by men with no mercy.”

Harry listened to everything.

Really listened.

That surprised her, though she was not sure why. Maybe because famous people were not supposed to listen to ordinary details as if they mattered. Maybe because she had expected him to be polite but distant. Instead, he asked questions. He repeated names. He noticed things she had stopped noticing.

“Why are there lemons painted on half the doors?” he asked as they passed a row of small houses.

“Protection, maybe. Pride. Branding.”

“Branding?”

“San Fiora is very committed to lemons.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“You’ve only seen the polite side of it.”

“There’s an impolite side?”

“Rosa.”

As if summoned, Rosa appeared at her doorway with a basket in her hands.

Y/N stopped.

“Buonasera, Rosa.”

Rosa’s eyes moved immediately to Harry.

Of course they did.

She looked him up and down without shame.

Then she smiled.

“Ah.”

Y/N braced herself.

Harry leaned closer.

“Should I be afraid?”

“Possibly.”

Rosa said something in quick Italian.

Harry looked at Y/N.

“She says you are too thin.”

“I’m not.”

“She also says you look like you think too much.”

Harry’s mouth twitched.

“That feels personal.”

“It usually is.”

Rosa reached into the basket and handed him two lemons.

Harry accepted them carefully.

“Grazie.”

Rosa’s eyes sharpened.

She said something else.

Y/N tried very hard not to laugh.

Harry noticed.

“What did she say?”

“She says lemons cure heartbreak.”

His expression shifted.

A little.

“Do they?”

Y/N looked at the lemons in his hands.

“I think in San Fiora they cure everything.”

Rosa spoke again, this time looking directly at Y/N with a smile that was far too knowing.

Y/N’s face warmed.

Harry looked between them.

“What did she say now?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not nothing.”

“It was very much nothing.”

“Y/N.”

She started walking.

Harry followed.

“What did she say?”

“She said to give you lemonade before you become more dramatic.”

“That is not what she said.”

“No.”

“What did she say?”

Y/N kept her eyes on the street ahead.

“She said everyone has at least one heartbreak.”

Harry was quiet for a moment.

Then he looked down at the lemons.

“She may be right.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, though she kept her voice light.

“Rosa usually is.”

They left the houses behind and climbed toward the path that curved along the hillside above town. The air changed there, turning greener, sharper, filled with the smell of leaves, sun-warmed stone, and lemons ripening behind old walls. Below them, San Fiora opened slowly, roofs layered toward the sea, the marina tucked into the curve of the coast, tiny boats rocking like toys in the bright water.

Harry stopped walking.

Y/N stopped too.

The blue bicycle leaned against her hip.

He looked at the view for a long time.

No sunglasses now.

No cap pulled low.

Just Harry, sun catching the edge of his face, wind moving through his hair.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

There was something in his voice that made the words feel insufficient.

Y/N looked at the town, trying to see it the way he was seeing it.

“It is.”

“How did you find this place?”

“By accident.”

He smiled faintly.

“Good accident.”

“The best ones usually are.”

Harry glanced at her.

“Is that why you stayed?”

Y/N breathed in slowly.

The question did not bother her this time.

Maybe because he had earned a better answer.

“My family understood,” she said. “I think they knew I was never very good at being still in the same place for too long. Not in a bad way. Just… I don’t know. The same routines, the same streets, the same expectations. I started feeling like I knew exactly what every day would look like before it happened.”

Harry listened without interrupting.

“And then I came here,” she continued. “Different language. Different people. Different light. No one knew me well enough to decide who I was. I think I needed that. To hear another language around me. To get lost. To become a version of myself no one expected.”

Harry looked out at the sea.

“That doesn’t sound like running.”

Y/N turned to him.

“No?”

He shook his head.

“It sounds like searching.”

The words settled somewhere deep inside her.

She looked away first, because if she kept looking at him, she feared he would see how much they mattered.

“And you?” she asked.

Harry’s expression closed slightly.

“Me?”

“Did you come here to run or search?”

He looked down at the lemons Rosa had given him, one in each hand.

“For a while, I wasn’t sure there was a difference.”

Y/N waited.

Harry shifted his weight, then let out a breath.

“I didn’t know where to go,” he said. “I just knew I needed somewhere no one expected anything from me. Somewhere no one knew where I was supposed to be next.”

“That’s a lot to ask from a town with three restaurants and a dramatic boat.”

He laughed softly, grateful for the escape.

“It’s doing well so far.”

“San Fiora is very talented.”

“It is.”

He looked at her then.

“So are you.”

Y/N blinked.

“At what?”

“Making people feel like they’re not being watched, even when you see more than you say.”

That took the breath out of her.

For a moment, the path, the heat, the cicadas, the distant sound of boats below all seemed to fall away.

Y/N forced a small smile.

“That sounds like a compliment that could also be an accusation.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Good.”

“Mostly.”

She laughed.

Harry smiled, but there was something serious underneath it.

“You’re not used to being watched without someone wanting something from you,” she said before she could stop herself.

His smile disappeared.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable.

But it was honest.

Y/N’s stomach tightened.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “That was—”

“True,” Harry finished.

She looked at him.

He held her gaze.

“It was true.”

The wind moved through the lemon trees beside them.

Y/N nodded once.

Then, because some truths could not be stared at for too long, she reached for the bicycle.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“There’s a beach.”

“I thought there was a beach below the town.”

“There is.”

“And this is another beach?”

“Yes.”

“How many beaches does one tiny town need?”

“As many as possible.”

Harry followed her down a narrow path that left the main road and curved between low stone walls. The bicycle complained the entire way, wheels catching on loose stones, brakes squeaking dramatically whenever Y/N tried to slow it down. Harry offered twice to take it from her. She refused twice, mostly out of pride.

At the third offer, the front wheel caught in a crack and the bicycle lurched sideways.

Harry grabbed the handlebar with one hand and her waist with the other.

Y/N froze.

The touch lasted only long enough to steady her.

Still.

His hand was warm through the thin fabric of her dress.

“Sorry,” he said again, softer this time.

She looked up.

He was close.

Too close for someone who was only helping with a bicycle.

“It’s okay,” she said.

Neither of them moved.

Then somewhere above them, a bird screeched so violently that Y/N startled and nearly laughed.

Harry looked up.

“Was that a warning?”

“Probably.”

“From who?”

“The bicycle.”

He let go first, smiling.

“Sensitive and dramatic.”

“She gets it from Matteo.”

They reached the hidden beach just before the sun began its slow descent toward evening.

It was not a beach in the easy sense. No soft sand. No umbrellas. No rows of towels. Just a small cove tucked between dark rocks, with pale stones smoothed by water and a narrow strip of sea so clear it looked unreal. The path ended above it, and they climbed carefully down, Y/N leaving the bicycle against an old wall where it immediately looked offended.

Harry stood at the edge of the rocks, staring.

“You hid this from me.”

“You had to earn it.”

“With gelato?”

“With trust.”

He looked at her then.

The word hung between them.

Y/N pretended to be very interested in removing her sandals.

“The stones are hot,” she said.

“I’ll survive.”

“Famous last words.”

Harry took off his cap and placed it on the rock beside his sunglasses. Without them, he looked less protected and more like the person who had been slowly appearing over the past ten days. Still guarded, yes. But less hidden.

Y/N stepped carefully across the stones toward the water.

Harry followed.

The sea was cool around her ankles, a shock against the heat of the day. She sighed without meaning to.

Harry looked at her.

“That good?”

“Always.”

He rolled up his trousers, then stepped in beside her.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The water moved gently around their legs. The cove held the sound differently than the town did, softening everything. No scooters. No tourists. No cups clattering. Only waves, cicadas, and the distant bell from the church.

Y/N looked out at the horizon.

Harry looked at her.

She felt it.

This time, she did not tell him to stop.

“Why didn’t you say it?” he asked.

Y/N knew exactly what he meant.

Tag list: @indierockgirrl @pizzadragono7

[bellaimagination]

Golden Was The Coast - Series

Part I — The Girl Who Stayed 

Warnings: slow burn, emotional exhaustion, fame, summer romance, soft angst, strangers-to-something-more.  Mini summary: Y/N never planned to stay in San Fiora after her Erasmus ended, but the little Italian coastal town gave her something she had not known she was looking for. Then, one hot July morning, a man in sunglasses walks into Caffè Lucia asking for coffee, water, and a quiet corner. She recognises him immediately. She just chooses not to say it. 

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Y/N had not planned to stay. 

That was the first thing everyone asked her when they found out she was still in San Fiora sul Mare after her Erasmus had ended. Why stay? Why there? Why that tiny town on the Italian coast, with its steep streets, old stone houses, blue shutters, lemon trees leaning over garden walls, and a marina so small everyone knew which boat belonged to whom before they even saw the name painted on the side? 

The truth was simple. 

And, somehow, impossible to explain. 

She had stayed because leaving had felt wrong. 

Not dramatic. Not tragic. Not like some cinematic moment where she had stood at the train station with a suitcase in her hand and tears in her eyes. It had been quieter than that. More ordinary. More dangerous. One day, she had looked at the sea from the top of the hill above town, felt the warm wind push her hair back from her face, listened to the bells from the little church ring somewhere behind her, and realised that the thought of going back to a life that already knew who she was made her chest feel too tight. 

San Fiora did not know her. 

That was what made it easy to breathe there. 

No one in town expected her to be anything polished or finished. No one asked if she had figured out her future yet, as if the future was something she could fold neatly and place inside a drawer. No one looked at her like they already had a version of her in their mind and were only waiting to see if she matched it. 

In San Fiora, she was simply the girl who stayed. 

Lucia called her that first. 

Lucia, who owned Caffè Lucia in the main square and had a voice that could cut through church bells, tourists, and the sound of scooters climbing the hill. Lucia, who wore red lipstick even at seven in the morning and treated everyone like family unless they ordered a cappuccino after lunch, in which case she treated them like a personal disappointment. 

“You stayed,” Lucia had said on Y/N’s last official day in town, watching her stand in the middle of the café with her suitcase beside her chair and no real plan in her head. 

Y/N had looked up from her cold espresso. 

“I missed the bus.” 

Lucia had stared at her. 

“There is another one tomorrow.” 

“I know.” 

“And after that.” 

“I know.” 

“And the day after that.” 

Y/N had pressed her lips together. 

Lucia had looked at her for a long moment, then picked up the cup from the table. 

“You can wash glasses.” 

Y/N blinked. 

“What?” 

“If you are going to sit here every morning looking like a tragic painting, you can wash glasses.” 

“I don’t know how.” 

Lucia had rolled her eyes. 

“It is water and hands. You will survive.” 

That was how it started. 

A few hours a week became a few mornings. A few mornings became most days. Most days became a routine. By July, Y/N had a tiny room above a guesthouse near the square, a set of keys Lucia insisted she not lose, and a blue bicycle Matteo had lent her because, according to him, “walking everywhere is romantic only until your legs hate you.” 

Matteo was Lucia’s son. He was twenty-eight, loud, sun-browned, and constantly pretending not to care about things he cared about deeply. He worked at the marina, fixed boats, carried crates, flirted badly with tourists, and treated his little white boat, Stella, as if she were a dramatic old aunt who needed patience, praise, and occasional threats. 

“She is old,” he had told Y/N the first time he took her out on the water, patting the side of the boat. “But loyal.” 

“Like Lucia?” 

Matteo had gasped. 

“Never say that where she can hear you.” 

Y/N had laughed so hard the boat rocked. 

By midsummer, she knew the rhythm of San Fiora better than she knew how to explain her own life. She knew which bakery sold out of warm cornetti first. She knew which cats belonged to no one and still managed to be fed by everyone. She knew that Rosa, the old woman who lived three houses down from the café, gave lemons to people as if citrus could heal grief, fever, heartbreak, bad luck, and poor decisions. 

She knew that the sea looked different depending on the hour. Silver in the early morning. Bright blue by noon. Soft and golden by evening, when the sun lowered itself slowly toward the water and made the whole coast look like it had been forgiven for something. 

She knew that tourists came and went, dragging suitcases over cobblestones, asking where the beach was, taking photos of doorways, mispronouncing Lucia’s name, and leaving after three days convinced they had discovered something secret. 

Y/N stayed. 

She stayed through the heat, through the crowds, through the days when the café smelled of coffee, lemon tart, warm sugar, and sea salt carried in on people’s clothes. She stayed long enough that the locals stopped asking when she was leaving and started asking whether she had eaten. 

She was not happy all the time. 

That would have been too simple. 

There were evenings when she missed home in strange, sharp ways. Not enough to go back immediately, but enough to feel the distance. She missed familiar voices. She missed knowing exactly how to say what she meant. She missed walking into a room and understanding every joke, every tone, every reference without translating half of it in her head. 

But there were other evenings when she sat on the low stone wall above the marina with gelato melting faster than she could eat it, watching the sun break itself across the water, and thought maybe there were versions of her she had not met yet. 

Maybe San Fiora was one of them. 

The morning Harry arrived was painfully hot. 

The kind of heat that made the town move slowly, as if everyone had agreed to perform life at half speed until the sun calmed down. The air above the square shimmered. The stone steps were already warm by nine. The lemon trees near the church gave off a bright, sharp smell every time the breeze moved through them, and Lucia had been complaining about tourists since before the first table was seated. 

“They come to Italy,” Lucia said, slamming a stack of cups onto the counter, “and then ask if we have iced caramel coffee with oat milk and sadness.” 

Y/N laughed as she tied her apron. 

“I don’t think they asked for sadness.” 

“They did with their faces.” 

“You’re in a good mood today.” 

Lucia pointed a spoon at her. 

“I am always in a good mood.” 

“You threatened a German man with a napkin ten minutes ago.” 

“He called my espresso cute.” 

Y/N pressed her lips together to stop herself from laughing again. 

“That was brave of him.” 

“That was stupid of him.” 

The bell above the door rang. 

Lucia looked toward it with the expression of a woman preparing for battle. 

“See?” she said. “Another one.” 

Y/N turned. 

And for a second, everything in the café seemed to shift. 

Not dramatically. 

Not enough for anyone else to notice. 

But enough for her. 

A man had stepped inside, pausing just beyond the doorway as if the sudden change from sunlight to shade had caught him off guard. He was tall, though not in a way that tried to take up space. If anything, he seemed to be doing the opposite. His shoulders curved slightly inward, his head tipped down beneath a faded baseball cap, sunglasses hiding most of his face. He wore a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, loose trousers, and carried a brown leather bag that looked too expensive for someone trying to appear invisible. 

Y/N recognised him immediately. 

Of course she did. 

There were faces some people knew without ever meeting them. Faces that belonged to posters, magazines, playlists, interviews watched too late at night, stages lit brighter than the sun. Faces that became familiar in a way that felt impossible and unfair, because the person wearing them had never once been given the same chance to know yours. 

Harry Styles stood in the doorway of Caffè Lucia, looking like a man who had crossed an ocean just to be left alone. 

For one second, Y/N forgot to move. 

Only one. 

Then Lucia nudged her with an elbow. 

“Table,” she muttered. “Unless you plan to stare him into ordering.” 

Y/N blinked. 

Right. 

Table. 

She picked up a menu and walked toward him, forcing her face into the same polite expression she used for every tourist who looked lost, overheated, or emotionally wounded by cobblestones. 

“Hi,” she said in English. “Just one?” 

His head lifted slightly. 

Behind the sunglasses, she could not see his eyes. But she felt the pause. The brief calculation. The moment where he waited for recognition to become announcement. 

It did not. 

Y/N simply stood there, holding the menu. 

After a beat, he nodded. 

“Yeah. Just one.” 

His voice was lower than she expected. 

Or maybe she had only ever heard it through speakers, flattened by interviews, polished by distance. 

“Inside or outside?” 

He glanced toward the square, where sunlight bounced off the pale stones with almost violent brightness. A group of tourists stood near the fountain, laughing too loudly over a map. 

“Inside, please.” 

“Somewhere cooler?” 

“If possible.” 

Y/N turned slightly, looking across the café. There were several empty tables, but she already knew which one he needed. The small table in the back corner, near the old bookshelf and the narrow window that looked out toward the side alley instead of the square. Not hidden exactly, but quiet. Shaded. Away from the door. 

“This way.” 

He followed her without a word. 

Y/N placed the menu on the table. 

“This one is usually the quietest,” she said. “Less sun. Less people staring at maps like maps personally betrayed them.” 

A breath of amusement left him. 

Not quite a laugh. 

But close. 

“Sounds perfect.” 

She stepped back. 

“I’ll give you a minute.” 

“Thanks.” 

Y/N returned to the counter with her heart beating far too loudly for someone who had done absolutely nothing except seat a customer. 

Lucia was watching her. 

Y/N picked up a cloth and began wiping an already clean spot on the counter. 

“What?” 

Lucia narrowed her eyes. 

“You know him.” 

Y/N nearly dropped the cloth. 

“I don’t know him.” 

“But you know of him.” 

Y/N looked toward the corner table before she could stop herself. 

Harry had taken off his cap, but not his sunglasses. His head was bowed, one hand rubbing slowly at the bridge of his nose as if the simple act of being indoors had not been enough to make him feel safe. 

Y/N looked away. 

“Everyone knows of him.” 

Lucia followed her gaze, then hummed. 

“Famous?” 

Y/N hesitated. 

“Yes.” 

“How famous?” 

Y/N gave her a look. 

Lucia’s eyebrows rose. 

“Oh. That famous.” 

“Please don’t make it obvious.” 

Lucia looked offended. 

“I am a professional.” 

“You once told a couple they were going to break up before dessert.” 

“They did break up before dessert.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

Lucia leaned closer, lowering her voice. 

“He looks tired.” 

Y/N looked at him again. 

He did. 

Not sleepy. Not simply travel-worn. Tired in a deeper, quieter way. Like he had been carrying too many versions of himself and had finally put them down only to realise he had forgotten what his hands felt like empty. 

“Yes,” Y/N said softly. “He does.” 

Lucia nodded once, as if deciding something. 

“Then give him the good table and do not look at him like he is a painting.” 

Y/N sighed. 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You were a little.” 

“I was surprised.” 

“Be surprised quietly.” 

That, at least, she could do. 

When Y/N returned to the table, Harry had removed his sunglasses. They were folded beside his hand, one arm tucked neatly beneath the other. Without them, his face seemed both more familiar and more human. His eyes were tired, yes, but attentive. Green. Careful. He looked up when she approached, and again she felt that tiny pause, that waiting. 

She kept her voice even. 

“What can I get you?” 

He glanced at the menu, though she doubted he had read much of it. 

“An espresso, please. Still water. And…” He looked toward the glass display near the counter. “Is that lemon tart?” 

“It is.” 

“Good?” 

Y/N tilted her head. 

“You’re asking in Lucia’s café, so there is only one safe answer.” 

His mouth twitched. 

“Good, then.” 

“Very good.” 

“Then I’ll have that too.” 

“Espresso, still water, lemon tart.” 

“Please.” 

She nodded and turned to leave. 

“Actually,” he said. 

Y/N stopped. 

Harry’s fingers moved lightly over the edge of the menu. 

“Do people usually sit here long?” 

“In that table?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Depends.” 

“On what?” 

“On whether they’re hiding from the sun or from themselves.” 

His gaze lifted fully to hers. 

For half a second, Y/N regretted saying it. 

Then something in his face changed, just slightly. A small crack in the careful neutrality. Not amusement exactly. More like recognition. 

“And if it’s both?” he asked. 

“Then Lucia charges extra.” 

This time, he did laugh. 

Quietly. 

Briefly. 

But it was real enough that Y/N felt it like sunlight moving across the room. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

She went back to the counter before she could do something ridiculous, like smile too much. 

Lucia was already cutting the tart. 

“You made him laugh,” she said. 

Y/N reached for a tray. 

“He laughed at the table.” 

“No one laughs at furniture.” 

“He laughed at the threat of being overcharged.” 

“Good. Then he understands Italian hospitality.” 

Y/N carried the order back carefully. 

Harry looked up when she placed the water down first, then the espresso, then the slice of lemon tart on a small white plate. The tart was glossy on top, pale yellow and dusted lightly with sugar. Lucia’s best, though she would never admit she had chosen the prettiest slice. 

“Thank you,” Harry said. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Y/N stepped away, but his voice stopped her again. 

“Sorry,” he said. “What’s your name?” 

She looked back at him. 

He asked it like a normal question. 

That, for some reason, made it harder. 

“Y/N.” 

He repeated it softly, not quite under his breath, as if testing how it felt. 

“Y/N.” 

There was nothing strange about it. 

People said her name every day. 

Lucia shouted it from the kitchen. Matteo yelled it across the marina. Tourists read it from her name tag and pronounced it badly. 

But the way Harry said it made it feel briefly unfamiliar. 

“And you?” she asked, because there was no way not to. 

His eyes flickered. 

The corner of his mouth lifted, but the smile did not fully arrive. 

“Harry.” 

Y/N held his gaze. 

She did not say I know. 

She did not say anything else. 

Only nodded once. 

“Nice to meet you, Harry.” 

For a second, he looked almost relieved. 

“Nice to meet you too.” 

She left him alone after that. 

Mostly. 

She served three tables outside, refilled water for a family with two children, argued gently with an elderly man who insisted he had ordered tea even though he came in every morning and ordered espresso, and pretended not to notice that Harry remained at the corner table for nearly two hours. 

He did not touch his phone much. 

That surprised her. 

He took it out once, looked at the screen, sighed, and placed it face down on the table. After that, he drank his espresso slowly, even though espresso was not built for patience, and ate the lemon tart in small bites as if he was trying to make time stretch around it. 

Once, a group of young women came into the café laughing, their hair still wet from the beach, sunglasses pushed onto their heads. Y/N saw Harry’s body tense before they had even noticed him. 

They did not. 

Lucia seated them outside. 

Harry exhaled so quietly Y/N only noticed because she had been looking. 

She should not have been looking. 

She knew that. 

But there was something deeply strange about seeing someone the world had turned into an event sitting alone in a corner, trying to be ordinary. Stranger still was the fact that ordinary seemed to suit him. The way his hand curled around the tiny espresso cup. The way he leaned back when he thought no one was watching. The way he looked out through the narrow window at the alley, where laundry moved between buildings and a cat slept on a windowsill with the arrogance of something worshipped in a past life. 

At some point, Lucia passed by Y/N and whispered, “You are looking again.” 

Y/N nearly dropped the tray. 

“I’m checking if he needs anything.” 

“He needs sleep.” 

“That is not on the menu.” 

“Then improvise.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes, but ten minutes later, she found herself walking back to the corner table with a small plate. 

Harry looked up. 

“I didn’t order anything else.” 

“I know.” 

She placed the plate down. 

On it sat two small almond biscuits Lucia usually kept for regulars, friends, or people she had silently decided were underfed. 

“From Lucia,” Y/N said. “She thinks you look tired.” 

Harry looked toward the counter. 

Lucia was aggressively polishing glasses and pretending not to care. 

His mouth softened. 

“That obvious?” 

Y/N considered lying. 

Then decided against it. 

“A little.” 

He looked down at the biscuits, then back at her. 

“Do I look rude if I ask whether she gives these to everyone who looks tired?” 

“Yes.” 

“Does she?” 

“No.” 

His smile was small, almost private. 

“Then tell her thank you.” 

“You can tell her yourself if you’re brave enough.” 

His eyebrows lifted. 

“Should I be scared?” 

“Of Lucia?” 

“Yes.” 

“Absolutely.” 

He laughed again, and Y/N found herself liking the sound more than she should. 

For the next few minutes, the café settled into one of those rare quiet pockets that happened between rushes. Outside, the square shimmered. Inside, the fan turned lazily above the counter, moving warm air around without improving it much. 

Harry broke one biscuit in half. 

“Have you lived here long?” 

Y/N looked around, as if the café itself might answer for her. 

“Not long. Long enough.” 

“That sounds like an answer people give when they don’t want to explain.” 

“It is.” 

He nodded, accepting that. 

“Fair.” 

She could have walked away. 

She probably should have. 

Instead, she rested one hand lightly on the back of the chair across from him. 

“I came here for Erasmus,” she said. “I was supposed to leave when it ended.” 

“But you didn’t.” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

There it was again. 

The question everyone asked. 

But he asked it differently. 

Not as if he needed a practical answer. Not as if he wanted her to justify herself. More like he understood the shape of staying somewhere by accident and wanted to know what had made her stop moving. 

Y/N looked toward the narrow window. A line of sunlight cut across the floor near Harry’s shoes. 

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I think I liked who I was here.” 

Harry was quiet. 

Then he said, “That’s a good reason.” 

She looked back at him. 

“You think so?” 

“I think it might be one of the only good reasons.” 

Something passed between them then. 

Not flirtation. 

Not yet. 

Something quieter. 

Recognition, maybe. 

The kind that happened when two strangers accidentally touched the same bruise in different bodies. 

Y/N cleared her throat and straightened. 

“I should work.” 

Harry glanced around the half-empty café. 

“Looks very demanding.” 

“Emotionally, yes.” 

“Lucia?” 

“Mostly.” 

He smiled. 

“Good luck.” 

“Thank you.” 

She took two steps before he spoke again. 

“Y/N?” 

She turned. 

Harry looked at the biscuits, then at her. 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

He hesitated. 

“For not making it a thing.” 

Y/N did not pretend not to understand. 

The café noise seemed to soften around them. Cups, voices, the distant sound of someone dragging a chair outside. Lucia muttering in Italian at the coffee machine. 

Y/N met his eyes. 

“You looked like you needed coffee more than a thing.” 

The corner of his mouth lifted, but his eyes stayed serious. 

“I did.” 

“Then you came to the right place.” 

He held her gaze a second longer. 

“I think so.” 

Y/N felt warmth rise to her face and turned away before he could see too much of it. 

The rest of the morning passed slowly, then all at once. 

By the time Harry finally stood, the lunch crowd had begun drifting in. The square outside was louder now, full of heat and bodies and the clatter of cutlery from nearby restaurants. He placed money on the table, more than enough, and slid his sunglasses back on. 

Y/N was clearing a table near the door when he approached. 

“Leaving?” she asked, then immediately hated herself for how it sounded. 

Harry’s mouth tilted. 

“For now.” 

“For now?” 

He shrugged lightly. 

“I haven’t tried everything on the menu.” 

“That could take a while.” 

“I’m patient.” 

Y/N glanced toward his empty table. 

“Are you?” 

He followed her gaze. 

For a moment, the smile faded. 

“No,” he said softly. “Not usually.” 

There was something in the honesty of it that made her pause. 

Then he seemed to catch himself and reached for the door. 

“Tell Lucia thank you for the biscuits.” 

“I will.” 

“And the tart.” 

“She already knows the tart is good.” 

“I’m sure she does.” 

Y/N smiled. 

“She does.” 

Harry stepped outside, then stopped beneath the awning, turning back slightly. 

“See you, Y/N.” 

It should not have mattered. 

It was only her name. 

But it did. 

“See you, Harry.” 

Then he walked into the heat of the square and disappeared among tourists, sun, and the lazy movement of a town that did not yet know what it had just let in. 

Y/N watched for half a second too long. 

Lucia appeared beside her. 

“Interesting,” she said. 

Y/N startled. 

“Please stop doing that.” 

“No.” 

Y/N began wiping the table nearest the door with unnecessary focus. 

“He’s just a customer.” 

Lucia hummed. 

“Of course.” 

“He wanted coffee.” 

“Many people want coffee.” 

“And a quiet table.” 

“Many people want quiet.” 

Y/N looked at her. 

Lucia looked back, completely unimpressed. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Lucia said. “I said nothing.” 

“You said interesting.” 

“That is almost nothing.” 

Y/N sighed and carried the cloth back to the counter. 

The corner table was empty now. 

Except it was not. 

Not completely. 

There was the cup, the plate with a few crumbs of almond biscuit, the folded napkin, and the money tucked neatly beneath the edge of the saucer. Y/N walked over to clear it, expecting nothing more than the ordinary evidence of someone having been there. 

Then she saw the small piece of paper. 

It had been torn from the corner of something, maybe a notebook, maybe a receipt. Folded once. Left beneath the water glass. 

Y/N glanced toward Lucia, who was busy arguing with a man about whether sparkling water counted as water. Then she unfolded it. 

The handwriting was messy but deliberate. 

Thank you for not saying it. 

Y/N read the sentence once. 

Then again. 

Her chest did something strange. 

Not a flutter. 

Not exactly. 

More like the quiet click of a door she had not realised was closed. 

She looked toward the square, though Harry was long gone. 

The sunlight outside was almost white with heat. A scooter passed. Someone laughed near the fountain. Rosa shouted down at a cat from her window. San Fiora continued being San Fiora, unaware that the day had shifted slightly on its axis. 

Y/N folded the note carefully and slipped it into the pocket of her apron. 

Lucia appeared behind her. 

“What is that?” 

Y/N nearly jumped. 

“Nothing.” 

Lucia’s eyes narrowed. 

“You are a terrible liar.” 

“I learned from Matteo.” 

“That explains nothing good.” 

Y/N picked up the empty espresso cup and plate. 

“He left a note.” 

Lucia tried and failed not to look interested. 

“What did it say?” 

Y/N hesitated. 

Then smiled down at the table. 

“Thank you.” 

Lucia studied her for a moment. 

Then, surprisingly, she did not ask more. 

She only picked up the saucer and looked toward the door. 

“He will come back,” she said. 

Y/N forced a laugh. 

“You don’t know that.” 

Lucia gave her a look that suggested she knew many things and tolerated very few doubts. 

“He sat at the corner table for two hours. He ate my lemon tart. He laughed twice. He left a note.” 

“So?” 

“So,” Lucia said, walking back toward the counter, “men who want to disappear do not leave notes unless some part of them wants to be found.” 

Y/N stood there with the empty cup in her hand, the paper warm in her apron pocket, and did not answer. 

Outside, the bells began to ring noon. 

The sound moved through the square, over the fountain, past the lemons and the shuttered windows, down toward the marina where boats knocked softly against the dock. 

Harry had come to San Fiora to disappear. 

And, without meaning to, he had just been seen. 

Hope you like my second series! Leave a comment to what you think of it!

[bellaimagination]

My very first series is officially complete and posted!

Please give me your honest opinion and what you would like to see next 🫶🏻

[fkingstyles]

🩶 Show You Off

Summary: “Kissing and I hope they caught us, whether they like or not.” // As Harry’s girlfriend steps into the spotlight, Harry is cautious but unapologetic about his love for her.

CW: slight angst (negative fan reaction, implied hate, rumors/backlash) strong language used, nicknames (sweet girl, baby, babe, pretty girl, no y/n), fluff, kissing

Word Count: 3.5k

Pairing: Famous!Harry x girlfriend!fem reader

Location: UK / USA

POV: readers, third person

Harry pic from here!

💌 A/N: Hellooo gorgeous! This idea came to me while listening to Doja Cat’s “Agora Hill’s”! Fun fact — agora hill is hinted at the word ‘agoraphilia’—a psychological term and fetish for sexual arousal in public places or wide-open spaces. Hence the ‘show you off’ type of thing but this fanfic doesn’t dive into exclusively sexual content— Harry indeed wants to navigate his private relationship in the public eye! Even though it has to do with famous Harry/Harries, it’s all just fiction! Hope you like it! 💛

Relationships were never easy. Regular relationships were tough, full of ups and downs, sacrifices, complicated compromises, outside opinions and loads of effort. Even the best relationship had their problems and required quality time and care to sustain them.

Now, try multiplying that on a massive, global, public scale. Under the spotlight, opinions were made before they could even correct them. Harry gave her the rundown, explained how difficult and overwhelming the attention could be. Still, Harry’s girlfriend didn’t stray. She understood that his brand and the attention he got would always be a part of him but certainly not the only part. She began to date Harry late into his break and when he finished his fourth album, the conversation of whether they were serious or not came rather quickly.

“So, you’re 100% in?” Harry asked, giddy. “Because once we’re out there, it can get a bit mad.”

“I want you and this is a part of you. A very important part of you that I’m very excited to see and witness.” she explained gently. “I love you, all of you Harry.”

“I love you, sweet girl. So much.”

Being Harry’s partner came with perks — endless travel, so much love & care, an abundance of gifts — big and small, tons of yummy food from places they could only dream of. The thought of, “what the fans might think”, never occurred to her. Harry did his best to distance her from the spotlight for as long as he could. He created a bubble of security that he was able to maintain during his break. He would fill their time with private rose filled, bubble baths situated in a luxurious flat in Paris. With the warm evening sun decorated the walls, casting a perfect shadow of the Eiffel Tower against the limestone — it was protected.

He filled her days with so much positive energy, genuine amusement and joy that she was unaware of the quiet storm that followed.

No, she didn’t think about the endless scrutiny or backlash she faced after pictured with him. Never that, Harry maintained the bubble of protection well. And it worked for a while. He had one strict rule, not to have a look at Twitter or scroll through his comments on Instagram. He always said — “if something happens baby, I’ll be the first to tell you. Other than that, it’s just noise.”

That was at the beginning of their relationship after they were first spotted hand in hand. She still could remember the lecture Harry gave her a day before.

“When you’re out with me, strangers or fans might come up to us. No matter what, I’ll always protect you.” Harry explained, “most of the time, it’s harmless… a small interaction, a few minutes.”

As famous as he was, she wasn’t expecting anything less. Harry adored his fans and would make time for them whenever he could. It didn’t matter if he was running late to a meeting or stopped multiple times, he knew how important it was to them. Plus, it was equally as important to him, asking for their name, giving out a hug, it never bothered him. He handed his fanbase with so much love and care, it made sense why so many people adored him.

The first time they officially went out, a fan stopped Harry politely to talk. Harry’s girlfriend stepped to the side, watching the sweet interaction. The fan smiled and waved her hand, and she returned the gesture with a big smile. Just like anything else, Harry grabbed her hand before crossing the busy pavement — not much came of the three minute interaction, or so she had thought.

“You okay?” Harry checked in as they walked.

“Yeah, that was really sweet actually.” She grinned, “they just adore you.”

Later the same day Harry’s publicist, Hilary called. Harry excused himself but she could still hear the conversation faintly.

“Yeah, it’s personal. I mean, she’s my girlfriend but they don’t need all the nitty gritty details,” Harry explained into the phone. “Just keep it limited please,” Harry asked, politely.

Harry was desperate to keep his personal life private but he also made it clear — “I’ll never hide you baby, if you want to go out then we can go out. Whatever you're comfortable with,” he promised. What was tricky was the fine line between being seen with him and protecting their private moments.

Once Harry’s relationship news broke, everyone had a camera and was eager to get a shot of Harry, especially the paparazzi. Harry explained that they got paid extra for exclusive photos of him coupled up. Suddenly, it didn’t matter if it was a fan, the general public or paparazzi — if they were visible, they would be photographed. The bubble that Harry created for protection popped and the new dynamic created some unresolved tension.

The media conversation happened, then happened again once more photos were leaked. Public opinions on every little thing sparked like a wild fire on Harry’s social media — Twitter, TikTok and every other platform known to man.

“Just promise me you won’t look at it. They make up shit without even half about you or our relationship,” Harry firmly said one night in Berlin. The hotel was starting to feel suffocating, aware of all the watchful eyes as Harry geared up to promote his album. Their usual private, low profile dates were starting to feel like a public chastising, always found and photographed.

His girlfriend made sure to keep a straight face, not overly happily but not stone cold — just normal. Apparently that encouraged a great amount of backlash too.

“What are they saying now?” She dared to ask one night after Harry got news that more photos were leaked.

“Nothing,” Harry sniffled, tucking his phone away. “Nothing newsworthy,” he promised but curiosity sparked inside her again. ‘Don’t look at it, it’s best you don’t know’, the little voice in her head told her. She fought the urge by deleting most of her social media apps on her phone, a trick Harry taught her when the noise got too much.

When Harry’s tour started, Harry allowed her to choose her attendance level. He made it clear that he’d love to see her at his shows but understood if she needed a break. After the first show, it was like a drug — the thrill of watching him on stage was an addiction. It became easy to support Harry. She’d bond with his family and friends, invite her own, sing along to all of his lyrics and dance happily inside the private box far from the stage.

She thoroughly supported Harry, going to show after show. Away from the internet, she was curious about what fans were thinking or saying. It was only human nature but she didn’t dwell on it. For her, it wasn’t out of boredom or clinginess. She knew how grateful she was to be able to watch him perform each night.

“I’ll send a big wave up to you baby,” Harry promised, his sound assistant connecting his inner ears box to the back of his pants.

“Oh, actually Brad and I talked about going down to the pit after a few songs,” her voice came out confident as ever. Her eyes softened as Harry’s hard gaze landed on her. She could feel the protectiveness radiating off of him.

“The pit?” He questioned, a small concerned look flashed his features before he excused the sound assistant. He stepped closer, his hands reached out towards her, interlocking their fingers. “That might be a bit…” he was searching for words, not wanting to police her but give her a quiet warning. “Loud,” he said, figuratively and literally. When she offered him a small nod and reassuring smile, all he could say was — “have fun, stay hydrated and dance if you want,” before pecking her lips.

The pit was loud, louder than she ever expected. Fans screamed as Harry walked by and screamed again when he went away. Everyone shared a collective longing for her boyfriend, something that she admired deeply and never wanted to take away from him. She knew how hard he worked and deeply respected his talent. She deeply respected his fans and appreciated their dedication. They deserved to have so much fun, scream, cry, laugh and dance all together, if they wanted too. They made the experience enjoyable and entirely theirs.

For the first few songs, nobody really paid any mind. She danced alongside fans with Brad, having a great time. She sang all the lyrics to Harry’s songs and enjoyed watching him come alive on stage. It wasn’t until Harry took a small break, Brad was dragging her to a new spot when they got stopped.

“You’re Harry’s girlfriend!” A girl from a group of fans beamed excitedly with an outstretched finger.

“Yes, I am.” She smiled back, “Are you having fun?” She asked, wanting the conversation to stay light and directed away from her.

“So much fun!” The fans beamed together, “can we have a picture?” Another asked.

She thought about it for a second, looking at the small group of girls with their attention turned towards her. The outcome of a simple ‘yes’ versus a polite ‘no’ crossed her mind as she made her decision. “Oh, sure!” She settled, a smile spread across her face as someone snapped a quick photo of them with the stage shining bright in the background. “Have so much fun and enjoy the show!” She told them happily before Brad ushered her away.

“That’s went well,” was all Brad whispered in her ear before they started to dance again. The simple, pleasant interaction was forgotten as she watched her boyfriend perform.

Late that night Harry was fresh out of the shower, toweling his hair. The question came out light, curious and unaccusing at first.

“So, when you were in the pit did any fans interact with you?” He asked, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you a group of girls asked for a photo,” she replied quickly, taking another bite of the fruity candy that sat on her lap.

Harry didn’t say much at first, just nodded.

“And they were nice?” He questioned, a cautious tone carried through the air.

“Yeah, baby. They didn’t say anything mean,” she thought back to the interaction, replaying it in her mind. “Why?” She drew out, giving him a look.

“Were you… polite?” Harry sounded like he didn’t want to ask but needed to confirm.

“When am I never not polite, Harry?” She frowned, sitting up against the fluffed pillows more. “Why would you ask that?” She deadpanned, a warmth rising through her.

Harry rounded their shared bed, a sigh escaping his mouth before he could stop it. He no longer seemed curious, just dreadful like some news was coming that he didn’t want to share.

“I ask because my publicist left me a voicemail while I was in the shower followed by some urgent texts.”

She frowned, her eyebrows closing in as her face grew worrisome. “About what?”

“Some fans said you were… unsavory, to put it lightly.”

“What do you mean? I was nothing but nice,” she frowned, shaking her head as the interaction rolled through her mind again. “I was polite, Harry. I took the photo and told them to enjoy the show, it all lasted a literal minute,” she defended.

“Was there anything else? Any point during the show that maybe you were looking… unhappy?” Harry questioned, carefully. “Or maybe you said something a bit too loud that was supposed to be private?”

“What? No, never!” Her heart began to race, feeling utterly confused and equally tense. “I enjoyed it like anything else,” she crossed her arms. “What are they saying?” She asked, pointed.

Harry let out a sigh, his hand running over his face as he sat quietly.

“Harry?” She questioned, “you promised to tell me if something happened.” She reminded him, not wanting to pick a fight but hold him accountable.

“You’re right baby, I just —,” he sighed again. “Some fans just said some things on twitter that kinda made you look bad,” he said carefully.

“Like what?”

“Like jus’…petty stuff, probably out of jealousy or envy.” His lips formed a thin line as if he was thinking about how much to say.

“Okay, but like… what? Give me an example.”

“They said, “she didn’t even want to take the photo,” and how you seemed a bit upset that the person asked.”

“That wasn’t the case at all, I was just going through the whole situation. You know how it goes, I didn’t know if I should say yes or not.”

“I know baby, I’m sorry. I just — ,” he let his head fall, looking into his lap as he played with the hem of the damp towel. “There’s a lot of unkind things going around right now about you, about us and I can’t always be there to protect you.”

“You don’t have to be, Harry. I can handle it,” she breathed out, “I know what this was when I agreed to be your partner.”

“I know baby but still, it’s… it’s overbearing at times and I don’t want it to overwhelm you. That’s exactly why ‘m so strict about social media.”

“I won’t look at it,” she half promised, feeling a tinge in her chest. “The comments, the tweets.”

“No baby, I mean… think no social media at all for a few days, okay? Please, for me?”

“It’s that bad?” She frowned, “I can’t even go on my personals?”

“No, I’ll tell you when you can go back on.” Harry offered as if it was some type of compromise.

She scoffed, she couldn’t help it. A part of her knew he was only protecting her but it felt restrictive and she hated that feeling. Harry hated that feeling so, it felt extra apprehensive when he demanded it.

“I’m sorry,” Harry extended, placing his hand on her head gently. His lips came down to press a reassuring kiss on her head.

“No, it’s… it was bound to happen, right?” Her eyes dropped to the mattress, feeling even more exhausted than ever. “Think I’m just gonna go to sleep,” she instantly wanted to close off, forget the situation for a few hours.

“You sure? We can talk about it,” Harry offered.

She simply shook her head, not knowing how to tell him that it was overwhelming her.

“Ok,” Harry didn’t press, he allowed her to place her head against her pillows — back turned towards him. “I love you,” he whispered into the air as his hand stroked her hair, a calm gesture to help her sleep.

“I love you.”

The morning came unforgiving and insistent. The bright light shined through the curtains, waking her from her sleep. Harry’s side of the bed was cold, left empty with the memory of their argument last night.

“Harry?” She called out, wondering where he went too.

Like clockwork, he rounded the corridor. His pointer finger signaled in the air as he held his yellow phone case to his ear, “just a second,” he mouthed. She was used to this but Harry's expression told her everything she needed to know, the conversation wasn’t a normal schedule change or rehearsal suggestion but something more pointed.

She waited in bed, letting her head run through the possibility as Harry spoke into the phone, pacing the corridor.

“Yeah, yeah.” He said, “yeah, I got it.” He mumbled into the phone speaker. “Yeah, no worries.” He listened for a few more seconds before saying, “yeah, I think that’s good.” He nodded in agreement. “Alright, take care,” he replied before ending the call. His expression softened as he walked towards her.

“Good morning, how’d you sleep?” He asked, towering over her. His palm caressed her back in a soothing motion.

“Like I needed it,” she sighed, “who was that on the phone?”

“Hilary,” he started, his publicist. “She just wanted to go over everything, see if we can shift the narrative or simply… ignore it.”

“Ignore it?” She asked. Harry nodded, shrugging. He was too calm but she forced herself to remember that this wasn’t his first go around. He had a whole team for situations as such and he trusted the professionals, so she had to too.

“You know how you acted and other people probably witnessed it too. A few fans that want to stir something up just for the sake of it, don’t deserve the attention,” he explained, firmly. “You just keep being you and we just keep being us, unapologetic.” He added.

“And what’s the alternative?” She questioned. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, close to her legs.

“The alternative? Well, we could just showcase how adorably nice you are to the point where it’s sickening but that wouldn’t really be as authentic or fair. We don’t have to prove anything since you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But they believe I did,” she reminded, playing devil's advocate.

“Only a few,” his fingers laced between hers. “Enough to rock the boat but we’re strong,” he shrugged. “I’ll just do something incredibly distracting like go for a run in some horrendously short, little shorts and the rumors will dissipate.”

“Harry, you shouldn’t have to do that.” She fronted, shaking her head. She hated how self aware and selfless he was, willing to do anything to direct the negative attention away from her.

“No, I shouldn’t but I will,” he smiled, “the world will continue to go on, darling and we can’t just stop for every minor misunderstanding or rumor.”

The icky feeling in her stomach started to settle, reassured by his gentle words and multiple kisses. The days flowed together, Harry was busy with rehearsal, sound check then custom fittings and a bunch of other things she was still working to understand. Still, she did her best to be the most supportive girlfriend as they traveled from city to city.

When they arrived in New York for his group of shows, Harry did what he usually did — went out without security, ran across Manhattan, bought her flowers in the upper east side and met with fans when he was stopped. When he returned to their rented home, he handed her the bouquet of sunflowers and mentioned plans of a late dinner for their quality time, weekly date.

Dinner went and gone, their bellies full of rich spices and sweet desserts. Harry tugged her along, set on walking through the city. “Midnight stroll through Central Park?”

“Will it be okay?”

“Of course,” Harry shrugged. “Remember be in th—,” he started his gentle reminder that he whispered to her more times than he could count.

“‘Be in the moment and stay present with me’, I know.” She was still adjusting to being Harry Styles' girlfriend versus just Harry’s.

They walked slowly, there was no sense of rushing. The city was awake but quiet. The park was still lit up by lights and the city that surrounded it. Harry's thumb steadily rubbed against her hand, pulling her gently along. The quiet spoke for the both of them, comfortable in each other's presence.

“How you keeping up with everything?” Harry checked in.

“It’s been… an adjustment, the time difference, crowds, culture is much different from London,” she explained. “Feels more lively, I can tell fans are so excited that you’re back in America.”

Harry nodded, “seems like it, huh?” He wasn’t boasting, his fans were truly dedicated and delighted that he was in the city. He was so publicly embraced.

“How about you?” She asked, looking up towards his side profile as they continued to walk along the path.

“I’m pleasantly surprised by how well you are taking it all,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

“That doesn’t answer my questions!” His girlfriend rolled her eyes cheekily, shaking her head.

“I’m okay if you’re okay,” he replied simply, a private dimpled smile across his face. Harry suddenly stopped, closing the distance between them. His hands cupped her face, admiring her features. “my pretty girl,” he whispered in adoration. “You handle it all so well.” The little statement of praise made her belly flutter with butterflies. “You promise to tell me if it gets too much?”

“Promise,” and she did.

Before she could say anything else — they were kissing. Harry's eyes fluttered shut as he pressed his lips softly to her mouth. His kiss was tentative at first but deepened as she kissed him back, gripping onto the sides of his jacket. Harry opened his mouth, his tongue darting against hers as her skin flushed with desire. His palm ushered her closer, fitting her snug against his frame. She felt his face twist, deepening the angle as he moaned into her mouth. The sound brought her back to reality, worried their full blow makeout session in Central Park would end up on Deux Moi by the morning. Her brain was a bit more cautious now but Harry did his best to reassure her.

“Harry,” she pulled back, “wonder if someone sees?” She whispered quietly.

“Shhh,” he teased, his lips finding hers again. “I hope they caught us,” he muttered. His hand wrapped around the back of her neck as he whispered in her ear, his voice dropping an octave deeper.

“Whether they like it or not, I’ll show you off,” he smirked before sobering himself. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

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[bellaimagination]

Extra Extra to The Route Back to Me Series

Somewhere Behind the Noise 

Bonus Chapter  Word Count: 8500  Warnings: emotional tension, slow burn.

By the time Harry left for New York, Y/N had already learned that plants were much more demanding when they belonged to someone emotionally significant. 

It was insulting, really. 

She had moved to London. Actually moved. Not just talked about it in cafés, not just opened rental websites and closed them in fear, not just written dramatic things in her green notebook and pretended they were observations instead of decisions. She had done it. 

Her studio was small, expensive, and hers. 

It had one decent window, a kitchen corner that required emotional negotiation if she wanted to open the fridge and a drawer at the same time, and a shower that made a noise like it was reconsidering its purpose every morning. The building was newer than most of what she had looked at, which meant the walls did not seem haunted, the lift worked most days, and the heating had not yet personally betrayed her. 

It was not perfect. It was hers. 

That made it feel enormous. 

The first week, she had cried once over a suitcase that would not close, once over a supermarket receipt, and once because she had managed to make coffee in her own tiny kitchen before work and the sunlight had come through the window in a way that made the whole thing feel real. 

She had not told Harry about all three times. 

Only two. 

He had guessed the third. 

Annoyingly. 

“You cried over the coffee,” he had said on a video call from New York, face half-lit by the lamp beside his hotel bed. 

Y/N had stared at him through her phone screen. “I did not.” 

“You did.” 

“You’re making accusations across time zones now?” 

“You got quiet when you mentioned it.” 

“I was drinking it.” 

“You said it tasted terrible.” 

“It did.” 

“And then you smiled like it meant something.” 

Y/N had looked away from the camera. “Your face is becoming a problem.” 

“My face?” 

“Your ability to read mine.” 

Harry had smiled, tired and soft, and Y/N had hated the five hours between them more than she wanted to admit. 

The time difference became its own strange character in their lives. London was always ahead, which Y/N found symbolically annoying. When she was finishing work, Harry was still somewhere in the early part of his day. When he called after a show, she was often in bed, half asleep, phone propped against a pillow, pretending she was not waiting for the screen to light up. 

They spoke every day. Not because they had promised to. They just did. 

Sometimes for an hour. Sometimes for ten minutes. Sometimes with no real conversation at all, just Harry in a hotel room eating something from a bowl while Y/N folded laundry badly in her studio. Sometimes she worked with her laptop open and the phone beside it, and he stayed on the call silently while answering messages, warming up his voice, or looking through set notes. 

It should have felt strange. 

It did. 

But it also became normal with a speed that should have scared her more than it did. 

She had also, somehow, become responsible for his plants. 

It had started as a joke. 

Then Harry had handed her his house keys before leaving for New York and said, very seriously, “You’re the only person I trust with the cactus.” 

Y/N had looked at him in horror. “That is an unfair amount of emotional responsibility.” 

“It responds to you.” 

“It’s a cactus, Harry. It responds to drought and trauma.” 

“Exactly.” 

She had taken the keys, because apparently that was her life now. 

Twice a week, she went to his house in North London after work. The first time, she stood in the hallway for a full minute, looking around at the quiet, too-beautiful space, and felt the strange warmth of remembering herself there. Barefoot on the sofa. LEGO flowers on the table. His T-shirt soft against her skin in the guest room. His cologne caught in cotton. The kind of happiness that had arrived quietly enough not to scare her until the next morning. 

Then she had gone straight to the plants and pointed at the cactus. 

“You and I are not friends,” she told it. “We are professional associates.” 

She sent Harry a video. 

He replied within thirty seconds. 

It looks healthier. 

Y/N recorded another video, this time of her face. 

“That is because it is living under fear-based management.” 

His reply came as a voice note. 

“I respond well to that too.” 

She listened to it twice. 

Then refused to think about why. 

By the third week, the cactus had improved enough that Y/N accused it of showing off. One succulent had perked up. The leafy plant was thriving in a way that felt almost smug. Harry asked about them before he asked about her one evening, and she immediately looked offended. 

“Nice to know where I stand.” 

Harry, on the screen, had leaned back against a sofa in some backstage room in New York, curls slightly damp, hoodie pulled over his head. 

“You’re above the cactus.” 

“Barely?” 

“Emotionally, yes.” 

“That was not the reassurance you think it was.” 

He smiled. 

“I miss you.” 

Y/N’s hand froze on her mug. 

There were still things he said too directly. 

There were still moments where she wanted to turn the laptop off and walk around her tiny studio until her heart behaved. 

Instead, she looked at the screen and tried to sound normal. 

“That was a very sudden emotional left turn.” 

“I know.” 

“You can’t just go from insulting my rank in the plant hierarchy to that.” 

“I can.” 

“You shouldn’t.” 

Harry’s smile softened. 

“I miss you,” he said again. 

The silence that followed was not empty. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“I miss you too.” 

She looked away as soon as she said it, because apparently there were limits to how much emotional maturity she could perform on a Tuesday night. 

Harry did not tease her. That made it worse. Better. 

Both. 

A few days later, he suggested New York for the first time. 

Y/N was working from home, laptop open, hair tied up messily, wearing a jumper that had not belonged to him but unfortunately reminded her of one that had. Her phone was propped against a mug while Harry moved around a dressing room on the screen, somewhere inside Madison Square Garden. 

“You could come,” he said. 

Y/N looked up from an email. “To what?” 

“To New York.” 

She stared at him. 

Then slowly closed her laptop halfway. 

“Harry.” 

“I know.” 

“No, I don’t think you do.” 

“I might.” 

“That sentence has dangerous rich-man energy.” 

He leaned closer to the camera, trying not to smile. “I’m not trying to buy you a trip.” 

“Good. Because I’m not available for sponsored emotional tourism.” 

“I remember.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes. No money. No rescue. No magical rent disappearance.” 

“And no international version of that.” 

“No international version,” he agreed. 

Y/N watched him through the screen. 

He looked tired. Not exhausted exactly, but stretched. Show-tired. New York-tired. The kind of tired that came with being surrounded by people and still missing one person in particular. 

“You have shows,” she said. 

“Yes.” 

“I have work.” 

“You work remotely most days.” 

“That is a dangerous sentence coming from a man with a private jet face.” 

“I do not have a private jet face.” 

“You absolutely do.” 

Harry laughed under his breath. 

“I’m not asking you to drop everything.” 

“It sounds a lot like you are.” 

“I’m asking if you want to come for a few days. Work from here. See the show.” He paused, then added, softer, “Not from the crowd this time. Or not only from the crowd.” 

Y/N did not answer. 

Harry noticed. 

“I don’t want you to come because I’m asking,” he said. “I want you to come if you want to.” 

“That’s worse.” 

“How?” 

“Because now I have to know what I want.” 

His mouth twitched. 

“Terrifying.” 

“Exactly.” 

She did not say yes that night. Or the next. 

Harry did not ask again immediately, which annoyed her because it was the correct thing to do. 

Instead, he kept calling. Kept asking about work, about her studio, about whether the coffee machine downstairs still hated her, about his plants, about the cactus, about the studio building that had finally accepted her application after three separate emails and one phone call that nearly made her lose faith in administration as a concept. 

He sent her pictures of New York from hotel windows. Blurry lights. Empty corridors. The side of the stage before soundcheck. A coffee cup with her name written incorrectly on it because he had ordered it “for emotional accuracy”. 

She sent him pictures of London. Her desk. His plants. Rain on the window. A terrible sandwich. A screenshot of her calendar with two office days and three remote days highlighted. 

Then, on a Thursday night, he called after a show. 

Y/N was already in bed. 

He looked wired, sweaty, and tired in the way he always did after performing, like his body had not yet understood the stage was over. 

She looked at him for three seconds and said, “You look insane.” 

“Thank you.” 

“That wasn’t a compliment.” 

“I’m taking it as one.” 

“You would.” 

He sat down somewhere backstage. She could hear voices beyond the room, distant and busy. 

“Come to New York,” he said. 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

“Harry.” 

“I waited three days to ask again.” 

“That is not a legal defence.” 

“I know.” 

She opened her eyes. 

He was watching her through the screen. 

“I want you to see it,” he said. 

“The show?” 

“My side of it.” His voice was quieter now. “You saw Wembley from the crowd. You saw me from the place where everyone sees me. I want you to see the rest. The boring parts. The loud parts. The strange parts. The parts that make me disappear for ten minutes and come back with glitter on my face and no idea what day it is.” 

Y/N’s chest tightened. 

“That was almost poetic.” 

“I tried to keep it under control.” 

“You failed.” 

“I know.” 

She looked at him. He did not push. He just waited. The way he had learned to. Y/N sighed. 

“I can work from there.” 

Harry’s face changed. 

Carefully. 

Too carefully. 

She pointed at the screen. “Don’t make that face.” 

“I’m not making a face.” 

“You’re making an internal face.” 

“It’s very controlled.” 

“It’s not.” 

He smiled despite himself. 

“So…?” 

“So,” she said, as if the word weighed more than it should, “I can come for a few days.” 

Harry’s smile broke properly. 

Not big. Not dramatic. 

But real enough to undo her. 

“Yeah?” 

“Don’t make me regret it.” 

“I won’t.” 

“You might.” 

“I’ll do my best.” 

She raised an eyebrow. He corrected himself. 

“I’ll do.” 

“Better.” 

The flight to New York was booked by Y/N. 

With her own card. 

Even though Harry offered exactly once and then stopped when she stared at him through the phone like she was prepared to end international relations. 

He arranged a car from the airport. She allowed that. After making him repeat, twice, that it was not “a luxury rescue vehicle” and that she was accepting it only because she had a suitcase, a laptop bag, jet lag and no interest in being emotionally mugged by airport transport after an overnight flight. Harry agreed to all terms. 

When Y/N landed in New York, her phone lit up before she had even fully switched off airplane mode. 

Landed? 

She smiled despite herself. 

No, I’m texting you from the Atlantic. 

His reply came quickly. 

Sarcasm survived the flight. Good sign. 

Barely. I have lost all sense of time and possibly one kidney to the plane seat. 

Welcome to New York. 

That sounds threatening. 

It is, slightly. 

The city hit her before she even reached Manhattan. The noise. The scale. The way everything seemed to move with the confidence of something too big to apologise. London had always felt enormous to her, but New York felt like it had no interest in being understood. It just existed louder than the rest of the world. 

By the time the car pulled near the entrance she had been told to use, Y/N was running on coffee, nerves, and the kind of tiredness that made emotions feel closer to the surface. Madison Square Garden did not look like a building so much as a fact. 

A huge, ridiculous, iconic fact. 

She stared at it through the tinted window. 

“This is fine,” she whispered. 

There were people outside already. Fans near barriers. Crew entrances. Security. Movement. A few cameras, not many, but enough for Y/N’s stomach to tighten. She had known, obviously, that Harry’s world came with attention. She had seen it online. She had seen videos, rumours, crowds. But there was something different about being near it. About feeling the air change because someone might decide your face belonged to a story. 

A member of Harry’s team met her inside. Calm, friendly, professional. 

“You must be Y/N.” 

The sentence made her feel strangely real. 

“I must be,” she said, then immediately wondered why she was like this. 

The woman smiled. “Harry’s waiting for you before soundcheck. He said to bring you in if you were comfortable.” 

Y/N adjusted the strap of her laptop bag. 

“Comfortable is a strong word, but yes.” 

They walked through corridors that seemed to fold into more corridors. Concrete, doors, cables, signs, people with headsets, cases being rolled past, bursts of music from somewhere distant. It was not glamorous. Not in the way people imagined. It was functional and chaotic and alive. 

Y/N loved it immediately. 

That annoyed her. 

The woman led her to a quieter room near the arena floor. The door was half open, and before Y/N had time to prepare herself, Harry appeared in it. 

For a second, he just looked at her. No stage. No microphone. No thousands of people. No screen between them. 

Just Harry. 

His face changed in that small, private way she had started to recognise. Like the world had moved slightly back into place. 

“You’re here,” he said. 

Y/N tried to answer normally. 

“That does appear to be the situation.” 

Harry smiled, but it did not fully reach the rest of him because he was already moving towards her. 

He stopped close enough to touch, but still not assuming. That was the thing about him now. He could be in a building full of people waiting for him, with an entire show depending on his timing, and still somehow leave a question in the space between them. 

Y/N saw it. Of course she did. So she stepped into him. 

Harry’s arms closed around her carefully at first, then a little tighter. The hug was longer than it needed to be. Longer than a hello. Longer than something casual. Y/N let herself sink into it, just for a second. Maybe two. His T-shirt smelled like clean cotton, something faintly warm, and him. Not the trace left behind in fabric. Not the version caught in a borrowed shirt. Him, alive and solid and there after weeks of being a face on a screen. 

She closed her eyes. 

Harry’s hand pressed once between her shoulders. 

“I missed you,” he said quietly, close enough that it was only for her. 

Y/N breathed out against him. 

“That was dangerously direct.” 

“I’ve had weeks of video calls to prepare.” 

“You’re not prepared. You just look tired enough to be reckless.” 

“I can be both.” 

“Concerning.” 

He laughed softly, but he did not let go right away. 

Neither did she. 

For a moment, New York waited outside the room. The show waited. The team waited. The building waited. But Y/N stayed where she was, her fingers curled lightly into the back of his shirt, allowing herself one honest second of missing him back. 

Eventually, she pulled away first because she was still herself. Harry let her. His eyes moved over her face, not in a way that made her feel inspected, but in a way that made her feel found. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

“Jet lagged, under-caffeinated, and standing inside Madison Square Garden with a man whose cactus is emotionally dependent on me.” 

“That’s a lot.” 

“It is.” 

“The cactus is grateful.” 

“The cactus is manipulative.” 

Harry smiled. Someone called his name from farther down the corridor. Soundcheck was starting. He glanced back, then at her. 

“I need to go in.” 

“I know.” 

“You can sit inside, if you want. Or backstage. Or wherever you’re comfortable.” 

Y/N lifted her laptop bag. 

“I have work.” 

Harry looked amused. 

“You actually brought your laptop?” 

Y/N stared at him. 

“I told you I had work.” 

“I know, but I thought maybe—” 

“That I was using it as a personality trait?” 

“A little.” 

She gasped. 

Harry laughed, already walking backwards towards the arena. 

“There are seats near the soundboard. You can work there.” 

“I will work there and judge you professionally.” 

“I expected nothing less.” 

A few minutes later, Y/N found herself sitting in the empty arena with her laptop balanced on her knees, trying to answer emails while Harry walked onto the Madison Square Garden stage as if that was a normal thing to do. 

It was not normal. None of this was normal. 

He picked up a microphone, spoke briefly to someone near the front, then looked straight towards her. 

Y/N narrowed her eyes immediately, because she knew that look. Harry lifted the microphone. 

“Is this bothering your very important remote work?” 

His voice echoed through the empty arena. A few people on the floor laughed. Y/N froze, then slowly lowered her laptop screen just enough to glare at him. 

“Your voice is creating a hostile work environment.” 

More laughter. 

Harry grinned. 

“That’s a formal complaint.” 

“I’ll put it in writing.” 

“Please don’t. My team has enough emails.” 

Y/N lifted the laptop again as a shield. 

Harry laughed into the microphone, and the sound filled the arena in a way that made her stomach turn softly. 

She hated how happy she felt. Not really. But enough. She spent the next hour half-working, half-watching. 

Mostly watching. 

It was difficult to remain professional while Harry stood on the Madison Square Garden stage and sang fragments of songs into an empty arena. At one point, he sang a line directly towards her, and Y/N lifted the laptop higher, hiding behind the screen. 

Harry laughed into the microphone. Someone from the band turned to look. Y/N lowered the laptop just enough to glare at him. He looked delighted. 

Mitch passed near her at one point, guitar in hand, quiet and calm in a way that made Y/N immediately feel like she had been adopted by a very cool forest spirit. 

“You’re the one taking care of the cactus,” he said. 

Y/N blinked. 

“That is, unfortunately, my reputation?” 

Mitch nodded. 

“Important job.” 

“It’s under strict supervision.” 

“Good. He shouldn’t be trusted.” 

Y/N looked towards Harry, who was talking to someone by the stage. 

“I’ve been saying that.” 

Mitch gave her the smallest smile and moved on. 

A few minutes later, Sarah came by with drumsticks in one hand, smiling warmly. 

“So you’re Y/N.” 

Y/N closed her laptop halfway. 

“That depends. Has Harry said anything embarrassing?” 

Sarah’s smile grew. 

“Not embarrassing. Just… a lot.” 

“Oh no.” 

“In a good way.” 

“That’s worse.” 

Sarah laughed. 

“He’s calmer when you’re around.” 

Y/N did not know what to do with that. So she looked down at her laptop and said, “That sounds like a medical side effect.” 

Sarah laughed again, and Y/N felt something in the air settle. Not approval in a dramatic way. Nothing official. Nothing said out loud. 

Just warmth. Ease. People looking at her and not acting like she had entered the wrong room. People who knew Harry in a way most of the world did not, quietly deciding she was not something to be removed. 

It should not have mattered. 

It did. 

The day moved in pieces. Soundcheck ended. Harry disappeared into meetings, fittings, vocal warmups, whatever strange rituals happened before a show. Y/N worked in a room backstage with a coffee someone had placed beside her without ceremony. Every now and then, Harry passed the open doorway and made a face at her until she looked up. 

Once, he walked by slowly with two thumbs up. 

Y/N looked at him over her laptop. 

“No.” 

He kept walking backwards. She pointed at the screen. 

“Employment.” 

Harry mouthed, Sorry. He was not sorry. 

Later, she found him sitting on the floor of a dressing room, back against the sofa, looking at his phone while someone fixed something on a jacket nearby. The room was full of movement, but he looked up the second she appeared. 

“Done with work?” he asked. 

“For now.” 

“Hostile environment complaint still pending?” 

“Under review.” 

He smiled and patted the floor beside him without thinking. Then he seemed to remember himself and stopped. 

Y/N saw it. 

The way he still checked. Still left space. Still refused to assume. So she sat down beside him. Not touching. 

Close enough. 

Harry looked at her from the corner of his eye. 

“New York treating you well?” 

“It has threatened me several times, but I respect the confidence.” 

“That sounds like New York.” 

“I think London insults you politely. New York just shoves you and tells you to keep walking.” 

“Pretty accurate.” 

She leaned her head back against the sofa. 

“I get why you like it here.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s too much.” 

“That’s why?” 

“Sometimes too much feels honest.” 

He was quiet for a moment. 

Then he said, “I’m glad you came.” 

Y/N turned her head. He was looking at her in that way again. 

Direct. Unguarded. Like he had stopped caring whether honesty made the room harder to breathe in. 

“Don’t do that before a concert,” she said. 

“What?” 

“Say things that make me want to have a crisis.” 

His mouth curved. 

“I thought you were managing crises professionally now.” 

“Highly uncertified.” 

“Still the best.” 

She looked away before that landed too deeply. Too late. 

A little before doors opened, the noise outside shifted. It happened gradually, then all at once. More footsteps. More voices. More radios. More energy in the walls. The building waking up. 

Y/N was in the hallway with Harry when they heard a burst of shouting from somewhere near one of the outer areas. Not inside, exactly. Beyond. Cameras maybe. People calling names. The kind of sound that made Harry’s face change before she fully understood why. 

A member of his team came over, phone in hand, expression controlled in a way that made Y/N’s stomach drop. 

“Sorry,” the person said quietly to Harry. “This is already online.” 

Harry took the phone. Y/N watched his face. Something tightened. 

“Photos?” he asked. 

“Outside. Earlier. Her arriving. Some from the car. Some when you met inside the side entrance.” 

Y/N went still. 

Harry looked at her before she could ask. 

“Y/N—” 

“Can I see?” 

He hesitated. 

That made it worse. 

“Harry.” 

He handed her the phone. The article was short. New. Already being copied elsewhere. 

Harry Styles seen with mystery woman ahead of Madison Square Garden show. 

Another headline beneath it: 

Unknown guest spotted arriving before Styles’ concert. 

And another: 

Sources claim the pair have been spending time together in London. 

And another, worse: 

Harry Styles’ London companion sparks dating rumours after New York appearance. 

There were photos. Not clear enough to feel fully like her, but clear enough. 

Her getting out of the car. Her beside Harry near a side entrance. Harry looking at her. Not dramatically. Not scandalously. Just looking. But the internet did not need much. It never had. 

Y/N’s face went cold. 

For a second, she heard the hallway around them as if from underwater. 

Harry’s hand found hers. Warm. Careful. 

There was no time to ask a full question, but his fingers did anyway. 

Y/N let him take her hand. 

“Come with me,” he said. 

She almost argued. 

Then didn’t. 

Harry led her into a smaller room off the hallway and closed the door. Not locked. Just closed. The noise outside became muffled, but her pulse did not. 

Y/N still had the phone in her hand. 

“They’re saying I was already with you in London,” she said. 

Harry stood in front of her, close but not too close. 

“You were with me in London.” 

She looked up sharply. 

“Harry.” 

“Not like that. I know.” 

“They’re making it sound ugly.” 

“I know.” 

“They’re making it sound like I was waiting for your life to fall apart.” 

His jaw tightened. 

“They make everything sound like something they can sell.” 

Y/N looked back at the screen. 

There were comments already. 

Not too many yet. 

Enough. 

New girl?  That was fast.  Wasn’t he just engaged?  She was seen in London too.  Rebound?  Who is she? 

Her thumb hovered, then stopped. 

“I can’t breathe properly,” she whispered, hating the way the words sounded. 

Harry’s expression changed immediately. Not panic. Focus. 

He took the phone gently from her hand and placed it face down on the table. Then he stepped closer, slowly enough for her to move away if she wanted to. 

She didn’t. 

“Look at me,” he said softly. 

“I am.” 

“No, you’re looking through me.” His voice stayed low. “Y/N. Look at me.” 

Her eyes lifted to his. 

Harry raised both hands and cupped her face with a tenderness that nearly broke her more than the headlines had. One hand on each cheek. Warm palms. Careful fingers. No rush. 

Just him. 

“There you are,” he murmured. 

Her throat tightened. 

“That was unnecessary.” 

“It was very necessary.” 

“I’m going to panic.” 

“Okay.” 

She blinked. 

Harry nodded slightly, eyes steady on hers. 

“You can panic. You can be angry. You can cry. You can call all of this insane, because it is. But breathe first.” 

Y/N tried. 

It came out uneven. 

Harry’s thumbs moved once, barely, against her cheeks. 

“With me,” he said. “In.” 

She inhaled. 

“Good. Out.” 

She exhaled. 

Again. 

Once more. 

His eyes did not leave hers. 

The room steadied by fractions. 

Not because the articles disappeared. 

Not because the noise stopped. 

Because he was not asking her to be fine for his comfort. 

He was just holding her face like she was something real. 

Like she was not a headline. 

Like she was not a rumour. 

Like she was not a role. 

“They’re going to make me into something,” she said, voice smaller than she wanted it to be. 

“They will try.” 

“People are going to say I’m a rebound. Or that I was there before. Or that I’m—” 

“Don’t.” 

His voice was soft. 

But firm enough to stop her. 

Y/N looked at him. 

Harry’s hands stayed exactly where they were. 

“You are not going to use their words to hurt yourself before they even finish writing them.” 

She stared at him. 

“That was a very specific accusation.” 

“I know you.” 

The sentence landed between them. 

Simple. 

Dangerous. 

Warm. 

Y/N looked away as much as she could with his hands still on her cheeks. 

Harry did not let her disappear. 

“They don’t get to decide what you are to me,” he said. 

Her eyes lifted back to his. 

The room seemed too small. 

“And what am I to you?” 

He did not answer too quickly. 

That was what made it worse. 

Better. 

Both. 

Harry looked at her like the answer mattered too much to rush. 

“Something I don’t want them to touch,” he said. 

Y/N’s breath caught. 

Outside, someone called his name from the hallway. 

The show was coming. 

The machine did not stop just because something inside her had. 

Harry did not move immediately. His gaze dropped, not to her mouth, but to the space between her brows, to the worry still sitting there. Then he leaned in and pressed a long, gentle kiss to her forehead. 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

It was not a kiss that asked for anything. 

It was not the kiss she had thought about and refused to think about and definitely thought about anyway. 

It was quieter than that. 

Safer. 

A promise without making one. 

A way of saying: I’m here, and you are allowed to be scared. 

When he pulled back, his hands were still on her face. 

“You can leave,” he said softly. “If this is too much. I’ll understand.” 

“I just got here.” 

“That’s not a reason to stay if you don’t want to.” 

Y/N looked at the phone on the table. Then at him. 

“I don’t want to leave.” 

His shoulders lowered slightly, like he had been holding something up. 

“Okay.” 

“I’m scared.” 

“I know.” 

“And angry.” 

“I know.” 

“And jet lagged.” 

“That one may be my fault.” 

“Partially.” 

His mouth twitched. 

She breathed out. 

“I still want to see the show.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“From backstage?” 

“For now,” she answered. 

He searched her face for one more second. 

Then nodded. 

Another knock came. 

Harry closed his eyes briefly. 

“I have to go.” 

“I know.” 

His hands slipped from her face slowly, like he did not want to take the warmth with him too quickly. 

Y/N felt the absence immediately. 

That was dangerous information. 

Harry stepped back. 

“Do you need anything?” 

“A new identity.” 

“I’ll ask the team.” 

She laughed once, weak but real. 

Harry smiled. 

“There she is.” 

“Go be a problem professionally.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

The show was a different thing from backstage. 

Y/N had known concerts were machines, but knowing and seeing were not the same. From the side, she could see the seams. The crew waiting for cues. The quick movement of guitars. The way Harry stepped into light and became something huge, then stepped back into shadow and became a man reaching for water, breathing hard, listening to voices in his ear. 

It should have ruined the magic. 

It did not. 

It made it stranger. 

More human. 

More impressive. 

She watched him from the side for the first few songs, heart still unsettled from the article, but slowly steadied by the force of him on stage. He was good. She knew he was good. Of course she knew. She had crossed countries for that voice before she had ever known what his kitchen looked like. 

But seeing it from there, seeing the work around it, the precision, the sweat, the timing, the tiny flashes of communication between him and the band, made something inside her ache with a new kind of respect. 

At one point, he came close to the side of the stage between songs and found her there. 

He lifted his brows slightly, as if asking if she was okay. 

Y/N gave him a very serious thumbs up. 

Then lifted her laptop bag slightly. 

Harry laughed, shook his head, and went back out into the lights. 

She lasted backstage for almost half the concert. 

Then she felt it. 

The tug. 

Not away from him. 

Towards something she had been before him. 

The fan. 

The girl who had stood in Wembley alone, feet aching, voice gone, glitter stuck to her skin, watching him from the crowd and feeling for two hours like life was bigger than the walls around it. 

Backstage was his world. 

She was grateful to see it. 

But the crowd had been hers first. 

Y/N looked towards the stage, then towards the dark gap of the corridor behind her. 

She did not tell Harry. 

If she told him, he would understand. 

That was exactly why she didn’t. 

She wanted to choose this without it becoming another thing he had carefully made space for. 

So she found one of the security guards she recognised from earlier and asked quietly if it was possible to get to the floor. Not too close. Not disruptive. Just somewhere she could watch like everyone else. 

The man checked with someone through his earpiece, then nodded. 

“DISCO side?” 

The name hit her before she could prepare for it. 

Of course. 

That stupid, perfect, ridiculous word. 

DISCO. 

The place that had become hers before Harry was hers in any way at all. The area where he had found her at Wembley. The section that carried the memory of cherry gummies raised discreetly in the air, of him nearly missing his cue, of a smile the stadium thought belonged to everyone. 

Y/N smiled before she could stop herself. 

“Yes,” she said. “DISCO.” 

A few minutes later, she was being guided through corridors and into the arena, the sound swelling around her until it filled her ribs. 

It was not Wembley. 

It was not the first route. 

It was not even the same city. 

But there, on the floor, surrounded by bodies and voices and raised hands, Y/N felt the memory of it so strongly that her throat tightened. 

She slipped into a space near the side of the DISCO section, close enough to see, far enough not to be obvious. 

For the first time all day, nobody was telling her where to stand because of him. 

She was just there. 

A fan. 

Almost. 

Y/N noticed the first look within two minutes. 

A girl beside her glanced once. 

Then again. 

Then looked at her phone. 

Y/N’s stomach tightened. 

Of course. 

The photos. 

The articles. 

For a second, she considered leaving. 

Then the girl leaned closer, careful not to shout over the song. 

“Are you okay?” 

Y/N blinked. 

“What?” 

The girl gave a small, kind smile. 

“Sorry. I just… people are being weird online. But you look like you’re trying to enjoy the show.” 

Y/N stared at her. 

The kindness was so unexpected that it nearly undid her. 

“I am,” she said. 

“Good.” The girl turned back to the stage, then added, “We won’t bother you.” 

We. 

Y/N glanced around and realised a few people nearby had noticed too. Not all. Not many. Enough. A couple of curious looks. A whisper. One person smiled and looked away deliberately, giving her space with the kind of kindness that did not need to announce itself. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“Thank you,” she said, though she wasn’t sure anyone heard. 

The girl beside her grinned. 

“Also, if he looks over here more than usual, I’m pretending not to notice.” 

Y/N’s eyes widened. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Sure.” 

Y/N looked back at the stage, trying very hard not to smile. 

She failed. 

On stage, Harry turned during a song and glanced towards the side where she had been backstage. 

She was not there. 

For half a second, his face shifted. 

Confusion. 

A tiny crease between his brows. 

Then he kept singing. 

Y/N watched him scan once. 

Not obviously. 

Not enough for most people to notice. 

Enough for her. 

Then his eyes found the floor. 

Found the DISCO side. 

Found her. 

Harry almost stopped. 

Almost. 

His eyes widened, and into the microphone, between one line and the next, he let out a sharp, surprised, “What?” 

The crowd screamed, assuming it was part of the show. 

Y/N burst out laughing. 

The girls near her burst out laughing too. 

Harry caught himself, smiling so hard he had to look away for a second before coming back to the song. 

She shook her head at him, trying to look disappointed. 

He failed to look sorry. 

The girl beside Y/N covered her mouth. 

“Oh my God.” 

Y/N pointed at the stage without looking at her. 

“Do not.” 

“I said nothing.” 

“You emotionally said several things.” 

The girl laughed. 

A minute later, when Harry came closer to that side of the stage, Y/N reached into her bag. 

Cherry gummies. 

Of course. 

She had bought them at the airport, because apparently she was committed to emotional continuity. 

She lifted the packet just enough for him to see. 

Harry stared. 

Then, without missing the beat this time, he made a quick gesture with his hand. 

Two fingers towards himself. 

Gimme that. 

Y/N’s mouth fell open in fake offence. 

She held the packet to her chest and shook her head. 

Harry pointed at her. 

The crowd screamed again, delighted by a private joke they could not possibly understand. 

The girl beside Y/N shouted, “He wants your sweets!” 

Y/N, still smiling, shouted back, “He can suffer!” 

Harry seemed to read the shape of her answer somehow, because he laughed into the next line and had to turn away from the crowd for a second. 

The people around Y/N noticed. 

Not in a cruel way. 

Not in a way that made her feel trapped. 

More like they had accidentally witnessed something soft and were collectively deciding to be gentle with it. 

As the show went on, she tried to stay discreet. 

She really did. 

After the paparazzi, after the headlines, after the way her face had looked strange and stolen on that phone screen, she wanted to disappear into the audience and just be one voice among thousands. 

Harry made that difficult. 

He did not stare. 

He did not make a scene. 

But whenever he crossed towards the DISCO side, his eyes found her. 

A beat too long. 

A smile too real. 

A line delivered with just enough direction that the people near her looked at one another and pretended very badly not to understand. 

Once, during a quieter moment, he looked over and lifted his brows as if asking if she was still okay. 

Y/N lifted the cherry gummies again in response. 

Harry placed a hand over his heart in exaggerated betrayal. 

The girl beside her whispered, “This is the best night of my life.” 

Y/N whispered back, “Please don’t say that.” 

“It is.” 

“Be normal.” 

“I’m trying.” 

“That word is banned.” 

The girl looked confused, but laughed anyway. 

Harry was happy. 

Y/N could see it before she heard anyone else say it. It was in the way he moved. In the way his smile kept arriving before he could control it. In the looseness of his shoulders, the extra little laugh between songs, the way he seemed unable to keep himself from glancing towards one particular part of the floor. 

He was always good on stage. 

She knew that. 

He was always charismatic, always alive under the lights, always somehow able to make a room that large feel like it was breathing with him. 

But tonight there was something else. 

A brightness that kept breaking through the performance. 

Something unguarded. 

The fans around her felt it too. 

“He’s so happy tonight,” someone behind her said. 

“He is,” another voice answered. 

Y/N looked down. 

Her smile arrived before she could stop it. 

Ridiculous. 

Her life was ridiculous. 

A few months earlier, she had been a fan watching videos of him online, following updates, saving clips, reading captions, laughing at interviews, imagining concerts like they were doors into a bigger life. She had known Mitch and Sarah as names, faces, people from the stage and the screen. She had watched this world from the outside with the careful devotion of someone who never expected to step inside it. 

And now Mitch knew her as the person responsible for the cactus. 

Sarah had told her Harry was calmer around her. 

Harry had nearly yelled what into a microphone because she had appeared in the DISCO section with cherry gummies. 

Y/N looked up at the lights, laughing softly to herself. 

Her life had become so absurd that there was nothing to do but smile. 

So she did. 

After the concert, backstage was chaos. 

Harry came off stage surrounded by movement. People talking. Towels. Water. Sweat. Noise. He was all adrenaline at first, all breath and heat and glowing exhaustion, curls damp, shirt clinging slightly to his back, eyes too bright. 

Y/N stood a little away from the main path, holding the cherry gummies like evidence. 

He saw her almost immediately. 

“You disappeared,” he said, walking towards her. 

His voice was rough from the show. 

Y/N tried very hard not to notice. 

“I went to be a fan.” 

“You didn’t tell me.” 

“That was the point.” 

Harry laughed, still breathless. 

“I almost shouted at you in front of twenty thousand people.” 

“You did shout.” 

“I said one word.” 

“Into a microphone.” 

“You appeared out of nowhere.” 

“I appeared in my natural habitat.” 

“The DISCO side?” 

“Yes.” 

His smile softened. 

“Your favourite.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

He remembered. 

Of course he remembered. 

“Apparently.” 

He looked at the packet in her hand. 

“You brought those on purpose.” 

“I am committed to tradition.” 

“You refused to share.” 

“You were working.” 

“I was suffering.” 

“You survived.” 

“Barely.” 

Someone from his team approached, asking something about timing. Harry answered automatically, but his eyes kept flicking back to Y/N. 

She noticed. 

Of course she noticed. 

“Go do your post-show things,” she said. 

“They can wait.” 

“Harry.” 

“They can wait two minutes.” 

“That sounded very boss-like.” 

“I contain multitudes.” 

“You contain sweat.” 

He laughed, looking down at himself. 

“That too.” 

“Go.” 

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. 

“Will you wait?” 

The question was simple. 

The way he asked it was not. 

Y/N held his gaze. 

“Yes.” 

Harry nodded once. 

Then he went. 

She waited in a smaller room after that, away from the worst of the movement. Someone brought her water. Someone else smiled at her in a way that suggested the band had absolutely noticed the cherry gummy exchange and was choosing to be polite. 

Mitch passed the open door once, glanced in, and said, “Nice gummies.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

He kept walking. 

She stared after him. 

“Terrible people,” she muttered. 

Sarah appeared a few minutes later, leaning against the doorway with a grin she was doing a poor job of hiding. 

“You looked like you were having fun out there.” 

Y/N narrowed her eyes. 

“I was being normal.” 

“Of course.” 

“Very normal.” 

“Absolutely.” 

Y/N pointed her water bottle at her. 

“You’re all worse than him.” 

Sarah laughed. 

“He’s happier when you’re here.” 

Y/N went quiet. 

Sarah’s smile softened. 

“Sorry. Too much?” 

Y/N shook her head. 

“No. I just don’t know what to do with sentences like that.” 

“Neither does he.” 

That made Y/N smile despite herself. 

By the time Harry came back, the room was quieter. Not empty, but close. The worst of the post-show rush had moved elsewhere. New York still hummed beyond the walls, but inside, the air had settled. 

He had changed his shirt, though his hair was still damp at the temples. He looked tired now in a different way. Less electric. More human. 

Y/N was sitting on the edge of a sofa, shoes touching the floor, cherry gummies beside her. 

Harry closed the door behind him. 

Again, not locked. 

Just closed. 

Y/N noticed. 

“Still leaving escape routes?” 

He looked at the door, then back at her. 

“Always.” 

“That was almost healthy.” 

“I’m doing.” 

She smiled faintly. 

He leaned against the door for a moment, watching her. 

“You okay?” 

She looked down at her hands. 

Then at the phone lying face down beside her. 

“The photos are probably everywhere now.” 

“Probably.” 

“People are probably saying things.” 

“Yes.” 

“Ugly things.” 

“Some.” 

She looked up. 

“You’re not going to say it’s nothing?” 

Harry shook his head. 

“No.” 

“Good.” 

“It’s not nothing.” He pushed away from the door and walked closer, stopping a few steps from her. “It’s invasive and loud and unfair. But it’s also not everything.” 

Y/N breathed out slowly. 

“I hated seeing myself like that.” 

“I know.” 

“I hated that they made it look like I was sneaking in.” 

“You weren’t.” 

“I know.” She looked at him. “But people won’t.” 

Harry’s jaw tightened slightly. 

“No. They won’t.” 

“And that bothers me.” 

“It should.” 

“I don’t want to care.” 

“I know.” 

“But I do.” 

Harry nodded. 

“Of course you do.” 

Something about that undid her more than “don’t care” ever could have. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“I don’t want them to own this.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“They don’t.” 

“They already have pictures.” 

“They don’t have us.” 

The words stayed there. 

Quiet. 

Certain. 

Not polished. 

Not dramatic. 

Just true. 

Y/N looked at him for a long moment. 

Outside, someone laughed in the hallway. A case rolled past. A muffled voice called for someone else. 

Inside, the room felt still. 

“You know,” she said slowly, “today was a lot.” 

Harry’s mouth twitched. 

“New York does that.” 

“You do that.” 

“Fair.” 

“I saw soundcheck. I got publicly harassed by your microphone. Your band knows about the cactus. Sarah basically implied I’m good for you. Paparazzi photographed me. The internet gave me a job title I didn’t apply for. You yelled ‘what’ at me in front of thousands of people.” 

Harry tried not to smile. 

“You did appear in the crowd without warning.” 

“I reserve the right.” 

“You scared me.” 

“You nearly missed a lyric.” 

“I did not.” 

“You absolutely did.” 

“I recovered.” 

“Barely.” 

He laughed. 

Y/N looked at him, and the laughter faded slowly. 

“I’m glad I came,” she said. 

Harry’s face changed. 

Careful. 

Hopeful, but trying not to be. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Even with the noise?” 

She nodded. 

“Even with the noise.” 

Harry looked at her like he wanted to step closer and was holding himself back by force. 

Y/N saw it. 

Her heart began to beat harder. 

“Harry.” 

“Yes?” 

“Are you going to stand there all night?” 

His eyes lifted to hers. 

The air changed. 

Not suddenly. 

It had been changing all day. 

In the hug before soundcheck. 

In the room where he had held her face and kissed her forehead. 

In the way he had searched for her backstage. 

In the way he had almost shouted into the microphone when he found her in the crowd. 

In the way he had said they don’t have us. 

Harry did not move yet. 

“What are you asking?” 

Y/N let out a breath that almost became a laugh. 

“You’re really going to make me say it?” 

His voice was low. 

“I’m not assuming.” 

Of course. 

Of course he wasn’t. 

That was the worst and best thing about him now. 

Y/N stood. 

Harry straightened. 

There was still space between them. 

Not much. 

Enough to choose. 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you all day,” he said. 

Y/N’s breath caught. 

“That’s a dangerous thing to say after a concert.” 

“I know.” 

“Adrenaline.” 

“Not just adrenaline.” 

“Paparazzi.” 

“Not them.” 

“Noise.” 

“Not noise.” 

Y/N swallowed. 

“Then what?” 

Harry looked at her. 

“You.” 

The word was quiet. 

It landed everywhere. 

Y/N stepped closer. 

Not all the way. 

Harry stayed still. 

His eyes searched hers, then dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her face. 

Still asking. 

Still waiting. 

Y/N hated that it made her want him more. 

“Are you always this careful?” she asked. 

“With you?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m trying to be.” 

She lifted an eyebrow. 

Harry corrected himself immediately, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I am.” 

Y/N’s mouth softened. 

“Good.” 

Then she closed the rest of the distance. 

The first kiss was not dramatic. 

Not at first. 

It was careful, almost quiet, like both of them were listening for the moment it became too much. Harry’s hand lifted but stopped before touching her waist, hovering there for half a second. 

Y/N noticed. 

Of course she did. 

So she stepped closer, giving him the answer without making him ask again. 

His hand settled at her waist. 

Warm. 

Careful. 

Real. 

Y/N’s fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and Harry made a small sound against her mouth that seemed to surprise both of them. 

The second kiss was less careful. 

Still gentle, but less distant. His hand tightened slightly at her waist. Hers moved up to his shoulder, then the back of his neck, where his hair was still damp from the show. 

Harry breathed out against her. 

“Y/N.” 

“Don’t make it poetic.” 

His laugh broke softly against her mouth. 

“I’m trying not to.” 

“You’re failing.” 

“I know.” 

Then he kissed her again. 

And this time, something shifted. 

Maybe it was the weeks apart. 

Maybe it was the whole day of almost touching. 

Maybe it was the roar of the arena still living somewhere in his body, or the fear still living somewhere in hers, or the relief of finally choosing something before the world could name it for them. 

The kiss deepened. 

Y/N’s back foot moved without her meaning to. Harry followed. Not pushing. Just with her. His other hand came up to her face, thumb brushing her cheek, and she forgot, for a second, where they were. 

He kissed like he had been holding back for a long time. 

Because he had. 

Because they both had. 

Y/N tightened her grip on his shirt and pulled him closer. 

That was enough. 

Harry’s restraint broke a little. 

Not completely. 

Just enough that the air left her lungs. 

He stepped with her, mouth still on hers, hand at her waist, the other sliding to the side of her neck. She moved back once, twice, and then her back met the door with a soft thud. 

Harry stopped immediately. 

His whole body went still. 

“Sorry.” 

Y/N opened her eyes. 

He was close. Very close. One hand braced near her on the door, the other still at her waist but no longer pulling. His breathing was uneven. His mouth was red from hers. His eyes searched her face with so much concern that she almost laughed. 

Almost. 

“Don’t,” she said. 

His brows drew together. 

“Did I—” 

“No.” She shook her head, breathless. “No. I’m fine.” 

“Y/N.” 

“If you ask me if I’m sure right now, I might actually scream.” 

His laugh came out rough and disbelieving. 

“That’s not an answer.” 

She looked at him, heart wild in her chest. 

“I’m sure.” 

Harry’s gaze dropped to her mouth again, then back to her eyes. 

Still checking. 

Still him. 

Y/N pulled him back by the front of his shirt. 

The next kiss was not quiet. 

It was not out of control, but it was closer. Hotter. Honest in a way that made her knees feel unreliable. Harry’s hand returned to her waist, then flattened against the door beside her as if he needed somewhere to put the force of wanting her without turning it into pressure. 

Y/N noticed that too. 

She noticed everything with him. 

It was becoming a problem. 

She kissed him harder for it. 

Harry made another sound, low and caught in his throat, and she felt it everywhere. 

Outside the room, New York kept moving. 

Voices. Cases. Footsteps. The distant pulse of a building after a show. The world waiting to turn one photograph into a story, one headline into a certainty, one woman into a role she had never agreed to play. 

Inside, Harry broke the kiss slowly and rested his forehead against hers. 

Both of them were breathing too hard. 

Y/N’s fingers were still curled in his shirt. 

His thumb moved once at her waist, careful again, as if reminding both of them that careful still existed even here. 

“Still noise?” she whispered. 

Harry closed his eyes briefly. 

“Still noise.” 

“And this?” 

He opened his eyes. 

The answer took a second. 

Not because he did not know. 

Because it mattered. 

“This is ours.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

For once, she did not argue. 

She did not make a joke. 

She did not look away. 

She just nodded, barely, and let herself stay there, between the door and him, with the city shouting outside and his breath warm against her mouth. 

A moment that belonged to them. 

Somewhere behind the noise. 

Final extra of this story, time to say goodbye. Hope you liked it my first ever series!

tag: @imjustanarrogantharrie (if you wanna be tagged, leave a comment and I will start taggin you!)

[bellaimagination]

I’m trying so hard not to drop another extra for the series The Route Back To Me!!! I have it ready 🤭

Should I do it????

[bellaimagination]

Extra to The Route Back to Me Series

Night In

Harry Styles x Y/N  Bonus Chapter to: Not a Route Anymore  Word Count: 5800  Warnings: slow burn, emotional tension, domestic fluff, rent prices being emotionally violent (JOKE). 

Y/N had told herself, very firmly, that dinner at Harry’s house was not a big deal. 

It was dinner. 

Food. 

A table. 

Cutlery. 

Normal conversation. 

He had made that very clear in his message, which, if anything, made the whole thing worse, because men who clarified the presence of cutlery were usually either dangerous or trying very hard not to be. 

Harry, unfortunately, was both. 

Not dangerous in the obvious way. Not in the loud, careless, reckless way. He was dangerous because he listened. Because he remembered things. Because he had looked at her across a London street and said he would learn how to walk to her, and then apparently decided to follow that up with burgers, apartment hunting and what he had called “real estate judgement”. 

Y/N stood outside his house in North London, staring at the front of it. 

For a few seconds, she said nothing. 

Then she looked down at her phone, checked the address again, looked back at the house, and sighed. 

“Of course.” 

The house was beautiful in an offensively quiet way. Not flashy. Not golden gates and marble lions. Not the kind of place that screamed money. 

Worse. 

The kind that whispered it with excellent lighting, old brick, dark windows, a gate that looked simple until you realised simple probably cost more than her hotel stay, and a front door that seemed emotionally prepared to reject her bank account. 

Harry opened it before she had time to overthink knocking. 

He was wearing jeans and a soft, worn-looking jumper, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy, feet bare. Bare feet. In that house. As if the place did not require formal permission to exist. 

“Hi,” he said. 

Y/N looked at him. Then at the house. Then back at him. 

“I knew you were rich,” she said slowly, “but this feels unnecessary.” 

Harry leaned against the doorframe, mouth twitching. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“Don’t. It was a complaint with architectural evidence.” 

He laughed, stepping aside. “Come in.” 

Y/N walked past him into the hallway and immediately hated that the house smelled good. Not perfume-good. Not hotel-good. Home-good. Warm wood, something clean, something faintly like coffee, something she could not name and did not want to name because naming it felt like giving it power. 

The entrance opened into a space that was too tasteful for her peace of mind. Warm lights. Wooden floors. Art on the walls that looked casual until she suspected it was worth more than a small car. A staircase. A ridiculous amount of calm. 

Y/N stopped. 

Harry closed the door behind her. 

She turned slowly, taking it in. 

“Do you live here or does a magazine borrow you occasionally for ambience?” 

Harry looked around as if trying to see the house through her eyes. 

“I do live here.” 

“Bold claim.” 

“I sleep here.” 

“That proves very little. Rich people can sleep in showrooms.” 

He smiled. “Would it help if I showed you the messier parts?” 

“Yes,” she said immediately. “I need emotional balance.” 

He looked pleased by that, which was irritating. 

“Kitchen first?” 

“Wait.” Y/N lifted a finger and narrowed her eyes at something near the window of the front room. “Are those the plants?” 

Harry froze. 

It was tiny. 

Almost unnoticeable. 

But she saw it. 

Of course she did. 

A cluster of plants sat near the window: one leafy thing that looked moderately alive, two succulents trying their best, and a cactus that seemed to be reconsidering its choices. 

Y/N walked towards them like a detective approaching a crime scene. 

Harry followed behind her. 

“Before you say anything—” 

“Oh, I’m going to say several things.” 

“They’re alive.” 

Y/N crouched slightly, studying the cactus. “Are they?” 

“They are.” 

“This one looks like it has seen things.” 

“It’s a cactus.” 

“It’s a traumatised cactus.” 

Harry crossed his arms. “Don’t judge me.” 

“I’m absolutely judging you. How are you almost killing a cactus?” 

“I am not almost killing it.” 

Y/N looked at him over her shoulder. 

Harry hesitated. 

“It had a difficult week.” 

“It’s a cactus, Harry. Its whole personality is survival.” 

“I watered it.” 

“That may have been the crime.” 

He looked offended. “I was trying to help.” 

“That’s what all botanical murderers say.” 

Harry pointed at the plant beside it. “That one’s doing well.” 

Y/N looked at the leafy plant. It did, admittedly, look decent. 

She straightened and gave him a solemn nod. 

“One survivor. Two witnesses. One cactus in emotional recovery.” 

Harry rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. 

“I invite you to dinner and you immediately investigate my plants.” 

“You invited me after admitting to a botanical murder charge. This is due diligence.” 

“Fair.” 

She looked back at the succulents. 

“Also, these are almost cacti-adjacent. You should be ashamed.” 

“They’re succulents.” 

“That’s not a defence. That’s a category.” 

Harry laughed then, properly, and the sound softened the house around them. 

Y/N hated that too. 

Not really. 

But enough. 

He led her into the kitchen, and she prepared herself for something too much. A chef. A table set like an award ceremony. Food with foam. Plates too large for the amount of food on them. 

Instead, there were burger buns on the counter, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, bowls of sauces, fries waiting to go into the oven, and a pan ready on the stove. 

Y/N stopped again. 

Harry watched her carefully. 

“I thought about cooking something impressive,” he admitted. 

“And then?” 

“Then I imagined your face if I served you something with foam on it.” 

“I would’ve left.” 

“Exactly.” He gestured to the counter. “So… burgers.” 

She looked at him. 

The annoying thing was that it worked. 

It worked because he had thought about it. Because he had not tried to impress her by making the night expensive or impossible to touch. He had made it simple because he knew simple would make her stay. 

Y/N put her bag down on one of the stools. 

“Homemade burgers?” 

“Attempted homemade burgers.” 

“Important distinction.” 

“I’m managing expectations.” 

“Good. I respect that.” 

Harry moved around the kitchen, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of water. 

“Do you want wine? Water? Something else?” 

“Water is fine.” 

“You sure?” 

She gave him a look. 

He lifted one hand. “Water. Understood.” 

As he poured it, Y/N leaned against the counter and took in the kitchen. It was big, obviously. Too big for one person. Too beautiful to be practical. The kind of kitchen where even the knives looked like they had better career prospects than her. 

“You know,” she said, “if I had this kitchen, I’d probably still eat toast standing up.” 

Harry glanced at her. 

“Same.” 

“No, you wouldn’t.” 

“I have.” 

“That feels disrespectful to the architecture.” 

“It survived.” 

“Did the cactus?” 

Harry pointed at her with the bottle. “You’re not allowed to bring the cactus into every conversation.” 

“That sounds like something someone guilty would say.” 

He smiled as he handed her the glass. 

For a while, they cooked. Or assembled. Or pretended to cook while mainly arguing about the correct amount of sauce. 

Harry took it surprisingly seriously. 

Y/N took that as a personal invitation to be difficult. 

“That is too much mustard,” she announced. 

Harry looked down at the burger. “It’s not.” 

“It is.” 

“It’s balanced.” 

“That burger is asking for help.” 

“You’re very opinionated for someone who hasn’t tasted it.” 

“I don’t need to taste suffering to recognise it.” 

He stared at her. 

Then removed a little mustard with the edge of a knife. 

Y/N smiled. 

“Growth.” 

“I hate that word now.” 

“You should. It’s been used against you a lot.” 

They ate at the kitchen island instead of the dining table, because Harry said the dining table felt too formal and Y/N said she refused to sit somewhere that looked like it had hosted contracts. 

The burgers were good. Not perfect. Not restaurant-level. Better, somehow. The fries got slightly too crisp. Harry apologised. Y/N said she preferred them that way and then accused him of fishing for compliments. 

He did not deny it fast enough. 

After dinner, he disappeared into the next room and came back holding a LEGO box. 

Y/N stared. 

Harry held it out with both hands, almost ceremonially. 

It was a botanical set. A wildflower bouquet. 

Y/N looked from the box to him. 

“You bought us emotional support LEGO.” 

“I thought it was safer than emotional support wine.” 

“Barely.” 

“You like LEGO.” 

“I do.” 

“And flowers.” 

“I like flowers that survive.” 

Harry glanced towards the plants. 

Y/N pointed at him. “Don’t look at the cactus. It’s been through enough.” 

He laughed and put the box on the coffee table in the living room. 

The living room was warm and large and unfairly comfortable. A huge sofa faced a TV, shelves lined with books and records behind it. There were more strange pieces of art, a stack of magazines, a throw blanket that looked soft enough to ruin lives, and a low table now occupied by LEGO flowers, two glasses of water, and one laptop. 

Y/N sat at one end of the sofa. 

Harry sat at the other. 

There was space between them. 

A lot of it. 

An entire wealthy-person sofa of space. 

Still, somehow, it felt intimate. 

Maybe because they were both sitting barefoot now. Maybe because he had put Friends on mute in the background while they opened the LEGO bags. Maybe because there was something ridiculous about being in Harry’s house, after everything, sorting tiny green pieces into piles like two people with completely normal lives. 

“Okay,” Y/N said, picking up the instruction booklet. “We need a system.” 

Harry looked at her. “Of course we do.” 

“Don’t say that like I’m predictable.” 

“You are a little predictable.” 

“I will leave.” 

“You won’t. You want to build the flowers.” 

She narrowed her eyes. 

He smiled. 

“Annoying,” she muttered. 

“Accurate?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

They started building. Harry handled the first stem. Y/N took over sorting pieces and judging him. 

“You’re doing that wrong.” 

“I’m following the instructions.” 

“With fear.” 

“How does one build LEGO with fear?” 

“You’re doing it right now.” 

Harry looked at the stem in his hand. “It looks fine.” 

“It looks emotionally insecure.” 

“You say that about a lot of things.” 

“I’m usually right.” 

He handed her the piece. “Fine. You do it.” 

She took it and immediately realised he had, in fact, done it correctly. 

Harry watched her face. 

Y/N refused to give him the satisfaction. 

“Interesting,” she said. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Was I right?” 

“No.” 

“Y/N.” 

“You were directionally acceptable.” 

Harry laughed. 

The laptop sat closed on the table for almost half an hour while they built. That felt like something. The fact that neither of them rushed into apartment searches or difficult topics. They just made plastic flowers in his enormous living room while Friends played silently on the TV and London moved outside the windows. 

Eventually, though, the reason for the evening returned. 

Y/N opened the laptop and pulled up the listings she had saved. 

Harry leaned closer from his side of the sofa, still holding half a flower. 

She noticed immediately. 

“Before you react, remember that normal people don’t have millionaire standards.” 

“I’ll try.” 

“No, you won’t.” 

“I said I’ll try.” 

She looked at him. 

He sighed. 

“I’ll do my best.” 

“Better.” 

The first studio appeared on the screen. 

Harry said nothing. 

Which was worse. 

Y/N looked at him. 

“What?” 

He leaned closer, frowning at the listing. 

“Y/N, this isn’t a studio. This is a hallway with plumbing.” 

“It has character.” 

“It has one window facing a brick wall.” 

“That wall could become very important to me.” 

“It has a bed two steps away from the oven.” 

“Convenient.” 

“It says ‘cosy’ four times. That’s a warning sign.” 

Y/N snatched the laptop slightly closer to herself. 

“You’re being dramatic.” 

“I’d rather give you the money than let you live in this.” 

Her head snapped up. 

“Harry.” 

He lifted both hands immediately. 

“I said I’d rather. I didn’t say I would.” 

“No. Don’t even think about it.” 

“I’m not thinking about it.” 

“Your face is thinking about it.” 

“My face is being unfairly monitored.” 

“Good. Someone has to control the millionaire instincts.” 

Harry tried not to smile. 

Y/N pointed at him. 

“I don’t need you to spend money on me.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know you are.” 

“I can do this on my own.” 

“I know.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you?” 

Harry looked at her properly then, softer but still light enough not to make it heavy. 

“Yes,” he said. “I do. You can do it on your own.” 

Y/N relaxed only slightly. 

“Good.” 

“I’m not offering to rescue you.” 

“You sounded dangerously close.” 

“I’m offering to judge terrible flats with you and maybe send one semi-normal email to someone who might know about studios.” 

“Semi-normal?” 

“It’s the best I can promise.” 

She watched him for a moment. 

“No secret payments.” 

“No secret payments.” 

“No calling some rich person and magically making rent disappear.” 

“No magical rent disappearance.” 

“No celebrity nonsense.” 

Harry hesitated. 

Y/N raised an eyebrow. 

He sighed. “Minimal celebrity nonsense.” 

“Harry.” 

“One email,” he corrected. “No money. No pressure. You decide everything.” 

She studied him for another second, then gave the laptop back. 

“Fine. You may send one semi-normal email.” 

Harry smiled. 

“Thank you.” 

“But if you accidentally buy me a building, I’m blocking you.” 

“That feels fair.” 

They went through more listings. 

It became a sport. 

A painful one. 

Harry pointed at one studio. “This one has the toilet next to the bed.” 

“That’s efficient.” 

“That’s criminal.” 

“You’re so dramatic.” 

“This is not drama. This is public safety.” 

Y/N clicked on another. “This one is cute.” 

“It has no oven.” 

“I can adapt.” 

“You deserve heat-based cooking.” 

“I have survived worse.” 

“I don’t like that sentence.” 

“You don’t need to like all my sentences.” 

Harry looked at her from the other end of the sofa. “I know.” 

Something quiet passed between them. 

Not heavy. 

Just present. 

Y/N looked back at the screen first. 

“Stop looking at me like you’re about to say something emotionally inconvenient.” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You were.” 

“I was.” 

“I knew it.” 

Harry smiled and picked up another LEGO piece. 

They built between listings. A flower, a terrible flat. Another flower, a slightly less terrible flat. A debate about whether “compact” was a legal term or a threat. A discussion about how far from a Tube station was too far. Harry tried to explain neighbourhoods without sounding like a real estate agent. Y/N accused him of sounding like a man who had never had to calculate whether rent plus transport plus groceries would leave enough money for joy. 

He accepted the accusation. 

Then sent the semi-normal email. 

Y/N watched him do it. 

He noticed. 

“You’re supervising?” 

“Yes.” 

“I said no secret intervention.” 

“And I am verifying.” 

He turned the laptop slightly so she could see. 

The email was, annoyingly, normal. He asked someone he trusted whether they knew of any studios becoming available in a newer building, something reasonable, safe, with no pressure and no rush. He did not mention money. He did not mention paying. He did not sound like he was trying to move the world around her. 

Y/N read it twice. 

Then nodded. 

“Acceptable.” 

Harry clicked send. 

“High praise.” 

“Don’t get emotional.” 

“Too late.” 

She threw a small LEGO leaf at him. 

He caught it. 

Of course he did. 

Later, they moved the laptop aside and turned the volume up on Friends. Y/N claimed it was background noise. Harry said background noise did not usually require someone to gasp, quote lines under their breath, and aggressively judge fictional people they had watched five hundred times. 

She said he had no evidence. 

He had evidence. 

They ended up watching properly, though the LEGO bouquet still occupied most of the coffee table. At some point, without either of them making a decision out loud, they both shifted position. Y/N ended up lying on her stomach on one end of the sofa, elbows propped against a cushion, LEGO instructions spread in front of her. Harry mirrored her from the other side, also on his stomach, facing her with a half-built flower between them. 

It should not have felt intimate. 

It was LEGO. 

It was Friends. 

It was a sofa large enough to host a small committee. 

Still, there was something about being face to face like that, feet in opposite directions, heads close enough over the instruction booklet that their hands kept reaching for the same pieces, that made the room feel smaller. 

Harry picked up a tiny green piece. 

Y/N pointed at the booklet. 

“No, not that one.” 

He looked down. 

“It looks exactly like that one.” 

“It absolutely does not.” 

“It’s green.” 

“Incredible observation.” 

“And small.” 

“Groundbreaking.” 

Harry looked at her over the top of the LEGO flower. 

“You’re very bossy during botanical construction.” 

“I’m protecting the flowers from your history.” 

“My history is being exaggerated.” 

“The cactus would disagree.” 

“The cactus is not part of this conversation.” 

“The cactus is always part of this conversation.” 

Harry laughed and reached for the correct piece. His fingers brushed hers for half a second. Neither of them mentioned it. Both of them noticed. 

On the TV, Chandler made a joke, and Y/N laughed before the punchline even landed. 

Harry watched her for a second. 

“What?” she asked, still smiling. 

“You’re Chandler.” 

Y/N turned her head slowly. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You make jokes when you’re uncomfortable. You use sarcasm as a life jacket. You change the subject when things get too sincere.” 

She stared at him. 

“That is rude.” 

“It’s accurate.” 

“I am not Chandler.” 

“You’re a little Chandler.” 

“I’m Phoebe.” 

Harry blinked. 

Y/N lifted her chin. “I am spiritually Phoebe.” 

“You do have Phoebe moments.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Honest. Unpredictable. Slightly terrifying.” 

“Excellent.” 

“But emotionally?” Harry tilted his head, trying not to smile. “Chandler.” 

Y/N pointed the LEGO stem at him like a weapon. 

“Careful.” 

He rested his chin on his forearm, still watching her. 

“You asked.” 

“I did not.” 

“You implied.” 

“I implied nothing.” 

“You breathed near the topic.” 

“That is not consent for character analysis.” 

Harry laughed, and the movement made the sofa shift slightly beneath them. 

Y/N looked at the screen, then back at him, and suddenly smiled in a way that made him suspicious. 

“You’re not Chandler either,” she said. 

“No?” 

“No.” She pointed at him with a piece of LEGO still between her fingers. “You’re Ross.” 

Harry looked personally wounded. 

“Take that back.” 

“No.” 

“Y/N.” 

“You have the emotional spirals, the failed engagement, the dramatic pauses…” 

“That is incredibly unfair.” 

“And if life really wanted to complete the Ross storyline, your ex could leave you for a woman too.” 

Harry froze for half a second. 

Then he stared at her. 

“We never got married.” 

Y/N shrugged. “You were one ceremony away from becoming a full sitcom plot.” 

Harry dropped his forehead onto his arm, laughing into the cushion. 

“That was terrible.” 

“That was accurate.” 

“It was cruel.” 

“It was educational.” 

He lifted his head and looked at her, still smiling, cheeks faintly flushed from laughing. 

“Zoë would’ve laughed at that.” 

Y/N softened a little. 

“Good. I’m not trying to be mean.” 

“I know,” Harry said. “You’re just trying to ruin Friends for me.” 

“Exactly.” 

He reached for a LEGO piece and missed it because he was still looking at her. 

She noticed immediately. 

“Focus, Ross.” 

Harry groaned. 

“That cannot stay.” 

“It absolutely can.” 

“I regret this evening.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

He looked at her, chin still resting on his arm, eyes warm and tired and very much there. 

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t.” 

The words landed gently. 

Too gently. 

Y/N looked back at the LEGO instructions before they could become something else. 

“Good,” she said, handing him the correct piece. “Because you still have two flowers and a cactus apology tour to complete.” 

Harry smiled and took the piece from her. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

They watched another episode. Then another. The LEGO bouquet grew slowly on the coffee table, uneven but beautiful. The laptop remained open somewhere between them, still displaying a listing neither of them had the energy to judge. Their water glasses were empty. The burger plates had long since been taken to the kitchen. The house had settled into a quiet warmth that made time feel less strict. 

At some point, Y/N yawned. 

Harry noticed. 

“Do you want me to call you a car?” 

She blinked at the TV, then at the clock on the wall. 

“Oh.” 

It was late. 

Much later than she had realised. 

“That happened aggressively,” she said. 

“Time?” 

“Yes.” 

“It does that.” 

“Uncalled for.” 

Harry looked at her for a moment, then sat up slightly. 

“You can stay here, if you want.” 

Y/N’s head turned so fast he lifted both hands. 

“No. Wait. Not like that.” 

“Harry.” 

“I know. I heard it.” He shook his head quickly. “I have guest rooms. Three, actually. Four if you count the room with the terrifying chair.” 

She stared at him. 

“You have a room with a terrifying chair?” 

“It came with the house emotionally.” 

“That explains nothing.” 

“It explains the chair.” 

She narrowed her eyes. 

Harry’s expression softened. “It’s late. You’re tired. I can still call you a car. I will, if you want. But you can also take a guest room. Door closes. No weirdness. No pressure.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

He was serious. 

Not tense. 

Not expectant. 

Just offering. 

A choice. 

Again. 

She hated how good he was getting at that. 

“I’m choosing the least rich-looking guest room,” she said. 

Harry’s mouth twitched. 

“That might be difficult.” 

“Don’t be proud of that.” 

“I’m trying not to be.” 

“You’re failing quietly.” 

He stood and gestured for her to follow. “Come on. I’ll show you the options.” 

The options, unfortunately, were all too nice. 

One had a view of the garden. One had soft blue walls. One had shelves full of books. The fourth did, in fact, contain a chair that looked like it had been designed by someone with unresolved emotional issues. 

Y/N stopped in front of it. 

“That chair has secrets.” 

“I warned you.” 

“It looks like it knows where bodies are buried.” 

“It’s comfortable.” 

“That makes it worse.” 

She chose the room with the books. 

Harry stood at the doorway while she looked around. A bed made perfectly. A lamp with warm light. A small desk. A window facing the dark shape of the garden. It was simple compared to the rest of the house, but still nicer than any hotel room she had stayed in. 

“There are towels in the bathroom,” Harry said. “Toothbrushes in the drawer. New ones,” he added quickly. 

“I assumed you weren’t handing me a used toothbrush.” 

“I panicked.” 

“I noticed.” 

He smiled, then glanced down the hallway. 

“I’ll be downstairs for a bit. Then my room is on the other side of the house, so…” He stopped. “That sounded weirdly like a property tour.” 

“It did.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Apology accepted.” 

Harry glanced into the room, then back at her. 

“Do you want something more comfortable to sleep in?” 

Y/N looked down at her clothes, suddenly remembering she had not exactly planned to stay the night in Harry Styles’ guest room after judging London rent prices and accusing his cactus of emotional distress. 

“I’m fine.” 

Harry gave her a look. 

She narrowed her eyes. 

“What?” 

“That was a lie.” 

“It was a polite survival response.” 

“It sounded uncomfortable.” 

“You sound rich.” 

He smiled faintly, then stepped back from the doorway. “Wait here.” 

“Harry.” 

“No money. No rescue. Just cotton.” 

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it, because that was unfortunately difficult to argue with. 

He disappeared down the hallway and returned less than a minute later with a folded T-shirt in his hands. It was plain, soft-looking, and clearly his. Not new. Not offered like a gesture. Just handed to her quietly, as if he already knew that making it too meaningful would make her panic. 

“It’s clean,” he said. 

“I assumed you weren’t giving me emotional laundry.” 

“I’ve panicked about toothbrushes tonight. I’m clarifying everything now.” 

Y/N took the T-shirt from him. The cotton was soft between her fingers, worn in the way only favourite clothes were. She tried very hard not to think about that. 

“Is this going to fit me or am I about to be swallowed by celebrity fabric?” 

Harry’s mouth twitched. 

“It might be a bit long.” 

“Good. I’m accepting only respectable guest-room fashion.” 

“It’ll probably look like a dress on you.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

Harry immediately looked away. 

“Not in a weird way.” 

“Your face is fighting for its life.” 

“My face would like to be excused from this conversation.” 

She held the T-shirt against her chest, trying not to smile too much. 

“Thank you.” 

His expression softened. 

“You’re welcome.” 

For a second, neither of them moved. It would have been easy, dangerously easy, for the silence to become something else. 

Harry stepped back first. 

“Good night, Y/N.” 

She nodded, quieter now. 

“Good night, Harry.” 

Only after he disappeared down the hallway did she close the door. 

Y/N stood in the middle of the guest room with his T-shirt in her hands for a long moment before changing. It was, as promised, far too big. The hem fell low on her thighs, almost like a dress, the sleeves loose around her arms. She caught her reflection in the mirror and immediately looked away, because something about wearing his clothes in his house felt much more intimate than she had emotionally prepared for. 

She brushed her teeth with the new toothbrush from the drawer, washed her face, and tried very hard to act like this was normal. 

It was not normal. 

Nothing about this was normal. 

But when she slipped under the covers, the cotton moved with her, and there it was. 

His cologne. 

Not strong. Not deliberate. Just caught in the fabric, hidden in the softness of the T-shirt. Warm, clean, familiar in a way it had no right to be after so little time. 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

The room was quiet. The house was quiet. Somewhere far away, maybe downstairs, Harry existed in the same silence, giving her space, not asking for anything, not turning the night into something it wasn’t ready to be. 

She hugged the blanket closer, but it was the T-shirt that surrounded her. 

His scent. 

His house. 

His ridiculous plants. 

His almost-dead cactus. 

His careful hands leaving the choice with her over and over again. 

For the first time in years, happiness did not arrive like excitement. It did not rush into her chest or make her want to prove it to anyone. It settled quietly, almost shyly, like something afraid of being noticed too soon. 

But it was there. 

Real. 

A small, warm thing beneath her ribs. 

Y/N thought about the way he had made burgers instead of something fancy because he knew she would hate being impressed on purpose. She thought about him buying LEGO flowers because he remembered. About him asking before reading the message about the studio. About the way he said, You’re you, and that is more than enough. 

She pressed her face lightly into the sleeve of the T-shirt and smiled before she could stop herself. 

“Terrible,” she whispered into the dark. 

But she was still smiling. 

Her last thought before sleep was not of Wembley, or the route, or the hotel reception, or even London waiting outside. 

It was of Harry in the kitchen, barefoot and laughing, trying to defend a traumatised cactus from prosecution. 

Y/N fell asleep with a smile on her face. 

In the morning, Y/N woke earlier than expected. 

For a few seconds, she forgot where she was. 

Then she saw the unfamiliar room, the bookshelves, the window, the soft grey morning beyond it, and remembered. 

Harry’s house. 

Guest room. 

Dinner. 

LEGO. 

Rent prices. 

Ross. 

She pressed a hand over her face. 

“Oh my God.” 

Not in a bad way. 

Not exactly. 

In a my life has become deeply strange and I need a responsible adult but unfortunately I am the adult way. 

She got dressed quietly and went downstairs, intending to be useful. That was the only reasonable response to sleeping in a house that looked like it had its own postcode. Be useful. Make breakfast. Prove she had not arrived as some helpless guest needing care. 

The kitchen was empty. 

Y/N smiled. 

Perfect. 

She found bread. Eggs. Fruit. Coffee. A pan. She moved around carefully, trying not to disturb anything or accidentally break an object worth more than her future apartment. 

The coffee machine looked intimidating. 

She stared at it. 

It stared back. 

“No,” she decided. “I’m not fighting you.” 

She made tea instead. 

Much safer. 

She was halfway through attempting scrambled eggs when she heard the front door open. 

Y/N looked up. 

Harry appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing running clothes, hair damp, cheeks flushed, skin shining with sweat, breathing still slightly uneven. 

She stared at him. 

He stared back. 

“Good morning,” he said. 

Y/N pointed the spatula at him. 

“You weren’t asleep?” 

Harry looked down at himself. 

“No.” 

“You went running?” 

“Yes.” 

“At this hour?” 

“It’s morning.” 

“That’s not an explanation. That’s a time of day.” 

He laughed, walking in and grabbing a glass of water. 

Y/N watched him drink half of it. 

“You know,” she said, “for someone who keeps telling me to stop running emotionally, you do a lot of literal running.” 

Harry lowered the glass. 

Then pointed at her. 

“That was unnecessary.” 

“Educational.” 

“Cruel.” 

“Growth.” 

He shook his head, but he was smiling. 

Then he looked towards the pan. 

“Are you making breakfast?” 

“I was attempting breakfast.” 

“Do you need help?” 

“No.” 

Harry looked at the eggs. 

Y/N looked at him. 

He wisely said nothing. 

“Careful,” she warned. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Your face did.” 

“My face really suffers in this house.” 

“Your face has a lot of opinions.” 

Harry walked closer, still keeping enough distance not to crowd her. 

“It smells good.” 

“That was diplomatic.” 

“It was true.” 

“You’re improving.” 

“I’m doing.” 

She smiled despite herself and turned back to the pan. 

Harry went upstairs to shower while she finished breakfast. By the time he came back down in clean clothes, hair wet at the ends, she had managed toast, eggs, fruit, tea, and coffee she had eventually made after losing a silent psychological battle with the machine. 

They ate at the kitchen island again. 

Morning softened everything. The house looked less intimidating in daylight. The garden beyond the windows was pale and green. The cactus, visible from the kitchen if Y/N leaned slightly, was still alive. 

Barely. 

But alive. 

“So,” Harry said, picking up his mug. “The plant survived the night.” 

“The cactus survived out of spite.” 

“Still counts.” 

“For now.” 

He smiled into his coffee. 

Y/N looked at him across the island. 

There was something strange about morning. 

Night could be excused. Night made things blurry. Night made emotional conversations easier and bad decisions easier and almost everything feel like it belonged to a world outside consequence. 

Morning did not do that. 

Morning was honest. 

And somehow, sitting across from Harry with toast crumbs between them and his hair still damp from a shower, Y/N did not feel like running. 

That was dangerous information. 

His phone vibrated on the counter. 

Harry glanced at it, then looked at her. 

“What?” 

“It’s about the studios.” 

Y/N’s stomach flipped. 

Harry did not pick up the phone immediately. 

Instead, he asked, “Do you want to know?” 

She paused. 

That question mattered more than it should have. 

Because he could have read it. Could have assumed. Could have taken the lead without noticing he had stepped ahead of her. 

But he asked. 

Y/N nodded. “Yes.” 

Harry picked up the phone and opened the message. 

His eyes moved over the screen. 

“Well?” 

He looked up. “My friend knows someone involved with a newer building. North-east, not central. Studios, small but apparently decent. Some furnished. Not cheap, because London is personally committed to violence, but not insane.” 

Y/N’s heart started doing something inconvenient. 

“Available?” 

“Maybe one next month. They can send details. You’d have to apply properly. References, deposit, all that. No shortcuts.” 

“Good.” 

“I told him no shortcuts.” 

She looked at him. 

Harry held her gaze. 

“No money. No pressure. No magical rent disappearance.” 

Y/N’s mouth softened despite herself. 

“Thank you.” 

“For helping?” 

“For helping,” she said. “Not rescuing.” 

Harry’s expression changed. Not much. Just enough. 

“I’m learning the difference.” 

Y/N lifted an eyebrow. 

He corrected himself before she could. 

“I’m doing.” 

She smiled. 

“There he is.” 

His phone vibrated again. 

Harry read the next message, then turned the screen slightly towards her. “They can send pictures today, if you want.” 

Y/N tried to keep her face neutral. 

Harry watched her. 

“You’re doing the thing.” 

“What thing?” 

“The thing where you pretend not to want something because wanting it makes it real.” 

She stared at him. 

“I hate that you’re learning.” 

He smiled. 

“I’m doing.” 

Y/N looked at the phone again. 

A studio. 

A real one. 

Maybe. 

Not because Harry was buying her a life. 

Because she had said out loud that she wanted one, and now a possible door existed. 

She swallowed. 

“Tell them to send the pictures.” 

Harry nodded once and typed back. 

Y/N looked down at her plate. 

Her eggs were slightly overcooked. 

The toast was uneven. 

The coffee was too strong. 

The cactus was still fighting for its life. 

The LEGO bouquet sat unfinished in the living room. 

Harry’s house was still too big. 

His world was still too much. 

Her life was still not magically sorted. 

But there was a quiet morning between them. 

Breakfast. 

A possible apartment. 

A man learning not to rescue her. 

A woman learning that accepting help did not have to mean surrendering independence. 

Harry put his phone down. 

“Done.” 

Y/N nodded. 

“Good.” 

He looked at her. “You okay?” 

She thought about lying. 

Then didn’t. 

“I think I’m scared.” 

Harry’s face softened. 

“Of the studio?” 

“Of wanting the studio.” 

He nodded slowly. 

“That makes sense.” 

“It’s annoying.” 

“That too.” 

She looked at him. 

He smiled faintly. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Y/N said. 

“Your face is thinking something.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t use my own methods against me.” 

“I’m learning from the best.” 

“Highly uncertified.” 

“Still the best.” 

She looked away before that could get to her. 

Too late. 

Harry reached for his coffee. 

Y/N glanced towards the living room, where the LEGO flowers waited unfinished. 

“We should finish the bouquet before I leave.” 

Harry looked pleased. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes. I can’t leave emotional support LEGO unfinished in a house with plant trauma. It sends the wrong message.” 

“Of course.” 

“And then you’re watering the cactus under supervision.” 

Harry paused. 

“I thought we were taking things slow.” 

Y/N smiled into her tea. 

“We are. But the cactus may not have that kind of time.” 

Harry laughed. 

Real. 

Warm. 

His. 

And Y/N, sitting in his too-large kitchen with London waiting somewhere beyond the windows, realised the scariest part was not the house. Not the money. Not the difference between their worlds. 

It was the fact that he was listening. 

Not perfectly. 

Not magically. 

But carefully. 

And maybe, for now, carefully was enough. 

[imjustanarrogantharrie]

Masterlist

A/N: This my first ever masterlist and i only write harry fanfic but i don’t mind request to involve other people in the stories,its completely fictional. i am open to improvements and criticism,please like and send messages for notes and requests if you enjoy!!

smut = *

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Flashlights and flirtations*

where the flirtations led

together together*

less

favour from a friend*