prompt years after you’ve broken up, harry styles names a song after you….and references you….and mentions you quite a bit. (18+)
in this: exes / enemies to lovers, angst (one direction breakup), miscommunication, jealous harry, stubborn y/n, falsehoods about the one direction breakup for drama, eventual smut <3
a.n. reading the 1st part honestly isnt that necessary!
harry styles has always been annoying.
he never waved off attention or pretended he didn’t like it. he did. most people do. it feels good to be seen, to be chosen, to be reflected back brighter than you remember yourself being.
it’s just most people weren’t him.
anyone could’ve predicted harry styles. just look at him. jesus christ.
with him, attention was never incidental—it’s just the way things are. if he’d never got up and changed his life, he still would’ve been swooned after and gawked at and whispered about in the cheshire streets. so, no—seeing his face plastered over billboards and pressed between glossy magazine folds isn’t a shock. what’s strange is seeing your name slapped right beside it.
a number one trending single.
you don’t acknowledge him. you’re private and classy and don’t really know how to, so you spend most mornings floating between stupid los angeles fitness trends to get your mind off him. that’s the city’s greatest asset: selective blindness. the average local know better than to ask. the usual tourist is too intimidated to try. instead, they whisper, very poorly, like you can’t hear your own name mispronounced three treadmills over, but still. no real confrontation.
the paparazzi hasn’t quite figured out these hot yoga studios yet. no good leaks, you suppose. too much distractions. bad lighting. you’re sure you could outrun them now anyway. your mile times were getting impressive.
still, his perfect fucking face beams down from sunset boulevard in thirty feet of curated effortlessness, mouth slightly parted, soft curls falling just low enough to look accidental. you want to honk at every pedestrian who stops to take a photo.
a number one trending single.
you weren’t going to see the end of him any time soon.
the track list isn’t even out yet, and you’re refreshing like you’re sixteen again. thumb hovering. it’s normal. everyone is curious about their ex. it’s fine.
you really can’t help it.
you want to know if you made the cut.
if there’s something more. something humiliatingly specific—the quick breakfasts, the nights on the kitchen floor, the way he whispered your name in your neck. some detail no one else would know, something for only you to hear.
but there was this strange fear. what if that was it? doesn’t he write songs about all his exes? could it be the great, tortured poet didn’t need you at all?
you don’t mean to hear him on the radio, but you do.
the radio host (you never remember his name, just the cadence of his voice) opens with the usual trained warmth. big congratulations. record-breaking numbers. “summer already belongs to you.” that sort of thing.
“your lead single is complete gold,” he says, a soft, almost disbelieving laugh tucked into the compliment. “it’s bright. it’s fun. but it’s also refreshingly personal.”
“you’re opening this new era by revisiting a relationship that predates your solo career. that’s not something you’ve really done so directly before.”
“is it not?” harry asks lightly. you can hear the eyebrow in it. the small smile.
the host hums. “you’ve written about love, sure. but this feels uncharacteristically specific.”
“i’ve always written about my life,” harry says lightly. “i’d be in trouble if i stopped.”
“hey, i don’t mean this provocatively,” he adds, which of course means he does. “but y/n has always been a bit of a recognizable name in her own right. people remember this moment, people remember her.”
still playful, but there’s a bit of sharpness under it now. you imagine harry leaning back in his chair. fingers tapping the armrest. smile still there, but thinner.
the host laughs. “i guess my question is, why now?”
another pause, softer this time.
“i think sometimes it just takes a while to say something properly,” harry says. “you can feel it for years and not have the language for it.”
“i found a melody,” he corrects quietly.
there’s a breath. maybe the energy’s changed in the room, because harry moves to steer it.
“timing’s funny,” he says. “sometimes you can only write the truth once you’re far enough away from it to admit you’re still in it.”
“still in it?” the host catches.
“don’t twist my words now…”
the host clears his throat, voice turning a little lighter.
“she’s been spotted at a few of zayn malik’s vegas shows,” he says casually. “they seem close. front row, backstage. should we be reading into that?”
harry lets out the faintest laugh.
“vegas is a very social city,” he says.
“right,” the host nudges, “seeing her at his shows. cheering him on. that doesn’t sting at all?”
harry hums like he’s thinking about it.
“i think it’s lovely she supports live music,” he says cheekily.
the host grins. “have you been?”
“i’ve seen him perform once or twice over the years, yeah.”
laughter swells around the studio, but you still feel harry’s presence. it’s another energy. heavier. you can almost hear him shift in his seat.
harry continues mindfully. he almost deflects.
“i think it’s always nice when someone who knew you before… sees what you’ve built.”
the host grins in his voice. “would you like her to come around and see the empire you’ve built? could we expect her front row any time soon?”
“it’s… ah,” he starts, then stalls for half a second. “i don’t fill my days making seating charts.”
“that would have to be her decision,” harry finishes, a little softer.
“so you’re leaving it up to her.”
“she’s got good instincts.”
“even if those instincts land her in someone else’s front row?”
“if she wants to see a show,” he says, “i hope it’s a good one.”
a faint smile creeps back into his voice.
“we’ll leave that up to her.”
you try to make sense of it all. his media training team has always been better than your’s. there’s a whiteboard somewhere with arrows and contingencies. he pokes at all of this because it’s funny to him. the mythology. the think pieces. the way your name trends every time he smiles or frowns.
he hasn’t contacted you since vegas. not once.
and now that you think about it—harrys never actually chased you. not really. there was no grand gesture. no airport sprint. no drunk voicemails or missed calls. he hadn’t even asked zayn about you.
if he were in love, at least it would be embarrassing. at the end of the day, there’s no dramatic rejection to recover from. one day, harry was there, and then he wasn’t.
you’re not together. you’re not estranged. you’re not friends. you’re not anything.
time has thinned it out. what used to feel sharp now feels… foreign? sharp? you catch yourself polishing it, sanding down the parts that hurt.
it was 2014 when he first started talking about going solo. really talking about it.
“you’d leave the boys?” you asked, eyebrows raised like you already knew the answer.
“we’d have to discuss it,” harry said softly. his hand was already under your shirt, just there. thumb tracing the edge of your ribcage like he was memorizing you in pieces.
the moonlight had made everything forgiving. your bare legs tangled with his. the air heavy and still. he pressed his forehead to yours and said, “we’d do it properly. amicably. like adults.”
they weren’t the first words that came to mind when you thought about your boyfriend harry. you stared at the ceiling, suddenly aware of how careful he sounded. how managed. it wasn’t your place. it wasn’t. it wasn’t. it wasn’t.
the rise had already changed the air around him. you felt it in the way his phone never really rested anymore. new names kept appearing—producers in malibu, stylists in new york, some director’s daughter who just “gets it” in a way you don’t. you couldn’t avoid it. it’s in the way he disappears mid-dinner to take calls he wouldn’t have taken a year ago. it’s in his journaling in the middle of the night. it’s in the way he’s keeping things from the band.
does it matter? really? this was about the work. about contracts and industry things. not you. it’s work.
but work used to mean rehearsals and inside jokes and the boys piled onto one hotel room.
but every new season seemed to come with new ideas. and new rumors, new hobbies and new friends. and this new notion that there was a life beyond this boyband gig. there was some other big dream he was chasing now.
it was all becoming a bit… confusing.
the sudden interest in party sightings. the top charters suddenly orbiting around london and new york. the taylor-swiftification of it all. you felt sick and silly and stupid for being jealous of this friendship that barely exists. and you really try not to look at the screen when it glows against his jaw in the dark, but you do.
it isn’t your place. it’s just work.
you’ve watched him get invited into rooms that would’ve swallowed him whole two years ago. he walks into them like he belongs there. like he’s always belonged there.
you feel your chest tighten because you can see how easy it would be.
still, you asked. your voice smaller than you expect.
he didn’t answer immediately. his thumb kept tracing the same idle line across your hip, like he could smooth the question down if he ignored it long enough.
“after this,” you said. “where do you go?”
harry exhaled against your mouth. didn’t answer right away. just kissed you, reeling you back in. his hand slid down your spine, slow, possessive.
“anywhere,” he said finally.
the next morning he wasn’t there.
not in the shower. not downstairs. not pacing on the balcony with his phone pressed to his ear. there was no time for breakfast. or a note. or a text.
you stared at your phone. refresh. lock screen. refresh again. you waited at the window like a forgotten pet.
downstairs, the street was buzzing. security, handlers, luggage being rolled out in neat lines. the boys are leaving for the next tour date. it’s loud and organized and efficient.
one of the car doors opened and zayn lingered a second too long before ducking in. he glanced up —quick, almost accidental—and for a heartbeat you’re certain he catches you.
your chest tightened in that ugly, humiliating way.
the door shut. engines hummed. the cars pulled away in a smooth line, turning the corner without hesitation.
you watched until they disappeared.
you check your phone again anyway, furious at yourself for hoping.
until it’s a fucking ambush.
him outside some west hollywood restaurant you’ve actually waited outside before, back when things were smaller. black suit, hair pushed back, hand settled low on the waist of a girl built for the fast lane. los angeles supermodel. legs for days. goddamn it girl.
it’s so public it almost makes you self-conscious. you stare at the images and assume what you’re supposed to assume. he’s moved on. of course he has.
you think about that morning. about him slipping out before you woke up. you picture it now—harry moving carefully in the dark. phone light instead of the overhead light. suitcase zipped slowly. shoes in hand so they don’t scrape the floor. pausing for a second, maybe, to look at you asleep.
or maybe not. maybe he didn’t look at you at all.
when zayn leaves the band months later, the statement polite and strained, something in you feels vindicated. you can’t help but read the words back and laugh.
because you know, you just know, that harry was pissed.
not because zayn left. because zayn did it first.
it’s a nice feeling. it’s petty, and it’s nice. you don’t feel like the most dramatic person in the world anymore. for a while, you questioned, wondered if you’d maybe misread it all. if maybe you were just young and sensitive and orbiting someone whose life was always going to be bigger than yours.
but zayn proved that wasn’t true. there was a way to navigate that world without succumbing to it. harry just wasn’t interested in finding it.
you couldn’t talk about it with zayn, not in the mean, petty, and childish way you wanted to—but it felt appropriate to hate harry. it keeps you upright. motivated. even now. you know he left years ago. you know he chose everything else. you know he could have reached out and didn’t.
still, there was so much about harry styles that kept you wondering.
you’re standing barefoot on your own front step, hair still damp and salty from the ocean, skin tight from sun and cold water. mani had sworn by those stupid early beach dips, it was something she’d heard on a podcast.
you feel ugly immediately.
not objectively. just exposed. no makeup. oversized sweatshirt. sand still clinging to your ankles. like a kid again, in that uncomfortable way, too open and a little ridiculous.
“harry?” you say, and it comes out sharper than you meant.
he looks unfairly composed. hair pushed back, skin still flushed from a morning rush of his own. some casual version of him you were no longer used to.
“y/n,” his eyes scan over you in that slow way he has—not leering, just assessing.
“where were you?” he asks.
the question irritates you immediately.
“what are you doing here?” you shoot back at him.
harry shifts his weight, hands in his pockets. he always buys himself time before answering.
“i was just… in the area.”
you almost laugh. sure, of course.
“zayn mentioned you got a nice house out here,” he adds.
“so you decided to drop by?” you ask.
his jaw flexes slightly. “i didn’t know if you’d answer if i called.”
you fold your arms over yourself, partly cold, partly defensive. “i didn’t know you still had my number.”
his eyes drop briefly to the ground, then back to you. “i do.”
but he doesn’t look like he’s done.
“i didn’t think you’d actually let him in,” he mutters.
“into your life,” he clarifies. “like this.”
you’re not even on the porch. you’re standing in the driveway, car still warm behind you, sand clinging to your ankles, keys digging into your palm.
“he’s never really here,” you point out, though the point feels stupid and useless immediately.
“he hates california,” you add. “won’t shut up about it.”
harry exhales through his nose. “right.”
he’s a more than a few feet away, close enough that you can see the way his chest rises too fast, far enough that he can’t touch you without asking.
and then you notice the coffees, sitting pretty in an up-cycled egg tray: one hot. one iced.
it’s already sweating through the plastic. he must’ve gone out of his way to stop somewhere before coming here. planned this.
“i really don’t get it,” you say, irritation cutting through the delicate morning. “what are you doing here?”
his mouth presses into a thin line.
you should slap him. really. you should throw the coffee in his face.
“you don’t get to be jealous,” you say.
harry exhales. “fine. i am.”
it’s what you wanted, but the admission still hangs heavy. what were you supposed to do with that?
the ocean hums faintly in the distance. a neighbor’s sprinkler clicks on. normal morning sounds around something that feels anything but.
“i’m sorry,” he says. “i just couldn’t keep pretending i didn’t care. i thought the song… i thought the song would rid me of you, but it didn’t. i still feel it. you. all the time.”
your pulse is loud in your ears. was this really happening? now, after all this time?
he breaks off, frustrated with himself. “i’m not asking for anything. i just don’t want you thinking it was easy for me. when i left,” he says, softer now, “i thought i was fixing it.”
“everything,” he exhales. “the work, the pressure, the timing. i thought if i stepped back from you… i thought if i got everything else together first, then when i came back to you, nothing would’ve fell apart. i shouldn’t have done it. i shouldn’t have left you. and i’m sorry.”
“so the supermodel?” you ask. it’s petty and stupid and you can’t help yourself.
“that was part of your fucked up plan to get your shit together?”
his jaw tightens. “that’s not fair.”
“it’s not unfair either.”
he looks away for a second, then back at you, frowning.
“she was helpful,” he says finally. “she got me in tight rooms. that’s all she ever was-“
“be honest with me,” you cut him off, voice sharper now. “were you already seeing her?”
his head snaps back slightly like you’ve slapped him. “what?”
“it’s not a complicated question.”
“i would never cheat on you,” he says.
harry’s voice drops. “you really think i’d do that to you?”
“i think you’re perfectly capable of choosing yourself over me.”
his throat works like he’s swallowing something sharp.
“i left badly,” harry admits. “i handled it wrong. i was selfish. but i didn’t cheat on you.”
you look away—at the hood of your car, at the street, at the neighbor’s uneven hedges, at literally anything but him.
“i hate that you don’t believe me,” he says. he doesn’t look away when he says it. he just stands there, jaw set, like he’s forcing himself not to soften the admission.
“i hate that i have to knock,” harry continues. “that i don’t get to just walk in and sit on your couch. that i don’t get to be there when you’re tired or annoyed or happy.”
“i hate that he does,” he adds. “i hate that i still thought maybe part of you would still be…”
“just stop, harry,” you say. there’s an unexpected strain in your voice now.
he stops. he waits. waits until he could come out with something collected, something sincere, something real. his brain is racing, tearing itself apart at the same time. it would be easier to build a time machine.
just believe me. i’m here. i’m here now. i should have been sooner. i know. i know that. i’ll be better now. can’t you see?
“would you like me to leave?” harry asks.
it would be easier to snap at him. to roll your eyes. to say something cruel and mean and true, but you can’t. here it was: the answer to your looming nightmares.
harry didn’t cheat. he just left.
there’s nothing more, is there? that’s it. the closure. the end of the mysteries of your ex-boyfriend.
“i think that would be what’s best.”
“you came here to see me and you saw me,” you point out.
“i actually came here for coffee,” he counters, somewhat light despite the awful tension in the air. you take yours, finally. some caramel concoction with oatmilk written messily on the side.
you stare at it for a moment.
“in the most polite way,” you start, hesitant. “i really don’t think we should maintain any sort of relationship. i appreciate the gesture, but i do think its time for you to go.”
you see harry’s face twist and your stomach sinks a little, because you already know he’s going to argue.
“i believe you, harry,” you say, and it stops him like you knew it would. “i believe you didn’t cheat and you did it for your career and it worked. everything worked out.”
you hear him mutter something under his breath. the wind rises and falls again, but the frustration stays on his face.
he feels his chest rise, and in a strange, complicated moment of bravery,
he pulls himself forward and kisses you, like he couldn’t hold himself back another second.
and the kiss is so strange and thrilling and familiar you almost let him.
harry’s lips crashing against yours in a frenzy of frustration, of necessity. this kiss is different than any of the others. less sentimental. rough. like every ounce of fear and devotion he’s been holding inside has finally broken loose.
you break away. you’ve dropped both your coffees on the floor.
“yours was watered down anyway,” harry murmurs, reading your mind. he moved only to drag his lips across your cheek, your jaw, the edge of your throat.
“i don’t think we should be doing this—”
“you think too much,” he groans, still working at marking your skin.
he kisses you again, deeper, rougher, like he’s trying to make up for every moment he made himself stay away from you.
you gasp against his mouth when his hands, big and warm, slide down to your hips, pulling you against him with a force that makes your breath draw. the friction of your clothed bodies is enough to send a shudder down your spine.
harry’s grip on your hips tightens, and you swear you can feel his nails digging into you through the fabric of your shorts. he pulls you down against him, harder this time, and the pressure is almost too much, his hard cock rolling against you form waves of heat that comes so pleasurably it’s like water in the fucking desert. fuck. what the hell was happening?
he was sinking himself further and further into your cunt. he swore he could feel you, all of you, even just like this. you’re in a haze when he says, “turn around.”
“i want you to be a good girl and turn around for me, yeah?”
you do, of course you do. you've never seen him this desperate. harry was all about passion and a lover of intimate moments, but this is far from that. it's not just rough, reckless. it’s near fucking animalistic.
“fuck, i missed you,” he groans, pounding his big cock straight into your wetness.
it’s rushed and it’s hard, but so, so deliciously good. right against the side of your car.
wet, lewd sounds of skin slapping fill what once was an innocent california morning, filling your ears and send you even faster to the edge than you were already reeling. that feeling storming, spreading, twitching inside you.
“harry—” you whine. you’re too embarrassingly close. it’s all too much. too good.
he doesn’t bother to cover your mouth. he likes you like this. needs you like this. seriously—he can’t help the sick, twisted, jealous part of his mind wants you both to get caught. your pussy was dripping and enveloping him like a tight embrace, refusing to let him go, milking him for everything he had. you were his. undeniably. his, his, his.
he groans. his girl. no one else’s.
“take it,” harry murmurs in your ear. “take it all of it. you’re gonna keep it in, yeah?”
he buries himself in as you both reach your orgasms. hot and heavy as he pumps you full, his breath unsteady against your neck as you realize the damage. you’re stuck under his spell again, soaked, stretched and overflowing.
“good girl,” he says. “knew you could do it.”
you turn and pull away, though it’s obvious harry isn’t worried about how close he is.
“cleared your head, didn’t it?” he continues on. “now we can talk. properly. like adults.”
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