Hello! I absolutely adore your stories so much! I was wondering if you could do another Doctor AU but make it Trauma Surgeon? Reader and Harry have been together for over 5 years and are newly engaged. Reader gets into a major car accident coming home from work (she swerved to avoid an animal but ends up crashing into a tree near their house going 70 mph) but due to the adrenaline rushing, she walks home, very disoriented. Harry happens to be home, making dinner. When she walks in the door, she practically collapses from all the stumbling she’s doing. Harry notices her condition and internally freaks out but physically goes into trauma surgeon mode. He’s calling her all these pet names trying to keep her conscious as he assesses her. She’s now in a tremendous amount of pain that the slightest touch is agony but Harry has to check her out and he lets her know how sorry he is as he feels around. After he does his initial assessment, he either takes her to the hospital himself or calls an ambulance. He’s very protective and assertive especially when she insists that she just needs rest and painkillers at home. After Harry essentially forces her to the hospital—saying it’s non-negotiable, she is treated. She has broken ribs which causes a pneumothorax (so they must put in a chest tube, harry holds her hand and whispers sweet nothings in her ear), concussion & skull fracture, internal bleeding (resulting in an emergency laparotomy), lacerations from the glass, and an overall soreness in her body. I was also wanting to see how post op goes. I’d imagine Harry to be super overprotective, always watching her like a hawk. Not letting her do anything herself, checking her vitals and incision site 24/7 (even when she’s sleeping), caring for her as a fiancée but also trauma surgeon. Maybe she tries to do something eventually herself because she’s so bored of lying in bed 24/7 but she ends up making it worse (possibly pulling a stitch and exacerbating her injuries when trying to make a sandwich or something) and Harry freaks out. Like he’s downright angry but it’s all out of love because he was and is so scared having this happen to the love of his life. He sternly puts her in her place because he has no patience for that behavior. Just very domesticated and concerned Harry. It can be as long as you feel it needs to be, I will read the longest story you’ve ever written. I hope you find the inspiration cause I think you’d really kill at this type of story. Thank you in advance if you choose to write this story x
Hold On (Don't You Dare Let Go)
Pairings: Trauma surgeon!harry styles x reader
Genre: Hurt/comfort, medical drama, emotional angst, fluff (the soft kind after the storm), Angst, Domestic Angst
Word Count: ~6k words
Warnings: major car accident, detailed medical assessment and procedures (chest tube, laparotomy), broken ribs, pneumothorax, skull fracture, concussion, internal bleeding, lacerations, blood, mentions of surgery, post-operative pain, protective/possessive behavior, one instance of raised voice (out of fear), emotional distress, near-death situation. reader is injured but survives. this is angst with a very fluffy, soft ending.
Prompt: You and Harry are newly engaged after six years of dating and as a trauma surgeon, Harry has seen it all... he just never expected you to be the one he has to save.
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The house smells like garlic and rosemary when the front door opens.
Harry doesn't look up from the stove. He's been simmering the sauce for the last two hours, stirring it slow and patient the way Yn likes it, the way his Nonna taught him when he was twelve years old. Their engagement photos are sitting on the counter—a stack of Polaroids they took last weekend in the park, her laughing at something stupid he said, her ring catching the golden hour light.
She should have been home forty-five minutes ago.
He's not worried. He's never worried. Yn is a careful driver, and her commute is only twenty minutes, and sometimes she stops at the grocery store or gets caught on a call with her sister. He's not worried.
He checks his phone anyway.
No texts.
He's about to call her when he hears it—the creak of the front door, the shuffle of footsteps, the soft, wet sound of something hitting the hardwood floor.
"Yn, I know you're home. Dinner's almost—"
He turns.
And the world stops.
Yn is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to her side. Her work clothes are torn. Her blouse is ripped at the shoulder, dark with something that isn't water. Her face is pale—too pale, the kind of pale that makes his stomach drop—and there's a cut above her eyebrow, blood dripping down her cheek in a slow, lazy line.
She's not wearing shoes.
"Harry," she says, and her voice is wrong. Slurred. Too quiet. "I think I—I think something happened."
She takes one step forward. Two.
And then her knees buckle.
Harry moves before he thinks.
He crosses the kitchen in three strides, catching her under the arms before she hits the ground, lowering her carefully onto the tile. His hands are already running over her—a reflex, years of training, a lifetime of muscle memory—and his brain is screaming at him in a language he knows too well.
"Yn. Look at me." He cups her face, tilts her chin up, checks her pupils. Her left pupil is sluggish. Slower than the right. His heart seizes. "Baby, I need you to stay awake. Can you do that for me?"
"'M awake," she mumbles. Her eyes are glassy. She blinks too slowly. "Just tired. 'M so tired, Harry."
"I know. I know you are." He runs his hands down her neck, her collarbones, checking for deformity, for step-offs. "Did you drive? Were you in the car?"
"Tree." Her brow furrows, like she's trying to remember. "There was a—a dog. Or something. In the road. I swerved."
"Where's the car?"
"Don't... don't remember. Close. I walked."
She walked. Jesus Christ. She walked home after crashing at seventy miles per hour. The adrenaline must have been astronomical—and now it's wearing off, and her body is starting to realize what happened, and Harry is kneeling on his kitchen floor with his fiancée bleeding in his arms and he doesn't know how bad it is yet.
But he's about to find out.
"Yn, I need to check you over. It's going to hurt." He presses his palm to her cheek, and she leans into it, her eyes fluttering. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. But I need you to stay still and stay awake. Can you do that?"
"Don't wanna go to the hospital," she whispers.
"We'll talk about that later. Right now, I need you to breathe for me. Deep as you can."
He unbuttons her blouse with shaking hands—steady, Styles, you've done this a thousand times—and pushes the fabric aside. His breath catches.
Her left side is already bruising. A deep, angry purple spreading from her ribs down to her hip. He presses gently along the curve of her ribs, and she screams.
Not a gasp. Not a whimper. A full, throat-tearing scream that makes him want to throw up.
"I know," he says, and his voice cracks. "I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I have to check."
Her ribs are unstable. Floating. He can feel the crepitus under his fingers—the horrible grinding of bone against bone—and he knows what that means. Broken ribs. Multiple. Probably flail segment, which means—
"Take another breath for me, Yn. As deep as you can."
She tries. He watches her chest rise, and on the left side, it doesn't move right. It caves in. Paradoxical movement. Flail chest.
And her breathing is fast. Too fast. Shallow.
Tension pneumothorax. The thought hits him like a freight train. Air leaking from her lung into her chest cavity, pushing her trachea, collapsing everything. If he doesn't decompress it, she'll—
No. He's not going there.
"Harry." Her voice is small. Scared. "Hurts to breathe."
"I know. I know it does, angel." He presses two fingers to her neck, counting her pulse. Tachycardic. Thready. She's losing blood somewhere. "I need to call an ambulance."
"No."
"Yn—"
"No hospital." She grabs his wrist, and her grip is weaker than it should be. "Just—just give me something. Painkillers. I'll rest. I'll be fine."
"You have broken ribs, Yn. You might have a collapsed lung. You might be bleeding internally." He keeps his voice level, even, the way he does with scared families in the trauma bay. But this is different. This is her. "You are not fine. And you are not staying here."
"Harry, please—"
"No." His voice sharpens. "This is non-negotiable. You are going to the hospital, even if I have to carry you there myself."
He's already pulling out his phone, dialing 911, giving their address in a voice that doesn't sound like his own. The operator asks questions—is she conscious, is she breathing, is there severe bleeding—and he answers on autopilot while his other hand holds hers, his thumb tracing circles on her knuckles.
"Harry," she whispers again, and there are tears in her eyes now. "I'm scared."
He hangs up. Drops the phone. Leans down so his forehead touches hers.
"I know you are. But I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." He kisses her temple, gentle, avoiding the cut. "The ambulance is five minutes out. You're going to stay awake for me until they get here, and then you're going to let them take care of you, and I'm going to be with you the whole time. Okay?"
"'Kay."
"Say it back."
"I'll stay awake."
"Good girl."
The ambulance ride is a blur of sirens and fluorescent lights and hands that aren't Harry's. He rides in the back with her, holding her hand, telling her names of stars and the capital of every country he can think of just to keep her talking.
"Tell me about the wedding," he says, when her eyes start to droop. "You picked out flowers last week. What color?"
"White," she murmurs. "And... and eucalyptus."
"What kind of white? There's a million kinds of white. You told me that. You were very passionate about it."
A ghost of a smile. "Peony. Garden rose. Something called... 'Quicksand.'"
"Quicksand? That's a flower?"
"It's a... it's a rose. It's blush. But mostly white." Her grip on his hand tightens. "Harry, it hurts."
"I know, sweetheart. I know." He looks at the paramedic, who's already hanging a bag of fluids. "Can you give her something for the pain?"
"Already on board," the paramedic says. "Morphine, four milligrams. Should be kicking in soon."
Harry watches her face. Watches the way her brow slowly unclenches, the way her breathing stays too fast but her eyes get a little softer.
"There you go," he murmurs. "That's better, isn't it?"
"Mmm." She blinks up at him. "You're pretty."
He laughs, and it comes out wet. "You're on drugs."
"Still true."
The ambulance hits a pothole, and she gasps, and he stops laughing.
The trauma bay is chaos.
Harry steps back when they wheel her in—he has to, he's not on shift, he's not a doctor here, he's just a man in jeans and a sweater with his fiancée's blood on his hands—but he doesn't leave. He stands in the corner, arms crossed, watching as the team swarms around her.
"Female, thirty-two, high-speed MVC, walked home post-accident, found down by fiancé," the paramedic rattles off. "GCS 14, unequal pupils, obvious chest wall trauma with respiratory distress, suspected tension pneumothorax, multiple lacerations, hypotensive in the field—"
Harry tunes out the rest. He's watching her face. She's looking for him in the crowd of scrubs and stethoscopes, and when she finds him, her eyes fill with tears.
"Harry," she says, and her voice breaks.
He moves.
He doesn't think about protocols or visitor policies or the fact that he's technically not supposed to be in the trauma bay. He walks to her side, takes her hand, and presses a kiss to her knuckles.
"I'm here. I'm right here."
"Don't leave."
"Never."
The trauma surgeon—a woman with kind eyes and steady hands—introduces herself as Dr. Chen. She looks at Harry, recognizes him from a conference last year, and doesn't tell him to leave. She just nods once and gets to work.
"Let's get a chest X-ray," she says. "And page surgery. I want a FAST scan and a head CT."
Harry watches them cut off her clothes. Watches them expose the bruising on her ribs, the swelling on her abdomen, the laceration on her scalp that's still oozing blood. He watches Dr. Chen listen to her lungs, her expression going tight.
"Diminished breath sounds on the left," Dr. Chen says. "Harry, you're a trauma surgeon. You want to do the honors or should I?"
He's not supposed to. He's not on her case. But Harry looks at YN—at the way she's gripping his hand like he's the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth—and he makes a decision.
"I'll do it."
He scrubs his hands in the sink, puts on gloves, and picks up the scalpel. The room goes quiet. Dr. Chen holds the ultrasound probe over YN's chest, confirming what he already knows—a massive pneumothorax, lung completely collapsed, everything shifting to the right.
"Yn, I need to put a tube in your chest," he says, keeping his voice soft. "It's going to hurt, but it's going to help you breathe. Do you understand?"
"Will you hold my hand?"
"I'll hold your hand with one hand and put the tube in with the other. I'm very talented."
She laughs weakly, and it hurts her, but she doesn't let go of him.
He positions himself at her side. Dr. Chen hands him the scalpel. And Harry—Harry who has done this procedure hundreds of times on strangers, on people whose names he never learns, on bodies that feel nothing—makes a small incision between her ribs and feels his own heart crack.
"Deep breath for me, sweetheart."
She breathes. He pushes the tube through the chest wall, into the pleural space, and there it is—the rush of air, the hiss of the lung re-expanding, the beautiful sound of her chest rising and falling the way it's supposed to.
"Good," he breathes. "That's so good, baby. You did so good."
The chest tube is secured. The drainage system bubbles quietly. And Yn is still looking at him, still holding his hand, still alive.
Dr. Chen orders a head CT and a pan-scan. Harry follows the gurney to radiology, still holding her hand, still whispering.
"You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you. Just a few more minutes, and then we'll get you fixed up, and you can rest."
"M'not doing anything," she slurs. "You're doing everything."
"That's my job."
"Your job is... saving people."
"Today, my job is saving you."
The CT results come back forty-five minutes later.
Harry is in the waiting room—they made him leave for the actual scan, something about radiation exposure, and he spent twenty-three minutes pacing a hole in the linoleum floor—when Dr. Chen finds him.
"We have a skull fracture," she says, holding the films up to the light. "Linear, non-depressed, temporal region. No active bleed, but she has a moderate concussion. We'll monitor her neuro status overnight."
Harry nods. He was expecting that. "What else?"
"Abdomen. She has free fluid in her peritoneal cavity. We're calling it a positive FAST—she's bleeding internally, and she needs a laparotomy. We're taking her to the OR in ten minutes."
Harry closes his eyes. A laparotomy means opening her abdomen, finding the bleed, stopping it. It means hours under anesthesia, hours of him waiting in a plastic chair with bad coffee and worse thoughts.
"Who's operating?" he asks.
"Chang. He's good. You know him."
Harry does know him. Michael Chang is one of the best trauma surgeons in the state. He's also a friend. And right now, Harry needs to trust him.
"Can I see her before they take her up?"
Dr. Chen hesitates. Then she nods. "Five minutes. She's in bay three."
Yn is awake when he gets there. Barely. Her eyes are half-closed, and there's an oxygen mask over her face, and someone has put a cervical collar around her neck even though her spine is fine. She looks small. She looks breakable. She looks like the person he's supposed to spend the rest of his life with, and she almost died tonight.
"Hey," he says, sitting on the edge of her bed. "They're going to take you to the OR in a few minutes. You have some bleeding in your belly, and they need to fix it."
Her eyes widen. "Surgery?"
"Just one surgery. A small one. And then you'll be done, I promise." He brushes her hair back from her forehead, careful of the laceration. "Dr. Chang is going to take care of you. He's very good. He once took out a gallstone the size of a golf ball."
"That's... gross."
"It was impressive." He presses his lips to her forehead. "I'm going to be right here when you wake up. I'm not leaving the hospital. Do you hear me?"
"'M scared."
"I know." He pulls back so she can see his face. "But I'm not scared. Because I know you're going to be fine. You're too stubborn to die on an operating table."
"Harry."
"I'm serious. You once argued with me for forty-five minutes about whether a hot dog is a sandwich. You're not going anywhere."
She laughs, and it hurts her, and he hates himself a little for making her laugh. But she's smiling. She's still smiling.
"I love you," she whispers.
"I love you too." He kisses her forehead again, her nose, the corner of her mouth. "Now go be the most dramatic patient Michael's ever had. I'll see you on the other side."
They wheel her away. Harry watches until the doors close. Then he puts his head in his hands and doesn't move for a very long time.
The surgery takes three hours.
Harry spends them in the waiting room, alternating between pacing, staring at his phone, and drinking vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt regret. He texts her mom—she's in surgery, she's going to be fine, I'll call you when she's out—and then turns his phone off because he can't handle any more questions.
He thinks about the last thing they argued about. It was stupid—something about where to hang a picture in the hallway, her wanting it higher, him wanting it lower. He thinks about how he'd let her hang every picture in the house at whatever height she wanted if it meant she'd come out of this okay.
He thinks about the ring on her finger. The one he spent six months saving for, the one he hid in his sock drawer, the one he put on her hand last month in their living room while she was crying happy tears and saying "yes, yes, yes" over and over again.
He thinks about a world where she doesn't come out of this, and he has to stop thinking about it because he can't breathe.
At 11:47 PM, Dr. Chang comes out.
Harry is on his feet before the door finishes swinging.
"She's stable," Michael says, pulling off his scrub cap. "Lacerated spleen. We were able to repair it without removing it. She lost about a liter and a half of blood, but we transfused two units, and her vitals are solid. Chest tube is in place, lung is fully expanded. Skull fracture is non-operative—we'll just watch it."
Harry sags against the wall. "Thank you. Michael, thank you."
"She's a fighter." Michael claps him on the shoulder. "She's in the SICU. You can see her in about twenty minutes, once we get her settled."
Harry nods. He waits eighteen minutes—because he's never been good at waiting—and then he's walking into the SICU, past the beeping monitors and the hushed voices, to the bed in the corner.
Yn is asleep.
She looks pale against the white sheets. There's a tube coming out of her chest, connected to a bubbling drainage system. There's an IV in each arm, a pulse ox on her finger, leads on her chest. Her abdomen is bandaged from sternum to pelvis, the dressing clean and white. There's a small gauze pad taped above her eyebrow where they stitched the laceration.
Harry pulls up a chair. He sits. He takes her hand—the one without the IV—and holds it between both of his.
"Hi," he whispers. "I'm here."
She doesn't respond. She's sedated, intubated, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the ventilator. But her hand is warm. Her fingers curl around his, just a little, like even unconscious she knows he's there.
Harry lowers his head to the edge of the bed. And for the first time since he saw her standing in the doorway, he cries.
She wakes up twenty-six hours later.
The first thing she sees is Harry. He's in the chair next to her bed, head tipped back, mouth slightly open. He hasn't shaved in two days. There are dark circles under his eyes. His sweater is the same one he was wearing when she walked in the door—except now it has blood on it. Her blood.
She tries to say his name, but her throat is dry, and there's a tube in her mouth, and she can't—
"Easy, easy." Harry is awake instantly, leaning over her, his hand on her forehead. "You're intubated. Don't try to talk. Just squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
She squeezes.
"Good girl." His eyes are wet. "You're in the SICU. You had surgery on your spleen last night. Your lung collapsed, but we put a tube in, and it's healing. You have a concussion and a small fracture in your skull, but your brain is fine. You're going to be fine."
She squeezes his hand again. Harder.
"I know. I know you have questions. But you need to rest right now, okay? They're going to take the tube out in a few hours, and then you can talk my ear off as much as you want."
She doesn't want to talk. She wants to sleep. But she also wants to look at him—at his stupid beautiful face, at the worry etched into every line of it—and she wants to tell him she's sorry for scaring him, for swerving, for walking home instead of calling an ambulance, for all of it.
Instead, she just holds his hand and closes her eyes.
When she opens them again, the sun is up, and the tube is gone, and Harry is still there.
The next week is a blur of pain and sleep and Harry.
He doesn't leave. She's not sure if he's officially on leave or if he just stopped showing up to work, but every time she opens her eyes, he's there. Reading in the chair. Sleeping in the chair. Eating bad hospital food out of plastic containers. Holding her hand.
"You need to go home," she says, on day three. Her voice is still raspy from the tube, and her ribs ache every time she breathes, and she's so tired she can barely keep her eyes open. "You need a shower. And real food."
"I showered in the on-call room."
"That doesn't count."
"I used soap."
"Harry."
"Yn." He raises an eyebrow. "I'm not leaving. Stop asking."
She wants to argue, but she's too tired. So she just watches him rearrange her pillows for the fifth time, tucking the blanket around her legs, checking the chest tube drainage like he can't help himself.
"You're hovering," she says.
"I'm monitoring."
"You're hovering."
He sits on the edge of her bed, careful to avoid the tubes and wires, and cups her face in his hands. "I almost lost you. I'm allowed to hover."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You have a chest tube and a skull fracture and an incision that goes from here to here." He traces a line down her abdomen, light as a feather. "But you will be fine. Because I'm going to make sure of it."
She leans into his touch. "I love you."
"I love you too." He kisses her forehead. "Now go back to sleep. The nurses get grumpy when you're awake during shift change."
"How do you know that?"
"I've been here longer than they have."
Day five, she gets discharged.
Harry handles everything—the paperwork, the prescriptions, the follow-up appointments, the careful instructions about showering and lifting and driving. He carries her bag. He helps her into the car. He drives five miles under the speed limit the whole way home, and she doesn't tease him about it because she's pretty sure he'll cry if she does.
Home is strange.
It smells like garlic and rosemary, still, faintly—the sauce he was making when she walked in the door. She looks at the kitchen floor and sees the spot where she collapsed, scrubbed clean but somehow still there in her memory.
"Don't," Harry says softly, coming up behind her. "Don't think about it."
"How do you know what I'm thinking?"
"Because I'm thinking the same thing." He wraps an arm around her waist—carefully, so carefully—and guides her toward the stairs. "Bed. Now. You've been upright for twenty minutes, that's your limit."
"I'm not an infant."
"You're a trauma patient. Same thing."
He helps her up the stairs one step at a time, his hand on her back, his body blocking her from falling if her knees give out. She hates needing help. She hates the way her body feels foreign and fragile, held together with stitches and staples and prayers.
But she loves the way he holds her. The way he treats her like something precious.
He gets her settled in bed—their bed, the one with the soft sheets and the pillows she stole from his side—and then he disappears into the bathroom. She hears water running, cabinet doors opening, the sound of him organizing things on the counter.
When he comes back, he's carrying a blood pressure cuff, a pulse oximeter, and a small notebook.
"Harry."
"What?"
"Why do you have a notebook?"
"To track your vitals." He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for her wrist. "I'm going to check you every four hours. BP, HR, O2 sat, temperature, and I'm going to look at your incisions."
"You're not a nurse."
"I'm a trauma surgeon. I'm overqualified to be a nurse."
"You're obsessed."
"I'm thorough." He wraps the cuff around her arm and starts pumping. "There's a difference."
She lets him do it. Lets him record the numbers in his little notebook, lets him lift her shirt to check the dressing on her abdomen, lets him listen to her chest with a stethoscope he apparently brought home from the hospital.
"Your lung sounds good," he murmurs, pressing the cold metal to her back. "No diminished breath sounds. Chest tube site looks clean."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're alive." He puts the stethoscope down and kisses her forehead. "I'm going to be ridiculous for as long as it takes."
The first three days at home are... intense.
Harry wakes her up every four hours, even at 2 AM, to check her vitals and give her pain medication. He hovers in the doorway when she uses the bathroom. He won't let her walk down the stairs by herself. He won't let her shower without him sitting on the toilet lid, reading aloud from a book to keep her company, ready to catch her if she slips.
"Harry, I can wash my own hair."
"You can't lift your arms above your shoulders. You have a skull fracture."
"It's a hairline fracture."
"It's still a fracture." He squeezes shampoo into his palm and starts working it through her hair, gentle, methodical. "Stop arguing and let me take care of you."
She closes her eyes. His fingers feel good—scratching her scalp, working out the tangles, massaging the tension from her neck. She leans back against the shower wall and lets him do it.
"You're good at this," she mumbles.
"I've had practice."
"On who?"
"On you. You're always getting into trouble." He rinses her hair, cupping his hand over her forehead to keep the water out of her eyes. "Remember when you fell off that ladder trying to change a lightbulb?"
"I was fine."
"You had a sprained wrist for three weeks."
"Fine."
He laughs, and the sound echoes off the tile, and she thinks maybe being taken care of isn't so bad.
Day four is when she almost ruins everything.
Harry is in the shower—his first real shower in days, because he's been too busy monitoring her to take care of himself. She can hear the water running, hear him humming something soft and low, and she looks at the clock and thinks: I have fifteen minutes.
She's hungry.
Not snack-hungry. Starving. The kind of hungry that comes from eating hospital food for a week and then sleeping through three meals because the pain meds knock her out. She wants a sandwich. A real sandwich. With bread and cheese and maybe that pesto from the fridge.
She shouldn't get up. She knows she shouldn't get up. Harry's rules are very clear: Do not get up without me. Do not walk down the stairs. Do not lift anything heavier than a book. Do not be a hero.
But she's so tired of being helpless.
So she swings her legs over the side of the bed. Stands up slowly, holding onto the nightstand. Waits for the dizziness to pass. Takes a step. Then another.
The stairs are harder.
She goes one step at a time, holding the railing with both hands, her abdomen screaming with every movement. The incision pulls. The chest tube site—still healing, still tender—throbs in protest. But she makes it. She makes it to the bottom of the stairs, makes it to the kitchen, makes it to the counter.
The bread is in the cabinet above the microwave.
She has to reach for it.
She stretches her arm up—too high, too fast—and feels something pull in her abdomen. A sharp, tearing pain that makes her gasp, makes her drop the bread, makes her double over with her hand pressed to her side.
"No no no no no," she whispers, looking down.
There's blood on her shirt. Just a little. Just a spot. But it's spreading.
"Yn?"
Harry's voice from the top of the stairs. She doesn't answer. She can't. She's too busy trying not to panic.
And then he's there.
He takes the stairs two at a time, still dripping wet, a towel around his waist, his hair soaking wet. He takes one look at her—bent over, hand pressed to her abdomen, blood on her shirt—and his face goes white.
"What did you do?"
"I just wanted a sandwich," she whispers.
He doesn't say anything. He picks her up—not carefully this time, not gentle, just picks her up and carries her to the couch, laying her down like she's made of glass. He pulls up her shirt, and she sees his expression shift from panic to anger to something worse: fear.
"You pulled a stitch."
"I'm sorry."
"You pulled a stitch, Yn. You could have torn the whole repair open. You could be bleeding internally again. You could—" He stops. Presses his palm to his forehead. Takes a breath. "What were you thinking?"
"I was hungry."
"You were hungry?" His voice rises, and she flinches. He sees her flinch, and something in his face cracks. "You almost died. You had a hole in your lung. Your spleen was in pieces, Yn. I watched them put you back together. I held your hand while they cut into your chest. And you—" He looks away, jaw tight. "You couldn't wait fifteen minutes for me to get out of the shower?"
"I didn't want to bother you."
"Bother me?" He laughs, and it's not a happy sound. "You are the love of my life. You are my fiancée. You are the person I have chosen to spend every single day of the rest of my life with. And you think asking me to make you a sandwich is bothering me?"
She doesn't know what to say. The blood on her shirt is still wet. Her abdomen is throbbing. And Harry is looking at her like his heart is breaking.
"I was so scared," he says, quieter now. "When you walked through that door, bleeding, not knowing where you were—I have never been that scared in my entire life. And I have seen people die on my table. I have told families that their loved ones didn't make it. And none of that—none of it—was as hard as seeing you fall in my kitchen."
"Harry—"
"No. Let me finish." He kneels in front of the couch, his hands on her knees, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "I need you to understand that you cannot do things like this. You cannot push yourself. You cannot be brave or stubborn or proud. Because if something happens to you—if you tear something open and I can't fix it in time—I will not survive it. Do you understand me?"
She nods. Her throat is too tight to speak.
"I need words, Yn."
"I understand."
"You can't do that again."
"I won't."
"You have to let me take care of you. Even when it's annoying. Even when you're bored. Even when you just want a stupid sandwich." He presses his forehead to her knee. "Please. I'm begging you."
She reaches down and touches his hair. It's still wet from the shower, curling against her fingers. "I'm sorry."
"I know." He looks up at her. "I'm sorry I yelled."
"You were scared."
"Terrified." He takes her hand and presses it to his chest, over his heart. It's pounding. "I love you so much. You can't do that to me again."
"I won't."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
He closes his eyes. Takes a breath. Opens them again, and he's still scared, but he's also Harry—her Harry, the one who catches her when she falls, the one who puts sun cream on her shoulders in Italy, the one who held her hand while they put a tube in her lung.
"Now," he says, standing up. "Let me look at that stitch."
He rechecks the incision. The bleeding is minor—one small torn suture, nothing deeper. He cleans it, tapes it closed, and puts a fresh dressing over it. Then he goes upstairs, puts on clothes, and comes back down to make her a sandwich.
She watches him from the couch, wrapped in a blanket, feeling stupid and loved in equal measure.
He brings her the sandwich on a plate, cut into triangles, with a pickle on the side and a glass of water with ice.
"You're not allowed to eat it in bed," he says. "But you're allowed to eat it on the couch. Baby steps."
"Thank you."
He sits next to her, close enough that their thighs touch, and watches her take the first bite.
"Good?" he asks.
"Good," she says.
He nods. Leans over and kisses her temple. Stays there for a long moment, his lips pressed to her skin, his hand finding hers under the blanket.
"I love you," he murmurs against her hair. "Even when you're an idiot."
"Especially when I'm an idiot."
"Especially then."
Six weeks later, she's cleared for normal activity.
Harry still checks her vitals every morning. Still hovers when she walks down the stairs. Still sleeps with his hand on her stomach, over the scar, like he's making sure it's still there.
She doesn't mind anymore.
She lets him take care of her. Lets him be overprotective. Lets him check her incisions and track her blood pressure and wake her up at 2 AM just to make sure she's breathing.
Because she knows, now, what it cost him. She knows what it means to be loved by someone who almost lost you.
And when he puts a ring on her finger for the second time—not an engagement ring this time, but a wedding band, simple and gold, on a beach in Maine with just their families and the sound of the waves—she looks at him and thinks:
I would survive it all again, just to end up here.
But she doesn't say that. She just kisses him, soft and slow, and lets him hold her like she's something precious.
Hey girl ! First of all, I love ur posts, but on ur UK yt masterlist, nothing seems to be pooping up. Not sure if its just my device or if it is a technical error. Either way, just thought I'd let you know !!
Love ya ☺️😙
Hiii! yeah i know my links are absolutely terrible cause sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t. i’m gonna try and sort it out soon but ive just been really busy lately x
at some point i will try my best to sort this out but ive been so busy and stressed lately, so dm me which fics you’re wanting to read and i’ll send you the links myself xx
summary: tension rises as more people are sent home and truths begin spilling
content: ex’s to lovers , swearing , angst w/comfort , brief kissing , sexual jokes , morning wood
notes: ‘FINALLY’ you all shout at me — people with cats will understand with this one that it is that deep xx
ONCE THE SECOND group had returned from the challenge arena, it was revealed that Expressions had been the contestant sent home. You were all dropping like flies. Three people gone in one day. And you were certainly feeling it.
As a group, you felt like you were dwindling.
The vibes had certainly dropped with the amount of people that were gone, so you were hoping that sticking by Alfie’s side would make the impact feel lessened.
You’d been spending the rest of the day curled up on his chest, the both of you going back and forth over the things that had occurred over the past year you’d been apart. He’d moved to London, joined the Fellas podcast and gone to some pretty awesome countries. You’d signed a brand deal with one of your favourite brands, moved back out of your parents house to a little cottage and somehow managed to DIY an entire cat tree for Buttons to mess about in.
“You gotta bring that cat tree to London with you then so I can see it for myself.” Alfie hummed, fingers tracing along your shoulders.
“Why would I bring it to London?” You frowned, tilting your head up.
“When you move into my apartment.”
You scoffed out laughter, and then realised he didn’t have his default, flirtatious smirk, but more of a sincere smile.
“You’re serious?” You tilted your head.
“If you want to. Got plenty of room for you and Buttons. Besides, I miss my little yute.” He shrugged.
You chuckled at that, “Okay, I’ll think about it.”
“No, you will.” Alfie grinned, wrapping his other arm around you to pull you flush on top of him.
You laughed loudly, arms coming around his neck as he smothered your face with kisses.
“Alf!”
“Am I convincing you?” He laughed with you.
“No, you’re deterring me!” You joked, flapping your hands at his chest.
It was then that you saw Alhan sneaking into the bedrooms, coming to frozen standstill once he’d seen that you and Alfie occupied the room already.
“Y’alright, bro?” Alfie laughed, finding humour in the way his friend had just stopped.
“Uhhh, yeah. All good.” Alhan nodded, “What you two doin’? Shaggin’?”
“Ugh.” You groaned, rolling your eyes and pushing up off the bed, “Can’t even spend a moment alone without someone thinking we’re getting up to no good.”
“Bye, Reader.” Alhan chimed giddily as you walked into the living room.
A few minutes passed of mindless chatter before the TV alerted with a notification.
‘Reader, please go to the Temptation Room’
“Oh, no!” You whined miserably, standing from the couch with laboured movement.
“You’ve got this girl, stay strong.” Chloe clapped.
“Don’t take it!” Marlon exclaimed.
“You got your temptation?!” Alfie’s face lit up as he walked in with Alhan, seeing the commotion, “Fuckin’ hell, get in there, girl.”
“I don’t want it!” You pretended to cry, “Please can someone else go!”
“Reader. Temptation room. Now.” Ethan’s voice called through the speakers, making everyone laugh.
“Alright, sorry dad.” You scoffed, reluctantly shuffling out of the room and down the hall.
As you stood outside of the Temptation Room, you waged a mental war with yourself, reminding your own conscience that you were not to take any temptation, regardless of what it is.
“Okay.” You huffed, pushing the door open and it closed behind you as you became a still statue. “No.”
A soft ‘meow’ came from the other end of the room.
In his little cage, was Buttons.
His paws were pressed against the bars, standing on his hind legs as his ears perked up, nose twitched and pupils dilated. She meowed at you again, recognising you by scent and sight.
“Oh, no, I can’t. I need to leave.” You whimpered, turning your back on him and standing with your forehead pressed to the door.
“Reader, please read the cards on the plinth.”
You inhaled sharply, walking backwards to the plinth so you didn’t have to look at your baby. You picked up the card, reading it out loud:
“‘Reader, for £30,000 you can spend 30 minutes in here with Buttons, feeding him his favourite treats and cuddling him’— Were the extra details necessary?!” You groaned, “‘To confirm your temptation, you can go up to Buttons and unlock his cage. If you touch him through the bars of the cage, you will cost the group £10,000’— You guys are horrible.”
You heard his meow again, before the sound of his claws scratching at the cage bars echoed throughout the room.
“No, stop! I decline. I decline.”
“Reader, you must spend at least five minutes in the room before leaving.” Ethan’s voice came through the speakers again.
“No.” You whined, coming to crouch down on your knees with your back to the plinth, “Ignore me, Buttons. Mummy isn’t here right now.”
He only meowed at the sound of your voice.
You couldn’t help yourself.
You looked back over your shoulder at the little tabby cat, taking in the sight of him.
It had only been five days, but it felt like an eternity.
He was your baby boy, and to spend so much time away from him without his purring against your chest was really taking a toll on you.
Perhaps that’s why you’d been such an emotional wreck this entire experience.
Speaking of his purring …
“No! Buttons, stop, I’m gonna cry.” You felt tears welling in your eyes as his rumbled purrs filled the room from the sight of you.
He mewed, trying to shove his head through the gap in the wire bars to get to you.
That’s when the waterworks started.
You let out a soft cry as tears began streaming down your face, absolutely torn apart by the way he was so desperate to reach you.
“Reader, you can leave.”
You were hesitant now, slowly standing and observing as his eyes tracked your movements, mewing and his whiskers twitched.
“I’m so sorry.” You sniffled, waving bye to him as you walked out of the room.
To add salt to the already deep wound, you heard him meow one last time before you closed the door.
You had to take a minute outside, leaning with your shoulder to the wall and hands over your face as you cried softly, allowing your palms to soak up your tears.
You sniffed harshly, sucking it all back up, with a big huff and dabbing at your cheeks with your fingers, making your way back to the living room.
“Reader’s back!” Chian exclaimed as everyone gathered on the couch to listen to you.
God, it felt ten times worse having to stand in front of everyone and explain that you’d abandoned your baby in that room on his own.
“Um, I didn’t take it.” You started, the sleeves of your hoodie pulled down over your hands.
You received a round of applause for that and a few encouraging ‘whoops’ from Indiyah.
“Uh …” You suckled on the inside of your cheek, turning your head away as your shoulders began jolting with the little cries in your body.
A few people must’ve assumed that you were laughing, maybe from having received a stupid temptation, because a soft round of laughter came from them.
“No, guys, I think she’s crying.” Chian whispered.
“Oi,” Alfie was up immediately, standing in front of you, “Oi, talk to us. What was it?”
“Are you crying?!” Indiyah exclaimed from shock, rushing over to you as well, “What’s wrong?”
“Alhan, if you’re gonna laugh, at least go and get her some tissues.” Ben hit his friend on the arm playfully.
The man that was giggling uncontrollably took the advice and saw himself out.
“He just kept meowing at me.” You whimpered, words blending together in the short frame between your last and next sob.
“What? What does that even mean?” Marlon frowned.
“Was it Buttons?” Alfie whispered, and you nodded, falling into another fit of cries at the memory of your little boy's face. “Oh, darlin’.”
“They put him in the room with me.” You hiccuped, “30 grand for 30 minutes but I said no. He just kept trying to get to me, it made it so much worse.”
“Your cat?” Ben asked for clarity, and you nodded.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Indiyah said, rubbing your arm, “At least you got to see him, and saw that he was okay, yeah? Just means when you get the reunion it’ll be even better.”
“They didn’t have to put him in the room.” You sniffled, wiping your cheeks. “I feel silly crying over it. It’s a fucking cat but…”
“No, it’s fine. People without cats don’t understand. They’re like children to us.”
“D’you wanna sit alone for a bit?” Alfie asked, kissing the top of your head.
You shook your head, frowning, “I think I’m just gonna go and see the wellness team. I feel like I’ve cried a lot in here. I just need to sit and cry for a bit.”
“Should I come with?”
“No, it’s okay.”
And with that, you exited the room, making your way off-set and away from the cameras and towards wellness.
“I am— I’m not actively worrying about her, like I know if she needs to leave, she’ll just say, but … she has cried a lot. No one better be hating on her when we get out and see the outside. Like, she’s just an emotional person.”
When you came back from your sobbing session, you felt a whole let better, like a massive weight had been lifted off of your shoulders and flung out of sight. But what you came back to was a house full of tension.
You felt it the moment you walked into the bedrooms and saw everyone getting ready for bed in little cliques.
“Hey, babe. You feeling better?” Indiyah smiled as you joined her at the makeup table to remove everything.
“Yeah. Feels so much lighter now.” You grinned, “What happened in here?”
“Basically, Alfie revealed that you and him saw some snakey behaviour. Then told us all that it was Chian and Expressions plotting against me and you, so I asked her about it and she basically just said ‘I was only going off of vibes and how I felt in here’.”
“Oh, shit.”
You jumped slightly as Alfie planted his hands on your shoulders.
“Why are you causing mayhem?” You asked, looking up at him.
“What? How am I?” He frowned.
“Um, telling everyone’s business without me being here. You probably made it sound a whole lot worse than it was.” You smiled in amusement.
“Nah, nah, I did, like, I did explain the context and stuff.”
“He did.” Indiyah backed him up as Marlon walked around the corner.
“You good?” He asked, and you responded with a nod.
“The tension here is awful.” You scoffed out laughter.
“That’s what I feel like! Like, I didn’t— right, obviously I knew confronting her would do something, but, like, just own up to it, apologise and we can move on. I dunno why it feels so weird in here.” Indiyah shrugged, wrapping her hair up into her bonnet.
“Also, the money dropped to 412 grand.” Marlon dropped.
“Bro, there’s gonna be nothing left by the finale, might as well spend it all in one go.” You scoffed.
The lights began to dim, signalling a last warning for everyone to get into bed.
With a stretching groan, you stood, and Alfie patted your bottom.
“Sleeping by yourself tonight?”
“They’re only single beds. I won’t fit in yours.” You pouted, resting your chin on his chest.
“Just lie on top of me.” He grinned, dragging you over to his bed.
He laid down, fixing his eye mask at his forehead and pulled you on top of him. He situated the duvet at your shoulders, letting you both snuggle into each other's warmth.
“I don’t wanna hear any fucking kissing or bed creaking.” Alhan threatened from his space two beds down.
Everyone fell into cacophonous laughter.
“I’ll go extra hard just for you, bro.” Alfie joked.
“At least let me join then.”
“Ew!” You cackled before the lights shut off completely, sending the room into darkness.
You and Alfie stood true to your words, not getting handsy with each other apart from sharing a few long, lazy kisses before sleeping.
Your slumber was heavy and undisturbed, meaning you were feeling well-refreshed but reluctant to get out of bed in the morning.
You whined as Alfie shifted, moving you from his chest and onto the mattress.
“Dead arm.” He grunted, clutching his arm with the other hand and trying to shake it awake.
Once he’d got feeling back in his arm, he flopped back down, slinging a leg over yours, making you huff and nudge him away.
“You’re in my bed!” He scoffed.
“Shh.”
Chloe laughed at you, finally peeling back her own covers and getting ready.
You felt something brush your backside.
“Alfie, move your hand.” You grumbled, coming to terms with the fact that you were most definitely not going to get another few minutes with your eyes shut.
“My hand’s not on you.” He frowned.
You peered over your shoulder, looking back and down.
“Alf!” You huffed, the tent in his boxers that was caressing your backside caused you to sit up immediately.
“Wh— I can’t help it!” He threw his arms up, adjusting the duvet so it was covering his lap and awkward situation.
You grumbled something distasteful under your breath, heading to the bathrooms to get a quick, cold shower and get ready for the day.
The morning was leisurely, with no spontaneous alerts from the TV apart for breakfast, you were all just lounging around in your own company.
You, Ben, Indiyah and Chloe were flopped back on the beds, talking mindlessly as the boy's grunts echoed through the halls.
“Are they in the shower?” Chloe asked.
“No, they’re sparring.” You rolled your eyes at the boisterous antics.
“Who?”
“Alfie and Marlon.”
“Are they shirtless?”
“Indiyah!” You cackled loudly, but as it died down, you shared a cheeky smirk with her.
You skipped off arm in arm, finding the two boys going round in circles in nothing but their purple tracksuit bottoms.
They were both light on their feet, arms up as a guard.
“Oh, shit. We’ve got an audience.” Alfie pumped his arm diagonally upwards.
“Alf, please don’t give me the ick with this. Win, or don’t come home.”
“Fuckin’ hell, girl.” He scoffed, sulking with a deflated ego, “Don’t you love me anyway? Can’t believe this is what being in love feels like.” He clutched his heart dramatically.
Your cheeks went red at the words.
Whilst, yes, you did love him, and quite frankly, you hadn’t stopped even after all those months ago. But, still, it wasn’t something you’d brought back up again in a serious manner. Sure, you could say ‘I love you’ to each other in passing and during emotionally heated moments, but to say ‘I’m in love with you’ again? That was a whole other ballpark and level of commitment you’d had to apply.
Indiyah was your saviour, “She runs a strict programme.”
“Fuckin’ don’t I know it?” Alfie scoffed, continuing to bounce lightly in a circle with Marlon.
Chloe and Ben had also formed a small semi-circle with you, as the sound of Alhan’s wails and grunts came from the cold shower.
Alfie threw a few fake punches, adding in stupid sound effects that made you want to vomit at his feet.
“Ick.” You chimed, waving a hand up and walking away from him.
“Oi! Don’t be rude! I took my shirt off for you!” Alfie exclaimed.
“I didn’t ask you to do that.” You sang, slipping into the living room.
About another hour went by of everyone goofing off with each other, sharing personal anecdotes from childhood or showing off their secret party tricks.
Though you missed everyone that was gone, there was something more homely about their only being a few of you left. You felt like the bond was closer and stronger, but maybe that just meant that voting people off would feel worse.
Speaking of …
Harry came through the double doors holding a large black box, greeting you all before resting it on the dining table and making his way over to stand before you all for his announcement.
“This is the Box of Whispers. In a minute, I’m gonna go and place it on a plinth in the temptation room. Over the next two hours, anyone can go to the plinth and write a name down on a cue card, put it in the box to put that person up for elimination. Whether you want to nominate someone, is up to you.”
You raised a tentative hand, “So, we don’t have to vote?”
“No. However, if just one person is nominated, they’re eliminated. If two or more people are nominated, then it will go to a vote. But, if no one gets nominated, then you’re all up for elimination. Enjoy.”
“Well, fuck.” Chian muttered as Harry took the box and left to go and leave it in the temptation room as said.
“Jeez.” Ben’s eyebrows shot up.
“Where’s the pen?” Alhan said, tone deadpanned but it was a tone you’d grown to know meant he was serious.
“Wind-up.” You scoffed, slapping his leg.
“Is anyone gonna vote in here?” Chloe asked, addressing the elephant in the room.
“Yep.” Alhan nodded.
“You’re too honest, you, aren’t ya?”
“Yeah.” He hummed, rising from his seat and making his way out, muttering a “Chian.” before disappearing.
“Alhan, that’s not nice!” You shouted at him over the walls.
“Shush!”
“He’s such a twat.” Alfie cackled, folding into Marlon as they both laughed.
You felt awful for Chian.
Sure, what she did to you and Indiyah wasn’t the nicest, and she did have a plan to get you out of the house, but that didn’t mean she deserved to feel isolated in the house. The whole point of the game was that it was every man for themselves, and she was doing just that. Playing the game.
But so was Alhan.
Still, he didn’t need to be rude about it.
You let out a hum, perking up and leaving the sofa.
“Are you voting?” Alfie asked, shocked that you were getting up in front of everyone.
“Yep.” You hummed.
“Who for?”
“You.” You shrugged before leaving.
“Reader?!” He exclaimed, sounding genuinely concerned.
“Only joking, I’m going for a piss.”
Over the next two hours, not much happened. The threat of an elimination was looming over you, causing you to second guess every little word and action of the others.
Marlon came to you whilst you were mid-cuddle on the couch with Alfie, explaining the situation where Ben and himself had voted for each other for the sole purpose of not wanting Chian to feel alone in the vote.
You thought that was a really sweet thing for them to do.
Just as you opened your mouth to speak, Ethan popped his head around the corner carrying the large black box that was holding the answer everyone was dreading.
You sat up, removing your head from Alfie’s head with a huff as Indiyah smiled, taking a seat to the other side of you.
“No more communicating in the living room.” Ethan announced, “You guys have been playing ‘Box of Whispers’ this morning. You have had the ability to cast your vote and put it in this box. It is now time to reveal who has been nominated for elimination.”
Your leg bounced violently whilst your teeth clicked around your acrylic nail, biting it.
As far as you knew, everyone had been open and honest about whether or not they had cast a vote and who they were doing it for.
But what if someone was lying?
What if someone had voted for you?
What if your name was in the box?
What if you were getting sent home again?
Ethan unlocked the hatch, swinging the lid of the box open and picking up the cue cards inside.
Unbeknownst to you, Alfie was side-eyeing the excessive movement of your leg, debating whether or not to do something. A hand on your thigh in a roomful of people was far too obvious and awkward.
He settled with an arm behind you, subtly wrapped around your waist.
It didn’t stop your leg from bouncing, but it definitely slowed it.
“When I read your names out, please come and stand next to me.” Ethan cleared his throat. “Chian, Alhan, Marlon, Ben … The rest of you will each go down to Room 19, one by one, to choose who you want to be eliminated.”
Indiyah was first.
You were last.
“I don’t think this is a ‘who you want to go home’ thing, because no one wants anyone to leave, but … For the sake of this vote, I am going to go with Chian. Just purely based on what me and Alf saw on the cameras with her plotting with Ex against me and Indiyah, so … yeah.”
In the end, your vote did count, as Chian was sadly sent home.
There was something a little weird about hugging her goodbye despite being a contributing factor to the reason she was leaving, but it was better than straight up ignoring her.
Only a few hours of chatter and sneaky kisses passed by before that stupidly loud alarm began blaring through the speakers.
You and Alfie groaned at the knowledge of another challenge awaiting.
“You two, quit shagging. Challenge time.” Alhan snapped his fingers.
You tapped his chest, hauling yourself out of bed and following your fellow Insiders to the room.
In the Challenge Arena was a huge white wall with seven holes large enough for people to stand in, labelled 1-7. Josh and Ethan were stood to the side of it.
“Everyone please pick a number.”
You stood in front of the number 6, Alfie next to you at 7.
“Welcome to your next challenge, ‘Own It’.”
“Today, we have got a surprise for you, in the form of 600 litres of gunge.”
Your face screwed up, “What even is that?”
“Slime.” Ethan told you.
“Oh, ew!”
You were all given a run down of the challenge, where secrets would be revealed. If someone guessed incorrectly, they were to be slimed and lose £10,000 from the prize fund. If they guessed correctly, the culprit would be slimed and money would be saved.
This was going to be a very messy, and maybe expensive, challenge. You were hoping to stay as dry as possible.
The girls and yourself were all handed hair covers by production, so you wasted no time in protecting your precious strands.
You slid the goggles over your eyes, already knowing you looked like an absolute fool.
“First up, is AB.”
“Fuck-eth me-eth.” You heard him grumble, making you giggle.
“Which of your current fellow Insiders hasn’t been 100% honest with you?” Ethan proposed the question.
“About what?”
“That’s it. That’s the question.”
“Oh, fucking hell.” He groaned, “I feel like maybe Alhan? He lies a lot about little things, so it might be him on accident. Or … or is it one of the girls? Uhhh … Who have I…? Not Reader.” He was verbalising his whole thought process, “No, y’know what, I’m gonna go with Alhan. It was probably something stupid.”
“I can reveal, that the correct answer is …” Ethan dragged out the suspension, “Reader.”
“What?! Oh, fuck!” Alfie yelled as slime was dropped all over him.
You heard it splatter on the walls and floor.
“The fuck you been lyin’ about, girl?” He groaned.
You all stepped out of your holes to laugh at Alfie’s misfortune.
“I don’t know! What did I lie about? I haven’t lied!” You laughed, honestly in a state of confusion and shock.
When everyone returned to their holes, you were presented with the next question.
“Reader, which Insider fabricated a lie that the house won back money due to one of their actions?” Ethan asked.
“Alhan.” You said immediately, still bringing your hands up to cover your head in case your gut and memory was wrong, “About making Expressions tell the truth about his temptation. Right? It was Alhan?”
Thankfully, you were right, and Ethan’s cackles sounded around the room as the two presenters got a perfect view of the man having slime dropped all over him.
The challenge continued on, all the way into round two which was your personal least favourite.
One of you was sent into Room 19 to order the others regarding a prompt. It was up to everyone else to guess that order correctly. It was safe to say your shirt was soaking by the time it was your turn.
“I’m so grossed out right now! It’s not even the pink one, it’s green. You could’ve at least given me pink. Anyway, ‘Reader, order the Insiders based on who you trust most to least. Ooo okay! I’m gonna put Indiyah first because she’s my girl, and then … hm, and then Alfie, duh. Ben third. Marlon fourth … yep. Chloe fifth because I haven’t spoken to her too much but I know she’s always got the girls’ back, and Alhan fifth because he’s Alhan.”
When you returned to the room, you cringed at the order they’d put themselves in.
Alfie, Indiyah, Chloe, Marlon, Ben, Alhan.
They’d gotten one right.
Shit.
“Control your face please, Reader.” Josh said.
“Sorry.”
“Shit, we’ve fucked up.” Alfie groaned.
Everyone except Alhan ended up getting slimed, making him cheer and laugh loudly.
“What the fuck was your order?!” Indiyah shouted, wiping the slime off of her neck.
“You, Alfie, Ben, Marlon, Chloe and Alhan. Guys!” You huffed, dramatically throwing your head back and doing a 360 spin on your heels.
“Why wouldn’t you put your boyfriend first?!” Marlon scoffed.
“He’s not even my boyfriend! And I did it because me and Indiyah have been,” You crossed your pointer and middle fingers, “Since day one!”
The challenge came to an end after a few more questions and you were dreading seeing the prize fund after this.
The entire evening was spent showering and cleaning yourselves. Still, you felt like there was an awful sticky residue on the back of your neck no matter how much body wash you used.
You shivered as your feet hit the cold floor and you pattered back to the bedrooms.
You changed quickly, wanting to be in the warmth of your tracksuit immediately.
While you were going through the process of drying your hair, the TV chimed and everyone began chanting ‘AB’.
“Oi, girl, I’ve got my temptation, wish me luck!” He came into the bedrooms all giddy, rubbing his hands together.
“You’re not going to war.” You laughed, putting the blowdryer down.
“With the way you acted around your temptation I might be.”
You scoffed out laughter, flipping him off playfully.
“Okay, seriously though. Be sensible. Be smart. If I can go without seeing Buttons, you can go without seeing Pablo or Chica.”
“I will, I will.”
And with that, he was gone.
The house resumed to that oddly quiet feeling it had from the time he left for the day.
Alfie had been gone for a very long while, leaving you to come to the conclusion that he had in fact taken his temptation and was now reaping the benefits of it.
You and Indiyah sat on the couch, Alhan and Marlon on the L of the seat as you all spoke between yourselves, occasionally complaining about the challenge and how much money you lost, plus you all still felt all grimy.
“Genuinely, if you win, what will you do with the money?” Marlon asked.
“Buy stuff for my cat.” You grinned, “Maybe put some money to a London apartment.”
“You don’t live in London?” He tilted his head, eyes widening slightly in shock.
“No, I still live up North and stuff. Just never had a reason to move down.”
“Fair enough.”
“It’s really not all that.” Alhan added, “You’re probably better off where you are.”
That caused you all to laugh.
It was then that Alfie came bursting through the doors, arms at his side and jaw clenched tightly.
“Did you take it? I know you took it.” Alhan laughed.
You frowned at his annoyed expression, “What’s wrong?”
“Yeah, I took it.” Alfie nodded sharply before looking you dead in the eyes,
part two of No Boats Involved. Read part one here!
after one unexpectedly good first date, Harry comes back to the city early and a spontaneous walk turns into the first stop on your very unofficial New York tour.
word count: 11.9k
The date goes well.
Not in a flashy, cinematic way. Nothing dramatic happens. No one at the bar recognizes him, no one interrupts, and the world outside keeps moving like this is just another quiet Wednesday night.
Which, for the two of you, it somehow becomes.
The strange part is how quickly the nerves fade. For the first few minutes you’re aware of everything. The way you’re sitting. The way he’s looking at you. The low hum of the bar around you.
Then the conversation finds its rhythm and suddenly it feels familiar.
Like the app just changed locations.
He takes a sip of his drink and glances at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“This is strange,” he says.
“Strange good or strange bad?”
“Strange like we’ve been talking for weeks but I’m only just hearing your voice in person.”
You laugh softly. “It is a little weird bringing the chat into real life.”
“That’s exactly it,” he says. “Feels like we skipped the awkward part.”
“You mean the part where two strangers pretend they’ve always liked the same music?”
“Exactly that.”
You tilt your head. “We did cover a lot of ground already.”
He smiles. “We did.”
There’s a small pause, comfortable enough that neither of you rush to fill it.
“So,” you say, turning slightly toward him, “how were the meetings today?”
He exhales softly, leaning back on the stool.
“Long,” he says. “A lot of people in rooms talking about the album like it’s a strategy.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not terrible,” he says quickly. “Just strange sometimes. You make something extremely personal and suddenly it’s being discussed like a product.”
You nod slowly.
“I think that happens with writing too,” you say. “Just smaller.”
His eyes flick back to you.
“How so?”
You shrug slightly, tracing the rim of your glass.
“I’ll write something about a neighborhood or a person and suddenly people online are arguing about it who have never been anywhere near the place I’m talking about.”
He smiles faintly at that.
“Sounds familiar.”
“Does it bother you?” you ask.
He thinks about it for a second.
“Not always,” he says. “Sometimes it means people care. Sometimes it’s just background noise.”
You nod.
“That’s the exact balance.”
He studies you for a moment, curious in a way that doesn’t feel intrusive.
“You’re exactly how I imagined you’d be,” he says.
You narrow your eyes slightly. “That sounds like a dangerous thought.”
“Why?”
“Expectations.”
He shakes his head.
“Not expectations,” he says. “Just… familiar.”
You glance down at your drink to hide the small smile forming.
The conversation drifts after that. Not shallow, not heavy. Just steady.
You tell him about the bakery that almost closed and the neighborhood that rallied around it. He tells you about the strange quiet of studios late at night when everyone else has gone home.
At one point he leans his elbow against the bar and tilts his head slightly.
“You ask good questions,” he says.
You shrug.
“That’s the job.”
He smiles at that, like he’s realizing something.
“Good thing you asked me out then.”
You blink.
“I did not ask you out.”
“You asked if I had plans.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.”
You laugh, shaking your head.
And somewhere between that moment and the next sip of your drink, the last of the nerves disappear.
You’re not meeting Harry Styles.
You’re just talking to Harry.
Eventually the night starts to wind down on its own.
Not because the conversation dries up, but because the bar slowly empties around you. The couple in the corner leaves. The bartender begins wiping down the far end of the counter again. The quiet hum of closing time creeps into the room.
You glance at the clock on the wall without meaning to.
He notices.
“Early morning?” he asks.
“Always,” you say. “Deadlines wait for no one.”
He smiles faintly at that, but there’s a small nod that follows.
“Same,” he says. “Flight’s early.”
That swims in the space between you. Not heavy. Just real life.
You both sit there for a moment longer, letting the night settle around the edges of the conversation.
“I’m glad you asked if I had plans,” he says after a second.
You look over at him.
“I’m glad you said yes.”
The simplicity of it makes you smile.
The bartender brings the check without being asked. He reaches for it automatically and you immediately reach too.
“You don’t have to—” you start.
“It’s one drink,” he says lightly.
“You flew across the country.”
“That’s unrelated.”
You hesitate, then let it go with a quiet shake of your head.
Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. The streetlights make everything look softer, quieter than the day version of the same block.
You stand there for a second on the sidewalk, both of you adjusting to the abrupt shift from dim bar to cold night air.
“Well,” you say.
“Well,” he echoes.
It’s not awkward. Just the natural pause of two people deciding what the ending of the night looks like.
Then he steps forward and wraps you in a hug.
It catches you slightly off guard, but you hug him back without thinking.
And for a brief second your brain short circuits.
Wow.
That’s a really good hug.
Warm. Easy. The kind that feels genuine instead of polite.
And he smells… incredible.
Clean, warm, something subtle and expensive that you can’t place but immediately notice.
You pull back before your brain can spiral too far down that path.
“Safe flight tomorrow,” you say.
“Good luck with the deadlines,” he replies.
You both hesitate for half a second like there might be something else to say.
But somehow it already feels complete.
You start walking toward your building, hands tucked into your coat pockets, trying very hard to act normal.
Halfway down the block you realize something.
You’re smiling.
And you can still faintly smell whatever cologne he was wearing clinging to your clothes.
Work drags the next morning.
Not because anything is particularly difficult. Just because your brain refuses to stay where it’s supposed to be.
Wednesday night keeps replaying in small, inconvenient flashes.
The bar.
The way the conversation never stalled.
That hug.
You sit through a meeting Thursday morning where someone is explaining a zoning amendment and realize halfway through that you haven’t heard a single word. Your editor asks you a question and you answer just slowly enough that she pauses.
“Coffee,” you say.
She nods like that explains everything.
By the afternoon you’re finally settling back into your work when your phone buzzes on your desk.
Raya.
Your stomach flips immediately, which is deeply annoying.
You open it.
Made it.
You blink at the screen.
Gone so soon :(
The typing bubble appears quickly.
Still thinking about our date.
A smile creeps onto your face before you can stop it.
Wow. A date? I thought it was just one drink.
Three dots appear.
Semantics.
You laugh quietly to yourself and lock your phone, setting it face down on your desk before you can keep the conversation going.
The rest of the afternoon slowly finds its rhythm again. Emails. Edits. A deadline that refuses to write itself.
Still, every once in a while, your brain drifts back to Wednesday.
Friday passes in much the same way. Normal enough on the outside, but with your mind wandering back to the same handful of moments.
By evening you’re finally packing up your bag when your phone buzzes again.
Camille.
Girl dinner tonight. My place.
You smile.
What time.
Soon. I made pasta and something I’m calling salad but it’s mostly cheese.
On my way.
You step out into the early evening air and start walking toward her neighborhood, letting the noise of the city swallow up the end of the workweek.
Your mind drifts again, unhelpfully, to Wednesday night.
The way he laughed when you told him about the laundromat cat.
The way he listened when you talked about your job.
The way that hug lingered just a second longer than you expected.
You shake your head slightly as you walk.
It was just one drink.
A very good drink.
But still. Just one.
By the time you reach Camille’s building the sky has already turned that deep blue that only happens at the end of a long day in the city, the kind of evening where the sidewalks are still busy but the rush has softened into something looser, people lingering outside restaurants and talking louder than they probably should. You climb the familiar stairs and let yourself in the way you always do, the faint smell of garlic and something creamy drifting down the hallway before you even reach her door.
When you push it open she’s standing at the stove with her back to you, hair twisted up loosely and one of those oversized sweatshirts she claims is vintage even though you’re fairly certain she bought it last month. A pot is bubbling on the stove and the island is already scattered with bowls and plates in a way that somehow still looks intentional.
“You’re early,” she says without turning around, stirring something with exaggerated focus.
“You texted soon,” you reply, dropping your bag near the couch and shrugging out of your coat.
“That’s my version of time management.”
You walk over and slide onto one of the stools at the island while she finishes whatever final step she’s pretending requires deep concentration. Without even looking she reaches behind her, grabs a wine glass from the counter, pours generously, and slides it across the island toward you.
You accept it gratefully.
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says, finally turning around. “You look calm for someone who had a full work week.”
You take a sip before answering, letting the wine settle for a second.
“It was normal.”
“Normal is boring,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter and studying you.
You shrug. “It was busy.”
She starts plating the pasta while you talk, asking about your editor, about the piece you were finishing, about the bakery story that had you rewriting the same paragraph three different ways. The conversation drifts the way it always does between the two of you, jumping between work and random stories and small complaints about the city.
You answer her, but you’re quieter than usual.
Not distant exactly. Just… thoughtful.
Camille notices almost immediately.
She always does.
Halfway through telling you about a brand event she went to the night before she stops mid sentence and squints at you across the island.
“What happened.”
You blink. “What.”
“You’re thinking about something,” she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you like it’s evidence. “And you’re trying to act like you’re not.”
You look down at your wine for a second before glancing back up at her, a small smile already pulling at the corner of your mouth.
“Nothing dramatic,” you say.
Her eyes narrow further.
“Tell me.”
You take another sip of wine, setting the glass down carefully before finally saying it.
“I met up with Harry Wednesday night.”
There’s half a second of silence where the words land.
Then Camille screams.
Not a polite gasp. Not a surprised laugh.
An actual scream.
The wooden spoon flies out of her hand and clatters across the counter as she grabs the nearest thing within reach and throws it at you, which turns out to be a folded kitchen towel that bounces harmlessly off your shoulder.
“YOU WHAT?”
You burst out laughing despite yourself while she stares at you like you just announced you’ve secretly been living on the moon.
“You went on the date and didn’t tell me?” she demands, already pacing behind the island.
“It wasn’t a whole thing,” you protest.
“You went on a date with him, and then just casually came to pasta night like that didn’t happen?”
You lift your hands defensively, still laughing.
“It was one drink.”
“ONE DRINK?” she repeats, throwing her hands in the air. “You buried the lead for forty eight hours and now you’re acting like this is normal information?”
You shake your head, smiling into your wine glass.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?” she demands. “Next month?”
“I was literally about to tell you.”
She stops pacing and stares at you, hands on her hips, trying to process the fact that the story she’s been waiting weeks to unfold apparently already happened without her.
“You went on the date,” she says slowly, like she’s confirming reality.
You nod.
“And?”
You take another sip of wine, letting the suspense linger just long enough to annoy her.
“It was really good.”
You take another sip of wine, letting the moment breathe while Camille stands there across the island looking like she might explode if you don’t start talking.
“It was great,” you say finally.
She blinks.
“That’s it?”
“It was short,” you add with a small shrug. “He was a little late. But once he got there it was… really good.”
Camille leans forward across the island like she’s conducting an interrogation.
“How good.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head.
“Camille.”
“I need details.”
You roll the stem of your wine glass between your fingers for a second before answering.
“It was just easy,” you say. “We talked the whole time. It didn’t feel weird or awkward like I thought it might. It just felt like we picked up the conversation we’d already been having.”
She studies your face carefully, clearly reading between the lines.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Did you kiss.”
You chuckle at the bluntness of it and take another sip of wine before answering.
“No.”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“No?”
“We hugged.”
She leans back, crossing her arms.
“A hug.”
“It was a really good hug,” you say defensively.
“That is not the same thing.”
“I know.”
She watches you for another second, then smirks slightly.
“You liked him.”
You try to keep your expression neutral and fail completely.
“He was amazing,” you admit.
Her reaction softens just a little at that.
“Okay,” she says. “So what did he think.”
“What do you mean.”
“The date,” she says impatiently. “Did he say anything. Did he text you after. Did he vanish into the pop star void.”
You reach into your bag and pull out your phone, unlocking it before sliding it across the island toward her.
“He messaged me when he got to the airport.”
She grabs the phone immediately and starts scrolling through the short exchange on the screen, reading the messages silently while you sip your wine.
Her expression moves through a full range of reactions in about ten seconds.
“Hm.”
“What.”
She looks up at you.
“Well first of all,” she says, pointing at the screen, “I love that he called it a date.”
You smile slightly.
“Second,” she continues, narrowing her eyes a little as she hands the phone back to you, “I don’t love that he hasn’t taken it off the app.”
You blink.
“What.”
“He should’ve given you his number,” she says matter of factly. “That’s step one.”
“It’s been like… thirty hours,” you reply.
“I don’t care,” she says. “Men with phones give numbers.”
You laugh.
“That’s your takeaway.”
“It’s one of them.”
She leans forward again, lowering her voice slightly like she’s sharing a theory.
“But.”
“But?”
She points at the screen again.
“He said he’s still thinking about Wednesday.”
You glance down at the message again.
“Yeah.”
“That’s not casual,” she says. “That’s a man who wants to see you again.”
You take your phone back from her and stare down at the screen for a second, the short exchange suddenly feeling heavier now that someone else has looked at it.
Camille watches you closely while you think.
You run a hand through your hair, pushing it back in that absentminded way you do when your brain is moving faster than your words.
“I want to see him again too,” you admit finally, your voice quieter than it was a minute ago.
Her expression immediately softens into something smug and sympathetic at the same time.
“I knew it.”
“But,” you continue quickly, leaning your elbows on the island and wrapping your hands around your wine glass, “we haven’t actually talked about that.”
She tilts her head.
“What do you mean.”
“I mean we had the drink, he had to fly out early the next morning, and then he texted when he got to the airport. That’s it.”
Camille squints at you like she’s examining evidence.
“And you didn’t bring it up.”
You shake your head.
“He’s so busy,” you say, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “He flew back to LA for promo and meetings and all of that. I’m not going to be the person who immediately asks when he’s coming back.”
She leans against the counter, thinking.
“That’s fair,” she says slowly. “But also you’re allowed to want to see someone again.”
“I know,” you say with a small laugh. “I just don’t want to make it weird.”
She studies you for another second, then gestures toward your phone again.
“You realize this whole situation is already weird, right.”
You smile into your glass.
“I’m aware.”
Camille sighs dramatically and pushes the pasta bowl closer to you.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s establish a few things.”
You brace yourself.
“One,” she says, counting on her fingers, “you went on a date with Harry Styles and had a good time. No, a great time.”
You nod.
“Two,” she continues, “he texted you after and called it a date.”
Another nod.
“And three,” she says, pointing directly at you now, “you both clearly liked each other.”
You laugh quietly.
“When you say it like that it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous,” she says immediately. “But it’s also happening.”
You glance down at your phone again, the screen still dark in your hand.
“I just don’t know what the next step looks like,” you admit.
Camille grins.
“Oh, I think we’re about to find out.”
You shake your head immediately.
“No.”
Camille lets out a dramatic groan.
“Why are you acting like this is a hostage negotiation,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Just message him.”
“I am not messaging him.”
“You literally already message him.”
“That’s on the app,” you say quickly, pointing at the phone on the counter between you. “That’s different.”
“How.”
“Because that’s where we’ve been talking,” you explain. “This would be… something else.”
Camille stares at you for a long moment like she’s trying to understand how your brain works.
“You two have already gone on a date,” she says slowly. “You hugged goodbye.”
You wince slightly.
“That was a really good hug.”
“That is not the point.”
You drag your hands back through your hair again, leaning your elbows on the island.
“I don’t want to make it weird.”
Camille leans forward, suddenly calmer.
“Okay,” she says. “Then don’t make it weird.”
You squint at her.
“I don’t like when you say things like that.”
“Just send him your number.”
You blink.
“What.”
“Send him your number,” she repeats, like this is the most obvious solution in the world. “You’re not asking for anything. You’re just saying, hey, if you want to text instead of the app, here it is.”
You hesitate.
“He might actually feel more comfortable with that,” she adds. “Think about it. He probably doesn’t just hand his number out on apps.”
You sit there quietly for a second, considering it.
“That’s actually… not a terrible point,” you admit.
“I know.”
“But it’s still terrifying.”
Camille smiles.
“That’s because you like him.”
You look down at the phone again, suddenly very aware of the empty message box waiting on the screen.
Your stomach twists.
“I can’t.”
“You absolutely can.”
“No, I really can’t.”
She sighs and holds her hand out across the island.
“Give me the phone.”
You hesitate for a second before sliding it toward her across the counter.
“I regret this already,” you say.
Camille grabs it immediately, eyes lighting up like she’s been waiting all night for this moment.
“Relax, look what happened when I messaged him last time for you,” she says, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
“You are not allowed to say anything weird.”
“I would never.”
“That’s a lie.”
She grins without looking up.
“Trust the process.”
You lean back on the stool and cover your face with one hand while she starts typing.
Camille studies the screen for a second, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard while you sit across from her with your hand still half covering your face.
“You better not say anything crazy,” you mumble through your fingers.
“I am crafting a perfectly normal message,” she says calmly.
“That sentence alone makes me nervous.”
She ignores you and starts typing, pausing once or twice to reread it like she’s editing an email instead of sending a message on a dating app.
“Okay,” she says after a moment. “Tell me if this is insane.”
You slowly lower your hand and lean forward across the island.
She turns the phone so you can read it.
Hey, I really enjoyed our time together Wednesday. I figured I’d send my number in case texting is easier than the app. No pressure, just thought I’d share it.
Below it she’s typed your number.
You stare at the message for a few seconds, reading it twice.
It doesn’t sound desperate. It doesn’t sound awkward. It sounds… normal.
Thoughtful, even.
“That’s good,” you admit quietly.
“I know,” Camille says smugly.
You hesitate for another second, your stomach tightening again now that the send button is right there.
“What if this is weird,” you say.
“It’s not weird.”
“What if he thinks it’s weird.”
“He won’t.”
You exhale slowly and lean back on the stool again, pushing the phone back toward her.
“I can’t press send.”
Camille grins.
“Good thing I can.”
Before you can change your mind, she taps the screen.
The message disappears into the chat.
For a moment neither of you move.
You both just stare at the phone sitting on the counter between you like it might explode.
“Oh my god,” you say, dropping your head into your hands.
Camille laughs and slides the phone back toward you.
“Relax.”
You peek at the screen again, your heart suddenly beating much louder than it should.
“Now what.”
“Now,” she says, reaching for her wine again, “we wait.”
And you did wait.
Not dramatically at first. The message had been sent, the number shared, and for the rest of that night you and Camille forced yourselves to stop staring at the phone like it might immediately light up with an answer. Dinner continued, the pasta was eaten, the wine disappeared from your glasses, and eventually the conversation drifted to other things the way it always did.
The next morning passed quietly. You checked the app once out of habit and saw the message sitting there exactly where it had been left, your number at the bottom of it like a small offering you were now trying not to overanalyze. You told yourself that was fine. He was traveling. He had meetings. You had no idea what his schedule actually looked like and you refused to become the person who refreshed a dating app every twenty minutes.
So you let it sit.
A few days moved past that way, filled with work and errands and the small routines that keep a week moving forward whether your brain cooperates or not. By the time the weekend rolled around you had mostly convinced yourself not to expect anything. If he texted, great. If he didn’t, the date had still been good and that could simply be where the story ended.
Late Sunday afternoon you left your apartment to walk to the grocery store a few blocks away, your coat half zipped against the chill and your mind already making a mental list of things you needed to buy. The sidewalks were busy in that lazy weekend way where people move slowly and no one seems particularly rushed.
Your phone started ringing in your coat pocket just as you reached the corner.
You pulled it out without thinking, already assuming it was Camille calling to ask if you wanted to come over again or some unknown number trying to sell you something you definitely didn’t need. The screen lit up with a number you didn’t recognize and for a moment you just stared at it, thumb hovering over the answer button while the phone continued vibrating in your hand.
You debated letting it go.
If it was important, they would leave a voicemail. If it was spam, it would stop eventually. There was no real reason to answer a random number while standing on a cold sidewalk.
The phone kept ringing.
You sighed quietly and tapped the screen.
“Hello?”
There was the faintest pause on the other end before a familiar voice came through the speaker, warmer than you expected and immediately recognizable in a way that made your stomach flip.
“Hi,” he said. “It’s Harry. I hope it’s alright that I called.”
You stop walking the second you heard his voice.
Not gradually either. One step forward and then nothing, like your body forgets the next instruction.
People move around you on the sidewalk while you stand there holding your phone to your ear, the grocery store completely forgotten.
“Harry?,” you say after a second, your voice catching slightly before settling. “Yes. Hi.”
You hear him let out a quiet breath on the other end, almost like relief.
“Good,” he says. “I was starting to think you might not answer.”
“Well… I almost didn’t.” You laugh softly, the sound more nervous than you meant it to be.
There’s a small pause between you. Not uncomfortable, just the kind that happens when two people who are used to texting suddenly have to remember how conversations move out loud.
“I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” he says.
You glance around, still standing on the corner with a grocery bag hanging off your arm.
“No,” you reply. “I was just walking to the store.”
“I’ve been meaning to reach sooner, but things got a little chaotic here.” He replies.
“LA,” you say.
“Exactly.”
You start walking again without thinking, moving slowly down the block while you talk.
“So,” you say after a moment, “you survived the meetings.”
“Barely,” he says. “But I did.”
“That’s impressive.”
Another small pause settles in, the kind that feels thoughtful instead of empty.
Then he says something that makes your stomach flip all over again.
“I’ve been thinking about Wednesday.”
You glance down at the pavement while you walk.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His voice is calm, almost reflective.
“I had a really good time.”
You feel yourself smile automatically.
“Me too.”
A few steps pass before he speaks again.
“I was actually calling because I wanted to ask you something.”
You slow down slightly.
“Okay.”
Another breath on the other end of the line.
“When are you free again?”
You feel the smile before you even answer.
It spreads slowly, the kind you can hear in someone’s voice even if they’re miles away.
A quiet laugh escapes you as you continue walking, weaving around a couple pushing a stroller while you tuck the phone closer to your ear.
“I’m actually free next week for a few days,” you say.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you reply, a little sheepish now that you’re saying it out loud. “I decided to take what the kids call a mental health break.”
He laughs softly at that.
“Good for you.”
“I figured if I didn’t step away from my computer for a minute I might start writing zoning updates in my sleep.”
“That sounds like a real risk to the public.”
You smile to yourself.
“So I took a few days.”
There’s a small pause on the other end of the line before he asks, casually but with just enough curiosity tucked into the question.
“Do you have any plans?”
You slow your pace slightly as you approach the grocery store, the automatic doors sliding open and letting out a burst of warm air that fogs your glasses for a second.
“Not really,” you say, stepping inside and grabbing a basket without breaking the rhythm of the conversation. “That was kind of the point.”
You hear him shift slightly on the other end, like he’s settling into the call.
“That’s good,” he says.
You pause in the produce aisle, leaning your hip against the display while you listen.
“Why’s that?”
There’s a brief moment of quiet before he answers, his tone still easy but carrying a small thread of intention now.
“Because I happen be in New York again that week.”
You stop mid step in the produce aisle, your fingers hovering over a basket of apples as his words settle in.
“Wait,” you say, a small laugh slipping out with a hint of surprise, “really?”
“Yeah.”
There’s something casual about the way he says it that makes it feel almost spontaneous.
You let out a quiet gasp before you can stop yourself.
“Yeah? Doing anything fun while you’re here?”
You hear him shift slightly on the other end of the line, like he’s leaning back wherever he is.
“I decided to just take a trip,” he says. “See the scenes a bit. Walk around without a schedule for once.”
You smile to yourself, picturing it.
“That’s actually a pretty good plan.”
“Thought so.”
You pick up one of the apples absentmindedly, turning it in your hand while you think.
“Well,” you say lightly, trying to keep your voice casual, “there are a few places you should try if you’re actually going to do that properly.”
“Oh yeah?” he replies.
“Yeah,” you say. “Most people do the obvious stuff and miss the good parts.”
There’s a small pause on the line.
Then he answers, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
“Well,” he says, “maybe you know a good tour guide.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head as you set the apple back down.
“That depends,” you say.
“On what?”
“On whether you’re actually interested in the local version of the city and not just the Instagram one.”
He hums thoughtfully.
“I think I’d prefer the local version.”
You shift the basket on your arm, leaning your shoulder lightly against the display while you answer.
“Well then,” you say, smiling into the phone, “you’re in luck.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” you reply. “I’m pretty good with the local area.”
There is a small pause on the other end of the line, just long enough that you know he is smiling.
“I had a feeling you might say that.”
You shift the basket on your arm and start slowly down the aisle again, scanning shelves while trying not to look like someone currently planning an entire tour of New York in their head.
“So,” he says, voice relaxed, “are you volunteering.”
You laugh quietly.
“That might be possible.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Only if you’re actually interested in seeing the city properly,” you say. “I have very strong opinions about the right way to do New York.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“I refuse to be responsible for someone thinking Times Square is the highlight,” you add.
He laughs again, the sound warmer this time.
“Fair enough.”
You grab a box of pasta off the shelf without really looking at it.
“So when are you coming,” you ask, keeping your voice casual even though your stomach has started doing something inconvenient.
“Early next week.”
You pause in the aisle.
“That’s soon.”
“Yeah,” he says simply.
You lean your shoulder lightly against the shelf, thinking for a second.
“Well,” you say slowly, “lucky timing.”
“How’s that.”
“My very official mental health break starts Monday.”
There’s a brief silence.
“Perfect,” he says.
You continue down the aisle, turning toward the next row of shelves.
“So what does your ideal version of sightseeing actually involve,” you ask.
“Honestly?” he replies. “Walking around, finding places that look interesting, eating something good.”
“That’s a solid approach.”
“I figured someone with local expertise might refine the plan a bit.”
You bite back a smile.
“I could probably work with that.”
“Good.”
The conversation settles for a moment as you reach for a loaf of bread, your phone tucked between your shoulder and your ear.
Then he asks, almost casually,
“What are you doing Monday.”
You slow your steps a little as you reach the end of the aisle, the basket resting against your hip while you think about the question.
A small smile slips across your face before you answer.
“Well,” you say lightly, “I was hoping I’d be seeing you.”
There’s a quiet pause on the other end of the line.
Then you hear him laugh under his breath.
“I think that can be arranged.”
You pick up a loaf of bread and drop it into the basket, trying not to look like someone whose mood has just shifted dramatically in the middle of a grocery store.
“Good,” you reply. “Because my very official mental health break would feel wasted otherwise.”
“That would be tragic.”
You turn the corner toward the checkout lanes, the conversation settling into a comfortable rhythm again.
“So Monday,” you say. “What are you thinking.”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
For a second all you hear is the faint sound of movement on his end of the line, like he’s shifting the phone in his hand.
“There’s actually a place I’ve been wanting to take you,” he continues. “It’s one of my favorite spots in the city.”
You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it.
“Oh, so now you’re the one giving the tour.”
“Something like that.”
You smile, shifting the basket onto the counter as the cashier waves you forward.
“Well,” you say, pulling your wallet out of your coat pocket, “I guess I’ll have to trust your taste.”
“I think you’ll like it,” he replies.
The quiet confidence in his voice makes you believe him.
The way he says it that makes you believe him without asking anything else.
The cashier starts scanning your groceries and you fumble for your wallet, suddenly aware that you’ve been standing in the middle of the store having a full conversation.
“I should probably let you go,” you say with a small laugh. “I’m currently holding up a checkout line.”
“Ah,” he says. “Important responsibilities.”
“Very important. Pasta and bread don’t buy themselves.”
You hear him laugh quietly on the other end.
“So Monday,” he says, his tone settling again, making sure it’s understood. “I’ll text you when I’m in the city.”
“Okay.”
There’s a brief pause before he adds, softer this time,
“I’m looking forward to it.”
You feel the smile spread across your face again, even as you swipe your card through the reader.
“Me too.”
Another quiet beat passes between you.
Then he says, “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
“You too. Safe travels.”
“Talk soon.”
“Talk soon.”
The line clicks softly as the call ends.
You stand there for a second longer than necessary, phone still in your hand, while the cashier finishes bagging your groceries.
The ordinary sounds of the store fill the space again, carts rolling past and people chatting as they move through the aisles.
But as you pick up the bags and step back out into the cool evening air, the week ahead suddenly feels very different than it did an hour ago.
You step out of the store and into the cool evening air with two grocery bags cutting into your fingers and your phone still warm in your hand. For a moment you just stand there on the sidewalk letting the call settle in your head, the noise of the street moving around you like normal while your brain is still catching up.
Then you immediately tap Camille’s name.
The phone barely rings once before she answers.
“Hello?”
“Monday,” you say.
There’s a pause.
“What.”
“Monday,” you repeat, starting down the block toward your apartment, the grocery bags swinging slightly at your sides. “I’m seeing him Monday.”
You hear the rustling of something on her end, like she just sat up very quickly.
“You spoke to him?”
“He called me.”
Camille makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a gasp and a shriek.
“He called you?”
“Yes.”
“On the phone?”
“Camille, how else would someone call me.”
“Don’t get technical with me,” she snaps. “What happened.”
You weave around a couple standing outside a deli, shifting the bags in your hands while you start walking faster without meaning to.
“I was walking to the grocery store and my phone started ringing from a random number. I almost didn’t answer.”
“You almost didn’t answer a call from Harry Styles.”
“I didn’t know it was him!”
She groans loudly.
“Continue.”
You laugh under your breath and keep walking.
“He said he saw the message with my number and wanted to call. We talked for a bit and he asked when I was free next week.”
“And?”
“And I told him I’m off Monday through Wednesday.”
“And?”
You smile despite yourself.
“And he’s coming back to the city.”
There’s a full second of silence.
Then Camille screams so loudly you have to pull the phone away from your ear.
“I KNEW IT.”
You shake your head, laughing as you turn onto your street.
“He said he wanted to see me again.”
“Of course he does.”
“And he’s taking me somewhere,” you add.
“Oh my god.”
“He said it’s one of his favorite places.”
You hear Camille pacing through the phone now, the sound of her footsteps echoing as she processes this new development.
“So this is a second date,” she says finally.
“I guess so.”
“No,” she corrects immediately. “This is a second date.”
You smile to yourself as you reach your building.
“Well,” you say, pushing the door open with your shoulder, “I guess it is.”
The weekend passes slowly in a way that feels slightly unfair.
Not painfully slow, just stretched. Every normal moment feels a little heavier with the knowledge that Monday is coming.
After you hang up with Camille that night you put your groceries away and try very hard to behave like a person whose life is not suddenly orbiting a second date with someone she met on the internet. You cook dinner, you watch something mindless, you answer a few emails you’d been ignoring.
Still, every once in a while your brain drifts back to the call.
The quiet confidence in his voice.
The way he said he had a place in mind.
Saturday morning you wake up later than usual and take your time with the day. Coffee, laundry, a long walk through the park where the air still has that sharp early spring chill to it. At one point you catch yourself mentally calculating how many hours are left until Monday and immediately shake your head.
This is ridiculous, you tell yourself.
It’s just a date.
Sunday goes by even faster. You meet Camille for brunch where she spends an unreasonable amount of time trying to decide what you should wear tomorrow.
“You’re acting like this is a red carpet,” you tell her as she leans back in her chair, studying you with the kind of focus that would make sense if she were planning a photoshoot instead of brunch.
“It might as well be,” she says, completely serious while scrolling through her phone. “This is a second date.”
You laugh and shake your head, but she continues anyway, holding up different outfit ideas and explaining her reasoning like it’s a full strategy meeting.
By the time you get home that evening the city has that quiet Sunday night feeling where everything slows down just enough that you start noticing the coming week creeping in.
You tidy your apartment a little, mostly as a distraction, and eventually settle onto the couch with a book you read three pages of before realizing you’ve absorbed none of it.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.
You glance at it automatically.
Harry.
Your heart jumps before you even open it.
You pick up the phone.
Made it to the city.
A smile spreads across your face before you even start typing.
Already?
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Flight got in early.
You lean back into the couch cushions.
Welcome back.
There’s a short pause before another message appears.
Still good for tomorrow?
You glance at the clock, then back at the screen.
Yes.
Another bubble appears.
Good.
You set the phone down on the coffee table and stare at it for a moment longer than necessary, the glow of the screen fading as it locks again. The apartment is quiet in that particular Sunday night way where everything feels paused for a second before the week starts again. Outside your window the city is still moving, distant traffic humming and someone laughing somewhere down the block, but inside your living room the silence feels heavier now that you know he’s back in the city.
Tomorrow.
You lean your head back against the couch and let out a slow breath, letting the thought settle in. A second date. The words still feel slightly surreal when you say them in your head. A few days ago you were standing on a street corner debating whether to answer a call from a number you didn’t recognize. Now you’re sitting here on a Sunday night knowing you’ll see him again in less than twenty four hours.
You pick up your book again and try to read, but your eyes move over the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word. Eventually you give up and set it aside, pushing yourself up from the couch and wandering into your bedroom instead.
Your closet door slides open and you stand there for a moment looking at the options like they might magically arrange themselves into the right answer. Camille’s voice echoes faintly in your head from brunch earlier, her dramatic commentary about outfits and second dates still fresh enough to make you smile.
“You’re acting like this is a red carpet,” you had told her.
“It might as well be,” she replied.
You shake your head and pull out the outfit the two of you eventually landed on, holding it up briefly before laying it carefully over the back of the chair. Seeing it there makes the plan feel more real, less hypothetical.
Your phone buzzes again from the living room.
Your heart jumps immediately and you walk back out faster than you intended, picking it up from the coffee table.
Harry.
You open the message.
Settled into the hotel.
A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth.
Hope it’s cozy for you.
A moment passes before the typing bubble appears again.
You watch it blink on and off, curiosity building as the next message appears.
Is it wrong that I kind of want to see you tonight?
You stare at the screen for a second, completely caught off guard by the question.
Your heart does an immediate, inconvenient flip.
You read it again just to make sure you didn’t imagine it.
Is it wrong that I kind of want to see you tonight.
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quiet but incredulous, and you sink back onto the couch while you think about what to say. The plan had been tomorrow. That was the timeline. That was the reasonable, well paced version of events.
And yet the thought of seeing him tonight sends a warm ripple through your chest.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before you start typing.
Wrong might be a strong word.
You hit send before you can overthink it, watching as the message disappears into the conversation.
You stare at the screen for a moment after sending it, the quiet of your apartment suddenly feeling a little too still. The message sits there for a second before the typing bubble appears again, blinking on and off like he’s reconsidering how much to say.
Then the next message comes through.
I know we said tomorrow.
You can almost hear the slight sheepishness in it.
Another bubble appears.
But I just got in and the city feels too quiet.
You shift your legs up onto the couch, tucking them underneath you as you read.
A third message follows.
Thought I’d ask.
Your stomach flips.
You glance back up at the ceiling for a second like the answer might be written somewhere up there. The plan had been tomorrow. That was the reasonable version of this. The paced, sensible one.
Instead you’re sitting on your couch with your heart doing something wildly unhelpful while a pop star casually asks if he can see you tonight.
You look back down at your phone just as the typing bubble appears again.
You’re probably tired.
A quiet laugh slips out of you.
I’m not, you type.
There’s a brief pause on the other end before the bubble returns.
Are you sure?
You glance around your apartment, taking in the quiet room, the outfit hanging over the back of your chair in the bedroom that you had carefully set aside for tomorrow.
You smile.
I think I can handle one spontaneous decision.
The response comes quickly this time.
I’m glad you said that.
You feel that same warm ripple again, the anticipation settling in where the earlier nerves used to be.
What did you have in mind, you ask.
The typing bubble flickers once more.
Nothing complicated.
Another message follows right after.
Maybe a walk.
You tilt your head slightly at the simplicity of it.
You flew back to New York for a walk.
Don’t sound so unimpressed.
You laugh softly.
I’m not.
There’s a small pause before his next message appears.
If you’re up for it.
You glance toward the window where the city lights glow faintly through the glass, the quiet hum of traffic still drifting up from the street below.
The idea of stepping outside again, of seeing him tonight instead of waiting for tomorrow, suddenly feels far more appealing than staying on your couch pretending to read.
Your fingers move before you can second guess it.
Where?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Central Park. West side entrance.
You read it twice, like seeing the words again might make the moment feel less surreal.
Give me twenty minutes.
Your heart jumps.
You sit up straighter on the couch, suddenly aware that you are currently wearing an old sweatshirt and socks that definitely do not belong in the category of spontaneous nighttime walks with someone you are very interested in.
Okay, you type.
The second you hit send you’re already standing up.
Your apartment shifts from quiet Sunday evening to low level chaos in about ten seconds. You move quickly through the living room and into your bedroom, mentally cataloguing options as you go. The outfit you had carefully laid out for tomorrow is still draped over the chair, looking far too intentional for what is now a late night walk through Central Park.
You pause for a second, staring at it.
“No,” you say quietly to yourself.
This needs to look like you didn’t panic.
You pull open your dresser and reach for something easier. Dark jeans. A soft sweater that hangs just loose enough to feel comfortable without looking sloppy. You run a hand through your hair while you walk past the mirror, pausing long enough to smooth it down and check that you at least look like someone who planned to leave the house tonight.
Your phone buzzes again on the bed behind you.
You turn back immediately.
Leaving now.
Your stomach flips.
Me too, you reply.
You grab your coat, slip your phone into your pocket, and head for the door before you can talk yourself out of how ridiculous this entire situation feels.
The hallway outside your apartment is quiet, the kind of still that only happens late on a Sunday night when most people have already settled in for the week ahead. Your footsteps echo lightly as you make your way down the stairs and push through the building’s front door into the cool evening air.
The city feels different at night.
Not quieter exactly, but softer somehow. The traffic is lighter, conversations drifting out of restaurants and bars as people linger over late dinners. You pull your coat a little tighter as you start walking toward the park, your mind moving faster than your feet.
You are meeting Harry Styles in Central Park for a walk.
You laugh under your breath just thinking it.
A few blocks pass before you realize you’re checking your phone every thirty seconds like someone waiting for a ride share to appear on a map. Eventually you force yourself to stop and just walk.
The park entrance comes into view ahead of you, the tall trees forming dark shapes against the glow of the city lights behind them. A couple walks past you with a dog, their conversation fading as they move toward the street.
You slow slightly as you approach the entrance, scanning the path without meaning to.
For a moment you wonder if you’re early.
Then you see him.
He’s leaning casually against the stone railing near the path, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat, his hair slightly windblown like he’s been standing there for a few minutes already. There’s something almost unfair about how easily he blends into the scene, like he belongs to the city in a way that makes him look completely natural standing there under the park lights.
He spots you at the same moment.
The small smile that spreads across his face is immediate.
You walk the last few steps toward him, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat again.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.”
He pushes away from the railing, stepping closer.
“I’m glad you said yes, I know it’s late.”
You smile, hands tucked into your coat pockets.
“I’m glad you asked.”
For a moment neither of you move, the quiet of the park settling around you while the city hums softly beyond the trees.
Then he gestures toward the path.
“Walk?”
You nod.
And just like that the two of you start moving deeper into the park together, the gravel crunching lightly under your shoes as the lights of the street fade behind you.
The path curves gently as you move farther into the park, the noise of the city softening behind the trees until it becomes more of a distant hum than actual traffic. Lamps line the walkway in warm pools of light that stretch across the gravel, and every so often the wind moves through the branches above you with a quiet rustling sound that makes the entire park feel calmer than the streets just outside it.
For the first few moments you simply walk.
Not awkwardly. Just adjusting to the strange fact that you’re next to each other again after a week of messages and one date that ended faster than either of you expected.
He glances over at you.
“You look different.”
Your eyebrows lift.
“Different good?”
“Different from the other night, but yes. Good.”
You glance down at yourself like the sweater might explain something.
“I didn’t exactly plan this outfit.”
“I know.”
You look back at him.
“You know?”
“You texted back too fast,” he says with a slight smile. “That’s how I knew you were scrambling.”
You laugh out loud.
“That’s rude.”
“It’s observational.”
“I had a perfectly good outfit ready for tomorrow,” you tell him. “You disrupted the entire plan.”
The path opens slightly ahead where a small clearing lets the skyline peek through the trees in the distance. The lights glow faintly above the dark outline of the park, and for a moment both of you slow without saying anything.
Eventually he asks, “How was your weekend.”
“Pretty normal,” you say.
“Oh yeah?”
“Laundry. Coffee. Camille interrogating me about you.”
He laughs.
“She is very proud of the Raya code.”
“I owe her then.”
“Please don’t encourage her,” you say quickly. “She’ll start expecting thank you notes.”
He smiles at that.
“I had a pretty quiet weekend too,” he says.
You glance over.
“That surprises me.”
“Why.”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I assume your life is usually… louder.”
“It is,” he says. “That’s why I like coming here.”
You look around at the path, the trees, the quiet space stretching out around you.
“This is your version of normal.”
“For tonight,” he says.
A comfortable silence settles between you as you keep walking. Not the kind that feels empty, just a moment where neither of you feels the need to rush the conversation forward.
Eventually he nudges it again.
“So,” he says, glancing over at you, “do I get the official tour tomorrow or did tonight count.”
You smile.
“This was just the preview.”
“Good.”
“You still have to earn the full tour.”
“And how does one do that.”
You pretend to think about it.
“Well,” you say slowly, “not getting lost would be a good start.”
He laughs quietly.
“That feels like a challenge.”
“Everything in this city is a challenge.”
The path bends again and you pass a couple walking a dog, the leash stretching across the walkway as the dog stops to investigate something near the edge of the grass. The owner apologizes as they pull it back and you both step around them before continuing on.
After a few more minutes you slow your pace, glancing toward the streetlights glowing through the trees ahead.
“You hungry?” you ask.
He looks over.
“Always.”
You smile.
“Good.”
You turn toward the park exit and start leading the way back toward the street.
“I guess I can start the tour tonight after all.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, stepping out onto the sidewalk and turning down a quieter block lined with older buildings. “There’s a place a few blocks from here.”
“What kind of place.”
You glance back at him with a small grin.
“The kind that doesn’t look impressive at all from the outside.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It’s a hole in the wall pizza spot,” you say. “The best one I know.”
He nods immediately like that’s the easiest decision he’s made all day.
“I trust your expertise.”
The two of you walk the rest of the way down the block together, the bright lights of the tiny shop coming into view ahead. Through the window you can see the glow of the ovens and a man behind the counter sliding a fresh pie onto the counter.
You glance over at him with a satisfied little smile.
“Welcome to the real tour.”
The bell above the door gives a tired little jingle as you push it open, the sound barely audible over the low hum of an old refrigerator somewhere behind the counter. The place is small in the way only real neighborhood pizza shops are, narrow with a few tiny tables pushed up against the wall and a long glass case stretching across the counter that holds rows of slices under warm yellow lights.
The air is thick with the smell of baked dough, tomato sauce, and something faintly sweet that’s probably been drifting out of the dessert case all day.
It isn’t polished. The tile floor has seen better decades, and the menu board above the counter is a mix of faded letters and handwritten additions taped into the corners. One of the tables near the window wobbles slightly when a guy in a Yankees cap shifts his weight, and the soda fridge in the corner rattles every few seconds like it’s considering retirement.
Behind the counter an older Italian man stands with his arms folded, watching the two of you walk in with the quiet authority of someone who has been working in the same place for thirty years and intends to continue doing so until they die.
He squints at you for a second.
“Late night pizza?” he asks.
You smile.
“Always.”
He nods like that’s the correct answer and reaches for a paper plate without asking another question.
You step up to the counter and glance back at Harry, who is taking the whole place in with clear amusement, his eyes moving over the slightly crooked menu board and the stack of flour bags tucked against the wall.
“So,” you say, turning toward him. “What do you want.”
He looks at you immediately.
“I feel like I should let you decide.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“That’s a lot of trust.”
“You’re the local,” he says with an easy shrug. “I’m following your lead.”
You turn back toward the counter, considering the options for half a second before nodding.
“Alright,” you say. “We’re going classic.”
The man behind the counter slides open the glass case.
“Two cheese,” you tell him. “And two cannolis.”
He nods approvingly like you’ve passed some kind of test and reaches for the slices with a metal spatula, sliding them into the oven for a quick reheat.
Harry leans slightly closer to you while you wait, lowering his voice just enough that it doesn’t carry across the room.
“This is already better than most restaurants I get dragged to.”
You glance sideways at him.
“Because it’s not trying to impress you.”
“Exactly.”
A minute later the man pulls the slices out and slides them onto paper plates before adding two cannolis wrapped in wax paper and pushing the whole thing across the counter.
You hand over a few bills and grab the plates before Harry can even reach for his wallet.
He notices immediately.
“You didn’t let me pay.”
“You’re the guest,” you say simply.
“That’s not how dates work.”
You shrug.
“You asked for the local experience.”
He laughs softly as you lead him over to one of the tiny tables by the window.
You set the plates down and slide one toward him.
“A slice of cheese,” you say. “The only correct first order.”
He studies it for a second before picking it up.
“You’re very confident about this.”
“You’ll understand in about thirty seconds.”
He takes a bite.
For a second he just stands there chewing while you watch him with the quiet satisfaction of someone who already knows the outcome.
Then his eyebrows lift slightly.
“Okay,” he says slowly.
You grin.
“Right?”
He nods once, looking down at the slice again like he’s reassessing something.
“That’s very good.”
You pick up your own slice.
“See,” you say. “Tour guide knows what she’s doing.”
He takes another bite before saying anything, folding the slice the way people here do without thinking about it. The cheese stretches for a moment before breaking cleanly, and he chews slowly, looking down at it like he’s considering something.
Then he nods once.
“That’s very good.”
You smile slightly and take another bite of your own slice.
“I told you.”
For a minute the two of you eat quietly, the small shop carrying on around you in its usual rhythm. The oven door opens and shuts behind the counter, the soda fridge hums steadily in the corner, and every so often someone passes by the front window, their footsteps muffled by the glass.
Harry glances around the room again, taking in the slightly crooked menu board, the narrow tables, the flour bags stacked near the wall.
“It’s nice,” he says after a moment. “Feels real.”
“That’s why I like it,” you reply.
You brush a few crumbs from the paper plate and lean back in your chair.
“I’ve been coming here for years,” you add. “Usually late after work when everything else is closed.”
He nods like that makes sense.
The man behind the counter calls something in Italian toward the kitchen and slides another tray of slices into the glass case. The smell of fresh dough drifts across the room again, warm and familiar.
Harry wipes his hands on a napkin and looks back at you.
“You weren’t exaggerating about this place.”
You shrug lightly.
“It’s one of those spots people only find if someone brings them.”
He nods again, like he understands exactly what you mean.
You reach for the cannoli and slide the small wax paper package toward him.
“You should try that too.”
He unwraps it carefully and takes a bite, pausing for a second before giving a quiet laugh under his breath.
“That’s dangerous.”
You smile.
“Right?”
He sets the rest of it back down on the paper and leans back slightly in the chair, looking more relaxed now than when the two of you first walked in.
Outside the window the street has grown quieter, the late night crowd thinning as the city settles in.
You glance toward the clock near the counter.
“Technically this was the beginning of your tour,” you say.
He looks back at you.
“Just the beginning?”
You nod.
“Tomorrow is the actual tour.”
He considers that for a moment, then gives a small nod.
“Good.”
You both finish the last of the pizza slowly, the conversation drifting into easier things as the night settles around you.
By the time you stand up to leave, the shop has grown nearly empty, the older man behind the counter already stacking trays and wiping down the glass case.
When you push open the door the bell jingles softly again, the cool night air meeting you on the sidewalk.
For a second you both pause under the streetlight, the quiet stretch of the block glowing faintly in the distance.
Tomorrow suddenly feels very close.
The bell gives its soft, tired jingle again as the two of you step back out onto the sidewalk, the warm air of the pizza shop fading behind you the moment the door swings closed. The night has settled fully now, the street quieter than when you first walked in. A few cars pass at the far end of the block and somewhere nearby someone is dragging a metal chair across pavement, the sound echoing briefly before disappearing again.
For a moment you both just stand there beneath the streetlight, the glow from the shop window spilling out behind you.
You glance down the street and then back at him.
“So,” you say, adjusting your coat slightly, “where’s your hotel?”
He turns and points casually down the block.
“Couple streets that way.”
You follow the direction with your eyes, nodding.
“That’s close.”
Then he gestures in the opposite direction.
“And you?”
You point back the way you came, toward the darker stretch of street leading toward your neighborhood.
“That way,” you say. “Short walk.”
He looks down the block for a second and then back at you, considering it.
“I’ll walk you back.”
You blink, caught slightly off guard by the immediacy of it.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “It’s really not far.”
“That’s not the point.”
You smile faintly at the seriousness in his voice.
“It’s New York,” you reply. “People walk home alone all the time.”
He shakes his head a little.
“Still.”
You tuck your hands into your coat pockets and tilt your head at him.
“You realize it’s not exactly safe for you either.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“You’re an international pop star,” you point out. “You walking around the city at midnight probably comes with its own risks.”
For a second he just looks at you.
Then he laughs, the sound easy and warm in the quiet street.
“Fair enough.”
You both stand there another moment, the night stretching comfortably between you.
Finally he glances down your street again and then back toward his.
“Well,” he says, “at least we both made it this far safely.”
You smile.
“So far.”
For a moment neither of you move.
The street is quiet, the glow from the pizza shop window behind you fading as the owner inside begins stacking chairs and wiping down the counter. A car passes slowly at the end of the block, headlights sliding across the pavement before disappearing around the corner.
You both know this is the part where the night ends.
You shift your weight slightly and glance down your street again.
“Well,” you say softly.
“Well,” he echoes.
There’s a small pause where it feels like something else might be said, but neither of you rush it.
Then he steps forward and pulls you into a hug.
It’s warm and easy, the kind that lingers just a second longer than a polite goodbye. Your arms wrap around him automatically and for a moment you just stand there like that beneath the streetlight, the quiet of the city stretching around you.
When you pull back he’s still smiling slightly.
“I had a really good time tonight,” he says.
“You said you wanted a walk,” you reply. “I upgraded it.”
“Good call.”
You hesitate for a second, suddenly aware again that tomorrow technically still exists. The plan. The tour.
“So,” you say, tucking your hands back into your coat pockets, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I guess you will.”
Another small pause settles between you, neither of you quite stepping away yet.
Then finally he nods toward your street.
“Text me when you get home.”
“You’re still doing the protective thing.”
“Just covering my bases.”
You smile.
“Goodnight, Harry.”
“Goodnight.”
You both turn at almost the exact same moment, heading in opposite directions down the block.
You make it about four steps.
Maybe five.
Then something in your chest tightens suddenly, a rush of adrenaline hitting you so quickly you stop walking without even thinking about it.
You turn around.
He’s already halfway down the sidewalk, hands in his coat pockets, head slightly down as he walks.
Your heart is pounding now.
Before your brain can catch up, you call out.
“Harry!”
He stops immediately and turns around.
“What—”
You don’t give him time to finish.
You’re already moving, jogging back across the distance between you with a burst of nervous energy that feels completely irrational and completely necessary at the same time.
He looks slightly surprised for half a second as you reach him.
And then you kiss him.
It’s sudden and unplanned and far more certain than anything you expected to do when you left your apartment earlier that night. Your hands find his coat automatically, pulling him slightly closer as your lips meet his.
For a moment he freezes in surprise.
Then he kisses you back.
The city fades into the background again, the quiet street and the glow of the streetlight blurring into something distant while the kiss deepens just slightly, enough to make the moment feel real instead of impulsive.
When you finally pull back, both of you are a little breathless.
He’s looking at you like he’s still catching up to what just happened.
You take a small step back, suddenly aware of the adrenaline still racing through you.
