summary: when a stubbornly charming chef keeps showing up in his ER, Dr. Jack Abbot finds it harder and harder to ignore the pull toward something—or someone—he didn't plan for…
warnings/tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine, food as a love language, age gap, fainting/medical emergency, mild language
word count: 5.5k
a/n: my new hyperfixation i guess ???
“Fuck,” you grumbled, clutching your thumb in a blood-soaked kitchen towel, the fibers more crimson than cotton. The pain throbbed in pulses, each step sending a sharp reminder up your arm. You kept your eyes on the linoleum floors, following the resident as he led you deeper into the chaos of the emergency department and into an exam room.
“Oh,” the resident, Student Doctor Whittaker, said, his voice pitchy as he glanced at the kitchen towel. He quickly averted his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yeah, maybe we should keep that wrapped.”
You arched a brow at him, settling onto the exam table as the paper crinkled beneath you. The air in the room smelled sterile – alcohol wipes, latex gloves, and that faint antiseptic sting. “You’re not afraid of a little blood, are you? Because hate to be the one to tell you – you might be in the wrong profession.”
He gave a nervous laugh. “No, no – just… been a rough day,” he said, the humor dropping from his voice. “Can’t really handle another loss.”
You paused, tone softening. “Oh. Well, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” You glanced down at the towel, now visibly seeping. “Did you get a hold of my sister?”
He shook his head, eyes already shifting toward the door. “I tried, but she’s in the OR; still scrubbed in. But, don’t worry; Dr. Abbot is the attending on call tonight. He’s one of the best – ”
You frowned. “Abbot? Where’s Robby?”
Before he could answer, the door opened and a tall man entered the room, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves with a practiced snap. His scrubs were black, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his expression was carved from stone. His salt-and-pepper hair was short but wavy; he easily had fifteen or twenty years on you… Still, he was cute.
“Well,” he began, his voice low and even, “It’s almost nine, and contrary to popular belief, even Robby needs to go home and rest. So, lucky you – you get me.”
You blinked. “Wow, smart and pretty. Lucky me indeed.”
He gave a subtle eye roll before his gaze met yours – steady, unreadable, deeply hazel. “So, what’ve we got?”
Whittaker stumbled to present. “Uh – female, 27. Has a deep laceration on her thumb. Cut it open on a grater – ”
“Mandoline slicer,” you corrected.
Abbot moved toward you, taking a seat on the wheeled stool. As he unwrapped your hand, you couldn’t help but ask, “Careful – you’re not gonna get queasy, too, are you?”
Without missing a beat, he stoically answered, “Only if this turns into something worse than a hand injury… like small talk.”
You let out a surprised laugh, half from the pain, half from how dryly he delivered the line.
“You’re funny,” you grinned. “I like you.”
He said nothing in response, merely peeled the cloth away, sticky and crimson, revealing the deep gash across the side of your thumb. Cold air kissed the open skin, and you hissed. He examined it without a flinch, gently turning your hand between his fingers.
“So, what were you doing with the mandoline slicer?”
“I’m a chef,” you answered. “The prep rush was insane today – guess my hand just slipped.”
He pressed carefully at the space between your thumb and index finger. You flinched, instinctively pulling back, but his other hand caught yours firmly, anchoring it.
“What?” you asked, watching his expression shift as he looked up.
“Stitches,” he decided.
“Fuck that.”
He arched his brow. “It’s a deep cut; can’t just put a bandaid on it and kiss it better.”
“Well, that’s because you haven’t tried,” you flirted, finding it to be an easy distraction from the pain. Still, his face remained unchanged. “Come on, are you serious? You really can’t just wrap it up and call it a day? I have to get back before the dinner rush.”
“It’s not optional,” he informed. “It’s not gonna heal if it’s not stitched up.”
“Don’t worry,” Whittaker piped up again, voice chipper. “Dr. Abbot could do this in his sleep.”
“I could,” Abbot said, already reaching for gauze. “But Whittaker’s going to do it instead.”
“What?” You both asked, heads whipping to him.
“It’s a good learning opportunity,” he replied casually. “And Robby’s always goin’ on about how we’re a teaching hospital. Besides, it’s just a few stitches – a teenager could do it.”
“A teenager is about to do it,” you muttered.
“He’s older than you,” Abbot pointed out, making your frown set on him.
“I want you to do it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he got queasy just looking at the kitchen towel,” you explained. You and Abbot both turned to Whittaker, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “It’s either you, or I wait for my sister to finish surgery,” you stubbornly gave him an ultimatum. “And she told me about those patient satisfaction scores.” You let out a low whistle.
Abbot stared at you for a beat, then turned to the student doctor. “Whittaker.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Go get me the lidocaine.”
You grinned in victory before offering your hand back out to Abbot.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” he muttered, arms crossing.
“You and my sister should start a support group,” you shot back.
He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, maybe we will.”
When Whittaker returned, Abbot explained the procedure before getting to work: numbing first, then the sutures, probably six or seven. His voice was calm, precise. You clenched your other hand into a fist, eyes fixed anywhere but the needle. The sting of the lidocaine made your jaw tense.
“Ready?” Abbot asked. You nodded silently, lips pressed tight.
His hands were rough but skilled, careful – you could sense it.
As your eyes gazed over the room, they settled on the chain tucked beneath the neck of Abbot’s scrubs.
“Military?” you asked, voice quieter now as your free hand reached out to pull at the dog tags.
Without looking up, Abbot momentarily halted his work to swat your hand away. When your hand settled back by your side, he replied, “Used to be a medic. Liked the chaos so much, I went to med school for emergency medicine.”
You winced as one of the stitches tugged. “You good?” he asked, glancing up.
You gave him a wry look. “If I cry, will you hold my hand?”
“I’m already holding your hand,” he deadpanned.
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Then, buy me dinner? Or, let me buy you dinner, at Francesca.”
“Francesca?” Whittaker perked up. “Wait – you work there?” You nodded, smiling. “That’s cool. I’ve heard some of the other residents talking about it. They really love the food.”
You turned back to Abbot with a pointed smile. “See? Good food, good company – what more could you ask for?”
“Probably some peace and quiet,” he muttered. But, before you could press, he was already tying off the sutures and wrapping your hand with fresh gauze.
“So,” you said eventually, “what’s the damage?”
“You’re a rightie?” he asked; you nodded. “It’s your dominant hand. That, and the fact that restaurants have a high risk of infection – wet, hot, high-contact. It’s gonna take a minute to heal. Probably five days off work to initially heal and reduce strain; another five until you’re back to full-duty – and when you are, make sure you wear some sort of splint or gloves. Come back then and I’ll take ‘em out. Sound good?”
A week off work.
You already knew you weren’t waiting that long.
Still, you grinned up at him. “Whatever you say, handsome.”
Two weeks later––four days after you were meant to get your stitches out––you finally found yourself back in the hospital. You couldn’t say you missed the bright fluorescent lights or the constant beeping of machines – you weren’t sure how your sister did it every day.
You did, however, miss Dr. Tall, Dark, and Broody.
That’s what you’d started calling Dr. Abbot in all your conversations with your sister. She’d blinked at you, been less amused, and professionally corrected you every time you brought him up.
“You mean ‘Jack’?” She’d say, and you’d grinned at that, ready to use this ammunition against him.
And, even though you had every intention to return earlier so you could see Jack sooner, work at the restaurant had gotten busy. Between a busted oven and two line cooks calling out, you’d been elbow-deep in chaos. You’d barely been convinced by Eleni, your sous, to come back even now. She had to practically push you out the front door.
Taylor, the charge nurse who brought you in, gave a smile as she informed you, “Dr. Whittaker will be in in just a few minutes.”
Your spine straightened immediately. “Actually, can you get Dr. Abbot? Tall one with the storm cloud for a personality. You know the one.”
Taylor nearly dropped her tablet laughing. “Oh, I like you,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Let me see what I can do.”
Luckily, it seemed like a slow night in the ED––well, slower than usual––and in a few minutes, your request had been granted.
“You know,” Abbot said by way of greeting when he entered the room, “you don’t get to request a specific doctor in the ED. That’s not how it works.”
You tilted your head. “Yeah? Then how come you showed up?”
He ignored that. “Why didn’t you let Whittaker take them out?” He already sounded annoyed, and it brought you much more glee than it should’ve. “You know he’s perfectly capable of removing stitches. And putting them in.”
“And pass up another moment of your stellar bedside manner? Now, why would I do that… Jack?” You smiled sweetly.
His eyes flicked up fast at the sound of his first name. “I hate your sister,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
“She’s the best and you know it.”
Instead of arguing, Jack gently pulled the wrap from your hand. His fingertips were warm through the gloves, deliberate in their movements as he examined the injury.
“You didn’t wait the five days before going back to work,” he said flatly, frown setting in.
Your brows furrowed. “What are you talking about? Of course I did – In fact I – ”
You cut yourself off when you saw the look he gave you. All stern disapproval and low-simmering frustration – hot. And in a moment, you crumbled.
“Okay, okay, fine – but I took three days off! That has to count for something! I was going stir-crazy in my apartment, Jack.” You squirmed under his gaze.
He let out a deep sigh, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he grumbled, brows pinched slightly as he prepped the suture scissors in that deliberate, quiet way of his.
You couldn’t watch as he moved with steady practiced precision. Instead, your eyes settled back on his dog tags and after a moment of silence, you asked in a soft voice, “How could you tell? That I went back to work early?”
He met your eyes then, frowning. After a beat, he answered. “The skin around is red, irritated. The inflammation just started going down. You should’ve come in early if you were gonna go back to work. I said day 10.”
“I know.”
Dryly, he continued, “This is day fourteen.”
“I know, Jack.” You frowned now too. “You know, if you keep on like this, you’re not getting your present.”
That was when he noticed the light pink bag that sat on the chair by the exam table.
“I brought you something. As a thank you for stitching me up.”
Jack tilted his head to the side. “Not a bribe to soften the blow because you knew I’d know you went back to work early?”
You smiled up at him, this time in a way that asked for his forgiveness. “Why can’t it be both?”
Jack rolled his eyes, then began removing your stitches. “It’s healing,” he noted, “but slower than it should be. You pushed it too hard.”
“I was careful,” you defended. “I let Eleni do all the chopping and lifting heavy pans – I just ran the line… and plated.”
Jack hummed, observing. “You’re holding tension through your whole arm. That’s not careful.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but just then, he snipped one of the sutures and you flinched with a hiss of discomfort. His hands paused immediately, and his expression shifted – not annoyed this time, but concerned.
“Still hurts?” he asked, quieter.
You tried to play it off, half-laughing. “Hurts less than not being in the kitchen.”
Jack sighed again, shaking his head. “You think I’m impressed by your stubbornness?”
You gave a crooked grin. “No, but I think you like it.”
He didn’t answer, just focused on removing the next stitch. Silence stretched between you, the only sound the soft snip of scissors. When he finally leaned back, he said, “Okay, that’s the last one. Take it easy, okay? I mean it. Just plating for now – carefully.”
You lifted your head. “And if I don’t? You going to come hold my hand through the dinner rush?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “I’ll come by the kitchen if I have to.”
You watched him, smile growing. “Still thinking about saying yes to that dinner I offered?”
Just as quick, he quipped, “I’m thinking about you not landing in my ER again.”
Your brow rose. “Keep it up and you’re not getting the tiramisu.”
As he was wrapping your hand in new gauze, his gaze flickered up to meet yours. “Tiramisu?”
“My sister said you wouldn’t stop talking about it a few days ago. Got a craving.”
“Yeah, for DiAnoia’s,” Jack corrected.
When he was done wrapping your hand, you hopped off the exam table and offered him the light pink bag, with a tiramisu boxed inside.
“It’s better than DiAnoia’s,” you promised, already halfway to the door.
He snorted at that, not believing you. “But, be careful, it's sweet. Might clash with the whole brooding thing you’ve got going on.”
“I don’t brood,” he called after you.
You turned at the doorway, walking backward as you smirked. “Yeah? Tell that to your face.”
Then, you spun on your heel, feeling his gaze on you as you let the door swing closed behind you.
You couldn’t tell if the emergency room was changing or if you were just getting used to it. The fluorescent lights felt ambient now, the loud chatter muffled, and the beep of vital machines now felt distant.
“Miss me?” You grinned up at Jack as he strolled towards the nurse’s station. You leaned casually against the counter, trying not to let your excitement show too much.
Without looking up from the chart in his hands, he replied, “Still haven’t recovered from the last time.”
You glanced over at Taylor, who sat typing behind the station, and dropped her a wink. “That’s not a no,” you stage-whispered, giggling.
Jack finally looked at you then, eyes tired but alert, like your voice had stirred him awake. “What are you doing here?” he asked, handing off the chart to Taylor.
“What, can’t a girl visit her local cute, broody doctor?”
“I already told you I’m not that,” he frowned.
You tilted your head. “Cute?” you asked, pretending to be confused.
He narrowed his eyes on you. “Broody.”
“Right,” you nodded solemnly. “Of course not.”
The silence between you lingered a second longer than expected – long enough for you to catch the faint circles under his eyes, the crease between his brows. His scrubs looked wrinkled, like he’d been running nonstop since the start of shift. Your smile softened.
“I’m dropping some food off.”
His brows furrowed now. “For me?”
Your smile only widened, but faltered just a touch as you took in just how off he looked, a little out of rhythm. That bone-deep kind of tired. You wondered if he’d eaten at all tonight.
“For my sister,” you said lightly, though your feet were already carrying you toward the break room. You grabbed a paper plate and plastic fork, and returned just as quickly. You set the plate down and began undoing the takeaway box you’d packed.
“Wait,” Jack started, a note of warning in his voice – he already knew where this was going. You ignored him, and scooped a generous portion of pasta onto the plate before sliding it his way. The steam curled up toward Jack’s face.
“Try some.”
He sighed, saying your name like it was both a complaint and a surrender.
“Come on,” you coaxed. “Just a bite. And if you hate it, I’ll leave you alone.”
He gave you a long-suffering look – but brought the fork to his mouth anyway. The first bite had his eyes fluttering closed, just for a second. A soft sound escaped him – barely audible, but unmistakable. You caught it.
“That was a compliment,” you accused, pointing at him with a victorious grin. “I heard it! Everyone heard it!” You turned dramatically to Taylor, who watched with a dry amusement before shuffling over to a patient’s room.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Ok, hotshot, relax. It’s just pasta. Hard to mess it up.”
You scoffed. “You’d be surprised.” He shrugged, and you took it as a challenge. “Okay, then what? What can I make to convince you it’s not just luck – it’s these magic hands.” To make a point, you wiggled your fingers.
To your surprise, he actually gave it some thought. A flicker of memory seemed to pass through him. His voice was quieter when he spoke.
“There was this dish we used to get when I was in the military – in this little town outside Kabul. Locals made it in the market stalls. It was kind of like a lamb stew, over some flatbread. Spicy. Kinda messy to eat. But damn good.”
You blinked, surprised he’d offered to share something so personal. You cleared your throat, softly asking, “You were stationed in Afghanistan?”
Realizing the slip-up, Jack shrugged it off like he regretted saying anything. His eyes drifted to a fixed point behind you.
“Jack,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand over his, which rested on the counter of the nurse’s station. The gentle tone of your voice kept him from pulling his hand out from underneath yours. If anything, that, alongside the glint in your big eyes, made him want to spill everything.
“It was the 68W program – for combat medics,” he revealed, using his free hand to pull the dog tags from under his scrub top. “Standard issue accessory.”
“I disagree,” you murmured, playful but sincere. “I’ve heard medics are some of the toughest ones in the room.”
Jack let out a tiny almost-smile. “We were just the ones who didn’t get to shoot back.”
You paused, then asked, “What was it called? The dish.”
He thought for a second. “I don’t remember. I think maybe – palau something – or – I don’t know. Doesn't matter.”
You shook your head, heart melting. “If it stuck with you… it matters.”
Jack didn’t say anything to that, but his gaze found yours again – direct. You caught him staring. He didn’t look away.
“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to think you like me,” you teased, tone light.
He didn’t even deny it, just shook his head – either in denial or disbelief, you couldn’t tell.
“That’s okay. I like you enough for the both of us.”
That brought a pink tinge to his cheeks.
Instead of bringing attention to it, you simply offered a half-smile. “Okay. Challenge accepted. One mystery lamb dish, coming up.”
At that, Jack raised a skeptical brow. “You’re gonna recreate something I haven’t eaten in ten years, from a place you’ve never been, with no recipe?”
You shrugged. “Maybe it’ll finally convince you to come to the restaurant.”
And there it was – just for a second. The edge of a smile. Maybe even the beginning of a laugh. You nudged his side with your elbow.
“Admit it. You’re rooting for me.”
Jack just shook his head, but didn’t speak. Didn’t stop smiling either. Didn’t even say no.
The next time Jack saw you in the hospital, the occasion was less momentous. You didn’t have a light pink box with the Francesca logo on it and a sweet treat––or Afghani dish––inside. You weren’t your happy, bubbly self jumping around the place. Forget jumping, you weren’t even on your feet.
You were in a hospital bed, fluids pumping steadily through an IV line taped to your arm. Your sister, elbows resting on the edge of the bed, was scrolling through her phone with the ease of someone used to hospitals – until Jack stumbled in.
His eyes immediately found yours, and whatever breath he’d been holding on the way in came out sharp.
“Every day you’re here – you come and find me. Every day,” he said, voice low and urgent. “So, what changed today? Why was Robby the one to tell me you fainted?”
You and your sister exchanged a glance. She was already putting her phone down, her expression turning serious.
“Because it literally happened an hour ago…?” you offered, wincing a little. “And that’s still day shift.”
Jack raked a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every sharp movement.
“Robby had it covered,” your sister said, trying to calm Jack.
It didn’t help.
“Did he do an ECG?”
“Yes.”
“Echocardiogram?”
“Yes, Jack,” she sighed.
“What about a head CT?”
You frowned. “Why would he do a CT?”
“Because you probably hit your head when you fell.”
You let out a breath, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t hit my head.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Eleni caught me.”
Jack’s eyes bounced between you and your sister. “This happened at work?” You nodded, slowly. “Did this happen because of work?”
Suddenly, you were having a hard time meeting his eye.
To make matters worse, your sister answered for you. “She was covering for one of the other line chefs, stressed about a critic visit – Eleni said she was barely sleeping – ”
“The critic’s a big deal!” you defended, “and Luca was getting burnt out. He needed a break.”
“No, babe,” your sister cut in, not unkindly, “You need a break.”
Jack stepped closer to the bed, scanning the IV bag. His fingers brushed against your arm, checking the line, then pressing gently against your wrist. “Did Robby hook her up to saline?”
Your sister nodded.
“What about electrolytes? She’s dehydrated.”
“He – ” Your sister paused, then asked, a little surprised, “How did you know that?”
“Her lips are dry,” Jack responded, as if it was obvious. “She squints every time she looks up at the lights. And her leg is tense – probably cramping earlier.”
You and your sister shared another look, then you grinned up at him, pushing his hand away from your arm to grab it in yours, warm and steady. “What?” he asked, brow furrowed.
“You were worried about me,” you grinned, all smiles and no apology.
He exhaled deeply, rubbing his free hand defeatedly over his face. “Oh, my God. You fainted and this is what you’re focused on?”
You gave him a small shrug. “I’m fine.”
And, truthfully, you were starting to feel better. Color was returning to your cheeks, and the constant throb behind your eyes had dulled to a whisper. The IVs were helping; the rest, too.
A voice crackled over the intercom, paging your sister to OR 3. She stood, hesitating.
“Go,” you said, waving her off. “I’ll be fine. Go back to work.”
“Fine, but tell someone to page me when they discharge you. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”
You rolled your eyes but nevertheless nodded. As she stepped out, Jack moved to sit on the edge of the chair beside your bed, one hand running along the railing.
“How mad do you think she’s gonna be when I tell her you’re not going anywhere? I’m keeping you overnight.”
Your head whipped toward him. “What? Why?”
“For observation. I want to make sure it really was stress-related and not some underlying medical condition.”
You groaned, tilting your head back against your pillow. “Jack,” you groaned, frustrated by this decision.
“Oh, I know,” he mocked gently. “How could I do this to you? Keeping you overnight to make sure you’re healthy? I’m the worst.”
You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as dramatically as you could manage while tethered to an IV.
“Don’t be like that,” he tried, his hand uncrossing yours. Then, the same hand lifted to gently cup your cheek. “You know, you didn’t have to faint just to get my attention. Could’ve just called.”
The blush that crept to your cheeks was immediate, and you cleared your throat, looking away. “Dr. Abbot with the jokes – never thought the day would come.”
“What can I say?” he replied with a shrug. “I’m a complex guy.”
He tugged your blanket higher, gently tucking it around you like it was second nature. “Now, get some sleep. I’ll come check on you in a bit.”
You nodded, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settle behind your eyes. As Jack slipped out, he left the curtain half-open so he could keep an eye on you from the nurse’s station or while he was passing by to other patient rooms.
Instead, you found your eyes drifting to him. Even through the haze of sleep, you watched him move through the ED like a controlled current – swift, focused, unshakable. He was in full command, teaching, managing, healing. Something about how intense yet calm he was eventually lulled you to sleep.
When you woke again, sunlight was peeking through the slats of the blinds, and Jack was beside your bed, carefully unhooking the IV line.
“Morning,” he greeted, voice soft as it pulled you from your deep slumber. “How are you feeling?”
You rubbed at the sleep in your eyes and let out a groggy sigh “Wow, thought I died and went to broody heaven.”
“I’ll take that as ‘fine,’” he said dryly, grabbing a paper cup of water he’d filled for you and maneuvering the straw toward your lips like it was muscle memory.
“Can I go home now?”
He nodded, his eyes still scanning your vitals, “Soon. Just gotta fill out your discharge paperwork and then shift’s over. I’ll drive you home.”
“Drive me home? I’m wearing you down, old man,” you grinned sleepily up at him.
He rolled his eyes, raising a hand to press the back of it to your forehead. “You feel okay? No headache? Dizziness? Nausea?”
“Good as new,” you promised, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “Must be these magic hands.”
He smiled at that, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles before letting go.
“So,” you began as he signed off on your chart, “does being injured get me privileges?”
He arched a brow. “What kind of privileges?”
“Favors,” you said with a shrug. “Like you finally coming to the restaurant.”
Jack let out a low groan, head shaking. “It’s too early for this – you’re never gonna let that go, are you?”
“Not till you say yes. And, as you know, I’m very persistent.”
“Oh, I do know,” he said, then held his hand out. “Let me see your thumb.”
You blinked. “Why?”
Still, you offered it up. He examined it gently, brushing his fingers over the healing skin.
“When this heals completely, I’ll come to Francesca.”
You beamed. “In that case, let’s speed up the process…” You wiggled your thumb closer to his face. “Never did try that technique of kissing it better, huh?”
He gave you a look – but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. Then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb.
When he set it back down in your lap, your stomach fluttered.
“Now, can I take you home or are you going to make me do a blood oath first?”
“You’ve been burying the lede, Abbot,” you teased, making your presence known as you walked across the hospital rooftop and joined him on the concrete ledge. Your shoes scraped lightly against the gravel as you sat, legs swinging just off the edge.
He glanced over, brows furrowed in confusion. No one but Robby ever came up here.
“Taylor told me where you were,” you informed. “How many conversations have we had – and you never mentioned this place? Or the crazy views it has?”
The city was sprawled out below you, glittering the dark earth. A breeze tugged at your jacket, crisp with late night chill.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, checking his watch. 2:56am glowed dimly in the moonlight.
You shrugged, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.”
His concern was immediate, instinctual. “Is it the stitches? Are you feeling dehydrated?” He was already reaching for you, fingertips brushing your wrist as if searching for a pulse.
“No, Jack,” you laughed, pushing his hands away. “I’m fine. I just… woke up with a thought.”
He stilled, waiting for you to explain what thought could’ve roused you out of bed in the middle of the night and forced you here.
You reached behind you and retrieved a familiar pink Francesca bag, the paper crinkling softly in your hands. In thick Sharpie ink, you’d scrawled his name with a lopsided heart beside it. His brows lifted in disbelief.
“No fucking way,” he murmured, greedy fingers snatching the food container out of the bag and tossing the lid aside like it might disappear if he wasn’t fast enough.
Inside sat the Afghani dish Jack had told you about that one day at the nurse’s station. The rich, spiced aroma was carried through the night air – saffron, cumin, caramelized carrots.
“It’s called qabili palau,” you offered, watching him tear a piece of naan, scoop up a mouthful, and take a bite. The moment the flavors hit his tongue, his eyes immediately rolled to the back of his head and he exhaled a quiet sound that was half-groan, half-moan.
“If you’re making those kinds of noises at my cooking, just imagine my skill in the bedroom,” you teased, flashing him a grin.
That earned you a look – but not one you expected. Quiet, intense. His mouth twitched at the corner like he was trying not to smile, and then he went back for another bite. And another. You watched him eat in silence, the wind occasionally rustling his curls, and you couldn’t help but feel the intimacy of the moment, on this quiet rooftop, and this ridiculous hour.
He quietly finished the food, sharing it with you. And, when the food was gone, his eyes drifted out across the skyline. He looked… lighter somehow. And it reminded you why you loved being a chef – because food had the power to take people home, even when they were miles and years away.
You nudged him. “Oh – I almost forgot!” You excitedly held your hand up like a prize, thumb out. The skin had healed cleanly, leaving not even a scar behind. “All better.”
His eyes found yours, amusement dancing in them. “I’m pretty sure I said when it’s healed, not the exact moment it is.”
You scooted closer to him, shoulders brushing, as you accused, “Oh, no. You’re not gonna get out of this.”
He shook his head at you, like he had countless times before, but this time… this time the look in his eyes changed. Slowed. Softened. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, sitting here, choosing him.
His smile faded as he lifted a hand to your face, brushing a windblown strand of hair behind your ear. “I wouldn’t want to,” he said softly.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed – not some messy, passionate crush. It was slow, intentional. The kind of kiss that people waited a long, long time for. His lips were warm, and soft, and they fit perfectly against yours.
You melted into it, one hand curling around the front of his scrubs as the city disappeared beneath your closed eyelids. The hospital lights, the stars, the hum of distant traffic – it all faded until it was just the two of you. Just Jack.
When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far – just rested his forehead against yours, his breath brushing across your skin as he murmured, “You know, you scare the hell out of me. Make it hard to stay behind the lines I drew.”
You smiled softly at that, brushing your thumb over the edge of his jaw. “Good. Means it’s real.”
There was a beat of quiet. Then, he gently took your hand again, turning it over to inspect your healed thumb. You rested your head against his shoulder, grinning – you both knew exactly what this meant.
He sighed dramatically, mocking defeat. “What’s the dress code?”
A/N: this one you guys!!! i literally wrote it in 24 hours which is insane but idc, i got into the flow with this one!!! its also for the plus size girlies who think they are not worthy of the love they deserve 🫶
WORD COUNT: 14.7k
PAIRING: college!hockey!harry x plus-size!bestfriend!reader
WARNING: sexual content
SUMMARY: You have always refused to let yourself even think about falling for your best friend, but then suddenly you come to the realization you failed at that horribly. Even though you've been best friends for what feels like forever you're in two very different leagues, so you're eager to get over these inconvenient feeling, though that mission turns out to be harder than you expected it to be.
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
The cafeteria is pure chaos between twelve and one o’clock, so you usually try to arrive as early as possible after your Curatorial Studies class on Wednesdays to avoid the endless line and no free table situation, but today you had to discuss a few things with professor Didak about your last essay, so by the time you’re nearing the food hall it’s packed.
With a defeated sigh you join the line and pull out your phone to kill the time with some empty scrolling, but a notification pops up on your screen right when you open TikTok.
HARRY: where are uuuuu???
Y/N: in line, u?
HARRY: front of the line, come join us!!
Chewing on your bottom lip you take a look at the line ahead of you. Normally you hate those who cut the line and join their friends, but you only have about forty minutes before your next class, so you’re kind of in a rush. Taking a deep breath you step out of the line and start walking ahead.
As you near the front you immediately spot him.
Harry has been your best friend since sixth grade when he transferred to your school and he was sat next to you. On his first day you spotted the stack of Pokemon cards in his bag, which you pointed out excitedly. His ears turned bright red and he tried to make you believe it wasn’t his, but then you told him you collected them as well and if he wanted to you could exchange cards. And boom, just like that you became the best of friends.
Even though in high school it started to become pretty obvious that the two of you would lean into different crowds, Harry started playing hockey on a more serious level, so he became a popular athlete in school while you decided to explore your love for art and everything related. He spent most of his time in practice on the ice and you were a frequent in the art room painting or drawing or in the library reading books about art history.
But despite the diversion, you still remained friends. Not once did you feel like he felt embarrassed to hang out with someone who wasn’t as popular as he was, he invited you to every party, every outing and always made sure to spend time with you even when you both were busy with your studies. Now you’re college juniors, Harry is an Econ major and captain of the hockey team, a damn good one even despite the doubts whether a junior could take up on the role and you’re a Fine Arts major with the intention of starting your masters in Studio Art soon, but you’re still the best of friends, even though neither of you collects Pokemon cards anymore.
As you walk up to him and his teammates at the front of the line you get a few dirty stares thrown at you from girls, but you try your best to ignore. It’s been like that since forever, plenty of girls have shown their jealousy over how close you are with Harry, girls who wanted his attention, but ended up not even making an impression on him, though it was never like that between you and him.
“Hey,” you tap on his shoulder lightly. His head whips around and a goofy smile stretches across his face as he sees you.
“Honey Lemon!” he beams, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing you to his side as he pulls you next to him in line. The nickname will never stop being silly, he is the only one calling you that. He started using it after he found out Big Hero 6 was your favorite animated movie and Honey Lemon was your favorite character in it.
“She is kinda like you, silly and sweet,” he told you and then just started calling Honey Lemon after that.
“Want to share a cinnamon roll with me?” he asks, eyeing today’s menu.
“Sure,” you nod, smiling.
You all get your food and then take one of the last open tables. The rowdy hockey players always draw attention when there are more than three of them at the same place and sitting with them often makes you feel like you shouldn’t be sharing a table with them, but they all have been pretty welcoming towards you.
“Y/N, you still don’t need a naked model for any of your classes?” Niall, one of the left wingers on the team asks, wiggling his eyebrows at you.
“Still no. But if you’re so keen on showing yourself, I’m sure some of the girls would love to have you for a private session,” you chuckle, shaking your head.
“Stop being a manwhore, Niall,” Harry grunts into his sandwich.
“I just want to share my beauty with everyone, is that a crime?” he scoffs dramatically.
“Everything you do is a crime,” Mitch, the goalie says, making everyone laugh at the table.
“Y’all are just jealous!” Niall waves his hands around grinning.
Harry just shakes his head at his friend as he finishes his sandwich, pulling the cinnamon roll closer so he can cut it in half.
“So are you coming on Friday?”
You furrow your eyebrows, taking another bite of your greek salad.
“What’s on Friday?”
“Told you we are having a party before the season starts. Well, Niall wanted to have a party before all our weekends are occupied by games for a while,” he adds with a huffed laugh.
“Ah yeah. Right. Do I need to be there though?” you ask with a cautious smile. It’s not that you’re against parties, you go to them, quite often, but sometimes you feel very out of place and your anxiety tends to kick in whenever you notice that Harry is keeping an eye on you, staying by your side instead of doing his own thing. It kinda feels like he needs to babysit you.
“Of course,” he nods confidently. “I want you there, so you need to be there.”
“Alright,” you sigh in defeat. “Can I bring Samira?” you ask, referring to your roommate.
“Sure. Do you want me to pick you guys up?”
“We are capable of taking that twenty minute walk on our own,” you chuckle, bumping a shoulder against his.
While you finish your part of the cinnamon roll you listen to the boys bickering about something that happened at practice in the morning, they always find something to argue about. Leaning back in your seat you just casually run your eyes over the students around when your gaze meets an icy blue pair.
Wynter Harris has the ability to make you feel like you’re about to drop dead just by her gaze. If you have the chance you would rather avoid her at any cost, especially since she started looking at you like you’re the devil herself. That correlated with Harry hooking up with her about a year ago and then not wanting to date her, which apparently hurt her ego pretty badly. You have an inkling feeling that she thinks you and Harry have something going on and that’s why he dumped her. Which is just absolutely ridiculous to you.
Well, you can’t deny that Harry is awfully handsome, he is tall and fit and he’s been collecting tattoos for a few years now, giving him a badboyish charm. Additionally to that he is the kindest and funniest person you know, falling for him would be the easiest thing on Earth in your opinion, but you never let that happen to you. If the societal differences weren’t enough, you’re nothing like the girls Harry was associated with throughout the years. Unlike the pretty, cheerleaders and puck bunnies he has hooked up with over the years you carry quite some extra weight, you don’t go around flaunting your thick thighs and soft lower belly, you like to hide your body in baggy, oversized clothes, though your full boobs are definitely considered an asset. As long as you can keep them tamed of course, because once your bra is off, they sag a few levels lower on your abdomen.
Your body has been one of your biggest insecurities probably since you were a teenager and gained those stubborn extra pounds you haven’t been able to get rid of ever since. And guys Harry, the star athletes simply don’t go after girls like you, so you spared yourself the heartbreak and talked some sense into yourself before a crush could even spark inside you.
“Want some more?” Harry’s question pulls you out of your thoughts as you tear your gaze away from Wynter. He is offering you the last bite of his part of the cinnamon roll, the middle of it which is the absolute best, but your appetite has disappeared.
“No, I’m good,” you shake your head. “I gotta head to my next class, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Standing from your seat you grab your bag and swing it over your shoulder before taking my tray. Harry assesses you with a curious look, but you brush it off with a quick smile before waving goodbye to him and the boys.
You will not let Wynter’s death glare send you down a spiral, you tell yourself as you exit the cafeteria and head over to your next class.
***
“Be honest, do I look like a racoon?”
Samira turns to you from her mirror, referring to her eye makeup, that turned out just a tad bit too smokey.
“Um, maybe a little bit. Wipe some off on the lid,” you suggest and she nods, turning back to her mirror.
It’s Friday evening, you’re getting ready for the party Harry said he needed you to go to. Luckily, Samira didn’t need much convincing about attending, she broke up with her boyfriend of two years in the summer and she’s been living her best single life since then, taking any opportunities to mess around at parties.
“Do you have your eyes on someone for tonight?” you ask, smirking as you step over to your dresser, trying to figure out what to wear.
“There is this cute guy I have microeconomics together with this semester, would be nice if he was there,” Sami says with a little dance that makes you chuckle. “Are you gonna be glued to your boy’s side again?”
“Hey! I’m not glued to his side and he is not my boy,” you defend yourself, ignoring a funky feeling deep in your gut as you pull out a black top.
“Girl, keep telling yourself that, but he is your boy and you’re his girl,” she scoffs.
Samira has been convinced since the day you met in freshman year that you and Harry are in love with each other, even though you’ve told her millions of times that you’re just friends, nothing more. She doesn’t believe it.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “Though I swear if we were anything, Wynter Harris would probably murder me in my dreams,” you huff out a laugh.
“She’s just jealous,” Sami shrugs, standing from her spot. She turns her face to you with a questioning look, referring to her makeup, to which you give her a nod. “That girl is so obsessed with Styles, it’s kinda scary,” she adds with an eye-roll. “Wear that with those light-washed jeans,” she says, pointing at the top you chose for tonight.
“But those are so tight,” you frown.
“Yeah, and your ass looks great in them. Wear it!”
You’re hesitant, but give in, feeling kind of out of your comfort zone, but also excited about your outfit. It’s definitely not one of your baggy fits, but you don’t let yourself dwell on the way your tummy is showing or how your backrolls make an appearance if the fabric of your shirt sticks to you.
By the time you’re done getting ready, Samira is already halfway out the door.
“You look hot, by the way,” she says, adjusting her hoop earrings in the mirror.
“I look… normal,” you reply, tugging lightly at the hem of your top for the tenth time.
“Just take the fucking compliment!” she groans, but you know she’s just joking.
“Fine, thank you! You look hot too.”
“Now let’s get our hot asses going!” She cheers, pulling you towards the hallway.
The party is exactly as you expected. Loud, crowded, warm and full of alcohol, so just like an average party.
Samira hooks her arm with yours as you make your way into the kitchen to get yourselves a drink. She is quick to mix up something sweet for the two of you and bumping your cups together you take a long chug. That’s when Harry appears, his eyes landing on you instantly.
“There is my Honey Lemon!” he throws his hands up, like he hasn’t seen you earlier that day when you had coffee together. “Already drinking, very well,” he grins, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he pulls you into a bear hug.
His masculine scent instantly fills your nostrils, mixing a bit of his own smell, which you can’t quite deter, but you could pick out of a million anytime.
You laugh against his shoulder before he lets go of you, though lets one of his arms around your shoulders.
“Sami, good to see you,” he nods at your roommate.
“You too, Styles. Ready for the season?” she asks. Samira is actually a big hockey fan, she has two older brothers and they both played hockey growing up.
“Never been more ready,” he grins confidently, giving your shoulder a squeeze.
A moment later more of his teammates flood into the kitchen, carrying pizza boxes, so chaos takes over the room as everyone tries to get a slice.
“You hungry?” Harry asks, leaning closer to your ear, his breath tickling your skin.
“I’m good,” you shake your head. His arm falls from around your shoulder as he fetches two slices for himself.
“Hey, I think I just saw Eli,” Samira says to you, craning her neck to peek into the living room. You give her a puzzled look. “The guy from microeconomics. Would you hate me if I left you for a bit?” she asks with doe eyes.
“I’ve got her, don’t worry,” Harry answers for you with his mouth full of food.
“It’s not like I need babysitting,” you give him a look, before turning back to Sami. “Go, I’ll be fine.”
“Text me if you need me or want to leave,” she says, giving you a quick hug before disappearing.
“You sure you don’t want some?” Harry asks, holding up the slice in his hand when he catches you eyeing the pizzas on the kitchen island. Truth is you’d love to have some, but you’ve been trying to cut back on fast food.
“No, I wouldn’t eat a whole slice,” you shake your head and then Harry holds his slice out to you.
“Take a bite, I know you want a taste,” he grins and he looks so goofy with his greasy lips and slightly hazy eyes from the drinks he has probably had, you can’t help but chuckle at him before accepting his offer and taking a bite.
“Mm, it’s so good,” you moan as the cheese melts on your tongue.
Harry lets out a soft laugh at your reaction, shaking his head, but he doesn’t say anything else.
Once most of the pizza is gone Niall demands a round of shots and you are no exception, though Harry switches glasses with you, since he got one with less vodka in it, then he also pours you some juice in a cup.
“I know you hate the taste of vodka,” he smiles at you.
“Thanks,” you smile back.
After the round of vodka Niall convinces you to have another one with him and that’s enough to make you feel tipsy. Soon, you all move to the backyard where the beerpong tables are set up and most of the boys decide to join the game. Harry asks if you want to play, but you’d rather just stay on the side and he stays with you. There are quite some people around, making it a bit crowded so you’re kind of pressed against Harry, but somehow you end up standing in front of him, with his arms around your shoulders, pulling you against his hard chest. It’s not the first time he holds you like this, but for some reason, you’re awfully aware of just how much he envelops you with his body.
Then at one point a girl comes up beside the two of you.
“Harry! Hi! Haven’t seen you in ages!” The blondie taps a hand on his bicep, smiling up at him with flirty eyes.
“Hi Charlotte,” he nods with a polite smile, but his gaze quickly falls back to the game, though that doesn’t bother Charlotte.
“Remember how you promised to do a round of shots with me at that sorority party?”
She is blinking up at him innocently, pushing her chest out in a pretty obvious way, while she hasn’t even acknowledged your existence. Suddenly, your stomach twists.
“Uh, yeah, I remember,” Harry chuckles softly. His arms loosen around you, but he keeps his hands on your shoulders.
“Maybe we can do that now,” Charlotte suggests. You turn to face Harry.
“Go on, I’ll just keep watching the game,” you smile up at him.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates for another second before nodding. Charlotte claps happily and as soon as Harry’s hands fall from your shoulder she is holding onto him, tugging him inside. You watch them disappear in the crowd with your teeth sunk into your bottom lip.
Fuck, why do you feel like throwing up suddenly? Maybe you had too much to drink. Not enough to make you feel sick though, so why are you feeling like shit?
You stick around for a little longer, moments go by, Harry doesn’t return and the game starts to bore you, so you decide to have a quick bathroom break. Pushing your way through the people inside you’re heading to the bathroom downstairs, but when you see the line you decide to use Harry’s bathroom upstairs.
There are noticeably less people as you walk up the stairs, half the hockey team lives in this big renovated townhouse and Harry’s room is the last one in the hallway, so you just keep walking past the doors, but then stop in your tracks when you spot him.
And not just him, Charlotte is with him.
They are standing in front of Harry’s room, she has her arms around his neck, breasts pressed against his chest as she is seductively saying something leaning close to his ear. Harry stands straight, one hand on her hip, the other one in his pocket. It doesn’t seem like he is very into the situation, but he is definitely not against it.
Your stomach drops when Charlotte presses a kiss to his neck and you turn around before you could witness her pull him into his room.
You practically sprint down the stairs, the need to use the bathroom long forgotten. Your chest is burning and it feels like you’re carrying a rock inside it. You don’t stop until you’re outside, rounding the house and plastering your back against the wall in the dark where no one can see you.
What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you reacting like you just saw your worst nightmare? It was just Harry being seduced by a girl, nothing new, it’s not the first time he hooks up with someone at a party, though he doesn’t do it as often as one would expect him to.
And you have never actually seen him do this.
You know about most of his little adventures by him telling you about them, but you never actually witnessed any of them happening, while you sat in first row now with him and Charlotte and it triggered something inside you. Something you’ve been very adamant to deny. But now it’s crashing down on you all of a sudden.
You feel this way because you actually do have a crush on Harry.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, burying your face in your hands. This is bad. This is so bad on so many levels.
You can’t be into your best friend, because that’s all he should be. Your best friend. It’s what he sees you as for sure, so your end can’t change. He would never look at you more than just a friend, you are nowhere near his league.
Star athletes and popular guys like him are not into girls like you. Girls who blend into the crowd, girls who are not thin like models and girls who lack any confidence. It’s just not how things go, no matter how long you’ve known each other.
You press your palms harder against your face like you can physically push the thought back in. It doesn’t work though, of course it doesn’t work.
“No,” you whisper to yourself, shaking your head. “No, no, no.”
You refuse to sink into this, you’ve been suppressing it all along for a very good reason and you won’t let this wreck you right now.
You take a deep breath, then another and another one before forcing yourself to move away from the wall and walk back inside. You plan on finding Samira, hoping she might be up to hang out some with you some or maybe head home, but the first person you run into is Harry.
“Hey,” he says carefully. “I’ve been looking for you.”
You blink at him, suddenly the sight of him feels like a stab into your chest. But at least he is not in his room all over Charlotte right now.
“I was just getting air,” you say quickly, forcing a smile onto your face, that probably doesn’t look too convincing, because Harry narrows his eyes at you.
“You alright?”
“Yeah!” you nod. “’m fine,” you reassure him, softer this time. “Just… a bit overwhelmed.”
That’s when you spot Samira across the room, talking to two girls, no boy near.
“I’ll go hang out with Sami for a bit,” you nod towards your roommate. Harry follows your gaze, then looks back at you and the worry is obvious in his eyes, but he doesn’t question you.
“Okay. See you later?”
“Sure,” you nod with a smile, swallowing the ball in your throat.
“And if you’re leaving let me know.”
“I will,” you nod again and then walk past him, afraid that if you keep looking at him you might break.
You join Sami and the two girls she knows from her statistics class from last semester, though you completely zone out of their conversation. Sami notices your behavior, but you just brush it off and excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, this time actually.
Luckily the line has shortened for the one downstairs, so you don’t have to use Harry’s. While you’re in you keep thinking about how you need to get your head straight. You can’t let this get out of hands or you might ruin your friendship with him, which is simply not an option.
When you step out of the bathroom you’re so deep in thoughts that you run right into someone. A very tall and muscular someone.
“Shit, sorry,” you mumble, stepping back, while the stranger’s hands come to your arms steadying you.
“Are you up by the beerpong table?” his deep voice chuckles and you blink up at him.
“What?”
“Just thought you might be next in the game, that’s why you’re in such a hurry.”
His words finally process in your mind and you shake your head with an airy chuckle.
“No, sorry, I was just… thinking about something.”
“Hey, do I know you?” he asks, his hands falling from your arms. At his words you look up at him too and he looks familiar as well, but it doesn’t click at first. Then his eyes light up, but there’s a bit of mischief in them. “Ah, you’re… Y…?”
“Y/N,” you help him out and that’s when you realize who he is.
Mason Thorne was on the hockey team up until the end of last year. The guy was a great player, but even greater trouble, he was doing some pretty hard partying and ended up trashing the entrance of the building where the dean’s office is. It was a huge scandal, not his first either. It happened when their coach finally told Harry that from this fall he’ll be captain since their previous one was a senior, finishing up his studies. Because of his future position Coach Bernard asked Harry’s thoughts on Mason too. He said he was a liability, cares way too much about parties and it affects his performance as well, so Harry advised to kick him out.
It wasn’t his decision though, but at last that’s what Coach Bernard ended up doing. As far as you know Mason understood the decision and he’s been holding back on the partying lately even though he is not getting back on the team.
“Yes, you’re friends with Harry, right?” he smiles and you have to admit he is charming.
But not as charming as Harry.
“Yep,” you nod with a tight-lipped smile. Mason’s gaze runs down your body, which has you feeling uncomfortable for a second.
“Haven’t seen you in a while. Would you want to catch up over a drink maybe?” he asks with a flirty smile and at first you almost turn him down.
But then you think about it for a moment. This is exactly what you need, someone to take your mind off of this whole Harry thing, some flirting, some ego-boosting and judging from Mason’s look that’s exactly what he is offering you right now.
“Sure,” you nod at last. “Why not?”
***
Usually after parties the boys like to go out for dinner in a chinese place close to campus, so you’re not surprised when Harry invites you and Samira out as well.
You’ve made a promise to yourself to carry on with everything as normal, so you accept.
When the two of you arrive the boys are already there, looking tired and hungover, but as rowdy as usual.
“Hello Honey Lemon,” Harry greets you when you take the seat beside him.”
“Hi,” you smile, ignoring the twist in your stomach.
The nice old Chinese lady comes and takes your orders and then the conversation around the table carries on as you wait for the food. Harry leans in closer, so only you can hear him.
“Saw you talking to Mason Thorne last night.”
You’re actually surprised, not just that he noticed you talking to Mason, but that he is now bringing it up.
“Yeah, we kinda caught up a bit,” you shrug, hoping to sound casual, though your nerves are definitely on edge. Harry hums, but doesn’t say anything. “Why?” you ask.
“No reason,” he says, too fast. Then, after a pause: “Just… be careful around him, yeah?”
You blink with a frown.
“Careful?”
Harry exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “He’s just not—” he stops himself, rephrasing. “He’s not exactly the best guy to be around.”
“Because of him being kicked out of the team? He’s been actually cutting back on the partying since then.”
“I know, but he had weird things going on when he was still on the team,” he shrugs, grabbing his water and taking a sip. You are not liking this conversation, defense rises in your gut.
“Since when do you care who I talk to at parties?” you ask, crunching your nose.
“No need to get all worked up, just thought I might tell you,” he shrugs again. “I know you’re capable of deciding who is worthy of your time,” he adds and that part softens you a little.
Your heart aches, because it’s him who is actually the most worthy of your time, but knowing that it’s not gonna happen, you need to force yourself to move on and right now Mason is your best chance for that.
“I am,” you nod, but it’s more like an assurance to yourself, rather than him. Talking to Mason was kind of fun last night, he has a sharp tongue and flirted quite a lot with you, even asked for your number at the end of the night and he has already texted you.
And now as you sit beside Harry you make the decision to do everything you can to forget about your feelings for him. Starting with giving a chance to someone who isn’t him.
***
You and Mason agreed to meet up for a coffee on Tuesday. You’ve been texting since the party and it felt like a logical step to spend some time together in person as well.
He is already there at the café when you arrive, greets you with a short hug and you can’t not notice how his hand slips lower on your back, towards your butt, but it’s still barely appropriate, so you decide to let it slide. You both order and then sit at one of the tables.
There’s a confidence in him that feels… easy. Different from Harry’s, but still familiar in a way you don’t fully want to analyze.
“So you’re a Fine Arts major, huh? The next da Vinci?”
You let out a chuckle, though you kind of hate it when people assume that just because you study art you also want to be a painter. While you do enjoy creating art, it’s so much more than just that.
“We’ll see. But I’m kind of more into the history of art these days and curation.”
“That’s a fancy word,” he smirks, taking a sip of his coffee.
The conversation flows easily, though you kind of stay on the surface level. It’s pleasant, but not memorable so far.
Mason is telling you about the internship he is planning to start next summer when the door of the small café opens and an all too familiar figure steps inside.
Harry walks in wearing a black hoodie, his hair slightly messy, like maybe he just rolled out of bed. His eyes scan the room just casually, but then he spots you and Mason. His expression is unreadable as he stops for a moment and then heads over to you, making you curse internally. His appearance is the last thing you needed right now.
“Hey guys, what a nice surprise,” he nods, stopping by your table.
“Hey man,” Mason nods back as you drop him a smile too. Harry looks at him and Mason stares back and suddenly the air around you feels different, but you can’t put your finger on it.
“Are you guys on a date or something?” Harry asks in a weird tone.
“Just having a chat,” Mason answers.
“Right,” Harry nods once, slowly. “Didn’t realize you two knew each other that well already.”
Something about the way he says that well makes your brows knit. This whole conversation feels off.
“Getting there,” Mason smiles at you, which you return, but it’s not genuine.
Harry shifts his weight slightly, gaze flicking briefly to Mason’s coffee, then back to him, like he has something to say, but keeps to himself.
“Want to study together later, Honey Lemon?” he then asks you.
“Uh, sure. I’ll text you.”
Then Harry nods and lingers for another beat before mumbling his goodbye and walking back to the counter to order.
“Honey Lemon?” Mason asks with an amused look.
“It’s just a silly nickname he gave me a long time ago,” you wave your hand dismissively.
“So you guys are like… something?”
“We’re friends,” you answer instantly. “We’ve been friends for a long time, but that’s all.”
“Friends who give each other cute nicknames.” Mason nods into his coffee, he doesn’t sound upset, his tone is more teasing, mixed with something you can’t quite read.
“Just friends,” you repeat and it’s a reminder to you as well, not just an answer for Mason.
Your gaze flickers up to Harry’s figure by the counter just as he puts the lid on his cup. He looks at you too, your eyes meeting for a heartbeat before you turn away. From the corner of your eyes you see him walk out and something shifts in your chest, but you ignore it and turn your attention back to Mason.
There is no use of dwelling on your useless feelings for Harry when you have a cute guy right in front of you, right?
Right.
***
You were hoping Harry would forget about the study session he suggested, but you’re out of luck. About an hour after you part ways with Mason he texts you.
HARRY: u home yet?
Y/N: yep
The three dots appear immediately after you sent your reply.
HARRY: meet me in the library in 20?
You hesitate for a second, but then agree.
He is waiting outside the building when you get there, greeting you with a soft smile. The sight of him sends a shiver down your spine and for a second you wonder how you got here just in a few days, that even just looking at him has your body twisting and bending.
“Hi there,” he says as you reach him. It’s a little windy and you forgot to tie your hair back, so a few strands are dancing right in your face. Harry reaches up and tugs them behind your ears with an easy move, but as his fingers brush against the side of your face you almost let out a tortured moan.
Now you regret agreeing to meet him.
“Hi. Let’s get going,” you suggest and the two of you walk inside.
You find a nice spot near the windows and settle across from each other, covering the tabletop with your textbooks and notebooks. You have barely started studying ten minutes ago when he drops his pen and looks at you.
“So you and Mason?”
Right into the middle of it.
“What about us?”
“Is it… like, serious?” He leans back, eyeing you with a hard expression.
“We’re just talking,” you shrug and that’s the truth. Nothing happened between the two of you, though Mason has been definitely hinting that he would love to change that.
Harry nods shortly and then you both return to your books, but not even two minutes later he looks up again.
“I just don’t get it.”
“What?” you sigh.
“You,” he simply says. “I mean, why him?”
Your jaw tightens a little. “Why is that even your business?”
“It’s not,” he admits quickly. “You’re right, but… we’re best friends, so it is kind of a bit of my business.”
“Yeah, but you don’t hear me questioning you about your hook ups, so why am I being interrogated?”
Your words come out a little sharper than you intended them and you see how they stun him. For a second you feel bad for biting back at him like that.
“I just care about you,” he then says. “And I want to make sure you’re good.”
Your whole body relaxes at that, that heavy weight in your chest softens, because that’s exactly the Harry you love so much. The one who always shows up. Always checks in. Always makes space for you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“I’m good. Don’t worry about me,” you tell him this time softer.
“I will always worry about my Honey Lemon,” he says and something grips your heart.
You’re actually close to crying, so you shake your head with an airy chuckle and turn your attention back to your reading.
“Study, Styles. Worry about your grades.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, making you laugh as you both go back to your books, though you stare at the same line for what feels like eternity before you finally manage to recover from the conversation you just had.
Your heart already feels like breaking and that’s exactly what you wanted to avoid. So in the heat of your emotions you grab your phone from the table and text Mason, asking if he wants to meet up again. He is quick to reply.
MASON: always up to see u gorgeous ;)
You like his message and put your phone back, ignoring the way Harry is staring at you from the other side of the table.
***
At the end of October there is always a Fall Festival on campus that you love so much. The central quad is transformed into something straight out of a movie. String lights are hung between trees, food trucks line the walkways, student organizations set up booths, live music plays from a temporary stage and there are carnival games scattered around. You always get excited to wander around and see everything and that’s exactly what you were planning this year too with Samira, but the moment she enters your shared room that afternoon, just an hour before you were supposed to go and explore the festival you know something is up.
“Spill it out,” you sigh, shoulders sagging.
“Okay, don’t hate me, but… Eli asked me out to go to the festival with him.”
“Oh. Oh…” It takes you a second to realize what that means.
“But I told him I promised you to go with and I don’t want to bail on you so what would you say if Eli joined us too?” she asks, flashing a wide, hopeful smile at you.
“Sami, I don’t want to be your third wheel,” you moan.
“You won’t! Just think of it as a hangout!”
“But it’s not,” you roll your eyes. “Just… go with him. I’ll ask someone else.”
“What about Mason?” she suggests.
“He is out of town for the weekend, but I’ll just text Holly and see if she is up to it,” you say with a soft smile, though you already know Holly, who you had Visual Culture class two semesters ago and remained friends with will be going with her own boyfriend, but Sami doesn’t need to know that. Your mood for the festival was killed so you’ll just probably stay home and binge watch another trashy dating reality show.
“Okay, but if Holly is not available please just come with us. I don’t want you to miss out on the festival, I know how much you love it,” Sami tells you, pointing a stern finger at you.
“I will,” you nod, knowing well you won’t.
Soon Samira leaves to meet up with Eli and you pretend like you’re getting ready to head out too, but as soon as she is out the door you put your sweats back on and crash onto your bed. However your chilling session cuts short when a text pops up on your phone from Harry.
HARRY: where are u?
Y/N: home
HARRY: ?? why??
Y/N: bc I live here?
HARRY: smartass, what about the festival?
Y/N: not in the mood
HARRY: absolutely not, get dressed, I’ll pick u up in 10
You stare at the message for a bit, debating whether it’s worth fighting him, but you soon realize Harry is one stubborn asshole and will literally pound on your door until you go with him, so it’s better if you just gave up.
You step out of your dorm building right when Harry arrives. He is wearing his hockey jacket over a thick hoodie and dark jeans, looking his usual handsome self that has you sighing silently as you approach him.
“Aw, did you turn into GoGo today?” he grins at you, referring to the moodier character from Big Hero 6. “What do I need to do to get Honey Lemon back?”
“Maybe not annoy me to death?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he winks and gives you a quick bear hug before tugging you towards the festival.
The festival is already packed when you arrive. Students crowd the walkways, laughter and music filling the air. The scent of caramel apples, popcorn and cinnamon hangs in the chilly evening breeze.
"Okay," Harry announces, rubbing his hands together. "First mission."
"What mission?"
"Get Honey Lemon to stop looking like someone ran over her goldfish."
“I never had a goldfish.”
“I know, but this is exactly how you’d look if you had and someone ran over it.”
“How do you even run over a fish?” you frown. Harry sighs, shaking his head.
“The situation is worse than I thought. Come on, I’ll win you something at the games, that will cheer you up.”
You have no time to protest, he takes your hand and pulls you over to the carnival games. He decides he has the best shot with that ridiculous ring tossing game, saying that his aim is perfect thanks to hockey.
Well, he definitely overestimated his abilities when it comes to rigged carnival games. You watch him spend over twenty bucks before he finally wins the smallest prize, an ugly looking pumpkin plushie.
“What is this?” you chuckle, holding the little guy up.
“A pumpkin!” he cheerfully announces.
“It’s hideous,” you shake your head, assessing how one of his eyes is way higher than his other.
“Hey, don’t insult him!” he gasps dramatically, making you laugh.
“He kinda looks possessed.”
“Possessed by the spirit of fall fun!”
“You’re weird,” you shake your head laughing as you tuck the ugly pumpkin into your bag.
“Yeah, but you love me,” he grins.
Yes, you think to yourself. You really do.
You wander around the festival, get some cookies you share and play some more games. Soon you totally forget how you didn’t even want to come in the first place. It also helps that hanging out with Harry feels just like before, he is being his goofy, fun self you always loved so much and you somehow leave your torturous thoughts from the past few weeks behind as well, allowing yourself to enjoy the time spent with your best friend.
Because that’s what he is and that’s what you’re reminded of. No matter what, Harry is truly your best friend.
Standing in line for some hot chocolate a particularly cold breeze rushes past you, making you regret not bringing a jacket, you really thought a sweater would be enough, but now that the sun has gone down it’s definitely getting chillier.
“Are you cold?” he asks, noticing how you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself.
“No.”
“Liar,” he hisses, already shrugging his jacket off.
“Harry, no,” you protest, but he just drapes it over your shoulders.
“Don’t be a pain in the ass, Honey Lemon. I don’t want you to get sick.”
“Oh, so it’s okay for you to catch a cold?” you narrow your eyes at him.
“I’m not cold,” he shrugs. “Besides, I’m used to it. Remember? Hockey is played on ice, in a pretty cold place,” he grins at you. God, he is so insufferable.
“Yes, but you’re moving on the ice, your body’s temperature is a lot higher.”
“I’m gonna get it higher now with a hot chocolate,” he simply nods towards the booth where you’re up next.
With a sigh you let it go and slip your arms into his jacket. Now you’re wrapped in warmth and his scent.
Of course, the evening can’t end without the two of you going for a ride on the ferris wheel. It’s pretty small, but it definitely has a vibe that just goes perfectly with the festival.
The line moves quite fast so you take your seat soon and start the ride.
“Are you feeling better?” Harry asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“Yes,” you admit truthfully.
“And want to tell me why you were so mopey?”
Chewing on your bottom lip you just shrug as you stare ahead. What would you even tell him? That recently you realized you have feelings for him and since it’s surely a lost cause you’ve been trying to get over it, but it sucks? Yeah, you’re not sharing that with him.
“Are we good?” he then asks and his question surprises you.
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Dunno,” he shrugs, but you know there’s more behind it. “I just feel like things between us have been kinda different between us, but I want to make sure we’re good.”
Great, now you feel guilty for making him feel like something is wrong, when the only thing wrong is whatever is going on in your head. It’s not his fault that you’re a mess because of your feelings, he did nothing wrong and you’d hate it if he blamed himself.
“Of course we’re good,” you smile at him softly. “I’ve just been in a… funk lately, I guess” you chuckle awkwardly. “But it’s all good.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you with that?” he asks and you know he means it.
Harry would do anything for you, that’s why it all pains you even more. You were so blind, you should have known from the start that falling for such a great guy is inevitable.
“Just be yourself,” you manage to tell him, swallowing down the ball in your throat, hoping he doesn’t notice the hurt behind your eyes.
“I’m always myself when I’m with you,” he tips his head slightly with the tiniest smile on his lips. “You’re my favorite person, Honey Lemon. You know that, right?”
“I know,” you nod. “And you’re mine.”
You stare at each other for another beat and for a second something feels different. The way he is looking at you, there’s something in it you haven’t noticed before and it’s quick to put a pin into your heart and pop a thought into your mind.
What if Samira was right? What if… there’s more between the two of you?
All the touches, the hugs, the laughs, the endless time spent together, what if those mean more to him as well?
By the time you get off the ferris wheel your head is spinning and your heart is pounding in your chest, especially when his hand brushes against yours and he hooks your pinkies together. It’s the tiniest of touch, but it ignites fireworks in your tummy.
You barely notice where you're walking as Harry guides you through the crowd toward another row of booths. You’ve seen practically everything around the festival, but you definitely don’t want the evening to end just yet.
“Can we drop by the restrooms?” you ask and Harry nods, instantly changing your direction towards the science building that was left open so the restrooms could be used while the festival is open.
Walking on the pavement Harry’s pinky lets go of yours and you feel the disappointment right away, but before you could wallow in it he drapes his arm around your shoulder, pulling you against his side.
“I’ll wait for you here,” he smiles, stopping in front of the building and you rush inside, eager to get back to him as fast as possible.
You’re washing your hand already when the last stall on the row opens and you spot Wynter walking out. Her gaze catches yours in the mirror instantly and you quickly look back down, hoping she’ll just ignore your existence.
But you’re out of luck.
“You know, I have to give you credits for your bravery.”
At first you’re not even sure she is talking to you, because you have no idea what she meant by that, but when you look up you see that she is looking straight at you with her usual icy stare.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re pretty brave for still hanging out with Harry.”
“And why is that?” you ask, knowing well you shouldn’t be interacting with her, but she got you curious.
“The two of you are just so different, he is popular, liked by everyone, one of the best looking guys around campus, while you’re…”
She doesn’t continue, but the runover she gives you with her eyes speaks for her.
You’re not popular, nobody really notices you if Harry isn’t around and you don’t have the looks either. You’re the polar opposite of what he is.
You clench your jaw, feeling all your darkest thoughts flooding your mind suddenly. Wynter’s smile turns almost evil.
“I mean if I were you I would take even a morsel of whatever he is willing to give me, so I don’t blame you. But I think you’re brave for sticking around even when you clearly don’t belong in his circle.”
You want to curse her out, tell her she knows nothing about you or Harry, but you feel like if you opened your mouth you’d start crying. And Wynter probably knows that too, because pride is plastered all over her face as she simply walks past you and exits the restroom.
You stay frozen at the sink, fingers still damp, staring at your reflection like it belongs to someone else. Her words are on repeat in your mind, clawing at your chest more and more every time.
You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs as you lean onto the sink. Now you feel stupid for letting yourself think even for a minute that there could be more between you and Harry, because Wynter might be a total bitch, but suddenly her words. You really are different and there’s absolutely no way Harry would ever even consider you when it comes to dating when he could have any girl on campus. Cheerleaders, dancers, girls who model in their freetime, that’s the kind of girls he should be with, not you.
Walking out of the building Harry is still right there, scrolling on his phone, but when he sees you he smiles and slips it back into his pocket. Then he sees your face and worry etches onto his expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think I’m gonna head home, I’m not feeling too good.”
“Why? What’s the matter?” he keeps searching for your eyes, but you can’t look into his for longer than just a second.
“I think that corndog didn’t like the ferris wheel,” you lie, hoping he won’t question you.
“Ow. Okay, let me walk you home.”
You want to protest, but you know that would be suspicious, so you just nod. The walk back to your dorm is quiet, Harry asks a few times if you want to stop for a bit, but you just really want to get back to your room, be alone and probably cry yourself to sleep.
Somehow you hold it together long enough. In front of the building you slip his jacket off and hand it back.
“Thanks for… everything,” you smile at him faintly.
“You sure I can’t do anything for you? I can stay with you, make sure you’re okay.”
“No need. I just really want to lie down, that’s all.”
he is not pleased by your answer, but he nods and doesn’t protest.
“Okay. Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do. Thank you Harry,” you smile, then turn around and walk back inside.
Tears are rolling down your cheeks by the time you get to your room. Samira is not back, so you can peacefully sob until you’re too tired to carry on. So you take a shower and cocoon yourself in bed, allowing yourself to sink into the sadness for one last night, because now it’s crystal clear for you that you need to get over Harry.
There is no need lusting for something that will never happen and the sooner you move on the better.
***
By the end of the weekend after the festival you’re actively trying to get your shit together. It’s tough, but you have no choice and there are two things you start doing.
One, you start to lean towards Mason more. He returns to campus and the two of you go out for dinner on Monday and when he walks you home from class on Tuesday you even let him kiss you. There are no fireworks, but it’s surely a pleasant kiss, so you tell yourself to just stay open.
On the other hand, you start to put some distance between you and Harry, knowing that’s what you need to make it easier on you, even if it kills you to avoid your best friend. You know he is worried, he tells you through texts, but you just try to brush it all off, hoping he won’t come after you and call you out on your bullshitting.
Friday evening the basketball team is throwing a party following their winning match earlier that day and Mason asks you to go with him, like as a date and you agree.
You also know Harry will be there since he is friends with some of the boys on the basketball team, but you’re trying not to worry ahead, you’ll just stick to Mason’s side and everything will be fine.
Unfortunately, you don’t go too long without running into the hockey boys.
“Y/N!” Niall grins brightly upon seeing you. “Haven’t seen you in fucking ages!”
“Sorry, I’ve been kinda busy,” you let out a nervous chuckle. Behind Niall you spot Harry who is already staring at you with an unreadable expression, but you can tell he is not happy.
“Too busy to meet your best friend?” Harry bites out.
“You know how this stage goes, Styles,” Mason inserts himself into the conversation, draping an arm around your shoulders, though the move feels strange from him. “We’re busy getting to know each other.”
“Yeah, I know how it is,” Harry replies and there’s something dark in his eyes as he stares back at Mason.
“Okay, why don’t we all take a shot?” you suggest, eager to break the awkward vibes.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Niall cheers and gets to work.
After the shots Mason asks if you want to go see what’s going on by the pool and you nod, but Harry’s hand on your wrist stops you.
“Hey, can we maybe talk tonight?”
“Uh, sure,” you nod, gently pulling your hand back. Not because he is gripping you tight, but because the warmth of his touch is making you shiver.
“Meet me upstairs in half an hour?”
“Okay,” you nod and then go after Mason.
While you hang out by the pool area with Mason and a few other people your thoughts are stuck on Harry. The way he looked at you and his begging eyes when he asked you to talk. It’s not becoming very clear that avoiding him is not only hard for you but for him as well.
You tell Mason you’re going to pee when you head inside, but instead of finding a bathroom you take the stairs up. You’ve only been here once, so you’re not too familiar with the house, but as soon as you reach the hallway upstairs you spot Harry at the end sitting on a sofa under the window.
“You came,” he says quietly as you sit next to him.
“I said I would.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been avoiding me all week, I wasn’t sure…”
Guilt gnaws at your stomach, your first instinct is to apologize, but you hold it back.
“What did you want to talk about?” you ask.
“Well, that’s exactly what I wanted to bring up. You’ve been actively avoiding me and I wanna know why.”
You stare down at your hands in your lap, fumbling with the fabric of your jeans, you really have no idea what to tell him.
“I really don’t like where this is going, Y/N,” he sighs.
“What do you mean? I’ve just been busy and–”
“Please don’t bullshit me,” he frowns, holding his hands up to stop you from rambling on. “I need you to answer my next question honestly, okay?”
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Is Mason telling you to avoid me? Is it because of him?”
You can’t help the puzzled look on your face.
“What? Why would he do that?”
“Because I have a feeling that he is doing all of this to mess with me and get back for getting kicked out of the team.”
It takes a few moments for his words to settle, but when they do, anger starts rising in your gut.
“Oh, so you think Mason is using me to mess with you?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He is… not who you think he is.”
“And you know him so well, right?” you scoff.
“No, but I know him enough. I know that he has ulterior motives with you.”
That tips you over. You jump to your feet, taking a step back, needing some distance between the two of you, but this time it’s because you’re close to strangling him.
“Fuck you,” you spat, surprising him with your sudden outburst. “Really, you think a good-looking guy like Mason couldn’t be interested in me without having some secret motives connected to you? Is that what you think?”
His eyes widen as he realizes that’s how you interpreted his words. He stands up and tries to get closer to you, but as soon as he moves, you take another step back, so he stops, not wanting to drive you away.
“That’s not what I mean, Y/N.”
“But I think that’s kind of actually what you meant, Harry. Maybe not directly, but deep down you actually had the thought.”
“Why would I think that? That’s insane, I just want to protect you from whatever Mason has planned, because I’m sure it won’t end well.”
“I don’t need your protection, okay? I’m more than capable of choosing who I want to spend my time with and right now you’re at the very bottom of that list.”
Turning around you start marching away from him, but he is quick to catch up. He grabs your wrist, tries to pull you back, but you shake his hand off.
“Y/N, wait, let’s talk about this,” he pleads, but you’re seeing red and talking is the last thing you want to do right now.
“No. I mean it. I don’t want to see you right now and if we’re actually friends please respect that.”
If you weren’t this angry you’d actually be pretty proud of standing your ground. Harry senses the determination in you as well, so hesitantly, but he steps back and lets you walk away.
The music is loud downstairs, but your pulse is actually drumming louder in your ears as you push your way downstairs and then head back outside. You don’t see Mason by the pool so you start looking for him. As you’re just about to go back inside you hear his voice coming from beside the house from the dark.
Walking closer you still don’t see him, but hear him talking to someone and soon you realize the other voice belongs to Wynter. The blood freezes in your veins as you plaster yourself against the wall and listen to their conversation.
“How long are you gonna toy with her?” Wynter asks with a giggle. “Don’t drag it too long.”
Mason scoffs. “Relax. I’ve got it handled.”
“I don’t doubt that, but we don’t want another scandal out of it,” Wynter purrs.
“I know what I’m doing. I have her wrapped around my fingers.”
Your stomach drops and nausea starts to take over you, but you keep listening.
“I think Harry is really spiraling over this,” Mason adds with a proud chuckle. “You should have seen his face tonight when he saw her with me.”
“I really don’t understand what he likes so much about her,” Wynter scoffs and now tears are threatening to spill from your eyes. “He could literally have anyone and he is still spending all his time with her.”
“You mean he could have you,” Mason corrects her and they both laugh. “Yeah, he is seething over her spending time with me.”
“But you’re not actually liking her, right?” Wynter asks.
“Fuck no,” Mason laughs. “She is kinda annoying sometimes and definitely not my type. I don’t even know how she could believe that I’m into her.”
That’s the final knife in your chest. With red eyes and wet cheeks you step out from behind the wall and let them know that you heard them. They look actually surprised about getting busted, but neither of them says anything. Instead, they even look smug, as if they are trying to send a message: Yes, we did that, what are you gonna do about it?
“I hope you’ll both have fun in hell together,” you simply say, then turn around and walk away.
You’re done. Absolutely done with everything and everyone. Tears stream down your cheeks as you push your way through the house with the intention of leaving, but right when you’re about to reach the front door Harry stops you.
“Y/N I’m so sorry for– Hey, are you crying because of what I said?” he asks panicking, following you out the door, because you’re not stopping.
“Just leave me alone,” you sob, trying to turn away from him, but he jumps in front of you on the front porch and finally stops you, gently grabbing you by your shoulders.
“Fuck Y/N if it’s because of me I–”
“It’s not, okay?” you snap at him. “But congratulations, you were fucking right!” You let out a bitter laugh before shrugging his hands off and actually running away from him.
You don’t stop until you reach the end of the street and you managed to shock him enough that he doesn’t come after you. With trembling hands you call yourself an Uber and go back to your dorm with the intention of never ever leaving your room again.
It’s kind of a blur, the ride back, the way the driver asked if you’re alright, but you could only sob as an answer. When you barge into your room Samira is shocked at your current state and tries to ask what happened, but you can’t even talk.
She hugs you close as you lie on your bed and lets you cry it all out until you finally calm down enough to tell her what happened. The fight with Harry, the conversation you overheard between Mason and Wynter and then literally running away.
“I’m so sorry, Girly. Mason is a fucking ass, do you know his email address?”
You give her a puzzled look.
“Yes?”
“Good, I’m gonna sign him up for every annoying ass newsletter and embarrassing website.”
That makes you laugh. Then Sami grabs her secret stash of gummy bears and the two of you decide to watch an awful move to take your mind off of what happened tonight.
About twenty minutes into the movie Sami gets a text.
“Hey, I know Harry is like Voldemort in this room now, but you might want to check this out.”
She pauses the movie and hands you over her phone, a text thread open with one of her classmates.
MONICA: OMG Sami!!! Harry Styles literally just punched Mason Thorne in the face and threatened him!!
MONICA: Update, Tony said he heard Harry say that he will break more than just Mason’s nose if he as much as looks at Y/N again, this is WILDDD
“Holy shit,” you breathe out, eyes going wide as you reread the messages.
“That’s like something straight out of a movie,” Sami gasps and right when she is about to ask Monica for more details, there’s a knock on the door.
“Y/N? Can we please talk?” Harry’s voice is soft and pained and it makes your stomach twist.
Samira stands from the bed and gives you a questioning look, asking whether she should open the door or let him camp outside. You nod.
She throws the door open and there he is, in the same clothes you saw him earlier at the party, but his expression is full of worry and pain and so much more.
“Um, I’m gonna spend the night at Eli’s, you two have a lot to talk about,” Sami smiles awkwardly, quickly throws her necessities into her bag and then scurries out of the room. Harry is still standing at the door.
“Can I come in?” he asks and you can only nod again. Sitting on your bed you watch him walk in, he softly closes the door and then walks closer, stopping a few feet away from you, like he is trying to give you space.
“Is it true that you punched Mason in the face?” you ask quietly, staring at him with wide eyes. Harry licks his lips and nods, kind of ashamed.
“Not my proudest moment, but when he told me that he used you to piss me off I just… lost my mind.” He shakes his head with a sad chuckle. “I’m so sorry, Y/N, I didn’t want my prediction to be true, you didn’t deserve any of it.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“But I do, I feel like it was my job to protect you and I did a pretty shitty job at that.”
You stand from the bed and step closer, though leave a bit of space between the two of you. Then your eyes spot the bruise on his knuckles and you gasp, reaching for it.
“Shit, this looks bad,” you say, assessing the dark patches on his hand.
“It’s alright, I’ve had it worse on the ice,” he shrugs, but then hisses when you gently run a finger over his bruised knuckles.
“Sit down, I have some ice.”
He obeys, taking a seat on the edge of your bed as you step over to the mini freezer and grab some ice, put it into a towel and then return to Harry. You take his hand into your lap and carefully put the ice over, making him hiss again.
Silence wraps around you as you just sit there with his hand on your lap, holding the ice against his knuckles, you have so many thoughts racing in your head, but he is the first one to speak up.
“I have a confession to make.”
“Uh-oh, come clean, Styles,” you smile at him faintly, making him chuckle, before seriousness takes over his expression again as he keeps his gaze glued to his hand in your lap.
“I only wanted to threaten him at first, but then he said that I’m this mad about what he did because I’m in love with you and I’ll never be brave enough to tell you.”
Nausea takes over you again, but you muster up everything in you to keep yourself together.
“I bet that upset you,” you whisper, avoiding looking at him. Of course that pissed him off, because probably the thought of him being in love with you is so ridiculous to him that he–
“It did, because it’s true.”
You completely freeze. Did you just hear him right? Because it sounded like he just said that he is in love with you.
Slowly and very carefully you look up at him and the way he is staring at you is something you’ve never seen from him.
“Well, I mean the part that I’ll never be brave enough to tell you is not true now, because I’m literally telling you now,” he rambles with a nervous chuckle while you’re still in shock. He clears his throat and pulls back his hand before he continues to speak. “Y/N, I was protective over you when it came to Mason because he really is an asshole, but also because I was so fucking jealous, it’s insane,” he admits. “I hated seeing you handing your heart over to someone who I knew was not worthy of it and I wanted to be the one receiving it. And maybe I’m ruining our friendship right now, but I just can’t do this any longer, I can’t pretend like I haven’t been in love with you since… probably I was sixteen.”
You’re convinced you’ve died and this is an alternate universe. It can’t be happening, Harry surely hasn’t just admitted to being in love with you for years. You stare back at him with a complete loss of words.
“I know it’s kind of a lot, but I would love to hear your thoughts, Y/N,” he lets out another nervous chuckle.
“I only dated Mason because I was trying to get over my feelings for you,” you confess suddenly, the words rolling off your tongue surprisingly easily. You watch Harry’s expression change from anxious to stunned before you continue. “I realized that I have feelings for you not long ago, but I think I’ve been just ignoring them for a long time, because I never thought you’d see me as more than just a friend. But… I do love you too, Harry.”
It’s like something in the universe shifted as you said it out loud, you feel lighter, but an excited buzz has started to spring in your chest as well as you stare at each other, stunned, unable to speak as the words hang in the air between the two of you.
Then slowly, a relieved smile tugs on his lips that you can’t help but mirror and suddenly you feel giddy in the head, like you’re a kid who just admitted to having a crush on a boy, even though it’s a lot more than that.
Harry reaches out, takes the ice from your hand and puts it to the desk before turning back to you. You swallow hard when his hand cups your cheek first, his thumb gently caressing it before his palm slips to the back of your head and he pulls you closer until there’s only an inch between your lips.
“I’m about to kiss you, Y/N,” he murmurs. “So if you’d rather stay just friends, now is the time to stop me.”
No words come out of your mouth, not that you want to stop him. Instead, you dart your tongue out and lick your lips, the tip of your tongue brushing against his lips and that’s when he snaps.
He kisses you eagerly at first, opening your mouth for him right away, tongues clashing, but then he turns it down a little, changing it into something exploratory, but the hunger is still right there. Your mind is blank, all you can think of and feel is Harry, his lips moving perfectly in sync with yours, one of his hands on the back of your head, fisting your hair, the other one holding your jaw as he keeps angling you so he could get even more of you.
You both keep pushing against each other and before you realize you’re straddling his lap, breasts pressing against his hard chest as you don’t even try to hold your moans back once his erection rubs against your core through your pants and his jeans.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes out, his mouth kissing its way down your neck, biting and licking and sucking, most likely leaving marks on your skin. One hand comes to your lower back, slipping under your shirt as he teases your heated skin with his fingers before his palm moves down and gives your ass a firm grab. Your fingers sink into his shoulders, but he is still wearing his hoodie and it’s just too many layers.
As if he could read your mind, he leans back just enough to tug his hoodie off and throws it aside before his lips return to devouring yours. It’s all heat and lust and need for each other, Harry’s scent fills your nostrils and it’s maddening how skilled he is claiming your mouth.
But then his hands find the hem of your t-shirt and he starts to peel it up and your mind steps on the break. You pull back, head dizzy from the bruising kisses you’ve been getting, but you can’t ignore how your anxiety just spiked in seconds.
“What’s wrong?” he breathes out, his hands settling on your thighs. You’re both still clothed, but you’ve seen him shirtless. He is all muscles and smooth skin with tattoos, the perfect athlete body, but he hasn’t seen you without a shirt on and suddenly you’re very aware that he is about to see every inch of you.
“Sorry,” you shake your head, trying to get your thoughts straight. “I just…”
“Hey,” he softly says, one hand coming up to cradle your face and you instantly lean into his touch. “We don’t have to do anything. I’m more than okay with just kissing you and falling asleep.”
“But I want to do more, I just… I’m not exactly like the girls you usually hook up with,” you mumble, embarrassment burning your cheeks.
A very insecure part of you was expecting him to laugh and agree, but Harry stays serious as his eyes scan over your face, chewing on his bottom lip.
“Yeah, but you’re the one I want and have always wanted. I know I haven’t seen you without clothes on, but I have a great imagination,” he adds with a cheeky smirk. “I’ve fantasized about you countless times, Y/N, and I assure you it was fucking amazing every time.”
“But those weren’t real,” you manage to say, though his words definitely sent a shiver down your spine.
You feel awful for being so hung up on it, he might not have seen you naked, but he surely saw enough of you to know what to expect and judging from his erection that’s still straining against his jeans he must be enjoying your body so far.
But still.
That evil little voice in the back of your mind just wouldn’t shut up, telling you that you’re going to be a disappointment to him.
Harry takes a deep breath as he keeps staring at you and you’re kind of expecting him to get irritated by your behavior, but that doesn’t happen.
“Do you have a scarf?” he asks suddenly, completely throwing you off.
“Um, I do. Why?”
“Can you give it to me? I have an idea.”
Still lost, but you climb off him and step over to your dresser, pull out a soft pink scarf and hand it over to him, sitting beside him on the bed this time.
He rolls up the scarf and then brings it to his face, covering his eyes with it before tying it behind his head.
“What are you doing?” you ask with an awkward chuckle as Harry is now sitting on your bed, blindfolded.
“I’m going to give you all the control,” he announces. “I will stay blindfolded for as long as you want me and you get to control where I’m touching you too. You decide how far we go and how much I get from you. Just know that I’m more than eager to have it all, but I’ll be a good boy for you,” he grins cheekily and you stare at him in disbelief.
Your first instinct is to tell him to quit playing, but then you actually consider his idea. He can’t see you, he can’t see your body and all the insecurities you want to hide from him and he said you decide where he can touch you, so you can keep him away from crucial parts of your body.
This is actually a genius idea.
“Okay,” you breathe out eventually.
“Okay,” he repeats after you, nodding.
Your heart is pounding against your chest and your hands are trembling when you reach for the hem of your shirt and pull it up and off your body.
“Take off your shirt,” you tell him and he obeys without hesitation. His shirt comes right off, revealing his chest that’s just begging for your hands to be explored and you decide not to deny anything from yourself.
Climbing over to him you settle back in his lap and true to his word, Harry keeps his hands off you, so you take them and a little hesitantly but put them on your thighs. He exhales sharply, his fingers digging into you and he moves his hands just a tad bit, rubbing his palms over your thighs, but they don’t go anywhere else.
Your hands however are having a field trip on his chest, fingers digging into his pecks, nails dragging down them, mapping every inch of his smooth skin. When you press a palm over his chest you feel just how wildly his heart is thumping against his ribs and you can’t help but smile that you’re making him feel this way.
Leaning in you kiss him again, but it’s slower now, you take your time tasting and exploring him, it’s so much more sensual, you keep moaning into each other’s mouth. You get so lost in it that you start rolling your hips, looking for friction between your legs over his erection that’s still neatly hidden in his jeans. Eager to feel his hand somewhere else too you give him more access by moving his hands to your butt which he quickly celebrates with another firm grab that makes you press up against him even more.
“Fuck, I want you so bad,” he moans when your lips move down his neck, sucking on the sensitive skin under his ear.
When you need more of him you pull back and stand, just so you can take your pants off, the lack of your closeness pulling a grunt from Harry, but he just sits there obediently, just how he promised. For a second you almost tell him to get rid of his jeans, but then you decide to do it yourself.
Your hands more to his crotch and he hisses shortly when he realizes you’re unbuttoning them. To help you he lifts his hips up so you can easily tug them down and get rid of them, leaving him in only his briefs while you’re in your underwear too.
Anxiety starts to spike inside you, but you push it down and move back to straddle his lap. Taking his hands he draws in an excited breath, waiting where they might end up and that’s when you decide to just go all out.
It’s Harry, your best friend and the most wonderful man you’ve ever known. He told you he loved you and he wants you, he wants all of you, so then why are you hiding from him?
You put his hands back next to him on the mattress and even though you sense his disappointment, you ignore it as you unclasp your bra and throw it behind before taking a deep breath and reaching up to pull the scarf off his eyes.
And just like that, he is looking at you, completely naked on the top, only wearing your panties as you sit on his lap, breathing rapidly as if you’re doing a workout, it’s almost embarrassing, but the way Harry’s eyes scan over your body makes you forget everything. Pure hunger and lust coats his vision and you can tell he is fighting himself to keep his word.
“You can touch me,” you tell him. “Anywhere.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes searching yours and you nod.
Then his hands move to your thighs first, this time his palms meeting your naked skin, then they slip up your waist and just as you’re about to worry that he can feel the rolls and all the extra softness the most obscene moan slips out of his mouth once his hands palm your breasts.
“Fuck, look at you, Honey Lemon. You are everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”
If you weren’t so damn turned on maybe you would have cried at his words, but right now you just want to feel him everywhere.
“Want to hear a confession?” he grins against your lips, pecking them a few times.
“Sure,” you nod, raking your fingers through his hair that earns you a satisfied groan.
“Remember that short yellow dress you used to wear in the summer around sophomore year in high school?”
“I think so,” you nod, not sure where he is going with all this when you’re almost entirely naked on his lap.
“You in that dress was my go-to fantasy for a long time, well, it was me taking it off you, to be precise.”
Now that surprises you, for a second you look at him with a stunned expression. You specifically remember how self-conscious you were when you had that dress on, because it was showing your arms and legs. Well it seems like that’s exactly what gave your best friend some pretty dirty thoughts.
“I think I still have that dress,” you suddenly say and the widest grin stretches across his face.
“Let me know when you find it.”
That makes you chuckle before you go back to kissing him. His confession was great at easing the rest of your nerves, because when Harry wraps an arm around you and pushes you onto the mattress, rolling on top of you the tiny evil voice is gone from your mind, it’s all pleasure and want for Harry and you’re ready to enjoy this to the fullest.
Your kisses grow needier and a bit sloppier as one of his hands start to venture down your body, palming your breasts, playing with your nipples before dipping lower, it sweeps over your tummy before moving to your clothed sex. Your panties are drenched at this point and he sighs contently when he runs two of his fingers over the damp fabric while you shudder under him.
He keeps kissing you as his hand dips under the elastic and this time his two fingers slide right between your wet folds, pulling a moan from you. Harry grins, kissing your lips once more before his lips move down until his face is at your chest.
He starts circling your clit right when he sucks your right nipple into his mouth and you almost see stars.
“Harry,” you cry out, tugging on his hair as he keeps sucking and biting the sensitive bud while his fingers work at a perfect pace on your clit.
“Does that feel good, baby?” he hums and moves over to your other nipple. You can’t answer, but the way your hips buckle against him is enough to let him know he is doing amazing.
Then he slips two fingers inside and curls them, making you gasp as you claw at his shoulders. Lifting his head he flashes you a cheeky smirk before he starts pumping his fingers in and out, his lips returning to your breasts, licking and biting, leaving marks on you.
He gets you to the verge of an orgasm quite fast, but then pulls his hands out of your panties, a dissatisfied groan slipping out between your lips. Harry chuckles softly as he sits back on his heels and pulls your panties down your legs, finally getting you entirely naked in front of him.
For a split second you feel self-conscious about your body, but as soon as you see the way he looks at you, like you’re a goddess, your confidence spikes as you open your knees wide so he can see all of you.
“What do you want, baby?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the elastic of his briefs, but not tugging them down just yet.
“You.”
“Only me?”
“Only you.”
With a sharp exhale he gets on his knees and quickly gets rid of his last clothing item, his erection finally completely naked in front of your hungry eyes. He climbs up your body, his hips coming between your legs and as soon as you can reach you wrap your hands around his length.
“Fuck,” he trembles under your touch and when you run your thumb over the tip, smearing some of the precum his head falls against your collarbone with a growl. “I could come just by you holding my dick.”
At that you can’t help but laugh. You love the effect you have on him and love how vocal he is about it.
“Condom is in the nightstand drawer,” you murmur into his ear, giving him a few lazy pumps. He is quick to reach to the side and grab a packet that he tears open with his teeth and then you take the condom, rolling it onto his length.
He pulls back a little, just enough so he can grab the base of his cock and then line up at your entrance, the head already slipping inside. He looks deep into your eyes as he slides in to the hilt, both of you letting out a long, airy moan.
“You okay?” he softly asks, planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“Yes,” you nod eagerly, but then a wandering though crosses your mind, it’s quick, but Harry knows you too well, he catches it right away.
“What is it?” he asks, not moving.
“Just… It’s not weird, right?”
“What are we talking about exactly?” he exhales shakily with a soft chuckle.
“That we’ve known each other for so long and now we are having sex.”
He takes a few breaths, thinking about your words before answering and for a second you feel thankful that even when he is literally inside you he takes the time to talk you through your mini freak-out, because that’s probably what’s happening with you.
“It’s not weird,” he shakes his head, eyes meeting yours again. “I’ve loved you since we were teenagers and I love you now.”
He said he loved you right before he kissed you, but hearing it again just completely melts you. You take his face between your hands and pulls him down for a long, loving kiss.
“I love you too.”
He smiles and then finally starts moving. In and out, at first slowly, but he picks up his pace quite fast and it’s absolute heaven. Sex has never felt like this before, but you haven’t had it with someone you loved as much as you love Harry either.
He falls into a steady rhythm, but often tries to change the angle his hips snap against yours or drawing his thrusts longer, then going faster, but anything he does just pushes you closer to the edge. And all along, Harry keeps praising you.
“You feel so fucking good, baby.”
“This is all I’ve ever wanted, fuck.”
“Taking my cock so well, I fucking love you, Y/N.”
It doesn’t take long for you to finally reach your high. Clawing at his back you gasp and arch against him as pleasure washes over you in waves and Harry follows you right behind. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, moaning and grunting as his thrusts get sharper and out of rhythm until he stops.
You have no idea how much time passes with just Harry lying on top of you, still inside you, it might be an eternity or just five minutes, but you’re so gone nothing exists outside of Harry’s sweaty body pressing into yours and the delicious ache that’s already forming in your thighs.
Then Harry finally gathers himself and stands from the bed. You watch him get rid of the condom and then he kneels beside you on the floor, eyes sparkling from happiness, but you have a guess you’re sporting the same look.
“Let’s have a quick shower and then get some sleep. We have a lot to sleep off.”
“Mm, can’t move,” you moan dramatically. Harry chuckles and smacks a kiss to your lips before simply picking you up from the bed in bridal style and then head over to your tiny bathroom. He carries you so easily, like you’re just something lightweight.
When your feet are back on the floor in the bathroom you turn to him, arms around his neck, that’s when you notice something in his eyes.
“What’s on your mind?” you softly ask, smoothing out the line between his eyebrows with your thumb.
“I know we just had these confessions and some mind-blowing sex, but I want to make it clear, that I want you. Like, I want you as my girlfriend, no sharing, no testing the waters, just you and me.”
You can’t help but smile, because after all your insecurities, now you see a bit of it in him, even though he has no reason to doubt what you are.
“Just you and me. We’re official,” you tell him and he lets out a relieved breath, his hands dancing up and down your sides.
“My Honey Lemon is finally mine,” he smirks down at you, lips inching closer until they meet yours, sealing it all with a kiss.
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
A Saturday with Harry that starts with peaches, ends with pasta, and has absolutely no business being this good.
warning: gets a touch smutty
word count: 6.7k
You wake up slowly, the way you only do in rooms that are quiet enough to let you. No sirens. No neighbors. Just the soft movement of the curtain and the particular warmth of morning light coming through a window that isn’t yours.
It takes you a second to place yourself.
Then you feel the weight of his arm across your waist and it comes back all at once. Los Angeles. His house. The farmers market he mentioned just before you fell asleep, his voice low and unhurried in the dark.
You are sprawled out completely, which is a little embarrassing, one arm thrown above your head and your legs taking up more than your fair share of the bed. His leg is tangled with yours and his arm is draped over your waist like it found its way there in the night and simply stayed, which you suspect is exactly what happened.
You lie there for a moment and let yourself have it. The warmth of it. The stillness.
Then he stirs.
It’s slow, the way waking up is when you’re not alarmed by anything, just easing back into consciousness. He shifts slightly, his arm tightening around you for just a second, and then he presses a kiss to your temple, his lips warm and soft, still mostly asleep.
“Morning,” he mumbles into your hair. His voice is rough with sleep in a way that does something deeply unfair to you.
You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”
He’s quiet for a moment, still not entirely there, his breathing slow and even against your hair.
Then, without lifting his head, “Did you sleep okay?”
“Really well actually.”
A small sound of satisfaction. Like that matters to him. Like he was wondering.
You lie there for another comfortable minute before you shift slightly and he takes that as a cue, lifting his head, blinking at you in the morning light with an expression that is completely unguarded in the way faces only are before people have had time to arrange themselves.
“Shower?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say. “But you go first.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t want to run the hot water out,” you say.
Something in his expression shifts like he might argue, then he considers it, and nods slowly. “Fair point.”
He rolls back the covers and gets up, unhurried, and you watch him run a hand through his hair and stretch before he moves toward the bathroom. Then he stops at the edge of the bed and looks back at you.
He leans down and presses another kiss to your temple, gentle, still slow with sleep.
Then he pulls back, pauses, and says quietly, “Not enough.”
And then he kisses you properly, warm and soft and unhurried, his hand resting against the side of your face, and you reach up without thinking and kiss him back.
He pulls back after a moment and looks at you.
“Okay,” he says quietly. Like that settles something for him.
Then he disappears into the bathroom and you lie back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling with the kind of smile you can’t do anything about.
You stay exactly where you are after he disappears into the bathroom. His pillow. His duvet. The morning light coming through the curtain in long warm strips across the bed. You pull the covers up a little higher and just lie there, looking at the ceiling, listening to the shower start up.
Then you hear it.
Humming first, low and unhurried, barely audible over the sound of the water. Then words, just fragments, not performing anything, just a person singing to themselves in the shower the way everyone does when they think no one can hear. Except you can hear. You’re lying in his bed and you can hear him and it is doing something to your chest that you are completely unprepared for.
This is a normal thing, you think. People sing in the shower. This is not a significant event.
But it is, a little. It is, because it’s him, and because he doesn’t know you can hear, and because there is something about the private version of a person that gets you every time. The unperformed version. The one that hums over running water on a Saturday morning without thinking about it.
Your heart feels very full.
You reach for your phone on the nightstand.
You: cami
You: CAMI
You: are you awake i need you to be awake
The three dots appear almost immediately.
Cami: I have been awake since 7am waiting for this text. talk.
You smile and sink deeper into the pillow.
You: okay so. I stayed. I didn’t get nervous and run away.
Cami: I KNOW you stayed I could feel it spiritually. details. now.
You: we just slept cami. literally just slept.
Cami: and?
You: and his arm was around me the whole night apparently. and when he woke up he kissed my temple before he even said a word.
You stare at what you just typed and feel slightly insane.
Cami: I’m going to need a moment.
Cami: okay I’m back. continue.
You: he’s in the shower right now.
You: I can hear him singing.
You pause. Then type:
You: cami he’s just singing to himself over the water like it’s nothing and I am lying in his bed and I genuinely don’t know what to do with myself.
The dots appear and disappear a few times like she’s rewriting her response.
Cami: okay I need you to understand that you have to hold it together.
You: I AM holding it together. I’m texting you.
Cami: that’s the opposite of holding it together babe.
You laugh quietly into the duvet.
Cami: so what’s the plan for today
You: he mentioned a farmers market this morning. and maybe the beach after.
Cami: he’s taking you to a farmers market.
You: yes.
Cami: in LA.
You: yes.
Cami: that is the most romantic thing I have ever heard and I once watched a man propose on a rooftop in Venice.
You: it’s not romantic it’s just breakfast.
Cami: it’s absolutely romantic and you know it. you’re smiling right now aren’t you.
You say nothing. Which is its own answer.
Cami: I knew it. okay listen. have the best day. eat something good. let him be nice to you. and for the love of god text me everything tonight.
You: obviously.
Cami: also just so you know. I told you so.
You: I know.
Cami: I just wanted to say it out loud.
You: noted. goodbye cami.
Cami: 🫶🏼
You lock your phone and set it back on the nightstand and lie there for a moment, listening. He’s still singing, something slow, and you close your eyes and let yourself just exist in it for a second. The warmth of the bed and the sound of him through the wall.
Don’t make it a thing, you tell yourself.
But it already is, a little.
The shower cuts off and you set your phone face down on the nightstand and try to look like a person who has simply been lying here calmly, doing nothing, thinking about nothing in particular.
The bathroom door opens.
He comes out with a towel around his waist and another in his hands that he’s using to dry his hair, rubbing it back and forth absentmindedly, completely unbothered, like he hasn’t just walked out looking like that.
You look at him.
You can’t not.
The tattoos first, because there are a lot of them and they catch the light in a way that makes it hard to look anywhere else. Your eyes trace them without permission, the ones on his arms, his chest, the butterfly, the laurels, all of it familiar from photos but entirely different in person, in his bedroom, in the morning. Then the line of his stomach, the soft definition there, and that little trail of hair that disappears beneath the towel and you snap your eyes back up to his face immediately.
He is so pretty, you think. This is genuinely unfair.
He drops the towel from his hair and runs a hand through it, pushing it back, and glances toward the bathroom door.
“It’s all yours,” he says. “Left a clean towel out for you.”
You nod.
You get up from the bed and cross the room toward the bathroom, pulling his hoodie down over your shorts, feeling his gaze without quite meeting it. You’re almost at the door, fingertips just reaching the frame, when he speaks.
“Don’t act like I don’t know you were staring.”
You stop.
The heat that moves up the back of your neck is immediate and complete. You turn around and open your mouth and absolutely nothing comes out. Not a single word. Not a defense, not a deflection, not even a convincing noise. Just your mouth opening and closing while your face does something you have no control over whatsoever.
He looks at you with this expression, not a full smile, just the corners of his mouth pulled up, one eyebrow slightly raised, the face of someone who has made their point and is very comfortable letting it land.
He doesn’t say another word.
He doesn’t need to.
You turn back around and walk into the bathroom and close the door behind you and stand there for a moment staring at your own reflection, pink cheeked and completely unable to do anything about it.
Outside you hear him laugh quietly to himself.
You take your time in the shower, partly because the water pressure is still exceptional and partly because you need a few minutes to collect yourself after whatever just happened in that bedroom doorway.
You wash your hair with his shampoo again. You are not sorry about it.
When you come out he’s already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed scrolling through his phone, wearing a simple white t-shirt and light wash jeans and looking completely effortless in that way that should be illegal before coffee. He glances up when you appear in the doorway with your towel, your hair damp, your bag of clothes in your hand.
You packed for a trip to LA. Not for a sleepover.
You look down at the options you’re holding. A going out top. Another going out top. A third going out top because Camille packed your bag with her and she had opinions.
“I don’t really have anything casual,” you say, mostly to yourself.
He gets up without a word and disappears into his wardrobe for a moment, coming back with a faded grey crewneck and setting it on the bed in front of you.
“That works,” he says simply, and goes back to his phone.
You look at the crewneck. Then at him. Then back at the crewneck.
It absolutely works.
You get dressed quickly, his crewneck over your going out shorts, which is not a perfect outfit but is somehow exactly right, and you pull your damp hair up and look at yourself in the mirror above his dresser.
“Ready?” he says from behind you.
You meet his eyes in the mirror. “Ready.”
The farmers market is ten minutes from his house, tucked into a wide open lot lined with white tents and wooden stalls, already busy even at this hour. The morning is warm and bright, that specific LA warmth that sits on your skin like something gentle rather than the aggressive heat you were expecting, and everything smells like fruit and fresh bread and something floral you can’t quite place.
He parks the Range Rover and comes around to your side and you fall into step beside each other without discussing it, close enough that your arms brush as you walk through the entrance.
Nobody looks twice at him, which surprises you, until you realize this is probably exactly why he comes here. A hat pulled low. Sunglasses. A neighborhood full of people who have learned not to stare.
“Coffee first,” he says, steering you gently left with a hand at your back.
“Obviously coffee first.”
The coffee stall has a line but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. You stand together in the easy quiet of two people who have run out of the need to fill silence, watching the market move around you. A woman arranging bunches of lavender. A kid eating a strawberry twice the size of his fist. An old man playing guitar near the entrance, soft and unhurried.
“I like it here,” you say, without really meaning to say it out loud.
He looks at you. “Yeah?”
“It’s very calm.”
“That’s why I come.” He looks back at the market. “Reminds me that most things are actually fine.”
You look at him for a second, at the easy way he said it, and place it away somewhere quiet in your mind.
The line moves. You get your coffees. He pays before you can argue and hands yours over and you wrap both hands around it and take the first sip and it is, predictably, exceptional.
“Good?” he asks.
“Really good.”
He nods like he knew.
You walk deeper into the market together, moving slowly, stopping when something catches your eye. He buys peaches from a stall run by a woman who clearly knows him, who asks how he’s been without making anything of who he is, and he answers her properly, not in the clipped polite way of someone trying to move on but like he actually wants to answer. You stand slightly back and watch him and think about what he said in the kitchen, weeks ago over text, about people who’ve known him long enough that he doesn’t have to explain anything.
You think you understand it better now, standing here.
He comes back with a small paper bag and holds it open toward you. “Try one.”
You take a peach and bite into it and it is so good, so immediately and completely good, that you make a sound before you can stop yourself.
He laughs.
“Stop,” you say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You laughed.”
“Because you made a noise.”
“It’s a very good peach.”
“I know,” he says, satisfied, and steers you gently toward the next stall.
You drift through the market slowly, stopping at a honey stall where he spends three full minutes reading labels with the same focus he probably gives everything, and a bread stand where the samples are good enough that you circle back twice. He notices the second time and says nothing, just hands you another piece, which you appreciate.
Then you see the vintage booth.
It’s tucked between a plant stall and a candle vendor, a little crowded and slightly chaotic, fabric draped over wooden racks in no particular order, a handwritten chalkboard sign that says worn with love leaning against the front table. You slow down without meaning to.
“Give me a second,” you say.
“Take your time.”
You start flipping through the rack nearest to you, the familiar meditative pleasure of it, the rustle of fabric, the small thrill of not knowing what you’ll find. There are blouses and wide leg trousers and a leather jacket that you hold up and consider seriously before putting back. He wanders in behind you, hands in his pockets, looking around with mild curiosity.
You’re working your way through a second rack when you hear him say, “Hey.”
You look up.
He’s holding a dress.
It’s simple but it’s beautiful. A deep, warm burgundy, midi length, with a low back and thin straps and the kind of drape that means it was made well. The kind of dress that looks effortless and isn’t.
He’s looking at it, then at you, then back at it, with the quiet certainty of someone who has made a decision.
“This one,” he says.
You cross over and take it from him, holding it up properly. It’s even better up close. The fabric is soft and the color is deep and you can already tell it would fit like it was meant to.
“It’s really pretty,” you admit.
“It’s very pretty,” he says. “I’m getting it for you.”
You look at him. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“I don’t even have anywhere to wear something like this. I don’t have any events that warrant a dress that cute.”
He looks at you for a moment with that expression he gets sometimes, the one that’s considering something before he says it.
“Dinner tomorrow night,” he says simply. “Come to dinner with me. I’ll take you somewhere good.”
You blink. “Yeah?”
“Another favorite spot.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “You trusted me on the sushi.”
“That’s true.”
“So trust me on this.”
You look at the dress in your hands. Then at him. The morning light is warm on his face and he’s looking at you like it’s already decided, like he just needed to say it out loud, and something in your chest does that slow complicated turn it keeps doing around him.
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay.” He takes the dress from you gently and turns toward the woman running the stall before you can say anything else.
You watch him pay without making a production of it, the way he does everything, and the woman wraps the dress carefully in tissue paper and hands it back in a small paper bag and he takes it and holds it out to you and you loop it over your wrist and fall back into step beside him as you drift back out into the market.
“You didn’t even ask the price,” you say.
“Didn’t need to.”
“That is a very easy thing to say.”
He glances over at you, something warm in it. “Are you arguing with a free dress?”
You press your lips together. “No.”
“Good.”
You walk a little further and you can feel the shape of tomorrow already sitting there between you, easy and unhurried, another night in his city, another table in another room where it’s just the two of you.
You look down at the little paper bag swinging from your wrist and smile.
You spend another hour winding through the market, finishing your coffees, stopping at a stall selling handmade ceramics that you spend too long at and he waits patiently without once checking his phone. You buy a small bowl, cream colored with an uneven rim, the kind of thing that looks like it was made by someone’s hands and not a machine. He watches you wrap it carefully in your tote bag and doesn’t say anything but looks quietly pleased that you found something.
The morning does that thing where it stretches without you meaning to let it. One more stall. One more sample. One more slow loop back through a section you already covered because the light is nice and neither of you is in a hurry.
A couple of people stop him along the way.
The first is a man about his age, broad shouldered, who spots him near the juice stall and breaks into a wide grin and says his name like it’s a good thing. Harry stops immediately, no hesitation, no visible flicker of inconvenience, and they talk for a few minutes while you drift slightly to the side and study a display of dried flower wreaths with great dedication. You’re not trying to disappear. You just don’t want to hover. When you glance back over Harry is laughing at something, easy and genuine, and then he catches your eye and tilts his head slightly, pulling you back in.
“This is a friend,” he says, which is not an introduction exactly but feels like an offering, and the man nods at you warmly and doesn’t ask questions and you like him immediately for that.
The second time is a woman with a small child on her hip who recognizes him near the exit and stops with the particular look of someone trying to decide if they’re being polite or intrusive. Harry makes the decision easy. He smiles and stops and crouches slightly to say something to the kid, who stares at him with the profound seriousness of a toddler encountering a stranger, and the woman laughs and thanks him and moves on.
You watch him stand back up and brush off his jeans and he catches you looking.
“What,” he says.
“Nothing,” you say. “You’re good with people.”
He considers that. “I just try to be a person.”
You think about that the rest of the way to the car.
By the time you climb back into the Range Rover your feet are warm from the pavement and your eyes are doing that heavy pleasant thing that comes from fresh air and a morning spent moving slowly. You set your tote bag between your feet and lean back against the headrest and exhale.
He gets in beside you and starts the engine and lets it idle for a second.
“Beach?” he says.
You consider the beach. The sand and the effort of it and the walking and the sun.
“What about your couch,” you say. “Your very large and comfortable looking couch. And a movie.”
He turns to look at you.
Then he laughs, low and genuine, and puts the car in reverse.
“Sounds like a plan.”
You settle back into your seat, satisfied. The market disappears behind you as he pulls out onto the street and the city opens up again, wide and warm and golden in the late morning light.
He drives the way he does everything, easy and unhurried, one hand on the wheel. A few minutes pass in comfortable quiet and then he speaks, his voice taking on that looser quality it gets when he’s not saying anything in particular, just talking.
“We used to go to this market near my mum’s house,” he says. “Every Saturday. She had this whole system. Specific stalls in a specific order, same route every time, and if you deviated from it she’d look at you like you’d suggested something genuinely offensive.”
You smile without turning your head. “Did you ever deviate?”
“Once. I was maybe eight. Wanted to stop at the sweet stall first instead of last.” He shakes his head. “Never again.”
You laugh. “She sounds terrifying.”
“She’s five foot three,” he says. “And the least terrifying person alive. That’s what makes it worse somehow.”
You turn to look at him then, at the soft smile on his face, the way he looks when he talks about home. Unguarded in a specific way that’s different from any other version of unguarded you’ve seen from him.
His hand moves from the gearshift and settles on your knee, easy, like it belongs there, warm through the fabric of your shorts.
He keeps talking, something about his sister getting banned from the sweet stall for reasons he won’t fully explain, and you let the words wash over you, watching the city drift past the window, his hand warm on your knee and the little paper bag with the burgundy dress at your feet, and you think about tomorrow night and the way he said it, like it was already decided, like of course, there was never any question.
You close your eyes for just a second and let yourself have it.
All of it.
He pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine and neither of you moves immediately, the comfortable inertia of a morning well spent settling over the car. The street is quiet. The house sits warm and unhurried in the midday light.
Inside he drops his keys on the table by the door and disappears into the kitchen while you kick off your shoes and drift into the living room, sinking into the couch with the particular relief of someone whose feet have earned it. You hear the fridge open. The soft knock of cupboard doors. The quiet domestic sounds of someone who knows where everything is.
He appears a few minutes later with a bowl of cut fruit, some crackers and cheese, two glasses of water, all of it arranged without fuss on the coffee table like this is just something he does. You tuck your legs up and reach for a cracker and he drops down beside you, close, his arm finding the back of the couch behind you.
“You pick,” he says, nodding at the television.
“That’s a lot of trust.”
“I’ll survive.”
You find something easy, a film neither of you has seen, the kind that’s good enough to have on without demanding too much attention. He reaches over and dims the lights with a remote you didn’t notice, and the room goes warm and low and the city outside goes quiet.
You eat slowly. The fruit is cold and sweet. The cheese is good. There’s a comfortable looseness to it, the two of you passing things back and forth without asking, commenting on the film occasionally, laughing at the same moments without looking at each other to check.
At some point the food is mostly gone and you stop reaching for it and just settle back into the couch properly. He shifts at the same time, his arm coming down from the back of the couch to rest around your shoulders, and you lean into it without overthinking it, your head finding that space between his shoulder and his chest like it already knows the way.
On screen someone says something dramatic. Neither of you reacts.
His thumb moves slowly back and forth against your shoulder. Absent and warm, the way people touch when they’re not thinking about it, when it’s just instinct. You focus on the film. You try to follow the plot. You are only partially successful because his thumb keeps moving and the room is very warm and he smells like his shower and you are very aware of all of it in a way you’re trying to be subtle about.
Twenty minutes pass like that. Easy and soft. His hand eventually migrates from your shoulder to your hair, fingers moving through it slowly from the nape of your neck upward, and you feel your eyes go heavy in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with sleep.
You shift slightly without meaning to, turning just a fraction toward him, and his hand stills for just a second before it keeps moving, slower now, more deliberate.
Something in the room changes.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just a degree or two, the temperature of it, the quality of the quiet between you.
His fingers trace down from your hair to the side of your neck, featherlight, and you feel it everywhere. You keep your eyes on the screen. Your heart is doing something completely unreasonable.
“You’re not watching the movie,” he says.
His voice is low. Closer than you were expecting.
“Neither are you,” you say.
A beat.
“No,” he agrees. “I’m not.”
You turn your head to look at him and find him already looking at you, which you knew, which is exactly why you took so long to turn. His eyes move over your face in that unhurried way he has, taking his time with it, and the look lingers a beat past casual, a beat past friendly, a beat past anything that can be reasonably filed under just comfortable on the couch.
You don’t look away.
Neither does he.
His hand is still resting at the side of your neck, his thumb tracing a slow line along your jaw, barely there, and your breath has gone slightly uneven in a way you hope isn’t obvious and strongly suspect is.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi,” you whisper.
You look at him for a second, at the quiet certainty of him, at the way he’s looking at you like there’s nowhere else he’s considering looking, and something in your chest just gives.
You close the small distance between you and kiss him.
It starts soft. Just a press of lips, warm and simple. His hand curves around your jaw and he kisses you back slowly, unhurried, taking his time with it the way he takes his time with everything. Your hand finds the front of his shirt and you feel him exhale against your mouth, slow and steady.
He pulls back just slightly. Not far. Just enough to look at you.
Then he kisses you again and this one has more behind it, intention building quietly underneath the softness of it, his hand sliding from your jaw to your waist, pulling you closer. You go, easy, shifting toward him on the couch, and the film keeps playing on the television and neither of you hears a single word of it.
His hand is warm through the fabric of the crewneck, moving slowly, and he kisses along your jaw and down the side of your neck and you tip your head back and stare at the ceiling for a second and think, distantly, that you are absolutely done for.
He finds his way back to your mouth. The kiss deepens, unhurried but unmistakable now, and his hands slide to your waist and he draws you closer still and you pull back just enough to look at him, both of you breathing slightly uneven, the afternoon light warm and low across the room.
He looks at you steadily. Patient. Waiting.
“Hi,” you say this time.
Something in his face softens. Then he lifts you gently onto his lap so you’re facing him, his hands settled warm on your waist, and you look down at him in the quiet of the afternoon and he reaches up and pushes your hair back from your face with both hands, just holding it there, looking at you like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it.
“You sure?” he says quietly.
“I’m sure,” you tell him.
That’s all he needs.
He leans up and kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding slowly under the hem of the crewneck and warm against your skin, and you reach down and pull it off over your head yourself because you have run completely out of patience and the afternoon light is soft and warm and the couch is very comfortable and he is looking at you like that.
He exhales slowly, looking at you, and something in his expression goes very quiet and very serious and very warm all at once.
Then his hands move.
He is still looking at you like you are something he cannot quite believe he gets to see up close, his hands warm and steady where they rest on your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles against your bare skin now that the crewneck is gone.
You lean down and kiss him again, deeper this time, your fingers threading into his hair.
He makes a low sound against your mouth, half sigh, half encouragement, and his hands slide up your back, tracing the line of your spine with reverent care. When his fingers reach the clasp of your bra, he pauses, checking in with a look. You nod, barely pulling back enough to breathe the word.
“Yes.”
He undoes it with gentle fingers, letting the straps slip down your arms. You shrug it off and toss it aside, and his gaze follows the movement before returning to your face, then lower, drinking you in like he is memorizing every detail. His hands follow, warm palms cupping you, thumbs brushing over sensitive skin until your breath catches. You arch into his touch, and he leans up to kiss the hollow of your throat, then lower, slow and unhurried, like there is nothing else in the world he would rather be doing.
Your hands move to the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it upward. He helps you pull it over his head, his hair falling messily afterward, and then it is your turn to look, really look, at the ink across his chest, the way his muscles shift under your palms as you run your hands down his torso. He is warm, solid, real in a way that makes your heart stutter. You lean in and press a kiss to the butterfly tattoo, then another just below it, and he exhales sharply, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.
He shifts beneath you, guiding you both so you are lying back against the cushions, him hovering over you with careful balance. His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, eyes meeting yours again in silent question. You lift your hips in answer, and he slides them down your legs along with your underwear, his touch lingering on your thighs, the backs of your knees, like he wants to touch every inch of you he can reach.
You reach for his jeans next, undoing the button and zipper with fingers that are not quite steady. He helps you push them down, kicking them off the end of the couch along with his boxers, and then there is nothing between you at all, just skin and warmth and the quiet hitch of breath in the sunlit room.
He settles between your legs, the weight of him grounding and perfect, and kisses you like he is pouring everything into it: the slow drag of his mouth, the way his hand traces down your side, over your hip, then between you. His fingers find you already slick and wanting, stroking with patient, knowing touches that have you gasping into his mouth, hips rolling up to meet him. He murmurs your name against your lips, soft, almost reverent, and you feel it everywhere.
When you reach down to wrap your hand around him, he groans quietly, forehead resting against yours. You stroke him slowly, matching the rhythm of his fingers, learning the way he likes to be touched by the way his breath stutters and his grip tightens on your hip. The tension builds between you like a slow wave, warm and inevitable.
“Please,” you whisper, and that is all it takes.
He shifts, positioning himself at your entrance, and pushes in slowly, inch by careful inch, until he is fully seated inside you. The stretch is perfect, the fullness of him making you both still for a moment, breathing each other in. His eyes stay on yours the whole time, dark and soft and full of something that feels bigger than this afternoon, bigger than the couch, bigger than words.
He starts to move, deep and unhurried rolls of his hips that press you deeper into the cushions. You wrap your legs around him, heels digging into the small of his back, and meet him thrust for thrust. Every movement draws quiet sounds from both of you, his low murmurs of your name, your soft gasps against his shoulder. His hand slides between you again, fingers circling where you need it most, and the pleasure builds in waves, steady and overwhelming.
You come first, clenching around him with a broken moan, your fingers digging into his back as the feeling crashes through you, warm and bright and all-consuming. He follows moments later, burying his face in your neck as he spills inside you, hips stuttering with the force of it.
For a long while afterward, neither of you moves. He stays buried in you, both of you catching your breath, his weight a comforting blanket. He presses soft kisses along your collarbone, your jaw, your temple, whispering something too quiet for you to fully catch but that feels like praise, like wonder.
Eventually he shifts, slipping out of you gently and pulling you close against his chest. The movie is still playing in the background, forgotten long ago. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your bare back, and you press your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
You stay like that for a long time.
His fingers keep moving on your back, slow and absent, and your cheek is pressed against his chest and you can hear his heartbeat, steady and even, gradually returning to its normal pace. The movie on the television has moved on to something else entirely. Neither of you acknowledges it.
The afternoon light has shifted, coming through the windows at a different angle now, warmer and lower, the kind of light that means time has passed without you noticing.
You trace a lazy line along one of his tattoos with your fingertip, following the shape of it without thinking about it, and he watches your hand move with half closed eyes.
You lift your head and look at him. His hair is thoroughly messed, pushed in every direction, and he looks completely unbothered by this, which tracks. There’s a softness to his face in the aftermath of everything that makes him look younger somehow. More like a person and less like anything else.
“What time is it,” you ask.
He glances past you toward the window. “Late afternoon. Maybe four.”
You drop your head back down onto his chest. “We’ve been on this couch for a while.”
“We have.”
“The movie is definitely over.”
“Most definitely.”
Neither of you moves.
His hand finds your hair again, fingers moving through it gently, and you close your eyes and let yourself exist in the warmth of him for another minute. The house is very quiet. Outside a car passes and then the street goes still again.
“Are you hungry?” he asks eventually.
You consider it. “A little.”
“I can make something.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he says. “I want to.”
You lift your head again and look at him properly, at the easy certainty of that, at the way he says things like that so simply, like wanting to take care of you is just a fact he’s stating rather than something that requires fanfare.
“Okay,” you say.
He presses a kiss to your forehead before he shifts, reaching for his t-shirt from somewhere in the cushions, handing you the crewneck without being asked. You pull it back on and he stands and stretches and runs a hand through his hair like that’s going to do anything useful, and you tuck your legs up and watch him disappear toward the kitchen.
You hear the fridge open. The low sound of him moving around in there, unhurried, at home in the most literal sense.
You look at the ceiling.
You think about the farmers market this morning and the dress in the paper bag by the door and the way he said dinner tomorrow night like it was already obvious. You think about his hand on your knee in the car and his voice telling a story about his mum and a sweet stall and the way he laughed about it.
You think about all of it and the word that keeps surfacing, quietly and persistently, is easy.
This is easy.
Not simple, exactly. Not uncomplicated in the larger sense. But easy in the moment, in the day, in the specific texture of being around him, which is not something you were expecting and is maybe the thing that gets you the most.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.
You already know who it is.
Cami: it has been seven hours since your last update. I am filing a missing persons report.
You: I’m alive.
Cami: and??
You: and we went to the farmers market and he bought me a dress and we came home and watched a movie.
Cami: a movie.
You: a movie.
Cami: that’s all you’re giving me.
You: that’s all you’re getting.
Cami: I hate you so much.
Cami: wait he BOUGHT you a dress??
You: a really pretty one. burgundy. we’re going to dinner tomorrow night.
The dots appear and disappear three times.
Cami: I need you to understand that I am sitting alone in my apartment eating leftover pad thai and you are living my roman empire.
You: I’m sorry.
Cami: no you’re not.
You smile at your phone.
You: not even a little bit.
Cami: good. you shouldn’t be. I’m so happy for you babe. genuinely.
Cami: also the dress sounds stunning. send a photo tomorrow before dinner.
You: obviously.
Cami: 🫶🏼 now go enjoy your evening and stop texting me.
You lock your phone and set it face down on the coffee table just as Harry comes back from the kitchen, a dish towel over his shoulder, leaning against the doorframe.
“Pasta okay?”
You look at him. Messed hair. Bare feet. Dish towel. The afternoon light coming through the window behind him.
“Pasta is perfect,” you say.
He disappears back into the kitchen and you hear the sound of water running and something going on the stove and you pull the crewneck down over your knees and sink deeper into the couch.
Outside the light is going golden.
Tomorrow there is a burgundy dress and a dinner and a whole other night in his city.
Summary: You and Jack shared a night together. He left. Here is the aftermath.
Warnings: Angst. A lot of angst. Yearning. Idiots in love. Hurt/comfort? Emotional hurt/comfort? Mentions of sex. An almost offensive amount of yearning. Miscommunication? Insecurities. Mentions of death of a spouse. Mentions of being an amputee. Older man x younger woman trope (unspecified age gap). No use of Y/N. Not beta’d. Whatever else I failed to mention.
Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.
Word Count: 6,240
Series Masterlist || Masterlist
Next Part ->
You should’ve expected it, honestly. Thinking he’d stay. Letting yourself believe that maybe there was actually something between you beyond lingering looks and late-night conversations in empty hallways.
You felt stupid.
Waking up to Jack’s side of the bed—your bed—cold and untouched, with no note, no text, nothing to indicate he’d even been there after you’d finally fallen asleep.
Your stomach dropped so hard it made you nauseous.
For a few seconds, you just stared at the empty space beside you, blanket wrinkled where he’d been hours earlier. The faint smell of his cologne still clung to the sheets, stubborn and cruel. Your chest ached so suddenly your eyes burned.
Rolling onto your back, you looked up at the ceiling and swallowed hard.
You should’ve seen this coming.
You should’ve known better than to read into it.
Jack was kind. Attentive. Easy to fall for if you weren’t careful. And you hadn’t been careful at all.
A shaky breath left you as you dragged a hand over your face. God, this was humiliating.
You’d spent so long wanting him that somewhere along the line, your brain had started turning every small thing into something bigger. The lingering touches. The way his voice softened around you. The looks that lasted just a second too long.
And last night—
Last night had felt real.
Not rushed. Not careless. He’d touched you like you mattered. Like he wanted to memorize you. Afterwards, he’d stayed tangled up with you beneath the blankets, warm and half-asleep, his hand resting lazily against your waist while the early morning light spilled across your apartment.
You’d let yourself think maybe this meant something.
Maybe that had been your mistake.
Letting out a heavy sigh, you finally forced yourself to sit up. The apartment felt too quiet now, almost painfully so. Your eyes flicked toward the bedroom doorway half-expecting him to appear somehow, apologetic and disheveled, explaining that he’d just gone to grab coffee or something equally stupid.
But the apartment stayed silent.
Of course it did.
You pushed yourself out of bed and grabbed some comfortable clothes before heading to the bathroom. The floor felt cold beneath your feet. Everything did.
The shower steamed quickly, fogging the mirror while you stood beneath the hot water longer than necessary, trying not to think about him.
It didn’t work.
Your mind replayed everything anyway.
The way he’d looked at you across the room for weeks now. The hesitant flirting. The tension that had built so slowly it almost felt inevitable. The way he’d kissed you last night—careful at first, like he was giving you the chance to stop him.
You’d liked Jack for God knows how long. Longer than you wanted to admit.
And stupidly, selfishly, you thought maybe he felt the same.
You thought last night had been some kind of turning point at the very least. That maybe things would be different now.
He’d been everything you imagined. Gentle when you needed him to be, teasing when he noticed you getting nervous, warm in a way that made you feel safe enough to forget yourself for a while.
Which honestly just made this hurt worse.
Maybe it was for the best that he wasn’t there.
Because if he had stayed only to tell you it didn’t mean anything, you weren’t sure you could’ve handled hearing it out loud.
As you stepped out of the shower, warm steam curling around the bathroom, you reached automatically for the towel hanging nearby and wrapped it tightly around yourself. The fabric clung damply to your skin while you stood there for a moment, staring at your blurred reflection in the mirror.
God, you looked exhausted.
Maybe it was a good thing you had today off.
At least this way, you didn’t have to walk into work pretending everything was fine. You didn’t have to deal with knowing looks or questions or the possibility of running into Jack before you’d figured out how to act normal again.
The thought alone made your stomach twist.
You could stay home. Hide for a day. Nurse your wounded ego in private.
Because really, what had you expected?
That he’d stay the morning? Make coffee? Kiss your forehead before leaving? Maybe linger awkwardly in your kitchen while the two of you tried to navigate whatever this was supposed to become?
The more you thought about it, the more embarrassed you felt for ever imagining it in the first place.
Jack hadn’t promised you anything.
That was the worst part.
He hadn’t lied. Hadn’t manipulated you. He’d just…left.
And somehow that hurt more.
You wiped a hand across the fogged mirror before looking away again almost immediately. Your chest still felt heavy, weighed down by the kind of disappointment you couldn’t even fully justify.
Because technically, nothing bad had happened.
Two adults slept together. That was it.
Except it hadn’t felt casual to you.
That was the problem.
Drying off slowly, you tried to focus on anything other than the memory of him in your bed. The warmth of his hand against your waist. His tired voice sometime in the middle of the night asking if you were okay. The way he’d looked at you like you were something fragile and precious all at once.
Your throat tightened.
You needed to stop replaying it before you drove yourself insane.
Today would be easy. Quiet. You’d clean the apartment, maybe order takeout, maybe sleep half the afternoon away. Anything to keep your mind occupied long enough for the ache in your chest to dull into something manageable.
You could get over one stupid night.
You had to.
* * *
Jack couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat.
It sat there heavily as he drove, fingers tightening against the steering wheel every time his mind drifted back to the night before—which was constantly.
Your smile.
Your laugh.
The way you’d looked at him like you actually wanted him there.
And then the memory that followed immediately after: slipping out of your apartment while you slept peacefully in bed behind him, too much of a coward to stay long enough to face the morning after.
Jack Abbott wasn’t going to sit there and pretend he hadn’t enjoyed himself.
He did.
God, he did.
He was with you.
That alone had felt dangerous enough.
But sometime during the night, after the adrenaline and want had settled into something quieter, something softer, panic started creeping in beneath his ribs. Slow at first. Then all at once.
The intimacy. The closeness. The domesticity of it all.
Your head resting against his chest. Your sleepy voice mumbling his name. The way you’d curled closer to him in your sleep like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It started to suffocate him.
Not because he didn’t want it.
Because he wanted it too much.
Jack liked you—a lot more than he should’ve allowed himself to. And that was exactly the problem.
There were too many things stacked against this from the beginning. The age difference. His leg. The baggage he carried around everywhere no matter how hard he tried to bury it.
And then there was the biggest thing of all.
His wife.
Even now, years later, the word still hollowed something out inside him.
When he lost her, it felt like losing entire pieces of himself alongside her. She’d been sick for so long that grief had settled into their home before death ever officially arrived. By the end, everything smelled like hospitals and medication and exhaustion.
He remembered sitting beside her hospital bed late one night, her hand frail and cool in his while machines hummed softly around them.
“You can’t hide behind me forever,” she’d said quietly.
Jack’s throat tightened painfully at the memory.
Her eyes had been glassy with exhaustion, but she’d still managed that stubborn little smile he used to love so much.
“You will find someone else,” she told him. “You will be happy. You will live. Do you hear me?”
He remembered shaking his head immediately. Like the idea itself offended him.
But she’d squeezed his hand with surprising strength.
“Jack.”
He’d tried.
He really had.
He went through the motions after she died. Learned how to exist again. Learned how to go to work and laugh at jokes and survive holidays and come home to an empty house without feeling like he was drowning every second of the day.
But moving on?
That part felt impossible.
Because every time he started wanting something again—wanting someone—guilt wrapped around his throat like a hand.
And with you, it was worse.
You made him feel calm in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Less exhausted. Less haunted. You made him feel like himself again, or at least a version of himself he thought had died alongside her.
That terrified him more than anything.
So he ran.
Like a coward.
Jack grimaced, dragging a hand down his face as he stopped at a red light. He could already picture your reaction when you woke up. Confusion first. Then hurt.
Maybe embarrassment.
The thought made his chest ache.
You probably thought he regretted it.
Maybe part of him did—not because of you, never because of you—but because now there was no pretending this was harmless anymore.
He’d crossed a line emotionally long before last night. Sleeping with you had only made it impossible to ignore.
Jack would understand if you hated him after this. If you decided you wanted nothing to do with him anymore.
He left without a word. Without an explanation. Without even giving you the chance to wake up beside him.
Who does that to someone they care about?
The answer came immediately.
Someone selfish.
Jack let out a humorless laugh under his breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind his eyes.
Maybe being alone was just something he deserved.
* * *
By the time Jack’s shift rolled around, he still felt like shit.
Barely slept. Barely ate. Spent most of the morning replaying every stupid decision he’d made in the last twelve hours until his head hurt.
And somehow, walking into the hospital made it worse.
Because there was a very real chance he’d see you.
“You look awful,” Robby stated casually as he fell into step beside him toward the locker room.
Jack snorted dryly, shrugging his bag higher onto his shoulder. “How nice of you.”
“I’m serious,” Robby said, glancing over at him. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Feel like it too.”
Robby let out a quiet hum before smirking slightly. “What’s gotten you all pissed off? Didn’t you go home with Honey last night?”
Jack’s throat tightened instantly at the nickname.
You.
The memory hit him hard and fast—your laugh at the bar, your hand brushing his arm, the way you’d smiled against his mouth later that night like you couldn’t quite believe this was happening either.
His chest twisted painfully.
“Nothing happened,” Jack lied.
The words came too easily. Too practiced.
Robby shot him a look that practically screamed bullshit.
Jack avoided it, jaw tightening as he pushed through the locker room doors. He could already feel irritation prickling beneath his skin, sharp and restless. Mostly at himself.
“Really?” Robby followed after him, unconvinced. “Because at the bar, you guys were practically all over each other.”
Jack said nothing, yanking open his locker harder than necessary.
“Not to mention all the flirting before that,” Robby continued. “I mean, everyone’s been noticing it for—”
“Can we just drop this?” Jack snapped.
The harshness in his voice cut through the room immediately.
Robby blinked, caught off guard.
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose, already regretting it, but the guilt and anxiety clawing around inside him had left him with almost no patience for this conversation.
For any conversation, honestly.
Robby studied him for a second longer, expression shifting from teasing to something more cautious.
“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Jesus.”
Jack dragged a hand down his face and looked away, shoulders tense. He could feel Robby still standing there beside him, probably trying to figure out what the hell had happened between last night and now.
Jack wished he knew too.
Because last night had been good. More than good.
It had felt easy being with you. Natural in a way that scared the hell out of him. Somewhere between your apartment and waking up beside you this morning, something inside him had started spiraling.
And now he was here, exhausted and miserable and completely unraveling.
“Look,” Robby said after a moment, voice quieter now. “Whatever happened…you should probably talk to her.”
Jack’s stomach dropped.
He busied himself changing into his scrubs just to avoid reacting.
“Yeah,” he muttered eventually, though the word sounded hollow even to him.
Because he should.
But he had no idea what he’d even say.
* * *
You were sprawled across your couch by the time evening settled in, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table alongside crumpled napkins and a glass of water you kept forgetting to drink.
The apartment was dim except for the television casting flickering light across the room.
You’d spent most of the day trying not to think.
It hadn’t worked.
Every distraction eventually circled back to Jack somehow. Folding laundry reminded you of him leaving his shirt on your bedroom floor. Making coffee reminded you that he hadn’t stayed long enough for morning coffee in the first place. Even the silence in your apartment felt wrong now, too big and empty after having him there the night before.
It was pathetic, honestly.
One night.
That was all it took to completely throw you off balance.
You flipped absently through channels, not really watching anything. Some sitcom laugh track filled the apartment for a few seconds before you changed it again with a grimace.
Nothing held your attention long enough.
Your chest still felt bruised.
When your phone buzzed loudly beside you, you startled slightly before grabbing it off the couch cushion. Trinity’s name lit up across the screen.
You let out a dramatic groan before answering.
“Hello?” you muttered, already exhausted.
“You sound like shit.”
Of course it was Trinity.
You closed your eyes briefly, sinking further into the couch. Her shift would be ending around now, which explained the call. Apparently your misery had become detectable through the phone.
“What do you want?” you sighed. “It’s late.”
“It’s seven.”
You groaned louder this time, dragging a hand over your face.
“Fine, whatever,” you mumbled. “What?”
“Just checking in on you.”
“Oh, I’m doing great,” you replied flatly, stabbing your takeout with more force than necessary. “Absolutely fantastic.”
Trinity hummed knowingly on the other end of the line.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I can tell.”
You shoved food into your mouth mostly to avoid talking.
For a second, neither of you said anything. The quiet stretched just long enough to make your stomach tighten uneasily.
Then—
“Look,” Trinity started carefully, “I saw Abbot come in.”
Your grip tightened around the fork immediately.
“He looked awful.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully at that, equal parts concern and anger.
You hated that you still cared.
“Did something happen?” she asked gently.
You stared blankly at the muted television.
A couple on-screen laughed at some joke you couldn’t hear.
“I don’t really want to talk about him,” you said quietly.
Trinity paused.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “That bad?”
You let out a humorless laugh under your breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.
The embarrassing part was that technically nothing catastrophic had even happened. No screaming fight. No betrayal. No cruel words exchanged.
Jack just left.
And somehow that hurt enough to hollow you out anyway.
“I overheard him talking to Robby earlier,” Trinity continued cautiously. “He told him nothing happened between you guys.”
Everything in you went still.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.
You stared down at your untouched food, throat tightening painfully as heat rushed to your face.
He said that?
For a second, you genuinely thought you might be sick.
“Is that true?” Trinity asked carefully.
The silence on your end probably answered for her.
You swallowed hard, trying to force your expression back into something neutral even though she couldn’t see you.
“Yeah,” you stammered finally, your voice sounding thinner than you intended. “Nothing happened.”
The lie scraped against your throat.
Trinity immediately caught it.
“Okay, no,” she said firmly. “I know that voice.”
You pressed your lips together hard enough for it to ache.
“Look, if he did something—”
“He didn’t,” you interrupted quickly. Too quickly. “I promise. I’m fine, okay?”
Fine.
Right.
You were currently sitting alone in your apartment trying not to cry over a man who apparently told people nothing happened between you after spending the night in your bed.
Fine wasn’t exactly the word for it.
Trinity went quiet for a moment.
When she spoke again, her voice softened.
“I’m coming over.”
Your eyes widened immediately. “Trin—”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not in the mood,” you said quickly, sitting upright now. “Please don’t.”
“Huckleberry will survive one night without me.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly at the mention of Dennis.
It disappeared just as quickly.
“Trinity,” you sighed tiredly. “I really just want to be alone right now.”
“No,” she replied bluntly. “You think you do.”
You dropped your head back against the couch cushion with a frustrated groan.
“I’m coming into work tomorrow,” you muttered weakly, like that somehow fixed things.
“So am I.”
“I mean it,” you said, exhaustion bleeding into your voice now. “Can you just leave me alone?”
The question came out quieter than you intended.
Smaller.
And that seemed to hit Trinity immediately.
Her tone gentled again.
“You’re in the middle of a crisis,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
Your throat tightened so painfully you couldn’t respond.
Because that was the worst part, wasn’t it?
You felt ridiculous for hurting this much.
Nothing had happened.
Except everything had.
* * *
You didn’t even bother trying to look presentable by the time Trinity showed up.
There didn’t seem to be a point.
You were still wearing one of your oldest oversized shirts, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath your eyes. The takeout containers were still scattered across the coffee table exactly where you’d left them, the television still playing quietly in the background more for noise than entertainment.
The knock at the door came sooner than you expected.
You opened it slowly, immediately spotting the duffel bag slung over Trinity’s shoulder and the look on her face.
A mixture of concern and irritation.
Your stomach twisted.
“You’re fine my ass,” she said the second she stepped inside.
You rolled your eyes weakly, stepping aside so she could enter.
Trinity brushed past you into the dining area like she owned the place, dropping the duffel bag heavily onto the table before unzipping it with purpose.
“What’d he do anyway?”
You lingered awkwardly a few feet behind her, arms folding tightly across yourself. You still felt strangely numb from the phone call earlier. Numb from the entire day, honestly. Like your body had just decided to shut parts of itself down to keep from fully processing the embarrassment of all this.
“It’s nothing,” you mumbled.
Even saying the words made heat crawl up your neck.
“You’ll think it’s stupid.”
Trinity stopped rummaging through the bag long enough to shoot you a dry look over her shoulder.
“It’s not stupid if it upset you this much.”
Your eyes dropped immediately.
That somehow made it worse.
Because you were upset. Mortifyingly upset. More upset than you had any right to be after one night together.
But it wasn’t really just one night, was it?
It was weeks—months—of tension and hope and carefully buried feelings finally bubbling over into something real. Or at least you thought it was real.
That was the humiliating part.
You’d let yourself believe it meant something more to him too.
Trinity turned back to the bag and started unloading supplies onto the table.
Two large bottles of alcohol.
A bag of chips.
More snacks.
You blinked. “Jesus.”
“I came prepared.”
Despite everything clawing at your chest, a weak laugh almost escaped you.
Almost.
You leaned heavily against the doorway instead, exhaustion settling deep into your bones.
“Abbot and I hooked up,” you admitted finally.
The words came out flat. Hollow.
Trinity froze mid-motion.
A heavy silence filled the room as she slowly turned to look at you properly.
“…Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked carefully after a moment. “You’ve been thirsting over him for how long now?”
Normally, the comment would’ve embarrassed you enough to protest.
Now it just hurt.
You swallowed hard, staring somewhere over her shoulder instead of meeting her eyes.
“He left before I woke up, Trinity,” you said quietly.
The room felt painfully still.
“And you told me he’s going around saying nothing happened.”
Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.
You hated yourself for it immediately.
Trinity’s expression hardened almost instantly.
“Oh.”
You looked away quickly, jaw tightening as emotion surged hot and ugly in your chest again.
The worst part was how badly you wanted there to be some explanation. Some reasonable excuse for why he left like that.
An emergency call.
Panic.
Regret.
Anything.
Because the alternative—the possibility that last night genuinely meant more to you than it did to him—felt unbearable.
Trinity nodded slowly, crossing her arms.
“So he’s a dick.”
You didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because even now, even after the humiliation and hurt and confusion, some pathetic part of you still wanted to defend him.
Jack had been kind to you. Gentle. Careful with you in ways that didn’t feel fake.
People didn’t look at someone like that if they felt nothing…right?
Your chest tightened painfully.
Unless you imagined all of it.
Trinity stepped closer, her voice firmer this time.
“He’s a dick,” she repeated. “I don’t care what his reason was. You don’t do that to someone.”
You rubbed tiredly at your face.
“I don’t know if I want to be mad at him,” you admitted softly, “or myself.”
And there it was.
The awful truth sitting underneath all the hurt.
You missed him already.
Trinity’s expression softened immediately.
“Oh, Honey.”
The sympathy in her voice nearly undid you.
“I’ll help you get over him,” she said gently after a moment.
You let out a weak laugh. “That might take a while.”
“Not tonight,” she continued, ignoring that. “Tonight we’re drinking.”
She grabbed one of the bottles and held it up slightly.
“Tomorrow we can spiral. Only a little, though.”
Another reluctant laugh escaped you, watery around the edges.
“And once you’re in a good place,” Trinity added, finally smiling a little, “you’ll go guy hunting.”
You snorted quietly, shaking your head.
“That sounds horrific.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
Trinity nudged your shoulder lightly as she passed.
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got time.”
Something in your chest ached again at the casual warmth of it.
Because right now, with Jack pulling away and your pride lying in pieces somewhere beneath the weight of the last twenty-four hours, Trinity showing up anyway felt dangerously close to enough to make you cry.
* * *
By the time morning rolled around and your alarm started blaring from somewhere beneath the couch cushions, you were immediately aware of the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes.
You groaned quietly, squinting against the weak morning light filtering through the apartment windows.
Right.
You and Trinity had apparently decided that splitting an entire bottle of whiskey on a work night was a reasonable coping mechanism.
In your defense, it had briefly worked.
Somewhere between drunkenly ranting about emotionally unavailable men and Trinity threatening to fight Jack in the hospital parking lot, the ache in your chest had dulled enough for you to breathe again.
Unfortunately, now you just felt emotionally devastated and hungover.
Fantastic.
You fumbled for your phone, finally silencing the alarm before letting your head fall back against the couch cushion with a miserable sigh.
At least you weren’t sick.
You’d dealt with enough brutal hangovers in college to know this could’ve been much worse. Still, the headache pulsing through your skull and the sluggish heaviness dragging at your limbs told you pretty clearly that you weren’t exactly going to be operating at full capacity today.
Which was unfortunate considering you had to spend the next twelve hours pretending your life wasn’t actively imploding.
Fuck.
You slowly pushed yourself upright, wincing immediately at the stiffness in your neck from sleeping on the couch. The television was off now, but the aftermath of last night remained scattered across the coffee table—empty glasses, crumpled snack wrappers, half-open takeout containers.
The apartment smelled faintly like alcohol and regret.
Honestly fitting.
A quiet groan pulled your attention downward.
Trinity was sprawled out on the floor beside the couch, somehow still asleep despite your alarm going off for nearly a full minute. One of your couch cushions was shoved beneath her head at an awkward angle, and your throw blanket barely covered half her body.
You stared at her for a second.
“…You look dead.”
She responded with an incoherent mumble.
You nudged her lightly with your foot.
“We’re gonna be late for work,” you muttered, your own voice rough with sleep.
Trinity made a wounded noise into the cushion.
You scrubbed both hands over your face before grimacing immediately at the taste in your mouth.
Jesus.
Your expression twisted in disgust.
“I think my breath just violated several human rights.”
That finally got Trinity to crack an eye open.
“You’re so dramatic in the morning,” she mumbled.
“And you smell like whiskey.”
“So do you.”
Fair.
You sighed heavily, glancing toward the hallway. The thought of going into work today made your stomach twist unpleasantly.
Because Jack would be there.
The reality settled heavily over you again, chasing away the remaining haze of sleep almost instantly.
You’d have to see him.
Pretend things were normal.
Pretend hearing that he told people “nothing happened” hadn’t quietly shattered something inside you.
Your chest tightened.
God, this was going to suck.
“Did you bring a change of clothes?” you asked, forcing your thoughts elsewhere.
Trinity hummed vaguely in response, still half-buried in the floor.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you said, shuffling toward the bathroom with all the grace of a dying Victorian woman. Every part of your body felt sluggish and heavy, like sleep and alcohol still clung stubbornly to your skin.
“If you’re not ready when I’m done,” you added tiredly, “I’m leaving without you.”
Trinity slowly lifted her head from the cushion, squinting at you with narrowed, deeply offended eyes.
“You’re cruel,” she muttered.
You snorted weakly.
“No,” you corrected. “We’re stupid for drinking that much when we both had work the next day.”
“Worth it,” she grumbled immediately.
You paused in the hallway, glancing back at her.
And despite everything—the headache, the exhaustion, the dread already coiling in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jack—you felt something small in your chest loosen.
Because you hadn’t been alone last night.
Trinity noticed your expression soften slightly and pointed at you accusingly.
“Don’t get emotional,” she warned. “I’m too hungover to comfort you right now.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Small. Tired. Fragile.
But real.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Trinity mumbled, finally dragging herself upright with the energy of someone being forced out of a grave.
You shook your head faintly before disappearing into the bathroom.
The second the door shut behind you, though, your smile faded.
And there it was again.
That ache.
The one sitting quietly beneath everything else. Beneath the hangover and exhaustion and forced laughter.
Jack.
You leaned heavily against the sink for a moment, staring at your reflection.
Then, quietly—
“You need to get it together.”
Because in less than an hour, you’d have to look him in the eye like he hadn’t hurt you at all.
Trinity had been quick to kick you out of your own bathroom the second you finished getting ready.
“You’ve used up your allotted hot water privileges,” she’d informed you through the door while you were still brushing your teeth.
Now, dressed in clean scrubs and feeling only marginally more human, you leaned against the kitchen counter sipping weak coffee while waiting for her to finish.
The shower had helped a little.
At the very least, you no longer looked like you’d crawled out from the wreckage of an emotional catastrophe.
Unfortunately, that didn’t mean you felt much better.
Your body still carried the sluggish heaviness of too little sleep and too much alcohol, and somewhere beneath the lingering hangover sat the dull, constant ache of having to face Jack today.
Twelve hours.
Twelve whole hours of pretending you were fine.
You could do that.
Probably.
Hopefully.
The bathroom door finally opened, releasing a cloud of steam before Trinity sauntered out adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie.
“You look less tragic now,” she announced.
“Thank you,” you deadpanned.
“You still look tragic,” she added after a beat. “Just…slightly moisturized.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag from beside the couch.
The walk to the bus stop was quiet at first. Morning air bit lightly against your skin while the city slowly woke around you, traffic humming in the distance. Your stomach twisted tighter the closer it got to shift change.
You kept thinking about walking through those hospital doors.
About seeing him.
About not knowing how he’d look at you after all this.
Would he act normal?
Awkward?
Distant?
Would he avoid you entirely?
The uncertainty was eating you alive.
“You sure you don’t want me fighting Abbot?” Trinity asked suddenly beside you, pulling her hair into a ponytail as the two of you stopped near the curb. “Because I’m not above a good fight.”
A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“Don’t waste your time,” you said, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Besides, I’m trying to hype myself up for my man-hunting phase.”
Trinity let out a dramatic sigh.
“Well, that makes one of us.”
You glanced sideways at her.
“Oh?”
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, expression flattening.
“Garcia still icing you out?” you guessed.
Trinity scoffed softly.
“She’s more of a fuck-and-have-ramen-after kind of gal.”
The attempt at casualness didn’t quite land.
You caught the slight tightness in her voice immediately.
“She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want anything beyond casual.”
Something uncomfortable settled in your stomach at that.
At least Garcia told her.
At least Trinity wasn’t left waking up alone wondering whether any of it meant something at all.
Guilt bubbled low and sour in your chest almost instantly.
Not toward Trinity.
Toward yourself.
Because part of you still felt ridiculous for being this hurt over Jack. Like maybe you were overreacting. Maybe you’d built the whole thing up too much in your head.
But then you remembered him looking at you so softly the night before.
Remembered the warmth of his hand against your skin. The way he’d stayed tangled up with you afterward instead of leaving immediately.
And then you remembered waking up alone.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Is there anyone else you’re interested in?” you asked quietly, mostly to keep yourself from spiraling further.
Trinity shrugged.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
You hummed softly in acknowledgment just as the bus pulled up to the curb with a hiss of brakes.
The doors folded open.
You followed Trinity inside, both of you moving sluggishly from exhaustion as you found seats near the back. The bus smelled faintly like coffee and damp jackets, morning commuters staring blankly ahead in silence.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You rested your head lightly against the cool window, watching the city blur past outside while anxiety churned steadily beneath your ribs.
The closer you got to work, the worse it became.
You hated this.
Hated that one person suddenly had this much power over your mood. Hated that the thought of seeing Jack again made your stomach knot with equal parts longing and dread.
Beside you, Trinity glanced over quietly.
“It’s probably for the best we’re on day shift,” she said after a moment.
You frowned faintly. “Why?”
“There’s more options on day shift anyway.”
You snorted softly, immediately understanding what she meant.
“Right,” you muttered. “The man-hunting thing.”
“Exactly.”
You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging weakly at your mouth before fading almost instantly.
“If you say so.”
Because right now, the idea of looking at anyone that wasn’t Jack somehow felt impossible.
And that was probably the most pathetic part of all.
* * *
Once you arrived at the Pitt, you felt yourself tense almost immediately.
It was instinctive. Unconscious.
The second those familiar hospital doors slid open and the sharp scent of antiseptic hit your nose, your body seemed to remember before your mind fully caught up.
Your stomach twisted painfully as you adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, forcing yourself to keep walking beside Trinity.
You just had to act normal.
That was the goal.
Be professional. Be mature. Don’t let him see that he’d gotten under your skin this badly.
You could survive twelve hours.
Probably.
The emergency department buzzed around you the moment you stepped fully onto the floor. Phones ringing. Monitors beeping. Stretchers rolling past. Nurses moving quickly between stations while doctors rattled off orders over exhausted conversations.
Normally the chaos would stress you out.
Today, it almost felt comforting.
Familiar.
Grounding.
The Pitt had a way of swallowing personal problems whole if you let it. There was always another patient, another emergency, another crisis demanding your attention before you could spend too long drowning in your own thoughts.
You needed that today.
Needed something louder than your own heartbreak.
You followed Trinity deeper into the department, trying to focus on the movement around you instead of the nervous pounding in your chest.
Then you heard his voice.
Low. Rough with exhaustion.
Your entire body reacted before you even saw him.
You looked up automatically just as Jack exited one of the trauma rooms with Shen close behind him, the two of them discussing something quietly.
He looked terrible.
Dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes, exhaustion weighing heavily across his features. His shoulders seemed tighter than usual, posture rigid in that way people got when they were running purely on caffeine and stubbornness.
Like he was holding himself together with tape and string.
Your chest ached immediately.
Which honestly just annoyed you at this point.
Because really? After everything, your heart still fluttered the second you saw him?
Pathetic.
Jack glanced up mid-conversation.
For one brief, terrible second, your eyes met.
And there it was.
That awful pull.
Something in his expression shifted instantly the moment he saw you. Like surprise mixed with guilt mixed with something softer he couldn’t quite hide in time.
Your stomach flipped painfully.
You looked away so fast it almost made your neck hurt.
Before he could notice how affected you still were.
Before you could start hoping he’d stop you.
Say something.
Anything.
Beside him, Shen continued talking, oblivious, but Jack had stopped hearing almost every word coming out of his mouth.
Because you were here.
And you wouldn’t look at him.
The realization landed heavily in his chest.
He watched you turn away immediately after spotting him, watched your shoulders tense subtly as you kept walking beside Trinity like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t spent the last twelve hours replaying your face in his head over and over again.
Guilt twisted viciously beneath his ribs.
Of course you were avoiding him.
What else did he expect after what he did?
Jack swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to look away before he did something stupid like follow after you.
Because the expression on your face just now—
You looked hurt.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Hurt.
And somehow that felt worse.
“Abbot?”
Shen’s voice snapped him back into the present.
Jack blinked once, dragging a hand tiredly down his face.
“Sorry,” he muttered roughly. “What were you saying?”
Meanwhile, you forced yourself to keep moving.
Professional.
Normal.
Fine.
You could do this.
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Dana called from the nurses’ station, dry amusement lacing her voice the second she spotted you approaching.
Beside you, Trinity snorted.
“Hey, Dana.”
You tried for a smile despite the way your pulse still hammered unevenly beneath your skin.
“Hope you had a nice day off, Honey,” Dana added casually, though the knowing glint in her eyes made heat immediately creep up your neck.
You wondered briefly if everyone at this hospital could smell emotional disaster on people.
“No different than any other day,” you said carefully.
The lie felt brittle.
Dana hummed softly, clearly unconvinced, but mercifully didn’t push.
She turned back toward the chart in front of her.
You exhaled quietly through your nose, grateful for the escape.
But even as you started settling into work mode, pulling yourself into the rhythm of the department, you could still feel it.
Jack’s presence somewhere behind you.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
And despite every effort not to, some awful part of you was still painfully aware of him.
working on harry’s tour means seeing him every day—and ignoring his nonstop flirting every day. ur determined to stay professional, but harry, unfortunately, loves pushing your buttons almost as much as he loves watching you fight your feelings for him. after months of unresolved tension, jealousy tips everything over the edge backstage after a show.
based on -> this request
cw: unprofessional work dynamics, angst, tour harry, tour crew reader, oral (f), semi-public sex, light dirty talk, p in v (unprotected), recording, idk filth
wc: 10.1k
“Hold still,” you murmur, stepping between his knees where he sits in front of the mirror.
Harry tilts his head back easily while you adjust the wire of his in-ear monitor. The dressing room is loud around you, stylists moving around, someone steaming clothes in the corner, muffled bass from the stage vibrating through the walls. But Harry’s attention settles on you with uncomfortable intensity.
Not uncomfortable because you dislike it. Uncomfortable because you do. And will never admit that.
“You always smell nice,” he says casually.
You keep your eyes on the wire in your hands. “Battery pack’s loose.”
“That wasn’t related to what I said.”
You took a deep breath as your eyes shut instinctively for just a moment.
“I know.”
“Hm.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and if you lowered your gaze you knew you’d be staring right at a deep dimple and a cheeky twitch of his chin.
You clip the pack onto the back of his pants, fingers brushing the warm fabric of his shirt and leaving just as quick as they got there.
“All set,” you call, slapping your palms to your sides lightly as you back further away from his body.
And then he’s looking at you. In that way he always does before he goes on stage. A rudely passionate look of teasing that will leave you dizzy for the next 2 hours. He knows it, too. It’s why he does it.
“What?”
He doesn’t answer you for a minute. Just stares at you a bit longer. Over your jaw. The curve of your neck, exposed by your loose pony. All with a grin of his own deepening and his eyes squinting just a tinge.
And then he snaps back into casualness like nothing was on his mind at all.
“Nothing,” he shrugs, standing from his chair, “see you after the show.”
You nod.
“See you.”
He turns toward the door, shoulders brushing past one of the stylists waiting near the hallway, and for a second you think that’s it. Because it usually is.
You fix what you need to fix. You set him up. You say goodbye. And then he’s on stage and you have a brief intermission of peace before he’s back in front of you at the end of the night.
But then he glances back.
Just briefly, but enough for your stomach to tighten in that stupid familiar way that you worry will someday get you fired.
The hallway outside the green room still buzzes with movement and things you half understand. Stage managers calling cues, security talking into headsets, other crew members rushing past with last minute equipment. Harry looks entirely unbothered by any of it. Calm, even, like he has all the time in the world.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up.
“Good luck.”
The words slip out softer than you intended. More personal, too. Less like a colleague hoping for the best and more like someone who cares too much about the other. Immediately, you regret them.
Because Harry stops dead in the doorway. And then slowly turns back toward you like if he's worried that it was someone else who said it. The grin spreading across his face is instant.
God.
That unbearably smug expression that only gets worse the second he realizes he’s gotten something genuine out of you. Then his smile widens even further, dimples pressing deep into his cheeks and eyes crinkling kindly.
“Thanks, y/n.”
Far too satisfied with himself.
A laugh slips quietly out of him as he starts backing into the hallway again, still looking directly at you with that same sly expression stretched across his face. Like he’s just won something.
Someone calls his name farther down the corridor.
So he finally tears his eyes off you, spinning around smoothly and continuing toward stage with an annoyingly confident bounce in his step.
Entirely too pleased with himself over two stupid words.
And even worse? You’re smiling a little before you can stop yourself.
It is endearing—his crush. It’s also incredibly obvious. The last few months of your life have been filled with flirts and teases and smirks that have your heart on the brink of exploding right there in your chest.
Champagne problems, right?
But it really was starting to become a problem. You were a professional. Apart of this industry for longer than you can count. And you were not about to start things up with your boss and destroy the reputation you’ve built for yourself for years. No matter how sexy his gaze got or how desperate his words became.
So you spend the entirety of his show in his open dressing room backstage, lounging upon a green velvet chair and scrolling mindlessly through your screen. You were grateful you had the night off tonight apart from backstage aid.
Baking recipes. Funny clips of animals. A new way to wear your hair. Skin care brands random people are trying to sell you.
Anything to get your mind off of him.
But it’s hard when his voice is echoing around the arena simultaneously. Whining through the microphone and screaming melodies that flow through him as if there’s no effort needed at all.
It was a sick routine you’ve been stuck in. Every show. Set him up, do your duties, listen to him against your will backstage or in the audio booth if that was your assignment, and then dissemble him before he goes home. You’ve been stuck with him every minute of all your days for the entire tour. Which would usually be great news; if he wasn’t nagging at you for a drop of attention too.
But you would stay professional. Calm. You knew you would.
So when the show ended and you both ended up back in his green room, you took a deep breath and prepared yourself to exercise your best rejection tactics.
The show leaves him glowing every time. Not literally, obviously, but close enough. So extra preparation was more than necessary. Especially considering there were about 6 other colleagues back here awaiting for his arrival as well.
By the time Harry pushes through the green room door, the adrenaline is still clinging to him—cheeks pink from exertion, curls damp at the edges, chest rising heavier beneath the half unbuttoned shirt clung lightly to his skin. The roar of the crowd still echoes faintly through the arena halls outside while people trail in after him offering congratulations, water bottles, notes about tomorrow’s schedule.
And somehow, within five seconds of entering the room, his eyes find you.
Of course they do. And you’re not totally sure if you want to die right there or enjoy it with a smile.
You’re crouched near the coffee table reorganizing equipment cases from the stage reset, pretending not to notice.
“You stayed,” he says immediately.
You don’t look up from the tangled wire in your hands. “I work here.”
“Mhm.” You can hear the grin in his voice already. “Still very professional as always.”
You ignore that completely.
Harry drops onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, legs spread comfortably while someone hands him a towel. He thanks them absently, attention never really leaving you.
“You work in the sound booth tonight?”
“Had the night off. Was just back here tonight.”
“Mm. Maybe that’s why it smells so nice back here.”
You finally glance up briefly. “Need something?”
His mouth twitches. There’s always this look he gets when you refuse to react properly to him. Half amused, half fascinated. Like he genuinely cannot understand how you keep resisting him after months of this.
“Need?” he repeats lazily. “No. Like hearing your voice, though.”
You bite down your smile as hard as you can. Fighting to stay within the boundaries of a work place and not further alarm your other colleagues around you.
You go back to untangling the cable immediately. “Sounds serious.”
“It is serious.”
“Thought you were exhausted.” You dead pan, looking over at him sprawled on the couch from your position on the floor.
“I was. Then you spoke to me.”
A nearby stylist snorts quietly before pretending not to listen. Your jaw tightens slightly.
Because that’s another thing Harry loves. Saying things in front of other people just to watch you try to stay composed. It was fucked up. And it was constant. Like, all the time.
You stand, carrying the equipment case toward the table near him. The second you step close enough, Harry tilts his head back against the couch cushion to look up at you.
Way too pretty after a two hour show.
Honestly rude.
It was all post-show warmth and lazy satisfaction. Sweat still clung faintly to his skin beneath the dim lights of the green room, curls damp and pushed messily away from his forehead where he’d run his hands through them a dozen times already. His cheeks were flushed pink from the stage heat, lips slightly parted while he caught his breath, and those marbled green eyes stayed fixed on you with a softness that felt entirely too intimate for a room still full of people.
And then he smiled. Slow at first. Sleepy almost. Until the corner of his mouth pulled higher and that deep dimple pressed into his cheek.
“You’re staring.”
And shit, you were.
You snap your gaze away quickly and trot across the room to gather the box for his in-ears with a shake of your head. “Wasn’t.”
“Was.”
You look back at him sharply, “Wasn’t.”
“Was too,” and his smile tells you all you need to know. This is fun for him. A game of sorts.
You just huff, opening the box in front of him and silently gesturing for him to put his monitors inside so you can, you know, get the fuck out of here.
He complies. Placing his in-ears in the box gently and staring up at you with a cocked grin while he does it. You kept your gaze down. Focused on the box and the work in front of you.
Once the box is closed and back on the audio cart, you grab your purse and take out your pony tail.
And also try to ignore the burning gaze that’s been following your every move while you do so.
“Alright, I’m heading out for the n—”
“I like your hair down like that. Looks nice.”
You stare at him like he cannot be serious right now.
“Thank you,” you say, clearing your throat and gripping tighter against the strap of your purse. “I’m heading out for the night.”
He grins. “Ok. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight,” you nod, pattering out of the room as quick as you can.
“Goodnight.”
-
“Good morning!”
Someone was in a fantastic mood this morning.
You, were not.
“Morning,” you mumble, wobbling past him as you rub your eyes carelessly.
The venue halls were painfully bright at eight in the morning. Fluorescent lights reflected harshly off concrete floors, cases rolled loudly through corridors, and somewhere nearby someone was already doing mic checks loud enough to make your headache worse.
You were exhausted.
Not normal tired. Not fixable with coffee tired. Bone deep, eyes burning, don’t talk to me tired.
The kind that sat heavily behind your ribs after months on tour and too little sleep and too many late nights spent tearing down equipment after shows.
You threw your headset crooked over your hair while you leaned against one of the equipment tables at monitor world, staring blankly into the cup of coffee in your hands like it was useless. It kind of was.
And he was already trotting back behind you to continue to bother you.
Harry leaned against the edge of the table across from you, completely uninvited and entirely too comfortable there. His eyes moved slowly over your face, taking in the dark circles under your eyes and your obvious irritation with visible amusement.
“You look tired.”
You look back up at him plainly.
“Insightful.”
“You sleep at all?”
“A little.”
“Mhm.” His grin deepened knowingly. “You’re doing that thing where you answer questions like you hate me.”
“I do hate you right now.”
He could’ve laughed at your face right there.
“No, you don’t.”
You took another sip of coffee just to avoid responding. Harry stared at you over the rim of his own cup. Completely entertained, like this was his morning news and he needed to tune in.
“Y/n, the sound booth needs you in 5.”
You wince, shutting your eyes briefly before calling out an okay and shrugging off your purse.
“Bye y/n,” Harry smiles, tilting his head playfully like your exhaustion is only here for his entertainment.
“Bye Harry.”
You barely saw him for the rest of the day after that.
Every time you turned around, someone needed something. A frequency issue during rehearsals, a missing pack during load in, comms crackling endlessly in your ear while production schedules shifted by the minute.
By the afternoon, you were too busy to think about him much at all, which was probably a good thing considering the smile he’d walked away wearing that morning.
The show passed in a blur from the booth. You stood behind the glowing soundboards with your headset pressed tighter against one ear while the arena shook around you, lights flashing across thousands of screaming fans.
From back there, Harry looked different. Bigger somehow. Untouchable. All confidence and movement and effortless charm under the stage lights. Still, more than once, your stomach tightened when you caught his gaze flick briefly toward the booth like he was checking for you without meaning to.
Now the show was over, and you stood backstage in the green room with tired shoulders and aching feet while crew members rushed around tearing equipment down around you. The adrenaline of the concert had faded, leaving only exhaustion behind.
You leaned against the wall quietly, absentmindedly twisting your headset cord around your fingers while waiting for the post show chaos to settle.
Voices echoed down the hallway before the door even opened. You recognized Harry’s immediately, warm and animated in that post show way he always got, still riding the adrenaline high from stage.
But there was another voice with him this time.
A woman’s laugh floated down the corridor a second later, light and airy. Your stomach tightened instinctively before you could stop it. You didn’t want it to. But it happened.
Then the green room door swung open.
Harry walked in first, still glowing from the show, hair damp around his forehead and sleeves shoved messily to his elbows. Beside him was a brunette woman you vaguely recognized from the VIP tent earlier, pretty in an effortless kind of way, light eyes bright as she looked up at him while he talked.
And she was laughing. Like, a lot. At everything.
Harry said something you didn’t even catch properly while shrugging off his jacket, and she laughed immediately, hand brushing his arm like he’d said the funniest thing she’d ever heard in her life.
You looked back down at the audio sheet in your hands before your expression could betray you.
Absolutely ridiculous.
People laughed at Harry constantly. He was charming. Funny. Famous. None of this was unusual. You’d fallen victim to it more times than you’d like to mention too. It really wasn’t anything you weren’t used to, especially working so close to him.
Still, every time her laugh floated across the room again, your eyes flicked over before you could stop them.
And every single time, Harry caught you doing it.
Of course he did.
You could feel it almost instantly, the subtle shift in his attention whenever your gaze landed on them together. Like he became hyperaware of you the second you started pretending not to look.
Annoying.
You crouched beside the audio cart near the wall, reorganizing cables that were already organized just to keep your hands busy. It was sad, but you were this close to breaking something and you’d rather it be equipment instead of someone’s face.
Across the room, the brunette laughed again at something mildly amusing at best.
No offense to Harry.
Your eyes rolled automatically before you could stop them. And when you glanced up, Harry was already looking at you. His mouth twitched instantly, like he’d officially decided everything you were feeling now. His assumptions have been proven correct.
“Y/n,” Harry called casually from the couch area, too close to the mystery women for comfort.
Your response came flat without looking up. “What?”
“Did you switch comm packs after the encore?”
A stupid question.
“Mhm.”
“That one’s mine or Glen’s?”
“Yours.”
It came out colder than you meant it to, but it was honestly a stupid question and you were growing more and more irritated with every passing second.
You heard the tiny pause afterward, like Harry was reveling in this moment and couldn’t believe it was real.
“Thanks,” he said slowly, amusement already slipping into his voice.
You only hummed in response.
The brunette looked between the two of you curiously before turning back toward Harry when he said something quietly to her.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, she laughed again.
Good God.
Your jaw tightened slightly without meaning too, stuck between the frustration of these fucking wires layered between the echoing laughs of a spunky brunette.
“You alright over there?” Harry asked after a minute.
You clipped another cable into place. “Fine.”
“You seem grumpy.” He called, the second time he’s said the word today.
“I’m tired.”
“Mhm.” That sound alone irritated you.
You glanced up briefly to find him leaning back against the couch cushions now, one arm stretched along the back while he watched you with obvious interest. Like he was enjoying this. Actually enjoying it.
“Could you grab us two waters?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked at him once, like you couldn’t beleive this was a real question. Then looked toward the fully stocked fridge less than six feet from where he sat.
“There are plenty of other people here,” you said evenly. “I’m busy.”
Silence.
The brunette shifted awkwardly beside him while Harry stared at you for half a second. And then, a grin spread slowly across his face. Deep dimples. Bright eyes. Entirely too entertained.
Your stomach dropped immediately.
Because he knew.
“Oh my God,” he murmured softly, almost to himself.
You narrowed your eyes instantly, standing straight up against the cart now with your hands leveling you, “What?”
But Harry was already standing and looking much too pleased with himself.
“I’ll get them myself,” he said lightly to the brunette before starting across the room.
Toward you.
You immediately looked back down at the cables in your hands like they suddenly required your full concentration. Unfortunately, Harry didn’t stop until he was directly beside the audio cart. Close enough that you could smell the lingering mix of cologne and stage sweat still clinging to him after the show.
“You’re jealous,” he said quietly.
You scoffed immediately, “I’m not.”
“Y/n.” His voice was warm with amusement. “You practically rolled your eyes to the back of your skull every time she laughed.”
You dropped what you were working on and pulled closer to his face, “She laughed at things that weren’t funny.”
Harry bit back a grin.
“There she is.”
“Harry, what?” You weren’t in the mood for this. Not now. Not ever, really. And you had shit to take care of.
“You got mean.”
“I’m usually mean to you?”
“No,” His eyes dragged slowly over your face, “Usually you’re pretending not to like me. Tonight you looked like you wanted to kill somebody.”
Heat crawled violently up your neck before you could stop it, his words genuinely shocking you past your normal point of surprise. He was always bold with you. But this was honest. Too honest.
“I do not care who you bring backstage.”
You barely even believed yourself when those words fell out of you.
“Mhm.”
“I don’t.”
“You told me to get my own water,” he continues to whisper, trying to hide the conversation from the women on the couch. Who, by the way, has clearly been growing more antsy for his return with every passing second.
“There was a fridge right there,” you say like it’s an obvious reason for your denial.
“You’ve gotten me water before.”
You opened your mouth immediately, then stopped. Harry’s grin widened in triumph.
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” he laughed softly.
You don’t know why you started to feel genuinely angry, but you did. Maybe it was the way he was speaking, almost patronizing, like he had you all figured out before you had the chance to yourself.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that he was starting to pull the truth out of you which you’ve been so desperately avoiding.
“You are so full of yourself,” you said, and it came out more honest than you intended. Harsh, even.
“And you,” he said, stepping just slightly closer, “are jealous. And too fucking scared to ever admit it.”
Like your comment before didn’t phase him at all.
You just stare at him with heavy breaths, your face and neck heating up before you could stop them. You were furious over his attitude. His confidence. The way he spoke like he was the smartest person in the room and the way he was looking at you like he knew you’d fold soon.
“Enjoy your night. I hope your dick enjoys her as much as your head enjoys this bullshit.”
Way too mean. Absolutely past the point of professional boundaries.
You knew it the second you said it, and so did he. His face was genuinely shocked, like you’ve officially surprised him for the first time in his life. He didn’t seem angry, necessarily. Just…you don’t even know. Just shocked.
And silent.
You shoved through the backstage hallway doors before he could say another word to you.
The sound room was blissfully empty when you stormed inside, the muffled crowds from the arena now distant through thick walls while rows of glowing consoles blinked quietly in the dark.
Good. Because if another person looked at you right now, you might actually lose your mind.
You dropped a headset onto the table harder than necessary and immediately started yanking cords loose from the side rack with sharp, irritated movements. Stupid. This whole thing was so unbelievably stupid.
Your chest still burned from the look on his face back there, smug and amused while that girl sat beside him laughing at every breath he took. Like he enjoyed watching you unravel. Like this had all just been a game to him for months.
A cable slipped from your hands and smacked loudly against the table, echoing throughout the empty area.
“Careful,” Harry’s voice came from the doorway. “Those are expensive.”
You froze for a moment, breath hitched at his sudden presence, and then continued packing without turning around.
“Go away.”
The door shut behind him, closing the two of you inside of the empty room much too late in the night.
“No.”
Your jaw tightened, already frustrated at his quick denial as if your words were a suggestion. They weren’t. You heard his footsteps approach slowly across the room while you wrapped another cord aggressively around your hand.
“Seriously,” you snapped, “I’m working.”
“You’re furious.”
“I’m not furious.”
Harry laughed once under his breath. Wrong move. You spun around immediately.
“Do you seriously think this is funny?”
His expression shifted slightly at the volume in your voice, but he still looked more frustrated than apologetic now. Green eyes sharp beneath messy curls, chest still rising faintly from the remains of the show adrenaline.
There was no smiles anymore. From either of you. It was clear how frustrated you both were as you stood a small distance apart, breaths heavy and eyes low like you two were trying to figure out how to speak without screaming in each other's faces.
“I think,” he said carefully, “you’re finally reacting honestly for once.”
You stared at him in disbelief, as if he knew you at all.
“Honestly?” you repeated. “You bring some random girl backstage and spend the whole night looking at me like it’s the most entertain—”
“She wasn’t random.”
“I don’t care who she was.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I care that you’re sick in the head.”
Harry blinked at the one. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Your voice echoed sharply off the walls now. “You spend months messing with me and flirting with me and pushing me constantly, and then you parade another woman around in front of me like you’re trying to prove how easy this is for you.”
His eyebrows pulled together instantly, taking a step forward until there were only a couple of inches between you both.
The crease between his brows was loud. The flush on his cheeks was freshening, and the sharp glare of his eyes was the most telling of it all.
“Easy?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“That’s what you think this is?”
“I think you like attention.”
Harry scoffed sharply, taking another step closer. “You think I’ve spent months chasing after someone who acts like she hates me because it’s easy?”
“You flirt with everyone.”
“No,” he snapped back immediately, “I flirt with you.”
Silence cracked heavily between you. Your pulse pounded hard enough to hurt.
Harry dragged a hand through his curls roughly, frustration officially overtaking the amusement he’d been carrying all night.
“You know what your problem is?” he started, “You never admit anything. Ever.”
You laughed harshly, closing up another box and tossing it to the side, “Because there’s nothing to admit.”
“Bullshit.”
“Harry—”
“You feel something and immediately bury it under this professional act because God forbid anyone knows you actually care about something.”
Your stomach twisted angrily.
“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me because you sing songs and smile at people for a living.”
That wasn’t fair. You didn’t even really mean it.
But his jaw tightened anyway, swallowing the words and pushing back up with whatever felt right in his chest.
“And you don’t get to act like I’m manipulating you just because you’re too stubborn to admit this thing between us has been happening for months.”
You folded your arms tighter across your chest like that could somehow hold you together.
“There is no thing.”
Harry actually stared at you for a second like he couldn’t believe you’d said it. Then he laughed once. Not amused. It was more in disbelief. Because there was really no way you could genuinely beleive that.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re just fucking cruel.”
That landed worse than the line before. You saw it immediately in the way his expression shifted, dragging across your face with so much anger that you had to swallow to keep yourself grounded.
“Cruel?” he repeated quieter.
“Yes.” Your throat felt tight now, anger bleeding messily into something worse. “You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.”
Harry stepped impossibly closer again. “That girl was someone my mum wanted me to meet after the show.”
You paused, tilting your head as you catch your breath from frustration.
“What?”
“She’s a family friend’s daughter,” he said sharply, “And it had absolutely nothing to do with showing off for you.”
You looked away immediately, embarrassment and anger tangling together violently in your chest in a more obvious way than you would’ve liked.
Harry noticed.
“See?” he said, “You jumped straight to assuming I was trying to hurt you.”
“You were enjoying it,” you say, rolling you eyes as his point had no relevance to you.
“Because you were jealous.”
“I was not jealous.”
“You were glaring at her like she was, like, offending you.”
“She was laughing too hard.”
A completely incredulous laugh escaped him, “Oh my God.”
“Don’t ‘oh my God’ me.”
“How do you seriously not see that you were jealous? Just admit something for once in your fucking life!”
“I wasn’t jealous!”
“You were!”
“I am not jealous of every girl you drag backstage! Just leave me alone!”
The second the words left your mouth, the room went dead silent. Harry stared at you. Your own breathing sounded too loud suddenly. Because that last part had been a mistake.
His eyes flicked slowly over your face, something shifting there.
“You mean that?”
You take a breath, settling into yourself for a moment as your hands come to rub against your temples. It was late. You were both over tired. This whole thing was just a big fucking mess that you were deep into now to get out of.
Oh, and you both were half sure the entire crew was listening outside of the door.
But that was a problem for tomorrow.
“No,” you start, “I don’t mean that. But you don’t get to stand there and act like this is all my fault.”
“I’m not saying it is.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’m exhausted!”
His voice cracked louder through the room than your yelling somehow.
“I flirt with you every day. I look for you every day. I walk into rooms looking for you first every day and you act like I’m insane for noticing you feel it too.”
Your chest tightened painfully, knowing in the back of your mind that he was right.
“And then tonight,” he continued, eyes locked on yours, “you looked at me like I’d betrayed you. You can’t do that. Not after pushing me to the floor like dog shit for months.”
You swallowed hard.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
Which only made you angrier.
“You don’t get to make me feel crazy for this,” you shot back.
“I’m not making you feel anything.”
“You know exactly what you’re doing to me!” The words ripped out louder than intended.
Harry went still at the burst, breaths racing quicker while he sat on what was next. What he should say. What he should do. If this was ruined for good and you’d be on the next flight home.
The silence afterward felt massive.
“It’s not fair, Harry,” you continue, “You don’t get to do this to me.”
Your voice was shaking now, words spilling faster the longer he stayed silent.
“You don’t get to stand there and act like I’m the one making this complicated when you’ve been doing this to me for months.”
Harry didn’t say anything, and it made your chest tighten harder.
“Every day it’s something,” you went on, pacing now, unable to stay still under the weight of it. “You flirt with me, you push me, you look at me like I’m the only person in the room and then you just expect me to function like it doesn’t affect me?”
Still nothing. Your frustration snapped sharper.
“You think I don’t notice it? You think I don’t feel it?” You shot another time, voice rising again. “Because I do. I feel it every single time you look at me like that and I hate that I do. And I have a life I’m trying to protect. I built something for myself here. I worked too hard to be taken seriously to just—throw it away because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
He swallowed thick at the last line, listening to your words helplessly and sinking in thoughts he can’t say. “And the worst part is I don’t even get a break from it. I have to choose. Every day. Between being good at my job and feeling whatever this is when I’m around you.”
Your eyes flicked up to his again, glossy with frustration now.
“Between my career and my happiness,” you said quieter, but more honest than anything you’d said all night. “And you just stand there like it’s nothing when it’s not nothing for me! It’s impossible and it’s—”
Harry crossed the space between you in a single step and crashed his mouth into yours, hands coming up to either side of your face, holding you there so quickly you didn’t even have time to react.
For a second, you didn’t move. Didn’t kiss back. Just froze completely against him, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat while everything in your brain tried to catch up.
But neither of you pulled away.
And then, slowly, when it finally registered, your hands slid up to the back of his head and your lips found their way against his. You pulled him in even closer than he already was, squeezing your hands against him like you jus couldn’t get close enough.
The breath you both released at the same time broke whatever line was left between arguing and something deeper.
The kiss shifted, still urgent, still overwhelming, but no longer just interruption. It turned into something heavier, driven by months of tension finally collapsing into contact neither of you had managed to stop.
“Harry—”
“Sh,” he shut you up through smashing lips before you could even finish the thought, “just let me kiss you for a bit.”
So you did.
It didn’t take much convincing, considering his tongue was minty and warm and his nose was nudging up into your face exactly how you dreamed it might. He was strong and confident and, in the least weird way, skilled. It was like he’d already learned exactly how you want it and rolled it out of him with no effort at all.
“Just tell me to stop,” he mutters through kiss, “just tell me.”
You just nod, quick and aggressive as he pulls you in even closer and inhales you like he needs you to breathe. Your heart was slamming and your mind was dizzy, fogged in the forbidden mesh of the two of you and the stupidity behind it all.
Because really, one crack of the door and you’d be fired on the spot. It was the most insane thing for you to ever do, especially after screaming in his face for all to hear from the hallway.
But you didn’t care. You couldn’t stop. You wanted him. You needed him. You wanted him to handle you and treat you like he’d been dreaming of—whatever that may be.
And as his tongue slid across the insides of your mouth for the thousandth time, you let your mind drift into what he might do. What he’s been begging to do. You knew he had to have something shoved up deep in sleeves, something he’d been putting off until this moment and thought of more times than he should.
His hands came tugging up at your top before you could slip too deep into that thought. The pass of the fabric through your faces broke the suction to each other for only a moment before he was crashing back down onto you, a kiss laced in so much hunger that you didn’t know what to do with yourself.
And once your chest was covered in nothing but the flimsy cotton of your black bra, his hands couldn’t land. He was everywhere. Up your ribs, across your tummy, pressed into the open curve of your lower back.
The pass over your clothed breasts was long. Like he was mapping out exactly how they sat without actually breaking the kiss to look at them.
And you were only thinking one thing—just take off the bra and fucking touch me.
As if reading your mind, his hands slipped underneath the top of the cup and grasped at your smooth skin tenderly, cupping around your full breasts until his thumb found the perk of your nipples and his palm found its place underneath the curve.
“Fuck,” he groaned, “so soft.”
It was mostly to himself, like he was marking the exact moment out loud to remember forever.
Now you really were jealous.
Your hands worked desperately at his damp button up, undoing every last one like a ravenous animal until it wore him more as a jacket of sorts instead of a shirt.
You let your eyes fall.
Of course you’ve seen him shirtless before. But this was different. This was vulnerable—the flap of his butterfly on his chest, mixed in nerves and anticipation and the feeling of something new yet forbidden. The subtle sheen of his sweat bouncing off of his pecs, still not fully recovered from his show.
Then there was the hair. Littered across his chest and more importantly, trailing thick down to a screaming bulge below.
You groaned before you could stop yourself, and his smirk was deep in response before pulling you tight to his lips again.
“Harry,” you start breathlessly, still in between sloppy kisses, “I have to go soon. I have to catch the last train.”
He shakes his head immediately, “I’ll drive you back.”
You consider telling him the truth. The humiliating truth. The truth that will probably turn that growing hard on down into a sad softie that’ll never come back up.
“No really,” you murmur again, kissing him harder, “I really do have to go soon.”
He backed up this time, hands placed somewhere between your waist and your shoulders lazily.
“Why? We can stop.”
You shake your head immediately, “No, I…I don’t want to stop. I just want us to…um…hurry?”
“Y/n…” he nagged with a smile, teasing you already, “don’t break your honesty streak now.”
You shake your head, “it’s embarassing.”
“Just say it.”
You roll your eyes, sucking in a deep breath and thinking of the vaguest way to say it.
“Fine,” you huff, “my mom calls me every night at exactly 12AM. Okay?”
His eyebrow cocks upward, “that’s not embarassing.”
“Right, so, let’s just keep going?” You clear your throat, nodding a placing your hands back behind his neck as if to prepare for another kiss.
He’s still staring at you with a small smirk that you hate.
“Not so fast,” he teases, “Something in me says you’re keeping out a very important detai—”
You unclasp your bra in the middle of his sentence, letting your tits fall loose in a desperate attempt to cut off his train of thought right there.
And it works, for a second.
His eyes fall, his words come to an abrupt halt, and his mouth goes dry in a state of total holy fucking shit this can’t be real life.
“That’s not fair, y/n,” he says, but he’s still looking down at your chest, “not at all.”
You just grin, looking down at him as he gawks at the sight in front of him and lets his hands drift upwards to cup them once again. This time it was different. This time he was looking at what he had in his palms. And they were even better than how he’d dreamed of them, perky and pink and so full.
And then he’s grabbing you by your ribs, hands wide and rough, lifting you until you’re sat on top of the counter behind you, covered with equipment that was far too expensive for this behavior. But neither of you really seemed to notice, let alone care.
His lips locked around nipples before you had the time to process the shift, sucking and nagging and groping the untouched one with his other hand.
But then he was back on subject.
God damn it.
“Tell me,” he cooed, still latched to your breasts, “tell me what you’re hiding.”
You sighed at the feeling of his lips on your bare skin, naked and exposed and more vulnerable than you’ve been in awhile. More time than you’d like to admit.
“Can’t.”
He stopped his kissing and looked back up at you.
“Y/n.”
You huff, rolling your eyes and sinking into the cabinet behind you. “My dog. My mom FaceTimes me every night at 12AM so I can talk to my dog before bed. Okay?”
He pushed his lips tight together through his smile, fighting to keep it in as to not embarrass you even further. But his crinkled eyes were telling and the raise of his brows said even more.
“Oh, well that’s adorable.”
You drop your head into your hands, searching for an escape from this moment forever.
“Harryyy.”
“Ok, listen,” he lets out a loose laugh now, bringing his hands up to your cheeks until your face reveals itself again. “It’s not embarrassing. You’re cute. I’ll get you home by 12.”
You peaked your eye open a bit and let your face sink into his palms. “Yeah?”
He nods, face pulling closer to yours again already, “promise.”
And then he was back on you, splitting your lips open softly and letting his tongue fall onto yours as if it was the most natural thing to ever happen.
Suddenly you understand why this has felt impossible to ignore for so long, because kissing him feels terrifyingly right. Soft in a way you never expected from someone who spends all day teasing you, but underneath it there’s still that same intensity he always looks at you with—as he’s been holding himself back for months and finally doesn’t have to anymore.
You can feel it in the way he pulls you closer. In the way his thumbs brush once beneath your ears. In the way he kisses you like this means something. Like it’s exactly what he needed.
Exactly what both of you needed.
He’s drifting his mouth back down to your chest as slips his fingers in your waist band, and suddenly everything feels very real. Harry Styles. Famous. Like, ridiculously famous. In the middle of his tour. In an empty sound room backstage. And, more importantly, your boss.
His hands feel your nerves before your mouth could vocalize them.
“Relax,” he coos, lips resting against your bare chest, “it’s just me.”
You take a breath, shutting your eyes and desperately searching for a place of peace.
It’s Harry. Harry who’s been yearning for you for months. This isn’t a one night stand. This isn’t an unintimate fuck after the adrenaline of a show. It’s raw, it’s real. It’s just Harry.
So this time, when his fingers tug harder on your pants and your full body starts to reveal itself, you don’t feel so suffocated.
He had your pants and thong pooled down to your ankles quicker than you expected, leaving you in nothing but your skin as you stayed perched atop the cool counter.
“Fuck,” he whispered to no one, dropping slowly to his knees as his palms rested atop your knees.
You were bare in front of him, legs half spread and core dripping onto the surface beneath you. You figured it had to leave a mark. His eyes turned inward as they locked onto where he needed most, what he’s been clawing at desperately for months, right in from of him and oh so beautiful.
His hands pushed your knees further apart slowly, revealing more of yourself to him until it was all on display. And right when you started to relax, his hands left your legs and fell to in between your thighs instead.
“Shit,” he breathed, fingers coming to toy with your folds, “so pretty. Fucking perfect.”
His finger tips pressed against either side of your wet hole, and slowly spread apart from each other until you were wide and gaping in front of him. Your breath hitched somewhere deep in your chest and your mind stilled, watching his eyes as he inspected what was before him closely.
“So tight,” he hummed, spreading you open even further, “beautiful, you know that?”
You just gulped, letting a hand fall on top of his head to play with his curls mindlessly. Anything to give you something to do.
His fingers drifted higher up to your clit now, pinching at either side of the swelling bud before spreading that apart too. The ball of your sensitivity came pushing outward at the movement, throbbing in front of him while you dripped helplessly just below.
And then, with eyes glossed up towards your gaze, he stuck his tongue out, skinny and pointed, before pressing the tip onto your overly exposed clit.
Your eyes shut before you could stop them, chest panting and brows turning inward. It was the most sensitive you’ve felt in awhile, so worked up from the arguing and the teasing and the kiss that was forever too short.
“Mm,” he hummed, circling once around your clit and watching for your reaction, “tastes so good. So sweet.”
You groaned, tugging at the hair on his scalp and letting your head roll back until stopped by the wood behind you.
His lips came to suck harsh against your swollen clit, suckling at your arousal and rolling the bead in his mouth as his palms came to grasp around your hips. He was nestled into you like he needed you to breathe, groaning against the taste and pulling closer to you.
His tongue flattened as it pressed against your dripping hole, lapping up your arousal and whispering at the sweet taste on his tongue. You were wet and so fucking pink in front of him, drenched in desperation and the need for something more than just his warm tongue against you.
“Harry,” you whine, “feel so good, but—”
“I know,” he cuts through you, already knowing just what you need instead, “me too. Just give me a couple more minutes, wanna remember this.”
And who were you to deny that?
So you let him feast at you for another five or so minutes, lapping you up and swallowing you with every new drip. It was his heaven. It was what he’d been fucking his fist to for the last couple of months, the thought of you on his tongue and mixed with the melodic sounds of your moans.
“Please, Harry,” you groan, fingers tightening against every strand of his hair and thighs clamping absentmindedly around his skull.
“Hm? What do you need?”
You roll your eyes again, “Harry.”
He detached from your swollen pussy, face wet in your juice as he rose back up to level with your face. His hands land on your bare open thighs, head tilted as he catches his breath in front of you.
“Y/n,” he repeats, challenging you, “tell me what you need.”
You tug your bottom lip into your mouth, eyes glassing up at him as your chest juts outward.
“You,” you breathe, “want you to fuck me, Harry.”
His eyes fall shut as if instinct.
“Fuck,” he breathes, head dropping for a moment, “wish I could’ve fucking recorded that. Listen to it forever.”
And then his lips are back on yours, harsh this time, splitting you open as his hands gripped tight against the meat of your outer thighs.
It happened quicker than you expected—his hands working his zipper, his lips turning sloppy as he breathed heavier inside of your open mouth. And at the sound of his button popping open and his zip hitting the base, your skin chilled at the noise, adrenaline rolling through you as a fuzz rolled down your spine.
His pants shoved down to his mid thigh, boxers following suit, and before you knew it, there it was. Your boss's cock. Thick and dripping in between your open thighs.
He was…big. Bigger than you’d ever been with before, for sure. He was swollen and girthy and just crying with a slow salty drip of precum. For a second you thought, maybe a big dick comes with being a world famous sex symbol.
And in a moment of total honesty, eyes locked on his erection, “I’m kind of nervous.”
He just grins, like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard, before shaking his head and kissing you another time. “Don’t be. Just me.”
It settles something in you. Your smile comes beaming right as your chest softens, nodding softly at him as you try your hardest to regulate your breathing and calm the warmth on your face.
You know, to act like you weren’t about to get fucked in the sound closet while a staff of a hundred was waiting for you both.
By your boss.
And global phenomenon.
Oh, and there was a cute brunette waiting for his return in the next room.
But you’d rather focus on the less life ending matters right now.
His hand comes to hold the base of his dick, taking a step closer to your open legs as he held you propped atop the counter still. Your head was racing, eyes flicking back and forth between the nearing head of his cock and his face like you were trying to actually decide if the two were here at the same time.
And just before pressing in, breathlessly, “you’re sure?”
You nod immediately. “I’m sure. Please.”
He pushed into so slow that it ached, stretching your tight hole gently as he filled you up inch by inch. He was…a lot. Pulling you apart without even trying to and sinking in deeper than what’s ever been reached before.
Once he bottomed out and his tip was kissing some place deep in your tummy, you both let out a simultaneous “Fuck.”
His forehead dropped against yours in a sweaty mess, pulling out of you until his tip reached your folds before pushing back in with a force stronger than the one before. More certain. Like he couldn’t be more sure now. And you couldn’t either.
To say it was heavenly wasn’t even doing it justice. He was filling you up just as you liked, big and profound and pumping in and out of you with careful precision. Knocking into that spongy spot inside of you that had your vision blurry and tear ducts jamming.
“Harry,” you moan out, desperately trying to keep your voice down, “it feel so good, you feel so good.”
His thrusts deepen, “yeah? Like that?”
“Mmm,” you weren’t totally aware of any noise you were making, your mind just sort of rolled out whatever it was feeling and expressed itself in sudden waves.
He felt it. The organic nature of it all. The way you clamped around him desperately and grabbed at the skin on his back like it’d somehow be able to keep you grounded through this.
But then it got rougher. Quicker. Sharp in your belly as he slammed into you over and over and over again.
“Ah!” Your head tossed back, “fuck, shit, it’s so good, Harry, so big.”
It only spurred him on faster.
“Like my cock?” He was pumping into you so fast that your back was smacking loud agaisnt the unstable cabinets, “how big is it. Tell me how good this dick is.”
Your walls tightened again around him at his filthy ask, finger nails scratching into his skin until inflamed and bleeding at the touch.
“So big, mmm,” your whine draws through the closed space, “so good inside of me, so deep, fuck!”
He fucked you like this for awhile, stealing quick kisses from you from time to time and pulling you as close to him as you could get.
And then he scooped you up and off of the counter effortlessly, cock still buried deep inside of you, before placing your back down flat on a lower standing table in the center of the room. Covered in expensive electronics and hazardous wires that neither of you knew the importance of. Or cared.
When he started fucking into you again, it was different. You were flat against the surface, legs locked around his waist and hair sprawled around you like a halo you just grew within the last half hour. Which, you honestly felt like you did.
But his tip was deeper this time, with the new position, and crawled up into your tummy until the skin of your lower stomach was tenting in the pressure of his cock. Thrusting up into it until it pulled upwards and created a pretty indent of his shape.
You’ve never experienced a thing like it.
He grabbed a hand and placed it over the space, brows sewing together and a whimper slipping out at the feeling of his cock showing through you. It was a fantasy come true.
Your tits flowed with his rhythm, bouncing up and down, flattened like pancakes, with every thrust. Your moans followed it too, a high pitched huff falling loose every time he slammed into with that same persistence.
“God, Harry,” your hands grab onto nothing, “don’t stop, please, gonna cum soon—”
And then his phone rang. Loud, in the back pocket of his half-off pants that hung right around his knees.
Just when you thought he would stop, pull out and answer the phone, or even silence it and continue to fuck you, he didn’t. He kept his thrusts steady, reached into his pocket, and fucking answered.
“Yeah?” He called through the line, half breathless as he slammed his hips into you beneath him.
You’d never held your voice so hard in your fucking life.
There was random mumbling through the other end, a deep voice, rambling about something you couldn’t quite decipher. His head tilted backwards as he listened, the grip on his phone a little lose as he shut his eyes in pure bliss.
“That’s fine,” he starts again, “I’ll take care of it.”
All while sliding his tip out of you and pressing himself back in fully until your arousal wettened his pubic hairs. And it continued like this until your stomach was bubbling and your face was hot and scrunched into itself.
“Mm, gonna cum,” you whisper, still trying to keep yourself hidden from wherever the hell was on the phone with him for this long.
Harry just smirked, phone still pressed up against his ear, as he quickened his strokes into you again. His free thumb came to rest atop your clit, rubbing slow circles onto the sensitive bud until you throat was strained in a sad attempt to keep every noise in.
“No, not home yet,” he spoke again, “taking care of a couple things.”
He fucked you harder. Faster. As if he was challenging you to see who could keep their composure best.
But you’d already lost. You knew you had. Your legs were vibrating violently around his waist, pulsing with every new swipe at your clit and every new slam of his hips.
And the second you finally reached your orgasm, a long, drawn out moan escaped up your chest before you got the chance to silence it.
His hand smacked hard over your mouth with so much force that you shut up immediately.
But he wasn’t upset. He didn’t even look phased. He was still grinning at you, in awe of your fucked state as he pounded himself in and out of you and shut you the hell up with his wide palm.
You came hard. Stuck in the trance he’s set you in and fading into the light as he rides you through it. Your limbs were numbing, your skin stuck between a mix of hot and cold and not quite landing on just one.
He pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment as the other man spoke to nothing. “Fuck, you’re so hot. Feel good?”
You hum lazily, eyes shut as a small smile crawls up to your face absentmindedly. It’d been awhile since you felt this fucked. Just laying there limp and useless and half awake.
Regardless, he wasn’t stopping.
“Mhm,” he said, back on the phone, a little too suspicious of a noise for an average discussion. “Ok. Mhm. Bye.”
“Who was tha—”
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good y/n,” he cut you off, letting his phone hang loose in his grip now as his eyes meld shut in reflex.
It was the furthest thing from calm anymore. He was slamming into you relentlessly until your tits smacked into themselves and your throat strained in purple veins and reddened skin.
“Oh my god,” you groan, cupping your own breast with a squeeze, “shit!”
“Yeah, let everyone hear you,” he spits, “just fucking scream, tell them how good your getting it.”
And you did.
There was no taming whatever was begging to come out of you. You were loud and rambling and just crying whatever filth came to mind without giving yourself a minute to process a thought.
“Shit, can’t fucking believe you,” his head dropped into itself, “gonna remember this, best pussy I’ve ever had y/n.”
You hum, loud, as you let your neck push out and your head rolls back harder onto some sort of sound board that definitely has a couple switches knocked off. His eyes were locked to the movement on your chest—the way your tits shook and belly shook and tented up with his tip.
You’re not really sure what made you think of it. Maybe the way he was staring, maybe the way he told you he wanted to remember, or maybe the way his phone was still hanging lose in his thick fingers from the call.
But you nudged your head towards his phone before you got a chance to think twice about it.
He looked down at where you gestured.
Then back at you.
Back to the phone.
And another time back at you.
Then, shakily, “…yeah?”
You nod through a bitten grin, pinching your nipples between your fingers as if to ask for that to be the focus.
Like any man who’s alive and breathing, the idea only sat with him for about a half a second before his phone was back out and the camera was faced down at you.
And then he was fucking you again, harder this time, so riled up from the devious act in the first place, as he slammed into you until his balls smacked against the bottom of your ass.
Your tits slapped into each other through the camera, clapping against themselves in the most erotic way he’d ever seen. You could see it on his face. The way his lips fell apart through broken groans and his eyes were so zoned into one place that you figured he’d forgotten about everything else surrounding.
“Harry,” you breathe out, “so good. Gonna make yourself cum to this later? Watch yourself fuck me where you shouldn’t?”
He brought his free hand to the small of your waist, gripping tight before using the grip to tug you down onto him harder. His cock was pressing so hard up into your belly that you thought it’d be bruised, so worked out from his thick cock in a way you’ve never gotten it before.
“Fuck, yes, fucking yes,” he groaned, gripping you tighter without trying, “M’so close.”
“Yeah? Gonna cum all over my tits, Harry?” You call, dramatized for his video and paired with an extra shake of your rolling breaths on top of you.
With that, he pulled out of you quick as his fist came to wrap around his length, pumping in sloppy motions with a twisted face and held breaths. His salty cum painted itself onto your tits beautifully, dripping down your smooth skin and coating itself over the peak of your nipples like it belonged there.
His head fell lazy as his breaths lengthened, grounding himself slowly through small touches and deep inhales. The video had stopped, now fallen to the edge of the table you laid on still.
“Fuck,” and then he was looking back up at you with a crooked smile, “did we just fuck?”
And, like usual, your eyes rolled as a grin curved up your mouth, “yeah. Now don’t torment me.”
He pulled out of you slowly, taking his time to not further stress your body before tugging his pants loosely back up to his waist.
“Y/n,” he starts again, grabbing a rag from the counter, “do you know you and I just had sex? You? And I? Y/n and Harry?”
“What part of don’t torment me do you not understand, hm?” You tease, sitting up on your elbows as he begins to wipe up your chest and whatever spilled to your stomach.
“But you’re cute when I torment you,” he shrugs, smirking down at you as he tosses the now dirty rag to the side.
“I don’t think I like you very much.”
His teeth show through his dimpled grin now, arms locked on the table by either side of your hips as he brings himself closer to your face.
And with a sweet kiss and a press to your forehead—
💌 author note: surprise, surprise… part two is here, and she’s a long one — 11k+ words — so take a deep breath, get comfy, grab a drink, and buckle up.
i genuinely wasn’t planning on writing a second part, but it was requested by @sparklejumpropequeen1113 and i thought, why not? then, somehow, this turned into a whole emotional, jealous, tension-filled business trip, and i had the best time writing it.
thank you so much for reading, and i hope you enjoy this very long, very dramatic little trip to milan. ♡
⋆ ˚｡⋆𐙚˚ ♡ ˚𐙚⋆｡˚ ⋆
You spend the entire flight pretending you haven’t been thinking about what happened on Harry’s desk.
It’s difficult when Harry’s sitting one seat over in first class, looking infuriatingly composed with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his laptop open, and his mouth set in that focused line you used to associate with contracts, board meetings, and terrifyingly calm executive decisions.
Now, unfortunately, all you can think about is his hand over your mouth and his voice in your ear telling you to stay quiet.
You shift in your seat and refocus on the presentation deck on your tablet.
Harry doesn’t look up from his laptop. “You’ve read that slide eleven times.”
Your cheeks warm instantly. “I’m reviewing it.”
“No,” Harry says. “You’re pretending to review.”
“I’m making sure we’re ready for the investor meeting.”
“You’re still on the title slide.”
You glance down at the tablet. He’s right.
You clear your throat and swipe to the next slide, refusing to look at him. “You’re very invested in what I’m doing for someone with an entire quarterly report open.”
Harry’s mouth tilts slightly. “I’m good at multitasking.”
“That’s not multitasking. That’s surveillance.”
His low laugh lands somewhere low in your stomach.
For the past week, you and Harry have been trying to act normal, which would’ve been easier if either of you were any good at it.
Normal means replying to his emails like a professional, instead of thinking about how he said your name. Normal means sitting across from him in meetings, pretending you don’t know what he looks like with his tie loosened, his composure shattered, and his control undone. Normal means ignoring the fact that he replaced your blouse with one so obscenely expensive the label alone nearly sent you into cardiac arrest.
Normal isn’t working. Not even close.
By the time the plane lands in Milan, Harry’s become all business again — phone in one hand, carry-on in the other, his voice calm and polished as he speaks to the driver waiting outside baggage claim.
He doesn’t touch you.
He doesn’t flirt.
He doesn’t give anyone a reason to look twice.
That makes it worse in a different way.
The car ride to the hotel is quiet except for the driver’s soft Italian radio and the rain tapping lightly against the windows. Milan slips past in blurred gold and gray beyond the glass, elegant, expensive, and unfamiliar.
Harry sits beside you, close enough that his knee nearly brushes yours.
Never quite. You hate him a little for it.
At a red light, his gaze shifts to you.
“What?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
His mouth tilts. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to stop pretending you don’t remember last Tuesday.”
Your inhale catches before you can stop it.
Harry’s eyes drop briefly to your mouth. Then the light changes, the car moves, and he looks forward again, as if he hadn’t just dismantled your ability to think.
“Professional,” he says smoothly. “Remember?”
You turn toward the window, cheeks burning. “I hate you.”
“No, darling,” Harry says, voice quiet enough that only you can hear. “You don’t.”
The hotel is exactly the kind of place Harry belongs in: expensive without trying too hard, all marble floors, low golden lighting, and glass doors polished so clean they barely look real. Someone greets him by name before you’re fully through the doors, and Harry answers with the kind of smooth, effortless politeness that makes everyone around him straighten a little.
You stand beside him with your suitcase handle gripped too tightly, trying not to think about the fact that he looks even better under the hotel lobby lights. Deeply unfair.
Harry handles check-in with calm efficiency, all quiet authority and polite smiles, speaking Italian smoothly enough to twist your stomach. Personally inconvenient, considering you’re trying to behave.
You stare up at the chandelier because it feels safer than looking at him until Harry glances over.
“You’re doing that quiet thing again.”
“I’m admiring the architecture.”
His mouth curves, like he doesn’t believe you for a second. “Of course.”
“For someone who asked me to be professional, you’re doing a lot of interrogating.”
“I asked you to remember professionalism exists,” he says, taking the key cards from the receptionist. “I didn’t say I trusted either of us with it.”
Your cheeks warm, which is deeply unhelpful.
The receptionist smiles politely, oblivious to the tension and fully charmed by Harry’s smooth Italian. Harry passes you one of the key cards.
“We have separate rooms,” he says.
You blink before you can stop yourself, and of course, he notices.
“They’re on the same floor,” he adds. “But separate.”
“I didn’t say anything,” you say, a little too quickly.
“No,” he says, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. “But you looked surprised.”
“I’m not,” you say.
“Liar,” Harry says, far too pleased with himself.
You take the card from him, and your fingers brush for half a second too long. Neither of you moves, not until Harry’s eyes sharpen and he lets go first. So much for professional.
The elevator ride is worse: just the two of you, your suitcases, and the quiet hum of the lift rising through the hotel. Harry stands beside you, close enough to notice but still not touching, one hand in his pocket and the other loose around his phone.
You can see him reflected in the mirrored wall, and you can see yourself trying very hard not to look at him.
Harry’s eyes find yours in the mirror, like he knew exactly where you’d be looking.
“Your room’s three doors down from mine.”
“Convenient,” you say, even though it sounds a little too much like a challenge.
“For work,” he says, like either of you believes that’s the only reason.
“Obviously,” you say.
His mouth tilts. “Investor notes. Meeting prep. Gala schedule.”
“Very professional,” you say, like you’re both not standing in an elevator lying through your teeth.
“Painfully professional,” he says.
The elevator dings, and you step out first because you need air and because no one should be forced to survive Harry in a mirrored elevator.
The hallway is quiet, the soft carpet swallowing your footsteps as Harry walks beside you to your door.
You stop in front of your door, and Harry stops beside you. For one second, neither of you says anything. His gaze drops to your key card.
“This is you.”
“I know.”
“You should go in.”
“I was about to.”
“You’re still standing here.”
“So are you.”
His smile turns slow, like he’s been waiting for you to push back. “There’s that mouth again.”
Your breath catches, and Harry notices immediately. But instead of stepping closer, he reaches for your suitcase, takes the handle, and sets it neatly beside your door.
“Get some rest,” he says, his voice smooth again. “We have a long day tomorrow.”
You stare at him. “That’s it?”
His eyes darken, but the rest of his face gives nothing away.
“For tonight?” he asks, calm enough to make it worse. “Yes.”
Your stomach sinks, and you hate that you can’t tell whether it’s relief or disappointment.
Harry leans in, close enough that his voice drops between you. “Unless you knock.”
Your pulse jumps, but Harry only straightens, all polished control again, and walks toward his room.
You stay there for a moment, key card in hand, watching him walk away like he hasn’t just handed you a loaded invitation.
When he reaches his door, Harry looks back.
“Professional,” he reminds you, like he didn’t just make the word sound obscene.
You hate him a little. Maybe a lot.
You swipe your key card and disappear into your room before he can see the smile you couldn’t quite stop.
**
You don’t knock, which should feel like a victory. It doesn’t.
It feels like lying awake in a hotel bed that’s far too soft, staring at the ceiling while your body remembers everything you’re trying not to: Harry’s office, Harry’s desk, his voice, his hands, his mouth.
By morning, you’ve managed maybe three hours of sleep, which feels generous. Somehow, you still look composed. Mostly.
Your blouse is crisp, your skirt is pressed, and your hair is neat enough to pass for professional. Your lipstick does a decent job of hiding the fact that you spent half the night biting your mouth every time you thought about walking three doors down the hall.
Your phone buzzes at 7:12. Harry.
Harry: Meeting room in twenty. Bring the revised deck.
A second later, another message appears.
Harry: And coffee.
You stare at the screen, unimpressed.
You: Is that an order?
Harry: A request.
Harry: Though I do enjoy how quickly your mind went there.
You hate him, and it isn’t even breakfast yet.
Harry is already in the private meeting room when you get downstairs.
He’s standing near the long table with his jacket off, waistcoat buttoned, and white shirt fitted neatly across his shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, pushed back but already starting to curl loose. He’s looking down at the printed investor notes, one hand braced on the table, a pen held between ringed fingers.
You pause in the doorway for half a second too long.
Harry doesn’t look up from the investor notes. “You’re late.”
“I’m two minutes early, but thank you for your concern.”
“You paused in the doorway.”
Your face warms, which is annoying because he’s technically right. “That doesn’t count.”
“It counts if I noticed.”
You step inside and put the coffee down beside him with just enough force to make a point. “Your coffee.”
“Thank you,” he says.
He finally looks up, his gaze moving over you once, quick but thorough, before catching on your blouse. The new blouse. The obscenely expensive one.
His mouth tilts like he’s trying not to look too pleased. “You wore it.”
“You’re the one who bought it.”
“I did,” he says, his gaze still on the blouse.
“You ruined the last one.”
His eyes darken slightly, though his voice gives nothing away. “I remember.”
The air between you shifts.
You look away first and pick up your tablet, because someone has to pretend to be responsible. “We should go through the investor questions.”
“We should,” he says, though his eyes stay on you.
Neither of you moves. Harry watches you for one more second, clears his throat, and turns back to the table like he’s forcing himself to behave. It’s almost impressive.
For the next twenty minutes, you both manage to be professional. You review projections. Harry edits phrasing. You flag a weak slide, and he agrees. You discuss risk language, market timing, shareholder confidence, expansion strategy — all things that should be boring enough to calm you down. They aren’t.
Not when Harry keeps standing too close. Not when his hand brushes yours every time he reaches for the notes. Not when he says, “Good catch,” in that low, approving voice that makes it impossible to remember you’re supposed to be calm.
You hate praise from him because you love praise from him, and that’s quickly becoming a problem.
Harry reaches for his cufflink, only to frown. “Damn.”
“What?”
“My cufflink’s stuck.”
You look up to find him holding out his wrist, the silver cufflink caught halfway through. His sleeve pulls tight around his forearm, tattoos visible beneath the rolled fabric, dark ink against warm skin.
You stare at his forearm for half a second too long, and Harry’s mouth curves. “Careful.”
“I’m looking at the cufflink,” you say.
“Of course,” Harry says, not believing you for a second.
You step closer before you can talk yourself out of it. “Give me your wrist.”
His eyebrows lift like he has several comments ready. You ignore all of them.
Harry offers his wrist, and you take it carefully, your fingers closing around his forearm. His skin is warm under your hand, solid in a way that makes the contact feel much less innocent than it should.
The cufflink is actually stuck, but it only takes a few seconds to fix. The real problem is Harry going very still while you do it. Too still.
You glance up and realize he’s watching your face, not the cufflink. Your face.
“You’re meant to be looking at your sleeve,” you say.
“I know,” he says, eyes still on yours.
“You’re not even pretending to look.”
“No,” he says.
Your fingers still against his wrist. Harry’s gaze drops to your mouth.
All at once, the meeting room feels too small.
You fasten the cufflink with a sharp little click and let go of his wrist, but Harry catches your hand before you can step back. Not tightly. Just enough.
“Harry,” you say, meaning it as a warning and failing completely.
“There’s that warning voice again,” he says, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“We have a meeting in forty minutes,” you say, like that’s a convincing argument.
“I know,” he says, entirely too calm.
“You’re the one who asked me to be professional.”
“I did,” he says, without a trace of regret.
“You’re holding my hand.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles once. “I am.”
You should pull away. Instead, your fingers curl slightly around his.
Harry leans in, close enough that his voice drops. “You didn’t knock last night.”
Your breath catches before you can stop it, and his eyes flicker.
“I know,” you admit.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, watching the words land.
The words hit so hard you nearly close your eyes. Harry sees it, and his mouth curves, slow and smug and far too pleased. A second later, he releases your hand and steps back, all polished control again.
“Now,” he says, picking up the investor deck like he didn’t just ruin your ability to think before eight in the morning, “walk me through slide twelve.”
You walk him through slide twelve with your pulse still caught somewhere in your throat, while Harry stands three feet away looking calm, composed, and entirely unbothered by the fact that he just called you a good girl before eight in the morning.
You hate him. You hate him more because, somehow, your voice doesn’t shake once.
By nine, the investors arrive, and Harry becomes someone else the second they walk into the room. Not entirely different. Still Harry, still all sharp suit, easy authority, and quiet arrogance. But the teasing vanishes beneath something colder and more controlled. His handshake is firm, his smile polite, his voice smooth enough to make everyone lean in without realizing they’re doing it.
You’ve seen this version of Harry before: controlled, untouchable, terrifyingly good at getting exactly what he wants. Unfortunately, now you know what it feels like when that focus turns on you.
You sit to his right with your tablet open, your notes arranged, your backup files ready, and every number in the deck memorized. If you’re going to sit beside Harry after what happened last week, you’re not giving anyone a reason to think you’re here for anything other than your job.
The meeting starts cleanly. Market overview, expansion strategy, revenue projections, and investor concerns. Harry handles the first wave without breaking stride, answering questions before they can turn into objections and turning doubt into interest with almost insulting ease. Eventually, one of the investors — an older man in a navy suit with silver hair and a sharp smile — taps his pen against the table.
“I understand the projection,” he says, looking at Harry. “What I don’t understand is the risk model behind year three. This assumes a level of market stability I’m not convinced we can count on.”
Harry starts to answer, but you catch the issue first. Not because he misses things like that, but because you built the revised model yourself at one in the morning two days ago.
You lean forward slightly. “Actually, the year-three model doesn’t assume blanket stability. It separates the risk across three assumptions.”
The room shifts. Harry stops speaking, and every pair of eyes turns to you. Your stomach tightens, but your voice stays steady.
“The main slide uses the middle forecast because it’s the cleanest for presentation,” you continue, tapping your tablet and sending the supplemental page to the main screen. “But the appendix breaks out both conservative and adverse-case models. Under an eight percent increase in market volatility, returns remain above the minimum investor threshold, with the timeline extending by roughly two quarters.”
The investor glances at the screen, and you keep going.
“The real risk isn’t market stability,” you say. “It’s entry timing. If the Milan rollout is delayed by more than six months, we lose regional leverage and customer acquisition costs increase by twelve to fourteen percent.”
For a second, no one speaks. The investor looks back at the screen, then nods slowly. “That wasn’t in the summary.”
“No,” you say, calm and precise. “It was included in the appendix.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth.
Harry doesn’t smile. He’s too professional for that. But from the corner of your eye, you see his head turn slightly, and you feel his attention settle on you like a hand at the back of your neck.
“Miss [Y/L/N] is right,” Harry says evenly. “That’s why she revised the entry timeline.”
Your fingers are still against your tablet. She revised. Not my assistant caught it. Not that we adjusted it. She.
The meeting continues, but something has shifted. You answer two more questions, clarify a legal note, and correct a projected cost before anyone else catches it. By the time the last slide comes up, the room is no longer looking only at Harry. They’re looking at you, too. Harry notices.
As the investors gather their papers, the silver-haired man gives you a small nod.
“Impressive work,” he says, like he doesn’t give praise lightly.
“Thank you,” you say, keeping your voice polite and steady.
Harry’s gaze flicks to you. There’s no smirk this time. No teasing. Just something sharp and proud in his eyes that hits harder than anything he could’ve said out loud.
The room empties around you, but Harry stays where he is, watching you pack up your tablet.
You glance up at him. “What?”
Harry’s mouth barely moves when he says, “Good catch.”
Two professional words. That should be all. But his voice is low, his eyes are on you, and suddenly the private meeting room feels too small all over again.
You close your tablet, because looking at him suddenly feels dangerous. “Thank you.”
His gaze lingers for one second too long before the door opens and the silver-haired investor steps back inside.
“Miss [Y/L/N],” he says smoothly. “I was hoping I might have a moment of your time before tonight’s gala.”
Harry goes still beside you in a way no one else would notice. But you do, because noticing Harry has become a terrible, inconvenient habit.
The stillness passes so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
The silver-haired investor steps farther into the room, one hand tucked into his pocket, expression polite enough to look professional. Lorenzo Moretti. You remember his name because you corrected two figures in his regional forecast last night, and because he smiled at you during the meeting, as if being challenged was a novelty.
Harry’s voice gives nothing away when he says, “Mr. Moretti.”
“Mr. Styles,” Lorenzo says, inclining his head before his gaze returns to you. “I won’t keep her long.”
Your grip tightens around your tablet before you can stop it.
Harry’s gaze flicks to your hand before settling back on Lorenzo, his voice still perfectly even. “She has prep for tonight.”
“I’m sure she does.” Lorenzo smiles at you, polite enough that it almost hides the challenge. “That’s partly why I wanted to speak with her. Your handling of the risk model was impressive. Sharp, concise, and far more convincing than the summary.”
You open your mouth to answer, but Harry speaks before you can. “She built it.”
Lorenzo’s eyebrows lift, sharpening his interest. “Did she?”
Your chest warms before you can stop it. Harry doesn’t look at you, but the words still land.
“Yes,” you say, your voice steady now. “I revised the model after we received the updated regional data.”
“Then I owe you the compliment directly.” Lorenzo steps closer, not too close, but close enough that Harry’s silence changes shape beside you. “You made a difficult room listen. That isn’t easy.”
“Thank you,” you say, keeping your voice polite. “But it was a team effort.”
Harry’s mouth shifts almost imperceptibly.
Lorenzo’s smile deepens. “Modest as well.”
The air tightens, subtly enough that no one could call it inappropriate outright. But there’s a warmth in Lorenzo’s eyes now that feels less like business and more like interest.
You feel Harry notice it too, and somehow that is worse.
Lorenzo’s gaze drops briefly to the folder in your hands. “I wanted to ask if you’ll be attending the gala tonight.”
“Yes,” you say, aware of Harry’s silence beside you. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.” His smile turns smoother. “Then perhaps we can continue this conversation there. It would be a shame if market projections were the only thing we discussed in Milan.”
Harry finally moves, but only slightly. He adjusts the cufflink you fixed earlier with a calm so precise it feels dangerous.
“She’ll be working tonight,” he says.
Lorenzo looks at him with mild amusement. “Of course.” Then he turns back to you. “But one dance at a charity gala is hardly a scandal, no?”
Your breath catches, not because of Lorenzo, but because Harry’s attention has landed on you like a hand around your wrist.
You keep your face composed, even with Harry’s attention fixed on you. “I suppose that depends on the schedule.”
“A careful answer.” Lorenzo smiles like he enjoys that more than he should. “I like careful.”
Harry cuts in before Lorenzo can say anything else, his voice smooth as glass. “Then you’ll enjoy our final proposal.”
The words are professional, but the tone is not.
Lorenzo’s smile lingers a second longer before he steps back. “Until tonight, Miss [Y/L/N].”
“Until tonight,” you say, keeping your tone professional.
Lorenzo leaves, the door closing softly behind him. For a moment, the room is silent.
You don’t look at Harry. You can’t. Instead, you busy yourself with your tablet, pretending the file open in front of you requires urgent attention.
Harry stays silent, and somehow that makes it worse.
Finally, you glance up. Harry is still watching the closed door, jaw set hard enough to give him away even while the rest of his face stays unreadable.
“You’ve gone quiet again,” you say.
His eyes move to yours. “What quiet thing?”
“The one where you act like you’re not irritated.”
“I’m not irritated,” he says, sounding exactly like someone who is irritated.
“No?” you ask.
“No.” Harry picks up his coffee, takes one slow sip, and looks at you over the rim. “I’m professional.”
You stare at him. His eyes flick briefly to your mouth before coming back to yours.
“Painfully,” he adds after a beat.
Your cheeks warm before you can stop them. Harry notices. His mouth curves slightly, but there’s nothing soft about it.
“Be careful with Moretti tonight,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow. “Professional advice?”
Harry steps closer, only enough to make your pulse jump. “It is.”
“And if I said you sound jealous?”
His eyes darken. For one second, you think he’s going to deny it. Instead, Harry leans in close enough for his voice to touch your skin.
“Then I’d tell you to be careful with that too,” he murmurs, like the warning is for both of you.
**
By evening, you’ve nearly convinced yourself you imagined the look on Harry’s face.
The problem is, Harry doesn’t do obvious jealousy. He doesn’t glare across rooms or make scenes or say anything reckless enough to be useful. He gets quieter. Sharper. More controlled. Which is worse.
You tell yourself this in front of the hotel room mirror, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress for the third time.
The dress is black, simple, and fitted in a way that feels dangerous now that you know Harry will see it. The neckline is elegant enough for a charity gala, but low enough to make you second-guess yourself twice before deciding you’re absolutely not changing.
You’re here for work. You’re allowed to look good while doing your job. Harry being unbearable about it is his problem.
Your phone buzzes where you left it on the vanity.
Harry: Car leaves in ten.
Before you can decide whether to answer, another message appears.
Harry: Don’t be late.
You: Is that an order, Mr. Styles?
The reply comes fast.
Harry: A request.
Harry: Mostly.
You roll your eyes, grab your clutch, and get out of the room before you can talk yourself into changing.
Harry is waiting in the lobby, and you see him before he sees you. Black tux, white shirt, bow tie, curls neat but already threatening to fall loose. One hand is tucked into his pocket, the other holding his phone. He looks expensive and calm and untouchable, like every rich man in the room is only pretending to have his kind of control.
Then he looks up and stops.
It lasts less than a second, but you catch it anyway.
His gaze moves over you once, from your hair to your dress to your heels. When it returns to your face, the polished executive mask is still there, but only barely.
You step closer, suddenly aware of the dress, your heels, your skin, all of it.
“What?” you ask, even though you know exactly what.
Harry says nothing at first, which makes your stomach twist. After a beat, he slips his phone into his pocket and straightens, his eyes still on you.
“You look…” He stops himself.
You lift an eyebrow. “Professional?”
His mouth curves faintly, though his eyes stay dark. “No.”
Your pulse jumps at the word.
He steps closer, barely enough for anyone else to notice.
“Dangerous,” Harry says quietly.
You glance around the lobby before lowering your voice. “Harry, we’re in public.”
“I know.”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“Harry,” you warn.
That finally breaks through, pulling a slow smile from him.
“There’s that warning voice again.” His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “You should be careful with it tonight.”
“Why?” you ask, even though you know better.
“Because I’m trying very hard to behave,” he says.
Your breath catches, and Harry notices. Of course he does.
Before you can answer, the driver approaches to tell Harry the car is ready. His expression smooths over instantly.
Just like that, it’s business again.
He rests one hand lightly at the small of your back as he guides you toward the doors. Perfectly appropriate. Professional, even. Until his thumb brushes once against the bare skin just above the back of your dress. Slow. Deliberate. A warning. A promise.
Your breath catches sharply.
Harry leans in, close enough for his voice to reach only you.
“Careful, darling,” he murmurs. “We haven’t even arrived.”
The gala is held in a historic palazzo with high ceilings, gold light, and crystal chandeliers overhead. The room is full of expensive perfume, black tuxedos, silk dresses, champagne flutes, and people who have turned smiling without meaning it into a social skill.
He steps out of the car like the entire evening has been arranged around him, one hand buttoning his tux jacket, his expression already smooth and unreadable. By the time you reach the entrance, he is no longer the man who brushed his thumb over your bare skin in the lobby.
He is Harry Styles again. Mr. Styles. Controlled, polished, untouchable.
You try to remember that as you step inside beside him. You manage it for exactly three minutes.
The first almost-touch happens while Harry introduces you to a board member from Zurich. His hand settles briefly at your lower back, guiding you forward with just enough pressure to pass as polite.
Professional. Completely appropriate. Until his fingers press once before he lets go. A tiny thing. Barely anything. Your breath catches anyway, and Harry doesn’t look at you. That makes it worse.
The second almost-touch happens by the champagne table. You both reach for the same glass, and his fingers brush yours around the stem. You pull back too quickly.
Harry’s mouth curves like he knows exactly why you pulled away.
“Careful,” he murmurs, taking the glass and handing it to you. “People might start thinking I make you nervous.”
“You don’t make me nervous.”
“No?” he asks, gaze dropping to your mouth.
You lift the champagne to your lips, mostly to give yourself something to do that isn’t look at his mouth. “You make me irritated.”
“Mm.” He watches you over the rim of his glass. “I remember.”
Your cheeks warm before you can stop them, and Harry’s smile deepens like he caught every thought you tried to hide.
The third almost-touch happens in the middle of a conversation with a donor.
You stand beside him with your tablet tucked under one arm, listening closely enough to catch the names, the numbers, the careful little political shifts in the conversation. Harry is in full executive mode, charming without trying, sharp without sounding arrogant. His hand moves behind your back, not touching you. Just close enough to make you aware of it.
Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the thin space between your bodies, your entire body becomes aware of it.
Harry keeps talking like nothing has happened. Like his hand isn’t hovering inches from your waist. Like you aren’t suddenly thinking about that same hand gripping your hip over his desk.
When the donor finally walks away, you turn your head slightly.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Styles?”
Harry looks down at you, expression perfectly calm. “Very much.”
“You’re impossible,” you say.
“I haven’t done anything,” he says, like that is even remotely true.
“That’s highly debatable.”
His brows lift. “Would you like to submit a formal complaint?”
“Yes. I’ll send it in writing.”
“With HR?” he asks, like the idea personally entertains him.
You shoot him a look. His mouth twitches.
“Easy,” he says softly, mouth still threatening a smile. “I might take that personally.”
“You take everything personally, Harry.”
“Only when it involves you.” His voice is too soft for the room.
For a second, the gala seems to quieten around you. A voice calls Harry’s name from across the room, and the moment breaks.
Before you can answer, Harry steps away.
You watch him slip back into the crowd, shaking hands, smiling politely, turning untouchable again with insulting ease.
You should be relieved. Instead, every inch of you still feels aware of where he almost touched you.
The fourth almost-touch is the one that nearly ruins you.
A photographer asks for a picture near the sponsor wall. Harry stands beside you, one hand at his side, the other holding his glass. There’s space between you. Too much. The photographer gestures lightly.
“Can you move a little closer, please?”
Harry glances at you, and you glance back—a mistake.
His hand slides to your waist. Not your lower back this time. Your actual waist.
His palm settles there as if it belongs, fingers warm through the fabric of your dress, thumb resting just below your ribs. Your smile nearly falters.
“Professional,” he murmurs under his breath, like the word has become a dare.
You stare straight at the camera. “I hate you.”
“No, darling.” His thumb brushes once at your waist, too subtle for anyone else to notice. “You don’t.”
The flash goes off, and the photographer thanks you. Harry lets go immediately, which somehow feels worse than if he’d kept touching you.
You turn toward him with your pulse still too high.
“Was that necessary?” you ask, trying very hard not to sound affected.
“Apparently.” Harry takes a sip of champagne, far too calm. “He asked us to move closer.”
“You enjoyed that far too much.”
“Obviously,” he says, without an ounce of shame.
You’re about to answer when a smooth voice interrupts from behind you.
“Miss [Y/L/N],” Lorenzo says.
Your spine stiffens. Harry’s face stays unreadable, but his eyes change.
You turn to find Lorenzo Moretti standing a few feet away, champagne flute in hand, wearing a smile that already feels too familiar.
“There you are,” he says warmly. “I was beginning to wonder if Mr. Styles intended to monopolize your evening.”
Harry’s fingers tighten around his glass. Just slightly.
Lorenzo takes another step closer, his attention fixed entirely on you.
“I believe,” Lorenzo says, offering his hand with that same smooth smile, “you owe me that conversation.”
You look from Lorenzo’s offered hand to Harry, which is probably a mistake.
Harry’s expression stays perfectly composed, the kind of calm that belongs in boardrooms, not ballrooms. Nothing in his face gives him away, but you know him well enough now to read the stillness.
He is waiting, not stopping you, not claiming you, and not giving himself away. Letting you choose, which somehow makes your chest tighten more than if he had.
You look back at Lorenzo and place your hand in his.
“For a conversation,” you say, making the boundary clear.
Lorenzo’s smile widens as the boundary amuses him almost as much as the permission. “Of course.”
Harry doesn’t say a word.
Lorenzo leads you a few steps away from the sponsor wall, not far enough for privacy, but far enough that the conversation no longer belongs to Harry. You can still feel him behind you, though. His attention doesn’t touch you the way his hand had, but it might as well.
Lorenzo lets your hand linger in his for half a second too long before releasing it.
“You’re very loyal to him,” Lorenzo says.
“To Mr. Styles?” you ask, keeping your tone neutral.
“To Harry,” Lorenzo says, watching your face like the distinction matters.
The first name feels deliberate.
You keep your expression polite enough to give nothing away. “He’s my employer.”
“Is that all he is?”
Your stomach tightens at the question.
The question is too smooth to be accidental and too lightly delivered to challenge without making yourself look defensive.
You lift your champagne flute again, mostly to give your hands something to do. “That’s a strange question.”
“Is it?” Lorenzo’s gaze moves over your face, lingering just long enough to feel deliberate. “Forgive me. I only meant that Mr. Styles looks at you like you’re more than an employee.”
Your breath catches before you can hide it. Lorenzo notices.
“I think you’re mistaken,” you say politely.
Lorenzo smiles like he already knows the answer. “Am I?”
The music shifts around you, slower now, smoother. Couples begin moving toward the center of the ballroom, and Lorenzo glances their way before looking back at you.
“Just one dance,” Lorenzo says, offering his hand again.
You nearly laugh. “That isn’t a conversation.”
“It can be,” Lorenzo says, his smile turning smooth again.
“It could also be misinterpreted.”
His smile deepens, like he enjoys watching you draw the line. “You do like choosing your words carefully.”
The word feels wrong in his mouth. From Harry, it sounds like a warning. From Lorenzo, it sounds like permission he hasn’t earned.
You set your champagne down. “I prefer clear boundaries.”
Before Lorenzo can answer, a hand settles at the small of your back, and you know who it is before he says a word. Warm. Familiar. Controlled.
“There you are,” Harry says smoothly, and somehow it sounds nothing like when Lorenzo said it.
His voice is pleasant. Far too pleasant.
Lorenzo’s eyes flick to Harry’s hand at your back, quick enough to be polite, deliberate enough to be noticed. “Mr. Styles.”
“Moretti.” Harry’s mouth curves into something too cold to be called a smile. “Enjoying the gala?”
“Very much.” Lorenzo’s gaze shifts back to you, his smile smooth. “Your associate has been excellent company.”
Harry’s fingers press once against your back. Too subtle for anyone else to notice. Impossible for you to miss.
“She is,” Harry says, his hand still warm at your back.
Two simple words, delivered flat and polite and dangerous.
You glance up at him, but Harry doesn’t look away from Lorenzo, not even for a second.
“Unfortunately,” Harry says, his voice smooth enough to cut, “I need her for a moment.”
Lorenzo’s eyebrows lift, amused again. “Work?”
“Always,” Harry says, smooth enough that anyone else might believe him.
Lorenzo looks amused now, and somehow that makes the tension sharper. “Of course. I would hate to interfere with business.”
Harry’s smile widens by the smallest fraction. “Wise.”
Your pulse jumps at the word.
“Until later, Miss [Y/L/N],” Lorenzo says, holding your gaze a moment too long.
“Good evening, Mr. Moretti,” you say, keeping your voice perfectly polite.
Harry’s hand stays on your back as he guides you away. Not hurried. Not rough. Just firm enough that your whole body becomes aware of him.
You make it halfway across the ballroom before you say anything. “That was subtle.”
Harry keeps his eyes ahead, his hand still at your back. “Was it?”
“Not even slightly.”
“Shame,” Harry says, entirely unapologetic.
You glance up at him, because apparently you’ve decided to be reckless. “You’re jealous.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” you ask, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.
“Don’t say that here,” he says quietly.
The words are quiet enough that no one else could hear them, but they land like his mouth at your ear.
You stop walking, and Harry stops with you. For one second, the gala keeps moving around you — music, laughter, glasses clinking, people with no idea the air between you has gone dangerously thin.
“You don’t get to be jealous,” you say softly, because anything louder would give too much away.
His eyes meet yours, and there is no denial in them. “I know.”
The answer catches you off guard, more than any denial would have. Harry’s gaze drops to your mouth for one dangerous second before lifting again.
“I know,” he repeats, voice quieter now. “That doesn’t mean I liked watching his hands on you.”
“He barely touched me,” you say, but even you hear how weak the argument sounds.
“He wanted to,” Harry says, and there is no uncertainty in it.
Your breath catches, and Harry’s hand leaves your back at once, like he’s suddenly aware of where it’s been. The absence makes you feel colder.
“The car’s ready,” he says, his voice smooth again, like nothing just happened. “We should go.”
“The gala isn’t over yet.”
“It is for us,” he says, voice quiet and final.
You should argue. You should remind him that you’re here for work, that he doesn’t get to decide the night is over just because another man looked at you too closely. Instead, you follow him toward the exit, pulse high, skin still hot where his hand had been.
Outside, the cool Milan air makes you shiver. Harry notices that too. He says nothing, only opens the car door and waits for you to get in.
You get into the back seat without saying a word.
Harry follows, closing the door with a soft click. The car is warm and dark, all black leather, tinted windows, and the privacy divider already raised.
Harry says something calm and clipped in Italian, and the car pulls away from the curb.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Milan passes outside in streaks of gold and rain-dark glass. Harry sits beside you, one hand resting on his thigh, looking far too composed for a man who just ended a gala because another man asked you to dance.
“You’re doing that quiet thing again,” you say.
“I’m aware,” Harry says, still looking ahead.
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
His jaw tightens before he looks at you.
“You decided the night was over and assumed I’d follow.”
Harry finally turns to look at you. “And yet you followed.”
The words settle low in your stomach.
You hold his gaze anyway. “That doesn’t mean you get to act like you have a claim on me.”
Harry stills completely.
“You don’t get to fuck me in secret,” you say quietly, “and then act like you have a right to be jealous in public.”
His expression shifts.
“You’re right,” he says quietly, and there is no defense in it. You expected him to deny it. Not that. “I don’t get to do that.”
Your throat tightens. “But there is a but.”
His eyes drop to your mouth before lifting again. “But I hated watching him touch you, and I know that isn’t fair.”
“Harry, he barely touched me.”
“He wanted to,” Harry says, voice low. His hand flexes once, like he’s forcing it to stay still. “And he wanted me to know it.”
Heat slips through you before you can stop it.
“You’re jealous,” you say.
“Yes.” The honesty knocks the breath out of you. “I’m not proud of it.”
“That would be more convincing if you didn’t look like you wanted to drag me out of this car and ruin me for it.”
His mouth curves just slightly. “There’s that mouth.”
The car turns, and your knee brushes his. You should move away, but you don’t. Harry’s hand settles on your bare knee, warm beneath the slit of your dress.
“Tell me to stop,” Harry says.
Your pulse jumps before you can stop it. You glance at the divider.
“He can’t see us.”
“Harry, that’s not the point.”
“No.” His thumb strokes your skin, warm and deliberate. “The point is whether you want me to.”
You swallow, but it doesn’t help.
“Words, love.”
Your thighs press together instinctively.
“Yes,” you whisper, barely loud enough to hear.
“Yes, you want me to stop?” he asks, careful now.
You shake your head quickly.
“Say it clearly, love.”
Your face burns. “Yes,” you say, clearer this time. “I want you to touch me.”
Harry lets out a slow breath. “Good girl.”
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.
His hand slides higher beneath your dress, his rings cool against your skin. Your fingers close around his wrist, not to stop him. Harry leans in, mouth close to your ear.
“Did you like it?” he murmurs. “Making me jealous?”
“No,” you say, but it comes out too soft.
“Liar.”
His fingers slide higher along the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, until they reach the damp heat between your legs.
“You looked at me when he asked you to dance,” he murmurs. “Wanted to know if I’d stop you.”
“I wanted to know if you cared.”
His hand stills against your thigh.
The confession hangs between you, and for once, Harry doesn’t tease. His mouth only brushes your cheek.
“I care,” he says, like the words cost him something.
Your chest tightens. His fingers brush over the thin fabric of your underwear, and every thought in your head scatters. You gasp softly, and Harry’s hand covers your mouth, gentle but firm.
“Quiet,” he murmurs. “You do forget yourself quickly, don’t you?”
He touches you through the lace first, slow and deliberate, teasing enough to make your hips jerk against his hand.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So composed while he looked at you. So quiet while he tried to get under my skin. And now you’re wet because I touched your thigh.”
You make a soft, muffled sound against his palm, and Harry smiles against your ear.
“Filthy little thing,” he murmurs before lifting his hand from your mouth. “Too much?”
“No,” you whisper, still trying to catch your breath. “Not too much.”
“Good,” he says.
His fingers slip beneath the lace, and the first direct stroke over your clit makes your whole body jolt against the seat.
“Fuck,” you gasp.
His jaw tightens when he feels how wet you are. “You’re soaked.”
“Harry,” you breathe, his name breaking apart in your mouth.
“No, don’t get shy now,” he murmurs, fingers sliding through your wetness again, slow enough to make you shake.
He circles your clit once, and whatever you were about to say disappears. Your body tightens around the sensation too fast.
“Harry,” you whisper, barely holding the word together.
“I know.”
His fingers keep moving, slick and precise, circling your clit until your thighs tense around his hand.
“I’m close.”
“I know,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your ear. “I can feel it.”
For one perfect second, you think he’s going to let you come. Instead, he stops. Completely.
Your eyes fly open, your body still trembling on the edge. “No, no, don’t stop.”
Harry’s smile is slow and entirely too pleased.
“Not here,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your ear. “When you come tonight, I want to hear every second of it.”
The car slows in front of the hotel. Harry slides the lace back into place, smooths your dress down over your thighs, and sits back like he hasn’t just ruined you in a hired car. His eyes find yours.
“Go to your room if you want to,” he says quietly, the teasing gone now. “I mean that.”
Your breath is still uneven. “And if I don’t?”
His gaze drops to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes. “Then you knock.”
**
You knock. Not immediately. First, you make it to your own room, because some stubborn, foolish part of you still wants to pretend you have restraint. You swipe your key card, step inside, and close the door behind you.
For a moment, you only stand there in the dark, listening to your own uneven breathing.
Your skin is still too hot. Your thighs are still tense. Your underwear is still damp from his fingers, and every small shift reminds you exactly how he stopped in the car. On purpose. Because he wanted you desperate enough to come to him.
You last maybe one minute before turning around, opening your door, and walking back into the hallway before you can talk yourself out of it.
Harry opens the door on the second knock.
His jacket is gone, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His dark curls are messier than they were downstairs, and his eyes move over you once, taking in your flushed face, your clenched thighs, your ruined composure.
He doesn’t smile right away, which is somehow worse.
He steps aside to let you in, and the door closes behind you. For one second, neither of you moves. Next, Harry’s hand is in your hair, and his mouth is on yours like he’s been waiting all night to stop pretending.
There is nothing careful about it this time. Harry kisses you hard, one hand locked at your waist, the other buried in your hair to hold you still. You fist the front of his shirt and pull him closer, and he groans into your mouth like he’s been holding the sound back since the car.
“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” he mutters against your mouth.
“You’re the one who told me to knock,” you say against his mouth.
“I told you that you had a choice.” His teeth catch your lower lip, just hard enough to make your breath break. “You chose my door.”
Your stomach drops, but your fingers only tighten in his shirt. “You’re so smug.”
“I’m correct.” His hand slides down your back, pulling your hips flush against his. “You came to my door, soaked, aching, and angry because I didn’t let you come on my fingers in that car. Don’t pretend this is my ego talking.”
You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Harry smiles against your jaw.
“Exactly,” he murmurs.
He walks you backward until your spine hits the wall beside the door, then his hands close around your thighs.
“Up,” he orders.
Your pulse jumps. “Harry.”
“No hiding behind my name.” His voice is rough now, all the polished control from the gala stripped away. “Do you want this?”
“Yes,” you say, holding his gaze. “I want this.”
“Then hold on,” he says, voice rough and certain.
He lifts you easily, pinning you between his body and the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist, your dress pushed up around your hips, and the hard line of his cock presses against your soaked underwear until you gasp into his mouth.
Harry’s mouth finds your throat, teeth grazing first, then tongue, like he can’t decide whether to kiss you or mark you.
“All night,” he says, mouth hot against your throat. “You stood there in this dress like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me.”
“I was working,” you manage.
“You were teasing me.” His hand grips your ass, pulling you flush against him. “Walking around that room in this dress, letting him look at you, then looking back at me like you wanted to know exactly what I’d do about it.”
“You’re still jealous,” you whisper, your legs tightening around his waist.
“I never said I was done,” he says, mouth dragging back to your throat.
His palm lands hard against your ass, the sting immediate and precise. Your hips jerk helplessly against him.
Harry stills at once. “Good?”
Your next breath shakes. “Yes.”
“Then don’t act surprised when I remind you why you came upstairs.”
He carries you to the bed and throws you onto the mattress hard enough to jolt you. Before you can sit up, he’s already between your thighs, dragging your dress up to your waist.
“Open.”
You hesitate for half a second, and his gaze lifts to yours.
“You knocked on my door after I left you shaking in the back seat,” he says. “Don’t get shy now. You’re brave enough to tell me what you want.”
Your thighs part. Harry looks down, and for the first time all night, the control in his face breaks completely.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
Your face burns. He hooks his fingers into your underwear and drags it down slowly, stripping the wet lace from your skin. His eyes stay fixed between your legs as he tosses it aside.
“You made such a mess,” he murmurs, voice low and almost reverent. “And still had the nerve to walk in here like you were composed.”
“Harry,” you say, but it comes out too soft to be a warning.
“No.” He drops fully to his knees, hands spreading your thighs wider like he has all the time in the world. “I want you to hear it. I want you to know exactly how desperate you were for this.”
His thumbs spread you open, exposing how wet you are, and your whole body goes still beneath his gaze.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, staring at you like he wants to ruin every inch of composure you have left. His mouth curves. “And so fucking needy.”
His tongue drags over your clit once, slow and deliberate, and your back arches off the mattress before you can stop it.
“Fuck—” The word breaks apart in your mouth, your hand flying to his hair before you can stop it.
Harry groans against your pussy, fingers digging into your thighs as he licks through your wetness again, slower this time, before closing his mouth around your clit and sucking until your hips jerk toward him.
Harry pulls back only enough to speak.
“Don’t run from it.” His thumb works your clit in slow, wet circles, keeping you open for him. “You came here for my mouth.”
Your fingers twist in his curls, holding him there like you’re afraid he’ll pull away again. “Please.”
Harry looks up at you, eyes dark beneath messy curls. “Harder.”
You pull harder, and his groan vibrates against your pussy, sending a sharp tremor through your thighs.
“That’s it,” he mutters against your pussy. “Use my mouth properly if you’re going to come on it.”
His tongue circles your clit while two fingers push deep inside you, stretching you open with slow, deliberate pressure. You cry out, and Harry pins your hips down with his forearm.
“No quiet now,” he says against your pussy. “I stopped in the car because I wanted to hear you come on my mouth.”
He curls his fingers deep inside you, hitting something that makes your hand yank hard in his hair.
“I wanted to hear you in my room.” His mouth closes over your clit again. “Not muffled against my jacket. Not biting your lip like you’re ashamed of needing my mouth.”
“I’m close,” you gasp, your thighs shaking around his shoulders.
“I know.” His fingers press deeper inside you. “Your pussy’s already clenching around my fingers.”
The filthy words send you straight to the edge, your body tightening hard around his fingers. Harry feels it, and this time, he doesn’t stop.
“Come on,” he says against your clit, voice rough and wrecked. “Let me have it.”
Your orgasm hits hard, your back arching as his name breaks out of you. Harry keeps his mouth sealed to your clit through it, fingers still moving inside you, dragging the orgasm out until your whole body goes oversensitive and you push weakly at his shoulder.
He finally lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes wrecked.
“There.” He wipes his thumb over his lower lip. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
You’re still trying to catch your breath when he crawls up your body and kisses you. You taste yourself on his tongue, and the realization makes you whimper into his mouth. Harry hears it.
“You like that?” he murmurs against your mouth. “Tasting yourself on my tongue?”
Your face heats. His hand closes around your jaw, not hard, just enough to keep your eyes on his.
“Answer me,” he says softly.
“Yes,” you whisper.
His mouth curves slowly. “Dirty girl.”
You kiss him harder, mostly because you can’t survive the way he’s looking at you.
Harry strips you out of the dress quickly after that, dragging the fabric up and off until you’re bare on his sheets. His shirt follows, then his belt, the metal buckle hitting the floor hard enough to make your stomach tighten.
He pushes his trousers down just enough before pausing with a condom packet between his fingers.
His voice drops. “Still want this?”
“Yes.”
“Look at me and say it clearly,” he says, voice rough but steady.
“I want you to fuck me,” you say, holding his gaze even as your face burns.
“That’s better,” he says.
He rolls the condom on and pulls you to the edge of the bed, hands hooked beneath your knees to spread you open for him. The head of his cock drags through your soaked slit once. Slow. Cruel. Just enough to make you gasp.
Your fingers clutch at the sheets beneath you.
“Harry, please,” you gasp, hips lifting toward him.
“That’s what I wanted.” He pushes inside you barely an inch, slow enough to make you shake. “Not the polite version. Not the careful answer. This.”
He pushes into you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch steals every bit of air from your lungs. Harry watches your face the whole time, careful despite the heat in him, stopping the moment your hands clamp around his forearms.
“Too much?” he asks.
“No.”
“Then breathe for me.”
He pushes deeper until he’s fully inside you, and for half a second, his head drops, his control slipping as the feel of you has ruined him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his forehead dropping toward yours. “You feel unreal.”
He starts slow, fucking into you with deep, heavy thrusts that push you back against the sheets. His rings dig into your thighs as he holds you open, eyes locked on your face like he wants to catch every second of you falling apart.
“You feel that?” he asks, fucking into you slow and deep until your mouth falls open. “That’s what you came here for.”
“You,” you gasp.
His rhythm falters, and the word lands harder than you expect. Harry leans over you, one hand braced beside your head.
“Again,” he says, voice rough.
“You,” you breathe, holding his gaze. “I wanted you.”
His mouth crashes into yours, and the next thrust hits harder. After that, the pace changes — still controlled, but rougher, sharper. He fucks you like the whole night has finally snapped, like every almost-touch, every jealous glance, every second of restraint has burned straight through him.
Your nails scrape down his back.
Harry groans into your mouth. “Careful with those hands.”
“You like it.”
“I like too many things about you,” he says, driving into you again. “It’s becoming inconvenient.”
You almost laugh, but he thrusts deeper, and the sound falls apart into a moan.
Harry pulls out suddenly, and before you can complain, he turns you over and drags your hips up. Your knees press into the mattress, your breath catching as his palm slides over your ass.
“You like testing me?” Harry asks.
You look back at him over your shoulder. “You seem to enjoy failing.”
The smack lands sharp enough to pull a gasp from you. Harry’s hand smooths over the spot immediately after.
“That’s for that smart mouth of yours.”
Your body clenches hard around him as he pushes back inside you from behind, the new angle so deep your arms nearly give out beneath you.
“Oh, my god.”
“Not quite.” Harry grips your hip. “Try my name.”
“Harry.”
“There.” His hand slides into your hair, pulling your head back just enough. “That’s the one.”
He starts moving again, harder this time, every thrust driving you forward into the mattress. The suite fills with the sound of skin, sheets, and your broken breathing. You stop trying to stay quiet because he told you not to. Because he wanted to hear it. Because you want him to.
“That’s it,” he says, voice rough. “Let me hear what I couldn’t hear in the car.”
You moan his name, and his grip tightens on your hip.
“Again.”
“Harry.”
His control starts to thin. You can hear it, feel it, in the uneven drag of his breath against your shoulder as he leans over you.
“Say his name,” he murmurs.
You freeze under him. “What?”
“Moretti.” His mouth brushes your shoulder. “Say it.”
You try. Nothing comes out.
Harry laughs, low and filthy. “That’s what I thought.” His hips snap into you. “Now say mine.”
“Harry.”
“Again.”
“Harry.”
“Better.”
His hand leaves your hair and slides between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with ruthless precision. The first touch makes you jolt beneath him.
“Too sensitive,” you gasp.
“I know.” His voice is rough in your ear. “But you can give me another one.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His fingers circle faster. “You’re just too fucked out to remember how good you are at listening.”
Your body starts to shake. “Please.”
“There it is.” His mouth presses against your shoulder. “Ask me properly.”
“Please make me come.”
Harry groans as the words ruin him. “That’s my girl.”
The orgasm builds fast, brutal, and bright, his cock driving into you from behind while his fingers work your clit and his breath burns hot against your neck.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Give it to me.”
You come with his name breaking apart in your mouth, shaking so hard your arms nearly give out. Harry catches you, pulling you upright against his chest without stopping. One arm locks around your waist, his mouth finding your neck as his thrusts turn slower, deeper, more desperate.
“Mine tonight?” he asks, voice wrecked.
Your body clenches around him, but your chest tightens too, and Harry feels both.
Your body clenches around him, but your chest tightens too, and Harry feels both.
His movements slow at once, the heat between you shifting into something quieter. His arm stays locked around your waist, but his hand stops between your thighs. His mouth is still against your neck, his breathing rough, but he’s no longer lost in it.
He noticed immediately.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. “What happened?”
You close your eyes. “Nothing.”
“No.” The smugness is gone now. The jealousy, too. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Go quiet on me while I’m still holding you.”
He eases out carefully, takes care of the condom, and comes back to sit beside you on the bed. He doesn’t touch you right away, which somehow makes the room feel even more exposed.
You pull the sheet over your chest, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin.
“You said tonight,” you say quietly.
Harry’s brow creases. “What?”
“Mine tonight.” Your voice comes out smaller than you intended. “That’s what you said.”
Understanding settles over his face.
You look away before he can answer. “Forget it.”
“No.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no room in it for escape. “Don’t make it smaller.”
You stare at the sheets. Suddenly, the suite feels too expensive. Too private. Too much like a place someone can leave before morning.
“Is that all this is?” you ask. “Offices and hotel rooms. After midnight. Places where no one can see us?”
Harry says your name softly, and somehow that’s worse than an answer.
You shake your head, still looking at the sheets. “I need to know if I’m only something you want when no one else can see.”
“No,” he says immediately. “Never.”
You look at him, searching his face for the lie.
“No,” he says again, rougher now. “That’s not what you are to me.”
“You don’t have to say what you think I want to hear just because I got emotional.”
“I’m not managing you,” Harry says quietly. “I’m answering you.”
He reaches for your hand slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t.
“I’ve been careful because of work,” he says. “Because I’m your boss. Because I don’t want anyone taking what you earned today and making it look like it happened because of me.”
Your chest aches at that.
“But careful doesn’t mean casual,” he says. “And I don’t only want you when the doors are locked.”
Your throat tightens. “Then what do you want?”
Harry’s thumb brushes over your knuckles. “More than I have any right to ask from you.”
You breathe out slowly, holding his gaze even though it costs you. “Then ask.”
His mouth softens. “Not while you’re naked in my bed wondering whether I mean it.” He kisses your fingers. “Let me take care of you first. Then I’ll ask properly.”
Harry keeps his promise. He doesn’t ask yet. He doesn’t rush you toward an answer you’re still too raw to think through. He only stands, keeps your hand in his, and helps you out of bed with a gentleness that makes your chest hurt worse than the question did.
Your legs feel unsteady. Harry notices at once, and his mouth twitches.
“Don’t,” you warn, catching the twitch of his mouth.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were absolutely about to.”
“I was about to say you’re handling yourself with remarkable grace.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
“Terrible flaw of mine,” he says softly, slipping an arm around your waist. “Come here.”
The bathroom is all pale stone, glass, and soft gold light, too expensive and too beautiful for how exposed you feel. Harry turns on the shower, tests the water with his hand, and guides you under it.
The hot water hits your skin, and your eyes close on a shaky breath. For a minute, neither of you says anything.
Harry stands behind you, one hand at your waist, the other smoothing water over your shoulder. Not grabbing, not teasing, just touching you gently, like he’s reminding both of you that he can be careful too.
“Too hot?” he asks, hand steady at your waist.
“No.”
“Good,” he murmurs, smoothing water over your shoulder.
His hands move slowly, washing you with a focus that makes your throat tighten. He cleans between your thighs without turning it into something filthy, kisses your shoulder when your body tenses, and checks every place his hands have been rough.
“Here?” he asks, thumb brushing the skin at your hip.
“It’s fine.”
“That wasn’t the question,” he says gently. “Does it hurt?”
You glance back at him. His expression is serious.
“No,” you say softly. “It doesn’t hurt.”
His hand moves lower, brushing over the place where he spanked you, gentler now. “And here?”
Your face warms. “Also fine.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Are you sure?”
“Harry.”
“There’s that tone.” He kisses your shoulder again. “I missed it for almost five minutes.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and his arm tightens around your waist like the sound means something to him.
“There you are,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder.
The water runs over both of you, softening the night into something quieter. He washes your back, your shoulders, the damp hairline at your neck. When he turns you around, it’s careful and wordless, giving you room to do the same for him.
It feels strange to touch him like this after everything. Not sexual. Not exactly. Somehow more intimate.
You wash over the marks your nails left on his back, and he hisses softly when your fingers brush one.
You freeze. “Did I hurt you?”
Harry glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “You’re asking me that after what you did to my back?”
Your face burns. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” His mouth curves. “I liked it.”
“Of course you did.”
“Loved it, actually.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re blushing in my shower, which feels unfairly rewarding.”
You roll your eyes, though you’re smiling when he turns back around.
After the shower, Harry wraps you in one of the hotel towels and dries you off himself, slow and careful enough that you forget to argue. He gives you one of his shirts, then pulls on black trousers and leaves his chest bare, like he’s personally committed to making your life difficult.
You sit on the edge of the bed while Harry gets you a glass of water.
“Drink,” he says.
“Still bossy.”
“Yes.”
You take the glass from him. “Still my boss.”
Harry goes quiet. Not wounded, exactly. Just aware. You regret it immediately, but he sits beside you instead of pulling away.
“For now,” he says.
You look at him.
“That’s one of the things we need to talk about,” he says. “Not tonight. Not after all of this. But soon.”
Your fingers tighten around the glass. Harry notices, takes it from you gently, and sets it on the nightstand.
“I meant what I said,” he continues. “I don’t want this to cost you anything. Not your work. Not your reputation. Not your choices.”
You nod, slowly.
“But I meant the other part too.” His gaze holds yours, steady and unflinching. “I don’t only want you when no one can see.”
Your heart starts beating harder as Harry shifts closer, one hand resting on the mattress between you, not touching yet.
“So I’m asking properly now.” Your breath stills. His mouth softens, and for once, there’s no smugness there. “Have dinner with me.”
You blink at him. “We had dinner with investors tonight.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not a work dinner. No room service. Not a table where I have to introduce you as anything except the woman I wanted beside me.”
Your chest aches. “Harry.”
“I want to take you somewhere tomorrow night,” he says. “Properly. Somewhere I can sit across from you and not pretend I’m thinking about projections.”
A shaky laugh slips out of you. “Careful, Mr. Styles. That almost sounded romantic.”
He smiles faintly, but his voice stays serious. “No locked office. No hotel hallway. No pretending I only want you after midnight.” His thumb moves over your knuckles. “A real dinner.”
You swallow. “Is that an order?”
His face softens, remembering. “A request.”
You look down at his hand covering yours, then back at him.
“Yes.”
Harry’s smile comes slowly, like he’s trying not to look relieved and failing badly.
“Yes?”
“Yes,” you say again. “Dinner.”
He lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath before his mouth curves.
“Good.”
“There he is.”
Harry’s brows lift. “What?”
“You were sincere for almost a full minute. I was getting worried.”
Harry laughs, low and warm, and draws you into his chest.
“I’ll recover.”
“I hope not too quickly.”
He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
Outside, Milan glows beyond the windows, rain slipping down the glass in thin silver lines. Inside, Harry’s hand moves slowly over your back, steady and warm beneath his borrowed shirt.
It’s still complicated. Still dangerous. Still something you’ll have to be careful with. But when Harry’s mouth brushes your temple, and he asks what time he should pick you up tomorrow, it no longer feels like something meant to vanish before morning.
It feels like the first honest thing between you that neither of you tries to hide.
Summary: [Y/N] has spent eighteen months pretending she doesn’t want Harry. One late night in his office, with the city glittering below, pretending isn’t an option anymore.
You know you should've left the office hours ago, but you don't move, standing there as you watch Harry like you haven't been trying not to all night. The executive floor is empty now. The conference rooms are dark, the assistant desks are abandoned, and the marble hallway outside Harry's office is quiet beneath the soft lights. It's long past midnight, and the city glitters far beneath Harry's office, rain sliding down the windows and turning everything outside into soft streaks of gold and white. You should be home by now, showered and curled up in bed, pretending you aren't thinking about the man sitting behind the desk in front of you. Instead, you're standing across from him with your tablet pressed to your chest, watching him read through a contract you've already summarized three times.
Harry knows you're watching him. Of course he does. He always knows, even when he's looking down, even when he seems focused on work, even when he's acting like his usual terrifyingly calm self. His suit jacket is off, his waistcoat is still buttoned, and his tie is loose around his neck, making him look less like your boss and more like the kind of mistake you'd make twice. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off the tattoos on his forearms, and every time he turns a page, his rings catch the warm light from the lamp. His curls are messier than they were this morning, probably from how many times he's dragged his fingers through them during the evening, and you hate how badly you want to do the same.
"You're staring," Harry says, not even looking up from the contract.
Your cheeks warm instantly, but you refuse to let him see how flustered you are. "I'm waiting," you say, shifting slightly in your heels. "There's a difference."
His mouth lifts at one corner, barely enough to be called a smile. "Waiting for what?"
"For you to admit you don't actually need me here."
Harry finally looks up, and the whole room seems to change with it. His gaze settles on you slowly, moving from your face to the open collar of your blouse, then down to your skirt before coming back to your eyes. He leans back in his chair like he owns every second of the night and has no plans to give any of them back to you. "Maybe I don't need you here," he says, his voice low and smooth. "Maybe I just wanted you here."
You laugh once, but it comes out softer than you mean it to. "That's not a business reason."
"No," Harry agrees, setting the contract down on the desk. "It isn't."
The honesty of it should make you nervous. It does make you nervous, just not nervous enough to leave. You glance toward the office doors like you're reminding yourself you could still leave, but both of you know you won't. This has been building for months, through late meetings, quiet car rides, and hotel bars, in the way his hand sometimes brushes your lower back when he passes behind you, and in the way his eyes linger when he thinks you're not paying attention. You've told yourself a hundred times that tension isn't permission, that wanting someone doesn't mean you get to have them, and that Harry is your boss, which should be reason enough to stay away. Unfortunately, none of that changes the way your body reacts when he stands.
He walks around the desk without rushing, because Harry never rushes when he already knows he has control. The soft sound of his shoes against the floor feels too loud in the quiet office, and your fingers tighten around the tablet when he stops in front of you. He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne, warm and expensive beneath the sharper scent of whiskey and a long night. You look up at him, refusing to step back even though the desk is behind you and Harry is right in front of you.
"You've been distracted all evening," he says.
"I've been working."
"You've been pretending to work."
Your eyebrows lift. "I finished everything you asked for."
"I know." His gaze drops to your mouth for a second, and his voice gets lower. "You always do."
The praise is simple, almost professional, but it still makes your stomach twist. You hate how much you like pleasing him, especially when you spend so much of the day pretending he doesn't affect you. Harry reaches up, his fingers brushing your chin so lightly it almost doesn't feel like touching, but your breath catches anyway. His eyes flicker at the sound, and the faintest bit of satisfaction curves his mouth.
"There it is," he murmurs.
You swallow. "There, what is?"
"That little breath." His thumb slides along your jaw slowly enough for you to feel every inch of it. "You make it when you're trying not to want something."
"I don't want anything," you lie.
Harry smiles properly then, looking unfairly beautiful for someone who seems to know exactly how this is going to end. "No?"
"No."
His hand moves from your jaw to the side of your neck, warm and careful, not holding you there, just resting against your skin. "Then tell me to stop touching you."
You stare at him, your heart beating too fast. The office feels warmer than it did a moment ago, or maybe it's just Harry standing so close. You could tell him to stop. You know that, and more importantly, you believe he would listen. Harry may be arrogant, controlling, and impossible, but he isn't careless with you. Not when it matters. The realization makes something inside you soften in a way you don't want to think about.
"I don't want you to stop," you whisper.
His jaw tightens, the only sign that your words affect him, too. "Say it again."
You should hate that he asks. You should roll your eyes, make some joke, and put distance between you before this becomes something neither of you can ignore tomorrow morning. Instead, you lift your chin and meet his eyes, even though your face feels hot. "I don't want you to stop."
Harry takes the tablet from your hands and sets it on the desk behind you, never looking away. The movement is calm, almost polite, which only makes the way he kisses you a second later feel more intense. His mouth is warm and firm against yours, not gentle at all, while one hand slides into your hair and the other grips your waist to pull you closer. You make a small sound before you can stop yourself, and Harry swallows it, kissing you harder like he's been waiting months to hear it.
Your hands find his waistcoat because you need something to hold onto as he backs you against the desk. The edge of the desk presses into your thighs, cold even through your skirt, while Harry's body is warm against yours. He kisses you with the same focus he brings to everything else, confident enough to make you forget you were ever trying to stay in control. When his teeth catch your lower lip, a soft moan slips out before you can stop it, and Harry pulls back just enough to look at you.
"Sweetheart," he says, sounding almost amused. "You're already making noise."
Your face burns. "You're already insufferable."
"I haven't even started."
The words roll through you like heat, and Harry feels you shift toward him. His hand tightens on your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that he notices everything. His mouth moves from your jaw to your neck, kissing the skin just beneath your ear as his fingers find the top button of your blouse. He pauses there, and somehow the pause makes you ache more than if he'd kept going.
"Can I?" he asks.
You nod, but Harry doesn't move.
"Words," he says softly.
"Yes," you whisper. "You can."
Harry undoes the first button slowly, then the second, taking his time in a way that feels almost cruel. He watches your face more than your body, noticing every swallow, every uneven breath, and every tiny shift of your hips against the desk. By the time he reaches the third button, you're gripping the edge of the desk with one hand and his arm with the other, your fingers pressed against the tattoos you've spent too many meetings pretending not to look at. When the silk parts enough to show the black lace underneath, Harry goes very still.
You glance away, suddenly embarrassed by how intensely he's staring. "Don't."
His fingers slip beneath the open edge of your blouse, brushing the bare skin just below your ribs. "Don't what?"
"Look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you've never seen lingerie before."
Harry's mouth curves, but his eyes stay dark. "I've seen lingerie," Harry says. "I haven't seen yours."
The way he says it makes your thighs press together before you can stop them. His gaze drops, catching the movement, and you immediately regret giving him something else to be smug about. He leans closer, his mouth brushing your ear while his hand settles on your hip. "You wore this under my nose all day?"
"I wear nice things for myself," you say, though your voice doesn't sound as sure as you want it to.
"Mm." His thumb brushes over the lace at your waist. "Of course you do."
"You don't believe me."
"I believe you like pretending I'm not part of the reason."
You open your mouth to argue, but Harry's lips return to your neck before you can get the words out. His mouth is slower now, softer than the first kiss but somehow more dangerous, like he has all night to figure out exactly what makes you weak. His hands push your blouse from your shoulders, and you let it fall down your arms because modesty feels pointless when he's looking at you like that. You're sitting on the edge of his desk in your skirt and lace bra, the city glittering behind him, and Harry looks at you like you're the only thing worth seeing.
"You're beautiful," he says.
Your chest tightens. You don't know what to do with that when it sounds so honest, so you look down and smooth your hand over his waistcoat. "That sounds like something you say when you want something."
"I do want something," he says, his hand sliding up your thigh. "But that doesn't make it less true."
His fingers stop just beneath the hem of your skirt, and your breath goes shallow. He's still watching your face, still waiting for some sign that you want this too, even though your body has already made it embarrassingly obvious. You shift closer to the edge of the desk, and Harry's eyes flicker with approval.
"There you are," he murmurs.
You frown, mostly because it's easier than letting him see how needy you feel. "Don't talk to me like you've been waiting for me to behave."
"I have been waiting." His hand moves higher, pushing your skirt up inch by inch. "But I never expected you to behave."
That shouldn't make you warmer, but it does. Harry's fingers trace the inside of your thigh, not touching where you need him yet, just close enough to make your stomach tighten. You force yourself to stay still, even though every part of you wants to move toward his hand. He notices the effort and smiles, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against your skin.
"Tell me what you want," he says.
"You know what I want."
"I do." His thumb moves closer. "I want to hear you say it."
You let out a breath that sounds too much like a whine. "Harry."
"That's not an answer."
Your cheeks burn hotter, and you hate how easily he makes you shy. You can handle investors, emergency calls, ruined schedules, and Harry in one of his ruthless moods, but asking him to touch you makes you feel like you're coming apart before he's even done anything. His fingers brush the edge of your underwear through your skirt, and your hips move before you can stop them.
Harry's smile deepens. "Needy."
"I'm not."
"No?" His hand slides over the lace between your thighs, barely pressing. "Then why are you so wet?"
Your eyes squeeze shut. "Don't say it like that."
"Like what?" His fingers press more firmly, dragging over you through the soaked lace. "Like it's true?"
You grip his wrist, not to pull him away, but because you need something to hold onto. "You're awful."
"And you're dripping for me on my desk."
A broken sound leaves you. Harry's expression shifts, his amusement turning into something hungrier when he feels the way you react. He leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth with surprising gentleness, his fingers still teasing you through the lace. "Ask me properly," he murmurs.
You shake your head, embarrassed and aching. "Please."
"Please, what?"
"Touch me."
"I am touching you."
You glare at him, but it's ruined by the way your hips roll toward his hand. "Properly."
Harry hums, pleased. "Where?"
"Between my legs."
His fingers slip beneath the lace immediately, and you gasp when he finally touches you skin to skin. He moves slowly at first, sliding through your wetness with controlled pressure that makes your whole body tense. His other hand settles on your waist, holding you steady when your thighs start to tremble around him. The office feels too quiet, with the sound of your breathing, his fingers moving against you, and the faint rain against the windows.
"Look at you," he says softly. "You were sitting across from me in meetings like this?"
"No," you breathe, though you're not sure it's true.
Harry circles your clit with two fingers, slow enough to make you frustrated. "No?"
You bite your lip, refusing to give in that easily. He watches you struggle for a few seconds, then slows even more, and panic rushes through you so fast you forget to be proud. "Harry, please."
"There it is." His mouth brushes your cheek. "What was it? The office? The desk? My hands?"
You hate how warm your face gets, but you're too far gone to lie properly. "Your hands."
His fingers press a little harder, and pleasure sparks through your stomach. "What about them?"
"The rings," you whisper, your voice unsteady. "Your tattoos. The way you look when you're signing things and not paying attention to anyone."
Harry laughs quietly against your skin. "I pay attention to you."
You moan when he slides one finger inside you, slow and deep. His forehead nearly touches yours, and for a moment, he looks less arrogant and more affected. "Fuck, love," he says under his breath. "You're so tight," he breathes.
Your body clenches around his finger, and Harry's eyes darken.
"Oh," he murmurs. "You like when I tell you?"
You nod, too overwhelmed to pretend otherwise.
Harry adds a second finger carefully, watching your face as he stretches you. The fullness makes your mouth fall open, and Harry kisses you immediately, swallowing the sound before it gets too loud. His fingers move with patient precision, curling inside you while his thumb finds your clit again, every controlled stroke making it harder to remember where you are. This is Harry's desk, his office, his whole empire beneath your shaking hands, and you're half-undressed in front of him while he touches you like he's thought about it too many times to stay gentle.
"You need to stay quiet for me," he says against your mouth.
The words make you clench again.
Harry notices and smiles. "Of course you like that."
"I don't," you whisper, even though your body proves otherwise.
"Liar." His fingers curl again, hitting a spot that makes your whole body go loose. "You like being told what to do when you're this needy."
Your hands clutch at his shoulders, wrinkling his shirt and waistcoat, and Harry doesn't seem to mind at all. If anything, he looks satisfied by the mess you're making of him. His thumb circles faster, and the pleasure starts building too quickly, hot and tight and impossible to stop. You turn your face into his neck, trying to muffle yourself against him, and Harry lets you, his mouth pressing to your temple while his hand keeps moving between your thighs.
"That's it," he says, his voice low and warm. "You're doing so well."
The praise is what finally ruins you. Your orgasm hits hard, rolling through you in sharp waves that make your thighs close around his wrist and your fingers dig into his shoulders. Harry holds you steady, murmuring against your skin while he works you through it, only slowing when your body starts to tremble from too much. When he finally slips his fingers out, the emptiness makes you whimper before you can stop yourself.
Harry stills.
Then his smile turns wicked. "Already missing me?"
You hide your face against his shoulder. "Don't."
He lifts his hand between you, his fingers wet and shining under the warm light. Your breath catches as he brings them to his mouth, tasting you without taking his eyes off yours. The sight sends heat through you all over again, and Harry's gaze sharpens because he sees exactly what it does to you.
"You're going to kill me," he says, almost to himself.
You glance down before you can stop yourself. He's hard against the front of his trousers, straining beneath the expensive fabric, and knowing you made him that way sends confidence rushing through you. Harry follows your gaze, and when you look back up, his expression has gone still enough to make your stomach flip.
"Careful," he says.
You swallow. "What if I don't want to be careful?"
His hand returns to your hair, fingers sliding in gently before tightening just enough to make your breath catch. "Then tell me exactly what you want."
You hate him for making you say it. You want to thank him for it, too, because the way he waits and makes you choose it out loud only makes the wanting worse. "I want you inside me," you whisper.
Harry's eyes close for half a second, and when they open again, he looks less controlled than before. "Turn around."
The command rushes through you. He helps you off the desk, his hands steady at your waist when your legs almost wobble, then turns you carefully until your palms press flat against the glass. The glass is cold beneath your hands, and your reflection shimmers faintly in the dark window beyond his desk. You can see yourself with your blouse gone, your hair already messy, and your skirt pushed higher than it should be. Behind you, Harry stands close, his body warm against your back, his hands moving over your hips in a way that makes your knees feel weak.
"You're shaking," he says.
"You keep making me."
His laugh is soft against the back of your neck. "I know."
The sound of his belt opening makes your fingers curl against the desk. He takes his time with that, too, but not because he isn't affected. You can feel the tension in him now, the impatience beneath every controlled movement. His hand smooths over your lower back, then down over the curve of your ass as he pushes your skirt all the way up around your hips. When he pulls the lace aside and settles behind you, you stop breathing.
Harry leans over you, his mouth by your ear. "Still want this?"
"Yes."
"Color?"
"Green."
His lips press softly to your shoulder. "Good girl."
He pushes into you slowly, and every thought leaves your head. The stretch is intense, filling you inch by inch until your arms almost give out beneath you. Harry catches your waist with one arm, holding you up as he keeps pressing deeper, his breath uneven against your skin. He feels warm and thick and overwhelming, and when he finally settles fully inside you, both of you go still.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel perfect."
Your eyes flutter shut, and your forehead dips toward the glass. He doesn't move yet. He holds you there, letting you adjust, his palm spread over your stomach and his chest pressed to your back. It feels too intimate for something this filthy, too careful for the way he has you bent over his desk in the middle of the night. You push your hips back slightly, needing him to move, and Harry's grip tightens.
"Impatient," he murmurs.
"You made me wait eighteen months."
That breaks something in him. He pulls back and thrusts into you, hard enough that a gasp tears from your throat before you can swallow it. Harry's hand comes to your mouth immediately, gentle but firm, covering the sound as his lips brush your ear. "Quiet, darling, unless you want the whole building knowing what we're doing up here."
You clench around him, and his rhythm falters.
"Oh, you filthy thing," Harry breathes. "You like that."
You shake your head against his hand, but it's useless. He knows. Your body tells him everything before your mouth can lie. He starts moving properly, each thrust deep and controlled, his hips meeting yours with enough force to make the desk shift beneath your palms. The city lights blur in the window as your reflection moves with his, and seeing Harry behind you with one hand over your mouth and the other gripping your hip sends pleasure twisting through your stomach.
It feels so good, it makes you want to cry, not softly or delicately, but in a desperate way that has your body trying to take more of him with every thrust. Harry curses under his breath when you push back against him, his hand leaving your mouth to grip your waist instead. "That's it," he says, his voice rougher now. "Take me just like that."
You try to answer, but all that comes out is his name.
Harry's mouth finds your neck. "Again."
"Harry."
His hips snap harder into yours. "Again."
You say it because he asks. Because he sounds like he needs it, and because his cock is hitting something inside you that makes every bit of pride useless. "Harry, please."
He groans, low and almost broken. "You're so good when you beg."
"I'm not begging."
"No?" His hand slides between your legs, finding your clit again with cruel accuracy. "Then what's this?"
The first circle of his fingers makes your knees buckle. Harry holds you up easily, his arm tight around your waist while his other hand moves between your thighs. The pressure is too much after your first orgasm, and still, you rock into it because you can't help yourself. Your body is already tightening around him, pleasure building again faster than you're ready for.
"I can't," you gasp.
"You can," he says, his voice low and steady. "You will."
Your fingers slip against the glass, and Harry presses a kiss behind your ear, softer than the words he's saying. The contrast makes your head spin. He fucks you hard, talks to you softly, holds you as if you belong to him, and still checks just enough to remind you that you're choosing this, too. When his fingers circle faster, your whole body starts to shake.
"You're close," he says. You nod helplessly. "Tell me."
Your face burns even now, even with him deep inside you. "I'm close."
"Good." His mouth brushes your jaw. "Come for me on my desk."
The words undo you completely. Your orgasm tears through you, hot and blinding, your body clenching around him so tightly that Harry curses and goes still for a second. You press your mouth to your arm to stay quiet, trembling through it while his hand keeps moving until you're whining from how sensitive you are. Only then does he pull his fingers away and wrap both arms around you, thrusting into you with shorter, rougher movements.
"That's my girl," he says, his voice wrecked. "My perfect girl."
You don't know if it's the words or the way he says them, but something in your chest tightens along with the pleasure. Harry loses his rhythm behind you, his breathing rough against your neck, his body tense from how hard he's trying to hold back. You push your hips back again, wanting him to stop being so controlled, wanting to see what happens when he finally lets go.
"Inside," you whisper.
Harry stills immediately. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
His hand slides up to your jaw, turning your face enough for him to see you. "Say it again."
You meet his eyes over your shoulder. "Come inside me."
The sound he makes is almost painful. He thrusts deep once, then again, before burying himself fully and coming with a low, broken groan against your shoulder. His fingers press into your waist as warmth fills you, his whole body shuddering behind yours. For a long moment, neither of you moves. There is only your breathing, the rain, and the knowledge that you've crossed a line neither of you can uncross.
Harry kisses the back of your shoulder, once and then again, softer each time.
"You okay?" he asks.
You laugh weakly, your cheek still close to the glass. "That's a very polite question from a man who just bent me over his desk."
Harry laughs softly against your back, his hands still steady at your waist. "I'm allowed to check on you."
You let out a weak laugh, still trying to catch your breath. "I didn't say you weren't."
"There she is."
He pulls out slowly, and the feeling of him slipping from you makes your face heat all over again. Harry is careful as he helps you straighten, one hand steady at your waist while the other reaches for the tissues on his desk. You clean up as best you can with shaking hands, trying to gather whatever dignity you have left while Harry watches you with open satisfaction.
"Stop looking at me like that," you say.
"Like what?"
"Like you're proud of yourself."
"I am proud of myself."
"You're unbearable."
"And yet." His gaze moves down your body, taking in your wrinkled blouse, your flushed skin, and your skirt still sitting too high on your thighs. "You're still here."
You should leave now. That's the reasonable thing to do. You should put your blouse back on, fix your hair in the bathroom, and go home before this gets even more complicated than it already is. Instead, your eyes drift down again, and Harry notices before you can pretend you weren't looking.
He's still getting hard again.
Your breath catches.
Harry's expression changes instantly. "Don't look at me like that unless you mean it."
You look back up at him through your lashes. "What if I mean it?"
His hand flexes at his side. For the first time all night, he looks genuinely thrown, like he didn't expect you to push back. The confidence it gives you is warm and reckless. You step closer, then slowly sink to your knees on the rug behind his desk, watching Harry's jaw tighten as he looks down at you.
"[Y/N]."
Your name sounds like a warning, but not one that tells you to stop.
You rest your hands on his thighs, feeling the tension there. "You told me to be specific."
Harry's eyes darken, and his hand slides into your hair, gentle at first as he gathers it away from your face. "Open your mouth, love."
You obey, opening your mouth as Harry's fingers stay gentle in your hair.
The first taste of him makes Harry's breath catch sharply. He guides himself between your lips carefully, almost like it costs him effort to stay gentle, his fingers tightening in your hair when your tongue slides over him. You take him slowly, cleaning him with your mouth and tasting him, warm and salty, still mixed with the evidence of what you just did together. Harry's head tips back for a second before he forces himself to look down again, and seeing him try to stay composed while your mouth is on him makes your thighs press together.
He sees that too. Of course he does.
"You like this," he says, his voice rough.
You hum around him, and his hips jerk slightly.
"Fuck." His hand tightens in your hair, guiding you a little more firmly. "You're going to make me lose my mind."
That only makes you want to try harder. You take him deeper, moving slowly enough to feel his composure thinning with every pass of your mouth. The office feels hotter now, smaller, the city outside forgotten behind the sound of Harry's breathing and your mouth moving over him. Harry praises you under his breath, filthy and tender at the same time, his thumb stroking your cheek while his words make you ache between your legs again.
"So good," he murmurs. "Look at you."
You glance up at him, and whatever he sees on your face makes him pull you away gently. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his expression dark but almost soft, like he's trying to keep some part of himself gentle with you. "Come here," he murmurs, guiding you toward the couch.
The words go through you softly.
Harry helps you stand, kissing you the second you're on your feet. He doesn't seem to care that you taste like him. If anything, the kiss becomes hotter and messier, his hands gripping your waist as he walks you backward toward the black leather couch near the windows. He sits first and pulls you onto his lap, your knees settling on either side of his hips. Your skirt is still bunched up, your blouse hanging open, and the lace between your thighs is still pushed aside as his hands move over you with less control than before.
He looks beautiful beneath you. His curls are a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and his mouth is swollen from kissing you. His eyes move over your face, and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. The quiet makes you nervous in a different way.
"What?" you ask.
Harry's hands move slowly up your thighs. "I'm deciding whether I should tell you what I'm thinking."
"You usually do."
"Not this."
Your stomach dips. "Tell me."
His gaze lifts to yours. "I'm thinking I don't want this to be the only time."
The words hit harder than any touch he's given you tonight. You look away, but Harry gently catches your chin and brings your eyes back to his. He doesn't look smug now. He looks serious, and that feels far more dangerous.
"We can talk tomorrow," Harry says. "Properly. About work, boundaries, whatever you need. If tonight was just tonight, I'll respect that."
"And if it isn't?"
His thumbs stroke your hips. "Then I take you to dinner somewhere private and try very hard not to touch you under the table."
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and the tension loosens just enough for Harry to smile. The warmth only lasts a second before Harry's hands guide your hips down, rubbing you against him. Your breath catches, and his expression shifts back into something darker.
"But right now," he says, "I want to watch you."
You rise slightly as he positions himself beneath you, and when you sink onto him again, the angle makes both of you moan. This time is different, slower at first and more intimate because you're facing him, because his eyes stay on yours as you take him inch by inch. His hands stay at your waist, gripping hard enough to guide you but not enough to take over, and for a few moments, he lets you set the pace.
You roll your hips carefully, still sensitive and aching, and Harry's head falls back against the couch. The sight makes your confidence flare. You do it again, deeper this time, watching Harry's jaw tighten as his fingers dig into your hips.
"You like that?" you ask, breathless.
His eyes open. "Don't get smug."
"You're always smug."
"That's different."
You laugh, and Harry thrusts up into you hard enough to turn it into a gasp. His mouth curves as he does it again, finding the angle that makes your hands fly to his shoulders. "There," he says. "That's what you needed."
You try to glare at him, but it's impossible when he feels like this. You ride him slowly at first, then faster, your hands braced on his shoulders while his move over your body. He touches your waist, your back, and your breasts through the lace, then reaches behind you and unclasps your bra with annoying ease.
You look down at him. "That was too quick."
"I'm talented."
"You're annoying," you say, even though your voice is too breathless to make it convincing.
Harry's mouth curves. "I'm about to make you come again."
"That doesn't make you less annoying."
Harry smiles, then lowers his mouth to your breast, and your next complaint turns into a moan. He licks and sucks at your nipple while his hands guide your hips, helping you move when your thighs start to tremble. The pleasure is slower this time, deeper, building in a way that feels almost unbearable because you're already so sensitive. Your body keeps trying to pull away from how intense it feels, but Harry holds you close, kissing your chest, your throat, and your jaw.
"One more," he murmurs. "You can give me one more."
You shake your head, though your hips keep moving. "I can't."
"You can." His voice is softer now, coaxing. "You're doing so well."
That praise again. It gets under your skin and finds the part of you that wants to be good for him, wanted by him, the reason his control keeps slipping. You move faster, chasing the pleasure even as it overwhelms you, and Harry starts meeting you from below. Each thrust pushes him deeper, stealing your breath and making the city behind him blur through your tears.
"Harry," you gasp.
"I know, baby." His hand slips between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. "Come with me."
You break apart against him, your orgasm rolling through you in heavy waves that make you collapse against his chest. Harry follows with a rough groan, holding himself deep while his arms lock around your waist. His face presses into your neck, and for once, he sounds just as ruined as you feel.
Afterward, you stay folded against him, both of you breathing hard. His hands move slowly over your back, calming you while the rain keeps sliding down the windows. The office smells like sex, his cologne, and the faint sharpness of whiskey. It should feel awkward now that the heat is starting to fade, but it doesn't. It feels quiet, intimate, almost safe.
Eventually, you lift your head. "That was an extremely irresponsible use of company time."
Harry laughs, low and warm. "I'll mark it as staff development."
"You absolutely will not," you say, trying to sound firm even though your mouth wants to smile.
Harry's mouth curves, his hands still warm at your waist. "Team morale, then?"
"You're disgusting."
"Productivity research?"
You press your hand over his mouth before he can continue, and his eyes smile above your fingers. Then he kisses your palm, and the softness of it makes your chest ache again. You pull your hand away, suddenly unsure what to do with all the tenderness that keeps appearing between the filthy things.
Harry notices, because he notices everything. "Tomorrow," he says quietly. "We talk."
You nod. "Tomorrow."
"And tonight?"
You look at him, at his messy curls and swollen lips, and the man who has just made your life far more complicated. "Tonight, you're buying me a new blouse."
Harry's mouth curves. "Obscenely expensive?"
"Obviously."
His hands squeeze your waist. "Done."
You slide carefully off his lap, wincing slightly, and Harry immediately steadies you with one hand. The smugness returns to his face before he can hide it.
"Don't," you warn.
"I haven't said anything," Harry says, though his face makes it obvious.
"You're thinking it."
"I'm thinking several things."
"Keep them to yourself."
Harry stands and helps you fix your clothes, though it takes longer than it should because he keeps touching you like he hasn't had enough. By the time you're dressed, your blouse is wrinkled, your hair is hopeless, and your lipstick is mostly gone. Harry looks only slightly better, which feels deeply unfair.
You collect your tablet from the desk and head toward the office doors before you can lose your nerve. Harry follows you to the elevator, one hand in his pocket, his tie undone, and his gaze still heavy on you. When the doors open, you step inside and turn around.
"Goodnight, Harry."
His eyes darken at your voice. "Text me when you get home."
You lift an eyebrow. "Is that an order?"
His mouth softens. "A request."
That makes you smile despite yourself. "Goodnight, boss."
The elevator doors begin to close, and the last thing you see is Harry standing in the warm light of the executive floor, his suit ruined, his hair messy, and that slow smile on his face like he's already thinking about next time.
Your phone buzzes before you even reach the lobby.
Harry: Tuesdays and Thursdays?
You stare at the message, then laugh under your breath.
You: For staff development?
His reply comes immediately.
Harry: Obviously.
You shake your head, cheeks warm, your body still aching in ways that will make tomorrow morning interesting. The elevator slides down through Pleasing, carrying you back toward the rain-soaked city while Harry's office light still burns above you.
Another message appears.
Harry: You were perfect tonight.
Your smile softens.
For a moment, you only stare at the words. Then you type back.
You: You're still buying me a new blouse, though.
His response comes so quickly, you can practically hear his voice.
You survive the sushi, the shower, and Camille’s interrogation, but it’s the dark quiet of his bedroom and his hand over yours that you’re not sure you’ll recover from.
word count: 5.9k
Previous parts
a/n: this is mostly just a space holder part for what will happen next crazy 🤪
The thing about Harry Styles, you are learning, is that he says things like that and then just stands there looking completely unbothered while you try to remember how your lungs work.
“I’ll show you the magic later.”
You hold his gaze for exactly one beat longer than is comfortable and then look away first, which you suspect he clocks immediately.
“Okay,” you say, to the room more than to him.
“Okay,” he agrees, and you can hear the smile in it without looking.
He grabs your bag from where he set it and carries it toward the stairs, easy, like it’s nothing, and you follow him through the house properly for the first time. It’s even better in the warm light of early evening. The records. The books. The couch that looks genuinely lived on. You trail your fingers along the back of it as you pass and think about how strange and right it feels to be here.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning back to look at you from the bottom of the stairs.
“A little, yeah.”
He nods slowly, thinking. “There’s a sushi place. About ten minutes from here. Best I’ve had outside of Japan.” He pauses. “We could go, if you haven’t eaten properly.”
You make a face before you can stop yourself. “I’ve actually never had sushi.”
The look on his face is immediate and theatrical. He sets your bag down at the foot of the stairs and turns to face you fully, hand pressed flat to his chest.
“Never.”
“Never.”
“Not once.”
“That’s generally what never means, yes.”
He shakes his head slowly, like you’ve said something genuinely devastating. “I flew you out here and you’ve never had sushi.”
“Those two things aren’t related.”
“They’re very related.” He picks your bag back up, starts up the stairs. “We’re going. Get your jacket.”
They’re a few minutes into the drive when he reaches over and changes the song without looking at the road, completely comfortable in the way people only are in their own city, and you watch him for a second from the passenger seat and think about how different he is here.
Not different like a stranger. Different like a fuller version. In New York he was present and easy but there was something slightly careful about it, like a person aware they are somewhere that isn’t theirs. Here he has both hands loose on the wheel of the Range Rover and the window cracked an inch and he knows exactly where he’s going without thinking about it.
“You’re going to love it,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
“Just trust me.”
You look out the window at the city moving past, the wide streets and the palm trees and the particular golden quality of the light here even as it fades. It doesn’t look real. It looks like a backdrop.
He parks on a quiet side street and comes around to your side before you’ve fully gotten the door open. Not in a performative way. Just in the way of someone who was raised right and doesn’t make a production of it.
The restaurant is small and warm inside, the kind of place with no sign out front and maybe twelve tables. There’s a sushi bar along one wall and the whole room smells like something good. A host leads you to a table near the window and Harry puts his hand briefly at the small of your back as you follow and the warmth of it moves all the way up your spine.
He pulls your chair out. You sit. The menus are already on the table but he doesn’t open his.
“Do you know what you want?” you ask, opening yours.
“Always get the same thing.” He leans back in his chair, relaxed. “But we should get a few things for you to try. Start simple.”
You look down at the menu. It’s not as overwhelming as you expected but you also have no real frame of reference for any of it. You know the words. Salmon. Tuna. Yellowtail. You just don’t know what they mean yet in practice.
“Just order for me,” you say, closing it.
He looks at you for a second like he wasn’t expecting that. Then something in his face settles and he takes the menu from you and sets it on top of his.
“Okay.”
The waiter comes and Harry orders without hesitating, a handful of things you don’t catch all of, and then asks you if you’re allergic to anything and when you say no he adds one more thing to the order.
When the waiter leaves you lean your elbows on the table and look at him.
“So how did you find this place.”
“Friend brought me.” He picks up his water. “First month I lived here. I didn’t know anyone yet really and he took me around the city for a whole day, just eating. This was the last stop.” He sets the glass down. “Been coming back ever since.”
“That’s a nice memory.”
“It is,” he agrees, simply, without dressing it up.
The food starts arriving in small plates and he watches your face as you try the first piece, which you appreciate and also find slightly nerve wracking.
It’s good. Really good. Nothing like you expected, which you’re realizing is the theme of this entire trip.
“Well?” he says.
You reach for another piece instead of answering and he smiles and looks away.
The first piece sits on your tongue for a moment and you’re not entirely sure what to do with the information. It’s good. You think it’s good. But it’s also so different from anything you’ve eaten before that your brain is still catching up to your mouth, still trying to file it under something familiar and coming up empty. The texture is softer than you expected. The rice is warmer. There’s a clean, faint saltiness to it that you didn’t anticipate and underneath that something else you can’t name.
You chew slowly. Swallow. Sit with it.
Harry is watching you from across the table with the particular patience of someone who already knows the answer and is just waiting for you to get there yourself. He has his chopsticks resting loosely between his fingers and his elbow on the table and he looks completely at ease, the way he always does, the way that used to read as confidence and now reads as something quieter than that. Just comfort. Just a person who is okay wherever he is.
“I don’t know,” you say honestly.
“That’s fair.”
“It’s not bad. I just don’t know if I — “ you pause, searching for it. “I don’t have anything to compare it to.”
He nods like that makes complete sense, which it does, and reaches for one of the other plates without making a big thing of it. This one has something different on top, a small curl of something pink and soft, and he picks it up with his chopsticks and holds it out across the table toward you.
“Try this one,” he says.
You look at it, then at him. “What is it?”
“Crab.” He tilts it slightly so you can see. “Just try it.”
There’s something about the way he’s holding it, steady and patient, waiting for you to lean in, that makes your stomach do something that has nothing to do with the food. You hold his gaze for just a second and then you lean forward and take it from his chopsticks, your lips just barely brushing the ends of them, and you sit back and let yourself taste it properly.
It’s different. Immediately, noticeably different. Sweeter, somehow, and lighter, and there’s a richness to it that the first piece didn’t have, something that spreads warm across your tongue and makes you understand, maybe for the first time, why people love this. Why he’s been coming to this specific restaurant in this specific city for years just to sit at this table and eat this exact thing.
You look up and find him still watching you.
“That one,” you say.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”
“That one is really good.”
He reaches for his own chopsticks properly now, settling into the meal, and something about the moment closes gently around the two of you, the warm light and the quiet room and the small plates arriving one by one and Harry explaining each one without making you feel like you should already know. He doesn’t perform the knowledge. He just shares it, the same way he shares everything, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be sitting across from you in his favourite restaurant in his city feeding you things off his chopsticks on a Tuesday night in Los Angeles.
You think about how four months ago you were sitting on your couch eating leftover pasta and watching Camille set up a dating profile for you on an app you’d never heard of, rolling your eyes at the whole thing, certain nothing would come of it.
You pick up another piece of crab and decide not to think about it too hard.
By the third plate you’ve stopped pretending to be undecided. You like it. You actually like it, not in the polite way you were prepared to deploy if necessary, the that’s really interesting, thank you for bringing me here way, but genuinely, actually like it. The kind of like that makes you reach for another piece before you’ve finished thinking about the last one.
“Okay,” you say, setting your chopsticks down with a small finality. “I like it.”
Harry looks up from his own plate. “Yeah?”
“I like it,” you say again, more certain this time. “I wasn’t going to just say it until I was sure but I’m sure.”
He looks quietly pleased in that way he has where it doesn’t spill over into anything excessive. Just a warmth that settles into his eyes and stays there. He doesn’t say I told you so, which you appreciate, and instead reaches for one of the last remaining plates and turns it slightly toward you.
“Try this one before you commit fully.”
You look at it. “What is this one?”
“Shrimp tempura roll.” He nudges the plate a fraction closer. “It’s different again.”
You pick it up with your chopsticks, which you’ve been using with varying degrees of success all evening and have made your peace with, and try it. It hits completely differently from everything else. Warm and a little crispy on the outside and soft in the middle and there’s a sweetness to the shrimp that makes you close your eyes for just a second without meaning to.
When you open them Harry is watching you with a small smile.
“That one,” you say, “is exceptional.”
“That one’s my favourite too.”
You sit back in your chair and look at the table, at all the small empty plates and the little dishes of soy sauce and the scattered remains of a meal you genuinely didn’t expect to enjoy this much, and you feel something warm and uncomplicated move through you. Pride, maybe. The quiet satisfaction of having said yes to something unfamiliar and been rewarded for it. You’ve been trying more of that lately. Saying yes when your instinct is to pull back. Flying to Los Angeles when your instinct is to stay home.
It’s been working out.
“I’m proud of myself,” you say, and mean it.
Harry laughs softly at that, not unkindly, just genuinely. “You should be.”
“I was very prepared to be polite about it.”
“I know,” he says. “I could tell.” He picks up his water glass. “I’m glad I brought you here.”
The way he says it is quiet and simple and it means more than the words themselves. Not just glad about the restaurant. Glad about the night. Glad you’re here, in his city, at his table, eating food off his chopsticks on a Tuesday evening like it’s something you’ve always done.
You look at him for a moment and then look away before you say something you’re not ready to say yet.
The waiter comes to clear the last of the plates and Harry asks if you want anything else. You’re about to say no when you spot the small chalkboard near the bar listing drinks and your eye catches boba tea and you point to it almost involuntarily.
“Can we get those for the road?”
Harry glances over his shoulder at the board and then back at you. “Obviously.”
He orders two without asking what flavor you want and when they arrive he slides one across the table toward you and it’s taro and it’s perfect and you don’t ask how he knew.
He pays without discussion, the card already out before the bill arrives, and you’ve stopped making a thing of it because you’ve learned it doesn’t go anywhere. He holds the door open on the way out and you step into the warm Los Angeles night with your drink in hand and the city spread quietly around you. He falls into step beside you back toward the car, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, and neither of you closes the distance or moves away from it.
He opens your door and you climb in and wrap both hands around your cup and watch him come around the front of the Range Rover and settle in beside you. When he starts the engine the same playlist from earlier picks up where it left off and he pulls back out onto the street and neither of you says anything and it’s the most comfortable silence you’ve been in a long time.
You’re maybe four minutes from his house when it comes on.
The opening is unmistakable, that low rolling guitar, and your whole body reacts before your brain catches up. You sit up slightly in your seat and turn toward the window and start singing under your breath without deciding to, the words just there the way they always are with songs you’ve loved long enough that they live somewhere below conscious thought.
You don’t even realize how loud you’ve gotten until Harry joins in.
His voice comes in low beside you, easy and unhurried, and you turn to look at him and he’s watching the road but he’s smiling and he knows every single word. Of course he does. You don’t know why you’re surprised. You look back out the windshield and something opens up in your chest and you stop holding back and just sing it properly, the two of you filling up the inside of the Range Rover with Fleetwood Mac on a warm Los Angeles night, boba tea in your hand and the city lights moving past the windows.
By the time it gets to the chain part you’re both fully committed. His voice is good, which is not surprising but is still somehow delightful to discover in this specific context, sitting in the passenger seat with your boba straw between your teeth. You point at him when his part comes and he glances over and grins and points back and it is so easy, so completely uncomplicated, that you feel it settle over you all at once.
The song winds down as he turns onto his street and you sink back into your seat and laugh quietly to yourself, the kind of laugh that comes from being genuinely happy rather than from anything being funny.
“I don’t remember the last time I had this much fun,” you say. You’re not performing it. You’re not saying it to give him something. It’s just true and it comes out before you can think about whether to say it. “Like actually. I can’t remember.”
Harry pulls into the driveway and puts the car in park and sits there for a second before he looks over at you.
“Me neither,” he says.
He says it the same way he says most things. Quietly and without decoration. But he holds your gaze when he says it and the car is very warm and very small and the song has ended but you can still feel it somewhere in your chest.
He gets out first and comes around to your door and you take his hand when he offers it without thinking about it, and he doesn’t let go when you’re standing, just keeps it loosely in his as he leads you up toward the front door, and you think about the ferry and the pizza and the streetlight in New York and how none of it felt like a beginning at the time and all of it obviously was.
He unlocks the front door, holds it open for you, and you step inside and the house wraps around you again, warm and quiet, exactly as you left it an hour ago. You stand in the entryway for a moment and breathe it in and it still does that thing where it feels like somewhere you’ve been before even though you haven’t.
“I’ve got a few things to sort out down here,” Harry says, setting his keys on the little table by the door. “Emails and stuff. Won’t take long.” He glances at you. “But if you want to shower and get comfortable you can. I’ll show you where everything is.”
You follow him up the stairs, down the short hall, into the primary bathroom, which is, predictably, beautiful in its simplicity. Big walk-in shower with stone tile. A double vanity. Good lighting that manages to be bright without being harsh. Everything clean and ordered without feeling sterile, the same quality the rest of the house has, like someone actually lives here and just happens to live well.
He opens the linen cupboard, pulls out a thick white towel, sets it on the counter without any ceremony.
“Shampoo and everything is in there,” he says, nodding toward the shower. “Use whatever you need.”
“Thank you.”
He looks at you for a moment in that way he does sometimes, like he’s about to say something and decides to let it sit instead. Then he gives you a small smile, pulls the bathroom door mostly closed behind him, and you listen to his footsteps move back down the hall, then down the stairs, until the house goes quiet.
You stand there for a second.
Then you turn to face the mirror and have a small, silent, completely internal crisis.
You are in Harry Styles’ bathroom. His actual bathroom, in his actual house, with his actual towel folded on the counter next to you, his actual products lined up along the vanity, his actual cologne sitting there like it’s nothing, like it’s just an object in a room and not the thing that has been driving you quietly insane since he hugged you at the airport and you got one devastating second of it before he pulled back.
You press both hands to your cheeks and look at yourself in the mirror.
Okay.
You go back to the guest room, unzip your bag, find your pyjamas, your toothbrush, your little travel bag of things, bring all of it back to the bathroom and set it on the counter with a practicality that makes you feel slightly more in control of yourself. You turn on the shower. The water pressure is excellent, which somehow makes everything worse, and you stand with your hand under the stream waiting for it to heat up, letting your eyes drift around the room.
You’re not snooping. You want to be clear about that, at least to yourself. You’re just looking. There’s a difference.
His cologne is on the counter, the bottle sitting simply among a few other things, and you pick it up before you’ve decided to, take the cap off, hold it close, breathe in. It is exactly what you remember from the airport, from the car, from every time he’s been close enough tonight that you caught the edge of it. Warm, woody, clean, something underneath that you don’t have a word for but that your nervous system apparently has very strong feelings about.
You put the cap back on, set it down exactly where it was.
His products are arranged neatly along the back of the vanity. A face wash. A moisturiser that you recognise as a good one. A hair product with a label you can’t quite make out. Nothing excessive, nothing performative. Just a person who takes care of himself without making a thing of it, which is, you are finding, a pattern with him.
The shower has steamed up the mirror by now, you strip down, get in, make a small involuntary sound at how good the water pressure actually is. You stand under it for a moment, just existing in the warmth of it, trying to get your heart rate down to something reasonable.
Then you reach for his body wash because yours is in your travel bag, you cannot be bothered, he offered you whatever you needed so it counts.
It is, genuinely, the best thing you have ever smelled in your life.
You’re not being dramatic. You stand there with the lather on your skin, the steam rising around you, the whole shower smelling like him, warm, clean, impossibly good, and you take much longer than necessary simply because you cannot bring yourself to rinse it off yet. You make a mental note to ask him what it is. You make a second mental note to not ask him what it is because there is no version of that conversation that doesn’t reveal too much about the last five minutes of your life.
You wash your hair with his shampoo too, because you’re already here, it smells just as good, and by the time you turn the water off you are clean, warm, smelling like him from head to toe, about to go downstairs and sit across from him and act like a normal person.
You towel off, pull on your pyjamas, brush your teeth, look at yourself in the now-cleared mirror, take one slow breath.
Okay, you think.
Okay.
You find him in the kitchen when you come back downstairs, laptop open on the island, reading something with the focused quiet of a person who actually works. He’s changed into sweats and a worn t-shirt and the sight of him like that, casual and unhurried in his own house, does something to you that the cologne on the counter probably started.
He looks up when he hears you on the stairs.
His eyes move over you once, quick, the way you might look at someone who has just walked into your space wearing your clothes and smelling like your shower, and then he looks back at his screen with the smallest smile you’ve almost missed entirely.
“Feel better?”
“So much better,” you say, which is true in every sense.
You climb up onto the stool across from him, tucking your feet up under you, and he closes the laptop without making a production of it, like whatever he was doing is finished or can wait, and reaches over to turn the small counter lamp on. The kitchen goes warmer. Softer. Outside the window the city is doing its quiet nighttime thing, just the occasional sound of something distant, nothing urgent.
“Do you want anything?” he asks. “Tea, water. I have that wine from earlier.”
“Tea would be nice actually.”
He gets up, fills the kettle, sets it on without asking what kind you want, which means he’s guessing again, and you watch him move around the kitchen in his sweats with his feet bare on the wood floor and think about how strange it is to feel this comfortable somewhere you’ve never been before. You’ve been in this house for a matter of hours. You should still be in the performing stage, the guest stage, the careful version of yourself you bring out when you’re somewhere new. Instead you’re sitting cross legged on his kitchen stool in your pyjamas while he makes you tea and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
He sets a mug in front of you a few minutes later. Chamomile. You smile down at it without meaning to.
“Good guess,” you say.
“Not a guess.” He wraps both hands around his own mug, settles back onto his stool. “You had it on the plane. You told me.”
You did. You remember now, some early conversation, you complaining about not being able to sleep on flights and him asking what helps and you saying chamomile tea and an eye mask and he had apparently filed that away without any fuss and here it is months later, chamomile tea on his kitchen counter at eleven o’clock at night.
You look at him for a moment.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing,” you say. “Thank you.”
He holds your gaze for just a second, then looks down at his mug, and the kitchen stays warm around you both.
He’s looking at you in that gentle way he has sometimes, the one that doesn’t demand anything, just offers, and when he speaks his voice is easy and low.
“If you want the guest room tonight that’s completely fine,” he says. “But if you’d like to sleep in with me you’re more than welcome.”
You look at him across the island, both hands wrapped around your mug. “What are you comfortable with?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Snuggles never hurt.”
You laugh at that, a real one, surprised out of you, and he looks pleased with himself in the quiet way he gets when he’s said exactly the right thing.
You set your mug down. “I trust you,” you say simply. “I’ll sleep with you.”
Something in his face settles into something warm. He stands up from his stool, comes around the island, holds out his hand, you take it without hesitating, let him lead you up the stairs.
His bedroom is exactly what you saw briefly on the tour. Big bed, dark linen, the lamp on the nightstand throwing warm low light across the room. The window is cracked, the curtain moves slightly, the whole room smells clean, like the shower, like him.
He pulls the duvet back on one side and looks at you. “Get comfortable. I’ll be quick.”
You climb in, pull the covers up, listen to the bathroom door close softly, the shower start up, then reach for your phone because if you don’t tell Camille immediately you will actually combust.
You: are you up
Cami: unfortunately yes I have a 6am brand call kill me. why what’s happening
You: I’m in his bed
Cami: I’m sorry I have to ask you to clarify because if I scream and wake my entire apartment building that’s on you
You: his bed. his house. la. currently lying on his pillow as we speak.
Cami: okay I’m screaming internally. tell me everything right now.
You pull the duvet up higher, sink back into his pillow, start typing. You tell her about the airport, the Range Rover, the restaurant, the chopsticks, the Fleetwood Mac, the shower, the chamomile tea he remembered from a conversation months ago. The dots on her end appear and disappear several times, which means she is losing her mind in real time, which is exactly what you needed.
Cami: he remembered the chamomile tea
You: I know
Cami: that’s insane. men don’t do that. who even is he.
You: I genuinely do not know anymore
Cami: and the chopsticks thing?? he fed you off his own chopsticks??
You: it was very natural in the moment I promise
Cami: I’m sure it was. okay so what’s the situation right now is anything happening
You: he’s in the shower
Cami: and then???
You: and then I genuinely don’t know
Cami: yes you do babe
You: he actually offered me the guest room to be respectful
Cami: and you said?
You: that I’d sleep with him
Cami: as you should. okay I genuinely have to sleep but you are texting me everything tomorrow
You: obviously
Cami: I mean everything. I want a full debrief. don’t leave anything out.
You: goodnight cami
Cami: use the trip well 🫶🏼
You lock your phone, set it face down on the nightstand just as the bathroom door opens and Harry comes out in sweats and a soft t-shirt, running a hand through his damp hair. He moves quietly around to his side of the bed, lifting the covers, settling in beside you. Not close, not far. Just easy.
The room goes dark, just the faint glow of the city through the curtain, the sound of the breeze moving through the window.
“You warm enough?” he asks.
“Very.”
“Pillow okay?”
“The pillow is incredible actually.”
He laughs softly at that, the sound low in the room. “Good.”
He reaches over and turns the lamp off.
You lie there for a moment, both of you on your backs, the curtain moving in the breeze, the city outside doing its quiet thing. It doesn’t feel awkward. That’s the part that surprises you most. You’re in this man’s bed in the dark and it feels like the most natural place you’ve been in a long time.
“Are you glad you came?” he asks.
“So glad,” you say, without having to think about it.
“Good.” A pause. “I’m glad you’re here.”
You turn your head toward him in the dark. You can just make out the shape of him, the line of his jaw, his eyes open, looking at the ceiling. You lie there for a moment, then reach out slowly, your hand finding the covers first, then the warmth of his arm, then up, your fingers reading the edge of his jaw in the dark, turning his face gently toward you.
He goes still.
You lean in, kiss him softly. Just that. Warm, quiet, unhurried. His hand comes up to cover yours where it’s resting on his face, kissing you back the same way, gentle, like there’s no rush, like you have all the time in the world.
You pull back after a moment. His thumb traces slow along the back of your hand.
“Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi,” you say back.
The room settles back into its quiet warmth around you. His hand stays over yours, loose, easy, neither of you moving away.
You lie there for a little while longer, his hand over yours, neither of you in any hurry to do anything about the quiet. At some point he shifts slightly, turning more toward you, and you can feel the warmth of him even without being closer.
“What do you want to do tomorrow?” he asks. His voice is low and unhurried, the way everything is with him at this hour.
“I don’t know. I don’t really know LA.”
“I know.” You can hear the smile in it. “I was thinking I could take you to the farmers market in the morning. There’s one not far from here, it’s good. We could walk around, get breakfast there.” A pause. “Then maybe the beach in the afternoon if you want. Nothing planned. Just see how the day goes.”
You think about that. Farmers market and the beach and a whole unscheduled day in his city with nowhere to be.
“That sounds perfect,” you say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Good. Get some sleep then.”
You close your eyes. The curtain moves. The city hums its soft distant hum. His hand is still loosely over yours and you think about the ferry and the pizza and the streetlight and now this, his bedroom in Los Angeles, a farmers market tomorrow, and how none of it felt possible four months ago.
A/N: just like probably half the female population, im obsessed with the new off campus series so i just had to write something inspired by that and who doesn't love a good college au with the fake dating trope??
WORD COUNT: 10.7k
SUMMARY: After an unfortunate game of truth or dare you're faced with a problem you weren't expecting. What you were also not expecting was Harry Styles offering to fake date you to solve your situation. But how are you gonna survive pretending to date the guy you've been crushing on since basically day one of college?
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
Every time you go to a party you have a certain excitement rushing through your veins for some reason. Something always happens, there’s not a dull night when a party is happening somewhere on campus.
With your roommate, Noor by your side and a few other girls from your dorm you walk into the frat house, where the party is fully raging, music is thumping through the walls, laughter and screaming is heard from somewhere practically all the time, the house is packed. You squeeze through the crowd carefully, trying not to spill the drink Noor practically forced into your hand the second you walked in. Someone is already dancing on the kitchen counter, a couple is aggressively making out against the fridge and one of the frat brothers runs past you wearing nothing but swim trunks and cowboy boots, though that’s nothing surprising.
“I aspire to be him!” Noor shouts through the music, pointing towards Cowboy Boots guy and you just laugh.
She grabs your wrist and pulls you deeper into the house where a bunch of people you know from the dorm next to yours already claimed a spot in the living room. Most of these faces you only see at parties, but you always greet each other like old friends. Frat parties surely bring people together.
As you squeeze into their circle you spot an even more familiar face and your stomach immediately tightens.
Harry is sitting on the couch, like always, he somehow looks completely effortless in the middle of chaos, one arm lazily stretched across the back of the couch, messy curls bouncing with each head movement he makes.
His eyes lift, meeting yours and suddenly, you feel way too aware of your own presence. Thinking of it, the excitement you feel before parties is most likely because of him, rather than the party itself. He is a well-known name around campus, as captain of the hockey team he is definitely a star athlete girls swoon after, understandably. He’s got that boyish charm mixed with something mysterious and his good looks are definitely helping his case, they have you in a chokehold since freshman year. The two of you have been running in the same circles, thanks to Noor and her popularity, but it’s not like you’ve been best of friends.
Harry’s expression brightens slightly in recognition and he lifts his cup toward you in greeting.
“Hey,” he says when you settle in the circle.
“Hey,” you breathe out, like you’re talking to a celebrity or something.
Pathetic, you think to yourself and look away before your staring could turn awkward. Then Noor throws in her favorite game she always makes people play at parties, mostly because she likes when things get messy.
“Okay!” she claps loudly. “We’re playing truth or dare because I’m bored.”
A chorus of approval rises around the group.
“Maybe we could play something else,” you suggest, hoping to save yourself from public humiliation. Unfortunately for you, Noor never considers that.
“Nope, this will be perfect,” she grins proudly.
Naturally, she likes to encourage a heavily alcoholic version of the game, where basically everyone has to drink for practically everything. So ten minutes later you’re sitting on the carpet with your legs crossed, an empty beer bottle in the middle of the circle and a worrying amount of alcohol in your system as the game goes on. Dares have been a popular choice so far, a girl has kissed her ex, a guy has given a lapdance to a girl he didn’t know, but truths are making rounds as well and the game gets dirtier with every round.
Then the bottle spins again and this time it lands on you.
“Nooo,” you groan, dropping your head back., taking a mandatory sip of your drink.
“Truth or dare?” one of the frat boys asks excitedly.
“Truth,” you answer quickly. “Always truth. I’m not getting arrested tonight.”
“I would bail you out,” Noor laughs beside you.
“Thank you, but I’ll stick to truth.”
The guy grins mischievously.
“Okay then… Out of everyone you’ve hooked up with on campus…” he starts, making everyone lean in immediately, “who gave you the best orgasm?”
The group explodes into screaming before you can even process the question.
“Drop the name, girl!” someone hollers while you feel heat creeping up your neck and cheeks.
Your gaze meets Harry’s for a second, he is just smiling, waiting for your answer like everyone else. Maybe it’s from the alcohol, maybe it’s the exhaustion from dealing with disappointing men, but you feel like being blunt about your answer.
“That would require one of them actually giving me one.”
It’s like you just dropped a bomb, everyone explodes, no one expected you to say that. Noor nearly falls over laughing beside you while someone across the circle chokes on their drink.
“Wait, seriously?” another girl asks, eyes wide.
You shrug, trying to act far more unbothered than you actually feel as heat crawls up your neck.
“What?” you laugh nervously. “You asked.”
When you glance at Harry again, expecting him to laugh like everyone else, he doesn’t. He’s still smiling faintly, but there’s something else in his expression now, something more curious than amused.
“Honestly? Real,” a brunette across the circle says, raising her drink toward you dramatically.
“Thank you!” another girl immediately shouts from the couch. “Finally someone said it!”
The girls erupt into laughter and cheers while a few of the guys start protesting loudly.
“Oh come on!”
“There’s no way all of them were bad.”
“Y’all are brutal tonight.”
“No, you’re just bad at sex,” Noor says matter-of-factly before taking a sip of her drink. The room explodes again. You cover your face with your hands, laughing despite yourself.
“This is exactly why I didn’t want to play.”
“Oh my God,” one of the hockey players groans. “You just destroyed male morale for the rest of the semester.”
“As she should,” a girl mutters.
Someone throws a pillow across the circle and suddenly everybody starts yelling over each other at once.
“Alright, alright!” the frat guy running the game laughs. “Damn, didn’t know we were starting gender wars tonight.”
“Too late for that,” Noor snorts beside you. You sink back slightly into your spot on the carpet, cheeks still burning, but weirdly… lighter. Because honestly? It kinda felt good to actually say it out loud, you’ve been carrying this secret around for way too long.
Then one of the guys across the circle leans forward with narrowed eyes.
“Wait, so how many guys are we talking about exactly?”
“Are you trying to slut shame me now?” you arch an eyebrow at him.
“Not at all, I just need the numbers for the statistics!” he holds up his hands in defense. “Like, two out of two is not as bad a ten out of ten.”
A horrified laugh escapes you.
“Oh my God, this is not a research project.”
“No, seriously!” he insists through his own laughter. “Context matters!”
“Both versions are unacceptable on the male side!” Noor points at him.
“No!” he protests. “Two guys is kinda unfortunate, but could happen. Ten on the other hand…”
“That’s a campus epidemic,” the brunette from earlier cuts in with a laugh.
“This just proves how much women have to put up with!” Noor raises her drink and almost all the girls join her.
“Can we move on before every man in this room develops a complex?” someone groans.
“Too late,” another guy mutters into his drink.
“Still think she should name names,” somebody says, but you just roll your eyes.
Your eyes drift across the room again, instinctively searching for Harry. Bad idea, because he is already looking at you. He’s pretty quiet compared to everyone else around him, one arm hanging lazily over his bent knee now as the corner of his mouth curves upward slightly. Like he is amused by what you just admitted.
Then one of the hockey guys nudges Harry with his elbow.
“Careful, mate,” he jokes loudly. “Don’t look too interested. She’ll expose you next.”
The group bursts into laughter again. Heat immediately crawls back into your face and you grab your cup for another sip, already preparing for Harry to laugh it off. But instead, Harry barely reacts, just shrugs his shoulders and says: “I’m not on her list of disappointments, maybe you have something to worry about, Tanner?” he teases back, making everyone around them laugh.
Slowly, the rumble around your answer dies down and you carry on with the game. By the time you leave with Noor you kind of forget about it too and expect it to just become a funny story you sometimes bring up.
Well, you were wrong.
Because apparently, the information you shared wasn’t as forgettable as you expected it to be. By the next afternoon it becomes kinda viral, a meme page had posted a screenshot of your confession and some girls started a micro trend by listing names of guys who failed to please them, Noor had already sent you three of these videos.
And then there were the DMs. The worst of it all, because some guys took it quite personally and started offering their unwanted services.
be honest though was it really that bad? i could fix that for u
i can show you a good time bby
if you want I can prove you wrong
It keeps going like that all weekend, driving you insane. You notice the stares and some guys even wink at you even though you have no idea who they are. By the time Monday comes, you’re considering just dropping out of school to have peace.
Walking into your afternoon class you’re so occupied trying to stay off the radar that you totally forgot that this is the lecture you share with Harry. He often comes in late and just sits in the closest seat to the door, but this time he is there before you and waves at you to sit beside him. You hesitate for half a second, but then head over to him.
“Hey,” he says when you drop into the chair beside him.
“Hey, you smile a little nervously, grabbing your notebook from your backpack. The room is still buzzing, you still have a few minutes until the professor arrives.
Your phone vibrates on the desk and you stiffen automatically, knowing it’s another DM. Harry glances sideways at you.
“Are you alright?” he asks, leaning just a tad bit closer. You exhale through your nose.
“I’m fine.”
He hums like he doesn’t believe you, but doesn’t push it and you just ignore your phone, until it vibrates again.
And again.
You exhale sharply as you grab it and mute it fully, but your anger doesn’t go over Harry’s head entirely.
“Someone is eager to reach you, huh?”
“Um, not exactly,” you sigh, deleting the notifications from your lockscreen. “I’ve been getting some… offers.”
His eyebrows arch and he shoots you a questioning look.
“I’m hoping these are not the kind of offers I’m thinking about, but…”
“But they are,” you finish for him with a forced smile. He hums with a frown as you drop your phone into your bag so it’s not distracting you. “Seems like some guys took it very personally to change my stats,” you mumble under your breath just as the professor walks in and the lecture starts.
For about twenty minutes you’re able to ignore the shitshow that’s been following you around and actually focus on the lecture. The only distraction is Harry’s presence beside you, it’s like you can’t not notice all his movements, the way he changes position in his seat or scribbles his notes down.
Then, sometime halfway through the lecture he leans closer and whispers to you.
“I think the problem is that you’ve become a challenge for them.”
“Huh?” you turn to him confused.
“The DMs,” he nods towards your bag by your leg. “They will keep coming, because you’re a challenge to them, they all want to prove that they are the ones to change your stats.”
“Okay, yeah, I can see that,” you nod, thinking through his words.
“There’s a solution though.”
“What?” you ask, a little louder than you should be talking during a lecture. The professor clears his throat.
“Please leave the friendly chats after the class. Thank you,” he calls out with a disapproving look on his face, staring at you.
Embarrassed, you slide lower in your seat, while you hear Harry chuckling under his breath beside you. Not wanting to piss off the professor, you have to sit through the whole lecture and it’s complete torture, not knowing what Harry wanted to tell you.
The moment the class is over you turn to him.
“So what is it?”
He grins, packing up his desk. You do the same and the two of you head out together.
“So, as embarrassing as it is, men are pretty simple,” he starts explaining. “They see a challenge, their competitiveness turns on and they won’t back down until they get what they want.”
“Okay, so then what’s the solution other than dropping out of school and becoming a nun?”
Harry chuckles at your joke, which makes your stomach flip.
“The real problem here is that you’re available.”
“Available?” you frown. “For what? To be continuously disrespected by assholes?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “You’re available to receive their offers.”
“I don’t think I’m following,” you admit just as you reach the branching of the road, you should be heading for your next class, while Harry is about to head to practice.
“By available I mean that you’re not taken,” he rephrases. “If you were dating someone, claimed by a guy, they wouldn’t feel like they could just easily slide into your DMs and make those ridiculous offers.”
“Oh, so I’m supposed to just find someone to date me, it’s that easy?” you ask totally sarcastically and Harry once again chuckles.
“Or you can just fake date someone.”
“Because that’s easier to find someone for, right?”
“I could do it.”
Your eyes widen and lips part. Did you just hear him right? Did he just offer to be your fake boyfriend to help you out or it’s just your brain playing nasty tricks on you?
But as he stares back at you, you slowly realize that he really did say that.
“I’m sorry, what? You’re offering to fake date me?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
“I… I have so many questions right now,” you admit with a flustered laugh.
“Okay, I understand,” he nods. “Well, I have practice now, but I get off at six. Why don’t we meet up and we can discuss your questions?” He is already backing away towards the sports centre while you just stand there, like a dumb statue.
“Um, okay? Sure,” you agree at last. Harry nods with a smile and then turns around and disappears in the sea of students.
***
You can’t believe it, but at six o’clock you’re waiting by the sports centre for Harry to be done with practice so you could talk about him fakedating you. How insane does that sound?
Sitting on a bench near the exit you start noticing his teammates and your pulse quickens. Every time the door opens you’re scared and kind of excited at the same time to see Harry and when it’s finally him stepping out, you feel like fainting.
But as he approaches you with a soft, friendly smile you oddly find yourself calming down.
“So, have you thought about it?” he simply asks, dropping his bag to the ground and sitting beside you.
“That’s all I’ve been doing,” you scoff truthfully, making him chuckle. “And I have so many questions.”
“Alright, let’s hear them.”
You have a million questions racing in your mind and can’t really choose one to ask first, until you find the one that’s probably the most burning.
With a sigh, you turn to face him.
“Why?”
“Why what?” he cocks his head to the side.
“Why would you do it? What’s in it for you? I know what’s in it for me, but I don’t see your side.”
Harry nods, like he’s chewing on your words, moving his gaze around the buildings surrounding you before he looks back into your eyes.
“Maybe I’m trying to make up for the damage other guys do,” he shrugs, but you give him a look that makes it clear you’re not believing him. “Or maybe I just want to mess with others. I’m bored, this sounds like fun.”
“I’m not sure this should be your way of having fun, there are so many other things to do if you’re bored.”
“But I want to do this,” he points out. “I haven’t done it, I’m curious.”
“Don’t tell me it’s on your bucket list or whatever,” you shake your head laughing and that brings a smirk to his face.
“Maybe,” he teases you. “Maybe I just want to help a friend out.”
“So we’re friends?” you ask before you could think of your words.
“Are we not?” he throws the question right back.
“I mean… We’re in the same friend group and we are friendly, but I wouldn’t necessarily call you a good friend of mine.”
“Ouch,” he puts a hand over his chest dramatically, making you roll your eyes. “Well, maybe it’s time to change that!”
“I’m not sure fake dating is the best way to bring us closer,” you chuckle in disbelief.
“Not the best, but it’s one,” he shrugs smirking and you hate just how irresistible he looks. For a moment, you just stare at him. At the way he’s smiling at you like this whole thing is exciting instead of potentially catastrophic. Like fake dating you is genuinely something he wants to do. It makes your stomach twist dangerously and the urge to just be selfish and take it heightens.
“This could backfire horribly if someone finds out we’re just faking it,” you tell him with a sigh.
“Oh, I know,” he nods confidently. “But we can figure out how to do it right.”
“You sure you want to do it?”
“I offered, didn’t I?”
“That doesn’t answer my question. I need an explicit confirmation.”
His eyes flicker over your face for a second before he leans back against the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“I do genuinely want to do this.”
You stare back at him, as if you’re giving him the chance to back out, but he doesn’t and you aren’t either.
“Okay,” you nod. “Then let’s discuss how to do it.”
Harry’s grin stretches wide as he nods and just like that, the acting starts.
***
“Girl, if you keep staring at the door it might explode,” Noor pokes her elbow into your side as you sit in the cafeteria. “You’re giving it away.”
“Sorry, I just… this is so weird,” you mutter, so no one else around the table hears you.
It’s been two days since you and Harry made a pact to fakedate so guys would stop bothering you and today is your official debut. Other than parties, the cafeteria is the best place to hard launch a relationship and that’s exactly what you’re about to do, only you’re so nervous you might fall right off your chair.
You’ve discussed the most important dates and Harry suggested to just go with the flow, because planning it out too much might give you away.
Noor is the only person you told the truth. You just knew you wouldn’t be able to convince her and you need her support to actually do this.
“Yeah, but maybe stop looking like you’re expecting a SWAT team to kick the doors down,” she murmurs, making you let out a nervous laugh.
That’s when the doors open and Harry walks in with two of his teammates. Heads naturally turn in their directions, students greet them on their way over to your table and you can’t stop staring at him. Maybe it’s the nerves, or just how fucking good he looks, he consumes all your attention.
He is halfway over to your table when his gaze meets yours and his whole face softens, while your stomach flips violently.
Noor says something beside you, but you hear nothing of it as Harry walks up to you. His friends greet others at the table, taking the empty seats while Harry strides right over to you.
“Hi,” he says, eyes focused only on you, then he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek before taking the empty chair beside you.
And if that wasn’t enough, he simply grabs the underside of your chair, pulls you closer and lazily drops a hand to your knee, acting like this whole scene was nothing special. But it was.
For you, of course, but for others too. You notice how some of the girls around the table are eyeing you with shock and surprise, like they just missed a chapter and you don’t blame them. It kinda feels like you did too.
You try your best to act normal, but there is nothing normal about Harry Styles sitting beside you like this and you’re not only talking about his hand on your knee. He sits like the two of you belong together, like… actually. Like it’s the most natural thing to waltz in here, kiss you on the cheek and let everyone know your status without even saying a word.
It’s kind of scary, but exciting too.
Noor kicks your foot lightly under the table. Your eyes snap at her and find her smiling like crazy.
“Stop,” you mouth her and force your body to relax so you’re not sitting like a plank of wood while Harry is oozing charm right beside you.
“So what did we miss?” Larissa asks from across the table, wiggling her eyebrows in your direction.
“Erm, what do you mean?” you ask innocently, but then Harry decides to move his hand from your knee and circle his arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you closer to him.
“We’re just exploring new things. Together,” he answers so nonchalantly, you’d believe him if you didn’t know the truth. Why is he so good at this?
“Oh really?” another friend of yours, Georgia asks with a smile so wide you have never seen on her face.
“What, like it’s surprising?” Harry asks and you almost instantly scream Yes! It is! but everyone else around the table thinks about it for a second and actually agrees that it’s not a shocker.
Have you fallen into another universe? Why is it not surprising to anyone that you and Harry are an item now?
Questions like that flood your mind, but you can’t ask them without blowing your cover that seems to be working perfectly, so you’re left stewing in your own head.
Harry gently squeezes your shoulder, catching your attention.
“You alright?” he asks quietly. You’re very aware of how close your faces are, you can make out every freckle and blemish on his skin, along with his ridiculously pretty lashes that frame his light green eyes.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, but you’re anything but alright at the moment.
“You’re doing good,” he gifts you with a small smile. “People are noticing us.”
Carefully, you look around in the cafeteria and realize he is right, people are eyeing the two of you, whispering and probably guessing which will eventually lead to spreading the change in your relationship status shortly.
You turn back to face Harry and once again get swept away by him. It’s only day one and you agreed to keep the facade up for a couple of weeks until something else gets the attention of everyone and you can finally return to your normal again. But all you can think of now is how fucking beautiful and kind and perfect he is and that’s way too dangerous.
Because you’re supposed to be acting, it’s only a temporary agreement, but right now, you’re scared of how the end of it will find you.
For the rest of lunch you somehow manage to ease up enough not to freak out. With the girls you talk about having a movies night sometime soon and the boys talk about sport, it’s all the same as usual. Then when it’s time to leave Harry waits for you to gather your things and you almost ask him what he wants when you realize that you are a couple now and couples walk each other to class all the time.
“I’ll carry that for you,” he says, grabbing your heavy Spanish lit textbook you can’t fit into your bag, so you usually just carry it around in your arms.
“Oh, thanks,” you nod and then he holds his hand out for you. You blink a few times before eventually taking it and the two of you walk out hand in hand, earning quite some stares.
You can’t not focus on his hold around your hand. It’s warm and his hand is much bigger than yours. His grip is relaxed and easy, like it’s not the first time the two of you are doing this. Meanwhile you’re about to spiral and question this whole agreement, but that’s exactly when a guy from the party last weekend crosses you and you do remember him sending you DMs too since your confessional.
A wide grin stretches across his face and he is already opening his mouth to say something, but that’s when he sees your hand in Harry’s. The grin slips from his face instantly, instead, he just nods at you and keeps walking.
“Oh shit, it worked!” you whisper to Harry excitedly. He peeks down at you with a satisfied grin.
“Were you doubting my plan?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. You can’t help but chuckle.
“Maybe a little. Not anymore though.”
***
By the time Thursday rolls around you’re talk of the campus, but not because of the party anymore. It’s because of you and Harry becoming an item. People whisper behind your back, the ballsy ones even ask you straight about it and you can’t walk from one class to the other without dealing with the endless stares. Although that last one might be because Harry keeps walking you whenever he has the time, holding your hand or draping an arm around your shoulders while he asks about your day.
At first you thought he was just trying to ease the awkwardness with his questions, but he’s seemed genuinely interested in your occasional rants about papers or exciting projects. You asked him about hockey and he’s been teaching you the basics of the game, even invited you to their next game which you accepted.
Solemnly because a good girlfriend would cheer on their boyfriend, not because you want to see him all sweaty and strong on the ice.
When you get back to your dorm on Thursday evening, you feel drained, it’s been a long day and you want nothing than to take a shower and rot in bed while watching a movie with your favorite snacks. Returning from the shared bathroom you’re wrapped in your fluffy bathrobe and even light a candle as you get comfortable on your bed.
Your phone buzzes just as you’re opening your bag of gummy bears. You honestly expect it to be Noor sending you another ridiculous TikTok about your “relationship,” but the second you see Harry’s name pop up on your screen, your stomach flips embarrassingly fast.
HARRY: Coach asked me if I’m dating you. Guess now truly everyone knows about us.
Y/N: No fucking way! Does he like student gossips?
HARRY: Embarrassingly, yes. He is often way too deep in our business.
You laugh out loudly at that, imagining their coach asking around about gossips during practice.
Y/N: I guess we succeeded then. I heard a girl today tell her friend that you surely write love poems for me.
HARRY: I could start if that’s what the people want.
Y/N: Please don’t.
HARRY: Wow, such an anti-romantic!
Y/N: I’m just protecting myself and you as well from the embarrassment.
HARRY: Maybe I’m a good poet? How do you know it would be embarrassing??
Y/N: Are you a good poet?
HARRY: The worst, actually.
The grin on your face is ridiculously wide as you lie in bed and just keep texting him. The movie you wanted to watch gets forgotten pretty fast.
Y/N: Then my previous statement still stands.
HARRY: I actually did write a poem for a girl in high school.
Y/N: Stop. No you didn’t!
HARRY: Oh but I did.
Y/N: Do you remember it?
HARRY: It’s permanently burnt into my mind, unfortunately.
Y/N: I wanna read it.
HARRY: Absolutely not. I rhymed “eyes” with Styles.
Y/N: You wrote your name into it??
HARRY: Damn right I did.
Y/N: Did the poem at least work?
HARRY: Fuck no. She went to prom with another guy.
Y/N: Aw, I’m sorry.
HARRY: Don’t be. My girlfriend now is way cuter.
Your heart skips a beat. Is he flirting with you? Surely, he is just joking, but still, he just called you cute.
From the desk across the room, Noor slowly lowers her laptop and squints at you suspiciously.
“Why are you smiling like that?”
“I’m not smiling.”
“Your face is about to literally burst from your smile.”
You force your face to relax, though miserably fail.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” you clear your throat.
“Who are you texting?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at you.
“Just Harry,” you answer as casually as possible, though your heart is still hammering in your chest.
“Uh-huh, just Harry.”
You school your expression and put your phone aside, opening your laptop to scroll through Netflix, though you’re not even reading any of the titles, you just want Noor’s suspicion to die down.
Unfortunately, your phone buzzes again and you grab it so fast it’s ridiculous. You type your reply to Harry while ignoring Noor’s knowing smirk from across the room.
***
It’s your first time at a hockey game, even though the sport is pretty popular at your school. It’s a home game so luckily, you don’t have to travel far. Noor happily agreed to come with you, you even watched a few videos together last night as preparation for the game, though Harry has been teaching you the basics all week.
You’re already near the sports centre when he texts you.
HARRY: When are you arriving?
Y/N: In about two minutes.
HARRY: Can you come to the back? I have something for you.
Y/N: Sure!
“Hey, can we go to the back for a second? Harry wants to meet up,” you tell Noor.
“Of course, you can meet your lover before his game,” she grins suggestively. “So how is the fake dating going?”
“Good, I guess. I’m only getting a few DMs now.”
“That’s good. And how about the thing between you and Harry?”
“What thing?” you ask nervously.
“I don’t know, you’re always texting, he whispers things to you at lunch and the two of you look very coupled up, like… very.”
“That was the goal, to make guys think I’m unavailable.”
“Oh, so it’s all fake?”
You open your mouth, wanting to say yes, but then the word dies on your tongue. Is it all fake? Noor is right, you’ve been getting closer to Harry these past days and it’s way over the level of faking. Your agreement doesn’t require the late night texts and whispered inside jokes. It definitely doesn’t require the way your stomach flips every time his name lights up on your phone either.
Noor watches you carefully, like she can physically see the spiral happening inside your head.
“Wait,” she breathes out, leaning closer like she’s about to share a secret with you. “You’re into him, for real, right?”
“No?” you snap, way too fast. Noor’s mouth hangs open.
“You like him! You’re into him!”
“Would you stop… screaming?” you wave at her, the last thing you need is to draw attention.
“I knew I felt something, like your vibes were different, but this explains it all,” she grins at you like crazy. “So since when?”
You stay quiet, warmth crawling up your neck and Noor grabs your arm.
“Holy shit, this isn’t new, right? It’s not just from the fake dating, you already had a crush on him!”
“I’m stupid for agreeing to do this, right?” you ask with panic all over your face. “Because this is now making it all worse, Noor! I can’t stop thinking about him!”
“Okay, no need to lose our shit right now. Everything is fine.” She changes from excited to supportive in an instant and that’s exactly what you need right now. She is about to continue with her peptalk when a way too familiar voice calls out your name. Turning to the side you spot Harry jogging over to you.
“Hey!” he smiles at you, then he offers a nod to Noor too, but his gaze quickly returns to you. He is already wearing his undergarments and there is something in his hands that looks like a clothing item.
“Hi,” you breathe out.
“Glad you two could make it. Here, I wanted to give this to you.” He hands you whatever in his hand and that’s when you realize it’s a jersey.
With his name and number on it.
“Girlfriends usually wear their boyfriends’ jerseys at games and I thought… You don’t have to put it on, if you don’t want to,” he quickly adds as you hold the jersey up in front of you. Your heart practically somersaults in your chest.
“No, I want to,” you answer maybe a little too quickly, fingers tightening around the fabric. Harry’s expression softens instantly, pleased by your answer.
“Good,” he smiles. “Thought you’d look cute in it.”
Beside you, Noor makes a strangled noise that suspiciously sounds like her trying not to scream. You shoot her a warning look before turning back to Harry.
“Thank you. And for the tickets as well.”
“Of course. I’ll see you in there, then,” he nods with a smile and there is a second of hesitation, like he wants to do something else. Maybe hug you? Kiss you?
But then, someone calls out for him.
“Styles! Coach is looking for you!”
“Coming!” he shouts back. “Gotta go, but I’ll see after, right? At the party?”
“Sure,” you nod smiling. Then Harry suddenly leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek before jogging back inside.
“Oh my God, you are so down for that guy,” Noor scoffs, snapping you out of your trance.
“Just shut up,” you moan, shaking your head. “Let’s get inside.”
Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting in the packed arena wearing Harry’s jersey over your clothes while Noor is talking your ear off.
“No, for real, he knows I know it’s fake, right? Why would he kiss your cheek in front of me if it’s not because he is into you?”
“Others were around as well!”
“No one was paying attention. That kiss happened because he wanted it to happen, I’m telling you!”
“Can we just close this for now?” you let out a tired sigh. The last thing you need is false hope.
“Okay, okay. Sorry,” she mumbles, bumping her shoulder against yours.
With only minutes until the game starts the seats are almost entirely filled up and a guy takes the one beside you, almost spilling his drink on you.
“Woah, sorry. These cups are way too big,” he chuckles.
“It’s alright.”
“Hey, you’re… Y/N, right?” he asks and that’s when you actually look at him. “I’m Niall, we had Intro to Psychology together last semester.”
“Oh!” your face lits up finally recognizing him. “Hi! Yeah, I remember. You were the one who argued with the professor about Freud’s significance.”
“Yup,” he grins. “She almost failed me for that one.”
“I mean, you did call her Freud’s fangirl, so…”
You both laugh at that just when the teams finally make their appearance on the ice. The entire arena erupts into cheers so loud you feel it vibrate through your chest. The players skate onto the ice one by one and it’s no surprise your eyes instantly search for Harry. You spot him easily, not just because you know what number to look for from the jersey you are wearing, but because your gaze seems to be naturally gravitating towards him. Not much can be seen from him, his gear and helmet covers most of him, but the eyes are still there.
And they find you pretty easily as well.
His gaze jumps down to your jersey and though you’re not entirely sure, but it seems like he is smiling at the sight of you wearing it. You allow yourself a tiny wave in his direction which he acknowledges with a nod before focusing his attention back at the ice.
“Spotting you in the crowd, huh?” Noor teases you, but you just poke your elbow into her side, making her laugh.
The game starts before she can continue torturing you and thankfully, hockey turns out to be way more entertaining than you expected. Fast, aggressive, chaotic. Every time someone slams another player into the wall, the crowd loses their minds.
You end up talking quite a lot with Niall, he gladly helps you out when you and Noor have questions about the rules or what’s happening on the ice. He is explaining something one of the referees just did when Harry skates past you and his head turns sharply in your direction.
The movement is not that dramatic, probably no one really noticed it, but you did, since you’ve been very focused on him during the game. His eyes flick between you and Niall for half a second before he’s skating away again.
For a minute you wonder what that was about, but then the game continues and your thoughts get occupied.
Even though you’re definitely not a pro in hockey, you can tell that Harry is playing exceptionally well. He is fast and skilled, can easily sweep right past the other players and score like it’s second nature to him. It’s kind of mesmerizing, seeing him in his element.
The third time he scored during the game the whole arena explodes. You jump up instinctively with everyone else, cheering loudly while Harry’s teammates crash into him against the glass, celebrating like mad men. Then Harry looks up, his eyes finding you instantly and he points at you with a wink. A happy laughter bubbles from your throat, your heart practically jumping out of your chest.
“That was fucking romantic,” Noor squeals next to you, but you just ignore her.
Even when Harry starts to linger more and more on your side of the rink, eyes sweeping over you every time he skates by. Once, he even skates close enough to tap his stick lightly against the glass in front of you. Niall laughs beside you.
“I’m guessing he is your boyfriend.”
“Um, yeah,” you breathe out a chuckle.
“He is making sure everyone knows it.”
Heat rushes into your cheeks immediately.
By the third period, your team is leading and the arena is electric with excitement. Everyone’s on their feet during the last minute on the clock. The game tightens even in the last seconds, but when the buzzer goes off your team is the winner. The players yell and slam into each other while the crowd screams loud enough to deafen you. Noor grabs your shoulders, shaking you excitedly while Niall high-fives everyone within reach.
And then, through the chaos, Harry’s eyes land on you again and before you could even realize what’s happening he is skating over to you.
“Oh shit, this is gonna be good!” Noor laughs, but you kinda tune her out as Harry stops by the boards right in front of you.
Pulling his helmet off he taps on the glass, motioning for you to come to the side where there’s no glass. With a hammering heart, you climb out and meet him at the side. His curls are sweaty and sticking in all directions, but he still looks so fucking good your knees almost give up.
“Made sure your first game is a winner,” he grins, leaning onto the board in front of you.
“So you scored for me?”
“Who else?” he shrugs cheekily.
Suddenly, you become more aware of your surroundings and the chanting that’s getting louder around you.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” people demand, watching the two of you.
You let out a nervous chuckle, your heart is pounding so hard in your chest you’re afraid you might faint any moment. Your first thought is that it is about to get real awkward, because there’s no way Harry will kiss you. There’s no rule about how far you’re willing to go in this fake relationship, but you figured kissing is way over the line.
Well, you were wrong.
Because when you look back at Harry he is smirking at you in such a charming way, then he reaches over the barrier, grabs your waist firmly and pulls you against the board that separates the two of you. The crowd is absolutely losing it and before you could even realize what is about to happen, he is kissing you.
It’s rough, he is sweaty and still in his hockey gear, the board is hard against your hips, but it’s also the most toe-curling kiss you’ve ever experienced. His lips move so in sync with yours, there’s hunger and passion, but it’s also exploratory. The cheering intensifies around you, which is pretty fortunate since you let out a moan when his tongue swipes into your mouth.
And then he pulls back. All you see is his victorious grin as he pushes himself back from the board.
“See you at the after party,” he winks and then skates away, leaving you in a fucking puddle after the most perfect kiss ever.
***
The after party is already fully raging when you and Noor arrive. You dropped by the dorm to get changed after the game, though you actually thought about staying in the jersey Harry gave you.
Your mind has been an absolute mess since the kiss. It simply altered your whole brain chemistry and now you can’t think of anything else. The rational part of your brain keeps reminding you that it was all just for the show, but then you always end up thinking about how passionate it was, like he truly meant it. It’s a complete war in your mind.
By the time you arrive at the party you’re actually thinking about ending the whole fake dating thing, because if this is what one kiss causes, you’d get totally ruined if you kept going. There’s no way you can get through another kiss like that without falling for him entirely, so it’s better if you just go back to how everything was before.
But your decision flies right out the window the moment you meet Harry again.
He is in the kitchen when Noor and you walk in, his teammates surrounding him as he casually leans against the counter. His hair looks a tad bit damp, probably from his post-game shower, he is wearing a simple gray hoodie and black jeans, but still manages to look so fucking hot you can’t look away from him.
When he sees you, his whole face lights up and as soon as you’re within his reach his hands grab your hips, he pulls you closer and makes you stand right in front of him, with your back pressed against his hard chest, his hands remaining on your hips. His scent fills your nose, it’s fresh and a little spicy and suddenly, you completely forget about your intention to fake breakup with your fake boyfriend.
“Hi,” he murmurs into your ear. “Thought you might bail on me.”
“Did you really?” you ask quietly, craning your neck to look at him. His eyes are mesmerizing and there’s a cheeky glint in them tonight.
“No,” he smirks. “I know you’d never.”
You completely melt in his arms, leaning against him gladly as you ditch any plan to end whatever is between the two of you. Some selfishness couldn’t hurt, right?
Right.
***
You’re getting drunk on Harry. And quite some booze too. Probably it’s more the booze, but whatever.
The boys’ win kind of got you in a buzz too and couldn’t refuse a couple of shots, getting you tipsy pretty fast since you didn’t have time to have dinner.
Harry has been by your side all evening, sipping on just soda. When you asked why he is not drinking, he just shrugged and said his high from the winning is enough for him. You didn’t push him.
When Noor convinces you (quite easily) to take another shot with her you really start to feel just how much you’ve had so far.
“Woah,” Harry chuckles, when you lose balance as someone brushes past you a bit more forcefully, but he is quick to steady you with his hands on your waist. “Have you eaten, Y/N?” he asks, but there’s nothing accusatory in his tone, his eyes are still smiling.
“Um, not really,” you admit giggling.
“That explains a lot,” he smiles, hands still on your waist. Your skin feels like burning underneath his touch. “Why don’t we find something for you? I think I saw pizza boxes in the kitchen.”
“Oh! Pizza! Yummy!” you beam, making him laugh before he starts steering you in the direction of the kitchen.
A few minutes later you are sitting in a window sill with three slices of pizza stacked onto a paper plate in your hand.
“You want some?” you ask, holding a slice out for Harry while chewing on your last bite. He huffs out a laugh, leans closer and takes a bite while holding eye-contact, definitely igniting something in your tummy.
“So did you enjoy the game?” he asks, leaning against the wall next to you.
“Yeah. Now I kinda know why girls enjoy watching the boy aquarium.”
“The what?” he starts laughing.
“Boy aquarium,” you repeat grinning. “I think it’s a good name for it.”
“Wow, haven’t heard that one, but okay. Then maybe you should come to more games.”
“Mm. What about when we fake breakup?” you huff out a chuckle, busying yourself with the slice in your hand. Thinking about the time when you possibly won’t spend this much time with him kind of scares and saddens you. You’ve gotten used to being so close to him way too easily.
“You are always welcome. Fake dating or not,” he says with a soft smile.
“Careful,” you tease softly to cover up the way your pulse suddenly spikes. “You’re sounding very attached to me.”
The corners of his mouth curve slightly.
“Mm wouldn’t want that, right?” he asks, but his smiling eyes are saying something else and it’s making your heart flutter.
Before you could react something, a voice cuts the moment short.
“Styles! There you are.”
Two hockey guys appear near the kitchen entrance carrying drinks. One of them grins when he spots you tucked into the windowsill beside Harry.
“Ah, didn’t mean to interrupt the lovebirds,” the shorter one grins.
“But you kinda did,” Harry shakes his head, chuckling.
“Sorry man, it’s still kinda new that you have a girl now,” the taller one shrugs laughing and you just grin into your pizza, ignoring the way the butterflies in your stomach started dancing at being called his girls.
“Well, get used to it,” Harry simply answers, his eyes searching yours with a soft look.
“Yeah, I guess you were the one to change her stats,” a guy from behind snorts, inserting himself into the conversation and at his comment the mood changes instantly. Harry tenses beside you, a hand coming to rest on your knee, but it feels like he needs the touch to ground himself this time.
The guy who made the comment just smirks into his drink like he said the funniest thing in the world, but no one is laughing and you pretty much feel like a glass of ice cold water was dumped into your face.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Harry says flatly.
The guy lifts his hands innocently. “Relax, man. I’m joking.”
“No, you’re being a dick,” Harry shoots back immediately. You stare at him in surprise. There’s no teasing in his voice anymore, none of the usual easygoing charm. He actually looks angry.
“C’mon,” the guy laughs awkwardly. “You know what I mean. The whole campus has been talking about her confession for days, guys have been competing to get her attention and then she ends up dating you all of a sudden. Must have given her one hell of a good time.”
“None of your business,” Harry spats. “Nothing ever gives you the right to talk about a woman like that. So what’s your point exactly?” he asks coldly with a deathstare.
“Jesus, I was just joking,” he mumbles, already turning around to walk away, but Harry takes a step ahead to speak his mind before the guy goes.
“Stop reducing women to stupid challenges and games. And for the record,” he continues sharply, “I’m dating her because I like her. Not because I’m trying to win some disgusting competition you all made up in your heads.”
Someone whistles as the guy disappears in defeat and Harry returns to your side, replacing his hand onto your leg. When he looks at you, he gives your thigh a gentle squeeze.
“Are you alright?”
With the leftover pizza still in your hands, you’re just staring at him with wide eyes, nodding shortly. He just went all protective boyfriend over a stupid comment which was unbelievably sweet and unexpected, but on the other hand that one tiny comment put an unwanted thought into the back of your mind.
What if the guy was right and this was just Harry’s way of wanting to get closer to you? It feels impossible, Harry would never do such an awful thing, but your rather drunk conscience is playing a dirty game with you.
“Um, I’m gonna need another drink,” you mumble, hopping off the sill. You feel Harry’s worrying gaze glued to the side of your head as you walk back into the kitchen and grab the first bottle you find.
If the fake dating wasn’t putting you in enough stress, now you have something new to spiral about: a possible ulterior motive behind why Harry wanted to do the fake dating. So with an enthusiastic swig you try to tune the voices out in your head with the alcohol.
About twenty minutes and another shot later you are fully wasted and a mess. You’re seeing double and your legs keep giving up underneath you.
“Hey,” Harry softly murmurs, gathering you in his arms. “Let’s get you home, okay? You seem tired.”
“I am tired,” you draw the words out with a sigh and let him walk you towards the door. “Wait,” you gasp, stopping in your tracks. “Gotta tell Noor I’m leaving.”
“Already told her, don’t worry. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“Drive?” you ask with a puzzled look, but let him steer you out of the house. “Haven’t you been drinking?”
“No,” he chuckles softly. “Only soda.”
Somehow you make it to Harry’s car without tripping, he helps you inside and even buckles you in.
“Thank you, Harry. You are sooooo awesome,” you sigh, eyes fluttering closed. He just chuckles softly before closing your door and walking over to the driver seat.
The drive home is kind of a blur, you’re drifting in and out of sleep, occasionally mumbling something to Harry who patiently tries his best to react every time. Arriving at the dorm he gently helps you out of the car and circles an arm around your waist to help you make the walk up to your room.
“Ah, thank you, Harry,” you moan as soon as you fall into bed.
“You’re welcome. Did you have a good time?” he asks and starts pulling your shoes off.
“Yeah. Right until that douche said those things,” you groan at the memory.
“Sorry about that.”
You hum, mind cloudy from sleep and alcohol and you end up saying out loud the thought that circles your head.
“You know, if you really just wanted to… could have just asked me.”
Harry furrows his eyebrows, sitting beside you on the mattress.
“What are you talking about?”
“My stats,” you scoff. “If you just wanted to be the one changing it, you could have just asked. I’ve been… I’ve been having the fattest crush on you, I would have said yes.” You snort out a laugh, eyes closing as you’re already falling asleep. You vaguely feel Harry’s gentle touch on your cheek as he stands from beside you.
“Get some sleep, we can talk about that tomorrow,” he says, though his voice sounds from far away. Somewhere, the door clicks closed and you’re already asleep.
***
Sunlight is beaming right into your face through the window. Have you forgotten to close the curtains? That never really happens.
Groaning, you turn to your other side so the brightness is not directed at your face, but just a couple of seconds later, as your mind slowly wakes from the slumber, you realize why the curtains are not closed.
Because you were brought home last night by Harry, totally drunk.
“Oh my God.”
You bolt upright in bed so fast you instantly regret it. Pain shoots through your head and you groan, dropping back against the pillows dramatically.
Fragments from last night start returning one by one like little nightmares. The game, the kiss. Then the party, getting wasted, Harry standing up for you, then bringing you home and… What you told him about having a crush on him.
Your stomach drops, maybe from the hangover, maybe from the humiliation, who knows?
“No. No, no, no, no…”
From the other bed you hear Noor grunting.
“It’s way too early for a life crisis and I’m way too hungover.”
“I’m literally dying. Sorry for being inconvenient,” you groan, sitting up again in bed, this time slower so your head doesn't bust immediately. “I told Harry I have a crush on him.”
Noor turns to you in bed, slowly realizing the weight of the situation.
“And if that’s not mortifying enough,” you continue, “I told him, if he just wanted to sleep with me to change my stats, he could have just asked me.”
“Holy shit,” Noor blinks at you with wide eyes. “No, like actually holy shit,” she repeats, pushing herself up against the headboard despite looking half dead herself. “What did he say?”
“I don’t know!” you cry, pressing your fists into your eyes, rubbing them violently. “I was literally falling asleep mid-confession.”
“And what are you gonna do now?”
With a painful sigh, you shake your head, trying to come up with a plan, but nothing comes to your mind.
“I need to talk to him.”
“And what are you going to say? Sorry I told you I have a crush on you and want to have sex with you, are we still fake dating?”
“I don’t know,” you mumble, dragging yourself out of bed. “But I have to talk to him.”
A little over twenty minutes later you’re standing in front of Harry’s room in another dorm building, wearing a random hoodie and no makeup, looking and feeling like shit. For a solid ten seconds you just stare at the door, debating whether you should turn around and fake your own death instead. Then finally you get yourself to raise a fist, but just when you’re about to knock the door opens and you find yourself in front of Harry himself, dressed in what looks like a running set.
“Hey,” he beams happily upon seeing you. Your stomach twists.
“Hi. Can we… um, can we talk?”
“Sure,” he nods, stepping back so you can walk into his room.
He is one lucky bastard for having a room to himself. It’s pretty tidy and organized, smells like his cologne that you love so much. If you weren’t about to have the most awkward conversation of your life you’d definitely start snooping around, checking out everything and anything, but now is not the time for that unfortunately.
Turning around you face him and his usual confidence, he is wearing a soft, almost teasing smile and you’d kill to know what’s going on in his mind right now.
“So… I just wanted to talk about last night. First of all, I’m sorry I got so drunk you had to drag me home.”
“Happens to all of us,” he shrugs.
“Yeah, but not everyone confesses to having a crush on their fake boyfriend,” you add with an awkward laugh, hoping to ease your nerves with the joking, though it’s not helping. “I’m really sorry about that. And also about… Implying that you did this whole thing just to change my stats and I’m also very, very sorry for saying I would have just slept with you if you asked. I-I was drunk, saying out loud everything on my mind, I understand if this is very awkward for you now and you want to never talk to me again, because I–”
Your rambling is cut by Harry stepping closer and holding his hands up to stop you from apologizing some more.
“Y/N, there’s nothing to apologize for,” he calmly says.
“Oh but there is,” you laugh bitterly, hoping the floor would just open and swallow you so you wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation. “I’m so sorry for throwing all that on you. You’ve been nothing but kind and supportive, helping me out with this whole situation and then I just dump all that on you.”
“I didn’t mind it, really,” he smirks with mischief in his eyes.
“Well, you do have something to kinda blackmail me with, so…” A breathless laugh rolls out of you, unsure what else to say.
“Hm, that’s an interesting idea, but no, I won’t be doing that.”
“Okay, so… can we pretend I said nothing? I promise I won’t make it awkward, I just really want things to be like before.”
Harry stares back at you with an unreadable expression before shaking his head.
“No.”
“No?” you ask surprised. “Okay, then–”
“I don’t want things to be like before.” Confusion just keeps building up in you, because he is saying that, but his face is telling you something different. “Remember how you asked why I wanted to do this whole fake dating thing?”
You nod, swallowing hard.
“I lied to you.”
“You did?”
“Yep,” he nods with an almost proud smirk as he slowly starts walking closer to you, lessening the distance between the two of you. “I made up this whole fake dating thing to be with you.”
For a second you’re convinced it’s just the hangover, making you imagine things, but then you realize that he actually said that.
“Wait, what?” you laugh in disbelief.
“You’ve not been the only one having a crush,” he admits with a gentle chuckle, stopping only an inch away from you. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to spend more time with you, making a move, but I wasn’t sure if you were open to that so then I came up with this ridiculous suggestion to fake date just so I could selfishly spend more time with you.”
“Are you pranking me? Getting back at me for getting way too drunk last night?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him, but he just shakes his head chuckling, his hands sneaking their way to your waist as he pulls you closer, closing the gap between the two of you.
“No. I truly wanted to help you with your situation, but I also wanted to be with you. I was willing to go through with this fake dating plan just to be with you. Kinda ridiculous, I know.”
“No, that’s…” you shake your head, something already melting in you as your hands slide up his arms to rest on his shoulders. “That’s kind of romantic, actually,” you admit chuckling. “So… you weren’t faking?”
“Not really.”
“The touches, the texts, the late night talks… they were all real for you as well? Because they were definitely real for me.”
“Absolutely,” he nods confidently.
“And… the kiss at the game?”
He bites into his bottom lip, looking away almost embarrassed before he speaks up.
“I saw you talking to that guy and I got jealous. I wanted to show him that you’re taken. That definitely wasn’t fake on my end.”
Your mind is blown. Every single interaction you’ve had since his proposal is now playing in your head, but in a whole new light. The touches, the gestures, the looks, the constant texting and that damn jersey he gave you before the game, it’s all clicking into place now.
“Holy shit,” you breathe out, making him laugh. “Are we really just two idiots?”
“Massive idiots,” he nods, grinning. “I feel like it’s time for us to fake breakup and get together for real,” he suggests, resting his forehead against yours. Your heart is hammering against your ribs and as you slip a hand down over his, you can feel how wildly his is pounding under your touch. You smile, wide and relieved before nodding.
“Please,” you breathe out and his lips are already crashing against yours.
***
Another winning game, another celebratory party. The boys have been going wild about this one, since it was their last game of the season and they reached an exceptional rank in the league this year.
The house is packed, the music is loud and booze is everywhere, though you’re not drinking more than three drinks tonight, a rule you made after that initial party a few months ago when Harry had to take you home and you made some drunk confessions. Even if those confessions led to you and him finally getting together, you’re not interested in making a fool out of yourself.
You’re sitting with the girls on the couches in the corner of the living room, Georgia sharing her latest disastrous dating experience as you all chime in with your own stories. You’re listening too, though your eyes keep wandering to a certain hockey player across the room, standing by the beerpong table.
Harry’s glance keeps returning to you as well, exchanging smiles and he occasionally winking at you, making your pulse quicken even after months of dating, he still has that effect on you. It’s hard to believe you once questioned if you even had a shot with him, the guy is absolutely smitten about you and the same goes for you too.
“Okay, stop with the eye-fucking! We are talking about bad experiences, you’re ruining the mood!” Georgia calls you out rolling her eyes, though she is smirking, obviously happy for you.
“Sorry! I’m just way too happy to think about all the shit from before,” you chuckle with a shrug, taking a sip from your drink.
“Wait, there is something I’m really curious about,” Larissa leans in closer with a cheeky smirk.
“I thought we’ve been over this, my stats have changed!” you answer with a dramatic sigh, making everyone laugh, but Larissa shakes her head.
“No. I need to know what he did differently than the others. What was it that you needed?”
“Girl, you always want to know the dirty deets,” Noor shakes her head chuckling.
“Of course I do! Look at her, she is glowing!” Larissa answers pointing at you. “You have to share it with the class!”
All the other girls start chiming in, agreeing that they absolutely need to know. With a longing look your gaze settles on Harry again and as if he could sense your stare, he looks right back at you, a soft smile tugging on his lips.
“You alright?” he mouths from across the room and you just nod with a gentle smile before turning back to the girls that are all waiting for you to answer.
“I needed… him. That’s what was missing. I just needed Harry.”
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
tropes: contract marriage, billionaire!harry, forced proximity, enemies to lovers, family secrets, slow burn.
warnings: explicit language, sexual content, power imbalance, manipulation, possessive behaviour, coercive situations, violence, health-related trauma, family trauma, grief, corruption.
author's note: this is purely a work of fiction. harry's character in this story is made up and doesn't reflect who he is in real life, his personality, his relationships, or any real events. please keep that in mind while reading.
chapter two is finally here — long overdue, i know ♡
this one got a little out of hand because i was very inspired and apparently forgot word limits exist, so chapter two will be posted in two parts.
thank you for being patient with me, and i really hope you enjoy this part.
likes, comments, and reblogs are always loved and appreciated 💌
───── 𓆩♡𓆪 ─────
[2.1] word count: 7,781.
[2.1] warnings: serious illness, medical stress, hospital debt, financial coercion, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, surveillance/invasion of privacy, contract marriage, mentions of a missing parent, family secrets, and class disparity.
𓆩♡𓆪
“Tell me what you want.”
I say it less than ten minutes after Graham Hale disappears into the elevator, and I hate myself for how quickly I got here.
The line clicks open, but no one speaks right away. The silence presses against my ear, too calm to be accidental, and my stomach twists because it feels like he already knows exactly where I am, standing in Maeve’s doorway with my phone in one hand and Harry Styles’s card in the other.
Behind me, Maeve sleeps with the oxygen line beneath her nose, her face pale and soft in the blue-white glow of the monitor. The machine keeps counting beside her, steady and merciless, and I close my fingers tighter around the silver nightingale until its tiny wings bite into my palm.
“Miss Bennett,” Graham Hale says, and somehow he doesn’t sound surprised.
He doesn’t say hello or ask who it is. He says my name with the same calm certainty he had in the corridor.
My jaw tightens. “You knew I’d call.”
“It seemed likely.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
I step farther into the hallway, keeping the door cracked behind me so I can still hear Maeve’s monitor. I need the proof that she’s still breathing while I do something I already know is stupid.
I look down at the card again, thumb brushing over the silver lettering pressed into the thick black paper.
Styles Holdings.
Harry Styles.
The numbers are printed on the back in smaller letters, because of course, men like Harry Styles don’t hand out direct lines to desperate waitresses.
“You said the deposit could be arranged tonight,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“It can.”
“For Maeve’s treatment?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“For the initial phase,” Graham says. “Any further costs will be covered.”
Covered. Like that’s all it takes. Like money is something men like him can move around with a phone call, while I stand here soaked and shaking, trying not to beg.
“What does your client want from me?”
“That conversation requires a more private setting.”
I laugh once, but there’s nothing funny in it. “Privacy? You had someone look into my sister’s hospital account.”
“I made an inquiry.”
“You mean you violated her privacy.”
“I mean, I gathered the necessary information.”
I stare at the wall across from me, my fingers tightening around the card. “You looked into my sister’s life and made it sound like paperwork.”
There’s a pause on the other end, long enough for a normal person to sound annoyed, amused, anything. Graham gives me nothing.
“My client is prepared to pay for care your sister can’t currently access,” he says smoothly. “You’re free to refuse.”
I glance back through the gap I left in Maeve’s door. She’s curled on her side with one hand tucked near her heart, the way she’s slept since we were kids, except now there’s an oxygen line under her nose and a monitor counting beside her.
“You know I can’t refuse,” I say.
Graham doesn’t answer, and somehow his silence is the first honest thing he’s given me all night.
My thumb rubs over Harry Styles’s name, hard enough to feel every raised letter. “What does he want from me?”
“That’s for my client to discuss in person.”
“In that case, he can call me himself.”
“If he wished to, he would.”
The answer is so calm, so dry, that for one stupid second I almost think there might be an actual person under the expensive suit. Then I remember the black car, the flag on Maeve’s account, and the way he said my mother’s name.
“Elena Bennett,” I say, quieter than I mean to.
Graham says nothing.
I hate the silence. I hate how careful everyone gets around my mother, like they all know something about her that I don’t.
“You brought up my mother,” I say. “Why?”
“Because she matters.”
“My mother disappeared ten years ago.”
“I’m aware.”
He says it like it’s old information, no surprise or sympathy in his voice, and my stomach turns slowly.
“What exactly do you know about her?”
“Enough to know my client’s interest isn’t random.”
My breath goes thin again. I look back at Maeve, at the oxygen line, at her pale hand curled near her chest. “I’m not agreeing to anything until I know what this is.”
“That’s what the meeting is for.”
“No. You showed up with money, a car, and information you had no right to have.”
“The car is already outside.”
I go still. “What car?”
“The same one you saw earlier.”
My pulse kicks hard beneath my ribs, and I look toward the end of the hallway like I might somehow see the black car waiting six floors below.
“You’ve been watching me.”
“We’re taking precautions.”
“That’s a very expensive way to say you’re watching me.”
“If you want to know the terms, the car will take you somewhere, and they can be discussed privately.”
“You want me to get into a stranger’s car at one in the morning?”
“Given your sister’s condition, yes.”
I press my lips together before I say something stupid. I won’t cry on the phone with this man. I won’t give him that, even with my hands shaking, my throat tight, and Maeve’s monitor still counting behind me.
“If she wakes up and I’m gone, she’ll panic,” I say.
“Arrangements have been made with the hospital.”
I go cold all at once. “You spoke to the hospital?”
“Your sister won’t be left alone.”
“You had no right.”
“No,” Graham says, as if that part doesn’t matter. “But she’ll be safe.”
Every answer from him leaves me with fewer choices, and that’s the point. I look through the doorway again. Maeve is still asleep, oxygen beneath her nose, the monitor glow washing the color from her face. She looks nothing like the girl who was making jokes less than half an hour ago. She looks like a girl whose body is tired of fighting, and something inside me folds in half.
This doesn’t feel like help. It feels like being given one option and told to be grateful for it.
Still, I ask, “If I get in the car, Maeve’s treatment deposit gets paid?”
“Once you agree, the deposit will no longer be an obstacle.”
“Once I agree,” I repeat. “So nothing happens until I say yes.”
“You choose your words carefully.”
“People like you keep proving I should.”
There’s another pause, and this time I think he almost laughs.
“My client expected your call tonight,” Graham says. “He expected your anger, too.”
“Your client sounds very sure of himself.”
“He often is.”
I hate him. I hate Graham Hale’s voice. I hate the card in my hand, the black car waiting downstairs, and Harry Styles, even though I’ve never seen his face, because he knows exactly how desperate I am and he’s still making me come to him. Most of all, I hate that none of that is going to stop me.
I close my eyes. When I open them, Maeve hasn’t moved, and I hold onto the small, brutal relief of her chest rising.
“What happens to Maeve if I say no?”
Graham’s voice softens, which somehow makes it worse. “Nothing changes.”
The words slide through me like ice. Nothing changes means Maeve stays exactly where she is, pale and sick and running out of time. It means the charity forms sit useless in my bag, the declined card in my pocket, and a deposit I can’t pay.
I push Maeve’s door open just enough to look at her before I go. “I’ll be back,” I whisper, because I need to say it even if she can’t hear me.
I step into the hallway and let the door close softly behind me.
The elevator drops floor by floor, too fast for me to change my mind. I stand in the corner with my arms wrapped around myself, watching the glowing numbers drop one by one. Six. Five. Four. My reflection stares back from the metal doors, soaked, pale, wrinkled, and looking exactly as cornered as I feel.
I look exactly like the kind of girl men in expensive cars think they can push around.
The thought makes my stomach twist, but the elevator doors open before I can push it away.
The lobby is almost empty. The security guard sits behind the desk, half-watching a tiny television, and near the vending machines, a woman sleeps with a coat folded over her lap. Outside the glass doors, the rain blurs the city lights into red and white lines.
At the curb, exactly where Graham said it would be, the car waits with its engine running, dark windows reflecting the hospital lights.
For a second, I stand under the hospital awning, staring at it, waiting for my body to move.
It doesn’t.
The engine runs so quietly I can barely hear it over the rain, but exhaust still drifts from the back, pale against the cold air. The windows are too dark, the paint too glossy, the whole thing too clean to be waiting outside a hospital for someone like me. It looks less like a car and more like an expensive warning.
My phone is still warm in my hand from the call. Graham has already ended it, because of course he has. Men like him don’t wait to be dismissed; they decide when something is over, and everyone else has to deal with it.
I shove the phone into my jacket pocket and take one step forward before stopping again. Every instinct I have screams at me not to get inside. I don’t know where I’m being taken, who’s waiting there, or what Harry Styles wants from me. All I know is that Maeve is upstairs with an oxygen line beneath her nose, and the deposit she needs is a number I can’t even imagine, let alone pay.
The rear door opens before I reach it.
I freeze.
A driver steps out, tall and silent in a black suit, umbrella already open, expression unreadable. He looks at me with no surprise, no curiosity, no normal human reaction to the fact that I’m soaked, furious, and walking toward a luxury car at one in the morning.
“Miss Bennett,” he says, holding the umbrella steady.
I hate how my name keeps ending up in strangers’ mouths tonight.
“Does everyone around here get a copy of my file?” I ask.
The driver doesn’t even blink. “Mr. Hale is waiting inside.”
I glance past him into the car, but all I can see is darkness and the faint shine of leather seats. My reflection stares back instead, wet hair plastered to my face, uniform wrinkled, dark circles under my eyes. I look like a girl trying very hard not to admit she’s already out of options.
“I need to stay close to the hospital,” I say, even though I know I don’t sound convincing. I’m not in a position to set rules. We both know that.
“You won’t be taken far.”
“That doesn’t tell me where.”
“No,” the driver says. “It doesn’t.”
I stare at him, waiting for something. An apology, an explanation, a flicker of guilt, anything that suggests he hasn’t done this a hundred times before. He only stares back, calm, blank, and irritatingly good at his job.
For one reckless second, I consider turning around and walking straight back into the hospital. Taking the elevator to the sixth floor, crawling into the chair beside Maeve’s bed, and pretending the card never existed, filling out the charity forms, calling insurance again, begging people who’ll speak to me gently and tell me no in softer words.
Then I remember Dr. Harlow’s face when he said not long, and the choice closes around me.
I duck under the umbrella and climb into the car.
The second I sit down, I feel like I shouldn’t be touching anything. The inside is warm, silent, and spotless in a way that makes me painfully aware of my wet hair, my stained uniform, the rain dripping from my sleeves. The seats are black leather, soft enough to sink into, and the air smells faintly of cedar and something clean I can’t name. There are tiny lights along the floor, a glass partition behind the driver, and so much space between the seats that my knees don’t come close to anything.
I sit there dripping rainwater onto carpet probably worth more than my rent, and the shame of it makes my throat tighten.
Money is everywhere in here. In the stitching, in the quiet, in the way the outside world disappears the second the door shuts. No carts, no vending machines, no monitor beeps. Just warmth, leather, and the kind of silence only rich people can afford.
I hate it immediately.
Graham Hale sits across from me, one leg crossed over the other, looking exactly as composed as he did in the corridor. His coat is dry, his hair neat, and there isn’t a single sign that the night has touched him at all.
“You’re angry,” he says.
I look down at the water pooling beneath my shoes. “That’s what gave it away?”
His eyes flick briefly to my face. “Mr. Styles values competence.”
“Good for him.”
For the first time, something almost changes in his expression.
The car pulls away from the curb before I can ask where we’re going, and my pulse jumps as the hospital slides past the window. I twist in my seat, trying to keep the entrance, the sixth floor, Maeve’s room in sight for as long as I can.
Maeve is in there, six floors above me, and I’m leaving with a stranger.
My hand reaches for the door handle before I can stop it.
“It locks automatically while the vehicle is moving,” Graham says.
I whip my head toward him. “That's not helping.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because you reached for the handle.”
My fingers curl around the handle anyway, uselessly. The lock doesn’t give. I force myself to let go before he can see my hand shaking, even though I’m sure he notices.
Graham reaches beside him and lifts a folder from the seat. It’s black, like the card, with no label on the front. He places it between us, but when I reach for it, his hand settles on top before my fingers can touch it.
“Not yet.”
I stare at his hand. “Seriously?”
“There’s an order to this.”
“Of course there is.”
“Yes,” he says.
My laugh comes out breathless and mean. “God, you’re exhausting.”
“This folder contains the preliminary terms, the arrangements for your sister’s care, and the clauses that would take effect upon signature.”
Signature.
The word lands hard enough that I forget to breathe for a second.
I sit back slowly. “Sign what?”
Graham watches me for a moment, saying nothing, and suddenly the car feels smaller than it did a minute ago.
“A contract,” Graham says.
My mouth goes dry. There’s a contract. Saving Maeve comes with paperwork, signatures, and men in clean suits who know things they shouldn’t. I don’t know why the word still knocks something loose in me, but it does.
The heating is too warm, but my socks are still cold inside my shoes, my skin damp beneath my clothes, my throat tight from rain and panic and everything I haven’t let myself feel yet. I look at the folder, then at Graham, then out the window as the car turns onto a street I don’t recognize.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Mr. Styles is expecting you.”
My pulse stumbles, and I hate that. I hate that his name is enough to make my body react when I haven’t even seen his face yet.
The driver’s voice comes through the speaker before I can respond. “Estimated arrival is nine minutes. Her residence on Lark Street is sixteen minutes away, if needed.”
Everything in me goes cold.
I turn slowly toward the partition. “What did he just say?”
Graham doesn’t look surprised. “He confirmed the route.”
“No. He said where I live.”
The car stays silent except for the soft hiss of tires on wet road.
I stare at Graham. “You know where I live.”
“We have your address.”
The plainness of it makes my stomach turn.
“You had no right to get it.”
Graham doesn’t blink. “It was necessary.”
“No, it wasn’t.” My voice rises before I can stop it. “You know where Maeve is. You know where I work. You know where I live. You know what I owe.”
He says nothing.
“And somehow,” I add, quieter now, “you know about my mother.”
That finally feels like too much.
I look at the black folder between us. “What else is in there?”
Graham’s expression doesn’t change. He goes quiet, and somehow that’s worse.
The car slows outside a building I don’t recognize, all dark glass and stone, with warm light spilling from the entrance. A man in a suit waits beneath the awning, watching the car pull in.
Graham finally lifts his hand from the folder and slides it toward me.
“Before you meet Mr. Styles,” he says, “you should understand what agreeing means.”
The car stops before I can answer Graham, tires whispering against the curb.
For a second, I don’t move. I stare through the rain-streaked window, my hand still hovering near the folder. Outside, the building is dark glass and stone, with warm light at the entrance and no sign anywhere I can see.
That bothers me more than it should. Hospitals have signs, diners have signs, even collection offices have signs, because people ruining your life usually want you to know where to find them.
This place has nothing.
Just a man in a suit waiting beneath the awning, hands folded in front of him, expression blank.
Graham takes the folder back before I can touch it. “This way.”
I look at him. “You just said I need to understand the terms.”
“You do.”
“But not here?”
“Mr. Styles prefers to answer certain questions in person.”
I laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. “Right. Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”
Graham steps out into the rain without reacting. The driver is already at my door with the umbrella open, like they rehearsed this. For one ridiculous second, I stay in the seat to make them wait, but then I think of Maeve upstairs and the deposit I can’t pay, and I get out.
The cold hits immediately, sliding under my jacket and through my damp uniform. My shoes splash against the curb as I pull my bag closer, while the driver angles the umbrella over me. The building’s glass doors reflect us as we approach, and I catch one glimpse of myself beside Graham.
He looks dry, pressed, and composed.
I look like I’ve been dragged through a storm.
The man beneath the awning opens the door before we even reach it.
“Good evening, Mr. Hale,” he says, before his eyes move to me. “Miss Bennett.”
I stop walking.
Graham doesn’t.
I hurry after him because standing outside, glaring at security, won’t help Maeve. Still, I want to ask how he knows my name, too. I want to know how many people have been handed pieces of my life before I even walked through the door.
The lobby is warm, quiet, and completely wrong. No reception desk. No waiting chairs. No bored woman answering phones. Just polished stone floors, dark walls, low lighting, and a long black desk with another security guard behind it.
I grip the strap of my bag tighter, scanning the room as we walk. Cameras sit tucked into the corners, so small I almost miss them. A narrow hallway waits to the left with a keypad beside the door, and to the right, an elevator stands open, gold light spilling across the floor.
No one asks Graham where he’s going.
No one asks me who I am.
They already know enough not to bother.
I hate that no one has to ask who I am.
“You people don’t do normal, do you?” I mutter.
Graham doesn’t slow down. “Normal is rarely secure.”
“That doesn’t make it less creepy.”
He glances at me, brief and unreadable. “If we meant to harm you, Miss Bennett, we wouldn’t need this many cameras.”
I stare at him. “Was that supposed to reassure me?”
“No. It was supposed to be accurate.”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but there’s too much panic in it to count. My eyes flick back to the glass doors behind us. The car is still there, engine running, black and silent at the curb. Beyond it, traffic moves through the rain, normal life carrying on without me.
I have the horrible feeling I crossed some line when I stepped inside this building. The hospital, the rain, the version of me who still thought she could walk away — all of it feels too far behind me now.
The elevator doors slide open as we approach, and Graham steps inside without looking back.
I stay where I am.
He turns back, one hand holding the folder against his side. “Miss Bennett.”
“I need a second.”
“We don’t have many of those.”
I look at him. “You’re very good at making this feel like a kidnapping.”
“You came voluntarily.”
“No,” I say, stepping into the elevator even though my stomach twists as soon as I do. “I came because you put my sister’s treatment on the other side of this.”
The doors close before he answers.
The elevator rises smoothly, too smoothly, nothing like the hospital elevators with their creaks and little jerks. I stare at the glowing numbers above the doors and try not to think about how many cameras are watching me. My reflection shows in the polished metal beside the panel, bent slightly by the curve: wet hair, pale cheeks, ruined eyeliner, and the silver nightingale at my throat.
I reach up and tuck it back under my shirt.
Graham notices anyway.
“It matters to you,” he says.
I look at him sharply. “Don’t.”
“I only observed.”
“No, you didn’t. You filed it away.”
His expression stays smooth, but his silence tells me I’m right.
The elevator opens onto a quiet floor with dark carpet, low lights, and unmarked doors lining the hallway. No names. No numbers. Nothing useful. The air smells faintly of coffee and something floral, and my wet shoes squeak with every step.
I hate that sound.
It makes me feel louder than everyone else.
Cheaper than everything around me.
Graham leads me down the hallway, past two more men in suits who glance at me once and then look away. I wrap my arms around myself, partly because I’m cold and partly because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
The building doesn’t feel like a law office. It doesn’t feel like a business headquarters either. It feels like the kind of place people come when they need something fixed quietly: a scandal buried, a witness paid off, a debt rearranged.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“A private office.”
“Whose?”
“Mr. Styles’s.”
I stop walking. “Why didn’t you just say that?”
Graham stops too, just outside a door at the end of the hall. He turns to face me, and for a second, he almost looks impatient.
Then it’s gone.
“You’re here because your sister needs care you can’t pay for,” he says quietly. “You’re angry. You should be. But anger won’t pay the deposit, Miss Bennett. It won’t change the timeline. My client can.”
The words hit too close.
I hate him for saying them, mostly because he’s right. For a moment, all I can hear is Maeve’s monitor in my head, even though I’m nowhere near the hospital now.
Graham opens the door.
The room beyond is smaller than I expected, and somehow that makes it worse. No huge table. No dramatic skyline. No leather chairs. Just dark walls, a polished table, two chairs, and a glass of water already waiting on one side.
It feels like one more choice taken before I even knew I had it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.
Graham steps inside. “Please sit.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Then why is there water?”
“People often ask for it during difficult conversations.”
I stare at him, too shocked to speak for a second.
He doesn’t look sorry.
I don’t know whether to slap him or laugh, and the fact that I’m close to both makes me feel unsteady.
“You know how awful that sounds, right?”
“Yes.”
Somehow, that’s worse.
I walk into the room anyway because apparently that’s who I am now: a girl who follows men in suits into private rooms because her sister needs a chance.
I lower myself into the chair, keeping my bag in my lap instead of placing it on the floor. The room is too clean, too warm, too quiet. My damp clothes stick to my skin, and I’m suddenly aware of every stain on my uniform, which is not exactly the mood for signing anything.
Graham sits across from me and places the black folder on the table between us, close enough for me to reach it this time.
I look at the folder, then at him. “Where is he?”
“Nearby.”
“Where?”
“You’ll meet him after this.”
“After what?”
Graham places one hand on the folder I wasn’t allowed to open in the car, the one that supposedly explains what Maeve’s treatment will cost me.
Something locks beneath my ribs.
“After you understand what Mr. Styles is offering,” he says.
“And what it costs.”
Graham doesn’t look away as he opens the black folder.
“Yes,” he says. “And what Mr. Styles expects from you.”
Graham opens the folder slowly, like he has all the time in the world. Inside, the papers are arranged in careful sections, clipped and tabbed with tiny silver labels. It looks organized in a way that makes me feel sick, like every part of this has already been planned without me.
I keep my bag in my lap and press my fingers into the strap until it digs into my skin.
“If this is supposed to make me feel better,” I say, “it’s failing.”
“It isn’t meant to.”
“Of course it isn’t.”
Graham looks down at the first page. “Mr. Styles will cover the deposit required to enroll Maeve in the treatment program Dr. Harlow recommended.”
The words land too cleanly. Full deposit. Enrollment secured—Dr. Harlow’s recommendation.
Everything I’ve been trying to reach is suddenly sitting on the page in front of me, neat and possible and awful.
My eyes burn, but I force my face to stay still.
“How much?” I ask.
Graham looks up. “All of it.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to take it back or add the part that ruins it.
He doesn’t. Not yet.
“The deposit would go directly to the treatment facility,” he continues. “Insurance, grants, and financial review wouldn’t slow anything down.”
Financial review. A polite little phrase for turning poverty into paperwork.
I look at the folder, then at Graham. “You spoke to Dr. Harlow?”
“Not directly.”
“But you know what he recommended.”
“Yes.”
“Because you looked into Maeve’s records.”
“Because my client needed accurate information before making an offer.”
I laugh under my breath, but it sounds wrong in the quiet room. “You say that like it’s normal.”
“It is normal for him.”
“That’s my sister,” I say.
Graham’s face doesn’t change, but he lowers his eyes back to the page. It’s the closest thing to discomfort I’ve seen from him.
“The initial experimental treatment phase would also be covered in full,” he says. “Medication, monitoring, specialist consultations, hospital transfer if necessary, and any required equipment.”
My fingers loosen on my bag without permission, and I hate myself for it. Because the second he says it, I can picture Maeve somewhere better than room 614. A cleaner room. Better doctors. Machines that don’t look borrowed. Care that doesn’t begin with forms, appeals, and women behind glass.
I can picture my sister breathing easier. And I hate Harry Styles for making that possible in my head.
“Private specialist care would start immediately,” Graham says. “There are doctors in London who have worked with cases like Maeve’s. Her file could be reviewed tonight.”
“Tonight?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Yes.”
I swallow, and it hurts. A few hours ago, I couldn’t get twenty dollars through a card machine. I stood under fluorescent lights while it declined me three times. I learned Maeve didn’t have long.
Now Graham is telling me Harry Styles can get doctors in London to look at her case tonight.
Anger comes back so fast it almost steadies me.
“That’s disgusting,” I say.
Graham looks up. “Access to care?”
“No. That he can make one call and move things I’ve been begging for.”
The room goes quiet.
Above us, the air conditioning hums low and steady. My breathing sounds too loud and uneven, no matter how hard I try to control it, and the damp fabric of my uniform sticks cold against my back.
Graham doesn’t apologize, and I think I’d hate him more if he did.
“Current medical balances will be cleared,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“Maeve’s hospital bills,” he says. “Anything still outstanding.”
I stare at him. For a second, I don’t even feel relieved. I think about all the nights I lay awake with those numbers in my head, adding and re-adding them, pretending there was a version of the math that ended with Maeve saved.
“All of it?” I ask.
Graham doesn’t hesitate. “All of it.”
My eyes burn. I look down quickly, pretending to examine the papers so he won’t see.
That’s what makes it horrible. Not that the offer is cruel, or insulting, or useless.
It isn’t. It’s perfect. It’s the deposit, the doctors, the bills, the time Maeve doesn’t have. It’s my sister alive long enough to get angry at me for making decisions without her. It’s one morning, maybe, where I wake up and don’t reach for my phone, already terrified.
Graham turns another page. “Future treatment costs connected to Maeve’s condition would be covered as well.”
I go still. “Future costs?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as medically necessary.”
The phrase hits so hard I almost laugh. He says it like it’s simple. Years of fear solved with one line in a folder.
“And what counts as connected to her condition?” I ask because apparently the part of me that still knows how to be careful hasn’t completely died tonight.
“Treatment, medication, monitoring, emergency care, rehabilitation, specialist consultations, and medical transport.”
“Medical transport,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“That’s a very clean way to say moving my sister without risking her life.”
Graham pauses. “It’s the contractual term.”
I drag a hand over my mouth and look away before something comes out of me, a laugh or a scream, I’m not sure which.
Graham continues, because apparently my emotional collapse isn’t scheduled until later. “Mr. Styles would also provide secure transport to and from the hospital. Controlled visitor access, where appropriate. Protection from anyone applying pressure over your father’s debts.”
My head snaps back toward him. “My father’s debts?”
“They’re relevant.”
“No. Maeve’s treatment is relevant. My father’s debts are not.”
“They are if collectors are using your sister’s condition against you.”
I go still.
Aaron Keller’s voice comes back to me.
People like you should be careful who they owe, especially when someone else has already offered to pay.
I hate that Graham knows. I hate that Harry knows. I hate that my father has been dead for years and still keeps finding ways to make my life smaller.
Graham’s eyes stay on mine. “Mr. Styles can arrange legal assistance to review the debts attached to your father’s account. If collectors have acted improperly, they’ll be dealt with.”
“Dealt with,” I repeat.
“Legally.”
“I hate that you had to add that.”
I sit back, my heart beating too hard. The offer is too big. It’s not just Maeve’s treatment anymore. It’s the hospital bills, my father’s debts, the collectors, every part of my life I’ve been trying to keep from collapsing.
Harry Styles hasn’t even walked into the room yet, and somehow his money is already everywhere.
“Why would he do this?” I ask.
Graham doesn’t answer right away.
“That’s for Mr. Styles to explain.”
“Of course it is.”
I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek until I taste metal.
“What else?”
Graham turns another page. “Protection from collectors, threats, and anyone trying to use your sister’s condition against you.”
“Protection,” I say slowly.
“Yes.”
“From people like you?”
His eyes lift to mine. For the first time, something changes there. Not anger, not guilt, just a brief tightening before it disappears.
“From people worse than me,” he says.
The room feels colder.
I stare at him, waiting for him to take it back or make it sound less awful, but he doesn’t. He looks down at the folder again.
People worse than him. Of course, there are people worse than him. There are always worse people. The world has never once run out.
“Secure hospital access would be arranged for you,” he continues. “You’d be able to visit Maeve without interference from collectors, unauthorized parties, or press attention.”
“Press?” I repeat.
“A precaution.”
My stomach drops. “Why would the press care about me?”
Graham closes his mouth.
It’s small, barely anything, but I see it.
“You weren’t supposed to say that,” I say.
He looks back at the papers. “It’s part of the protection clause.”
“I’m not asking about the clause. Why would the press care?”
“Because Mr. Styles is a public figure.”
“I don’t know him.”
“You will.”
The two words settle over the table.
I stare at him, suddenly aware of the room again: the water glass beside my hand, the quiet hallway outside, the men in suits, the car waiting downstairs, the folder full of things I need too badly.
Graham turns the final page in the section and slides it toward me. This time, he lets me look. There’s no full contract yet — just a summary page, neat and clinical, with Maeve’s name typed near the top.
Maeve Bennett — Medical Support and Protective Arrangements.
I stare at her name. That’s what it does. Not the money. Not the folder. Her name, printed there like this, is already happening.
A few hours ago, I was serving cappuccinos to women who thought oat milk was a tragedy. Now I’m sitting in a private office while a man I don’t trust explains how another man I haven’t met can save Maeve, erase the bills, scare off the collectors, arrange doctors, and make the impossible happen before morning.
It should feel like mercy. It feels like a trap with perfect lighting.
I push the page back toward him.
“No,” I say, but it comes out weaker than I want.
Graham doesn’t move. “No?”
“No, as in I don’t like this.”
“That isn’t required.”
“Neither is trusting him, I’m guessing.”
“Correct.”
I stare at him. “You realize how awful this sounds?”
“Yes.”
I laugh quietly, but my hands still won’t stop shaking. “You’ve listed every single thing I need and put Harry Styles’s name underneath it.”
Graham holds my gaze.
“Yes,” he says. “That’s the offer.”
The offer.
Like this is simple. Like he hasn’t just taken every fear inside my chest and arranged it neatly on the table.
I look at the folder again. Maeve’s treatment, her doctors, her bills. My father’s debts, the collectors, the hospital access, and the car waiting downstairs.
Everything I can’t fix. Everything Harry Styles apparently can.
My mouth is dry when I finally speak.
“And what does Harry Styles get?”
Graham doesn’t answer right away.
That’s the first thing that scares me. Not the folder. Not the building. Not the car downstairs with its tinted windows and silent driver. The pause after my question is worse than all of it.
I sit back slowly, my bag still clutched in my lap, fingers tight around the strap. The glass of water sits untouched beside me, and suddenly I understand why it was waiting here.
People probably do need water during difficult conversations. People probably need a lot of things when rich men start naming prices.
Graham turns one page, then another.
He takes his time.
My pulse is loud in my ears, and every second he doesn’t speak makes my mind move faster.
Maybe Harry Styles wants the money back later, which would be funny if anything about this were funny. Maybe he wants something tied to my father’s debts. Maybe it’s blackmail. Maybe it’s about Elena, about whatever Graham knows and won’t say. Maybe it’s some favor I won’t understand until it’s too late.
I’m ready for something ugly.
I think I am.
Graham looks up from the folder. “Mr. Styles wants you to marry him.”
For a second, I don’t understand him. I hear the words clearly, but my brain refuses to make sense of them.
Marry him like that’s a reasonable sentence. Like he hasn’t just asked me to give my life to a man I’ve never even seen.
I blink at him. “What?”
“Mr. Styles wants you to marry him.”
My mouth opens, then closes again. I almost laugh, but nothing comes out. My body has gone strangely still, like even panic needs a second to catch up.
“Marry him?” I say finally.
“Yes.”
“I don’t even know him.”
“That isn’t a requirement.”
I stare at him.
It takes a second for the fury to arrive, but when it does, it comes hot and fast, burning straight through the shock.
“That is absolutely a requirement.”
“Legally, it is not.”
I push back from the table so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor. “Are you insane?”
Graham remains seated. “No.”
“Then he is.”
“It is an unusual arrangement.”
I laugh then, sharp and ugly, pressing one hand to my forehead because my skull feels too tight for all of this.
“Unusual. Right. That’s what we’re calling it.”
Graham watches me with that same calm expression, like he already knew I’d react this way.
“It would be a contractual marriage,” he says.
I go still.
The words are worse the second time because now I understand them.
Contract.
Marriage.
Two things that should never touch are somehow sitting in the same folder as Maeve’s name.
“No,” I say.
“You haven’t heard the terms.”
“I don’t need to hear the terms. The answer is no.”
“Miss Bennett—”
“No.” My voice cracks, and I hate it, so I push harder. “Tell Harry Styles I’m not marrying a man I’ve never met because he can pay bills I can’t.”
Graham lets me finish. Somehow, that makes me angrier.
Then he says, “The marriage would last one year.”
My stomach drops—one year.
He says it like that makes this better, like I should be grateful it isn’t forever.
“One year,” I repeat, because apparently I need to hear how insane it sounds in my own voice.
“Yes.”
“And after that?”
“The agreement ends.”
“The agreement,” I say, my voice thin with disbelief. “You mean the marriage.”
“Yes.”
I look at the folder, then at him, then at the door behind me.
I should leave. That’s the only reasonable thing to do. I should stand up, walk out, take the elevator back to the hospital, and pretend this conversation never happened. But Maeve’s name is still on the page. Her treatment is still in the folder. And leaving means walking away from the only real chance she has.
I know I shouldn’t ask. I ask anyway.
“How soon?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I hate myself.
Graham’s eyes flicker. Not much. Enough.
“As soon as the documents are signed and the necessary arrangements are made.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Within the week, ideally.”
I feel the blood drain out of my face.
Within the week.
A few hours ago, I was wiping spilled milk off my hand and ignoring a hospital call, like five more minutes of pretending everything was normal might hold my life together. Now I’m sitting in a private room being told I could be married to Harry Styles before the week is over.
I grip the edge of the table because the room tilts slightly.
“I thought he wanted money,” I say.
“He has money.”
“I noticed.”
“This is not about money.”
“Then what is it about?”
Graham looks at me for a moment. “You’ll have to ask him.”
I slam my palm against the table before I can stop myself. The sound cracks through the room, too loud in all the expensive quiet, and for the first time, Graham’s eyes move to my hand.
Good. Let him look.
“No,” I say. “No more of that. No more answers that aren’t answers. You don’t get to tell me a stranger wants to marry me, then act like the reason is some little detail I can collect later.”
Graham’s jaw tightens slightly. It’s the smallest movement, but I see it.
“Mr. Styles has his reasons.”
“Then tell me one.”
“That is not my place.”
I laugh again, but it comes out too breathless. “Of course it isn’t.”
I stand because sitting makes me feel trapped.
The room is too warm, my uniform still damp against my skin, my shoes cold and uncomfortable, my hair drying in messy strands around my face. I must look ridiculous in here, pacing beside a polished table while Graham sits like he’s discussing paperwork instead of my life.
Maybe that’s all I am in this folder. Paperwork. A signature. A solution.
“What happens if I say no?” I ask, already knowing I’m going to hate the answer.
“Nothing.”
I stop pacing and turn to him.
Graham folds his hands loosely over the open folder. “Mr. Styles will not force you.”
“No,” I say, the word bitter in my mouth. “He’ll just let my sister die politely.”
Something changes around Graham’s eyes. It’s gone almost instantly, but I see it.
“Maeve’s care will continue as it is now,” he says.
“That’s not care. That’s waiting.”
“I understand how this feels.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”
That stops me for a second.
It’s too honest, and I don’t know what to do with the honesty from him. Then he ruins it.
“But your feelings do not change the available options.”
I close my eyes.
For one second, I let myself hate him completely.
It feels good, almost. Clean. Easier than hating the bills, the hospital, my father, my mother, the illness, the timing, the entire world that has arranged itself so my sister’s life can be placed on one side of a scale and my freedom on the other.
When I open my eyes, Graham is sliding another page out from beneath the first.
“The marriage must be public enough to be legally and socially recognized,” he says. “For one year, you would be expected to follow specific terms.”
“Specific terms,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
I laugh quietly, staring at him. “Let me guess. They’re already written.”
“You may review them.”
“That’s not the same as choosing them.”
“No.”
At least he doesn’t lie. That might be the worst part about him.
He doesn’t pretend this is kind. He tells me where the trap is and waits for me to step into it.
“Why me?” I ask.
Graham goes still. It’s subtle, but I notice it immediately.
His fingers stop moving over the page.
“What?” he says.
“Why me?” I repeat, stepping closer to the table. “Harry Styles could marry anyone. Someone rich. Someone useful. Someone who owns more than one pair of work shoes. So why would he need me?”
Graham looks at me for a long second, and the room feels like it’s tightening around us.
“That,” he says, “is a question for Mr. Styles.”
My stomach turns.
There it is again. That locked door. That place everyone keeps stopping right before my mother’s name appears.
“This is about Elena, isn’t it?”
Graham does not answer.
My skin goes cold.
“It is,” I whisper.
“Miss Bennett—”
“Don’t.” I point at the folder, at the pages, at the impossible offer laid out between us. “Don’t say my name like you’re calming down an animal. Just tell me the truth.”
“The truth,” Graham says, too evenly, “is that Mr. Styles is offering you a way to save your sister.”
“And buy me.”
“Marry you.”
“That is not better.”
“No,” he says. “It is more precise.”
I stare at him for a moment, and then I laugh because if I don’t, I might actually start crying.
“God, I hate you.”
Graham looks down at the folder. “That is understandable.”
My eyes drop back to the pages.
Marriage.
One year.
Harry Styles.
Maeve’s treatment.
The words blur together until I can barely look at them.
I think of Maeve sleeping upstairs with one hand near her heart. I think of her telling me she isn’t furniture. I think of how furious she would be if she knew I was sitting here listening to this. Then I think of Dr. Harlow saying not long, and I have to look away from the folder.
“I can’t agree to this,” I say, but my voice is too quiet.
Too uncertain. Graham hears it.
“You are not being asked to sign tonight.”
I look up quickly. “I’m not?”
“No. You are being asked to hear the offer.”
“And then?”
“Then you meet Mr. Styles.”
Something jumps in my chest, and I hate myself for it.
“And if I still say no?”
“Then you say no.”
“That simple?”
“No,” Graham says. “But it is clear.”
I don’t believe him. Not for a second. Still, the fact that he says it makes something loosen in my lungs, just enough that I can breathe around the panic again.
Graham gathers the pages he’s been referencing and slides a new set from the folder. These are thicker, more formal, with dense paragraphs, numbered clauses, and blank spaces waiting for signatures.
The sight of them makes me feel cold.
He turns them around and pushes them across the table toward me.
tropes: contract marriage, billionaire!harry, forced proximity, enemies to lovers, family secrets, slow burn.
warnings: explicit language, sexual content, power imbalance, manipulation, possessive behaviour, coercive situations, violence, health-related trauma, family trauma, griet, corruption.
author's note: this is purely a work of fiction. harry's character in this story is made up and doesn't reflect who he is in real life, his personality, his relationships, or any real events. please keep that in mind while reading.
By the last hour of my shift, my arms are aching from carrying too much at once: three plates balanced along my forearm, two mugs hooked awkwardly between my fingers, and a basket of fries pressed against my wrist, the grease already bleeding hot through the paper liner and sticking to my skin. My phone buzzes in my apron pocket for the fourth time in ten minutes, and I ignore it badly.
I smile at table twelve like my feet aren't blistered inside secondhand shoes, like there isn't a coffee stain drying on my sleeve from six hours ago, like I didn't spend my break locked in the staff bathroom refreshing Maeve's hospital portal until the words blurred together. My hands started shaking so hard I nearly dropped my phone into the sink.
"Anything else?" I ask.
The woman at table twelve looks up from her phone, diamonds flashing under the sickly yellow diner lights as she nudges her cappuccino toward me with two manicured fingers. "This isn't oat milk."
I stare down at the drink I didn't even make, then at her untouched avocado toast, which probably costs more than the groceries sitting in my apartment right now, and for one insane second, I wish I lived in a world where being served the wrong milk was my biggest problem. Must be nice.
"I'll fix that for you."
She sighs like I've personally ruined her whole night, and I take the mug back with a smile sharp enough to cut myself on, because rent doesn't care about pride, and neither do hospital bills. Behind the counter, Marco's scraping burnt eggs off the grill with his shoulders hunched from another double shift.
At this hour, the diner is too bright, all chrome edges and cracked red booths, rain smearing the windows, and the stale smell of coffee, grease, with exhaustion clinging to everything. Near the window, a man in a dark overcoat stirs sugar into a coffee he hasn't touched. I notice him because he doesn't fit.
Everyone else in here looks rain-soaked, tired, drunk, miserable, or some ugly combination of all four, but he looks untouched by any of it; not a drop of rain on his coat, his shoes polished, his posture easy, his expression calm in a way that makes something cold crawl up my spine before I even know why.
My phone buzzes again, and I freeze just long enough for panic to sink its teeth into me before slipping my hand into my apron pocket and pressing the side button without looking, because silence is all I need right now—five more minutes of it, maybe ten if the universe has any mercy left.
"You good?" Marco asks.
"Perfect," I say, setting the wrong cappuccino beside the sink. "Living the dream."
"Your dream looks like it needs caffeine."
"My dream needs a billionaire with a guilt complex."
Marco snorts. "Don't we all." I reach for a clean mug, then stop when my fingers brush the small silver nightingale at my throat. The necklace's slipped free from beneath my black uniform shirt again, cold little wings resting against my skin like a warning, and I close my hand around it before I can stop myself.
For luck, my mom had said when she fastened it behind my neck years ago, back when I was still young enough to believe mothers stayed because they loved you.
Six months later, she was gone.
So no, I don't believe in luck. However, I still touch the necklace every time Maeve's monitor dips, every time a bill arrives, every time a doctor uses that soft, careful voice that means they're about to politely destroy my life, and especially tonight, when my phone won't stop buzzing. My phone buzzes again, and this time, I look. One missed call from the hospital.
My breath thins. It doesn't stop, because that would be dramatic, and I don't have the time or energy to be dramatic. It just tightens until every inhale scrapes against something sharp in my chest. No voicemail. That's worse.
No voicemail means they're going to call again, no voicemail means the nurse is busy, no voicemail means I have to stand in the middle of a diner with a cappuccino in my hand and not imagine my seventeen-year-old sister alone in a hospital bed, pretending she isn't scared.
"Isla," Marco says carefully.
I blink, realizing the cappuccino's overflowed, milk sliding hot over my knuckles and dripping onto the counter. "Damn it." I grab a towel, wiping at my hand first, then the counter, then the mug, because if I keep moving, maybe I won't fall apart.
"You need to go?" Marco asks.
"No." It comes out too fast, and Marco stares at me while I keep wiping the counter like scrubbing hard enough might keep everything else from spilling over too, like if I clean hard enough, I can scrub away the tightness closing around my throat. "I said I'd close."
"You also said your sister's in the hospital."
"She's always in the hospital." The words taste awful the second they leave my mouth, bitter, cruel, too close to the truth, and when Marco's face softens, I hate him a little for it because kindness is the one thing I've never learned how to defend myself against.
Before he can say anything gentle enough to undo me, the bell above the door chimes, and someone steps inside, bringing a gust of cold rain and the smell of wet pavement. But my attention snags on the man from the window. He's standing near the entrance now, not waiting for a table, not shaking rain from his coat, not glancing around as a normal person would in a twenty-four-hour diner at midnight.
He's just standing there in his dark overcoat and polished shoes, calm as sin, looking directly at me. Only me. My fingers curl around the towel. For one quiet second, the man holds my gaze, and something about him makes the whole diner feel smaller, the lights too bright, the air too thin, the rain too loud against the glass. Then his eyes drop to the phone in my hand. It buzzes again.
The hospital number lights up my screen, and I answer before the second buzz finishes. "This is Isla Bennett."
The voice on the other end is familiar. Nurse Patel, kind and careful, which is usually comforting, except kindness sounds different when it's being used to soften bad news. "Isla, sweetheart, Maeve had another episode."
The diner noise fades behind me, Marco calling for an order, the woman at table twelve asking about her cappuccino, the grill hissing, the dishwasher coughing in the back, all of it dulling until there's only the phone, Nurse Patel's breathing, and the little silver nightingale pressing cold against my chest. I tighten my grip around the towel.
"How bad?" There's a pause, not long and not dramatic, but long enough.
"She's stable now," Nurse Patel says, which is never comforting, because no one says now unless things were bad a minute ago. "Her heart rate spiked, then dropped. She was having trouble breathing, but we've got her on oxygen, and Dr. Harlow's with her."
I close my eyes. Those words are supposed to be mercy, but instead, they open a trapdoor beneath my ribs. "Was she alone?"
"No, honey. I was with her."
"Did she pass out?"
"Briefly."
The chrome counter blurs, and I swallow once, twice, hard enough to hurt. "Did she ask for me?" Another pause, softer this time. "She didn't want us to call you until your shift was over." A laugh almost escapes me, but it comes out wrong, sharp and broken at the edges, because of course Maeve said that—Maeve, who's seventeen and dying with better manners than most healthy people.
Maeve who apologizes to the nurses for needing help. Maeve who once threw up blood and then asked if I still had time to study for my anatomy exam.
"I'm coming," I say.
"You don't have to rush. She's resting now."
"I'm coming."
Nurse Patel doesn't argue. She knows better. I end the call, and for one terrible second, I do nothing. I stand there with the phone in my hand and the whole world pressing down on me like it's waiting to see if this is the moment I finally crack. Then everything in me becomes movement.
I untie my apron, shove it under the counter, grab my bag from the hook near the kitchen, and Marco's already there, blocking the narrow hallway with that look on his face that tells me he heard enough.
"Go," he says.
"I'm supposed to close."
"I'll close."
"You already covered me last week."
"And I'm planning to bring it up every time I need a favor for the rest of our lives. Go."
The woman at table twelve lifts one manicured hand. "Excuse me? My drink?" I turn toward her, and for one reckless, exhausted heartbeat, every ugly thing I want to say rises to my tongue. Your drink isn't an emergency. Your oat milk isn't a tragedy. My sister is seventeen, and her heart keeps trying to quit on her. Instead, Marco picks up the cappuccino and says, "On the house." I love him a little for that.
I push through the back door before kindness can undo me, and cold rain slaps my face, stealing the breath right out of my lungs. For a second, I stand there under the weak yellow security light with my bag slipping down my shoulder and my pulse hammering too hard in my throat. I force myself to breathe, in for four, out for four, then again, until the panic loosens just enough for me to move. Move first. Feel later.
I've lived most of my life by that rule, and it isn't inspirational or brave; it's just what's left when falling apart costs too much. It's the only way to survive when one disaster arrives before the last one has even cleared the doorway.
The bus stop's two blocks away, and if I run, I might still make the 12:18. If I miss it, the next one won't come for twenty minutes, and twenty minutes is the kind of number that matters when someone you love is in a hospital bed. I shove my bag higher on my shoulder and start down the sidewalk, rain needling against my face, my work shoes slipping slightly against the wet pavement while neon signs bleed red and blue across the puddles.
As I reach the corner, I glance back. The man in the dark overcoat stands beneath the diner awning. He isn't following me, not exactly, but he's watching with enough focus that it feels almost the same. He's simply watching, still and composed beneath the dirty yellow light, looking so untouched by the rain and the hour that for one stupid second I wonder if I've imagined him.
Then a black car pulls up beside the curb, sleek and silent, with windows tinted too dark for me to see inside, and the man opens the rear door and slides in without looking away from me. My stomach twists.
The car pulls into traffic, disappearing between taxis and rain-smeared headlights, and I stand there frozen until a horn blares and a taxi sprays dirty water across my jeans.
"Perfect," I whisper, and run.
By the time the bus arrives, I'm shaking hard enough that the driver gives me a second glance, which only gets worse when I tap my transit card and the machine flashes red. Declined. I tap it again, harder this time, I tap it again, harder this time, like humiliation works better on the second try. Declined.
The bus driver sighs, not unkindly, just tired, because everyone's tired and everyone has somewhere to be and nobody has enough money to get there.
"I can—" I dig through my bag, fingers clumsy from the cold as I shove past receipts, lip balm, a pen without a cap, one crumpled dollar, and three pathetic pennies rolling around at the bottom like they're mocking me. "I have cash. Just give me a second."
Behind me, someone mutters, and heat crawls down my neck despite the rain soaking through my shirt. The driver looks at me, then at the cracked nursing-school badge clipped to the outside pocket of my bag, the plastic corner split and swinging against the wet fabric. Then he waves me on.
"Sit down before you flood the aisle."
I stare at him for half a second too long. "Thank you."
"Just sit down before I change my mind."
I move to the back before he can change his mind. The bus lurches forward, carrying me through streets smeared with neon and rain, and I press my forehead against the cold window before unlocking my phone. Three voicemails sit there waiting for me, small and innocent-looking, like they're not about to gut me open in public. I shouldn't listen to them, not now, not when one bad thought is all it would take to split me open.
I listen anyway. The first is from a number I know too well, the kind that makes my chest tighten before I even press play.
"Miss Bennett, this is Aaron Keller calling again regarding the outstanding balance attached to your father's account. As you know, these debts didn't disappear with Mr. Bennett's death. We've been patient, but patience has limits."
I close my eyes. My father drowned in debt long before he drowned in the bottle, and even dead, he still finds ways to reach up from the grave and empty my pockets. The message continues, Keller's voice smooth in that cheap, threatening way men use when they want you to know they're enjoying themselves.
"People like you should be careful who they owe," he says. "Especially when someone else has already offered to pay." My eyes open. The bus hisses to a stop, and a woman climbs on, a sleeping toddler heavy against her shoulder, while somewhere near the front, a man laughs too loudly into his phone. But all I can hear is that last sentence, especially when someone else has already offered to pay. My stomach tightens. What the hell does that mean?
I save the voicemail instead of deleting it, though every instinct in me wants to throw the whole phone out the window and pretend no one can reach me ever again. The second message is from the hospital billing department. Professional, apologetic, and merciless.
"This is a reminder that your current payment arrangement is past due. Please get in touch with our office as soon as possible to avoid interruption of non-emergency services. We understand this may be a difficult time..."
I laugh under my breath. A difficult time. That's one way to describe watching your sister's survival become something I can't afford. I delete that one. The third voicemail is from Maeve. I almost don't press play. Then I do, because I'm weak in every place Maeve is concerned.
"Hi, tyrant," Maeve's voice says, soft and bright and a little breathless. "Nurse Patel says I'm supposed to rest, which is rude, because I've been resting all day and somehow I'm still tired. Anyway, don't freak out, but I stole your blue sweater. Technically, it was already in my hospital drawer, so legally I think it's mine now."
I cover my mouth with my hand. Maeve keeps talking, her voice thin around the edges, trying too hard to sound normal. "Also, there's this old man across the hall who keeps flirting with every nurse except Patel because he's scared of her, which means he has excellent survival instincts. I'm taking notes." There's a pause, a tiny inhale that makes something inside me fold in on itself.
"I know you're at work. Don't come here tonight, okay? You need sleep. And food. Real food, not fries you pretend don't count because you ate them standing up."
I stare at the rain racing down the window. Maeve's voice softens. "I'm okay, I promise. Love you." The message ends, and I sit there with the dead phone in my hand while the bus rattles around me, full of strangers with wet coats and tired faces and lives that keep moving like mine hasn't just split open. Then I play the last two words again. Love you. Again. Love you.
The bus hits a pothole, jolting me back into my body, and I wipe my face angrily even though I don't know if it's rain or tears anymore.
By the time the hospital comes into view, all glass and white light cutting through the dark, I'm already standing near the bus doors, one hand gripping the pole too tightly, my bag slipping down my arm. The bus hasn't fully stopped when I step down, my shoes hitting the wet pavement hard enough to jar up my legs, but I barely feel it.
I cross the street against the light, a horn screaming somewhere to my left and someone shouting something I don't catch, because the hospital lobby is right there, bright and sterile and smelling like antiseptic, and the kind of fear people try to keep quiet.
The security guard recognizes me well enough to wave me through, which should probably be depressing, but I don't have room for depressing right now. The elevator takes too long, glowing numbers crawling downward like they're doing it on purpose, so I take the stairs instead, one hand on the railing, lungs already burning by the third floor. Move first. Feel later. Fourth floor, fifth, sixth, my lungs burning by the time I hit Maeve's floor.
I push through the stairwell door out of breath, soaked through, and already praying to a God I only believe in during emergencies. Then I see two doctors moving quickly toward my sister's room, white coats flashing beneath the fluorescent lights, and every thought in my head goes silent. I run.
I hit the doorframe with one shoulder because I turn too fast, pain blooming down my arm, but I don't stop.
For one awful second, all I see is the room in pieces, the white sheets, the oxygen line, the monitor, Nurse Patel adjusting something near the IV stand, Dr. Harlow bent over Maeve's chart, and Maeve herself looking too small against the pillows, too pale beneath the hospital lights, one hand resting near her heart like she's trying to keep it in place. My body forgets how to move, and then Maeve opens one eye.
"If you're here to haunt me," she rasps, "you're early. I haven't died yet."
The sound that comes out of me isn't a laugh, not really, because it's too sharp and too close to a sob, but Maeve smiles anyway, like she's done something clever. I cross the room in three steps, rain dripping from my hair onto the floor, my chest still heaving from the stairs.
"You're such a brat."
"A medically fragile brat," Maeve corrects.
"Don't make jokes."
"Don't run in here looking like you're about to pass out too."
"I saw doctors."
"Yeah, Isla. It's a hospital."
I drop into the chair beside her bed, breath still coming too fast, and reach for her hand before stopping halfway there. It's stupid, the way fear makes me careful around her, like touching her wrong could shatter something the illness hasn't already stolen. Maeve notices. Of course she does.
"You can touch me," she says softly. "I'm not going to break."
I swallow and take her hand. Her fingers are cold. That's the thing I hate most. Not the machines, not the tubes, not the smell of antiseptic that follows us home even when we haven't been home in days, but the coldness, the way Maeve's hands feel like her body's already saving warmth for more important organs.
I wrap both hands around hers and rub gently, trying to push warmth back into her, even though I know it doesn't work like that.
"You scared me," I say.
Maeve looks offended. "I told them not to call you."
"Which was stupid."
"It was considerate."
"It was stupid, Maeve."
"I knew you were working."
"I was serving cappuccinos to a woman having a breakdown over oat milk, Maeve. You were here. I could leave."
Maeve's mouth twitches. "Was she rich?"
"Painfully."
"Then I hate her."
"No, you don't."
"No," Maeve admits, her smile faint but still there. "But I support your hatred. As a sister."
I laugh then, for real this time, and immediately hate how close it comes to breaking. Maeve squeezes my fingers weakly, like she's the one comforting me, like she isn't lying in a hospital bed with oxygen tucked beneath her nose and shadows bruised under her eyes.
"See?" she says. "I'm fine."
"You passed out."
"Briefly."
"You don't get to use Nurse Patel's words against me."
"Fine. I blacked out for a second. Happy?"
"Maeve."
Her smile fades a little, and for a second, she stops looking like Maeve trying to be funny and starts looking like Maeve trying not to be scared. "I'm okay right now," she says. "That's what matters." I look at the oxygen line beneath her nose, the monitor counting every fragile beat with mechanical indifference, the faint blue shadows beneath her eyes, and something hard twists in my chest.
Maeve's always okay right now, stable right now, resting right now, awake right now. Our lives have become a series of temporary mercies, and everyone keeps asking me to be grateful for them like they aren't killing me one careful inch at a time. I brush a damp strand of hair away from her cheek, her hair soft and dark and loose from the messy braid I did two days ago.
"You need to rest."
"You're doing that face," Maeve says.
"What face?"
"The one where you look like everything is somehow your fault."
"I don't have a face."
"You have several. That one's my least favorite."
I sit back, trying to look less like my insides are collapsing. "I'm allowed to worry."
"You're allowed. You aren't allowed to sit there and punish yourself with it."
"That's unfortunate, because that's exactly what I'm doing."
Maeve smiles, then winces. I lean forward instantly. "Pain?"
"No. I'm just tired."
"You're lying."
"I'm managing."
"That's not the same."
"It's close enough for tonight."
I shake my head, but I stay close, watching the lines of Maeve's face, the shallow rise of her chest, the pulse fluttering at her throat, because watching feels like control, and if something changes, I need to see it before anyone has to tell me. Maeve's gaze drops to my chest.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
She lifts her free hand and taps weakly at the hollow of her own throat. I look down. My fingers have found the silver nightingale. I didn't even notice. The little bird rests between my fingers, wings spread like it's trying to fly out of my grip, cold and worn smooth from years of me touching it every time the world reminds me how little control I actually have. Maeve's eyes soften.
"You only touch that when you're scared."
"I touch it when I'm annoyed, too, so don't flatter yourself."
"Liar."
I smile, but my thumb keeps moving over the nightingale's worn silver back, tracing the tiny wings until the edge presses into my skin. Maeve looks at it for a long moment. "Do you ever remember the song?" My hand stills.
"What song?"
"The one Mum used to sing."
The room seems to shrink around that word. Mum. Maeve says it more easily than I do, as she can still make the word sound like a person instead of an absence. I look toward the monitor, pretending to check the numbers even though I know exactly what they are.
"Maeve."
"What?"
"Don't."
"I'm just asking."
"You need to rest."
"That's what people say when they don't want to answer."
"It's also what people say to girls who pass out and scare everyone."
Maeve goes quiet, and for a second, I think I've hurt her. Then she turns her face toward the window, where the city lights smear against the glass in blurred white and yellow streaks.
"She used to sing about a bird," Maeve says. "I don't remember all of it. Just pieces."
My throat tightens. I remember my mom's hands sometimes, the smell of vanilla lotion, a laugh from another room, the feeling of being lifted out of bed when I'd pretended to be asleep, but the song's harder. It comes back only as a shape, a hum at the edge of memory, something soft I've spent years trying not to reach for.
"I don't remember," I say.
Maeve looks back at me. There's no accusation in her face. That makes it worse.
"You were older," she says. "I always thought you remembered more."
"I remember enough."
It comes out too cold, and I regret it immediately. Enough to know she left. Enough to know she didn't come back. Enough to know songs don't pay hospital bills, and memories don't keep Maeve alive. Maeve flinches a little, and I hate myself for it.
"I'm sorry," I say, forcing my voice softer.
She shrugs, pretending it hasn't landed. "It can be okay for tonight." That is Maeve's gift and her curse, making room for pain like it's an extra blanket, folding it neatly and pretending it keeps us warm. I lean forward and press my forehead gently to the edge of her hand. Maeve's fingers move against my hair.
"You smell like coffee," she murmurs.
"You smell like a hospital."
"Sexy."
"Extremely."
Maeve laughs, then coughs, and the sound slices straight through my chest. Nurse Patel appears on the other side of the bed before I can panic properly, adjusting the oxygen with practiced hands and murmuring something soft beneath her breath. Still, Maeve waves her off weakly, as if being medically concerning is an inconvenience she's personally embarrassed by.
"I'm fine," Maeve rasps.
Nurse Patel gives her a look. "You're bossy."
"I learned from Isla."
"Unfortunately true," I say, though my voice comes out thin.
Dr. Harlow's been standing near the foot of the bed, quiet enough that I almost forgot he was there, which is impressive considering he's the kind of doctor people trust immediately, with tired eyes, silver at his temples, and the careful expression of a man who tries very hard not to look defeated in front of families. That's how I know. Before he says anything, I know. He closes Maeve's chart.
"Maeve," he says gently, "I'm going to borrow your sister for a minute."
Maeve's smile disappears, and my hand tightens around hers before I can stop it.
"No," Maeve says.
Dr. Harlow gives her a small, patient smile. "Just a minute."
"If it's about me, I should hear it."
"Maeve," I say, because I already know where this is going, and I already hate it.
My sister turns on me, stubborn even with oxygen in her nose and exhaustion bruising the skin beneath her eyes. "I'm serious. I'm not asleep. I'm not a child. Stop talking around me."
"I know."
"Do you?"
The question hits harder than it should, because I do know, and I also don't. Sometimes loving Maeve feels like standing in front of a glass wall with both arms spread, trying to stop the whole world from throwing stones, even when the person behind it is begging me to let her see what's coming. Dr. Harlow's voice softens.
"I promise I'll come back and explain what I can. But I need to speak with Isla first." Maeve looks at me, and for one second, the humor's gone completely. She looks seventeen. Scared, angry, and tired of being protected from her own life. I squeeze her hand.
"I'll be right outside." Maeve's eyes flick to the nightingale necklace still caught between my fingers. "Don't make your funeral face," she whispers. I try to smile. Maeve notices that too.
Dr. Harlow steps toward the door and waits, giving me the kind of space that isn't really space at all, just a polite pause before something terrible happens. I slowly release my sister's hand, as if letting go too quickly might cause something in the room to break, then stand, wipe my damp palms against my jeans, and follow the doctor into the hallway. Behind me, Maeve's monitor keeps counting.
I pull the door almost shut, leaving it open just enough that I can still hear the soft, mechanical proof that my sister's alive. Beep. Beep. Beep. Dr. Harlow doesn't speak right away. That's how I know it'll be bad. Doctors have different silences. I've learned them all.
There's the silence before reassurance, soft and brief, the silence before instructions, efficient and clean, and the silence before grief, heavy enough to change the air around it. This is something else.
This is the silence of a man arranging the truth into the least harmful shape and failing. I fold my arms across my chest because if I don't hold myself together, something in me might come loose. "How bad?" Dr. Harlow looks at me with those tired, kind eyes. Kindness is worse than cruelty sometimes. Cruelty gives me something to hate. Kindness makes me want to beg.
"Maeve's episodes are becoming more frequent," he says. "And more severe."
I nod once, sharp and professional, like I'm in class, like this is a lecture and not my life cracking open under fluorescent lights. "Her oxygen levels?"
"They recovered after intervention."
"That's not what I asked."
Dr. Harlow exhales slowly. "They dropped lower than I'm comfortable with." He tells me the number, and because I've spent enough time around charts, enough time studying between shifts with cold coffee and highlighters, enough time pretending medical language can make terror manageable, I know what it means.
Still, I ask, "But she recovered."
"She did."
"And her rhythm?"
"Unstable during the episode. Better now."
"Better doesn't mean good."
"No," Dr. Harlow says gently. "It doesn't."
I look past him toward Maeve's door. Through the narrow opening, I can see the edge of the bed, a corner of white blanket, Maeve's socked foot sticking out from beneath it because she hates being tucked in too tightly. Seventeen-year-old girls are supposed to be dramatic about bad haircuts, exams, and boys who don't text back.
They're supposed to steal sweaters, stay up too late, make terrible playlists, and decide they're becoming entirely new people every six months. They're not supposed to have oxygen levels, unstable rhythms, or doctors with careful voices.
"What are we doing next?" I ask.
Dr. Harlow's expression shifts. There it is—the thing he brought me into the hallway to say.
"We need to talk about the experimental treatment I mentioned last month."
My fingers tighten against my sleeves. "You said Maeve wasn't eligible yet."
"She wasn't."
"And now?"
"Now," he says, "I think waiting is a greater risk than applying."
The hallway seems to stretch farther around me, all beige walls and harsh light, and the distant squeak of nurses' shoes on polished floors. "What does it do?"
"It's not a cure," he says immediately.
Of course. Doctors always start there, not because they want to be cruel, but because hope is dangerous and has to be handled with gloves.
"I know," I say.
"It targets the progression. In some patients, it's significantly slowed degeneration, improved cardiac stability, and reduced acute episodes."
"In some patients."
"Yes."
"How soon would she need to start?"
"As soon as possible."
"That's not an answer."
"A few weeks would be ideal. Sooner, if we can arrange it."
I laugh once under my breath, but there's no humor in it. "If we can arrange it." Dr. Harlow looks down at the chart in his hands. "There are barriers." There it is. The word people use when they don't want to say money. Barriers. As if the problem's a fence and not a locked door with a price tag.
"How much?" I ask.
"Isla—"
"How much?"
He hesitates. Then he tells me. For a second, I don't understand the number. Not because I haven't heard it, but because my brain refuses to let it become real. It isn't a number someone should be able to say out loud while my sister is sleeping in the next room. It belongs on buildings, on houses, on things bought by people who have accountants, summer homes, and refrigerators full of food they forget to eat. I stare at him.
"That's for the whole treatment?" Dr. Harlow's silence answers first.
"No," he says quietly. "That's the initial phase."
The floor drops away. I don't move. I can't afford to move. If I move, I might fall. Inside Maeve's room, the monitor keeps counting. Beep. Beep. Beep. Charging me for everyone. I force air into my lungs. "Insurance?"
"We can submit an appeal."
"Will they approve it?"
"They may cover some supportive costs."
"That wasn't my question."
Dr. Harlow looks older than he did five minutes ago. "No. Not the treatment itself."
"Grants?"
"There are a few, but approval can take time."
"We don't have time."
"No."
"Payment plan?"
His eyes flicker. And I know. I know before he says, "The facility requires a significant deposit before enrollment." A deposit, like Maeve's an apartment and survival requires the first month, the last month, and proof of income. I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek until I taste metal.
"Okay." Dr. Harlow blinks. "Isla."
"Okay," I repeat. "Who do I call?"
"There's a coordinator."
"Give me the number, the application forms, the trial data, the financial assistance paperwork, anything I can fill out tonight."
His expression bends toward pity, and I can't stand it. I can survive exhaustion, fear, debt collectors, double shifts, declined cards, and doctors telling me my sister's body is running out of time, but I can't survive being looked at like I've already lost.
"Don't look at me like that," I say.
"I'm not trying to discourage you."
"Good. Because you're bad at it."
"Isla."
The gentleness in his voice almost breaks me. Almost. I look at him directly. "I need something to do," I say. "So give me something to do. I can call people, fill out forms, work more hours, beg rich strangers online if that's what it takes. But don't tell me my sister has a chance, then look at me like I'm too poor to take it." Dr. Harlow says nothing for a moment. Then he nods, not like he can fix it, but like he understands why I need him to give me something to do.
"I'll have Nurse Patel bring you everything we have."
"Thank you."
"There's also billing."
The word settles coldly between us. Of course, there's billing. There's always billing.
"I know where it is," I say.
Dr. Harlow's mouth tightens. "I'm sorry." I almost laugh. Sorry doesn't pay the deposit. Sorry doesn't buy time. Sorry doesn't keep my sister alive. But he means it. That's the worst part. He means it, and it still changes nothing. I look back through the crack in the door.
Maeve has turned onto her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, eyes closed, looking younger when she sleeps, less stubborn, less bright, like illness has stolen the sharp edges she uses to defend herself. I touch the nightingale again.
"How long can she wait?" Dr. Harlow is quiet.
"Honestly," I say.
He follows my gaze into Maeve's room.
"Not long."
Two words. That's all. Not long. I nod once, then straighten, wiping the dampness from beneath my eyes before it can become anything as useless as crying.
"Where's billing open at this hour?"
Dr. Harlow looks at me like he wants to tell me to rest. He doesn't.
"Third floor," he says. "East corridor."
I adjust my bag on my shoulder. Inside, there's a cracked nursing-school ID, one crumpled dollar, three pennies, and a stack of receipts I keep meaning to throw away. I lift my chin.
"Then I'll start there."
The billing office is on the third floor, east corridor, exactly where Dr. Harlow said it would be, and I've passed it a hundred times before and hated it every single time.
There's something particularly cruel about putting the place where people beg for care beneath fluorescent lights, because everything looks sick under them, the beige walls, the plastic chairs, the fake plant in the corner gathering dust on its waxy leaves, the vending machine humming beside the door with crisps, chocolate, and bottled water at prices that feel personally insulting.
A woman sits behind a glass partition, typing with the slow, steady exhaustion of someone who's spent years watching people panic on the other side of her desk. Her nameplate reads M. Alvarez, and when I step up to the counter with Maeve's paperwork tucked under one arm, she looks at my soaked hair, my work shirt, the cracked nursing-school ID clipped to my bag, and somehow manages not to look surprised.
"Hi," I say, and my voice sounds almost normal, which feels like a small, pathetic victory. "My sister's a patient here. Maeve Bennett. Room 614." I slide the folder through the narrow opening beneath the glass. "I need to talk about her account."
Ms. Alvarez's expression changes, but only slightly. It isn't pity on her face, but recognition, which is somehow worse. She takes the folder and types Maeve's name into the computer, and I watch the reflection of the screen move across her glasses as the keys click softly beneath her fingers. Click. Click. Click. Each one sounds like another number being added somewhere I can't reach.
"I spoke with Dr. Harlow," I say quickly, because silence makes too much room for panic. "There's an experimental treatment. He said I need to coordinate with billing before the application can move forward."
Ms. Alvarez's mouth tightens. A small movement. A bad one.
"I see the note."
"Okay," I say, too fast. "So I need options. Payment plan, extension, charity funds, emergency assistance, and other insurance appeals. Anything I can apply for tonight?"
Ms. Alvarez folds her hands on the desk, and I hate it immediately. version
Folded hands mean someone has already decided to speak gently, and gentle usually means they're about to say something awful.
"We can submit another appeal to insurance," she says. "They're unlikely to cover the treatment, but we can still appeal for supportive costs related to hospitalization and monitoring."
"So not the thing that might actually help her."
"No."
"Charity funds?"
"There's an application process. I can print the forms, but approval can take several weeks."
"We don't have several weeks."
"I understand."
No, you don't, I almost say, but that's unfair, because maybe Ms. Alvarez does understand. Maybe she understands too well. Maybe she sits behind this glass every night and watches people discover the exact price of someone they love, and maybe understanding doesn't change anything.
"What about a payment plan?" I ask.
"For the current balance, yes."
"For the treatment deposit?"
Ms. Alvarez glances at the screen again. "No. The treatment facility requires the deposit before enrollment."
"Can anyone override that?"
Her face softens.
"I'm sorry."
There it is again—the most useless sentence in the English language. I look down at my hands, at my short, ragged nails, the dried coffee beneath one cuticle, the tiny burn near my wrist from the espresso machine, and the faint red line across my palm where the nightingale necklace has dug into my skin. I curl my fingers into a fist.
"Okay," I say. "Then let's handle the current balance."
Ms. Alvarez hesitates. "You have a past-due amount."
"I know."
"And the existing payment arrangement is already behind."
"I know."
"There may be limits to what we can adjust until—"
"I said I know."
The words come out sharper than I mean them to, and the office goes quiet. Somewhere down the hall, a cart wheel squeaks against the polished floor. Behind the glass, Ms. Alvarez looks at me for a long moment before reaching for a tissue box and pushing it toward the opening instead of scolding me, or calling security, or asking me to lower my voice. I stare at it.
"I'm not crying."
"I didn't say you were."
"I'm not."
"I believe you."
That almost breaks me. Not the number, not the doctor, not the oxygen line, but the tissue box, because kindness always finds the weakest place first. It finds cracks that anger can't reach. I step back half an inch and force myself to breathe. "I can make a payment tonight." Ms. Alvarez's brows pull together.
"Miss Bennett--"
"A small one. To keep the arrangement active."
"The system may still flag the account."
"But it shows I'm trying."
The woman doesn't answer quickly enough, and I already know what that means. Still, I open my banking app, watching the little loading circle spin as if even my phone's embarrassed to show me the truth. $23.17 I stare at the number, and for a second, it feels like the whole fluorescent-lit office leans in to look with me.
I forgot about the bus card reload, the instant noodles, the pharmacy charge for Maeve's last prescription, and twenty-three dollars and seventeen cents is all I have until Friday, assuming my manager doesn't dock me for leaving early. I lift my chin.
"I can pay twenty dollars." Ms. Alvarez's face does something complicated. "Isla." The use of my first name makes my stomach twist. "Take the payment."
"You may need that for food."
"I said take it."
For a second, neither of us moves. Then Ms. Alvarez nods and turns the card reader toward me. I pull out my debit card. The plastic's worn at the edges, the numbers fading from use, and when I insert it into the machine, the tiny screen asks for my PIN like this is normal, like I'm not standing here trying to buy my sister more time with the same account I use for cheap bread and bus fare. Four digits. Enter. Processing.
The office hums. The vending machine buzzes. A phone rings somewhere behind the partition. Declined. The word appears in black letters on a grey screen. I stare at it. That can't be right. I pull the card out, wipe the chip against my shirt, and insert it again.
"I probably put the PIN in wrong." Ms. Alvarez says nothing. PIN. Enter. Processing. Declined. Heat crawls up my neck.
"Again," I say.
"Miss Bennett--"
"Again."
The third time, the machine doesn't even pretend to think about it for long. Declined. Some humiliations arrive loudly: eviction notices, shutoff warnings, and debt collectors leaving messages at midnight. Then there are humiliations like this, quiet and brightly lit and witnessed by one tired woman behind glass and a vending machine full of food I can't afford. I remove the card, and my hand is steady. I'm proud of that.
"I'll come back Friday," I say.
Ms. Alvarez looks like she wants to say something human, but she knows better than to risk it. "I'll make a note that you came in." A note, proof that I came in, proof that I tried, like trying has ever been enough.
"Thank you," I say, gathering the folder with fingers that still don't shake.
Ms. Alvarez glances back at the screen, then stops. Her forehead creases as she leans closer to the monitor, clicks something, opens another screen, and suddenly her expression goes carefully blank. Too carefully.
"What?" I ask.
She doesn't answer right away.
"What is it?" I ask again.
Ms. Alvarez looks up. "There's a flag on your sister's account." My stomach tightens. "What kind of flag?"
"I'm not sure."
"Medical? Financial?"
"It doesn't say."
I step closer to the glass. "Who put it there?" Ms. Alvarez's hands hover above the keyboard. "I can't disclose internal account notes."
"Someone flagged my sister's account, and you can't tell me who?"
"I'm sorry."
"Stop saying that."
The woman goes silent. I press my palm flat against the counter. "Is it insurance?"
"I can't disclose that."
"Is it collections?"
No answer.
"Is it the hospital?"
Ms. Alvarez looks back at the screen, then away. That tiny glance is enough. Cold moves through me, sharper than the rain.
"Someone outside the hospital requested information, didn't they?"
Ms. Alvarez removes her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. When she looks at me again, her voice is lower. "You should speak with your sister's care coordinator in the morning."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give you."
I stare at her, the black car sliding through my memory, along with the man in the overcoat and Aaron Keller's voice on the voicemail. Especially when someone else is willing to pay. I tuck the folder against my chest. "Print the charity forms." Ms. Alvarez does. The printer whirs behind her, spitting out page after page, each one asking for proof that I have nothing left to give. Income. Assets. Dependents. All the polite words people use when they want to know exactly how poor you are.
Outstanding debts. Reason for request. I almost laugh at that one. As if there's a polite way to write: my sister would like to stay alive. Ms. Alvarez slides the papers through the opening. "I marked the sections you need to complete first."
"Thank you."
This time, I mean it. I turn away before she can see whatever's happening to my face. The corridor outside billing is almost empty, the hospital having settled into its nighttime rhythm of distant footsteps, low voices, and machines doing the work of keeping people here. I walk toward the elevators with the charity forms under one arm and my declined card burning in my pocket. I make it three steps before I stop.
A man is waiting near the elevator bank, neither sitting nor pacing. Waiting. He wears a dark tailored suit beneath an overcoat that looks expensive enough to have its own insurance policy, his hair neat, his shoes polished, his posture relaxed. He doesn't look impatient, concerned, or even especially interested. He looks like a man arriving precisely when he intended to—the same man from the diner.
My fingers close around the folder. The elevator doors open behind him with a soft chime. He doesn't get in. Instead, he looks at me. He looks at me, calm, polished, almost bored.
"Miss Bennett."
The man says my name as if he's never once wondered whether he has the right person, as if my life is a file he's already read, underlined, and decided what to do with. For a second, I think about ignoring him.
I think about walking straight past, pressing the elevator button, going back upstairs to Maeve, and pretending men in dark coats don't show up in diners and hospital corridors knowing my name. But then I remember the black car, the way Ms. Alvarez's face changed when she saw the flag on Maeve's account, and Aaron Keller's voice curling through my voicemail like smoke.
"Do I know you?" I ask.
"No."
His voice is smooth. Controlled. Too calm for the hour, the place, the fact that I'm standing there soaked through in my diner uniform with a folder of charity forms under one arm and twenty-three dollars to my name. The elevator doors close behind him. He doesn't even glance back.
"I represent a private client," he says.
"Good for you."
"My client has taken an interest in your sister's care."
The hallway seems to narrow around me, beige walls and fluorescent lights pressing in until there's barely enough room to breathe. My pulse hits once, hard, right beneath the nightingale necklace.
"What did you say?"
The man reaches inside his coat, slowly enough that it isn't threatening, which somehow makes it worse, like he knows exactly how harmless he looks and exactly how dangerous that can be. "My client is prepared to cover the full cost of Maeve Bennett's experimental treatment." For a moment, I hear nothing. Full cost. The words don't feel real in a hospital corridor at midnight.
They hang between us like something holy, and suspicion slams into me so hard it almost feels like relief.
"No."
The man blinks once. "Excuse me?"
"No," I repeat, gripping the folder tighter. "Whatever this is, no."
"You haven't heard the terms."
"I don't need to."
"That seems unwise."
"And you seem like the kind of man who uses the word unwise when he means stupid."
His expression doesn't change, and that irritates me more than if he'd smiled.
"Miss Bennett, your sister's condition is urgent."
"You don't get to talk about my sister."
"I'm afraid urgency doesn't become less real because I mention it."
I step closer before I can stop myself, anger moving through me hot and reckless because it's easier than fear. "Who are you?"
"My name is Graham Hale."
"Am I supposed to know that?"
"No."
"Then why do you know mine?"
"Because my client asked me to."
The simplicity of it chills me. Because information is something people like him can request and receive, like coffee, like dry cleaning, like access to hospital accounts they have no right to touch. I glance back toward the billing office, then at him.
"Did you flag Maeve's account?" Graham Hale doesn't answer immediately. It isn't hesitation. It's a calculation, clean and precise, the kind done by men who've never had to panic in public.
"I made an inquiry."
"You had no right."
"No," he agrees.
The answer knocks me slightly off balance. He doesn't apologise. He doesn't explain. He acknowledges the violation as if it's a minor clerical issue, something unpleasant but necessary, something already done. I laugh once, sharp and humorless.
"You people are unbelievable."
"That may be true."
"Tell your client I'm not interested."
I move to walk past him, but Graham doesn't block me. He doesn't have to. That's somehow worse, the confidence of it, the way he lets me pass because he already knows which words will stop me.
"The deposit would be made before morning."
I stop. I hate myself for it. Graham lets the silence stretch between us, polite and exact, like he's giving me room to feel the hook sink in. "The treatment application would be expedited," he continues. "Your sister would be transferred into private specialist care. Your current balance would disappear. Her medical costs would be covered." Each sentence lands softly. Each one opens a door. Each one has a lock on the other side.
I turn back slowly. "What do you want?"
"That's a conversation for a more appropriate setting."
"No." My voice comes out colder than I feel. "You don't get to show up in a hospital at midnight, say my sister's name, offer to pay for everything, and then act like I'm rude for asking what it costs."
For the first time, something almost like interest moves across his face.
"You're right to ask."
"I didn't ask for approval. I asked for an answer."
Graham regards me for a moment, then reaches into his coat again and withdraws a black business card, thick paper, matte finish, silver lettering. He holds it out between two fingers like paperwork I forgot to sign. I don't take it.
"What is this?"
"An invitation."
"To what?"
"A meeting."
"With who?"
"My client."
"Name."
Graham's eyes lower briefly to the card, as if the answer's already there and I'm being difficult by not reading it. I take it. The paper feels expensive. Obscene, somehow, in my hand, too heavy for something so small. At the top, embossed in silver, are two words. Styles Holdings. Beneath them, smaller. Harry Styles. I stare at the name.
I don't know it, not really, not beyond the vague shape of wealth and influence that clings to names people say carefully. But I know power when I see it. I know the kind of name that doesn't knock before entering a life. People with names like that don't help. They acquire.
"My client can help your sister," Graham says.
I look up from the card. "And what does he want from me?" Graham adjusts one cuff beneath his coat sleeve, a tiny movement, neat and unhurried. "Elena Bennett understood the cost of refusing help," he says. "I'd hate for her daughters to make the same mistake." The corridor goes cold, and not the usual hospital kind. Something worse. My fingers close around the card so hard the edge bites into my skin.
"My mother has nothing to do with this." Graham's silence says otherwise. Fury rises so fast it makes me dizzy. "Don't say her name."
"As you wish."
He gives a slight nod, like the matter's been settled, like my mother isn't a wound he's just pressed two fingers into. That almost makes me scream.
"Who the hell do you people think you are?"
Graham looks at me with the patient emptiness of a man who's never needed to raise his voice to win. "The number is on the card. If you call tonight, the deposit can be arranged immediately."
"And if I don't?"
"Then nothing changes."
Nothing changes. Maeve's monitor keeps counting upstairs. The charity forms weigh almost nothing in my arms. My bank account holds $23.17, which I apparently can't access, and my sister hasn't long written invisibly over every fragile breath she takes. Nothing changes. Graham steps toward the elevator and presses the button. This time, when the doors open, he enters without hesitation.
He doesn't look worried that I might refuse. He doesn't look hopeful that I might accept. He looks like a man who's delivered paperwork. Just before the doors close, he says, "Good evening, Miss Bennett." Then he's gone. I stand alone in the corridor with the black card in my hand, my pulse loud in my ears, and the hospital lights buzzing overhead. Hope has arrived in a tailored suit. And it feels exactly like a threat.
By the time I reach Maeve's room again, the hallways have gone quiet, the kind of quiet hospitals keep after midnight. Not peaceful. Never peaceful. Just lowered, like everyone's agreed to whisper around the fact that people are still suffering—Maeve's asleep. Nurse Patel has dimmed the lights, leaving only the blue-white glow of the monitor and the thin strip of brightness beneath the bathroom door.
Maeve lies curled slightly on her side, one hand near her heart, the oxygen line tucked beneath her nose, her dark hair loose against the pillow, and her face too pale beneath the shadows. She looks too young for any of this, too young for oxygen tubes, treatment deposits, and men in tailored suits offering to pay.
I stand in the doorway for a long moment, unable to step closer, the charity forms bending beneath my arm and the black card resting in my palm like something alive. My mother's necklace hangs cold against my chest, the little nightingale pressed to my skin, and somewhere in the room, the monitor keeps counting. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Maeve sleeps with one hand curled near her heart, the machine beside her marking each fragile beat like it's charging me for every one. I pull the nightingale free from beneath my shirt and close my left hand around it. The silver's cold at first, then warm from my grip, its tiny wings digging into my palm the harder I hold on.
In my right hand is the black card with Harry Styles's name embossed across it, all sharp edges and expensive paper and the kind of promise that already feels like a trap. I look at my sister, then at the card. Every honest option has failed me.
The thought settles heavily, not dramatic, not sudden, just true in the ugliest possible way. The charity forms are useless tonight. My bank card declined. Insurance won't cover it. Grants take weeks we don't have. The hospital can offer sympathy, paperwork, and fluorescent lighting, but none of those things will keep Maeve breathing. So I call the number. The phone rings once. Twice.
Not enough time for me to change my mind. When the line clicks open, I close my fingers tighter around the silver nightingale and stare at my sister's sleeping face, at the oxygen line, at the faint rise and fall of her chest. Then I say the words I already know I'll regret.
"Tell me what you want."
───── 𓆩♡𓆪 ─────
thank you for reading chapter one of nightingale 𐙚
i hope you enjoyed meeting isla and maeve, and stepping into the beginning of this story.
if you liked it, comments, likes, and reblogs are always loved and appreciated — they truly mean so much and help me know you’re enjoying it.
Would you be interested in writing something for perv Jack (or even sub jack) where he’s getting a massage or in physio for an injury from a SWAT mission or his prosthetic and the massage gets him excited… smut ensues…
saw this ask and smiled soooo hard. i was olivia wilde gif irl. anon you're a genius harvard is calling!!!
"baby, this is.... not necessary," jack grumbled, casting you a withering look over his shoulder as you nudged him towards the bed. "i just... pulled a muscle or something. it'll fix itself."
you'd transformed your bedroom into a serene space, laid out fluffy towels, even lit your favourite scented candles and put on some calming music.
you just shook your head and glared at him. "shut up, peepaw. you've been making old man noises ever since you got back from your SWAT thing, just let me take care of you for once."
with a sigh, jack laid stomach-down on the bed, resting his neck on a pillow. "fine. and you'd better stop calling me that."
"no," you replied simply, uncapping a bottle of lavender scented massage oil.
a couple of minutes later, you had straddled jack's back, your fingers deftly working into his tense muscles. you watched as his freckled skin glistened with oil in the candlelight. "oh, yeah, baby, right there..."
"right there?" you replied, grinning as you dug your thumbs in harder.
"yeah, fuck, honey... my god..."
you paused. you'd thought he was just writhing from having his knots worked out, but his hips were now noticeably rutting into the towel beneath him, causing you to bounce where you were situated on his back. "... are you humping the bed?"
jack's voice came back muffled and breathless. "...yeah, baby."
you rolled your eyes, exasperated. "you're such a fucking pervert, jack. this was supposed to be soothing!"
his head turned to the side then, voice playfully indignant. "my little girl's straddling my ass and oiling me up, sue me for getting a little turned on."
"... fine. turn over," you murmured, sliding off of his body to stand at the edge of the bed.
jack let out a soft groan as he flipped onto his back, the towel sliding slightly beneath him. his dark hazel eyes locked onto yours, half-lidded with the exhaustion-tinged arousal of a middle-aged man who’d been working nonstop for 16 hours.
"you're mean, baby," he said softly, reaching up to brush a thumb along your jaw. "teasing me like this when I'm basically one step from passing out."
the candlelight flickered across his face, casting a golden glow across his features. his bare chest was heaving. his cock was hardening under your gaze against his thigh, the tip flushed pink.
"i think i need more massage, honey," he added pointedly. "my front hurts."
"oh, it does, does it?" you deadpanned, your eyes running down his body. "soo... just like, your chest?"
"mhm. chest... arms..." jack said, voice gravelly and slow, like he was reciting symptoms on a patient chart. "also my shoulders. and maybe... other places." he didn’t look away from you once, even as his breathing deepened just a little more than it should have for someone allegedly relaxing. "gonna come help?"
you exhaled from your nose and straddled him again, the soft cotton of your panties nestled over his dick. grabbing the massage oil, you squeezed a generous amount into your palms. you warmed it between them before working it into his broad chest. when his breathing started to get heavy, you picked up the oil again and squirted some directly where you were sat over his cock.
jack sucked in a sharp breath the second the cool oil hit his bare skin, right over where he was already hard. "jesus, baby," he muttered under his breath, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before snapping back open to watch you. "you're really going all out on this massage today, huh?"
"uh huh," you murmured in agreement as your hips started to roll over him, the massage oil seeping into your panties as his hard cock slotted between your pussy lips. your hands continued kneading circles over his broad chest. "feeling relaxed yet?"
jack exhaled shakily, chest rising and falling beneath your hands. his hips twitched upward slightly on their own accord, seeking more friction where you were pressed against him. "relaxed?" he chuckled darkly. "i am anything but relaxed right now. you're sitting on my dick with lavender oil all over me like this is some kind of spa day."
"it is a spa day," you replied matter-of-factly. "ever heard of a happy ending?"
jack's breath hitched as you continued grinding down on him, the heat and friction building with every slow roll of your hips. his voice was deeper now, laced with both amusement and something more primal. "baby, do you even know what it means when a woman says 'happy ending' like this?"
"it means i'm trying to make you cum," you purred, teasing your thumbs over his nipples. "is it working?"
"fuck yes," jack groaned, his back arching slightly into your touch. "you're really good at this spa treatment," he panted with a strained smirk. "best goddamn massage therapist i've ever had."
"yeah?" you replied breathily, rutting the head of his cock against your clit through your panties. "would you recommend me to a friend?"
jack's hand flew up to grip your hip as he grumbled, shaking his head. "never. i'd lock the door and never let anyone else have this treatment." his hips lifted slightly beneath you, chasing the friction as his cock throbbed against your clit. "fuck... baby... you're gonna make me come just like this... grinding on me in your little panties..."
his hands slid down to grip your ass through the thin fabric. "my sweet girl taking such good care of me." jack's breathing turned ragged, the pleasure coiling tighter in his stomach. his eyes locked on your face as his hips moved with yours now, bucking up into your heat. "i'm gonna come, baby, gonna come..."
his body tensed, thighs clenching as the first hot pulse of release shot through him. "jesus fucking christ, honey..." with a low groan that came straight from his chest, he spilled onto your panties, his cum soaking into the white cotton.
for a few blissful seconds he just laid there beneath you, boneless and breathless. "that... was not relaxing."
Dr Jack Abbot finds younger nurse reader’s modeling photos from when she modeled to help pay for nursing school. He has spicy thoughts and realizes his feelings for her and wants her all to himself. She notices him being weird at work with her and decides to ask him what’s going on :)))) go crazy with it
omg my first req!! tysm anon i did in fact go crazy writin this. it's perv abbot once again, except he's pathetic nd lame. hope u enjoy <3
perv!dr jack abbot x younger nurse!reader.
18+. content warnings: masturbation (m), handjob, nipple sucking/kissing, sub!jack (he's tired and horny), body praise
it wasn't your fault that you had great tits: in fact, they had been the reason you were scouted to do some lingerie modelling, which got you through nursing school. you weren't ashamed of it at all— you looked great, and you knew that.
and it also wasn't your fault that all your undershirts were dirty one day, leaving you bare under your v-neck scrub top.
jack had skipped his morning nap, choosing to jerk off to those sexy photos of you again like some kind of basement-dwelling incel instead of the respected attending you saw him as. he didn't even mean to find those pics, he'd stumbled upon them on his day off after google image searching your face out of curiosity (sue him, he'd just learnt how to do it).
guiltily, he'd saved them to his ipad and let himself ogle your body while he wrapped a hand around his throbbing dick. he can't count how many loads he's blown to the sight of you since then: smirking, on your knees, in that naughty little sheer lace set.
and tonight, clocking in after being awake for a solid 30 hours, jack is cranky to say the least.
to make matters worse, you're together all shift on a difficult case, and he keeps having to ask you to run tests for him. each time, jack has to concentrate really hard on your face, because from where he's stood, he has a perfect view down into your bra. god, is he hallucinating, or can he see your nipples?
after you debrief him on a change in the patient's condition, one that he agrees warrants sending them up to the icu, you just have to ask. "um, dr abbot? did i do something to upset you?"
his brows knit together. "no, not at all. why?"
"you've just... been staring at me..." you reply, your voice unsure.
he exhales, his words coming through gritted teeth. "listen, i think you should just go to the lost and found, and grab a t-shirt." you look shocked, so he clarifies: "it's nothing personal. you just... you're... there are a lot of creeps running around here at night, okay? drunk assholes who get handsy when they've got a young woman that looks the way you do takin' care of em. you should cover up."
you straighten up at that. "my tits?" you reply, tone unusually sharp. "you want me to cover up my tits in case a perv comes in? cause i think it's a little late for that."
he can't even argue, really. he is a perv. he'd spent hours fisting his cock looking at those pictures of you, his younger colleague. his muscles tense up as remembers the way his hips had jerked into his hand just that morning, how he'd spilled cum onto his ipad's screen. "i- i- uh..."
"dr abbot, you're so hard right now, your dick could probably break glass," you deadpan. and you're right. jack looks down, and for the first time in his life curses the fact that his cock is so big, because there's no hiding it.
and because you're a kind, sweet girl, you take pity on jack and jerk him off in the abandoned wing. he's so exhausted that he can't even carry out any of those fantasies he'd had of pinning you down and fucking you until you begged him to stop. his only solace is that you've finally taken off that stupid scrub top.
all he can do is whimper into the curve of your breast, squeezing your tits as you work him over good, while he admits that he'd found your old modelling pictures. "y'looked so good, baby, i— fuck, just like that, yeah— i couldn't help it, made my cock so hard..." your hand is so much softer than his, he thinks. then he starts imagining what your pussy would feel like...
his tip leaks into your fist as his lips drag lower so he can mouth and suck at your nipples. "god, you're beautiful, wanna spoil you... yeah, faster— jesus, these fuckin' tits, baby..." he nuzzles his nose into the soft valley between your breasts, inhaling the soft scent of your perfume as his hands squish the flesh against his stubbly cheeks.
"could fuckin' fall asleep on these things, so soft... even prettier than they look in those pictures, n your skin... tastes even sweeter than i— oh, i'm gonna cum, gonna cum, baby, please don't stop strokin' me..."
he releases into your palm with a choked groan, his whole body shaking with the intensity of his orgasm. "fuck... thank you... thank you, sweetheart, i'm sorry," he pants, rubbing at his eyes.
"if you don't mind, i wanna return the favour. don't think i could get myself to sleep 'f i don't make you come. get those scrubs off, please? need to see all of you."
♡ synopsis: when a med student accidentally sticks you with an anesthetic intended for a patient, jack sits with you until its effects wear off to ensure you don't have an allergic reaction. while under the effects of the drug, you make many confessions which he finds to be both entertaining and endearing.
♡ content: pining!robby, medical inaccuracies, reader being under the influence of anesthetics, jack gets handsy on the roof, ogilvie is on night shift for this one bc i say so
♡ a/n: based on this request by @styx03, ty!
Allowing a med student to sedate a patient was clearly not the right course of action. You're not even sure who gave them the order to, or if they just heard a command for an anesthetic to be administered and chose to take it upon theirself to be the one for the job, but either way... You've now become the patient because of their eagerness to impress.
Stumbling back on your feet, your vision swims and the room tilts while raised voices yell. You think one is Jack's. You want to tell Ogilvie that it's okay, because accidents happen and you're sure you'll be fine. Hopefully. Instead, however, your attempted words slur into something incomprehensible while your eyes cross. Just as you descend toward the floor, a strong pair of arms catch you.
Jack most assuredly ripped Ogilvie a new one. He's never been so enraged here at work, since he's a man who prides himself on the trained ability to keep his cool under duress. After all, if he could bark orders while bullets rained down on his unit overseas, then an ED would and has been a cakewalk in comparison.
Until you came along, apple of his eye.
You'd been so shy initially—presumedly because you felt intimidated—but intent on seeking you out, Jack refused to let you slip from his grasp. So he tutored you in field medicine (maybe to show his skills off, even a little), gifted you a beautiful hardback copy of Gray's Anatomy, a fancy carrying case for your stethoscope, and this year for your birthday, a $200 prepaid Visa gift card to spend as you pleased. A present you'd been insistent on giving back, until he threatened to up the amount to $300 if you didn't accept it.
The more you bonded, the more the scales tipped from teacher and student to something else that he didn't really have the words for. What is it the kids call it nowadays? He heard it from one of the residents before... Situationship. Obnoxious, but he supposes appropriate.
What else is he meant to call it when he barely even calls you by your name anymore—instead opting for sweetheart, darlin', honey, baby doll, pumpkin; any and all pet names that he can come up with which earn him a sweet, bashful smile in return?
When the two of you are on a case together, he's always at your back or side to supervise your actions and decision making while showering you in quiet praise all the while. And anytime you have a particularly hard day? Jack gathers you in his arms and holds you suffocatingly close while insisting on taking you to a quiet dinner after... Or breakfast. Whatever you wish is his command.
But it's not all heaviness and burnout. It's also joking around by snapping rubber bands at your ass and tickling you until you're begging for a reprieve—lest you wet yourself—because your smile is his favorite sight, and your musical laugh or joyous cackle his favorite sounds.
He's waiting for the day HR comes down on his head like a hammer, but he's also aware that PTMC can't exactly afford to lose his expertise, so he feels pretty comfortable in toeing the line here and there.
So when your body went stumbling back because of Ogilvie acting first and hardly thinking at all, he hit the roof.
A gurney was unnecessary when he cradled you against his chest and carried you into a private room before lying you back on a hospital bed so he could wait at your side for the medication to wear off.
He continually took your vitals every handful of minutes, afraid the substance would wreak havoc on your system. With him being unaware of any possible allergies you may or may not have, sitting idly by while watching the clock simply wasn't an option. He needed to make himself of use somehow.
While running a soothing hand over your forehead is when you finally stir and blink up at Jack from beneath drooping lids.
Loosing a long, ragged breath of relief, the tightness in Jack's chest dissipates. "Hey, sweetheart," he coos quietly. "How you feelin'?"
Your tautly drawn features quickly morph into that of a scrunched nose and a toothy grin. "You're s'handsome," you slur while lifting a wobbly hand toward his cheek.
Practically slapping it against the stubbled skin, you giggle, which is then followed by your eyes suddenly widening to the size of saucers while your lips form a perfect O. "Are you my husband?" you inquire breathlessly.
Are you taking the piss or is the injection still wearing off?
"Honey—"
You toss your head back. "Jus' kidding," you drawl. "Never be that lucky," you mumble with a pout.
Waving your hand floppily that he should lean in closer, he does so with an amused smirk.
"I think 'm in love with you," you murmur while fisting the neck of his shirt and tugging him toward you.
Suddenly pulled out of his seat, Jack stumbles forward and barely manages to catch himself by planting a hand on your hip before you guide his lips down to your own.
Thank God he pulled the curtain around to give you a bit of privacy, because if anybody caught him in such a compromising position?
He jolts when you slip your tongue in his mouth and moan lustfully while exploring the warm, wet lay of it. Not a man to take advantage, though, especially of you, Jack breaks away reluctantly. A gesture which is met with a long, drawn out No from you.
Seating himself again, he tries literally to wipe the smirk from his face by scrubbing a hand from his cheekbones to jawline, but it does him little good.
"You're s'posed to say it baaack," you whine between chattering teeth.
With a sigh, Abbot shakes his head, then reaches over you to grab the remote for the electric blanket he draped over you just incase, until you lift your head and chomp down on his forearm.
Your lips recede into a smile while you nibble on the skin between your teeth.
He barks a laugh, then slips the limb from your mouth while turning the blanket to high heat. "You're somethin' else," he commentates while tucking the edges securely around your shivering form.
"But you love me," you whisper before your eyes flutter closed.
Cupping your cheek in his hand, he smiles softly. "If only you knew how much."
When you come-to, you feel groggy and ran through. Your memory pretty well begins and ends with you passing out just after being injected with something you shouldn't have been.
You've seen the videos—funny little snippets where people divulge hilarious admittances and embarrassing secrets while under the influence—so you of course begin to panic a little when your eyes slowly draw open. What if you said or did something? Maybe you were left alone to recuperate on your own?
When your head lulls to the side, that hope is quickly shot dead at the sight of Robby leaned back in a chair with an iPad held at a bit of a distance.
"Got my test results on there?" you ask quietly.
Lowering the device, the daytime attending studies you from over the rim of his glasses. Robby sets the tablet aside, then leans forward and caresses your cheek with a smile. "How you feeling?"
You blink sleepy eyes. "Tired. Which I shouldn't be if I slept long enough for you to get here."
He snorts quietly. "Being under anesthesia is hardly the same as sleeping. You know that."
You roll your eyes. "It's called sarcasm," you groan while sitting up.
"Easy," Robby mutters while settlings his hands over the crowns of your shoulders to keep you steady.
Hanging your head in exhaustion, you sigh. "Was anybody in here when you clocked in?"
"Abbot."
You wince. "Did I...do or say anything?"
His lips twitch into a smile. "If you did, he didn't tell me as much. Just asked me to sit with you so he could get back to it before his shift ended."
You lift your head. "You don't have to waste your time in here—"
He clicks his tongue while giving your chin a gentle, affectionate tap. "I'd never call it that." Robby slides a hand down the back of your head after standing. "Watching you sleep was the most peace I've gotten in..." he shakes his head while turning and pulling the curtain aside. "Too long," he mutters.
"Could have that all the time if I could only get you to come onto the dayshift with me," Robby states while turning around with hands on his hips. "Might do you some good to see a bit of daylight every once in awhile."
You grin while swinging your feet. "Are you trying to poach me from Abbot's team?"
He meets your smile. "Always." Robby walks over and grabs the iPad again. "It'd give me a reason to look forward to coming in here again every day at least."
Robby offers you a hand, which you take. Once you're standing on two feet again, you take a moment to catch your bearings.
Sliding an arm around your shoulders, Robby slowly leads you toward the door. "You're not just Abbot's favorite, you know?"
You glance up to him. "Oh?"
He presses a kiss to your brow before swinging open the door and holding it for you. "Just something for you to consider. Incase the nights ever get too long."
With your shift at an end, you decide to head in the direction of your locker to gather your things before heading home. A long soak in the tub, followed by plenty of rest sounds pretty nice. Maybe some Chinese takeout while you're at it. Or Thai.
"Robby tells me that you seem to be feeling better."
Clicking your locker shut, you turn and smile at the sight of Jack standing just a few feet away with an easy grin playing on his lips, matched by hands stuck in his pockets.
"Think so," you reply with a quiet, casual shrug.
"You heading home?" he asks while ambling closer.
"Planning on it."
Slipping your bag from your shoulder, he hefts it onto his instead. "How about," Jack begins while leading you in the direction of the elevators with your hand held in his, "You come up on the roof with me now that you're awake and let me watch you for a bit to make sure there's no residual effects."
You huff dramatically. "Jack, I really do feel fine."
Pressing the button that'll lead the two of you up, he cups the crown of your shoulder in his hand and brings you in close. "That is to still be determined."
The elevator dings and steel doors slide apart, inviting the two of you into an empty chamber.
"By me," he concludes while ushering you inside with an encouraging push.
With one arm wrapped around yourself, you settle the other over your mouth to suppress a laugh of disbelief. "Of course you and Robby have folding chairs up here," you remark with a giggle.
Popping one open, Jack nods to it, indicating it as your designated seat. "Could always look into a tent," he states while settling the other beside it. "If it meant getting you snuggled up next to me in a sleeping bag."
Plopping down in the offered chair, you rest an elbow on the fabric arm and your chin in your palm.
Jack tugs off his prosthetic, then leans back with a sigh. "That feels better."
"Maybe we get an extra big one. Or a blow-up mattress," you quip happily.
Jack clasps his hands over his belly. "Why's that, pumpkin?"
You flash a grin. "Maybe Robby can join us."
Hanging his head back, he shakes it from side to side. "Don't tell me he was making moves on my girl while I was busy saving lives this morning."
You shrug while wiggling your brows playfully.
"So..." You begin while picking nervously at your nails. "Did I say anything?"
"To me or Robby?" Jack asks while massaging his leg.
You roll your eyes. "Apart from me asking Robby to take his shirt off," you remark sarcastically.
Jack snickers and his mouth curves into a lopsided grin. "Without me there to see it?"
You remain silent as you wait for him to fess up.
"You, uh..." he trails off, then barks a laugh.
Oh no...
Jack glances at you. "You might've bit me," he says while cringing mischievously in an attempt to downplay things.
"I what?!" you cry while leaning toward him in shock.
Jack throws himself back against the chair and lies his arms palm face up. "Well, after you got done harping on my good looks, you got cold, so I went to switch on the heated blanket that I put you under and you just chomped down," he explains whole gesturing toward his right forearm with his hand drawn into the shape of a claw. "It was more like a nibble, though." He shrugs and bestows a reassuring smile. "You didn't break skin, so don't worry about it."
Burying your face in your hands, you shake your head. "Oh, this is mortifying." Dropping them into your lap, you stare at the skyline. "I'm so sorry."
Studying him from beneath your lashes, you nervously chew your lip. "Anything else?"
Please say no, please say no.
He smiles warmly—almost bashfully, in fact. "Asked if I was your husband. Then you broke character, and let me know you were just kidding."
It can't get any worse, surely.
Doubling over, you rest your elbows on your knees, then press your forehead against the heels of your palms. "Please tell me that's it."
He should let it go—leave things as they are. But Jack can't help it: wanting to hear that it wasn't just because you were high as a kite.
That feelings are mutual, and always have been.
When the sound of silence descends, you raise your head. "Jack?"
He sighs. "I just want you to know that I know it was strictly because you were out of it." Jack turns fully toward you. "That you didn't mean it."
"The more you talk, the more worried I'm getting," you reply with searching eyes.
Clasping his hands together, Jack leans forward slightly. "You..." he sighs. "You told me that you were in love with me."
His eyes flit to yours—attempting to gauge from expression alone whether it was a true utterance, or mere sarcasm. "And then you kissed me."
Your eyes pop wide open. "I—" You clam up.
Is this it? The defining moment that either makes or breaks your and Jack's...situation?
"You know how they say drunk words are sober thoughts?" you ask quietly and with a pattering heart that leaves you short of breath.
Jack's chin wobbles, but only slightly. "Yeah?"
You nod, and a sob breaks last your watery smile.
"C'mere, honey," he commands with a wave of his hand.
Rising from your seat, Jack guides your hips until you're seated on his generous lap. "Can you say it again?" he asks quietly while smoothing a hand across your brow.
You press your forehead to his and hum from the feeling of the rising sun warming your back. "I love you," you whisper while winding soft, gentle hands around his neck. "Jack."
Cupping his own around the curve of your neck, he guides your lips down to his this time. "'Bout damn time we got that outta the way," he murmurs before kissing you the way he's meant to so many times.
Jack teases your tongue with a wet, pointed tip which he slides along the underside of your own.
"How about," he pants. "I take you home just to be safe." A calloused palm scratches its way along the polyester that covers your inner thigh.
"Y-Yours or mine?" you whimper.
Squeezing your hip temptingly, he nips at your chin. "Better take you to mine to keep an eye on you. Help you in the shower," he drawls with a bored shrug. "I have a chair in there. It'll make things more comfortable when I help. Then I can fix you dinner before we go to bed. Together."
Carefully, he prods at the heat which radiates from between your thighs. "Would you like that, sweetpea?"
"Pretty dizzy all of a sudden," you sigh.
"Let me get my leg back on and I'll take you home, baby."
Rising from his lap, you stand to the side and wait for him to store he and Robby's chairs back away before following excitedly along so he can take you home for further eventful flirtations.
Summary: I wanted to be a little messy and write something inspired by the recent engagement news... hehehehe 😎
Harry’s longtime assistant finds out he’s engaged through the internet after months of blurred lines, bad boundaries, and feelings neither of them ever fully acknowledged. Unfortunately for everyone involved, harry is a bit emotionally stupid in this one!!!
Genre/Warning: Very angsty. Yearning. Miscommunication, hurt feelings and consequences. Nobody is getting out unscathed.
Word Count: 8.3k
Masterlist: Here
The first time she sees it, it doesn’t feel real. It’s not even a headline at first, just a push notification that lingers too long on her phone screen while she’s halfway through replying to an email about lighting rigs.
“Harry Styles reportedly engaged to Jade Monroe.”
She stares at it like it’s written in another language.
The rehearsal space in Bedford hums around her—amps buzzing faintly, someone testing a snare, a low ripple of laughter from the crew—but all of it feels muffled, like her ears have filled with water.
She doesn’t open it. Not yet. Instead, she locks her phone, flips it face down on the folding table, and finishes typing:
Confirming stage dimensions. Will follow up on transport by EOD.
Her hands don’t shake. That’s the strangest part.
Harry’s already there when she finally looks up. He’s pacing near the center of the room, barefoot, guitar hanging loose against his torso. He’s talking—half to Mitch, half to himself—something about tempo, about stretching the bridge longer, about wanting it to breathe. He gestures when he talks, big sweeping movements, like he’s conducting something only he can hear.
And then he glances at her. Just for a second, but it's enough for him to stop mid-sentence.
“…yeah, maybe just—hang on.”
His eyes stay on her. Her stomach drops—not because of the article, not even yet—but because of the look. There’s something off about it. Not guilt, exactly. Not even fear. Just anticipation. Like he's been waiting.
She looks away first.
“Can we run it from the second verse?” she calls out, voice even, professional. “We’re already behind schedule.”
Mitch nods while playing a riff on the guitar.. “Yeah, alright.”
Harry doesn’t move right away. But eventually he nods too, adjusts the strap, steps back into place. The music starts. She waits until the second run-through to check her phone. It’s worse now.
Not a rumor anymore—photos, grainy but unmistakable. Them leaving somewhere together. Her hand, his hand. A ring, maybe. Speculation in bold letters.
Sources say…
Close friends confirm…
After eight months together…
Eight months.
Her thumb hovers over the screen. She scrolls.
There’s a picture she hasn’t seen before—Harry laughing, head thrown back, Jade leaning into him like she belongs there. Like she always has.
Something tightens in her chest. She locks the phone again. Puts it down. Doesn’t breathe for a second.
“Hey.”
She looks up. He’s right there. He's too close. He must have walked over during the break, but she didn't hear him.
He must have walked over during the break, but she didn’t hear him.
“Hi,” she says.
Just that. Nothing more.
His mouth opens, then closes again. He rubs the back of his neck, glances over his shoulder like he’s checking who’s watching. Everyone’s pretending not to.
“Can we—” he starts. “Can we talk for a sec?”
She tilts her head slightly. “About what?”
He hesitates. That hesitation says everything.
She nods once. “Sure.”
They step out into the corridor, the door closing behind them with a dull thud that cuts off the music. It’s quieter here. Colder.
There’s a faint smell of dust and coffee. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them immediately like he can’t get comfortable in his own skin. She stands a few feet away. Keeps the distance.
“Everything alright?” she asks.
Her tone is neutral. Too neutral.
He huffs out a small, humourless laugh. “You tell me.”
She blinks at him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
He looks at her like he’s searching for something, anger, maybe. Or hurt. Something he can latch onto. But she gives him nothing.
“I thought you would’ve said something by now,” he says.
There it is.
She lets the silence stretch. Then, calmly, “About what?”
His jaw tightens. “You know what.”
She exhales slowly. Reaches into her pocket, pulls out her phone. Unlocks it. Turns the screen toward him.
“I saw the news,” she says. “Congratulations.”
It lands between them like something fragile and already broken. He flinches. Actually flinches.
“Right,” he says quietly. “Thanks.”
And that should be it. It should be it. She could walk away. Go back inside. Finish the day like nothing happened. But he doesn’t let it end.
“That's it?” he asks.
She looks up sharply. “Excuse me?”
“I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I thought you’d have more to say.”
Her lips part slightly, then press together. “Okay,” she says slowly. “What exactly are you expecting, Harry?”
“I don’t know,” he snaps, then immediately softens. “I just—this is… it’s a big thing.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “It is.”
“And you’re just... fine?”
“I’m not sure ‘fine’ is the word I’d use,” she says carefully. “But it’s not really my place to have a reaction, is it?”
“That’s bullshit.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Is it?”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the wall, stepping closer. “It is.”
“Why?”
“Because—” He stops. Falters. “Because it’s us.”
She actually laughs. It’s short. Sharp. Not amused. “Us?” she repeats.
“Yeah.”
She shakes her head, almost gently. “Harry, there is no ‘us.’”
His expression shifts—hurt, confusion, something defensive.
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” she asks.
He takes another step closer. “We—”
“Don’t,” she cuts in, voice still calm but firmer now. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Rewrite things.”
“I’m not rewriting anything.”
“Really?” she says. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to turn this into something it’s not.”
“And what is it, then?” he demands.
She holds his gaze. For a long moment, she says nothing. “You’re engaged,” she says simply. “That’s what it is.”
The words hit harder this time. Because now they’re real. Because now they’re out loud.
He exhales, long and shaky. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
He looks at her like he’s waiting—for anger, for tears, for something. She gives him composure. And it drives him crazy.
“Why are you being like this?” he asks.
“Like what?”
“Like it doesn’t matter.”
She tilts her head. “Does it?”
“Yes,” he says immediately.
“Why?”
“Because—” He stops again, frustration bubbling up. “Because of everything.”
She watches him carefully now. Really looks at him. And something shifts.
“You mean,” she says slowly, “despite everything?”
He frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She exhales. And this time, it’s not steady. “Despite you having your dick in me two weeks ago.”
The words land like a slap. He freezes. “—what?” he says, barely above a whisper.
She laughs again, but there’s no humor in it now. Just disbelief.
“Did you forget?” she asks. “Was it that forgettable?”
“No,” he says quickly. “No, I didn’t—”
“Because I didn’t,” she cuts in. “I remember it pretty clearly.”
Her voice is still controlled, but there’s a crack in it now. Small, but there.
“You don’t get to stand here and act like this is some abstract situation,” she continues. “Like it’s not real. Like it didn’t happen.”
“I’m not saying that,” he insists.
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying it’s complicated.”
She stares at him. Then lets out a soft, incredulous breath. “Of course you are.”
“It is,” he pushes. “You know it is.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s actually not.”
“It’s not?” he echoes.
“No.” Her voice sharpens now. “You’ve been with her for eight months, Harry.”
He flinches at the number.
“Eight,” she repeats. “And now you’re engaged.”
He swallows.
“When you know, you know,” he mutters.
And that’s what does it. Something in her snaps. She laughs, but it’s louder this time. Harsher. “When you know, you know?” she repeats, like she can’t believe she’s hearing it.
He shifts uncomfortably. “Don’t—”
“No, go on,” she says, stepping closer now, her composure finally cracking. “Say it again. Maybe it’ll sound less ridiculous the second time.”
“I didn’t mean it like that—”
“How did you mean it?” she demands.
“I just—” He gestures helplessly. “I care about her.”
“And you didn’t care about me?” she shoots back.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence. Heavy. Suffocating. She shakes her head, running a hand through her hair. “God,” she mutters. “You’re so—” She stops herself.
But he hears it anyway. “So what?” he asks quietly.
She looks at him. And for a second, there’s something raw there. Something vulnerable. Then it hardens. “You’re so fucking lost,” she says. He recoils slightly. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Hey—”
“No,” she cuts in, voice rising now. “No, don’t ‘hey’ me. Don’t.”
“I’m not trying to—”
“You don’t even see it,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s the worst part. You genuinely don’t see it.”
“See what?”
“This,” she gestures between them. “This mess you’ve made.”
“I didn’t make a mess.”
Her eyes flash.
“You got engaged, Harry.”
“And?”
“And you were with me,” she snaps.
“It wasn’t like that—”
“Then what was it like?” she challenges. “Because I’m really struggling to understand how you’ve compartmentalized this in your head.”
He looks away. That’s answer enough. She laughs again, but now there are tears in it.
“Right,” she says softly. “That’s what I thought.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” he says.
And that... that’s almost worse. She goes very still. “Of course you didn’t,” she says quietly. “You never mean to hurt anyone.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not,” she agrees. “But neither is this.”
He steps toward her again, desperate now. “We can figure this out.”
She stares at him. And for the first time, there’s no anger left. Just exhaustion. “There’s nothing to figure out,” she says.
“Yes, there is.”
“No,” she repeats. “There isn’t. You made your choice.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Because there’s nothing he can say to that. She nods once, like that settles it. Then she steps back.
“Congratulations,” she says again. This time, it sounds final. She turns and reaches for the door.
“Wait,” he says.
She stops, but she doesn’t turn around.
“What?” she asks.
His voice is quieter now. Small, almost. “I didn’t know,” he says.
She closes her eyes briefly. “Yeah,” she replies. “That’s the problem.”
And then she walks back into the noise, into the music, into the life that suddenly feels very, very far away from him.
──────────────
He knows something’s wrong before he even walks in. Not because of anything dramatic—no slammed doors, no shouting—but because of the quiet. The kind of quiet that feels… organized. Controlled. Deliberate.
When Harry pushes open the rehearsal room door in Bedford, she’s already there. Of course she is. She always is. But today it’s different.
She’s standing near the long folding table, laptop open, a stack of printed schedules neatly aligned beside her, phone tucked between shoulder and ear as she murmurs something low and efficient to someone on the other end.
“—yes, that’s fine, just push it to Friday and I’ll confirm with wardrobe before noon. Yeah. Thanks.”
She hangs up before he can even say anything. Looks up. Sees him. And for just a fraction of a second, so quick he almost thinks he imagined it, something flickers across her face. Then it’s gone.
“Morning,” she says.
Flat. Polite. Professional.
It hits him harder than anything she said yesterday. She picks up a takeaway cup from the table and walks it over to him without hesitation.
“Matcha,” she says, placing it in his hand like it’s just another item on a checklist. “Oat milk. One pump of syrup.”
He takes it automatically.
“Thanks,” he says, a little too slow.
But she’s already turning away. “Okay, so—” she starts, flipping open a notebook, pen already moving. “We’ve got rehearsal from nine until twelve. Pauli wants to focus on transitions for the second half of the set, so we’ll probably run those a few times.”
He just… stands there. Watching her.
“You’ll break for lunch at twelve,” she continues, not looking at him. “I’ve got a call scheduled with production at twelve-thirty, but you don’t need to be on that unless something comes up.”
She’s talking fast. Faster than usual.
“After that, you’ve got a fitting at two,” she adds, flipping a page. “Harry is bringing in the updated pieces from last week. I know you said you didn’t love the cut on the blue jacket, so he's made adjustments—”
“Can we talk?” he interrupts.
She doesn’t stop.
“—and then at four, there’s a quick run-through with sound just to—”
“Hey,” he says, a little sharper. “Can we talk?”
That makes her pause. Just for a second. Her pen hovers above the page. Then she exhales quietly. Not annoyed or angry. Just tired.
“We are talking,” she says, finally looking at him.
“No, we’re not.”
“Yes, we are,” she replies. “I’m telling you your schedule.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know,” she says.
And there’s something in the way she says it, something final, that makes his chest tighten.
“Then stop,” he says. “Just—stop for a second.”
She studies him. Like she’s deciding something. Then she closes the notebook and caps the pen, setting both down carefully on the table.
“Okay,” she says.
And for a moment, it feels like yesterday again. Like they’re back in that corridor. But it’s not the same. She doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there, arms loosely crossed, waiting.
“What?” she asks.
He runs a hand through his hair, already frustrated with himself.
“I don’t like this,” he says.
“Okay,” she replies.
That’s it. Just okay.
His jaw tightens. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“What would you like me to say?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Something real.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly.
“Right,” she says.
And now there’s a hint of something under it. Not quite anger. Not yet. Disbelief, maybe.
“You mean like yesterday?” she asks.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I didn’t—” He stops, searching for the right words. “Like I didn’t hear you.”
She tilts her head. “I’m not acting like anything,” she says. “I’m working.”
“That’s not what this is,” he pushes.
“It is,” she says simply. “This is my job.”
The word job lands heavy. He looks at her like he doesn’t recognise her.
“You’re not just my assistant,” he says.
Her expression tightens, barely.
“I am your assistant,” she replies. “That’s literally what I am.”
“That’s not all you are.”
She looks away for a second, then back at him.
“Harry,” she says, quieter now. “We’re not doing this.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s nothing to do.”
“There is,” he insists. “We didn’t finish talking.”
“Yes, we did.”
“No, we didn’t.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s already exhausted by the conversation.
“We did,” she says. “You’re engaged. I congratulated you. That’s the end of it.”
“It’s not the end of it.”
“It is for me.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” she says.
“You can’t just switch it off like that.”
“I’m not switching anything off,” she replies. “I’m… adjusting.”
“Adjusting?” he repeats.
“Yeah.”
“To what?”
“To reality," she says. Gesturing vaguely between them.
There’s a pause. Long enough that the noise from the band starting to filter in through the room begins to creep back into the space.
Voices. Laughter. Normal.
“So that’s it?” he asks.
“That’s it.”
“And you’re just… fine with it?”
She looks at him. And for the first time, he sees it clearly. She’s not fine. Not even close. There are dark circles under her eyes she didn’t bother to cover. Her posture’s tighter than usual, like she’s holding herself together by sheer force. But her voice? Her voice is steady.
“I’m managing,” she says.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
He opens his mouth again, but before he can say anything—
“Oi!” Mitch calls out from across the room as he walks in, guitar slung over his shoulder. “There he is.”
The moment breaks. Just like that. She steps back immediately. Creates space.
“Morning,” she says to Mitch, slipping right back into it like flipping a switch. “We’re starting with second-half transitions. Harry’s just getting set.”
Mitch nods, then grins at Harry. “Big man, huh?”
Harry frowns slightly. “What?”
Mitch laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t play dumb. Congrats, mate.”
There it is. Out loud. In the open. Harry glances at her instinctively. Big mistake. Because she’s already turned away. Already picking up her phone. Already pretending she didn’t hear it.
“Yeah,” he says awkwardly. “Thanks.”
“Proper romantic, you,” Mitch teases. “Eight months and you’re already—”
“Alright,” Harry cuts in quickly, sharper than he means to.
Mitch raises his hands. “Okay, okay. Just saying.”
But it’s done. The air’s shifted. Harry looks back at her again. She’s standing at the table, flipping through papers that don’t need flipping, her movements just a little too precise. Too controlled.
“Hey,” Mitch says under his breath, nudging him. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Harry mutters.
But he’s not. Not even close. Because across the room, she finally looks up and for a split second, their eyes meet. And in that moment, there’s no professionalism. No distance. Just something raw and aching and… gone. She looks away first. Again.
“Okay,” she says, voice carrying just enough for the room to hear. “We’re starting in two minutes. Let’s get into position.”
Like nothing happened. Like yesterday didn’t happen. Like they didn’t happen.
──────────────
Lunch break doesn’t feel like a break. It feels like an escape.
The warehouse space is too big, too loud, too full of people pretending everything is normal. Someone’s playing music too loudly from a speaker near the catering table, a few of the crew are laughing about something she can’t quite make out, and across the room, he’s exactly where she knew he’d be, surrounded.
Managers. Stylists. Someone from production. Talking. Planning. Existing like nothing has shifted. Like nothing has cracked open.
She doesn’t look at him again. Instead, she slips out the side door, past stacked flight cases and coiled cables, into a quieter corridor that smells faintly like metal and dust. It’s cooler here. Dimmer. There’s a hum from something electrical in the distance, but otherwise, silence. Or close enough.
Her hands are already shaking by the time she pulls her phone out. She scrolls without seeing, taps the first name she can trust.
It rings once. Twice.
“Hey,” her friend answers.
And that’s all it takes. Her breath catches immediately. She presses the back of her head lightly against the cold wall, eyes squeezing shut as the first tear slips out before she can stop it.
“Hey,” she echoes, but it comes out wrong. Too thin. Too tight. There’s a pause on the other end.
“…what’s wrong?”
She laughs, but it breaks halfway through.
“I just—” Her voice wobbles, and she hates it. Hates how quickly she’s unraveling. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Believe what?”
She swallows hard, dragging a hand over her face like she can wipe it all away.
“He’s engaged.”
Silence. Then, carefully, “Oh.”
“Yeah,” she says, a shaky breath escaping her. “Eight months.”
“Eight months?” her friend repeats, incredulous. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “That’s what I thought. I was like, no way, that’s not—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “But then I was thinking… maybe it does.”
“What do you mean?”
She slides down the wall a little, crouching now, one arm wrapped around her middle like she’s holding something in place.
“He has a commitment issue,” she says, quieter now. “You know that. Like… historically, that’s his thing. He doesn’t stay. He doesn’t settle.”
“Right…”
“And she’s been engaged, what—multiple times?” she continues, almost talking to herself now. “So it’s like… maybe they work. Maybe that’s their thing. Maybe they—” She lets out a soft, broken laugh. “Maybe they’re actually perfect for each other. Oh my god, I sound like a bitch.”
“That doesn’t make this easier.”
“No,” she admits. “It doesn’t.”
“…are you okay?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Because the truth is sitting right there, heavy in her chest, and saying it out loud feels like making it permanent.
“No,” she says finally.
It’s quiet. Honest.
“I’m not,” she continues, voice cracking again. “I just… I don’t really understand it.”
“Okay.”
“I didn’t think it was going to be me,” she says quickly, like she needs to clarify it. “I’m not delusional. I wasn’t sitting there thinking, like, we were going to get married or anything.”
“Of course you weren’t.”
“But we’ve—” She stops, pressing her lips together, then forces herself to keep going. “We’ve hooked up. A couple times. More than a couple. More than hooked up...”
Her friend stays quiet. Lets her talk.
“And it wasn’t just that,” she adds. “It wasn’t just physical. We… we talk. Like, really talk. He knows everything about me.”
Her throat tightens.
“And I know everything about him. And this is the one thing I didn’t know,” she whispers.
That’s what breaks her. Because it’s not just the engagement. It’s the not knowing. The being left out. The realisation that whatever she thought they had, it wasn’t enough to earn honesty.
“He couldn’t even tell me to my face,” she says, voice trembling now. “Like not even a heads up. Not even a ‘hey, this is happening.’ I had to find out on my phone. Like everyone else.”
“That’s… not okay.”
“No,” she agrees, wiping at her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “It’s not.”
She sniffles, trying to steady herself.
“I don’t know what to do,” she admits.
“You don’t have to do anything,” her friend says gently.
“I feel—” She exhales shakily. “I feel really numb. Like… I should be more upset, but it’s just—” She gestures vaguely, even though no one can see her. “It’s like everything’s muted.”
“That’s your brain protecting you,” her friend says. “It’s a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t need to figure anything out right now,” they continue. “Just… get through the day.”
She nods, even though it goes unseen.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Okay.”
“And for what it’s worth,” her friend adds softly, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
That hits her deep. Painfully deep.
“I know,” she says. “I just… wish he’d respected me enough to tell me.”
Before her friend can respond—
“Hey!”
Her head snaps up. Footsteps echo in the corridor. One of the managers, Tom, rounds the corner, slowing when he spots her.
“Sorry,” he says, then his expression shifts. “Oh—hey. Are you alright?”
She freezes. Her heart jumps into her throat. Shit.
“Yeah,” she says quickly, turning slightly away, dragging her sleeve across her face in a rushed, messy attempt to hide the tears. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.” She forces a small, apologetic smile. “What did you need?”
Tom hesitates, clearly not convinced, but also clearly not wanting to push.
“Just—Harry was asking about the updated schedule for tomorrow,” he says. “Did you finalise that?”
“Yeah,” she nods immediately, grateful for something practical to latch onto. “I sent it over this morning. I can resend it if—”
“No, no, that’s alright,” he says. “I’ll check with him.”
“Okay,” she replies.
There's a brief, awkward pause.
“…you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time.
“Yeah,” she says, firmer now. “I’m good.”
He nods slowly. “Alright.”
Then he leaves. She waits until his footsteps fade before she exhales.
“…you still there?” her friend asks.
“Yeah,” she says, voice quieter now. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise.”
“I should probably go,” she says. “I need to... pull myself together.”
“Okay. Call me later?”
“I will.”
“And hey, be kind to yourself.”
She lets out a small, tired breath. “I’ll try.”
They hang up. She stays there for another minute. Breathing. Existing. Then she pushes herself up, straightens her clothes, checks her reflection in the dark screen of her phone. Her eyes are still a little red, but manageable. Professional. Good enough.
By the time she walks back into the main space, she’s already put herself back together. Enough to function. Across the room, Harry looks up almost immediately when she enters. And there’s something different in his expression now. Something… uneasy. Because Tom didn’t keep it to himself. Of course he didn’t. Harry had asked. Tom had answered.
She’s fine.
She was just on the phone.
Maybe a bit upset.
Harry’s stomach had dropped. And now, watching her walk back in—composed, focused, like nothing happened. He feels like a complete idiot.
“Alright,” she says, clapping her hands lightly once to get everyone’s attention. “We’re back in five. Let’s reset from the top of the second half.”
Her voice is steady. Clear. No cracks. No hesitation.
She doesn’t look at him. Not once. And that bothers him more than if she'd come back in crying.
“Hey,” he says, stepping toward her as the room starts to shift back into rehearsal mode.
She doesn’t stop walking.
“Hey,” she replies, without looking at him.
“Can I—”
“No,” she says immediately.
“What?”
She stops then. Finally turns to face him. And there’s something new in her expression now. Not just tired.
“We’re not doing this anymore,” she says.
His brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”
“This,” she gestures lightly between them. “These conversations.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she says, choosing her words carefully, “you forfeited that right.”
“What?” he says, genuinely thrown.
“You couldn’t even tell me you were engaged,” she whispers. “Or that you were going to be. Or that things were serious. Or... anything.”
“I—”
“No,” she cuts in, not raising her voice, but firm. “You don’t get to come to me now and ask for conversations and understanding.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Stop saying that word,” letting out a humourless breath. “It’s not, no. But neither is this.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “I just want to know if you’re okay.”
Her expression falters slightly, but it's enough. “I’m not,” she says honestly. The admission hangs there. Heavy. “And I don’t think you want to hear what I actually have to say about it,” she adds.
“I do.”
She shakes her head.
“I don’t think you do,” she says softly. “Because I’m—” She exhales shakily. “I’m really upset, Harry. Like… really upset. And I’ve got a lot of emotions, and I don’t trust what’ll come out of my mouth if we keep talking about this.”
He swallows. “I can handle it.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But I can’t.”
“Okay,” he says after a moment. “Then what—what do you want to do?”
She looks at him and there’s something almost apologetic in it.
“This,” she says, gesturing to the room, the schedule, the chaos. “This is what we do.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” she says, voice steady again, “I’m your assistant.”
“And that’s it?”
“And that’s it.”
He shakes his head slightly. “That’s not—”
“Do I need to look for another job?” she asks suddenly.
That catches him completely off guard.
“What? No,” he says immediately. “Of course not.”
“Good,” she replies, nodding once. “Then this is our relationship now.”
He stares at her. Like he’s trying to find the version of her from before. The one who laughed with him. Who knew him. Who let him in. But she’s not standing here right now. This version is… different.
Distant. Controlled. Professional.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “We can’t just pretend like—”
“We’re not pretending,” she interrupts. “We’re working.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is now. I need this to be simple,” she says. “For my own sanity.”
He exhales slowly. Defeated. “…okay.”
“Okay.”
And just like that, it’s decided.
“Alright,” she says, stepping back, already slipping back into her role. “We’re starting again in two. Can you grab your in-ears? They’re on the amp.”
He doesn’t move right away. Just watches her for a second longer.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. And does what she asks.
──────────────
The car ride starts in silence. Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind they used to have, where silence meant ease—where it meant they didn’t need to fill the space because everything already felt understood.
This silence is… tight. Careful. The kind that feels like it might snap if anyone breathes wrong.
Harry slides into the backseat without saying much, shoulders slumped, exhaustion finally catching up to him now that rehearsal’s over. His voice is gone, his patience thinner than usual, and his head is still buzzing—not from music, but from everything else.
She gets in on the other side. Closes the door quietly.
“Evening,” Paddy says from the front, glancing at them both in the rearview mirror.
“Hey,” Harry mutters.
“Hi,” she adds, polite as ever.
Paddy nods once, starts the engine, and pulls away from the warehouse. And that’s it. No one speaks. Not for a while.
The hum of the road fills the space instead, tires rolling over uneven pavement, the faint rattle of something in the trunk shifting with each turn. The city fades behind them slowly, replaced by quieter roads, longer stretches of darkness.
Harry leans his head back against the seat, eyes closing briefly. He’s tired, but it’s not the kind of tired sleep fixes. Across from him, she’s already pulled her notebook out again. Pen in hand. Pages flipped open.
“…okay,” she says after a while, her voice measured, controlled. “Do you want to go over the next couple of days?”
He doesn’t respond right away. She glances up briefly. He’s watching her. Not the notebook. Her.
“Harry?” she prompts.
He exhales slowly. “…yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
She nods once, like that settles it.
“Okay,” she says, eyes dropping back to the page. “Tomorrow morning, you’ve got press at ten. It’s that interview we pushed from last week, they’re sending a car at nine-thirty—”
He tunes it out at first. Not intentionally. But her voice—steady, professional, detached—it grates in a way he doesn’t know how to handle. Because it’s wrong. This version of her. It’s wrong.
“—and then after that, you’ve got a session with—”
“Can we not do this?” he interrupts.
Her pen stops mid-word and she looks up. “What?”
“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the notebook. “Can we not just talk about schedules?”
She blinks at him. “We need to talk about schedules,” she replies. “That’s literally why I’m here.”
“I know,” he says, rubbing his face. “I just—”
He stops. She watches him carefully now. Waiting.
“What?” she asks.
“No,” he says, quieter but firmer now. “We’re gonna talk about this.”
Her entire body tenses. Immediately.
“I'm not doing this again. And I'm not doing it here,” she says quickly.
He frowns. “Why not?”
She flicks a glance toward the front seat. Paddy’s there. Hands on the wheel. Eyes forward, but he’s not deaf.
“Because we’re not alone,” she says, low.
“So?”
“So?” she repeats. “Harry—”
“No,” he cuts in. “I’m not doing another day of this. I’m not doing another hour of you acting like—like none of this matters.”
“Lower your voice,” she says quietly. Lips pressing together.
“I’m not shouting.”
“You’re getting there.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do,” she snaps softly. “Because this isn’t the place.”
“Fine,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “Then when is the place?”
She hesitates. And that hesitation is enough.
“Thought so,” he says. “You keep avoiding it.”
“I’m not avoiding anything,” she says, sharper now.
“You are.”
“I’m setting a boundary.”
“No, you’re shutting me out.”
She lets out a quiet, incredulous breath. “Harry—”
“We need to talk about this.”
“We actually don't,” she insists.
“We do.”
“Why?” she asks, turning to face him fully now. “What is there to talk about?”
“Everything,” he says.
“Everything?” she laughs. But she doesn't sound amused. Not even close.
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Let's start with the fact that you’ve been with her for eight months.”
He swallows. “Okay, let's.”
“And during those eight months,” she continues, her voice still controlled but tightening at the edges, “you were also with me.”
“It wasn’t like that—”
“Don’t,” she cuts in immediately. “Don’t you even dare..”
“I’m just saying it wasn’t—”
“What?” she snaps. “Serious?”
He hesitates and it's a big mistake, because she sees it.
“Right,” she says, nodding slowly. “Nice to know.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” she demands.
“I mean—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “We weren’t—together.”
She goes very still. “…we weren’t... together,” she repeats.
“No,” he says, quieter now. “Not like that. That's not what I mean.”
She stares at him like she doesn’t recognise him.
“Okay,” she says finally. “So what were we, then?”
He doesn’t answer because there's no good answer. And he knows that she knows it.
“Because from my perspective,” she continues, her voice rising slightly now, emotion finally bleeding through, “we were close. Like really close. We talked about everything. We—” She stops herself, shaking her head. “We weren’t strangers, Harry.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” she challenges.
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.
“I—” he starts. Nothing comes out. There it is. The question. The one he doesn't have an answer for.
Her laugh is sharp. “Yeah,” she says. “Exactly.”
“I didn’t know how,” he says finally.
She blinks at him. Then lets out a disbelieving breath.
“You didn’t know how?” she repeats.
“Yeah.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Oh my God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “That’s actually insane.”
“It’s not insane—”
“You think not telling me was the better option?” she cuts in. “You think finding out on my phone like everyone else hurt less?”
“I didn’t think you’d find out like that—”
“How else would I find out, Harry?” she demands. “Did you think I just… wouldn’t see it?”
“I don’t know!”
“Exactly,” she snaps. “You don’t know. You didn’t think it through. You didn’t think about me at all.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then what is true?” she challenges.
Silence.
“God,” she whispers, more to herself than to him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Paddy shifts slightly in the front seat. The tension is impossible to ignore now.
“Hey—” Harry starts.
“No,” she cuts in, her voice sharper now, louder. “No, you don’t get to ‘hey’ me. You don’t get to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Demand that I have this conversation with you like you’ve earned it,” she says.
“I’m not demanding—”
“You are,” she interrupts. “You are sitting here, telling me we have to talk about this, like I owe you that.”
He exhales sharply. “I just want to fix it.”
“You can’t fix it!”
“Yes, I can.”
“No,” she says, her voice breaking slightly now. “You can’t. Because you’ve already done it.”
“Done what?”
She laughs again, but now there are tears in her eyes.
“Are you serious?” she asks. “You’ve completely broken me.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” she says quickly. “You never mean to do anything, do you?”
“That’s not fair—”
“Does she know?” she cuts in suddenly.
He freezes. “…what?”
“Does she know about me?” she asks, her voice quieter now, but more dangerous. “About the last eight months?”
His silence is answer enough. Her chest rises and falls sharply.
“Right,” she says, nodding slowly. “So not only did you not tell me... you didn’t tell her either.”
“It’s not like that—”
“Then what is it like?” she demands. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve been playing both sides.”
“I haven’t—”
“You have,” she says, her voice cracking now. “You have, Harry. Whether you want to admit it or not.”
Paddy clears his throat softly in the front seat. Neither of them acknowledges it.
“Do you know how that makes me feel?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer. Because he knows. Or at least, he’s starting to.
“Like I’m disposable,” she says. “Like I was just… something you did on the side.”
“That’s not true.”
“Do not gaslight me. You do not tell me how to feel right now,” she shoots back.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. She shakes her head, tears slipping down her cheeks now despite her efforts to hold them back.
“And then you have the nerve,” she continues, her voice rising again, “to stand there and expect me to congratulate you?”
“I didn’t expect—”
“You did,” she snaps. “You literally said you thought I’d have more to say.”
“I meant—”
“What is your fucking problem?” she blurts out.
The car goes dead quiet. Even the road noise feels distant now.
“Do you just enjoy this?” she continues, her voice shaking but loud. “Do you enjoy fucking people up like this? Playing with them? Playing with their feelings?”
“Hey—” he says, startled.
“No,” she cuts in. “Answer me.”
“I don’t—”
“Because I don’t understand how someone can be this—this oblivious,” she says. “Like, genuinely. I don’t get it.”
“I’m not oblivious.”
“You are,” she insists. “You are, because if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be sitting here asking me to have a conversation with you. Tell me how to feel. Ask me why I’m upset.”
“I know why you’re upset—”
“Do you?” she challenges.
“Yes.”
“Then say it.”
“Fucking hell,” she says, her voice dropping, exhausted now. “You don’t even get it.”
“I do—”
“No, you don’t,” she says. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be asking me to sit here and talk about it like this is something we can just… work through.”
“I just want to understand.”
“What is there to understand?” she says. “You hurt me. End of story.”
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
“And now you want me to be nice about it,” she adds quietly. “You want me to be calm and professional and—what? Supportive?”
“I don’t—”
“You don’t get that,” she continues, “sometimes people deserve someone being mean to them.”
He flinches.
“And I didn’t want to be that person,” she admits. “That’s why I didn’t want to have this conversation. Because I knew this would happen.” She gestures between them. “This,” she says. “This is why.”
Paddy shifts again, clearly uncomfortable now. She glances toward the front for a split second. Then back at Harry.
“So no,” she says firmly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He swallows. “We’re already talking about it.”
“Because you wouldn’t let it go,” she snaps.
“I just—”
“You don’t get to demand this from me,” she says, cutting him off again. “At no point have you given me the same courtesy.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
And for a second. Just a second, she softens. But it's not enough. It's nowhere near enough.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I know.”
There was a long pause. Then—
“Don’t invite me to the wedding,” she adds.
He blinks at her. “…what?”
“I don’t want to know about it,” she says. “I don’t want updates. I don’t want details. I don’t want anything.”
“That’s not—”
“I wish you all the best,” she continues, her voice hollow now. “I really do.” She looks out the window briefly. Then back at him. “I hope it works out,” she says. “I hope it doesn’t end in divorce.”
He winces.
“But what do you want from me?” she asks, turning fully toward him again. “What are you expecting me to do here?”
He doesn’t have an answer. Again. Because there isn’t one. She nods slowly.
Silence fills the car again. But it’s different now. It's heavy.
After a moment, she wipes her face quickly, pulling herself back together piece by piece. Professional again. Controlled again.
“I’ll send you the updated schedule for the rest of the week tonight,” she says quietly, like none of that just happened. Like she didn’t just break open in front of him.
He just stares at her. At the way she’s already putting herself back together. And for the first time he started to understand. Not fully but enough. Enough to know he's fucked this up in a way that can't be undone.
The rest of the drive passes in silence. No one tries to fill it.
──────────────
The next morning feels heavier before it even begins. There’s no dramatic shift in the room. No tension anyone can quite name, but something is off. Subtle. Lingering. Like a bruise you can’t see yet but know is there. Harry notices it the second he walks in. Not because of the band. Not because of the setup. Because of her.
She’s already there again.
Standing by the table, laptop open, headset draped around her neck, scanning through emails with a focus that looks… forced. Her posture is straight, shoulders squared like she’s holding something together by sheer will. She doesn’t look up immediately this time. That’s new. Usually she clocks him the second he enters, anticipates him before he even speaks.
Now? There’s a delay. A beat too long.
“Morning,” she says, without meeting his eyes.
“Morning,” he replies.
And it feels wrong. Flat. Like they’re strangers pretending to know each other. She slides a Matcha toward him without looking. “Same as yesterday.”
“Thanks.”
She nods once, already moving on.
“Okay, so today we’re focusing on the full run-through,” she says, flipping a page. “Production wants a clean version recorded, so we’ll probably run it twice, maybe three times depending on timing.”
Her voice is steady, but there’s something missing from it. Something hollow. And it unsettles him more than anything else so far.Because yesterday she was angry. Now? She’s not even that. She’s just… gone.
An hour in, it’s obvious to anyone paying attention that something’s off. She’s still doing her job. Perfectly, actually. If anything, she’s sharper. Faster. Anticipating things before they even happen, adjusting on the fly, solving problems before they’re spoken out loud. But she’s quieter. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t engage unless she has to. And she doesn’t look at him. Not once.
“Hey,” Tom murmurs at one point, stepping up beside Harry while the band resets. “She alright?”
Harry glances over. She’s across the room, talking to someone from sound, nodding, scribbling something down, completely absorbed.
“…yeah,” he says after a second. “I think she’s just tired. Stressed about tour.”
Tom hums, not fully convinced, but lets it go. “Right.”
Harry watches her a second longer. Something in his chest tightens. Because that’s not what this is. And he knows it.
By the time lunch rolls around, the air feels thin. Like everyone’s aware of something they’re not naming. She disappears almost immediately. No announcement. No explanation. Just gone.
Harry notices. Of course he does. He keeps half an eye on the door, expecting her to come back quickly like she usually does—five minutes, ten at most. But she doesn’t.
Fifteen minutes.
Twenty.
He’s halfway through a conversation he’s not really listening to when—
“Can I talk to you quickly, please?”
Her voice appears right behind him. He turns immediately. And for a split second, just a split second, something like relief flashes through him. Because she came to him. Because she asked.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, of course.”
He stands up almost too fast, brushing past a chair, ignoring the curious glance from one of the managers. She nods toward the side corridor.
“Just over here.”
His heart’s already picking up. Stupidly. Hope creeping in where it shouldn’t.
She wants to talk.
Finally.
They step into the quieter space just outside the main room. Same corridor as before. Same dim lighting. Same hum in the background. But it feels different now. Colder.
She doesn’t lean against the wall this time. Doesn’t settle. She just stands there, hands clasped loosely in front of her, staring at a spot just past his shoulder.
“Okay,” he says, softer now. “What’s up?”
She inhales. Slow. Measured. Like she’s rehearsed this.
“I just wanted to let you know,” she starts, voice steady but quieter than usual, “that I think it’s best if I leave this job.”
It doesn’t process in his head immediately. Like his brain rejects it before it can fully process.
“…what?” he says.
She nods once, still not looking at him.
“I’ve already spoken to Jeff,” she continues. “I’ll stay on for the next couple of months—help with the transition, get someone new in, make sure everything’s set up properly.”
He just stares at her.
“Wait—what?” he repeats, sharper now. “What are you talking about?”
She finally looks up. And it hits him. There’s nothing behind her eyes. There's no anger or sadness. There's just this... absence.
“I can’t do this,” she says simply.
His stomach drops. “…do what?”
“This,” she says, gesturing lightly between them. “This job. This—dynamic.”
“It’s been two days,” he says quickly. “Two days and you’re just—what? Leaving?”
“I know,” she nods. “And I’ve thought about that. I have. But I don’t think more time is going to change anything.”
“Of course it will,” he insists. “We just need to talk about it—”
“No,” she says gently. But firmly. “I think we’re done talking, Harry.”
“What?”
“I’m trying to be civil,” she continues, her voice still calm but there’s a strain in it now, something tight underneath. “I really am. But I can’t—I can’t do this.”
“Do what?” he pushes, frustration creeping in now. “You keep saying that, but you’re not actually—”
“I can’t be near you,” she says.
And that stops him. Completely. Because there's no anger in it. Just truth.
He exhales slowly. “I don't —”
“We can't keep acting like this is something that can just… fix itself.”
“Because it can,” he says. “We’ve been through worse than this—”
“No, we haven’t,” she cuts in.
“Yes, we have—”
“No,” she repeats, more firmly now. “We haven’t. Because this isn’t a misunderstanding. This isn’t a fight. This isn’t something small.”
Her voice cracks slightly and she swallows it down quickly. “This is you hurting me,” she says. “In a way that doesn’t just… go away.”
“I know I hurt you,” he says. “I’ve said that.”
“I don’t think you do,” she replies.
“I do.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “I think you understand that I’m upset. I don’t think you understand why.”
He exhales sharply. “Then tell me.”
She lets out a quiet, almost incredulous laugh. “You really don’t get it,” she says.
“Then help me understand.”
“That’s not my job,” she replies.
“It should be,” he says. “We—”
“We’re not that anymore,” she cuts in. Heavy and final.
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing a step away, then back.
“You won’t even look at me,” he says, softer now.
She hesitates. Then she lifts her eyes to his. And it’s worse than anything he imagined. No warmth. No familiarity. No trace of what they used to have.
“I’m looking at you,” she says.
But it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like she’s looking through him.
“This isn’t us,” she continues quietly. “And it’s not what we were. But it’s what it is now.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“It does,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t do this to myself.”
“Do what?”
“Stay,” she says, her voice finally breaking slightly. “Stay and pretend like I’m okay with this.”
“I’m not asking you to pretend—”
“You are,” she interrupts. “You’re asking me to keep showing up, keep doing my job, keep being around you like nothing’s changed.”
“Because nothing has—”
She laughs. It comes out sharp and painful.
“Nothing has changed?” she repeats.
He falters because even he hears how wrong that sounds.
“You got engaged,” she says. “Everything has changed.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t—”
“It does,” she says, firmer now. “For me, it does.”
He looks at her, desperate now. “So what? You’re just going to walk away?”
“I’m not walking away,” she says. “I’m... I don't know. Transitioning out.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not,” she replies. “I’m making sure you’re taken care of.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Well, I do,” she says. “Because that’s my job.”
The word job again. Cold. Clinical. Detached.
He exhales slowly. “You’re not just my assistant.”
“I am now.”
“I don't want this.”
Silence.
“You’re torturing me,” she admits, her voice dropping.
That catches him off guard.
“What?”
“You are,” she says, tears finally slipping down her cheeks now despite her best efforts. “By thinking that me staying here, in this position, around you, is something I can just… handle.”
“I’m not trying to—”
“I know,” she cuts in. “You’re not trying to do anything. That’s the problem.”
He flinches.
“I don’t think you understand how big of a person you’re asking me to be,” she continues, her voice shaking now. “You get to move on. You get your life, your engagement, your—everything.”
“That’s not—”
“And I’m just supposed to what?” she presses. “Stand here? Smile? Pretend like I’m okay with it?”
“I never said that—”
“You didn’t have to,” she says. “That’s what this is.”
Her breathing is uneven now. Tears falling freely.
“And I can’t,” she says. “I can’t just… get over it. That’s not how this works.”
He doesn’t know what to say.
“I’m not asking you to get over it,” he says quietly.
“Then what are you asking me to do?” she shoots back.
He hesitates and that's the answer.
Then she wipes her face, pulling herself back together piece by piece.
“I’ll find you someone good,” she says, her voice steadier now. “You won’t have to worry about that. I’ll train them, get them up to speed.”
“I don’t want someone else,” he says.
“That’s not really your choice anymore,” she replies gently.
“I don’t agree with this.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’ll stay for the first part of the tour,” she adds. “Make sure everything transitions smoothly. After that—” She shrugs slightly. “You’ll be fine.”
He stares at her. Because she’s already decided. Already let go. And there’s nothing he can say that’s going to change it.
“…okay,” he says finally.
“Okay.”
And then she turns. Walks back toward the noise, the music, the life they were just living a few days ago. Like she’s already halfway out of it. And this time he doesn't follow.
After agreeing to step into Harry’s world, you pack your life into a suitcase, survive a cross country flight, and land in Los Angeles where Harry insists on picking you up himself because, apparently, he can do human things too.
word count: 5.8k
warnings: none
Your bedroom looks like a department store exploded.
Clothes are draped over the edge of your bed, half folded jeans stacked beside open shoes boxes, chargers tangled together across your comforter while your suitcase sits open on the floor in the center of the chaos looking far too small for what somehow feels like a life altering trip.
“I don’t know how people do this casually,” you mutter, throwing another shirt onto the bed before immediately second guessing it and picking it back up again. “How do people just pack for Los Angeles like it’s normal.”
From the floor beside your suitcase, Camille looks up at you with absolutely no sympathy.
“Most people are not packing to go visit Harry Styles,” she says. “That’s probably the disconnect.”
You glare at her while digging through your dresser.
“That’s not helping.”
“It’s not supposed to help,” she replies calmly. “It’s supposed to keep you psychologically and spiritually grounded.”
You hold up two sweaters.
“Which one.”
Camille squints critically.
“The darker one.”
“It’s eighty degrees there.”
“Right,” she says immediately. “Put both back.”
You drop dramatically face first onto the bed beside the pile of clothes with a groan.
“This is a mistake.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is,” you insist, your voice muffled by your comforter. “I’m flying across the country to spend time with a man I met on a dating app.”
Camille zips one side of your suitcase shut and looks over at you.
“You’re flying across the country to spend time with a man you genuinely like who also genuinely likes you back. The dating app part is honestly the least weird thing here.”
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.
“This still feels insane.”
“That’s because your life was normal like two weeks ago.”
You point at her from the bed.
“Exactly.”
She stands up and walks over, taking the sweaters from your hands before tossing them back into the closet.
“You know what your problem is,” she says.
“I’m scared?”
“You’re trying to make this make logical sense.”
You sit up slightly.
“And it doesn’t?”
“No,” she says simply. “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Let it happen.”
You look around the room again, the open suitcase, the clothes, your passport sitting on the dresser beside your phone charger.
It still feels surreal.
A few weeks ago your biggest concern was getting through another boring work week without thinking about your ex. Now you’re packing for Los Angeles because a man you met on Raya kissed you on a ferry and asked you to come see his world.
Your phone buzzes somewhere in the mess of clothes.
Camille grabs it first.
“Oh my god,” she says immediately.
You sit upright.
“What.”
She grins at you and holds the phone up.
“It’s your boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“Mhm.”
You snatch the phone from her and immediately feel your stomach flip when you see his name.
Do you own sunscreen.
You blink at the message and laugh softly before typing back.
That’s your first concern?
The reply comes quickly.
You’re from New York. I don’t trust your preparedness.
You smile despite yourself.
I own sunscreen.
Another message appears.
Good. I’d hate for the tour guide to burn on day one.
You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, that warm feeling settling into your chest again.
Camille watches your face carefully.
“Oh,” she says quietly.
You glance up.
“What.”
“You really like him.”
You look back down at the phone in your hand, the open suitcase on the floor, your entire room scattered with evidence that this is actually happening.
And somewhere beneath all the nerves and the chaos and the complete insanity of it all is something much simpler.
“Yeah,” you admit softly. “I really do.”
By the time the sun goes down your apartment somehow looks even worse.
The suitcase is technically packed now, but not in a way that inspires confidence. One side is organized. The other side looks like you lost patience halfway through and started shoving things wherever they fit. Camille has given up trying to stop you from spiraling and is now sitting cross legged on your floor eating takeout noodles while watching you pace around the room for the fiftieth time.
“I don’t understand why you’re acting like you’ve never been on a plane before,” she says.
“I haven’t been on a plane for this before,” you reply immediately.
She points her chopsticks at you.
“That’s fair.”
Your phone buzzes on the bed beside you and both of you look at it instantly.
Harry.
Your stomach flips so hard it’s almost irritating.
Camille gasps dramatically. “Answer it.”
“I know how phones work,” you mutter, grabbing it.
You answer and press the phone to your ear as you walk into the hallway, mostly because Camille is already making faces at you from the floor.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” he says, his voice warm and slightly quieter than usual. “Did I catch you mid breakdown.”
You lean against the wall outside your bedroom.
“Camille has described it as a ‘pre travel emotional event.’”
“That sounds super serious.”
“It is,” you say. “My room looks like a crime scene.”
You hear him laugh softly on the other end.
“Well, I called to make things slightly worse.”
“That’s concerning.”
“I wanted to go over tomorrow.”
You nod automatically even though he can’t see you.
“Okay.”
“You land at 1:40,” he says. “And I’ll pick you up at arrivals.”
You blink.
“You’ll pick me up?”
There’s a small pause before he laughs again, quieter this time.
“Yes.”
“I just assumed there’d be like… a driver.”
“A driver,” he repeats.
“I don’t know,” you say quickly. “You’re famous. I figured there’d be a system.”
“You thought I was outsourcing your airport pickup.”
“When you say it like that it sounds bad.”
“It does sound pretty bad,” he says, clearly amused now. “I’m picking you up.”
You press your head lightly back against the wall.
“In your car?”
“My terrifyingly normal Range Rover, yes.”
You laugh softly but it somehow makes you more nervous instead of less.
Because suddenly this feels even more real.
Not a fantasy version of this situation. Not black cars and assistants and distance.
Just him.
Picking you up from the airport like an actual person going to get someone they like.
“You’re making this seem weirdly human,” you tell him.
“That’s because I’m a human,” he replies easily. “I can do human things.”
You smile despite yourself, sliding down the wall slightly until you’re sitting on the floor now.
“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly.
There’s a brief pause on the line.
“About tomorrow?”
“About all of it,” you say honestly. “The flight. LA. Seeing your world. You.”
His voice softens a little when he answers.
“You don’t have to be.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Not really,” he says. “I’m nervous too.”
That catches you off guard.
“You are?”
“Course I am,” he says. “I asked a girl I met on Raya to fly across the country and spend time with me.”
You laugh quietly.
“When you say it like that it sounds so much worse.”
“Probably because it is worse.”
You can hear movement on his end, like he’s pacing too.
“But I’m looking forward to it,” he says after a second. “I just want you here.”
The honesty of it settles somewhere deep in your chest.
You close your eyes for a moment.
“Okay,” you say softly.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, smiling now. “I’ll get on the plane.”
“Good.”
You talk for another half hour after that, not even about anything important. Traffic. The weather in LA. A restaurant he wants to take you to. Camille yelling something intrusive in the background that makes him laugh hard enough you hear it through the phone.
By the time you finally hang up later that night, some of the nerves have settled into excitement instead.
Still, the next morning at the airport, they all come rushing back.
The terminal is loud and bright and crowded with people dragging suitcases behind them while announcements echo overhead every few minutes. Camille stands beside you near security holding an iced coffee and looking far too emotionally invested in your departure.
“You have your ID?”
“Yes.”
“Phone charger?”
“Yes.”
“Emotionally stability?”
“No.”
“That’s alright,” she says. “You never really had that anyway.”
You glare at her while adjusting the strap of your bag.
People move around you constantly, boarding passes in hand, families arguing quietly, someone nearby already eating airport fries at nine in the morning for reasons you deeply respect.
Your stomach twists harder the closer it gets to boarding.
This is happening.
You are actually doing this.
Camille notices your expression immediately.
“Hey,” she says, softer now. “You can still turn around if you want to.”
You look toward the security line, then down at your boarding pass in your hand.
And weirdly, the answer comes easily.
“No. I want to do this,” you say.
Because beneath all the nerves is something stronger.
You want to go.
You want to see him.
Camille smiles a little like she already knew that.
Then boarding gets called and suddenly it’s real.
She hugs you tightly before pulling back and gripping your shoulders dramatically.
“If Harry Styles breaks your heart,” she says very seriously, “I will become a supervillain.”
You laugh despite the knot in your stomach.
“I’ll text you when I land.”
“You better.”
Then you turn and head toward security, your suitcase rolling behind you while the airport swallows you up into its usual chaos.
The flight feels impossibly long and strangely short at the same time.
At first there is too much happening for you to really think. Security lines. Taking your shoes off. Putting your laptop in a separate bin even though you almost forgot it was there. Digging through your bag at the gate because you somehow convinced yourself you lost your headphones only to realize they were in your coat pocket the entire time. The airport keeps you moving in little bursts of stress and distraction until suddenly you are standing in the aisle of the plane waiting for people to finish lifting luggage into overhead bins while the flight attendant smiles with the exhausted patience of someone who has done this exact thing six hundred times.
You find your seat by the window and settle in slowly, sliding your bag beneath the seat in front of you before pulling your phone back out again almost immediately.
There’s already a message waiting.
Boarded?
Your stomach flips stupidly hard.
Just sat down, you type back.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Proud of you for surviving the airport.
You smile despite yourself and glance out the window where baggage carts move slowly across the runway beneath the gray morning sky.
I almost got taken out by a businessman sprinting toward security.
Welcome to air travel.
You bite back another smile and type:
Are you still nervous?
There’s a pause this time. Longer than usual.
Then:
Yeah.
Something about how honest the answer is settles your nerves more than if he had tried to play it cool.
You lean your head back against the seat and type slowly this time.
Me too.
Another pause.
Good. That feels fair.
You laugh quietly under your breath just as the flight attendant starts the safety demonstration at the front of the plane. Around you people shuffle bags and pull out headphones and argue softly over armrests. The little girl across the aisle is already asleep against her mother’s shoulder somehow, which feels deeply impressive.
Your phone buzzes one last time before airplane mode cuts the conversation off.
Text me when you land, tour guide.
Your chest tightens warmly at the nickname.
Okay, tourist.
You lock your phone and slide it into your bag just as the plane starts to move.
And then there is nothing left to distract you anymore.
As the city shrinks beneath the plane and the clouds swallow everything outside your window, your thoughts finally catch up to you all at once.
You are flying across the country to see a man you met on a dating app.
Not just any man. Harry. The man who you kissed outside a pizza shop and held you close on a ferry and looked at you beside the water like he was trying very hard not to say something bigger than either of you was ready for yet.
The thought should feel ridiculous.
Parts of it do.
But underneath the nerves and the disbelief is something steadier. Something that has been building quietly since the first time he messaged you back.
Trust.
Not complete trust. Not reckless trust.
Just enough to get on the plane.
A few hours into the flight the cabin settles into that strange suspended atmosphere flights always develop. Window shades half closed. The soft hum of engines underneath everything. People sleeping in uncomfortable positions they’ll regret later. Someone a few rows ahead watching a movie without headphones loudly enough that you can almost follow the plot.
You spend part of the flight reading and part of it staring blankly out the window while your thoughts drift. Every so often you catch yourself smiling for absolutely no reason and immediately try to stop doing that because it feels embarrassing even though nobody is paying attention to you.
At one point you pull out your phone just to reread your messages even though there’s no service in the air.
Camille texted you three separate times before takeoff.
DO NOT JOIN A CULT
Take photos
If he has a secret wife I need at least one warning sign before TMZ does
You laugh quietly to yourself reading them again before locking your phone.
Somewhere over the middle of the country, with clouds stretched endlessly outside your window and strangers sleeping around you, the reality of what you’re doing finally settles in completely.
You are about to step into a completely different version of someone’s life.
Not Harry Styles the celebrity. Not the public version people think they know.
His real life.
The thought is both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.
By the time the captain announces the descent into Los Angeles, your stomach is in knots again.
The view outside the window changes first. Less gray. More gold. Endless stretches of roads and houses and palm trees slowly appearing beneath the clouds while sunlight floods the cabin so brightly people start blinking awake around you.
California.
You grip the armrest slightly as the plane lowers toward the runway, your heart beating harder with every passing second.
The second the plane touches down, the entire cabin seems to wake up at once.
Seatbelts click open before the plane has fully stopped moving, people reach for bags that are still three rows away from them, phones reconnect to service all around you in a chorus of notification sounds, and suddenly the calm, suspended feeling of the flight disappears completely.
Your own phone vibrates almost immediately in your hand.
One new message.
Harry.
Welcome to Los Angeles.
Your stomach flips so hard it’s almost annoying at this point.
You type back before you can overthink it.
Your city is very sunny.
The typing bubble appears instantly.
That’s one of the main attractions.
You smile to yourself while the plane slowly taxis toward the gate. Outside the window everything looks brighter than New York somehow. The sky is impossibly clear, palm trees visible in the distance beyond the runways, sunlight bouncing harshly off the concrete.
It doesn’t feel real yet.
Even standing up in the aisle afterward doesn’t fully do it. You move slowly with everyone else, waiting for the line to inch forward while people tug luggage from overhead bins and apologize every few seconds for bumping each other with backpacks.
Your phone buzzes again.
No rush. I’m here.
That message makes your nerves spike all over again.
Because now there’s no plane between you anymore. No airport. No waiting. In less than thirty minutes you’re actually going to see him.
You step off the plane into the terminal and immediately get hit with warm air that feels completely different from New York. Even inside the airport it feels softer somehow, less sharp, less rushed. People move slower here. Even the airport noise feels more relaxed.
You follow the signs toward baggage claim with your headphones around your neck and your heart beating way too fast.
Every few minutes you check your phone without meaning to.
Camille:
LANDED???
ALIVE???
DOES HE LOOK HOT IN CALIFORNIA
You snort quietly to yourself while walking through the terminal.
Just landed. Calm down.
No ❤️
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and slide your phone back into your pocket just as you reach baggage claim.
The wait for your suitcase feels eternal.
You stand beside the carousel pretending not to be impatient while people around you grab bags and head out one by one. A little kid nearby is laying across three suitcases dramatically while his parents argue quietly over whose backpack is whose.
Your suitcase finally appears after what feels like a century and you grab it quickly, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder afterward while your stomach twists tighter with every step toward arrivals.
This is the moment now.
No more planning. No more packing. No more airports.
Just him.
The automatic doors slide open and warm California air immediately wraps around you, sunlight spilling across the sidewalk outside the terminal so brightly you almost squint.
Cars line the pickup area in messy rows while people hug relatives and shove luggage into trunks and wave at arriving passengers from the curb.
Your eyes scan automatically before you can stop them.
And then you see him.
Leaning casually against a black Range Rover a little farther down the curb, sunglasses pushed up into his hair now, one hand in his pocket while the other holds his phone loosely at his side.
The second he spots you, his entire expression changes.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Enough that you can tell he’s been looking for you too.
Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest.
He pushes away from the car immediately and starts walking toward you while you stand there trying very hard to act like your brain hasn’t completely short circuited.
“You made it,” he says when he reaches you.
And before you can even answer, he pulls you into a hug.
It’s warm and immediate and grounding in a way you didn’t realize you needed after the flight. One of his hands settles against your back while the other wraps around your shoulders, and for a second the airport noise fades into the background entirely.
You breathe him in automatically, sunlight warm against your skin, his familiar cologne somehow making this whole thing feel real all at once.
When he pulls back slightly, he’s smiling at you in that soft way he does when it feels like he forgot to guard his expression first.
“You actually came.”
You laugh softly, still a little breathless.
“I did.”
He looks at you for another second like he’s still processing it himself before reaching for your suitcase handle naturally.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you out of the airport.”
You follow him toward the Range Rover feeling slightly disconnected from your own body, like your brain is still trying to catch up to the fact that this is actually happening.
The California sun is warm against your skin, bright enough that you immediately understand why everyone here wears sunglasses like a personality trait. Cars crawl slowly through the pickup lanes while people weave between them dragging suitcases and shouting directions to each other through open windows.
Harry walks a little ahead of you with your suitcase in one hand like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Not an assistant.
Not security.
Just him.
Every once in a while someone glances up in recognition as he passes, but nobody fully stops him. Maybe it’s the sunglasses, maybe it’s Los Angeles, maybe people here are too used to famous faces to react dramatically anymore.
Still, you stay a little closer to him instinctively.
He reaches the car first and opens the back for your suitcase before coming around to your side.
“There she is,” he says lightly, gesturing toward the Range Rover.
You laugh quietly.
“She’s very intimidating.”
“She’s actually very practical.”
“That’s exactly what someone with a luxury SUV says.”
He grins and opens the passenger door for you.
“Get in, tourist.”
You pause with one hand on the door.
“I’m the tourist now?”
“You’re in my city.”
“That feels unfair considering I literally gave you a tour. I’m the original tour guide.”
“Different jurisdiction,” he says easily.
You shake your head and slide into the passenger seat, immediately noticing how clean the inside of the car smells. Warm leather, faint cologne, sunlight heating the dashboard.
Harry closes the door behind you before walking around to the driver’s side.
And for some reason, watching him get into the car and settle into the seat beside you makes this all feel even more intimate somehow.
Not the airport hug.
Not the ferry kiss.
This.
Him reaching over to start the engine while asking casually, “Cold enough in here or should I turn the air down?”
You stare at him for half a second before answering.
“This is so weirdly normal.”
He glances over while backing carefully out of the pickup lane.
“You sound very surprised by that.”
“You’re Harry Styles.”
“And you’re acting like I was grown in a lab.”
You laugh despite yourself, leaning your head back against the seat as the airport starts disappearing behind you.
Traffic immediately surrounds you the second you pull onto the main road.
“Oh my god,” you say, staring out the windshield.
“Yeah,” he says calmly. “Welcome to Los Angeles.”
“It’s the middle of the afternoon. Why are there this many cars?”
“There are always this many cars.”
“This looks so hostile.”
He laughs softly and reaches over to tap something on the screen between you, music filling the car a second later. Low and easy and familiar.
You glance over at him.
“You picked soundtrack music for my arrival?”
“I’m committed to the experience.”
You smile and look back out the window.
Palm trees blur past outside alongside billboards and endless rows of cars. Everything looks brighter here. Wider. The city stretches out instead of upward the way New York does.
For a few minutes you just take it all in while he drives, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel.
Then he glances over at you briefly.
“How was the flight.”
“Long,” you admit. “I think I blacked out somewhere over Colorado.”
“Fair enough.”
“And I’m pretty sure the man behind me was watching an action movie without headphones.”
“That’s upsetting.”
“Thank you,” you say. “I felt very validated in my irritation.”
He smiles a little.
You settle deeper into the seat, relaxing slowly now that you’re actually here beside him instead of imagining it from three thousand miles away.
And weirdly, the nerves start fading almost immediately.
Because it still feels like him.
The same person from the bookstore and the ferry and the pizza shop.
Just in California sunlight now.
After another few minutes he glances over again.
“You hungry?”
You turn toward him.
“A little.”
“Good,” he says. “I have a plan.”
That makes you narrow your eyes slightly.
“Should I be concerned.”
“Probably not.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s enough,” he says, smiling again.
You shake your head but can’t stop smiling too, watching the city pass outside your window while he drives you farther into his world.
You spend the next twenty minutes watching Los Angeles unfold outside the window while Harry drives through traffic with one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel. The city feels strange in the way places always do when you’ve only ever seen them through screens before. Familiar, but not personal yet.
Everything is wider here.
New York crowds you. It presses against you constantly with noise and movement and buildings stacked so close together they feel like they’re leaning over the street. Los Angeles stretches instead. Palm trees break up the skyline, sunlight floods everything, and even the traffic somehow feels slower despite the sheer number of cars surrounding you.
You glance over at him while he drives.
He looks comfortable here in a way he didn’t in New York. Looser. More settled into himself. The sunlight catches across his arm where it rests near the window, curls pushed back from his forehead by the warm air coming through the crack in the glass.
“This feels different,” you admit quietly after a while.
He glances over briefly.
“Being here?”
“Seeing you here,” you say.
His expression softens a little at that but he doesn’t immediately answer.
“I think New York lets people disappear easier,” he says after a moment. “LA doesn’t really do that.”
You look back out the window, watching rows of shops and restaurants blur past.
“You seemed happy there though.”
“I was,” he says. “I am.”
Something about the way he says it makes warmth settle low in your chest again.
The conversation drifts after that into easier things. He points out places as you pass them, little pieces of the city that matter to him the same way your bookstore and ferry mattered to you.
A studio where he worked on an album years ago. A diner that stays open late enough for musicians and exhausted people leaving parties. A neighborhood he likes driving through when he can’t sleep.
You listen more than you talk now, watching him as much as the city itself.
Eventually he turns down a quieter street lined with trees and low buildings covered in climbing vines. The noise of the main roads fades behind you.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
“Lunch,” he says simply.
A few minutes later he pulls into a small parking area tucked behind a white building half hidden by greenery. The patio is shaded with hanging plants and soft string lights even in the middle of the afternoon, the whole place feeling calm and tucked away from the rest of the city.
You look at him as he parks.
“This is pretty.”
A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“I thought you’d like it.”
He gets out first and walks around to your side while you unclip your seatbelt. When you step out of the car the warmth hits you immediately, softer than New York somehow, carrying the smell of citrus and grilled food from the restaurant patio nearby.
Harry reaches for your hand naturally as the two of you walk toward the entrance, like it’s something he’s been doing for much longer than a few days.
Your stomach flips again anyway.
The hostess leads you through the patio toward a quieter table in the back corner, tucked beneath climbing vines and partially shaded from the sun. It feels private without being hidden.
You slide into your seat and glance around while he sits across from you.
“This is very different from pizza at midnight,” you say softly.
“That was important.”
You smile slightly at that.
A waiter comes by with water and menus, but neither of you really looks at them much. The conversation keeps pulling your attention away.
You ask him about recording and he tells you about long nights in the studio where everyone loses track of time. He asks you about work and you tell him about stories you’ve covered that somehow became more meaningful than you expected.
At one point while you’re talking, he reaches across the table absentmindedly and brushes his thumb lightly against your wrist where your hand rests near your glass.
The touch is brief.
Small.
But it sends warmth all the way up your arm anyway.
You lose your train of thought for half a second and he notices immediately.
A quiet smile appears on his face.
“You were saying?” he asks softly.
You shake your head slightly, trying not to laugh at yourself.
“I forgot.”
“Mhm. I know.”
Your food arrives a few minutes later and the conversation slows while you eat, comfortable enough now that silence doesn’t feel like something that needs to be filled immediately.
At some point you glance away toward the patio entrance after hearing a burst of laughter from another table nearby.
When you turn back, he’s already leaning slightly across the table toward you.
Before you can even process what he’s doing, he presses a quick soft kiss against your mouth.
It lasts maybe a second.
Two at most.
But when he pulls back, your entire face feels warm.
You stare at him.
“That was sneaky,” you say quietly.
“I know,” he replies calmly before reaching for his water like he didn’t just completely derail your thoughts.
And that makes it even worse.
He reaches for his water like he didn’t just completely interrupt your train of thought and restart your heartbeat at the same time.
You shake your head slightly, trying to recover enough to take another bite of your food, but you can still feel the warmth of the kiss lingering there.
Across the table, he watches you for a second longer than necessary before his expression shifts subtly, something more thoughtful slipping in.
“I probably shouldn’t have done that,” he admits.
You look back up at him.
“Why.”
He glances briefly toward the patio around you. A server passes nearby carrying drinks to another table while quiet conversation drifts through the warm afternoon air.
“Someone could’ve seen,” he says. “Taken a photo or something.”
The reality of that lands quietly between you for a second.
Not heavily. Just enough to remind you that his life works differently than yours does.
You study him for a moment.
“Are you worried about that?” you ask softly.
He thinks about it before answering.
“Usually,” he says honestly.
The word sits there for a second before he looks back at you again, his voice quieter now.
“But I couldn’t really help myself.”
Your stomach flips all over again.
He says it so simply too, like it’s not meant to impress you or charm you. Just the truth.
You glance down at your plate for a second, smiling despite yourself before looking back up.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone who already got on a plane for you,” you tell him.
A soft laugh escapes him.
“Fair point.”
But there’s still something warm in his expression when he looks at you afterward, something softer than teasing.
And for the rest of lunch, every time his knee brushes yours under the table or his hand reaches absentmindedly toward yours again, you can feel the shift between you becoming harder and harder to ignore.
Lunch stretches longer than either of you plans for it to.
At some point the plates get cleared away and neither of you notices immediately because the conversation keeps drifting into new places before the old ones fully end. The afternoon sunlight shifts slowly across the patio, turning warmer and lower while people come and go around you.
Eventually Harry glances toward the sky and lets out a quiet breath through his nose.
“I should probably get you settled before traffic becomes fully apocalyptic.”
You smile slightly.
“sounds serious.”
“It is. LA traffic has ruined stronger people than me.”
You laugh softly and follow him back out into the warm evening air.
The drive feels quieter than the one from the airport, not awkward, just softer. The kind of quiet that settles naturally after spending an entire day around someone. Music plays low through the speakers while the city slides past outside the windows in gold evening light.
You rest your head lightly against the seat and watch the palm trees blur by.
Every once in a while he glances over at you at a red light, small looks that feel absentminded and affectionate all at once.
Eventually he turns down a quieter street lined with tall hedges and low modern houses tucked back from the road. The neighborhood feels calm in a way that almost doesn’t seem real after the constant movement of the city.
“This is you?” you ask quietly as he slows near a gate.
“This is me.”
The gate slides open slowly and he drives through before it closes behind you.
Your stomach flips.
Not because the house is huge or intimidating, even though it’s beautiful from what you can see in the fading light. It’s because this feels different again. More private. More real.
Harry parks in the driveway and kills the engine, the sudden quiet settling around the car.
For a second neither of you moves.
Then he looks over at you.
“You survived the flight and the tour,” he says.
“Barely.”
“That’s fair.”
You both climb out of the car and he grabs your bag from the back automatically before leading you toward the front door. Warm lights glow through the windows now that the sun has almost fully disappeared, the whole house feeling calm and lived in rather than overly polished.
He unlocks the door and steps aside so you can walk in first.
The inside somehow feels exactly like you expected and nothing like you expected at the same time. Warm wood floors. Soft lighting. Records stacked near a turntable. A couch that actually looks sat on. Books scattered on tables. It feels less like a celebrity house and more like someone’s real home.
You step farther inside slowly while he shuts the door behind you.
You turn in a small circle taking everything in before looking back at him with a smile.
“So,” you say lightly, “this is where the magic happens.”
He looks at you for half a second before a grin slowly spreads across his face.
“No,” he says, stepping a little closer as he sets your bag down near the stairs. “That’s the bedroom.”
Your breath catches immediately as he tilts his head slightly, eyes warm with amusement.
you agree to open your relationship after your boyfriend kept begging. at first he's on the apps getting absolutely zero matches, but then he gets a date. And the first time you go out with your friends with the full intention to find someone, you meet jack abbot. and he is hell bent on making sure you do not forget him.
genre: jack abbot x tattoo artist!reader, strangers to friends to ????, best friend trinity and by proximity dennis lol, smut 18+ nsfw
word count: 5100
(a/n: all i gotta say is hell yeah. also ignore the fact that jack is able to be around during the night even though he works night shift lmao. just use your imagination.)
The thing about opening a relationship is that someone has to actually want to be in one.
You'd been turning this thought over for three weeks now, looking for the flaw. You'd found it pretty quickly. The flaw was Derek.
Derek, who had spent four months gently, persistently, lovingly lobbying for what he called “an evolved approach to modern partnership.” Derek, who had bookmarked three articles about ethical non monogamy and left them open on the shared laptop like bread crumbs he expected you to follow. Derek, who had said, with earnest sincerity, “I just think we're evolved enough for this, babe. Don't you?”
You had said yes because you were thirty years old and had been with this man for ten of those years and somewhere along the way you had apparently misplaced the part of yourself that said no, actually, I don't.
So: open relationship. Officially, as of three Saturdays ago, you were doing this.
Derek had downloaded Hinge, Bumble, Tinder, and some other app that you'd never heard of and didn't ask about. He'd spent an entire Sunday afternoon cycling through profile photos, soliciting your opinion on which ones showed his authentic self, while you sat six feet away inking a peony onto a client's shoulder and making noises of vague encouragement.
Three weeks later, Derek had zero matches.
Not a disappointing handful. Zero.
You on the other hand, had not bothered to download any apps.
You hadn't really meant to make a statement with this. It had just been a busy three weeks. You'd finished a full sleeve on a regular, taken three new consultations, and rearranged the whole studio. There simply hadn't been time to curate a selection of photos for a profile.
This was what you told Trinity on Thursday night, sitting in the back room of your shop, eating takeout.
"You haven't downloaded any apps," Trinity said, around a mouthful of noodles, "because you don't actually want to do this."
"I've been busy."
"You know what you haven't done?" She pointed her fork at you. "Anything. You have done nothing. Derek is out there failing spectacularly at the thing he begged you for and you are pretending this is a scheduling issue."
"I just don't think apps are really my.."
"Y/N."
"..thing, I'm more of an organic.."
"Y/N."
"..meeting people naturally kind of.."
"Y/N."
You looked up.
Trinity had put down her fork, which was how you knew she was serious. "You have been with Derek since you were twenty. You have never, as an adult, gone on a date with anyone who wasn't Derek. You don't know what you like because you stopped asking yourself that question before your prefrontal cortex finished developing."
You opened your mouth.
"I love you," Trinity continued. "Derek is someone you have outgrown. You know it and I know it and I think somewhere in the part of him that isn't currently refreshing Hinge, he knows it too. This open relationship thing isn't evolution."
The shop was quiet around you. The flash art on the walls looked down from their frames.
"So," Trinity picked her fork back up. "Saturday. You and me. Roomie Dennis is meeting us at Dillon's at nine. You're going to put on something that isn't a work hoodie, you're going to go to a bar like a normal adult woman, and you are going to at least look at other human men and remember that they exist."
"I know men exist."
You thought about saying something. Several things, actually, arranged in a pretty solid argument about how you were fine, how the situation was fine, how you didn't need to go to a bar to prove you were a person. "Fine," you said.
"Saturday. Nine o'clock. Wear the black top."
…
Dillon's was a bar that had been there forever. Dark wood, low lighting, a jukebox in the corner that still worked if you fed it right, and a bartender named Pete who remembered what you ordered after the second visit. It smelled like old leather and something hoppy and wasn't trying to be anything other than exactly what it was.
You had been here maybe a hundred times. You had never once come here with the intention of meeting someone.
"You look like you're waiting for a root canal." Dennis said, appearing with a fresh drink and an easy grin. Dennis was beautiful and knew it. But he used it as a resource for other people rather than a mirror for himself. He handed you the drink. "Relax. You're not here to find a husband. You're here to remember you are your own person."
"Trinity's been talking to you."
"Trinity texts me a lot of things." He clinked his glass against yours. "Drink. Look around. Remember that the world is full of people who aren't Derek."
You drank. The world was, in fact, full of people who weren't Derek. You weren't sure what to do with that.
The three of you had claimed a corner of the bar around nine, and for a while it was just good. Trinity in her off duty clothes looking like someone had cut her loose and handed her a gin and tonic, Dennis telling a story about their neighbor's emotional support peacock that had genuinely no business being as long as it was, you laughing until something in your chest loosened a little.
This was fine.
Then, around eleven, Trinity met someone.
She was tall, with close cropped hair and had cheekbones that belonged in a museum, and she was looking at Trinity from three feet away like she had already made several decisions about the rest of their night. Trinity looked back. Something passed between them that was frankly none of your business.
"Go," you said.
"I'm not going to just leave you."
"Trinity." You pointed. "Go."
She did pause long enough to squeeze your arm and say "text me when you're home" and then she was gone, absorbed into the low light of the bar with the tall woman.
Dennis lasted another twenty minutes before he ran into someone he knew from his climbing gym, and then there were two of them, and then there were four, and then there was a whole situation happening at the other end of the bar that Dennis was at the center of like he always was, like a very charming sun with a small solar system of people around him.
You were alone at a bar for the first time in approximately a decade, with a drink that was three quarters gone and no particular plan for the next hour of your life.
You thought about going home. Derek would be awake, probably on his phone. You thought about what Trinity had said and the ten years that had quietly passed while you were busy building a life that was genuinely yours in every way except the one that mattered most.
You went to the bar top and ordered another drink.
"That's either a good sign or a bad one," said a voice to your left, "depending on what you're drinking."
The man settled onto the barstool next to you. He was older than you, late forties maybe, with salt and pepper hair that looked like it had started the evening neater than this.
He nodded at your glass. "Whiskey sour?"
"Whiskey sour" you confirmed.
"Good sign then." He caught the bartenders attention. "I'll have whatever she's having."
You should have looked back at your drink. That would have been the sensible thing. Instead you said, "Long night?"
He glanced at you, and there was something in it. A brief recalibration, like he'd expected to be left alone and had just revised his preference. "Long week," he said. "You?"
"Long decade, honestly."
The corner of his mouth moved. "That specific?"
"Very."
Once his drink came, he turned it once on the bar, a slow rotation. You noticed his hands. Large, careful, the hands of someone who used them precisely. You noticed other things too, cataloguing details. The slight wear at the collar of his shirt. The way he held himself, upright without being rigid, comfortable in his body.
"Jack," he said, and offered his hand.
"Y/N," you said, and shook it.
His grip was warm and brief. "So," he said, settling back. "The decade."
"I wasn't actually going to elaborate on that."
You looked at him. He looked back at you, and there it was the thing you hadn't been expecting, the thing that made you stay on your barstool instead of picking up your drink and relocating. He had the kind of eyes that were paying attention. Not performing attention. Actually, specifically, interested in you.
It had been a long time since someone had looked at you like you were something worth figuring out.
"Ten years with someone," you said, because apparently you were doing this. "We opened the relationship three weeks ago. His idea. He has zero matches thus far."
Jack considered this. "And you?”
"Didn’t download them. Instead, I cleaned my autoclave more times than necessary. If that gives you any indication of how I’m handling it."
Then the smile arrived "You're a surgeon?"
"Tattoo artist."
Something shifted in his expression, interest sharpening. His eyes moved briefly to your arms, to the ink there, the way people's eyes always did, and then back to your face, and unlike most people he didn't immediately start asking you what they meant or whether they hurt.
"What do you do?" you asked.
"ER attending." He paused. "And some other stuff."
"Some other stuff," you repeated.
"SWAT medic shifts. When I'm needed."
No shit. You looked at him for a moment. His strong muscles pulling at his shirt. "So.. long week."
You talked for three hours.
Not continuously but always back to each other, always the thread of it intact. He told you about his army medic deployment without making it a hero story, just a thing that had happened to him that had made him who he was. You told him about opening your studio at twenty four with nine thousand dollars and a business plan you'd written on graph paper. He asked you questions like he actually wanted the answers.
At some point you stopped thinking about the open relationship and Derek. You stopped thinking about going home. You were just here, at this bar, on this barstool, talking to this man who laughed at your jokes and it felt like something you hadn't known you'd been hungry for.
Which was exactly why, at half past one, when the bar was thinning out and the jukebox had cycled back around to something slow, you picked up your jacket. "I should go."
He didn't argue, just nodded in agreement. "Yeah."
You slid off the barstool and he stood when you did, the reflex of someone who'd been raised a certain way and hadn't bothered to unlearn it and you were suddenly aware of how much space he occupied when he was standing. How solid he was.
How close.
"It was good to meet you, Jack," you said.
"You too, Y/N."
You waited for him to ask for your number, but he didn't. He just looked at you with those eyes, easy and steady, and said "Don't forget my name."
You thought about saying something smart. Something that matched it.
Instead you just nodded, once, and walked out into the night air with your heart doing something complicated in your chest that you absolutely were not going to examine until you were home.
..
Your favorite coffee shop was four blocks from your shop, which meant you went there approximately every day and had therefore developed a loyalty that was less about the coffee and more about the fact that the barista at the counter knew your order.
Tuesday morning. Six days after the bar and you were waiting for your order, scrolling through a client's reference photos on your phone with one hand and thinking about how to translate a very detailed Japanese woodblock print into something that would read well on a shoulder, when someone stepped up to the counter beside you.
"Medium dark roast. Black."
Every single hair on your arms stood up. You looked up slowly, hoping very much to be wrong about what you were about to see.
Jack Abbot was standing inches away from you in what appeared to be post shift clothes. Dark pants, a grey fitted shirt with the sleeves pushed up. His hair was slightly disheveled. There was a tiredness around his eyes that hadn't been there at the bar.
He looked good and that was deeply inconvenient.
He turned and his eyes landed on you and did the same thing yours had just done. A half second of processing and then something that settled into warmth.
"Tattoo artist," he said.
"ER attending," you said back.
The corner of his mouth moved the way it had at the bar, that almost smile. "Small city."
"Very small, apparently."
The barista set your coffee on the counter. You picked it up and held it with both hands and tried to look like a normal person.
"How's apps going for the boyfriend?" he asked.
"Still nothing."
"And you?"
"Nope." you said. Holding your tongue back from saying and it might have something to do with you. This person standing in front of me that I can’t seem to stop thinking about.
He laughed and you couldn't stop yourself from enjoying it. Didn't want to.
His order came up. He took it, and for a moment you were both just standing there in the morning light of the coffee shop with your respective drinks, and it should have been awkward, but it wasn't.
"How's the composition coming?" he asked.
You blinked. "What?"
"The shoulder piece. You were looking at reference photos." He nodded at your phone.
You stared at him. "You could see that from over there?"
"I have good eyes." He looked down at his cup and smiled. "And..I was looking."
There it was again. That quality of attention. He'd just been looking, so he said so. Straightforward.
"The reference is very detailed. Too much for the placement. I need to pull out what matters and let the rest go."
You were embarrassed then. By how much you were talking, but with him it felt easy. Felt like he wanted to hear it.
"I have to get back," you said.
"Me too. Just got off a shift and my bed is calling my name. " He lifted his cup briefly. "Good to see you, Y/N."
"You too, Jack."
You made it exactly half a block before you stopped on the sidewalk in the thin morning sun and pressed your free hand briefly over your face and stood there for a moment, just breathing.
…
You didn't tell Trinity.
This was not a decision you made consciously. It was more that every time you opened your mouth to bring it up you got as far as so a weird thing happened and then something stopped you.
You couldn't name what the something was. Which was its own kind of answer, probably.
Derek had finally gotten a match on Hinge. He told you about it over Thai food from a spot he'd found near his office. He was nervous in the way he got when he wanted your permission for something and was working up to asking for it, and you gave it before he got there because it was easier and because part of you was simply, unexpectedly, relieved.
He went on the date on Friday. You worked late, finished a geometric back piece on a client who fell asleep halfway through.
You pulled out your phone. Derek had texted a photo from what appeared to be a rooftop bar, his arm around a woman with a bright smile, the caption reading she's really cool! Hope your night is good.
...
You were between clients on a Thursday afternoon when the bell above your shop door announced someone.
This happened sometimes. The by appointment or by chance on the door was genuine. You believed in leaving room for the unplanned, for the person who walked past a window and felt something pull at them and followed it inside.
Some of your best work had come from chance clients. Your assistant, Bella, handled walk ins on most days, did a quick consultation, got them on the books.
You were not prepared for the specific walk in that came through your door just now.
Jack stepped inside and stopped. You'd designed the space with the same intention you brought to everything, It looked like a place that felt like home. People felt that when they walked in.
Jack felt it. You could see him feeling it, his eyes moving slowly around the room, taking it in.
Bella looked up from the front desk. Looked at him and then looked at you.
"I've got it," you said.
She went back to her computer with the poorly concealed vibe of someone who was going to have questions. and lots of them.
You crossed the floor and stopped in front of him and waited for him to finish looking. His eyes landed on a woman's face in profile. One you'd drawn at twenty three. He looked at it for a long moment. "Yours?" he said.
"All of it's mine."
He nodded slowly. Then he looked at you "I was in the neighborhood." he said.
You looked at him and quirked a brow. "You were in the neighborhood?"
"Broadly speaking."
"The hospital is eleven blocks away."
"It's a big neighborhood." Not even a flicker of embarrassment. "I wanted to see your shop."
You stood there for a moment looking at this man who had walked eleven blocks out of his way on a Thursday afternoon and was telling you so without any apparent intention of making it smaller than it was.
Something in your chest made the decision your brain was still debating. "Let me show you around."
He asked questions that showed he'd already been thinking. About the difference between styles, about how you decided what went on the walls versus what stayed in your portfolio, about whether the design process started with the client or with you.
You answered them. All of them. More than you usually did.
He stopped at your station and studied it. "Organized," he said.
"Everything has a place."
"Same in an ER." He looked at the tray. "You have to be able to reach what you need without looking."
"Exactly." You paused. "Although my tools are slightly less.."
"High stakes?"
"I was going to say scary, but sure."
He laughed and you walked him back to the front and he stopped at the door and you were close enough that you were suddenly aware of the particular gravity of him, the way a room organized itself slightly around where he was standing.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card and then turned it over and wrote ten digits on the back and he held it out. "In case you need it." he said. "For anything."
You looked at the number and smiled. “Anything?”
The almost smile arrived fully this time, unhurried and genuine and just slightly devastating. "Anything."
The bell above the door announced his exit and you stood at the front of your shop turning the card over and over in your hand.
Bella appeared from the back. "Who," she said, "was that."
"Just a walk in.” you help the card up to your lips, tapping it against the smile that refused to go away.
…
It happened on a Wednesday, which felt wrong somehow. Momentous things should happen on weekends, or at least on a Friday when the week had built to something. Wednesday was for grocery runs and laundry.
And yet.
It started with a broken pipe.
Your upstairs neighbor had a pipe situation at seven in the evening that became a ceiling situation in your apartment at seven fifteen, which became a you cannot stay here tonight situation by seven thirty when the super looked at the spreading water stain above your bedroom, calculating how much this was going to cost him personally.
Derek was in Portland.
This was the other thing that had happened, quietly, over the past two weeks. Derek had matched with the rooftop bar woman, whose name was Sienna, and Sienna lived in Portland, and Derek had mentioned a visit, informing you of a decision already made. You had said have fun and meant it, or at least a part of you had meant it, and now he was in Portland and you were standing in your hallway with a go bag and nowhere obvious to go.
Trinity was on a double shift. You knew this without checking because Trinity's schedule was a fixed star in your sky, reliable and brutal. And plus she and Dennis didn’t have that much room to start with and you felt like a burden.
You sat in your car outside your building for ten minutes, bag in the passenger seat, and considered your options. You took the card out of your wallet. You had looked at it more times than you were going to admit to anyone, including yourself.
Without thinking too hard about it you said a simple fuck it and you called him.
He picked up on the second ring. "Y/N."
Just your name. Like it fit naturally.
"Hi," you said. "I have a weird situation."
"Tell me."
When you finished there was a brief pause. "I have a guest room," he said. "It has a bed and a lamp and I think a spare toothbrush somewhere. It's not exciting but it's dry."
"Jack, I cant.."
"I’m off tonight and I was going to eat leftover soup and watch something forgettable on television," he said. "You'd be doing me a favor. I hate eating soup alone."
That got a laugh from you. You sat in your car in the dark and catalogued all the reasons this was a complicated idea. There were several. They were legitimate. You thought about the water stain and about Derek in Portland with Sienna, who seemed nice, genuinely.
"I like soup." you said finally.
"Then come over."
…
His apartment was on the fourth floor of a building that was older than it looked and better than it had any right to be. High ceilings, good bones, the comfort of a space that had been lived in deliberately. Books on actual shelves, not for decoration. A kitchen that showed evidence of real use. A couch that was deep and worn in exactly the right places.
It looked like him. Everything was where it was for a reason.
You stood in his entryway with your bag and felt suddenly like you were seeing something private.
"Soup's already on the stove," he said from the kitchen. "Chicken and rice. Hope that works."
"That's..yes." You set your bag down. "You actually made soup."
"I said I had leftover soup."
"I thought that was a.." you stopped. "Never mind."
He appeared in the kitchen doorway with a dish towel over one shoulder, looking at you. "Why would that be a figure of speech?"
"People say things they don't mean."
"I don't."
He disappeared back into the kitchen, and you stood in his entryway another moment, holding that statement in the quiet.
You hung up your jacket and followed him in.
…
You ate at his kitchen table with an ease that should have required more history than you had. He told you about his recent shift. Some small victories. And you told him about the back piece you'd finished the week prior, the client who'd fallen asleep halfway through, the way people sometimes came in for ink and what they actually needed was to be still for a few hours while someone took care of them.
"That's most people," he said.
"The falling asleep part?"
"The needing someone to take care of them part." He turned his spoon once in his bowl. "People don't let themselves have that enough."
You thought about ten years of being the one who smoothed things over. Who held the shape of everything together so it didn't come apart. You thought about when the last time was that you had simply let someone take care of you.
You set your spoon down. Looked at the table for a moment, then back at him. "I want to stay tonight," you said. "Not the guest room."
His expression shifted slightly, but he didn't say anything yet, just waited, because he could tell you weren't finished.
"I'm still with Derek," you continued, keeping your voice even. "The arrangement is..we're open, that's real, I'm allowed to do this. But I need you to know that's what this is. I'm not..I can't offer you more than tonight. I don't want you to think this is something it isn't."
You held his gaze while you said it because you'd made this decision and you weren't going to look away from it now.
Understanding arrived and something careful behind it. "I'm not asking you for more than tonight," he said quietly. Then, after a second, softer, "But I want you to be sure."
"I'm sure."
He looked at you for one more moment. "Okay," he said.
…
He was unhurried in a way. Like a deliberate kindness, even as he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand.
He shifted his weight, his limb unbuckled and cast aside on the floor, leaving him balanced over you. He moved with practiced strength, using his leg to help brace his torso as he loomed over you. "You've been looking at me like you're afraid I'll break," he rasped, his voice dropping low that made your toes curl. "Stop thinking. Just feel how much I want you."
He asked without asking. It wasn't in words, but in the way he moved. He reached down, his fingers slicking through your folds.
"You're so fucking wet for me," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips when he heard your breath hitch. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me inside you."
You tried to say something, a nervous joke to break the mounting intensity, but it came out as a desperate whimper. He laughed and the sound of it against your skin made the air feel safe in a way you hadn't known you needed.
"Good girl." he whispered, the praise hitting harder than the touch. "Stay right there. Don't move a muscle for me."
The sheer size of him felt like a promise kept. He positioned himself at your entrance and he paused for a heartbeat, watching your face, before he drove home in one devastating motion.
You couldn’t help your back arching off the sheets as he filled you to the absolute limit. It wasn't a sharp spike. It was a swell, an all encompassing heat that filled every hollow place you’d been hiding.
His rhythm was a punishingly beautiful cadence. Because of his reach, he leaned heavily into you, his chest crushed against yours, his skin slick with sweat. He pulled nearly all the way out before sinking back in, each stroke hitting deeper, harder, grinding his hips against yours until you were sobbing his name.
"I’ve got you," his hand leaving your wrists to cup your face, forcing you to look at him while he wrecked you. "Take it. Take all of it."
Your walls clamped down around him, the friction becoming unbearable. He didn't speed up. He simply pushed harder, his movements becoming more urgent. The tension finally snapped, shattering into a thousand points of warmth. You shook beneath him and he followed you a second later, a groan escaping him as he buried himself to the hilt.
And the only thing you could think was, Oh. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
